Rocko Breaks Up

Wes paused outside the door and sighed.  He was tired and, what was worse, depressed.  It had been a rough day at work and now an unpleasant confrontation was looming in front of him.

Wes had just turned eighteen but had been on his own for over two years.  He’d started by turning tricks on the streets, but one john had beaten him so badly he’d needed medical care.  He’d ended up in the county hospital, with indifferent staff and inadequate medication.  After that, he learned the value of a decent insurance plan.

He’d gotten a job in a convenience store; it was a shitty job with shitty pay, but it did offer an insurance plan.  He still turned tricks on occasion to supplement his income, but his main side gig was dealing weed.  As of last payday, he had almost two thousand dollars tucked away inside a balled-up pair of socks in his dresser drawer.

But he still had to live.  He rented a room by the week at a no-tell motel near his job, and he’d spent some of his carefully hoarded cash on decrepit but functional car.  Having someone else in his life would help with the finances.  And if he could find a hot stud with a big dick…

Three weeks ago, he’d found him.  An older man—definitely rough trade.  Heavily muscled, heavily inked.  There was a dangerous edge about the dude that turned Wes on; he was sure the man had been in prison although he never talked about his past.  And damn could he fuck!

But he wasn’t contributing financially.  He’d had some money when they’d met—he evidently still had some—but he wasn’t working.  He just fucked and drank, and he was a mean drunk.  It hadn’t bothered Wes too much at first, but the dude was getting meaner and more violent by the day, and it was worrying.  Between his inactivity and his temper, the guy needed to go.

That was why the lithe, black-haired teen, dressed in a white t-shirt, camo cargo shorts and white Converse hightops, was standing outside the door of his own room, hesitating to go in.  There was no way of knowing how it was going to play out, but one thing he knew for sure—it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Reluctantly, the teen whore opened the door.

Inside, Rocko heard the sound and glanced languidly at the entrance.  He was laying full length on the bed, shirtless, his furry, muscled torso on full display.  A thick leather belt encircled his waist, and his Diesel jeans were tucked into a pair of loosely laced Justin Drywall work boots.

The ex-con was slightly buzzed—just enough to be give an edge to his temper.  On the nightstand next to him stood a bottle of Wild Turkey.  As Wes came through the door, Rocko picked up a half-full plastic cup and knocked back a hefty slug.  He was bored.  He’d been banging the whore for three weeks and it was already reamed out.  He had nothing to do.  One day soon, he figured, he’d off the fuckmeat, take its money, and head out.  It was just a matter of when.

He didn’t quite expect the matter to be resolved so soon.

As was his habit, as soon as he closed the door and fastened the chain lock, Wes peeled off his t-shirt in preparation for his after-work shower.  “Hey—uh, look, Rocko…” he began hesitatingly as he wriggled out of his shorts, his long boycock dangling from a nest of wiry black pubes.  He kept his chucks on—he didn’t like the feel of the bathroom tile on bare feet; he’d kick them off once he was ready to hop in the shower.

And was he ever ready.  He knew Rocko wouldn’t be happy, so his plan was to blurt out the bad news, then lock himself in the bathroom until the muscled alpha had some time to cool down.  With that plan in mind, he paused right at the doorway to speak.

“It, um…this ain’t workin’ out,” he started.  “You know it as well as I do.  You, uh—you need to go, man.  Now.  I’m serious, dude—I ain’t supportin’ you no more.  I gotta do this, bro.  If you ain’t gone by the time I’m done with my shower, I’m callin’ the cops.”

Wes slipped into the bathroom, closing the door, and locking it audibly.  He sighed with relief.  It was over.  Rocko might be upset, but Wes had kept to his plan.  He wasn’t allowing the ex-con any time to kick up a fuss.

Or so he thought.

Rocko wasn’t upset.  He was outraged.  Who did that cunt think it was?  Rocko called the shots, not the homo scumfucks.  It was time that little piece of shit learned a crucial lesson.

But first, a little mind game.  Rocko picked up the bottle of bourbon and polished it off in a single extended chug.  As the alcohol fired his blood and stoked his anger, he began opening drawers and digging around in them.

To Wes in the bathroom, it sounded like Rocko had acquiesced and was packing—which was what the violent killer wanted the meat to think.  In fact, he was searching for its hoard of money.  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for—stupid little faggot cunts never got very creative about hiding their stashes—and he pocketed the cash before turning to the bathroom door.

Wes, lulled into the belief that things were working out nice and calmly, had brushed his teeth.  Turning off the sink, he was just headed for the tub when a loud crash at the door startled him so badly, he flinched.  Staring at the door in disbelief, he saw that a long vertical crack had appeared on his side.  A second crash, just a loud and as violent, and Rocko’s workboot appeared in the massive hole that the stud had just kicked in the door.  With a loud grunt, the sadistic alpha threw his shoulder into it and the remains of the door collapsed, leaving no barrier between the stunned teen and the serial killer.

“Guess what, bitch,” Rocko snarled, “It ain’t over till I say it’s over!”

Wes’s face flushed.  If he’d been looking at the convict’s face, he might have realized the danger he was in and been appropriately terrified—but he wasn’t.  Instead, he was looking at the door and wondering how much the management was going to charge him to replace it.

“You sonofabitch,” he squeaked, anger causing his voice to spiral up in pitch, “You’re gonna pay for that.  Cash, man, cash.  You hear me?”

Rocko’s response was swift and unanswerable.  He popped Wes in the face so hard the kid spun around and hit the rear wall before sliding, dazed, to the floor.  As his cheek began to blacken and blood trickled from his split, swelling lip, the boy placed a hand over his injuries and looked up at the hardbodied ex-con, his face displaying a mix of fear and loathing.

“I never shoulda let you move in,” he sneered in false bravado, “Even the sex wasn’t that great.  I been fucked by better men than you.”

The look that crossed Rocko’s face instantly told him what a terrible mistake he’d just made.  As the buff killer silently unbuckled his belt and began to remove it from his waist, the teen, ashen with terror, tried in vain to retract his words.  “W-wait, man—no…no I didn’t mean it, I—no…”

Rocko doubled the thick leather belt and swung it through the air a couple of times.

“No, p-please, man, I really, really didn’t mean that—oh God, no, please—no-NO! NO!  OH GOD OH FUCK NO!!!”

Rocko started beating him unmercifully.  Wes squealed in pain every time the leather strap hit, leaving angry red welts on his smooth adolescent flesh.  The slapping sounds bounced off the cold, unfeeling bathroom tile, intensifying the punk’s misery and the sadist’s desire to inflict pain.  Wes curled into a fetal position; at the moment, he was too preoccupied with avoiding blows of the improvised whip to think clearly.  And Rocko, for his part, was too busy venting is rage to speak.

But the muscled-bound killer soon felt another sensation—a powerful ache in his crotch.  He knew what was going to happen next; it played out the same way, time and again.  The faggot made him angry, his anger made him horny, his lust fed back into his rage—and soon the loop began to spin into a spiral that led to a violent orgasm and a brutal murder.

It was time to get it on.

He stopped beating the fuckmeat.  He stood over it, staring down at the cowering, whimpering homo in profound contempt.  Well, he damn sure wasn’t gonna fuck it in here, even if the bathroom was the most appropriate place for such a worthless fucking piece of shit.   He needed to move it.

That was easy enough.  Grinning maliciously, the convicted murder looped his belt back through its buckle, then gave Wes a vicious kick.  “Hey, faggot, looky here.”

The moment the cunt lifted its head, Rocko dropped the loop over it, around its neck.  “Gotcha,” he chuckled—and proceeded to drag Wes out of the bathroom by his neck.

The teen kicked and flailed as he slid across the tile floor, his Converse hightops scrabbling uselessly.  Once the reached the door, the boy grabbed hold of the frame, his biceps swelling as he resisted being dragged into the bedroom with all the power of his slim but strong young body.

He was too busy resisting to formulate exactly why he was resisting; he only knew, deep inside, that something irrevocably horrible was going to happen to him once he was out of the bathroom.  It had all gone wrong; he had miscalculated badly—and what was in store for him was going to be much, much worse.

Wes was a young, stupid boywhore who’d been taken in by a hot, hard-looking alpha male who’d fucked the living shit outta him, but he’d only allowed it to happen because he’d let his lust smother the faint vague danger signals his street smarts were giving off. 

Now, those signals were deafening and crystal-clear—but it was too late.  He was trapped, alone with an incredibly strong man whose uncontrollable anger issues were beyond any doubt.  Wes didn’t know exactly what was going to happen to him, but one this was absolutely certain—he was gonna suffer.

And his ability to cling to the door jamb was weakening by the second.  All Rocko had to do was pull harder—the belt tightened inexorably around Wes’s throat, slowly cutting off his air.  The teenaged rentboy realized that if he didn’t let go, he’d be throttled into unconsciousness—and if that happened, he really would be helpless, utterly at the mercy (or lack thereof) of this sadistic psycho.

Letting go of the frame was one of the greatest acts of willpower of Wes’s short, wasted life, so it was probably for the best that he never knew that doing so had extended his life by only a few minutes—all of which would be filled with mind-bending agony and terror.

Once in the bedroom, things got worse, just as the boy had expected, but in a way he couldn’t have imagined.  The adolescent knelt on the floor, clawing at the belt as he gasped for air, his lean, firm body heaving with the effort.  His pale, smooth skin was glistening with sweat and streaked with vicious red stripes from the beating. 

He looked up just as Rocko leaned over and spat in his face.  “You useless sack ‘a shit,” the alpha sneered, “You gotta lesson to learn, and I’m just the fucker to teach it to ya.  I’m the one who calls the shots around here, ya hear me?  Naw, ‘course ya don’t, and you’d be too fuckin’ stupid to understand if ya did.  Only one way homo asswipes like you ever learn a goddam thing.”

Here Rocko’s grin became truly terrifying.  “That’s with pain, cunt.  Fags like you gotta be hurt.  Hell, even if I didn’t hafta learn ya good, you’d still need to be hurt—cause you deserve it.  All you useless cocksuckin’ motherfuckers deserve to die screamin’ in pain.”  With his free hand, Rocko unzipped his fly, letting his enormous manshaft flop out.  Wes had seen it before, of course but now—now, it some how seemed bigger, more intimidating.  As he looked, he could see transparent beads of precum glinting on the huge mushroom-shaped head.

“And aw fuck, bitch, I can’t wait to be the one to give it to ya!”

Then the belt began to tighten again.  At first, Wes didn’t understand what was happening, but he arced his head back and saw that Rocko was twisting his hand slowly, winding the belt around it.  Soon, the leather strap was completely taut.

Wes wouldn’t have believed what happened next was physically possible if he hadn’t been on the wrong end of it.  He knew Rocko’s physical strength from personal experience, but he was amazed when Rocko curled his arm like he was pumping iron and hoisted Wes into the air.  As the teen choked, his Converse chucks kicking futilely in mid-air, his bulging eyes were focused on the ex-con’s left arm, the one that was holding him.  The sheer force of that swollen tattoo-covered bicep was unbelievable.

Distracted by his involuntary muscle worship, the gagging teenager never saw Rocko’s right arm draw back—but he felt it when the killer’s fist was driven deeply into his flat, tender gut.  He’d have violently expelled all the air in his lungs if his windpipe hadn’t been closed off; as it was, all he could do was flail wildly in pain and panic.

For the next two minutes, Rocko used Wes as his personal punching bag.  Somewhere along the line, as the blows wracked his lithe body with agony and the lack of oxygen began to have an impact on his rationality, the kid stopped clawing at the belt and began to claw at Rocko.  The hardbodied stud was able to keep the dangling slut out of reach of his face and body—but instinctively, the teen turned his attention to the hand that held him aloft.  A few seconds of frenetic digging, and he was able to break the skin.  It was a minor irritation at the most, but it broke the mood.  With a curse, Rocko dropped the punk to the floor.

“MotherFUCKER!!!” he roared in anger, viciously kicking the youth three times in succession.  Each one earned a snapping sound as the steel-toed Justin workboot broke a rib, the left ulna, and another rib.  In the meantime, all Wes had managed to do was loosen the belt from his neck.  He writhed and shuddered on the floor, unable to even scream out his pain and terror.

“Goddam rat,” Rocko muttered, “Time to put you down like the fuckin’ animal you are.”  But he’d seen too many scratches and bites become infected in prison.  He turned and headed for the bathroom.

The moment Wes heard the water running in the bathroom sink, he tried to make a break for it.  The process of rising to his feet was excruciating; his lungs felt like they were burning and his left hand was only semi-functional at best.  But his right hand worked, and that was the one he extended towards the lock as he staggered across the room to the door.

The moment Rocko heard the rattling sound of Wes fumbling at the chain bolt on the door, he muttered a curse under his breath and charged into the room.  The thin, worn carpeting did nothing to cover the heavy thuds of his Justin boots on the floor; Wes knew he was coming.  The teen slut whimpered, frenetically pawing at the lock with his one good hand, but his fear only made it harder for him to focus and coordinate.  Rocko was on him, spinning him around before he’d even managed to get the chain halfway off.

Experienced as he was, the young whore had never seen such hate, such bloodlust in a trick’s eyes before.

“That’s it, cunt,” the alpha growled, “The gloves are comin’ off.  All the shit up till now?  It’s all been foreplay.  Now it’s no holds barred and I’m takin’ you down the hard way.”

There was something hypnotically snake-like in Rocko’s eyes that sapped Wes’s will.  He could see the wide, haymaker punch coming at him as if in slow motion, the ex-con’s inked arm, knotted with muscles, swinging through the air, but he felt paralyzed, unable to move.

He moved fast enough when the blow landed.  The impact was violent enough to spin him around; he hit the dresser hard enough to knock off everything on its top and caromed back into the room.  The unlucky punk didn’t have the slightest chance of putting up a defense; before he could even reorient himself to the point of figuring out where Rocko was, the sadist was on him, beating him unmercifully.

As the blows rained down on him, Wes could only grunt and squeal like an animal in pain—which, by this point, was all that he was.  But he could still see that every time Rocko’s fists plowed into his firm young body, the older man’s dick oozed yet more precum.

And, of course, he could hear Rocko’s words as the punches kept coming in a remorseless flurry.

“Take it, bitch!  Ya know ya got this comin’!  Fuck yeah, don’t that feel great?  Taste it, cunt, taste the pain!  Fuck, ya love it, dontcha?  Ya fuckin’ love this shit!”

At last, the hardbodied ex-con pulled back, heaving and sweaty.  The once-handsome teenager collapsed onto the bed, a moaning mass of bloody and bruised flesh.

Rocko looked down and spat on it in contempt.  “Ok, we’re done here,” he said flatly.  “I wanna cum.  Time to die, fuckmeat.”  He bent down and grabbed Wes, manhandling the boy like a rag doll, laying his fucktoy out and positioning it to suit his needs.  Picking up the belt and tossing it on the bed, he climbed in himself, unfastening the button on the fly of his jeans.  They slid down just far enough to expose rock-hard, hairy globes of his glutes as he forcibly parted the meat’s legs.

“You never were a good fuck, ya know,” he told the stunned, semi-conscious youth while his massive rod poked at its firm ass.  “But here’s somethin’ I learned years ago, asswipe—even the most reamed-out faggot gets all nice ‘n tight again as it dies.  Don’t worry, homo, this one’s gonna make up for all the other times I had to imagine wastin’ you just to blow my load up yer useless hole—least this time, I won’t hafta imagine it, har!”

And then he was in.  All the way in, all at once.  For a split second, dazed as he was, Wes realized that he could feel Rocko’s enormous, semen-filled balls slapping against his taint—and then the pain hit.

In some small and curiously detached corner of the adolescent’s mind, Wes was surprised that he could feel such agony, given all the suffering he was already enduring.  But in the past, he’d always insisted that Rocko ease his way in, using plenty of lube.  Neither of those conditions appertained this time.  The older man had torn his sphincter wide open.  Wes’s rectal lining had been shredded as effectively as if a belt sander had been jammed up his ass.

He screamed.  It came from deep inside, seeming to bring his very soul up from within—but it didn’t last long.  Rocko had been through all this before.  The meat always screamed, and it always tightened up a little just before it did—probably from sheer agony.  The serial killer felt the cunt’s mangled asshole clench his rod and knew exactly what was coming.  The second Wes opened his mouth, Rocko punched him twice in the face, as hard as he could.

The first blow broke Wes’s nose; it squelched like a rotten tomato.  The second knocked the fucker’s two front teeth down its throat.

As it choked and coughed the teeth up, Rocko looped the belt through its buckle and yanked the loop down over its head again.  “Ain’t no one gonna hear you, faggot,” he grinned, “Yer gonna die nice and quiet-like on my cock.  After all, folks next door need their sleep, don’t they?”

Again, Wes’s air was cut off—but this was much worse.  Unless he did something drastic, and did it soon, he knew he’d never breathe again. 

The young faggot was in agony.  His broken arm and ribs, his caved in face, his battered and contused torso—all of it seemed to fight against his efforts to save his life with the fierce brutality of Rocko himself.  As his slick, firm body writhed frantically underneath the muscled weight of the convicted killer, Wes could feel the onset of blind terror.

He tried to fight it; he had enough street smarts to know that panic usually meant death.  But there was a jackhammer pounding inside his cranium as viciously as the hulking alpha was pounding inside his asshole.  His face felt hot and taut, there was a fire deep in his chest that grew in intensity with each passing second, and great black fireworks were exploding in front of his eyes.

He was dying.  Oh fuck he was dying.

And so the panic won.

Wes’s left arm wasn’t much use, but his right still worked perfectly—at least well enough to claw wildly at his tormentor.  Despite laying face down on top of the fuckmeat, Rocko was able to draw his head back far enough to avoid the hectic scrambling of its fingers.  He wasn’t able to do the same with his chest though, and that was where Wes’s hand landed next.

It wasn’t just the deep, red furrows the hysteric cunt left on his chest that set Rocko off; it was the fact that when Wes momentarily pulled his hand away, a few curls of the alpha’s chest hair were embedded under his fingernails.

With a roar of anger, the psychotic killer wrapped the loose end of the belt around his hand so he could keep tightening it while freeing up the other hand—which he immediately used to grab the meat’s right wrist.  His eyes narrowed in unspeakable hatred, he stared into the pansy’s blackened face.  It was already starting to drool, its purple tongue rising like an erection from between the split, swollen lips.  Its eyes bulged, ruptured blood vessels creating blooms of red inside the whites.

But it was still alive.  The faggot was so, so close to death, but it was still alive.  It could hear and understand.  This awareness spurred Rocko’s sadism on to make the fuckmeat’s last few moments alive such a nightmarish hell that death would be a mercy and a release.

And even better, it would suffer so badly that it’d milk a huge creamy load out of the buff alpha’s aggressive cock.  The thought alone put more power into the swift flexing of his firm, muscular ass as he drove his rod in like he was trying to split the fucker in two.

“It was always gonna happen, faggot,” he snarled at the dying teenager, “I always off the meat when I’m done with it—because it’s meat.  Only reason you exist is to take my jizz, and you ain’t even good at doin’ that.  But don’t worry, cumsucker—before you go join all the others, I’ll make you good at it.”

He clutched at the index finger of the cumdump’s right hand and bent it backwards, snapping it as easily as a twig.  It couldn’t cry out, but Rocko could see its suffering in its eyes and feel it in the involuntary clenching of its fuckhole.  Even more, he could feel the way its long boycock, pressed hard against his belly, pulsed and began oozing a trail of precum onto his dark body fur.

“See?” he crowed, a triumphant look of insane glee on his face that was somehow more terrifying than any other expression he’d displayed on this night of utter barbarity, “Ya know ya want this, faggot—ya know ya need it!”

The middle finger went next, with a thick wet crack.  Another clench, another pulse, more oozing slime, and tears leaking from the bulging red eyes as a heavy stream of foam trickled pout of the teen’s mouth and down its smooth cheek.  Its expression of agonized bewilderment was erotic as fuck, but Rocko had to hurt it more.  Piece of shit was so fuckin’ stupid.  It was getting off on getting what it deserved like and worthless faggot—but it didn’t understand.  It was gonna cum as it died, but that wasn’t enough.  He needed to teach it why.

Ring finger.  Same reactions, but this time Rocko tightened the belt considerably.  The meat began to shudder.  “Feels good, don’t it?” the older man murmured, “Yer gonna unload the biggest wad of yer useless life in a second here faggot, and when ya do, I’m gonna hose yer guts with hot potent manseed.  It’s why yer here, faggot.  Only reason for your pathetic existence on this planet is to make me cum with yer suffering and death.  Get it now, motherfucker?”

As he broke the last finger of the homo’s right hand, Rocko transferred his own free hand back to the cunt, covering and pressing down on its face.  He could feel his seething testicles pucker, aching for release, and he had no intention of denying them.  “Time to say bye-bye, fuckwad,” he whispered to the meat, then crushed its esophagus.

As the thick, gristly crunching sound echoed in the room, the faggot went rigid, its torn sphincter locking around the base of Rocko’s shaft as if in a conscious effort to milk his balls dry.  Between the splayed fingers of his hand pressing on its face, the killer stared directly into the adolescent’s eyes, and he saw what he needed to see—what he knew would be there.

It got it.  Deep within the overwhelming suffering and terror, the sadistic psycho could see understanding and gratitude.  “Fuck yeah,” he muttered, “You needed this to happen.  I completed you, cunt.  I’ve fulfilled your purpose.  You can go now.”

And it did.  Those were the last words it heard on earth before its brain died and it became nothing but by a convulsive fucktoy, jacking off its killer.

It held him tight for a brief moment, its hightop chucks thrashing in the empty air over his shoulders.  This was Rocko’s favorite part.  Homos were so happy to be put out of their miserable existence that they clung to him as he grunted and cursed, spewing thick ropy strands of vital manseed into their guts, marking them as his kills.  Having his sperm inside them was the closest the fags could ever come to being real men; even in death, the fuckmeat seemed to know it and crave it.

Somewhere along the line, the dead teen blew a huge pearly deathload all over Rocko’s furry belly, but the alpha was too intent on his own sexual pleasure to notice or care.  He expected the death wad as a matter of course.  Happened every time.

It had taken a bit of time for the hypersexed killer to drain his scrotum, but the adolescent meat was still trembling and jerking as he did.  Its left foot, still tightly laced into the Converse sneaker, seemed to be deliberately kicking at the wadded, cum-stained bedding.

With a grunt, Rocko withdrew his still-leaking tool and got to his feet, his hairy, well-muscled torso wet with sweat and the dead teen’s cum.  Goddamit—why did they always have to spurt their useless fagseed onto him?  Stupid goddam motherfuckers…

He headed to the bathroom to clean up, soaking a towel in the sink to wipe himself down and tossing the sodden, semen-soaked mass into the bathtub when he was done.  His boots thudding heavily onto the floor, he headed back into the bedroom.

Without so much as a glance at the corpse, Rocko began to rifle the room.  His own belongings didn’t take long to deal with; his few items of clothing easily fitting into his carryall.  He’d already grabbed the homo’s hidden cash; now he went through its wallet and removed the few bills left in it.  More importantly, he found its stash of weed.  It went into his bag as well; he could sell it, easy.  Satisfied he now had everything of value, he headed for the door.  He opened it slowly and silently, carefully putting his head out.  No one was in sight—good; that meant there would be no witnesses as he left.

Then, and only then, did he turn back and survey the room.  In a sense, the scene kinda surprised him—it was mostly intact.  Beyond the destroyed bathroom door, little violence had been done to the furnishings.

The same couldn’t be said of the dead teen whore sprawled across the bed.     

It was so bruised and mangled, it looked like it had been run over by a semi.  The damage to the left arm wasn’t obvious, but the right hand didn’t resemble anything human.  Its chest was black with bruises through which the red welts of the belt lashing were visible.  The face had been bashed in so badly that visual identification of the body wouldn’t be possible.

The belt was still around its neck.  It had been so deeply embedded in its throat that Rocko hadn’t bothered to try removing it.  It was probably the most gruesome part of the scene; the total circumference of the neck under the belt couldn’t have been more than two inches—and that two inches included the spine and the remains of the larynx, compressed into a solid wad of cartilage.

Smirking, Rocko armed the doorknob lock.  Once it closed behind him, he strolled jauntily to his Crown Vic, carefully parked at the back end of the lot, basking in the satisfaction of a job well done.


“You the manager, right?  What’s yer name again?”

“Harold.  Uh, look, officer—”

“Detective.  I’m a homicide detective.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry.  But look, can we get all…all this out of here?  I mean, you must understand how bad for business this is…”

The cop looked around the room with a sneer.  “Yeah, I’m sure the Kardashians are gonna cancel their reservations if they see a patrol car parked out front.  Anyway, we ain’t goin’ nowhere till the morgue van gets here.  That gives you plenty of time to go over the details again.”

The manager, a small, rodent-like man with a pursy mouth sighed in irritated dismay.  “Fine, fine.  Like I said, I hadn’t seen the kid coming or going in a couple of days, so I had the maid check.  It wasn’t the day for the room to be cleaned, but I wanted to make sure he hadn’t skipped out.  He still owes more for last week’s rent—to say nothing this week’s…”

“Yeah, you ain’t getting’ that now,” the detective said coarsely, “Anyway, are ya sure it’s the same kid?”

The manager went pale.  “I, uh, I think so—I mean, that face…it’s so very hard to tell…”

“Yeah, he got the fuck beat outta him.  Gonna need dental records to ID him for sure.  Got fucked in the ass, too.  Real hard.  What, was he some kinda fag whore?  Bring home lotsa guys?”

The rat-faced manager went from white to an angry red flush.  “This isn’t that kind of place.  That is—I mean, he occasionally brought men home.  But the past few weeks I think he had someone staying with him.”

An eager expression crossed the detective’s face.  “Yeah?  Who?  What’d he look like?”

The manager appeared crestfallen.  “I-I don’t know.  I never really saw him.  Maybe Angelita, the maid…”

“Yeah, we’ll ask her too.  Doubt we’ll ever catch the guy, though.  Not that it matters.  Far as I see it, he did us a favor, whoever he was.  Took another worthless faggot off the streets.

The manager glared at him disgustedly, but something outside had caught the detective’s eye.

“Aw, good.  ME guy’s here.  I’ll let them clean this mess up.  Me, I got more important work to do—crimes against real humans, y’know?  Anyway, don’t leave town without letting us know—someone from the department may be in touch if we need ya later.”  He headed out but paused in the doorway and turned back.

“Wouldn’t hold my breath on that, though.  No need to cancel yer vacation plans, if ya get my drift.” 

He smirked and left.  The manager shook his head resignedly and turned to deal with the men from the morgue.

Joe and Adam: Together at Last

Adam stared blankly at Joe.  The name meant nothing to him, but the words…

…and then Joe stepped forward into the light, and recognition hit Adam light a bolt of lightning.  He knew exactly who was facing him, even if the heavily muscled stud didn’t know him—he knew him from years ago, back when he first discovered his need for necro sex.

This was him.  This was that guy.  The one whose kills he’d fucked before learning the erotic power of snuffing his own victims. 

“Dude,” he whispered, “You—I…”

“You owe me, fucker,” Joe said.  He’d been aware that someone had trailed a few of his kills, but had never seen who it was, or even cared.  He didn’t recognize Adam now—and it wouldn’t have mattered if he had.  What mattered was sinking his huge aching tool in some fagmeat and letting its death milk out his seed.

For his part, Adam fully understood the danger he was in.  He’d seen what Joe was capable of.  Worse, he’d been fighting and struggling with the Asian cunt.  He was strong and fit, but he’d been exerting himself.  Joe was bigger and strong—and fresh.  Adam needed to distract him, maybe win him over.  They’d make a great team…

“He,” he blurted, “Him.”  He pointed to the corpse on the floor, still shuddering and twitching.  “Take him.  He’s all yours.”

Joe grinned icily as he slid off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair in the corner.  Placing one hand on the back of the chair to steady himself, he kicked off his Carolina loggers while continuing to grin and shake his head slowly and steadily.

“Unh-uh,” he said as he unfastened his jeans and let them fall to the ground.  “You don’t get it, asswipe.  I don’t fuck dead meat.  It’s gotta die on my cock to get me off.  And since that faghole is already dead, looks like you just nominated yourself for the job.”

Adam had remembered how freakishly massive Joe’s dick was, but it had been a while.  He gaped at it, appalled, before replying.   “No way, man.  I ain’t no fag.  Ain’t no one stickin’ anything up my ass, even you!’

Joe’s grin became even more shark-like.  “Oh yeah?  Wanna bet, motherfucker?”

“Dude, don’t do this,” Adam responded, trying not to sound desperate, “Don’t make me fuck you up.  We need to team up.  We’d be awesome together.”

Joe sneered.  “Bitch, I took a new kid out on my last job.  Stupid asshole triggered a tripwire and got a bullet in the leg.  Barely more than a flesh wound but the motherfucker was carryin’ on like he was dyin’.  Too many enemy troops around for him to be makin’ that much noise—so I cut his throat.  He was nice and quiet after that.  Plus, I didn’t have to share the bonus with him.”

The powerful man stepped forward, his monstruous rod jutting out in front of him like a jouster’s lance.  “I work alone.  Tonight, I’m leavin’ here alone.  And you?  Well, you’ll probably end up shoved into the same morgue van as that faggot on the floor.”

Adam came out of his trance at Joe’s words.  There was still a disorienting sense of disbelief—he’d often imagined himself meeting his mentor, but never in such antagonistic circumstances—but it was crystal-clear to him that he was going to have to strongarm his way out of a potentially fatal situation. 

 He crouched into a fighting stance nearly identical to the one Derek had been in; it was probably a good thing that the similarity was lost on him.  Not that Adam lacked confidence in himself, of course, but he knew the odds were stacked slightly against him.  He refused to acknowledge that they were more than slight, though. 

“We ain’t gotta do this, dude,” he said, flushing in anger at the faint pleading tone that had entered his voice in spite of himself, “But if you wanna take me on, yer gonna find I ain’t goin’ down easy.  I ain’t no faggot, man; I can take care of myself.

“Good,” Joe replied in an almost cheerful tone, “The best kinda hole to fuck is one that’s been well-tenderized.  Remember how much you deserve it, cunt, when I destroy you.”  Then he waded in, fists swinging.

At first, it was almost even—two heavily-muscled studs, their powerful nude bodies slick and glistening with sweat, beating each other down.  But while Adam’s blows, strong as they were, seemed to have little to no impact on Joe’s rock-hard abs and mighty torso, the opposite was not true.  Adam still hadn’t fully recovered from his run-in with Derek, and whenever Joe managed to slam his ramrod fist into the same spot the dead fag had hit, Adam could feel it.

Derek had landed a few relatively ineffectual punches on Adam’s belly; somehow, Joe could tell that was the younger killer’s weak spot and began to pummel it mercilessly.  Attacking that spot hadn’t done the dead cocksucker much good, but Joe was much more powerful than it had ever been.  Adam could feel the pain increasing, along with his weakness.

He did his best to dodge the brutal alpha’s relentless hammering, and he succeeded—but not for long.  Becoming enraged at his fucktoy’s useless resistance, Joe drew his right arm back, his deltoid and bicep swelling with formidable power that Adam was unable to parry or avoid.  He had just enough time to see the blow coming when it struck him in his hard, firm belly with enough force to knock him back two feet.

“HOOOGHH!!” the copper-haired pervert cried involuntarily as every last fraction of air was violently ejected from his lungs.  As bad as the pain was, the truly terrifying sensation was that his diaphragm had been paralyzed by the impact.  It was like being in a vacuum; he simply couldn’t inhale.  At all.

He staggered forward, his hand clutching his bruised abdomen, his face a mask of shock and pain.  He saw Joe’s arm drawing back yet again, but this time the unlucky fagkiller wasn’t able to even give the pretense of some kind of defense.  He didn’t even flinch as Joe’s fist plowed into his jaw like an industrial piston.  The uppercut was potent enough to flip Adam up and back; it was as if he somehow became horizontal in mid-air, then dropped three feet straight down onto the floor on his back.  The tiny amount of air his lungs had managed to regain was violently expelled yet again.

For a few seconds, everything was dim and gray inside the sadist’s head.  As he tried desperately to breathe, he raised his head, weak and wobbly.  Through eyes blurred by tears, he could see Joe pacing the room like a caged tiger, shaking out his fist and flexing the fingers.  Then the hard-bodied stud noticed that his prey was moving again.  He turned and approached the gasping younger man.  

“I oughtta just beat ya to death right here and now, ya little shit—but that’s too easy for you.  I’m still gonna stomp yer worthless ass flat.”  He raised his huge, socked foot, then paused and lowered it.

“Naw—gonna put my boots back on for this, bitch.  I can do a fuckload more damage with ’em on.”

As Adam struggled to draw oxygen back into his lungs, he saw Joe, who was facing away from him, bending over to retrieve his loggers.  The alpha’s ass radiated the man’s power on its own.  The dimples that formed on the thick glutes as they flexed only emphasized the sculpted shape and the hard, chiseled firmness of Joe’s ass muscles.

When Joe turned back, the loosely-laces loggers back on his feet, his jutting rod was oozing precum that dripped onto the toes of the boots.  Joe glanced down at the spectacle, then grinned at Adam. 

“Got steel toes in these,” he chuckled malignantly, “This is gonna hurt like all fuck, you piece a’ shit.  But you deserve it.  Remember that, faggot—you deserve it.”

“I…I…ai-ain’t no…fa-fa-faggot…” Adam managed to grunt.

“Shaddup, cocksucker,” Joe sneered.  His foot lashed out, the boot catching Adam squarely in the flank.  There was the loud wet snap of a rib shattering and the agonized bleat of airless fuckmeat unable to scream its agony.

“Aw fuck yeah, this is what I been needin’!” Joe exulted, “C’mon, motherfucker, let’s get it on!”

Adam was literally stunned, not just by the pain but also by the speed with which the situation had changed.  Minutes ago, he’d been the alpha, so utterly in control that he’d slaughtered a faggot whore with ease.  Now, He was in danger of being snuffed like a pansy bitch himself.

No.  Fuck no.  This wasn’t gonna happen; he wasn’t gonna allow it.

As Joe approached, Adam sprung quickly to his feet.  The effort caused him phenomenal pain, but he knew it was necessary.  He’d admired the older man at one point, but he wasn’t gonna be his fuckhole.

“I ain’t yer rentboy, motherfucker,” he snarled, “This is gonna be harder than ya think.”

“What, yer dick?” Joe sneered, “Damn right—it’s gonna be a lot harder when I jam my thick tool up your homo asshole, cunt.”

“The fuck you are,” Adam barked back.  He flexed his arm in front of Joe.  “See this shit?  See this power?  You ain’t gonna make me do a damn thing I don’t wanna.”

Joe smirked at Adam’s pumped bicep.  “Think that’s swole, asswipe?  Shit—look at this.”  He flexed as well; his bicep was easily half as large again as Adam’s.  “That’s real power faggot—you wanna taste of it?  Here.  Enjoy it!”

His arm flashed out.  Adam knew it was coming; his reflexes weren’t quite fast enough to avoid the blow, especially with his injury, but he managed to shift enough that it struck his shoulder, doing relatively little damage.

And then it was on.  Adam swung, his fist impacting Joe’s hard abs.  There was no visible mark, but Joe felt it.  The asshole was strong, no doubt about that.  Joe was gonna have to beat the meat into submission—and the thought angered him.

Fuckmeat should know its proper place.  The cunt was gonna suffer for this.

Joe went ballistic, his heavily muscled arms moving in a rapid blur.  Adam responded in kind, doing his utmost to parry the brutal, remorseless onslaught.  But the younger man seemed to be always just a little too slow; he managed to avoid many of he impacts, but enough hit home for the mounting damage to have an effect.

The air was thick with mansweat and testosterone as the hulking, hard-bodied males slugged it out in the dim light.  The only sounds in the room were the meaty reverberation of flesh striking flesh and the masculine grunting forced from the combatants by sheer physical effort.  After a few minutes, though a new sound crept into the mix—it was a low, ragged moan, the first indication of Adam’s weakening.

Joe knew what it meant.  His shark-like smile broadened as he plowed onwards, fists flying, his eyes glittering with homicidal lust.  “Yeah!  Take it, faggot!  Take whatcha got comin’ to ya, you cocksuckin’ homo!”

Adam heard the words and resented the fuck out of them, but he didn’t have the time or extra reserve of air to dispute them.  He was fighting for mastery of the situation, if not for his very life—and he was losing.  It was slow and gradual, but he could feel it.  And when one of the older man’s blows hit him on the base of his sternum, he knew beyond any doubt that the balance had definitely tipped away from his favor.

He was physically knocked backwards off his feet.  He heard a high squeal but had no idea that he was the one emitting it.  And when he hit the floor, hard, on his back, it ceased altogether.  But much to his surprise, he was suddenly granted a respite.

It certainly wasn’t mercy on Joe’s part that the brutal alpha paused for a moment.  And although the muscle-bound sadist enjoyed toying with his prey, it wasn’t all for that reason only.  He’d just engaged in a brutal slugfest with someone who almost his equal—and if Adam hadn’t been quite Joe’s equal, he’d been strong enough to at least slow the hulking sadist up.  In short, Joe needed a break.

He left the room, his powerful body briefly silhouetted in the doorway as he strode into the kitchen and opened up the fridge.  Adam heard the sound and realized this was probably the only chance he’d get.  He needed to leave, to hide, to do something.  He needed to get out of the room—but he’d been so badly beaten, he wasn’t able to stand.  It didn’t matter.  He’d get out by whatever means he could, even if it meant he had to crawl.

It did.  He rolled over, slowly and painfully, and began creeping for a door, any door.  Not the door through which Joe had exited, but any other door.  It was incredibly painful, especially given how his broken rib was digging into his innards, but he was desperate.

That was when Joe re-entered the room.  He’d ransacked the dead fuck’s fridge, looking for a beer.  All the cunt had had was domestic horsepiss, but it was better than nothing.  The brutal killer slammed the entire can at once, then, somewhat refreshed, turned back to his fucktoy.

Adam reached the doorway simultaneously with Joe’s reentry.  His faint moan of despair at discovering that it was the bathroom—and hence a dead end—was muffled by the heavy thudding of Joe’s boots on the carpet.  Adam couldn’t help but hear that.  He knew he was fucked.

He just didn’t know how fucked.

“Where ya think you’re goin’?” came Joe’s harsh, jeering voice from behind him.  “Fun hasn’t even started yet, motherfucker.  And its rude to leave a party without tellin’ the host—where’s yer goddam etiquette?”

And before Adam could react, Joe’s boots began hailing down on him, stomping him viciously.  Again, Adam squealed like a little girl, his mind spinning uncomprehendingly.  Then something happened that Adam had no difficulty comprehending at all.  Joe slammed his logging boot down onto Adam’s right arm with such force that the forearm snapped.

It wasn’t instantaneous.  Adam felt the first blast of pain as his ulna was ground to pieces under the heavy heel of Joe’s boot, then the second as the brutal sadist increased the pressure and shattered the radii to shards.

“Oh God oh shit oh fuck!!!” the perverted necro killer screamed, spinning over onto his back on the tile floor and holding his mangled arm up, watching his hand dangle helplessly.  Through the searing agony, he could hear Joe’s malignant chuckle.

“Goddam, this is fuckin’ hot.  The way you bleat in pain is turnin’ me on, scumfuck.  I think it’s time you sucked my dick.”

By this time, Adam knew what would happen if he refused, but his psyche was so fucked up that he couldn’t accept his own homosexuality.  It had been so severe that he’d killed his sexual partners before fucking them so he didn’t have to think of himself as gay; he simply wasn’t mentally capable of abandoning that viewpoint now, no matter the ultimate cost to himself.

