Adam Loses Control

Adam was furious. Whipping out his stolen phone, he saw 4 profiles surrounding him in less than 100 feet proximity. These faggots were practically swarming him while he was busy making gains at the gym to maintain his prime physique.

Adam’s feet, clad in the Nike Flight Falcons he’d swiped from his very first necro experience, pounded heavily on the staircase leading into the lobby of the gym. He’d had enough, and a furious rage was brewing.

What was also brewing was Brewski Friday’s at the gym, and sure enough, sitting behind the counter, was one of the fags Adam had seen on the app. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out; dude was wearing the same outfit as his headless profile picture on Grindr.  It was headless, but not nameless—Derek was the moniker associated with the pic.

The object of Adam’s hate and suppressed lust was happily oblivious to the maelstrom brewing behind him at the head of the staircase. In his late 20s and a bit of a gym rat, Derek spent hours away from his white-collar job at the gym to perfect his own physique. He certainly did not have any qualms doing it on his employer’s dime, being Asian. And his boss tolerated Derek’s absences—and his obnoxious demeanor—largely due to the numbers he could deliver.

Derek worked out with a serious dedication and it showed.  He was showing off his toned arms in a snug fitting grey t-shirt, and his legs managed to just slightly stretch the hems of the black Nike basketball shorts he was wearing. The simplicity of his outfit highlighted the carefully planned toning and mass he’d acquired in his years of working out. On his feet were a pair of white Nike crew socks and black Nike Free RN 2018’s that Derek had been wearing religiously to gym for the past year. He’d dressed with a slight exhibitionist streak—both to work out, and to show off his gains to the desperate housewives and gym faggots trolling the gym.

Adam, on the other hand, had a very different take. Faggot was polluting his gym and needed to be taken out. The irony that he was wearing his trophy Nike Flight Falcons was not lost on him. Glaring at Derek, he decided that the Asian bro would not only serve as his cumdump and cardio for the day to complete his workout, but would provide the opportunity to truly earn his trophy sneakers. He hadn’t snuffed that first Asian boy in that condo, and instead had only enjoyed sloppy seconds from his unmet mentor. There was both rage and a sense of duty to purge the faggot Asian bro to make up for what he he’d been unable to accomplish years ago.

The dude was busily pecking away at his own phone—probably arranging a hookup to go suck some cock, Adam figured—when suddenly he pocketed it and sprang to his feet, picking up a gym bag that had been sitting at his feet.  Swiftly heading towards the exit, he passed Adam at a distance of less than three feet, but was evidently so lost in anticipation of getting dick that he didn’t notice the glowering killer staring at him.

The space was close enough for Adam to get a good look at him.  Sure enough, he recognized the cunt from earlier in the week; the faggot had been eyeing him hard, checking out his thick, muscled legs and admiring his kicks.  Adam had been too into his routine at the time to properly attend to the homo’s gawking, but now he’d make up for the lost opportunity.  He waited for five seconds, then followed Derek out.

Despite the chill outside, neither man had bothered to change out of their gym gear.  Adam figured he’d be in the warmth of his truck in a matter of seconds; he was rather taken by surprise when the Asian homo walked right past the parking lot and headed across the street, still on foot.  Adam followed, his Nikes silently padding on the pavement as he quickened his pace to catch up.

Down three blocks and up a side street they went, Adam experienced enough to linger in the shadows anytime Derek showed signs of slows or pausing to look around.  It didn’t take long to reach their destination, which appeared to be an ancient hotel that had evidently been converted to apartments.  Adam crossed the street and stared intently as Derek entered, noticing that there was no lock and no security at the front entrance.  He also marked exactly which mailbox the fag cunt opened in the long bank of brightly-polished antique brass.

Once the Asian was out of sight, his muscled legs pounding up the opulent marble staircase, Adam darted across the street and noted that the pansy had retrieved his mail from a box marked 237.  An apartment on the second floor, then; made sense why he hadn’t bothered with the elevator.  It didn’t take long for the hate-filled killer to mount the stairs himself.

The old room indicator signs were still in place; rooms 230-251 were to the left, then back.  The doors were glossy mahogany with brass plates; 237 was in the back corner and probably had a great view of a shitty alleyway.  More importantly, though, was that as Adam approached the door, he could see that it had been left open a crack.

Maybe the homo actually was expecting a hookup.  Adam grinned maliciously.  It didn’t matter; he was there first, and he was gonna do what needed to be done to the useless cocksucker.  He paused only for a moment, then silently pushed the door open.

It was obvious from the first glance that the apartment had once been a two-room suite.  A small kitchen area had been carved out of a corner of the front room while the bath was in the rear room.  A high, decorative archway between the two rooms that had likely been originally closed by a curtain was now partially filled in, with a rather small and inadequate door set in its center, but otherwise the conversion had been tastefully and rather expensively done.  The Asian fag wasn’t living cheap.

Adam’s grin widened.  He wasn’t living long, either.

The living room, with its modern leather furniture and oversized TV, was empty, but the door to bedroom was open and the psychotic necro killer felt his dick stiffen as he heard the sounds of his victim moving about.  Goddam chink homo needed to die so Adam could release the sperm building in his huge hairy sac.  And the fag deserved it in the worst way.  It needed to suffer.  The thought of putting the pervert in pain so excited Adam that he had to place his hand against the wall to steady and compose himself.

This was another rebirth for him, and the most important one yet.  With this one, he was going to establish his true identity as avenger of morality, expunging all cumsucking homo cunts.  They needed to die to earn real mancock; no one would mourn their useless wasted queer-ass existences.  He was purifying the planet, and he needed to do it right—he couldn’t allow his own excitement to ruin the perfection he was bringing unto the world.

He slowly pushed the bedroom door open and peered in.

There was a queen-sized bed with an elaborate antique headboard on the left side of the room; on the right was home gym setup that consisted mostly of a weight bench, with a few other devices.  The corner in which it was located was lined with mirrors.  To the extreme right was the bathroom; Adam could hear the shower running.

Derek wasn’t in the shower, though; at least, not yet.  He was getting ready; in fact, he’d stripped nude but for his own Nikes.  He was in front of his dresser, pulling out clothes—obviously trying to find the perfect slutty outfit to get his homo ass reamed before he jumped into the tub to wash off the gym sweat.  There was a mirror on the dresser, as well—Adam didn’t have to move too far into the room before Derek, momentarily glancing up, spotted him.

“Hey, you’re early,” the Asian homo said cheerfully, but then his eyes narrowed and his smile faltered.  “Wait, you’re not the guy on the app—‘least, you ain’t the guy in the photo.”

“No, I’m Adam.  And you’re fuckmeat, you goddam faggot.”

Derek’s face flushed red.  “Who you think you are, bro, comin’ into my place and throwin’ shade?”

“I think I’m the guy who’s gonna teach you yer proper place on this planet, cocksucker—rottin’ like garbage after I waste yer perverted ass and fill you with righteous manseed.  By the time yer pansy little hookup gets here, ain’t gonna be nothin’ left of you but well-used fagmeat, gettin’ stiff and cold.”

The words were like a slap in the face to Derek; he had one brief moment of clarity.  “You’re that fucker from the gym…”

“Yeah, asswipe, and I’m sick of yer faggot eyeballs crawlin’ all over me every time I work out.  You want me, dude?  Fuck, only way yer gonna get the dick of a real man like me is to die for it.  Guess it’s gonna be yer lucky night, then, motherfucker, cause I’m gonna dick you down just like yer little homo ass has been beggin’ for!”

The Asian faggot automatically dropped himself into a fighting stance, his smooth, muscled body crouched low.  His dark hair glinted almost blue-black in the dim light as his thick, uncut cock swung like a pendulum between his thick, firm legs.  Almost unconsciously, he found himself grinning at the intruder, as if anxious to prove his worth against the slurs of the intruder.

Adam smirked as the dude planted his red Nikes at shoulder-width on the floor; he hoped the worthless chink pansy would try to fight him.  Motherfucker needed to be taught a lesson; the thought of doing so already had the psycho sex killer hard as a brick.

“Think you can take me, ya fuckin’ gook?” he sneered.  “Come at me, bro.  Lessee what kinda damage a useless pansy like you can do to real man.”

Derek lunged.  Adam was expecting it; he neatly side-stepped the young man’s rush and took a swing, his right fist connecting with Derek’s jaw with a loud smack.

Stunned, the buff Asian stagged sideways, clutching at his face.  He turned and stared at Adam, the cockiness and arrogance in his expression tamped down by the blow he’d received.

“You sick, racist asshole!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Adam laughed broadly.  “I’m sick?  You’re the fucking pervert who wants my cock, queerboy.  Well, guess what, faggot, I’ll give it to ya—but ya gotta earn it.  Wanna know how to do that?”

Derek looked at him in trepidation as Adam balled his fists, deranged rage coming off him in almost visible waves.  “You gotta die for it, ya sack of homo shit.  You get it now?  I ain’t no fag; I don’t fuck men—but I ain’t got no problem reaming out the hole of a quiverin’ piece of meat.  Don’t worry, boy, I’ll fuck ya just as hard as yer sick little pansy heart wants—but you ain’t gonna be around to enjoy it.  Too many fuckin’ pervs like you on this planet as it is.”

Derek’s innate self-assurance refused to acknowledge the twinge of fear he felt—but it was nothing more than a twinge, after all.  He’d ogled Adam often enough at the gym to know the sex killer’s physique, but he didn’t really believe that he was gonna die tonight.  He might not be as quite a big or as muscular as his assailant, but he was wiry and strong, and had no doubt he could hold his own.

That was when Adam waded in, both fists flying.

Derek had done some sparring at the gym, but he’d never been up against someone so filled with hatred and a desire to kill.  He blocked the madman’s punches as best he could, and even managed to land a few of his own, but they did nothing to stop the vicious flurry of pounding.  Adam’s hard, firm body absorbed the blows with as little damage as if Derek had been slugging a marble statue.

On the other hand, Derek’s own body, toned as it was, was beginning to suffer under the repeated impacts.  Adam’s powerful fists landed with the force of wrecking balls on the Asian’s flat belly and bulked-out pecs, tenderizing the young fuck’s torso like the meat Adam considered it to be. 

For the first time in his privileged life, the Asian stud began to feel fear.  He’d always had an almost inbred sense of his own superiority, his own ability to overcome any situation.  He’d compensated for a feeling of physical inferiority by a grueling and punishing regime at the gym until he’d finally approached the bodily ideal he’d dreamed of, a body that would have white dudes drooling with lust for his ass.

Now, it was clear that it hadn’t been enough.  So far, Adam hadn’t targeted his face, but his torso was bruised and ached as badly as if he’d been in a car wreck; some random corner of his mind wondered if any of his ribs had been fractured—it kinda felt like it.  It was hard to breathe; every attempt to inhale was accompanied by a tortuous pain in his smooth flanks.

Derek’s defense was flagging.  Even worse—he could tell Adam had noticed.

“Ain’t gonna last much longer, are ya?” the psycho serial killer sneered.  “Fucking cocky-ass gooks like you just can’t hold up against a real man.  Keep fightin’ it, ya stupid cunt; every time I punch yer worthless fag ass, my cock oozes a little more.  Fuck, wastin’ yer sick chink ass is gonna be so goddam hot I might actually blow a load before you die.”

He paused and grinned malevolently.  “Naw, you don’t deserve that, asswipe.  But fuck, it’s gonna be close, cunt.”

He plowed in again.  In the next few minutes, Derek learned the true meaning of the word Hell.  Despite his best efforts, he found it impossible to fend off the more powerful alpha’s brutal attack.  Blow after blow rained onto his unprotected face, blackening his eyes and crushing his nose with a loud crunch.  The muscled Asian youth sank to the floor, moaning in pain, but still refusing to admit defeat.

Adam knew it, and was determined to change it.  He grabbed a hank of the punk’s dark hair and dragged him back to his feet.  “Smile for me, bitch,” he sneered, “Gimme somethin’ to aim at.”

Dazed and swaying, Derek could only gulp and stare blankly at the hate-filled face looking into his.  That driving will, that arrogance that had kept him going had somehow suddenly evaporated.  Even though he knew the takedown punch was coming, he didn’t duck—he didn’t even flinch.

The impact, square on the jaw, had enough force to send him backwards into the dresser.  His head snapped back, shattering the mirror, but he was too busy trying to hack up the teeth that had been knocked down his throat and lodged into his trachea.  Falling again to his knees, his spit them up in a drool of blood.

He kept his eyes fixed on the carpet.  His swollen face and bruised body were causing his great pain, but the realization that he’d lost—that a bigger and stronger man had just beaten the fuck outta him—was more than he could bear.  By an almost deliberate effort of will, he powered his brain down, refusing to contemplate what was happening to him, or what the defeat would truly mean.

He wasn’t able to avoid reality for long.  Adam’s black Night Falcons soon appeared in his field of view.  Derek still couldn’t comprehend that the sight signaled the beginning of his end, but he knew that what was coming would be bad.

He didn’t understand what was happening, or why.  He’d hooked up with someone online, but that conversation couldn’t have been with this psycho—not that he hadn’t been attracted to this hot stud.  He’d only wanted to give him pleasure.  It was utterly beyond his mindset to realize that only his slow, painful death could stimulate the sick fucker to orgasm.  Derek’s mind simply didn’t run along such lines.

And soon, it wasn’t going to run along any lines at all.

Adam bent down and wrapped his powerful hands around the Asian’s throat.  With a frightening display of brute force, he straightened up and deadlifted Derek off the ground.

Adam was only about five inches taller than Derek, but it was enough that when he held the suffering faggot out at arm’s length, the latter’s whore-red Nikes kicked uselessly in the air, seeking some non-existent purchase with which to support his dangling body.  The pain of his aching, damaged body receded into the background the moment his airflow ceased, and sheer panic set in.

Derek had been used to utter control over his life.  Up until now, nothing had happened that he hadn’t felt was out of his ability to master.  The beating had been bad enough, but this—this was exponentially worse.  He’d even lost control of his ability to inhale.

Adam grinned in Derek’s swollen, blackening face, savoring the terror.  “Fuck ya, you worthless chink cunt, now yer getting’ it huh?  You want my load, dontcha, faggot?  This is how yer gonna get it.  But it’s gonna be nice and slow—the more you suffer, the harder my cock gets, ya homo bitch!”

Derek heard the words, but they made no impression—his terror was already at maximum pitch.  His fingers scrambled, clawing frenetically at Adam’s brutal grip and at his own compressed throat, to no avail.  He could feel his tongue swelling, as if it was literally being squeezed out of his esophagus.  And then Adam whispered, deeply and seductively, in a way that manager to get through to him.

“Whaddaya say, fag, wanna take this to the bed?  It’s what you been wantin’, ain’t it?  Come on, you perverted gook, I wanna hold ya tight as you kick and die.  Yer pain and fear is so fucking hot, asswipe.  I wanna enjoy it.  I wanna feel you fucking suffer and die, bitch.  C’mon, motherfucker, let’s hit the sack!”

Enduring yet more degrading proof of his utter loss of power, Derek felt himself being carried involuntarily to his own bed to die.  Suddenly there was a violent sensation of motion, but it was accompanied by a blissful cessation of the crushing pain around his throat.  He had just a split second to inhale before he struck the bed hard enough to bounce; the realization that Adam had flung him down flashed through his head and gave him an idea.

He had a moment—a brief one, a second or two at most, when escape was possible.  Now that he was no longer in the lunatic’s power, his self-confidence came flooding back in a rush.  If he could just regain his feet, he’d show this motherfucker a thing or two…

But then Adam was in bed along with him, a dream swiftly taking on the aspects of a nightmare.  The powerful man’s scent, mansweat and testosterone, filled his nostrils and Derek realized with horror that his own cock was becoming stiff in spite of himself.  He thrashed, trying to climb off the mattress, but then Adam’s fists plowed into him in a flurry of blows.

Derek was young and strong; his buff, toned body was capable of withstanding a massive amount of punishment.  But Adam’s punches impacted his flat, firm belly like a runaway train—and after the first two or three pounded into him, Derek found his air forcibly expelled from his lungs. 

It wasn’t as if the Asian gym rat was incapable of defending himself; it was just that his own blows seemed to damage his assailant as much as they would a cinderblock wall.  Nothing he did seemed to have any effect.  And before he could formulate any coherent plan of escape, Adam had stopped hitting him—and started strangling him again.

Derek clutched Adam’s arms as tightly as Adam had gripped his throat; in a heartbeat, the vicious struggle on the bed had quieted into two men holding each other and staring into each other’s eyes.  It could have been a moment of pure love—but it was the beginning of the end of the life of one of them, solely for the other’s sexual gratification.

Derek’s panic came back in a rush; finding his attempt to shift Adam’s strong hands utterly futile, he began clawing out in sheer panic.  As Adam smirked, the Asian faggot tore his t-shirt to shreds, opening the front to expose the serial killer’s furry, muscular torso.  As the thin cotton fabric dissolved under Derek’s scrambling fingers, he dug into the wiry copper-tinted hair that covered the killer’s chest.

Adam pulled Derek closer to him.  “Yer dying, ya chink asshole.  How’s it feel? Ya likin’ it?  Fuck, ya just gotta be lovin’ this, you sick-ass faggot pervert—yer little gook’s dick is so hard it’s pokin’ me.  Shit, ya worthless little cunt, you ain’t felt nothin’ yet!”

He leered into the suffering Asian’s face and squeezed harder, feeling the homo’s trachea starting to collapse under the sheer force of his own hands.  This was what he loved, what he lived for.  His own massive hog was so erect it was starting to ache.  The cocksucker was in obvious agony; his almond eyes bulging from their orbits—fuck, Adam could see hemorrhages popping in the chink’s eyes like mini-fireworks as the pressure inside the faggot’s head spiked.

Derek still refused to acknowledge his imminent death; utterly unable to cede control, even at the very end, he could only thrash in helpless agony.  His leges flailed violently enough for him to dislodge one of his Nikes—it flew backwards off the bed, leaving his foot free in its ankle sock, toes curling as his struggles slowly began to subside.

It was so incremental, Derek didn’t know it was happening—but he was swiftly reaching the point of not being able to realize anything at all.  His dark eyes, as Adam had noted, were already so swollen beyond their natural limit that, despite bulging past the point of allowing the lids to close, Derek could no longer see.  His hearing was fucked up, too; the frenetic beating of his desperate heart banging and echoing inside his skull.

But he could damn sure feel.  If it had been in his nature to wish for death, he would be doing so now.  His tongue seemed to fill his mouth and he could feel his own slimy drool leaking own his cheek, but that was nothing next to the pain.  The pain was everything.

The pain was in his head and his chest, his throat and deep in his lungs.  The last were on fire, burning with an incandescent heat he didn’t know was possible inside the human body, and the first, his head, seemed to be on the verge of rupturing, popping like an over-filled balloon—but that wasn’t the worst.  The worst was his cock.

It was alive with a will of its own, aching and burning as he slowly died under the serial killer’s hands.  Even as his brain began to sputter and misfire, the buff Asian could feel his uncut member pulsing and throbbing.  And along with the awareness of his own raging erection, Derek could still sense the closeness of the powerful stud whose body he had craved.  The hard, hairy body, so near to him…he knew he wanted it…something was wrong, though, but he couldn’t remember what…but that firm, sexy body was so near, in his bed with him…

Adam knew the cunt was almost gone, but he was experienced enough in mankilling by now to know that if he pitched his voice just right, he could get through to the fag before it became fuckmeat.  He bent his head towards the dying Asian, brushing Derek’s swollen, purple cheek with his own as he hissed in gym rat’s ear.

“Almost there, homo,” he muttered in a deep basso that penetrated the deathfog clouding Derek’s mind, as he knew it would.  “Ready to die, pansy?  Ready to earn my mandick?  Fuck yeah, cunt, here ya go.  Just a little more suffering—goddam, it’s gonna hurt like all fuck, you asswipe, but it’ll all be over and you finally get what yer sick little faggot soul has always wanted—my shaft up yer perverted queerboy asshole!”

Derek heard.  The last screaming fragment of his cocksucker’s soul heard the words, and refused to understand them—but his lithe young body understood.  As Adam’s inexorable grip tightened excruciatingly, compressing his trachea beyond its ability to recover, the buff Asian’s uncut rod began to spew semen uncontrollably.

“GAH!” Adam cried.  “You fucking disgusting faggot pervert!”  Baring his teeth in outraged fury, he crushed the punk’s esophagus like an empty beer can, his own shaft drooling precum as he felt it crumple under his hands.  Derek convulsed violently, his smooth, firm body pressing against that of his killer as he continued to blow his deathwad, smearing his load over Adam’s torso and matting the psycho’s body hair with the seed.

Long after Derek had drained his balls and died—not necessarily in that order—Adam finally let his enraged grip go.  The Asian meat was still shuddering, its face livid and its tongue lolling out of hits mouth.  “Finally,” Adam whispered to it, stroking the smooth quivering chest, “Finally, you’ve earned it, asswipe.  Time to take my cock, ya worthless gook motherfucker.”

Unceremoniously rolling the dead man onto the floor with a dull thump, Adam got off the bed and shrugged off the shredded remains on his t-shirt.  It was an easy matter to slip his gym shorts down and step out of them, leaving the powerful killer sporting nothing but his Nike Night Falcons and a raging erection.

And that was when he heard the door open behind him.

Whirling, he found himself confronting as huge man, even taller and more powerful than himself.  The dude was wearing a leather biker jacket, open, with no shirt underneath, revealing a broad, incredibly muscular chest and belly, covered with dark wiry fur.  Beneath that was a pair of worn jeans so tight that his frighteningly massive hog was clearly defined in the crotch; the jeans were tucked into a pair of loosely laced, untied Carolina loggers.

Adam was taken aback.  He stared at the apparition, his jaw agape.  “Who-who the fuck are you?” he asked blankly.

The newcomer gazed at him, then calmly turned his eyes to Derek’s shuddering corpse on the floor.  A slow grin crept across his hard, handsome face—a grin that made Adam’s blood run cold, something he’d never experienced before.  But then the man spoke and it only got worse.

“I’m Joe,” he said, “and it looks like you owe me some fuckmeat.  Bend over, fucker—I ain’t going home still someone dies on my dick, boy.”

–TO BE CONTINUED

Load-Bearing Bitch

It was already past quitting time, but Jarrell hadn’t packed up his gear yet.  Brock had said he wanted to talk—not that it would do any good.  As far as Jarrell was concerned, Brock was an asshole.  Of course, there were a lot of assholes in the construction business; Jarrell knew that.  But this was only a temporary job for him; he had no intention of making a career of manual labor, and he could see no reason for dealing with a foreman who was a dick.

And dick was the operative word.  Jarrell knew that Brock had been looking at him funny, eyeing the teen’s ass and his crotch.  Brock was in his early thirties, incredibly well-built, with wavy sandy hair, pale blue eyes and an intimidating, muscular physique.  Jarrell himself hoped to achieve that kinda build one day—unlikely since he was a good five inches shorter than Brock and nowhere near as solid—and though the kid denied any kind of same-sex attraction, the lure of the older man’s amazing body only added to the tension between them.

Especially after Jarrell had put in a call to Jonas Howard, the contractor who owned the company, and accused Brock of sexual harassment.

It wasn’t true, of course; Brock might look, but he had enough self-control not to go any further.   And while the foreman wasn’t as closeted as the teen, he damn sure didn’t advertise his inclinations at work; that would be fatal to his career—and given the violent rednecks he commanded, could possibly be fatal, period, if one of them took it wrong.  As a result, he prized his privacy very highly.

Jarrell’s phone call had put all that in jeopardy.  It was time to have it out with the little punk.  But the shit that needed to be aired also needed no witnesses; Brock had told the kid to come by the office after five.  It was a Friday—and a payday—so the muscle-bound foreman knew none of the rest of the crew would hang around long.

But it was past quitting time and Jarrell hadn’t shown up yet.  Kid was probably dawdling over his gear, padding his work hours—five minutes over was paid as fifteen minutes—so Brock went to find him.  The office, a large trailer that had been trucked onsite, was set back from the construction area some ways; a large swath of former ranchland had been cleared for the subdivision being built.  The row of cookie-cutter homes that were being erected at the moment was some distance away from the office and couldn’t be seen directly from it.

The roads in the subdivision wouldn’t be paved until the heavy equipment was finished; Brock’s black Timberland construction boots crunched loudly on the gravel, accompanied by a faint, rhythmic clanking from the toolbelt at his waist.  It was warm for the time of year and the hardbodied stud’s stained cotton t-shirt clung so tightly to his chest that his jutting nipples were plainly visible.  His skin-tight jeans did nothing to hide his physique, either; the way they cradled the firm rounded globes of his powerful ass would have attracted the attention of any observers. 

But the only observer was Jarrell.

He’d been nailing fascia boards on a nearly-completed home as quitting time had approached and was still scrambling off the roof when he saw Brock coming, the older man’s shadow stretching out far behind him in the sharply-slanted blood-red rays of the setting sun.  The kid was lean and lithe, but several months of construction work were starting to full him out nicely.  He was sporting a torn and dirty Packers jersey—he was a Redskins fan and the shirt was no more than an old rag to him—a pair of torn, stained jeans, and a cheap knockoff pair of black and red Air Jordans that he felt gave him acceptable traction on the sloping roofs.

Even from this distance, Jarrell could make out the foreman’s muscles working under his clothing, but the arrogant punk refused to acknowledge the stirring in his crotch.  He maintained his disgust at Brock’s faggotry by utterly ignoring his own, totally disregarding the way his own body so obviously responded to the buff hardman’s physique. 

The boy was in dire need of a rough, hard fuck in the ass, but he’d rather die than admit it, even to himself.  The problem was, that attitude was causing all kinds of trouble—not for him, but for others.  Now, it had snared Brock—but Brock wasn’t the kind to calmly accept the teen’s bullshit, especially when it put his job at stake. 

Jarrell could see Brock’s body moving, but not his mind.  If he had, he might have had a bit more anxiety about their meeting.

The house Jarrell was working on was nearing completion; the external plywood had been installed.  No windows or doors were in place and the interior divisions were represented only by studs, but within a week or so, it would be recognizable as a dwelling.  The boy had scrambled off the roof by this point and was in what would become one of the bedrooms, in the process of stowing his gear, when he heard the heavy clumping of Brock’s thick boots on the wooden subflooring below.

“Where are you, J?  We need to talk,” came his deep bass voice.

“I’m up here,” the kid called out, managing to squeeze a considerable amount of surliness into three words. 

The staircase was only half-built, but the steps were in place.  Brock was up in no time.

The two buff males glared at each other; the tension in the air was palpable—and sexual.  As much as Jarrell remained in denial, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the older man’s well-built form.  The punk was so out of tune with himself, he wasn’t aware of his own erection—but Brock damn sure was.  It made him even angrier.  The kid wanted dick, but was such a closeted fuck that he’d do his best to take down any male who inspired erotic thoughts in his twisted little mind. 

That kinda cunt was utterly worthless, in every way.  The young asshole was a mediocre worker at best, and Brock suspected—but didn’t have the proof yet—that he was altering his timecards.  Really, if anything happened to him, the job wouldn’t suffer at all.  Jarrell would be the one suffering.

Deep in Brock’s mind, some part of him wondered why that thought made his long, thick cock pulsate inside his tight jeans, but he ignored it.

“You called Howard on me, you little fuck,” he snarled.

Jarrell blinked; he knew this was gonna be ugly, but he’d expected some kind of palaver at first.  But if that was how the foreman wanted to play it…

“Yeah,” the boy sneered, “I don’t like fags, and I ain’t workin’ for one.”

To his surprise, Brock broke out in a loud, raucous guffaw.  “You don’t like fags?”  the older man chuckled, “Boy, the way yer eyein’ my bulge, even a blind man could see how bad you want the D.  How many cocks you guzzled in the last week, motherfucker?”

Jarrell flushed with rage.  “I ain’t no fuckin’ homo!” he screamed, his unacknowledged, subconscious awareness of the truth of Brock’s taunts jacking up the pitch of his voice. 

The hardbodied stud grinned at the punk.  “Son, yer the biggest cocksuckin’ pansy I ever seen.  Fuck, only reason you were put on this planet is to service real men like me, and I think is past fuckin’ time ya learned it, too.”

Jarrell’s eyes bulged in outraged horror as Brock opened his jeans at the waist, unzipped his fly, and hauled out his massive, dripping shaft.  “C’mon, asswipe, get on yer knees and put it in yer mouth like a good little fairy.”

“You sick fuck…” the teen gasped.

Brock’s grin became evil.  “You have no idea, motherfucker.  But yer gonna.”

The foreman pulled a foot-long crescent wrench out of his toolbelt and advanced on the kid.  Jarrell saw him coming, but it took a moment for him to realize what was happening and react. 

“Wha-what the fuck you doin’?” he stammered, his attempt at threatening anger belied by the sudden fear in his voice.  “You lay a hand on me an’ yer gonna regret it, asshole!”

Saying nothing, Brock continued to advance.  Jarrell began to back up, holding his hands up in front of him.  Somewhere in the depths of his ignorant, white-trash brain, it began to dawn on him that hurling threats at the much more powerful man hadn’t been the best idea, especially since they were alone—and no one else had known about this meeting.  The boy’s fear came sharply into focus.

“H-hey, man, I, uh, I was just kiddin’, y’know?” he babbled, “I ain’t really gonna do nothin’, honest!”

“Yeah,” Brock growled, “I know you ain’t.”  He kept advancing and Jarrell kept retreating until the boy found his back pressed against the rough exterior shell of plywood.  The older man raised his arm; a stray ray of light glinted from the steel wrench into the punk’s eyes, making him flinch.

“Wait—please, no, I—”

He never got to finish the sentence.  Brock slammed the tool into the side of his head and Jarrell slumped to the floor, unconscious.


The first thing Jarrell was aware of was the throbbing ache in his skull; it was echoed by an external throbbing that he knew to be the generator that supplied power for the various on-site tools; he’d shut it off himself.  There was no time to think about why it was on again or what that might mean, though; the next thing he was aware of was a breeze on his torso chill enough to make his nipples achingly erect.  It took a few moments for him to follow the thought process though to the point of realizing that his shirt had been removed.

“Wha—?” he muttered groggily as he felt his legs being jerked around; as he became more conscious, he was able to lift his head, only to see Brock squatting over him, boxcutter in hand, slicing off his jeans. 

“Whafuck ya doin?” the dazed punk slurred.

“I’m gonna give ya what ya want so bad, bitch—my cock.  Gonna shove my rod up yer ass.  Ya like that, yeah?  We both know ya want it, so just shut up and take it.”

“Get ‘way from me…” Jarrell started when Brock leaned over and punched him in the face, almost casually.  The blow was devastating enough to shut the teen punk up, though.  The older man resumed cutting as the boy moaned and wiped away the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand.

“See, cunt, yer mine now,” the foreman continued in a conversational tone, “And I’m gonna do whatever I want to ya.  I mean, you didn’t tell anyone you were gonna meet me here, right?  Stupid fuck.  And everyone knows what a goddam flake ya are, so when you go missin’, it ain’t like anyone’s gonna be worried.”

“Wha?  Missin’?  I ain’t goin’ nowhere…”

Brock’s chuckle was deep and malignant.  “The fuck you ain’t, faggot.  And you ain’t comin’ back, either.”

The kid was still too stunned to fully process the muscle-bound stud’s words beyond realizing that a threat was implied.  The nature of that threat was beyond his grasp at the moment, but Brock planned to make sure he was fully cognizant—in a moment.

First, though, he needed to secure the fuckmeat.

“Get up, cunt,” he snarled, and made sure Jarrell did so, grabbing a handful of the punk’s long dark hair and dragging him upright by the scalp.  The boy was on his feet and being led, stumbling, towards one of the window openings before he even realized what was happening.  For a brief moment, he was seized with a panic, a fear that the angry hardman was gonna hurl him from the second floor.

If he’d known what Brock had planned, he’d have gladly jumped out of his own volition.

His first clue was the industrial nail gun lying on the bare subfloor next to the opening.  The boy’s deficient imagination could find no purpose for the tool in the current context, so he dismissed it—until Brock bent down and picked it up.  Since the buff stud had yet to relinquish his grip on Jarrell’s hair, the kid found himself yanked down to floor level, then back up.  This close, he realized that the tool had been attached to the generator and was fully powered.

Suddenly, the nail gun took on a new and sinister connotation.

“Wh-what’s that f-for?” he quavered, the question forced form him almost involuntarily—he really didn’t want to know the answer.

“To make sure you don’t go no place for a little while,” Brock jeered, his handsome face twisted with malicious lust, “I don’t like faggots tryin’ to get away when I’m plowin’ ‘em.”

And again, the words “I ain’t no faggot” formed in the closeted homo’s mind, but before he could utter them, Brock had grabbed his wrist and forced his hand against the wall, palm against the raw plywood and fingers splayed. 

Jarrell should have been able to guess what was going to happen, but the loud “thunk” of the nail gun firing took him by surprise.  He stared dully at the shining half-inch disk of metal on the back of his hand; it took another ten seconds before the searing pain of having his hand nailed to the wall made its way through his dim, dazed mind.

His scream was projected out the window; it echoed back from the empty shells of the other houses scattered beyond.  Brock chuckled, unconcerned—the site was empty.  Everyone had cleared out and there wasn’t another person within three miles.  “Fuck yeah, now yer startin’ to sound like the bitch you really are.  Here, lessee if we can getcha to do it again!”

He grabbed at Jarrell’s other wrist, but the boy jerked his hand away—instinctively at first, but with increasing determination as he realized that the sadistic foreman was gonna do the same thing to his free hand.  His sudden attempt to struggle was as useless as it was stupid—he had no chance of evading Brock with one hand permanently attached to the wall, and all he was doing was pissing off the musclebound alpha.

“Quit fightin’ me, faggot!” Brock barked.  In his rage, he pressed the nail gun against Jarrell’s smooth, sweat-slicked back and fired it, driving a three-inch nail through both the scapula and the third rib.  The damage was minor, but excruciating, and Jarrell’s shriek made his prior cry seem like the mewling of a kitten.  The sudden rigidity the trauma produced gave Brock the opportunity he was looking for; Jarrell’s lithe body had barely registered the pain before the new agony in his other hand made him weep.

Brock stepped back, grinning, to admire his work.  The teen fuckwad, nude but for his Air Jordans, had been nailed up in front of the window opening, his long boycock flopping in the open air, his firm rounded ass exposed, vulnerable, and perfectly positioned for the older man’s monstrous hog to tear into it at any time Brock wanted.

And Brock wanted—now.

Sobbing and shuddering, the latent pansy asshole could hear the older man’s boots on the floor behind him.  Part of Jarrell’s fear was his inability to understand what was happening to him—not five minutes ago, he was looking forward to having it out with the masculine foreman; what the fuck had happened?

He craned his neck in an attempt to see what Brock was doing.  The buff older man smirked when he saw the teen’s tear-streaked face.  He approached the boy, peeling off his t-shirt and standing next to the trapped punk in muscular semi-nudity.  Despite the pain and the awkward angle of his neck, Jarrell could clearly see Brock’s massive chest, his large nipples jutting above the broad, hubcap pecs and the golden haze of fur that covered the stud’s rock-hard torso.  But it was the threat of his visibly pulsating cock that forced the boy to speak in spite of his fear.

“Y-you can’t do this,” he moaned in the quavering voice of a frightened child, “I’ll tell.  I’ll tell everyone what you did to me—”

He was interrupted by a loud guffaw from the hardbodied foreman.

“Lemme tell ya something, bitch,” Brock said, grinning, “I been thinkin’ ‘bout this for a little bit.  See, this is a construction site.  Lotsa places for accidents to happen—and lotsa places for stupid little cunts like you to go missin’.  And ain’t no one gonna miss ya if you do.”

He approached Jarrell closely enough that the terrified punk could smell the acrid tang of mansweat and testosterone the stud gave off; in spite of the agony of fear in the teen’s conscious mind, his libido responded involuntarily.  Jarrell was a master of denial, though, and utterly refused to acknowledge his own raging erection.

Brock noticed it, of course; it only increased his determination.  “I’ve been havin’ some…interestin’ ideas lately about what I’d do to a worthless piece a’ shit like you if I ever got the chance, but I didn’t think I’d ever get to do ‘em.  Now you just handed me a whole wad of reasons to try ‘em out on you.  Gotta thank ya for that, you dumbass motherfucker.”

He placed his hand on his toolbelt.  Stupid as Jarrell was, he still understood the significance of the movement and very quickly changed his tune. 

“P-pl-please, oh god, please, I-I was just kiddin’ when I said I’d tell,” the teen babbled in panic,  “I sw-swear I won’t tell no one, just don’t hurt me, oh fuck oh god please don’t—”

Brock smiled sweetly, almost gently at the weeping punk.  “Hurt ya?  Cunt, I ain’t gonna hurt ya.  Hurt don’t come close to what I’m gonna do to ya.”

As Jarrell moaned in abject terror, Brock realized how erotic the mere mindfuck was and kept up the pressure.  “And I know you ain’t gonna tell no one.  By the time they find you, I’ll’ve fucked you up so bad they ain’t gonna be able to tell what happened to ya…if they find ya at all, har!”

The stupid young punk’s moaning became more pronounced when Brock stepped behind him and the boy felt the massive head of the stud’s cock probing his virgin asshole.  “Yer gonna love this, faggot,” the foreman jeered as his big strong hands grabbed Jarrell by the hips and pulled his pelvis backwards to position him for penetration.  The kid cried out in pain as the movement jerked his hands, tearing the wounds caused by the nails—not enough to free him but enough to hurt.

