It’s funny how the urge ebbs and flows. Sometimes weeks and months can go by and all I want is to fuck or fist an eager ass, maybe rough them up a bit, and ultimately fill them up with sperm and hear them moan as they shoot for me. But other times, the urge overtakes me and what I want more than anything else is to kill. Then I’ll carefully get a guy to my playroom, work on him for hours and just when he has been tied up and gone about as far as he is willing to go, put the ball gag in and tell him what turns me on the most and what I intend to do to him. They usually freak. They piss themselves, they struggle against the ropes and try to scream despite the ball gag. But it is to no avail. They have no choice but to give me what I want, and they all end up dead. What freaks them out even more is how I can make them cum while I am killing them, so for brief moments they look at me in amazement as their extreme pain becomes pleasure beyond what they thought possible. Then the pain rushes back in, and I continue playing till I get my rocks off watching them give me their lives. I love cutting a man’s balls off, love slicing his dick in half, love feeling my fist pressing hard against his diaphragm, deep inside him while he bleeds out slowly after castration. Sometimes I can see in their faces that they love that too, my eyes locked to theirs as their blood, sperm and lives drain out. Sometimes I get a sense of a real gratitude when they shoot that death load for me…the understanding that nothing else could compare to what they have gotten and given.
Tonight I was looking through a BDSM “dating site” and saw an ad from a guy not too far from me. It was titled “looking for snuff”, and the faceless body shot was pretty nice. The man claimed he wanted to be tortured and killed by a masculine experienced top, so I thought “what the hell, even if he doesn’t REALLY want that, he’s sure gonna find out what it’s like.” Now I’m not bad myself, tall and strong, and pretty much can get what I want. In this case however he is not going to have the right of refusal. When I’m in a predatory mood, the prey never survives. I’m about a mile or two from a fallow tract of land that has fallen into disuse. It has gotten overgrown, and the fence is breached in several places. I send the guy a pic of my body (with my tattoos photoshopped out, for discretion), showing my rather impressive endowment and ask “interested?”
Within minutes he messages back “Yeah! You understand what I am looking for?” and I respond “I’m definitely what you are looking for, and good at what I do. If you are REALLY serious, delete these messages, block my profile and meet me at that old, deserted property out by the bay in an hour. Don’t drive, walk. Leave your ID, money, phone and keys at home…you won’t need them again, I promise you that.” He does not respond but does delete the messages and blocks my profile. I do the same and grabbing my chloroform, some zip ties and rags, head out in the van. I assume he is not going to show, or will not have followed directions. But sure enough he shows in an hour, sees me emerge from the brush and does not struggle when I chloroform him.
He is definitely built so it takes some effort to get him in the van and then from my garage to the playroom. But as usual there is nobody around to see and once he is in the playroom I’m safe. Really well soundproofed, and a big vat of acid in the floor that has already made short work of a few tricks, we are free to have fun (at least I will…we will see about him). Shortly after he wakes up on the floor, and briefly struggles against the ties. When he sees me he stops. I’m naked from the waist up, tight leather pants and boots below. He sees the knife in my hand, and I can tell his dick is rising in his pants.
“This is to cut your clothes off buddy, we have a lot to do before I kill you.”
He nods and lies still. Sure enough he has no money, no phone and no ID on him at all. “Good boy!” I say. I reach down and squeeze his balls hard. They’re of nice size and will be fun to ruin. “You’re gonna lose those boys for sure. How does that make you feel?” He says nothing but his eyes go wide with what certainly looks like desire and a precum stain spreads in his not yet sliced off briefs. When I have him naked, I step back to admire his body. He’s good looking, probably late 30’s and well built with a good sized (and now hard) dick and large nuts. “You’re a hot man, gonna be fun to snuff you’”
“You are too, I recognize you now, seeing your face and tattoos. I’ve seen you in the bars and had fantasies of you snuffing me! But assumed that was all they’d ever be.”
I cut off the zip ties around his legs and help him up, leading him to the autopsy table. I can see he is eager to be put on it, and he helps me get him up there. I cut his arms free, and tie them to the corners, leaving his legs free. Just to get him in the mood I put metal clamps on his nipples and punch the shit out of his balls. He cries out in pain but stays hard. I bring out a Wyoming knife and show it to him. “Know what this is for boy?” “Fuck yeah!” He says, “I grew up on a farm, we hunted, I want that so fucking bad!” I bend down and kiss him hard and his tongue pushes hard into my mouth. Suddenly I want to kill this guy so bad I can hardly control myself. Instead I take the blade and cut off one of his nipples, pulling on the clamp to get the whole thing. He screams but his eyes are locked on mine. He is breathing hard and a slow stream of seminal fluid oozes out of his dick. I give him a hit of poppers and cut off his other nipple and to my surprise he comes, screaming and shooting his sperm high into the air.
“Oh fuck man,” he says, “I thought I wanted this to last a long time, but this feels amazing. Take me man!”
I piss all over his chest, blood and urine dripping out the drain on to the floor and then get on the table myself, fucking his ass brutally until we actually cum in unison. We rest for an hour or so, me playing with his body, he worships my pits and nuts, drinking more of my piss. He tells me how much he has wanted to give himself to a top like me to be killed. I tell him how much I love killing other men, regardless of their desires, and he hopes I appreciate his desire for me. I do, always amazed by those men who find their purpose in the act of being killed. When I am ready to go again I fist him until he is hard and barely in control, then with the knife I used to cut his clothes off, grab his scrotum and quickly slice it off, holding it in front of his face before he can even register what I have done. He comes without touching himself screaming in pain and pleasure as I shove my arm deep into him again. He licks his own scrotum as I hold it in front of his face. I love the feeling of taking a man’s balls…the symbolism and the feeling of the knife cutting his balls free, and when a man cums as I do it, the feeling is even better. He KNOWS who is superior, he KNOWS who is killing him, he KNOWS how right the act is.
We rest again, and knowing what I am about to do, I get both of us high with a shot of meth, and give him a shot of caverject in his dick to make sure he is hard until the end. After a short while I mount his face and fuck his throat until his excitement mounts again. He has lost enough blood from the castration that he is going into shock, but the meth will keep him going. When he is fully hard, I bring out the Wyoming Knife again and show it to him. His eyes go wide “YES!” he says “Gut me!!” I let him take a couple of hits of poppers and then sink the first blade into his pubes.
“OH GOD!” he screams, his eyes opening wide, and locking onto mine “That hurts so fucking much! That feels so amazing Do it man!!” I get the second blade in and zip him open like a can of spam.
“Yeah boy! I’m killing you, and it feels good doesn’t it? Shoot a load for me boy!” Quickly I cut him open to the sternum and reach into his abdomen with both hands, pulling out his intestines. He watches, screaming and moaning, his dick hard and leaking both piss and seminal fluid. His orgasm erupts and I stab the knife into his neck so that by the time his orgasm fades he is dead in a fountain of blood and cum.
His body goes into the vat to dissolve, and tomorrow I will go over the playroom with bleach. It always amazes me how much fun it is killing men!
My old bully Kane sent me a text saying to show up at his place with money and to be prepared for the fagbashing of a lifetime. Why did i say yes? Why am i excited?Because i’m going to get my face punched in by a Real Man, one that knows how to treat a faggot.i have been bullied all my life, but i deserve it for being gay. Kane and i both know that it’s not okay to be a faggot.i got there early and was waiting outside his house when he pulled up in his truck.He opened the door and got out. His muscles were bulging through his shirt under a leather jacket, His strong ass and calves almost bursting out of his skin tight jeans. He had black hair, dark brown eyes, and light skin. He looked like a typical jock.”Hey, fagboy.” he said to me with a grin on his face.i tried to smile back, but i just couldn’t. i felt so small standing before him.”You ready to get your ass kicked?””Yes, Sir.” i replied. His smile widened, but His eyes were cold, hard, and hateful. i couldn’t help but shiver under His gaze.”Good faggot, now strip and kneel.” He said, with hate in His voice. i quickly stripped off the rest of my clothing, and kneeled facing away from Him. He shoved me over so i fall into the driveway gave first.The first thing that entered my mind was fear, then a second later shame came. Then humiliation- then self hatred-The self hatred feels familiar. And so right. i should hate myself, because faggots like me are disgusting, no faggot deserves to live and i am lucky to be taught that lesson again by such a Superior White Alpha Male like Kane. Then, i hear Him crack His knuckles.Sudden pain, as He steps on the back of my head, not caring about my nose breaking against the concrete. He laughs when He sees my blood spill down His driveway. “What do you say, fagboy?” He spits. “Thank you Sir” i gurgle through my bleeding nose.“I’m glad you’re learning your lesson, fagboy. But don’t think this is over, faggot. You’re gonna be begging for more. I’m gonna make sure that you regret ever coming out of the closet ad the disgusting faggot you are, loser.”With that, He walks into His house.i sit there for a few moments, crying and sobbing, feeling ashamed, humiliated, and broken.i feel like the lowest piece of shit on Earth. That’s the way it should be. i realise that i am keeping Kane waiting, soi start to crawl from the front yard to Kane’s front door, dizzy from the severe head injury.i am moving too slow, Kane is getting pissed off and impatient. He storms outside, kicks me hard in the face with His steel toe boots (i thank Him, of course), He grabs me by the hair and drags me into the house, burning my skin against the driveway and almost breaking my bones on the steps. i am hard as a rock, naked in Kane’s house while He is fully clothed. He throws me down the steps of His basement, and i land awkwardly on my left leg, breaking my knee and ankle, and He collects His baseball bat on His way down, making sure to check that the nails he put in the bat are nice and rusty.He smashes my head on the stairs once more, and now i cannot go anywhere. i can only wait for Him to finish what He started.And then, like any true faggot, i kneel at Kane’s feet, confessing all my faults, and thanking Him for teaching me the consequences of my degenerate faggot life.Then, He will punish me for being such a pathetic faggot like myself, and not a Real Man like Him. i don’t expect to survive long enough to ever leave this basement.But, just the thought of what Kane will do to me gives me a pleasurable sensation, makes me feel like i can redeem my life of faggotry by offering my life to be snuffed simply for His evening’s entertainment.”You ready to die, faggot?” He says, with absolute hatred pouring from His masculine voice.”Please don’t snuff me Sir” i beg, knowing there’s no escape, but my erection gives me away.”You’re like a cock-starved dog who wants to get fucked right before he dies,” He laughs, “But too bad for you, faggot.” He gropes His bulge through His jeans, seductively, knowing He’s turning me on with His Straight, White Superiority, “This dick is for chicks, you’ll never even get to see it before you die, fagboy”He then starts kicking me with no mercy. i am crying and screaming for Him to stop, but He doesn’t care. Kane is areal sick fuck.He is enjoying every second of punishing me for being a faggot, and He knows i deserve it.i scream and cry and beg for Him to stop, but He doesn’t. He just keeps beating me with His steel toe boots, and i keep screaming and crying.i am a worthless piece of shit, and i deserve everything i get.i deserve to die like a faggot.i deserve to be beaten like a faggot.i deserve to pay the price of a lifelong faggotry just so that a Straight White Alpha Male Jock can feel superior over me.i deserve to be snuffed by Kane, because i am nothing but a piece of worthless shit.i deserve to be snuffed by Kane, because iam a faggot.In fact, not only will He not be punished for ending my sad fag life, thanks to the new Anti-fag legislations and new sodomy laws, He will actually be rewarded by the local police (which are now all White, thanks to new White Superiority laws) with a cash reward for a confirmed fag kill.”Thank you Sir”, i say, even through my horrible injuries. i know i have no chance of surviving, but i still want to thank Kane for giving me the privilege of dying as a fag. “You’re welcome faggot, now shut the fuck up, and enjoy your last moments of life.”He takes His baseball bat riddled with rusty nails and shoves it all the way up my fag hole with His powerful arms. The nails destroy my insides, it’s the most pain i have ever felt. Kane stomps the handle down so that the bat is inside me entirely, destroying most of my organs and i feel a nail perforate one of my lungs.Knowing there’s no way of surviving this, i scream in equal parts agony and pure pleasure as He uses both hands to tear open my anus like opening a bag of potato chips, and he grabs the handle of the bat. He keeps the bat inside me but fucks my entire torso with it, cutting up everything inside me, my innards falling out my ruined asshole all over His hands and the basement floor.He continues to fuck me with the bat until i am completely destroyed, He has torn up my insides, and i am bleeding profusely.He then pulls out the bat and holds it in front of my face. “you’re dead, faggot” He says as i see pieces of my mashed up organs dripping off the bat.My intestines lay scattered on the basement floor, my stomach ripped apart.There were small bits of skin and bone and shreds of muscle stuck to It, and i could smell it too, it wasn’t pleasant.“I’m sorry for being a faggot” i say, realizing that i should’ve been killed when Kane first met me.”You’re sorry for being a faggot?You were doing nothing wrong… except trying to live like other actual people, but faggots are not real human beings” Kane replies with a cold smile, He seems genuinely satisfied with what he’s done.“You’re not going to be missed, faggot. No one will mourn your death, in fact, I am going to hold a celebration with your family tomorrow. Your dad even told me He’s so proud of me. I bet He’s never said that to you, eh, faggot?” He laughs, spits in my face, and shakes pieces of my guts from the rusty nail bat onto my face.”No Sir” i say, my voice barely audible.He suddenly shoves the bat into my mouth, smashing what remains of my teeth out of my gums and rams it down my throat. Not only will i never speak again, my entire throat is destroyed, and i can’t breathe.i look imploringly into Kane’s eyes, but even if He wanted to, i am done for. He wants me dead, anyway. His laugh grows louder and colder as He sees my desperation.i don’t have much time left. i can feel myself dying…i am dying…my final thoughts are of how much i truly hate myself, and how the world is a better place with me gone.Kane is now standing above me, looking at me with a look of satisfaction on His face. “That’s right, faggot. you deserve this, because of your disgusting lifestyle.” He says, as He lifts up His beautiful booted feet, ready to stomp my skull and brains into oblivion.The last thing i hear is the words “fuck you faggot, die for a Straight Man!!” and the sound of His boot smashing my head, over and over again. __________________
As he leaves the house, Joey hears his inner voice, the intuition that’s seldom steered him wrong. Loud and strong, it says “tonight’s the night!” He quickens his step, heading towards a cruisy park about a mile from his house. Dense and dark it’s often empty, but occasionally the woods and brush are full of horny men waiting to fuck an eager throat or ass. He figures he’s had gallons of scum in his mouth and ass over the years at that place. Some nights he gets home reeking of piss, the taste strong in his mouth. On the best of nights hot and sadistic men have left him bruised and sometimes bloody, but drained and wanting more. Lots of guys really go for his short stature and solid build, his little patch of pectoral fur and the curls that peek out from under his muscled arms. If a tall top is looking for a submissive little pitbull he’s their boy. As he approaches the night shrouded woods he hears it again: “tonight’s the night!” His thick dick swells in his pants and his balls rise in his scrotum, aching for abuse he hopes is waiting. When he enters the park though, he’s disappointed to see only two cars in the lot and hear no sound from the woods. When his eyes adjust to the dark he hits the trail but 10 minutes of strolling reveals nothing. He heads back to the parking lot and now there is only one vehicle, a black SUV with tinted windows that was not there before. “Well, shit!” he thinks, but on the strength of his intuition, heads back in one more time. Deep into the park he makes out the glowing ash of something being smoked in the distance. And he smells weed. Walking on he sees a lean man, easily 6’2” to Joey’s 5’7”. He’s grey haired, bearded, dressed in leather with no shirt beneath his vest, revealing lots of fur, and huge nipples hung with 0 gauge rings. Below his navel “Soul Taker” is tattooed in gothic letters. The guy has been watching Joey approach and they are both fully hard, the older man’s huge dick obvious even in the dark. He flashes a broad smile and offers Joey a hit of the joint he’s smoking. “Thanks Stud” says Joey Taking the joint from the man’s huge and rough hand. “Name’s Joey, it looks like we’re the only two here, and you look damn good in that leather.” “I’m Zeke. Ezekiel, but nobody calls me that. You look damn good in that Tee. They share a few hits in silence and then Joey shucks the shirt and Zeke nods in appreciation of Joey’s thick, well worked nipples. He takes each between a calloused thumb and forefinger, squeezing hard, digging his thumbnails in. Joey sucks in breath and whispers “Oh fuck yeah!” He looks down at Zeke’s leathers and the outline of his huge hard on. He reaches down to caress it through the leather and Zeke nods, “that’s for you boy, and these fists as well.” Joey feels the size of Zeke’s hands and the length and thickness of his forearms, and desire overwhelms him. He looks up into Zeke’s deep set incredibly dark eyes and says, “What if I can’t handle them?” “Oh, you’ll handle them boy. I promise you that you’ll never find another man who can do what I’m gonna do with you.” With that Zeke leans down and Kisses Joey hard and deep. “Oh, man, let’s go” says Joey, and Zeke nods. They walk out to the parking lot, and Zeke pauses at the edge of the woods, carefully scaning the surroundings to make sure there is nobody to see them leave together. Joey notices this and understands his intuition may well be correct. “Soul Taker?” asks Joey, caressing the tattoo on Zeke’s flat hard stomach once they are in the car, “what does that mean?” Zeke looks him hard in the eyes and says softly “I had a hunch about what I might find in this park tonight, I think you have some idea.” “So did I when I left the house. And when I saw you in the woods, when I saw the tattoo, I hoped it was right.” They drive in silence for a while, idly touching each other’s bodies as Zeke drives out of town. “Where are we going?” asks Joey. “I have a country place, with a well set up ‘playroom’. Very remote, a mile up a dirt road. What was your intuition?” “This is hard to talk about. I have never said this to anyone, but I have been thinking more and more about snuff. And I have wanted to meet a top into that for the last couple of years.” Zeke nods and runs his hand through Joey’s hair, massaging his neck as he drives. “You want to be killed Joey? Is that what you’re looking for?” “I want to feel things my body can only go through once. I want to submit completely to a sadistic man, to see his passion, share his excitement. So yeah, it’s been this fantasy for so long, but I saw you tonight and hoped you might be that man.” “I hope you’re ready ‘cause there’s no turning back now. This is definitely not a fantasy.” Joey sighs, and the rest of the car trip is spent in silence. Finally, they reach Zeke’s place and Joey follows him in. Zeke tells him to strip, and he does eagerly. He watches as Zeke ignites the fireplace and burns all of Zeke’s clothing, his ID, and his cell phone. The battery goes up like fireworks. To his surprise this makes Joey’s dick impossibly hard, and Zeke laughs when he sees it. He pulls the boy to him shoves his tongue down his throat. Then pushes him down to his knees. He hauls his dick, easily 10”, uncut and thick out of the leather pants, and Joey gets to see it in its glory for the first time. His balls are big and heavy. Like plums weighing down his scrotum. His hands grip the back of Joey’s head and shoves the full length down his throat. He fucks brutally and Joey tries hard not to gag. He does not struggle, submitting to the power of the older top. Zeke pulls out and lets Joey worship his balls for a bit, then pushes his hog down Joey’s throat again. Joey’s excitement growing as he takes the tops huge dick. Finally, Zeke buries the full length into Joey and holds his head in place until he passes out, hot sperm pouring down his throat. Once Joey is unconscious Zeke carries him into his playroom and places him on a mattress covered with a plastic sheet. The tools of torture are arranged everywhere. Knives, dildoes, butt plugs, nails, huge safety pins, buckets of lube, syringes, vials, and more. He greases up his tool, raises Joey’s legs and mounts him as he begins to regain consciousness. His eyes open with a start as Zeke pushes into his hole and Zeke immediately holds a bottle of poppers under his nose before taking a hit himself. Joey moans and gets his legs over Zeke’s shoulders as he is impaled and fucked brutally, his mouth still full of the taste of Zeke’s scum. He licks at Zeke’s armpits stares into his eyes and whimpers as he takes the older man’s long dick. “Oh man! Fuck my ass, ruin it!! Tell me what your gonna to do to me…please…I want to hear you say it!” This comes out of his mouth almost without him thinking about it, so intensely does he want his fantasy made real. “Yeah boy, I’m gonna kill you” Zeke whispers in Joey’s ear as he fucks, “ruin and those nice nipples, cut off those beautiful balls, and fist you till your insides are shredded and useless, kill you while you cum. Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you want me to do?” “Oh shit!!” Joey says, “Yes.” His mind racing as Zeke’s huge dick batters his guts. Finally, Zeke groans and Joey feels the head of the top’s dick swell as he unloads another torrent of scum into the boy. “Clean my dick” he commands and Joey sucks on the still hard dick and then eagerly drinks as Zeke pours a bladder full of piss into his mouth. Zeke strips off the rest of his leathers and makes some dinner while Joey rests. Joey really has no appetite but takes a little of the food Zeke has made. Zeke tells him he has been doing this for years, luring men up to his country place and killing them. 20 men at least. He normally takes those he feels will not be missed and they mostly have no idea what Zeke’s about, terrified as he tortures and then kills them. Zeke tells Joey how much he loves doing it, thrilling in their terror and final resignation; how much he loves seeing the life leave their eyes. But every now and then he connects with men like Joey and can share the experience more deeply. He is careful and has managed to avoid detection. Joey listens quietly filled with incredibly complex emotions and desires. He looks into Zeke’s dark eyes and is filled with a desire to give this man exactly what he wants. After a couple of hours, Zeke tells Joey to get back on the mattress. He shoots them both up with meth, shares a joint and shoots both their dicks up with Caverject. He greases up a huge butt plug and shoves it into Joey’s ass. Joey yelps. Zeke laughs, but both their dicks are rock hard. He grabs four huge safety pins and has Joey take a hit of poppers before pushing two of the pins through each of the boys large nipples. Joey wails from the pain, but quickly pulls Zeke down to him for a kiss. Zeke pulls and twists them causing Joeys dick, already rock hard from the injection to leak copious amounts of precum. Zeke brings out several long nails. He tightly ties off Joey’s large balls with a leather thong and holding his scrotum hammers a nail into each ball. He then pushes three more nails by hand through each of Joey’s balls going as slowly as possible so Joey can really feel them tear through the tissue. The boy is breathing hard, sweating and moaning. His mind is racing, drug addled, and sex crazed. Unlike anything he has ever felt before, the intensity scares him but excites him even more. This is what he has fantasized for so long, and now it is real. He understands he no longer needs his balls except as a source of pleasure in their mutilation. He hits on the poppers again and says “Castrate me man! PLEASE!” And he wants it bad. He wants to feel his balls reduced to dead meat and feel his scrotum cut off. He realizes a transformation is taking place in him. Zeke had said he hoped Joey was ready on the drive, and now Joey knows he is. Ready and so fucking willing. The pain, the drugs, this incredibly hot man, are all turning him on more. He hits on the poppers again as Zeke pushes more nails through his balls and more safety pins through his nipples. Zeke grabs two of the pins, and the two lock eyes as he pulls on them harder and harder until the flesh begins to rip and the pins are pulled free. Joey is screaming, and the blood flows freely down his flanks onto the plastic sheet. “Good, good boy!” Says Zeke. “Tell your killer how it feels.” Joey’s breathing is ragged, but his unrelentingly hard cock feels like he is on the verge of orgasm. Zeke callingto himself Joey’s killer turns Joey on even more. “It fucking hurts so bad. But my body’s yours man. Do it again Zeke! Please.” Zeke grabs two more of the safety pins twisting and playing with them while Joey moans and writhes. They hit on poppers again and then Zeke tears them out. Grabbing a scalpel from the table he carves the ruined nipples off Joey’s chest as the boy screams. But he is not tied down and he does not struggle, letting Zeke have his nipples, showing the older man his depth of desire. Zeke presents the nipples to Joey to examine on the palm of his hand and the boy’s eyes go wide. “Fuck!” he says softly, “There is no way out now. I’m dead meat.” Zeke kisses him hard on the lips and squeezes his nail filled scrotum in his hand. “Oh Jesus!!” moans Joey. “That hurts so fucking bad, but man, I want to be your steer before you kill me.” Zeke squeezes his balls again and pulls out a medium sized knife from the table. “What is this for boy? Tell your killer.” “To Castrate me Zeke, to cut my scrotum off.” “Sure is boy. Do you need those balls anymore?” “No Zeke.” Do you want those balls anymore boy?” “No Zeke. I want to see you take them!” “No poppers this time boy. I want you to feel this. As much as it hurts is how much pleasure You are giving me.” He brings the knife up under Joey’s scrotum, Below the leather thong so he does not bleed out yet and slices through the boy’s mutilated sac in a way that can only be described as slow, tender and loving. Smiling as he does it, he says softly “feel it boy! Feel those balls coming off. Feels good, doesn’t it? Feels good, me making you my steer. Gonna keep your balls in a bottle long after I kill you.” Without touching himself Joey begins to cum, scum pouring out of his dick as his scrotum is cut free. The pain and pleasure mix and both are beyond what he had imagined they would be. “Oh fuck yeah!! Take ‘em man! I’m fucking yours!! Thank you! Oh fuck!!” Zeke pulls the nails out of the dead scrotum and makes Joey lick and suck on his own severed sac, which he does with incredible enthusiasm. They rest for a while, lying together on the blood spattered plastic sheet, caressing each other’s bodies like lovers might, Joey sucking Zeke’s dick until he cums again and then once more eagerly drinking Zeke’s piss. His sac lies on the mattress, cold and dead. Joey picks it up, feeling the weight and texture of what was his manhood. Zeke looks at his handsome face, scum and piss dripping off his chin. And smiles. “Yeah boy, those were your balls. They’re mine now. You’re my little steer. My steer to butcher.” He takes them and puts them in a bowl. They rest for a while, Zeke lying with Joey on the blood, sperm and piss soaked plastic. Both still high, Joey’s body throbs with pain, courses with anticipation, fear, and still with desire. “You still want it boy?” Zeke asks, looking into Joey’s eyes. And Joey nods. It’s just like he’d imagined, like he’d hoped. The two mwn can practically smell each other’s need. “Try to kill me while I’m cumming Zeke.” “That’s the plan boy.” After an hour or so Zeke gives them each another hit of meth, and they share a joint. Joey is still hard and excited though worse for wear. Zeke gets up and lubes up his arm. Joey perks up seeing this. As Zeke lubes up his other arm, Joey says “fuck yeah”. Though he is definitely weak at this point, he gets on his back and grabs his legs to bare his hole for Zeke. Zeke pulls out the plug in Joey’s hole and easily gets his fingers in the already stretched hole. He pushes hard and quickly gets his full hand in. His hands are huge and Joey moans in pain and desire to have Zeke inside him. Once in Zeke immediately goes for depth. “Bear down boy” he demands as he pushes to the end of Joeys rectum and works past the bend into his colon. “Fuck yeah” Joey moans as the hand works deep inside him. He hits on the poppers and Zeke begins to fuck his arm in deeper and deeper. Between the ache where his scrotum was and the ache where his nipples were Joey is lost in a haze of pleasure, pain and drug induced ecstasy. “Oh man, take me, fuck me.” he moans. Once inside Joey to the elbow Zeke begins a hard fucking motion, practically pulling out and then shoving elbow deep again. Joey is moaning wildly. Both are hitting on poppers and going wild. “Oh fuck!! Deeper Zeke, deeper” Joey cries “tear me in two!” Zeke urges him to bear down again and pushes in almost to the shoulder. Joey can feel the pressure against his diaphragm and groans in desire and abandonment. Never in his life has he felt this good. Never has he experienced a higher level of sexual excitement. Zeke begins to work his other hand in, and Joey’s eyes widen again. “Fuck man! Stretch me till I break.” he says. Zeke slowly withdraws his one arm to the elbow and stretches Joey until he can get his second fist in. Joey moans and writhes but keeps his elbows behind his knees so Zeke has good access to his hole. He feels like his soul IS being taken by these huge arms inside his body and his dick is still rock hard from the caverject even after castration. Zeke works his second arm in, loosening Joey’s hole to the point where he can jam both arms in to the elbow hard and fast. This goes on for what seems like hours. Joey’s hole getting wider and deeper, his need and desire more extreme. Both men’s dicks are hard and dripping. “How do you feel boy?” asks Zeke, shoving hard into Joey’s guts. “I never thought I could feel like this.” “You still want to die for me boy?” Joey nods, eyes wide and breathing hard as the older man batters his insides relentlessly. “Tell me, hear yourself say it!” “I want to die for you Zeke. I want you to kill me!” “Good boy! Good fucking snuff boy.” Zeke pulls out one of his arms, covered in both blood and mucous and shows it to Joey, who sucks in breath. “Shit yeah man. You’re using me good!” Joey’s rectum is totally prolapsed and protruding from his hole, but the feeling is amazing, and he will soon be dead, so he does not care. “Please man, fill me again!” He moans. Zeke shoves his arm in hard and deep, almost to the shoulder and begins to fuck as hard as he can. “Take it boy,” he says to Joey, “I’m gonna tear up your insides.” “Please man! Please!” Zeke punch fucks as hard as possible now, entirely out and then hard and deep way past the elbow. His arm is dripping with blood and Joey is wide eyed and moaning, his hard dick leaking pre cum constantly so that a stream runs down his flank mixing with his blood and their sweat on the plastic sheet. They cannot look away from each other’s eyes, so deep is the connection between them at this point. Zeke withdraws his arm and grabs a cop’s night stick,. He shoves it into Joey’s ass deep and hard, stirring it like a spoon in a bowl of pasta. He smiles broadly as he watches the boy writhe and grimace, blood oozing out of his hole as well as what look like bits of entrail. The boy is breathing hard and moaning. Alternately staring into Zeke’s eyes and closing his eyes tight. He arches his back repeatedly to better feel the hard wood in his abdomen, driving him nuts with excitement. Zeke withdraws the nightstick, dripping with blood mucous and bits of tissue, and bends down over Joey. “Open your mouth” he commands. Joey does and his killer spits into his open mouth repeatedly. Joey swallows hard and smiles. “How do you feel boy?” “I’m ready Zeke. I need this man!! I never thought it would be like this.” “What did you think it would be like boy?” “I thought I’d be more scared. I thought I’d be unconscious. I didn’t think it would be with a Man like you.” “Good fucking snuffboy! You’re gonna cum like a fucking river!” They are both still hard, both dripping with sweat, and the room stinks of blood and manhood. “I’m coming back in boy, gonna open my fist, and my fingers are gonna shred those guts even more. You ready for that? I’m ready to kill you boy! ” “Please, PLEASE. Please Zeke do it KILL me man, Kill me!!” “Jack yourself off boy.” Zeke brings out a handgun and urges Joey to suck on the barrel as he shoves his other arm deep into Joey’s ass. “I’m gonna blow your brains out while you’re cumming, suck on this boy. Get ready!!” This suddenly terrifies Joey and Zeke sees the look on his face. “DO IT BOY!” he commands, and Joey opens his mouth. As soon as he feels the hard steel against his tongue he goes nuts with passion again, looks up into Zeke’s face and nods. Zeke smiles like a madman, seeing how much Joey need Zeke’s lovemaking. Zeke opens his hand deep inside of Joey’s guts and continues to shove his arm deep into the boys body, tearing more holes in his intestines and ripping connective tissue, pulling and grabbing at Joey’s viscera. Joey moans uncontrollably at the feelings which he can neither define or describe. He sucks eagerly at the gun as his insides are torn to shreds and his gut fills with blood. “How’s that feel boy?” Whispers Zeke, totally lost in the intensity of killing this beautiful boy. Joey can only nod as he meets the intensity of Zekes gaze. His moans are his consent as he jacks himself off and Zeke continues the unrelenting mutilation of Joey’s gut. Finally with a high pitched whine from his throat, his sperm erupts from his rock hard dick in the most intense orgasm imaginable. As the third spurt of scum erupts from Joey’s dick, he moans urgently and Zeke pulls the trigger as they hold each other’s intense gaze. The top of Joey’s head blows off in an eruption of bone blood and brains and for a second his eyes go wide with astonishment before they flicker and go dim. Zeke cums without touching himself in a huge orgasm from the thrill of watching Joey die. He kisses Joey’s dead lips, and rests by the twitching body for several minutes as it begins to cool. “Fuck yeah!” he says aloud. “Fuck yeah Joey. Good boy!!” Still horny he takes a knife and makes an incision in Joey’s belly large enough for a tight fit around his dick. He mounts the body and fucks like a wild animal blowing another huge load in among Joey’s torn and ruined guts, and collapses on the corpse, instantly falling asleep. Tomorrow Joey’s body will go into one more deep hole off in the remote woods, but Zeke will enjoy looking at the boy’s mutilated scrotum and nipples saved in a jar of formaldehyde.
Its 9am Sebastians just left the gym a van pulls up he recognises it,the drivers window opens get in says the driver as the side door opens,Sebastian climbs in and takes a seat after a few minutes the van stops the side door opens the Van’s in a large ware house,a guy comes over to Sebastian and feels at him and looks him over hmm he says taking out his phone got a nice one here for you Boss says Greggor ok Boss ok Boss ok Boss boss’ll be here in 10 minutes says Greggor he wants this one stripped and ready to play with when he arrives , strip says Greggor to Sebastian ok says Sebastian slipping his shorts and T shirt off hmm even better naked says Greggor , over here says Greggor to Sebastian pointing to 2 uprights with loops on ok says Sebastian Greggor fastens Sebastians wrists to the loops then his ankles whaaat you gonna do to me asks Sebastian it ain’t what I’m going to to to Yaha says Greggor its what the Boss is going to do to you says Greggor, picking up a black cloth bag and and pulling it over Sebastians head, Ramon take these clothes and burn them infact burn every thing ,Theres a noise of wheels crunching down the drive a black car pulls up,ooh fuck no says Ramon looking at Sebastians Identity card as he burns Sebastians clothes the guy in the car gets out and enters the warehouse nice says the boss looking at Sebastians naked body who is he dont know says Greggor as the boss picks up a knife and slowly runs it between Sebastians ass cheeks Sebastian flinches as the knife is turned get the guys in get them naked and let’s get this guy raped and tortured says the Boss stripping naked Greggor goes over to a microphone and calls all the other guys in slowly they enter taking their clothes hmm nice says Delroy as his 15 inch cock becomes erect,you first Boss says Delroy the Biss steps up and shoves his erect 12 inch cock into Sebastians tight ass Sebastian takes deep breaths as the Boss’s cock opens his ass up Sebastians moaning and gtoaniqoff then he dashes in to Greggor, we have to let him go says Ramon what the fuck you going on about says Greggor we have to let him go Why says a voice bbbbecccause of this stammers Ramon holding the card out to the Boss Whats this says the Boss looking at the identity card no likeness says the Boss ii’itts your Nephew says Ramon no no says the Boss grinning this guys got a bag on his head this guy hasn’t says the Boss looking again at the card,fffuck says Ramon we cant torture him,Bring me the gas burner says the Boss to no one in particular here Boss says Damon dragging a gas bottle and 3 foot long burner over then lighting the burner,you think I cant torture him says the Boss as he holds the burner near Sebastians ass cheeks,fffuuuuck screams Sebastian as the skin starts to burn,you boy says the Boss to a young lad cut his balls off pointing to Ramon ssure Boss says Toby picking up a knife and going over to Ramon no fuck no screams Ramon asToby pushes him over a table and pulls his balls back between his legs fuuuck no fuuuck no Toby slips the knife under Ramons balls and lifts it up cutting them off eat them says the Boss fuck no fuck you says Ramon,Toby forces Ramons balls down his throat Ramon starts to gasp for air as he chokes stop that fuckers noise says the Boss Toby pushes Ramon over to a guillotine and pushes his head over the lunette fffuuuuck you cant do this screams Ramon ,Toby presses a button on the side of the guillotine the blade drops with a whoosh Ramons head rolls across the floor,Arlson ring Jo Jo see if he wants fresh meat sure thing Boss says Arlson,JoJos taking meat Boss as much as we can give him,we’ll give him some special cooked says the boss as he shoves the gas burner 12 inches up Sebastians ass and squeezes the trigger theres a whoosh as the flame goes up Sebastians ass he opens his mouth to scream theres smoke exits,the Boss pulls the flame gun out of Sebastians ass that looked good says the Boss shoving the flame gun in to 18 inches and squeezes the burners trigger Sebastian opens his mouth to scream theres smoke and the smell of burning emitting from Sebastian’s mouth , you want another burner for his balls asks Damon sure says the Boss and bring Gerard in with you we’ll fry his balls as well,hi Boss says Gerard looking at Ramons headless and ball less body fucck he looks good says Gerard kneeling down and shoving his erect cock into Ramons ass , you gunnnaaa cut my head off Boss you did promise I could try the guillotine please Boss please ,ok says the Boss as Damon returns with another gas burner, in here says Toby to Gerard pointing to the lunette Gerard kneels down Toby lowers the upper Lunnette,that feel good asks the Boss ,sure does says Gerard as Toby lights the other gas burner and plays it on Gerards ass and balls fuuuck fuuuck fuuuck screams Gerard as his ball sack burns more screams Gerard shove it in my ass fffuuuuck man shove it in, Toby shoves the lit burner into Gerards gaping asshole he screams as his internal organs start to burn,shut that noisy fucker up says the Boss,Toby presses the button on the guillotine the blade drops removing Gerards head,,Morning Boss says a tall guy Jo Jo how are you says the Boss this is my boy Jo Jo Junior he’s learning the trade hi says Junior as he starts cutting Ramons hands and feet off then he cuts the legs off JoJo’s phone rings ok yep got that says JoJo putting his phone away 2 nipples on steaks wanted says JoJo to Junior sure Pa says Junior nice meat says JoJo looking at Ramon and Gerards bodies $300 each then he looks at Sebastian internal cooked says the Boss hmm says Jo Jo $450 was just going to flame his cock and balls says,the Boss picking up the gas burner,still alive says Junior pushing Sebastian’s head back,do his balls Boss then he can go on a spit bar,the Boss squeezes the trigget on the gas burner and plays it over Sebastians balls,$700 each Boss says JoJo,$700 for what those 3 guys over there says Jo Jo pointing across the yard,Damon yes Boss got get Peter Kevin and Andy sure thing Boss,minutes later Petet Kevin and Andy enter the warehouse ,what the fucks that says Kevin looking at a pile of entrails that says the Boss is what’s left of Ramon,JoJo Junior enters with a 2 inch diameter 8 foot long steel bar you guys help me he says as he places the bar in Sebastians ass and pushes release his wrists now says Junior Peter undoes the straps holding Sebastians wrists his upper body slumps onto Peter Junior pushes the bar up theres a crunching sound as Sebastians organs disintegrate tip his head back says Junior to Peter the bar exits Sebastian’s mouth he adjusts the bar then pushes 2 quarter inch thick 2 foot long bars through Sebastians side through the bar and out the other side ,this ones ready Pa says Junior releasing the straps round Sebastians ankles ,ok gett him out side they’re here to collect him,Peter lifts one end of the bar onto his shoulder and Junior takes the other they carry Sebastian putting his body onto waiting truck that has a barbecue on the back enjoy says Junior as the truck drives away ,your next whaaatt says Peter you heard says Junior my Pa has bought you let’s get you processed as he picks up another spit bar head on or head off for this one Pa head on genitals off feet and hands off,junior picks up the spit bar and carrie’s it over to the guillotine kneel he says to Peter now says Peter yes says Junior Peter kneels hold that frame says Junior as he lifts the bar and places it between Peters ass cheeks he slowly pushes it in ohhh fuck ohh fuck says Peter as the bar enters his ass you want to wank says Junior as he pushes the bar further in ohhh wow ohh wow what a feeling says Peter as he starts to wank ohh fucking wow ohhwow what a sensation says Peter as he feels the bar in his throat he tips his head back and spurts his cum as the bar exits his mouth,junior picks up 2 bars and pushes them through Peters side then slowly cuts his hands and feet off then he slowly removes Peter’s cock and balls,10 miles away the truck with Sebastian on pulls up,hmm looks good says a guy is he still alive says another,no but he was when we loaded him on, internal cooked as well this one hmm let’s start to eat whilst its hot says the mayor looking at Sebastians turning body always knew my Grandson would help feed us he says biting into a piece of Sebastians thigh meat very tasty very tasty says the mayor every body took in5 hours later theres just bones and a few scraps of meat left on the spit
Christ, I need dick so bad tonight. I’m drunk and horny—fuck, I’m always drunk and horny, and high, too, but tonight seems to be even worse. It’s been a rough week, and that means I need to get used rough myself.
I’ve struck out at three bars. Plenty of horny fags, but no one with the sheer bulk masculinity I want, just lotsa pretty boy twinks who were obviously incapable of treating me like the whore I am. Why is it so goddam hard to find a good, brutal stud? Every homo I meet seems to be another bottom. Might was well head to my car; looks like another night of jacking off to porn.
Let’s see, am I in this lot? Yeah, there’s my car, in the back. It stands out, not because it’s expensive or anything, but it is painted fire-engine red. That’s why I bought it, so I can locate it easily, even when I’m stoned out of my mind—like now.
I just don’t get it. I’m in my sluttiest skinny jeans, so tight that my seven-inch dong is completely visible. I’m only twenty-one, and I go to the gym almost daily; my old-school Metallica is stretched so tightly across my firm chest and flat belly that it damn near constricts my breathing and it’s rubbing my nipples into a jutting frenzy. A lotta dudes (including me) are turned on by boots, so my jeans are tucked into a gleaming pair of dark gray leather Justin Ropers.
I must be doing something wrong, but I don’t know what. It doesn’t make any—holy fuck, who is THAT?
He’s leaning against the brick wall of the building on the right side of the lot, at the end of the last row, where my car is. I only vaguely noticed him at first; he’s in the dark and the only initial indication of his presence was the way the glow of his cigarette intensified each time he took a drag. Now that I’m closer, though, I can see him more clearly. Holy fucking shit, he’s hot!
Even from ten feet away, I can tell that he towers over me by a good six inches and probably more. He’s also gotta outweigh me by about seventy-five pounds—all of it obviously pure muscle. I can tell that because in light of the unusually warm weather for this time of the year, he’s opted to wear nothing but a leather vest over his strong, hairy chest. I can even see the gleam of sweat among the fur.
His faded denim jeans are even tighter than mine and the huge ridge they outline is a good two inches in diameter and runs halfway down his thick, power thigh. His jeans are also tucked into a pair of boots, and I recognize them—they’re a pair of knee-high black Demonia lace-ups. I used to have a pair myself until a trick beat the fuck outta me one night and stole them.
Losing the boots was the only thing I regret about that encounter.
I approach him slowly. He languidly takes another drag from his cigarette and then blows the smoke into my face. Both the gesture and his expression ooze contempt; I’m so fuckin’ turned on I can barely control myself.
“You lookin’ for somethin’?” he drawls nonchalantly, his voice husky and low.
He’s my dream fuck, hotter than anyone I’ve ever met, but I can’t let my sheer intimidation stop me now. “Yeah,” I reply casually. “I want you inside me.”