“Fuck you!!” he screamed in a high, frantic voice, his tear-streaked face twisted with pain and rage, “I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot!!”

“Yeah, you are,” Joe replied with deceptive calmness, “And it’s about goddam time you get what all worthless pansies have comin’ to ‘em.”

Grabbing a fistful of Adam’s copper-colored curls, he lifted the younger stud’s head and rested it on the toilet seat.  “This is gonna hurt,” he said smilingly.

Adam opened his eyes wide, staring up at the hardbodied alpha looming over him.  Enough light came over Joe’s shoulder and reflected back onto him from the bathroom mirror to prevent the sadist from being nothing more than mass of silhouetted muscles.  The lighting emphasized the power in the older man’s hairy form, his bulging pecs with their large dark nipples, and the monstrous horsecock jutting threateningly out like a jousting lance.

And then Joe lifted his foot again and Adam got a close-up view of the tread on the vicious killer’s Carolina loggers.  But it was a brief view.  The sicko necro boy put his good arm up to ward off what was obviously imminent, but it was too little, too late.

The explosion of excruciating pain that burst in Adam’s head was bad enough to make him lose consciousness momentarily—but not long enough to be merciful.  His jaw shattered in three places and the back of his head was driven through the porcelain bowl of the toilet.

And that was how Adam, his mouth hanging open helplessly and his red hair sopping and darkened by the water, had a dick shoved down his throat for the first—and last—time in his life.  It didn’t happen right away; Joe took a few minutes to enjoy teabagging his fuckmeat before ramming his shaft down its throat.     

It was too much.  Adam’s fragile mental state fractured as he gagged and choked on the enormous rod grinding its way down his esophagus.  He could feel every inch of it, from the huge spongy head, oozing salty precum to the thick, throbbing veins that pulsated against his windpipe—just like a worthless cocksucking homo.

Him.  He.  He’d been made into a faggot.  He’d been beaten and tortured and now he was exactly the kind of disgusting pansy pervert he so profoundly hated.  It was more than he could take.

Joe grunted in anger as he felt the worthless cumguzzler go limp beneath him.  He knew what was going on; he was well aware that the would-be alpha didn’t have the mental ability to handle what was happening to it.  That was why he, Joe, was the superior male.  In the same situation, he would have kept his head and been able to find a way to overcome his enemy.

This piece of shit had crumbled like wet plaster.  For that alone, it deserved to die.

Unconscious, Adam slumped to the floor, his mangled mouth unsheathing Joe’s cock, drool drippling from his flaccid lips.  Joe towered over him, sneering contemptuously.  Fucking useless faggot couldn’t even suck dick.  Only way the sadistic killer was gonna get any sexual satisfaction out of it was gonna be to make it die while riding his shaft. 

The buff hardman bent down and grabbed Adam’s ankle, just above the pervert’s Nike Air Falcon shoe.  From there, it didn’t take long for him to drag the youth out of the bathroom and across the bedroom.  As he stooped over the cunt, he noticed the fucker’s eyelids begin to flutter.  Adam was waking up.

From Adam’s point of view, the world that was slowly coming back into focus was one of sheer agony.  His once-impressive body was now a battered mass of contusion and broken bones.  His mouth was dangling open uselessly and he couldn’t close it.

Even worse, he could still taste Joe’s huge rod.    His mind shied away from that; even as he struggled to open his eyes, he knew it was going to be to a reality he wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept. 

And then, suddenly, his air was completely cut off by something that clamped around his throat with the brutality of a bear trap.

Adam’s eyes flew open, the lids overcoming their hesitancy and snapping up like sprung window shades.  His field of vision was filled with Joe’s cruel, handsome face, grinning down at him with an expression of unspeakably malicious glee.

“Glad ya decided to join the fun,” the hardbodied serial killer chuckled, “wouldn’ta been the same without ya!”  Without the slightest hint of effort, he stood up in a single, seamless motion, hoisting Adam into the air as he did so.  The gagging from the copper-haired pervert’s slack mouth was even louder than when Joe’s tool had been choking him.

As Adam’s Nikes kicked and flailed above the carpet, Joe brought the dangling pansy closer, peering into its face like he was inspecting a detestable but harmless insect.  “You ready for this?” he asked, almost civilly, “You ready to get buttfucked?  Yer gonna love dying on my tackle, motherfucker.   All you useless disgusting faggots love it.  Every one I’ve wasted has shot a huge wad as it died, and you ain’t no different, are ya, you cumguzzlin’ homo?”

By this point Adam’s face was a deep purplish red and his tongue was starting to protrude from his gaping mouth.  The pounding in his head was almost deafening—but not enough that he couldn’t hear the taunting words of his assailant.  His suffering psyche refused to understand them, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that he was moving.  Joe was carrying him.  Joe was carrying him to the bed.

Without relaxing his grip once, Joe laid Adam on the bed, on his back.  Despite his agony, Adam could feel moistness on his back; he knew it was the not-yet-dried cum of the boy he’d killed…but that seemed so long ago…

Then Joe used his free hand to roughly part Adam’s legs, and he could feel the freakishly enormous head of the older man’s shaft probing his bared asscheeks.  He was aware of what was going to happen, but he refused to know it.  It wasn’t gonna happened.  It couldn’t.  It couldn’t.

And then it did.

The pain was worse than anything he’d ever imagined.  Compared to the impalement he was undergoing, everything that had gone before had been no more than a slap on the wrist, a harsh word from a slight acquaintance.  He could feel his sphincter tear apart like a wet paper bag, his blood becoming a squelching lube that did nothing to ease the remorseless passage of Joe’s brutal manmeat as it tore its way up through his rectum.

Instinctively, Adam tried to fight Joe off.  If he’d been coherent, he’d have realized that the desperate thrashing of his right arm was only causing him more pain, but the muscled young sicko was long past lucid thought.  As his shattered arm flopped uselessly, bone fragments grinding together excruciatingly, his left hand beat against Joe’s furry, marblelike torso.

For his part, Joe was enjoying every bit of the ginger punk’s agony.  The punk’s firm ass muscles clenched the alpha’s cock like a fist with every blast of pain, milking his shaft better than anything the serial killer had experienced in a long time.  His own powerful asscheeks dimpled and flexed with an increasing tempo and forcefulness as he plowed the cunt’s virgin fuckhole.  But Adam’s resistance was beginning to anger him again—he was already choking the meat; it should be starting to get nice and submissive by now.

Once it did that, the semen-draining convulsions weren’t far behind.  Joe wasn’t willing to wait too long to unload his potent manseed into this homo waste; his rage and his lust were both near the boiling point.

“Quit fightin’ me, faggot!” he snarled.  “Take it, you cunt; take whatcha got comin’ to ya!”  Doubling up his free hand, he pounded it repeatedly into Adam’s gut.  The thick smacking sound of his fist violently impacting the pervert’s sweat-slick abs reverberated through the room.

Adam couldn’t hear it over the hammering of his own pulse inside his skull, but he could damn sure feel it.  It was as if someone was taking a baseball bat to his midsection.  And then somewhere around the third or fourth blow—Adam was no longer able to keep track—he felt something different, something worse.  A horrible tearing sensation, deep inside—somewhere vital.  He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew it was something that would need immediate surgery—if it wasn’t irreparable.

He was right about that; Joe had gut-punched the young homo hard enough to tear his liver open.  It was a bad tear, too; within half an hour Adam would bleed to death.

Except Adam wasn’t going to live long enough to bleed to death.  And his concern over his damaged innards faded into the background as Joe transferred his tender mercies to the boy’s face.

Joe cursed at the buff young psycho as he beat its face in.  It had finally become an object to him, a single-use sex toy, to be discarded after he filled it with cum.  But it was important to him that it knew that—that deep inside, it truly realized that the only value of its existence was to be a Real Man’s cumdump.

“Fuckin’ [SMACK] take it [SMACK], you useless [SMACK] sack a’ shit [SMACK]!  Fuckin’ earn [SMACK] my load [SMACK], ya goddam pussy [SMACK]!  Wanna end [SMACK] the pain, homo [SMACK]?  You gotta die [SMACK], ya cocksuckin’ [SMACK] pansy [SMACK] faggot [SMACK]!  C’mon, motherfucker [SMACK], start convulsin’ [SMACK] so I can use yer dyin’ body [SMACK] to jack off [SMACK]!”

Every word, every blow was emphasized by a brutally powerful thrust of Joe’s muscular ass as his gigantic horsecock, reamed deeply into Adam’s guts.  And despite the fact that his black, swollen, drooling face was caving in under Joe’s viciously relentless battering—and the fact that his oxygen deprivation had reached a tipping point and his brain was beginning to shut down—Adam was still aware of his huge and agonizingly erect shaft, being ground ruthlessly between Joe’s ripped, hairy abs and his own firm six-pack. 

Adam no longer questioned his own erection; he was only aware that his cock and his balls were causing him an unspeakable pain that somehow seemed worse than any of the other injuries he’d suffered.  Suddenly, though, something new came to his attention—the beating had stopped.  Joe now had both hands wrapped around his throat.

“You ready?” he hissed.  Adam’s face was too mangled for him to be able to see, but he could hear the intensity in the killer’s voice.  “You ready, bitch?  Here it comes, motherfucker!” 

Then the crushing pain in his windpipe became truly nightmarish.

Adam heard his own death.  He clearly heard—as well as felt—the crunching sound of his own esophagus collapsing into a thick wad of impenetrable cartilage.  And that was when it happened.

Deep inside his twisted mind, as he trembled on the razor’s edge of brain death, Adam finally accepted his homosexuality.  He accepted that his highest and best use was to give up his life for a true Alpha’s orgasm.  Enough of his brain was gone that he couldn’t formulate the thought, but in the last few seconds of his life, he wrapped his taut, firm legs tightly around Joe’s waist and hung on to his killer, offering up his fuckhole and his existence to the man who’d taught him his true place in the world.

That was the moment that Joe placed his thumbs under the corners of Adam’s shattered jaw and squeezed with enough power to pop the cunt’s head off the top of its spine, shearing the spinal cord like scissors where it entered the base of the cranium.

The electrochemical blast was so intense that Adam’s last sensation on earth was that of being struck by lightning—a bolt that seemed to originate in his head and exit his body through his crotch, ripping his entire being out through his cock.  It was accompanied a solid jet of cum that the dying pervert managed to sustain for over thirty uninterrupted seconds, as it clutched its killer in desperate and utterly involuntary bearhug.

“Aw, fuck yeah!!”, Joe grunted in a strangled voice as his own long-awaited release hosed the shuddering corpse’s guts with thick, hot spunk, coating Adam’s intestines like paint.  The dead youth thrashed as Joe held it tightly—and it held Joe as well, its good left arm around his back and its gray Night Falcons kicking so violently in the empty air that one flew off, striking the wall next to the bed and rebounding into the room.  The shoeless foot, clad only in an ankle sock, curled repeatedly in mindless death agony.

A few minutes later, Joe—sweaty, gasping, and spent—managed to extract his thick tube of manmeat from the dead boy.  Standing up, he swayed for a moment before putting a hand out to steady himself against the wall.  The orgasm had been one of the most intense he’d ever had—and he’d needed it.  He crossed to the bathroom, staggering slightly, and cleaned himself with a towel soaked in hot water. 

As the warm wetness cleansed his skin, Joe was pervaded by a sense of calmness and well-being.  What he’d done hadn’t just been an indulgence in a momentary relaxation, it had been a truly righteous act.  It would still have been meritorious if he’d just rid the world of another useless homo—but this one had been a seriously sick necro fag.

Grinning, Joe walked back into the room and reviewed the tableau in front of him.  The first dead faggot—nearly forgotten by now—still lay in a huddled mass on the floor.  By now it was completely still and obviously stone-cold dead; the only change in its appearance was the Nike sneaker that had bounced off the wall—it had landed in the small of the dead punk’s back.

The freshly fucked meat on the bed, however, was still jerking and twitching as random nerve endings in its wasted nervous system misfired; it would be a few minutes before the electrochemical activity died down.  Joe was proud of this one; the fuckmeat was practically unrecognizable.  A slight movement on the corner of his eye caught Joe’s attention; it was his own reflection in the full-length mirror opposite the bed.

That was when Joe had a moment of vanity.  Under most circumstances, he was rational and level-headed, but he was caught up in a moment of self-congratulation.  Killing the piece of shit now lying on the bed had been just as honorable and praiseworthy an act as Joe’s efforts in taking out Narcos and mercs on foreign soil.  After all, what was this motherfucker but a domestic terrorist?

Still high on endorphins and adrenaline, Joe jumped up on the bed and stood atop the trembling corpse.  With one logger boot planted on the corpse’s chest and another squarely on its mauled face, he turned to the mirror and began to flex.

He curled his arms over his head and admired the thick bulges of his biceps and triceps, the power inherent in his huge delts; he didn’t notice how his still-erect cock oozed out a few more drops of cum at the sight.  Then he whirled around, looking over his shoulder for a view from the back.  His rhomboid and latissimus muscles were well-defined, but what caught the attention were the rounded, rock-hard globes of his glutes.  Just for fun, he flexed them a couple of times to watch them dimple, grinning as he did so.

But the fun was over.  He jumped off the bed, his boots hitting the thick carpet with a solid, if muffled, thud.  He kicked them off for a moment to slip his jeans back on, then sat on the bed next to the rapidly-cooling dead fag and pulled them back on.  Standing back up he picked up his jacket and slung it over his shoulder without bothering to put it back on.  He was still warm, his skin gleaming with sweat.  He wanted to cool off for a bit.

After taking one last glance back, he left the room, then the apartment.  He was so satisfied he didn’t even bother to close the door.

It wouldn’t last, he knew.  Sooner or later, the rage would build again, and he’d need to find another faggot to take it out on.

Luckily, there was always another faggot around somewhere.  Always.


“I dunno,” the beat cop was saying, “I ain’t ever seen nothin’ like this before.”

“I’m not interested in what you’ve seen before,” the homicide detective said testily, “I want to know what you saw this time.”

“Well, like I said before, the welfare check call came in about a half hour ago—”

“That was the neighbor, right?” the detective asked, consulting his notes, “Mrs., um, Mrs. Daniels?”

“Yeah.  She sez she heard a buncha noise in here about an hour ago, but the dude who lived here was a faggot, so she didn’t think nothin’ ‘bout it.  But when she was headin’ out to the store, she saw the door was open.  She sez he’d gotten robbed last year and was kinda paranoid about it, so she stuck he head in and called for him.  Called us when she didn’t get an answer.”

“So she never entered the room?  She never saw the bodies?”

“Man, why dontcha ask her that?  Yer partner’s over there talkin’ to here now.”

The detective sighed wearily.  “Look, pal, I’m just trying to cross check all the angles.  Ok, that’s enough for now.  Hey, Frank?”

His partner, talking to a middle-aged woman with an expression that hinted that she spent most of her time sucking pickles, muttered a quiet “one moment please” to her and hurried over.

“Get anything out of her?”

Frank grimaced.  “Of course not.  She’s up in everybody’s business in this building but the one time her nosiness would be handy, it turns out to be totally useless.”

“Any clue on the victims?”

“One of ‘em.  Crime lab folks found a wallet on the dresser; the driver’s license ID’s the one on the floor as Derek Wong.  He’s the tenant here.  The other one…nothing.  And, frankly, given the state he’s in, I don’t think even dental records are going to help.”

At that moment, the beat cop reappeared.  “Hey, the ME’s guy is here.”

The detective looked up at the lanky man in the white lab coat.  Just visible in the hallway behind him was a gurney.

“They just send one of you?  We’ve got two bodies.”

“Yeah, busy night.  Big gang fight down on 14th.  It’s a real mess.”

“Oh, right, I heard abut that,” the detective said, grimacing.  “Glad I’m not on that one—not that this is gonna be any walk in the park.  Anyway, they’re in here.  Hope you’ve already eaten—this one’s bad.”

The two men walked into the room.  “Obviously some kind of sex murder—but it’s not going to be easy sorting out exactly what happened.  I mean, look at the one on the bed.  When’s the last time you saw something like that?”

The man in white paused reflectively, then answered.  “About two years ago—this kid was walking back drunk from Edna’s Place—you know, out on Antonia Road past the train tracks?  He was so trashed he stumbled straight into the path of a freight train doing ninety.  Looked kinda like this.”

The detective was disconcerted; his question had been rhetorical.  Finally, he shrugged his shoulders.  “Well, I’ll leave you to it.  My partner and I will be out here, if you need any help, uh—” He paused and leaned in, squinting at the man’s name tag.  “Um, Harris.  Just give us a shout.”

Harris gave him a wintry smile.  “Thanks.  But ill be just fine on my own.”

The moment he got the door closed, Harris had his fly unzipped and his dick in his hand, hard and oozing.  His first aim was the single Night Falcon, still standing on the back of the corpse on the floor.  Picking it up, he deeply inhaled its musky scent, the sensation making his shaft pulse.  Sighing shudderingly, he lowered the Nike shoe and put his cock inside it.  Holding them both in one hand he quickly crossed to the closed bedroom door and silently locked it.  He then spent the next five minutes masturbating with the sneaker.

When he felt himself close to orgasm, Harris pulled the shoe off his dick and approached the bed.  Laying the Night Falcon on it, he swiftly and skillfully jerked Adam’s corpse towards him, his years of experience with dead bodies obvious in the ease with which he rolled this one face down and left with its legs hanging down over the side and its cum-filled ass pointing straight at him.

“Nothing like sloppy seconds,” Harris said with a sick grin.  He picked the Nike kick back up and, holding it over his nose and inhaling like it was bottle of poppers, he proceeded to fuck Adam up the ass.

And that was how Adam the necro psycho ended up as nothing but a dead meat necro fuck himself.

Leather Dave and the Poor Little Rich Boy

It was a warm and humid night, and something about the heat and stickiness was irritating Dave’s temper. It wasn’t that he was dressed too warmly—he was wearing a pair of old jeans, worn thin by use, tucked into a pair of Xelement Tribal Skull bike boots; the tight jeans held his long thick cock snugly against the throbbing body of his Harley Fat Boy. Above, a tight leather vest left his thickly muscled arms and furry chest, already slick with sweat, open to the air as he cruised down the darkened highway.

But he was still irritated and edgy.  He knew what the problem was—he needed meat, and he needed it bad.  He hadn’t snuffed a bitch since the Bike Fest, and he was long overdue.  Tonight was gonna be some lucky fagmeat’s last night on Earth.

His handsome face curled into a frightening sneer at the thought.

He pulled into the bar’s parking lot.  He hadn’t hunted here in a while; the place was a murky dive, but every now and then a hot boywhore who didn’t know the score would show up.  It was worth a try, at any rate, and there were other places he could check out later if he didn’t land any prey here.

Luck was with him tonight, though.  Once inside, it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the smoky gloom; the air pulsated with the cacophonous roar of ill-played music from a band in the corner, blaring distortedly out of cheap speakers.  Once he got his bearings, though, his dark, flashing eyes were able to pierce the darkness.  He’d just gotten a beer when he spotted the cunt and knew immediately that tonight was gonna end with the faggot dying on his dick.

The little homo didn’t blend in well.  It was way too young to be in the bar—not that anyone was bothering to check.  More than that, its fashionably slashed $200 Diesel jeans and immaculately white t-shirt, both skin-tight, bespoke its upper-middle-class background.  A trucker’s cap, as dazzlingly clean and white as its shirt, was drawn down over its eyes, as if for protection from the rough trade surrounding it.

The punk was slumming, peeking furtively out from under its cap.  Suddenly, its eyes lit on the leather-clad stud and gleamed with an intense lust.  Dave smirked. Whatever it had been looking for, it had found it in him.

At least, by the time he was done with it, it wasn’t gonna be looking for anything anymore.

The boy sidled up to Dave.  “You, uh, you wanna buy me a drink?” it asked—hesitatingly but not shyly. 

“Fuck no,” Dave sneered, “I wanna jam my thick shaft up yer fuckhole, cunt.”

The boywhore reacted like an ecstatic puppy; if it had had a tail, it would’ve wagged it.  “Yeah!” it enthused, “Fuck yeah!  C’mon, dude, let’s get outta here and you can seed me as hard as ya want!”

“Go wait for me in the parking lot, bitch,” Dave said, “I’m gonna finished my beer.”

The cold contempt in his voice only excited the kid more.  He opened his mouth to object but thought better of it after catching a glimpse of Dave’s glare.  Meekly obeying the alpha’s command, he headed for the door.  Dave finished his drink, secure in the knowledge that no one would be able to say that the boy had left the bar with anyone.

 Once finished, he strode straight out of the bar.  Sure enough, the little cunt was waiting for him, sitting on a low parapet that adjoined the building, kicking the heels of its Air Jordan 1 Cool Grays against the wall.  Even from a distance, Dave could hear the faint thudding of the slut’s hightops against the brick over the sound of his own heavy boots striking the pavement.  For some reason, the sound irritated him.

“Over here, boy,” he barked, wheeling about and heading for his bike.  Behind him, the sound stopped and was replaced with soft footfalls as the kid hurried behind him like a dog anxious to obey its master. 

“Get on behind me, cunt,” Dave said, straddling the Harley.

“Donnie,” the kid said suddenly, with a slight touch of defiance in his voice, “My name is Donnie.”

“Like I give a fuck,” Dave growled.  “You ain’t nothing but a fucktoy.  Now get the fuck on.”

Donnie’s face flushed red, but the bulge in his tight jeans throbbed visibly at the alpha’s gruff commands.  He still hesitated a moment, though.

“Where we goin’?” he asked but spoke again before Dave could open his mouth.  “I gotta place.  Garage apartment at my folk’s house.  Just a single room, but I got it all fitted out.  Get fucked there all the time—my parents never bother me there.  And they’ll be in bed anyway.”

It was lucky that Dave’s face was in shadow; the shark-like grin that curled his lips into an ugly sneer might have been a red flag for the boy.  But the adolescent whore was so hormone-ridden it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  Donnie hopped on the bike and wrapped his arms around Dave’s muscled torso, burying his face in the stud’s leather vest

“It’s north of Main.  421 Royal Oak—the old historic district, y’know?  House was built in 1912,” he chirped, so intoxicated by the musky scent of the leather that he was unaware that he was starting to babble.  Dave fired up the Harley, the loud roar of its engine silencing the kid’s blathering; in seconds, they were speeding off into the darkness.

 It didn’t take Dave long to find the place.  It was a huge and incredibly ugly pseudo-Elizabethan pile, complete with false half-timbering and a back garden filled with crazy paving.  Next to the garden was a three-car garage with an exterior staircase leading to a dormered second floor.

He also noticed lights on in the back of the main house as he shut off the Harley.  “I thought you said they’d be asleep,” he said menacingly.

“They usually are,” was Donnie’s sheepish reply.  “C’mon, let’s get upstairs before they come out.  They had to’ve heard the bike.”

It was a close thing.  Donnie had just managed to unlock the door at the top of the stairs and let Dave in when a shrill, nagging voice arose from the garden.

“Donald, is that you?” it demanded querulously, “Why aren’t you in bed?  We have church in the morning—you know we’re going to the early service!”

“Aw, I’ll be in soon, Ma,” Donnie called back, “I just wanna, um, finish up something real quick.”

“Well, I’m warning you—if you’re not up and dressed by eight, I’ll be sending your father for you.”

“Sure thing, Ma—I’ll be there.”

Dave smirked.  If there was one thing he could guarantee, it was that Donnie wouldn’t be present for the early service at church.

The boy brushed past him and flipped the light switch.  By the dim light of a small bedside lamp, Dave could make out a single room with sloping walls and a peaked ceiling.  In the space cut by the dormer was a king-sized bed with rumpled, cum-stained sheets; the coverlet was in a wad on the floor.  Next to the bed was the table with the lamp; it also held a dildo and a bottle of poppers.

On the far wall beyond the bed were two doors, both ajar.  One led to a half-bath, the other to an apparently empty closet.  The room was devoid of anything else except a rank smell of stale weed smoke and mansex.

“Hang on,” Donnie said suddenly as Dan entered the room.  Stepping past him, the teen slut locked the deadbolt, a complicated maneuver that involved engaging a small lever under the knob. 

“Just in case,” he said.  “They’ve never come up here, but Dad was made a deacon this week and is being officially presented in church tomorrow—I think they’re kinda antsy about it.”

Dave just grunted and slipped off his leather vest, revealing his massive pecs and jutting nipples in all their glory.  Donnie had opened his mouth to say something else, but the sight of the hardbodied alpha’s muscled, furry chest stopped him cold.  His jaw hung open for a moment, then snapped shut as he swallowed with a loud gulp.

“What’re you waiting for, faggot?” Dave barked.  “Get your clothes off and get on that fuckin’ bed.  I gotta load to drain and my balls are already boilin’ over.”

Again, Donnie flushed red.  No one had ever verbally abused him like this, and he was offended—but he could also feel the way it made his boycock pulsate.  With an eager grin, he took off his cap and tossed it in the corner, revealing a shock of unruly black hair.  He stripped off his t-shirt, his lithe teen body already slick with sweat—it was a warm night, and the room wasn’t air-conditioned.

After kicking off his Nikes, he quickly peeled down his expensive jeans, his long boycock leaping out and swaying in the air as soon as it was freed from its denim confines.  He was left standing in front of Dave wearing nothing but ankle socks and a leer.

Dave, in turn, had unzipped his fly and hauled out his enormous shaft, vein-wreathed and visibly throbbing.  As Donnie gaped at the huge tool, uncertain that his ass could handle such a gigantic member, the alpha calmly looked the boy over.

“Yeah, you’ll do,” he said calmly and punched the teen in the face.

Donnie cried out and reeled back, stumbling and falling against the bed.  Clutching his cheek where a deep bruise was already starting to spread, he stared up at Dave.  “What the fuck, dude?!?” he asked, his face clouded by disbelief and a touch of anger, but not fear.

Not yet.

“I was dead serious about needing to release my load,” Dave replied in an almost conversational tone, “And the only way you’re gonna milk my cum is to die on my dick. But first, you gotta suffer. You get it, cunt? The more pain you’re in, the more intense my orgasm. Buckle up, bitch, I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad you’re gonna blow a wad in sheer agony.”

Now the fear showed on Donnie’s face, crowding out the anger, but not the disbelief.  The adolescent slut simply couldn’t believe his ears.  Dave expected that.  Teenaged fuckmeat wasn’t able to conceive its own demise; that was why he preyed on it.  It kept fighting and struggling, working his shaft, right up to the moment it died.

“No, man—you-you’re joking,” the boy stuttered, “But this ain’t funny, dude.  Stop it.”

Dave kicked him, hard, the steel toe of his harness boot sinking deep into the punk’s flat belly.  Donnie exhaled violently with a loud “OOF!” and curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach, and desperately gasping for air.

“Ya feelin’ me yet, asswipe?” Dave jeered, “No?  How about now?”

This time, the expertly-aimed kick struck Donnie’s back, right on the kidney.  It was enough to make the lithe teen straighten out.  Groaning in agony, he rolled face-up; in that position, he had an excellent view of the tread of Dan’s boot as the sadistic alpha raised his foot and stomped the kid’s chest.

The wet cracking sound as one of Donnie’s rib’s snapped was loud enough to be heard over every other noise in the room.  If the punk hadn’t already had so much on his mind, he might have noticed the sensation of Dave’s precum dripping onto his smooth skin like hot melted wax.

Even if he didn’t believe he was going to die tonight, Donnie was convinced by now that the stud he’d brought home—and with whom he’d locked himself in—was going to try to kill him and was definitely going to hurt him badly.  He needed to get out; he needed to get help.  His parents were just yards away.  There’d be consequences for revealing his sexual escapades, but he’d deal with that later if he could only reach them now.

For Dave, the faggot’s thoughts were as obvious as if he’d spoken them aloud.  The meat was gonna make a run for it; the meat always made a run for it. 

Fuckmeat was stupid; that was why it was so easy to hunt it down and slaughter it.

Dave decided to play with his fucktoy for a little.  He walked to the closet and peered in, giving the meat a chance to get up and bolt for the door.  It thought it was being quiet when it did so, but the jagged edges of the broken rib were lacerating internal tissue; its grunts and groans of pain made it easy to track its exact location without having to look directly at it. 

Dave only turned back when the faint thudding of its socked feet on the floor told him it was heading for the door.  Even then, he was in no rush.

Donnie reached the door in a state of intense fear.  He knew that if he couldn’t get out now, he probably wouldn’t be leaving the room under his own power later, whatever happened.  Tears ran down his cheeks as he twisted and yanked the doorknob, but the door refused to open.  Then, behind him, he heard the slow, steady tread of Dave’s boots as the sadist approached him.

On the verge of blind panic, the teen suddenly remembered the lock and fumbled with the catch.  The muscled psycho was coming closer and closer; he had to get it open—he had to, oh Christ oh holy fuck why wasn’t it opening—the lever!  Yes!

Just as Donnie disengaged the deadbolt, Dave’s hand clamped on his shoulder and spun him around, his heavy fist pistoning into the punk’s face with enough power to drive the teen into the wall next to the door.  Donnie’s head snapped back with enough force to leave a large dent where it caved in the sheetrock.  Stunned, the adolescent slipped to the floor, drooling out blood and one of his canine teeth.

“Ok, cunt, that’s enough foreplay,” Dave commented casually, “I’m ready to stick it up your ass now.”

Donnie was only vaguely aware that he was being dragged across the room. It was only when Dave clutched his throat and dead-lifted him into the air with one arm, cutting off his breath, that the slut came back to full consciousness. He’d never been choked before and it was absolutely terrifying.

But it only lasted a moment.  The muscle-bound stud tossed the boy onto the bed on his back like a rag doll, then climbed on himself, placing his hands on the teen’s firm, smooth thighs and roughly parting them.

“You’re gonna die soon,” Dave jeered, sneering down into the boy’s swollen face, “But first I’m gonna ream your fuckhole.  It’s time for you to learn that the only reason you exist is to be my cumdump.”

And with that, he remorselessly plowed his enormous pulsing shaft into the slutboy’s asshole, shoving it all the way home in a single ruthless balls-deep thrust.

Donnie’s sphincter was torn apart like a rubber band stretched beyond its limit.  There was no lube beyond Dave’s precum and his own blood; the billiard-ball-sized head of the alpha’s cock shredded his rectal lining and ground horrifically over his prostate.  Out of everything he’d endured so far, this was the worst; it was the most excruciating thing he’d ever experienced.

And somehow, it made his own dick swell and throb so intensely it ached.

Dave noticed it and grunted contemptuously.  “Fuckin’ faggots—y’all always piss and moan about gettin’ slapped around, but you little whores just fuckin’ love it rough, dontcha?”

Donnie didn’t love it; in fact, he was already so traumatized by the brutality that he was unable to speak.  Nothing in his useless upper-middle-class existence had prepared him for what he was enduring.  His only experience with violence had been in movies and video games—he associated it more with entertainment than actual physical pain.

The teen punk might have been too overwhelmed to verbally object, but his body had its own way to object, even if involuntarily.  With frantic, mindless energy, he began to claw at the hardbodied alpha.

Dave had wasted enough cunts to know the signs of meat about to lose its shit;he’d been leaning over the homo, so close the teen asswipe could smell the heady mix of sweat and abundant testosterone the powerful sadist gave off. Now he pulled back—not much, but enough to keep his face out of the teen’s frenetic reach.

His face, but not his body.  Within seconds, Donnie’s hands were grasping at Dave’s rock-hard pecs and dark body fur.  Digging into his chest, the little asswipe actually managed to draw the alpha’s blood.  Not a lot, but it didn’t take much to trigger the violent killer’s rage.

It happened in a flash.  With a vicious snarl, Dave drew back his fist.  Donnie’s eyes widened in sudden terror, but he had no time to do more than register the image of Dave’s bicep, bulging with power like a coiled spring, before the killer’s fist slammed into his face with the force of a speeding locomotive.

Pain tore through the unlucky whoreboy’s head, but even worse followed immediately.  In the next moment, Dave had grabbed Donnie’s right arm.  “You stupid fuckin’ piece of shit,” he growled, the bloodlust glittering in his eyes, “You ain’t ever gonna that again.  Yer gonna take my dick like a good piece of fuckmeat, then yer gonna die so your convulsions can milk my shaft.  You get that?  No, ya dumbass cunt?  Here, maybe this’ll teach ya!”

His handsome face contorted in a bestial mask as he wrapped his own powerful arm around the slut’s thinner one.  He gave a quick, vicious jerk and Donnie’s arm was suddenly bent ninety degrees in the wrong direction at the elbow.

The adolescent’s shriek was loud, echoing off the bare walls of the small room, but it wasn’t loud enough to completely cover the gristly cracking sound of a major bone shattering, so similar to that of the breaking of a live tree limb.  Donnie’s face had gone a pale gray except for the large dark rings that physical trauma had painted around his eyes.  His lithe body stiffened, going rigid with agony.

Dave loved it; the cunt’s sphincter might have been mangled but it was still intact enough to clench with pain, tightening around the base of Dave’s thick, massive shaft.  The violent sadist had managed to inflict the suffering on the fuckmeat without breaking his relentless ass-pounding tempo; the slut’s reaction to its salutary lesson only increased the alpha’s pleasure.

But Dave wasn’t done yet.  Like a jackhammer, his huge, heavy fist pounded the meat’s chest in the same spot that his boot had inflicted damage earlier.  The whoreboy’s broken ribs were driven deeper into his torso, the jagged ends shearing into his left lung and tearing it open.

Instantly Donnie’s screams became muffled, almost inaudible as his lung deflated.  His face developed a bluish tinge and he began to gasp like a dying fish.  His expression was one of sheer terror.

Dave grinned malevolently.  The meat was scared of being short of breath?  Worthless asswipe was gonna be in stark panic in a few seconds.

And that was gonna be hot.  The more it thrashed, the more it worked his cock like good fucktoy.

Despite his impaired respiration, Donnie soon found his voice again—what little was left of it.  All he could do was emit a keening noise, something like a high-pitched bleating that became louder and higher the more roughly Dave pounded his ass.  It was pissing the alpha off—he could already feel his massive ballsack starting to pucker as his potent semen began to seethe with eager heat.  He didn’t want to hear the meat whimpering and mewling as he got close to unloading.

“Aw, shut the fuck up!” he yelled in rage, slamming his fist repeatedly into the teen’s face.  The punk was really squirming about now, trying to get away from the hail of blows that the muscled sadist was raining mercilessly upon him, to no avail.  He was pinned to the bed by the killer’s hard body, impaled by his gigantic horsecock—

—on the same bed that he’d gotten fucked on the night before. The memory was made dim and fleeting by the maelstrom of suffering being inflicted on him; he could just recall that the boy was cute but wasn’t fucking him as roughly as he wanted…

…then Dave dragged him back to the present by breaking his nose.  But even through the pain and fear, Donnie was still aware of Dave’s raw sexual attraction and while the violent rape and assault weren’t conducive to eroticism—at least, from the whoreboy’s point of view—his dick responded instinctively. 

As the teenager’s pulsing member slid against Dave’s hard, flat belly, the wiry body fur abraded it like steel wool, increasing the boy’s pain—but his rod still left a clear trail of precum that matted his rapist’s hair.

Dave could feel it too.  With a loud grunt, he stopped beating Donnie, leaned forward and stared the directly into the homo’s swollen, terrified eyes.  “Ya ready for it, cunt?” he growled, “Ya ready to die?  It’s time to get it on, motherfucker!”

Then his hands clenched around the kid’s throat, strong as iron bands, and he began to squeeze. At the same time, he shifted slightly, digging the toes of his bike boots into the bed. He started to pump the teen’s fuckhole furiously, his powerful, rock-hard glutes flexing visibly inside his jeans.

Donnie’s immediate, involuntary reaction was blind panic.  He ceased to be a human being—he’d hardly been that to begin with, the useless piece of fuckmeat—and became an animal, scrambling frantically and vainly for escape from death.  He kicked and flailed frenziedly, his lithe, smooth legs wrapping around Dave’s waist with his feet in the air, toes curling in desperation.

The stupid punk was only adding to his own pain.  While his left hand clawed at his neck, futilely trying to pry away the alpha’s steely grip, his right arm jerked and flopped uselessly, each movement grinding the shattered ends of the bones against each other.  The boy was awash in a nightmarish sea of blood-red agony.

But within seconds, the nature of that agony began to change. It wasn’t that he could no longer feel the broken bones, or his bashed-in face; they just seemed to recede into the background as new, even more excruciating sensations came to the fore. Even the misery of having his windpipe slowly crushed took a back seat to the echoing, sledgehammer-like pounding in his skull and the burning, fiery pain in his already-damaged lungs; both were accompanied by an unbearable feeling of pressure.

This pressure was so intense it seemed to be forcing his eyes right out of its head.  The blackened lids had been swollen shut; now the bulging orbs popped them open.  And as red blooms of hemorrhages began to burst in the whites of the adolescent’s eyes, his tongue, already dark with congested blood, shoved its way past his split lips, lubed by a thick, steady stream of foamy drool that ran down his cheeks and chin.  

But the worst were the dicks—his and the alpha’s.  As his brain began to die, his nerve endings cruelly began to grow more sensitive.  His ravaged fuckhole felt like it was being reamed by a cactus the size of a baseball bat.  Yet somehow the pain in his own tool was even worse.  It throbbed with the same out-of-control tempo that his head and chest did, but it seemed to be even more intense and agonizing—a glassy, pulsating pain that clutched his balls like a bear trap and spread outward over his heaving, sweat-slick belly.

“Fuck yeah, get it,” Dave said, thickly and gutturally.  “Get my wad, you worthless piece a’ fuckin’ faggot shit.  Die on my shaft, you goddam cocksucker!”

For a moment, the pain in the meat’s throat became noticeable again.  The fucktoy’s brain was shutting down at a cascading rate, but there was still enough of it left to both feel and hear its esophagus collapse under the serial killer’s hands.  The loudest noise in the room was that of a huge styrofoam cup being crushed; the crackling sound was exactly what Dave had been waiting for—it was the end of the fuckmeat.

Or at least, close enough for the end for it fulfill its only real purpose on the planet and become the cumdump for a real male.  But even though Donnie, as Donnie, was brain-dead, the shuddering, convulsing meat still retained the ability to physically sense things.

The sheer hell of it was, the brain was so damaged it could only interpret its sensations as pain.

The eardrums could still pick up Dave’s cursing and jeers, but those vibrations went to a part of the fag’s brain that no longer functioned. It could feel Dave’s fist pounding on it, slamming into its chest, its jaw, its mouth. And it could definitely feel the continuous stream of potent virile manseed that spewed into its fuckhole—an excruciatingly searing pain as if its guts were being hosed by hot lava.

And then came the worst agony of all.  It could feel the entirety of its young, wasted life being ripped from its abused body, spurting out through its cock.  If it had been capable of thought, it would have been astonished at how badly an orgasm could hurt—but this was its mortal load, its deathwad. The last essence of its useless life actually was spewing out its cock.

There’d been a lot of life in the faggot for it to spew, too.  It shot a solid stream of spunk for nearly a full sixty seconds.  If it had survived, its balls would have been irreparably damaged.

Dave’s load lasted nearly as long, but he was stronger and more experienced.  Even so, he collapsed onto the shuddering corpse, spent, and lay there a few minutes as his rod continued to ooze and leak into the dead kid’s guts.  Finally catching his breath, he slowly extracted his still-erect shaft from the teen’s ass like a boring machine being pulled from a well and rose to his feet.

He was covered with sweat and needed to towel off, but first he wanted to remove the sticky boycum that was matting his chest hair.  He glanced around and instantly noticed that one of the meat’s socks had come off; the corpse’s toes were still curling slightly as its trashed nervous system continued to fire randomly.