“Aw fuck yeah!” Brock said, “Ya like that feelin’, huh?  Ya like bein’ hurt, you worthless fuck?  Buckle up, asswipe, ‘cause I’m gonna rip yer ass open like a log splitter!”

Jarrell didn’t have time to brace himself before Brock was inside him, plowing deeply and relentlessly though his colon. 

As bad as the pain in his hands and his shoulder was, it was nothing compared to the agony of having his tender sphincter torn to shreds by the older man’s huge, vein-wreathed shaft.    It hurt so bad that Jarrell couldn’t believe he was being fucked—he was sure that Brock had jammed a baseball bat up his ass; only the feel of the foreman’s wiry fur scraping against his smooth back as he thrust himself remorselessly into the boy’s guts convinced him otherwise.

Brock ran his hands along Jarrell’s smooth, heaving flanks, slick with the cold sweat that physical agony was forcing from the teen’s lithe body.  The kid’s subdued blubbering added an aural counterpoint to the rough smacking sound of flesh on flesh and the hardbodied sadist’s grunts of pleasure as he plowed the youth’s fuckhole.

Jarrell’s mind was starting to cave under the physical onslaught—and it wasn’t helping that he could feel his own long, thick dick swinging between his legs with every thrust of the alpha’s hips.  What little lucidity the pain and terror left him with was unable to process why he was sporting a raging erection during a violent rape; he had no idea that part of it was an involuntary reaction from the way Brock’s tackle was brutally massaging his prostate—and he damn sure refused to recognize his own deep-seated desire to get reamed like a whore.  But his body understood what his mind shied away from, and as the older man’s pounding became more intense, precum began to ooze form the teen’s rod, spattering against the bare plywood wall beneath the window opening.

As Brock’s fucking became more intense, he felt his loosened jeans begin to slide down.  Soon his muscular ass was bare, the taut, hairy cheeks clenching and flexing visibly with each deep, brutal thrust.  They didn’t slide any further, so he didn’t bother to pull them back up—his toolbelt was still in reach, which was the important thing.  But the nail gun wasn’t, and Brock realized he was likely gonna need it soon—the fuckmeat was getting restless.

Between the pain and the sexual assault, Jarrell had been in a deep, uncomprehending mental fugue, a haze of agony and bewilderment.  It was sunset on a Friday night; he was supposed to be meeting some buds to down a few brews, pass a joint or two, and brag about the chicks they’d fucked—all lies, of course, but it was his routine, and one he enjoyed.  What was happening to him now was surreal, not real.  This was some kinda nightmare and he needed to force him self to wake up.  Twisting and jerking his lithe, sweating body, the teen pulled himself forward every time Brock’s enormous hog was thrust up his ass, deliberately avoiding the sheer agony of the massive member tearing into his guts.  It was pissing Brock off, but Jarrell didn’t know that and wouldn’t have cared if he had.  All he wanted to do was stop the pain.

“Stop it, ya useless faggot,” the alpha snarled, “Yer gonna stay still and take my cock if I hafta nail you in place to do it.”

That was enough for Jarrell.  He heard the threat without processing the literal meaning of the words, and he couldn’t take it anymore.  With a violent lunge forward, he managed to pull himself off Brock huge shaft with an audible popping noise, a loud, inarticulate cry of relief slipping from his lips as he did so.

Brock’s handsome face flushed with rage—but now he was free to retrieve the nail gun.  He stooped and swiftly snatched it up as Jarrell began gingerly testing his hands, trying to find a way to free them without incurring more pain.  The assfuck had hurt so bad that it literally hadn’t occurred to him that he was still trapped and no better off now than he had been, aside from the fact that he was no longer being impaled by Brock’s rod—but that was only temporary.

“Ok, you worthless piece a’ shit, you asked for it,” the hardbodied foreman barked, brandishing his dick in one hand and the nail gun in the other.  Jarrell whimpered in terror and yanked his hands even harder, tearing at the flesh and tendons but still unable to break free.  When the pain hit him from behind, that cruelly lucid part of his mind was amazed at how full of cock he was; it was like being hollowed out so his body could be nothing more than a sheath for the older man’s shaft.

But then Brock wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled, bending Jarrell’s lean young body backward.  The boy could see the alpha’s hand coming around, clutching the large, intimidating nail gun; he could feel the cold metal pressed against his flat, heaving belly—and he could hear the loud “thunk” as Brock fired it.

There was no bone to arrest the progress of the nail; all three inches of sharp steel punched cleanly and instantly into the kid’s guts with the head flush against his smooth skin.

“NGAH!” he screamed mindlessly as his body went rigid with pain.  “Aw, fuck yeah, that’s it, bitch!” Brock muttered as the teen’s asshole gripped his pulsating tool in agony, “That’s whatcha needed to work my dick, huh?  Shit, cunt, take it again!”

He fired four more nails into Jarrell’s belly in rapid succession, lowering the gun about an inch each time until the lowest was just above the punk’s jutting erection.  This last one tore into the boy’s bladder, eliciting a scream that reverberated in the empty room and beyond.

And at each one, the teen’s colon clutched Brock’s massive tool as if the bitch was actively working to make the alpha cum.  His torso, slick with cold sweat, shuddered against the foreman’s hairy chest with every puncture as his entire body bucked involuntarily in pain.

For Brock, it was an epiphany.  He’d fantasized about doing this kinda thing before, but he’d always kept himself under enough control to avoid doing anything that would cause trouble.  But the meat had started the trouble this time; in the alpha’s mind, that relieved him of any responsibility for what happened next.  Jarrell had brought this on himself—and Brock was having the time of his life.

“Goddam, asswipe, I gotta remember this next time,” he whispered to Jarrell, the rough blond scruff on his cheek scraping the teen’s ear.  “Course, you ain’t gonna be there for that—yer gonna die on my dick here and now.  Fuck, cunt, feels so fuckin’ good, don’t it?  Lessee if I can make it feel any better…”

Jarrell felt the nail gun’s removal from his belly but he didn’t start babbling in utter terror until he felt it pressed against his right ear.

“Oh Jesus no don’t dear God NO NO—” KA-THUNK!

The teen’s physical reaction as three inches of sharp steel tore through his ear drum and plunged into his brain were indescribable; Brock’s pulsating rod had never been worked so well.  It didn’t shut Jarrell up—but the effect of a nail to the skull was obvious.

“AAAGH no pleath no more sthop it Jethuth help me MOMMY PLEATH—”

WHAM!  WHAM!  Brock had raised the gun slightly and fired two more into the punk’s long dark hair.  The lithe young body thrashed and flailed as the kid continued to cry out, but by now his brain had been damaged past the point of no return.

“IGTH!  AGG!  NGTH!” the young faggot blurted out incoherently, no longer able to form words—but still conscious and excruciatingly aware of what was happening to him. 

But just in case he wasn’t, Brock made certain to enlighten him.

“There we go, motherfucker—now yer just a piece of meat to be fucked, yeah?  All ya ever were to begin with, cocksucker, but now I don’t have to hear ya beggin’ for yer worthless life.  It’s all gonna be over soon anyway, cunt—just make me cum and I’ll end yer pain.  That’s whatcha want now, meat, right?  So work my dick, you useless faggot.  Milk my load so I can put ya down like ya need, bitch!”

Jarrell heard Brock’s words, but he didn’t have the ability to process them.  The nail shot through his right ear had done more than just fuck up his hearing; the delicate balance mechanism of the inner ear had been instantly destroyed and the hapless teen was swept up in a tidal wave of nauseating vertigo that only enhanced his agony. Even the vision in his left eye was gone.

The young punk gagged and babbled uselessly as his heart raced in panic.  Deep under the screaming agony, enough of what passed for his intellect still existed—enough to know that he’d suffered irremediable brain damage.  Worse, it wasn’t bad enough to prevent him from suffering; in fact, it had increased his sensitivity in some perverse way.  Every nail embedded in his lean youthful body felt like a railroad spike, Brock’s vicious reaming seemed to be ripping his guts out through his ass with each powerful thrust—even the swinging and bobbing of his own swollen, leaking cock caused him unspeakable agony.

And deep inside, the stupid little cunt had managed to realize that worse was to come.  He knew that the death the alpha was going to inflict on him would culminate in unspeakable pain, even if he didn’t know how.

Brock didn’t keep him long in suspense.

The helpless homo, lost in his terror, never heard the metallic click as the buff foreman opened up his boxcutter, but he felt it when Brock placed the well-worn edge of the blade against the soft, vulnerable flesh of his throat.   “I’m gonna cum in yer ass, bitch,” Brock hissed in his ear, “And I’m gonna rip yer throat open when I do.  Fuckin’ hot as hell, yeah?  Shit, I always wanted to do this to a useless piece a’ meat—and you gave me just what I wanted, cunt.  Goddam, my balls ache so bad—aw fuck, I’m gonna unload!  Ya ready, asshole?  Ready to gargle yer own blood as I fill yer guts with my spunk?  Yeah, faggot, here we fuckin’ go!”

For one brief moment, Jarrell felt the hot splash of the foreman’s potent seed spurting into his intestines, and then it was lost in the horror of the boxcutter digging into his neck.  The blade needed changing; a sharper blade would have made a smoother, faster cut but this one was old and nicked.  It didn’t slit the teen’s throat so much as puncture the skin, then rip the flesh apart.

It took some effort, too.  The esophagus is a rubbery piece of tissue; Brock grunted and spewed, his masculine face twisted into a mask of rage and lust as his bicep bulged with the force needed to open up the punk’s windpipe.  Jarrell screamed loudly and shrilly, the sound of a pig being slaughtered; as his trachea was torn open, the shriek became a gurgling hiss accompanied by a spray of aspirated blood.

A n iron-like scent filled the unfinished room as a scarlet jet pumped out of the gaping wound, spattering on the mud and dirt below the open window space.  The dying boy thrashed in terror and mortal agony as blood poured into his lungs but his dick never lost its excruciating rigidity.  Jarrell never knew that Brock had dropped the boxcutter and swung the nail gun around to his crotch, but in his last few moments alive, he experienced the nightmarish pain of having two nails fired into his scrotum.  The sharpened steel tore through his semen-filled testicles; the sudden explosion of physical trauma triggering an orgasm of unimaginable force.

As Jarrell died, a steady geyser of blood-tainted cum erupted from his thick boycock, shooting out the window and into the coppery pool that was already seeping into the dusty ground below.  The convulsion had been so intense that the kid had jerked backwards against Brock’s hard, hairy torso with such violence that he ripped his hands loose, finally freeing himself when it was too late to do him any good.  The nails were still embedded in the wall, bloody, a length of tendon dangling from the one on the right.

With a deep, satisfied moan, Brock stepped back and let the quivering fagmeat slide off his still-oozing shaft; it collapsed in a heap on the raw subfloor.   The buff older man was sweaty and trembling with exertion and sexual satisfaction; he’d known a snuff kill would be hot, but he’d had no idea it would feel so good.  The sheer sense of power he’d had over the trapped youth had intensified his pleasure so much that it rang a warning bell in the back of his mind—he could easily get addicted to the sensation.

He’d have to be very, very careful.

That started now.  He looked down at the huddled pile of boymeat shuddering at his feet.  Luckily, there wasn’t much blood on the interior of the structure—it was notoriously hard to remove from bare plywood—but the well-used corpse needed disposal.  The foreman pondered for a moment, then remembered the subdivision entrance.

A large sign was being erected where the primary drive for the area under construction branched off the main road; it was going to be a tall, elaborate structure and deep pilings were needed to support it.  The excavations for the pilings had already been dug and the concrete was going in tomorrow.  It would be a simple matter to dump the dead bitch down the hold, shovel some dirt over the corpse, and let the crew finish the job in the morning.  The worthless little fuck would never be found.

As he bent to retrieve Jarrell’s body, Brock felt the chill breeze on his firm, hairy ass and realized his jeans were still around his knees.  He pulled them up and fastened them at the waist, leaving his cock hanging out the open fly—it was still dripping and he didn’t want a stain in his groin.  Then he grabbed the dead teen, sliding his hands under the boy’s arms, and dragged him out of the room.

Jarrell’s feet thumped on the stairs; his heels dug furrows in the dirt as Brock dragged the twitching corpse the two hundred yards to the gaping hole.  With a twist of his muscular torso, he threw the body in, hearing the thud as it landed in the dirt twenty feet below.  Grabbing a spade from a nearby stack of tools, he quickly shoveled some loose dirt on top of the dead punk—just enough to cover it so it wouldn’t be seen from ground level; no more was needed.

Brock wiped his hands down and felt satisfied with his work, until he realized that the little cunt’s clothes were back in the unfinished house.  Muttering under his breath, angry at his own carelessness, he retraced his steps—and was glad he did so.  He hadn’t realized that Jarrell’s kicks had come off as the faggot had been dragged to his grave.  As he strode along, he bent down and snatched up one, then the other, before entering the house and gabbing the kid’s clothes.

By the time Brock got back to his truck, he’d made a decision.  The clothes were a total loss, cut to shreds; he’d dump them in a random trash can.  The Air Jordans, though, were a different matter.  He’d already used one to wipe off his dick, rubbing his long member inside it to clean the last of his cum of the head.  He wanted a trophy.  It had been a fantastic fuck, and he knew a physical connection to the kill would help keep it fresh in his mind.

Besides, they were in good shape and looked like they might fit him.  He tossed the clothes in the bed of his truck, then climbed inside and placed the sneakers in the passenger seat next to him, glancing at them periodically and grinning as he drove off the site.  Who knows? he thought.  He might wear them himself if he decided to do this again.

And the way he felt, that seemed very likely.

Rocko Busts Robbie

Rocko was drunk and angry, and that was a dangerous combination.  Stopping off at a bar after work hadn’t taken the sting out of getting fired; on the contrary, the cheap alcohol had stoked his temper to the boiling point.  But that was ok—he’d be able to vent it.  Robbie was waiting for him.

He’d picked Robbie up some three weeks ago as he was heading west after killing Jessie.  The boy had been hitching and eagerly jumped into Rocko’s battered Ford.  It was obvious from the start that the little fucker was a fag and the escaped murderer had no qualms about letting the boy service his dick.

So Rocko had gotten a room in a sleazy by-the-week motel that asked no questions, and had manage to work himself into a team lead job in a warehouse, under the table, cash pay only—the warehouse staff themselves were ex-cons and finding someone able to control them had been impossible; the owner was desperate.  

Robbie hadn’t been able to find anything.  He claimed to be eighteen, but he looked a couple of years younger and had no ID.  Youth and inexperience had prevented legal employment and while he could easily have turned tricks, Rocko didn’t need his fucktoy to get picked up by the police and lead them straight back to him—after all, he was officially a serial killer at this point.

But things were different now.  Evidently Rocko’s management style was too rough, even for a bunch of hard-core convicts.  Faced with a choice between dumping Rocko or a revolt among his ferocious workforce, the warehouse owner had very abruptly given Rocko the ax as of quitting time.

So now the muscle-bound killer was headed back to his cheap little motel room, drunk, in a foul mood, and with little cash.  He needed someone on whom he could vent his rage, and Robbie was a sitting duck.


Rocko was late, and Robbie was worried.  If he was late, something might be wrong, and if something was wrong, Rocko could get mean.  Like, real mean.

It was that aggressive roughness that had attracted the little homo to the hulking alpha with the buzz cut and the strawberry blond goatee; the moment he’d hopped into Rocko’s car, he’d inhaled the heady scent of testosterone and adrenaline given off by the dangerous-looking stud, and he’d been hooked.

Robbie’s body was relatively average; he wasn’t a skinny twink, but he wasn’t well-built, either.  He had brown hair with long bangs that almost covered his widely-spaced eyes, large and brown, like a spaniel’s.  The adolescent was a true bottom pig faggot; from the moment he’d hit puberty, he’d been shoving things up his ass.  His sexual behavior was out of control to the point that his parents sought professional help—at which point, Robbie ran away.

He was still running when he met Rocko, and he knew at a glance that this was a man who could give him the brutal assfuck of his dreams, and he’d been right.  In the few weeks they’d been together, Rocko had repeatedly plowed his hole with a total lack of respect that Robbie found incredibly erotic.

But as much as Robbie liked it rough, Rocko was becoming increasingly violent, and it had begun to scare the boy.  The tatted hardman was hot as hell, but he was much stronger and more powerful than the adolescent, and Robbie knew that if Rocko ever really decided to hurt him, there was little he could do to stop it.

Robbie didn’t believe Rocko would ever actually do anything to him, but that didn’t stop the butterflies in his stomach.  He had bad news tonight, and the thought of having to tell Rocko intimidated him.  It intimidated him even more when he heard gravel crunching outside the door to the room.  The heavy rumbling of the ancient Ford was unmistakable—Rocko was home.

The moment he threw the door open, Robbie knew there was gonna be trouble.  The older man filled the doorway, his muscular body as clearly revealed by his tight clothing as if he’d been nude.  The stained wifebeater was at least two sizes too small and stretched over his furry pecs nearly to the point of bursting.  The worn, faded jeans tucked into a pair of Carolina logger boots highlighted his powerful thighs, hard ass, and the massive bulge in his crotch.  Nearly visible waves of mansweat and alcohol radiated from him as he stormed in the door.

Robbie, who had been lolling on the bed, his youthful form clad only in red bikini briefs and white ankle socks, immediately jumped to his feet.  Rocko was drunker than Robbie had ever seen him, which was a bad sign.  The vicious alpha wasn’t just a mean drunk—he didn’t lose control.  Booze made Rocko violent and brutal, but it didn’t make him pass out.  Robbie needed to pass his news on before things got worse.

“Hey, uh, the manager was here today,” he blurted out before Rocko could speak, “He says if we don’t pay the past due rent by tomorrow morning, he’s calling the sheriff to have us thrown out.”

The effect on Rocko was surprising and not as bad as Robbie had anticipated, at least at first.  The older man paused and seemed to be thinking about something, which was better than just swinging his fists.  Thinking the worst was over, the boy turned back to the bed to light the joint he’d rolled just before he’d heard the car.  In that position, he couldn’t see the look on Rocko’s face change.

It was an easy calculation for the experienced killer; he didn’t have the money, and he didn’t want to face the sheriff.  He needed to bug out, now, tonight.

And he needed to travel light.  No useless meat tagging along for the ride.  Rocko had only kept Robbie around as a fucktoy; he thought the kid was a worthless piece of shit, but he was handy to bang. 

Rocko’s internal rage came to a sudden white-hot focus.  This was all the cunt’s fault anyway.  It had been the one to pick this dump, it was incapable of supporting itself—and Rocko had made it interact with the motel staff.  No one had seen, or could ID Rocko.

The look of anger on the escaped convict’s face became something much colder and more frightening.  As Rocko contemplated expressing his true hatred of the faggot piece of shit, his expression became one of malignant lust.  And poor teenaged Robbie, sitting on the bed and taking a huge hit of the cheap smelly skunk weed he’d bought, was utterly oblivious to the fact that a hellish nightmare of agony and rape would be unleashed on him before he could finish getting high.

The ultimate trigger was innocuous enough.  “Boy, go get me a beer,” Rocko demanded as he crossed the room and began pulling off his sweat-stained shirt.  Robbie, with a vague sense of the simmering anger beneath Rocko’s cold surface, did as he was told.  The minifridge’s modernity was jarringly incongruous with the dilapidated thirty-year-old furniture; the only thing it all had in common was cheapness.  The fridge would only hold a single six-pack—but tonight, it didn’t even hold that.

“There’s, uh, there’s only one left…” the teen slut stammered diffidently.

“What?” Rocko barked, “What was that?  You were supposed to go—”

“I forgot,” Robbie said quickly and quietly, and they both knew it was the truth.  He’d spent the day getting stoned and getting Rocko more beer had slipped his mind.

He was still reaching into the fridge when he heard a metallic rattling behind him.  Retrieving the single cold beer can, he turned around to see Rocko sliding the chain lock on the door.

“What’s that for?” he asked, handing the hulking convict the beer, but Rocko didn’t answer immediately.  He reached out and snatched the can that Robbie was holding, popped the top, and swilled down nearly half of it.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked steadily at Robbie.

“It’s for you, bitch,” he replied, then grabbed the teen by the neck.  Almost casually, he lifted the boy single-handedly by the throat and pulled him in close.  Robbie’s air was nearly cut off, but not completely.  This close, he could smell the mansweat, hormones, and alcohol washing off Rocko’s hard body.

Robbie’s fingers dug at Rocko’s hand as his feet kicked helplessly eight inches above the thin, stained carpet.  The boy was scared; Rocko had hurt him before, but this was on a different level.

It got worse when the escaped killer spoke.

“Yer a worthless piece of shit, ya know that, cunt?” he growled.  “I only asked ya to do one goddam thing today, faggot.  One—goddam—thing, just get me more beer.  I even left ya the cash for it.  What’d ya do, spend it on something else?  I’m fucking sick of this bullshit and I’m puttin’ an end to it right now!”

Robbie still had the cash—he hadn’t left the room—but before he could even formulate the words of denial, he was flying through the air.  He slammed into the wall, putting a huge hole in the sheetrock, before he even realized Rocko had flung him across the room with the ease of a rag doll.

Stunned, Robbie managed to pull himself up on his hands and knees.  He was still staring down at the floor when Rocko’s boots came into view and the older man’s voice came rumbling from above.

“Boy, yer lazy and stupid, and you ain’t even a good fuck no more.  Little homos like you can’t take a real man’s cock; yer fuckhole gets all stretched out and you ain’t no good for nothin’.”

Rocko bent down and, grabbing a hank of Robbie’s hair, used it to drag him up, first to his knees, then to his feet—squealing in pain all the way as his hair was nearly pulled out by the roots.  When he finally stood facing Rocko, his face was clouded by fear and confusion.

“I—I d-don’t un-understand—” he sniveled.

“Bitch, you’ve had this comin’ for a long time,” Rocko snarled.

Robbie saw Rocko drawing back his powerful, heavily-inked arm in horror; everything seemed to be moving in slow motion—especially Robbie himself.  He could see what was coming at him but knew there was no way he could avoid it.  The blow landed in his gut like a cannonball, forcing the teen to violently empty his lungs with a shrill squeal.  As he clutched his throbbing belly and doubled over, Robbie saw Rocko’s denim-clad knee shooting up towards his face.

This impact straightened the boy back up, sending him reeling backwards into the dresser; if the no-name flatscreen TV hadn’t been bolted to its surface, it would have been knocked off.  As it was, Robbie hit it hard enough to crack the screen.

The adolescent slut fell to his knees, still gasping.  He kept trying to inhale as he watched the hulking killer grin and unzip his jeans, extracting his massive, pulsating shaft like he was pulling a rope out of a well.  Rocko slowly approached, his grin broadening, until he stood in front of the kid, looming over him. 

Robbie didn’t look up; he didn’t dare.  Whatever Rocko had done to him before was nothing to what was about to happen; he knew that already.  And as much as he liked rough sex, he didn’t want to actually be hurt.  He began to beg, weeping openly.

“P-pl-please don’t,” he wailed, “Oh god, please, don’t hurt me, Rocko, I’ll do anything, please don’t no no NO NO NO—”

Rocko put an end to the pathetic babbling with a swift, vicious kick to the solar plexus.  Leaving the whore wheezing and gurgling on the floor in a fetal position, Rocko finished the beer he was still holding, then tossed it at the writhing, moaning fuckmeat.

“You stay right there, faggot, ya hear me?” the fugitive killer jeered, “I gotta take a leak.  Don’t you go nowhere, fucker; the real fun ain’t startin’ till I get back.  Haw!”

Still struggling to breathe, Robbie heard Rocko’s words.  He also heard the killer’s boots on the bathroom tiles and the loud steady pounding of the stud’s urine hitting the bowl.  It seemed to take forever.

It seemed to take forever to Rocko, too.  He knew he’d drunk a lot, but he was surprised at the volume his bladder seemed to hold.  After a while, the stream died to a trickle, and as it did, he realized he could hear noises from the bedroom.  The meat was up and moving.

Rocko dashed from the bathroom to find Robbie fumbling with the chain lock.  The kid turned and gave him one wild-eyed look and scrambled frenetically at the lock, sobbing loudly.  He managed to get the chain lock free, despite his hands trembling in terror—but then Rocko was on him, and it was too late.

Even as Rocko grabbed him by the right wrist and yanked him around, Robbie pissed himself in terror, the acrid urine darkening the red briefs and running down his smooth thighs.  The kid was bawling like a baby but his voice rose to a loud, shrill bleat of agony as the powerful killer casually jerked the punk’s arm up and back, snapping the bones of the forearm just below the wrist as well as breaking the wrist itself.  The sound of many small bones being broken at once was like popcorn, but it was barely audible over Robbie’s cries of pain.

That pissed Rocko off.  He liked to hear the meat being hurt.

“Shut the fuck up, you worthless sack of shit,” he snarled.  Pinning Robbie to the door, he drove his fist into the kid’s face in four rapid, powerful punches like the blows of an industrial piston.

The motel was old and not well kept up, but the management had—many years ago—provided a concession towards safety; the doors might have been hollow-core, but they were metal, and a relatively thick metal at that.  They didn’t remain on a number of the rooms, but it had taken SWAT team battering rams to remove them.  This room, though, still had one.

Rocko hit Robbie so hard it left a dent in the door.

He dropped the kid, leaving him coughing up blood and teeth, a huddled pile of meat on the floor, as he headed back to the fridge for another beer.  It took opening the door and seeing nothing behind it to remind him there were no more—but that was all it took to restoke his murderous rage.

He turned back to the helpless, crying teen boy, his black cold heart full of lust and rage.  The little cunt hadn’t suffered enough.  Oh fuck no—not nearly enough.

That was gonna change.  Now.

Robbie managed to roll over onto his back, his face smeared with blood, as Rocko strode back him.  Looking up through tear-blurred eyes at the towering alpha, Robbie could see the huge pulsing shaft already dripping with precum.  Somewhere deep inside his cowering faggot mentality, the teen punk realized that Rocko wasn’t gonna be satisfied with just beating him to a pulp.

His fears were confirmed almost immediately.  The hulking killer bent down, his huge furry pecs coming into view—a reminder of his overwhelming physical power, which he promptly demonstrated by hoisting Robbie by the neck single-handedly again, this time from a prone position on the floor. 

If the homo hadn’t been in such pain and terror, he might have admired the sheer strength required for such a feat—or perhaps not, as it was clear that all that power was about to be used to make him suffer.  But Robbie was too busy gagging and choking, blood splattering from his mangled mouth, to have an objective viewpoint.  His left hand dug futilely at Rocko’s vise-like grip; his right hand jerked and twitched uselessly, every movement painfully jarring broken bones together.

Rocko had lifted barbells heavier than Robbie with ease in prison; this was nothing for him.  He held the choking faggot straight out at arm’s length, grinning, as he carried him across to the door.  The boy’s white ankle socks flailed uselessly inches above the floor as Rocko slowly and patiently re-engaged the chain lock.

“Ain’t no one gonna disturb us now, boy,” Rocko chuckled, leering into the kid’s swollen, blackening face as he started back across the room towards the bed.  “You gotta lesson to learn, motherfucker, and I’m gonna make damn sure you learn it good.  You get me, cocksucker?  Yeah?  You ready to gain some knowledge, asswipe?  Fuck yeah!  Here’s lesson number one!”

Robbie was on the verge of passing out, and he was grateful.  He’d heard Rocko’s words and knew he should feel fear, but everything seemed to be fading…  Then Rocko drove his muscular arm downward with a violent lunge, striking the shabby bedside table with a blow powerful enough to collapse it—except Rocko hadn’t hit it with his fist.  He hit it using Robbie’s head.

“Lesson one—no pain, no gain.  You gain any knowledge yet, cunt?  No?  Figures, stupid fuckin’ faggot.  Guess I’m gonna hafta beat some sense into ya, then.”

Things had happened too fast for the adolescent slut; he could breathe again, but was too dazed to think; he could only lie among the pieces of the table and the now-broken telephone and clock.  Unfortunately, he was unable to control an involuntary jerk of fear. 

Even worse, Rocko saw it and interpreted it as a nascent attempt at escape. 

His movement were calm and controlled though.  Standing over the shuddering punk, he slowly raised one leg, his skin-tight jeans clinging to his powerful ass as one cheek dimpled with the flexing of his powerful thigh.  Robbie saw it and knew something bad was about to happen, but he had no idea what.

He had a very clear idea what a second later when the thick treaded sole of Rocko’s Carolina logging boot came crashing down on his kneecap, shattering the patella like a cheap china cup.  Rocko ground his boot into the wreckage of the meat’s knee as Robbie squealed and bleated like a dying lamb.

“Maybe that’ll tighten up yer loose faggot fuckhole,” the sadistic alpha grunted as he reached down and grabbed the mewling homo by the upper arm and tossed him onto the unmade bed like he was just another pillow.  “Lesson two—you don’t get nothin’ for nothin’.  I been supportin’ yer useless pansy ass for weeks, and you ain’t done nothin’ for me.  You ain’t even a good cumdump.  Time to pay up, motherfucker.”

He bent down and clutched Robbie’s jaw in an agonizingly tight grip, forcing the whore to look at him directly.  He spat in the boy face and snarled, “Here’s some more knowledge for ya, bitch.  Wanna know how to make a fag’s fuckhole nice and tight?”

He bent down till his hyper-masculine face, lit up with insane hate and lust, filled the terrified teenager’s field of vision.  “Pain, motherfucker.  Make it hurt.  The more the fag suffers, the better it works yer shaft.  Don’t believe me, yeah?  Fuck you, cocksucker—I’m gonna prove it to ya!  Saddle up, fuckmeat, you got some hot, hard learnin’ to do!”

With a single violent jerk, Rocko snatched Robbie’s briefs off, shedding the fabric like it was paper, leaving the kid’s thick seven-inch boycock lolling atop his large, spunk-filled balls on a bed of dark wiry pubes.  The towering sadist leered down at the agonized youth; he was already familiar with the lithe teen body, but the way it glistened now under the overhead bulb—the only light remaining in the room—filled him with the uncontrollable urge to fuck it into pieces, to utterly destroy the little cunt.

With a snarl of hate-stoked lust, Rocko mounted the bed, brandishing his enormous oozing cock like a deadly weapon.  Forcing the catatonic teen’s legs apart, the hulking convict aimed his massive shaft at the kid’s fuckhole and drove it in balls-deep like he was drilling for oil.

In the past, Robbie had always insisted that Rocko use lube and penetrate him slowly; otherwise, the alpha’s rod of manmeat was far too huge to take.  Now, the little homo slut was being forced to take it raw, and the glassy, knifelike agony of his sphincter being torn in three separate places was enough to bring Robbie out of his dazed state.  Blood flew from his badly-damaged mouth as his voice spiraled in monstrous agony till it cracked and became a useless wheeze—but at the same time, his own thick cock, helpless in response to the relentless grinding on his prostate, inexorably began stiffening despite the pain and terror.

Rocko felt the teen’s dick pressing against his rock-hard abs and sneered.  “Shit, I beat the fuck outta ya, and you get hard.  Fuckin’ sick-ass pervert—ya like it, dontcha?”

If Robbie had been in a position to speak, he might have protested—although he probably would have been too busy begging Rocko not to hurt him—but even in his agony, the teen was aware of his own erection.  At the moment, it was a minor distraction in a world of pain and once Rocko spoke again, it faded even farther into the background.

“Fuck cunt, if ya get off on pain, yer gonna blow your load when I waste yer worthless ass.  Yeah?  Yer gonna die on my cock like a bitch.  Sound good, motherfucker?    Hell, bet yer fag ass has been dreamin’ of the day I finally end yer worthless pansy life, har!”

The muscled killer laughed maliciously, then spit again in the kid’s face.  After screaming his voice out, Robbie had become strangely inert; his twisted face, streaming with tears, evidenced his extreme agony, but he barely moved once Rocko’s massive tool was shoved into his guts.  The firm globes of the older man’s ass tautened into rock-hard masses with each vicious thrust of his hips, driving his long, stallion-like shaft deep into the adolescent’s innards, but the boy barely seemed to notice.  The sweat forced from him by sheer physical agony kept his skin smooth and slick; he slid against Rocko’s furry, muscled form as if he’d been lubed, his breathing was labored and he emitted a faint whining sound, but his resistance had ceased.  It was as if his psyche had completely collapsed.

Rocko had seen this before.  That teen cunt he’d raped and snuffed, the one that got him put in jail, had done this.  Stupid little fag had gone into shock while Rocko was busy laying pipe up its ass.  He’d learned something useful at the time—the best way to snap a bitch out of it was cutting off its oxygen. 

The huge, hardbodied killer grinned, wrapped his massive hands around the punk’s throat and began to squeeze.

Rocko had been correct; Robbie’s eyes instantly popped wide open.  His lean, slick body writhed under Rocko’s weight as his left hand dug frantically at the convict’s fingers.  Even his right arm beat against the stud’s flank, the hand flopping uselessly and agonizingly—the slut was in too much fear to notice the pain.

The kid had known that this was gonna be a bad scene, and he knew he had no way out.  He was a useless little faggot bitch with no coping skills; his only option was withdrawal into his oh-so-shallow mind until it passed.  It worked well; he heard Rocko’s announcement of his impending death but it utterly failed to register. 

That all changed the moment he found himself unable to inhale.  There’d been no warning, nothing to allow him to draw in a lungful of air to help hold on. The need for oxygen was immediate and so urgent that his mental refuge became a luxury he could no longer afford.

Robbie started to fight for air—really fight, for the first time in his short, wasted life.  The danger had been always been implicit, but the teen slut was finally realizing that he might not get out of the situation alive.  As usual, he his estimate was ill-informed; there was no “might” about it, and Rocko drove that point home.

By driving his fist into Robbie’s face.

The first blow had been one of annoyance; sick of the cunt’s pathetic attempts to fend him off, Rocko clutched his throat with one powerful hand, continuing the relentless pressure on his windpipe, while balling up the other fist and slamming it into the boy’s damaged mouth.  The sadist had hoped to teach the little fag to shut up and take what he had coming—but the impact made the fucker briefly go rigid.  All of him.  Including his torn asshole.

The way the teen’s silky colon gripped the engorged head of the alpha’s cock was unbelievable; it was like the asswipe was deliberately trying to jack him off.  “Fuckin’ asshole,” the heaving, thrusting muscleman grunted as he cornholed the adolescent’s fuckhole, “Gotta waste yer worthless ass to finally get ya to work my shaft right, so suffer and die, motherfucker.  I wanna get at least one decent fuck outta yer homo ass ‘fore I split this scene.”   

Robbie managed to get one of his swollen, blackened eyes cracked open just wide enough to see Rocko’s inked bicep swell with power as his fist surged forward like a runaway train, pulping the teen’s nose with a thick, meaty crunch.  After that, though, progressive asphyxia forced the unlucky teenager’s eyes to bulge from their sockets; while he could no longer close his lids, Robbie was unable to focus properly.

And anyway, the huge black blooms of petechial hemorrhaging were beginning to cover his vision.  Despite his desperate attempts to escape it, death was starting to overtake Robbie.  His lean, youthful body was sweating and shuddering, his firm smooth thighs locked tightly around Rocko’s waist as if he was a virgin fag getting its hole drilled for the first time—and the teen’s cock was just as hard on the day he was losing his life as on the day he’d lost his virginity.

It was so hard it hurt.  Robbie had on been vaguely aware of his hard-on—the beating, the broken bones, the vicious, raw rape had made it seem a minor matter.  But brutal prostate stimulation and lack of oxygen had both combined to force an erection of such rock-hard rigidity that the teen cunt couldn’t help but feel agony every time Rocko’s wiry belly fur abraded the hypersensitive skin of his shaft like steel wool.

The vicious serial killer could feel the boy’s dick pressed against him; experience had taught him what it meant, even if the punk’s blackened, drooling face didn’t paint an even clearer picture of Robbie’s imminent death.  The adolescent’s struggles were slowing; his feet were still flailing and kicking in mid-air, but somehow one of his socks had slipped off and fallen to the bed like a dead leaf, leaving the teen’s foot bare, toes curling in mortal agony.  His right arm twitched and jerked, while his left hand, which had been clawing at his closed-off throat, was now almost caressing Rocko’s hard pecs, the fingers trailing limply through the thick chest hair.

As the teen’s lithe, lean body convulsed under him, Rocko looked into the kid’s face, watching the drool foam around the black, protruding tongue.  The experienced killer stared into the faggot’s bloodshot eyes, hoping to catch the exact moment the light of life faded from them, but the wild frenetic look to be seen there told of nothing but the boy’s suffering and nightmarish terror as his brain began to shut down.

The last lucid piece of Robbie’s cockpig soul screamed silently in unimaginable agony inside his pounding, pressurized skull.  As it started to flicker out, it was aware that its ass was being shredded by a vicious, thrusting shaft.  Too much of the brain had shut down for the whys and hows to be remembered; the hormone-ridden adolescent body was on the verge of becoming a true meat puppet, its swollen boycock pulsating mindlessly, controlled by brutal internal stimulation and misfiring nerve endings.

Then it reached the tipping point.  The last sensation Robbie experienced in his short and utterly useless existence was an orgasm so intense that it sapped the last bit of force from his fading mind.

The teen punk died as his load spurted over Rocko’s chest and belly.  The body was convulsing so violently, it continued to ejaculate s steady stream of boyspunk for a good fifteen seconds after the faggot was dead.  But it was the convulsions Rocko had been waiting for; the whore’s ass collapsed around his massive, engorged rod like shrink-wrap, a unique combination of smooth massage and intense suction that the colon was unable to perform in the course of normal functioning. 