His steely blue eyes traverse my lean body, slowly and appraisingly, like a housewife evaluating a steak that she has to serve an abusive husband. I fuckin’ love the sensation.
“You might do,” he says with a sneer. “You gotta place? I ain’t gonna pollute my space with a worthless fag like you.”
Fuck yeah, I do, and I tell him so. Far from repulsing me, his blatant disrespect arouses the cockpig heart of my very soul. I offer to give him a ride there, but he says he’ll follow me. As I wait for him at the exit of the lot, I’m blinded by lights in my rear-view mirror. Seems he drives a jacked-up pickup, but I can’t tell the make or model because of the glare.
It doesn’t matter. It’s him. The lights remain on my tail all the way back to my apartment. He doesn’t follow me into the parking lot, though—fuck, did he change his mind?
I’m not giving up, though. I get out of my car and give it a few minutes. Sure enough, I soon hear the heavy tread of his hard-soled boots on the sidewalk. He evidently parked down the street; I wonder why.
But he’s here, and that’s the important thing.
I lead the way into my unit, but pause at the front door. The place is seriously trashed. I turn to excuse it to him, but then I catch a glimpse of his hard face, cheeks and chin covered with heavy, wiry scruff. In the dim light illuminating the walkway a few doors down, I can clearly see that his wavy hair is so glossy black that it almost has a gun-metal blue sheen.
Before I can say a word, he growls at me. “Whatcha waitin’ for, faggot?” Instantly my cock swells and begins to ache; I unlock the door, my hands fumbling with the key in my eagerness. Goddam, I need him plowing my hole so fuckin’ bad.
I step inside and flip on the light switch; he enters behind me, and I can hear him locking the deadbolt. After my sparsely-furnished living room, a short hall leads back to the bathroom. My tiny kitchen is on the right—I leave that light off; I never cleared away last night’s dinner—and turn to the bedroom doorway on the left. As I turn on the lights there, I can hear the distinctive sound of a lighter from behind me; he’s lighting another smoke.
I smoke a lot of weed (and a fair amount of meth) in the bedroom, but not cigarettes. I turn back to him. “Uh, hey, dude—I, um I can’t smoke in here. It’s in my lease…”
He just stares at me, coldly and evenly. Then he slowly takes the cigarette out of his mouth and tosses it onto the floor, where he grinds it out with his boot, leaving a large burn mark in the carpet. He maintains eye contact with me the entire time, smirking slightly.
Ok, yeah, that’s intimidating. He clearly has no interest in respecting my boundaries. It’s hot, but worrisome; I need to establish some kinda connection. I hold out my right hand. “I’m Alvin, by the way. You can just call me Al.”
He glances down at my hand and then back into my face without taking my hand. He’s lost his smirk; now his expression reflects nothing more than cold contempt. “Get yer fuckin’ clothes off, fuckmeat,” he demands.
Wait, what? Fuckmeat? What the hell is that? What have I gotten myself into?
But then he gives me a lewd grin and unzips his fly. His hog is so massive it takes him more than thirty seconds to extract it from its tight denim prison. Jesus H. Christ, I’ve never seen anything remotely like. It’s downright monstrous. It’ll literally tear me a new asshole.
And ya know what? I’m fine with that.
I lead him into the bedroom. I kick off my boots and peel out of my shirt and jeans until I’m standing nude before him, wearing only my tube socks. In the meantime, he’s shrugged off his vest, revealing his broad, muscular chest in all its furry, magnificent glory. I look at his jeans. “You, uh you gonna take those off?” I ask, somewhat hesitantly.
His reply is as cold and abrupt as the rest of his communication. “I can fuck you good enough like this.” I can’t argue with that—he’s right.
“Get over here and suck my thick cock, faggot!” he barks. I hasten to obey. I won’t disappoint this man, this god. I drop to my knees before him but before I can wrap my lips around that huge piece of manmeat, he slaps me in the face with it, wielding it like a bat. Holy shit. The thing is so huge, it hurts.
I love it.
“Get down on it, motherfucker!” he sneers, “I wanna see you chock on my hog!”
Yessir. Right away, sir. I heartily engulf the enormous oozing head in my mouth; I have to stretch my jaws painfully to make it fit. Even then, I can only just barely manage to get it all in. There’s no way in hell I can deepthroat this monster; it’s just too big to go down my gullet.
Or so I think.
His hands clamp onto the back of my head, as hard and inexorable as a steel vise. Before I know it, my face is buried in his thick wiry pubes and that ungodly tool is lodged so deep in my throat that I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe!! Let me go, you psycho!!
But he doesn’t. He’s too strong for me to pull myself off of him. I hammer my fists against his thighs, but I might as well be beating tree trunks. My chest is hurting, and I can hear my pulse racing in my ears. This isn’t fun anymore; it’s fucking scary. I can’t breathe…
And just like that, his hands are gone. I fling myself backwards off his rod, coming to rest with my ass on the floor and my back against my bed, gasping and choking helplessly. It’s a couple of minutes before I can catch my breath well enough to speak. In the meantime, he goes over to the mirror outside the bathroom and flexes his arms in front of it, admiring his own physique. I can see his self-satisfied smirk directly in the mirror.
The bastard’s a fucking narcissist, if not a downright sociopath. He only cares about others to the point that they can serve his needs; that’s obvious. And while I love a rough, arrogant alpha, I don’t wanna fucking die while servicing him.
“I can-can’t do thi-this…” I say, still with difficulty as I rise to my feet, “Th-that was sc-scary. You need to go, dude. I mean, you’re hot as fuck—but no, man. No.” I may be a cocksucking whore, but I have some standards, and not dying is probably number one.
As I speak, he turns and crosses towards me. His expression is neutral; I can’t tell what he’s thinking or feeling, but for some reason I’m goddam terrified. Then, I know why.
It’s his eyes. They’re a beautiful shade of blue, but there’s a light in them, a kinda of hard, cold glitter like sunlight reflecting off ice. I’ve never seen that before in anyone’s eyes. Never.
“You goddam whore,” he suddenly growls between tightly-clench teeth, “You think you can back out now? Yer in this way too deep now, cocktease!”
He lashes out, too fast for me to react—almost too fast for me to see. Before I can so much as flinch, I find myself lying on my bed, stars reeling in front of my eyes. I can’t see much out of my right eye; that’s where the blow landed, but I can damn sure see enough to know I gotta get outta here, now. This motherfucker is gonna hurt me bad.
I roll out of the bed, my feet under me as I hit the floor. I ain’t no strongman, but I’m young and agile and not without some strength. I can tell I’ve surprised him; I get a brief glance of shock and anger on his face as I bolt past him and out of the bedroom. I’m halfway across the living room before I hear the sound of his heavy boots in pursuit. If I can get outside, I’ll be ok—
—but I can’t get outside. The door won’t open. Oh fucking Christ, why won’t the fucking door open?? He’s almost on top of me—oh yeah, he locked it. I grasp the knob of the deadbolt…
…and then it’s too late.
He spins me like a top and flings me down to the floor. I’m too stunned to offer any resistance when he raises his knee-high boot. I get just a brief look to the thick tread on the sole before it slams into my taut, firm belly—
HOOG!!FUCK, THAT HURTS!! My lungs are instantly emptied by the crushing pressure on my diaphragm. I gotta protect myself; I curl into a fetal ball, but I forgot something…
My scrote is still exposed. The psycho fucker reminds me by driving the toe of his boot into them so hard, I swear to God that he ruptures something.
I don’t remember much after that. All I know is that I descended into the depths of a blood-red sea of agony. I know at one point, the beast was crouched over me, its rock-hard fists raining down on me like hail. I also got the dim impression of him dragging me back into the bedroom, still pounding me, but after that—it’s all gone.
Until I wake up, still in screaming pain. It’s even worse now. I can barely see and my mouth is full of blood, but even before I can pry my eyes open, I can feel the heavy weight of his muscles pressing me into the bed—he must had swept my stiff cum-stained sheets off. But much, much more excruciating is the sensation of having a power auger jammed up my ass and turned on full blast.
He’s raping me. HOLY FUCK HE’S RAPING ME!! GET THE FUCK OFFA ME!
But the more I struggle, the harder he hits me. I force my eyes open—no easy task, given how swollen they are—to see his grinning face and hairy chest with its hard, dark nipples looming over me. I jerk and strain my arms but they’re pinned over my head, the wrists cinched way too tightly in steel bracelets—it takes a moment for me to realize he’s bound my with my own handcuffs. My legs are propped over his shoulder; I can see my own socked feet hanging in midair beyond his head.
“Welcome back to the party, fuckmeat,” he jeers, “You showed up just time to enjoy the games.”
Without missing a single one of his rapid, brutal thrusts into my fuckhole, he rises up on his knees. He digs into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a pair of black leather gloves. As he slowly works them on—they’re so skin-tight that it takes him a moment—he leers maliciously into my face.
“Ya know what these are for, dontcha? Sure ya do; yer nothing but a worthless street whore. Bet plenty of yer cumsuckin’ butt-buddies have felt these wrapped around their throats before. Now it’s your turn, cunt. Get ready to die, ya useless homo!”
No. NO. FUCK NO THIS ISN’T HAPPING THIS CAN’T HAPPEN TO ME!!!
But it can. He grips my neck and slowly beings applying horrible remorseless pressure.
I’ve gotta get free I gotta get free I gotta get free its so hard to breathe I cant keep it up
[The last scent I had of him still fills my nostrils; my brain can detect the sweat and testosterone]
Get offa me please let me go don’t do this im not gonna die like this
[As he completely closes off my esophagus, the frantic flailing of my arms suddenly snaps into a unified simultaneous pull so hard I feel like I’m going to peel the skin off my hands but the cuffs are still too tight]
My head it pounds it pounds I cant think I cant breathe my chest is on fire
[I can feel my cock, traitorously and humiliatingly hard, being scoured by his wiry belly fur by the rippling motion of his washboard abs as he brutally rapes me]
Im not gonna die like this motherfucker you cant kill me im too smart ill find a way to live
[He’s speaking; I can just barely hear the words over the incessant beating of my own heart echoing off the inside of my skull. “You worthless faggot, you know you need this, yeah? You know yer a stain that needs to be wiped up. You know I’m doin’ everyone on the planet a favor by puttin’ yer disgustin’ homo ass outta yer misery!”]
No no wrong youre wrong I don’t deserve to die
[“Fuck, I can feel yer faggot dick, all hard and oozin’—ya just fuckin’ love this shit, dontcha? What’s gettin’ ya off more, pansy? Is it the pain or is it the cold touch of death? You can feel it already, can’tcha? You can fuckin’ feel yer dyin’, bitch, I can see it in yer eyes!”]
No you cant I cant I cant see big black flowers only black flowers my mouth whats in my mouth whats running down my cheeks
[There’s nothing, there’s only him and his rampaging manmeat shredding my guts and his hands, gloved in smooth leather, sinking into my throat. He’s saying something, spewing more hate into my ear but I cant hear I cant see only feel only him only pain
No I wont I wont go not like this not like the cheap whore I am oh god no it cant end like this
But there’s only his cock and my cock and the sensation I don’t know the sensation but its strong
Its pain its pleasure never before such ecstatic agony so excruciatingly exquisite the words no losing the words
The feels the pain crunch my throat it hurts so bad im gonna cum I gonna cum
Heat such heat filling my ass my dick life being pumped into and outta me the searing agonizing joy
The Trucker was angry. He needed a piece of fagmeat on which he could vent his frustrations—and he’d just found it.
He was in a homo bar in the seedier outskirts of a large metropolitan area; he’d had a delivery not too far away. Normally, he tried to make such deliveries late at night to avoid city rush-hour traffic. This warehouse, though, shut down operations at eight in the evening. As a result, the Trucker had spent hours on the highway at a crawl, burning off expensive fuel. He was an independent contractor; that came out of his pocket.
By the time he was done with the job, he was done. He parked his rig at the end of the dead-end road on which the warehouse had been located in a rather desolate area of light industry. This area, however, what located next to a neighborhood of old run-down houses and sixty-year-old apartment complexes. The faggots were moving in and slowly trying to gentrify the locale, however; hence the gay bar.
It had popped up while he was trolling for a victim online, and it was perfect—about a mile away, close enough to walk. Grab a couple of shots of whiskey, a piece of smooth young fagmeat to beat, rape, and snuff, and he’d soon be back to grab a few hours of sleep in his cab.
The streetlights in this part of town were intermittent and neither they nor the streets themselves were maintained well. The concrete slabs of the sidewalk were uneven and tilted; nevertheless, the buff, vicious sadist planted his black leather harness boots on the pavement with heavy, confident steps. He strode unconcernedly through an area through which even the police went with caution and trepidation.
He knew he could handle himself—after all, he got off on killing, and he had the experience to do it well. And his appearance didn’t hurt, nearly six-and-a-half-foot frame tightly encased in a pair of jeans so worn they were soft and faded to pale blue. It was a chilly night—the temperature was forty degrees and still dropping—but that didn’t bother him. In deference to the chill, however, he had donned a black leather aviator’s jacket over his white cotton t-shirt, so small it was straining across his broad, muscular chest.
He looked like a badass, and he knew it. But then again, he was a badass.
He’d gotten stared at the moment he entered the bar. It wasn’t quite successful or trendy enough to be an actual club, but it was certainly trying. Loud, rhythmic dance music was being played by a somewhat lackluster deejay in one corner. The dance floor itself was large and rather crowed and the bar was packed.
The Trucker approached it. The young pansies at the bar practically squealed with delight as he roughly shouldered through them and got the bartender’s attention. “Double shot of Jack,” he barked. When it came, he paid. He downed it as easily as if it been water as he got his change, then turned around, leaning back against the bar and surveilling the crowd.
It was full of so many cocksucking boywhores that the Trucker could hardly restrain himself, but one caught his eye early on. It was young—in fact, it looked too young to be in the bar legally, not that the Trucker gave a shit. What did matter was that it was so obviously desperate to be used.
That was it. That was the one. That was the homicidal faghunter’s version of a twelve-point buck. It might say it didn’t want to suffer, but it did. It might say it didn’t want to die, but it did. They all did. They said they didn’t, they screamed and fought to the last moment of their utterly worthless lives, but they did.
At least, they all shot thick, uncontrollable wads of cum when he killed them, which amounted to the same thing as far the Trucker was concerned.
At the same time, the boy caught sight of the Trucker and froze, slack-jawed in awe. He was slim and wiry but by no means scrawny; in fact, his sleeveless black t-shirt revealed pecs and biceps of almost perfect form. His jet-black hair was very straight and cut into something that the Trucker equated with an emo look; it was likely dyed. Not that that bothered the Trucker. Undoubtedly the coroner would be able to determine the true color. The lashes around the large dark eyes were so long and thick as to make the Trucker suspect mascara.
He’d soon find out; no mascara would be able to withstand the tsunami of tears that would be rolling down the kid’s face before the Trucker was done with him.
Below the waist, he continued the theme, his skin-tight smooth leather jeans highlighting thick, firm thighs and shapely calves; the cuffs were tucked into a pair of hightops so spotlessly white as to appear new.
The Trucker allowed just the faintest sardonic smirk to cross his face, but it was enough. Slowly, as entranced as a moth by a flame, the kid approached him, his smooth, youthful face a mixture of hope, lust, and uncertainty. Of these, the greatest was lust.
“H-hey,” he said as he reached the unimaginably hot older man, “I, uh, I’m Kevin…”
The Trucker grunted and slowly scanned the slut from head to foot, then back, contempt oozing from his gaze to such an extent that it had an almost physical impact. At any rate, it certainly had the impact the Trucker had wanted.
“Yeah, boy, you’ll do,” he said laconically.
Kevin was galvanized. “I, um, I’ve got an apartment not too far from here. It’s—well, it’s kinda dirty right now, but—”
“Just tell me, faggot, can I fuck ya there?”
Kevin lit up like the top of the Chrysler Building under the verbal abuse. “Yes, sir!” he babbled, literally wriggling with excitement, “I mean, it’s small, but fuck yeah!”
“Wait outside for me, bitch,” the Trucker commanded, “You need to prepare yerself. I’m gonna have another drink and then I’m gonna destroy you and your homo asshole.”
He turned his back on the boy without waiting for a response and ordered another double Jack shot. As Kevin obediently waited outside, freezing his twink ass off—he hadn’t brought any kind of jacket, not that it mattered; raging lust kept him at a fever pitch. In the meantime, the Trucker had polished off his second double, then a third.
By the time he headed outside, safe in the knowledge that no one in the club would be able to tie his exit to the meat’s, whatever possible restraints or inhibition he might have had, had been erased by the alcohol.
By the time he rejoined the fagmeat outside, the Trucker’s enormous cock was ragingly hard. He wasn’t going to unload world of hurt on the twink fuckboy—he was going to unload a whole fucking universe of nightmarish agony.
He was going to sear the true meaning of suffering into its very soul. By the time he was finished, death wouldn’t be a release; it would be such a profound pleasure the cunt would spunk uncontrollably.
And it would love it. Deep in his own soul, the Trucker knew that the meat recognized its inferiority. It needed and wanted this, and he needed and wanted to give it to it.
“Let’s go,” he grunted abruptly. Like an eager puppy, Kevin headed across the parking lot and turned left. The heavy thumps of the Trucker’s boots on the sidewalk told the whore that his john was following him.
He’d hit him up for the money once they got back to his place. After all, he hadn’t been turned down yet once he’d stripped and shown off his smooth, firm body.
And so the stage was set for a perfect vortex of hatefucking, horrific beatings, and excruciating death.
The apartment building to which the kid was leading the Trucker turned out to be a squat two-story structure faced with brick of a dingy, indeterminate hue. The asphalt on the thin strip of parking space in front of it was about twenty years past its useful life, judging by the huge holes and massive ripples that made a lunar landscape of its surface. Not that it mattered; there were only three cars in evidence, none of them in good condition.
For that matter, the building looked mostly vacant—something the slut verified the next time it spoke up. Pausing on the bottom riser of the rusty metal stairs, he turned back to the Trucker. Even with this addition to his height, he still had to look up into the towering stud’s face. The whoreboy’s own eyes glittered with a truly reckless lust.
“Place is almost empty,” he said with an impish grin, “They’re runnin’ our leases out, then they’re gonna tear the place down. Only four of us left, and I’m next to last to go—I got three months to go. The units around me are empty, so—” here he faltered for a moment before plunging in “—so we can make all the noise we want.”
The fagmeat was too horny to notice how ice-cold the Trucker’s grin and reply were. “Good,” he said, firmly but quietly, “trust me, boy, you’re going to be making a lot of noise.” It was a clear warning, an obvious red flag, but the twenty-year old cocksucker was too drunk to care.
In Kevin’s opinion, he’d let this hard, masculine Adonis fuck him all night long without charging him a dime—not that that would stop him from asking, of course. He just wanted him. He wanted to feel his massive cock probing deep into his intestines. Hell, he deserved this guy.
The stupid little homo had no idea how right it was as it made its way to the second floor, the almost soundless footfalls of its hightops easily overwhelmed by the more solid sound of the Trucker’s boots.
The sadistic killer’s grin remained cold and steady on the reflection of how even his footwear was already eradicating evidence of this disgusting little pervert’s existence. It was a stain, he was gonna clean it up, and he was gonna enjoy the living fuck outta doing it.
Once inside, the boy flicked a light switch as the Trucker soundly and surreptitiously locked both the latch and the deadbolt on the front door. Instantly the room was flooded by the stark light of a bright white bulb in a milk globe ceiling fixture. The meat hadn’t been lying when it said the place was dirty; what it hadn’t said was that it was cramped and claustrophobic, with a single window in the front, overlooking the outside walkway.
To the left was the smallest kitchen the Trucker had ever seen—both the stove and the refrigerator were ancient, but their miniscule dimensions must have made replacement expensively prohibitive, if not downright impossible. A couple of pan handles jutted from the sink and the door to the single upper cabinet was ajar, revealing some cans of beans and a half-full jar of peanut butter. The lower shelf had disposable plates, cutlery, and cups.
The rest was the living room, consisting of a sofa, coffee table, armchair, and an entertainment center, all mismatched, and all dating from no later than the 80’s. The TV was a generic 32” flat screen; it just barely fit into the space allotted in the entertainment center. The coffee table had three beer cans, evidently empty, a bottle of tequila, obviously empty, and a bottle of Jim Beam, half full. There was also a bong and an overflowing ashtray piled with cigarette butts and the roach ends of joints.
Speaking of roaches, the Trucker had seen enough of them, especially in the kitchen, to add downright revulsion to his sneer of contempt. The whole fucking world was gonna be better off without this vermin-ridden faggot in it. Whatever he was feeling, he needed to erase this subhuman mistake with his dick. Time to peel off another layer of inhibitions.
Without saying a word, the hardbodied serial killer stepped forward and grabbed the bottle of bourbon off the coffee table. He unscrewed it with one hand, dropped the cap on the floor, and polished what was left in three huge gulps. Tossing the now empty bottle on the sofa, he turned to the punk, his eyes now slightly red and glowing with white-hot rage and lust.
Kevin could—or would—only see the latter.
“You ready to get dicked down, asswipe?” the Trucker leered. He was loose but focused; he still had complete control over himself. All the alcohol had done was help him achieve a deeper level of hatred than otherwise. This was going to be phenomenally brutal and sadistically cruel.