It was barely big enough to satisfy his need; when he was done, it was thick and heavy with teen spunk.  Looking down at the meat’s congested face, Dave grinned and forced the cumrag sock into the kid’s mouth, shoving it past the blackened, protruding tongue.

He stepped into the bathroom and found some hand towels—there were no bath towels since it was only a half-bath.  It took three of them to wipe his own cum and sweat from his muscled body; when he was done, he jammed them into the toilet and flushed it, letting the water back up and overflow as a final “fuck you” to the privileged cocksucker and its family.  He tucked his dick back inside his jeans, retrieved his leather vest, and headed for the door.

His boots pounded heavily on the outside stairs as he headed down.  Even now, his massive rod was firm and pulsing.  Worthless faggot hadn’t been enough to satisfy him.  Fucking cunt.  He knew he’d need to find more meat soon.

Lights came on instantly in the house when the Harley roared to life.  Stupid homo was wrong about his parents getting to bed.  Even over the noise of the motorcycle, Dave could hear the mother’s hectoring voice issuing from the back yard.

“Donald, what on earth is going on?  That’s it; your father’s coming out there.  Henry!  Henry!  You need to go see what Donald is doing!”

Dave had no desire to spoil their surprise.  With a faint smirk that radiated pure evil, he flipped up the kickstand and pulled out of the driveway.

He was at the end of the block by the time slippered feet padded angrily up the stairs to the garage apartment and he’d made it to the main road by the time the screaming started.

He was on the highway, heading west and halfway home by the time sirens started heading towards the small room where the teenager’s badly beaten corpse lay, still quivering and oozing cum from its torn asshole.

The Great Coon Hunt, part 2

The heavy thud of Dan’s boots echoed in the empty spaces of the Poorhouse.  He was striding across the central hall, glancing around at the holding cells.  The interior was dilapidated, but the old overflow jail was still patently secure.  It was dark inside, with few apertures to let in the quickly waning daylight, but the cop’s heavy metal flashlight was more than adequate for his recon walk.

Behind him was the entrance—back down a hall flanked by a guardroom on one side and a solid cinderblock wall on the other, behind which were empty rooms used for storage.  Between the two was a hallway that led to the two-story central hall, with a sliding iron door that let it be sealed off.  The center of the hall had two tables in it—actually, single-piece table/bench combos bolted to the floor.  Beyond them were three cells, each about sixty-four square feet and fronted with iron bars.  Directly above, another three identical cells opened onto a metal catwalk; it was accessed by a spiral staircase in the northeast corner.  The wall opposite the cells had three evenly spaced (and heavily barred) windows directly across from the upper cells.

Another sliding door at the far end of the hall led to the kitchen and maintenance rooms.  The sections at the front and rear were also connected by an enclosed passage that ran outside the south wall; this where the generator was located, and Dan fired it up.   After the lights flickered on throughout the building, he made sure it was fully fueled, with a backup supply.  After all, this could last for hours…   

Fuck yeah, the buff cop thought, grinning as he felt his thick cock stiffen in his jumpsuit.  If they did it right, it could last for fuckin’ hours

Entering back into the guardroom, Dan threw a set of switches embedded in the wall.  Glancing out through the thick bulletproof window that overlooked the common area, he was able to confirm that the cell doors were operating exactly as desired.

His grin became more malicious.  The rest of the boys were waiting in the parking lot with the vans in fully-erect eagerness—he needed to let them know it was time to start some ape herding.


Jack kicked impatiently, his tall green Doc Martens scuffing at the crumbling asphalt.  A few minutes ago, the exterior floodlights had snapped on.  That meant it was almost time to start the fun and the racist killer was restless to begin the slaughter.  And the niggers were starting to get antsy, too—it wouldn’t be nearly as entertaining if they all had to be gunned down to avoid an uprising.  Then the door banged open and Dan came striding out.  Inadvertently, the Aryan thug mirrored the Sheriff’s shark-like grin. 

 “Go ahead and unload ‘em,” Dan called out.  “It’s ready.”

Immediately, showing their superior discipline, Jack’s crew climbed out of the vans, along with Lieutenant Pete.  Pete and Mike each faced a van, listening to Dan while they kept their weapons trained on the captive horde. 

“Awright, this is how it’s gonna go down,” the muscular cop said authoritatively, handing out shotguns to those who didn’t have a rifle, “We’re gonna be taking the fuckers in, one man to three monkeys.  Ed, Hank, and Mike, y’all take the three upstairs cells—Jack, you and Pete and Frankie take the downstairs three.” 

He paused and smirked.  “My three ain’t goin’ into cells.  Let’s just call them the pre-game show.” 

The boys chuckled malignly as they marched the coons towards the massive steel entrance door.  Just as he was about to enter, Jack paused.  “Hey, sheriff,” he called out, “I gotta question—do apes wear clothes?”

Dan’s grin curled into a sneer.  “No, they don’t,” he said, “Strip ‘em before you put lock ‘em up.”

The niggers were staring at each other, their eyes wide with fear.  They weren’t hood rats, after all; they were fraternity members at a college.  Each one had had a relatively comfortable middle-class upbringing.  This mix of extreme racial hatred, erotic brutality, and toxic masculinity was so far beyond anything they’d experienced that it induced a kind of vapor lock in their minds. 

Dan and Pete were more used to corralling things—men and beasts—so it was clear to them that the prisoners were on the verge of panic; they needed to be locked into the cells before that happened, or it’d be a bitch to control them.  Even Jack’s crew, without having had crowd-control training, could sense the unrest bubbling just under the surface.

For all of them, it translated into a sense of excitement.  Jack’s eager shaft was already swelling into a thick and very obvious ridge running down his thigh.  Everyone, to a man, was visibly erect at the thought of the upcoming violence.  Even Dan’s black jumpsuit was tented at the groin as he anticipated guiding Pete and maybe some of the others through some hardcore maiming and kill moves.

After all, what better to practice on than a herd of destructive howler monkeys? Hell, he was doing the community a favor, getting rid of the trash that was trying to invade the county like a plague of locusts.

He was just exterminating some pests.

The coons started murmuring among themselves as the got inside.  “Shaddap!” Mike barked at one in his custody, smacking it in the head with the butt of his rifle.  That sufficed to quell the muttering, but they all knew it wouldn’t last long. 

“Get ‘em to their cells,” Dan said evenly.  “Cuff two to the bars or the handrail; keep the other covered while it strips.”  He paused, his shark-like grin returning.  “And remember, they’re probably too stupid to recognize your natural authority as a white man.  If one resists, bash it in the head and cut the clothes off.”  He said it loud enough for all the niggers to hear.

As Mike led his captives up the spiral staircase, his black engineer boots thudded heavily on the metal steps; the sound was soon multiplied by the Doc Martens sported by Hank and Ed.  Dan’s voice came rising above the noise, “Meet me back here when you’re done; we need to do a little inventory.”

After that, the abandoned jail echoed with barked commands that would have sounded familiar to any plantation owner used to keeping an iron control over his slaves; even the grunting of the coons as they unwillingly removed their clothing would have had the accustomed ring of niggers toiling at their labor.  It took more than twenty minutes for the boys to rendezvous back in the central hall.

“Let’s go see what we’ve got in the shop,” Dan said.  “I walked through it, but I didn’t make time to take stock.  I have no doubt you boys can improvise; let’s see you get…creative.

The shop provided several things of interest.  Pete located several rolls of barbed wire, used to maintain the perimeter fence; Ed and Frankie pounced on these while Hank located some four-foot two-by-fours and a toolbox.  The dragged these out into the central hall and set up a miniature assembly line on one of the tables.  Using work gloves and wire clippers from the toolbox, Frankie spooled out three-foot lengths of the wire and cut them off, handing them to Ed and Hank.  The latter two, with gloves and items from the toolbox, would hammer a nail into the wood, wrap the wire around it as an anchor, then wind the wire around the two-by-four before driving in another nail to anchor the other end of the wire.

They worked almost as well as a baseball bat would’ve.

Mike and dug around among the chemicals, locating an industrial drain cleaner with an acidic base; he took that out as well, along with some zip-ties.  But it was Dan who hauled out the item that was to start the festivities. The boys had just completed production of what they were calling Koon Klubs; everyone looked up at what Dan was wheeling into the room.

It was a professional plumber’s snake, run by a fourteen-horsepower electric motor.  Inmates flush all kinda shit down prison toilets; it had been purchased for its ability to chew right through the most stubborn blockages.

“Niiice,” Ed commented as Hank whistled, impressed.  “What’s that for?” Jack asked, his throbbing groin hinting that he had his own suggestions.

“You’ll see,” the Sheriff chuckled, and tossed Pete his keys.  He nodded at the niggers cuffed to the staircase.  “The one to the left,” he said to his lieutenant.  Unhesitatingly, the young cop retrieved the captive, the crotch of his tight jeans straining painfully under pressure from his excited erection.

“See, boys,” Dan announced in an echoing voice, “We’re gonna start with this one.”  He was speaking as much to the prisoners as to their guards.  “Why this one?  It looks like any other worthless criminal ape, right?  But if you look closer, you can see it isn’t just another uppity jigaboo that needs to learn its place the hard way—it’s a faggot, too.”

Here the look on his face became one of sadistic glee.  “I don’t tolerate jungle bunnies in my county, and I don’t tolerate homos.  Only thing worse than either is something that’s both, and that’s what we’ve got here.” 

Jack’s crew exchanged smirks while Pete almost writhed in anticipation.  The nigger gibbered in terror, too scared to deny the accusation.  It wouldn’t have mattered anyway…

“We need to make an example of it.  If we don’t stomp out this fucking nigger infestation here and now, we’ll be dealing it for years, so we need to do something that even the dumbest coon can understand.  C’mon, Pete, give me a hand.  You boys get it face down on the table.”

The latter was easier said than done.  The nigger was a young, wiry buck.  It was on the college basketball team—it had tried for football but wasn’t quite built enough—and while it didn’t have the talent for stardom, it was stronger than it looked.

Especially when it panicked, which it did immediately.  Eventually, it took all of Jack’s crew to hold it down.  Mike and Ed each had an ankle, Frankie and Hank a wrist, and Jack had his arm clamped around its nappy head, as much to keep it quiet as to pin it down.  After all, it was screams of agony he wanted to hear, not the bleating of frightened pigs.

Pete plugged the snake in and fired it up.  “You yard apes watching?” Dan called out over the sputtering motor, “This is some real Rigler County hospitality, right here.  We’re really rollin’ out the Welcome Wagon for you spades!”

Then he grabbed the handle on the snake and advanced, holding the sharp whirling prongs out in front of him.  “Mike, Ed, pull the legs apart more.  Faggots always spread their legs so they can get something long and hard shoved up their asses, right?  Hell, yeah!  Awright, you fuckin’ nigger pervert, here’s the best assfuck you’re even gonna get!”

With a twisted sneer of hate and pleasure, the cop rammed the plumber’s snake into the coon’s ass.  As the metal claws tore their way through its sphincter, it managed to tear its head free of Jack’s grasp.  Instantly, its shrill, inhuman shrieks were reverberating from every corner if the large room.

The sound pounded its way into the other nigger cunts; it was like someone had lit a fuse.  Blind panic spread like wildfire, but as loud as the monkeys howled out their terror, they couldn’t down out the screaming of the ape that was having its guts chewed up from the inside.

Pete helped Dan control the line, keeping is steady as blood gushed from the nigger’s gutted asshole.   At some point, as the head of snake ground its prostate into dog food, it shot an involuntary wad onto the table, but no one noticed, not even itself.  It did notice Jack’s cock, though; since he was the only one with his hands free, he’d hauled out his massive shaft and was slapping the nigger in the face with it.

“Fuck yeah!” he crowed, “That’s some real white power, ya fuckin’ monkey!  Ya feelin’ it now, boy, yeah?”

Dan shoved, his thick biceps swelling the sleeves of his jumpsuit as they bulged.  He’d churned his way up through the coon’s intestine and was getting into the visceral organs, making paste out of the ape’s liver.  It shuddered violently, still screaming but slowly becoming quieter as blood loss and shock from major organ trauma began to take effect.

Even the other jigaboos were becoming quieter.  They weren’t calmer, but their screaming was subsiding into an inarticulate sobbing.  The bleating of the dying buck was still the loudest thing in the room, until Jack’s taunts took over.

“Yeah, ya worthless spade, feel the burn!  Real white fuckin’ power burning inside ya—don’t it feel great?”  He bent down and grabbed a handful of its greasy, curly hair, jerking its head up so he could look into its big black eyes, mute and bewildered as a spaniel’s.

“Look at me as you die,” the buff Aryan youth hissed, his hatred and bloodlust radiating from his eyes.  Just at that moment, Dan gave a final, mighty shove to the snake and it tore its way up into the nigger’s lungs.  It stared deeply and frantically into Jack’s eyes, gurgled, and blood burst from its mouth, flowing over its thick lips in a steady stream.  Its eyes rolled back into its head.  Jack let it go and its head fell limply to the table while its body thrashed.

Pete switched the motor on the snake off while the other boys let go of the body.  Still in its death throes, it slithered off the table, its dark skin slick with a cold sweat forced out of it by mortal agony.  On the floor, it flopped like an asphyxiating fish, with the snake still embedded deep in the corpse.

“We need a cleaning detail,” Dan said.  Pete, intelligent and obedient, was immediately on his way to collect the remaining two niggers cuffed to the staircase.  Herding them back, he had them pick up the dead one, one on each arm, and pull it while he and Dan grabbed the plumber’s snake.  The white men didn’t have problems touching the tool, but they had no intentions of fouling their hands with dead monkeys.

The snake came out of the dead jigaboo with a disgusting slurping sound, accompanied by a brief flow of blood and some unidentifiable organ tissue.  Then under the supervision of Pete and his shotgun, the two live coons dragged their companion out and loaded what was left of it into the back of one of the vans.

When they got back, it was clear that one of them had reached a breaking point.  A big, muscular buck, it had been gibbering and muttering to itself the entire time while the one chained to it had made a few feeble attempts to calm it.  Pete locked the other one up first; just as he turned to it, it snapped and went into hysterics.

It screamed and hollered, shouting imprecations, and began to back away.  Pete swung at it with the butt of his shotgun, but the impact made little impression on the nigger’s thick hide. 

“Goddam it,” Dan growled, “Show that one what happens to niggers that resist arrest.”

Pete complied eagerly, planting the sole of his laced TideWe hunting boot so deeply into the yard ape’s gut the ebon skin broke out in an even darker bruise that matched Pete’s tread perfectly.  Wheezing, the jungle bunny doubled over and collapsed, clutching its belly.

Pete had been conditioned well; Dan’s pride in him was justified.  Standing over the hacking, helpless spade, the young cop didn’t feel the slightest shred of mercy; what he felt was a combination of disgust at the subhuman pestilence writhing in front of him like an insect, and the righteousness, the almost orgasmic joy, not just of terminating it, but of forcing it to understand why it had to be terminated.

But it took a lot of violence and suffering to make the stupid monkey understand why it needed to die.  As the coon shuddered on the concreted floor, Pete lifted his lace-up hunting boot and stomped it in the chest.  And then again, this time rewarded with an erotic cracking sound and an agonized bleat as one of the nigger’s ribs was broken.  And that was all it took.

In a flash, a pair of black combat boots had joined in as Frankie decided he needed to be part of the fun.  Then Jack’s green Doc Martens, followed by Hank and Ed’s oxbloods and Mike’s engineer boots.

Mike concentrated on the nigger’s hands, the heels of his black leather boots remorselessly grinding the spade’s metacarpals and phalanges into powder, while Jack’s DMs pounded its scrotum, mangling the thick nigger cock and crushing its balls with a squelching noise like overripe grapes.  Ed, Hank and Frankie continued working on its torso, breaking its ribs and rupturing its internal organs; Frankie got a particular thrill as he felt the jigaboo’s sternum crack under his combat boot.  Pete, in the meantime, had transferred his attentions to its face; he was busy flattening its nose and knocking the teeth down its throat.

Watching the coon die under their relentlessly pounding boots caused a unanimous sense of power to be passed among the young men; even Dan, who was watching the orgy of bloodlust with approval, could feel it.  Instantly, Jack’s hard dick was joined in the open air by others.  As the nigger shuddered and gagged on its own blood, it could somehow still feel the searing drops of white boy precum on its black skin.

Then the boys got synchronized.  It wasn’t immediate, but within five seconds, they’d all picked up on the rhythm, helped by the chant started by the Aryans.  Simultaneously, their boots rose and fell on the unlucky spade, with devastating effect.

“WHITE!” [CRUNCH]

“POWER!” [CRUNCH]

“WHITE!” [CRUNCH]

“POWER!” [CRUNCH]

At the end of two minutes, the nigger was not just dead but damn near flattened, a bloody mass of mangled flesh and shattered bones.  As the boys backed away, grinning, Dan approached.  The monkey meat made one last, reflexive movement, a kind of shuddering gasp, and Dan’s thick-soled utility boot came down on its skull, cracking it like an eggshell.

Then he turned to the boys, eyeing the jutting, erect evidence of their righteous bloodlust with a grin.  “Pete, get that last one there to clean this mess up.  Then bring it back here.  It looks thirsty—I bet it’d like a little drink.”

Chuckling maliciously, he stepped to the side to allow his lieutenant to unlock the remaining nigger and intimidate it into scraping up the remains of its companion and take them out to the van.  When it returned, he grabbed it by its curly black hair and dragged it to a support post directly opposite the cells, making sure that the other coons could see it clearly, even those on the upper tier.

“Well, boys,” he said sneeringly, his masculine bass voice echoing in the large concrete chamber, “I think this one here’s been workin’ like a slave, yeah?  And every good slave needs a little TLC so it can keep pickin’ cotton and boilin’ sugar.  Food and water, yeah, and even some medicine.  Now, before this one gets its water, I think it needs some medicine.  Looks a little sickly to me—what do y’all think?”

The room was instantly full of exuberant jeers and catcalls.  “Think the ape needs a good cleanin’ out like the first one got!” came from the crowd of sexually excited young men—it might have been Jack.  “Yeah!” yelled Mike, “Fucker needs a good high-power enema!”  The hardbodied killers laughed raucously.

“Nah, Dan replied, “That one bent one of the blades.  Must’ve hit a bone on the inside, and I’m not going to ruin state equipment on a worthless jigaboo.  Pete, here, those cuffs are too loose on it—replace ‘em with one of those zip-ties.  Hank, bring over that bottle from the table.  Ed, you’re closest to the shop.  I saw a funnel sitting on one of the shelves on the left.  We’re going to need it.”

By this time, Pete had clipped the cuffs to his utility after replacing them with a zip-tie cinched so tightly that the nigger’s hands were already turning white from blood loss.  Hand handed the gallon jug of drain cleaner just as Ed returned with an eager grin, a hard cock, and a large funnel of green plastic in his hands.

“I’m going to need someone to hold its head,” Dan said.  Pete had stepped away, so Ed was there first, his wifebeater plastered to his hard, firm torso with sweat, displaying his muscular body as a literal personification of the white power to which he was so devoted.

“Listen up, you delinquent porch monkeys!” Dan barked to the captives, “You fuckin’ niggers have no respect for authority.  When a white man tells you jump, you goddam well better say, ‘Yes, massa, how high, sir?’  And when a white man tells you have to take your medicine, you drink it down without any lip, you got me?”

Not waiting for a reply he knew would never come anyway, he turned back with a snort of disgust.  Facing the bound buck, he said, “Lookin’ a bit constipated there, boy.”  He hefted the bottle of drain cleaner with a wide, evil grin.  “I think you need something to clean the shit out of your nigger ass.  Open wide, cunt, your master has something to fix you up good.”

The coon began screaming in fear, its eyes wide and huge, the size of dinner plates.  They rolled comically as Dan approached.  Suddenly there was an acrid stench as the nignog pissed itself.

“Filthy motherfucker,” Pete snarled at it from the side, “Even a fuckin’ animal doesn’t piss in its den.”

“Told you it wouldn’t take its medicine,” Dan muttered contemptuously.  “Get its mouth open, Ed.  Hurt it if you have to.”

Ed had to, of course.  He had to.  His wifebeater revealed the glory of the powerful delt, pec, and bicep muscles of his right arm as he swung it again and again, each blow connecting to the nigger’s face with a thick, meaty impact.  Five powerful blows left it with lips even thicker than usual and most of its front teeth scattered like mints across the floor.

“Fuck yeah,” Dan grunted, stepping in front of his captive.  He stared the coon straight in the eyes; it was clearly reluctant to meet his gaze but was just as clearly unable to resist the white man’s steely glare.

“You know you deserve this,” the sheriff commented evenly.  “Niggers breed filth and crime.  You and all your littermates here are a stain that I intend to eradicate from my county.”  He held up the funnel and bottle of drain cleaner.  “Of course, it’d be faster and more efficient to just line all of you up against the wall and blow your monkey brains out—but where would the fun in that be?  Catch hold of its head, Ed; it’s gonna fight.”

Standing behind it, the buff Aryan wrapped one hand around the jigaboo’s forehead, pulling it back as he placed the other under its jaw, clutching the joint of the mandible with such brutal force that the screaming coon’s mouth was forced open despite its best effort to keep it closed.

“Listen to it sing!” Jack called out gleefully as the nigger continued to wail.  “Fuck yeah, man,” Mike chuckled, that’s the best noise a nigger can make!”

Dan’s grin became icy.  “You haven’t heard anything yet, my brother,” he smirked, “Listen to this shit.”

Jamming the funnel down the squealing ape’s throat, he poured a hefty amount of the drain cleaner into it.  Instantly, the cunt began to kick and thrash—a bad move on its part, since it partially opened its airway at the same time.  As a result, it aspirated as large of an amount of the caustic solution as it swallowed.

Dan and Ed both jumped back as it began to spew foam like a fire extinguisher.  Well, not entirely like a fire extinguisher.  Fire extinguisher foam tended not to be pink and flecked with sloughed-off lung tissue and esophageal lining.  The spade thrashed, its bare feet skidding on the concrete floor and its biceps swelling as it strained futilely against the zip ties that kept its hands bound behind it.

The other niggers had gone silent; the grotesque gurgling could easily be heard, despite not being as loud as the screaming.  The dying coon couldn’t scream anymore; its vocal cords had already been eaten away.  Even its tongue was being stripped, layer of tissue by layer.  It fell to its knees and turned its dark, misery-filled eyes up to its tormentors.  Dan stepped forward and sneered down at it.

“I know it hurts, you yard ape.  White power is all about putting niggers in pain.  Die, you worthless sack of shit.”

The last thing the coon saw was the tread of Dan’s tactical boot as the white stud raised his foot and stomped the kneeling jigaboo in the face.  It wouldn’t have been a fatal blow by itself, but the ape had suffered too much internal damage.  It retched up another pint of bloody foam and sank, gagging and shuddering to the floor—a dead pile of monkey meat.

By now the boys were so hard they were aching.  It was clear they wanted to have some hand-on fun themselves, and Dan knew the benefits of keeping up troop morale. 

“C’mon over here, men.  You all want to have some fun, right?  This will take a little coordination, but I have an idea to give each one of you your own personal nigger piñata.”

He got their attention with that.  Soon they were back at their assembly line, with Frankie, Hank, and Mike using gloves and wire clippers to cut differing lengths of barbed wire—and fashion nooses out of them.  As they finished, Jack and Pete took them up the stairs and fastened them securely to the strong upper railing of the walkway.  Within minutes, four nooses dangled to the lower floor, and Jack and Pete each held another in their hands, not needing to drop them.  And as soon as Hank joined them upstairs, he hauled the fourth one up.

Dan had gathered the Koon Klubs and handed them out, three to the downstairs group of Frankie, Mike, and Ed.  As he distributed the remaining three upstairs, he reminded them “One from each cell.  You men got the right nooses?”  They checked their lengths and confirmed, and the net elimination round began.

The brothers downstairs each entered their respective cells and dragged out the biggest, most muscular buck in it.  The men upstairs waited until the coons were dragged up the staircase, gibbering in terror like animals, then began to help.

Dan hadn’t just planned the proceedings, he’d damn near choregraphed them.  That included selecting the strongest niggers out of each cell—as he explained it, not only would they dangle a nice long time before finally dying, but it was good to cull the herd of those animals most likely to cause a problem.

The reason for the differing lengths of wire was clear, too—the spades on the longer ones would be kicking and dangling in full view of the lower cells, while the shorter one only had a two-foot drop so that the jigs in the upper cells could still see their heads and most of their torsos as they died.

And in no case was the drop long enough to snap an ape’s neck.  Having one of the cunts die that quickly would have been no fun at all.  They could have mutilated the corpse in front of the other ones, of course—but inflicting pain was the whole point.  Putting niggers in agony was what got the brothers off.

The brothers placed the nooses over the niggers’ heads, then made them climb the rail.  If the coons knew what was going to happen, the made no sign of it.  They had literally been scared into submission as the mental trauma their middle-class psyches had endured practically shattered under the shock.

The bothers pushed and instantly three coons were dancing in the air, their fingers frantically tearing at the barbed wire sunk deep into the tender flesh of their throats.  In less than twenty seconds, they were joined by their buddies from the upper cells.  Snatching up their Koon Klubs, Frankie, Mike, and Ed flew down the steps.

Dan stood to the side, fondling his massive jutting cock as the games began.

“Hey, Frankie, betcha can’t his that one’s scrote!” Mike challenged, pointing at the leftmost coon. 

“C’mon,” Frankie replied, “First one to tear its balls off gets a case of beer from the loser!”  With that, they both stepped in, swinging their barbed-wire-wrapped Klubs.  It wasn’t an easy target; the choking porch monkey was kicking frenetically.  Mike and Frankie each managed to land a dozen blows, tearing open its thighs and belly, without hitting its dangling sack.  It rotated as it hung, so they even tried getting to it from behind, scoring the nigger’s smooth firm ass like a plowed field.  Suffering was written all over its pitch-black, swollen face, but it wasn’t just from Frankie and Mike’s target practice.

Ed, it turned out, was having better luck at his target practice on the next nigger over.  “Dude, y’all gotta aim somewhere else first!” he called out to the other two, grinning.  “Let the fuckin’ coon know the yer the boss!”  And with a mighty swing, he slammed his Klub into the monkey’s knee, shattering it and ripping the skin so badly that fragments of the kneecap came out.  The yard ape jerked and bucked in mid-air, its arms clawing viciously at anything within reach.

The first thing within reach, it turned out, was the spade Frankie and Mike were working on.  Soon, both coons were digging at each other with a mindless ferocity born of pain and terror.  As they fought, all three brothers turned their attention to the third one, who so far was merely enduring the relatively mild torture of being hung to death with barbed wire.

Upstairs, Jack had taken an early lead.  “Watch this shit, dudes,” he grinned and swung his Klub down over the railing.  He immediately hit a nigger in the face.  “Landed me a big one!” he joked, jerking the Klub up like a fishing rod, and with much the same effect.  The barbed wire had caught in the coon’s face; Jack’s jerk ripped its left cheek open and reduced the left eye to a bleeding socket of goo. 

“See, that’s how ya do it,” the Aryan smirked ghoulishly as he showed them that the nigger’s eyelid had been torn off and was still stuck to a projection of the wire.

Pete wasn’t slow to follow his example.  Lunging over the railing, the hardbodied young lieutenant landed his Klub in a coon’s throat, just above the spot where the wire noose was digging into its neck.  In blind panic and agony, the jigaboo clutched frantically at the weapon. 

It would have taken a skilled observer to determine whether Pete’s ferocious grin was bigger than his oozing cock when the young cop yanked the Klub back up, shedding the spade’s hands like a food processor.  The dying yard ape was unable to scream, but the way it wheezed and thrashed in midair elicited cruel laughter from its tormentors.

“Does it hurt, ya dumbass nigger?” Hank yelled down at it, his face and his pulsating dick both red with raging bloodlust.   “Only way to make the stupid monkeys learn!” Mike called up from below as he landed his Klub in its smooth flat belly.  The black-clad Aryan stud threw his weight onto it, dragging it downward with such brutal force that the barbs buried in the coon’s stomach tore its skin in long lines, damn near disemboweling it.  The nignog’s air dance became momentarily livelier as it suffered pain beyond its admittedly dim imagination; thirty seconds later, it convulsed energetically, then a gush of monkey cum erupted from its dangling dick.  Shortly thereafter its movements slowed and all that was left was a twitching pile of apemeat.

It died without ever seeing the fury of hate and lust its orgasm had triggered.

It was as if a switch had been tripped.  There air was already full of a toxic—and intoxicating—mix of testosterone, racial hatred, and mansweat, but the sight of semen—even if it was just nigger seed—hit the boys with the same effect as a bucket of chum on a school of sharks. 

Despite being the best-trained and most disciplined one of the six, it hit Pete first.  “Die, you motherfucking nigger scum!” he screamed, swing his club downwards and caving in a coon’s face.  As he and the others ran down the stairs to get better angles for beating, Frankie took up the war cry.

“White power!  White power!  White fuckin’ power, bitches!” he screamed, swinging his Klub frenziedly without aim.  Interestingly, he was more accurate that he’d been before; his first blow caught the ballsack of the first darky he’d been practicing with.  With a single jerk, the muscled young skinhead tore the nigger’s scrotum open.  Unlike its now-dead littermate hanging next to it, it couldn’t cum.  But Frankie could, and did—explosively, his hot wad splashing across the boots of those standing near him.

In the melee that followed, even Sheriff Dan joined in, picking up a Klub and beating at the dying niggers like piñatas.  His own cock, long, thick, and wreathed in pulsing veins, was on the verge of exploding when Jack began chanting.  It was the same as when they’d stomped the coon earlier; the sheer force of their mantra, repeated rhythmically, giving a timing and ferocity to their swinging Klubs.

“WHITE!” [WHAM]

“POWER! [WHAM]

“WHITE!” [WHAM]

“POWER!” [WHAM]

With each impact, nigger flesh was torn and shredded and thrashing nigger bodies kicked and flailed in mortal agony.  Suddenly, one of the coons on the upper tier began to shoot its deathload.  None of the boys commented or even seemed to notice it, but now they began to unload as well, their rage and hormones going into overdrive.

“WHITE!” [WHAM] (spurt)

“POWER!” [WHAM] (spurt)

“WHITE!” [WHAM] (spurt)

“POWER!” [WHAM] (spurt)

The last thing the dying coons heard was the jeering chant of their killers; the last thing the felt, aside from the horrific agony of the tortures inflicted on them, was the searing splashes of white power made truly manifest—the hot potent manseed of the powerful Caucasian males, aroused beyond control at the dominance they were asserting over their inferiors.

It went on for a while.  The remaining monkeys still locked in their cells were screaming in mindless terror, especially those on the lower level, who had the best view of what was happening.  After about a half hour or so, though, things began to calm down.  The boys had stopped swinging and spewing, the shrieking of the caged apes had subsided to abject sobbing, and the ones hanging from the railing had been reduced to dangling pieces of quivering shredded meat whose resemblance to any human species was questionable.  Pools of blood and semen had spread across the floor.

Heaving and sweating, Dan paused to catch his breath.  Glancing around, he noticed that the others were as winded as he was.  “I think we could use a break,” he announced.  “After all, we aren’t even halfway through with the extermination.  Pete, you still got those coolers in your van?”

“Sure do,” the buff lieutenant replied.

“Go ahead and bring ‘em in.  Get someone to help.”

Pete corralled Mike and Frankie; within three minutes, they had returned, each carrying a pair of coolers.  Once they’d been set on one of the tables, Dan opened the closest and started pulling cans of beer out of the ice.

“Figured we might need this,” he grinned as he began to distribute them.  “This’ll get your blood—and your peckers—back up.  Drink up, boys, we’ve got work to do—and I’ve got an idea on how to do it.”

Guffawing with malignant glee, the muscular young coonkillers began to down their beers.  They were almost more excited to hear Dan’s plan than to get back to the slaughter itself.  After all, as even Jack had to admit, the dude had ideas.

Jake Makes His Mark

Jake turned the ignition and felt the heavy rumble of the Ford F350’s powerful engine.  He liked the sensation; after a long day’s work on the counties’ power lines, it almost felt like a full body massage.  Even now, as he was leaving the bar, he lay back for a moment in his tight jeans, sweat-streaked t-shirt and knee-high lineman’s boots to enjoy the vibration.

Whether or not the fag whore sitting next to him felt the same way didn’t really matter.  It had approached him in the bar, clearly angling for a drink and some dick.  Jake was willing to give it the former but didn’t see any need to spend money on it, so he told it he’d give it a drink when they got back to his place.

It was wearing a replica Rush concert t-shirt under a light leather aviator’s jacket.  Its skin-tight jeans concealed its long boycock as badly as Jake’s did his own massive hog; beneath was a pair of Adidas Stan Smith kicks in white leather.  The whore was eager for cock—if it’d had a tail, it’d have been wagging it.

When they got into the truck, it told Jake its name—Billy, Bobby, something like that.  Jake didn’t listen; he didn’t care.

After all, meat didn’t need a name to die.

Jake liked wasting fagboys.  Useless scum taking up valuable space, they were only good for milking his enormous rod as they died in nightmarish convulsions.  And no one ever missed them.  Every Friday night for years now, the hardbodied stud had stopped off at some bar or another somewhere in the county; there was always a homo hanging around, hoping to catch some straight dude drunk and horny enough not to care about what was sucking his dick.

The ones that left with Jake were never seen again—or at least, not until they’d become unrecognizable.  Every now and then, one would be ID’d by DNA or dental records and there’d be a brief blurb on the local news, but no questions were ever asked—because no one cared. 

Jake grinned as he put the truck into gear.  Fuck, he was doin’ the county a favor, ridding it of these worthless cocksuckers.  And tonight, he’d take out another one.  His dick was already oozing at the thought.

His apartment was a short-term rental; a late-winter storm had done a lot of damage to the lines in this part of the state and there was still a lot of repair work to do.  The complex was small and half-empty most of the time.  Jake had only been there himself for two months and at that, his was the third-longest tenancy in the place—there were a couple of ancient crones up near the front who eked out their welfare pittance by staying inside all day with the TV cranked up. 

A narrow drive ran from the street to the rear parking lot.  The muscled killer had to drive right past one of the old bats’ bedroom windows on the way, but the curtains were closed and the lights out, as always.  The meat was still yammering away in the passenger seat as Jake parked the truck, but it had the sense to shut its trap once it got out.  The soft footfall of its Adidas sneakers as it followed Jake into the complex was drowned out by the crunching of buff stud’s boots on the gravel surface.

Jake’s unit was on the bottom left in the back.  It had come furnished, full of mismatched garage-sale rejects.  The hardbodied lineman didn’t spend much time cleaning it; it was a dump, and he didn’t spend much time in it in any case.  Billy/Bobby stared at the sprung sofa with a large stain on one of its cushions and the armchair in cracked faux leather in distaste.   

Jake sneered.  Fucker didn’t think it was a decent enough place to get banged in?  It’s gonna fuckin’ love gettin’ snuffed in here, worthless cunt.

Heading for the kitchen, the twisted muscleman grabbed a bottle of Hennessey and a single glass—no sense wastin’ good booze on meat.  He threw himself on the sofa and raised a leg into the air.

“Get over here, bitch,” he snarled.  “Take my boot off.  Now, ya fuckin’ faggot—move it!”

Bobby/Billy instantly dropped to its knees with the instinct of a cocksucker, despite the look of shock on its face that showed how unused it was to being treated the way it deserved.  It ran its hands over the black leather of Jake’s boots, its fingers caressing the tight laces as its large dark eyes focused with lustful eagerness on the killer’s face.

Jake had trimmed his red-gold hair in an extreme buzz cut but let a short beard of the same shade grow; combined with his glittering emerald eyes, it gave him a masculine appeal that homos found irresistible.  With his large dark eyes locked on Jake’s, it was clear Bobby/Billy was under the influence of that appeal now.  It brushed a bang of lank black hair out of its eyes and untied the knot on the left boot.  With a frantic lunge, Billy/Bobby manage to pry the boot free, his own cock visibly throbbing in his jeans, then turned his pig attention to the other one.

The meat didn’t immediately untie the right boot; first, it applied its tongue to the long length of glossy black leather running up the stud’s muscled calf.  “Work it, cunt,” Jake, “Lick it like it’s my fuckin’ dick.”  Billy/Bobby responded in true faggot spirit, mounting Jake’s boot, its swollen package sliding along the top of the alpha’s foot while it played at the knot of the bootlace with the tip of its tongue.

Finally lifting its head, it reached up and untied the boot.  Placing its Adidas kicks flat on the floor, it grasped the boot by tip and heel and began to pull.  “That’s right,” the hardbodied lineman grunted as the cuntboy strained at the knee-high boot, “Faster you get ‘em off, faster you get my cock inside ya.” 

The boot came off suddenly, sending Billy/Bobby backwards onto its ass with a grunt.  Jake smirked and stood up abruptly, peeling his t-shirt off in a single continuous movement that revealed his furry, chiseled torso in all its masculine glory.  Tossing it aside casually, he unbuttoned the waistband of his jeans and slowly slid the zipper down, grinning contemptuously at the eager, hunger look on the faggot’s face.

“Been waitin’ for this, cocksucker, aintcha?” he sneered, then chuckled aloud as his massive shaft of pulsing, vein-wreathed manmeat sprung out, its spongy, billiard-ball-sized head bobbing in the air.  As the hardbodied stud let the jeans slid to the floor, he noted a look of trepidation on the homo’s face.  “Whassa matter, pansy, my rod too big for ya?” he jeered as he stepped out of the pile of wadded denim, “I’m getting’ another slug of booze; that’ll give ya time to get in the mood to get yer ass wrecked.  Strip, cunt, I wanna see what I’m gonna be stick my dick into when I get back.”

Nude except for his calf-high tube socks, Jake plodded into the kitchen and poured himself another glass of Hennessey.  It took only a few seconds at most, so when he returned, he was surprised to see that the meat had not only pulled off its clothes but had had the audacity to pull his wallet out of his crumpled jeans and rifle through it.  There was a fair amount of cash in it—Jake had gotten paid two days ago, plenty of overtime—and the worthless cumdump was so absorbed in counting the bills that it didn’t hear Jake’s approach.

“You worthless motherfucker.”  It was said calmly and coldly, but there was something in the words that made Billy/Bobby’s blood run cold and the rest of its lean adolescent body freeze in fear.  “Y’know, I was gonna off yer faggot ass tonight anyway,” Jake continued, almost casually, “But now I’m gonna make it fuckin’ hurt.”

The meat slowly rose to its feet, its dark eyes huge with fear.  “Wha—no, I just…I mean, I didn’t—” it whimpered, its boyish face ashen.

Jake took another step forward, his gigantic shaft jutting out in front of him.  “You didn’t?  Yeah, ya fuckin did.  Aw man, fuckwad,” he grinned, “I’m gonna enjoy hurtin’ you so fuckin’ much.  I’m gonna kill you while ya ride my cock.  Yer gonna spend yer last few moment on earth kickin’ yer worthless life out on my dick.”

The faggot had its back against the wall by now.  It bleated inarticulately as fat tears ran down its cheeks, but its long teen rod was still erect despite its increasing terror.  Its eyes darted wildly but finally came to rest on Jake’s balled-up fist, big as the head of a mallet, that the muscled alpha was starting to draw back.

The thick, ropy muscles on the sadist’s arm were coiled like a spring; the raw power was obvious.  It would be a devastating blow.  Just as the fist shot towards it, the fuckmeat jerked to one side with the instinct of a lower life form evading a predator.  Jake’s hand plowed into the thin wall, puncturing it like wet paper.