“Aw, fuck!” the muscled killer grunted, his hard, powerful body hunching over and his hips bucking as he fired thick potent wads of hot, potent alpha seed deep into the dead boy’s guts, coating the fucker’s innards and marking the kid as his property, his prey—his kill. 

It seemed to go on forever.  Part of Rocko’s mind was amazed at how long it was taking to empty his balls—but then his hands tightened involuntarily, there was a distinct gristly cracking sound, and Rocko pulverized the cunt’s windpipe as easily as if he’d squeezed a foam cup.  The sound and sensation trigged another round of body- and soul-shaking orgasms; the hardbodied stud felt he was pumping so much semen into the corpse that it had to overflow at some point.

Eventually the flow of sperm stopped.  Gasping and sweating, Rocko collapsed onto the dead slut’s quivering body.  Drunk and with his rage and lust abated, Rocko felt a heavy drowsiness coming on, and he didn’t fight.

Three minutes later, the buff killer was sound asleep, still balls-deep in the teen’s corpse.


He awoke sometime before dawn.  He was stiff and sore, and his erection had faded, withdrawing from the fuckmeat of its own accord.  That was a good thing; for a brief moment, Rocko considered going another round with the dead kid, but rigor mortis was setting in and the corpse was getting too stiff to have much fun with.

Besides, he needed to get a move on.

It took twenty minutes to strip and shower.  After cleaning the dried glaze of Robbie’s cum out of his fur, Rocko spent little time dressing and even less packing.  Prison—and escaping from it—had taught him the virtue of traveling light.

It had also taught him the virtue of traveling swiftly, but his nap had delayed his departure more than he liked.  As he unbolted the door, he scanned the room one last time to make sure he’d left nothing that he’d need.

It was hard to tell for certain; the room was a shambles.  The centerpiece, of course, was Robbie’s splayed corpse, legs still spread so wide that the shredded and mangled asshole was visible from the door.  The dead cunt’s face was unrecognizably grotesque; the lividity had drained back and the face was a ghastly white with bright blue lips, tongue, and circles around the eyes.  The cast of the right arm and the left leg showed the violence the teen had endured prior to death—as did the destruction of most of the room.  There were small but telling smears of blood on the walls at various places, as well as on the door.

Rocko grinned.  He’d fucking slaughtered the faggot bitch, just like it deserved.  Opening the door and glancing out first to make sure he wasn’t observed, Rocko strode quickly to his big car, his Carolina loggers crunching on the gravel lot.  He tossed his single bag into the passenger seat, back the car out of the space, and headed for the main road.

His timing was immaculate.  The motel manager had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, and after some routine duties in the office, headed out to deal with those deadbeats in room 17 as soon as the clock signaled eight.  He noted that a car was leaving the lot, but it meant nothing to him, and he noticed none of the details.

The door had locked automatically, but he had a passkey, of course.  The manager opened the door, took a step inside, and almost lost his breakfast.

Half an hour later, the man stood shaking and pale, giving all the info he had to a uniformed cop and a detective.  “Yeah, there were two of ‘em, but the one lyin’ dead in there is the only one I ever seen.”

“What about the maids?  Would they have gotten a look at the other one?” the detective asked.

“Maid, not maids,” the manager replied grimly, “Can only afford one.  I asked her already; she says no.”

“Billiston, you go question her when you’re done here,” the tec told the patrol cop before turning back to the manager.  “You notice anything else?  Anything out here, not in the room?  Any evidence will help.”

“Not really.  This gonna be hard for y’all to wind up, ain’t it?

The detective sighed.  “Yes and no.  Fairly certain we know who did this, but we have no way of tracking him, so any little clue helps.

“Yeah?” the manager asked, his eagerness for rumor stimulated, “You know who did it?  Who?”

“Sorry, can’t give that out yet,” the detective replied, “But he only seems to go after faggots.  If you ain’t one, you’ll be fine.”

At that moment, the county coroner’s van pulled into the lot.  “Jesus,” the manage gawped, “Get them to hurry up, wouldja?  That kinda thing is gonna kill business.”

“He ain’t the one killing your business, ha!” the tec chuckled.  The manager grimaced at the misplaced witticism and headed back to the office.  He was halfway there when the cop called out to him.

“Hey, I just remembered—the dead cocksucker in there only had one sock on.  We haven’t located the other.  Let us know if you find it, yeah?

“Uh, sure,” the manager said, “Is it important?”

“Might be,” the detective answered.  Never can tell—and like I said, we’ll need all the evidence we can to track down this sick bastard.”  The manager nodded in compliance and entered the office.

Once inside, he quickly went into the private rear office and locked the door.  Drawing the blinds, he peered out the slits between them for a moment, making sure no one was approaching.

Then, with trembling hands, he dug the missing sock from his pocket where he’d stuffed it prior to calling the policy.  He held it to his nose, deeply inhaling the aroma before unzipping his fly, pulling out his throbbing erection.  As Robbie’s stiff corpse was being zipped into a body bag, the motel manager sat in his darkened office, using the dead boy’s sock to masturbate furiously…

Transitions

By Gay Slavemeat

Gsmeat2@gmail.com

The Premise

I imagine an awesome world run by sadistic Alpha males, where there is a positive, stable social order for them and for the citizens they rule.  A select group, the Alpha Male Aristocracy, achieve total dominance, with a large class of worthy but less dominant citizens who live productive, fulfilling lives under the benevolent but firm rule of the Alpha class.  To support both groups, there would be a vast, disposable slave class.  We would be naked sub-human animals assigned dangerous and degrading tasks to support the needs and desires (especially sexual desires) of the Alphas and the regular citizens who own us.  Our bodies would be tortured, used sexually, and brutally destroyed at their whims while they laugh at our pathetic (but deserved) fate.  There would be zero limits on what is done to us or what we are required to do.  Exciting fatal gladiatorial contests among us would provide entertainment and release tensions that otherwise might lead to conflict among citizens.  Medicine would advance rapidly, and new drugs would be quickly developed with us as experimental lab animals that are plentiful and totally disposable. For example, new drugs would enable intense, satisfying orgasms as often as desired, complete with impressive loads of thick cum.  We would seek and express appreciation for pain and punishment, especially when it is time for us to be killed.  We would replace methane-emitting cattle as the prime source of meat, reducing global warming and giving citizens a fulfilling sense of power as they butcher and eat our live slave flesh, enjoying our expressions of appreciation for the honor of being part of their meal.  Our pathetic lives would comprise only pain and humiliation and would mean nothing. 

There would be two sources of slaves.  The vast majority would be cloned, their DNA altered to make them docile and anxious to serve, and to cause their orgasms to be events of great pain, not pleasure.  But there would also be a group of willing slaves, who are not cloned or predetermined, but who recognize that slavery and the pain and humiliation that comprise it are what we desire and deserve.  We would be born into regular families, even Alpha class families, but as we grow up we recognize our purpose, our highest and best use and greatest source of personal and sexual fulfillment, is to serve an Alpha as property.  While we become subhuman objects like any other slave, our willingness to serve, suffer, and die for his pleasure generates a mutual satisfaction and relationship beyond just that of owner and property.  We would be the ultimate, voluntary, submissive – property by choice.

Like many of my stories, this one takes place in that glorious utopia.  It is a “cum-ing” of age story that explores owner/slave relationships. Sadly, it’s all fantasy, including names of characters.

I appreciate any feedback, good or bad.  And let me know if there is a story you’d like told where guys get tortured and snuffed.

1

Graduation

Grant was awakened as usual by a jolt of electricity administered through a chip implanted in his balls.  But he was already mostly awake, having been too excited to sleep much the night before.  The dungeon was still dark, and the stench of piss and sweat was intense as always.  Grant couldn’t move much in his cage, but he could hear one of the handlers approaching, confirming that Grant’s big day was about to start.

“Get out, shit slave,” commanded the handler, as he opened the door to the cage so Grant could crawl out.  As Grant did so the handler kicked Grant in the balls with his steel-tipped boots, and then kicked him in the belly when Grant rolled over in response to the first blow.  It was how his days always started since he arrived at the training center, and it caused his cock to get erect as he thought of how much pain and humiliation he would receive and how much he desired and deserved it. 

The handler placed a dish of slave-food in front of Grant, but Grant knew he was not to approach it until instructed.  The food was extremely healthy, designed to keep slaves lean and fit.  But it was also disgusting, containing intestines and other entrails unfit for consumption by actual humans. The handler unzipped his fly and let loose a large gusher of piss to “flavor” the gross concoction.  Once that was suitably drenched the rest of the piss was aimed down Grant’s throat, where it was gratefully consumed.  The handler watched and laughed as Grant consumed his daily nourishment doggie style, also lapping up the pool of piss in the dish.  He ate quickly, as he knew he only had permission to eat while the handler administered 50 lashes to Grant’s back and ass.  The gruel wasn’t enough to satisfy Grant’s hunger but it was enough to supply his physical requirement for food.  And he would get lots more liquids – cum, spit, and piss – as the day proceeded.  Being hungry at all times was part of the training.

Grant was naked, of course.  The handler enjoyed the sight of the wonderfully sexy body as he attached a collar with a leash, which he used to guide Grant to a nearby toilet where Grant was permitted to piss and shit, again knowing this would be his only opportunity for the day.  The daily routine continued with the handler permitting Grant to soap his body, after which the handler hosed him down with an intense blast of ice-cold water.  Dripping wet and shivering form the cold water and air, but now ready for the day, Grant was next led into a large, well-lit room that was elegantly appointed with a combination of comfortable furniture and a large variety of torture equipment.  There were several dozen Alphas milling about, dressed in elegant tuxedos, and enjoying an exquisite breakfast served by gorgeous naked male slaves.  The handler removed the leash form Grant and instructed him to stand. The handler then used a marker to draw the number “15” on Grant’s back in large numerals, and onto his upper left chest in small numerals.  Grant knew he was to respond to that number throughout the day.   No one would care what his name had been.  His cock hardened even more as he saw the powerful Alphas and considered the day ahead of him.

Grant had been in the training center for six months, and he had performed well.  Most of the time was spent conditioning him to remove any lingering sense of self-worth and training him on how best to serve Alpha males, especially sexually.  He had chosen to be there, but now understood more deeply how correct that choice had been.  He was now certain that his only purpose was serving an Alpha male, and offering his master/owner Grant’s full loyalty, obedience, affection, and even love.  It would not matter if any of that was returned, and of course the Alpha would use Grant as he wished, administering tortures, humiliation, and a painful but hopefully entertaining death.  Grant would then become meat to be consumed, a status often begun while the slave was still alive. The extent to which the Alpha gained pleasure from using and consuming Grant was the sole measure of Grant’s otherwise worthless existence.

In addition to the psychological conditioning, Grant experienced an extensive variety of tortures, the handlers taking notes on which ones seemed to be most painful and degrading to Grant, and how Grant reacted to each type sexually.  This information would enable the Alpha who purchased Grant to maximize Grant’s suffering at all levels.  Since Grant was already an extreme masochist, maximizing Grant’s pain and humiliation, would maximize his sexual response.  That made him far more entertaining for the Alpha.  Of course, none of these torture sessions would cause any scaring or permanent injury.  That would come later once the Alpha took possession of his new property.  The center was expert at administering massive pain without harming the value of the merchandise.

Another major part of Grant’s day was physical exercise, to make sure Grant was in peak condition.  This included long days working in agricultural fields with herds of other slaves.  Grant was in a separate category, far more valuable, because he had chosen to become a slave.  But a major aspect of his training was understanding that he was otherwise no different than the slaves produced in massive cloning tanks.  They were produced as slaves, knew nothing else, and were conditioned to accept their fate.  Being part of the herd, his naked body conditioned by the intense physical labor and perfectly tanned by exposure to the sun, was an important part of his conditioning.  He and all the herd were just property, subhuman animals kept alive for a time to provide service – whatever service its owner desired and commanded.  Months of intense hard labor among other worthless slaves ensured that understanding and Grant totally embraced it as he dutifully stood among the wealthy Alphas assembled to bid on the “submissive” slaves being put up for auction – the slaves who had chosen to be there.  It would be an expensive purchase as such slaves were not common, but Grant understood that these Alphas likely had no constraints on what they could afford. They were Alphas, and that’s what they deserved.  Grant was a slave, and this was what he deserved.  Both groups were aware and highly satisfied with their status.

It was not long before an Alpha signaled for Grant to approach him so that he could inspect the young slave.  Grant did so immediately, standing respectfully with his hands by his side and his head bowed.  The Alpha felt Grant’s smooth skin and fingered his ass to see how firm and tight it was. He measured the cock and squeezed the balls to get a good understanding of their size.  He then lifted the chin, telling Grant to open his mouth, and inspected the teeth.  The Alpha took a set of brass knuckles from his pocket and administered a solid blow to the gut, causing Grant to bend over with the pain.  But Grant immediately returned to his original stance and position, thanking the Alpha for the blow.

“Not a bad specimen,” commented the Alpha, Nathan, to Kurt, one of his buddies who was also interested in Grant and watching the inspection.  He then entered the number 15 into the auction app on his phone, and a readout from the chip inserted in Grant’s body confirmed that all vital signs were excellent.

“Indeed.  I was thinking of bidding on this one myself.  I hope we don’t bid against each other so that it becomes too expensive,” laughed Kurt.  “I am awfully familiar with this one and I can tell you it’s an incredibly fun piece of meat to fuck.  I did so a lot when it was still human.”

As Grant heard the voice, he realized that the second Alpha did indeed know him well.  Before Grant realized his calling was to be a voluntary, submissive slave, he had been Kurt’s classmate in school. Kurt had dominated and fucked Grant many times and was one of the cruelest Alphas Grant had known.  Grant’s sexual arousal from that was a significant aspect of his ultimate self-awareness.

“I remember talking to its dad about its decision to become a submissive. It had been a gradual realization, but the dad encouraged it.  After all, these slaves can fetch a great price and its dad was short on funds.  He’s a great guy and encouraged me to attend today and help drive up the bidding.  If I wind up owning it, that would be fine by me.  I doubt I’d keep it alive long given how much I know I’d enjoy the kill.” 

“Well, to my taste it’s the most attractive one in the lot being auctioned today.  It’s got a great build, nice and trim but with good muscle tone.  I always like how slaves look once the vets have removed all the body hear on the torso, limbs, and crotch, and treat the skin so it doesn’t grow back.  That makes the skin wonderfully smooth.  Since the money’s going to a good guy, I think I’ll see if I can buy it.  I’ve certainly got lots of money, and I think I can outbid you.  Of course, there’s always the risk of one of the Fletcher clan making a preemptive bid.  I’m not in their league and I think one of their buyers is here today.”

“Yeah,” responded Kurt.  “Me neither.  And in any event, we sure don’t want to piss them off.”

There was no acknowledgement by Kurt to Grant, and of course Grant kept his head bowed as was appropriate.  But he was pleased to hear that his sale would benefit his dad so much. The family’s financial needs were among the reasons he had begun to view his best use as a submissive slave instead of as a regular citizen.  And as he had become sexually active, he had realized his arousal was triggered by being dominated, in part from his experiences at school with Kurt and his buddies.  Grant knew being snuffed by Kurt would be an exceptionally painful and humiliating death, and that Kurt would indeed enjoy it a lot.  That turned him on even more.  And Grant remembered how relived his dad had been when told of Grant’s decision, Grant was pleased how well things were working out and his cock got just a bit harder.

The balance of the morning was spent with demonstrations for the Alphas who had arrived to bid on the lot of 15 submissive slaves being auctioned off.  The Alpha bidders removed their own clothing so they could enjoy the candidates and test how they responded sexually when tortured and fucked.  It soon became a terrific S&M orgy, with each masochistic submissive as aroused as their sadistic future owners.  Both Nathan and Kurt fucked Grant, and then, being sexual buddies as well, decided to join in double-fucking his ass.  The treatments the vets provided to the slaves kept the assholes tight, so double-dicking and large dildos did not cause damage that might reduce the market value of the live meat.

By the time all the Alphas had finished their “inspections,” it was time for lunch, and the Alphas went into a nearby dining room where another fantastic meal was served.  It featured live slaves who were butchered table-side as the Alphas chose the cuts they wanted.  Some chose to eat the meat as “slave-tar-tar” and others had the chef cook it to their specifications on a portable Hibachi.  Side dishes and exceptional red wines completed the meal.  Watching the butchering and enjoying the screams as the slaves felt their bodies being cut and their flesh being removed provided the entertainment.  Large screen monitors made it easy for all the Alphas to enjoy the show and there was much laughter as the slaves were cut open.

After lunch was the auction.  The slaves were hung upside down on display as is done with meat in a butcher shop.  They were, after all, just meat that was still alive and they were auctioned as such. 

One by one, in order, the auctioneer directed a handler to activate a track that carried the meat to the center of a stage next to the auctioneer.  Rather than a price on the slave itself, the bids were made on a per-pound basis, with a screen above the auctioneer displaying the resulting cost by multiplying the bid by the slave’s weight.  The goal was to dehumanize the property being auctioned, and it was quite successful.  NO one, least of all the slaves, remembered that these had once been humans.

The Alphas all had bid cards with their names on them (numbers were for slaves), and the bidding was fierce and competitive, lubricated by many glasses of wine and reflecting the fact the herd being auctioned was of particularly good quality.  Grant was indeed the most valuable and was auctioned off last. As he hung on display he heard the auctioneer reminding the bidders of his vitals:  height, weight, bodyfat percentage, cock size when erect, average fluid ounces of sperm produced when masturbated, and so forth.  The auctioneer also pointed out that for his weight Grant would provide an above average amount of choice meat when butchered since his bone structure was somewhat slight.  This also meant his bones were easier to break, which could add to the fun.  It was all in the bid book, but having it announced helped the emphasis on Grant as property – as meat.  The auctioneer also pointed out key features, such as how tight Cant’s nipples got when aroused (which he was) and how sexually attractive Grant was when he masturbated.  (For that the auctioneer jerked him off, getting a nice load of cum that dribbled down the belly and chest.)  Grant had no problem achieving orgasm as the whole process was a total turn-on for him.  This is the status he’d dreamed of, and now it was all coming true. 

Nathan and Kurt were sitting next to each other, and they had started the bidding. It quickly intensified and the bids were soon higher than what the other slaves had sold for.  The Alphas were willing and able to pay top dollar for top quality. But then everything changed.  A bidder in front held up his card, which read “Fletcher.”  At that point, the bidding stopped and without seeking any other bids the auctioneer halted the process and declared that auction item #15 was sold.  No one objected, as the Alphas were realistic.  It would not be wise to bid against the household of George Fletcher.  Grant’s

 graduation ceremony was over.  He was now the property of the Supreme Leader of the Alpha Council, astonished at the honor of being allowed to serve the most powerful Alpha in the world.

2

Succession Planning

It was one am Saturday morning when Kyle entered his older brother’s bedroom.  He closed and locked the door behind him and then quietly pulled the covers off the bed.  Kyle looked at his naked sibling, sleeping next to the sex toy selected for that night, a beautiful male slave named Chris who turned Kyle on sexually.  Chris was one of the issues Kyle planned to settle, since the slave had the smooth twink body type and extreme masochist personality Kyle most enjoyed.  Chris belonged to a specially prepared category of slaves who were carefully cloned for their sex appeal, spending their first years after emerging from the cloning tanks as agricultural workers whose bodies became exceptionally fit and perfectly tanned working naked in the fields.  They were the equivalent of age 17 and the work was profitable for their owners while the slaves learned to serve masters and achieved sexual prime.  Every day they worked 13 hours in the fields developing their smooth muscles, plus two hours of indoctrination on their role and duties as a slave.  They came to understand they were sub-human and deserving of the humiliation, tortures, and death that awaited them.  They were naturally gay and trained to serve other males sexually, duties added to their daily chores.   They were taught to endure sexually oriented pain and humiliation, to welcome it and be grateful that they could provide these services.  In due course they began to look forward to being tortured and snuffed – perfectly conditioned and trained masochists.  But the slaves in Chris’ DNA category were especially smooth and eager.  They still had virgin assholes so the Alpha Males who bought then to use and destroy could be the first to rape them.  Chris was a particularly attractive specimen of this group, a slim twink with gorgeous smooth skin devoid of body har.  He was an example of Kyle’s favorites for his own fun.

His brother, Everett, preferred more muscular, hairy macho types for his sex play, who would pretend to resist and thereby give Everett a sense of power from overwhelming and viciously killing them.  Everett had a hairy, linebacker’s build and liked slaves with similar appearances, in contrast to Kyle’s preferences, which reflected his own smooth, hairless swimmer’s build.  Everett had asserted his status as the elder son to pick Chris from among the day’s crop of sex slaves delivered for the family’s use – and he did it just to piss Kyle off.   Kyle doubted he had done anything beyond fucking the slave, who appeared to be unharmed and was also asleep, his naked body getting Kyle even more turned on and angry.  As Kyle stared at Chris the thought of the torture and snuff scene that might have been massively turned on Kyle.  He wanted to hear Chris beg to be tortured and raped, thanking Kyle as he did so.  Chris was wasted on Everett.

Kyle gently moved his brother’s wrists so Kyle could attach a set of handcuffs, then his feet for a set of ankle restraints.  Kyle awakened his target by lashing his back with a whip.  Everett looked up, totally startled and confused.

“Hey, bro, sorry to disturb you.  But I wanted to fuck and snuff Chris and to talk to you about this succession thing – you know, this bit about you getting officially appointed next week as heir apparent and a member of the Alpha Council  Is this a convenient time to chat?”

Everett was now wide awake and angry.  “What the fuck’s going on asshole?  It’s the middle of the fucking night.  And what the fuck have you done.  Release me at once or I’ll have you skinned alive.”

“Well, bro, that’s sort of the point.  Once you’re on the Council you actually could do that.  Dad’s Supreme Leader and he holds total power over everyone, but Council members have the authority to inflict any punishment they want on anyone except the Supreme Leader or other Council members, whether Alpha male or not and for any reason or none at all.  And that scene doesn’t work for me.  So, I came up with a better idea.  How about if I just fuck you to death and become the anointed successor instead since I’m next in line?  And then I could torture your slave Chris here, who should have been my slave Chris.  He’s my type, not yours.  It was my lust to destroy his ass and the fact you pulled rank on me again that gave me the idea to do this tonight.  Since you’re my beloved older brother I’ll make your death reasonably quick, although you will get to suffer some of what you deserve.  But the torture will be mostly because I hate your guts even more than you hate mine.  Then Chris is going to endure a long and very painful snuff session as part of my reward.  After all, that’s what that piece of slave shit wants and deserves and it doesn’t look like you did much of anything, except maybe deprive me of the pleasure of being the first to butt-fuck him.  How does that plan sound to you as an alternative to you being able to have me skinned alive?”

Everett had a serious hangover and was slow on the uptake even at his best.  “Are you fucking crazy?  That is not permitted.  I’m the older brother and the heir.  The punishment for assassinating a member of the Council is extreme.  Dad would never let you get away with this.  Let me go.  NOW.”

“I don’t think you’ve thought this through very well, bro, which isn’t surprising since you’re an idiot as well as an ass.  So let me help.  To start with, the heir is the oldest living son. You’re about to be disqualified on the grounds of being dead.  And it’s not technically an assassination of a member of the Alpha Council until you’re designated as heir and officially become a member, which further explains my timing.”  As Kyle spoke, the pleasure of the scene got him excited, and he got an erection.  It was an obvious one since he was also naked and it was rock hard, pointing straight up.  Kyle raised the whip he brought with him and began flogging Everett.  He wanted to soften up his brother and to inflict maximum pain and humiliation, so the blows were intense and rapid.  The whipping would make sure Everett would not be able to resist much when Kyle started fucking him.  Everett was not able to block the blows and Kyle further intensified the flogging while he continued to explain things.  Everett had rolled over onto his back, and after about two dozen blows to the chest and belly Kyle turned Everett over so he could attack the back and ass.  “First, I’ve always wanted to whip and butt-fuck you since you did it to me before I got to be stronger than you are.  You’re a lot bigger – fat mostly – so you don’t have much sex appeal to me, but I have consistently proven I can take you in a fight, as you no doubt recall from when you tried to beat me up last weekend but I beat the shit out of you instead.  Some of your bruises still haven’t healed, I see.  That was a lot of fun and I think I can sustain my hard-on long enough to send a load of cum up your ugly hairy ass.  Being an Alpha I’ll still be able to enjoy Chris and have a few orgasms fucking him while I vivisect his awesome body.  So three’s a revenge aspect beyond you taking Chris for your entertainment.  Second, you are amazingly stupid – you left your door unlocked and almost invited me in.  I didn’t even have to use the copy of your key I made after borrowing yours while you were too drunk to notice.  Don’t get your hopes up, however.  I stationed my slave buddy Cory at the door as a guard.  We’ve had some great sex thinking about how this is going to play out, followed by me practicing my whipping skills on Cory.  I didn’t do any damage to him, of course, like I’m doing to you.  I have other plans for him, in due course and I’ll probably miss him after I snuff him.  You, however, won’t be rescued or missed by anyone.  And the whip is already causing your skin to bleed nicely.  I’m guessing that hurts a lot, or at least I hope so.  If not, let me know and I’ll try harder.”

Everett was still trying to recover his senses after a night of drinking far too much, and figured the alcohol was why he’d forgotten to lock the door.  That was a normal precaution for Alpha males of their high status since assassinations were fairly common and, if successful, socially acceptable as a way to advance.  As he tried to think of ways out of his predicament, he threatened Kyle with retribution from Everett’s friends and staff.

“You don’t have any friends, and I’ll deal with your staff immediately so no one will be alive to avenge you, although I don’t think your staff likes you either.  Everyone thinks you’re an incompetent stupid jerk, which you are.  And third and most important, dad likes decisive action.  You spend too much time waffling and not enough time acting.  I don’t think you’re even a proper Alpha male, and you certainly never think about what’s best for all of the Alpha Aristocracy, just focusing on yourself.  Dad and the Council have to rule and protect the whole system and its members have great responsibilities.  Our whole system is built on merit with everyone using their skills to keep making the system better.  Fuck, you’re drunk so much you hardly think at all. I’ll be a much better ruler, and dad knows that.  He won’t object.  In fact, I think he’ll be relieved to know his successor is competent to rule when he retires.”  Kyle was now enjoying himself immensely.  Everett’s back was now a mass of welts.  He rolled Everett over again and targeted the blows to include his genitals.  He could tell Everett was weakening.  He would not get any effective resistance once he started the real fun.  Everett kept protesting but was now in obvious pain and soon started begging.  That made Kyle even more aroused and he intensified his attack, drawing a fair amount of blood from the welts now appearing on the chest and belly, and scoring a serious cut into Everett’s cock.  As his own eager cock dripped pre-cum Kyle also noticed how aroused Chris was as he awakened and obediently watched the show.  Kyle aimed a few lashes his way and assured Chris this was nothing compared to what he was going to do to Chris once Everett was dead. That made the masochist slave even more aroused and grateful.  He knew his highest and best use was to be viciously tortured to death and Kyle was clearly going to immensely enjoy doing that.  Chris desperately wanted to perform the duties he was bred and trained to perform.  His hard, dripping cock showed how much he yearned to receive the pain he deserved.

Kyle next addressed Chris.  “Don’t worry.  I have intense plans for you, and you’re going to die a pretty horrible death for my pleasure.  The only pity’s that bozo here got the fun of being the first to plug your hole, but we’ll just have to live with that, or in your case die with it.  I’m going to have Cory help me and he and I will at least be the first to have two dicks up your ass.”

“Please, sir,” responded Chris eagerly.  “Master Everett didn’t butt-fuck me.  He was too drunk and couldn’t get it up.  He said he’d deal with me in the morning.  So that pleasure will be for you, and I hope you enjoy raping me as well as torturing and killing me however you feel like doing it.  You can count on my cooperation and appreciation.”

Kyle was delighted; Everett was humiliated.  “What a pathetic fuck,” Kyle taunted his sibling.  “You’re too fat, drunk, and impotent to even fuck a slave.  I was being too lenient on you.   You should be tortured more than just this whipping.”

Kyle was in no hurry and after a little consideration added other torments.  He had a lot to choose from since Everett’s room contained a wide variety of S&M toys, and Kyle spent an enjoyable hour or so as enjoying using a cattle prod on full strength to the balls and nipples.  It was fun to watch the scars and burn marks appear on his brother’s skin, and to listen as the threats turned into pleas for mercy and the pleas turned into screams of pain.  Everett offered to go into exile, which caused Kyle to burst out laughing.  But in due course it was time for part two, and Kyle released Everett from the restraints and positioned him on his back with his legs in the air so Kyle cold see the pain and fear as he rammed his cock up Everett’s ass.  This was turning out to be even more fun than Kyle had anticipated, especially as Everett begged him not to rape his virgin ass.  Kyle hadn’t realized his brother hadn’t had anal sex before – on the receiving end – and was thrilled to be the first to do so, and to do it as a true rape with an unwilling victim.  He started pumping in and out of the virgin asshole, aware he must control himself to be sure he didn’t shoot too early.  “I’m going to be a nice guy and just strangle you to death while I fuck you.  You’ll probably get a final orgasm as you die, and I want our loads to be simultaneous.  After all, we’re family. Of course, any pleasure you might feel will be overwhelmed by the pain of being strangled to death, and as you die your ass will tighten nicely to enhance my orgasm.  Does that sound OK to you?”  Everett was far too weak from the whipping and the other tortures to resist, as Kyle had planned, and just kept saying that Kyle had it all wrong and must stop and let Everett go free.

“Actually, Kyle has analyzed things pretty well,” a third voice calmly commented, startling the two youths.  It was George Fletcher, the boys’ father, and the Supreme Leader of the Alpha Aristocracy.  Kyle turned in wonder as he saw him standing at the foot of the bed but kept pumping Everett’s ass.  “Don’t be quite so smug Kyle,” George laughed.  “As Supreme Leader I can override any lock, and Cory knows better than to resist me.  I sensed you needed a little more time to bond with your brother, so I waited for a while outside the door and enjoyed myself fucking Cory.  He’s a great fuck, as you know, and grateful for the honor of being used.  There is a video system that includes every room, and I’ve also been enjoying your show.  But keep going on your task.  Frankly, I was starting to worry you might not make a move, and I’d have to kill Everett myself.  I could not let him become my successor.  You’re right.  He’s too indecisive, selfish, lazy, weak, and just plain stupid.  The fact that slave lying next to him is still alive and unharmed is an embarrassment to the family.  And when I have assigned him tasks to gain experience, he has been a dismal failure.  You will do far better and have always been my favorite and first choice.  You just had to prove yourself, and I think you’re just an orgasm and a kill away from doing that right now.  There’s no hurry – take your time strangling Everett.  It’s fun to watch, although he deserves a worse death than just being whipped, fucked, and strangled. 

“I’m glad to hear you’re going to time his strangulation to match your orgasm, which is amazingly satisfying for you and even more fun for me to watch.  Once you shoot, I’ll want to fuck Everett’s body while it’s still finishing its death spasms.  As you know, it’s one of my favorite ways to cum.  Then we can double-dick Chris before you officially start his dismemberment.  I know I will still want more sex even after we each fuck Everett, or what’s left of him, and then do Chris.  So maybe we can double-fuck Cory.  I enjoy it when we fuck slaves together.”  George stared at Everett, who was silent in stunned horror and shame.  “What a disappointing piece of shit you turned out to be,” George told his elder offspring.  He then returned to addressing Kyle, who was now totally into fucking Everett and starting to wrap his hands round the throat.

“Tomorrow we can adjust the arrangements for the ceremony to match the new reality with you as official her.  I guess this is a good learning experience for Everett on being more careful and decisive – he should have killed you by now to protect himself – although maybe the learning experience will be a little late.”  Mr. Fletcher and Kyle chuckled at the joke, while Everett just lay in shock at what was happening, reality having finally sunk in.

Everett didn’t resist much as Kyle reached out and slowly began to tighten his grip on his brother’s throat, gradually cutting off his ability to breathe as Kyle got closer and closer to orgasm.  Kyle and his dad both enjoyed viewing the effects of Kyle’s strong grip as Everett struggled to stay alive and enjoyed even more the fact Everett was now sporting his own erection generated by the effects of the fucking and strangulation.  This was far from Kyle’s first snuff fuck and he had gotten good at the timing.  As he saw the life fade form Everett’s eyes Kyle increased his own pumping and brought himself to the edge of climax.  Life finished ebbing form Everett, the final involuntary orgasm began from the dying body, and Kyle shot a fantastically satisfying load up the near-dead ass as its spasms added pleasure by tightening on Kyle’s cock.  As soon as he was done, he withdrew so that his dad, now naked and erect, could insert his own dick to enjoy the final convulsions of the nice warm corpse of his worthless son.  As he reached his orgasm George used a knife to slowly cut off Everett’s cock, which was now coated in the cum it had emitted.  George was pleased to observe that a tiny flicker of life meant Everett still felt pain from the emasculation, which had been the goal.  He tossed the cock onto the floor nearby, like a bit of table scraps tossed to a dog, and nodded to Chris.  Knowing what was expected Chris scrambled on all fours out of the bed and across the floor to where the cock had landed.  He picked it up with his teeth, doggie style, and when Mr. Fletcher nodded at him Chris chewed and swallowed the cock, some of the cum dripping down his chin.  Chris then sat back on his haunches and raised his arms in front of him, mimicking the response of a grateful puppy.  Father and son laughed at the slave but were pleased at this sign of good training.  It was a wonderful family bonding moment, bringing Kyle and his father remarkably close and eliminating an awkward family problem. 

As George had expected, they were still quite horny and summoned Cory to join them.  In one sense Cory Stewart was Kyle’s classmate, best friend, and lover, and although not of as high a rank as the Fletchers (no one was) he was from a prominent family.  His father, Gordon Stewart, was one of the five members of the Alpha Council serving under the leadership of George Fletcher and was George’s top advisor and best friend on the Council.  Kyle and Cory had grown up together and become friends early on.  But as they grew up Cory realized his best use lay in a different role, and he was now one of Kyle’s slaves.  As a willing submissive, his service gave Kyle especially intense pleasure.

As Cory joined them Kyle suggested Cory fuck Everett’s corpse while he and his father double-fucked Chris.  Kyle knew that would give George the greatest pleasure, and Kyle was touched by the family bonding and wanted to show his appreciation.  They had a great joint orgasm as they felt each other’s’ cocks inside Chris’ no-longer-virgin ass.  Then they did the same with Cory as the target while Chris provided the entertainment of fucking what was left of Everett.  Kyle had planned a protracted session with Cory helping him torture Chris and also receive pain from Kyle in the process.  Now Kyle and George would both inflict pain on Chris and Cory, which would sexually excite both Alphas and both slaves, given the interaction of extreme sadism and extreme masochism.  This meant everyone was massively turned on.  It was not yet Cory’s time to die, but it was always his time to suffer.  After several hours of George and Kyle enjoying themselves at the expense of the slaves, the session ended when Chris finally died, having been burned, gutted, and emasculated as the father and son expertly applied their skills and shared their fun.  Chris’ skin was cut open and most of his bones were broken; they had especially enjoyed running high voltages through various parts of his body – especially his balls.  His final act was to shoot a plentiful load of cum as Kyle slowly cut off his cock.  Being a slave produced in a cloning tank, the orgasm itself was almost as painful as the final step in his emasculation.  Drugs enabled all males to have essentially continuous, massive orgasm; altered DNA caused cloned slaves to feel excruciating pain when they did so.  Cory had received a plentiful round of whipping, beating, and electricity, but had no scars or permanent damage.  That would happen later, when decided to snuff his submissive property.  The session finished with George and Kyle again double fucking Chris’ body.  By that point Chris was just another warm fresh corpse finishing its death throws. although Kyle and his dad got to enjoy the pressure on their cocks from the gyrations this generated, pleasure they both greatly enjoyed as they had with Everett. 

As they left the room to clean up, they enjoyed the view of the two dead bodies lying side by side, each showing expressions that reflected the pain they had suffered.  But Chris’ expression also showed contentment, while Everett’s was shock and humiliation.  Mr. Fletcher commented on the irony of having more respect for a dead clone than for the dead member of his own family.  Chris had fulfilled his purpose; Everett had failed miserably.

3

Party Time

Kyle and Cory returned to Kyle’s room to clean up and get some rest before the weekend.  They engaged in their usual Friday night routine, although it was by now early Saturday morning.  They showered together with Cory lovingly cleaning Kyle’s awesome body. Then Kyle fucked Cory and watched as Cory jerked off for Kyle’s amusement.  Kyle was quite pleased with Cory and allowed him to sleep nest to Kyle instead of in the cage next to Kyle’s bed. They slept late, had another sex session when they woke up, and then took another joint shower before heading to breakfast.  (The ability to have nearly continuous orgasms was ideal for 19-year-old males.) 

As Cory soaped Kyle in the shower right after they returned from snuffing Everett, Kyle had been nearly overwhelmed with how attracted he was to Cory sexually, watching Cory get sexual pleasure from Kyle torturing and fucking him, which gave Kyle even more massive pleasure.  Having a youth from a high-ranking Alpha family volunteer to become a slave and donate his body and life for Kyle’s use and enjoyment was the ultimate power trip.  Kyle realized how grateful he was for Cory’s loyal support and submission, and how much he enjoyed being with him, whether it was using him sexually, inflicting pain and humiliation, or palling around and just having fun as if they were still classmates, best friends, and lovers. Indeed, they still were best friends and lovers, Kyle thought of the great, loving relationship his father had with his own willing, submissive lover, Keith, who had also once been part of a prestigious Alpha family.  Keith had served Kyle’s dad for many years, and although Keith, like Cory, was now a slave and in theory no different than the slave Chris that had just been snuffed, Kyle almost viewed Keith, who was in his early thirties, as the older brother Kyle never had in Everett.  Kyle wanted a relationship with Cory like his father and Keith had achieved, and Kyle knew Cory did as well.  But Kyle also knew he would get a huge thrill when he tortured Cory to death and he wanted that as well.  It was a dilemma Kyle would need to resolve, but not one he had to deal with right away.  Indeed, it was a frequent topic in his conversations with Cory, as was which methods Kyle would choose for Cory’s snuff session.  The conversations turned them both on and always ended with intense sex and a large deposit of Kyle’s cum inside Cory..