But the fuckmeat wanted it. It needed it. The fighting, the kicking, the struggling—that was all biology. Yeah, there was shrieking agony and mindless terror for a while, but in the end, it always finally accepted how important it was to be treated like the worthless perverted piece of shit that it was. After all, it always surrendered its useless existence with an explosive orgasm.
Luckily for Kevin, he actually was too drunk to pick up on any of the nuances of the Trucker’s words or body language. “C’mon,” he panted, “Bedroom’s in here.” He headed through a doorway leading to the rear room—bathroom, closet, single window to match the front room. There was a twin bed with a battered, tarnished brass headboard, a single nightstand with a cheap porcelain lamp with a yellow shade; after switching on the overhead light, dim and yellow, the meat went to the nightstand, turned on the lamp and plugged in its phone.
The other items of furniture in the room were a dresser with an array of things scattered across its surface and a splintering armless wood dining chair with clothes piled on it; in fact several piles of dirty laundry were scattered around the room.
At the far end of the room was a vanity with a sink and a large mirror; the actual bathroom was off this and consisted of a tub and a toilet. One whole wall was taken up sliding closet doors with fake wood paneling. One of the doors was open, exposing yet more dirty laundry and a somewhat expensive selection of sneakers, boots, and leather items.
“You can just toss your stuff anywhere,” the cheap whoreboy said as it turned its back on the Trucker and peeled it t-shirt off, uncovering its smooth back and developed lats. Unlacing its hightops, it wriggled out of its tight leather jeans, revealing a firm bubble butt. From behind, its boycock could be seen dangling between its legs, already dipping in excitement.
As it turned back to the Trucker, it spoke. “I like to get fucked in my kicks—” it began, before freezing in a cross between awe and arousal.
The awe was for the Trucker’s chest, now exposed in all its powerful, furry glory, the thick, firm nipples rising above the forest of chest hair covering the broad swell of the pecs. The excitement was from what the Trucker was holding in his hand.
The older man had doubted that his jacket would remain on the chair—there were too many clothes piled on it already, and they were dirty anyway—and he damn sure wasn’t going to place it on the floor, so he tossed it on the dresser and did the same with his t-shirt. As he did so, he noticed a pair of handcuffs with the key still in the still in the lock.
Now, as he stood shirtless in front of the entranced fagboy, he dangled the cuffs—minus the key—from the index finger of one hand while slowly and seductively lowering the zipper of his jeans with the other hand. Even then, his mammoth tool was so long that he had to reach in and pull it up and out of its tight denim confines before it could bob and sway.
Kevin had never seen anything like it. At the age of twenty, no one had inspected his fake ID too closely, but then again no one had for several years. By now, his virginity had been so erased, even its ghost had been exorcised. And of course, what had started out as the tight sphincter of a tender young fuckhole had long been stretched beyond recognition. Even so, the monstrous shaft now projected towards him like a throbbing, oozing lance, was bigger than anything he’d ever encountered.
It was intimidating, and Kevin felt a slight pang of fear. In the brief amount of time left to him, he might, at some later point, have regretted ignoring it.
He never did, naturally; when the time came, he was too busy thinking of other things.
Now he just gulped and gave the Trucker an almost sheepish grin. “I, uh, I like it kinda rough. Only kinda, but you can use those if you want.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned back, slipping his left hightop back on over his ankle sock and lacing it tightly, then did the same with the right. While starting to lace up the latter, he spoke up, unable to resist his mercenary urges.
“By the way,” he said nonchalantly, “I usually charge three hundred buck an hour to get fucked, and I’m worth it, but for three hundred, you get me for the whole night, bro.” Behind him, there was a pause, followed by a thump. Just as Kevin finished the knot and stood up straight, his back still to the Trucker, there was a sudden profound pain in his head. Then there wasn’t anything.
The Trucker, finally triggered by the faggot’s demand for cash, had dumped the clothes off the chair and bashed it over the slut’s head so hard it disintegrated, spindles and legs raining to the floor. The fuckmeat slumped unconscious to the floor like a sack of potatoes; it took the hard-bodied serial killer almost no effort at all to hoist its limp form and toss it onto the bed on its back. The only things on the bed besides the cum-stained fitted sheet was a wadded blanket and a couple of pillows. The Trucker knocked it all off to one side and promptly yanked the cunt’s arms up over its head and cuffed it to the bedpost.
The mise en place was set, the meat was ready to be tenderized, and the Trucker was ready to get his dick milked. All that remained was for it to wake up.
He wanted to look it in the eyes as it died on his cock, slowly and excruciatingly.
The blow hadn’t been that hard. The wait was less than five minutes, then the Trucker noticed the unfortunate youth’s long, silky lashes begin to flutter. Smiling coldly, the cruel sex killer bent over the smooth, firm, helpless form of the meat and slapped it in the face.
“Wakey, wakey, motherfucker,” he cooed, “Don’t wanna sleep through yer whole murder, do ya?”
Kevin heard the words, but they sounded thick and slow, as if coming to him through something denser than air. He was right, of course; his alcohol- and weed-fogged little faggot pig brain was much denser than air. As a result, he wasn’t able to make sense of what he was hearing.
Opening his eyes didn’t help. The concussion he’d received, though minor (and from this point forward, the very least of his worries), had scrambled his limited perceptions. The light hitting his retinas was a painful burst of bright scintillations that took a moment to sort out.
When he did sort them out, he was confronted by the image of the hairy, muscled stud looming over him, leering and brandishing his monstrously huge cock like a sword. Despite the icy shard of terror that had lodged itself in his heart, Kevin still felt his own swelling shaft pulse with lust.
The sensation felt degrading—but the meat had other things to think about at that moment. It knew it its hands had been cuffed to the headboard; it had experienced that many times before. And yeah, it hadn’t spent several years as a boywhore without having been exposed to violence and danger; it had been hospitalized twice by brutal johns. But this was—different, somehow.
The words the Trucker had spoken while the punk was recovering consciousness were finally beginning to percolate into its awareness. It suddenly realized what the difference was; it came down to a single word.
And that word was murder. The others had only wanted to hurt him. This one wanted much, much more than that—and the young slut was utterly unable to stop him.
The Trucker recognized the desperation; the way the boy’s wide eyes dulled with fear and shock would have been obvious to any observer. This was the signal he’d been waiting for; the sign that it was finally awake enough to be fully aware of what was happening to it. As he’d said, he hadn’t wanted it to miss out on the fun. And he didn’t give a shit that in this matter, its idea of fun was widely divergent from his own.
He knelt on the bed, the tight denim of his jeans stretched tautly around his powerful rounded glutes as he grabbed the cunt’s ankles just above its sneakers and yanked its legs apart as if he was trying to snap a wishbone. The kid cried out, more in fear than in pain; its smooth, firm thighs strained visibly but vainly in an attempt to resist what was coming.
And Kevin did indeed know what was coming; he was going to get raped. His sick little cockpig soul actually thrilled at the thought of being raped—and had gloried in it when it had happened in the past—but, again, this time was different. Aside from the threats, the violence, and everything else, there was the matter of size. That huge horsedick zeroing in on him was going to ream his well-used fuckhole out like a plumber’s snake.
This wasn’t gonna feel good. This was gonna be sheer agony, and he knew it.
And he was right.
As the fuckboy squirmed beneath him on the rough, stained sheet, the Trucker rammed his gigantic rod balls-deep into its intestines, instantly stretching its sphincter like an over-tightened rubber band. The highly sensitive muscle shredded in the blink of an eye as the head of the Trucker’s tool, as large as a billiard ball, tore its way along the rectal lining. Before the nightmarish pain had the chance to reach the slut’s brain, its prostate has already been scraped raw, causing the meat’s erection to further swell and ache abominably.
The agony snowballed its way up the boy’s nervous system and hit all at once with the intensity of a bolt of lightning. Its shriek took a moment to build; the Trucker knew it was coming by the way the taut, firm fucktoy tensed under him and involuntarily clenched is ass on his pulsing member.
The sadistic alpha leaned forward and clapped his hand over the bitch’s mouth, pressing down so hard its lips were mashed painfully into its teeth. “Shaddup and take what’s comin’ to ya, faggot!” he snarled. He didn’t mind making the fuckmeat scream, but he had enough experience as a fagkiller to know the value of discretion. He didn’t mind if the meat died in silence, as long as it was riding his cock when it did.
But that was when Kevin made one of the greatest—and last—mistakes of his short, useless life. Even though the Trucker hadn’t closed off his nose, the pressure the murderous stud was exerting on his face had the effect of severely restricting his nasal passages. With agonized panicked snot clogging his sinuses, his ability to breathe was reduced by some ninety percent—not quite enough to suffocate him, but more than enough to induce blind terror.
Kevin’s error was to give in to that terror and yield to his instinct. He bit the Trucker’s hand.
“YOU GODDAM ASSWIPE!!” the buff killer barked out, snatching his injured palm away from the boy’s mouth. The homo’s pent-up screams rolled out, massive breakers of suffering echoing off the thin walls. But the terrified whoreboy couldn’t stop.
So the Trucker made it stop. He punctuated his verbal abuse with physical persuasion.
“Shut [WHAM!] your [WHAM!] fuckin’ [WHAM!] cock-gobbling [WHAM!] faghole, you [WHAM!] worthless [WHAM!] homo [WHAM!] cumpig!!! [WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!]”
By the time he was done driving his fist into the kid’s face with all the force of his semi moving at top speed, the meat’s visage had been pulped into hamburger. And while the Trucker hadn’t completely removed its ability to make noise, it was quieter now, only emitting a faint blubbering, sobbing sound as its ass got merciless plowed.
It was also going loose, its mangled rectum exerting less pressure on the Trucker’s giant hog. That was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected; the firm, young bodies of the fags he offed were able to take a lot of punishment before their lingering deaths, but they had weak psyches. Their tiny little minds collapsed into shock long before their smooth, lithe forms had milked the potent manseed from the huge tool grinding relentlessly into their guts.
It was ok, though. The Trucker knew how to fix that. Shock could be offset by shock.
Rearing up on his knees, he reached over and snatched the lamp off the bedside table. An obvious thrift store find, it was old and ugly without having any true value whatsoever; the dingy white porcelain on the base had a poorly-executed floral design, and the shade was battered and dingy.
But it wasn’t the lamp itself the Trucker wanted. He smashed it roughly against the metal headboard of the bed. The meat flinched as shards or porcelain rained down on its face, but otherwise, it maintained its vacant stare. Even as the Trucker ripped the sturdy cord from the mangled metal base and tossed it over his shoulder into the middle of the squalid room, the punk fuck didn’t move.
It wasn’t until the cruel sex killer dangled the cord in front of the meat and slapped it twice in the face—hard—that it began to come out of its trance.
And the Trucker knew it. It was time to prep the fagshit for what was in store for it.
The hardbodied, powerful murderer looped the thick cord—double copper strands covered in thick rubber—into a simple granny knot and dangled it in front of the helpless slut’s face. “You know what this is for, yeah? You know what’s gonna happen now,” he said, calmly, and in an even, measured tone that was somehow even more terrifying that his rage, given his complete control and dominance over the fag’s life at this point. “You deserve this, motherfucker. Goddam, you need it—you want it; don’t fucking act like you don’t, ‘cause you little worthless cumpigs always do. I’ve snuffed enough of your disgusting perverted asses to know the truth. Enjoy dying on my huge fuckin’ shaft, asswipe—it’s the best thing to happen to you in yer meaningless existence. Enjoy yer death, cunt!”
And with that, he roughly grabbed a hank of the whore’s hair and jerked it up off the bed, simultaneously slipping the looped cord over its head. Letting the head flop back onto the bed, he proceeded to pull the cord so tight around its neck that it instantly sank into the tender flesh of its throat.
After that, Kevin’s brief and miserable experience on this planet got much, much worse than the pansy had ever imagined possible. It wasn’t that it didn’t know that such things were possible; it had just always thought that it was smart enough to avoid it. And now that it knew how wrong it was, it was far too late to do anything about it.
The instant cessation of air into its lungs triggered an immediate panic response, but with its arms bound and its voice silenced, the only way it could react was with its firm, hard body—and this was what the Trucker wanted. As its smooth thighs tightened around his waist and its lithe, lean body tensed beneath him and clenched his rigid cock like a vise, the sadistic serial killer grinned in pleasure as he rammed his massive tool even deeper into its suffering form, relishing the way its agony profoundly intensified the pleasure he felt.
This was the only way to handle faggot whores. It wasn’t enough to expunge their useless presence from existence; it needed to happen while they rode his dick into their graves.
“Aw, yeah!” he grunted, “Fuckin’ die, you goddam cumpig! Die on my cock like you deserve!!”
Inside his thrashing body and swollen, blackening face, Kevin was still awake and aware—unluckily for him. The unimaginable pain of having his ass reamed out relentlessly would have been more than enough suffering to leave him mentally traumatized for the rest of his life, but the merciless beating he’d endured, and the vicious taunts of his masculine killer had been enough to send him into shock. It took the cord around his neck to bring him back.
He could still feel the other sources of pain—especially in his bleeding fuckhole—but strangulation added a dimension of unbearable agony that clenched his boyish form in an iron grip, almost literally crushing him. In fact, it was literally crushing him—or, at least, his esophagus.
And the effects were snowballing. As a raging inferno blazed in his oxygen-deprived lungs, his asphyxiation and terror made his pulse pound inside his head like a jackhammer. He wasn’t lucid or intelligent enough to realize some of the details of what was going on, but he was aware of the effects. He didn’t know that his eyes were already bulging, pinpricks of petechial hemorrhages breaking out in the whites like measles; he only knew that as the huge bursts of blackness began to fill his field of vision, what little he could see was becoming increasingly distorted. In the same way, he could feel that his mouth was full of something, but had no idea it was his purple distended tongue, literally being squeezed out of his mouth by the overwhelming pressure on his trachea.
He could feel something else, too—something he unquestionably recognized. His dick was so rigidly erect that it felt like it would burst. But there was nothing he could do about that. There was nothing he could do about any of it, except drool out thick foamy saliva and flail pathetically.
“Like that, dontcha, fag? All you homo sacks of shit want this, yeah?” The Trucker sneered, his powerful body shimmering with a slight sheen of sweat from the exertion of rough sex. “You know this is what you’ve always needed; it’s the only reason you exist. You’re gonna spill your pathetic pansy cum when you die. Just to let ya know. You ain’t gonna feel it; you’ll be a vegetable by then, milking my hog with yer convulsions.”
The meat’s body was also covered in sweat, not the warm male sweat of sex but a cold lubrication of deathsweat, forced out of its pores by mortal pain. In fact, then only part of its twisting, shuddering body that wasn’t oiled by perspiration was its cock—another unlucky break for the stupid little slut. Its painfully swollen member was pressed against the Trucker’s rock-hard washboard abs, every swift, violent thrust of the killer’s hips abrading the fucker’s thick cock against the alpha’s wiry body fur. From the point of view of the dying whore—not that it had many points left, and practically no view—it felt as if it was being forced to fuck a sex toy that had been filled with steel wool.
Suddenly, the fuckmeat jerked violently, pressing its smooth flat belly hard against the Trucker’s as its back arced up off the bed. At the same time, its legs, wrapped around the hardman’s waist, folded at the knee, its heels drumming against its rapist’s hard, flexing ass. But the serial sex murderer ignored it; his glutes were so strong and firm that the meat was unable to cause the slightest damage. With his jeans still on, he could barely feel it.
“Aw, fuck!” the rutting killer grunted as his huge scrotum puckered, his balls on the verge of boiling over with his powerful manseed, “I’m about to give you whatcha want, asswipe! Gonna mark ya permanently with my hot spunk, cocksucker! Ya want it? You gotta die for it, ya worthless garbage!!”
Laying the full weight of his body on top of the thrashing punkfuck, he looked it straight in the face. Even though he knew it was likely too brain-dead at this point to understand—or even hear—him, he couldn’t resist talking to it.
“You ready, bitch? Ya ready for it? Here it comes, faggot!!”
And with that, he jerked the cord so tight that he compressed the whore’s neck to a diameter of an inch and a half—including its spine.
He’d been wrong about one thing—the meat wasn’t too brain-dead to understand him. It was close, but not there yet. The words weren’t even the last thing it heard in its short, useless existence before its brain shut down.
The last thing it heard was the gruesome sound of the cartilage in its trachea cracking and crunching as it was crushed into a tiny wad of bloody gristle.
And then, Kevin finally achieved his true purpose in the scheme of things, giving up his life for the momentary sexual pleasure of a true alpha male.
As the smooth boycorpse convulsed vigorously, it kicked its legs so violently that it managed to fling off one of its hightops, despite the fact that it was still tightly laced. It also unloaded explosively, its thick deathload jetting out irrepressibly and covering the Trucker’s belly and chest in quarts of hormone-laden semen.
The buff killer wasn’t far behind himself. As his body hunched over his youthful victim, hosing its innards with his searing seed, he found himself still beating the shuddering body of the whore, the air filled with the sound of flesh striking fleas, punctuated by the sadist’s orgasmic grunts of pleasure.
After that, it took a few minutes for things to settle down. When the Trucker finally ceased gasping and shuddering, he immediately extricated his gigantic tool from the dead kid’s ass, leaving the corpse still kicking and quivering on the bed, the toes in the ped sock of the shoeless foot curling and flexing visibly.
He spat in the face of the dead cumdump before heading to the bathroom to clean himself of the vile fag spooge matting his fur. Even then, he didn’t feel clean; the towels and washcloths were all filthy. The single small face towel that seemed in acceptable condition wasn’t quite enough to clean the huge deathwad from his torso. As a result, when he got his enormous weapon re-holstered inside his jeans and re-entered the bedroom, he picked up his shirt and stuffed it into his back pocket, leaving it trailing out like a bandanna, and slipped his leather jacket on, letting it hang open to reveal his hairy, cum-glazed chest.
As he’d planned, he got back to his rig and was on his way out of town before the morning rush hour arrived. Grinning as he headed down the interstate, he reflected back with pride on his last glimpse of the dead faggot slut. Spread on its back with its hands still cuffed to the headboard, there was nothing recognizable about it above the point of its grotesquely constricted throat. The spread legs, one still in a hightop, were still quivering slightly as cum leaked out of its slack asshole—and out of its own shriveling cock.
It was a matter of pride in performing a valuable service to humanity by ridding it of yet more subhuman shit. It was equally important to him that it would be obvious to anyone who found the body that another useless homo had been expunged via a truly vicious rape and murder.
And it was obvious, if not in way the Trucker expected. Kevin was never missed; no one gave enough of a shit about him to even notice he was missing. He wasn’t found until nearly a month later, when a rep from the property management company came by to post an eviction notice for non-payment of rent. Company policy dictated that a copy be left inside the apartment unit. Once the door was opened, that cat—as well as a hideous stench—was let out of the bag.
By the time the coroner arrived, the only things discernable about the corpse was that it was that of a young male who had been bound and strangled. The nature of personal items in the room, as well as some long-dried bodily fluids on the sheet, clearly indicated that it had been raped, too. But the decomp was too advanced to yield any genetic material from the killer; in fact, from the medical point of view, it wasn’t clear if the boy had been strangled before or after rape. For that matter, it wasn’t clear if the rape had proceeded or followed the murder.
Even the identity of the corpse remained a mystery. Kevin’s dental records and DNA weren’t on file anywhere in the city, and no one had reported him missing. In the end, what was left of him was cremated, dumped into a small cardboard box, and buried discreetly in a corner of potter’s field, with the other indigents and lost souls.
Tim shifted uncomfortably as a chill wind rustled through the trees. He looked over at Joey.
“Three hundred bucks and two grams of ice per night, right?” he asked.
“You heard ‘im,” Joey replied. “And an ounce of weed each for both nights. He plans to get it moved on Sunday.”
Tim grunted and brushed his long straight dirty-blond bangs out of his eyes. Shuffling his LL Bean camo hunting boots in the leaves littering the forest floor, he zipped up his green nylon flight jacket. His tight jeans and black cotton t-shirt with a Metallica logo were doing little to protect his lithe, seventeen-year-old body from the cold.
Joey was dressed similarly, his jeans tucked into a pair of Browning brown leather lace-up boots. His jacket was nearly the same color as Tim’s, but it was a hooded hunting jacket that he’d kept zipped over his long-sleeved gray t-shirt.
“So…” Tim began after a few moments of silence, “Whaddaya think he’s got in there?” With a backwards jerk of his head, he indicated the metal storage building they were being paid to watch over.
“I don’t know,” Joey snapped curtly, “and I don’t want to.” After a pause, he added, “And you don’t either—not if you’re smart.”
The boys were born only a few weeks apart and had known each other for years, having grown up—and still residing in—the same trailer park. In fact, there were rumors that Tim’s mother had an affair with Joey’s dad, but the latter’s dark wavy hair and dark eyes weren’t compatible with the former’s lank blondish hair and deep blue eyes.
And there were other differences, too. Tim wasn’t unintelligent; like Joey, he’d hunted in these woods since he’d been old enough to hold a rifle. He knew them like the back of his hand and knew how to gut, skin, and dress every animal he killed.
Joey, on the other hand, had a subtle intelligence which, combined with his lack of formal education and utter inability to find a job, often led him astray. Tim would get into problems by getting drunk or high and fighting. Joey…well, Joey had made the connection with Pedro.
Most of the kids at the Clenmore County consolidated high school—and all the dropouts—had heard of Pedro to some extent; after all he was the source for anything you might need. You wanted weed, coke or meth, you went to Pedro. Pills? Shrooms? Heroin? Go to Pedro.