With a roar of thwarted rage, the vicious alpha yanked his arm back, his hand covered with white dust, the remains of pulverized sheetrock.  One glance at his face was enough to make Billy/Bobby that it had only made things worse for itself.  It wouldn’t have the chance to repeat the mistake, though—by the time the thought had flashed through its slow, dim mind, Jake had already reset his power blow.

This time, it was aimed directly at the teen meat’s smooth, flat belly—and it didn’t miss.

“HOOG!!” the cunt squawked as the air was forcibly expelled from its lungs.  It bent over, clutching its abdomen, and collapsed as its legs folded under it.  Jake stood over the gagging lump of teen sneering at its pathetic attempts to draw breath.

“Kinda a shame ya took my boots off, bitch; I’da loved ta stomp yer teeth down yer faggot throat.  Looks like I’mma have to do it with my fist.”

He knelt beside it and grabbed a handful of hair.  Jerking its head back, he spat in its agonized face, then stood up, pulling the adolescent slut up to its knees.  Jake held it upright by its hair; Billy/Bobby hadn’t regained enough air to be able to support itself.  As a result, it could only dangle helplessly as the powerful killer aimed his fist directly at its face.

In a way, the effects of this impact were more merciful than those of the first.  Its head snapped back so hard and fast that it tore free of Jake’s hand, leaving him with a fistful of dark lank hair.  The back of the cunt’s head made another hole in the wall, the force knocking it out.  It didn’t immediately feel the pain of having its nose crushed into a useless wad of cartilage; it was spared the sensation of drooling an incisor and cuspid out its mouth in a trickle of blood.

When it slowly began to climb its way into consciousness out of a sea of red pain, it became aware that it was face-down on something—the sofa.  Its face was throbbing and its mouth seemed swollen; the memory of the beating it had endured was slow and gradual in its return.  But it did return, accompanied by the sensation of something poking and prodding at its soft, tender fuckhole—something that seemed to be about the size of a baseball bat.

The adolescent slut suddenly came to completely, with a realization that it was feeling the brutal alpha’s dick as it prepared to ream the meat’s ass like a jackhammer.  As horny as the little cunt was, it knew there was no way it could take that massive tube of manflesh up its rectum without sustaining terrible internal damage.

It needed to get out.  Now.

Jake had expected a show of resistance from the meat at some point; the cunts always put up a fight, even though they always enjoyed it in the end.  At any rate, they always shot huge deathwads as they died.  And if they didn’t like it—who cared?

It was just fuckmeat, after all.

The fag whirled around, throwing itself off the couch and landing on the thin, cheap carpeting.  It could feel the synthetic weave scratching its back as is stared up at Jake towering over it, and it realized it hadn’t improved its position at all.  The muscle-bound sadist loomed menacingly, his enormous shaft oozing transparent beads of precum that spattered onto the punk’s smooth, flat belly, seeming to burn the flesh as they hit.

The despair Bobby/Billy felt was obvious in its face as it gazed up at the hardbodied stud; those powerful muscles that had to attracted its homo lust were now revealed as the means to cause the boyslut further pain.  Even when Jake turned and bent to retrieve something on the floor, the visible strength revealed by the rock-hard globes of his ass muscles simply drove home the point—by showing how much power was available to thrust that huge horsedick up into the teen’s guts.

Jesus Christ, this guy could fuck him to death.  Literally, to death. 

But even as a cold chill ran through the boywhore’s lithe body, its dick remained pulsatingly erect.  Jake noticed.

“You want this, ya fuckin’ faggot bitch,” he snarled in a low tone that was somehow erotic.  “You know you want to die impaled on my cock.  Don’t worry, you piece of cocksucking shit, it’s gonna happen—but not yet.”

His grin broadened, becoming so malevolent that Billy/Bobby moaned in terror.

“But I ain’t done hurtin’ ya.  Street whores like you are tough, gamy meat.  Yer gonna need a lot more tenderizin’ before I’m ready to grant you the mercy of death.  And believe me, motherfucker, by then death will be a mercy.”

He held up his hand and the cunt could see what he’d pick up.  It was a socket wrench.  A metal socket wrench, very large, very heavy.

“Ready, motherfucker?  Time for you to learn to appreciate death.  Goddam, I’m gonna get off on hurtin’ you so fuckin’ much!”

Ginning excitedly, Jake waded in, his furry chest glistening in the dim light as it flexed with each swing of the wrench.  The teenaged faggot moaned in terror as the hulking alpha stooped over him; it knew it was about to suffer unimaginable pain.  It didn’t understand why, though, and bewilderment filled its face as it held its hands up in a desperate plea for mercy.

Then the blows came thick and fast, falling like steel rain onto the tender adolescent flesh.

Jake managed to avoid the cunt’s flailing hands and landed the first blow on its chest, striking the swelling mound of the pectoral just to the right of the sternum. Almost simultaneously with the meaty thud of metal-on-skin contact was a sharp crack as a rib fractured explosively, scattering razor-sharp bone shards through the whore’s body like shrapnel.  “GUK!” the kid cried out inarticulately as its right lung was punctured in three places.  As it slowly collapsed over the next five minutes, the cocksucker found it increasingly difficult to breathe.

By that time, though, it had a lot of other things to worry about.  Like its left hand.  Jake’s first blow may have avoided the fucker’s scrambling fingers, but the second plowed into them with all the brute force the hardbodied killer could muster; in the blink of an eye, Billy/Bobby’s left hand was crushed into a useless wad of bone chunks and torn muscle. 

The boy paused for a moment, staring wide-eyed at the mangled lump of twitching flesh at the end of its wrist.  It was breathing heavily, each inhale deeper and longer than the last one.  Jake had beaten enough fags to recognize an impending scream.  He nipped it in the bud by leaning down and almost casually popping the little motherfucker in the face with the wrench, breaking its jaw in three pieces.

The sound the meat made was inhuman—at least, it couldn’t be recognized of the scream of a human.  Jake tossed the wrench aside and squatted down next to the writhing, blubbering homo.  He could see that the kid’s cock was still hard, even if the pansy didn’t realize it itself.  “Ya like that, huh, motherfucker?  Ya like it when a real man shows a worthless fag like you what it really deserves?  Here, dude, getta load of this.”

He curled his arm in front of the boy’s face, the massive bicep swelling with the alpha’s innate strength.  “Fuck yeah,” the sadistic killer crowed, “That’s some real fuckin’ power, yeah?  Well guess what, asswipe, it’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, cause I’m gonna use it all on your sorry ass.  No holds barred, no punches pulled—I’m gonna beat ya to death.  I’m gonna cave yer fag face in while my cock is buried in yer guts.”

Jake stood back up, his furry glistening body backlit by the lamp on the table.  “You want it,” he murmured in a low, almost seductive voice.  “You know you do, bitch.  You want the D and you wanna die to earn my load.  You ain’t good for nothin’ else and you know it deep down in the core of yer rotten faggot soul.  Yer almost ready for it.  Almost.  There’s still an edge on ya, fuckmeat, I can see it in yer eyes.  It’s the look of a beaten dog ready to lick its master’s hand again.  You know what you deserve—but you don’t know it, ya feel me?  No?  Here’ maybe this’ll learn ya.”

And with no other warning Jake dropped, slamming his rock-hard fist down like a pile driver deep into the teen’s taut smooth belly.

The fag seemed to wrap around Jake’s hand, nearly engulfing it.  At the same time, the boywhore let out a high, girlish squeal—as the air was forcibly expelled from its lungs, it came out with the sound of steam escaping a ruptured pipe.  This was the point at which the shredded right lung collapsed, leaving the miserable youth retching and gagging in near-asphyxia.

“Now yer ready, motherfucker,” Jake sneered, dragging the thrashing homo to a clear space near the center of the room.  “And so am I.  Good workout with a punching bag always gets me horny.  Guess it’s a good thing I found a cumdump to unload into, yeah?  Har!”  He brandished his monstrous tool with vicious pleasure in the full knowledge that the mere penetration would cause the teenager serious internal damage.

Kicking Billy/Bobby’s legs apart, Jake kneeled between them and spat on his cock.  He placed the enormous purple head against the punk’s way-too-small fuckhole.  “I ain’t just gonna fuck ya, faggot,” he chortled, “I’m gonna fuck ya up.”

Then he jammed himself in balls-deep.  He had to put his huge muscles to work.  Everything from his hard rounded glutes to his thick knotty biceps worked in tandem and instantly, tearing open the meat’s sphincter and rampaging through its rectum like a plumber’s snake.  Before the slut could let out a screech from its misshapen mouth, Jake had already torn its rectal lining off like old wallpaper and brutally crushed its prostate, leaving the cunt’s cock helplessly and agonizingly erect. 

But Billy/Bobby never got the chance to cry out.  Almost immediately, Jake had begun beating it again.  True to his word, he whaled its face as he mercilessly raped it.  “Take it, motherfucker,” he snarled, totally immersed in the hatefuck, “Take my dick.  This how faggots die, you piece a’ shit—beaten to death on the floor with a cock up their asses.  You deserve this and you fuckin’ know it.”

The fuckmeat gagged on its own blood as its smooth teen body shuddered in agony and terror.  It still didn’t understand what was happening to it; it had thought it’d lucked out and found a seriously hot stud to pound its ass all night.  Well, the seriously hot stud was pounding its ass—and its face.

It had heard Jake’s taunts and abuse, but it couldn’t believe that its short, pathetic life was almost over.  But some small part of its worthless cockpig soul acknowledged the truth of the alpha’s venomous insults—and responded by an achingly raging erection that even the horrific trauma of being beaten to death couldn’t mask from the dying faggot.

Jake didn’t confine his murderous intentions to the cunt’s face; he made damn sure to land a few sledgehammer blows on its firm chest and soft belly as well.  “Aw, fuck yeah!” the sadistic killer grunted when the fagboy reacted strongly to a particularly vicious blow, “Ya fuckin’ love this shit, dontcha?  Goddam fuckhole grabs my shaft and milks it good every time I give ya a little love tap!”

The hard-bodied alpha flexed his tight ass as he reamed the punk out, his powerful glutes going concave with each brutal, merciless thrust, powering Jake’s enormous, vein-wrapped tool on its rapid path of destruction through the adolescent whore’s colon.  Sweat trickled down the stud’s back and into the crack of his ass as his cock and his fist plunged again and again into the teenager’s body, using the lithe, agonized form as a receptacle for his rage and his lust.

It was meat to be used, and he was gonna use the fuck outta it, goddam it.

Billy/Bobby was starting to slip into a coma; the cranial damage was becoming overwhelming and its brain was starting to bleed.  As pressure started to build inside the meat’s skull, its world started shrinking.  Its senses were starting to dull.  Its vision was long gone anyway; Jake had landed several punches directly onto its eye sockets.  Even if it had been able to open its swollen lids, the eyes themselves were no longer functional.  The blows had been hard enough to detach the slut’s retinas and break the orbits of the eyes.  Billy/Bobby was blind.

And its hearing was going—things were faint and tinny.  But by a cruel trick—of fate, of genetics, whatever—the fag whore could still feel every tactile sensation; in fact, the nerves seemed to have become hyperactive.  It could feel the jagged ends of broken bones grinding into each other and slicing him up internally in his jaw, his hand, his chest.  And in the chest, his lung had finally collapsed completely.  In a matter of seconds, the bitch would be devoting all its attention to the struggle for breath.

But before that happened, it had time to savor the most agonizing source of pain—its cock and its ass.  The former felt like it was swelling to the point of bursting, so sensitive to the touch that the wiry fur on Jake’s heaving abs felt like steel wool every time they pressed together during the violent rape.  And while it was too brain-damaged to think in such terms any longer, it could still physically feel that that the trauma to its rectum was so severe that it’d need massive surgery if it survived.

Jake, of course, had no intention of letting it live that long.  Once he was done, it was done.  And he was getting close.

“Ya want this load?” the heaving, thrusting alpha grunted, then chuckled and answered his own question.  “Course ya do; yer a cum-guzzlin’ faggot.  Time to die, ya useless pansy; time to thrash in death agony and milk out my hot thick wad of manseed.  Yeah?  Want it?  Here ya go—fuck you, faggot!”

With a vicious snarl of rage, he slammed his fist into Billy/Bobby’s throat with the force of a runaway train car.  The cunt’s trachea instantly collapsed with a loud, gristly cracking sound.  The fuckmeat made a thick wet noise, somewhere between a grunt and a gag, as the crushing of its esophagus forced its tongue out past its swollen, split lips.

The last spark of consciousness left inside the teen meat was aware that death was immediate and irrevocable.   It didn’t try to claw at its throat—instead, for some unknown, instinctive reason, it reached out and lightly caressed Jake’s furry, sweat-matted chest.  And then, between asphyxia and severe cranial hemorrhaging, the brain damage reached a tipping point.  Billy/Bobby was gone; all that was left was convulsing fuckmeat. 

Unluckily for it, the meat was still sensitive to pain.  The boywhore’s slide into hell was inaugurated with a blast of nightmarish agony.

As its rectum clenched around Jake’s cock with a force it couldn’t have generated during conscious sex, the older man’s rock-hard ass tensed, huge dimples forming in the cheeks as he drove his shaft deep into the dying adolescent.  “Yeah, bitch!” he yelled in an erotic frenzy, “Get it!  Get my load, you fag!”  And he drove one final blow into the hamburger that had been the teenager’s face.

That, evidently, was what the queerboy whore had been waiting for, one final excruciating impact to put it into sensory overload and trigger a massive deathload.  As Billy/Bobby thrashed about, the drool and blood from its blackened, unrecognizable face spattering the carpet, its long boycock spasmed and erupted into a stream of semen that continued uninterrupted for a good forty-five seconds straight.

The human body was not designed for that kind of performance.  The pain was horrific, and it was the last thing that the punk felt.  It slid into death with the sensation the its dick had been torn off and its life was spurting out through the hole.

The next two minutes were unclear for Jake.  Afterwards, he had vague flashes of cursing and heaving and pumping, of feeling his balls tighten up until the pain was released by a violent, brutal jet of cum that was repeated, over and over, as he spewed searing manseed deep into jerking corpse.  He might have beat the fuckmeat some more; that was a little fuzzy.

And that was the problem.  His orgasms were so intense that they kinda erased the memory of themselves.  To get it back, he had to kill again.  And again. 

And again.

Luckily, there’s always fuckmeat to be had.

Gasping and panting, the sweat-slick serial killer extracted his massive rod from the adolescent’s corpse and shakily rose to his feet.  Looking up, his eyes caught the full-length mirror he’d hung on the closet door.

He couldn’t resist posing.  He planted his left foot on the cunt’s chest—his white tube sock wasn’t so thick that he couldn’t feel the dead boy, still warm and quivering, beneath him.  Stretching his arms out from his shoulders, he curled them, making his huge biceps bulge even more, and admired himself in the mirror.

It was an image of true male power, virile and rampant.  Glaring back at him in masculine triumph was a beautifully-built hardman with a perfectly-chiseled chest and ripped abs covered with thick, wiry fur, his stallion-sized tackle jutting proudly out in front.  As he flexed his arms, admiring the way his sweat made the light glisten on his skin with every movement of his powerful muscles, thick pearly drops of cum continued to ooze from his angry purple shaft, splattering on the dead fuckmeat, continuing to mark it as his prey.

And now that Jake had made it his, he didn’t need it any more.  Time to dump it like a used cumrag.

He considered taking a shower first, but it was a warm, humid evening, and he’d be sweating again after taking out the garbage.  Better wait till he was completely done.  He slipped back into his jeans, tucking his cum-dripping cock back down inside them, before getting into his t-shirt.

The only thing different he wore was the boots; he didn’t want to take the time to lace the lineman boots back up.  He slid his feet into a battered pair of Ariat Groundbreaker work boots.  After poking his head out of the door to ensure that be wouldn’t be seen, Jake picked up the dead bitch in a fireman’s lift, carried it out to the truck and threw it into the bed, where it bounced limply, landing with a meaty thump.

The drive wasn’t exactly long, but it was rather tortuous.  He’d used this place to dump meat before, though, and he knew it was safe.

It was located at a paper plant.  There were five dumpsters near the loading dock at the rear of the plant; at this time of night, only a skeleton crew was at work and it was unlikely he’d be seen.  But come the morning shift change, all the waste from the night shift would be emptied into the dumpsters—then every weekday, they were hauled away to the city landfill.

Pulling into the lot, Jake looked around carefully, making sure no one was out, taking a smoke break or something.  Last time he’d been here that had happened after he’d gotten rid of his fucktoy; he’d had to sit in the lot with his lights and engine off for fifteen minutes until the dude stubbed out his butt and went back inside.

But the coast was clear.  He headed around to the back of the building and pulled up at the dumpster that was farthest from the building.  Dragging the corpse out of his truck by the arms like a recalcitrant child, he hoisted it over the edge and let it drop.

Another meaty thud, but the dumpster was empty, so it reverberated.  After quick glance around assured Jake no one had heard anything, he jumped back into the driver’s seat and headed home.

As he drove, Jake speculated on the number of times he’d used that body drop; it was one of his go-to dumps.  No one had ever found anything.  It was true that one of his used cumdumps had been found a couple of years ago in the landfill, but it had been there so long there was no way to tell where it had come from.  Hell, it’d been in such bad shape by the time it was discovered that it had to be identified by DNA.  Turned out to have been a runaway teen from out of state, but the investigation stalled immediately and was eventually moved into the cold case files.

Still, it wasn’t good to use the paper plant too often.  He needed to search for another place to dispose of his used fuckmeat.  He didn’t want to go back there with the next one.

And there would be a next one.  With an evil grin, Jake took one hand off the steering wheel and adjusted the swelling bulge in his crotch.  Fuck yeah, there’d be a next one.  Someone was gonna die on his dick this weekend.

Jake just needed to select the lucky faggot.

Trucker 20–Trucker vs Teen Whore

The truck stop sold hot food from a warming counter next to the register.  From its polished metal facing, the Trucker could see a reflection of the boy.

He was no older than his early twenties—probably younger.  He was spinning a rack of packaged snacks, but the hunger in his eyes wasn’t for sunflower seeds or chili-seasoned peanuts.  An emerald-green t-shirt the same shade as his long-lashed eyes encased his lean, taut torso and low-rise jeans just as tight distinctly showed the outline of his thick boycock running down his right thigh.  On his feet, he sported red-and-white retro Air Jordans.

Completing his purchase—a fifth of Fireball and two packs of Marlboros–a sinister smirk crossed the Trucker’s face.  Here he’d expected a boring evening, and suddenly fresh meat had appeared.  And the Trucker needed meat badly.

It’d been too long; he’d been too busy to hunt.  His rage and his sperm were boiling within him.  It needed to be let out.  The urge was sudden and overwhelming; he’d been able to control it when there was no prey available, but now that there was hot boymeat only feet away, the Trucker knew he had to have it, to own it, to utterly destroy it.

He could tell from the kid’s eyes that the cunt was just as interested in him.  His own white t-shirt and worn jeans were just as tight as the kid’s, and displayed his powerful, muscular body perfectly.  The jeans were tucked into a big black pair of steel-toed harness boots; the buff killer noticed with contempt how the punk’s eyes lingered on them as the kid reached down and massaged his dick.

The Trucker paid the cashier and turned to the door.  As he pivoted, he caught the kid’s eyes—no more than a flash, but enough for the boy to see the older man jerk his head.  The kid nodded his agreement.

He left, heading towards his rig.  He was no more than six feet from the truck stop entrance, his heavy boots thudding on the paved parking lot, when he heard the door open behind him.  He didn’t bother to look around; he knew the little boywhore was following him, lured like a moth to a flame.

The punk caught up to him before he reached his truck.  They walked along silently for a moment, but then the meat started talking.  The Trucker expected it; the sluts loved the sounds of their own voices.  Given enough time, they’d start to spill the entire stories of their useless lives, as if anyone cared.

He was Jordan.  He was nineteen, he worked as an order assembler at a local warehouse, and he was desperate to get his hole plowed.  Then he mentioned his apartment and the Trucker’s ears perked up.  The latter hadn’t gotten a motel room; he’d intended to sleep in his rig that night.  And while he certainly wasn’t adverse to wasting a bitch in his sleeper cab—he’d done it before, after all—it didn’t allow him the freedom of movement to truly deal with faggots the way they deserved.

But this one had an apartment.  He grinned and, pulling the bottle of whiskey out, crumpled its bag and tossed it aside; he’d already tucked the smokes in his pocket.  “C’mon, dude,” he said cheerfully, “Let’s go get fucked up.”

Jordan agreed and, wheeling about, led the way to his place.  The teen gabbled away happily with absolutely no clue as to how fucked up he’d be getting that night.  His place was over a mile away, which gave the kid plenty of time to babble—and the Trucker time to decide on the best way to inflict horrific suffering on the stupid little cunt.

The apartment complex to which Jordan had led them was a two-story building built around a narrow courtyard.  Sixty years earlier, it had been the height in comfort and modernity; now, it was a run-down dump, catering to welfare recipients and minimum-wage laborers, only half-occupied at best.

The slut’s unit was at one end, on the second floor.  The unglazed windows of the apartment underneath gaped dark and forlorn, indicating a state of disrepair severe enough to make the unit uninhabitable.  Jordan caught how the Trucker noticed the decrepit space and promptly misinterpreted it.

“Yeah, this place sucks, but I can’t afford anything else—yet.”  He didn’t indicate how he might be able to afford anything better in the future, though, and the Trucker smiled grimly at the thought that he’d be showing the little faggot some mercy by ending its miserable life.  The heavy, repeated beats of his harness boots made the rickety metal staircase shudder as he followed the youth up to the apartment.

It was a two-room flat, with a tiny kitchen at one end of the front room and an equally miniscule bathroom at the end of the rear one.  As the Trucker set the bottle of whiskey on the two-foot length of counter, Jordan grabbed a couple of plastic cups and cracked an ice cube tray, placing them next to the bottle.  Suddenly, he seemed to grow bashful.

“I’ll, uh, I-I’ll be right back,” he said with a shy smile, brushing his long dark bangs out of his eyes.  He headed for the bedroom but paused and turned back.  “Uh, go ahead and…” he nodded towards the cups but left the sentence unfinished.

Smiling contemptuously, the Trucker poured himself some booze while the punk was gone and opened a pack of smokes, discarding the wadded-up wrapping onto the floor.  He was just taking another swig of the sweetish whiskey when the kid re-entered the room, nude except for his sneakers and ankle socks—he’d evidently put them back on after slipping out of his jeans.

Jordan was smooth and lithe, but not scrawny.  The Trucker’s eyes traced a path down from the low rise of his pecs to the flat belly, beneath which a faint down, almost a peach fuzz, appeared.  Faintly brownish in color, it both darkened and became more pronounced as it merged into the thick, curly mass of his pubes.  Between his smooth, taut legs dangled a seven-inch dick, already visibly swelling and rising.

“Here,” the Trucker said, handing the slut a cup full of whiskey, “Drink up.”  Jordan complied, not noticing the malignity in the older man’s grin.  As the boy gulped the alcohol—he seemed to want to empty the cup all in one go—the Trucker deftly peeled off his t-shirt.  The boy nearly choked as the alpha stud’s hairy, heavily-muscled torso was revealed, a pair of dogtags gleaming in the dark forest between his pecs.  The Trucker chuckled as he took another drag from his smoke.

“Finish that drink, cunt, and start working these nipples.  If ya do a good job on ‘em, I’ll let ya suck my cock,” he drawled arrogantly.

Jordan chugged the booze so fast he nearly got sick.  He leapt across and began gnawing on the powerful killer’s jutting nipples like a beaver felling a tree.  The Trucker grunted, grabbed a handful of his hair, and jerked his head backwards.

“Easy, faggot!” he barked, expelling a cloud of smoke into the punk’s face, making Jordan cough.  “I just want ‘em worked on, not pierced, motherfucker!”

Abashed, the eager little cocksucker reapplied his mouth, more gently this time.  As he lapped at the hard nubs of flesh with his tongue he was aware of the Trucker’s movements and heard the sound of his zipper.  He knew what was coming—he wanted that cock so bad; he could feel it slapping against his thigh. Fuck, it reached down to just above his knee—it must be huge…

It was.  When the Trucker finally pried the boy off his nipples and forced him to his knee, Jordan found himself confronted with the biggest shaft of manmeat he’d ever seen.  “Open up, cocksucker,” the alpha growled, “Start swallowing it.”

It was while the Trucker began forcing his enormous tool into Jordan’s mouth that the latter began to see the flaw in his plans for an evening of rampant sex.  The dude’s cock was simply too big.  His jaws were stained to limit to fit it into his mouth—there was no way it’d fit in his ass.  He was gonna hafta break this off.  It completely went against everything in his little faggot whore soul, but he was gonna need to tell the guy no.

And then suddenly the Trucker grabbed the back of his head and thrust his pelvis forward brutally and Jordan not only couldn’t say anything, he couldn’t even breathe.  That massive tackle had been rammed so far down his throat that it plugged his windpipe as efficiently as a cork in a wine bottle. In desperation, the kid clutched at the powerful sadist’s ass, his fingers digging ineffectually at the older man’s rock-hard glutes.

“That’s it, you faggot cunt,” the Trucker grunted in sadistic pleasure, “Choke on it, you whore!”

Jordan couldn’t even gag.  His hands beat on the Trucker’s muscled, denim-covered thighs as uselessly as if he was beating on a tree trunk, his face began to blacken and his eyes and nose streamed.  He reached around the powerful top again, his hands feeling the pure strength in the Trucker’s taut ass as it clenched and thrust.  For a brief moment, the teen whore wasn’t capable of rational thought—he was too busy choking on cock to think. 

Then, with a malignant chuckle, the buff alpha let him go.  Jordan threw himself backwards, feeling the dude’s enormous member sliding up out his throat like a sword being unsheathed.  On his knees, the teen coughed until his face was purple, gagging and wiping the drool from his chin with the back of his hand.  With his massive cock still hanging out and dripping, the Trucker took another drag from his cigarette and smirked at the gasping punk.

“I—I c-can’t…” Jordan wheezed, his voice cracking as he tried to suppress the coughing, “No-no w-way, du-dude…y-yer too b-b-big…”

The Trucker only smiled gently.  “Yer backin’ out?” he drawled, his voice slightly incredulous, “A faggot turnin’ down dick?  You must sick, boy.  Don’t worry; I’ll fix ya up with a huge beef injection, har!”  With another drag from his smoke, he grabbed his swollen tool, wielding it like a weapon over the kneeling, shuddering youth.

The kid looked up at him, his eyes streaming and imploring.  “P-please, no,” he moaned, “Just—just go and leave me alone…”

The Trucker’s smile froze and his upper lip curled into an arrogant sneer.  “Go?  Go??” he snorted, “It don’t work like that, cocksucker.  My shaft wants servicing and I ain’t goin’ till it gets what it wants!”  Jordan stared at him, gaping, but the Trucker’s eyes were fixed on the table behind him—specifically, the lamp on the table.

The lamp was metal, a single steel post, about an inch in diameter on a flat, circular base of wood.  A groove around the top of the base showed where the lamp had held a decorative element—perhaps ceramic or glass had been broken away some time in the past.  Shrouding the single bulb was a too-small shade of folded paper.

The Trucker had just concluded it’d come in handy when the meat made the usual escape attempt, Jordan throwing himself forward, bolting for the door.

It took the muscular stud but a moment to snatch up the lamp and wheel about after the boy.  His swift motion had enough power to both yank the plug from the socket, damaging the tines and to rip the cord from the base of the lamp.  The upper end with the bulb socket and shade instantly fell off.  With a snarl, he tore after Jordan.

Jordan heard and gave an involuntary sob of terror as he approached the door.  He stretched out his right hand, reaching for the door.  It wasn’t the door he got, though—it was impact of the lamp across the back of his hand.

The first blow—there were many to follow—hit hard enough to tear off the wooden base and shatter the metacarpals.  The unfortunate youth leaped back with an agonized yelp, cradling his mangled hand.  He gulped and looked up to the Trucker, his face ashen and his eyes huge.

“That was stupid,” the alpha growled viciously, “But you little fags are all stupid motherfuckers, aintcha?  You’re gonna learn yer place, asswipe, even if I gotta beat it into ya…” 

He strode forward, swinging the steel bar.   “…and yer place, fuckmeat, is dyin’ on my dick.”     

The rancid apartment soon reverberated with the sounds of bleating fuckmeat and the smack of metal on flesh, accompanied by the faint jingling of the Truckers dogtags as his arm rose and fell.  His bicep flexed relentlessly as he beat the punk, but he was holding back his full rage and only bruising the cocksucker.  After all, he didn’t want to damage the meat so badly it couldn’t work his cock.

After a minute, he stopped and tossed the bar over his shoulder.  He’d never dropped his smoke; he knocked the substantial ash onto the boy huddled on the floor between his boots.  Jordan was curled into a fetal position, his sweat-soaked, welt-covered body heaving in pain.  The Trucker smirked and spat on him.

“Get up, meat,” he smirked.  “You ain’t hurt that bad, asswipe; you can move.”  He stubbed his cigarette out on the wall, smirked, and flipped the butt into the boy’s face.  “C’mon, fuckwad, let’s go to bed.  That’s what you wanted, right?  And my dick still needs servicing.”

Dazed and aching, Jordan managed to drag himself up from his knees.  His mind numb from shock, he staggered to the bedroom to the sound of the Trucker’s raucous laughter.  “Whassa matter, cunt?” he jeered, “Yer about to get all the dick your little fag fuckhole can take, homo—you should be hard an’ drippin’, haw!”

“Strip it,” the alpha barked as Jordan approached the bed, “Then get on.  On your back.  Do it!”  The sunned youth jumped as if he’d been slapped.  With a barely perceptible moan, he tore the worn, grayish sheets from the bed and threw them to the floor.  Then he paused, looking down at the bare, stained mattress.

“I don’t want this…” he said, barely above a whisper.

Behind him, the Trucker closed the bedroom door.  The click as he turned the lock was very audible and very obvious.  “You ain’t leavin’ this room, faggot,” he said bluntly and plainly—a statement with no intonation.  He eyed the meat carefully, knowing it was time for a reaction to set in.  Dumbass fagmeat was always so fuckin’ predictable…

The one lamp in the room was behind Jordan, silhouetting his lithe twink body as the boy began to tremble.  A whimper escaped his full, parted lips—and he turned and bolted for the door.

He didn’t make it.

The Trucker’s heavy fist pistoned forward, driven with all the power his thick muscles could provide.  The adolescent ran full-tilt into the sledgehammer punch, the blow knocking his head back so hard his feet went flying out from under him.  The kid flipped up into the air and dropped four feet straight down onto his back.

The Trucker laughed malignantly as Jordan hit the floor hard enough to drive all the air from his lungs, dislodging the three teeth that had been knocked down this throat and were choking him.  His full lips were even larger now, bloody and swollen.  Suddenly, there was a jingling above the fucker’s head, a glittering that his tear-blurred eyes slowly resolved into the Trucker’s dogtags—the sadistic stud was bending over him, the older man’s face radiant with homicidal glee.

“Fuckin’ hell, homo, whyn’cha say ya wanted it rough?  If you liked that, bitch, I’m gonna hurt you so bad yer gonna cum like a fuckin’ geyser before I waste yer useless faggot ass.  Now get on the bed, motherfucker,” he commanded, brandishing his engorged, oozing tackle, “I’m gonna stick this in yer ass.”

The next thing to fill Jordan’s field of view was the tread of the Trucker’s engineer boot.  Like a beached fish, the boy’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly; his smooth, flat belly heaved with the vain attempt to breathe—it was clear he wasn’t able to process what was happening to him.  He stared dully at the boot hanging over him with no clue he was about to get stomped.

“Jesus, you really are a stupid cunt,” the hardbodied killer muttered.  “You so fuckin’ deserve this, ya worthless sack a’ shit!”  He slammed his foot down, grinding his bootheel into the homo’s face.

Jordan’s face, already damaged under the brutal impact of the Trucker’s fist, was pulped, his nose flattening with a wet squelch.    The boy cried out inarticulately, his huge eyes, already becoming ringed with bruises, looked up at his tormentor with desperation.  The look of pathetic helplessness only spurred the Trucker’s rage and contempt.

“I—I…” the slut burbled through shattered teeth, bloody drool leaking down his chin.

“You what?” the Trucker snarled.  “Ya didn’t think this kinda thing could happen to you?  Fuckin’ moron, this is what happens to all you cocksuckin’ little homos—sooner or later a real man comes along and puts you outta yer faggot misery!  You knew it was gonna happen, asswipe; it always happens to your kind.  No more waitin’, motherfucker, yer lucky fuckin’ day is finally here.  Now get up on that goddam bed, cunt.  It’s time to die.”

As the meat wheezed and gurgled in agony, the Trucker bent down, clamped his hand around its throat and jerked it upright.  He glared into its face, his eyes blazing with a terrifyingly homicidal lust.  “It’s gonna hurt when you die.  I promise you that, motherfucker.  The more pain yer in, the more ya kick.  The more ya kick, the better you work my cock.  It’s that fuckin’ simple, fagmeat.”

He tossed the writhing teen onto the bed with no more effort than throwing a sock puppet around.  The punk bleated in pain as he bounced on the mattress, his smooth body lying sprawled diagonally across the bad as the Trucker approached, grinning.

“Ya ready?” he hissed, his massive, club-like cock already oozing precum.  A couple of drops splattered onto Jordan’s flat, heaving belly; they seemed to burn the boy’s skin like acid.  Despite his intense actual suffering, those two drops seemed to hurt him even worse.  Then again, he now knew what the Trucker’s sexual interest meant.

But just in case he didn’t, the sadistic alpha made sure to remind him.

“Time to rock ‘n roll, motherfucker.  Spread those legs, bitch, Imma ‘bout to run my tackle up inside you like the fuckin’ meat puppet you are.  Yer gonna die ridin’ my rod.”  The older man had climbed onto he bed as he spoke, his cold eyes locked onto the teen’s with the hypnotic power of a snake luring a bird.  Jordan’s will was sapped; he could only lie inert, his adolescent body throbbing in pain, and gaze with a sort of helpless frozen terror as the muscled killer crept closer.

It was Death personified as a buff, furry stud.  Jordan began whimpering again as the Trucker grabbed his thighs and roughly parted the teen’s legs; the movement made the alpha’s dogtags jangle and the sound seemed to snap the kid out of his daze.  He tried to speak but his coherency was impaired by his ruined teeth.

“Shaddup,” the Trucker barked, leaning over the cunt until his tags were touching its chest, his harsh voice cutting off the punk’s mushmouthed babbling.  “You keep yer faggot trap shut when I plow yer fuckhole, you hear?  We don’t need to let the neighbor in on the fun, yeah?  Stay quiet or I’ll hafta keep ya quiet myself.”  The shark-like grin returned.  “You won’t like that.”

In the end, Jordan didn’t have any voluntary control in the matter once the Trucker’s monstrous rod tore open his teen sphincter and buried itself balls-deep in the kid’s guts, having viciously ripped its way through his rectum. 

There was a brief moment of ice-cold glassy shock.  The boy had reflexively inhaled as his asshole was shredded, the deep sucking-in of air that automatically precedes a scream of agony.  In the brief moment that his lungs were full of the heady mix of testosterone, cigarette smoke, and mansweat, the despairing teenaged homo knew he couldn’t keep quiet, knew he was about to experience even more pain—and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.

The Trucker knew it too; meat always lost it at this point.  Before Jordan’s scream could break past his lips, the serial killer’s fist had slammed into his jaw hard enough to fracture it.  Drawing back his arm, he paused.

“Do it, cunt.  Scream.  Scream, fuckwad; I wanna hit you again so goddam bad,” he snarled.

Jordan gasped, trying his best, his bleary eyes focused on the sadist’s gleaming, sweat-speckled bicep, so full of eager power—then the furry muscular globes of his ass, full of that same power, flexed quickly, driving his tool back in.

Again, the scream was automatic.  Again, a blow landed with brutal impact on the kid’s face—this one snapped the cheekbone just under the left eye.

“Ya get it yet?” he jeered triumphantly, “Ya feelin’ me?  You’re gonna die tonight.  You ain’t nothin’ but a cumrag, fit to take my seed and get thrown out like garbage.  Just so you know, faggot—it’s finally your turn.  Happened to some of yer friends, yeah?  It’s your turn.”

Digging the soles of his boots into the mattress, the buff alpha thrust his cock deeply into the homo’s guts, leaning forward at the same time.  Just as Jordan gasped—another involuntary inhale prior to crying out—the Trucker wrapped his left hand around his throat.  The older man’s huge paw easily fit around most of the kid’s neck—it didn’t take too much effort to clamp the windpipe shut.  Deep in the teen’s asshole, the sadist’s cock throbbed with pleasure as he felt the boy’s trachea start to collapse in his hand.

The Trucker had put the meat’s ankles on his shoulders and wrapped his arms around its legs, locking it into prime fucking position.  When he lunged forward, laying his muscled weight across the faggot, its legs had bent back to its belly, its knees now on the alpha’s shoulders and its red-and-black air Jordans kicking frenetically in the air.

Jordan’s eyes bulged in a look of horror; his face, already swollen and bruised, began to turn purple quickly.    His shattered right hand flopped uselessly against the mattress but with his left he clawed at his assailant, his fingers curling like talon in the Trucker’s chest fur.  The killer’s tags jumped and danced across the adolescent’s chest as the meat struggled.

The vicious sadist gave a loud grunt of annoyance at the teen’s instinctive and futile attempts at self-defense.  He drew back his fist—once again, Jordan had a brief, despairing view of a powerful bicep, knotty with tensed muscle—and then popped the bitch in the face with a swift, jackrabbit blow.

The meat’s head snapped back and its legs jerked reflexively.  One of the punk’s kicks came off, tumbling down the Trucker’s sweaty back until it reached his marble-like ass, still vigorously pumping his shaft into the meat.  The return thrust of his pelvis was strong enough to send the sneaker flying across the room.

The suffering chunk of boyflesh that had been Jordan was no longer capable of lucid thought.  It seemed to know things by instinct, the way it knew that more pain had been inflicted on it because it wouldn’t lie still and accept what was happening to it—the same way it knew it couldn’t stop struggling.  It was meat fighting for survival; logic didn’t come into it.

The pain would have wiped out logic in any case.  The adolescent homo had been beaten so badly that it had kinda cancelled out; compared to everything else, the bruises and broken bones had faded into the dull screaming of nerves in the background.  His throat, though, and his chest, and his head…

…and his cock.  Holy fuck, his cock.  Asphyxia had triggered a kind of hypersensitivity in his groin. His erect shaft was pinned between his belly and the Trucker’s ripped, hairy abs; every single strand of the older man’s wiry body fur felt like a strand of steel wool as it scraped agonizingly over his engorged member.  But despite the excruciating pain in his dick, it continued achingly to throb and stiffen.

“Yeah, faggot, yer dyin’” the Trucker whispered with sadistic lust, “I can see it in yer eyes.  Just another piece a’ fagmeat, getting’ what it deserves.  Almost over, motherfucker, almost over.”

Jordan heard the words, and some part of him was alive enough to understand them.  With what was left of his vital force, he made one last massive effort to breathe.  The sole result was a thick, wet grunt that forced its way past his black and swollen tongue, accompanied by a spray of bloody spittle.  Then the fireworks began, great black explosions that started blotting out his field of vision.      

With that, Jordan’s efforts at self-defense melted away.  His hand was no longer clawing at his killer; instead, he was stroking the Trucker’s cheek.  It had the softness of a lover’s caress, but there was no intent behind the meat’s movements—it was even too brain-dead to feel the older man’s dense stubble scratching the palm of its hand.

The Trucker was getting close.  His balls burned and ached with the need for release.  The homo was near death; it was time to push it over the edge. 