After the lovers showered they headed down for an extremely late breakfast, consisting of eggs, potatoes, and fresh slavemeat steaks carved from Chris’ beautiful flesh. It was delicious, and they planned their day as they ate.  Kyle had decided to stay naked, like Cory, so they could better enjoy each other’s bodies on what was now a bright, warm, sunny day, a day they were eagerly looking forward to.  And while Kyle had one task to complete, they realized they could simply enjoy the day.  Cory attended college with Kyle and they were both excellent students who worked hard and did exceptionally well.  But there was only one more day of class and they had no more assignments.  The plan quickly became one of lying by the large pool, working on their full-body tans, and enjoying the sun.  Obviously, a lot of sex would be part of the plan and a few more slaves would wind up fucked, tortured, and snuffed.  Well, maybe more than a few.  After all, Alphas had learned that engaging in multiple daily kills provided not only great sex but reinforced the Alpha characteristics like sadism that were so important for them.  Today Kyle wanted Cory to join him in that fun as if Cory were still an Alpha male.  This was going to be a wonderful, relaxing day off.  They had worked hard all term and deserved it.

Even Kyle’s task was fun.  He read a text he’d just received from his father and announced to Cory: “I am officially the heir apparent, as dad just singed the formal paperwork this morning. That also means I’m the second ranking member of the Alpha Council.  The formal ceremonies will take place next week, but the reality is effective now.  He says I should enjoy this weekend as I’ll begin new duties right after school ends.  But he wants me to assume what few responsibilities Everette had and dispose of his staff.  That should be simple since Everette actually wasn’t doing anything and I’ve already ordered the staff, both slaves and citizens, shackled and put in cages until I decide how to kill them.  Since I’m a member of the Council I can dispose of the citizens as well as the slaves.  It’s sort of a pity, as the staff are probably delighted not to have to work with Everett anymore, but we can’t take chances.  And the slaves are disposable anyway and not my types.  Any ideas on how his staff should die?”

Cory thought for a minute and then had a brainstorm.  “Wolfpack 1-2-3?  As I recall his slaves and staff are all pseudo-macho types so it would be a great show.”

Kyle laughed.  “Brilliant!  I sure like how you think. I’ll have them conditioned and schedule them for the next show.  Well, thanks to your great idea I think we’re done with work for the day.  Let’s go take a swim and then we can do some more fucking in the sun.”

Wkolfpack1-2-3 was a hit show on the most popular Alpha Network.  The idea was simple:  A group of specially bred and trained canines would stalk, attack, kill, and eat 3 defenseless prisoners.  The canines were part wolf and part pit bull, so they could be effectively trained to attack the prisoners, which they did in pairs of two, always starting by biting and eating the genitals.  Then they would continue to rip apart the bodies as they ate, but slowly so the prisoners did not die too soon.  The show was incredibly popular not only for the amusing and entertaining deaths but also because it afforded great opportunities for gambling.  The best return was to bet on the order in which the prisoners would be killed, and by which set of canines.  With six animals attacking, and three animals being killed, there were lots of combos possible.  Previews would allow the audience to watch both prisoner and canine participants perform various physical tasks so they could handicap likely results.  (Since all events were fatal for the prisoners there were no prior episodes to judge by, but some of the canines developed large followings from show to show.)  Viewers could wager on just the order of deaths, or place quinella or trifecta bets as in traditional horse racing.  The trifecta “1-2-3” bet on the order of the deaths was the most popular and paid a hefty return for viewers who picked the right sequence.  To enhance the entertainment, the prisoners were conditioned prior to the show for about a week to become fully terrified by the canines, watching prior episodes after being injected with drugs that would alter their psyches.  They were conditioned to resist but also to show their fear.  Watching their terror was a big part of the amusement.  Also, the arena was a walled-in forested area where the prisoners could try to hide or climb a tree.  The fun in this part (which they would not see in the episodes they previewed) was that these were not real trees but artificial ones that would become electrified, giving the prisoner time to climb up before the electricity was activated and shocked him into falling to the ground where the canines waited.  Their training made them aware what would happen, and it was hilarious to see the shock on the horrified faces of the doomed victims as the canines bit into their cocks and balls. 

One thing that made the show a little different was that the victims were typically citizens, not slaves.  The rule of law under the Alpha Aristocracy for citizens was extremely draconian, and any form of crime was not tolerated.  So having Everett’s staff be killed on the show would not be out of the ordinary, although they of course had not done anything wrong.  But even that would have a positive impact, reminding viewers that the power of the Alpha Council was indeed total, and they were not bound by any constraints of fairness or justice. Obedience to them was the only option, and their pleasure was the only ultimate goal.   Citizens were superior to the slaves and entitled to use and snuff slaves they owned, but citizens were subject to the Alpha males, especially the Alpha Council, who could do whatever they felt like doing with absolute power.  Snuffing willing slaves was very satisfying, but snuffing unwilling victims was also a major rush for the sadistic Alphas.  Cory had made a great suggestion and he and Kyle looked forward to enjoying the episode.  It would be especially fun as Everett had 5 staff assigned to him, which would mean a longer show with even more betting options. 

The young men spent a very relaxing day enjoying each other and the wonderful warm weather.  It was 5 years ago when Cory officially became Kyle’s property, relinquishing his citizenship and presenting his naked body as a slave for Kyle’s use.  Kyle turned a bit nostalgic and reminded Cory of how he’d abandoned his status as part of an Alpha family to become Kyle’s slave.  Indeed, Cory’s dad was a member of the Alpha Council and Kyle and Cory had grown up together, classmates and especially close friends.  As they reached puberty they realized they were both gay, and their relationship got even closer.  Then, as they finished high school, Cory realized he wasn’t really an Alpha.  He liked it with Kyle in charge and did as Kyle requested.  It wasn’t just that Kyle’s family was higher in the Alpha pecking order.  It was that Cory enjoyed being dominated and directed.  By the time they started college Cory realized he especially liked being fucked, ideally by Kyle but also by others.  It wasn’t long before this included being whipped and beaten, which turned him on intensely. 

“What was it like when you decided to tell your dad you were better suited to be a slave?” asked Kyle.

“I was scared shitless.  I had no idea how he would react.  My guess was that he’d kill me on the spot, which would have been a reasonable reaction.  But I also knew my younger brother Nate would be a great Alpha member of the Council, so he would have a successor.  If he killed me it would be what I deserved.  Fuck, a big part of realizing I should be a slave is realizing I deserve a horrible death that brings pleasure to an Alpha male.  My only regret in that case would be not having the chance to be your slave and have you be the one who tortures and snuffs me when you felt like it.”

“What did he say?”

“I was amazed.  He said he’d already figured it out and concluded that this was my highest and best use.  He had considered turning me over to Nate for Nate’s use.  He had also figured out that Nate was the one to join the Council someday.  But since he is so devoted to you and your father, he said he had positioned things so I would become your property and the paperwork was already done.  He had just been waiting for me to reach the same conclusion so my status would be entirely voluntary.  That’s when transitions from Alpha to slave work best, as there’s no need for any pressure or conditioning.  I was grateful and thrilled.”

“How did Nate react?”

“He was also delighted.  He planned to be dad’s successor and said the only downside was that this meant he wouldn’t get to kill me to achieve his ambition.  He had been looking forward to that, but now he didn’t want to deprive you of that fun – or piss you off.  But he did take the occasion to fuck me, whip me, and beat the crap out of me before I was turned over to you.  It turned us both on a lot and since our dad watched and eventually joined in it was a great family bonding moment before I ceased being part of the family and became property.  Incidentally, that was nice of you to let him do it again last week as his 18th birthday present.  He was especially vicious, as I deserve.”

“He’s a good guy, and I enjoyed watching and then adding my own tortures.  That was a great party.  It made me think how much fun I’ll have when I decide it’s time for you to die.  But I still can’t decide how I want to do it.  Nothing that is really personal, like strangling you, seems quite painful enough or sufficiently prolonged.  And the options that carry the most pain and longest suffering, like crucifixion, don’t seem personal enough.  I want to feel your die from my actions torturing you.  But don’t worry, I’ll figure out something truly terrible that gives me “hands on” fun.”

“I’m sure you will, and it’s fun to consider options as we do from time to time.  But I agree that nothing we’ve talked about seems horrible enough to provide sufficient, sustained pain and give you enough pleasure.  We should keep talking about it, and I’ll see if I can dream something up that you’ll enjoy. Of course you’ll have my full cooperation.  It’s all up to you, but I know both Nate and dad would enjoy watching or even joining in.”

The conversation had aroused Kyle’s Alpha sadism, as it usually did, and he decided he’d have a little fun with Cory.

“There’s one thing I’ve been thinking of in the meantime.  We’re doing lots of celebration of my graduation, but we aren’t celebrating yours at all.  After all, you also did great in college and it seems there should be some event to commemorate that.  It should be something that’s painful and humiliating, of course.  I think I’ve come up with the perfect idea.  I’ve decided to brand you as my slave and I want to do that now.  I’m feeling particularly horny and branding’s always a great start to sex and torture sessions.”

“That’s a great idea!  It will make sure anyone who sees my naked body knows that it’s not a real person, just slavemeat that hasn’t been harvested yet.  Want me to get the branding iron and heat up the coals?”

“No need.  I already ordered everything, and it will be here in a few minutes.  While we wait I’ll tie you to the St. Andrew’s cross over by the bar and start whipping you.  But first I need to piss, so kneel down in front of me.”

Cory did exactly as instructed, his cock having gotten hard from the sexual excitement for what was about to happen to him.  He gratefully drank Kyle’s piss and then positioned himself so Kyle could attach him to the X-shaped cross.  By then a young slave had delivered the hot coals and branding iron, conveniently placing them by the cross for Kyle’s use.  The slave then stood at attention while Kyle tested the branding iron on the slave’s chest.  It was not quite hot enough and Kyle severely beat the slave for failure to do its job perfectly.  He coals he enjoyed himself lashing Cory on the chest, belly, and cock while the coals got the iron red hot.  After a fun session, another test on the attending slave demonstrated that it was indeed hot enough, as the slave screamed loudly and the sweet smell of burning slave flesh filled the air.  The slave thanked Kyle for using it and again apologized for its failure.  Kyle amused himself by using the iron to burn off the slave’s manhood, laughing as the slave convulsed in response to the intense pain.  Then, thoroughly aroused, he burned the slave a few more times and instructed the slave to go to a nearby T-cross where two other slaves mounted it for crucifixion.  Kyle could enjoy the scene as the slave died in agony from the combo of being emasculated, burned, and crucified.  Failure, no matter how small, was not tolerated and this would be both entertaining and a good lesson for other slaves.

Kyle turned his attention to Cory.  The beating had left some welts on Cory’s belly but Kyle had been careful not to lash his upper chest, where the skin was especially smooth.  Kyle carefully pressed the branding iron into Cory’s left breast, enjoying once more the smell of burning flesh.  But Cory did not scream.  He thanked Kyle for the honor of being labeled as Kyle’s property.  Kyle held up a mirror for Cory to see that this was indeed his public status, showing the brand of “Property of Kyle Fletcher.”  Both Kyle and Cory were pleased, and Kyle released Cory from the cross so Cory could bend over while Kyle once again fucked him.  It was a great interlude that reflected both Cory’s status and their symbiotic relationship.

The two young males lay in the sun for a bit.  Kyle admired his handiwork in branding Cory as Cory jerked off for Kyle’s further entertainment, and they then decided to enjoy a few hours of hunting.  Kyle’s sadistic lust as to Cory had been satiated for a bit and he shifted their roles back toward being classmates and buddies.  But his sadistic lust was always present.  Hunting would satisfy that.

The estate had a 10-acre walled off forest that was stocked with fit young slaves trained to be hunted.  They were good at evading the Alpha Males, which made the hunting much more challenging and enjoyable.  Kyle and Cory preferred using bows and arrows, which offered even more challenge compared to rifles or shotguns.  And they hunted naked, cocks hard in anticipation of the fun they were about to have, feeling like hunters of olden days.  They carried quivers slung over their shoulders which were filled with poison-tipped arrows. 

When they came to the gate to the game reserve they selected 2 slaves to hunt, using a kiosk that showed live shots of the slaves currently in the herd, and the slaves that were selected dutifully presented themselves for inspection, eager to please Kyle with an exciting hunt that culminated with the trivial contribution of their worthless lives.  Kyle instructed them to stay together as they tried to evade the hunters, so Kyle and Cory could hunt together and would each have a target to kill when they tracked them down.  Kyle was feeling generous toward Cory and wanted him to also enjoy a kill.  Indeed, they would compete to see who shot the first arrow into one of the slaves and who had the best shot.  Both were talented archers, although Cory was slightly better – a fact he enjoyed teasing Kyle about when permitted to do so.

The hunters gave the slaves a head start, and then the chase was on.  In due course Cory spotted them and he and Kyle outran the targets, quickly getting into range.  Kyle got off a great shot that was perfectly aimed and right on target into the back of a fleeing slave, right behind its heart.  As it fell to the ground Cory shot an arrow that went straight into the butthole of the other slave.  The poison not only assured that the slaves would die from any successful shot, but also generated extraordinary pain, causing them to suffer painful and entertaining deaths.  These were climaxed by orgasms as the bodies convulsed and, after about 10 minutes of agony, died. The one Kyle shot had the poison released in its heart, so it died more quickly than usual.  But Kyle doubled over in laughter as he watched the slave with an arrow up its butt thrash wildly as the poison slowly disbursed throughout its body and it finally died.  The arrow feathers protruding from the slave’s asshole were especially amusing as the slave gyrated on the ground.  Cory bragged about having fucked the animal with the arrow as he used his foot to push the slave onto its back so they could enjoy the final orgasm.  The arrow didn’t break, but was pushed further into the slave, causing the tip to burst through the lower belly, adding even more amusement.   As they watched and laughed the hunters expressed their contempt for the “game” by jerking off and then pissing on the dying slaves.  Kyle’s sexual satisfaction derived from his sadistic Alpha nature; Cory’s was from imagining himself as one of the slaves that had been fatally humiliated. He knew his time would come someday and that excited him even more as he trusted that his death would be far longer and more painful when it occurred.

The two rivals argued about who had the better shot, as they always did.  This was part of their ritual.  They decided to settle the issue by hunting a second pair.  For that kill they maneuvered so they were in front of where that duo was running in its futile effort to escape.  That way the hunters were able to get their shots into the chests or genitals.  There were rules on which shot was considered better.  Penetrating the chest was measured by how close the tip was to the heart.  For the genitals it was whether the arrow hit the penis, which was worth more points but obviously harder to do.  Kyle aimed for the chest and got a great shot into one of the slaves that penetrated the heart itself..  Cory saw that the other slave’s cock was so hard it was pointing upwards albeit bouncing a lot as the slave ran.  Cory aimed for the genitals, getting an awesome shot that penetrated the penis just under the glans and continued on into the belly, pinning the cock in place. 

“Nailed it,” joked Cory as the slave collapsed onto the ground for another delightfully entertaining show.  The hunters laughed once again, and even Kyle had to admit Cory’s shot was outstanding.  He had indeed literally nailed the cock to the belly with his arrow and the target’s final orgasm was a humiliating combo of blood, piss, and cum.

Kyle and Cory returned to poolside for another refreshing swim followed by more great sex and sun. 

They also talked about Kyle’s new role.  The Alpha Council consisted of five members, four of whom reported to the Supreme Leader, Kyle’s father, who was also the chairman.   While the members had authority over the rest of the citizens (and of course all slaves) it was the Supreme Leader who held absolute power, including appointing the Council and deciding its role.   At this time there had been only four members – George Fletcher, Gordon Stewart, Adam Schultz, and Arthur Chen.  The fifth member had recently retired, after long and highly competent service, which generated the opening for one of George’s sons.  That was part of the motive for the retirement.  Gordon Stewart, Cory’s father, was George’s main advisor and closest confidant on the Council.  All four had agreed that Kyle was ready, and he would become vice-chair and heir apparent.  Cory and Kyle had fun speculating what actual roles Kyle would play.    As the designated #2 on the Council, the only sure part was that Kyle would succeed his father when George retired.  But that likely a long ways off, and it would be thrilling to learn this week what his father had in mind for his present duties.  Kyle knew he had a lot to learn, and part of the thrill would also be working with Cory’s dad, whom Kyle liked and admired and who tended to have outstanding and creative ideas.  The other two members lived in and ruled, respectively, Europe and Asia, and the retired member had ruled the Americas.  Kyle’s hope was that he could assume that role, mentored as always by his father and Gordon.  Gordon lived in a spacious suite within the Supreme Leader’s Palace where he was close at hand for advising George on all issues and regions..  Gordon’s remaining son Nate (after Cory’s decision to cease being a human) also lived in the compound, and he and Kyle often teamed up to torture and fuck Cory.   Nate was also gay and would be starting college in the fall.  He and Kyle were becoming fast friends, a wonderful setup that worked well for everyone.  The two families shared deep, loving friendships, and Kyle looked forward to ruling with Nate when their dads retired.

That evening George hosted a celebratory family meal for Kyle.  Cory was included, as were George’s long-time submissive slave, Keith.  They were also joined by Gordon and Nate.  Everett was not left out, being included as the main course.  He had been beheaded just above the neck and drained of fluids.  Internal organs were replaced with a flavorful stuffing mix of croutons, celery, sage, and sausage; the skin had been coated with barbecue sauce and Everett had been slowly spit-roasted with a metal skewer inserted in his ass that came out the neck.  The chef had laughed at the unusually large amount of cum that drained from the asshole when the meat was cleaned.  When it was expertly cooked the body looked and smelled particularly appetizing laid out on a large serving cart next to the dining table.  The chef had made sure to highlight the lacerations and especially the choke marks on Everett’s throat,  The cock having been severed as it shot its terminal load, the chef had fashioned a cock-shaped specialty of fresh crab that stood straight up where the cock would have been, topped by a parsley sprig stuck in the fake piss slit – which the diners found highly amusing.  Kyle couldn’t help but comment that he thought the replacement cock was much bigger and probably more functional than the original.  (Sibling rivalry survives mere death.)  The scrotum was removed but the balls were still attached, nicely barbecued, and featured in little silver shells on either side of the penis-shaped crab concoction. 

The scene was festive, especially the positioning of Everett’s decapitated head, which had been impaled on a pike and placed at the dinner table where Everett usually sat during family meals. 

They started the meal with George and Kyle each picking up one of Everett’s testicles to eat.  But the Stewarts were not deprived, as there was a bowl of 8 fresh steamed testicles on the table for them to choose from, harvested from the 4 game animals Kyle and Cory had killed in the hunt.  Even Cory and Keith were not ignored, and Kyle tossed a testicle to each of them as they knelt by the table to serve their masters and perhaps get treated to some table scraps.  (While Kyle tended to treat Cory as if he were a buddy as well as a slave when it was just the two of them, in public he made sure Cory was just another sex toy.)  As each of the four Alphas consumed a man-seed they also raised their wine glasses.  Kyle offered a toast to the chef for finally getting some value out of Everett, and George offered one to Kyle for his successful intervention and his new status.  Nate couldn’t resist also making a toast, which was to the obvious superiority of younger siblings as Alpha leaders.  Cory joined in the laughter, totally content with his status.  He hardly reacted when Nate kicked him in the balls under the table, using his steel-tipped leather boots.  Cory just thanked him and welcomed the deserved pain.  Slaves always deserved pain.

George did the carving, as head of the household, but generously gave Kyle the first slice of the delicious barbecue that was once his brother.  It was recognition of Kyle’s and Everett’s new respective status, with Kyle as George’s official heir and Everett as a piece of meat. 

The conversation turned to the events of the next week, and George outlined some of his thoughts on Kyle’s new position, which was to serve as ruler of the Americas as Kyle had hoped.  This meant Kyle could continue to reside in the Palace and be mentored by Gordon.  It was a wonderful occasion they would all remember fondly, and part of a wonderful, relaxing weekend.

4

Class Time

The following Monday was the last day of classes and Cory’s and Kyle’s last day of college.  (Kyle had decided it would be fun for Cory to continue as a student even after becoming a slave, as he enjoyed studying together with him and he figured it would make Cory more useful after Kyle graduated..)  Friday would be graduation, which was now being combined with Kyle’s ceremonial induction as heir apparent and vice-chair of the Alpha Council.  His father had made an official announcement on live TV Sunday, and Kyle was beginning to enjoy the perks of his new status.  But George had also insisted Kyle finish his classes. 

Despite Kyle’s excitement about all that was going on, the day had not started off well. The school had been named “Everett Fletcher College,” and that obviously needed to be changed.  Kyle was angry that the dean had not already done this and replaced the sign in front of the building once he heard the official announcement the prior evening.  He could have commissioned slaves to work all night and get it done.  If a few of them fell off ladders and were killed in the process of doing the work in the dark, that was hardly a reason to wait.  Kyle got angrier still when he was told all the changes in signage could not be done in time for the graduation ceremony.  That was ridiculous and meant the disgraced old name would still be in place during the graduation and induction ceremony.  This was unacceptable. 

If Kyle had a flaw it was his hair-trigger temper, and he totally unloaded on the dean, who was rightfully afraid and promised to remedy the problem immediately.  It didn’t help that Kyle was aware the dean preferred the dead brother over Kyle even though Everett was lazy and not a good student.  And now Kyle was enduring a boring class – the last lecture of his college career – in a worthless course entitled “Recent World History.”  It covered how the Alpha Aristocracy had assumed complete worldwide power and focused on how regular citizens had abandoned aspects of their freedom in return for controlled world order.  Kyle, of course, knew all about these events, since it was his great-great-great grandfather who had led the final revolution and his family had ruled ever since.  Not only was the teacher boring, but a focus on giving up liberty was all wrong.  The result was world peace, prosperity, and great strides on issues like medicine, quality of jobs, and the environment.  This was the natural order of things, with Alpha Males ruling as they did throughout nature, and especially with creation of the slave class that not only supported the Alpha Aristocracy but also supported regular citizens.  The quality of life for citizens was vastly improved.  Just that morning Kyle had read how citizens caught in a nuclear plant disaster were rescued by the Red Cross, whose services included needed blood supplies obtained by draining the blood form donor slaves.  There was, of course, no limit on how much blood could be taken, so they used all of it, and the dead slave was then used as emergency food for the desperate citizens.  Meanwhile other slaves toiled at cleaning up the radioactive fuel leak that was part of the disaster, undeterred by the fact the radiation would cause deadly burns on their exposed flesh.  It would be silly to waste HazMat protective gear to prevent the fatal radiation sickness.  Indeed, cameras on drones filmed the clean-up for the entertainment of citizens as they watched the burns start to appear on the naked bodies.  Robot drones could have done the clean-up as well, but, after all, radiation burns caused a pretty gruesome death that was fun to watch.    It all made for a rapid clean-up with great TV news footage.  This kind of efficiency would be impossible without the excellent organization and discipline provided by the Alpha Aristocracy and the plentiful supply of expendable slaves.  Kyle nearly exploded in anger when the teacher commented on the events and expressed some sympathy for the slaves who had been given the honor of painfully donating their worthless lives to benefit and entertain deserving citizens.  What the teacher was spewing was treason and could not be tolerated.  As his anger grew, Kyle realized he could now do something about it. 

“You’re fired,” Kyle screamed at the teacher.  “And this heretical lecture is over.  In fact, as initial punishment for your treasonous statements you are to strip naked, bend over the desk, and let everyone in the class fuck your ass.”

The teacher was shocked and horrified.  He had planned to get to the great benefits of the New Order and started to explain that to Kyle.  But that just made Kyle angrier.  As the teacher saw the rising anger, he realized his peril and promptly complied, desperate to avoid further punishment.  All of Kyle’s classmates cheered and were more than willing to help administer the punishment.   Kyle calmed down a bit as he sat back to enjoy the show.  He waved to Cory, who was sitting next to him, and pointed at his dick.  Cory got the hint and moved over to unzip Kyle’s designer jeans, take out the hardening dick, and start giving Kyle a blow job.  There were about 20 students in the class so it would be a good show.  Since they were all males at their sexual peak, Kyle correctly predicted that some would want to get in line twice.  And a lot of them also stripped naked to better enjoy the fucking, which also improved the view for Kyle.  He had some very sexy classmates.

Since the teacher was about 27, fit, and good looking, Kyle knew his classmates would enjoy themselves and it was, after all, also their last day of school.  They deserved a little relief and sexual relief was always best.  Kyle got even more turned on as he watched the gang rape and took his time fucking Cory’s face before shooting his load down Cory’s very willing throat.  Part of the fun was that everyone knew how homophobic the teacher was and how much he would especially hate using his tongue to clean off the guys’ cocks and then drink their piss, as Kyle also ordered.

Being a son of the highest-ranking Alpha Aristocrat had already made attending his all-boys college a lot of fun.  But being the son and heir apparent and a member of the Alpha Council was far better.  Kyle could do whatever he wanted with absolute impunity, and George encouraged him to take advantage of his authority with controlled anger as a way of learning how to rule others. 

Kyle and Cory were openly gay but being gay was no issue.  It was both accepted and encouraged by the Alpha Aristocracy, reflecting the fact most of the leaders (including Kyle’s dad and his mentor Gordon Stewart) were themselves gay.  The other guys in the school, whether gay or straight, knew better than to object if Kyle wanted them to perform gay sex for his pleasure, as he’d done with the teacher.  And since Kyle was a 22-year old male, he wanted sex pretty much all the time.  Cooperating could help their careers; not cooperating was extremely dangerous, especially given Kyle’s temper. 

Kyle’s father also encouraged the temper.  He coached Kyle that fear of an arbitrary, horribly painful death at Kyle’s whim was an especially important part of Kyle’s power and should be a skill he honed and practiced frequently.  The key was to control and direct the anger, not to let it control Kyle.  The teacher being gang fucked by his class would be just the latest example, and Kyle had always been in control.

Kyle walked out of the class after enjoying the blow job, the gang rape scene, and adding his own load of piss down the teacher’s throat.  (To save himself the need to stop by the bathroom between classes, Kyle always used a human urinal, typically Cory or another slave but not always.)  As he and Cory walked down the hall together, laughing at the teacher’s fate, Kyle got horny all over again looking at Cory’s amazing body. Cory had beautiful smooth skin, was the most handsome person he’d ever known, and their sex was constant and intense, aided for both of them by the S&M play that was usually part of it.  Being naked assured Cory was immediately available whether Kyle decided to fuck him in the ass or have Cory suck him off.  Besides, Cory knew his body was amazing and liked to show it off.  His cock hardened as he observed Kyle staring at him lustily.

As much as Kyle was enthusiastically looking forward to the lunch ceremonies and to his final class, he followed his father’s coaching and focused on the teacher’s infractions and what else Kyle should do about it. Kyle had demonstrated his anger and instilled fear.  Now he needed to reinforce it.  He allowed his anger to build as he considered various options and reached some decisions.

Kyle sent a text message to the dean informing him of Kyle’s actions so far and instructing him to have the teacher displayed naked and publicly tortured between now and the graduation ceremony.  Since the teacher was not gay and was homophobic the tortures were to include lots of gay rape and especially lots of fisting and fucking with large electrified dildos so the ass would be completely ruined. At the assembly, the teacher was to be executed by the senior class rifle team as part of the celebration.  A highlights film of the most extreme tortures was to be shown prior to the firing squad as a further humiliation and warning to other teachers.

 Kyle also informed the dean that he was disappointed such a bad teacher with treasonous beliefs had been hired.  As a result, the dean was to hire his own replacement prior to the assembly, and he, too, would be executed after introducing and welcoming the new dean.  Kyle told the dean via the text message that the quality of the new hire, whom Kyle would interview after his last class today since the school was now named for Kyle, would determine if the dean’s execution would be slow or quick.  (Kyle had already decided it would be slow, probably by being emasculated and whipped to death, since that would be more fun for Kyle and more entertaining for his fellow students.  But, as his father had taught him, he knew the dean would do a better job hiring if he held out a little hope of beheading or one more round from the firing squad.)  The dean understood that there was no point negotiating with Kyle and responded that he understood and would, of course, do as instructed.  He added a genuinely nice apology, thanking Kyle for using the failures of the dean and the teacher to help students understand the requirement of accountability that leaders like Kyle’s father had instituted.  The dean also assured Kyle the signage issue would be remedied by the end of the day.  “FO” was Kyle’s succinct reply.  The dean was trying to get a quick death, and that pissed off Kyle even more.  The dean was definitely going to suffer a slow, painful death starting right after Kyle approved his replacement, which would be far worse if the replacement didn’t pass muster with Kyle.  Kyle was pleased with his plans and looked forward to telling his father about the events later that day at dinner.

5

Break Time

Kyle had free time before lunch and his final class, which was a lab session he was excited about, and he headed to the “break room” with Cory and a few buddies.  The room was a lounge area where seniors could hang out when they weren’t in class, and it featured some entertaining activities as well as snacks and drinks.   As they entered, they enjoyed the sight of three gorgeous classmates who were being crucified naked on the “punishment wall,” their impressive young cocks hard despite the fact their bodies appeared near death.   Cory got beers for Kyle and himself and they joined a few other students who were enjoying watching the final stage of the punishment.  The crucified students had been doing poorly academically and would not be allowed to graduate.  The elite college had a 100% graduation rate, so flunking them was not acceptable.  Nor would the school lower its high standards.  The obvious solution was to execute students who might fail, which also served as an incentive for students to study and do well in addition to a chance for some entertainment watching the losers suffer and die.  Kyle was pleased at how obvious their pain was and could tell from their incredible difficulty breathing that death was near.  They had chips implanted in their bodies that sent medical readings to an app on his iPhone, which confirmed his observation.  Kyle also was pleased to see the history teacher tied to a fuck bench with a line of students waiting to rape him.  The line included the baseball team, which was enjoying “bating” practice.  Inserting baseball bats up the teacher’s ass was thoroughly destroying it and a lot of fun for the team.  Kyle knew the humiliation was almost even more painful for the homophobic traitor.  This would be a key highlight of the video Kyle had ordered for the graduation ceremony.    Kyle was a little worried the teacher might die prior to then but felt the fun his classmates were having was worth the risk.  These were his buddies, and they could always just use the dead body as a target, maybe alongside the dean.   He hadn’t yet decided how the dean would be tortured and planned to chat with Cory as to ideas.  Cory was always highly creative, as he’d been with the Wolfpack 1-2-3 idea.  Indeed, he was counting on Cory to help him decide the optimum snuff scene for Cory when Kyle decided that time had come.  They talked about it a lot and those were fun conversations for both of them.

Kyle sipped his beer and focused again on the punishment wall, which was quite sophisticated.  The crosses themselves could be raised and lowered electronically to permit easy access to attach or remove the bodies.  Preset screw holes made it easy to drill holes in the hands and feet and insert the screws to fasten them securely.  This assured the bodies would stay in place.  It also invited jokes about being “totally screwed” that Kyle and his friends never got tired of using. There was a system of video cameras to monitor the fun as victims struggled to breathe, their agony broadcast on a TV channel that was extremely popular.  The medical readouts included a projected time of death so viewers could be sure to tune in for the fun finale. 

The most sophisticated features, however, were dildos positioned midway on the vertical beams that were huge and fully inserted into the assholes of the victims. These had multiple functions.  Besides the usual purpose of savagely tearing the vulnerable flesh of the victims, the dildos provided a variable flow of electricity to assure ongoing pain to supplement the gradual strangulation as the victims tired and were unable to lift themselves enough to breathe. The current could be increased or decreased through an iPhone app that Kyle, Cory, and two of their buddies (Tim and Tony) had designed as a class project.  The dildos also provided a little support so the victims could lift themselves enough to breathe, albeit still quite painfully and, after a much longer time, eventually not enough assistance to keep them alive.  The suffering was prolonged even further because the dildos pumped sufficient nutrients into the bodies to avoid starvation or dehydration.  The amount of time victims were tortured by crucifixion could be anything from only a day to several weeks depending on the settings.  Finally, the dildos stimulated the prostate and injected drugs to assure the exposed cocks maintained an erection the entire time and shot a load as the student finally died in agony.  Kyle and his buddies were justifiably proud of the system and had scheduled the current set of losers to die on the last day of class a bit before noon.  The medical readouts Kyle saw on the App indicated they were right on schedule.  This would be fun, and he and Cory used their beers to toast their success, joined by Tim and Tony.  The four friends had assembled to enjoy the show they had helped design.  Indeed, everyone in the room enjoyed the arousing and amusing sight of the three young males in terminal agony from the difficulty of breathing and from the electricity pumped into their bodies.  Kyle got everyone’s attention and then used the App to set the current on high, increasing the entertainment value as the youths screamed and their bodies gyrated.  Given how close they were to dying the screams were, unfortunately, not very loud.  So, after enjoying that for a while Kyle initiated a fatal jolt of electricity.  The creams nicely increased in volume and the bodies convulsed massively, all to the laughter and cheers of the assembled students enjoying the show.   All three males shot large loads of cum one last time as they were finally permitted to die, followed by a humiliating stream of piss as their bladders emptied.  They were not the only ones in the room to reach orgasm as the seniors enjoyed themselves. Some of them also released loads of piss, which with Kyle’s permission went down Cory’s eager throat.

But that wasn’t the final humiliation.  Nearby slaves quickly took down the bodies and laid them on fuck benches.  As Kyle inserted his cock into the fresh corpse he found most sexy, he chuckled as he saw Cory taking particular pleasure inserting his hard cock into a former classmate who had been a real asshole to Cory as Cory transitioned from Alpha Male to submissive slave.   Cory was enjoying some well-deserved vengeance.  “That piece of shit loser was actually doing OK academically,” Kyle intoned.  “But I had dad include him because he was such a jerk to you way back when as you transitioned.  I don’t like other guys abusing you without my permission.  I made sure he knew that was the reason for his torture.  I know you enjoyed fucking him as he was screwed to the cross, but now’s your chance to enjoy fucking his dead ass.”  Cory, moved by how thoughtful Kyle always was, thanked him and enjoyed the fuck even more.  The tight warm holes felt great.  When they were done, they were still horny and double-fucked the remaining victim, enjoying the feel of their cocks rubbing against each other as they achieved simultaneous orgasms.  They were loudly cheered by the onlookers, several of whom, including Tim and Tony, followed their example.  The bodies were then delivered to the cafeteria to become part of the “Senior Day” lunch menu.

As Cory was using his tongue to clean Kyle’s cock, Kyle received a text that was disturbing.  He was informed that the dean had left a note apologizing for his hiring mistake and asking for mercy for his sons.  He had then committed suicide by drinking fast-acting poison and was dead before anyone discovered the body.  That totally infuriated Kyle, who had the right to decide punishment and was now deprived of his prerogative.  Kyle ordered the body stripped and brought to him immediately.  He also alerted Tim and Tony, who were twins, close friends, and the dean’s sons. explaining to them what had happened.  Both boys were hard-working, excellent students and role models, totally committed to the system created by the Alpha Aristocracy of which they were a part.  They were horrified at what their father had dared to do.

“This is terrible, Kyle.  I can’t believe our father would be such a disloyal coward.  We are ashamed to be related to him.  As his offspring we of course understand the implications, and you can count on our full cooperation.”  As Tim spoke, he was removing his clothes, as was Tony.  When their father’s body arrived, they spat on it with disgust.   

“Yeah, this is really a bummer.  I think you are both great guys and I had planned to promote you after we all graduate.  But I can’t tolerate this sort of insubordination, as you know, so I will need to make an example and follow the law.  Especially as I take on my new role, I can’t make exceptions.

“The irony was that I was going to let him off with a lesser punishment since we’re friends,” Kyle lied, “My plan had been to have him executed by the senior rifle team as an opening event for the graduation ceremony.  I’d have instructed the rest of the squad to aim for his cock and balls, so the bullets from the two of you, as co-captains of the team, would hit his chest and be the ones that killed him.  You were entitled to punish him for his failures, and everyone would have had fun watching his naked body get emasculated and ripped apart by the hail of bullets hitting his cock and balls.  His failure was not huge, so I was going to allow a quick death that could be a family event.  I didn’t want to embarrass either of you more than necessary.”

“That’s generous of you Kyle – as usual.  You take great care of your friends.  Given what’s happened, however, I assume you’ve decided to have us replace our traitorous parent at the ceremony in front of the firing squad?  The two sub-captains can take over leading the unit from us since we’ll be on the wrong end of the rifles.   Did I guess right?”

“You did.  The lesson must be clear, so between now and then I’m thinking of having you hang form the crosses here until the ceremony.  I’m sorry, but if someone disobeys me, he needs to understand that his family will be held responsible even if he manages to escape punishment by dying.  Blood libel is an ancient principle of law, and it’s especially essential under the Alpha system.

“My challenge is to be sure this is perceived as fair and not arbitrary.  It ordinarily wouldn’t matter – dad’s openly arbitrary a lot of the time and it just illustrates his power.  But I’m a new player and I want to start off with a positive example, one that even shows a modicum of compassion but also illustrates firmness and swift administration of the law.  So I’m thinking of low voltage on the crosses while you wait for the ceremony.  It will make the point with the two of you being crucified, but it won’t be as bad for you as the usual levels of pain.  What do you think?”