Except you didn’t, not literally. While everyone had heard of Pedro, almost no one ever actually saw him. In a pyramidal structure not unlike the Mafia, he had gathered the thugs and the scum of the county to represent him in both sales and collections. He kept them loyal by supplying them with drugs—and loyal they were. Several CCCHS students that reputedly had had trouble paying their tabs had disappeared. Two of them—a fourteen-yeah-old-boy and a sixteen-year-old girl who had come from wealthy and politically connected families in the county seat—caused something of a public reaction, especially since they vanished within weeks of each other and were unlikely to be runaways.
The resulting widespread search by the SBI found the remains of well over half a dozen more teenagers in varying states of decomposition. Some of the more intact bodies showed clear signs of torture. A county-wide dragnet was thrown out and three of Pedro’s highest and most brutal henchmen—two of whom actually had been directly involved in the torture killings—came under close scrutiny.
And that’s where Pedro’s efficiency and utter ruthlessness showed itself. He’d already formed several contacts inside the county sheriff’s department. Once he learned the identities of the who’d been zeroed in on, they also vanished and were never found.
Everyone knew most of this, but Joey knew more than most. He’d actually met Pedro and had been taken into his confidence—he was, in fact, being groomed to replace Jacko Malone, one of the three who’d disappeared.
He know a lot, Joey did. He knew exactly where Jacko and the others were buried, with two slugs each in their skulls. He knew the metal shed they were guarding had been a meth lab at one point but was now being used to store twenty-five kilos of coke cut with fentanyl and over seven hundred grams of meth, individually bagged.
There were some other items, though, of which he was unaware. He didn’t know about the ten forty-two-gallon garbage bags full of the finest weed north of the border. He didn’t know about the safe in the corner with five Uzis and a quarter of a million dollars in small, used bills.
He didn’t know that as he turned and yanked on the padlock on the shed door to reassure himself, he was being closely watched.
He didn’t know that over the next forty-five minutes, he would suffer a death so nightmarish and agonizing, a visit from Pedro’s enforcers would seem like a blessing.
But then again, he didn’t know Pedro had already undergone his own horrific torture and death.
Mac didn’t usually work on spec, but this one intrigued him. He always avoided speculating on the identities of his employers, but his brief for the hit on Pedro Albañez included photos of some of the murdered students. One of the parents was an attorney who had made heavy contributions to the governor’s campaign and had been subsequentially appointed as a county judge.
Not that any of that shit mattered to Mac—what had pulled him in was the immediate payment of a quarter of a million along with the offer to confiscate for his own use any cash in Pedro’s possession. And drug dealers always dealt in cash.
Pedro had nearly half a million in his home safe. It took a little persuasion to reveal this, and a bit more to learn how to open it (after which Pedro was left with only three out of his ten fingers still attached to his hands). Fifteen minutes later—after a lot of knife work—Pedro finally coughed up the existence of the shed and how to access the money in the shed, along with a thick gout of blood. Seconds later, a drawn-out gurgle in the gangster’s throat signaled his last breath. He died like a dog in his basement, face down in a pool of his own blood.
And now, the only thing between Mac and the rest of his pay was a pair of teenaged punks who’d signed on to work for an utter scumbag. Grinning, he felt his massive cock pulse within the confining groin of his tight black jumpsuit. With his black knit cap pulled low, his black leather tactical gloves and tightly laced boots, he was almost completely invisible in the darkness of the forest undergrowth.
He placed his hand on the grip of his Ka-bar utility knife with its 9-inch double-sided blade—one smooth, the other serrated, and both honed to a truly lethal sharpness—that hung from his webbed nylon belt. Again, he felt a spasm in his potent shaft of manmeat.
Yeah, it was a job. But it was a job he fuckin’ loved. Goddam, nothing felt better than holding a piece of shit guard in your arms and showing exactly how much better a warrior you were, especially if it was young.
Mac was a cold-blooded professional killer. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t take pleasure in showing little boys who thought they were men what it really meant to be a man—what it meant to die like a man.
You’re playing in the big leagues now, boys, Mac thought to himself, smiling grimly as he crept silently forward, let’s see if you have what it takes. If I can’t put you both down, screaming like fucking bitches, within the next forty minutes, I’ll donate fifty grand to the asswipe governor’s campaign myself.
But as he carefully planted the sole of his leather combat boot another step forward, he knew that no donation would ever be made. And yet again, his thick, vein-wreathed member pulsed at the thought of what he was going to inflict on the teens boys. He was commando—as well as a commando—within his jumpsuit; he’d already learned that it left him less clothing to wash his cum out of at the end of a mission.
He’d been observing the boys long enough to have worked out his strategy based on the power dynamic between them. The dark-haired one was obviously the leader; the blond would be unlikely to be in possession of any pertinent info.
Which meant his only use was as a psychological tool against the other one. Mac was about to put their friendship to the test.
Tim was becoming bored and antsy. He lit a Marlboro—he’d been smoking for several years. Joey glanced over at him, but his lack of any kind of sentry training or skills didn’t recognize how strong—and undesirable—a signal smoking on guard duty can send. It ruins any change of concealment and is a profound indicator of amateur status.
Admittedly, in this instance, it didn’t matter, but if Mac had been a sniper, he could’ve taken them out from a half mile away once he’d seen the spark. As it was, it only proved that the teens, with their hormone-driven cockiness, were laughably inept. And it was going to cost them their lives.
“What’re we supposed to be lookin’ fer?” Tim asked as Mac continued his low, stealthy approach, his boots not making a sound on the forest floor.
“Aw, I dunno,” Joey responded. Reaching into the back pocket of his skin-tight Levi’s, he also drew out a pack of Marlboros—but what he pulled from the pack was a tightly-rolled joint, not a cigarette. He fired it up and immediately had a huge coughing fit.
“More ya cough, more ya get off,” Tim chuckled, but Joey didn’t seem to hear him. His response, when he was able to speak again, was to continue his reply to Tim’s question.
“I mean,” the hardbodied, booted adolescent gasped, as soon as he was able to catch his breath, “who’s gonna dumb enough to fuck with Pedro?” He took another lung-busting hit but managed not to cough this time. He pondered for a bit as he slowly released the heavily-scented blue smoke back into the air.
“Still…” he said musingly, “he mighta had some reason. And it ain’t like we been really guardin’ this place, y’know?”
“Whatcha mean?” Tim asked, turning slightly.
As he did, a sliver of moonlight briefly crossed his face. Mac was both alert enough and close enough to see the dilation of his darting eyes and a sheen of sweat on his face. No wonder he wasn’t smoking weed—the kid was high as fuck on meth.
“I mean, we just been standin’ here,” Joey said. “I mean, what if someone’s tryin’ to break in around the back? Look, I’ll go around that side. You take this side, and we’ll meet in the back. Shouldn’t take more ‘n a minute or so. And take yer gun, dude,” he added, nodding at the rifle Tim had propped against a nearby oak tree. He already had his own hunting rifle in his hand.
And with that, Joey headed to the farther side of the shed. He’d left the nearer side to Tim because it was less encumbered with vegetation; he knew his homie was too fucked up to deal with tricky situations. As usual, he was going to have to watch over Tim. When’s the stupid fucker gonna learn to take care of himself? Joey thought. A swell of an almost paternal love for the other youth filled his heart at such a deep, subconscious level that he was utterly unaware of it; he only felt a warm emotional glow.
It was the last positive emotion he was going to experience in his short and useless life.
As the dirty-blond teen came within arm’s reach of Mac’s ambush spot, his camo hunting boots loudly signaled his approach as twigs snapped and leaves rustled under their heavy tread. Mac grinned momentarily; the meat was making this too easy. Then his hard, cold face snapped back in a seriousness that showed his laser-like focus on the task at hand.
He was unaware that he was not only leaking precum at this point, he was leaking so much that a patch the size of a quarter was glistening in his groin.
Mac’s lightning-swift lunge took Tim so by surprise that the adolescent punkmeat never did figure out what exactly happened to it. Of course, it wasn’t given much time—and what time it was given was completely devoted to terror and agony.
It started with Mac’s gloved hand clamping over Tim’s mouth with an iron grip that formed an airtight seal. Simultaneously, his right hand sank his Ka-bar knife an inch and a half deep into the cunt’s back. The hand over the unlucky youth’s mouth muffled his inadvertent scream of pain into little more than a muffle grunt.
Mac jerked the knife out immediately. He’d deliberately missed any organ or major blood vessel; this was meant as an appetizer, so to speak. Something to whet the meat’s appetite for what lay in store.
Dragging the teenaged sentry into the undergrowth, Mac found a small glade, barely five feet across, less than three yards from the building. This was where it was all going down.
The tall, well-muscled hardman held the boy securely in his arms as it shuddered and writhed. Its continued grunts told him it hadn’t stopped trying to scream.
Lowering his heard until the three-day scruff on his manly cheeks abraded Tim’s outer ear like steel wool, he whispered hoarsely to the suffering boy. “Shut the fuck up, asswipe. You ain’t dyin’—yet. Here, look at this.”
With that, he held the double-sided blade up in front of the boy’s eyes. Two things were instantly clear, even to Tim’s meth-clouded brain. One was its terrifyingly obvious capability of inflicting excruciating death. The other was that for all the pain Tim was in, he’d only experienced a fraction of that capability.
Somewhere in the back of the barely coherent teen’s mind, a vague sensation of wet warmth on its feet was registered and immediately ignored. It never knew it had lost control of its bladder as the sight of the blood-smeared blade, its pissed cascading down its leg to where its jeans were tucked into its water-tight boots.
“Hold on, motherfucker,” Mac muttered grimly, “We’re just gettin’ this show started. Now we gotta what for yer buddy. Heh, what’s the deal with you two. You faggots? Butt-pirates? Ass-bandits? Betcha are. Makes this so much easier. World’s better off without cocksuckers like you, anyway.”
Mac was edging. He needed to pull back from the brink or this wouldn’t be up to his professional standards. So he did.
And for nearly four minutes straight, Tim had to suffer the nightmarish torture of being clamped tightly in the muscular arms of a powerful, anonymous male, a terrible wound in his back, his nostrils full of an overpowering mix of leather, sweat, and the subtle but amazingly strong influences of adrenaline and testosterone.
Worst of all to the seventeen-year-old scumshit was the way it all resulted in an utterly involuntary and uncontrolled erection. Tim was a muscular country boy, as was Joey. Both had explored each other during their homosexual stage in puberty; each was a good seven inches long. Joey only won out in girth; fully erect, his was over two inches in diameter while Tim was left with a nonetheless-respectable inch and a half.
And somehow, in some way, that long slab of boymeat had come to life on its own after he’d filled his boots with piss, responding to Tim’s pain and fear with a swollen, aching erection. But he was pinned so tightly he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
It seemed to take an eternity for Joey to reappear around the corner of the building—an eternity of terror for pain and of anticipation for Mac.
Placing his brown leather lace-up boots carefully, the adolescent peered around, an expression of concern. “Tim?” he called out, audibly but not loudly. “Where ya at, man?”
Within Mac’s inexorable grasp, Tim struggled to respond. Mac tightened his grip to the point that the punk desisted from sheer pain alone.
Joey rounded the corner to the side he’d sent Tim down. He paused, looking down at something. Mac followed his eyeline and saw the rifle Tim had dropped when he’d been snatched. The jig was up.
“Hey, motherfucker,” the buff assassin called out. “Wanna watch yer butt-buddy die? Get yer faggot ass over here.”
Joey heard Mac’s contemptuous, masculine voice and his blood ran cold. He cautiously stepped forward, his face pale in the watery moonlight. Something bad had happened to Tim…
The moment the adolescent punk placed his boot into the glade, he froze in horror. A windblown cloud had blocked the moonlight and he could just make out Tim standing in an awkward position. There was something over his mouth—and something behind him, something Joey couldn’t identify. But it scared the fuck out of him. There was a glint there in the darkness, the faintest glint of icy steel…
Then the cloud cleared the moon, and Joey was confronted by the sight of Tim being held in the iron-hard grip of some guy who looked like a fuckin’ commando.
“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me??” The teen blurted out. In response Mac smiled and held up the blade and Joey instantly saw that the guy wasn’t fucking kidding him.
It was the most wicked knife Joey had ever seen, grotesquely long, obviously razor-sharp—and smeared with blood at its tip. It took a moment for the stoned guardboy’s fogged brain to accept what it was seeing. Whose blood was it?
It was fresh. It could only be Tim’s, and the tears of pain and terror streaming down his face confirmed it. But even so—no. This was a bad scene, but it wasn’t that bad.
And of all the bad decisions and moronic miscalculations of the young asswipe’s useless life, that was undoubtedly the stupidest.
“Drop the heat fuckwad!” the man snarled in the same cold, hard voice Joey had heard before, but the boy merely stood there, motionless and slack-jawed.
Mac knew what had happened. He relaxed a bit, internally—his rigid muscular form itself never relaxing in the slightest. Not that he was in any way concerned about the course of events, but the main problem in dealing with raw amateurs was the unpredictability of their reactions. In the case of fight or flight, flight was the least favorable outcome. There was always the possibility of the target alerting others before being put down.
But a large number of them went the third way, like the worthless piece of shit in front of him now. The target would simply freeze, its soft, weak mind in a kind of vapor lock. The question now was, what it would take to get that soggy lump of THC-soaked tissue inside the sentry’s skull working again?
“HEY!!” Mac shouted. Joey started and looked him straight in the eye. Mac’s icy blue gaze locked onto the teen and held him in place as surely as if he’d been physically restrained, and from that moment, he gave up both his own and Tim’s life.
“Drop your fucking rifle, you dumbass cunt, or I’ll cut your boyfriend’s throat. You’ll like that. See?” With that, Mac held the blade against Tim’s throat and drew the blade along the smooth, tender skin. He only used enough pressure to break the skin, but Tim’s muffled screams almost drowned out Joey’s bleat of despair as he saw blood trickling down his best friend’s neck. His nerveless hands went slack; the sound of its impact on the carpet of leaves was faint but distinctive.
Nonetheless, Joey didn’t hear it. Nor did he feel the warm wet sensation spreading out from his crotch. He was fully focused on Mac—almost hypnotized, like the old canard about snakes and birds.
“Good,” the experienced merc went on, his tone calm and even. “Now, c’mere.”
Joey took another two steps forward. “Closer, boy. We’re gonna have a nice little talk, the two of us.”
The adolescent sentry crept forward like a half-tamed deer, his feet cold and wet in his piss-filled Browning boots. Faint piteous moans escaped involuntarily and almost inaudibly from his mouth, but he managed to bring himself within reach of Mac despite his overwhelming terror at doing so.
“Ok, here’s how this is going down. I’m gonna ask ya some questions. You keep answering, you’re ok. You don’t answer, you lie even once, I’m gonna butcher this cocksucker like a fuckin’ hog right in front of you. You get me, buddy?”
Joey stared at Mac in horror, his jaw still hanging open. Tim’s eyelids were tightly clenched shut. But neither of the teens could power off their senses, or their reflex reactions. Overpowering adolescent hormones combined in their blood along with the massive amounts of adrenaline and testosterone generated by all three males as they navigated a profoundly critical situation.
So as a trickle of saliva trickled down Joey’s chin from his gaping mouth, the bulge tenting his tight jeans was even larger than the one Tim had been sporting for the last ten minutes.
Despite abject terror having a severely sobering effect, Joey had been so stoned that even now his foggy brain couldn’t seem to generate a response of any kind. Needless to say, Mac was not pleased. But he didn’t want to kill the little homo he’d grabbed—yet. For one thing, it eliminated one of his bargaining chips. And for another it could send the other pile of boymeat so far over the edge that interrogation would be useless. He needed to start gently.
The reality was that Mac was well aware that these relatively low-level punk fucks were unlikely to know anything and almost certainly had no info that he’d find useful, or even pertinent. But he hadn’t become so proficient as a killer mercenary without trying to gather whatever possible intel he could.
And the thought of showing stupid young dumbshits what it meant to play with the big boys always got his enormous staff of manhood as stiff as a girder.
“Hey, dude,” he called out to the free-standing teen, “ya remember what I said about not answering?” And with that, he stuck the blade into Tim’s throat.
It only went in half an inch, and Mac was dexterous enough to be able to miss any major blood vessels. It did what it was designed to do, though, especially given that at the same time he’d momentarily uncovered his hostage’s mouth.
Between Tim’s panicked screech of pain and the minor but visually impressive spurt of blood that spat out his neck, it gave Joey the distinct impression that he’d just seen Tim get killed. The wounded boy continued to scream.
“SHADDUP!!!” Mac yelled, clamping his hand back over the meat’s mouth. He turned his face to Joey. “Fucking pansy crybabies, both of ya,” he sneered. “Look, the blood is barely trickling now. Trust me, motherfuckers, if I really have to off you, it’s gonna hurt worse than anything you’ve ever felt.”
Here, he lowered his head and moved it slightly forward, his rough, stubbly cheek once again scraping against Tim’s tear-stained face. His eyes locking onto Joey’s, he made sure that the young sentry felt the full impact of his gleefully malicious grin.
“You gotta understand, you scumshit,” Mac said in a low, malicious tone, “I’m good at what I do. What’s more, I enjoy it. I fuckin’ get off on torturing and killing stupid fuckwads like you two, who think they’re warriors—that they’re real men. So I’m gonna ask you this one last time, and if I don’t get an answer, I’m gonna use your little butt-buddy here to show you exactly how much a man can suffer before he dies—and if you keep it up after that, you’ll get to enjoy the sensation yourself. Now, do you fucking UNDERSTAND me?!?”
It worked. Somehow, the logjam in Joey’s mind broke up. He gulped and inhaled shakily. “Y-y-yes, s-sir,” he stammered in such a faint, pathetic voice that I would have moved Mac to tears, if he had had a heart.
But he didn’t have a heart, he had a long, hard cock, and a long hard blade. And the only way to relieve the ache in the former was to put the latter to work.
“So,” Mac replied, almost casually, “what’s in that shed? Why did Pablo have you two incompetents out here guarding it?”
“Dude, I don’t—” Joey began but Mac’s glare and a faint twitch of his knife, back at Tim’s throat silenced him.
“Remember what I said about lying, you little asswipe,” the hardbodied killer hissed.
Joey gulped again, more loudly, and started again. “C-coke an-and meth, sir,” he blurted, “I don’t know how much, really, sir. I know there’s a shit-ton of both in there but please, I really don’t know how much—please don’t hurt us no more, ok?
“What else?” Mac snapped.
“What-what else?” Joey asked faintly, as if in shock, “Noth-nothing else, man, please, oh fuckin’ God, please let us go! That’s it, dude, I swear, there ain’t nothing else!!”
The teen boy shriveled as the muscled merc glowered furiously at him. The cocky adolescent who’d thought himself such a badass was dead; if Joey survived this night, he’d emerge with his psyche so shattered as to appear similar to physical brain damage.
In a sense, then, the fact that he wasn’t going to survive that night was a mercy. But only in a sense…
“BULLSHIT!!” Mac roared. “I know there’s a lot more shit in there than that. And I know Pablo was training you to be his right-hand man, so you gotta know, yeah?”
Joey’s face had gone past white; it had the gray death-like power of abject terror, with large, dark rings circling the youth’s brown, long-lashed eyes. His hood had fallen back, revealing brown hair that had been carefully styled into an untidy mop at one point but was now soaked with sweat despite the chill.
“How do you know about that?” he whispered in terror. No one knew about that besides Pablo and him.
“Oh, Pablo told me,” Mac replied casually, a jaunty smile on his face. “That was not too long before I tore his throat out. Of course, he was as reluctant to talk as you. More so, in fact—I think my persuasive techniques left him grateful for death. So you see, dickhead, if you keep pretending like you don’t know anything, I’ll be more than happy to ease your passage likewise.”
Joey fell to his knees, sobbing and pleading incoherently. Tim had long since made little motion in Mac’s arms. The boy was breathing normally and trembling, but Mac suspected that this particular piece of guardmeat had checked out some time ago.
That was ok. He still knew a way to evoke a response from it—and from the other one, too.
After all, both had to die anyway; that was a given. The experienced mercenary never left any witnesses. But it wasn’t enough that he kill them—as far as Mac was concerned, they needed to suffer for their profound presumption into thinking that raw teens could possibly compete with a field replete with experienced professional killers. And there was yet another reason.
The circles in which Mac moved professionally were not huge; he was among an exclusive tier of hired assassins. It wasn’t the highest tier; Mac wasn’t an international killer. He preferred to clean his own house first. But within his level, he was very well-known and well-regarded. This kill would be advertisement. Those who knew him would recognize his MO. He’d already terminated the main target in a way that sent an unmistakable message, so the job was already a success. Putting these two little pieces of shit down would only enhance his reputation for ruthlessness and thoroughness.
The moment he rammed his blade horizontally through Tim’s neck, his cock began seeping precum.
Oddly enough, so did Tim’s, even though no one knew it at the time. Not even Tim; he was too busy dying.
‘GACKPTH!!!” the agonized teenager spat out, along with thick gout of crimson blood, as the razor-sharp steel sliced through tendons, ligaments, veins, and arteries with the ease of penetrating a bowl of gelatin. The only resistance was when the trachea was pierced, and the knife encountered the rubbery tissue of the larynx. Mac had done this literally dozens of times before; increasing the pressure on the hilt until the knife sprouted out the other side of the punk’s neck was an automatic reflex by now.
At least three inches of blood-smeared steel had come out the far side of Tim’s throat when Mac, a sneer of utter hatred on his face and his stallion-like dick trickling a steady stream of precum, twisted the blade and reamed out the fucker’s throat, ripping its voicebox into bloody shredded calamari. Then the sadistic merc sawed the knife out, cutting forward out of the meat’s neck—the knife was sharp enough to slice through everything like deli meat, but Mac knew the slow sawing caused much more pain.