Fuck yeah, this was it.  He could feel a tingling in the base of the thick oozing shaft as his hands tightened their vise-like grip around the teenager’s throat. 

“Bye-bye, asshole,” he whispered, despite knowing that the cunt was long past comprehension of spoken words.  But as he squeezed, he could feel it starting to writhe and twist under him—the mindless, rhythmic movements of progressive, irreversible brain damage that milked his rod so perfectly.

He could feel himself unload; a brief moment of clarity as his sperm gushed into the boy’s guts. Then the orgasm hit like tidal wave.

  “FUCK!” he screamed, “DIE, YA FUCKIN’ FAGGOT!!”  His powerful body hunched over as it spewed semen uncontrollably, his powerful glutes flexing as his ass pumped in violent thrusts.  His hands clenched, the reflexive movement rewarded with the loud crackling, crunching sound of Jordan’s windpipe collapsing into an impenetrable wad of mangled cartilage.

Already bulging, the teen’s eyes protruded even further as the gristly squelching noise signaled the definitive end of his life.  His lithe, smooth body went rigid, his torn sphincter locking down on the Trucker’s dick like a strong cockring.  At the same time, the buff killer felt spasming start in the kid’s shaft, sandwiched between their sweat-slick bodies.  In a fraction of a second, the fuckmeat’s entire body gave a powerful jerk and began pumping out its boyspunk as if it knew this was its last chance to preserve its genetic material.

Jordan, though, felt nothing more than one last blast of nightmarish agony before his short, wasted life was torn away and cast into the howling vortex of terror that was death.  The Trucker held the shuddering corpse tightly; he wasn’t done cumming in it yet.

Behind his back, the meat’s toes twitched and curled; the ped sock made it obvious.  The other foot just kicked randomly in its sneaker as the older man continued to fuck the dead teen, pounding his seed home.

After a while, the killer’s thrust slowed and came to a stop.  Letting out a great sigh, the Trucker shook his powerful body and extracted his still-dripping tackle from the dead boy’s asshole.  The meat was still quivering, although the livid blackness was already starting to drain from its swollen and congested face.

The Trucker glanced around the room for something with which to wipe off his dick, settling on one of the punk’s balled-up t-shirts on the floor near him.  After wiping the spooge off his member, he tossed the shirt over his shoulder, re-holstered his enormous manmeat back inside his jeans, and fired up a smoke.

He and the meat had wrestled in the living room, but the bedroom was so dilapidated that it almost seemed like the fight had extended to it.  Clothes were scattered everywhere.  The neatness with which a pair of skate sneakers had been placed against the wall was belied by the single combat boot on its side next to them.  The dresser and nightstand were covered with clothes, cups, and half-empty beer and soda cans.  Pride of place went to the twitching corpse on the stripped bed, though.

As the Trucker dragged deeply and tapped his ash out onto the carpet, he couldn’t help but admire his handiwork.  Even from the other side of the room, the cunt’s crushed neck was visible.  The bruised body, the way its spread legs emphasized its torn and leaking asshole, the large pool of its own semen congealing on its smooth chest—everything made it obvious that it had endured a brutal sex crime in its final moments on earth.  The expression on its puffy battered face showed clearly how horrible its suffering had been as it died.

Fuck, it was making the Trucker hard again.  He could feel his shaft pulse in his groin.  Goddamit, he wished the meat had said something about its schedule—he’d be tempted to have another go at it.  But discretion being the better part of valor, he decided he’d better get going.  Slipping on his own t-shirt, he exited the meat’s apartment but left the door slightly ajar. On his way out, he snatched up the whiskey bottle and ticked it into his hip pocket.

He’d been planning on sleeping in his cab at the truck stop, but after a quick shower and a bite to eat, he was back on the road.  Fifty miles north he knew there was a rest area where he could pull over and get some sleep.  He sighed as he pulled onto the highway.

Yeah, he coulda gone back and fucked the dead faggot—but there was always fresh meat the needed to be snuffed.

It was a neighbor who found Jordan the next morning.  An elderly black lady in the next building; she let her Yorkie out every morning to crap and piss in the courtyard.  Despite appearing as old and decrepit as its owner, it was still faster and spryer.  Having smelled something interesting, the dog had headed up the stairs and headed through the partially-opened door before its owner could catch up to it.

Half an hour later, Jordan was in the position of having a dream come true posthumously.  There were three men in his room, while he lay naked on the bed.  Of course, his dream didn’t involve them being a patrol cop, a detective, and the medical examiner.  Or that the latter would be examining his violated corpse.

“No doubt about it,” the M.E. said.  “Raped and strangled.  Looks like the beating happened first.  Didja see his hand?  Didn’t stand a chance of defending himself after that happened.  Of course, I can’t tell if he was a virgin before all this—there’s way too much damage down there—but I’d guess,” —and here he gave a surreptitious glance at an enormous dildo on the nightstand— “that this wasn’t his first time at this rodeo.”

“Aw, fuck no,” the detective growled, “This fag whore’s been banged more than a screen door in a tornado.  It was overdue for somethin’ like this. Hey, Bob!” he called.  The patrol cop approached.  “How many times you pick that fag up for soliciting?”

Scratching his head, Bob looked down at Jordan’s blue, bloated face.  “At least half a dozen times.  This one hung out at the truck stop and that strip of motels along the highway.  That was Dave’s beat; you should talk to him.  He musta hauled him in dozens of times. Surprised he ain’t turned up like this sooner.”

“Yeah ok,” the detective replied before turning back to the M.E.  “Ok, you can drag ‘im outta here.”

“Fine.  I’ll get you the report as soon as I can.”

“Don’t knock yourself out, doc; no one give a shit what happens to fag whores.  Concentrate on finishing up the Dickinson case; that one involved actual human beings, yeah?”

“Yeah, no problem.  I’ll fill out the form for unclaimed corpses and move on.”

“Good man.  Oh, and tell your wife that Edna still wants that spoonbread recipe…”

The Alpha Prerogative by Gay Slavemeat gsmeat2@gmail.com


A reader who goes by ”faggot slave” requested a story about being snuffed that is written in the second person – the Alpha talking to the snuff victim and others, describing what the Alpha is doing as he tortures and kills it.  That’s a bit of a challenge to write, it turns out,  and I leave it to readers to decide if my effort turned out OK. But there is no doubt every masochist faggot like faggotslave (or me) warrants a prolonged and extremely painful death at the hands of a sadistic Alpha Male, so, as to writing a second person story about that, why not?  An Alpha would likely enjoy adding to our terror by enslaving us as we’re prepared to be snuffed and then describing how we are being killed and some of what is coming next (perhaps holding back a few fun surprises).  He could show us the instruments of torture he’s going to use on us up close before he plunges them into our flesh.  His derisive laughter would add to our humiliation, helping us realize how pathetic we truly are.  He could point out our physical flaws to his buddies as they all watch and laugh, adding to their justified sense of superiority.   The more I thought about it the more right it seemed for faggotslave not to have a speaking role.  The Alpha killer is the hero of the story, and us fags should be grateful for the chance to provide him pleasure as our worthless body is brutally ripped apart.  Other than begging for that to happen, and expressing gratitude when it does, who the fuck gives a shit what the faggot meat has to say? 

I used the Art of Male Snuff setting I’ve used in a few other stories posted here.  But unlike “Career Choice” recently posted here, which reflected the complex desires of another snuff-seeking faggot reader, faggotslave is just live meat anxious to be tortured and killed. So I let myself be inspired by the great stories M3Mayhem has written on how that should happen.  As always, feedback is welcome, good or bad.

1

Into the Alpha Lair

Chief (entering the Alpha Male Society bar and greeting Bill, the bartender and owner): “Hi Bill.  It looks like you’ve got a good crowd tonight.  I see lots of our fellow AMS members.   Better yet, a bunch of them brought slaves, so maybe we’ll get some proper action tonight.  We haven’t had a snuff scene all week.  I’m horny as hell and my bloodlust requires a satisfying kill.

“But it sounds like we’re set even if none of these snuffslaves get off’d.  I got a text from Dave, who is also horny and frustrated.  He headed into town form my farm to get some action.  He does such a great job running that, but it isn’t practical to kill too many of the farm slaves.  And they’re just farm animals, not great sex objects.  Besides, there’s a lot of work for them to do, especially now that the spring weather has arrived.  So, to be sure we get some action tonight he snatched a cute young punk off the street.  I saw Dave’s truck in the alley, so I assume he’s here already, and the punk is now tied up in the back playroom naked and ready to get snuffed.  His text also said the punk’s straight, so I’m sure Dave and a lot of the guys have been enjoying fucking and torturing him.  Did I get that right?”

Bill nods as he hands a drink to the Chief.  The Chief thanks him and continues. “It’s always fun when the twink knows it’s going to die and gets all worked up trying to dodge its fate.  I look forward to enjoying the terror in his eyes as he realizes there’s no such option and starts to comprehend how long and horrible the kill is going to be for him.  After everyone takes turns fucking and beating him, I think Dave plans to slowly butcher him alive.  He’ll take some of the meat back to the farm for us to enjoy, but he’ll

 leave most of it with you to use as fresh slave meat to grill.  As you know, Dave’s a gifted butcher and can keep the meat alive for hours as he cuts it up.  He’s got a ton of experience from managing my farm.  The farm slaves do provide pretty much all our meat needs.

“One part of the punk’s capture was pretty funny.  He screamed at Dave that the police would rescue him and then arrest and punish him.  When Dave told him the chief of police would be here later to help with the kill  I guess the twink totally freaked out.  That’s why I showed up still  in uniform.  I can scare the shit out of him and send him into total despair.  I love fucking the psyche of our snuff slaves as well as their butts. 

“But first I need to interrogate the faggot at the end of the bar.  You can charge my drink to him.  In fact, have him pay for everyone’s drinks tonight.  He’s a volunteer candidate Doc Johnson sent my way for me to snuff.  He sent a video of him ejaculating as another guy was fucking him and Doc Johnson was whipping him.  The faggot seemed to be really into it, which is promising.  He’s clearly a masochist fag and in the video he’s begging them to slit his throat and finish him off.  But I’m not sure he deserves my attention.  From the Doc’s report it seems he may have attitude issues.  He apparently has the absurd concept that the snuff is to fulfill his sexual needs, as if those mattered.  And he thinks he gets a say in how it’s done.  Worse yet, as you can see he had the audacity to show up wearing clothes despite Doc Johnson’s instructions.  As you know, since this is your bar and your rule, clothing is not tolerated here for slaves or snuffslave candidates.  But at least the fucker actually showed up.   That’s a start.“

Chief (sitting down next to a slightly built but fit 30-something who is nervously looking at the large screen TV above the bar): “So, faggotslave, I’ll make this simple.  You showed up on time but did not present yourself as instructed.  You were supposed to strip totally naked once you arrived at the bar, and give your possessions to Bill – clothes, wallet, phone, keys, everything you had with you.  You already turned over all the rest of your property to Doc Johnson as a donation to the Alpha Male Society. You agreed to become one of our snuffslaves, a voluntary one.  But you obviously have some residual reluctance that will need to be beaten out of you.  Only then do you get to be snuffed as you desire and deserve.  You need to learn that the snuff is for the sadistic pleasure of an Alpha Male and has nothing to do with your irrelevant desires.  Doc Johnson warned me you probably weren’t properly aligned or fully committed, but he says you’re a natural and severe fag masochist that could be properly conditioned for my pleasure.  It’s way too late to change your mind about that.  He also reported you have a high pain tolerance so the snuff could be lots of fun for the Alpha Male once you become a properly oriented volunteer.  You also have a strong cardio system so you could last a long time before your actual death.

“I’m not going to spend much time explaining what happens to you now, since your arrogance at wearing clothing disgusts me and it’s really none of your business.  You showed up here and therefore you are now a slave.  My slave, for me to do with as I wish.  Besides, even if I did interact with scum like you there’s no point making idle bar talk with you, like about the game you’re staring at on the TV.  You’re not watching it – you’re checking out Bill, the bartender.  And you’re also looking in the mirror to admire the other awesome Alpha Males in the room, probably jealous of the naked snuffslaves serving them.    But you’re still too ashamed to admit you’re nothing more than a snuffslave yourself.  You don’t understand that there is no way to overcome that shame and your only option is to admit it and donate your worthless body to the service of an Alpha Male for destruction and disposal.

“By the way, I wouldn’t recommend pissing off Bill if I were you.  I know he’s an incredibly impressive Alpha Male, almost as dominant and powerful looking as I am, and I know your aim is to get yourself snuffed.  But if you piss him off he’ll take you out back and just  beat you to death.  A wimpy faggot like you wouldn’t have a chance even if you did resist.  But you wouldn’t.  You’d like it and that would ruin Bill’s fun.  He likes faggots who resist, even fight back.  Not only that, but he’s not highly creative.  Your snuff would be far too quick and boring.  Faggots like you provide greater value when you suffer prolonged and extremely painful deaths, and you secretly want that.  Worse still for you, Bill likes to emasculate slaves early in the process of breaking your bones and beating you to death.  He’d slowly cut off your dick and then your balls.  You’d probably like watching him enjoy eating your balls, and you might even like eating your own cock, which he’ll force you to do.  But  then you wouldn’t be able to shoot a final load of cum as you die.  He doesn’t think fags ever deserve to cum, let alone a death orgasm, and he obviously has a point.  You don’t.  When we cause you to have a final orgasm as you die it is for the pleasure of the Alpha Male, just like the rest of the snuff.  Bijl would deny you that last thrill during your death throes as you feel his giant, hard cock up your ass, ripping you open and filling your hole with his cum while your death spasms make it tighter and more pleasurable for him.  Bill only keeps his snuff fags alive long enough for him to reach orgasm, so the whole thing is usually only about 10-15 minutes – even including the part where you lose your status as a male.  When the snuffslave is voluntary Bill loses interest and just does his civic duty by eliminating another pathetic fag.  What turns you on, to the point you want to be snuffed, is a huge Alpha cock up your ass, fucking and ripping your insides for a long time, as you are slowly tortured until you shoot a final death-load,.  Your aim is to feel his load explode inside you as your own load erupts and your meaningless life ends.  It’s what you want.  Right, faggotslave?

Chief (continuing after a shocked faggotslave meekly acknowledges the Chief’s comments):  “There’s a reason you go by faggotslave when you’re after sex, and you showed up here tonight in hopes I’d snuff you to fulfill your masochistic desires..  But you fucked up like you fags always do. 

“It’s not that you won’t wind up being tortured and killed.  That’s reality for any faggot who enters Bill’s bar.  And you can’t hide your status as a fag even if you are having second thoughts.  Fuck, even if I didn’t know all about you, as you now realize I do, your scrawny body and whole demeanor scream out “faggot!.”  You can’t keep your eyes off the Alpha Males who frequent this bar.  Even your drink betrays you.  A rum and Coke is a pussy drink.  You probably also drink white wine.  Alpha Males drink beer and whiskey.  So we know you are a faggot and therefore one of us will kill you when we feel like doing so.  But you don’t get to be snuffed tonight the way you want to be.  The first reason is because you were disrespectful and did not present yourself as the snuffslave you are.  The slaves we tolerate in Bill’s bar are required to strip naked and stay that way so we can use them sexually before we torture and kill them.  We often allow them to wear a dog collar to further remind them of their status and a cock ring to keep themselves hard for our enjoyment, but nothing else.  They are snuff slaves, serving us in whatever way we want and then dying horrible deaths that satisfy our sadistic bloodlust.  They know that’s all they are good for, and they are grateful to us for allowing them to provide some minimal value as we  kill them.  They know our pleasure is all that matters.  Their desires are irrelevant. 

“You showed up trying to conceal the fact you’re one of them.  I suppose the button-down shirt is meant to make you look like just another nerd instead of a flaming fag, but most nerds are fags at heart and deserve the same fate.  Your stupid little beard confirms your sexual insecurity, and the designer jeans are way too tight for a straight guy.  It looks like you’re trying to advertise that you’re getting an erection as all of us Alpha Males turn you on, although it’s not much of one if that’s what’s happening.  From the video clips Doc Johnson sent me I can see you’re one of those fags who doesn’t have much of a cock.  I also know it functions best when you’re being tortured and humiliated, although for my purposes that is actually useful.  Your one hope comes from the fact I greatly enjoy watching a snuffslave’s cock explode when I reach my own orgasm as the slave dies.”

Chief (turning toward Bill as faggotslave, as its new reality starts to sink in, continues to listen): “I’ll take another drink when I’m done dealing with this piece of shit fag.  I  want to join in the fun with the twink in the back, so you can bring it there.  As for faggotslave, it accepted its status and fate by entering your bar, but for tonight just beating him up should be enough.  He showed up as instructed seeking a snuff scene, which is a start, and Doc Johnson says he can become an acceptable volunteer.  It needs an attitude adjustment before it meets my standards. I suggest you punish it accordingly as you throw it out.  I know you’ll enjoy that.  Then you can leave it in the back of Dave’s truck so Dave can take it to my farm for further conditioning.”

Chief (turning back to faggotslave): “Like I said, I’ll make this quick.  It’s pretty straightforward.  Even faggots like you can understand if I talk slow and keep it simple.  You’re already trembling in fear, which you should be.  If you are having second thoughts about volunteering to get snuffed, it’s too late.  In due course you’ll be tortured to death and disposed of like a used cum rag.    Or maybe it’s sexual excitement that has you shaking so much.  Maybe you’re getting turned on because You know that’s what you want.  And you know it’s all you’re good for.

“Your shrink, Dr. Johnson, had you surrender all your possessions and then sent you to New York so you could finally accept what needs to happen to your pathetic life.  It needs to end.  He’s tired of you being too stupid to get the point and too cowardly to get on with it.  Asshole faggots disgust him, as you do all Alpha Males.  I know from his report that you’re ready to get snuffed and ready to welcome it.  I might be willing to consider you for one of my scenes if you show the right level of appreciation and enthusiasm  for the event, realizing it’s not about your needs but about my sadistic pleasure.  It’s my prerogative to torture and kill you whenever and however I decide to do it.  The fact you haven’t accepted that yet is the other reason you don’t get off’d tonight.  You are a worthless piece-of-shit homo whose only real use is to die at the hands of an Alpha Male for his pleasure, especially the pleasure of fucking you as you’re brutally tortured to death.  You’re not much physically but you might provide me a little fun for a few hours, including a satisfying fuck.  Fags your size tend to have tight little bubble butt assholes that my giant cock can rip open. I enjoy that.  And you want that.  And, of course, New York is a great city to disappear in.  No one will notice, not that they would anyway  As Chief of Police I have the power to assure that.

“And let me be clear.  There’s no negotiation, no conditions.  When an Alpha Male decides to kill you, you have no say about how he does it.  You die how he wants you to die, entirely for his enjoyment.  It’s none of your business.  You’re just there to receive unbelievable levels of pain and, if you’re lucky, to have a final orgasm as you die that the Alpha can enjoy feeling your body produce as it also tightens around his pulsating cock.  It’s for his sexual fulfillment, not yours, watching and laughing, ideally as he has his own orgasm inside your near-dead ass.  Oh, and you’ll be in such pain and so close to death you probably won’t get any actual pleasure.  Dead faggots don’t report how it felt, after all.

“The only issue since you walked into this bar has been if you add a little extra value during the snuff for an Alpha Male like me who enjoys killing willing faggots, or if you don’t volunteer and get killed by an Alpha Male like Bill who likes fags that resist.  Some of us get more pleasure when the meat is willing.  Other Alpha Males like it better when the meat is not willing, and even tries to fight back.  It’s a matter of taste but the constant factor is the kill.  I like fags who volunteer and who worship me as I deserve.  They should express their gratitude for the honor of pleasing me by cooperating as I torture and kill them.  You have that potential and that’s why Dr. Johnson sent you to me.  But you need further conditioning.”

“Now get the fuck out of our bar, faggotslave.  Strip naked and leave your clothes and all your other possessions with Bill, like you should have done when you entered.  You are a snuffslave and will present yourself as such.  You  no longer have possessions.  You do not own property.  You ARE property.  My property.  Crawl out of the bar on your hands and knees, then kneel in the alley outside next to Dave’s truck and wait for Bill to arrive and administer your initial punishment for your arrogance.  You will be punished often, with or without a reason, because we Alpha Males enjoy inflicting pain on our slaves.”

Chief  (to Bill as faggotslave quickly does as instructed, exposing his small but rock-hard cock in the process): “Have fun.  But don’t kill him or break anything yet.  You can dump him in the back of Dave’s truck when you’re done with him.  I assume he’ll be unconscious for quite a while and he can spend the night there.

“He’s both terrified and massively turned on by our little chat, as you and everyone else can see.  Now that he’s naked I can confirm I like his body type and the appearance of his meat.  He’s not very big but he’s pretty fit.  Time as a slave at the farm will make him even more fit.  The cock is unimpressive, but he’s got a decent set of balls and I’m guessing the tiny cock is matched by a super-tight hole for me to destroy.  He’s not all that bad looking and as you know I enjoy sniffing guys with his sort of build.  They’re fun to break apart.  I think he’ll be a fun kill for me, volunteering entirely for the purpose of satisfying my sadistic bloodlust once he’s properly oriented.  That’s why Doc Johnson sent him my way.   Tonight I don’t get to snuff a volunteer, but we can all enjoy the twink you have in the back, killing it while it protests and resists.  That’s still lots of fun and appeals to our sadistic natures.  But for me  there aren’t near enough of these snuffslaves who admit what they are and deserve.  Like the ones in the bar now, they make great slaves for a while.  So faggotslave will become a farm slave until it is ready to be harvested as an enthusiastic snuffslave.”

2

Conditioning

(in the alley)

Bill:  “Well, faggotslave, you didn’t run away.  That’s a start, although tracking you down and punishing you for that would have been more fun.  I’m sure the Chief would have let us kill  you instead of just beating you unconscious.  But we’ll still have lots of fun doing that as punishment for your arrogance in the bar, as the Chief encouraged us to do.

“To start, my buddies and I are going to piss down your throat, then you are to use your tongue to get our cocks hard.  Dave and Sam are going to fuck you first, then we’re going to torture you while I fuck your ass.  They’ll fuck you at the same time, with both their cocks up your puny ass.  That’s more fun for them and a lot more painful for you.  Puny guys like you tend to have tight assholes.”

Bill (after his buddies finish double-dicking faggotslave, who obviously enjoyed the pain and eagerly sucked Bill’s dick as they did so):  “Wow.  is that all there is to your cock?  You truly are the nerdy masochist faggot Doc Johnson described.  But I thought he was exaggerating when he said you didn’t have much of a dick.  I bet it’s not more than 4 inches.  If you had the balls to fuck another guy in the ass I doubt he’d even notice.  But I’m guessing you haven’t done that.  You’re the kind of faggot who just sucks cock and gets fucked.  And judging by what a good job you did drinking our piss I figure you’re an experienced urinal too.  So you are good at sucking cock and drinking piss, two skills that are useful, plus a nice tight ass to plug.  We’ll take advantage of that.  But next we need to tie you up so I can take my turn fucking your ass and we can all have fun hurting you.  This electrical pole should do nicely.  We’ll tie your wrists above your head so I can fuck your ass while Dave and Sam torture the rest of you.  There are so many fun places to administer pain!

Bill (ramming his huge cock up faggotslave’s ass after faggotslave is secured to a crossbeam extending form the electrical pole):  “Well, you do have a nice tight ass like everyone reports  The Chief will enjoy ripping it open when the time comes.  His cock is a lot bigger than mine, as he’s fond of pointing out.  But mine’s big enough to get your attention.  It’s nicely lubricated too, so I think Dave and Sam did a decent job filling it with cum.  It’s obvious you enjoy being fucked, but we’ll add a lot more pain so you don’t enjoy it too much.  Of course, we also realize you enjoy the pain.  We’ll see how much you enjoy it when It’s at the levels we’re going to inflict.

“Feel very free to scream, by the way.  We enjoy listening to that, and it’s late enough that there is no one nearby to hear you.  Even if there were, remember that the cops work for the Chief. He owns you now and he’s the one who asked us to beat you.  This will be way more than you’re used to, but comparatively tame compared to what he’ll do, so you can start imagining the kinds of things that are going to be done to you before you get to die.  You’ll be begging for that.  But for now I’m going to fuck your ass while Dave and Sam enjoy themselves administering pain to your body.  As I cum they’ll finish beating you unconscious.  You are going to be bruised and in pain for days, but we  won’t kill you.  Fuck, if you’re lucky you might even have an orgasm as you pass out.  Your erection is throbbing already and there’s a little pre-cum dripping from it..  That’s always highly amusing to see.  The best part is having your body tighten around my cock while you pass out and shoot your load.  That feels great.”

Bill (as faggotslave screams loudly):  “Yeah, I bet that hurt.  Dave has a strong arm, and he was holding brass knuckles when he wailed on your balls.  You’re lucky he moved away before you threw up, or you would have really mad him mad.  If some of it got on him he might have lost his temper.  Your balls are going to be swollen for a long time, especially since he’s not done hitting them.  You’re probably all out of puke so he can move in close. 

“Now for some more fun, while I continue to enjoy drilling your ass.  I like it when you twitch and turn in pain, since it adds to the pressure on my cock and that feels great, so let’s see how you react to a cattle prod.  Zap!  Wasn’t that fun?  I can tell you felt it on your right nipple, and I enjoyed your scream.  Now for the left one.  Zap!  Excellent.  Now the balls.  There’s no limit to the amount of pain we enjoy inflicting there.  Zap!  Zap!  Oh, even better.  Obviously, the cock is next, and we’re going to hold the prod there for a while so the muscle gets a full dose of electricity   It’ll wilt for a bit after that but I’m willing to bet it will get hard again (such as it is) fairly soon.  This is the kind of pain you crave.  Zappppp!  Zappppp!  Wow.  That was fantastic!  Sam is really talented.  It might take a little longer for you to recover from all this so the Chief can use you, but I’m sure you’d agree it’s worth it.  It is for us and that’s all that matters.

“Time for a few punches.  Sam’s also really good at attacking a slave’s midsection, so let’s see how you enjoy that.  Oh good, you twisted nicely and put more pressure on my cock.  Want Dave to hit your balls again now?  Of course you do.  The great part of this is none of it will damage your long-term ability to provide even more pleasure after you wake up.  Dave and his team can still play with you at the farm, and they will also be careful sp the Chief will have a nice fresh slab of temporarily alive meat to use for his own fun.  It won’t matter how much your flesh is damaged and your bones are broken when that happens, since he won’t leave you alive like we’re going to do.

“I’m getting close to my own orgasm, and I see your cock is hard again.  I think you might even have one of your own, although it won’t amount to much.  Dave and Sam are going to team up beating you on the chest and belly, but they’ll leave your cock and balls alone just in case you manage to shoot before you pass out.  If your body performs as it should – and fag bodies always do – then you’ll shoot your load as you lose consciousness, and as I shoot mine up your ass.  I’ll enjoy the show and your contortions will put wonderful added pressure on my cock as I shoot, but you’ll be in so much pain you won’t get to enjoy yours.  It’s a perfect happy ending for the evening,  isn’t it?  

“We’ll leave you tied up and piss all over you before we dump you in the back of Dave’s truck.  You might be interested to know we’re  making a video of your punishment that we will show at the bar, so others can enjoy it.  We’ve also identified some people who knew you before you admitted to being a snuffslave, and we’ll be sure they see it too so they can realize what a worthless faggot you were.  We know a lot of them enjoyed abusing and fucking you so I’m sure they’ll enjoy watching it.  We are entitling it “faggotslave Conditioning” in your honor, so they remember your role before becoming an official slave.  We might even show a few of them the video of your eventual snuff scene, and a few of them are members of the Alpha Male Society so they might show up to watch in person.  It will be a very festive reunion, I’m sure.  We make use of faggots as best we can, given your limited utility.  This is the one sort of thing you’re actually good for.”

Bill (to Dave and Sam as they laugh at faggotslave’s unconscious body):  That was a ton of fun and a great fuck.  Let’s dowse him with piss before we toss him into the back of Dave’s truck.  He can clean it up when he wakes up.  Time to go inside for the REAL fun.”

3

Conditioning

(at the farm)

Crack!

Dave:  “Wake up faggotslave,  it’s time to start your existence as an acknowledged and willing  snuffslave and prepare you to be tortured and killed.  You’ve been unconscious for two days after Bill, Sam, and I beat the shit out of you and fucked your ass in the ally by Bill’s bar.  The Chief said not to break anything or do permanent damage, but he didn’t put limits on how much pain we could inflict.  Quite the opposite.  We all wanted to find out what your pain tolerance is, which is always a fun process and important in designing a kill to make sure the slave suffers as much and as long as possible.  We pushed well past it and you eventually passed out from the tortures and the beating.  You’re going to hurt pretty much everywhere for quite a while longer.  Get used to it.  Now get on your knees and suck my cock while I explain the rules here on the Chief’s farm.

“The rules are obvious, and the main rule is that you do exactly what you are told to do, no matter what that is.  You tried to negotiate with the Chief on what would happen to you when you were at the bar, and that is one of the reasons you were punished.  You have no say about anything, and no one gives a fuck what you want or even think.  So you are to shut the fuck up and do as you are told.  Period.  The major part of your training is getting you to realize not only the reality that you are a slave, but also that deep down you are desperate to be a slave and serve an Alpha Male master.  Your purpose and fulfillment is satisfying his every whim and losing your life in the process.  You have accepted the fact you’re a masochist faggot, and that you get sexual pleasure form being degraded and abused.  That’s useful, as it makes your body react nicely when we torture you.  You got massively turned on during your beating, and your body performed wonderfully as you reached orgasm.  As you convulsed your ass tightened hugely around Bill’s cock and he had a fantastic orgasm as he shot his load into you.  Your entire body tensed up as your own cock spewed a giant load of cum all over the place.  And that happened as you lost consciousness.  The more we beat you the more you got turned on, just like a masochist slave should do.  I’m guessing it was the most intense orgasm you ever had, and you are desperate for another one like it.  The Chief was pleased when he saw the video and knows he’ll greatly enjoy snuffing you.  That will happen when we get you into a little better shape and you realize that, as a slave, you will welcome being snuffed not for the pain that will turn you on sexually but from the fact it will please your master.  It’s really quite simple.

“You may only speak when given permission to do so, and if that happens you are to address all Alpha Males, including me, as “sir.”  The Chief is “master.”  And that’s it for rules.  See?  I told you it was simple.  I bet even scum like you can figure it out.

“Now, as for your tasks.  I run the farm for the Chief, and it’s a massive operation with all kinds of crops and both human and non-human farm animals. The human ones plant and tend the crops, and both types provide fresh meat when we are done with them.  We prefer the slave meat, especially when we eat it live. 

“We’re in the main barn at the moment, and that’s where you’ll be stored as you recover and  are conditioned for the Chief’s use and disposal.  To help you understand your status I’ve decided to have you tend to the pigs.  You’ll serve them their slop to eat and keep their pen clean.  That means you’ll be up to your naked ass in pig shit most of the time.  The pigs matter more than you do and are better cared for, so that will be good for your attitude.  Also, your food will consist of any slop that is left over after they eat, although you are not to consume more than one dog dish full of it.  You are to stay lean and hungry.  You may drink from their water trough, which my men and I also use as a urinal.  You are to drink a lot as staying hydrated is important, and because it is disgusting and degrading.  The Chief wants you to get into top physical shape.  So another task is bailing hay for the horses.  That is remarkably good exercise and will tone your muscles considerably as it enhances your cardio and pulmonary endurance.  Those are important to be sure you do not die too early during the snuff.  These chores will occupy your mornings.  It’s the start of the planting season so you’ll join other slaves in the fields after your second and final daily dish of pig slop.  Spending the afternoons naked in the hot sun will further develop your muscles and generate a complete tan, which the Chief prefers for his snuff targets.  You’ll notice your beard, torso, arms, legs, and crotch have been shaved, and your skin was treated with chemicals that will prevent any hair from growing back.  At this point your skin is nice and smooth but utterly devoid of any color or tone.  You will be made much more sexually appealing in a month or two.  I think the Chief is planning to off you during the summer solstice celebration in June, and by then you’re going to be a perfect physical specimen meeting the Chief’s high standards for live faggot meat. 

“It’s a pity you won’t live long enough to be part of the fall harvest.  That’s my favorite time of year.  After the slaves harvest the crops, we harvest the slaves.  It’s a week of snuff orgies with several hundred slaves, some barbecued alive, most tortured and fucked to death by members of the Alpha Male Society.  And about 50 are crucified, their agonizing naked bodies providing a great ambience for the event.  We pick those in advance and condition them so they have maximum arm strength as well as durable pulmonary and cardio systems, so they typically last for days.  I think you’d provide an especially long show given your light build and strong heart and lungs, but you’ll be dead long before that.  Pity. It’s a great show and their agony is astonishing and great fun to watch.  They pretty much always have giant orgasms as they die, and we have fun betting when that will happen.  When it’s over all the farm slaves are butchered and sold for meat.  We get a few new ones to handle the winter chores, and a big shipment in spring for planting and such.  Those just arrived and I will be spending my time indoctrinating them, so you will not get much attention.  You have your instructions, and you are to obey them.

There is, however, one other aspect of your training, which will take place in the evenings.  You will be tortured to increase your pain tolerance.  It’s already good but it could be better, and the Chief does not want you to go into system shock as he gets serious about torturing you.  You won’t get fucked very often, as the Chief wants your ass to remain extremely tight, one of your better features.  His cock will take care of loosening that when the time comes, which will of course be a source of considerable pain in itself since he’ll essentially rip it open.  His cock is amazingly giant, as you will learn. 

“And you will remain horny, especially given your strong masochistic nature, but without any release.  The Vet inserted a computer chip where your brain stem connects to your spine that manages the sexual signals between your brain and your body.  It massively increases your sex drive – in your case your desire for pain – but prevents you from having an orgasm. 

Remember, the reason you are being kept alive isn’t as part of my slave crew to work the farm. We have lots of slaves for that, and they’re a lot bigger and stronger than you are. Providing better quality of meat to sell.  The reason  is to orient you away from considering your own pleasure as a masochist, so you focus solely on the pleasure of the Chief, the Alpha Male sadist who owns you.  You will come to understand how worthless and irrelevant you are, and how important and deserving the Chief is.  You will learn to worship him as he deserves.  To that end it is important that you are subjected to massive pain and humiliation. You do not deserve to achieve sexual release.  That erection you have now will be constant, courtesy of the computer chip and your own natural masochism.  Yet you won’t be able to do anything about it.  The Chief is a creative sadist.  We don’t give a fuck about your pleasure, just about making your life more degrading and awful.  We enjoy depriving you of pleasure while we cause you to seek it even more.  We’re sadists, after all, and that’s reason enough.  What better suffering is there for a masochist faggot than being tortured but not being allowed to get any sexual satisfaction or release?  I’m sure you can see the humor in that.    What better psychological torture can there be than a sadist depriving a masochist of sexual release as part of its suffering?  Now bend over the pig trough over there so I can fuck your ass.  Then you are to clean the pen.”

4

Party Prep

Crack!

Dave (holding the bullwhip he’d used to wake faggotslave before dawn):  Wake up faggotslave.  On your knees and drink my morning piss.  They you can suck my cock while I give you your instructions for today.  You have extra duties after you feed the pigs, clean their trough, and bale the hay for the horses.  Those include showing snuffslave #223 what your morning chores are.  It will take over for you tomorrow since you’ll be dead.  It’s not scheduled to die until after fall harvest and needs to be made useful in the meantime.   As for you, today the Chief is hosting a large group of our Alpha Male Society fellow members to celebrate summer solstice.  You will be part of the entertainment at the start of the cocktail party, which will occur on the South Lawn next the main estate house.  There will be lots of slaves serving the members in every way – as waiters, as sex objects to be tortured and snuffed, as live meat entrées for the barbecues.  You are going to be used as a minor part of the entertainment the Chief is going to provide as the party starts.  He likes to start things off with an especially brutal snuff to show off his body and his skills and to get everyone in the mood for the fun that will follow.  Once he’s done with you, and the guests have had the chance to fuck your dead ass, your body is of almost no further use.  You have been conditioned to endure extreme pain and respond sexually to torture, but that means your meat is too lean to be acceptable for the barbecue.  The snuffslaves used for that have a higher bodyfat ratio that makes their meat flavorful.  Kobe-style slave mat is extremely popular with our Society and the Chief only serves the best. Yours is bland and boring, like every other aspect of your worthless existence.  But even after you’re killed your body will provide a little added fun later in the evening as it gets dark.  What’s left after the Chief kills you will be ripped apart even more, and the meat eaten, by the cayotes who live in the forest next to the farm.  They’re not picky about the quality of meat they get.  Then tomorrow what’s left will become fertilizer. I’ve decided you will be composted to nourish a stretch of grass on the lawn that is not growing well enough.

“Therefore, just as the party starts you will peel back the grass and sod and then dig a trench where one of the other slaves can dump your carcass and then replace the sod and grass.  Our guests enjoy watching fit naked slaves preparing the spot where their dead bodies will be disposed of, and I have done a great job improving your physical strength and appearance.  As you are likely aware, I fertilize the lawn with the bodies of snuffed faggots.  Fags like you make great fertilizer and there are several hundred I’ve used for that over the years.  Sometimes I grind the faggot up into mulch and spread it like manure, and sometimes I bury it freshly killed in spots that aren’t growing as well as I want, adding chemicals that accelerate the composting and make sure nothing is left of the carcass.  And sometimes, just for fun, I bury the fag alive.  While our guests enjoy their cocktails and conversation, they can watch as you dig a suitable hole to dump your left-over body parts in.  It doesn’t have to be all that deep since I want the rotting flesh to work its magic on the soil and feed the earthworms that will make  the soil more porous from their movements. 

“That trench is where the follow-up fun will happen after dinner when we’re all assembled inside in the main dining room.  The cayotes always show up at dusk to check out the area after a big party, and I want the trench shallow enough so the cayotes can enjoy tearing apart and eating freshly killed faggot tonight.  I want them to be able to get to the body easily for their feast.  We all enjoy listening to them yipping loudly as it gets darker to alert their pack that there’s fresh meat to be had.  There’s a night-vision camera and microphone that will be set up for everyone to watch safely as the animals fight over who gets to eat which parts of the carcass.  Pity is, they especially enjoy faggot genitals, and as I look at your puny cock I realize they won’t find much to consume.  But your balls seem about average and they’ll enjoy biting those off.  The real pity, of course, is that you’ll already be dead, so they don’t get as much fun as they’d like by doing the kill themselves.  They’re remarkably vicious when they do and that’s far more fun to watch.  The Chief wants his guests to be able to enjoy seeing their bloodthirsty energy, which we think is inspirational.  So I’m going to also have a live naked faggot tied up for them to enjoy, cutting it so the smell of its fresh blood attracts them. The noise as they kill and eat it is a fabulous mix of the furiously yipping animals celebrating and the terrified faggot screaming in pain.  I’m also doing that because the patch of lawn that needs fertilizing is fairly large.  Your grave-trench needs to be large enough for both bodies.  The other fag will help you dig so our guests can enjoy watching each of you, then it will be tied to a fuck bench to be used sexually   When you are finished digging you are to crawl to the main reception area and kneel before the Chief, who will amuse his guests by torturing and killing you.”