Tim chimed in.  “Not a good idea.  Compassion is nice but even as high-ranking Alpha Males our lives and how we die don’t matter at all compared to assuring your power and showing you’re prepared to use it.  You should use our bodies tor particularly painful deaths as an example.  You can’t allow anyone to think they could get off easily, especially as you assume your new role.  The good news is that there’s three days before the ceremony, and if you turn up the juice on the crosses you can cause us unbelievable agony between now and then.  The medical readouts will confirm how you set the levels and the PR folk can stress that.   That will make your power and willingness to use it quite clear, and I think that’s the key here.”

Tony piled on.  “Tim’s right.  But I also think you need some demonstration beyond even the electricity levels.  I recall that viewers especially like it when victims are whipped as they hang, with the highest ratings for when that generates lots of lacerations and bleeding.  We’re young and fit and there is little risk it would kill us too soon, so you’ll still have the ceremony as a culmination.  And you should turn on the cameras as you start and fuck us.  That sets the scene for power trips.”

“You’re right, and I appreciate the advice.  I think you prevented me from making a big mistake.  Thank you.  But I still think some gesture would be good if it doesn’t undercut the core message

Cory had been considering the options and offered a typically creative solution.  “What’s missing here is a little humor to show that you’re both OK with what’s happening to you and understand that this is the law and the law is correct.  So I think there’s an option during the ceremony.  Instead of executing you at the start as was going to happen with the dean, why not wait until after you get your diplomas?  It would be amusing to see two guys who are naked except for the graduation caps walking in the line.  And when you get the diplomas you could even do the ceremony where you move the tassel form the right side to the left to show that you’ve graduated.  Then you could stand at attention and the firing squad could riddle your bodies with bullets, using ammo that is particularly destructive.  I think everyone would get a good laugh, and it would show that you’re on board with everything and Kyle is creative.” 

The fact it was Cory’s idea and not Kyle’s was of course irrelevant – no one would know that. – and everyone loved the idea.  Kyle again appreciated Cory’s remarkable creativity but said nothing.

Kyle stood in front of the video system, which was turned on while he explained what had happened and the punishments he had selected.  He did not mention the diploma idea, saving that for a surprise to enhance the fun at the ceremony.   Then the twins bent over nearby fuck tables so Kyle fucked each in turn.  After that, as Cory again cleaned his cock, the twins laid on the ground and held out their arms so they could be screwed in place.  Once they were positioned Kyle pushed their bodies down hard so the dildos were rammed inside them quite painfully.  They didn’t scream but the pain showed on their faces as their assholes were torn and the electricity flowed through their bodies.  The cameras caught some of the blood that was seeping out, which of course made the effect of the electricity greater.  Nonetheless, as the crosses were electronically lifted into place, Tim and Toni each managed to loudly thank Kyle for being such a decisive leader, to condemn their father, and to express the hope their torture and deaths would be an effective lesson for others and entertaining for Kyle.  Their statements were picked up by the TV news, as they knew would happen, and reinforced the image of Kyle’s use of massive punishment when he was angered.  By then the dildos had caused massive erections, and Kyle paused to enjoy the sight, which turned him on a lot.  These were extremely handsome young bodies and they were wonderfully writhing in extreme pain with their hard cocks bouncing in front of them.  He was tempted to stay a while and jerk off as many of his classmates were doing, or maybe fuck Cory again.  All this had made him exceptionally horn.   But now he had other duties and it was time for lunch.

As Kyle headed to the cafeteria for the lunch celebration of “Senior Day” he focused his attention on his lover, slave, and best friend Cory, as he so often did.  Cory was an extremely attractive young male, in Kyle’s view the best-looking guy in the school, and Kyle trusted him totally. Other than Tim and Tony, only Cory knew Kyle had initially considered moderating their punishment and Kyle had no worry of anyone else learning that.  Cory was his slave, but they studied together and prepared Kyle well for his career.   Cory was a safe friend with whom Kyle could share his concerns and challenges, one reason he excelled in the college experience.  Cory also studied hard, focusing on areas where he might be of use to Kyle as Kyle assumed his designated role.  Being an exhibitionist who got turned on by showing off his great body, Cory loved being naked all the time, especially now that he was branded to show his masochistic dream of being Kyle’s property.  It was a fantastic, loving, mutually positive relationship and worked remarkably well for both.  Kyle was comforted to have Cory already in place as he assumed his new duties.  Cory was aware Kyle was staring at him, which caused Cory to achieve and exhibit an erection, his cock bouncing in front of him and dripping a little pre-cum as he and Kyle walked to the lunch.  Cory figured he’d get permission to jerk off for Kyle after the lunch.

The lunch ceremony was a lot of fun and included the usual awarding of honors. Kyle won all of them, of course.  But there were a few gag awards, such as Cory wining “sexiest urinal” and “best tan” while Kyle was voted “best tasting cum” and “most plentiful piss.”  The loudest laughter was for Tim and Tony winning “most entertaining not-yet-dead classmates,” which was added at the last minute and featured the TV channel showing their writhing bodies causing their hard cocks to bounce around as Kyle used the App they had mutually designed to turn the electricity to its highest non-lethal setting.  His Alpha nature had come through and he had gotten over his trepidation over cruelty torturing two good friends.  As he was aware, snuffing other males multiple times each day enhanced the important Alpha traits that were the key to the social order.  It reinforced his power and status as well as being sexually fulfilling.  As the class watched and laughed, many of them jerked off, and Cory got permission to achieve the orgasm he was anxious to enjoy.  Kyle’s orgasm was at the same time, but he sent his cum up Cory’s ass per usual.  Everyone had a wonderful time, and the classmates removed from the punishment wall were well prepared and quite tasty.

5

Lab Time

Kyle had one more event before he ended his final day of college.  It was Kyle’s favorite class and favorite teacher.  The class, “Slave Torture and Disposal,” was taught by Gordon Stewart, the same Gordon Stewart who had been Cory’s father when Cory was a human and who was George Fletcher’s top advisor on the Council and Kyle’s longtime mentor.  Dr. Stewart taught it as sort of a hobby, but also as a favor to George and Kyle.  Each class was a lab organized around a different method of fatal torture, with each student practicing on and snuffing a willing slave.  Cory also attended the class, assisting Kyle in the activities, and Dr. Stewart often offered suggestions on how Kyle could torture Cory to maximize Kyle’s fun and sexual stimulation, along with Cory’s pain and humiliation. when Kyle decided it was time to snuff Cory.  Both young men appreciated his creativity and Kyle learned a lot on how to maximize his skills as a sadist.  It wasn’t that Gordon had any animus toward his former son, and in fact he highly approved of Cory’s choice to become a submissive slave.  His comments were intended to improve the implementation of that choice.  After class Kyle and Cory would review the activities and any suggestions, which always resulted in a great S&M session where Kyle used some of what he’d learned on Cory.  It wasn’t fatal yet, but it was lots of fun, nonetheless.  At dinner the prior Saturday evening, Gordon wouldn’t tell Kyle what the class would feature but promised it would be a great ending to the year.  Kyle could hardly wait. 

Kyle paused briefly at the lockers inside the classroom doorway, and quickly shed his clothing.  Dr. Stewart insisted his students attend his class naked, so he could better gage their sexual arousal from snuffing slaves.  Torturing slaves should be a major sexual turn-on, and one plus of an all-male class is that cocks are a reliable measure of how much they are turned on.  But the real reason was that Gordon Stewart was a fervent gay sadist and enjoyed looking at these awesome young males destroying and raping the gorgeous male slaves, literally ripping their bodies to pieces.   Kyle casually handed his clothes to Cory, who had helped him strip and who carefully hung them in Kyle’s locker. 

Kyle’s cock was throbbing with excitement by the time he stepped into the actual classroom, and he was not alone in his reaction.  Nearly all the students in the college were from Alpha families of extremely high status, and all owned and snuffed multiple slaves with a supply for their sexual use that was replenished daily.  The sadistic joy of snuffing another male had a strong sexual component whether the Alpha male was gay or straight.  Torturing and snuffing victims were frequent and favorite activities and a source of family bonding as they explored together new ways to maximize the slaves’ agony and therefore their own pleasure. 

Am Alpha who wasn’t also a sadist was not, in Dr. Stewart’s view, a proper Alpha and would require training.  So the sexual arousal of each student was an important data point.  “Homework” from Gordon’s class was quite popular. 

As Kyle headed toward his “workstation” to start the lesson, he noticed that Andrew Brown was in the class.  Andrew’s father was overly ambitious for someone of a lower social status than most of the college families and had maneuvered to get Andrew into the school.  Andrew’s father figured he could advance his career via his extremely attractive son given Kyle’s gay orientation and desire to dominate other males.  If Kyle took an interest in Andrew it could go well for Andrew’s father.  And even if it weren’t Kyle, there were lots of other gay students whose fathers could be useful.  He ordered Andrew to attend school naked, hang around Kyle, and make himself available to Kyle as a sex toy.  Andrew had not been in this particular class and Kyle wondered if his dad bribed someone to get Andrew included for the final session.  Kyle admired the ambition but he might have to address the use of bribes at some point. He would include Andrew in any punishment even if he were innocent and it was all his father’s doing.  Although Andrew was indeed very sexy, neither Kyle nor Cory liked him.  Andrew was a jerk and a sycophant who wasn’t good at it.

 Andrew’s core problem was that he wasn’t gay, and it had taken a lot of pressure from his father to get him to volunteer as an object of Kyle’s insatiable, sadistic, gay sex desires.  While Cory got turned on by being naked and getting fucked and beaten in public, it was extremely uncomfortable for Andrew and he sometimes had problems getting an erection.  He just wasn’t turned on by guys.  That, of course, made if more fun for Kyle and the rest of the class to fuck him.  Much to his horror, Andrew found himself being used sexually by pretty much the whole senior class, even Cory – a sex object that was in constant use, fucked, pissed in, kicked. and laughed at by everyone.  His dad’s plan was a disaster, and once Andrew’s dad realized the plan was actually hurting his career, he gave Andrew permission to start wearing clothes again.  But that also backfired.  On the first day he did so a group of seniors stripped him naked, beat him nearly to the point of losing consciousness, and gang-raped him when he revived – telling him he was the class bitch and had to stay naked and be available for everyone to use however they wanted to use him.  Among the flaws in the plan for Andrew was the fact Alpha Males especially enjoy sadistic acts against unwilling victims.  Cloned slaves, or even a submissive slaves like Cory, welcomed the pain.  But there was an element of fun missing, which was there when the target tried to resist and was clearly not a willing subject.  Alphas especially like the idea of raping and inflicting pain and domination on another Alpha male.

In fact, studying those traits was why Gordon Stewart was “Doctor” Stewart.  His doctoral dissertation, completed many years earlier, was on the importance of providing especially aggressive Alpha males with the chance to snuff unwilling victims.  It had been presented to and enthusiastically accepted by the Alpha Council.  Indeed, it is what earned him a seat on the Council, joining just after George Fletcher succeeded to the leadership when George’s father retired.  Having scientific research to support an activity the Alphas already enjoyed was quite popular.  Gordon had become a bit of a celebrity and soon became George’s top advisor and closest friend.  They started a tradition of beginning each Council meeting by fucking and torturing to death a handsome young Alpha who had failed to perform his duties to their satisfaction. It was a satisfying start of the meetings and a good lesson for other Alphas.

Kyle looked around the class as he entered and was surprised to see the selection of young males displayed at the front of the class to choose from were in cages.  Dr. Stewart instructed the class to choose a target but not to release it yet.  After Kyle made his selection, the other members of the class each picked a slave to snuff. 

Once the slaves were selected Gordon got the attention of the class and had Andrew come up to the front. 

“This is my favorite lesson for two reasons, and I have saved it for our last session together.  First, as you know, the primary use of dead slaves is for meat and fertilizer, although they’re fun to fuck while the carcass is still warm.  Our classes have focused on all the creative ways to torture and snuff a slave to maximize its pain and humiliation before it is eaten.  For example, last week we focused on boiling slaves alive, a wonderfully slow and painful death if done properly, fun to watch, and resulting in slavemeat that is cooked and ready to eat.  We learned how to make the meat more flavorful by adding spices to the water and by feeding the slave fruit juices and other ingredients that will internally marinate the meat in the days prior to its final use.  Even if that isn’t done, the level of pain the slave suffers makes it a great show.  I think everyone had fun with that last week and some of the resulting entrées were exquisite.    Today we will focus on another great show that results in a different use of the slave’s body.  We’ll be tearing off the skin to be turned into leather used to make clothing, to cover furniture, or even to create art to display.  It will reinforce your understanding that slaves are just objects, barely even subhuman.  For example, the leather chair at my desk was made from a slave I skinned alive at this same class last year, and I plan to replace it with fresh leather form today’s lesson.  The goal today is to skin your slave and then keep the exposed, skinless animal alive for a few days until it dies in agony from the effects of being skinned.  It will suffer the unimaginable pain caused by having its skin carefully ripped off.  I think it’s one of the most enjoyable and entertaining ways to torture and kill a slave, and you get the benefit of large sections of skin that are the raw material for all kinds of leather goods.  It will be especially memorable for you as these slaves will be used to make your leather Letterman jackets.  However, you need to be incredibly careful and do it right, or you risk having the slave die before you’re done or very shortly after that. That’s a missed opportunity and lets the slave off far too easily.  “Right” means it feels intense pain throughout the process, surviving and continuing to suffer, conscious and in intense pain, for at least a couple of days.  Slaves deserve to die as horrible a death as possible, as you all know, and this is one of the worst.  It’s about maximizing our pleasure by maximizing their pain.

“The other reason this is my favorite lesson is that it allows us to enjoy the special thrill of snuffing a slave that is not willing to die for our enjoyment.  As you all know, I proved many years ago how important that is as part of the fulfillment for true Alphas like us, and as a reward for all your hard work (by which I mean all the work you did in class while your cocks were hard), I’ve assembled snuff targets that will resist their appropriate use.  That’s why they are in cages, and you’ll need to be careful as you restrain them.  And, by way of example, that brings me to Andrew, who has joined our class today as my “guest.”  I’m aware all of you have enjoyed his presence in school and gotten to know him in rather personal ways, as have I.”  This generated sustained laughter and catcalls, and Andrew blushed, his entire naked body showing his shame.  His cock was erect, which was unusual for him in public and added to the shame.  “So I figured you’d want to see what happens to him after graduation.  And he’s ready to entertain us, as you can see from his cock, although it’s hard because of some drugs injected into it so he’d be even more humiliated.  He’s not much of an Alpha and also kind of stupid, as we’ve all discovered.  Given that, I thought we would all enjoy having him as the model for my demonstration today, following which you are each to carefully skin the slave you’ve selected.  I’ll have Andrew’s skin turned into leather to replace what’s on my chair.  This will be my last class of the year too, and I plan to keep the chair as a reminder of how much I’ve enjoyed teaching all of you.  After everyone is done with skinning their slave, we can all further enjoy Andrew as meat snacks for my traditional end-of-year party.”

Andrew was horrified and terrified.  He finally showed the anger that had been built throughout his college experience, lashing out at Dr. Stewart.  “I’m a member of the Alpha class!  You can’t do that to me.  I’m not a slave.”  He reached out to strike Dr. Stewart but was quickly subdued by Kyle and Cory, who couldn’t resist laughing as they did so.  Indeed, the whole class doubled over in laughter, especially Dr. Stewart. 

Gordon enjoyed correcting the pathetic youth.  “Well, first, none of these animals were either.  They’re just losers I picked out because I thought they’d make a fun kill.  As a member of the Alpha Council I can do anything I want.  Since we’re all proud of Kyle’s new status as not only a member of the council but as heir apparent, I also thought a useful lesson would be for everyone to realize just how powerful the Council is.  We don’t just make the laws; we are the law.  So be a good lad and climb into this tub of boiling water. The first step in the process is to tenderize you so your skin is easier to tear from the layer of flesh underneath it.  And feel free to scream.  It’s more fun for me if you do.  You’ve already added to my enjoyment by trying to resist.”

Andrew stared at the tub next to him and was now too shocked to move. But it didn’t matter since Kyle and Cory, (still laughing) obligingly lifted Andrew by his shoulders and ankles and dropped him into the boiling water. 

The tubs were specially designed for boiling live slavemeat.  They had a large oval circumference like a bathtub but were much longer and only about two feet deep.  There were shackles similar to a rack so the wrists and ankles could be restrained, which Kyle and Cory quickly completed.  Andrew was nicely displayed on his back, arousing Gordon with his remarkable good looks and smooth young skin.  A spigot of boiling water flowed into the tub as the same amount of cooled water flowed into a drain.  This kept the slavemeat boiling at all times, and if it was cut for whatever reason to add to the entertainment or to try a piece to see if it were adequately cooked, the flow kept the water clear so the animal was always fully displayed.  That wasn’t the plan for Andrew, but it had been useful the prior week for the lesson on cooking slaves by boiling them alive.

Andrew had again tried to resist but it didn’t help, and he made a splash like an oversized lobster and uttered an amusingly loud scream as he was secured in place.  Cory placed a stone “pillow” under his head so it would be above the water line and Andrew could breathe.  They knew Dr. Stewart did not want him to drown, and they had learned the techniques to secure slaves from the prior week’s lessons.  The difference this week was that Andrew would only be in long enough for tenderizing, not boiled until his meat was fully cooked.

Gordon paused to enjoy the sight and made a quiet side comment to Kyle that Andrew could not hear.  “I think this is going really well.  Since he tried to hit me he’s of course subject to a death sentence just for that.  But since he’s already going to die I plan to apply it to his overambitious father.  It’s the converse of your punishment of Tim and Tony for their father’s actions.  One of the initiatives George and I are pushing on the Council is greater reliance on the principles of blood libel to hold families accountable for the actions of members who fuck up. We don’t want society getting lax.  But I also don’t want Andrew to know since it would give him some satisfaction.  I’m thinking of just having the parent publicly fucked, flogged, and crucified – using the fancy crosses and dildos you guys designed for the Punishment Wall here at the college.  What do you think?”

Kyle was totally on board, thanking Gordon for yet another helpful lesson.  Gordon then resumed his normal volume, thanked his helpers, and continued the lecture.  Andrew’s thrashing in the boiling water and his periodic screams of pain and despair provided a great background show.

“It makes a big difference if the skin is tenderized and somewhat loosened from the muscle layer underneath, which happens when it is very warm.  There are two good ways to accomplish that.  One is to boil the animal for a while – about 20 minutes usually does the trick – and the other is to hang it in the hot sun for about 5 hours.  In either method it is important not to overdo the tenderizing, as it breaks down the nerves that are critical to transmitting pain and the skin can blister, which detracts from the quality of the leather.  You’ll notice your slaves are all a bit sunburned, but with no blisters, and that is because they were hung in today’s warm sun all morning after their bodies were shaved to get rid of any hair on the skin that will be removed.  But they can use a bit more tenderizing, so please take control of your slave and secure it in the tubs as was done with Andrew.  There are other cloned slaves available to help if you need it, especially securing the limbs in the boiling water, but I assume none of you Alpha males will require help subjugating the target animals.  I wanted you to see how the sun-warming worked as well as the boiling.  Obviously, this isn’t a case of starting the water just warm and then heating it, as in the example of a frog staying in the water while it’s being boiled because it doesn’t realize its peril until too late due to the slow increase in temperature.  In this case we start with the water boiling so the slave immediately suffers pain.  It’s quicker and more fun.

“Let me explain the process while we wait for Andrew to get ready for his big moment.  That way the slaves will know what is going to happen to them, which increases their terror and makes their death even worse for them.

“You’ll notice that our workstations are set up so the body can be hung from the ceiling by its ankles.  All you have to do is connect the cable to the ankle restraints in the tub, which can be removed with the ankles still attached.  Then release the wrists and use the winch to lift the body.  This positioning is important for several reasons.  First, it makes access to all the skin easy.  The winches will raise and lower it for our convenience in cutting into various areas.  It creates a nice effect to have the arms hang down, reminding the animal it’s just a slab of meat like any other slab hanging in a butcher shop.  Also, this is a very bloody, messy process and if the body were in any other position there would be a risk of not enough blood reaching the brain as the body is drained.  That would be disastrous as it is essential to have the brain functional so it can receive the pain signals form the nerve endings as they are severed.

“Nociceptors are the key here.  Those are nerve endings that are in the skin and other parts of our bodies, and they provide our sense of feel.  As we rip off the skin, these are torn one by one and they send panic-level pain messages to the brain as this happens.  They are what makes this form of torture so unimaginably, wonderfully painful.  We need to be sure the brain is still receiving the messages, which requires it receiving plenty of blood flow.

“That said, we also need to be sure the brain doesn’t interfere with our fun.  When it is overwhelmed with pain it produces endorphins, which partially counteract it.  So we administer shots to our victims before we start harvesting their flesh that neutralize that ability.  We don’t want to deprive our targets of feeling the full experience, after all.

“Exsanguination is the next important concept.  That refers to draining blood from a body.  This isn’t our purpose, but it is a byproduct of ripping off the skin.  As the skin is removed there is almost a gusher of blood that will be released.  That’s why you’ll notice an exceptionally large drain under the suspended animals and a shower at each station for your use in washing it off.  Also notice how being hung upside down means they have to watch their blood gushing down before their own eyes.  Our research verifies that this is extraordinarily terrifying, another fun aspect for us to enjoy watching. 

“A slave can survive for a time, maybe even a week, with blood loss up to about 40%.  So while having them bleed profusely is part of the entertainment and a major aspect of their psychological and physical terror, it needs to be kept in check.  That is one of the reasons it’s important to do the cutting just at the first layer of skin.  The deeper you cut, the more blood loss your cause.  Worse still, you will be cutting into the myelin layer, which means the nerves will be destroyed instead of just being torn, and the body will go numb and maybe even into shock. At that point you will have failed, and the target will not have suffered the full agony and terror of being skinned alive.  DO NOT LET THAT HAPPEN.  CUT ONLY SKIN DEEP AND THAT MEANS THE OUTERMOST LAYER OF SKIN.  Don’t worry.  That first layer is enough to make great leather.

“I stress this because it is mostly the combination of fear and blood loss that generate large drops in blood pressure and the risk of shock and unconsciousness.  The more skin we harvest the more it is a battle between us generating pain and collecting our reward and the slave’s brain trying to shut the body down.  If we are careful and to the right kinds of cuts in the right sequence and depth, we will always win, and the slave will suffer as it was meant to suffer.”

Dr. Stewart continued for a bit longer, explaining how the skinless animals would become highly susceptible to infection and hypothermia.  The skin plays a critical role in preventing each of these, and without it a slave will quickly die of a combination of both.  If these are controlled, the slave’s suffering can be extended for several days, which is what Dr. Stewart planned.  “In the next day or so you can come watch them die, which I highly recommend because they are so pathetic and in so much agony.  Or you can just cut out some of their meat and eat it in front of them for fun.  We all know how enjoyable it is to have a slave watch us consume it’s live meat as we cut it off.  This will kill them quite quickly given the infection risk, so it’s a case of choosing how you want it to die.  Either way it’s great fun and one of the best power trips you’ll ever have.  That’s what being an Alpha is all about, after all.  And while it’s a bit messy, remember that they still have assholes that are quite fuckable whether alive or dead..”

By now the slaves and Andrew were nicely tenderized, and they were fished out of the boiling tubs by attaching cables to the shackles securing their ankles.  The restraints on their wrists were removed and the bodies were moved by the ceiling tracks over the appropriate workstation.    All the animals were now hoisted upside down and positioned for harvesting, their beautiful smooth skin glistening in the bright lights of the lab.  A few even had a little resistance left.  Their useless struggles added to the show.  Dr. Stewart told the class to pause a moment, knowing the nature of his class and himself.  The sight of the gorgeous males hanging like slabs of meat and the eager Alphas ready to enjoy their deaths was thrilling, a testament to the awesome Alpha world and a huge sexual turn-on.  He had a slave winch Andrew so his butthole was level with Gordon’s hard cock.  As Gordon thrust his cock into the unwilling asshole, he let the class know that the victims were all high school seniors who were flunking their courses, and they were all straight.  Like Andrew their hard cocks were a function of drug injections that would keep them erect until it was time to cut them off.  So being fucked would be an added source of shame and humiliation, not to mention pain, as they were all virgin assholes that had never felt the pain of a large cock being inserted (except for Andrew. Of course).  The class got the idea and within a couple of minutes all the Alphas, had their cocks inside the loser victims and enjoyed fucking each one.  Gordon commented how delightfully pliable Andrew’s partially boiled asshole was, although that might have been partially because it was so well used.  This got a good laugh form the class, all of whom had of course fucked Andrew numerous times.  Andrew was now docile, having succumbed to despair.  Dr. Stewart was pleased to see that, pointing out to the class that this would make the experience even worse for Andrew, which was of course the goal.  Once the Alphas had shot their loads into their targets, the victims were hoisted fully into the air so the cutting and tearing could begin.

“It’s important to start with the skin that is lowest, since the blood will be flowing downward and make a mess of whatever’s below.  We cut the lowest parts first.  In this instance that’s the arms, and the idea here is to score the skin at the shoulders so you can get a clean tear.  A shallow cut from each shoulder down to the hands works well, along with a cut around the armpit.  Starting with this section also lets you practice keeping the cut shallow and ripping the layer of skin with a section that isn’t as critical as the torso or legs.”  Dr. Stewart demonstrated as he gave his explanation, and Andrew screamed and whimpered on cue as the nerves in his arms were severed as the skin was torn off.  The description of the blood flow was not exaggerated, but in short order Gordon had two sections of fresh skin to display to the applauding class.  They had all paid close attention and proceeded to do the same with their targets.  There were a few mishaps, but everyone got the skin off eventually, and Gordon was pleased.

“Now for the most important, challenging, and enjoyable section.  Having the target hang by its ankles allows us to tear the entire torso in one giant section.  That allows the most options for seamless leather, which is more appealing.  And this is extraordinarily painful since it is such a large area with thousands of nerve endings being ripped.  It might get a little loud with all the screaming, but that’s a pleasant sign of our success.   Start with a cut at the base of the cock that goes downward to just under the neck,” Gordon explained as he also demonstrated.  “Once you’ve made the first major incision, cut sideways across the top of the shoulders, and then under the armpits.  Then cut sideways just above the base of the cock and all around the waist.  You’ll then have scored the entire slab of skin and can tear it off in one piece.  Go slowly, and only use the knife to cut the skin free when you absolutely have to.  It’s more fun and more painful if you tear it rather than cut it, and the longer you take the more pain you inflict.”  At this point Gordon expertly cut into Andrew as he had described, his actions accompanied by Andrew’s pathetic but amusing screams of pain, now much more intense than when his arms were skinned.  As the students copied his actions, the cacophony of desperate screams was deafening but delightful.  As the large sections were successfully removed, other slaves helped the students manage them and wash off as much of the gusher of blood and other bodily liquids as they could.  But the victims were losing blood at a very rapid rate.

Once the torso was skinless, Dr. Stewart showed the class how to skin the legs and butt, leaving only Andrew’s heads, feet, and genitals untouched.  “I don’t recommend skinning the head, as I think it’s fun to enjoy the expressions of pain and despair.  And there’s not much skin on the hands or feet.  I can go either way on whether to skin the cock and balls, so that’s up to you.  I think it’s more fun to just cut them off and use them to make something like a paperweight or just enjoy the testicles as a snack.”  He held up a paperweight made from the genitals of the slave he’d skinned last year as an example.  As he described the options, Gordon slowly cut off Andrew’s cock and balls, cleaning off the fresh young man-seeds, consuming one himself and giving the other to Kyle.  That was the last part of the demo, generating another inhuman scream from Andrew and loud applause from the class.  Andrew was still very much alive, a quivering slab of fresh meat ready to be butchered and enjoyed once Gordon felt it had suffered enough.

Inspired by the amazing demo, the students focused on keeping the slaves alive and conscious while they finished skinning them.  The exposed, bleeding flesh was then cleaned and put into large incubator chambers by obedient slaves, where it could be kept warm despite the lack of skin, and also kept free from infection.  The meat would just lie in the chambers, enduring unimaginable agony.  Dr. Stewart designed this lesson, as he had the entire class, to confirm the image of slaves as what they are – sex objects appropriate for suffering.  He wanted the students to observe how much suffering was still in store for these losers as they were kept alive, conscious, and in pain.   As for Andrew, he encouraged the students to cut into what was left of him and enjoy a feast of classmate-tar-tar.  It had the disadvantage of allowing Andrew to die, but that could not be helped. In due course all the targets were successfully skinless but still alive, and Gordon Stewart declared the class an enormous success.  The skins would be sued to make leather lettermen jackets for the seniors as one more memento of their success in college and a lasting reminder of one use of slaves.

6

A Revealing Celebration

Dinner that evening was to be a special occasion to celebrate all the great things that had happened and were underway for Kyle.  It was organized by Gordon Stewart, who donned his tuxedo for the occasion, as did Kyle, his father George, and Nate, Gordon’s remaining son.  Gordon’s plan was for a formal event that began with a cocktail hour in the palace’s most elegant living room.  Cory and Keith, George’s submissive slave, were also included, naked of course. That not only reflected their status as slaves, but also would have been their preference if given a choice.  Cory and Keith were exhibitionists who got turned on when showing off their awesome bodies.  A tux would conceal their sex appeal and make them less convenient for use as sex toys.  Kyle was a little jealous, himself preferring to be naked whenever possible, but did as his mentor and teacher Gordon requested.  To rub it in, Cory casually stroked his hard cock, allowing himself to reach a very satisfying orgasm after a long period of massaging it, shooting a load that landed, as targeted, on Kyle’s tux.  Cory had a fairly good idea about Gordon’s plan for the evening and wanted to lighten it up a bit.  He knew he wasn’t supposed to have an orgasm without permission and would be punished severely by Kyle in due course.  But that was another reason he did it and he looked forward to the punishment.  Keith had been watching him masturbate and soon did the same., successfully aiming at George’s tux.    Everyone laughed, especially Gordon.  This impish play was part of the great bonds between submissive slaves and their owners, leading to intense S&M sex that brought out the differing desires of the sadistic owners and the masochistic submissive property.  George was as horny as Kyle, who had instructed Cory to give him a blow job, and George soon had his cock freed from his pants for Keith to suck.  Gordon could see that his plan for a refined, serious conversation was totally undermined by Cory.  

“OK, I give up.  I thought we could class this group up a little and do some serious planning, but obviously that didn’t work.  I’ll trust Kyle to make sure Cory learns better manners.  That should be fun for both of them, and I do have to admit Cory did an effective job undermining my plan.  Now I’m pretty horny too, so let’s all get naked.  George and Kyle can start punishing Keith and Cory, and Nate and I can start torturing the evening’s snuff slaves.  I’ve arranged for rather a lot of them, of extremely high quality. I didn’t plan for the whole evening to be devoid of fun, after all.  While we fuck we can enjoy our drinks and appetizers.  So much for getting Kyle and Cory to take their minds off sex!  Not that Keith and George are setting a good example.”  The two show-offs were quite pleased with themselves and by the time Gordon finished talking Kyle was also naked and moved from receiving a blow job to flogging Cory, and Keith was helping George finish stripping in prep for Keith’s own punishment.  Nate and Gordon weren’t far behind, and everyone was in a festive mood. 

Gordon continued his concession.  “We can have dinner served in here for us to enjoy as we feel like it.  And we can take advantage of the playroom next door and all its great sex toys as we celebrate.”  By that point George was punishing Keith and Nate had grabbed a nearby snuff slave to start his fun.  Gordon caught up with the group very quickly, and the party was in full swing.  Cory and Keith weren’t scheduled to die that evening, but there were no constraints on any of the other slaves and Nate and Gordon took full advantage of that fact.  When George and Kyle finished punishing their submissive slaves, they would as well.  There were lots of snuff slaves available, and as Gordon promised they were of extremely high quality and eager to fulfill their purpose.  All the cocks in the room were massively hard.

“I think you’re right, Gordon,” laughed George, looking at the collection of snuff slaves that had already been selected for use plus those who were obediently waiting nearby to replace the initial group as it snuffed.  “You’ve assembled an especially appealing collection of sex objects for the evening.  And we can work in all the planning you wanted to talk about as we drink, fuck, torture, and snuff.  I have to admit I like Cory’s plan for the evening better, which of course doesn’t mean he shouldn’t suffer a severe flogging and have his ass plugged with cocks and dildos.”

The slaves who waited on them wore tuxedo ties but nothing else, which showed off their hard cocks and sexy young bodies and helped the sexual energy of the revised celebration.  The ties came off once Gordon’s tuxedo theme was abandoned so their vulnerable bodies were completely unadorned.  They were just meat ready to be slaughtered.  The slaves would all be tortured and killed that evening for the sexual fun of the Alphas, as they were aware, so this was their last opportunity to serve.  They were eager to make the most of it, knowing it was their sole purpose.  The Alpha males enjoyed chatting with the slaves and with each other about how best to maximize each slave’s pain and humiliation.  The slaves presented themselves to be stroked, poked, and prodded.  They posed, bent over so their butt-holes could be inspected and fingered.  They made creative suggestions on how to increase the pain they would endure and prolong their suffering,.  And they listened carefully so they could make sure the necessary implements for their upcoming destruction would be convenient when the time came.  As they did so they served drinks and snacks for the deserving Alphas.  The expressed deep and sincere gratitude for the honor of being able to participate in the conversations about how best to offer their worthless bodies and lives to entertain such high-ranking Alphas. 

The conversation and the sight of such great bodies got Nate especially horny and his Alpha nature needed an outlet.  He was focused on a slave with an unusually large cock who looked a lot like Cory.  After all, he had been deprived of the chance to vent his sadistic Alpha desires on his one-time older brother, and this slave had rekindled those intense desires.  The slave’s cock was especially hard, totally aroused as the slave contemplated its imminent tortures and death, sensing the sadistic lust with which Nate viewed it. 

“Kyle has hogged Cory for himself, as usual, so I don’t get to snuff him like I’d like to.  So much for family bonding opportunities!  But I’m totally OK with that since it’s Kyle and I know he’ll do a vicious snuff job on my one-time sibling in due course..  And I think this slave looks enough like Cory that I can have my fun after all.”  He had gotten the attention of the group and they settled in to see what he had in mind, the Alpha cocks comfortable pumping slave butt-holes, pausing for a bit from whipping and tormenting the eager slaves. 

The slave Nate had selected also had an especially youthful appearance and eager demeaner, and Nate had it fetch a pair of pliers, sounding needles, a cattle prod, a set of brass knuckles, and a Seppuku ceremonial gutting knife.  As instructed, the slave hustled off to the adjoining playroom on all fours, doggie style, quickly returning with the tools in a cloth bag held between its teeth.  It got on its haunches and presented the bag to Nate, much like a dog that had fetched a stick for its master.  Guessing some of what might now happen, the slave was more eager and sexually excited than ever. It realized Nate had in mind using it to put on a show for the rest of the deserving group of high-ranking Alphas.  What an honor!

Nate suspended the slave by its wrists from the ceiling, its cock leaking pre-cum and pointing straight up.  Nate was no less excited as he fondled the tools he would use, caressing the slave’s skin and kissing the slave deeply, enjoying the mutual sexual energy as he thrust his tongue down the slave’s throat.  As the group watched, Nate then rammed his hard cock into the slave’s ass, quickly reaching an orgasm so he wouldn’t delay the show too much.  That began in earnest when Nate used the pliers to twist off the slave’s hard nipples, which was very satisfying, especially when Nate had the slave eat them. The slave did so gratefully.  Nate selected a sounding needle that was fairly think and inserted it into the piss-slit of the hard cock, generating a satisfying level of pain that intensified when Nate used the needle to masturbate the slave from inside its cock, generating the intense pain that resulted when cloned slaves had an orgasm..  But the real fun with the needle was when Nate turned the cattle prod to full power and touched it to the metal tip the protruded from the piss slit. A huge pulse of electricity ran through the needle and burned the inside of the penis.  Nate had just discovered this option while torturing another slave earlier in the day, and it was now one of his favorite ways to use the sub-human sex toys.  The smell of the meat being cooked was quite satisfying and the intensity of the pain was obvious.  Other needles went into the balls and the flesh where the nipples had been, and each of these was also subjected to major electricity jolts. The slave’s obvious pain was only exceeded by its gratitude, and the three fellow Alphas offered their praise for Nate’s creativity.  This was a fun sequence they would now also add to their sex play, and Kyle promised to use it on Cory when he snuffed him.  After using the pliers to crush the testicles, Nate slowly cut off the nicely ruined genitals and had the slave slowly eat them.

(Even for a sadistic Alpha, Nate enjoyed watching a slave eat freshly cut parts of itself.) 