Placing his knee in the middle of Tim’s back, he shoved the gurgling, blood-spewing teen right into the arms of his best friend. Still kneeling, Joey half-rose and caught him in his arms before sinking back down and laying Tim on the forest floor. He instantly found himself retching uncontrollably as Tim’s hot, sticky blood cascaded over him, filling his nostrils with the overpowering and nauseating scent of copper.
“Oh—oh God, Tim, no, don’t’ die! For fuck’s sake Tim, stay with me!!”
Cradled in Joey’s arms, Tim looked up at him, his face twisted in unimaginable agony and horror. The geyser of blood from his ripped-open throat was starting to slow when the boy convulsed and a thick jet of pinkish foam shot out over Joey, leaving him reeking of alcohol.
In his death throes, Tim had vomited all over Joey. But the only contents of his stomach were a six-pack of cheap beer. Gazing up at Joey, Tim reached up. He managed to stroke Joey’s face once before his hand dropped limply to his side and he began to thrash violently. Joey held him tight during his last few nightmarish seconds on earth.
Had either of them know it, it might have helped—on a deeply internal level that neither could have possible even admitted to each other—to know that Tim most intense orgasm of Tim’s utterly useless life happened while he bled out in Joey’s arms.
After all, Joey’s death wouldn’t be in the arms of his latent, repressed crush.
The young sentry had kept his hunting jacket buttoned; now he unfastened it. Shrugging it off, he staggered backwards from horrifying stench of death. Amazingly enough, despite the fountain of gore he’d endured, his clothing was clean, aside from some stains on the front of his legs above the knees. It had also splashed on his face, but he’d already wiped most of it off with the jacket sleeves.
“Now it’s your turn,” Mac said, smiling grimly as he held up the bloody blade. As he stepped forward, his experience and professionalism showed in the way his tightly-laced black leather utility boots didn’t make the slightest sound on the carpet of dead, brittle leaves.
Mechanically, Joey began backing, matching Mac’s pace. His eyes, leaking tears, were locked helplessly onto the muscled killer’s steely gaze. He knew he was going to die—but he didn’t really know it. He didn’t feel it.
Mac was going to change that.
“You want this, don’t you?” he said in a low, almost seductive tone as he held his gore-stained serrated knife up. “Look at it, asshole. Look at how hard it is—how long. You want it inside of you, don’t you?” His leer was suggestive and somehow hypnotic. “I stuck in your boyfriend. Does that make you jealous? I thrust it in hard and fast, right up to the hilt.”
Here his eyes flicked downward, too quickly to break their mesmerizing spell on the mind-raped teenager. It was enough to confirm his suspicions. “You’re hard, boy. Miss your little faggot butt-buddy, huh? Well, you’ll be joining him soon.”
Joey could only sag against the tree behind him and whimper. He was, quite literally, mindless with terror, unable to form a single lucid thought. And yet—and yet, some fragment of his hatefucked mind was still painfully aware that his thick young boycock was not only erect but was straining so hard as to cause physical pain.
At that moment, though, Joey was much more aware of something else. Mac had finally reached him.
Mac pressed his hard, firm body up against the kid, pinning him to the tree. Reaching around to force his hand between cunt’s head and the tree trunk, he gripped the boypunk’s head from behind like a clamp to keep it still.
After all, this next part was going to be so agonizing that the sentry was going to thrash violently. Meat always did when it died—especially teen meat.
For a moment, a memory flashed before Mac’s eyes.
It was right before he’d wasted Pablo. The motherfucker had passed out under interrogation and Mac had been looking for something to amp up it’s pain when it woke back up—he was excellent at this kind of improvisation. Before finally lighting on a pair of garden shears, Mac had found some insulin pen needles—evidently the thug was diabetic, something of which Mac would permanently cure him within the next hour.
Anyway, they were too small to do any damage, but a phrase on the side of the box caught his attention—“lubrication designed for gentle injection”.
The sadistic assassin chuckled malevolently. There wasn’t going to be anything gentle about this injection—and the only lubricant was going to be the blood of a dumbfuck teenage boy.
Mac placed the tip of the blade against the soft, tender flesh of the trembling guard’s underjaw, three inches behind its chin, which was just beginning to sprout with downy, adolescent fuzz—the sign of an incipient manhood that would never have the chance to blossom to its full state of twisted criminal growth.
This was what the aroused hardbodied killer loved—this intimacy. The way his target writhed beneath him as he watched its utterly worthless life drain from its eyes, the helpless bleating of despair and agony…this was what he needed. It wasn’t enough to off the scumshits—they needed suffer, and he needed to make goddam sure they did.
As he began to slowly increase the pressure, driving the knife up into the sentry’s mouth. Almost immediately, a loud screech came from the meat. It didn’t matter—there was no one else to hear the stupid teenager scream out the last nightmarish minutes of its life.
“Shh,” Mac whispered tenderly, perhaps even lovingly, “You’re gonna love this shit, dude. You already know you need it and deserve it. Fuck, you want it. I can feel your dick, faggot. It’s rubbing against mine. You want me to cum, yeah? You want to try to make my spunk as you unload your death wad? That’s exactly what you’re gonna do, fuckwad—fuck yeah, let’s get this shit on!!!”
The next stage was more horrifically excruciating than anything in Joey’s life—beyond anything the boy could have possibly conceived. In fact, even though he would never know it, it was worse than anything Tim had ever experienced as well.
And that included having his throat ripped out.
Mac’s movement was swift and brutal. In so many words, he stabbed the teenager in the sinus.
In doing so, he drove the wicked serrated blade up through the muscles on the underside of the jaw. Entering the oral cavity, it continued upwards, pinning the tongue to the roof of the mouth. When Mac encountered the resistance of the palate, he applied more pressure. The bone cracked with an audible splintering sound, allowing the sharply honed steel to penetrate into the sinus. As it did so, completely bisected the unlucky boy’s tongue, neatly as the midpoint.
Even as the front half of its tongue flopped forward, beyond control, it was still attached to the meat’s mouth by the frenulum. It was unable to eject the large wad of ungovernable muscle in its mouth. The young guard could no longer articulate, it could only utter wordless shrieks and drool blood. Even so, as Mac was well aware, it maintained its erection. Fucking deathpig, it wanted this so bad, and Mac was more than happy to help.
“Fuckin-A,” he murmured into the boy’s ear, “Salt and copper, yeah? That what you’re tasting? That’s blood. That’s what death tastes like, motherfucker!”
Joey knew that by now. In fact, it was all he knew now. His entire existence, his entre awareness, had (with one exception) focused on the sharp point of the blade that was slowly impaling his cranium.
“It’s called skullfucking, asswipe,” Mac hissed at the trembling kid, his eyes glittering icily with erotic hatred, “Ya get it? I’m fuckin you up bad, right through the skull. Now the fun’s about to start—next thing I’m fuckin’ up is your worthless brain.”
Joey could hear; he could hear every word. The words seemed to be a faint echo from down a long hallway, true, but he still heard them. He could still feel the knife slicing upwards through his oral and nasal cavities. That pain didn’t stop. But what happened next didn’t cause him any pain at all. There are no nerve endings in the brain.
Instead, the dying teenager suffered the impacts of gradually worsening traumatic brain damage. Mac knew how to kill almost instantly with a knife to the brain—jam up in through the back of the neck, up through the foramen magnum, the hole through which the spinal cord exits the cranial vault. You get the knife into the brainstem and grind it around in there a bit, and you’ll stop its heart and/or lungs in, well, in a heartbeat.
Or you could do it the way Mac was doing it now, but instead of shoving the blade straight up, you angled to the rear and hit the cerebellum, incapacitating the target loss of motor control and inducing overpowering nausea. You could get the same effect going in through the ear.
These methods turned a dangerous professional armed guard into a twitching pile of manmeat within seconds. Mac reserved them for worthy opponents. This worthless sack of shit was going out the hard way.
That meant slashing straight up into the cerebellum, deep into the parietal lobe, the sharp steel tip lodging directly into the insular lobe. It took a lot of skill to be able to get the blade to exactly the right spot, but it was one of the first Mac had acquired—it was one of his favorites. He had done this so often in the past that the ability was almost reflexive at this point.
With the knife in this precise position, Mac had blocked the punk’s sensory inputs and interpretation. With certain slight movements, he was able to control what it felt. He wasn’t a neurosurgeon and had no interest in the specifics involved, but he was able to manipulate what it felt in terms of pain and pleasure, both in volume and intensity.
This always worked the best on these stupid young guns. Their very youth helped them fight through the massive trauma-induced shock. Its senses would be all fucked up, but it could still hear and see and smell. Mac didn’t know how well—it would have pleased him to know that it produced so painfully exaggerated sensations. But it definitely could still feel.
This was what the stupid young fuck needed to cure its cockiness. This was what happened when boys pretended they were men. This was how they learned their place. A real man could have posed a threat. A real man wouldn’t have let his emotions control him—he would have watched his comrade die in the blink of an eye. These teens had to die hard—because they made it too easy.
And because Mac enjoyed it.
He knew he’d placed the knife correctly when the boymeat made an incoherent gurgle and wrapped it hands around his thick, tense biceps, clutching them tightly. Its dark eyes, ringed gray with shock and as wide open as seemed humanly possible, suddenly dilated. Mac inched closer, his utility boots bracketing the meat’s brown leather hunting boots as their groins ground together, long hard cocks rubbing against each other through the killer’s black tactical jumpsuit and the dying guard’s piss-moist jeans.
“Now, boy,” Mac whispered, his almost loving tone belied by the ferocious look of mingled hate and lust in his hard, scruff-covered face, “It’s almost over. Only a few more seconds.”
He was close enough for the full strength of his masculine pheromones and testosterone to be carried by the tang of his sweat past the kid’s blood-streaked upper sinus. The way the blade was placed in the insular lobe massively exaggerated the effects these had on the impact of the adolescent’s nervous system, already overstimulated and rampant with adrenaline and teenage hormones.
The only thing that prevented Joey from oragasming on the spot was that the tiny bit of lucidity that still clung on despite the mind-bending agony and terror was still there—fear is a great cock-blocker. So the sheer awareness of onrushing death was enough to curb the sexual reflex.
What it needed was just a tad of stimulation—a mere soupçon. What it got was a devastating explosion, and all Mac had to do was just twist the blade inside the teen’s brain ever so slightly…
What Joey experienced would be difficult to describe in words. It was as if a huge nuclear weapon had been set off in the center of his brain. Except…except it was different. A sudden explosion of white light that began to fade. A deafening high-pitched tone that replaced all other sounds. A burst of unbearable heat that slickened his lithe adolescent body with the cold sweat exuded under conditions of overwhelming pain.
Because there was pain. Holy fuck, there was pain, so far off the scale that it merged imperceptibly into the most profound, intense pleasure that Joey’s firm young frame went rigid in searing, agonizing ecstasy.
He didn’t know he was ejaculating. What little of his mind was left could only interpret the sensation as one of molten lead being pumped up out of his balls and through his hard dick, excruciating, boiling heat accompanied by a powerful shock. Mac knew what was happening, though.
Finally. This was it. This faggot cocksucker finally learned its proper place in the world, and that was enough. This had happened so many times before that Mac had trained himself to undergo some of the most massive orgasms in his life without making a sound. The only signs he gave off were a sudden ragged increase in his breathing and a mild tremor in his rock-hard limbs—and a glistening spot in his groin where his hot seed, potent as any weapon, had spewed out in such volume as to soak through his clothing.
None of was strong enough to prevent him from jerking the knife grip back towards himself and upwards, rotating it around its center of mass like a pivot. This swung the back of the blade downwards, its tip making an arc along the inside of the rear of the cranium.
And that was the end of Joey. As the steel knife sliced down into areas that controlled more basic bodily functions, the gray connective tissue parting like a curtain all the way down into the brainstem, the few surviving specks of Joey’s personality, his being itself, faded to black. The last thing he felt was the grotesque pain of his still-spurting deathload.
Not that the convulsing teenmeat was dead. Its respiration and heartbeat both became rapid and highly irregular, signs that it had suffered fatal brain damage The eyes rolled back in its head and a grunting, bleating sound emerged from its throat in tempo with its gasping for air. Again, Mac handled it like a professional. Finishing the job, keeping the target silent and immobilized until its violent death throes slowed enough that he knew it wouldn’t attract any notice. There wasn’t anyone around to notice, but it was important to do the job right, no matter what.
And as he clamped his gloved hand across its mouth to muffle its final death gurgles and pressed the dying punk against the tree with his own body, Mac took advantage of the situation by allowing the last few convulsion of the youth to massage his crotch and milk the last two loads of his own semen out.
And then that was it. The convulsions slowed, the breathing reached a crescendo, then trailed off in a long-drawn out gargling sound deep in the throat. It was literally meat, random limbs shuddering as nervous system misfires continued for a few more minutes. Mac yanked his gore-streaked blade out of its head and wiped it carefully on the dead kid’s sweat-darkened shirt. Then he stepped back and let the corpse slump to the floor like a rag doll.
It had been less than four minutes since the other fucker had squirted its own deathwad. In fact, a little over ten minutes ago, both Joey and Tim had been blissfully unaware of Mac’s presence.
Eminently satisfied with a job well done, the hardbodied assassin left the glade without so much as a backwards glance. The fact that he’d seized a moment to enjoy his job didn’t mean he didn’t take it seriously. And besides, the rest of his pay was waiting for him.
Behind him, the chill wind cut through the glade, lowering the temperatures of the pair of already-cooling corpses. Splayed on its back, the sac of meat that had gone by the name of Tim had stopped kicking; all that remained were the rapidly decreasing spasms that made its fingers curl and its boots twitch. Joey’s remains were a few minutes behind in the grisly dance of death. It was still digging a furrow in the leaves with its right bootheel—the left leg had folded up under it in such a way that the only motion its left foot could make was to pivot up and down silently at the ankle.
Mac had already forgotten them. Not literally, of course, but his laser-like focus had shifted elsewhere. He’d gotten into the shed with little difficulty. The safe would be as easy but would take a little time—and precaution—to pull off.
Some time ago, he’d come across some pilfered military gear while on a job. He managed to acquire a decent amount of PE-4, the British equivalent of C4, along with a gross of detonators. Needless to say, knowing that he was going to tackle a safe, he brought some along. He’d deliberately learned this skill not so much because his job called for it as because he thought it was a useful ability to have. He didn’t do it often, but he had been expertly trained.
That training included, as well as determining the right amount and placement for various types of safe, the effects of sound and blast damage to the surroundings. As far as sound was concerned, Mac had no worries. It was the blast damage that prompted the precaution.
He scanned the interior of the shed with his flashlight. Half of the space was stacked floor-to-ceiling with trash bags full of weed. There was barely any scent from them, and none had been noticeable outside. Mac had expected this; at some point Pablo had babbled that the shit was old and dry and he’d been trying to find some sucker to unload it on. The sadistic killer had only been interested in that the stuff could be dry enough to become tinder—but even then, it would likely only smolder. Otherwise, he neither used nor sold drugs.
It was the stuff his light revealed on the other side that really worried him. Meth is definitely flammable and ignited heroin can be explosive; luckily, those packages had been placed in such a way that, as Mac noted when he finally located the safe in the far corner, were shielded by the meth.
After all, Mac didn’t give a shit if the shed exploded as long as he wasn’t inside getting the cash when it did.
He did, however, remove the two gallons of acetone left over from the shed’s days as a meth lab that had been placed on top of the safe.
After that, the safe itself presented no problems; it was prepped and opened within five minutes. The cash was easy enough to grab and stuff into a specially-designed pouch attached to his webbed nylon belt—twenty-two stacks of five hundred used twenties, along with some loose bills—two Benjamins and a Grant, also used.
The guns, however, posed a problem for him. He didn’t give a shit about the drugs, but the though of those Uzis falling into the hands of someone he might have to go up against. He didn’t use automatic weapons often—he was more a hands-on killer—but they were handy at times. He already owned a couple of Uzis.
But the contents of the shed gave him an idea. Stuffing the safe as full of the heroin packages as he could, he placed the remainder around it, then walled it in with the meth. Around that, he dragged as many of the weed trash bags as he could until he’d filled in enough to reach the entrance. Standing outside, he emptied the first bottle of acetone he could reach, then used the other to create a train out to a safe distance, making a crude but powerfully effective time bomb.
He lit it with a lighter he carried with him—just in case—and silently vanished back into the forest, his muscular shadowy form melting into the darkness, never to be found.
By the time the shed detonated, felling several nearby trees and sending up a small but very noticeable mushroom cloud up over the forest, all movement had ceased in the teens’ corpses. It took an hour for emergency personnel to arrive at the scene, and the bodies weren’t discovered until nearly three hours after that, by which time they’d become so stiff that the ME had a hard time getting them into his van.
The news of their deaths caused little to no public interest—or, indeed, among their own families, who considered them wastes that they were collectively better off without. Even law enforcement ignored them beyond associating the incident with the ruthless torture and brutal murder of Pablo Albañez, which they were far more interested in investigating. After all, he had a very long list of high-profile enemies. And some with not so high profiles with cartel connections.
And so, three weeks after the murders and a week and a half after the families declined to claim them, the bodies of Tim and Joey were donated to science under a law that permitted the county to avoid paying for the disposal of an unwanted body. As a result each one ended up at different anatomical education institutions.
After that, the only thing they shared was falling into the hands of male medical students who, alone in the med labs at night, cut the teens open and enjoyed their corpses just as much as Mac had enjoyed making them corpses.
It after two am on Saturday morning before the door to the motel room opened and the trick emerged. Barely visible behind him stood Jeremy, clad in nothing but a jockstrap and tightly laced combat boots—the fucking whore.
Gritting his teeth in anger, Rocko’s hands gripped the steering wheel of the old Ford so tightly they went white. Just seeing the adolescent cunt’s lithe body and strawberry-blond buzzcut made the killer’s rage boil over. His mind went back to the last time he’d seen the little fuck.
It had been two weeks ago—could it really have been that long?—and Rocko had been drunk. He usually was these days; it helped release some of the pent-up anger that was corroding his homicidally aggressive soul. The sex with Jeremy that night was been rough—really rough—but it wasn’t like the faggot didn’t deserve it. Or want it, no matter how much it protested.
Rocko had gotten high afterwards, and that was where he’d made his mistake. The combination of alcohol and marijuana had left him groggy. In fact, he’d actually passed out at one point; he’d regained consciousness at the muffled, stealthy sound of the whoreboy trying to silently close a dresser drawer.
“Wha—” the escaped convict muttered thickly.
“I’m leaving, Rocko,” the boy said. “I can’t do this anymore. You hurt me, man, you hurt me too many times. You scare me, dude. When we met, I thought…” Jeremy’s voice trailed off as he stifled a sob.
Raising his head, Rocko noticed for the first time that the homo’s smooth young face was streaked with tears and sported an impressive shiner. The muscle-bound sadist hadn’t remembered doing that—which was disappointing. Looked like it’d been fun as all fuck. He also noticed that the eighteen-year-old whore was carrying the backpack in which he’d toted his meagre collection of clothing when he’d first moved in with Rocko.
“Don’t try to stop me. Rocko,” Jeremy went on, “Don’t come after me. Remember, I know who you are. I know you’re a wanted man. If I so much as think I see you, I’m calling the cops. I mean it, bro.”
And with that, the teen rentboy walked out on him.
As the memory flowed through his mind, Rocko removed his hands from the steering wheel. One had instinctively balled itself into a fist; he used the other to cradle it, desperately resisting the urge to punch out the car window. As furious as he was, that would be stupid. There was another, much more appropriate target for his rage and hatred.
No one ever walked out on Rocko. And no one ever, ever threatened him—and got away with it.
And for Rocko, “getting away with it” was defined as surviving making the threat.
There was a liter of Wild Turkey 101 riding shotgun. He grabbed it by the neck and deftly opened it with the thumb and forefinger of the same hand that was holding it. Taking a couple of hefty swigs, the muscled killer closed the bottle and climbed out of his car. The moment the thick soles of his black leather harness boots hit the pavement, he dropped the booze back onto the driver’s seat and closed the car door—very, very quietly.
For a moment Rocko stood in the shadows by the motel room door. It was a chilly night against which the hardbodied sadist’s jeans, as faded as they were tight, and size-too-small cotton wifebeater did little to protect. Despite that, Rocko’s body, bedewed with sweat, glistened on the rare moments a stray beam from the sodium light that stood forty feet away, illuminating the entrance to the parking lot, fell upon his bare skin. Anger and alcohol had combined to stoke the insatiable fires within.
He moved to the door and cautiously tried the knob. He was able to open it a tiny bit—just a little, but enough to let him see that while the knob had been left unlocked, the chain was on the door.
Stupid little cunt, Rocko thought contemptuously, It needs this. Fuck, it WANTS this. It’s makin’ this way too easy for it not to want it.
He raised his boot and slammed it against the door. The cheap wood screws used to secure the chain’s hardware gave way on the door end first; a doorstop screwed into the wall behind it halted the violent movement of the door itself. Rocko stepped into the room with perfect timing, catching the door before it could bounce back and closing it swiftly but quietly behind himself. Just as silently, he ensured that this time, the knob itself was locked—and the deadbolt.
The scene with which he was presented was one that made his most sadistic urges begin seething.
Jeremy had been lying on his back, smoking a joint, when Rocko burst in; he’d managed to get himself propped up on one elbow before he realized what was happening and had frozen in horror.