5

Foreplay

Chief (standing naked except for his steel-toed boots, using them to kick faggotslave in the balls as it kneels in front of him, sending it sprawling as the guests watch and laugh):  “Dave has done well, and you appear to be in much better physical shape.  I also understand you are now aware that your sole purpose is to worship my Alpha body and cooperate in providing me sexual pleasure as I torture you and end your worthless life .  As you can see, I am at least a foot taller than you are and massively more muscular.  Your skin is devoid of body hair, and your beard has been shaved off, as befits a pathetic twink fag ready for harvest.  In contrast, my beard  has the dark, thick hair of a true Alpha, as does my chest. Your body is smooth, with limited muscle definition even though you have been conditioned and your muscles are well developed for a twink of your size and build. That’s so you can last longer as I destroy your flesh.  My frame is massive and all muscle, complete with washboard abs.  You are not remotely worthy to offer your pathetic body and useless life for my pleasure.  So you will need to suffer added pain and humiliation to make up for that.  I will enjoy your agony as I inflict it and thereby gain more of the pleasure I deserve.

 “Now kneel down in front of me again.  You are to worship and service my amazing cock.  Its 12 inches of thick muscle will soon tear open your puny ass.  But first you are to use your mouth and tongue to service it, getting it rock hard and ready for its use as a weapon for your pain and a source of my pleasure.  I want to feel it deep in your throat before it goes up your ass.  I will hold your head to make sure you welcome my cock all the way in, even though it is going to cause you to choke, and you’ll be unable to breathe.  Your tongue is to caress it all the way down the shaft to its base.  I am told you have become adept at servicing Dave’s 10-inch cock, but you will be surprised how much harder it is to service one that is 12 inches.  I  don’t care and don’t tolerate gagging.  You will learn that there is no release from your suffering when I decide to use you.  When I am satisfied with thrusting my cock down your throat I will send a torrent of piss down it.  You are to drink all of it.  Then I will remove my cock and you will lick my balls.  You will also lick my ass.  You are to stay focused on serving my body as I torture you.”

Chief (adding to faggotslave’s fear as it eagerly services his cock but also arousing its masochistic desires):  “I plan to cut you open and I like  the feel of hot blood leaking onto my powerful skin.  You will be grateful to see your body’s fluids providing me that satisfaction.  The pain from the cuts will be astonishing and a part of you will want to die, hoping blood loss will cause that to happen.  But you will not be permitted to bleed out  The Vet will monitor and control that. And you know you deeply desire the pain and the destruction of your flesh.  You have the privilege of admiring my dominant, massive, perfect Alpha Male body, and of worshiping it as I take your life and get pleasure from doing so.    I require worship from those I kill, as I deserve, and your own massive sexual arousal will be part of that worship.”

Chief (now fully erect, his massive cock and balls nicely massaged, and his ass licked clean by the adoring faggotslave, who also eagerly drank  the giant load of piss): “Stand up and face me.  As you know, the computer chip implanted in your neck prevents you from having an orgasm, and you have not gotten sexual relief since you arrived at the farm despite the constant use as a sox toy and cum bucket that turns you on.  Do you now wish me to remove it so you can do so?  You have permission to speak.”

Faggotslave (with total sincerity that reflects its successful conditioning):  “I hope you will do whatever gives you the most pleasure, Master.  That is all that matters.  I am grateful that you are using me for your enjoyment.”

Chief:  “Dave has indeed trained you well.  Your act of abject submission is the only acceptable response.  I will do what pleases me the most and don’t, and never did, care what you desire.  I just wanted to confirm your training.

“ At this point I do not plan to fuck your face again.  I’ll use your ass for that.  Sp I see no further use for your tongue to massage my cock and certainly no reason for you to speak.  No one wants to hear from you.  Ever.  Open your mouth so I can use this knife to cut out your useless tongue.  It will be a fitting start to vivisecting you.  You won’t be able to talk but you’ll be able to squeal like a pig. That’s all I want to hear from you.  I enjoy it when fags try to scream after their tongues are cut out.   It’s a high-pitched animal sound that befits your status as meat being butchered.”

Chief (tossing the bleeding tongue to his pet, Felix, who quickly chomps it down as faggotslave watches, in pain but grateful for being better able to provide the Chief with pleasure):  “Time to step up the pain, which starts with some great entertainment.  Stand in front of that wall, facing me, with your arms spread wide, fists open, palms out.  Dave will make sure you’re properly positioned.”

Chief (getting the attention of the guests once Dave has positioned faggotslave):  Welcome AMS members.  It is great to see everyone, and I know we’re all looking forward to a wonderful evening of comradery as we practice the Art of Male Snuff.  To start the fun, I think you’ll enjoy watching me snuff this pathetic twink, which is as eager to die as I am to kill it.  As you all know, I find that particularly satisfying and utterly appropriate. 

“To make it more of a show for all of your, I got some new toys that Dave and I have been practicing with and enjoying a lot.  Frankly, we want to show off a little, as you’d expect from Alpha Males like us – and each of you.  These are top-of-the-line Smith and Wesson throwing knives.  They are of varying length, including two large throwing axes.  Their balance is perfect, and they build momentum as they spin and fly toward the target. It’s amazing how sharp they are and how easily they dig into flesh.   In fact, it’s important to be careful how hard you throw them and where you aim.  When I first got them I tested them on a farm slave and targeted the faggot’s heart.  I thought that would be a good way to start the blood flowing, which is so much fun to watch as the fag becomes completely terrified by the agony and the final realization of its fate.  But the knife went in so fast and deep it exploded the beating muscle and the fucker died right away. 

“I was pretty pissed and called the sales rep to complain that they didn’t have a warning about that with the instructions.  We do a LOT of business with them at the department, so I always get his attention.  He promised he’d make it good.

“The next day he showed up with a sales trainee, a young twink apparently right out of college  He brought me a whole new set and gave Dave and me some especially useful pointers on how to select the right length and calibrate the velocity of the knife, so it only goes in as far as I want it too.  That has proved to be quite useful as you’ll see shortly.  But I told him I already had a dozen knives from the first set I bought and having more knives and some instruction didn’t solve the problem of having a faggot die before I was ready to administer the kill.  The lead salesman had already thought that through, but he turned to the trainee and asked how he would propose to solve the problem.  The trainee understood that customer satisfaction was the top priority, especially a customer as important as I am.  And he had committed himself to the company as they require.  He wasn’t too happy about the obvious solution, but he quickly stripped naked and stood in front of the throwing wall where today’s fag is now positioned.  He eventually turned out to be a good sport about his fate after I explained some of the alternative things I might do to him, and he stood still in front of my throwing wall while I tested the suggestions.  I was able to get all 24 knives into him and no individual throw was fatal. But I was still a little too eager and he died from the cumulative effect before I could stick my big cock into him and get a good fuck while he was still convulsing from all the pain.  I   had to settle for fucking his dead ass.  But that was satisfying, and I placed a big order from the department with the sales rep.   That way everyone was happy, except maybe the sales trainee.  Dave and I have been practicing with more farm slaves and we’ve gotten particularly good at getting lots of knives into the flesh without having the faggot die prematurely.  And we’ve especially gotten good at making sure they stay standing while we have our fun.  Watch.

“See?  Dave and I simultaneously nailed the fag right in the palms of its hands.  These were longer knives that went in all the way to the hilt and judging by the faggot’s scream it hurt a lot.  Now faggotslave’s got both hands thoroughly pinned to the wall and is unable to move. Clever, huh?  Notice how the knives cut through the flesh and cartilage so easily and are well embedded in the wall.  That’s because we put a lot of force into the throws.  These two knives will hold it up as we proceed, which would otherwise be a problem. 

Chief (now addressing faggotslave):  it’s time to turn you into a bleeding pin cushion.  I’m going to start with your chest, aiming for the right nipple.  I’ll ease off a bit on the velocity and force, using a shorter knife that will cause less bleeding and won’t go all the way through you and pin you to the wall.  We’ll need to move you to that nearby sling when we’re done throwing knives,  so I can fuck your ass and play with the knives that will be inserted into you.  We want this next set of knives to cut into your innards, but not go all the way through.   We also don’t want you to die from internal bleeding.  That’s not dramatic enough.  Balancing all these factors is  a lot of what we learned from practicing on the sales trainee and a few more farm slaves.  And we have to be careful not to have a knife go into your heart.  So we won’t aim for the right nipple.  I’ve learned that lesson!  You don’t need both lungs, so Dave is going to throw the next knife near where mine hit, to be sure the right lung collapses.  It’s fun to watch fags struggle to breathe once that happens. 

“Great throw Dave!  The fag squealed nice and loud and it’s obvious having trouble breathing. 

Chief (laughing form the joy of the kill, to faggotslave, whose agony is intense but whose arousal is evidenced by a solid erection):  Hey fag, how about if I aim for your liver, then Dave and I can each take out a kidney?  Does that sound like a good sequence, or would you rather have a knife thrust into you somewhere else first?  This is a lot of fun and I’m willing to be accommodating.  My main goal is to get at least one in the liver and each kidney, and several in the guts and stomach.  But we’ll take our time. Your look of terror is amusing, and you actually don’t yet know how increasingly painful this is going to be.” 

Chief (to the Vet):  “Keep an eye out in case you need to slow down the bleeding.  We don’t want it to bleed out.”

Chief (to faggotslave):  Having fun?  I’m enjoying the shrill noises you’re making as the knives cut into you.  You really do sound like a stuck pig.  Dave and I are going to do a lightning round next.  We’ve each selected five knives that are shorter, so they can land anywhere without doing anything fatal.  We’re going to aim for your arms, legs, and belly.  Let us know when you’d like us to start.

“Oh, I forgot.  You don’t talk anymore.   So we’ll just start on the count of three.  One, two, three!

“That was awesome.  I think Dave and I have become supremely talented at our new sport.  Don’t you agree?

“But this was just the foreplay.  Now it’s time for me to make the tortures up close and personal.  That way you can fully appreciate just how phenomenal my body is.  You will also appreciate how my 12-inch cock can rip apart a faggot’s asshole.  I’ve used the knife throwing to get myself aroused as only true Alpha Males can do.  My bloodlust is surging, and you are its target.

“I’m going to have you moved to the sling and then my giant cock goes into your doomed ass.  I’m going to make that fuck and your final destruction last as long as possible.  But all the damage to your innards from the knives makes your death inevitable.  If we did nothing further you’d die from internal bleeding fairly soon.  But we’re going to do a LOT more.”

6

Climax

Chief (while faggotslave is still pinned to the wall): “Time to release our fag target, Dave.  Do you want to take the left side or the right side?  Your choice.”

“I’ll take the left side.  Shall we throw on the count of three again?”

“Sure.  I’ll count slow so it can try to figure out what’s about to happen.  One,…two,…three!”

Chief (ecstatic) :  Those were perfect!  The axes severed each shoulder simultaneously, and the body promptly fell face first onto the cement.  I’m fairly sure it broke its nose since it didn’t have any arms to stop the fall.”

Dave (laughing, and equally pleased):  It sure was.  And the dismembered arms are still pinned to the wall by the knives we used at the start.  The fag is still breathing but seems to have passed out.  That’s OK.  I’m sure the Vet can wake it up once we move it to the sling for the finale’.  This is turning out to be our best effort yet.

Vet:  “Yeah, that was pretty impressive.  And no worries, I’ll slow down the bleeding and bring it back to consciousness.  Might as well do that while it’s on the cement, so it can feel the pain as it’s moved to the sling.”

Chief (having thrust his throbbing, erect cock into faggotslave’s hole as soon as the fag was in the sling and fully accessible,, causing more inhuman sounds from the faggot): “Feel that, faggot?  Your ass is nicely lubricated from all your internal bleeding, and it is going to tighten even more onto my cock as I continue to torture you.  That’s going to drive me wild with sadistic passion as you receive more and more and more pain.  You’ll think it can’t get worse, but it will. 

“And look.  Your puny little cock is rock hard.  I might enjoy watching it shoot a last load as you die, but I haven’t decided about that yet.  I wonder if there would be much cum.  After all, you’ve been storing it inside you for months now.  II bet your balls did a good job filing up with whatever was inside you.  This could be an added aspect of the entertainment.

“But here’s the great part.  It was obvious from your gyrations and sequels that those knives hurt a lot when they went into you.  And they’re  still there and still causing pain – except for the ones you left behind when you lost your arms.  Pity about that.  But the REAL pain is when the knives are twisted.  For example, let’s start with this one that’s probably stuck in your liver.  See, I’m turning it now and you’re almost passing out again from the increased agony.  But don’t worry.  The Vet will bring you back around if you do, so you won’t miss anything.  Oh, and I’ve observed that kidneys can transmit astonishing levels of pain.  That’s why kidney stones are so awful.  Here, let me demonstrate.  I’ll twist both knives at the same time.

“Wow.  That was quite a jerk of your body.  Did it hurt?  Oh, I keep forgetting.  My cat’s got your tongue.

Dave (laughing):  Cute.  Felix looked up when you said that.  Maybe he thinks he’ll get another faggot snack.”

“Chief (now overwhelmed with lust and passion, his cock throbbing as it thrusts in and out  while the faggot’s body twists and tuns, providing intense pressure and pleasure):  He will, but not until it’s dead.  I think that’s going to be fairly soon. 

Chief (sensing that faggotslave is starting to fade more rapidly):  “Hey faggot, are you close to death?  I’ve been playing with the knives stuck in you for nearly an hour.  I’ve wanted to be sure you get all the pain you deserve by twisting and removing the rest of these knives, then inserting them all over again.  I’m doing it slowly so you can experience the full impact of the torture.  When you get really close to death I have a special treat for you, so hang in there!”

“Yeah, I think it’s time.  OK, Dave, hand me that really long knife.”

Dave (massaging his own erect cock):  “Yup, I think it’s time.”

Chief (expertly slicing into faggotslave’s throat): “Die faggot.  My knife is extremely sharp and  is easily cutting your throat . But I’m going to go as slow as possible.  You can feel my cock erupting inside you as I cut.  And my knife has dislodged the computer chip, so Your own cock is also exploding with cum – lots and lots of cum – going everywhere.  It’s a great show.  You finally got something right.  I can’t believe how much pleasure I feel as I fill you with my man-juice.  I can’t believe how satisfying it is to feel your death throes pressure my cock.  You are finally the bleeding, pain-filled piece of cut-up meat you deserved to be.  My knife is now most of the way through your neck and your head will be totally cut off any second now.  You only have a few seconds to live, with all that pain mixed with a massive orgasm.  I took your life and it meant nothing because you meant nothing.  It just provided me with pleasure, but my pleasure was intense.”

Chief (removing his spent cock form the dead body, holding the head in his hands after he had completely severed it with the electric knife): “The body’s still warm, Dave.”

Dave (inserting his erect cock into faggotslave’s cum-and-blood-filled ass as the body still gyrates): “This feels great.  The ass is overly lubricated but still wonderfully tight.  And it’s so satisfying to fuck a faggot as it’s just finished dying, still convulsing a bit as the muscles give out but not so much that there’s not wonderful pressure on my cock.  This is what faggots are good for.  And the celebration is just beginning!”

The Alpha Prerogative By Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

A reader who goes by ”faggot slave” requested a story about being snuffed that is written in the second person – the Alpha talking to the snuff victim and others, describing what the Alpha is doing as he tortures and kills it.  That’s a bit of a challenge to write, it turns out,  and I leave it to readers to decide if my effort turned out OK. But there is no doubt every masochist faggot like faggotslave (or me) warrants a prolonged and extremely painful death at the hands of a sadistic Alpha Male, so, as to writing a second person story about that, why not?  An Alpha would likely enjoy adding to our terror by enslaving us as we’re prepared to be snuffed and then describing how we are being killed and some of what is coming next (perhaps holding back a few fun surprises).  He could show us the instruments of torture he’s going to use on us up close before he plunges them into our flesh.  His derisive laughter would add to our humiliation, helping us realize how pathetic we truly are.  He could point out our physical flaws to his buddies as they all watch and laugh, adding to their justified sense of superiority.   The more I thought about it the more right it seemed for faggotslave not to have a speaking role.  The Alpha killer is the hero of the story, and us fags should be grateful for the chance to provide him pleasure as our worthless body is brutally ripped apart.  Other than begging for that to happen, and expressing gratitude when it does, who the fuck gives a shit what the faggot meat has to say? 

I used the Art of Male Snuff setting I’ve used in a few other stories posted here.  But unlike “Career Choice” recently posted here, which reflected the complex desires of another snuff-seeking faggot reader, faggotslave is just live meat anxious to be tortured and killed. So I let myself be inspired by the great stories M3Mayhem has written on how that should happen.  As always, feedback is welcome, good or bad.

1

Into the Alpha Lair

Chief (entering the Alpha Male Society bar and greeting Bill, the bartender and owner): “Hi Bill.  It looks like you’ve got a good crowd tonight.  I see lots of our fellow AMS members.   Better yet, a bunch of them brought slaves, so maybe we’ll get some proper action tonight.  We haven’t had a snuff scene all week.  I’m horny as hell and my bloodlust requires a satisfying kill.

“But it sounds like we’re set even if none of these snuffslaves get off’d.  I got a text from Dave, who is also horny and frustrated.  He headed into town form my farm to get some action.  He does such a great job running that, but it isn’t practical to kill too many of the farm slaves.  And they’re just farm animals, not great sex objects.  Besides, there’s a lot of work for them to do, especially now that the spring weather has arrived.  So, to be sure we get some action tonight he snatched a cute young punk off the street.  I saw Dave’s truck in the alley, so I assume he’s here already, and the punk is now tied up in the back playroom naked and ready to get snuffed.  His text also said the punk’s straight, so I’m sure Dave and a lot of the guys have been enjoying fucking and torturing him.  Did I get that right?”

Bill nods as he hands a drink to the Chief.  The Chief thanks him and continues. “It’s always fun when the twink knows it’s going to die and gets all worked up trying to dodge its fate.  I look forward to enjoying the terror in his eyes as he realizes there’s no such option and starts to comprehend how long and horrible the kill is going to be for him.  After everyone takes turns fucking and beating him, I think Dave plans to slowly butcher him alive.  He’ll take some of the meat back to the farm for us to enjoy, but he’ll

 leave most of it with you to use as fresh slave meat to grill.  As you know, Dave’s a gifted butcher and can keep the meat alive for hours as he cuts it up.  He’s got a ton of experience from managing my farm.  The farm slaves do provide pretty much all our meat needs.

“One part of the punk’s capture was pretty funny.  He screamed at Dave that the police would rescue him and then arrest and punish him.  When Dave told him the chief of police would be here later to help with the kill  I guess the twink totally freaked out.  That’s why I showed up still  in uniform.  I can scare the shit out of him and send him into total despair.  I love fucking the psyche of our snuff slaves as well as their butts. 

“But first I need to interrogate the faggot at the end of the bar.  You can charge my drink to him.  In fact, have him pay for everyone’s drinks tonight.  He’s a volunteer candidate Doc Johnson sent my way for me to snuff.  He sent a video of him ejaculating as another guy was fucking him and Doc Johnson was whipping him.  The faggot seemed to be really into it, which is promising.  He’s clearly a masochist fag and in the video he’s begging them to slit his throat and finish him off.  But I’m not sure he deserves my attention.  From the Doc’s report it seems he may have attitude issues.  He apparently has the absurd concept that the snuff is to fulfill his sexual needs, as if those mattered.  And he thinks he gets a say in how it’s done.  Worse yet, as you can see he had the audacity to show up wearing clothes despite Doc Johnson’s instructions.  As you know, since this is your bar and your rule, clothing is not tolerated here for slaves or snuffslave candidates.  But at least the fucker actually showed up.   That’s a start.“

Chief (sitting down next to a slightly built but fit 30-something who is nervously looking at the large screen TV above the bar): “So, faggotslave, I’ll make this simple.  You showed up on time but did not present yourself as instructed.  You were supposed to strip totally naked once you arrived at the bar, and give your possessions to Bill – clothes, wallet, phone, keys, everything you had with you.  You already turned over all the rest of your property to Doc Johnson as a donation to the Alpha Male Society. You agreed to become one of our snuffslaves, a voluntary one.  But you obviously have some residual reluctance that will need to be beaten out of you.  Only then do you get to be snuffed as you desire and deserve.  You need to learn that the snuff is for the sadistic pleasure of an Alpha Male and has nothing to do with your irrelevant desires.  Doc Johnson warned me you probably weren’t properly aligned or fully committed, but he says you’re a natural and severe fag masochist that could be properly conditioned for my pleasure.  It’s way too late to change your mind about that.  He also reported you have a high pain tolerance so the snuff could be lots of fun for the Alpha Male once you become a properly oriented volunteer.  You also have a strong cardio system so you could last a long time before your actual death.

“I’m not going to spend much time explaining what happens to you now, since your arrogance at wearing clothing disgusts me and it’s really none of your business.  You showed up here and therefore you are now a slave.  My slave, for me to do with as I wish.  Besides, even if I did interact with scum like you there’s no point making idle bar talk with you, like about the game you’re staring at on the TV.  You’re not watching it – you’re checking out Bill, the bartender.  And you’re also looking in the mirror to admire the other awesome Alpha Males in the room, probably jealous of the naked snuffslaves serving them.    But you’re still too ashamed to admit you’re nothing more than a snuffslave yourself.  You don’t understand that there is no way to overcome that shame and your only option is to admit it and donate your worthless body to the service of an Alpha Male for destruction and disposal.

“By the way, I wouldn’t recommend pissing off Bill if I were you.  I know he’s an incredibly impressive Alpha Male, almost as dominant and powerful looking as I am, and I know your aim is to get yourself snuffed.  But if you piss him off he’ll take you out back and just  beat you to death.  A wimpy faggot like you wouldn’t have a chance even if you did resist.  But you wouldn’t.  You’d like it and that would ruin Bill’s fun.  He likes faggots who resist, even fight back.  Not only that, but he’s not highly creative.  Your snuff would be far too quick and boring.  Faggots like you provide greater value when you suffer prolonged and extremely painful deaths, and you secretly want that.  Worse still for you, Bill likes to emasculate slaves early in the process of breaking your bones and beating you to death.  He’d slowly cut off your dick and then your balls.  You’d probably like watching him enjoy eating your balls, and you might even like eating your own cock, which he’ll force you to do.  But  then you wouldn’t be able to shoot a final load of cum as you die.  He doesn’t think fags ever deserve to cum, let alone a death orgasm, and he obviously has a point.  You don’t.  When we cause you to have a final orgasm as you die it is for the pleasure of the Alpha Male, just like the rest of the snuff.  Bijl would deny you that last thrill during your death throes as you feel his giant, hard cock up your ass, ripping you open and filling your hole with his cum while your death spasms make it tighter and more pleasurable for him.  Bill only keeps his snuff fags alive long enough for him to reach orgasm, so the whole thing is usually only about 10-15 minutes – even including the part where you lose your status as a male.  When the snuffslave is voluntary Bill loses interest and just does his civic duty by eliminating another pathetic fag.  What turns you on, to the point you want to be snuffed, is a huge Alpha cock up your ass, fucking and ripping your insides for a long time, as you are slowly tortured until you shoot a final death-load,.  Your aim is to feel his load explode inside you as your own load erupts and your meaningless life ends.  It’s what you want.  Right, faggotslave?

Chief (continuing after a shocked faggotslave meekly acknowledges the Chief’s comments):  “There’s a reason you go by faggotslave when you’re after sex, and you showed up here tonight in hopes I’d snuff you to fulfill your masochistic desires..  But you fucked up like you fags always do. 

“It’s not that you won’t wind up being tortured and killed.  That’s reality for any faggot who enters Bill’s bar.  And you can’t hide your status as a fag even if you are having second thoughts.  Fuck, even if I didn’t know all about you, as you now realize I do, your scrawny body and whole demeanor scream out “faggot!.”  You can’t keep your eyes off the Alpha Males who frequent this bar.  Even your drink betrays you.  A rum and Coke is a pussy drink.  You probably also drink white wine.  Alpha Males drink beer and whiskey.  So we know you are a faggot and therefore one of us will kill you when we feel like doing so.  But you don’t get to be snuffed tonight the way you want to be.  The first reason is because you were disrespectful and did not present yourself as the snuffslave you are.  The slaves we tolerate in Bill’s bar are required to strip naked and stay that way so we can use them sexually before we torture and kill them.  We often allow them to wear a dog collar to further remind them of their status and a cock ring to keep themselves hard for our enjoyment, but nothing else.  They are snuff slaves, serving us in whatever way we want and then dying horrible deaths that satisfy our sadistic bloodlust.  They know that’s all they are good for, and they are grateful to us for allowing them to provide some minimal value as we  kill them.  They know our pleasure is all that matters.  Their desires are irrelevant. 

“You showed up trying to conceal the fact you’re one of them.  I suppose the button-down shirt is meant to make you look like just another nerd instead of a flaming fag, but most nerds are fags at heart and deserve the same fate.  Your stupid little beard confirms your sexual insecurity, and the designer jeans are way too tight for a straight guy.  It looks like you’re trying to advertise that you’re getting an erection as all of us Alpha Males turn you on, although it’s not much of one if that’s what’s happening.  From the video clips Doc Johnson sent me I can see you’re one of those fags who doesn’t have much of a cock.  I also know it functions best when you’re being tortured and humiliated, although for my purposes that is actually useful.  Your one hope comes from the fact I greatly enjoy watching a snuffslave’s cock explode when I reach my own orgasm as the slave dies.”

Chief (turning toward Bill as faggotslave, as its new reality starts to sink in, continues to listen): “I’ll take another drink when I’m done dealing with this piece of shit fag.  I  want to join in the fun with the twink in the back, so you can bring it there.  As for faggotslave, it accepted its status and fate by entering your bar, but for tonight just beating him up should be enough.  He showed up as instructed seeking a snuff scene, which is a start, and Doc Johnson says he can become an acceptable volunteer.  It needs an attitude adjustment before it meets my standards. I suggest you punish it accordingly as you throw it out.  I know you’ll enjoy that.  Then you can leave it in the back of Dave’s truck so Dave can take it to my farm for further conditioning.”

Chief (turning back to faggotslave): “Like I said, I’ll make this quick.  It’s pretty straightforward.  Even faggots like you can understand if I talk slow and keep it simple.  You’re already trembling in fear, which you should be.  If you are having second thoughts about volunteering to get snuffed, it’s too late.  In due course you’ll be tortured to death and disposed of like a used cum rag.    Or maybe it’s sexual excitement that has you shaking so much.  Maybe you’re getting turned on because You know that’s what you want.  And you know it’s all you’re good for.

“Your shrink, Dr. Johnson, had you surrender all your possessions and then sent you to New York so you could finally accept what needs to happen to your pathetic life.  It needs to end.  He’s tired of you being too stupid to get the point and too cowardly to get on with it.  Asshole faggots disgust him, as you do all Alpha Males.  I know from his report that you’re ready to get snuffed and ready to welcome it.  I might be willing to consider you for one of my scenes if you show the right level of appreciation and enthusiasm  for the event, realizing it’s not about your needs but about my sadistic pleasure.  It’s my prerogative to torture and kill you whenever and however I decide to do it.  The fact you haven’t accepted that yet is the other reason you don’t get off’d tonight.  You are a worthless piece-of-shit homo whose only real use is to die at the hands of an Alpha Male for his pleasure, especially the pleasure of fucking you as you’re brutally tortured to death.  You’re not much physically but you might provide me a little fun for a few hours, including a satisfying fuck.  Fags your size tend to have tight little bubble butt assholes that my giant cock can rip open. I enjoy that.  And you want that.  And, of course, New York is a great city to disappear in.  No one will notice, not that they would anyway  As Chief of Police I have the power to assure that.

“And let me be clear.  There’s no negotiation, no conditions.  When an Alpha Male decides to kill you, you have no say about how he does it.  You die how he wants you to die, entirely for his enjoyment.  It’s none of your business.  You’re just there to receive unbelievable levels of pain and, if you’re lucky, to have a final orgasm as you die that the Alpha can enjoy feeling your body produce as it also tightens around his pulsating cock.  It’s for his sexual fulfillment, not yours, watching and laughing, ideally as he has his own orgasm inside your near-dead ass.  Oh, and you’ll be in such pain and so close to death you probably won’t get any actual pleasure.  Dead faggots don’t report how it felt, after all.

“The only issue since you walked into this bar has been if you add a little extra value during the snuff for an Alpha Male like me who enjoys killing willing faggots, or if you don’t volunteer and get killed by an Alpha Male like Bill who likes fags that resist.  Some of us get more pleasure when the meat is willing.  Other Alpha Males like it better when the meat is not willing, and even tries to fight back.  It’s a matter of taste but the constant factor is the kill.  I like fags who volunteer and who worship me as I deserve.  They should express their gratitude for the honor of pleasing me by cooperating as I torture and kill them.  You have that potential and that’s why Dr. Johnson sent you to me.  But you need further conditioning.”

“Now get the fuck out of our bar, faggotslave.  Strip naked and leave your clothes and all your other possessions with Bill, like you should have done when you entered.  You are a snuffslave and will present yourself as such.  You  no longer have possessions.  You do not own property.  You ARE property.  My property.  Crawl out of the bar on your hands and knees, then kneel in the alley outside next to Dave’s truck and wait for Bill to arrive and administer your initial punishment for your arrogance.  You will be punished often, with or without a reason, because we Alpha Males enjoy inflicting pain on our slaves.”

Chief  (to Bill as faggotslave quickly does as instructed, exposing his small but rock-hard cock in the process): “Have fun.  But don’t kill him or break anything yet.  You can dump him in the back of Dave’s truck when you’re done with him.  I assume he’ll be unconscious for quite a while and he can spend the night there.

“He’s both terrified and massively turned on by our little chat, as you and everyone else can see.  Now that he’s naked I can confirm I like his body type and the appearance of his meat.  He’s not very big but he’s pretty fit.  Time as a slave at the farm will make him even more fit.  The cock is unimpressive, but he’s got a decent set of balls and I’m guessing the tiny cock is matched by a super-tight hole for me to destroy.  He’s not all that bad looking and as you know I enjoy sniffing guys with his sort of build.  They’re fun to break apart.  I think he’ll be a fun kill for me, volunteering entirely for the purpose of satisfying my sadistic bloodlust once he’s properly oriented.  That’s why Doc Johnson sent him my way.   Tonight I don’t get to snuff a volunteer, but we can all enjoy the twink you have in the back, killing it while it protests and resists.  That’s still lots of fun and appeals to our sadistic natures.  But for me  there aren’t near enough of these snuffslaves who admit what they are and deserve.  Like the ones in the bar now, they make great slaves for a while.  So faggotslave will become a farm slave until it is ready to be harvested as an enthusiastic snuffslave.”

2

Conditioning

(in the alley)

Bill:  “Well, faggotslave, you didn’t run away.  That’s a start, although tracking you down and punishing you for that would have been more fun.  I’m sure the Chief would have let us kill  you instead of just beating you unconscious.  But we’ll still have lots of fun doing that as punishment for your arrogance in the bar, as the Chief encouraged us to do.

“To start, my buddies and I are going to piss down your throat, then you are to use your tongue to get our cocks hard.  Dave and Sam are going to fuck you first, then we’re going to torture you while I fuck your ass.  They’ll fuck you at the same time, with both their cocks up your puny ass.  That’s more fun for them and a lot more painful for you.  Puny guys like you tend to have tight assholes.”

Bill (after his buddies finish double-dicking faggotslave, who obviously enjoyed the pain and eagerly sucked Bill’s dick as they did so):  “Wow.  is that all there is to your cock?  You truly are the nerdy masochist faggot Doc Johnson described.  But I thought he was exaggerating when he said you didn’t have much of a dick.  I bet it’s not more than 4 inches.  If you had the balls to fuck another guy in the ass I doubt he’d even notice.  But I’m guessing you haven’t done that.  You’re the kind of faggot who just sucks cock and gets fucked.  And judging by what a good job you did drinking our piss I figure you’re an experienced urinal too.  So you are good at sucking cock and drinking piss, two skills that are useful, plus a nice tight ass to plug.  We’ll take advantage of that.  But next we need to tie you up so I can take my turn fucking your ass and we can all have fun hurting you.  This electrical pole should do nicely.  We’ll tie your wrists above your head so I can fuck your ass while Dave and Sam torture the rest of you.  There are so many fun places to administer pain!

Bill (ramming his huge cock up faggotslave’s ass after faggotslave is secured to a crossbeam extending form the electrical pole):  “Well, you do have a nice tight ass like everyone reports  The Chief will enjoy ripping it open when the time comes.  His cock is a lot bigger than mine, as he’s fond of pointing out.  But mine’s big enough to get your attention.  It’s nicely lubricated too, so I think Dave and Sam did a decent job filling it with cum.  It’s obvious you enjoy being fucked, but we’ll add a lot more pain so you don’t enjoy it too much.  Of course, we also realize you enjoy the pain.  We’ll see how much you enjoy it when It’s at the levels we’re going to inflict.

“Feel very free to scream, by the way.  We enjoy listening to that, and it’s late enough that there is no one nearby to hear you.  Even if there were, remember that the cops work for the Chief. He owns you now and he’s the one who asked us to beat you.  This will be way more than you’re used to, but comparatively tame compared to what he’ll do, so you can start imagining the kinds of things that are going to be done to you before you get to die.  You’ll be begging for that.  But for now I’m going to fuck your ass while Dave and Sam enjoy themselves administering pain to your body.  As I cum they’ll finish beating you unconscious.  You are going to be bruised and in pain for days, but we  won’t kill you.  Fuck, if you’re lucky you might even have an orgasm as you pass out.  Your erection is throbbing already and there’s a little pre-cum dripping from it..  That’s always highly amusing to see.  The best part is having your body tighten around my cock while you pass out and shoot your load.  That feels great.”

Bill (as faggotslave screams loudly):  “Yeah, I bet that hurt.  Dave has a strong arm, and he was holding brass knuckles when he wailed on your balls.  You’re lucky he moved away before you threw up, or you would have really mad him mad.  If some of it got on him he might have lost his temper.  Your balls are going to be swollen for a long time, especially since he’s not done hitting them.  You’re probably all out of puke so he can move in close. 

“Now for some more fun, while I continue to enjoy drilling your ass.  I like it when you twitch and turn in pain, since it adds to the pressure on my cock and that feels great, so let’s see how you react to a cattle prod.  Zap!  Wasn’t that fun?  I can tell you felt it on your right nipple, and I enjoyed your scream.  Now for the left one.  Zap!  Excellent.  Now the balls.  There’s no limit to the amount of pain we enjoy inflicting there.  Zap!  Zap!  Oh, even better.  Obviously, the cock is next, and we’re going to hold the prod there for a while so the muscle gets a full dose of electricity   It’ll wilt for a bit after that but I’m willing to bet it will get hard again (such as it is) fairly soon.  This is the kind of pain you crave.  Zappppp!  Zappppp!  Wow.  That was fantastic!  Sam is really talented.  It might take a little longer for you to recover from all this so the Chief can use you, but I’m sure you’d agree it’s worth it.  It is for us and that’s all that matters.

“Time for a few punches.  Sam’s also really good at attacking a slave’s midsection, so let’s see how you enjoy that.  Oh good, you twisted nicely and put more pressure on my cock.  Want Dave to hit your balls again now?  Of course you do.  The great part of this is none of it will damage your long-term ability to provide even more pleasure after you wake up.  Dave and his team can still play with you at the farm, and they will also be careful sp the Chief will have a nice fresh slab of temporarily alive meat to use for his own fun.  It won’t matter how much your flesh is damaged and your bones are broken when that happens, since he won’t leave you alive like we’re going to do.

“I’m getting close to my own orgasm, and I see your cock is hard again.  I think you might even have one of your own, although it won’t amount to much.  Dave and Sam are going to team up beating you on the chest and belly, but they’ll leave your cock and balls alone just in case you manage to shoot before you pass out.  If your body performs as it should – and fag bodies always do – then you’ll shoot your load as you lose consciousness, and as I shoot mine up your ass.  I’ll enjoy the show and your contortions will put wonderful added pressure on my cock as I shoot, but you’ll be in so much pain you won’t get to enjoy yours.  It’s a perfect happy ending for the evening,  isn’t it?  

“We’ll leave you tied up and piss all over you before we dump you in the back of Dave’s truck.  You might be interested to know we’re  making a video of your punishment that we will show at the bar, so others can enjoy it.  We’ve also identified some people who knew you before you admitted to being a snuffslave, and we’ll be sure they see it too so they can realize what a worthless faggot you were.  We know a lot of them enjoyed abusing and fucking you so I’m sure they’ll enjoy watching it.  We are entitling it “faggotslave Conditioning” in your honor, so they remember your role before becoming an official slave.  We might even show a few of them the video of your eventual snuff scene, and a few of them are members of the Alpha Male Society so they might show up to watch in person.  It will be a very festive reunion, I’m sure.  We make use of faggots as best we can, given your limited utility.  This is the one sort of thing you’re actually good for.”

Bill (to Dave and Sam as they laugh at faggotslave’s unconscious body):  That was a ton of fun and a great fuck.  Let’s dowse him with piss before we toss him into the back of Dave’s truck.  He can clean it up when he wakes up.  Time to go inside for the REAL fun.”

3

Conditioning

(at the farm)

Crack!

Dave:  “Wake up faggotslave,  it’s time to start your existence as an acknowledged and willing  snuffslave and prepare you to be tortured and killed.  You’ve been unconscious for two days after Bill, Sam, and I beat the shit out of you and fucked your ass in the ally by Bill’s bar.  The Chief said not to break anything or do permanent damage, but he didn’t put limits on how much pain we could inflict.  Quite the opposite.  We all wanted to find out what your pain tolerance is, which is always a fun process and important in designing a kill to make sure the slave suffers as much and as long as possible.  We pushed well past it and you eventually passed out from the tortures and the beating.  You’re going to hurt pretty much everywhere for quite a while longer.  Get used to it.  Now get on your knees and suck my cock while I explain the rules here on the Chief’s farm.

“The rules are obvious, and the main rule is that you do exactly what you are told to do, no matter what that is.  You tried to negotiate with the Chief on what would happen to you when you were at the bar, and that is one of the reasons you were punished.  You have no say about anything, and no one gives a fuck what you want or even think.  So you are to shut the fuck up and do as you are told.  Period.  The major part of your training is getting you to realize not only the reality that you are a slave, but also that deep down you are desperate to be a slave and serve an Alpha Male master.  Your purpose and fulfillment is satisfying his every whim and losing your life in the process.  You have accepted the fact you’re a masochist faggot, and that you get sexual pleasure form being degraded and abused.  That’s useful, as it makes your body react nicely when we torture you.  You got massively turned on during your beating, and your body performed wonderfully as you reached orgasm.  As you convulsed your ass tightened hugely around Bill’s cock and he had a fantastic orgasm as he shot his load into you.  Your entire body tensed up as your own cock spewed a giant load of cum all over the place.  And that happened as you lost consciousness.  The more we beat you the more you got turned on, just like a masochist slave should do.  I’m guessing it was the most intense orgasm you ever had, and you are desperate for another one like it.  The Chief was pleased when he saw the video and knows he’ll greatly enjoy snuffing you.  That will happen when we get you into a little better shape and you realize that, as a slave, you will welcome being snuffed not for the pain that will turn you on sexually but from the fact it will please your master.  It’s really quite simple.

“You may only speak when given permission to do so, and if that happens you are to address all Alpha Males, including me, as “sir.”  The Chief is “master.”  And that’s it for rules.  See?  I told you it was simple.  I bet even scum like you can figure it out.

“Now, as for your tasks.  I run the farm for the Chief, and it’s a massive operation with all kinds of crops and both human and non-human farm animals. The human ones plant and tend the crops, and both types provide fresh meat when we are done with them.  We prefer the slave meat, especially when we eat it live. 