After those preliminaries Nate was ready to begin the real damage and needed to put down the pliers and knife, which were coated with the slave’s blood and gore.  He didn’t want to risk scratching the elegant table next to the slave, so he thrust the knife into the slave’s thigh and rammed the pliers up its ass. The rest of the party was intensely focused on Nate’s show and highly aroused. They expressed their approval of his concern about the furniture, which was much more valuable than the slave.  They accelerated their fucking as the slave screamed in agony but again expressed its gratitude at being used as an object to store Nate’s tools – the ones being used to torture and kill it.  Nate now focused on the brass knuckles and used them to gut-punch the slave severely.  The beating was particularly aggressive and thorough, and the slave was now coughing up blood.  It would have collapsed but was held upright only by the shackles on its wrists attached to the ceiling.  Its internal organs were irreparably damaged and many of its ribs were cracked, so it would die from internal bleeding fairly soon.  But when he finished the beating Nate had one more fun idea while the slave could still remain conscious.  He pulled out the Seppuku knife and used it to cut a hole in the belly between the base of where the cock had been and the bleeding belly button.  Instead of finishing the slave with a traditional ceremonial gutting, Nate expanded the hole just enough to insert his rock-hard cock.  Fucking the slave’s ass had just been preliminary.  This would be the main event fuck.  Lubricated by the bleeding internal organs, Nate enjoyed his best fuck of the day so far as he thrust in and out of the dying, thankful slave, which he did for a long time as another slave held the victim still to facilitate Nate’s aggressive thrusts into its flesh.  After he finally came, Nate used the knife to finish gutting the slave, letting its internal organs fall out of the expanded opening.  This played to appreciative laughter from his Alpha friends, all of whom had cum as they watched the great demonstration of Alpha superiority.  Meanwhile, the satiated and fulfilled slave convulsed and died to cap off the entertainment, and, as instructed by Kyle, Cory used his tongue to clean off Nate’s blood-soaked cock.  But Nate and Kyle were still horny, so they double-fucked Cory’s willing ass.  As they did so, Kyle complemented Nate on his performance, and thanked him for such good ideas on how he might snuff Cory when the time came.  Cory also chimed in with praise as he serviced the two young Alphas.

After Nate and Kyle used a nearby open shower to clean off, soaped and toweled by Cory, Nate rejoined the group feeling quite satisfied, although like everyone else he soon massaged his cock into another erection.  As slaves freshened their drinks and removed the now-dead piece of meat, Gordon expressed his approval. 

“This is a good time to announce one of the things I wanted to cover this evening.  I knew for a long time that Cory’s best use would be as a submissive slave, and I’m glad he realized that.  It’s obviously been a lot of fun for Kyle and very satisfying.  But I also knew I would not be without a worthy son and heir.  I think Nate just proved that.  He’ll start next fall at Kyle Fletcher College, and he’ll do every bit as well as Cory has done, but he’ll do it as an Alpha, not a piece-of-shit slave like Cory.  And when he does, he’ll be the next in line to join the Alpha Council at the next retirement.  I know George shares my view and am fairly sure George will make sure there’s a retirement shortly after Nate graduates.”

“There will,” George agreed, smiling.  “Maybe even a voluntary one.”

Nate was caught by surprise and thrilled, as were Kyle and Corey.  Al three thanked Gordon and George and the excitement of the celebration got even higher.  This would be a long evening of great Alpha satisfaction.  That called for a plentiful supply of slaves – not a problem for the Alphas at the top of the food chain.  George texted his slave handler and ordered additional snuff slaves just to be sure.

As the group continued to play with the slaves and each other, the main thrust of the conversation was how well things were progressing for Kyle.  George was effusive in his praise of his son as Kyle and Cory described the decisions Kyle had made about the treasonous history teacher and the cowardly dean, especially congratulating him on how he handled the dean’s twin sons.  Proscribing a severe period of torture was essential, and he commented that most new leaders would have not done that given the strong friendship.  (Kyle did not mention the twins’ role in encouraging Kyle to extend their time being crucified, and Cory did not bring that up, so Kyle got all the credit.)  Gordon chimed in with praise for how well Kyle did in class at skinning the slave he’d selected.  The animal had remained alive and conscious through the process, which was not easy.  (The rest of the class had also succeeded at that, but that wasn’t mentioned since this party was to celebrate Kyle.)

Even Keith joined in the praise, taking pleasure not only in Kyle’s success but especially in how happy it made George.  Keith was exceptionally fond of Kyle, but George’s happiness was Keith’s sole purpose in life.  And as with the relationship between Kyle and Cory, George genuinely loved Keith, and there was lots of friendship in addition to lots of lust.  Keith was in his late 30s, but his youthful appearance and impish, outgoing personality made him appear much younger. He was a submissive slave like Cory, and George did enjoy torturing him and reminding Keith of their respective status while watching his body “perform” for George’s sexual gratification.  Keith had been an Alpha male himself before realizing his true nature.  Like Cory and other submissives, he was totally content and fulfilled in his proper role.  His love, loyalty, and devotion were total and had been since they first got together many years earlier.

 “I need another drink,” signaled Gordon to one of the slaves.  “Me too,” added Kyle.  “And I’m still totally horny.  I think Gordon is hot for Keith and it would be fun to watch Keith get fucked.  Meanwhile, Cory hasn’t gotten fucked or beaten enough to properly punish him for jerking off without permission.   How about if dad and I double-dick Cory while Gordon and Nate boule-fuck Keith?  I think it’s time for us Council members – current and future – to take charge!  And father-son bonding is always a good thing.

That plan was quickly approved by everyone.  The party now turned from a focus on cocktails while they praised Kyle to an orgy among the close friends.  The party moved into the adjoining playroom and everyone (including the attending slaves) knew the love and affection that underlay the orgy would soon be supplemented by the torture and snuff scenes they had discussed earlier with the snuff slaves.  The Alphas had already decided to skip s formal dinner and had summoned a cute young slave who lay on a nearby table so they could cut into it for some nourishment.  It was a Kobe slave, bred for its meat quality and maintained with a higher bodyfat content to enhance its flavor.  It also had a special diet designed to add flavor to the meat, including spices and fruit juices tied to various recipes for its preparation.  Although the friends already knew what parts of the meat were especially flavorful, they enjoyed listening to the live meat make suggestions for its vivisection.  Of course, they were careful to keep it alive as long as possible, another skill at which they were expert.  The slave thanked them for the honor of being eaten by them and masturbated for their entertainment, painfully shooting its final load all over its belly and spreading the cum as if it were dressing.  Other slaves added more cum so that the meat was nicely coated.  George emasculated the slave, feeding it its own cock and sharing the testicles with Kyle.  Side dishes and fine red wines were on a nearby table to balance out the impromptu feast, and a chef stood next to a grill for those who wanted the meat cooked.  The orgy proceeded, and the Alphas enjoyed great food between orgasms.  Even Keith and Cory were treated to table scraps they shared with George’s favorite pet Labrador Retriever.  Of course, the dog got the better choices.

Cory particularly enjoyed the evening and was extremely content, glad it had stayed light and fun.  He and Kyle had some great sex and Kyle had permitted him to jerk off for Kyle’s amusement.  They laughed at Cory’s first orgasm of the evening, onto Kyle’s tux, and Kyle admitted how clever he thought that was.  Cory thought about his exceptional good fortune to be part of Kyle’s world, being in many respects Kyle’s one genuine friend.

“Do you think this is an appropriate time to explain to Kyle one of the transitions that comes with his new status, George?” Gordon t asked.

“I think so,” replied George, who was enjoying his own lover as he and Keith also caressed and aroused each other.  The intensity of the orgy had faded a bit, and the Alphas had satiated themselves with the wonderful feast, although the Kobe slave was still alive and there were great cuts available for when they got hungry again.  And lots more snuff slaves for when they got horny again.  But this was a good time to pause.

Gordon addressed Kyle, who was obviously very curious what this was all about.

“Kyle, your father and I are extremely proud of you, and there is no doubt you will someday become yet another in the amazing line of the Fletcher family Alpha Leaders that rule our world, succeeding George.  You have learned an amazing amount and mastered critical transitions, especially in the last week or so.  But there is one more transition that you’ll need to make.”

Kyle was now totally focused on Gordon, and Cory on Kyle..  What was this about?

“You have no doubt realized your dad has had submissive lovers before Keith although you were probably too young to remember particular ones.  There is no question that he cherished, even loved, each of these possessions, and his love for Keith is real.  Nor is there any doubt Keith reciprocates it and is totally dedicated to George, as were his predecessors.  But Keith also knows his place, and his naked body is always available as an object to provide enjoyment to your dad, Keith’s nakedness being a symbol to help remind Keith of reality.  That’s the role of submissive slaves like Keith and Cory, and they are favored possessions that provide great value to their Alpha owners.  But when all is said and done they’re still just property, no longer human let alone Alphas.   

“When George joined the Alpha Council he had a different submissive, his first, with whom he was as close as you are with Cory.  Like you, as you know, he joined right after college while his own dad was Supreme Leader.  And like you, although you may not be aware of it, there were concerns if he was tough enough to fill the role.  It would be a disaster if people thought any member of the Council was weak or sentimental.  When a new member joins he needs to demonstrate that he is a true Alpha Male, dominant and not held back by any dependencies or relationships.  George demonstrated that by torturing to death his beloved submissive as part of this induction ceremony.  You need to do the same with Cory at yours.”

Kyle was stunned and started to become angry and emotional.  “But that’s not fair. Cory’s my friend as well as my slave, and he’s the one friend I can absolutely trust.”

“You just illustrated the problem,” George interjected gently.  “We’re members of the Alpha Council, and someday you’ll be Supreme Leader like I am.  We don’t get to have those kinds of friends outside the Council, let alone sub-human submissives.  Submissives can fill important emotional videos, much like a favored dog or other pet, albeit less worthy and not as well cared for.  We would never dream of hurting our pet dogs, after all.  But they cannot reach the level where we depend on them as if they were still human.  And we must demonstrate that to the public so they can trust us to be the true dominant Alphas we in fact are.”

As Kyle sat in shocked silence, working to control his frustration and anger at the situation, Cory laughed.

“Kyle, sometimes you’re a real bozo.  Of course this is necessary and I’ve been aware of it for a long time.  While you’ve been studying management and governance, I’ve been studying history.  I’ve especially focused on the history of the Council and of your family, which are of course pretty much the same.  Your dad wasn’t the first one to snuff a submissive as part of his induction.  It’s actually a family tradition that goes way back to the beginning of the Council.  I figured that was what Dr. Stewart had in mind to discuss this evening.  I was afraid it would be too serious so I upended his plan and kept the evening light and fun.  I knew you’d handle it better that way, since in fact it is no big deal.  And that’s why I’ve brought up the topic of how you could snuff me when the time came fairly frequently lately.  Your initial reactions are sometimes a little emotional, and I wanted you to think it through so you’d have some creative ideas to choose from when you learned that I need to die, and die a horrible and painful death in a public ceremony.  I knew that time was your induction.  My life is irrelevant, and I’m lucky to have had five years to serve as your submissive slave.  It’s been great and by far the best use of me there could have been.  But now my best use is to die a public and horribly painful death to assure your credibility as you ascend to the Council.  I’ve been watching your reactions as you’ve snuffed slaves during the last month or so more closely than ever to figure out what turns you on the most that is suitably terrible for the slave. For example, I know you love to choke a slave to death while you fuck it, like you did with Everett.  But that’s far too quick for the ceremony and produces not nearly enough pain for the slave.  As we discussed Saturday, crucifixion is wonderfully painful and public, but it doesn’t have the requirement of your active role in doing the kill.  The cross does all the work, and the slave is just displayed naked as it loses the strength needed to breathe as it hangs.  But I’ve never seen you so turned on as you were this afternoon while you skinned that slave in Dr. Stewart’s class.  I suspect that’s the perfect choice for torturing and killing me, and I also suspect that’s what Dr. Stewart had in mind in scheduling it as the finale’ of the class.”

Gordon also laughed and congratulated Cory on his insights, “I knew for a long time this was your proper role, Cory.  You have performed it well and I think your death will make the ceremony more entertaining and more credible.  It will also add to Kyle’s enjoyment, although he might not realize it yet.  And yes, I did schedule skinning slaves alive as the focus today in hopes Kyle would choose that.  It’s a really horrible way to die and it makes the necessary statement of Kyle’s Alpha nature without leaving any doubt.  Besides, crowds love watching and if Kyle practices on a few more slaves between now and then he’ll get quite good at it.”

George spoke next, while Kyle stared in shock at the turn of events.  “I realize this is a difficult moment for you, son,” he said.  “I remember when my own father taught me the same lesson.  I had a young submissive, a boyfriend I was totally in love with, and I felt terrible at having to kill him so horribly as part of my initiation ceremony.  I forget his name but that doesn’t matter any more than he did.  I soon realized that it was for the best.  Besides, I had a great time snuffing him with everyone watching and cheering me on.  I started by fucking him, of course, and then secured him to a rack lying on his back.  I took my time and slowly stretched him until his arms popped out of their sockets at his shoulders and then were ripped from his body.  Then I gutted him and took out a few of his organs, which is astonishingly painful but not immediately fatal if you do it right. His abs and chest were fantastic and he was immensely proud of them, so it was a natural target, and of course the nipples went next.  I jerked him off but cut off the cock, slowly of course, as it shot its final load.  I didn’t want him to feel any pleasure.  I remember how satisfying it was to admire my handiwork as I surveyed the ruined body and enjoyed munching on his fresh-cut testicles.  The screaming was almost musical.  The final kill took a while, as I used a hatchet to hack his body into bite-sized pieces.  I did a really good job on that so he lasted quite a while.  As I recall, the whole kill took nearly an hour.  And when he was dead he was flipped over on his belly and I fucked what was left of his dead ass one last time.  I still think of this as one of the best orgasms I’ve ever had, and the crowd went nuts cheering me.  Oh, and when he was butchered he made a great meal.  I made the transition to the Council and have never had any regrets.        

“By the way, the submissive didn’t resist, but, sadly, I don’t think he understood his true role.  I realized his devotion to what was best for me was under the belief he was somehow still a person, almost human.  Cory is setting a far better example.”

Keith interjected.  “I know this is the right thing for Kyle, George.  But based on his reaction this is tough on him.  I think you should help ease his emotional burden from having to lose Cory.  He’ll find he enjoys it, like you did way back when. I don’t doubt he’ll shoot satisfying loads of cum several times as Cory suffers and dies, and it’s obvious Cory will taste great, but at the start it will be difficult for Kyle.  But you could set an example.  As Kyle tortures Cory by skinning him and then makes his initial slice of Cory’s flesh to eat it, why don’t you do the same to me?  It would be a powerful father/son statement, and you’ll have a great bonding memory of the event.  I have always been particularly fond of Kyle and want to offer whatever small contribution I can.  You have been through this and can quickly find another submissive lover to take my place.  I didn’t deserve the amazing years I’ve had, let alone anymore.  And while it will be an initial sacrifice on your part, I know you’ll quickly get into it and thoroughly enjoy torturing and killing me.  True, my meat isn’t as tender as Cory’s, but I’ll be pretty tasty.  And the entertainment value of two submissives being skinned alive will be fantastic.  It’s all about Kyle having a great induction, how to make this kind of transition, and making a public statement of his Alpha nature.. As with Cory, I’m irrelevant and it’s a case of figuring out my best use to support you and Kyle.”

“That is extraordinarily insightful of you, Keith,” Gordon observed.  “You being snuffed is of course no big deal, but it is a sacrifice for George.  But if George is willing I do think your torture and death would help Kyle with his burden a little bit.” 

“It really is for the best, Kyle,” Keith continued.  “I’ve always known your dad would torture me to death someday, and it in no way reduces the love I feel for him or he feels for me.  It’s just the way things need to be for anyone in your positions.  Property gets used up.  Frankly, I’m doubly honored if my suffering and death will not only add a little pleasure to your dad during your ceremony – a perfectly sufficient reason for me to die – but also help in your transition.  That’s a great privilege for me.  I’m not at all surprised to see Cory feels the same way.  As Supreme Leader and heir apparent, you and George are the sole priorities.”

“Well,” chuckled George..  “You sure called me out on this Keith.  I hadn’t planned to snuff you for a while, but I have been thinking of replacing you with a younger submissive..  So it won’t be that big a sacrifice on my part, just a minor inconvenience while I find a replacement.  I don’t see any downside to your idea at all.  In fact, it will be fun. Let’s do it.”

Nate capped off the conversation.  “Wow, my dumb-shit worthless former older brother is finally going to be useful.”  Everyone laughed, including Cory.  And, having recovered from his surprise, including Kyle.  The logic of all this was compelling.

The six friends soon began a highly creative and positive conversation about how best to organize the public skinning as part of the ceremony. 

“One of the things Gordon stressed in class today was the importance of first tenderizing the flesh,” mused Cory.  “It seems to me boiling us alive as we did with Andrew today would interrupt the ceremony with not much going on.  We want the audience to stay entertained.  But I think you said it works to hang the meat in the sun for a few hours, preferably upside down to add to the humiliation.  I wonder if we could just be hung in public starting a few hours before the event begins.  The ceremony is outdoors, and it’s going to be very warm, so it should work fine.”

“That’s a great idea,” Keith added, “We’ll get obviously sunburned, which will be painful, so that’s good.  But I don’t think it would be long enough for our skins to blister.  People could enjoy looking at our bodies as we hang, and the cameras could pan to them if there’s a lull in the action.  We’ve both got big hard cocks and will look great hanging there, probably dripping a bit from sexual excitement at our fate.  We like to show off, since we’ll be the best-looking guys there, and we can enjoy the sun while Kyle and George are stuck wearing all that ceremonial robes crap.”  Keith (like Cory) was ever the exhibitionist. 

“Hey, you don’t get all the attention,” laughed Kyle playfully.  “It’s my show, after all.  And dad and I will get to strip while we rip the skin off your screaming bodies.  We wouldn’t want to get our nice outfits messy.”  Everyone chuckled at the exchange and quickly agreed to the idea.  Then Nate interjected:

“I call dibs on Cory’s breast meat at the feast!”

“Bullshit,” objected Kyle, laughing and now fully into the spirit of the celebratory planning.  “The meat belongs to me.  He’s my property, after all.”

“Now boys, no need to fuss.  There’s plenty of good quality meat on Cory to go around.  And I’m Supreme Leader, so I get to choose first.  I think Cory will be the better tasing choice, so you two can fight over Keith.”

“Well, that would be quite an honor for me,” Cory added, joining in the banter.  “But given where you two put your attention up until now I figured you’d want to carve up my butt.  After all, you’re both pretty experienced with that part of me.”

That got a good laugh and the group moved on to other aspects of the planning.  The goal was for Kyle to have a wonderful experience at his initiation that he would remember fondly – and to send the right message about his Alpha nature.  There was a concern about making sure the guests felt welcomed and involved, and Keith suggested that he and Cory could be gang-raped as they were hung naked in the sun. which would allow the entire group to participate in the fun.  Of course, the guests would join in the feast as the two slaves were cut up for their meat.

Gordon asked what should be done with the genitals, and Cory quickly suggested that George and Kyle eat the testicles raw but exchange them so each ate one from the other’s slave.  After Kyle and George finished enjoying the testicles, Keith and Cory could eat each other’s cocks.  Cory reminded Kyle that he’d promised Nate to insert the electrified needles into his cock as Nate had demonstrated earlier, and that quickly became part of the plan.  George would do the same to Keith.  Gordon approved of all the ideas, since these were the kinds of tortures that could inflict great pain and also demonstrate the sadistic superiority of the Fletchers.  No one could doubt they were Alpha Males unfettered by any silly emotional attachments.

It was Kyle who suggested the finishing touch for the ceremony.  He had always found Cory’s smooth, tanned young skin a massive sexual turn-on.  So he suggested that the skin be used to make Kyle a leather outfit for torture sessions as a souvenir of the ceremony.  He usually stayed naked as he snuffed slaves, but sometimes he liked wearing imposing leather fetish gear.  Cory was deeply moved by the gesture, and Gordon and George quickly approved the same use for Keith’s skin.

By now it was fairly late, and the group was exhausted from all the physical activity and mentally drained from their efforts at getting creative for the ceremony.  But George had one more surprise for Kyle.  This time it was a very pleasant one.  At his signal, the submissive slave Grant entered the room and stood naked in front of Kyle, cock hard and head bowed out of respect for his new owner.

“I mentioned how much fun I had snuffing my first submissive,” explained George.  But the real cure for my stress was his replacement, a submissive I enjoyed for many years before snuffing him.  So I figured getting you a new one would help.  This is a very well trained submissive once named Grant, although you can obviously change that if you prefer him to have another name, or just brand him with a number.  He’s now yours to do with as you wish.  I think he’s about the most natural submissive I’ve ever seen, maybe even more than Cory.  He’s my present to you on your induction.”

Kyle was grateful and thrilled.  Grant was even more handsome than Cory, a bit younger, and with skin that was even more smooth.  He was fresh young meat for Kyle to enjoy.  Kyle could have great sex exploring Grant’s limits and then greatly exceeding them.  He could learn how to inflict the most pain and cause the greatest humiliation.  As tired as he was, Kyle was massively turned on. 

“I don’t think I’m going to miss Cory at all.”

As the evening drew to a close Gordon opened a special bottle of wine that he had been saving for this occasion.  He poured 6 glasses, using new fine crystal he had ordered that was embossed with the names of each of the six friends, handing one to each of them. 

“I want to propose a toast to George and Kyle, my fellow members of the Alpha Council, and to this wonderful group of friends, even though two of us are just property that will shortly be disposed of..  This has been a fantastic evening and it portends wonderfully well for the future of the Council and the dedication to it that the two of you are demonstrating by sacrificing the pleasure you receive from Keith and Cory.  I hope the next couple of days bring you the final sexual satisfaction from them that you deserve as they transition from submissive slaves to meat and leather.  This wine is the best from my private vintage, and I brought it for this celebration, as I also had these fine crystal goblets made with each of our names.”  George and Kyle thanked him for such a thoughtful gesture and downed their glasses, as did the others.  The group finished the bottle and Gordon took the empty goblets from Cory and Keith.  He threw the crystal into a nearby fireplace, shattering each as a symbol of their impending deaths.  Everyone recognized how fitting Gordon’s ceremony was, especially Keith and Cory.  Grant, meanwhile, was overwhelmed by his extraordinary good fortune.  He stood at attention eagerly waiting for his service to begin.

Officer Bubba Makes Bennie His Bitch

His name was Antoine LeFebre, but no one ever called him that, or even thought of him by that name.  He was simply Officer Bubba.

He was easily recognizable for a number of reasons.  For one thing, he was the only black man on the Twin Lakes police force.  That alone wasn’t saying much; Twin Lakes was a small resort town about an hour away from a decent-sized city—a perfect place for white flight.  The percentage of the local population that was black was somewhere on the order of two percent.

But Officer Bubba was also noticeable—and strikingly so—for his build.  He worked out on his home gym relentlessly, and it showed.  In his early thirties, he was just under six and a half feet tall and weighed in at nearly 275 pounds, every bit of it hard, toned muscle.

His swollen chest was as smooth as his head, which he shaved daily; the only hair on his head was a mustache that covered his firm upper lip.  His physique was intimidating as fuck, and the natural scowl on his face only added to the effect.

Officer Bubba was strong and powerful—but he didn’t feel like it.  He’d been with the TLPD for seven years and was the only officer not to have gotten a promotion in that time.  His raises had been minimal.  And suddenly things had taken a turn for the worse.

It had begun with the BLM protests.  As a small, mainly upper-middle-class town, Twin Lakes had strongly come out in favor of backing the blue and repeated comments about all lives mattering.  As a cop, it should have been gratifying to Bubba, but the comments of his brother officers—and from the members of the general public with whom he interacted—the buff black stud could tell he was regarded with suspicion, if not downright contempt, merely due to his race.  Twin Lakes seemed to think he was looking for a reason to commit mayhem.

After a while, he began to think so too.

In the last six months, he’d arrested two black boys—one for underage possession of alcohol, the other for shoplifting.  In the same time period, he’d arrested ten white boys.  Four of them had been driving drunk (two of them had had BACs so high they’d needed medical treatment), one had been shoplifting, two had been dealing meth and three had been in on the armed robbery of a convenience store.

The only white kids to do any time were the meth dealers and the one who’d actually held the gun during the robbery.  And none of them got more than two years in the reform school—which was exactly what the black kid charged with underaged possession got.  The other one was over eighteen and had a prior for marijuana possession; he got eighteen months in the state pen.

As the arresting officer, Bubba was in court each time as a matter of course.  And each time, he found himself getting angrier and angrier.  And now, the huge, hulking cop had reached the boiling point.  No one knew it, not even himself.

But he was about to find out, on tonight’s patrol.

It was a hot night, and he was sweating as he slowly cruised through town, but he kept the AC off and the windows down so he’d be able to pick any sign of trouble.  He’d prepared for the heat, though; under his lightweight short-sleeved unform shirt and matching black chinos, he was wearing nothing at all except his Belleville steel-toed flight deck boots.  The boots had rubber soles that silenced his approach, an attribute for which he was soon to have a need.

He’d just driven through the intersection at Main and Warwick, turning left onto the latter street, when a flash of movement caught his eye.  It wasn’t much, but it was down an alley that ran behind the buildings fronting onto Main—businesses including a jewelry store, a drug store, and a bank. 

Bubba drove past the alley and pulled the cruiser over quietly.  He left the car, as carefully as he could, and approached the alley cautiously.  There was a flickering security light part-way down that might have been what triggered him, but he didn’t think so.  He began to inch his way in, creeping silently down the narrow, garbage-strewn passage.  He didn’t want to disturb whatever was going on, at least until he could figure out what it was.

What it was, was Bennie.

Bubba knew Bennie.  All the Twin Lakes cops knew Bennie.  And Bennie, when he looked up, knew Officer Bubba—and he wasn’t happy to see him.

Bennie was a particularly obnoxious stench in the nose of the local law; a high school dropout by the age of fifteen, he’d almost managed to reach his twentieth birthday—three weeks away—without developing a single useful talent or any useful value to society.  He did odd jobs and temped at physical labor when he had to, but most of the time he earned what little money he had by selling drugs.  He’d tried other shit, too, most of which ended in failure, like the time he tried to set up a moonshine still.  The worthless fuck had gotten off easy; he’d been gone when it exploded, but his idiotic partner Tim Edwards hadn’t been so lucky.  Tim was still in some charity hospital up north, learning how to read Braille.

Bennie was tall and broad-shouldered, with a snub nose, freckles, and red-gold hair, now mostly covered by a black ball cap worn backwards.  Despite—or perhaps because of—the heat, he was wearing a leather biker jacket over a soiled white t-shirt.  Bubba knew that trick; people would think he was sweating because of the heat, not realizing the asshole was higher than fuck on crack, which induces sweating.  Bennie’s tight jeans had seen better days and his Reebok hightops were no longer as white as they once were.  He still had the tight, firm body of an adolescent, but within a year or so, the drugs would be taking a much heavier physical toll than they had so far.

The fucker hadn’t yet realized he was being watched.  He was trying to get into rear door of one of the businesses.  Bubba peered into the darkness, trying to read the lettering on the door—the drugstore.  Of course.  Even if he couldn’t find any cash, there were plenty other things a boy like Bennie could use in there. 

Bubba had seen enough.  He stepped into the faint circle thrown by the single dim security light in the alley, and he made it obvious enough even for a waste like Bennie to realize it.  The punk whirled around and there was a pregnant pause as the two males eyes each other.  There was a brief moment of tension, as if violence were about to erupt, but Bennie wasn’t so high that he seriously thought he could take on Officer Bubba.  A petulant look formed on his arrogantly handsome face.

“Officer Bubba,” the boy sneered, “Fuckin’ figures.”

Bubba reached for the cuffs tethered to his utility belt.  “You know the drill, Bennie,” he said calmly, his deep bass voice rumbling in the confined space of the alley.  “Turn around.  Hands behind your back.”

“Aw, what the fuck,” the kid whined, “I ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”  But he complied with the cop’s order.  Bubba got the steel bracelets around the perp’s wrists and shoved him towards the street.

“What the fuck is goin’ on?” the strung-out little shit demanded.  He was still complaining when Bubba opened the rear door.  “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’!” he shouted.

“You were breaking into Sorenson’s Drugs,” Bubba said as calmly and evenly as before.  Bennie started to respond, but Bubba pushed him into the back seat and slammed the door.  He walked around to the driver’s side, still able to hear the boy squawking inside.  Sighing, the muscle-bound cop lowered himself into the car, his bulk settling it on its suspension slightly.  It was gonna be a long ride to the station…

It turned out to be a lot longer than either of them had suspected at the outset—mostly due to Bennie’s mouth.

“Makes ya feel big, arrestin’ me for shit I ain’t doin’, huh?” he snarled at the smooth back of Bubba’s shaved head.

“I already told you what you’re going to be charged with,” Bubba replied wearily.

“I wasn’t doin’ a goddam thing!  You ain’t got no proof, ya asshole cop!”

“I saw you myself; I’ll be there to testify.”

“Yeah?  Who the fuck is gonna believe you?”  Bennie leaned forward, hissing in Bubba’s ear.  “Ain’t no one’s gonna take the word of a nigger over a white man in this town, even if the nigger’s a cop.”

High as he was, even Bennie could see the way Bubba’s huge, rippling muscles tightened at this remark.  The punk knew he’d scored at hit and continued the attack.

“You know my uncle Ken?” he said in a slight undertone.  Bubba didn’t reply.  Of course he knew Ken Hammond, one of the best criminal lawyers in the county.  The man didn’t often come down here; he was too busy up in the state capitol, trying to put himself forward as a possible attorney general for the state in the next election.  “He’s gonna get me off this.  You’ll see.”

“You may be kin, but Ken Hammond isn’t going to risk his political career for a piece of crap like you,” Bubba responded.  He was aware that his control over his anger was starting to slip, and it worried him.  He wasn’t sure what would happen.

“All the fuck you know about it, ya dumbass jigaboo,” Bennie spat out.  Bubba ground his teeth and gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles paled.  “Uncle Ken ain’t gonna let no fuckin’ nig-nog take down our family.  See, once he’s in office, he’s gonna make sure all you fuckin’ porch monkeys learn yer place.  He’ll not only get me off, he’ll sue yer coon ass for harassment.  Hey, Sambo, how many nappy-headed monkeys gonna be on your jury?  He’ll get you fired and take everything you got—but don’t worry, boy.  I hear Anderson’s Packing need some big dumb black bucks like you to haul—”

He never got to finish his sentence; Bubba swung the car violently to the left at the next intersection, throwing the obnoxious little asshole into the corner.

“OW!!  Goddammit, you did that deliberately, ya nigger sonovabitch!  I’m gonna have yer fuckin’ badge just for that!  I’m gonna—hey, where the fuck are you going?!?”

It was obvious that they were no longer heading for the station; in fact, they were heading out of town and Bubba was accelerating.  “Goddamit, I asked a question, ya fuckin’ spade!  Where the hell are you takin’ me?!?”

But Bubba remained a silent, looming presence in the driver’s seat.  So silent, that Bennie began to get unnerved—not that it made him any less abusive.  He was the type who overcame his own insecurities by finding someone else he could despise, and the cop was the most blatant target for his uneasy catcalls.

“Whatsa matter, ya too stupid to understand English, ya coon?”  The kid’s voice was developing a hoarse edge from anxiety; it drowned out the low sound of Bubba grinding his teeth.  But they were nearly at their destination.

Bubba had found the place three years ago during a cross-country search for a fugitive.  It was an abandoned cabin set not too far off the county road, but down a dirt path so overgrown it was almost invisible.  The place wasn’t wired for electricity, but it was still furnished—to a certain extent.  It hadn’t been used for years, though.  Since then, the cop had periodically checked up on the place—more to make sure the local kids weren’t using it for something stupid—but had never seen any signs that anyone else had been near it.

When the patrol car pulled off the road, appearing to almost be driving directly into the woods, Bennie verged on hysteria.  High as he was, he knew this was all very wrong.  The big black cop was bringing him out here to do something he couldn’t do back at the station. “What the fuck are you doin’?!?” he screamed, the crack in his voice making his fear obvious, “Are you headin’ back home, ya jungle bunny?  Goin’ back to a tree like a good monkey?”

Bubba brought the car to an abrupt stop; they had reached the cabin, but Bennie didn’t see it in the overgrown darkness.  He thought his taunts had finally gotten through to the cop.  Fucker might scream at him, but he wasn’t gonna really do anything…

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the obnoxious teen sneered.  “Wait till I tell my uncle about this.  He won’t just have yer badge, nigger; he’s the grand-fuckin’-dragon of the county KKK and he’s gonna run all you yard apes outta here for good!”

But Bubba didn’t turn the car around, he shut it off and got out.  Bennie froze, his old fears reappearing as the cop opened the rear door and snarled, “Get out!”

Bennie did, silently for once, his hands still cuffed behind his back.  Something glinted in the faint moonlight that penetrated the tree cover—it was Bubba’s gun.  The Twin Lakes PD certainly hadn’t been defunded; the metallic gleam was that of a .357 Magnum.  Despite the punk’s fear, he simply couldn’t believe the cop was just gonna blow him away.

Unfortunately for him, he was right. 

“Well now what?” the boy demanded, his face flushing in self-directed anger; he could hear how his own voice wavered in fear and knew the cop could hear it too.  “Whaddaya want, ya moron?  You drag me out here to suck my dick?  You a faggot, nigger?  You a—UUNNHH!”

Bennie had only seen a brief flash, not enough to allow him to react, as Bubba pistol-whipped him in the head, sending his cap flying and him reeling.  Bennie fell to his knees, pressing his hands against the side of the patrol car as he struggled to maintain consciousness.

“Get up, you piece of shit,” Bubba said calmly while Bennie leaned against the cool metal panel and gingerly felt around the bleeding gash on his temple.  The boy was stunned, but his fear was dwindling, rage filling in the hole.  The cop had hit him.  The fucking nigger cop had hit him!

Bennie rose to his feet again and turned to Bubba, snarling, only to find himself looking down the intimidatingly wide barrel of the gun.  He paused, his anger in abeyance.  He couldn’t do anything yet, but the moment he could, the jigaboo better watch the fuck out.

Officer Bubba didn’t need to be told anything of what was running through Bennie’s mind; the strung-out teen was so pathetically transparent he might as well have had thought bubbles over his head.  Of course he was gonna try to make a break for it at some point.

And that was where Bubba paused.  What, exactly, was he doing out here?

He’d driven out here in a kind of blind rage; he had no specific plans.  But things had certainly gone too far for this to end well.  Bennie might have been lying about being connected to the KKK—the worthless piece of shit was a notorious liar—but he had a basis now for the threat to take Bubba’s badge.  He had, after all, assaulted a prisoner in custody.  And Bennie was exactly the type to broadcast that fact, pissing and moaning to anyone who’d listen.

There was only one answer.  The little fuck had to die.

And the moment Bubba realized that, he also realized that his huge black python of a cock was starting to swell.

A smile spread across the hulking cop’s savage face—a cold, cruel smile.  After all, if it had to be done, why not enjoy himself?  The white boy needed to learn a lesson before he died, and Bubba was just the man to teach it.

Bennie, for his part, wasn’t able to read Bubba like the cop had read him.  He could, though, see the hateful smile on the cop’s almost simian visage; the boy quailed, his bravado faltering for a moment before he remembered how often his uncle had told him that niggers can smell fear and that he needed to master himself before he could take his proper place as master of a coon.  Heeding Uncle Ken’s words, Bennie stood up straight and thrust out his jaw, the strung-out teen presenting a ludicrous caricature of courage.  His fear was palpable.

“Move it,” Bubba barked, waving the pistol towards the cabin.

“Make me, motherfucker,” Bennie sneered.

Bubba’s response was swift and decisive.  He promptly shot Bennie in the left foot, blowing off two toes.

The roar of the gun and the sudden burning pain left the arrogant punk gasping and bleating before finally finding his voice—not that he was capable of saying anything more coherent that “Ohfuckohshitfuckfuckfuck…”

“Get moving,” Bubba said in the same calm, even tone as before.  Bennie turned his tear-stained face up to the cop; for the first time, fear had overcome the obnoxious cockiness.

Bubba made another discovery:  the white boy’s fear turned him on.  The expression on the kid’s face—suddenly, Bubba was feeling the sexual arousal of establishing dominance over another male.  How far could he take this?  And was would it feel like when he finally exerted his ultimate power over the boy’s life?

He didn’t know, but he damn sure wanted to find out.  But that was for later.  First, he had a more immediate task to assert his control.  He pulled his flashlight from his utility belt, aiming the beam of light at the cabin door.  “Get moving, I said. Next shot, I’m aiming higher.”

Bennie, gulped.  His chin quivered as if he was going to make one last attempt to prove he wasn’t afraid, but he gave it up and headed for the door, limping.  Behind him, Bubba noticed the way the teen’s tight jeans cradled his boyish ass and felt his own cock stiffen even more.  He hadn’t thought much about sexuality, but it occurred to him how fucking humiliating it would be for the racist little fuck to have a huge black dick up its ass.

Plus, it would feel good.  Bubba’s grin widened.  After all, it wasn’t like he was a faggot.  If it was gonna die anyway, it would be like fucking—well, a piece of meat.  He could do that.  He could cum inside a squealing, kicking piece of meat.

By the time Bennie had forced the door open and entered the decrepit cabin, Bubba had already stopped thinking of him as human.  Bennie had become an ‘it’.

Navigating the interior of the cabin would have been impossible without the cop’s flashlight.  The front windows had broken, and debris had blown in.  The elements hadn’t been kind to the furniture.  Behind, however, was a kitchen and a bedroom, both with intact windows and in considerably better shape.  But they weren’t staying inside the cabin.  Bubba kept prodding Bennie in the back, directing him into the kitchen and out the rear door.

Behind the cabin were the collapsed remains of a tool shed and a clearing—well, an area free of trees or dense underbrush, at any rate.  The cold light of a full moon illuminated the area, giving the scene an eerie light that did little to calm Bennie’s nerves.

“Over there,” Bubba said evenly, shoving the punk in the direction of the shed.  “See that shovel?  Grab it, boy.  You’re gonna do some digging.”