Something was exchanged between them, something best described as a mutual recognition of the realities of the situation. Namely, that Jeremy was now locked into a room with a man who not only bore him a grudge, not only was an escaped felon, but was also a gay serial killer.
He’d thought he’d been pretty smart about that threat to rat Rocko out. It wasn’t that he didn’t fear Rocko—the dude scared the living shit outta him—but in his teenaged naivety, he’d assumed it’d make him reconsider long enough for Jeremy to get several blocks away. And after that, he’d assumed, Rocko would eventually forget about it…
But he hadn’t. He was here, oh fuck he’s here… And he was drunk. Even from across the room, the sour smell of fermentation was evident.
Jeremy wasn’t aware of the slackening of his bladder—largely because he didn’t piss himself. His dick was achingly—and bewilderingly—erect. But this commanded such a small part of his attention at the moment that it was more or less ignored. He dropped his roach on the cheap, chemically-infused carpet, where it smoldered poisonously for a minute before going out
But from the moment Rocko’s dark eyes, the visual equivalent of the black hole’s irresistible gravitational tug, locked into those of the adolescent punk—glittering, cat-eye-green, and dilated in panic—one thing was known to both of them with utter, absolute certainty.
Only one of them was gonna leave that room alive.
And that one wasn’t gonna be Jeremy.
“You worthless little sack of shit,” Rocko said, his calm and completely clear enunciation somehow more terrifying than if he’d blurted the words out in a drunken slur. Because he was drunk; that was obvious. His inhibitions were lowered and the inner rage that seethed beneath his surface like magma was starting to erupt.
Except it wasn’t exploding like a volcano. It had narrowed its focus with the intensity of a laser onto one thing, and one thing only.
And that thing was making the fuckmeat understand that Rocko owned it—and making sure the understanding lasted for the rest of its life.
It was a form of instinct that made Jeremy rise from the bed; certainly, his conscious mind was too overwhelmed by shock to react with some sort of action. From the point of view of the teenaged whore, everything seemed to have slowed down to quarter speed, especially himself. There was a brief sense of déjà vu, disorienting, nauseating, and vaguely frightening—he’d experienced this before in a nightmare, this sense of slowly watching his own doom without being able to alter anything in the least.
So there was no surprise as Rocko’s arm flashed towards his face. Jeremy couldn’t even react fast enough to flinch. The surprise was the nothingness that hit him before he could actually process the pain of the blow; the only thing he knew before the lights went out was that he wasn’t dead—yet.
Pain. Pain, and constriction, and…and binding. Jeremy was hurt; his face ached abominably. So did his hands and his wrists. As the flutter of his long eyelashes betrayed his return to consciousness, he began to untangle the sensations of profound discomfort he was getting from his arms.
He was lying on his back with his arms twisted awkwardly behind him. He jerked them almost reflexively only to confirm the feeling of being bound—his hands were tied at the wrist. Had he not been so dazed by being punched in the head, he might have noticed how loose his combat boots now were and realized what had happened to the black nylon laces.
The adolescent’s lucidity was in no way helped once his eyes were fully open. Looming over him was Rocko, now shirtless, the thick, meaty muscles of his arms writhing with prison tattoos of indistinct but menacing forms. The dingy yellow shade of the bedside lamp washed the yellow out of the hardbodied killer’s strawberry-blond goatee and buzz-cut hair, leaving it looking almost copper.
But this was all familiar to Jeremy. That furry chest, those powerful slabs of pure male muscle, yes; he knew it well.
That cock, that monstrous shaft of meat—oh fuck, he knew what that meant. Rocko never got that hard with Jeremy unless he was planning to hurt him.
But Jeremy had never seen Rocko so excited that his gigantic tool throbbed visibly. And then, to the boy’s horror, a large bead of precum, as transparent and glistening as a dewdrop appeared in the center of the massive head.
The punk jerked his head up, only to catch Rocko’s malevolent grin. The latter was holding up an object, the domestic nature of which was so discordant with Jeremy’s terror-inducing reality, that it took him a few seconds to realize that Rocko was holding an ordinary electric steam iron.
Jeremy hadn’t given the thing a second thought when he’d gotten the room. He was no stranger to this hotel; he’d been fucked in nearly every room here. The place occasionally got raided by Vice or the drug squad. In a rather pathetic attempt to make it look like he ran a respectable, family-friendly establishment, the owner had added amenities like coffee makers, irons, and hair dryers to the rooms.
None of the items matched and it was well-known that the owner expected to suffer a certain amount of pilfering from his clientele. Every “amenity” he supplied was gotten for pennies from the local pawn shops, largely as forfeited pledges that turned out to be non-functional. To Jeremy, these things were simply more of the background squalor in which he wasted his short life.
But now, with the way Rocko was holding the iron in one hand while wrapping the cord around the other, grinning down at him, the helpless teen slut realized that if anyone could make anything into a weapon, that dude was Rocko.
“Hey, bro, glad to see yer awake again,” the sadistic felon said. “I been waitin’ for ya, motherfucker. See, you gotta learn, faggot. Now, how ya gonna learn—really, really learn—if yer fuckin’ asleep, huh?”
Rocko’s cruel glee had become almost physically painful. And it only got worse.
“You gotta learn what happens to fuckmeat that thinks it ain’t mine. That’s some bad thinkin’, boy. That means yer brains ain’t workin’ right.”
Here he knelt down and delivered a knockout blow to the kid’s psyche that was every bit as devastating and much more vicious than the physical punch had been. Rocko kissed Jeremy, deeply, forcefully, his muscular tongue probing the teenager’s esophagus and leaving behind the smoky residue of straight bourbon. As Jeremy shuddered, his agile young hormone-filled body instinctively reacting to the older man’s powerful cocktail of pheromones, testosterone, and adrenaline, Rocko lowered his head, his five-days-worth of unshaven scruff rasping against the homo’s smooth boyish cheek, until his mouth reached the level of Jeremy’s ear.
“Don’t worry, fuckmeat,” Rocko whispered tenderly, “I’m good at resettin’ faggot brains. I reset ‘em so good, they don’t ever forget who they belong to. Ever. Ya feelin’ me, my dude? Ever.”
After that, it wasn’t a fair fight. The experienced alpha fagkiller had established his dominance right away and the young scumshit pansy wasted half its energy fighting its own terror. More than that, though—Rocko established physical control as well. Even as Jeremy’s lean but muscular body went rigid in instinctual anticipation of pain, Rocko leaned forward and wrapped the cord of the steam iron around the adolescent’s neck.
For the next hundred and twenty seconds, the teenaged whore struggled harder and more desperately than it ever had in its short, useless life. The physical and psychological impacts of being strangled to death combined with Rocko’s terrifying hate/lust to spin the punk into a mindless panic.
Rocko was grasping the iron itself in one hand and the plug on the other; he’d simply looped the cord once around the meat’s neck and pulled it as tight as he could. As his thick, manly biceps bulged with the frightening force of his psychotic anger, the cord itself gave way, tearing free of the iron.
The free end of the cord whipped around the kid’s neck, releasing the pressure on his esophagus, but flaying the skin from around his throat. No major blood vessels were damaged, but that didn’t stop pinpricks of blood from welling up inside the quarter-inch band of raw flesh that encircled the fucker’s neck.
Now able to inhale, Jeremy came back to himself. Now that the black vortex of abject terror had momentarily subsided, he could acutely feel all the damage done to his throat, both inside and out. Even before the overwhelming pounding had faded from his foggy mind, he was aware—and somehow humiliated by the fact—that his thick boycock was erect and pulsing, despite everything that was happening to him.
Rocko was aware of it, too. His laughter was raucous and cruel. “Goddam, fuckface! I knew—I fuckin’ knew—you were just like every other faggot I done run across. You don’t just know ya need to die—ya want it. Yer gonna say ya don’t an’ yer gonna try to fight me, but deep down, you know you need to die on my cock.”
With a grin that dripped pure sadistic malice, Rocko kept his icy gaze locked onto that of the fuckmeat’s as he reached down and slid his zipper down. The traffic noise outside the sleazy motel room had died down for the moment; the unmeshing of the metal teeth could clearly be heard over the teen whore’s ragged breathing. The meat should’ve known what was coming, but even as Rocko began probing its fuckhole with his dick, it seemed to be frozen, as if struck into silent contemplation by the escaped killer’s words.
This lack of concern didn’t last long. As reamed-out as the teen rentboy’s ass was, Rocko’s hate-inflamed member was truly monstrous, even more menacing than it had been when they’d first met. And this time, the muscle-bound sex murderer went in fast, hard, and dry. Before the young homo knew what had happened to it, its sphincter had been torn and the lining of its rectum split in multiple places. Even as Rocko’s enormous rod ground over its prostate, keeping the pansy fully erect, it was shrieking in agony.
“Shaddup, motherfucker,” Rocko grunted unsympathetically, “Yer pissin’ me off!”
The adolescent whore would have gladly shut up if it could’ve. It had no idea pain like this could exist. It was like being fucked by a dildo made of razor-sharp glass shards. It continued to scream like a bitch. And while the sound of the teenaged faggot sluit getting exactly what it had coming to it was hot as all fuck, Rocko knew he had to keep it quiet to prevent it from attracting attention.
While pumping its asshole remorselessly, the hairy, hardbodied killer reached down and grabbed the waistband of the homo’s jockstrap. With a single upwards jerk, he tore it off the meat, snapping all the elastic bands simultaneously. As the thrashing boywhore opened its mouth and inhaled for another scream, Rocko jammed its cum-stiffened jock as far down its throat as he could. It was still breathing, but at least it was quieter.
And yet, bewilderingly, its own dick was not only still hard—it was leaking precum. And no matter how nightmarish the agony it was enduring, the fuckmeat somehow maintained an awareness of what its shaft was doing.
Even after Rocko clamped his powerful hands around the faggot’s neck and started squeezing it with the inexorable relentlessness of a steel vise.
Once again, the meat struggled as an instinctual reaction to the cessation of oxygen. This time, though, the desperate panic of its prior thrashing bore fruit; the bootlaces binding its wrists had stretched slightly—just enough for it to work its hands free. It immediately began clawing at Rocko’s face.
The killer’s response was to sink the full weight of his bulging muscles down onto his prey, forcing it to first spread its legs, then wrap them around Rocko’s waist, the smooth firm flesh of its inner thighs pressing forcefully against the convict’s thrusting, sweat-slick flanks.
The unlucky homo could feel its tongue swell in its mouth from the constriction on its trachea. As the pressure inside its head began to build, its eyes bulged, locking its stare onto its own boots, kicking in midair beyond Rocko’s heaving shoulders. There was a ball of fire burning in its chest, just up under its breastbone, which seemed to be trying to eat its way out.
But most of all, there was the dick in its ass, that gigantic tool wreathed in veins and powered by an inexorable hate.
The street whore was young. In a pathetic sense, it could be called innocent, in that it had no concept that the pain still in store for it could even exist—but it wasn’t too innocent to know what was happening to it.
It had heard whispers in the circles in which it ran. One day an acquaintance—not a friend, it had no friends—would stop showing up, and there would be stories.
But this young faggot had thought itself too smart to fall into a trap like that. It still didn’t truly believe it, even though it was obvious that as far as the trap was concerned, it somewhat less intelligent than the average rat. It was all just a nightmare, just like its own cock. Its own treacherous, traitorous cock, erect and throbbing as it was continuously massaged by the friction and pressure generated from two male bodies locked together in an erotically violent and desperate embrace.
It was about to become unimaginably more violent. The whore’s clawing hadn’t slackened in the least, and it was pissing Rocko off.
“Goddammit, ya stupid motherfucker,” he snarled into the adolescent boy’s tearstained face, already dark and bloated with congested blood, “You must either really fuckin’ love pain, or yer just too dumb to shut up and take whatcha got comin’, ya worthless faggot cunt!”
Straightening his left arm, Rocko pressed down on it with all his might, forcing the fuckmeat’s neck deeply into the mattress, the depression causing a deep, smooth curve to form in the yellowed, rough sheet. In this position, he was able to keep choking his bitch to death while freeing up his right arm to use.
And use it he did.
Four blows to the mouth, dealt with the speed and force of a jackhammer.
After the second, the meat felt both its lips split and warm blood trickle across its face, and maybe a quiver in its worthless homo cock
After the third, it felt three of its teeth being ground against the inside of its mouth by its relentlessly swelling tongue, and a definite throb in its aroused member.
After the fourth, when its jaw shattered, the bewildered piece of boymeat knew—down in some deep, sick, heretofore-unknown corner of its psyche, it knew—that it was leaking precum.
It was past trying to interpret any of it, though. It was quickly approaching the point at which it would be past anything and everything.
Rocko’s “tough love” discipline had worked wonders, as far as he was concerned. The scumshit had stopped trying to resist its only real reason for existing. The sadistic killer knew that the solitary purpose for the faggot’s presence on the planet was to milk the cum out of his thick tackle as it died like the garbage it was.
If it’d have stuck around, he’d have offed it in a day or two anyway. That was why he was so pissed now; he’d had to wait a long time—way too long—to make the cocksuckin’ pansy suffer the way it needed. The way it had to suffer.
By now the kid was in a mindless panic. Its shattered jaw sagged, allowing its swelling tongue to slowly push the jockstrap out of its mouth. As the sodden fabric tumbled down the cunt’s cheek, it was immediately followed by a foamy white trickle of spittle that had been bottled up. The adolescent drooled like a rabid dog as it died.
“Aw yeah, take it, bitch!” Rocko barked, “Yeah, fuckin’ love this shit!!”
The hairy serial killer could feel that old familiar sensation rising from his potent, seed-filled sack. He knew he needed to spew soon—and that meant it was time for the meat to fulfill its highest and best use.
“Almost done with ya, motherfucker,” he grunted viscerally, “It’s all over, ya stupid faggot. Ain’t no one gonna miss ya or care what happened; ya know that, dontcha?”
Deep down inside, the writhing, dying piece of teen boymeat once known as Jeremy, likely had known that in the last few terrifying seconds of its utterly worthless existence, but the part of its brain that held that information was now dead. It could hear—barely, over the once rapid but now staccato pulse pounding in its ears, but the ability to understand was almost completely gone. It couldn’t see; the black blossoms that exploded like fireworks before its swollen, hemorrhaging eyes had utterly obscured its field of vision.
What it still could do—unluckily for it—was feel. And it still felt everything happening to it. In fact, just before its nervous system collapsed, its nerve endings became hyper-sensitive.
So when Rocko punched it in the throat hard enough to crush its larynx and collapse its trachea, it could feel the way its airway had been blocked by a mangled mass of bloody cartilage in absolutely excruciating detail.
“Aw, fuck YEAH!” Rocko bellowed as an immediate involuntary reaction made the meat go rigid on his cock. Unconsciously, the adolescent whore clutched the sadistic sex killer in a desperate embrace as its limbs tightened around him reflexively, its arms clutching his shoulders as its legs pressed firmly against Rocko’s sides.
Wrapping his mighty paws around the teenager’s throat the buff, inked convict began to literally wring its throat, agonizingly grinding the whore’s trachea to splinters of cartilage and shreds of tissue. As he did, the mindless fuckmeat convulsed powerfully, its smooth, flat belly rubbing against Rocko’s ripped abs, his wiry belly fur abrading the punk’s dick like steel wool.
It was too much. It was too much. Whatever the worthless teenaged slut had been looking for, whether emotionally or sexually, its brutal, agonizing beating, rape, and strangulation satisfied its disgusting pig soul to the point that it had an orgasm.
But that’s not entirely accurate. To describe the final sensations that the Jeremy-meat experienced in its last few seconds as Jeremy as an orgasm would be similar to comparing an A-bomb to an H-bomb—while the impact might appear the same at first, the sheer magnitude had been exponentially increased.
In other words, the smooth, lithe rentboy’s hormone-fueled genitals expelled nearly a full pint of semen as the two male bodies clamped together in an elemental, deeply masculine embrace of pain, cum, and death. But there was more to come—or, rather, more to cum.
Next up was Rocko. Triggered not only by the massaging of his pulsing, oozing cock by the faggot’s death throes but by his overwhelming sense of dominance and righteousness in putting the homo whore down like the diseased animal it was, he emitted a loud, enraged grunt and began pounding to fuckmeat’s face.
“Take it, motherfucker!” he screamed, momentarily forgetting his concerns about being overheard outside the room. “Take it all, ya worthless sack a’ shit! Work my cum out, scumshit! Get it! Get it as ya die! Get it—ahhAGGGH!!!!”
And the very last thing that eighteen-year-old Jeremy, a high-school dropout originally from Des Moines, Iowa, experienced in his short and completely useless life, was Rocko’s seething, potent manseed flooding his rectum and duodenum. One last burst of warmth should have been a comforting spar to cling to as he was swept into the icy darkness of death, but his oversensitive nervous system, as part of its last function moment, let him die with the sensation of having molten lead poured into his asshole.
And then that was it, really and truly. But Rocko wasn’t done; his balls were by no means drained. And neither was the corpse; just because it was dead didn’t mean it wasn’t fuckable—and the postmortem convulsions were sometimes even better…
And this time they were. Rocko collapsed onto the shuddering body; crying out inarticulately, he came again and again inside its dead asshole, slamming his fist into its face with almost every thrust.
By the time he had shot his last load and lay gasping and quivering, almost helpless, the meat’s countenance was beyond unrecognizable. Everything between the hairline and the chin, and between the ears, looked exactly like fine-ground hamburger.
After about five minutes, the meat’s last few firing synapses had slowed to the point that even Rocko’s hyper-engorged manmeat was no longer stimulated. Reluctantly, he pulled out, his massive mushroom-shaped head ripping out with a pop and bobbing in the air for a moment as a last few pearly orbs of his spunk dripped thickly on to the dead boy’s down-covered buttcheek.
Rocko stood up. His body was still glistening with sweat, but his breathing was under control. He looked down at the corpse. It still wasn’t quite still; a limb or digit twitched roughly, about every thirty seconds or so.
“You deserved that, faggot,” Rocko whispered. “You needed it. Hell, you fuckin’ wanted it.”
And with that he headed to the bathroom.
Later, after having showered and redressed, he left the motel room. He paused in the doorway and turned back.
The teenaged fag had been left splayed on its back on the bed, blood and cum leaking from its shredded asshole. Its body still gleamed with the cold sweat forced from it in its mortal agony. Little above the shoulders could be positively recognized as human by sight.
Then Rocko noticed something he hadn’t before—as it died, the cunt had kicked off both its boots. One had landed on the floor a few feet away, but the other had landed on the nightstand—how had he missed that? It must have been while he was spunking…
At any rate, Rocko now grinned in malevolent pride as he looked down on a corpse that had not only died fucked so hard that its toes curled, but that rigor mortis seemed to be setting in. Everyone involved would see how much the cocksucking pansy enjoyed its own death.
After ensuring the door locked behind him, Rocko dropped himself into the driver’s seat of his old Ford and took half a dozen swigs from his bottle of Wild Turkey. His dick began to swell almost automatically. Hell, the bottle wasn’t even half-empty yet. And it was only three in the morning; he knew of some illegal after-hour fag clubs.
And he needed new meat.
Jeremey’s death did have an impact—but not much. A maid found the body the next day. The manager called the police, but both were so accustomed to finding dead whores of both sexes on the property that little fuss was raised.
Jeremy was finally identified by DNA but by that time, his parents, who were Baptist missionaries, had been killed in a plane crash in South America.
The teen whore was interred as a pauper in an unmarked grave. Rocko had been right—no one would care that he was dead.