“We’re in the main barn at the moment, and that’s where you’ll be stored as you recover and  are conditioned for the Chief’s use and disposal.  To help you understand your status I’ve decided to have you tend to the pigs.  You’ll serve them their slop to eat and keep their pen clean.  That means you’ll be up to your naked ass in pig shit most of the time.  The pigs matter more than you do and are better cared for, so that will be good for your attitude.  Also, your food will consist of any slop that is left over after they eat, although you are not to consume more than one dog dish full of it.  You are to stay lean and hungry.  You may drink from their water trough, which my men and I also use as a urinal.  You are to drink a lot as staying hydrated is important, and because it is disgusting and degrading.  The Chief wants you to get into top physical shape.  So another task is bailing hay for the horses.  That is remarkably good exercise and will tone your muscles considerably as it enhances your cardio and pulmonary endurance.  Those are important to be sure you do not die too early during the snuff.  These chores will occupy your mornings.  It’s the start of the planting season so you’ll join other slaves in the fields after your second and final daily dish of pig slop.  Spending the afternoons naked in the hot sun will further develop your muscles and generate a complete tan, which the Chief prefers for his snuff targets.  You’ll notice your beard, torso, arms, legs, and crotch have been shaved, and your skin was treated with chemicals that will prevent any hair from growing back.  At this point your skin is nice and smooth but utterly devoid of any color or tone.  You will be made much more sexually appealing in a month or two.  I think the Chief is planning to off you during the summer solstice celebration in June, and by then you’re going to be a perfect physical specimen meeting the Chief’s high standards for live faggot meat. 

“It’s a pity you won’t live long enough to be part of the fall harvest.  That’s my favorite time of year.  After the slaves harvest the crops, we harvest the slaves.  It’s a week of snuff orgies with several hundred slaves, some barbecued alive, most tortured and fucked to death by members of the Alpha Male Society.  And about 50 are crucified, their agonizing naked bodies providing a great ambience for the event.  We pick those in advance and condition them so they have maximum arm strength as well as durable pulmonary and cardio systems, so they typically last for days.  I think you’d provide an especially long show given your light build and strong heart and lungs, but you’ll be dead long before that.  Pity. It’s a great show and their agony is astonishing and great fun to watch.  They pretty much always have giant orgasms as they die, and we have fun betting when that will happen.  When it’s over all the farm slaves are butchered and sold for meat.  We get a few new ones to handle the winter chores, and a big shipment in spring for planting and such.  Those just arrived and I will be spending my time indoctrinating them, so you will not get much attention.  You have your instructions, and you are to obey them.

There is, however, one other aspect of your training, which will take place in the evenings.  You will be tortured to increase your pain tolerance.  It’s already good but it could be better, and the Chief does not want you to go into system shock as he gets serious about torturing you.  You won’t get fucked very often, as the Chief wants your ass to remain extremely tight, one of your better features.  His cock will take care of loosening that when the time comes, which will of course be a source of considerable pain in itself since he’ll essentially rip it open.  His cock is amazingly giant, as you will learn. 

“And you will remain horny, especially given your strong masochistic nature, but without any release.  The Vet inserted a computer chip where your brain stem connects to your spine that manages the sexual signals between your brain and your body.  It massively increases your sex drive – in your case your desire for pain – but prevents you from having an orgasm. 

Remember, the reason you are being kept alive isn’t as part of my slave crew to work the farm. We have lots of slaves for that, and they’re a lot bigger and stronger than you are. Providing better quality of meat to sell.  The reason  is to orient you away from considering your own pleasure as a masochist, so you focus solely on the pleasure of the Chief, the Alpha Male sadist who owns you.  You will come to understand how worthless and irrelevant you are, and how important and deserving the Chief is.  You will learn to worship him as he deserves.  To that end it is important that you are subjected to massive pain and humiliation. You do not deserve to achieve sexual release.  That erection you have now will be constant, courtesy of the computer chip and your own natural masochism.  Yet you won’t be able to do anything about it.  The Chief is a creative sadist.  We don’t give a fuck about your pleasure, just about making your life more degrading and awful.  We enjoy depriving you of pleasure while we cause you to seek it even more.  We’re sadists, after all, and that’s reason enough.  What better suffering is there for a masochist faggot than being tortured but not being allowed to get any sexual satisfaction or release?  I’m sure you can see the humor in that.    What better psychological torture can there be than a sadist depriving a masochist of sexual release as part of its suffering?  Now bend over the pig trough over there so I can fuck your ass.  Then you are to clean the pen.”

4

Party Prep

Crack!

Dave (holding the bullwhip he’d used to wake faggotslave before dawn):  Wake up faggotslave.  On your knees and drink my morning piss.  They you can suck my cock while I give you your instructions for today.  You have extra duties after you feed the pigs, clean their trough, and bale the hay for the horses.  Those include showing snuffslave #223 what your morning chores are.  It will take over for you tomorrow since you’ll be dead.  It’s not scheduled to die until after fall harvest and needs to be made useful in the meantime.   As for you, today the Chief is hosting a large group of our Alpha Male Society fellow members to celebrate summer solstice.  You will be part of the entertainment at the start of the cocktail party, which will occur on the South Lawn next the main estate house.  There will be lots of slaves serving the members in every way – as waiters, as sex objects to be tortured and snuffed, as live meat entrées for the barbecues.  You are going to be used as a minor part of the entertainment the Chief is going to provide as the party starts.  He likes to start things off with an especially brutal snuff to show off his body and his skills and to get everyone in the mood for the fun that will follow.  Once he’s done with you, and the guests have had the chance to fuck your dead ass, your body is of almost no further use.  You have been conditioned to endure extreme pain and respond sexually to torture, but that means your meat is too lean to be acceptable for the barbecue.  The snuffslaves used for that have a higher bodyfat ratio that makes their meat flavorful.  Kobe-style slave mat is extremely popular with our Society and the Chief only serves the best. Yours is bland and boring, like every other aspect of your worthless existence.  But even after you’re killed your body will provide a little added fun later in the evening as it gets dark.  What’s left after the Chief kills you will be ripped apart even more, and the meat eaten, by the cayotes who live in the forest next to the farm.  They’re not picky about the quality of meat they get.  Then tomorrow what’s left will become fertilizer. I’ve decided you will be composted to nourish a stretch of grass on the lawn that is not growing well enough.

“Therefore, just as the party starts you will peel back the grass and sod and then dig a trench where one of the other slaves can dump your carcass and then replace the sod and grass.  Our guests enjoy watching fit naked slaves preparing the spot where their dead bodies will be disposed of, and I have done a great job improving your physical strength and appearance.  As you are likely aware, I fertilize the lawn with the bodies of snuffed faggots.  Fags like you make great fertilizer and there are several hundred I’ve used for that over the years.  Sometimes I grind the faggot up into mulch and spread it like manure, and sometimes I bury it freshly killed in spots that aren’t growing as well as I want, adding chemicals that accelerate the composting and make sure nothing is left of the carcass.  And sometimes, just for fun, I bury the fag alive.  While our guests enjoy their cocktails and conversation, they can watch as you dig a suitable hole to dump your left-over body parts in.  It doesn’t have to be all that deep since I want the rotting flesh to work its magic on the soil and feed the earthworms that will make  the soil more porous from their movements. 

“That trench is where the follow-up fun will happen after dinner when we’re all assembled inside in the main dining room.  The cayotes always show up at dusk to check out the area after a big party, and I want the trench shallow enough so the cayotes can enjoy tearing apart and eating freshly killed faggot tonight.  I want them to be able to get to the body easily for their feast.  We all enjoy listening to them yipping loudly as it gets darker to alert their pack that there’s fresh meat to be had.  There’s a night-vision camera and microphone that will be set up for everyone to watch safely as the animals fight over who gets to eat which parts of the carcass.  Pity is, they especially enjoy faggot genitals, and as I look at your puny cock I realize they won’t find much to consume.  But your balls seem about average and they’ll enjoy biting those off.  The real pity, of course, is that you’ll already be dead, so they don’t get as much fun as they’d like by doing the kill themselves.  They’re remarkably vicious when they do and that’s far more fun to watch.  The Chief wants his guests to be able to enjoy seeing their bloodthirsty energy, which we think is inspirational.  So I’m going to also have a live naked faggot tied up for them to enjoy, cutting it so the smell of its fresh blood attracts them. The noise as they kill and eat it is a fabulous mix of the furiously yipping animals celebrating and the terrified faggot screaming in pain.  I’m also doing that because the patch of lawn that needs fertilizing is fairly large.  Your grave-trench needs to be large enough for both bodies.  The other fag will help you dig so our guests can enjoy watching each of you, then it will be tied to a fuck bench to be used sexually   When you are finished digging you are to crawl to the main reception area and kneel before the Chief, who will amuse his guests by torturing and killing you.”

5

Foreplay

Chief (standing naked except for his steel-toed boots, using them to kick faggotslave in the balls as it kneels in front of him, sending it sprawling as the guests watch and laugh):  “Dave has done well, and you appear to be in much better physical shape.  I also understand you are now aware that your sole purpose is to worship my Alpha body and cooperate in providing me sexual pleasure as I torture you and end your worthless life .  As you can see, I am at least a foot taller than you are and massively more muscular.  Your skin is devoid of body hair, and your beard has been shaved off, as befits a pathetic twink fag ready for harvest.  In contrast, my beard  has the dark, thick hair of a true Alpha, as does my chest. Your body is smooth, with limited muscle definition even though you have been conditioned and your muscles are well developed for a twink of your size and build. That’s so you can last longer as I destroy your flesh.  My frame is massive and all muscle, complete with washboard abs.  You are not remotely worthy to offer your pathetic body and useless life for my pleasure.  So you will need to suffer added pain and humiliation to make up for that.  I will enjoy your agony as I inflict it and thereby gain more of the pleasure I deserve.

 “Now kneel down in front of me again.  You are to worship and service my amazing cock.  Its 12 inches of thick muscle will soon tear open your puny ass.  But first you are to use your mouth and tongue to service it, getting it rock hard and ready for its use as a weapon for your pain and a source of my pleasure.  I want to feel it deep in your throat before it goes up your ass.  I will hold your head to make sure you welcome my cock all the way in, even though it is going to cause you to choke, and you’ll be unable to breathe.  Your tongue is to caress it all the way down the shaft to its base.  I am told you have become adept at servicing Dave’s 10-inch cock, but you will be surprised how much harder it is to service one that is 12 inches.  I  don’t care and don’t tolerate gagging.  You will learn that there is no release from your suffering when I decide to use you.  When I am satisfied with thrusting my cock down your throat I will send a torrent of piss down it.  You are to drink all of it.  Then I will remove my cock and you will lick my balls.  You will also lick my ass.  You are to stay focused on serving my body as I torture you.”

Chief (adding to faggotslave’s fear as it eagerly services his cock but also arousing its masochistic desires):  “I plan to cut you open and I like  the feel of hot blood leaking onto my powerful skin.  You will be grateful to see your body’s fluids providing me that satisfaction.  The pain from the cuts will be astonishing and a part of you will want to die, hoping blood loss will cause that to happen.  But you will not be permitted to bleed out  The Vet will monitor and control that. And you know you deeply desire the pain and the destruction of your flesh.  You have the privilege of admiring my dominant, massive, perfect Alpha Male body, and of worshiping it as I take your life and get pleasure from doing so.    I require worship from those I kill, as I deserve, and your own massive sexual arousal will be part of that worship.”

Chief (now fully erect, his massive cock and balls nicely massaged, and his ass licked clean by the adoring faggotslave, who also eagerly drank  the giant load of piss): “Stand up and face me.  As you know, the computer chip implanted in your neck prevents you from having an orgasm, and you have not gotten sexual relief since you arrived at the farm despite the constant use as a sox toy and cum bucket that turns you on.  Do you now wish me to remove it so you can do so?  You have permission to speak.”

Faggotslave (with total sincerity that reflects its successful conditioning):  “I hope you will do whatever gives you the most pleasure, Master.  That is all that matters.  I am grateful that you are using me for your enjoyment.”

Chief:  “Dave has indeed trained you well.  Your act of abject submission is the only acceptable response.  I will do what pleases me the most and don’t, and never did, care what you desire.  I just wanted to confirm your training.

“ At this point I do not plan to fuck your face again.  I’ll use your ass for that.  Sp I see no further use for your tongue to massage my cock and certainly no reason for you to speak.  No one wants to hear from you.  Ever.  Open your mouth so I can use this knife to cut out your useless tongue.  It will be a fitting start to vivisecting you.  You won’t be able to talk but you’ll be able to squeal like a pig. That’s all I want to hear from you.  I enjoy it when fags try to scream after their tongues are cut out.   It’s a high-pitched animal sound that befits your status as meat being butchered.”

Chief (tossing the bleeding tongue to his pet, Felix, who quickly chomps it down as faggotslave watches, in pain but grateful for being better able to provide the Chief with pleasure):  “Time to step up the pain, which starts with some great entertainment.  Stand in front of that wall, facing me, with your arms spread wide, fists open, palms out.  Dave will make sure you’re properly positioned.”

Chief (getting the attention of the guests once Dave has positioned faggotslave):  Welcome AMS members.  It is great to see everyone, and I know we’re all looking forward to a wonderful evening of comradery as we practice the Art of Male Snuff.  To start the fun, I think you’ll enjoy watching me snuff this pathetic twink, which is as eager to die as I am to kill it.  As you all know, I find that particularly satisfying and utterly appropriate. 

“To make it more of a show for all of your, I got some new toys that Dave and I have been practicing with and enjoying a lot.  Frankly, we want to show off a little, as you’d expect from Alpha Males like us – and each of you.  These are top-of-the-line Smith and Wesson throwing knives.  They are of varying length, including two large throwing axes.  Their balance is perfect, and they build momentum as they spin and fly toward the target. It’s amazing how sharp they are and how easily they dig into flesh.   In fact, it’s important to be careful how hard you throw them and where you aim.  When I first got them I tested them on a farm slave and targeted the faggot’s heart.  I thought that would be a good way to start the blood flowing, which is so much fun to watch as the fag becomes completely terrified by the agony and the final realization of its fate.  But the knife went in so fast and deep it exploded the beating muscle and the fucker died right away. 

“I was pretty pissed and called the sales rep to complain that they didn’t have a warning about that with the instructions.  We do a LOT of business with them at the department, so I always get his attention.  He promised he’d make it good.

“The next day he showed up with a sales trainee, a young twink apparently right out of college  He brought me a whole new set and gave Dave and me some especially useful pointers on how to select the right length and calibrate the velocity of the knife, so it only goes in as far as I want it too.  That has proved to be quite useful as you’ll see shortly.  But I told him I already had a dozen knives from the first set I bought and having more knives and some instruction didn’t solve the problem of having a faggot die before I was ready to administer the kill.  The lead salesman had already thought that through, but he turned to the trainee and asked how he would propose to solve the problem.  The trainee understood that customer satisfaction was the top priority, especially a customer as important as I am.  And he had committed himself to the company as they require.  He wasn’t too happy about the obvious solution, but he quickly stripped naked and stood in front of the throwing wall where today’s fag is now positioned.  He eventually turned out to be a good sport about his fate after I explained some of the alternative things I might do to him, and he stood still in front of my throwing wall while I tested the suggestions.  I was able to get all 24 knives into him and no individual throw was fatal. But I was still a little too eager and he died from the cumulative effect before I could stick my big cock into him and get a good fuck while he was still convulsing from all the pain.  I   had to settle for fucking his dead ass.  But that was satisfying, and I placed a big order from the department with the sales rep.   That way everyone was happy, except maybe the sales trainee.  Dave and I have been practicing with more farm slaves and we’ve gotten particularly good at getting lots of knives into the flesh without having the faggot die prematurely.  And we’ve especially gotten good at making sure they stay standing while we have our fun.  Watch.

“See?  Dave and I simultaneously nailed the fag right in the palms of its hands.  These were longer knives that went in all the way to the hilt and judging by the faggot’s scream it hurt a lot.  Now faggotslave’s got both hands thoroughly pinned to the wall and is unable to move. Clever, huh?  Notice how the knives cut through the flesh and cartilage so easily and are well embedded in the wall.  That’s because we put a lot of force into the throws.  These two knives will hold it up as we proceed, which would otherwise be a problem. 

Chief (now addressing faggotslave):  it’s time to turn you into a bleeding pin cushion.  I’m going to start with your chest, aiming for the right nipple.  I’ll ease off a bit on the velocity and force, using a shorter knife that will cause less bleeding and won’t go all the way through you and pin you to the wall.  We’ll need to move you to that nearby sling when we’re done throwing knives,  so I can fuck your ass and play with the knives that will be inserted into you.  We want this next set of knives to cut into your innards, but not go all the way through.   We also don’t want you to die from internal bleeding.  That’s not dramatic enough.  Balancing all these factors is  a lot of what we learned from practicing on the sales trainee and a few more farm slaves.  And we have to be careful not to have a knife go into your heart.  So we won’t aim for the right nipple.  I’ve learned that lesson!  You don’t need both lungs, so Dave is going to throw the next knife near where mine hit, to be sure the right lung collapses.  It’s fun to watch fags struggle to breathe once that happens. 

“Great throw Dave!  The fag squealed nice and loud and it’s obvious having trouble breathing. 

Chief (laughing form the joy of the kill, to faggotslave, whose agony is intense but whose arousal is evidenced by a solid erection):  Hey fag, how about if I aim for your liver, then Dave and I can each take out a kidney?  Does that sound like a good sequence, or would you rather have a knife thrust into you somewhere else first?  This is a lot of fun and I’m willing to be accommodating.  My main goal is to get at least one in the liver and each kidney, and several in the guts and stomach.  But we’ll take our time. Your look of terror is amusing, and you actually don’t yet know how increasingly painful this is going to be.” 

Chief (to the Vet):  “Keep an eye out in case you need to slow down the bleeding.  We don’t want it to bleed out.”

Chief (to faggotslave):  Having fun?  I’m enjoying the shrill noises you’re making as the knives cut into you.  You really do sound like a stuck pig.  Dave and I are going to do a lightning round next.  We’ve each selected five knives that are shorter, so they can land anywhere without doing anything fatal.  We’re going to aim for your arms, legs, and belly.  Let us know when you’d like us to start.

“Oh, I forgot.  You don’t talk anymore.   So we’ll just start on the count of three.  One, two, three!

“That was awesome.  I think Dave and I have become supremely talented at our new sport.  Don’t you agree?

“But this was just the foreplay.  Now it’s time for me to make the tortures up close and personal.  That way you can fully appreciate just how phenomenal my body is.  You will also appreciate how my 12-inch cock can rip apart a faggot’s asshole.  I’ve used the knife throwing to get myself aroused as only true Alpha Males can do.  My bloodlust is surging, and you are its target.

“I’m going to have you moved to the sling and then my giant cock goes into your doomed ass.  I’m going to make that fuck and your final destruction last as long as possible.  But all the damage to your innards from the knives makes your death inevitable.  If we did nothing further you’d die from internal bleeding fairly soon.  But we’re going to do a LOT more.”

6

Climax

Chief (while faggotslave is still pinned to the wall): “Time to release our fag target, Dave.  Do you want to take the left side or the right side?  Your choice.”

“I’ll take the left side.  Shall we throw on the count of three again?”

“Sure.  I’ll count slow so it can try to figure out what’s about to happen.  One,…two,…three!”

Chief (ecstatic) :  Those were perfect!  The axes severed each shoulder simultaneously, and the body promptly fell face first onto the cement.  I’m fairly sure it broke its nose since it didn’t have any arms to stop the fall.”

Dave (laughing, and equally pleased):  It sure was.  And the dismembered arms are still pinned to the wall by the knives we used at the start.  The fag is still breathing but seems to have passed out.  That’s OK.  I’m sure the Vet can wake it up once we move it to the sling for the finale’.  This is turning out to be our best effort yet.

Vet:  “Yeah, that was pretty impressive.  And no worries, I’ll slow down the bleeding and bring it back to consciousness.  Might as well do that while it’s on the cement, so it can feel the pain as it’s moved to the sling.”

Chief (having thrust his throbbing, erect cock into faggotslave’s hole as soon as the fag was in the sling and fully accessible,, causing more inhuman sounds from the faggot): “Feel that, faggot?  Your ass is nicely lubricated from all your internal bleeding, and it is going to tighten even more onto my cock as I continue to torture you.  That’s going to drive me wild with sadistic passion as you receive more and more and more pain.  You’ll think it can’t get worse, but it will. 

“And look.  Your puny little cock is rock hard.  I might enjoy watching it shoot a last load as you die, but I haven’t decided about that yet.  I wonder if there would be much cum.  After all, you’ve been storing it inside you for months now.  II bet your balls did a good job filing up with whatever was inside you.  This could be an added aspect of the entertainment.

“But here’s the great part.  It was obvious from your gyrations and sequels that those knives hurt a lot when they went into you.  And they’re  still there and still causing pain – except for the ones you left behind when you lost your arms.  Pity about that.  But the REAL pain is when the knives are twisted.  For example, let’s start with this one that’s probably stuck in your liver.  See, I’m turning it now and you’re almost passing out again from the increased agony.  But don’t worry.  The Vet will bring you back around if you do, so you won’t miss anything.  Oh, and I’ve observed that kidneys can transmit astonishing levels of pain.  That’s why kidney stones are so awful.  Here, let me demonstrate.  I’ll twist both knives at the same time.

“Wow.  That was quite a jerk of your body.  Did it hurt?  Oh, I keep forgetting.  My cat’s got your tongue.

Dave (laughing):  Cute.  Felix looked up when you said that.  Maybe he thinks he’ll get another faggot snack.”

“Chief (now overwhelmed with lust and passion, his cock throbbing as it thrusts in and out  while the faggot’s body twists and tuns, providing intense pressure and pleasure):  He will, but not until it’s dead.  I think that’s going to be fairly soon. 

Chief (sensing that faggotslave is starting to fade more rapidly):  “Hey faggot, are you close to death?  I’ve been playing with the knives stuck in you for nearly an hour.  I’ve wanted to be sure you get all the pain you deserve by twisting and removing the rest of these knives, then inserting them all over again.  I’m doing it slowly so you can experience the full impact of the torture.  When you get really close to death I have a special treat for you, so hang in there!”

“Yeah, I think it’s time.  OK, Dave, hand me that really long knife.”

Dave (massaging his own erect cock):  “Yup, I think it’s time.”

Chief (expertly slicing into faggotslave’s throat): “Die faggot.  My knife is extremely sharp and  is easily cutting your throat . But I’m going to go as slow as possible.  You can feel my cock erupting inside you as I cut.  And my knife has dislodged the computer chip, so Your own cock is also exploding with cum – lots and lots of cum – going everywhere.  It’s a great show.  You finally got something right.  I can’t believe how much pleasure I feel as I fill you with my man-juice.  I can’t believe how satisfying it is to feel your death throes pressure my cock.  You are finally the bleeding, pain-filled piece of cut-up meat you deserved to be.  My knife is now most of the way through your neck and your head will be totally cut off any second now.  You only have a few seconds to live, with all that pain mixed with a massive orgasm.  I took your life and it meant nothing because you meant nothing.  It just provided me with pleasure, but my pleasure was intense.”

Chief (removing his spent cock form the dead body, holding the head in his hands after he had completely severed it with the electric knife): “The body’s still warm, Dave.”

Dave (inserting his erect cock into faggotslave’s cum-and-blood-filled ass as the body still gyrates): “This feels great.  The ass is overly lubricated but still wonderfully tight.  And it’s so satisfying to fuck a faggot as it’s just finished dying, still convulsing a bit as the muscles give out but not so much that there’s not wonderful pressure on my cock.  This is what faggots are good for.  And the celebration is just beginning!”

Office Bubba: White Power Meets Black Muscles

It was the end of a long day and Officer Bubba was tired.  A cold front had blown through earlier in the day, wet and windy, with violent squalls.  There had been three fender-benders in town and a really nasty wreck out on the highway—they’d had to call the county meat wagon in on that one.  But the storm had passed, leaving only puddles, and Bubba was not only off duty, he was off for the next three days.

He had the privilege of taking the cruiser home; someone else on the force would come by and pick it up tomorrow.  He’d just swung off Main Street when a black Dodge Charger with expensive rims peeled out and cut him off, roaring up the street.  Bubba recognized it at once; there was only one car in town like that.  It belonged to Willie Dawson, the mayor’s kid.

Dawson himself wasn’t in town; wealthy enough to hire a private jet to fly to DC to help overthrow what his deranged mind saw as a rigged election, he was too canny to have actually been caught inside the Capitol and was now spending his time and money trying to help his fellow insurrectionists out of their legal issues.  And since he was the only one capable of controlling his worthless, spoiled son, it made sense that Willie was running amok.

Bubba grinned and switched on his siren.  As he chased after the speeding car, he could feel his weariness draining away and a sense of something else coming over him—excitement, anticipation, he couldn’t quite name it.  But the thought that it was time Willie learned the meaning of respect made his massive black cock achingly hard.

The officer was momentarily taken by surprise when the car swung to the left onto the county road—the Dawson property was to the right, and Bubba had heard of Willie’s boast that no cop would dare come after him at his father’s house.  Bubba would have been more than happy to prove him wrong.  Now, it looked like he wouldn’t get that chance.

A mile further on, Willie nearly lost it on a right-angle turn to the right; Bubba was close enough to see that there was someone in the passenger seat.  Even though the face was illuminated in his headlights for no more than a fraction of a second, Bubba recognized Dylan Channing.

He should have expected it, Bubba realized.  Dylan lived nearby in Willie’s upscale neighborhood and came from a family nearly as wealthy.  The two had been repeatedly nabbed in minor peccadillos—vandalism, petty shoplifting, minors in possession.  All had been dismissed due to the wealth of both families and the political clout of Willie’s father.

Bubba’s disgust had peaked when they had been pulled over, drunk out of their minds, and run in.  Bubba had been the receiving officer at the jail that night.  Their sneers and racial abuse had been bad enough—it had been much worse the next morning, when it was repeated after they were dismissed, the arraigning magistrate not even bothering to charge them, since they would never be indicted in any case.  From that point on, the two worthless punks went out of their way to show their utter lack of respect for authority—and the police in particular.

All the other cops bent over backwards to coddle the boys, encouraging the attitude.  Bubba had no intention of doing so and was almost overjoyed at the chance to put the little shits in their place.  The only problem was that he doubted he’d have the opportunity to truly teach them the lesson they needed to learn.  After all, they couldn’t go missing the way Bennie had; there’d be too many questions.

Little did he know that the bridge over Big Bear Creek, half a mile up the road, was about to present him with that very opportunity for which he’d been longing.  It was placed just after another hairpin turn, and combined with the still-slick roads and Willie’s aggressive driving, it proved too much for the adrenaline-fueled punk.

Bubba was too far back to see the actual wreck, but he saw the taillights of the Dodge as they left the road and then upended.  The car had rolled; the possibility of it being a severe wreck flashed across the cop’s mind.  He hoped not—dying in a car crash would be letting the little shits off too easily.

But he didn’t radio the accident in.  Not yet.  He wanted to make sure.  After all, if they were still alive…

And again he felt a strain and ache in his groin, and grinned maliciously, his white teeth flashing in his hard ebon face.

Bubba slowed his car to a stop in the middle of the road, just short of the bridge.  Shifting into park, he got out, his big black tactical boots thudding on the cracked asphalt as he approached the wreck.  The Charger was on its roof, obviously totaled, and hanging at a precarious angle over the raging, rain-swollen creek.  From inside, barely audible over the roaring of the rushing water, came the groans of the stunned youths.

So they weren’t dead—yet.  Bubba chuckled and approached the car.  Willie was already crawling out of the driver’s side window.  The eighteen-year-old punk was disheveled, his brown hair mussed, a trickle of blood seeping down his cheek from a small cut on his temple.  His black t-shirt with a Korn logo was torn across the front, showing his smooth chest, and there were a few drops of blood on the right thigh of his tight jeans.  He climbed shakily to his feet, shuffling his black and white Puma Fast Cat sneakers in the grass, but Bubba was busy extracting Dylan from the wreck.

A year younger than his buddy, the kid seemed to be utterly unharmed but bordering on shock.  He was mumbling and almost in tears.  Still upside-down and held in his seat by the seatbelt, his yellow t-shirt had fallen around his armpits, revealing his flat, heaving belly, covered with a fine peach fuzz.  Bubba pulled a tool from his utility belt and cut through the seatbelt with no effort at all.  Grabbing the blond youth under the arms, he dragged him from the vehicle.  The boy’s legs, in their tight, worn jeans, dragged on the ground, the heels of his bright red Adidas Originals kicks creating furrows in the dirt.

Bubba got the stunned youth to his cruiser and manhandled him into the back seat; Dylan put up no resistance.  He returned to the inverted Dodge to find that Willie had recovered himself somewhat.  The punk had worked his way around the vehicle and was leaning on the rear bumper, his hand on his head.  He raised his eyes and glared at Bubba.

“Fuckin’ figures,” he muttered in a surly tone.  “Fuckin’ nigger cop, yeah, right.  C’mon and bust me, coon.  Ain’t no way any charges are gonna be pressed, anyway.”

Bubba sighed.  The little shit was right.  “Get in the car, boy,” he snapped, wishing there was some way for the fucker to just disappear—and that’s when Willie materially aided him, unintentionally.

The boy leaned his full weight against the rear of car.  Its precarious angle on the rain-weakened bank of the creek did the rest; there was a deep metallic groaning and suddenly the entire car shifted and slithered toward the raging, swollen waterway.  Willie fell to the ground with a surprised cry as the Dodge tipped up and vanished from sight into the floodwaters.

The creek was wide and deep enough to completely cover the car at once, and was flowing with enough force to instantly sweep it away to God-knows-where.  And that, Bubba realized, was all he needed.  The boys were his.  The Dodge would be halfway across the state before it was found, so anyone looking for them would presume they’d been washed away in the flooding.

The anticipatory ache in the black cop’s groin became almost unbearable.  “Get in the car, motherfucker,” he snarled.  From the ground, Willie peered up at him with a look of pure hatred, but slowly climbed to his feet.

“You ain’t gonna hold me long, jigaboo,” the racist punk sneered, with unconscious prescience.  Bubba only smirked. Nettled, Willie continued to try to get a rise out of the black cop.  “Whatsa matter, coon, didn’t they teach ya English when they let a token nigger into the Academy?  Or did they just all go ‘ooga-booga’, huh?”

Bubba’s smile hardened, but he didn’t react.  “Get in the car,” he said again, more calmly, but with an icy edge that hadn’t been present before.  Sullenly, the teen complied—he would never, even (or especially) in his own mind, use the word ‘obeyed’ in reference to the ordered of a black man.  But the cop had a gun.

That was the only reason he got in the car, Willie told himself.  The only reason.  If he could catch the fucking jungle bunny without his gat once, just once…

The big car shifted appreciably when Bubba dropped his heavily-muscled bulk into the driver’s seat.  In a matter of moments, it was gliding down the waterlogged road, and Willie was trying to calm Dylan, who by now was more upset about the ‘arrest’ than the wreck.

“Don’t worry, man,” the older teen muttered, “Second we’re back in town, I’ll call my dad’s partner.  He’ll come get us.”

“Whyncha call him now?” Dylan sniveled.

“Left my phone in the car, Wille grunted in annoyance.  “Just like you did.  Not that it’d matter; you know there ain’t no signal out here.  Hey, where are we, anyway?”                                

He craned his head at the car windows, trying to orient himself.  They weren’t heading back into town…

“Whatsamatter, ya dumb-ass nigger, ya get lost?” he screamed through the grille that separated the front and back seats of the cruiser, “You ain’t got no right to hold us, anyway!  We ain’t under arrest!  You didn’t charge me with nothin’!  I didn’t get my rights read!  Dylan, this coon read ya yer rights?”

The younger boy shook his head, the distress on his face swiftly replaced with a mean and crafty look,  “Naw, man—hey, that’s right!  Asshole cop’s gotta let us go, right?  Illegal as fuck to haul someone in without readin’ them their rights, ain’t it?”

“Hell yeah,” Willie grinned, “But that’s Plan B.  Now shaddup and lean closer.”

The stupid little shits thought they were being quietly subtle but by the time Bubba turned off the country road onto the nearly-invisible dirt track, he’d heard every detail of Willie’s plan to try to take his gun.  Well, so they thought they could take him if he wasn’t armed?  Maybe he’d give them the chance to try it.  Of course, he’d have to make a minor adjustment first…

The road was pitted and almost unnavigable due to the storm; the boys’ consternation grew as they realized that they weren’t headed to town—or anywhere else they recognized.  Their taunts grew shriller as an edge of fear crept into their voices.

“Fuckin’ yard ape thinks he’s drivin’ us back to his home in the jungle!  Ya gonna invite us up to yer treetop for bananas, nigger?” Dylan called out, his young face twisted with an impotent rage.

“My dad’s gonna have yer badge for this!” Willie yelled,  “Badge, hell; he’s gonna see you do time in the pen with the rest of yer monkey cousins!”

Gritting his teeth, Bubba slammed on the brakes so abruptly the boys were thrown forward into the grille.  He’d had enough of this shit—and anyway, they were close enough to the cabin.  The white cuntboys could walk from here.

He exited the car and opened the rear door, covering the punks with his service pistol.  “Awright, out,” he barked.

“Where the fuck are we?” Willie demanded, gazing around as he climbed out of the rear seat, followed—slowly and reluctantly—by Dylan.

“You’re at my own personal juvenile detention center,” Bubba jeered, his white teeth almost glowing in his dark face as he grinned malevolently.

“Yer gonna pay for this, coon,” Willie hissed, his voice seething with hatred.  Dylan was uneasy—the dark woods were still dripping with rain; a thousand vague menacing sounds issuing from the underbrush—but took comfort in his buddy’s bravado.  “Yeah, asshole, what’s the big idea?” he piped up.

“Don’t worry, white boy; you’ll see soon enough,” Bubba drawled, “Start moving. That way.”  He waved his gun in the direction of the cabin, just barely visible in the dank, murky clearing.  Grumbling, the teens headed towards it, full of anger and trepidation—but with no clue as to what nightmares were in store for them.

They entered the dilapidated structure ahead of the cop who had his gun in one hand and a flashlight in the other.  “There,” he said, indicating the oblong rectangle of darkness of a doorway on the right, “In there.”

It was a bedroom.  Once inside, Bubba pulled out the handle of his flashlight, converting it to a lantern, and set it on a splintered dresser, above which hung the gaping frame of a mirror with some shards of glass remaining at the edges, adding a dim luster to wreck of a room.  Most of the small space was taken up by the rusted metal frame of a double bed with a worn, stained mattress still in place on the sagging springs.  The only other item of furniture in the room was a straight-backed wooden chair, dusty but sturdy, lying on its side.

Bubba turned to face the boys.  “So,” he jeered, “You little punks think you can take me, huh?  You wanna try it?”

Dylan bolted towards him but was restrained by Wille.  “Yeah, and give ya cause to pop a cap in our asses?  We ain’t that stupid, nigger.”

Bubba’s grin widened.  He withdrew his pistol from the holster and ostentatiously placed it on the dresser.  Then he unbuttoned his uniform shirt and shrugged it off, revealing his huge, muscled torso, his broad, hubcap pecs gleaming darkly in the dim light.


“Tell ya what, little boy.  If y’all can take me, you’re both free to go.  No guns involved.  Think you can do it?  C’mon, cracker.  Come at me, boy.”

This time there was no hesitation.  The young thugs launched themselves simultaneously at the black cop, determined to beat him into submission.  The fact that he was larger, stronger, and weighed more than both of them combined never crossed their puny minds; they knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that their racial superiority would be what mattered.

Their first hint that just being white wouldn’t be enough was when Willie’s fist made contact with Bubba’s hard, ripped abs.  The kid had thrown as hard a punch as he was able, but the only effect it had was on him—his hand ached as if he’d punched a brick wall.  Bubba merely smiled.

“My turn,” the huge black bull said, and drew back his arm.  Willie couldn’t believe the size of the deltoid and the bicep as they swelled; he was too amazed to even duck—which was unlucky for him.  Bubba’s blow hit him in the gut like a runaway train, sinking deeply into his smooth belly.  “OOG!!” he cried as all the air was driven from his lungs at once.

As Willie sank gasping to his knees, his arms tightly wrapped around his abdomen, Dylan waded in, fists swinging.  Bubba didn’t even bother to defend himself; he merely stood at ease, chuckling, as the room echoed with the meaty smacks of the boy’s useless futile blows.  “Lemme know when you’re ready to take me on, boy.  Gettin’ mighty tired of these gnat bites, haw!”

“His gun,” Willie managed to gurgle, “Get his gun!”

Dylan whirled and dove for the dresser, snatching the pistol and pointing it at the cop.  “You back off, ya fuckin’ coon!” he screamed, his face red and fear echoing in his voice.

“Kill ‘im!” Willie cried, “Waste his ape ass!”

Dylan pointed the gun point-blank at Bubba’s head and pulled the trigger repeatedly.

The gun clicked repeatedly.

Bubba broke out in a loud guffaw.  “You stupid sacks a’ shit really thought I’d leave a loaded weapon where one of you dipshits could get to it?”

Dylan dropped the gun, looking up in abject terror at the hugely-muscled black man who’d turned and was now looming over him.  Bubba approached, still laughing, until he was directly in front of the punk, about twenty inches away.  He held up his balled fist—in silhouette, it looked like nothing so much as the head of a sledgehammer—and kissed it, the smiled sweetly at the kid.

A dark spot spread in Dylan’s groin.  “P-please, o-of-officer,” he blurted in a high, girlish voice, “Do-don’t—”

“Know what they do to little boys like you in jail?  No?”  Bubba’s grin assumed shark-like proportions,  “Think it’s ‘bout time you found out, yeah?”

Again, as if in slow-motion, his arm drew back like a compressed spring full of potential energy.  “No…” Dylan had time to whisper before the blow slammed into him like a cannonball in his belly.

This punch wasn’t as hard as the one Willie had received, but it was sufficient to cause Dylan to sag to his knees.  He never made it to them, though—on the way down, his chin met Bubba’s knee, coming up.  The impact snapped the limp youth back upright just in time to get the cop’s fist again, this time in the face.

Dylan didn’t reel back; he literally flew through the air with a loud squeal, striking the real wall so hard the clapboard rattled.  The punk slumped to the floor, unconscious.  For a moment, his face darkened, then, involuntarily, he coughed up the two teeth he’d been choking on.

Willie, in the meantime, had just managed to regain his feet.  He looked up at Bubba; the bull cop could that see the fear in the boy’s was mitigated with a loathing that seethed visibly in his glare.  That made him dangerous, but Bubba could use the fucker’s rage against him.   All he needed to do was goad the white cunt into attacking—by choosing his own time, Bubba would be ready.

Well, goading him shouldn’t be too hard—although it was getting harder by the minute, he realized with a smirk.  As he faced the kid, he reached down, unzipped his fly, and extracted his enormous cock.

Bubba’s tool was nearly eleven inches long and more than three in diameter; it looked more like a special effect than a real dick—but it was very real and visibly stiffening.

Staring straight into Willie’s eyes, the black cop asked him, “Ever ridden a bolt of black lightin’, motherfucker?”

With an inarticulate cry of rage, Willie launched himself at Bubba.  He swung wildly, not with any plan of attack but in a desperate attempt to connect.  The cop jerked his head up to avoid the boy’s windmilling fists—not that the few blows the asshole managed to land did the slightest damage.

“Damn, boy, you sure got excited at the thought of this big black meat up your fuckhole!” Bubba chuckled.  “Don’t worry, fucker—I’mma give you your chance to be my little white bitch in a bit here.”  His arm shot out like a piston, his vice-like hand closing powerfully around the kid’s throat.  As Willie instinctively clutched the cop’s wrist, he suddenly found his Puma kicks dangling four inches off the floor and his ability to breathe completely shut off.  Bubba was dead-arming him, keeping him hanging as he reached back and retrieved his handcuffs from his utility belt. 