The shovel was as decrepit as the cabin—rusty, its wood handle gray and full of splinters.  The teen nudged it with one of his sneakers and turned to face the cop.  The refusal he was so obviously about to utter faded from his lips as he found himself looking levelly at the barrel of the gun again.  His fear had almost made him forget the throbbing pain in his foot but having the cause of that pain jammed into his face refreshed him memory very well.  His face fell into what was a natural expression of annoying adolescent petulance, but he picked up the shovel and followed Bubba’s motions into the clearing.

“Dig me a ditch, boy,” Bubba commanded, his savage face twisted into a sneer.  “Right there.  Three feet deep, three wide, six long.  Now, motherfucker!”

Bennie jumped.  He’d never heard that word—or that tone—from Office Bubba before.  His protests died away and he leaned forward, using his weight to drive the dull tip of the shovel into the earth.

It was hard work, and after a few minutes, Bennie needed a breather.  He hadn’t looked at Bubba while he’d been digging—for several reasons, none of which he felt like examining closely—and now he turned to say he was taking a break.  But his words failed him.

As Bennie had been digging, Bubba had stripped off his shirt and his wide belt of black leather.  Bennie looked around and was confronted with a huge black powerhouse of a man, his huge nipples jutting above the massive rock-like pecs and casting a shadow in the moonlight.  Below the powerful washboard abs, the teen could see a frighteningly large bugle in the crotch, but that was far less worrying—at the moment—than the fact that the huge cop had doubled over the leather belt and was swinging it.

“Oh my god…” Bennie gasped involuntarily and was rewarded with a grin of such cruel shark-like intensity that the kid wished he’d never left home that day.

“Yeah, boy, I am your God,” Bubba snarled, his large white eyes gleaming with a sense of absolute control.  “Take off your shirt.  Now.  Take it off or I’ll hurt you.”

Bennie gaped.  This couldn’t be happening—but once Bubba raised the arm holding the belt, the boy suspended his disbelief long enough to shrug off his leather jacket and peel the t-shirt off, tossing them aside the way he always threw aside his clothes.

The teen turned back to Bubba.  He wasn’t badly built; he was lazy but not inactive and he had a strong, wiry body.  But compared to Bubba, he almost looked like a different species, and he knew it.

Without his shirt, the night breeze blew across his bare, sweat-covered chest, making him shiver.  “W-what was th-that for?” he asked the cop, his voice quavering more from the chill than fear.

“You’re gonna dig that trench, boy, and if you slack off I’m gonna beat your bare back like a slave.  You hear me, you worthless piece of white trash?  I’m gonna whip you like a fucking field hand if you give me any shit—”

“FUCK YOU, NIGGER!!” Bennie screamed, his face beet red, and Bubba waded in, swinging the belt.

Bennie saw it coming and cowered, crouching down and holding his arms over his head.  This last measure wasn’t as protective as he’d hoped; Bubba grabbed one of his arms, jerked him up, and began beating him.

For a moment, there was confusion in the clearing, black and white forms entwining, the loud lashing sound of the leather strap hitting tender flesh, and the bleating and squealing of the teenaged punk.  After five minutes, Bennie was lying on the ground, sobbing and gasping, his smooth chest and pale back stippled and swelling with angry red welts.

And standing over him was a large black man who’d suddenly come to the realization of just how fucking good it had felt to beat the boy.  It wasn’t just emotionally satisfying; it was physically stimulating.  His huge black shaft was straining the material in his crotch. 

Was it time to let it out to play?

Well, why not?  Not like this juvenile delinquent was going to be in a position to tell anyone about it; his fate was already sealed.  And besides—the little motherfucker needed it.  Racist little shit needed a ride on his big black lighting rod.  Fucker thought he was a superior race?  Let’s see how he reacts to getting pumped full of nigger sperm.

It was probably lucky for Bennie that he couldn’t see the look on Bubba’s face as these ideas sparked in the cop’s mind; the kid was already in for a bad night.  Still sobbing, the youth slowly climbed to his feet.  He’d only dug about a third of the trench, but he began to edge toward the side. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going, boy?” the cop rumbled.  Bennie flinched at the sound of Bubba’s voice, but couldn’t bring himself to look at the heavily muscled black man looming over him.  “You ain’t done yet.  Get back to work, motherfucker.”

Full of fear and racial hate, Bennie picked up the shovel, turned his back on the cop, and resumed digging.  It was exhausting work, and his lean, lithe body ached from the beating he’d endured, but he knew worse would be in store if he didn’t finish the task.  He didn’t know why he had to dig like this, but he refused to even look at Bubba, much less speak to him to ask.  He just kept shoveling the dirt.

After what seemed like hours—but had only been about forty minutes or so—the teen punk had completed his assigned task and was standing in trench approximately six feet long, three deep, and three wide.  He stood and wiped the sweat form his eyes with the back of his arm and tossed the shovel aside.  Just as he did so, he heard an unmistakable sound behind him.

It was the sound of a zipper being pulled.

Curiosity overcame Bennie’s hate of Bubba and he whirled around.  At that moment, Bubba happened to be bending over, picking up the belt he’d dropped.  Even from this angle, the hulking cop looked insanely powerful, his taut muscled ass visible though the tight chinos, flexing with enough force to crack nuts.

Worse was to come, though, when Bubba stood up and turned around.   The cop grinned at seeing that the punk had finished—but Bennie’s look of horror wasn’t directed at Bubba’s face, it was directed at the frighteningly huge cock that jutted out nearly a foot, thick in proportion and wreathed in pulsing veins.  The monstrous shaft had an upward bend that made inserting it into any orifice an obviously traumatic experience.

Bennie had heard all the stories about nigger dicks, but he’d never seen one. 

He went pale.  “D-dude, what the fuck…” he gasped in a breathy tone, his eyes huge, “I-I ain’t n-no faggot!”  He gulped, then quickly looked up at Bubba.  “No of-offence, man, but I, uh, I ain’t gay…”

“Neither am I, you piece of shit,” Bubba growled, “Now get your worthless ass over here and suck it.”

This time, Bennie’s fear and outrage reverberated through the woods.  It did him as little good as his previous outburst.

“I ain’t suckin’ yer dick, ya goddam coon faggot!  Stay back, you sick fuckin’ nigger!  Help!  HELP!!!”

His scram faded to nothing in the dark woods, and there was no response.  It began to dawn on Bennie that what he wanted or didn’t want was probably gonna have little bearing on what was about to actually happen.  As if to reinforce this sudden reality check, the teen heard the low, ominous chuckle of the cop behind him.

“You done, boy?  Now get over here and take this thick black tubesteak down your creamy white throat, asswipe.”

Reluctantly, Bennie glanced up at the huge, heavily-muscled man looming over him, massive dick throbbing, face twisted into an ugly leer, and decided this wasn’t happening.  That had been some seriously fucked-up crack he’d smoked, to cause this kinda trip, but it was the only possible explanation.

“I meant now, motherfucker!” Bubba snarled and slashed at Bennie with the belt, this time catching him full in the face with the buckle, leaving a vicious gash across his cheek.  The kid yelped and fell to his knees, clutching his face.  Bad trip or not, this was his reality, and it was about to get a lot fucking worse.

“You stupid piece of shit, you know where you are?” the cop demanded, jumping down into the trench, his heavy boots compacting the loose soil with a thump.  “Answer me, fuckwad, you know what this is?”

On his knees, still clutching his bleeding face, Bennie knew he had to give an answer.  “N-no,” he sniveled.

“No what, motherfucker?”

“No-no s-sir,” Bennie replied, hot snotty tears of embarrassment at calling a nigger ‘sir’ running down his face.

“You’re in your grave, asshole.  Best stroke of work you’ve ever done, you worthless excuse for a human being, digging your own grave.  You get to take a nice long dirt nap here once I’m done with you…”

As Bennie looked up at Bubba in horror, the black man—and his inhumanly huge shaft—both seemed to swell with menace.

“…but before then, I think I deserve some fun.  Scream, white boy.  Scream all you want.  I’m gonna do everything I’ve ever imagined to you, and no one’s gonna stop me.  You and your white power fucks back the blue, right?  So back your ass right up on this thick dick.  Work the shaft, you piece of cracker shit, and I might let you live.  Probably not, but it’s your only hope.”

Bennie gaped, his underdeveloped adolescent mind whirling uselessly.  Bubba saw it and smirked.

“Aw fuck yeah, I was hoping you wouldn’t cooperate.  I’ve been wanting to do this forever.”  And before Bennie could protest, Bubba waded in with his belt in one hand and his policy baton in the other.  Within seconds, Bennie began to understand the true nature of Hell.

He bleated in terror, a shrill inarticulate sound, as he ducked his head and raised his arms to ward off the blows.  The effort was just as useless as everything else in his life; the first blow of the baton snapped two fingers on his right hand.  The kid screeched and jerked his hands away, allowing Bubba to lash his smooth pecs and flat belly with the belt.

Bennie collapsed to the ground, wailing.  He instinctively curled into a fetal position to protect his wounded hand and his welt-mottled torso, but Bubba bent down, grabbed the punk by his sweat-slick hair, and mercilessly pulled him to his knees.

“Are you gonna suck my big nigger cock, motherfucker, do I have to hurt you again?” he growled.

Silently, with tears of pain, fear, and rage rolling down his cheeks, Bennie opened his mouth.

“Yeah, I thought so,” Bubba jeered, “You white pride fucks are all faggots.  Choke on it, bitch!”

Gripping Bennie’s head in an iron-like grasp, Bubba forced the entire length of his monstrous hog down the boy’s throat, burying Bennie’s nose in his ebony pubes.  The punk’s eyes were already watering, but he began to gag instantly.

“That’s it, boy.  You like having a coon use your mouth like a cunt, yeah?  Of course you do.  Shit, your little white boy dick is already hard, ain’t it?”

Bennie was desperately trying to escape this hellish nightmare.  His nostrils were saturated by the smell of rank nigger pube sweat that had gotten in before the huge horse dick plugged his esophagus so deeply the head was brushing his larynx.  He beat frantically against Bubba’s thighs; it was like beating oak trees.  He was choking to death on a spade’s dick and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

And then, suddenly, he was free.  With a might shove, Bennie propelled himself back off Bubba’s cock and tumbled over onto his back, gasping and retching as he looked up at the grinning cop. 

His face was red and puffy but as he drew in more air, it gradually resolved itself into a twisted gaze of hate.  Again, Bubba read the worthless little punk perfectly; he’d been trained for this sort of thing.  The little fuck was gonna go for the gun in the holster at his waist.

Sure enough, the boy bunched up, his lean, lithe body coiling for a leap.  But just as Bennie sprang forward, he glimpsed the cop’s huge arm, bicep bulging with strength, as it drew back to meet his rush.  Unfortunately for the young thug, his momentum was now too great to either stop or change course.  He was heading straight for Bubba’s onrushing fist.

The cop aimed for Bennie’s face, but it was a fake-out.  Even as he darted forward, the kid had time to raise his hands—but Bubba lowered his and delivered a devastating gutpunch.  Bennie’s belly was flat and firm, but it couldn’t handle the wrecking-ball impact of Bubba’s vicious sucker-punch.

“HOOG!” the teen punk inarticulately cried out as the blow forced the air from his lungs.  He was literally knocked off his feet by the force, landing on his back in the trench.  His face was congested and grimacing as he tried desperately to inhale, but Bubba was there before he had a chance to recover, towering over the punk bitch as he wallowed and gasped in the grave he’d dug himself.

The moon was behind Bubba at this point, displaying a terrifying silhouette of pure muscled power that even Bennie, dazed as he was, could perceive.  And despite the fact that he was illuminated form behind, the cop’s massive, ebon-black cock was plainly visible; in fact, it seemed to have swollen since that last time Bennie had focused on it.  But the cunt’s fear and desperation, high as they were, went to astronomic levels when that huge ominous shadow began to speak in a deep, rumbling bass.

“You’ve gotten too damn many slaps on the wrist, you white piece of trash,” Bubba sneered, “Time for you to get slapped down by a real man.  Think you’re ready for the big time, little boy?  Let’s see how big you can take it.  Spread those legs, motherfucker; I’m gonna make you my bitch before you die.” 

And even as the protests began to well up on Bennie’s lips, Bubba’s fists began to fall, splitting those lips and knocking out the teeth behind them.  The teen punk started fighting back, beating at the powerful black man, but the cop’s blow fell like hail.  The boy cowered under the onslaught until he collapsed prone onto the freshly-turned earth, stunned, bruised and bleeding.

He wasn’t so stunned that he couldn’t feel the muscle-bound nigger ripping his jeans off, yanking them down and pulling his Reeboks off with them.  Within three seconds, the teen’s smooth bare ass felt the chill of the night air.  As the massive cop roughly pried his legs apart, Bennie made one last attempt to preserve his anal virginity.  When Bubba bent over him, he swung at the cop.

What happened next was too fast for the stupid little fuck to see; he knew his punch didn’t land and that the momentum of his arm had been arrested but he had no idea that Bubba had grabbed him by the forearm until the muscle-bound stud gave it a quick, casual twist that snapped the radius and the ulna simultaneously, with the ease of breaking a breadstick.

Bennie’s high-pitched screech was that of a little girl, but the way his thick boycock spasm as the pain jolted his nervous system wasn’t.  The teen troublemaker had lifted his head from the ground, his swollen, tear-streaked face focused on the grotesque angle at which his right arm now lay; he wasn’t paying attention to his dick right now—or, for that matter, to Bubba.  With an evil simian leer, the hulking black man thrust his huge tool into Bennie’s tight, tender fuckhole, instantly ripping the boy’s sphincter apart as the coal-black shaft tore through the bitch’s colon with the force of a runaway train.

Bubba grunted with pleasure as he felt himself tear the punk’s ass open; he placed his huge hands on the kid’s smooth, firm thighs to keep the legs apart and began reaming the boy mercilessly. The sounds coming from Bennie were less indicative of pleasure—the worthless cunt was screaming like a pig being slaughtered.

“Goddamit,” the cop growled, his heavy, powerful body pinning the lean young boy to the ground, “I like my bitches to scream, but you’re giving me a headache—shut the fuck up!!”

Bubba punctuated each word with a roundhouse punch driven straight from his shoulder into Bennie’s face, four blows in rapid succession that obliterated the teen’s face, lips, and most of his front teeth.  The punk wheezed in agony and suddenly gagged and choked momentarily before coughing up three teeth that had lodged in its trachea.

The cop, on the other hand was having an epiphany.  The way the piece of shit white thug clamped down on his big black hog while being beaten was fucking phenomenal.  Nothing had ever felt so good on his dick.  Could he make the cunt do it again?

It turned out he could.  Each time he beat the motherfucker, it worked his tackle better than any pussy had done.  He drove his massive fist into the boy’s chest, belly, and face until there was little left of Bennie but a pile of bleeding, moaning hamburger that had massaged the cop’s cock into he was almost ready to cum.

Almost.  He needed more.  The bitch had to suffer more; it was obvious that was the only way to make it bring him to orgasm.  But he’d already beat it to a pulp; what else was there?

The cop’s innate bloodlust dictated the next move; it was unplanned.  Bubba himself wasn’t aware why he found his big strong hands reaching out for the white fucker’s neck; it just seemed right.  It seemed even more right when he clutched the teen’s neck in a vise-like grip and began crushing it.  The moment his finger sank into the yielding flesh, the boy came alive, working his thick, throbbing manshift as if he desperately needed the older man’s seed inside him. 

Bennie had been barely conscious after the beating; in a red haze of pain, the adolescent punk was aware of the massive gorilla cock that was shredding his colon, but little more.  That changed when his air supply was cut off, though; the teen was revitalized by panic.  His pain, his racial anger, his plans of revenge were all forgotten as the youth’s instinctive fight for survival began.

“Take it, bitch,” Bubba grunted as he felt the teen rectum squeeze his pulsating rod tightly, “Take what you fucking deserve.”  The kid’s left hand was clawing at the cop’s finger in an utterly useless attempt to pry loose the iron-like death grip.  His smooth chest heaved and jerked as he struggled to breath, his back arching with the effort and rubbing his lean, sweat-slick torso against his hulking nigger’s body.  As he did, Bubba could feel the boy’s dick pressed against his belly like a hot steel rod.

The black cop lowered his head till he could look the choking white boy directly in his bulging, bloodshot eyes.  “You’re hard as fuck with my dick up your ass,” Bubba hissed, his powerful body continuing to thrust as he spoke, “I knew you were a faggot.  Fuck, bitch, I’m gonna get a fucking promotion for terminating your perverted ass!”

Bennie heard the words.  He was having trouble with his hearing—his racing, ragged pulse was beating so hard on the inside that he thought his head was gonna explode—but he could still hear the coon’s vicious taunts.  His terror swelled to white-hot proportions, overcoming all other concerns, even pain.  He beat at Bubba’s face with both arms, not heeding the agony and futility with which his broken right arm flopped pathetically with no impact at all on the cop’s assault.

Not that his good hand had any noticeable impact, either, aside from pissing the black buck off on spurring him to greater violence.  With a roar, Bubba let go of Bennie’s throat with one hand, keeping the other in a strangling grasp as he began to beat the teen again, making sure that it knew its place. 

For a moment, it was a scene of unspeakable sexual brutality, the hulking black man raping the white twink, his powerful, muscular ass pumping and thrusting cruelly, remorselessly ripping open the boy’s guts while the thick beefy sounds of flesh striking flesh rose from the shallow grave.

It was more than Bubba had ever imagined; almost more than he could take.  The sheer sense, not just of power, but of righteous power that flooded his massive, muscle-bound frame was utterly indescribable.  Feeling and seeing the teen asswipe die on his dick was amazing and watching the way Bennie’s mangled face had darkened until it was nearly as black as his own had been incredible, but it was seeing the way the cunt started to drool like an idiot as its brain died from lack of oxygen was such a turn-on that the cop could almost literally feel his own cum boiling over in his balls.

 Bennie was nearly gone; his entire existence reduced to a long silent scream of tortured agony—and the knowledge that he was dying so a fucking coon could use him as a cumdump.  Despair, and the humiliating awareness of his own erection that somehow made its way through his misfiring nervous system added to the horror of the teen punk’s last few moments on earth.  But it was the pain that held center stage.

The toes that had been blown off were a distant memory; part of a dim past that almost didn’t seem to have happened to him.  The agonizing pressure in the youth’s head and lungs was beyond anything he’d thought possible; it felt like his brain was going to be forced out of his skull, the way his tongue already was.  Even worse was the way his esophagus was being crushed; the sharp spiking pain of cartilage being compressed beyond its ability to recover was like having a ball of glass shards jammed in his throat.

But it was the fireplug-sized cock ripping his guts to shred that the dying teen suffered from the most before the brain damage progressed to the point where he didn’t feel anything at all.  His own dick and balls were swollen and aching as if they were gonna burst at every excruciatingly deep thrust of the muscular nigger’s powerful ass.

Things were fading, though…the world was going away.  The big black explosions in his field of vision, where hemorrhages in his bulging eyes were clouding his sight, had just left him blind; the last visual image in his dying mind was the terrifying simian snarl on the cop’s face as he neared orgasm.

Bubba had never killed anyone before; he didn’t know how close the meat was to death—only how close he himself was to cumming.  As his balls contracted and an almost painful electric shock rain down the length of his massive black member, the cop’s urge to squeeze, to crush, to kill, was instinctive.

The thick crackling sound that erupted under his hands as Bennie’s trachea collapsed satisfied a deep, primal urge the huge black buck never knew he had.  It, and the way the cunt jerked and squeezed on his cock, sparked a literal geyser of semen as his engorged shaft swelled and spewed hot alpha manseed into the teen’s mangled guts.

Bennie could no longer hear or see—but he could feel the ultimate destruction of his windpipe.  There was nothing remotely resembling lucid thought in the howling tornado of pain and fear that was his last mental experience on earth, but some part of him recognized that death was imminent—and so was release.

The lithe adolescent thrashed and convulsed; as it pressed helplessly against the black man’s sweaty, muscled torso, Bennie gave up his last load of sperm.  A solid jet, thick and pearly, splattered over Bubba’s chest so hard residue spattered back into the kid’s face.

Bennie died with a nigger cock unloading his ass and his own cum smeared on his face, lying on his back in the grave that the nigger had forced him to dig.  Not quite eighty minutes ago, the teen waste had taken a final hit off his crack pipe, slipped on his hightops and his leather jacket, and headed out to see if he could get into Sorenson’s for some codeine to help when he was coming down, with no idea he’d be dead before dawn.

The corpse was still jerking when Bubba let go of it; his hands were sunk so deep into the meat’s throat that he was surprised at the effort needed to remove them.  He stayed where he was for another two minutes, though, his huge muscled frame shuddering occasionally, accompanied by sexual grunts, as the dead boy’s death throes continued to milk the last drops of semen from his still-swollen dick. 

Eventually, though, it was over.  Bubba was almost sad as he extracted his huge horsedick from the corpse’s ass; he’d never cum so hard or so thoroughly drained his balls before.  With a sigh, he climbed up out of the grave and picked up Bennie’s t-shirt which was lying nearby.  He used it to wipe as much of the dead teen’s cum off his torso as he could, before tossing it into the trench where it landed on top of the punk’s jeans and kicks.  Kicking the boy’s leather jacket into the hole as well, the cop picked up the shovel.

It took far less time to refill the trench than it had taken Bennie to dig it; of course, less material needed to go back in.  The white boy’s splayed, cum-spattered corpse was still quivering as the last few clods of earth hid it from sight.  Bubba didn’t bother to scatter the remaining dirt; no one was coming back here.

Except maybe him. 

The cop put his shirt back on and slipped into the driver’s seat of the car.  He used the rear-view mirror to make sure as little looked out of place as possible; the fact that he kept his low savage brow shaved clean helped.  He started the car and began the slow, careful process of turning around in the limited space available.  He needed to head back ASAP; he was overdue in reporting in.

But as he carefully negotiated the overgrown track back to the road, Bubba’s mind was filled with the sights, the sounds, the sensations of his adventure.  Despite the most intense orgasm he’d ever had, the mere memory had him fully erect.  And more—it felt right.  It was right.  This place was full of KKK types whose brats avoided any consequences of their crimes.

After all, all he’d done was administer justice, right?  Damn right.

The grin on the cop’s face as the patrol car reached the county road and turned towards town was blood-chillingly evil.  Twin Lakes was a corrupt town.  Some of the filth inhabiting it needed to be taught a lesson the hard way, and he was just the nigger to teach them.

From now on, the white trash in town needed to watch out when Office Bubba was on patrol.

Carlos and NIck 8–Remy’s Big Break

Remy was getting despondent.  It was getting late on a hot weekday afternoon, and no one had approached him.  And he was dressed—or, at least partly dressed—to attract attention, too, although it was more out of necessity than deliberate effort.

 

Vegas can be unbearable in August, so once he found a shady spot just outside one of the large casinos on the north end of the Strip, he peeled his t-shirt off and tucked behind him in the waistband of his pants, letting part of it hang out.  Even so, beads of sweat trickled down his firm chest, making his smooth teen skin glisten.

 

The pants weren’t the most comfortable for the heat—skintight leather jeans.  Those, and the designer leather hightop sneakers in black and gold, had been purchased as what Remy had thought was a good investment.

 

The adolescent punk wasn’t completely stupid; he’d left school at the age of fourteen and had run off with a wealthy older man he’d met.  The dude got him high, gave him a home and all the money he asked for, and only occasionally asked for sex in return.  Remy could go party and get laid almost anytime he liked—for a couple of years.  Then his sugar daddy OD’d one night when Remy was out.

 

He was out on the street, selling his teen body, within a week.  Already experienced and street-savvy, he managed to make some contacts via his party buddies and after just over three months of whoring himself out, had gotten his opportunity.

 

Remy had sandy blond hair, large blue eyes and a pert nose in addition to his lithe but muscled adolescent body; the thought of doing porn had always appealed to him, so when he got the chance to be bottom to a famous top known for his rough sex, the young slut jumped at it.

 

He was responsible for his own wardrobe, so he made a calculated choice to get something really eye-catching.  After all, this part could lead to huge things, he told himself as justification for spending not only his rent and food money, but the cash he had laid up for a drug debt, on the pants and kicks.

 

The scene went great.  The top fucked the shit outta him; Remy shot a huge wad for the camera, took his surprisingly small cash payment home, and waited for the calls to come in.

 

The calls came in, all right, but not the ones Remy was wanting.  The landlord was phoning daily, when not banging on the door.  His dealer was calling even more frequently—and more ominously.  But the movie led to nothing.

 

It led to nothing for Remy because the producer did a little late research on him.  One he found that he had graphic sexual footage of a minor on his hands, he personally cut the scene out and destroyed all copies.  Even digital versions were securely wiped.

 

Remy never appeared on screen at all.

 

And then he was gone.

 

He was in too much of a bind to stay where he was, so he fled.  Sometimes he hitched rides (or, more accurately, traded them for sex), sometimes he took the bus, crammed uncomfortably into a window seat, unable to close his eyes and rest due the non-English cacophony of voices surrounding him.  But one way or another, he managed to make it to Vegas, only to find that it did him a fat lot of good.

 

Sure, he could turn tricks, and the income from that was enough to support a shitty apartment and his meth habit, but he wanted more.

 

Well, more certainly hadn’t come today.  And it wasn’t likely to come tonight.

 

He shrugged and sweat ran into his eyes, stinging them.  He clenched them shut and was still rubbing at them when a deep bass voice spoke, so near that it startled the shit out of him; he hadn’t heard anyone approach.

 

“Ya look like you could use a few bucks.”

 

He opened his eyes and was instantly in lust.

 

The dude was Hispanic, with a shaved head and a tight black goatee.  He sported a wifebeater and jeans that clung to him like a second skin, leaving no detail of his powerful, heavily-muscled body to the imagination.  The worn denim was wrapped so tightly around the stud’s cock that Remy could easily see the shape of the huge head.  And the wifebeater seemed designed too display the guy’s thick pecs and muscle-bound arms covered in an intimidating display of tats, some crudely inked.  A pair of black combat boots completed the look.

 

Remy really hoped the stud offered him money—because he wasn’t gonna ask for any.  As much as he wanted cash, he wanted that enormous rough trade cock reaming out his ass, and he was prepared to give it up for free.

 

But the guy had already mentioned money; with that and his body he had about 120% of Remy’s attention.

 

“Uh, yeah,” the teen said, batting his long lashes; his attempt at innocence had all the subtlety of a silent-movie vamp.  “I ain’t been in town long, and I ain’t found a job yet…”

 

“No?  You found any cock yet?”

 

The look on the dude’s face was cold and almost contemptuous, but Remy didn’t care.  He’d sure found the cock he wanted tonight, at any rate.  He blushed and grinned, a natural reaction much more attractive than his earlier attempt.

 

“I’m Sam,” the hardbodied stud said abruptly, “Ya like it up the ass?  Wanna get fucked on camera?  Pay’s good.”

 

“Yeah?  How much?”  The boy was suddenly as alert and focused as a hound on a scent.

 

“A grand now and five percent of the online revenue.”

 

Well, fuck—that was more than Remy had got for the professional flick.

 

“Who’s gonna fuck me?  You?”

 

The tatted hunk grinned for the first time, Remy noticed—but the adolescent slut was so full of greed and hormones that he disregarded the feral, shark-like nature of the grin.  “Yeah, man, I’ll be the one fuckin’ ya.”

 

The kid practically beamed at hearing this.  “Give it to me rough,” he bleated, “Treat me like shit.  You c’n do that, right?”

 

This time there was no mistaking the predatory gleam that illuminated Carlos’s dark eyes with an almost psychotic glow; Remy’s dismissal of the meaning of that look was a willful act.  All he cared about was the answer and “Sam’s” reply was what he wanted to hear.

 

“Bitch, this is gonna be the roughest, rawest fuck you’re ever gonna get in yer life—I fuckin’ promise ya.  Now c’mon, my partner’s already got the cameras up.”

 

“Where we goin’?” Remy asked, his rounded leather-encased ass practically wriggling in anticipation.

 

“We got a place out in the warehouse district.  Nice and private for a movie set.  You’ll see.  Hop in.”

 

They’d arrived at Carlos’s Benz.  One look at the car was enough to convince Remy that this was a legit deal.  Sure, the car was older, but the kid didn’t pay much attention to model years.  He knew it was a Mercedes convertible and it looked great.

 

Appearances were more than enough for Remy.  He climbed in next to Carlos and in a moment, they were heading off into the darkness.  For one of them, the darkness would be permanent.

 


 

From the moment Remy entered the set, he knew that this was it, this was the chance he’d been waiting for.  The set itself wasn’t quite as professional as his single prior experience, just a bed and a nightstand on a carpeted platform, but the stud he’d be working with made up for—and then there was the cameraman.

 

Nick was focusing a tripod-mounted camera at the bed when they arrived.  He’d already been alerted by a call from Carlos, a call overheard by Remy in which he was referred to as “a hot one” and felt flattered.  Nick’s long wavy black hair fell to bare shoulders; he was shirtless.  His massive chest narrowed to the waistband of an incredibly tight pair of jeans, the hems of which had been negligently caught and hiked up when Nick had pulled on his pair of laced but untied Rockrooster logging boots.

 

The teen slut’s jaw almost hit the ground as he was introduced; Nick was bigger and better built than “Sam”, even if he lacked the dangerous edge that the tattoos and shaved head gave the ex-con.

 

“You ready to get fucked?” the cameraman asked laconically, his grin touched with the merest hint of malevolent contempt.  “Show us what we’re paying for, boy.  Strip.”

 

As Remy balanced precariously on one leg, pulling off a sneaker, his eyes were drawn to the huge bulge in Nick’s crotch.  He could see the details of every last inch—and there were a lot of inches—of the cameraman’s massive tackle.  Still staring at Nick, the whore wriggled his way out of his tight leather jeans, everything finally coming down, letting his long thick boycock spring free, achingly erect.  The left cuff, though, caught at his foot; still standing on only one leg, Remy lost his balance.  Just as the pants came free, he staggered into Carlos.

 

The muscle-bound convict had shed his wifebeater by this time, revealing a thick gold chain half submerged in the thick fur covering the killer’s powerful chest.  As Remy stumbled forward, he ended up with his face inadvertently buried in the dark forest of wiry hair.  The boy needed no encouragement; with his face already in a place he wanted, he began nuzzling the older man’s hair, inhaling his musky scent.  Within seconds, he’d transferred his attention to Carlos’s nips, licking and gnawing at the hard nubs of flesh.

 

The kid began jacking himself, his hand moving furiously in his crotch as he worked the fagkiller’s chest, but as he did, he could hear the sound of a zipper sliding behind him, and he knew what that meant.

 

Remy liked nipples but he loved cock. And he was about to get some.

 

The skin-headed rough trade pushed him roughly away.  Remy stumbled back and feel to his knees.  He didn’t mind, though; from here, Nick enormous dripping dick was right at face level.

 

All he had to do was open his mouth and his throat was full of manmeat.

 

Nick was only semi-hard as he inserted his shaft into the whore’s mouth, but he swiftly reached the massive extent of his full erection as he skullfucked the teen slut.  Remy had enjoyed the slick, salty precum and the feeling of fullness in his mouth but as the huge tool kept swelling in his esophagus, he realized he needed to come up for air.

 

And then he realized he couldn’t.  Nick was clutching his head, the cameraman’s powerful hands clamped like a vise to his cranium, making any movement impossible.  His eyes watering, Remy began to gag and choke.  He pressed his hands against Nick’s thick, strong thighs, trying to force the older man away.  As he struggled uselessly, he heard Nick’s malicious chuckle.

 

That was when he vomited, a thick wad of foamy drool erupting from around the huge hog in his mouth and dripping off his chin.

 

“Can’t breathe?” the muscle-bound cameraman asked jocularly.  “Whore like you should be able to hold its breath longer than that.”

 

Remy might have had a rejoinder had he been able to speak; as it was, he could only beat against Nick’s rock-hard, immovable body as the stud kept forcing his cock further down the gagging teen’s trachea.  As the huge tube of manmeat inched its way further in, something tripped in the kid’s brain, slow asphyxia setting off a kind of claustrophobic panic response.  Remy became frantic, struggling wildly to pull away as Nick clutched him tight and Carlos looked on in amused contempt.

 

Finally, Nick let the boy free.  The teen faggot fell back, coughing and retching as drool continued to pour down his chin and smear across his smooth chest.  His face was a livid purple and as he tried to wipe his lips with the back of his hand, it was trembling visibly.

 

Nick noticed and guffawed.  “What, did you think I was trying to snuff ya?  Not yet, bitch—you’re not dying till I get the cameras on.”

 

Remy listened to the words, partly incredulously and partly in terror.  Surely that was a joke—but it inspired enough fear in him to get him to his feet.  As Nick, still grinning, to a step towards him, Remy took a step backwards.  Nick took another, Remy took two—and bumped into something firm and unyielding.  He whiled around to find it was Carlos.

 

The look on the ex-con’s face almost made the boywhore lose control of his bladder.

 

“Where ya think yer goin’, faggot?” the inked killer snarled.  “Yer gonna die on my dick tonight and we’re gonna film it.  Thousands of dudes around the world are gonna pay us good money so they can beat their meat as they watch me rape and snuff your worthless homo ass.  They wanna watch me destroy your teen fag body, ya dig?  The more you hurt, the more you scream, the more they pay—and the more I get off.”

 

There was a brief, pregnant pause and the sadistic fagkiller spoke again.  “You wanna end the pain?  Make me cum, motherfucker, and I’ll snap yer neck and put you outta yer misery.  Remember that, cunt.  You die when I cum.  I’m gonna leave yer spunk-filled body to rot in the desert—but not till I’ve filled it.  Got it, cocksucker?”

 

Yes and no.  Remy had heard the words, but he couldn’t process them; it was as if his brain was refusing to understand them.  And once it did, it flat-out refused to believe them.  This was some kinda sick joke.  Maybe a prank.  He didn’t know anyone personally who would prank him, but there were cameras—maybe this was one of those cable reality shows…

 

Carlos, seeing the boy’s confusion regarding the veracity of his speech, cleared the matter up for Remy by punching him in the face hard enough to send the teen reeling back onto the concrete floor, where he lay dazed, spitting up blood and his left incisor.  As he struggled to regain his equilibrium, he heard the thudding of thick-soled boots on the floor and looked up to see Nick looming over him.

 

The long-haired musclestud grinned and flexed his pectorals.  The sight of his huge, glistening pecs would normally have instilled pure lust in Remy; now, that lust was mingled with fear.  There was a lot of power there, and if it was unleashed against him…

 

Slowly and reluctantly, he climbed to his feet.  He knew he was making himself a target, but he had to be upright if he was to have a chance at escape.

 

Nick, though, was even more experienced as a fagkiller than Carlos.  He knew what was bubbling in the teen slut’s mind; the stupid little fucks always tried to make a break for it at this point.  That could be fun, but Nick had a job to do—namely, to get this cunt onto the bed so Carlos could fuck it and snuff it.  He decided to forestall any flight attempt the pansy might try.

 

His method was swift and brutally efficient.  Remy just barely had time to see the hardbodied cameraman’s huge pec and powerful bicep swell.  The fact that he was gonna get punched again was obvious.  He drew his hands to his face…

 

…and Nick’s fist plowed into his firm flat belly like a runaway train.   “EEEEGGH!” Remy cried out in a high, girlish shriek as the vicious impact forced the air from his lungs.  He stumbled backwards, gasping for air.

 

Nick powered up the camera be fore advancing towards him and suddenly the adolescent whore found himself in some sort of alternate time, a kind of involuntary slow-motion with heightened senses.  He was aware of so much, but couldn’t move fast enough to do a damn thing about any of it.

 

He was aware of Carlos standing to the side, smirking, his huge horsedick pulsing visibly with each blow he watched the boy take.

 

He was aware of incredible pain in his gut and wondered vaguely if it had caused organ damage; he seemed to visualize internal bleeding…

 

He was aware that the camera was on, and that this was being recorded for the sexual satisfaction of complete strangers.

 

He was aware of a swath of blue denim filling his field of vision.  He had just enough time to realize that, as he was bent over in agony, Nick was kneeing him in the face—and to think oh fuck before he was struck hard enough to crush his nose and jerk him fully erect, his eyes wide open.

 

Nick was swinging his fist even before the pain hit Remy; the kid saw it coming at him but there wasn’t anything he could do.  And then there was blissful nothingness.  With the squealing bleat of a slaughtered sheep, the teen whore was knocked backwards, sprawling unconscious on the floor, his battered face swelling and bleeding, his legs spread—and between them, his long boycock still semi-erect, despite the ferocious abuse the boy had just endured.

 


 

The first thing Remy was aware of was pain.  The second thing he was aware of was more pain.  Any part of reality not involving pain was a distant third.

 

He was on his back.  He was on something firm, but not as hard as the concrete floor.  His eyes were badly swollen; it was difficult to open them, so he didn’t try at first.  He had no problem hearing, though.

 

“I’m about ready to take this cunt down.  Ain’t ya got something to wake it up?”

 

That was the one he knew as “Sam.”

 

“I’ve got some ammonia caps if we need them, but I’ll bet it starts up screaming and yelling the moment you get your tackle into it.”

 

That was the cameraman.  Remy desperately pried his eyes open, filled with terror by the unconscious recognition—he didn’t dare recognize it consciously—of the significance of the pronoun “it.”

 

He was on the bed, on his back.  The overhead lights were simple shop lights in reflective metal cones, but they were nearly blinding from his perspective.  He turned his head to the side and the thickly-muscled forms of his assailants swam into view.

 

Nick had removed his jeans.  He’d slipped his boots back on; the concrete floor was slippery with only socks on, but otherwise, he was stark nude.