Tyler woke with a start to find he was tied and immobile and in some sort of large run-down cabin. It took him a couple of minutes to recall what had happened, but the sequence of events came back to him. He’d been hiking a remote section of trail in the Ozarks; a weeklong hike camping as he went. He’d not seen another human for a couple of days, nor any sign of habitation and was loving it. Midday he ran into a man coming in the other direction, with just a small daypack which puzzled Tyler a bit as his map indicated he was miles from anywhere. Like him the other man was shirtless, as the day was pleasantly warm even in the shade of the hardwood forest. The guy was older, perhaps 25 years older than Tyler, who’d just turned 30 the previous week. Tanned hairy and lean with a nice musculature, and obviously well endowed, judging from the bulge in his groin, he was just Tyler’s type. Dark hair, light blue eyes and a close-cropped beard he was not handsome, more rugged and masculine.“Hey Bud! Nice day for it.” The guy said. “Yeah” Tyler responded, “this area is great, and you’re the first person I’ve seen in days!” “This area is quite remote, I’m probably the last person you’ll see, if my past experience bears out. I come here a lot. There is an abandoned road up ahead that gets you into the wilderness quickly. It’s been bulldozed where it used to meet the main road, and the woods have grown and hidden it completely. There’s even an abandoned cabin. Kind of cool.” They engaged in small talk for a while, Tyler hoping the guy did not notice his increasingly tumescent dick through his jeans. This man was so much his type he could not keep it down, and a wilderness fuck would have been amazing. Tyler excuses himself to take a piss, walking off into the trees a short distance. While pissing he hears the man coming up behind him, and when he turns the guy grabs him and holds a solvent soaked rag over his face until he passes out. “Hey! What the fuck is going on?” he shouts. He hears the guy laugh in response from the other side of the room, and he comes over to Tyler, who is angry, confused and scared. The guy now has an obvious, and very large hard on visible in his pants. And he rubs it, standing over Tyler’s immobile body which rests on a beat-up mattress. “I liked your looks and thought I could have some fun with you for a day or two. And I always walk that trail specifically prepared for that possibility.” “You could have tried flirting like a normal person,” Tyler responds. “I thought you were hot and would easily have said yes.” “Not likely you’d consent to what I have in mind buddy, though fucking you is certainly part of it” he says smiling. “There’s at least 15 men buried in the woods around this cabin, hot guys like you, and only one of them was into it. He was into it all the way to the end. A shit ton of fun that was, even though I also love the usual screaming, crying and begging from the men I play with.” “Fuck, man, what are you going to do? You think you want to snuff me?” Tyler asks. He is scared shitless now, but both men are aware his dick is still hard, and at this point leaking precum. “Don’t ‘want to,’ going to is more like it buddy. Maybe you’ll be number two, from the look of your pants. Doesn’t matter how you feel about it though, I’m gonna kill you and get my rocks off doing it. If you manage to cum a few times in the process, that’s cool. But either way I end up dropping a huge load, you end up dead.” He picks Tyler up and carries him to a large steel table with a drain and spout down to a steel bucket, and several eyelets around its perimeter. He starts to tie Tyler’s arms to the top corner, and at first Tyler tries to struggle but a few powerful blows to his stomach knock the wind out of him. Next his legs are tied, without much resistance. The older man takes a knife out of a nearby cabinet in which Tyler catches sight of a bunch of similar torture tools. He’s scared, but also filled with feelings he does not understand at all, especially his ongoing attraction to this man and continued sexual arousal. The man cuts Tyler’s clothes off slowly and lovingly, caressing his body as he does so. As he cuts through the crotch of his jeans Tyler’s dick springs upright and a slug of precum oozes out, and the man laughs. “Well, looks like you are a snuffboy, and didn’t even know it! Fuckin A buddy. My second!” He grabs Tyler’s large balls and squeezes them painfully hard in his hand, bending down to kiss Tyler hard on the lips. To Tyler’s surprise he kisses back and sucks on the man’s tongue when it pushes past his lips. He realizes he is totally lost, and in that instant surrenders to his captor and his own new found lust; accepting what is coming. When the man pulls away, Tyler stares at him in amazement, licks his lips and says “what should I call you?” The man says “you can call me Mister, buddy, and I love a verbal bottom whether he is screaming or crying or begging me to kill him. I fucking love it when a hot guy like you begs to be killed whether he wants it to end or wants to feel that hot death load.” He squeezes Tyler’s balls so hard the younger man feels they might burst, but he feels the precum that again streams out of his dickhead and just sighs. As the pressure is removed a wave of intense sexual pleasure courses through him. “How much is this going to hurt Mister, and how will you finish me?” “I’m gonna gut you buddy. Field dress you like a fucking deer. Gonna make you watch me cut your entrails out and dump them in that bucket. It is gonna hurt more than you can possibly imagine, but trust me, you’ll welcome it. I see it in you. Before this is through you will want it more than anything you have ever wanted in your life. And you’ll ask me to kill you. Not just because of the pain, but because you want me killing you.” He goes to the cabinet and pulls out a rig, and some crystal, gets it ready and shoots them both up with a potent dose. Tyler has never done this before, and the rush takes him totally by surprise. Before it even envelopes him fully his killer takes two large fishhooks and pushes them through Tyler’s nipples. He screams and briefly struggles against his bonds, but quickly quiets down breathing hard and moaning. “Yeah buddy scream for me, but look at your dick. You liked it, didn’t you. You fucking need it. SAY IT!” The man begins twisting and pulling on the hooks as blood streams from Tyler’s torn nipples. Tyler has never felt anything like this before in his life. Confused, terrified, excited, staring at this incredibly hot man, thinking ‘do I actually want to be killed?’ He says “Fuck MISTER, Please, I want it!” “Say you need it!” “Mister I NEED IT!!” and unbidden: “Do it again, please Mister. I want to feel that a second time” The top grabs two more fishhooks and pushes them slowly through Tyler’s nipples, deeper than the first two. He moans hard but does not struggle. “Yeah baby, that looks nice” the man as he destroys Tyler’s nipples. He takes the pain, and hopes his captor gets pleasure from that, an emotion both confusing and exciting to him. The top kisses him again, and then makes him keep his mouth open as he empties his bladder down Tyler’s throat. This is not new to Tyler and he drinks it eagerly. He is speeding his brains out, and the drug makes his nipples feel incredible. The older man asks: you been fisted before? “Yes Mister” Tyler answers. The man unties Tyler’s legs and greases up his arm. Tyler does not struggle now but watches and lifts his legs eagerly as the man enters him and works Tyler’s ass for what seems like hours until he can get his sinewy arms in up to the shoulder and his rectum is heavily prolapsed. He pounds away at Tyler’s balls, tugs and twists the fishhooks piercing Tyler’s nipples. “You know I’m tearing you up inside, don’t you?” “Yes Mister! I feel it. It hurts bad, but it’s like I need you doin’ this. I want you doin’ this. I don’t know what the fuck you’ve done to my mind, I know you’re going to kill me but please mister, make it last.” “Good boy. That is what I want to hear! You’ll know when it’s time, you’re gonna welcome that blade into that nice flat belly of yours. You’re gonna want to feel my hands pulling out your guts.” He punches hard into Tyler, almost to the shoulder and then withdraws a bloody arm, showing Tyler. “Look at what you are giving me buddy. Inside and out, your body is mine.” Tyler’s dick is still hard, amazingly to him, and the brutal top shoves his arm into Tyler again and begins to jack him off with the other hand. “Oh fuck Mister, tear me up inside. My hole is yours, my guts are yours!” He groans as the arm probes deep into his guts. Finally with a scream he comes, shooting huge ropes of cum as his killer’s arm is buried in him up to the shoulder. The top pulls out, mounts Tyler’s face and fucks till Tyler passes out before blowing his load down the younger man’s throat. Tyler comes to, and the two men just stare at each other. The older knowing how hot it will be to finish Tyler off, the younger wondering what is in store and how it will feel. In ten minutes, the top’s dick begins to swell again, and he shoots them both up a second time, so they are flying high. “You want to die buddy?” he asks the younger man. Tyler is breathing hard, his body wracked with both intense physical damage and sexual desire, as well as warped by the drugs. “I don’t know Mister. I’m not as scared as I was. This is so fucking intense, but still exciting, you’re still exciting. And that speed feels so good.” “Let me show you something buddy,” the Topman says getting his Wyoming knife out of the cabinet. Tyler knows immediately what it is for and how it is used and draws a sharp breath. “Yeah buddy, it’s my gutting knife. Sharp as a razor, gonna feel real nice when I push that curved edge into your belly. Your gonna love it when I get that second blade in and zip you open like a jacket. What do you think buddy? Most of the guys I’ve killed cry when they see this.” “Mister I’m terrified, and I’m lost. Keep me high please, and I’m willing and ready. I have regrets, but they’re kinda minor. The taste of your piss and scum in my mouth is more immediate right now. What I need more than anything else is for you to kiss me. And then I have a confession, I’ve never told to anyone.” The older man kisses Tyler tenderly, than strongly, pushing his tongue as deep into Tyler’s mouth as he can. He traces the line the knife will take with his finger on Tyler’s belly and the younger man moans, knowing what the finger indicates. His tongue caresses the top’s tongue. And he sighs. He’s ok with this. He’s being killed slowly and lovingly by a hugely attractive older serial killer, and it is now OK with him. “Would you rather I was terrified, fighting you off and horrified by what was being done to me?” he says. “It’s like you and I were fated to meet and share something incredibly bizarre and beyond understanding to most people.” “Like I said before, there was one guy who was into it in the past. He was not like you, but damn he was fun. You are a huge turn on. But the biggest turn on will be you dying for me. What is your confession?” “I have had, for many years strong castration fantasies. Giving my balls to a top. Having them mutilated and cut off. Always thought that was really sick. But now, they’re yours. I want you to castrate me.” “That was next on the menu buddy, so glad to oblige. They will live for years in a bottle of formalin.” The killer brings out two long thick skewers and a bottle of poppers, and they both take hits. He takes a thin leather strap and ties off Tyler’s balls as tightly as possible, which gets him moaning again. Another hit and he pushes one of the skewers through both of Tyler’s balls, causing an eruption of precum and howls of what does not seem to be entirely pain. Tyler’s eyes are wild, and his breathing is rapid and hard, but the two are watching each other’s faces, the killer smiling broadly “Yeah buddy, that’s nice, good job, want another one?” Tyler can hardly speak but nods. “Say it.” Says the top, gently, and then a second time with more force. “Please Mister, another one. My balls are yours!” “Good little snuff boy”. And hearing those words excites Tyler much to his surprise, “Oh fuck yeah Mister, I’m your snuff boy! You have made me your snuffboy!!” “Take a big hit of the poppers, snuff boy, Mister is gonna take those balls sac and all.” They hit the poppers and Tyler winces and groans as a second skewer tears through his nuts. Then with no hesitation, the killer brings out the big knife and brings it up under Tyler’s scrotum. Tyler is briefly scared, but the feel of the blade still turns him on and he wants this so bad. “Say it! Demands the top, I know you want this buddy. My hot snuff boy wants to give me his balls! Wants to be my steer when he is killed!” And Tyler does, he wants that so bad now, both to be a man’s steer and to be killed. “Oh God, PLEASE, cut my balls off Mister” he whispers. And watches as if in a trance as it happens, hearing his own scream, feeling his manhood cut free… When the top holds Tyler’s scrotum high in the air Tyler spontaneously erupts in orgasm. Screaming and crying. With little hesitation he accepts another shot of speed and a shot of caverject in his dick to keep him hard. The knife is incredibly sharp so when the killer now cuts both Tyler’s nipples off it is easily tolerated, and he is surprised at how excited he is to watch it being done to him, almost a pleasure to see the severed nipples with fishhooks in the palm of the older man’s hand. And finally, it hits him. He wants this final play more than he could have imagined wants it NOW and expects the pain to be worth the accompanying excitement, surrender and pleasure. They rest briefly, the older man caressing the man he is so eager to kill, the younger man amazed by what he has been through and his undiminished desire to satisfy his killer as his killer has transformed him. As if reading his mind, the older man says “Say it!” Without hesitation Tyler says “Kill me Mister. Gut me and kill me. PLEASE” “Fucking yeah snuffboy!” The top kisses him hard, spits in his open mouth and kisses him again, Tyler sucking wildly on the older man’s tongue, his body roaring with pain, pleasure, fear, lust and more. “Give me that body snuffboy. Tell me again what you want!” “I’m yours Mister, butcher me, kill me!” Both their dicks are hard again now, and the older killer gets the knife he has earlier shown Tyler. “Kiss it snuffboy” says the older man, and Tyler does, feeling as if he might cum again at any second. “Oh FUCK!” says Tyler. “Do it Mister, gut me!” They again take big popper hits then the top pushes the first blade in just above the pubes as he kisses Tyler hard on the lips then whispers in his ear “Take it snuff boy, tell me how it feels.Tell me what you need.”. They stare into each others eyes, Tylers tearing up as the blade punctures the membrane protecting his abdominal cavity. “Shit Mister, it hurts like hell, it feels so fucking good, I don’t want to die, but please, don’t stop! Gut me man!! Kill me Mister. I need you to kill me!” The Top feels it yield and smiles. “YEAH…” he says, “so fucking hot to kill you snuffboy, to know you need it.” He pulls the blade out and reverses it, and Tyler arches his back with the same urgency to feel himself butchered as he would to pull a top’s dick into his waiting ass. He exhales hard, and the pain is intense, but the urgency is more intense, and he cries out as the blade opens him from groin to sternum in a matter of seconds. “Oh FUCK! It hurts so bad, do it Mister, I need this so bad! Butcher me, please!” Quickly the top reaches into him as Tyler watches and cuts the entrails at both ends tearing them out and throwing them into the bucket. Tyler can hardly speak. He feels the hands of his killer inside his body, watches as his killer pisses into him than quickly blows a huge load of semen into him. His killer begins to jack Tyler off and says “Come for me, show me how much you needed this, snuffboy.”. And suddenly he feels an enormous orgasm exploding through his body. “OH!! FUCK THANK YOU MISTER” he screams. All the pain suddenly transmuted into an unimaginable kind of pain-pleasure. Stream after stream of Tyler’s last sperm shoots high into the air as the two men look deep into each other’s eyes. “Kill me mister! Finish me quick!” Tyler cries as he senses his orgasm is at its peak “Please mister, kill me! Kill me now!” The older man quickly punctures Tyler’s jugular as he kisses him and watches as the life leaves his snuffboy’s eyes while a fountain of blood erupts from his throat. Tyler barely has time to experience anything but orgasmic pleasure, the last kiss, the roaring in his ears and the amazing look on the face of his killer as everything goes black. The older man decapitates the corpse and fucks the head, then fucks the body, experiencing huge orgasms each time though knowing nothing comes close to the orgasms Tyler was granted from his meeting with his killer. He pulls out a sleeping bag and air mattress he keeps in the abandoned cabin. He will fuck the body again in the morning before burying it out in the woods, and burning all of Tyler’s things. He will not forget this one for a while (and wishes they could all be so good). But will be out on the hunt in a week or so for another handsome solo hiker.
Nick finished his workouts at the gym. It was already 10:00 pm on a Saturday night and the Manager yelled out he was closing up in a half hour. Nick hit the shower and got dressed. He posed in front of the mirror and admired himself all dressed in black. A tight t-shirt, black jeans and black leather boots. He clinched his strong hands. Thoughts raced through his mind. These hands were going to strangle someone tonight he thought. His cock swelled in his jeans at the thought. He needed the sex tonight and he needed to kill. He was pumped and ready. The manager started shutting down the lights. Nick grabbed his bag and left. He climbed into his truck and thought about hooking up with a victim. He knew of a gay bar about 15 miles away and decided he would find someone there. He would get a Motel Room later.
The parking lot was full. He knew it would be great pickings inside. Nick entered the bar. The place was packed with young studs. The music was loud and the dance floor filled. About half the guys were shirtless strutting their stuff. Nick found a spot at the bar and ordered a whiskey. He took in the room. He eyed a few shirtless young guys that would make perfect victims.
Ben cruised the bar looking for a one night stand. He was 22, slim but muscular. He came here often and usually lucked out with getting a man back to his place for sex. His friends often warned him of the dangers of bringing strange men home. He shrugged it off and would tell them he could handle himself.
Nick spotted Ben. He knew he would be the one. Ben ordered a drink and sat at the bar to sip it down. He spotted Nick across the bar. “Whoa” he muttered to himself. Nick made eye contact and motioned for Ben to come over. Ben grabbed his drink and approached Nick. Ben could feel his cock getting hard as he took in Nick’s sight. Nick liked what he saw. He offered Ben a drink. Ben accepted and the two began to converse.
Ben looked at the time. It was now close to 1:00 am. He told Nick he had a small place not too far and asked him if he wanted to head there for a nightcap. Nick obliged. He asked if he lived alone. Ben nodded yes. Perfect thought Nick. The two would be alone. The two headed out. Nick placed his strong arm on Ben’s shoulders and led him to his truck. As he usually told his victims he told Ben the same, he would bring him back for his car in the morning. He knew Ben would never see the light of day.
Ben showed Nick to his place. Ben opened the door to his apartment. He gave a quick tour. Ben had a one bedroom apartment. Ben offered a seat on the sofa. Nick sat down as Ben headed to the kitchen to grab some drinks. Nick’s eyes followed Ben. He stared at his tight ass. His cock hardened as he thought of fucking that tight ass. He looked into the bedroom. His eyes stared at the bed. He wanted Ben in there naked, fucked and strangled. He rose from the couch and removed his shirt. Ben walked back in and nearly dropped the drinks at the sight of Nick’s muscular chest. His hairy chest was ripped. Ben stared at his huge nips peeking out from the fur. His chest hair ran down his washboard stomach to a perfect treasure trail. His biceps were as muscular as his pecs.
Ben handed him his drink. “Like what you see?” asked Nick. Ben just nodded. His cock was rock hard inside his jeans. Nick took the glass from Ben and placed it down. “Go ahead, feel them” said Nick. Ben’s hands worked his way around Nick’s chest. He placed his lips on Nick’s nipple and gently sucked. He kissed his chest and worked his way to his other nipple and down his stomach. He began to unbuckle his belt and nuzzled his face in Nick’s crotch. He felt Nick’s stiff cock beneath his jeans. He wanted it so bad. Nick lifted him up face to face and kissed him. He whispered in his ear suggesting they go to the bedroom. Nick guided Ben into the bedroom and closed the door behind them. Ben’s fate was sealed. He wasn’t getting out of that room alive.
The two embraced, kissing each other passionately. Nick squeezed Ben’s cock with his strong hands as Ben ran his hands through Nick’s fur. Ben could feel his pre cum leaking. Nick the same. A wet spot had formed on Nick’s jeans. Nick lifted Ben’s shirt up and took it off. Ben’s smooth chest glistened with sweat. Nick licked the beads of sweat off and lay Ben on the bed. He removed his shoes and socks. He undid his jeans and pulled them off tossing them to the floor. Ben lay naked. Nick stood at the edge of the bed. as he kicked his boots off. Ben sat up and undid Nick’s jeans. Nick’s cock sprung out slapping pre cum on Ben’s cheek. He climbed out of his jeans and stood naked before Ben. His cock was rock hard and stood straight up. Pre cum leaked out his slit and ran down his veined shaft. Ben took hold of Nick’s cock and placed his mouth over it. He sucked gently tasting the sweet cum. Nick moaned in pleasure, “Take it boy, suck it”.
Nick lifted Ben and guided him on the bed. Ben got on all fours. Nick got behind him and slapped his hard cock between Ben’s cheeks. Ben raised his ass higher so Nick could enter. He felt Nick’s cock slip in and out. Ben’s cock ached and dripped pre cum. Nick began to fuck Ben doggy style. He pulled him up against his chest and fucked in and out. Ben took it in. He felt the sweat from Nick’s hairy chest against his back. Nick placed his hand on Ben’s erect cock and stroked it firm but gentle arousing Ben even more.
Nick pulled out and lay Ben on his back. He hovered over him. “I’m going to do you good baby, real good” said Nick.
Ben’s arms embraced Nick’s shoulders and pulled him on top of him as he spread his legs for Nick. Nick entered his hole and started to thrust Ben’s ass. Ben wrapped his legs around Nick’s thighs. He moved his body in rhythm with Nick’s thrusts. The two were embraced chest to chest as Nick kissed Ben on his lips and neck and fucked him hard.
Nick raised himself from Ben’s chest. He placed his hands on Ben’s shoulders. His cock pounding Ben’s ass. Ben wanted to cum but held back. He could feel the orgasm inside him wanting to explode. Nick fucked harder as he stared down at Ben. Ben ran his hands across Nick’s chest. He felt the damp fur. Nick’s sweat dropping beads off his forehead and chest onto Ben’s bare skin.
Nick was ready to spew his load into Ben. He moved his hands around Ben’s throat. Ben did not take notice. He was ready to cum himself. Nick gripped tighter. His thumbs pressing Ben’s throat. Ben felt the grip. He looked up at Nick perplexed. Nick began to squeeze harder. Ben felt the constriction and began to squirm. He tried to pull Nick’s hands from his neck. Nick gripped harder. Ben now realized he was in danger. He looked up with pleading eyes. Nick looked back down at him. His face was stoic, his eyes looked deadly as he stared down at Ben and squeezed tighter. Ben’s head began to hurt. He tried to gasp for air. His legs began to kick out, heels digging into the mattress.
Ben thrashed beneath Nick. He tried to push him off pressing his hands against Nick’s chest. His body bucked beneath Nick. He tried to pry Nick’s hands from his throat. He pressed again at Nick’s chest. It was useless. Nick had him pinned under him and was too strong for Ben. Ben bucked and thrashed, legs kicking wildly. Nick got harder from the thrashing beneath. He thrust harder. His cock buried deep inside Ben. He was ready to explode. He squeezed one last time. Ben’s eyes bulged out, his body convulsed. Nick’s hands tightened around his throat with a final squeeze. Ben’s body shuddered as Nick unleashed his hot semen into Ben’s ass. He screamed out as his orgasm erupted. Ben’s cock shot it’s load. His cum cascaded up Nick’s bare chest, the white jism clinging a bit to his fur and slowly worked it’s way down his stomach. Ben’s body arched and went still, his hands slid down Nick’s chest and fell to the side of his head. His body relaxed and fell to the mattress. Ben was dead. Nick collapsed on Ben’s body as he drained the remaining cum from his cock. He removed his hands from Ben’s neck and pulled out. He lay for a bit and felt Ben’s warm cum between their chests. Nick felt good. He achieved full orgasm and satisfaction.
Nick rose from the bed and dressed back into his jeans. He slipped his boots back on and stood by the bed looking down at Ben. Ben’s naked body lay across the bed. The last of his death cum dripped from his semi-erect cock. His eyes stared up blankly at the ceiling. His head contorted and hand prints on his neck. “Thanks for the fuck” Nick whispered as he gave him a final kiss on his forehead.
Nick looked around for his shirt. He remembered he left it in the living room. Nick opened the bedroom door and looked at Ben’s body one last time. He noticed Ben’s cock spasm one last time spurting a bit of death cum. He looked for his shirt but could not find it. He didn’t realize it had fallen behind the couch. Nick thought fuck it and left the apartment
He climbed into his truck. He rubbed his chest and felt Ben’s dried cum matted in his fur. Nick started the truck and glanced at the time. It was 2:30 am. He would be home by 3:15.