“First, though, you’re gonna watch,” Bubba said, expertly swinging the cuffs around and getting one around Willie’s right wrist.  Carrying his helpless prey across the room, the cop lifted a boot and deftly knocked the chair upright.  He plopped the struggling youth down into it, hard, and while Willie was momentarily stunned by the impact, he got the kid’s arms cuffed behind the back of the chair, effectively pinning him to it.

“Now, you pay attention, boy,” he told the groaning punk, unable to keep the malicious glee form his voice,  “I’m gonna do some…things…to your pretty little boyfriend over there and you’re gonna watch and learn how to work my shaft.  See, that way, you’ll know what to do when it’s your turn, yeah?  Hey, white boy, how many times you fuck him?  Is his white pussy already reamed out—or was he the one fucking you?  Haw!”

Willie had regained his breath, but not his voice.  His eyes and mouth all were perfect O’s as he gaped at Bubba, his expression one of utter bewilderment.  Emotions flickered across his face but none of them lasted long enough to take hold. 

Then Bubba drove the point home by dickslapping the white cunt.

The bull cop’s massive member smacked across Willie’s face like a baseball bat, driving his head sideways.  Thick, hot precum smeared over the boy’s smooth cheeks and lips, the salty taste making the racist fuck gag and retch.

It was a that at point that Willie realized none of this was happening.

He’d snapped.  Something—maybe a bad acid trip—had made him lose it.  He was crazy, this was a hallucination, not one bit of it was real.  Shit like this just didn’t happen.  It just didn’t.

Then Bubba’s monster hog stuck him again, rattling his skull and recalling him to reality.

“I said pay attention, motherfucker,” the hulking officer barked, then turned to Dylan, still lying prone on the floor, unconscious.  He bent down and with a swift but casual gesture, yanked the youth’s t-shirt off, tossing the shredded yellow fabric aside like the useless trash it now was.  Then he bent down and hoisted the limp form into the air by the waistband of its jeans.  His arm swelling with brute power, Bubba lifted the boy up until only his hands and feet touched the floor, his blond hair sweeping the dust as the cop turned and moved.

Bubba carried Dylan over to the bed and dumped him on it like a sack of potatoes.  He pulled the folding knife form his utility belt and used it to slit the punk’s jeans down the seat, then down the back of both legs, then jerked the sliced denim away, leaving the kid nude but for his Pumas and ankle socks.

The cop, standing at the foot of the bed, turned to Willie with a triumphant sneer.  “Boy ain’t got no drawers on, son.  Looks like he’s been expecting to take it up the ass, yeah?  You too, son?  You been hopin’ I’d catch up to you and ream your faggot white fuckhole?  Then it’s your lucky night.  Watch me plow your little fag boyfriend here and try not to blow your load, har!”

Then the huge black bull turned away and, unclasping his belt, let his tight chino pants drop to the tops of his boots.  His thickly-muscled torso was shaped live a V that pointed to the gleaming taut boulder-like globes of his ass, sitting atop legs as strong as tree trunks.  Then it was all in motion as he climbed up on the bed.

Willie, in a state of fascinated despair, watched the action on the bed with a near catatonic stare; he had a cinematically perfect view.  Still unaware, Dylan was on his back.  The cop had spread the boy’s legs and bent them back, up to his chest and was on top of him.

Confused images flashed through Willie’s fear-inflamed brain.  Bubba’s enormous tackle dangling above Dylan’s pink bud-like boycunt looked like a drill bit suspended from a derrick—no, that wasn’t right, the proportions weren’t right…

Then the huge shaft plunged like an express elevator.  Even from where Willie was sitting, he could see, aghast, the way Dylan’s virgin asshole was instantly stretched beyond its natural capacity.  The tender flesh split like it had been sliced with a knife and Wille watched in horror as blood trickled down his pal’s taint.

The injury was too traumatic for Dylan not to respond.  His long-lashed green eyes flew open—and so did his mouth.  His scream spiraled up an octave, then his voice cracked.  His lithe teen body went rigid with agony, clutching the bulked-out black man in an involuntary grip that sexual ecstasy couldn’t have made tighter.

“Fuck yeah, cunt!” Bubba roared, “Now you’re feeling real Black Power, bitch!  Fuckin’ love it, dontcha, white boy?”

Dylan’s frenetic whimpering, forced out of his young body in the same tempo as Bubba’s deep, powerful thrusts, certainly made it sound as if the punk was enjoying himself.  It was the agonized tautness of his face that showed how much pain and fear he was enduring—and his expression only spurred the cop on to fuck him harder.

The vicious, glassy pain in his asshole helped Dylan find his voice again—quickly and very loudly.  “THTOP!” he screeched, his missing front teeth making him lisp, “FUCK!  FUCK THTOP IT!!”

“Yeah, asshole!” the muscle-bound cop cheered, “Fuckin’ love bangin’ a screamer!  Hey, man,” Bubba said conversationally over his shoulder to Willie, “You ever make this cunt scream this loud when you fucked it?  Haw!”

But the black bull’s built-up rage wasn’t satisfied.  He’d ripped this one too far open; its sphincter was too torn to grasp his shaft.  His massive rod was plunging deep into the white boy’s innards, grinding ruthlessly over Dylan’s prostate—the cop could tell that from the little faggot’s erection despite the pain it was in—but Bubba’s cock wasn’t being pleasured.

And the racist fuck wasn’t suffering enough.  Luckily, though, Dylan made a fatal mistake—he tried to fight back.

His hands came up scrabbling at the cop’s face, clawing at him like an attacking bird.  Bubba expected it—he’d been trained to read the signals a struggling perp gives off—and jerked his head back in time to avoid any injury.  But it was exactly the trigger he needed to flip his brutality into overdrive. 

“Ok, motherfucker, you asked for it,” he snarled into the teen’s panic-stricken face, “Gonna give you a free sample of old-school Police Brutality, har!”

Pinning the youth’s lithe, lean torso to the bed by planting his left hand in the middle of Dylan’s chest, fingers splayed,  Bubba leaned forward and drew up his fist.  He smiled gently and said, “Time to get it on, bitch,” then dropped his arm with the power of a piledriver into the cunt’s face.

“GURK!” Dylan blurted, almost drowning out the loud squelching sound of his nose being crushed into wad of useless cartilage and two more teeth being pounded out.  Totally unheard was the faint cracking of his right orbit, but the hemorrhage in that eye was immediate.  The fight went out of the boy immediately—but that didn’t stop the beating.

From behind, Willie was unable to turn away.  He didn’t want to watch, but the way the muscles rippled on the powerful black man’s back was somehow hypnotic.  The ebbing and flowing visible under the skin, the large dimples that formed in the ebony globes of the cop’s rock-hard ass with each deep, searching thrust of his tackle, it was sick, perverted, horrifying—but his eyes were irresistibly glued to the spectacle.

The air of the room, already heavy with the overpowering scent of mold, cut with a sharp tang of rough mansex–sweat, testosterone, and adrenaline—was now heavy with the meaty thumps of Bubba’s fist repeatedly pounding Dylan’s face and torso.  Each excruciatingly violent impact elicited a moan out of the boy until even that hurt so much, the kid could only grunt.

Even better, the little punk went rigid, his smooth lean body going taut with every blow.  The reflexive action even worked his mangled asshole.  Bubba was able to use the kid’s rectum to jack off by beating him to hamburger.  “Fuck yeah!” he grunted as he plowed the punk’s ass, “Take it, bitch!  Your little homo cock is poking my belly—you’re fuckin’ loving this, aintcha?  Betcha your buddy back there didn’t fuck ya this good, haw!”

But Dylan barely heard the words.  The brutal beating and vicious rape were too much for his sheltered teen psyche.  He was letting go, losing the will to live.  His reactions became slower and weaker, the thick grunts forced from him began to become faint.

“Goddam it!” Bubba snarled, “Fuckin’ white boys can’t take a good long piece of black meat.  Worthless reamed-out bitch—here, let’s see if this motivates your faggot ass!”

And with that he drove his fist into Dylan’s throat.  The punk’s esophagus collapsed immediately, with loud crunching sound, his trachea and larynx instantly collapsing into a bloody mass that completely sealed his airway shut.

The racist youth came back to life—now that he only had about three minutes left to live.  The sudden cessation of air triggered a massive panic response, making him thrash and flail like a landed fish.  Bubba just held him down and rode his bucking body, enjoying the feel of the frenetic convulsions in the little fucker’s asshole.

“Yeah, boy, get it,” muscled black bull grunted, his powerful body hunched over, sweat trickling down his back between his firm asscheeks, “get my load, motherfucker!”

But Dylan wasn’t getting anything.  His face, already bashed to hamburger, was black and swelling, with foamy spittle drooling down his bruised cheeks.  His eyes, already blackened and puffy, had rolled back into his head.  He was past hearing Bubba’s voice, past caring—but not quite past feeling.

The next thing he felt—the last thing he felt—was the most intense, excruciating experience of his short, wasted life.

His lithe body arced back violently, his smooth belly pressed firmly against the cop’s ripped abs.  Massive convulsions rolled along the youth’s frame, then it suddenly went rigid and Bubba felt a hot spurt up along his chest.  It wasn’t a single shot; Dylan’s death wad was drawn-out and strenuous. 

The corpse was still ejaculating when Bubba pulled out with an oath climbing to his feet.  “Useless fuckin’ faggot!” he roared, “Couldn’t even make me cum!”

Willie had a perfect view of Dylan’s dead body, jerking and spewing, as Bubba turned to him with a maniacal grin.  “How about you, white boy?” he demanded, turning to the cowering punk as his monstrous ebony shaft jutted nearly a foot on front of him, “My balls are full and achin’—you ready to ride my pole down into your grave?”

Willie’s face went pale as the cop bent down and pulled his pants back up, fastening them at the waist for easier movement.  “C’mon, boy, time to stretch your homo fuckhole, har!”

The teenaged racist bleated inarticulately and pissed himself as the black bull towered over him.  The cop’s broad chest, glazed with the dead boy’s seed, filled Willie’s field of vision, the dark, jutting nipples at eye level as Bubba squatted, grinning, in front of him.

“Time to die, you piece of shit,” he hissed.  “This is gonna hurt, white boy.”

The cop drew back his arm, his bicep swelling with potential force.  Willie saw the impact coming but, bound to the chair as he was, had no way of avoiding the blow.  He turned his head away, but could do nothing to prevent Bubba’s fist plowing into his sternum with enough force to slam him, chair and all, into the wall.

Willie lay stunned on the floor in the wreckage of the chair; the collision with the wall had been intense enough to break it to splinters.  Chuckling, Bubba stood over him and raised his leg; the dazed youth found himself looking up at the sole of the cop’s black tactical boot.  He couldn’t help but notice inconsequentially that there was piece of gravel embedded in the deep tread…

Then the boot dropped like a guillotine, stomping Willie’s stomach.  “HOOG!” the boy yelled involuntarily as the air was forced from his lungs.  As he writhed, gasping, on the floor, the cop bent down and tore his t-shirt off.  A deep, boot-shaped bruise was already forming on the punk’s smooth, flat belly.

Through eyes filled with tears of pain, the boy looked up at the massive, muscled figure looming over him.  As he watched, the huge bull cop slowly withdrew the belt from around his waist.  Bubba dangles the inch-and-a half thick leather strap over the prone youth, an anticipatory smirk on his broad face.

“C’mon, boy, get up,” he chortled, “It’s time to get this party started.”

“I-I can’t,” Willie stuttered, “My hands…”

“I ain’t undoing the cuffs, white boy—think I’m stupid?  Roll over and get on your knees like a good little faggot.  That’s how you get up.”

Slowly and painfully, the teen punk did what he was told, rolling over, tucking his knees up underneath himself and unsteadily managed to first one foot, then the other, flat on the floor.  He rose shakily.

Even though his hands were still bound behind his back, the mere fact of being on his feet again seemed to inspire the racist fuck with a misplaced bravado.  “You better let me go, if you know what’s good for ya, nigger.  Once my daddy finds out about this—”

“I’m gonna leave your rotting body in the woods, and your daddy ain’t ever gonna find it,” the cop drawled.  “Now get over on that bed, motherfucker, and take what’s comin’ to ya.”

“FUCK YOU!!” Willie scream, terror etched in his taut, pale face.  Bubba’s arm jerked and the belt slashed across the boy’s face, fast as lightning.  As an angry red welt rose on his face, the kid cried out and staggered forward.  The huge black man thrust out a boot, tripping the boy, who fell face down on the bed, directly on top of his friend’s still-quivering corpse.

Willie’s scream of abject terror echoed through the derelict cabin.  His lean, smooth body bucked and jerked until he rolled off of Dylan, lying face up next to the dead boy.  His shrieking abraded Bubba’s nerves.

“Shut up, you stupid sack a’ shit, or I’ll shut you the fuck up!” the cop snarled angrily, but the close proximity of Dylan’s brutalized corpse meant that Willie ignored the words.  The screaming was involuntary, uncontrollable…

Then Bubba waded in, swinging the belt, lashing the teen cunt like a recalcitrant slave.  At first, the vicious slapping sounds of leather on smooth boyflesh equaled the intensity of Willie’s screams, but Bubba wasn’t holding the belt by the buckle end—the square chunk of metal tore into the kid’s flesh with every blow. 

Willie’s shrieking grew so loud the impact of the belt could no longer be heard, and Bubba only got more pissed.

“SHUT [WHAP] THE [WHAP] FUCK [WHAP] UP [WHAP, CRUNCH]!!”

The final blow struck Willie across the mouth shattering three teeth and fracturing his jaw.  The boy stopped screaming; he could only drool blood and gape in agony at his attacker, a faint keening sound emerging from his destroyed mouth. 

Bubba’s arm dropped to his side.  Tossing the belt onto the bed, he grinned down at the whimpering punk, opened his fly, and let his chinos fall to his ankles again.

“Time to ride this big ol’ black dick, asshole.  Your little friend there couldn’t handle it—useless little faggot couldn’t even work my load out.  Lessee if you can last longer, fuckhead; lessee if you can get my sperm while you’re still alive…”

Brandishing his huge horsecock like a billyclub, the musclebound cop climbed onto the bed, swatting the teen’s smooth, firm legs aside.

“…cause you damn sure ain’t gonna be alive by the time I’m done with you.  Ya hear me, cocksucker?  You ain’t gonna survive this.  Understand that, boy, and this’ll be easier for you.”

Willie’s eyes were wide with disbelief.  He tried to voice his denial but his broken jaw made the attempt agonizing.  “No…no…” he whispered, tears oozing from his large dark eyes.  Looming over him, Bubba smiled gently and held up the belt.

“I’m gonna wrap this around your throat, white boy, and pull it tight.  It’s gonna be slow, fuckwad; it’s gonna hurt—but not as much as this, har!”

And before Willie had the chance to react, Bubba had plunged his long, thick tackle balls-deep into the adolescent punk’s asshole.

The ache of the beating, the sharp pain of his fractured jaw, were nothing compared to this.  It was like having a baseball bat rammed up his ass.  As bad as his mouth was, nothing could hold back the shrill girlish scream that erupted from him as his colon was shredded.  Images flashed through his mind, trying to equate the pain—a cheese grater, a plumber’s snake—but nothing came close.  He was being torn apart from the inside out.

“FUCKIN’ GODDAM NIGGER!!” he screeched in mind-searing agony.  Bubba smiled sweetly and punched him in the face, neatly snapping a cheekbone.  “URK!” the kid choked out.

“Yeah, boy,” the bull cop grinned, “Get it.  Get this hot black sperm.  You know you want it.  All you little racists fags ever really want is a thick nigger shaft plowing your assholes, haw!”

Willie would have beat at Bubba if he could.  He wouldn’t have been able to make any noticeable impact, but he was denied even the mental outlet of self-defense.  His hands were still cuffed behind his back, excruciatingly pressed into the thin, worn mattress by both his and the cop’s weight.  His arms struggled involuntarily against the metal restraints but in his pain and fear, he was unaware of how they tore at the flesh of his wrists.

His senses weren’t dulled, though.  It wasn’t just the agony of the massive black rod embedded in his guts; he could hear the cop’s grunts of physical pleasure and the smacking sound of flesh on flesh.  He could smell Bubba’s sweat and testosterone, a thick, acrid scent that made him gag.  It was literal hell; Willie couldn’t imagine anything more nightmarish, more revolting to his soul, than being raped by a bull nigger.

And there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.  He could only lie there and be used like a fuck toy by the huge black man.  But he was wrong about there being nothing worse, and he was about to learn it.  

The buff, musclebound cop thrust and pumped his enormous rod into the teen’s colon without speaking for a few minutes, his grunting the only sound escaping form his powerful form.  But the grunting faded soon, and a terrifying expression of anger crossed Bubba’s face.

“Goddam white boys,” he snarled, his voice cold with contempt, “Ain’t none of ya can take real black dick. Your worthless faggot fuckhole’s already reamed out.”

He picked up the belt and held it in front of Willie’s face, his already malignant smile assuming a shark-like aspect.  “Looks like I’m gonna have to tighten your little boypussy so it’s worth fuckin’, huh?  And I know a great way to tighten it—by tightening this.”

And with that, he gabbed Willie’s hair yanked his head up off the bed, and looped the belt around the kid’s throat, slipping the end back through the buckle to make a simple but effective noose. 

Willie felt the leather strap against his skin and tried to beg but all that came from his bleeding mouth was an incoherent babble.  Bubba looked down into the boy’s wide, terrified eyes, his smile now almost gentle.  “This is gonna hurt, motherfucker,” he chuckled, “It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

He lowered his shaved head until his cheek brushed Willie’s.  “And it’s gonna be slow…” he hissed into the punk’s ear.

Willie tried to scream but Bubba cinched his airway off with a loud guffaw, drawing the belt so tight it sank into the kid’s skin.  The teenaged racist made a thick gagging sound as his face filled with horror.  He’d never had his air cut off so completely, so brutally and remorselessly before—and with his hands cuffed behind him, he was utterly helpless.

He was gonna choke to death with this coon’s massive tool buried in his ass and he had no way to protest it, much less defend himself.  The bucking and kicking of his lithe, sweat-slick teen body was completely useless; Willie could only suffer and die.

And suffer he did.  He wrapped his firm, smooth legs around the bull cop’s thick, thrusting waist, the heels of his Pumas drumming relentlessly on the powerful stud’s ass.  They did no damage to those flexing, granite-like globes of muscle—Bubba wasn’t even aware of the way they kicked futilely against him.

“That’s it, cunt,” the cop jeered, “Now you’re working my meat like a good faggot.  Keep it up, motherfucker; you might even get my wad before ya die—har!  Yeah, you’d love that shit, wouldn’t ya, you fuckin’ homo?  Nice thick creamy nigger load planted deep in your guts—fuck yeah!”

Ad he struggled and his face darkened and swelled, Willie could hear the cop’s words.  Terror and nightmarish pain had turned his stupid punk mind into a screaming vortex but the humiliating jabs of Bubba’s words still managed to pierce the fog of fear.

It was too much.  It wasn’t happening; it couldn’t be.  This was all a nightmare, a bad acid trip—something, anything but reality.  Dylan’s cooling corpse next to him—that was the proof.  That hadn’t happened; it couldn’t have, so this wasn’t happening either.

So why was he suffering so fucking bad?  Why were his chest and his head full of pounding pressurized flame?

And why, for fuck’s sake, why was his cock so hard it burned with a blazing agony?

Even Bubba noticed it.  “Ha!  Knew you were a little cocksucking fag!  Your little white boy dick is hard as fuck—all you scumbag white power fuckers really want black cock jammed up your asses; you all just jealous you can’t have it.  Now that you got some nigger meat, your pathetic little dipstick is about to spew, ain’t it?  It’s your luck day, you disgusting fairy; you gonna get to die happy!”

Willie could only kick harder; it was his only form of protest.  His young boyfeet pounded so hard against Bubba’s powerful ass that one sneaker came off, the black-and-white Puma flying end over end to land on top of the battered, scarred dresser.  Bubba didn’t notice—he just pulled the belt even tighter around the punk’s neck.

Willie’s smooth teen flesh was slick with the cold sweat forced from him be extreme bodily trauma.  He didn’t know he was dying; if he had, he would have agreed with Bubba—it hurt.  He couldn’t feel the foamy drool trickling past his protruding tongue, but he could feel how the swollen chunk of muscle overfilled his mouth and forced his jaws apart.  He couldn’t feel the hemorrhages that spattered the whites of his eyes, but he was vaguely aware of the dark areas blossoming in his field of vision.

The darkness was growing, faster and faster.  A tiny corner of the racist asshole’s mind that had somehow remained lucid was aware that the darkness was taking him, a darkness blacker than the skin of the nigger who was reaming his ass—and he wasn’t coming back.

“Fuck yeah, faggot,” Bubba grunted, “Get it, boy.  Get this load.  C’mon, motherfucker, get my nut and I’ll put you outta your misery.  Put you down like the fuckin’ dog you are, cocksucker.  Yeah, boy, yeah!”

There was virtually nothing left of the arrogant little shit now.  All that remained was thrashing boymeat, toes curling in agony as the huge black cock probed the depths of its rectum and tore ruthlessly into its guts.  The belt had sunk well below the skin on its neck, compressing its airway past the point of recovery.  Its own pulsating shaft was oozing precum involuntarily, smearing it over Bubba’s rock-hard abs with every thrust of the cop’s tool.

Bubba was overwhelmed with the sense of his own power, the sheer brutal eroticism of murdering the teenaged racist purely for his own sexual pleasure.  As he looked down at the cunt’s black, choking face, he could feel his enormous balls draw up, ready to spew his hot potent nigger seed into the dying bitch.  He was almost there.  It only needed one thing more…

Rising up on his knees, he jerked Willie up by the belt, the boy’s head drooling and lolling limply.  “You want it?” he whispered, knowing the fucker was long past the point of answering, “You want this hot black nut?  Here ya go, motherfucker.”

The tiny spark that was left of Willie couldn’t focus, but it was able to see Bubba’s arm draw back, the profound power implicit in the bulging bicep—but that was all it saw.  The cop’s arm shot forward so viciously, so fast, that it was all over in a flash.  Willie’s head snapped back as Bubba jerked the belt around his neck forward.

The opposing forces amplified the effect; Willie’s neck shattered with a sound like popcorn.  The impact was so severe, it nearly ripped the teen’s spinal cord out of the base of his skull.  The last thing the punk experienced was an electrical shock more intense than a blast of lightning, and it triggered an orgasm so explosive that Willie would have screamed had he still been alive.

As it was, he was just meat, hot thrashing teen meat that was getting its guts hosed with quarts of creamy nigger cum.  Bubba unloaded so much seed into the dead boy it started leaking back out his ass while the cop was still spunking.

After a while, the bull cop shuddered; his balls were finally empty.  He extracted his massive tackle out of the dead kid’s fuckhole and stood over the quivering corpse.  Next to Willie, Dylan lay cold and still, a milky film already starting to form over dull glazed eyes.

Once again, a sense of power surge through the muscular cop’s body. He sneered at the teenaged white supremacist punks.  They thought they were the master race?  Fuck them, the little faggots!  For a moment he flexed his thick, powerful muscles over the dead bodies, his huge biceps and lats rippling under his smooth black skin, his strong ass bunching with every movement.  In a way, it was a shame they were dead—they no longer had the chance to be mesmerized by his sheer physical power…

But after a while, the cum had stopped dripping from his still-erect cock, and he knew he had a little cleaning to do.  Not much; it had been a long day, and he was tired.  And this kinda trash didn’t need to be worried about too much.  He grabbed the boys, a hank of hair in each hand, and pulled them off the bed.  They hit the floor with a thud and he dragged them out of the cabin like sacks of garbage.

There was still a rough patch of dirt in the clearing behind the cabin where Bennie was rotting in peace, but these fuckers didn’t deserve a burial.  Two hundred yards further into the wood was an overgrown ditch.  Bubba rolled the bodies into it, letting them tumble gracelessly to the bottom, where they were practically invisible.

Returning to the bedroom in the cabin, the cop collected the rest of his uniform and donned it.  He took one last glance around the room on his way out—and Willie’s sneaker caught his eye, lying on the dresser.

With a grin, he picked it up and pocketed it,  He didn’t know why; he couldn’t think of any possible use for it—but he liked knowing he had it.

As he carefully maneuvered his cruiser back out onto the county road, he could feel the sneaker in his pocket pressing against his thigh, and his dick got hard again…    

Victim POV 7–Taking a Stab at It

It’s clear that he knows I’m on the make, but I don’t know how he knows it.

I mean, I am on the make.  I need dick and I’m dressed to get it.  The neon-red laces in my bright blue Puma kicks are the same shade as the t-shirt that covers my smooth, firm torso like a second skin.  The crotch of my tight, slutty low-rise jeans is partly unzipped; a sharp eye could easily detect that I’m free-balling underneath.

But this guy is on the other side of the street.  He’s standing under a streetlight, and I’m in the dark, so I don’t think he can see me well.  Still, he’s gripping the pronounced bulge in his groin and grinning at me in a way that make my dick pulse.

For some reason, it also makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but who cares?  He’s hot as fuck.

He looks like he’s a little older than me—late twenties, I’d say—and he’s got a rough, blue-collar look that really trips my trigger.  His fleece hoodie is thrown casually over a stained white t-shirt and torn jeans tucked into a pair of brown leather workboots, none of it concealing his heavily-muscled physique.  He looks like he could fuck me right into the ground, and that’s exactly what my aching fuckhole needs tonight.

He grins again and jerks his head to the right.  I look in that direction and see a battered pickup, at least fifteen years old, with a toolbox mounted across the bed.  He heads toward it and I cross the street, aiming for the truck as well.  I’m beginning to suspect the stud doesn’t have much money, but that’s ok.  This one can fuck me for free. 

By the time I reach the passenger door, he’s already inside, with the motor running.  The interior is littered with fast-food bags and soda bottles—and a few beer cans.  There’s a yeasty whiff on his breath but it’s barely noticeable over the aroma of mansweat and testosterone the dude gives off.  Fuck, I’ve got myself a real man.  I can’t wait to have his hog jammed up in me.

I tell him my name as he pulls out and heads for the highway.  He tells me to call him Ryan; we both know we’re lying, but who cares?  We’re both just looking for a quick, anonymous fuck.  I have no doubt his friends and co-workers don’t know he slips dudes the dick on the DL.

He proves me right when he exits the highway.  After a few twists and turns that get me lost, he pulls into the parking lot of a rundown hot-sheet motel that I’ve never heard of—and I thought I’d been banged in every hook-up joint in this entire town.

“Here,” he says, handing me a twenty, “Go get us a room.”  I get out and head for the office, leaving him in the truck.

The old broad in the office has hair dyed the shade of a new penny and a Marlboro dangling from her lower lip.  She glares sourly at me and raised an eyebrow but slides the key to room 18 across the counter without comment.  Holding it in my hand—my jeans are way too tight slip the huge fob into my pocket—I return to my straight-boy hookup.

With another of those erotic, evil grins, he snatches the key from my hand—fuck, I love a forceful man—and leads the way to the room.  He ushers me into the dark room, and as I head towards the bedside lamp, dimly seen in the ambient light reflected from the parking lot,  I hear metallic sounds behind me,  Turing on the light, I wheel around to see the stud sliding the chain lock on the door—he’s clearly already turned the deadbolt.

He responds to my questions glance with a smirk.  “Just making sure we aren’t disturbed.”

“Good idea,” I reply—and it is.  I step to the side and draw the dingy curtains over the dirty windows.  While I do so, my new fuckbuddy shrugs his hoodie off and tosses it onto the dresser, then peels the t-shirt up over his head, revealing a muscular, furry chest with jutting nipples and hairy, ripped abs that make me drool.  Before he can say a word, I kick off my sneakers, wriggle out of my jeans and shuck my shirt, leaving my sm

ooth young body nude before him.

He unzips his fly and slowly extracts what has to be the biggest cock I’ve ever seen.  I swear to God, it’s gotta be more than nine inches long and two thick, wrapped in huge, pulsating veins.

And for the first time in my life, I’m afraid of getting fucked.  That thing looks like it can seriously damage me.

“Hey, man,” I start, but something in his face stops me.

 His smile has always had an edge to it, but the one he gives me now has a malevolent glee that causes me fear.  And then he speaks…

“Hey, faggot,” he says, the ice in his voice freezing me to the core, “Are you ready?  Ready to get what a fucking homo like you deserves?”

This makes no sense.  I mean, I love it when a fucker talks to me like a real man, but there’s a ring of contempt, of downright hatred in his voice, that makes me quail.  Surely he can’t—

But he can.  He draws his arm back; it all seems to happen in slow motion.  I feel frozen, watching, but unable to move.  The bunching of his powerful bicep is mesmerizing; the inherent power must be phenomenal…

The blow comes before I even have time to flinch.  It connects with my flat, smooth belly, driving the air from my lungs and dropping me to my knees.

The pain is incredible.  Why?  Why is he doing this?  Does he think I won’t let him fuck me?  Is he afraid that I can somehow let someone know he likes dudes?  I don’t even know him; I can’t harm him—why?

I stare beseechingly up at him from my knees, trying to speak but barely even able to breathe, and I meet his eyes—oh, God, his eyes…

There’s a glint them that strikes terror in my heart.  I’ve never seen anything like it; it’s a combination of lust and psychosis that tells me that reason will be useless.  And that evil grin—

Oh my God, am I gonna get out of this alive?

He bends down and grabs a handful of my hair, jerking my upwards.  Fuck, I have to stand.  I can barely breathe, but I have to rise or he’ll rip my fucking scalp off.  He drags me back upright; what’s he doing?

Oh shit his fist—[WHAM]

fuck what happened why am I on the floor

He hit me again.  Christ, I didn’t know he could hit that hard—I bounced off the fucking wall.  My eye—my left eye aches; I can barely see outta it—but I can see well enough to watch him approach, leering, towering over me…

…oh fuck, his massive cock is oozing.  This is what he wants—this is what gets hm off.  Hurting me gets him off.  I gotta get the fuck outta here, now—

Shit, his boot, he’s swinging his foot—

OH FUCK THE PAIN I HEARD THE SNAP HE FUCKING BROKE MY RIBS

Steel toes fucking workboots must have steel toes the pain the stabbing pain in my side it hurts to breathe deep

What did he do?  What did this fucker do me?

He’s lifting his foot, holding it over my face—I can see gravel stuck in the worn tread; what’s he doing now—

AAGH FUCK MOTHERFUCKER STOMPED MY FUCKING FACE JESUS MY NOSE HE BROKE MY GODDAM NOSE

He’s laughing.  I’m in horrible pain, and he’s laughing at it—it’s a cold, cruel sound.  I gotta get outta here, this psychopath is gonna fucking kill me.

I roll over and start scrambling for the door.  Above and behind me, I hear a loud guffaw, almost a bark—

HOLY FUCK HE STOMPED MY BACK MY LUNGS I CAN’T FUCKING BREATHE

It hurts to breathe so bad; he must’ve driven a rib into my lung—the door.  I gotta make it to the door…

He’s still laughing as I reach the door.  Fuck, I can’t believe how scared I am—this was just supposed to be a quick, fun fuck, what the hell happened?  My fingers scramble at the lock, my fear and pain making me clumsy.

Jesus, he’s right behind me—

OH MY GOD THE PAIN THE COLD PAIN DEEP IN ME OH FUCK WHAT DID HE DO TO ME

A chuckle, and he speaks.  “Where ya tryin’ to go, asshole?  Ya wanted something shoved in ya, didntja, homo?  Now you got my blade in yer kidney.  Don’t worry, bitch, this one ain’t gonna kill ya—but we’re just gettin’ started.  Trust me, yer gonna be fuckin’ beggin’ for death before ya earn my hot load.”

He pulls me from the door—I have to move; he’s using the blade embedding in my back to steer me and move me.  He’s enjoying it, too.  I can feel his hard, dripping dick pressed against my back as his hot breath whispers in my ear.

“Just a fuckin’ meat puppet, aintcha, faggot?  Get on that bed before yer just meat.  Yer gonna take my cock, motherfucker, and anything else I wanna stick in ya.  Only reason yer alive is so I can have fun with ya—and my fun is making you suffer, cunt!”

Oh God no how did this happen, how did I end up here?  I just wanted some dick, please God, just some dick, don’t let me die here…I just wanted to get bred…

He stops me at the foot of the bed.  Fuck, he’s literally made me a puppet; I can feel the blade inside me…but it doesn’t seem to hurt as much…

OH JESUS CHRIST WHAT THE FUCK DID HE DO

Its out he jerked it out it hurt worse than going in oh God get me outta this please

He laughs and pushes me onto the bed.  I don’t want to move.  I don’t want to add to the damage this fucker has done…

He flips me on my back and climbs on top; my broken ribs are moving—I have a mental image of the jagged broken ends of the bones poking at my tender innards—but then he holds the knife in front of my face.

Oh my God, it’s huge.  It’s as long as his fucking cock and the cuttting edge is serrated wickedly.. It’s covered in blood.  Fuck—that’s my blood.

He’s whispering.  Christ, that light, that crazed light in his eyes…

“You know you want it, cunt,” he hisses, his glittering, pale-blue glare paralyzing me like a snake’s,  “Fuckin’ faggot like you’s just droolin’ to get somethin’ long and hard shoved deep in his homo guts, yeah?  Fuck yeah, man!”

He raises the blade—what’s he doing?  Oh fuck what is he—

OH GOD MY GUTS MY BELLY HE STUCK IT RIGHT IN MY BELLY OH JESUS NO THE PAIN THE FUCKING PAIN GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT

Grab it, Jesus, grab it and pull it out he’s fighting me [WHAM]

Oh God my face he hit me get it out keep fighting my arm he’s got my arm

FUCK MY ARM HE BROKE MY GODDAM ARM FUCK NO

My legs he’s pulling them apart no no FUCK NO THAT HORSE COCK SPLITTING ME OPEN AHH AAGH YOU’RE FUCKING TEARING ME APART

he’s in me his dick and his knife are both buried deep in my guts he’s mounting me like a bitch\

God that hard hairy chest those eyes all I want is to please you man—why?  Why?

I didn’t know I’d spoken, but he replied, “Because this is what you deserve, you cocksuckin’ whore—all you goddam fags need to die with a real man’s cock up yer ass.  You need to suffer, asshole, and I’m just the fucker to make you, ya fell me?  No?  Then try this! [WHAM WHAM WHAM]

my head motherfucker punches like a goddam steam piston—fuck, how many teeth did I lose?

This isn’t real.  The cheap polyester comforter scratching my back isn’t real, the heavy musk of his mansweat overlaid with the metallic scent of blood isn’t real.  None of this is happening…

JESUS FUCKING CHRIST HE’S PLOWING MY ASS EVERY THRUST MAKES THE KINFE IN MY BELLY JERK AND SLICE INTO MY GUTS STOP STOP ST—[WHAM, WHAM, WHAM]

ok I won’t scream just please don’t hit me no more please please my lips you split my lips I can’t see out my left eye

“Yer ass is loose, ya fuckin’ whore,” he sneers as he reams my hole mercilessly, “Guess you ain’t in enough pain yet to work my shaft like a good little pansy should, huh?  Don’t worry, asswipe, I can fix that!”

Huh?  Fuck no, not more, no please, oh shit—

HE’S TWISITING IT HE’S TWISTING THE BLADE I CAN FEEL IT IT’S SLICING MY INTESTINES OH GOD NO

It’s out his pulled it out—what’s he doing?  Where’s it going?

MY SIDE MY SIDE OH FUCK OH SHIT ITS IN ME HIS KNIFE HIS COCK THEY’RE IN ME TEARING ME OPEN

I wanted this I wanted him in me but not like this dear God not like this such a stud but not like this

Gotta get him off—he’s gonna kill me—gotta get him off—NOW!  Hit him!  Punch him!

Goddam, it’s like hitting marble—I knew those massive furry pecs were strong but my only working arm isn’t having any impact…

…oh shit, yes I am—he’s angry.  Oh my God the look on his face—what’s he gonna do now?

He bends close, the dark stubble on his cheek brushing mine.  The beer is still on his breath as he whispers in my ear, quietly, almost sensually,  “You really do like getting’ hurt, dontcha, faggot?  Yer just askin’ for it, aintcha?  Ok, you cocksuckin’ piece a’ shit, ya feel my blade in yer side?  I only stuck it in three inches…”

He pulls back and gently, lovingly kisses the tip of my nose.

Dude, I coulda been yours…I coulda made you so happy…

“I’m gonna fuckin’ impale yer liver, cunt, and it’s gonna hurt so—fuckin’—bad.  Try not to cum, ya fuckin’ pervert, har!”

OH FUCK OH FUCK OH FUCK NOTHING HAS HURT THIS BAD I’M DYING THIS HAS GOTTA BE KILLING ME I CAN’T LIVE THROUGH THIS THE ICY PAIN SO DEEP INSIDE ME

“Aw, fuck yeah!” he crows triumphantly as he drills my fuckhole harder and faster, “That’s whatcha needed, huh, bitch?  Now yer working my cock like a good little homo!  Here, let’s keep it goin’—gonna carve yer liver like deli meat, motherfucker.  An’ don’t worry, I’ll waste yer useless ass long before ya bleed out from this little love bite.”

NO KILL ME NOW NO MORE PAIN PLEASE KILL ME NOW I CAN’T TAKE THIS END IT PLEASE FUCK PLEASE

I can’t speak but he can see the look in my face.  His lust and glee are unbearable…

I’m cold.  There’s a cold sweat oozing from my pores; my skin slides smoothly against his as he continues to brutally rape my torn, bleeding asshole.  But he’s still so hot, such a true alpha…no, don’t let it end, I don’t want to be in pain but I need him to breed me…

“You want it, dontcha, faggot?  You need the sperm of a real man shot up inside ya to make ya real, yeah?  You ain’t real, fucker.  Yer ass ain’t ever gonna be anything more than a cumrag for me to unload into and then dump like the piece of used-up trash it is.”

OH FUCK IT HURTS FUCK NO

Why does it hurt worse when he yanks the knife out of my tender flesh than when he sticks it in…

He holds it up and I can see pink strands caught in the serrations…oh Jesus, my guts, I’m looking at pieces of my guts…

“I’m gonna blow, cunt.  Gonna shoot up yer worthless fuckhole  Wanna know whatcha gotta do to get it?  You gotta die, motherfucker.  Only thing that’ll trip my trigger is the satisfaction of seein’ the light of life fade from the eyes of a dyin’ faggot.  Get ready, ya cumscukin’ pervert, cause this is gonna hurt like all fuck!”

What?!?  NO!  he’s holding the blade up, the powerful muscles in his arm tensing for the blow—“NO!  OH OGD, DON’T DO THIS PLEASE—AGGPHPTH!!!”

My throat my voicebox he jammed it into my voicebox I can taste my own blood I can’t scream I’m gurgling what is it what my own fucking blood I’m gargling my own blood no not happening not real

His shoulders I grab I clutch hold him don’t let him go don’t end like this

What is this pain in my crotch it hurts it hurts OH MY FUCKING GOD IT HURTS SO FUCKING BAD I’M CUMMING NO NO NO CAN’T BE NO I CAN’T NO NOT HAPPENING ITS SPEWING OVER HIS CHEST MATTING HIS FUR NO NO

dying i’m dying copper in my mouth my life draining from my cock JESUS THE KNIFE HE PULLED IT BACK OUT WHAT

MY CHEST MY HEART THE AGONY THE AGONY HE’S STABBED HIS BLADE INTO MY HEART

cold so cold

the rage and triumph in his eyes

the cold

no there’s warmth

deep inside there’s warmth

his seed he’s spilling his manseed inside me

hold it the cold is taking me hold onto the warmth

black and icy all is black and icy