 

At the moment, he was working on the camera, facing away from the bed.  Remy, despite his obvious peril, couldn’t help but admire the stud’s tight, muscular ass, imagining those muscles tautening and flexing as his hips drove his shaft up a homo ass…

 

Carlos, on the other hand, was facing him, still in boots and jeans.  His enormous shaft jutted out intimidatingly, like the ram on an ancient warship.  He noticed Remy’s movement and jeered, “Looks like all ya had to do was mention dick and the fag woke right up.  Shit, even got it hard again, haw!”

 

The teen slut understood that very bad things were going to happen.  He still didn’t believe that his worthless ass was going to die this night, but given the damage already inflicted on him, he knew that unless he could get out of here real quick, he was gonna suffer.  A lot.

 

Carlos approached the bed.  He’d been nearly eye-level with the prone youth until he mounted the platform.  Still blinking and shielding his dark, swollen eyes from the overhead lights, Remy peered up at the hulking sadist looming over him.  He could barely see Carlos’s cold, hard face over the ex-con’s huge, thickly-muscled chest, but the gold chain buried in his fur twinkled gaily under the bright lights.

 

As he stood over the bitchboy, Carlos took one hand and wrapping it around the base of his massive cock, began slapping it into his other hand.  Hot precum splattered over Remy’s lithe nude form as the killer leered at him.

 

“Ya like dick, dontcha, asswipe?”  Carlos sneered.  “Fuckin’ faggot.  Tonight yer gonna learn what faggots are good for, cunt.  Tonight, yer gonna learn what real men do to cocksuckin’ perverts.”

 

He bent down, and now Remy could see his face very clearly.  Given the utterly insane mix of hate and lust that gleamed in the hardbodied convict’s eyes, the terrified adolescent didn’t want to see him that clearly.  Or hear him.

 

“And I promise ya, motherfucker, it’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna hurt so bad you’ll beg us to waste your pansy ass.  I fuckin’ promise.

 

“Aw, now, don’t be cruel,” came Nick’s jeering voice as he approached with a hand-held camera, “You know you won’t off the fuckmeat till it milks your load, no matter how much it begs.”

 

The long-haired cameraman grinned, turning in all his nude glory to the kid on the bed.  His smile was genial, almost beneficent.  “There’s your pro-tip for when the pain gets too much, fag.  You’ll have to make him cum before he’ll be merciful enough to kill you.”

 

And deep down, some corner of his shallow cockpig mind made Remy aware that even as he was being told that he was gonna be raped and tortured to death, his own dick was still hard.  He didn’t want this, he’d never wanted this, but he couldn’t control his erection.

 

Oh fuck, he had to get out of here.  It might not be too late—

 

It was.  He hadn’t begun to rise when Carlos was on the bed with him, forcing his legs apart with the careless violence of a child yanking a wishbone.

 

“What the fuck?” the teen homo yelled in an outraged tone—as if that had any impact—as he felt the inhumanly large head of the muscled killer’s shaft pressing against the soft tender pink edges of his asshole.  “No way, asshole you ain’t fuckin’ me, you can’t dooaaAAAAAIIIEEE!!!”

 

Remy’s shriek spiraled up over an octave as Carlos plunged his tackle into the boy’s fuckhole, tearing him so badly in the process that—if he lived—he’d need surgery.  His enormous tool not only tore the teen’s sphincter in three places, it also split the kid’s rectal lining before it ground his prostate into paste and lodged deep in his guts.

 

The pain was not something Remy could comprehend.  Compared to this, the vicious beating was a good-night kiss from mother, and that was the thought that stuck in the teen’s agonized mind.

 

“Mommy,” he begged softly, tears streaming down his bruised face, “Please, mommy…”

 

“Aw, shaddup,” Carlos barked and gutpunched the kid.  Forced halfway into a sitting position by the blow, Remy found himself staring directly into the eyes of the fagkiller fucking him.

 

“I ain’t yer mommy, I’m yer fuckin’ god,” the ex-con snarled.  “I’m the one who decides when the pain stops, motherfucker.”  With that, Carlos laid him back on the bed again with a love tap to the jaw, so gentle it barely dislodged two more teeth.

 

Tears welling in his eyes, Remy could see a large blur by his side; the loud guffaw that it emitted was in Nick’s voice.  As his sight cleared slightly, he found himself looking directly into a camera lens.  “Does it hurt, boy?” came the long-haired sadist’s deep basso voice, “Come on, show us.  Beg for it to stop, whore, beg the camera!”

 

And that’s exactly what Remy did.  Turning his battered, once-handsome face to the lens, he painfully opened his damaged mouth and sobbed, “Please…please, d-don’t hurt me no more, mister…”

 

Nick’s laugh was crueler and more raucous than before.  He turned to Carlos.  “Mister!  Did ya hear that?  He actually called me mister…”

 

“He ain’t the one with his dick up yer ass, faggot!” Carlos snarled.  He drew back his huge, piston-like arm and plowed his fist three times into Remy’s smooth, firm belly in rapid-fire succession. Each blow elicited a high girlish squeal from the gasping youth as the massive impact forced the air out of his lungs and past his vocal cords at high velocity.  His entire body jerk spasmodically each time Carlos’s fist fell; the ex-con grunted with pleasure as the cunt’s asshole clenched his thick pulsing shaft repeatedly during the attack.

 

Nick caught it all on film.  As Carlos leaned back for a moment, keeping his shaft buried in the teen’s ass, Nick stepped forward, holding the camera in one hand and his huge, club-like cock in the other.  He dangled it, engorged and dripping, over Remy’s dark, grimacing face.  The kid still hadn’t been able to inhale from the brutal pounding on his solar plexus; his wide-eyed look of desperation and his useless mouth, gaping and closing, gave him the look of a landed fish asphyxiating in the open air.

 

He could still see, though, and as his taut young body writhed in a frenetic attempt to breathe, he was well aware of the way Nick was wielding his gigantic tool above his face.

 

“So you like dick, boy?  You want this dick?  Sure you do; I can see it in your eyes.  Guess it’s your lucky night, punk—here ya go!”

 

And with that, Nick began swinging his thick, meaty shaft, slamming it into Remy’s face.  It was a formidable weapon, having enough length and girth to give it a hefty mass.  When the vein-wreathed rod of manflesh walloped the teen across his bruised face and broken jaw, the pain was phenomenal.

 

Remy had been dickslapped hundreds of times before; he’d never know it could hurt, much less cause such horrible pain as this.  Even the precum spattered from the cameraman’s monstrous dick seemed to sear Remy’s skin where it landed.

 

The adolescent slut felt his mind slipping away from him.  This was the hottest sexual encounter he’d ever had in his short, wasted life—two incredible alpha studs, one fucking roughly while the other’s cock was in his face.  But this was no wet dream—it was a fucking nightmare.

 

And then it took a turn for the worse.

 

Carlos wrapped one huge powerful hand around Remy’s throat.  “Goddam faggot ain’t even good for fuckin’,” the hulking alpha growled, hatred radiating from his muscular body with an almost palpable heat.  “Bitch can’t even take a real man’s cock; I had to wreck its hole to get my dick in.”

 

As he pounded Remy’s ass, viciously and rhythmically, he spoke to Nick, who turned to him with the camera, so it appeared that the brutal sadist was talking directly to his audience.  “Worthless homo can’t tighten up on my shaft.  Whaddaya think—time ta make it into meat, yeah?  Fuckin’ cunt’ll get all nice and tight as it chokes to death.  Hey, bro,”—this was directly to Nick—“Give it a couple more haymakers.”

 

Remy heard it and tried to fend off the blows.  His head was pinned into place on the bed, but his arms were free; the urge to resist was involuntary.  It was also a huge mistake.

 

For some reason, Remy split his forces—so to speak—with one hand clawing at Carlos’s face while the other came up to ward off the looming blow.  This was useless, of course; even Remy, flat on his back and looking up at the hardbodied cameraman towering over him, could see the immense power as Nick’s pecs tensed and his bicep swelled to deliver the punch.

 

Nick’s fist shot forward twice, rapidly, knocking aside the teen’s protesting arm and impacting his face with the force of a wrecking ball.  The pain would have been overwhelming but at the same time, Carlos’s free hand caught at Remy’s wrist.  The punk’s clawing hadn’t managed to injure the ex-con, but it pissed him off.  With breathtakingly cruel ease, he bent the boy’s hand backwards until the wrist broke with multiple faint popping sounds, then tossed the arm aside, letting it flop uselessly on the bed.

 

For one single soul-searing moment, time seemed to freeze for the terrified, agonized teenager. He could see, could feel, could sense everything about him as if his mind had somehow become infinitely sharper under the impetus of rape, torture, and impending death.

 

He could feel the tiny individual bones that had broken in his wrist.  He could see, as if in slow motion, Nick’s arm drawing back for another punch, his thick, hard muscles tautening, their massive power potential about to be unleashed to inflict pain on him yet again.  He could feel the cheap yellow comforter that covered the bed as it scratched the smooth soft flesh in the small of his back.  He could smell the testosterone and adrenaline given off by the two hulking alphas working so relentlessly to destroy him; it was a sharp, acrid scent that mixed with the sour tang on mansweat.

 

And, of course, he could hear.

 

“Time to own this faggot’s ass,” Carlos grunted as his hard, handsome face clenched in sexual rage.  “Gonna shoot soon.  Time for it to die.” Just as Nick’s second blow landed, he began to squeeze.  Instantly the pain in Remy’s face and ass began to recede as the horrible vise-like grip of Carlos’s hand slowly constricted his windpipe; as his breath whistled in his narrowing esophagus, it became harder to inhale with each passing second.

 

In a dim way, just as its air was permanently shut off, the boyslut was vaguely aware that is was sporting a massive, aching erection, but it had more important things to worry about. Panic set in.

 

“Hey, dude, catch this shit,” Carlos grinned at Nick, his powerful, thickly-muscled body heaving and thrusting as he pumped his enormous hog into the teen’s mangled fuckhole, “Stupid cunt just figured out it can’t breathe.”  With a “Fuck yeah!” and an equally malignant grin, the nude, buff cameraman leaned in for a close-up view of the teen’s strangulation.

 

The terror in Remy’s face was obvious.  Less sadistic observers might have been moved to pity; it merely goaded the two powerful fagkillers to greater heights of cruelty.  “Hey, motherfucker,” Nick jeered, “Smile for the camera!  Show the folks out there how much you’re loving a nice hard fuck, har!”

 

Carlos was strong enough that he was able to choke the punk out one-handed.  This left his other hand free—but not for long.  Soon it was slamming into Remy’s vulnerable, unprotected flesh.  The teen’s chest, his belly, his already-smashed face, nothing was sheltered from Carlos’s onslaught.  In addition to the erotic sounds of male-on-male rape was added the heavy, meaty sound of fist on flesh as the vicious ex-con pounded the boywhore in the ass—and everywhere else.

 

The kid was flailing and thrashing, desperate to escape the crushing agony.  Nick pulled the camera back for a wider shot of the tableau—the powerful killer, his muscular arm rising and falling as he beat the teenager, his firm, tight ass flexing as he plowed his huge manshaft remorselessly into the kid’s colon—everything was recorded so that others could take sexual pleasure in Remy’s suffering.

 

The pounding inside Remy’s head was getting so loud he couldn’t think—but he could still feel.  He definitely felt the crushing pain in his esophagus as his unbelievably powerful rapist choked him to death with just a single hand.  The pressure in his head and the searing agony in his chest as his lungs heaved and strained against an utter lack of oxygen was almost more than he could bear; it almost—almost—overwhelmed the torture of having his ass shredded by a dick too big to fit.

 

The weight of the hardbodied top pinning him to the bed was inescapable; despite the nightmarish torture he was enduring, Remy could still feel Carlos’s thick, strong muscled working and flexing against his own body as the older man raped and strangled him; he knew all that power was being expended to make him suffer and die, but there was nothing he could do about it.  His one good hand was beating at the hulking sadist with as much effect as if he were beating an oak tree.

 

The adolescent whore began to die.  The rapid drumming of his pulse ratcheted up several notches, echoing through his skull to the exclusion of most other sounds.  There was something wrong with his eyesight; he couldn’t close his eyes at all, and great black blossoms were beginning to bloom in his field of vision.  For a moment, he tried to focus on a dancing glint of light that he could make out—his vision too dim for him to realize that it was Carlos’s gold necklace that had caught his attention—when a movement to his side reminded him that Nick was still there.

 

Remy’s thinking was vague by now; his oxygen had been cut off too long for his brain to continue its normal function.  He remembered Nick, but at the moment, all that mattered was that he wasn’t the one in the process of killing him right now.  If he’d just help…

 

The shot Nick got was perfect; it helped make this film one of his highest-earning to date.  The badly injured teenager, his blackened, swollen face beaten beyond recognition, reached out in desperation—directly to the camera.  Nick zoomed in on the struggling youth, capturing the suffering and despair of his bulging, staring eyes and the way his tongue was just starting to peek out from between his purple lips, prompting a flood of foamy drool down his smooth cheeks.

 

And while his jackhammering pulse drowned out most noises, by a cruel trick of fate, both men’s voices were pitched just right to break through the background and enter his consciousness.

 

“Fuck yeah, bro, get in there and let ‘em watch me put this faggot down like a fuckin’ dog!” Carlos jeered, his harsh voice filled with cold, hateful glee.

 

“Here, let me get in closer for a second,” Nick told him.  Without throwing the tempo of the brutal rape off, Carlos leaned back and let Nick get even closer.  The muscular cameraman pointed his lens straight down into the dying boy’s face and began dickslapping him again.  A moist smacking sound filled the room as Nick’s monstrous tool slammed into Remy’s bloated, congested face.  The hardbodied psycho grinned down at the choking slut as he ran his pulsating cock over the teen’s black, protruding tongue.

 

“Yeah, that’s it, lick my dick, boy,” Nick sneered, mostly for the camera.  Enough of Remy was still alive to be aware of what his killers were saying—but not for long.

 

A cold fog was creeping in around the edges.  Things were receding; not the pain—Remy’s entire universe was nothing but pain—but things didn’t seem to matter.  The fear was fading; the damage to the teen’s brain had been mounting by the second.  He’d finally reached a critical point—even if he was allowed to breathe again instantly, he’d already suffered irreparable brain damage.

 

His vision was nearly gone.  He was aware that a powerful man was on him and in him, but the details of who or why were gone.  All there was, was now.  He was suffering, he would always suffer.  And what hurt most was his dick.  More than his ripped-open ass or traumatized face, it seemed like every nerve ending in his agonizingly erect shaft was on fire.

 

“Gonna fuckin’ blow,” Carlos grunted, his thrusting, muscle-bound form slick and glistening with the sweat that was forced from him by the exertion of the brutal rape and murder, “Time to say goodnight ya homo sack a’ shit!”.  Beneath him, struggles slowing to caresses, Remy heard the words distortedly, as if at half speed with reverb edited in.  His good hand was no longer beating at the Hispanic ex-con’s tattooed chest; now, it was involuntarily stroking those huge pecs, fingers curling spasmodically in the thick, wiry chest fur.

 

Carlos lay full length on Remy’s shuddering body and turned to Nick who was squatting beside the bed, his firm muscled asscheeks tense with the strain and his long shaft dangling nearly to the ground; he was holding the camera right at the level of the bed.  Carlos looked directly at the lens when he spoke.

 

“Ya wanna see it?” he said with a cruel, shark-like grin the took in all of his unseen audience, inviting their complicity in his remorseless hatefuck.  “Ya wanna see me kill this stupid fuckin’ cunt, yeah?  Wanna watch the worthless homo die?  Here ya go!”

 

He turned at looked down at what was left of Remy, spitting into the black, grotesque mask that had once been the teen’s face, before screaming, “Fuck you, faggot!  FUCK YOU!!!”  As his powerful, muscle-bound body bent over the teen whore and jerked violently, he wrapped both hands around the boy’s neck, applied his thumbs to the jaw and popped Remy’s skull off its spine like he was popping the cap off a bottle.

 

Remy didn’t die instantly; that mercy was denied him.  His spinal cord suffered massive damage but wasn’t severed.  The trauma sent an electrochemical pulse through the adolescent’s nervous system that swamped the punk’s shuddering, sweating form like a tsunami.  It was as if Remy had been struck by lightning—a searing, burning shock that seemed to reach his furthest extremities.  Every nerve in the teen’s young, fit body screamed in agony.

 

Especially those in his raging erection.

 

At the same time, his hypersensitive nerve endings felt heat deep in his guts, burning pain of a different kind, like lava hosing his ass.  Remy was too brain-dead to realize that Carlos was filling him with hot, potent alpha seed; he could only interpret it as pain.  He couldn’t hear the fagkiller grunting and cursing, or Nick vicious taunts—but when Carlos, in the violent throes of orgasm, began slamming his fist into Remy’s face, the near-dead teen was made aware of it.  The first blow was powerful enough to sever the spinal cord as jagged edges of shattered vertebral bone slashed through the thick bundle of nerve tissue.

 

If the prior trauma had been a lightning strike, this one was a direct hit by a nuclear bomb.  Remy was annihilated, disappearing in a white-hot blast of agony that caused a spontaneous, prolonged ejaculation.   The teenaged slut shot its deathwad for nearly thirty seconds continuously.  It was the last thing the cunt experienced while it was alive, and every microsecond of it was filled with excruciating pain.

 

Remy’s life spewed out from his cock, and it hurt.  His DNA splattered on his hulking killer’s inked, furry chest.  At the same time, Nick’s huge, club-like shaft began to spunk, a thick, ropy geyser of cum that splashed into the dead whore’s bulging eyes and on its protruding tongue.  Professional as always, Nick managed to capture every detail of the slut’s death while still coating it with his load.

 

After that, there were a couple of minutes of gasping and deep breathing as the muscle-bound alphas recovered from their exertions.  Nick stepped off the platform, his boots thudding heavily on the concrete floor, as he left the set area and headed for the restroom to clean up.  By the time he’d finished, Carlos had managed to extract his enormous rod form the dead boy’s ass and was headed to the restroom himself.  Passing in the hall, they high-fived each other–nude, booted, grinning, their gigantic alpha cocks dangling as they walked.

 

Once they were clean and dressed, it was time to take out the trash.  The meat was sprawled on its back, twitching.  The left foot in particular was jerking rhythmically, the toes still curling.  The faggot’s cock was going limp, the semen that had been trapped in the boydick slowly oozing out as the rod shriveled in death.  Even though it was covered in a glaze of cum, the dead kid’s face was a grotesque caricature, while its bruised chest was pooled with its own spooge.

 

“So how do ya wanna do this?” Carlos asked.  “Meatsack ain’t goin’ in my car like that.”

 

“Hell, the comforter’s shot anyway.  Just wrap it up and dump the whole thing.  Hang on a sec.”  Nick retrieved the whore’s sneakers, balled-up shirt, and leather pants, tossing them onto the quivering corpse.  “Come on,” he said, beginning to fold the cheap, thin fabric around the dead teen like a shroud, “I’ll carry it out; you get the doors.”

 

No sooner said than done.  Nick causally tossed the meat over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and took it out to Carlos’s Benz, where he dumped it into the trunk.  “On second thought,” he said as the ex-con slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, “Dump the cunt but bring the comforter back; I don’t want it found with the body.  I can burn it.”

 

“Ya really think anyone’s gonna care about a dead fag whore?” the muscled convict asked sneeringly.

 

“These days, you never know,” Nick said.  “Anyway, no sense in taking a chance.”

 

Carlos grumbled under his breath as he headed off towards the desert.  When he finally got to the already-scouted dump site, he vented his frustration at the extra precaution Nick had insisted on by kicking the fuck out of the corpse with his combat boots before finally shoving it, nude and abused, into a gully to rot.

 

It made him feel a little better.  Stuffing the comforter back into the trunk, he turned back to town, whistling as he headed back up the isolated dirt track to the highway.

 


 

“Hey, Nuñez, Captain wants to know if they got an ID on that dead fag yet.”

 

Nuñez looked wearily as his partner in the doorway.  “It’s a dead fuckin’ faggot.  Why the fuck does the captain care?”

 

“Dontcha keep up with events?” Schweitz grinned, “It’s an election year.  Gonna be a lot of this touchy-feely bleedin’-heart crap.”

 

“Goddam bullshit,” Nuñez muttered under his breath.

 

“I can’t hear you,” Schweitz said loudly, his grin even broader.

 

“Yeah, we gotta ID on the cocksucker,” Nuñez replied just as loudly.  “Remember that broad in here last week?  The one from outta town?”

 

“The one who took one look at the body and puked her expensive lunch everywhere?  Thought she swore that wasn’t her precious little darlin’.”

 

“Yeah, well, the dental records came back, and it turns out her precious darlin’ got his face caved right the fuck in before bein’ raped and killed and left to rot in the desert.  Not surprised she didn’t recognize what was left.  Anyway, there’s your answer for the captain.  Now, what does he want me to do with the info, actually look for the killer?”

 

“Fuck no; dude’s doin’ the city a favor.  But now he can say progress is bein’ made on the case if anyone asks.”

 

Nuñez closed the file on his desktop and dragged the icon to the trash.  “Moving on, then,” he said in a more relaxed tone.  “After all, a couple of actual humans got offed last night, ya know.  We have real work to do.”

 

Both men returned to their jobs, Remy’s very existence wiped form their minds.

Jack’s Krew in Rigler County: The Great Coon Hunt

Dan had just settled into his new chair and leaned back on it when Pete burst through the door, grinning.

 

“Man, I just heard about it and I’m so stoked.  You deserve it, bro—I mean, sir!”

 

Dan looked up at the eager, muscle-bound cop and smiled in return.  “Well, I’m only sheriff pro tem.  I’ll be finishing out Waites’ term till it ends in January.”

 

“Yeah, but they ain’t gonna hire anyone else after that—are they?”

 

Dan let his smile edge into a smirk.  “Well—to tell the truth, I just got back from a meeting with Ethan Hobart—he’s head of the county elections office.  Seems that the reason Waites was unopposed in every election for the last seventeen years was because ol’ Ethan’s a big supporter of law and order.  He liked the way Waites did things, but he told me he knew I had pretty much been running the department solo since Waites took ill last spring.  Looks like I got the same deal, come election time.”

 

Pete nodded.  “Shame about the old man; I never knew he was that sick.  At least it was quick.  Sounds like yer gonna be the new sheriff of Rigler County, if Hobart keeps his word.”

 

Dan’s masculine face went cold and hard.  “He’d better, or we’re gonna have to pay him a visit one night.  That reminds me—I can’t be assigning a deputy to my important tasks.  I’ve already started the paperwork to make you my lieutenant.”

 

Pete was literally speechless, unable to express his appreciation in a coherent way.  Dan chuckled.  “Don’t worry about it, son—you done good.  In a way, you’re pretty much the son I never had, and I trust you.”

 

“I won’t let you down, sir,” the new lieutenant replied, his voice husky with solemnity.  Pete revered Dan and would have followed him to the ends of the earth—but Dan already knew that.  The two men had formed an incredibly intense bond based on authority and discipline—and the right way to handle someone who lacked them.

 

Which reminded Dan…

 

“Hey, my cousin’s supposed to be in town tomorrow.  I’ve asked him and his crew to stop by my place in the evening; I’d like you to be there too.”

 

“For the big coon hunt?  Fuck yeah, I’m gonna be there!”

 

“Good,” Dan grinned.  “I been doin’ a little research on what we’re gonna be up against, but we’re gonna need to work out some teams and tactics.  There’s practically gonna be a fuckin’ army of jigaboos comin’ in to pollute our county and we need to make sure we got a plan in place to track down and waste every single one of ‘em.”

 

“I’ll be ready, sir,” Pete said with a matching grin that was seconded by the huge erection tenting his chinos.  The thought of having free reign to hunt down and snuff niggers in his hometown had the lieutenant edging so hard he could barely concentrate for the rest of the day.

 


 

Dan’s place was far enough out of town for the gathering of strangers to go unnoticed.  They’d arrived in two separate groups; Jack, Ed and Hank, all riding their bikes, had arrived first.  Jack straddled a 2012 Harley Night Rod, his tight jeans and twenty-hole Doc Martens wrapped tightly around the hog.  Ed’s ride was a 2013 Harley Fat Boy, while Hank’s was a 2007 Honda Shadow.

 

The boys cruised up the well-maintained drive, their bikes scrunching to a halt in the gravel in front of the house.  Dan was waiting for them.  Leading them inside, he introduced them to Pete quickly, names only, since Mike’s car pulled up just then.  The boys could hear Mike and Frankie’s boots on the porch just as Dan got to the door.  Once everyone was inside, he passed around a twelve-pack of beer and got down to business.

 

“Ok, just so we know where we stand,” he said, looking around at the assorted skinhead killers, “I’m the law around here, and Pete here is my lieutenant.  This operation is under my command.  That means I’m in charge, and if I ain’t around, he is—got it?”

 

“Yeah,” Jack spoke up before any of his crew could object, “Yer callin’ the shots.”  He ignored the baffled looks of his gang, who were unused to seeing their leader take a back seat—but he knew what he was doing.

 

Dan grinned.  “Relax, men; yer gonna like this.  Pete, bring out that map ya brought.  Jack, what didja find out about this ape invasion?”

 

“Mike’s my guy for that—what’d ya find?”

 

Mike stepped forward.  In the dim interior light, his short hair and large eyes both seemed to be of the deepest jet black.  “Coupla coon fraternities from the main campus of the state college.  Not too much about ‘em online, although one was kicked off campus for drugs.”

 

“Fuck, that’s perfect,” Pete said, “Now they’re down here tryin’ to establish a safe base for their drug deals.”

 

“So we’re gonna handle it like a raid,” Dan said.  “Any idea how many monkeys are gonna be runnin’ loose in the woods?”

 

“I was able to access one of the frat’s websites,” Mike smirked, “Fuckin’ cunts don’t know a damn thing about security.  They’re doin’ what they call a Weekend Warrior Weekend where all the apes dress up like army men and play laser tag or paintball or some shit.  At least forty of ‘em are confirmed, and there may be more.  They got three fifteen-passenger vans rented.  Some place called Ranney’s Valley.”

 

Dan’s face darkened.  “Yer tellin’ me there’s gonna be forty niggers runnin’ loose out there?  Fuck.  Fuck.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Pete asked, concerned.  Jack leaned forward as well.

 

“That’s too many.  We can’t leave that much nigger meat out there; it’ll draw too much attention.  And it’ll be too difficult to clean up without some noticeably heavy equipment.”

 

There was a pause, and the room grew quiet.

 

“Not if the meat cleans itself up first,” Pete said, suddenly.

 

Dan looked questioningly at his lieutenant.

 

“You’re sheriff now, so that means you have access to all the county property, right?  Like access to the Poorhouse?”

 

Dan saw the light.  “Fuck yeah, we can herd some of ‘em in there.  And then your boys,” he went on, turning to Jack, “Can have some fun.”

 

“What’s the Poorhouse?” Ed spoke up.

 

“It’s actually an old jail overflow building.  It was abandoned eighteen years ago when the new county lockup was completed.  It’s got about twenty individual cells, and a nice large cinderblock cafeteria with a gallery and catwalk,” Dan responded grinning.  “It’s an ideal deathpit.”

 

“Aw, fuck yeah,” Hank said, “This shit is on!  What’s the plan?”

 

The sudden sense of agreement, of unity, swept wordlessly among the hardbodied testosterone-laden killers.  Their imaginations inflamed with the sheer possibilities, their cocks responded as well; it was inevitable.

 

But release was for later.  Now, plans needed to be made.

 

“Ok, lessee what we got here—Pete, you get a map of Ranney’s Valley in this pile?”

 

“Yeah,” Pete responded, digging through the pile of maps and handing one to Dan, “Here; it’s an old topographical map of everything north of the bayou and west of the Old Randville Road.  Folks at the county office don’t know what they have themselves.  Glad I spotted this; it’s got Ranney’s Valley in detail.”

 

“All right,” Dan said in a brisk, businesslike tone as he spread the map across his dining room table, “Gather round, boys, and we’ll get operation White Knight worked out.  There’s gonna be two squads.  I’m leadin’ one and Pete the other.”

 

He paused for a moment, glancing around the room, looking each of Jack’s crew dead in the face.  If there was gonna be any challenge to his authority, it’d happen now.

 

There was nothing.  They met his eyes, but said nothing; he was the oldest, the strongest, the most experienced.  They accepted him as alpha leader.

 

He relaxed and grinned.  “That’s only because we wanna have an official presence if any of the coons tries to resist arrest.”  He broke into a broad grin which visible eased the tension in the room.  The hardbodied young men turned their attention to the map.

 

“Now, if they’re doin’ some kinda war game bullshit, they’re gonna be split in two themselves, and will have two base camps.  One here on the east side of the valley, and one on the west—even niggers can’t be stupid enough not to realize where the camps should go.  And if they are, there’s plenty of info to tell ‘em so.  At any rate, two gangs of apes, so two squads of men to hunt ‘em down.”

 

“Makes sense,” Jack said, “But we can’t be sure they’ll make a base exactly on those spots, can we?”

 

“No,” Dan admitted, “Which is why we’re gonna hafta start this clean-up op in full stealth mode.  Each squad will start at the top of the valley, here and here, and slowly work its way down until it finds the base camp.  Any coon you come across before you find the base camp, you waste, but it’s gotta die quiet.  Last thing we need is a buncha howler monkey shriekin’ in the woods, yeah?”

 

“Don’t worry,” Mike spoke up, “I can make ‘em suffer and die without makin’ a squeak.”  His handsome face was twisted with an evil leer.  Pete noticed the buff young punk; he hadn’t paid him much attention before, but the confident tone of the killer punk’s voice stirred something.

 

“When you find the base camp, don’t kill the niggers.” Dan said suddenly.  “We’re gonna use them to help gather up and dispose of the dead ones.”

 

“Dispose?  How’re they gonna dispose of them?” Ed asked.

 

“Well to start, they can stack the bodies in one of the vans.  All the vans—and all the nigs, dead and alive—are gonna be driven to the Poorhouse.”

 

“What happens there?” Ed put in again, his interest clearly picking up.

 

Again, Dan slowly glanced around the table, meeting each man’s eyes—including Pete’s.  This wasn’t a moment of challenge, though; something else passed between them as Dan smiled at each in turn.

 

“I don’t care what happens there.  At all.”

 


 

Pete scanned the valley stretching out below him before glancing across to the slope on the east side.  He couldn’t see Dan’s squad, but that was the idea.

 

Dan hadn’t specified any particular dress code, other than telling them not to wear bright colors.  He had emphasized the need for extreme stealth until the base camps were found.

 

“Y’all get a herd of fuckin’ apes screamin’ and stampedin’ outta here, we’ll never hear the end of it.  Each squad is gonna have two shotguns, but they’re for emergency only, hear me?  I don’t care what ya do to ‘em as long as it’s quick and quiet.”

 

Dan had Jack, Ed, and Hank on his squad; they had the east side of the valley.  Pete, with Mike and Frankie, had the west side.  The east side was corrugated forestland with hidden dells and unexpected rock formations; the west side was completely different—it was a gentler slope, smoother and much more wet.  Little rills and streams crisscrossed it, draining into the creek at the bottom of the valley.  The west side was better suited to spreading troops out and would need more men to cover.

 

“Most of the coons won’t go too far from their base on that side,” Jack had said authoritatively, “Niggers don’t like the water.”

 

So now Pete crept through the underbrush, his ears straining to hear over the constant background sound of trickling water.  His tight jeans were tucked into a pair of TideWe sixteen-inch hunting boots, proof against the mud and muck of the rivulets he stalked into.  His olive-green t-shirt was cinched across his broad chest by the strap of a shotgun scabbard that dangled the weapon across his back—out of the way, but easy to reach when needed.  His black hair was covered by a camouflage cap, the brim low over his hard, cold eyes.

 

Wrapped tightly around his waist—around everyone’s waists; Dan had issued them out—was a webbed nylon belt with a sheath holding a combat utility knife, with a seven-inch, double-sided blade.  One side was a simple edged surface, the other was serrated for extra sawing power.  Both were excruciatingly sharp.  Also on the belt was an extendible whip-like baton and a thick heavy bludgeon—the latter were custom made for Dan, a solid lead bar coated in thick latex.  Everyone also had a pair of handcuffs; Dan, Pete, and Jack had several pairs each.

 

Pete and Dan also had radios; cell phones were useless out here.  But radio silence was to be maintained until the coons’ camps had been located.

 

Far off to Pete’s left, he was aware of Frankie’s progress through the boggy woods.  Frankie was taking the only other semi-dry path the descended the west side. He’d stuck to his usual gear of khaki t-shirt, camouflage pants and combat boots; it was perfect for the mission.  Pete couldn’t see Frankie, he could only hear an occasional rustle in the distance.  The sound would me nothing to someone who didn’t already know Frankie was there.

 

Mike followed in Pete’s footsteps, his black engineer boots getting muddy as he quietly made his way across the sodden landscape.  Not much sunlight penetrated the tree cover; his black jeans and t-shirt merged in with the shadows.  Like the others, he had something slung over his shoulder, but in his case, it was a tightly wound coil of nylon rope.

 

Silently and carefully, the three hardbodied young men sought out their prey, inching closer to the kill.

 


 

On the east side, Jack was carefully negotiating his way down a broad gully.  The grade wasn’t overly steep, but it the ground was uncertain and covered with leaves; he had to watch where he planted his calf-high green DMs.  His tight, faded jeans and pale orange tank top weren’t overly noticeable against the fall foliage, but he had no intention of drawing attention to himself.

 

Ahead and off to the right, he could just barely see Hank.  They’d split into pairs and then the pairs split just to the point that they could keep each other in sight.  Hank wasn’t easy to spot; his oxblood Docs were too close to the ground to be seen from a distance and his tight dark jeans didn’t stand out.  Despite the relative warmth of the day, Hank had worn his olive-drab flight jacket.  Only Jack could pick out the tell-tale signs of Hank’s presence.

 

Then Jack picked out more than just Hank’s presence; the skinhead had halted and was making a motion with his arm.  It was a prearranged signal—coon sighting.

 

Hank waited for Jack to approach, slowly and quietly, then pointed it out.  The yard ape was leaning back against a tree, smoking a joint.  It wore a tight black long-sleeve t-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans and a pair of bright red Nike Vandal hightops.  Tucked into its waistband was a paintball pistol.  As Jack and Hank watched, it burned the J down to a roach, which it tucked away in a cigarette pack.

 

When it began to amble away from the tree, it was so high, it didn’t realize that it was being followed until Jack and Hank were less than three feet behind it.  Jack nodded to Hank; the latter, seeing the feral gleam of bloodlust in his leader’s eyes, felt the rush coming on.  Deep in the crotch of his tight jeans, the nigger-killer felt the familiar pressure as his thick white cock swelled at the thought of wasting a coon.

 

He lunged forward, grabbing both of the jigaboo’s arms and pinning them behind its back.  The nigger buck was young and strong; Hank could feel its thick biceps flexing as it struggled against him, but he had no intention of letting the yard ape escape.  He clamped down on it, making it moan in pain.

 

“What the fuck—” It began when Jack stepped in front of it.  It just barely had time to focus on the hardbodied skinhead before the latter spoke, making the dark-skinned nigrah turn ashy gray with fear.

 

“Hey, dude,” Jack said with an ice-cold grin as he slid his knife from its sheath, “What’s a nice place like this doin’ around a nigger like you?”

 

Its eyes widened in panic, but it was utterly unprepared for the speed with which Jack’s hand darted forward and slammed the blade into the angle of the unlucky jig’s jaw.  There was a searing shock of unimaginable agony as seven inches of razor-sharp steel tore through its mouth, slicing completely though the muscle of the tongue at its thick base with ease.

 

It had been a rich nigger; its daddy had owned a number of successful dry-cleaning businesses.  It had lived a cushy life for a coon, and now its mouth was full of steel and horrific pain as it gagged on its own blood.

 

“What’s that fuckin’ stink?  Smells even worse than niggers usually do,” Hank called out, a broad grin on his Aryan face.

 

“Aw, the fuckin’ jig’s pissed itself.  They always do when they die,” Jack responded, then spoke directly to the terrified jungle bunny.  “Yeah, yer dyin’, aintcha, coon?  Hope it hurts, motherfucker.  Hope yer sufferin’, ya black asswipe.”

 

The porch monkey made a horrible gagging sound and spit out its tongue.  It coughed again, this time spewing blood over its outstretched hands.

 

As it stared in bewildered horror at its own blood and meat, Hank swung his heavy bludgeon, popping the nigger on the back of its nappy head.  The latex-covered bar made contact with the cunt’s cranium with an audible crunch, like cracking an eggshell.  The jigaboo fell to its knees, eyes rolled back in its head as shards of its skull slashed through its cerebellum, inflicting massive brain trauma.

 

Its arms tensed up, the hand flailing limply and loosely.  It shit itself, completely losing control of its bowels.  But it still wasn’t dead.

 

“Goddam,” Jack muttered, “They’re gettin’ harder to kill every fuckin’ day.”

 

Hank had to shatter its skull to get it to lie still, smashing the heavy bar into its head until it pulped the coon’s brain.  As he beat it to death, Jack input the location on his phone for corpse retrieval, then both men headed out, fanning out to the east, remaining just within sight of each other, as before.

 

Behind them, the first dead coon of the day continued to twitch quietly as neurons in its pulverized brain matter randomly fired.  Its expensive Nike kicks—it’d waited in line five hours to buy them—jerked repeatedly, carving furrows in the leaves, each one slightly weaker and fainter than the last.  Its heart continued to beat for another hour, but it was nothing more than a pile of nigger meat, lying in the woods.

 


 

Three quarters of a mile to the south, Dan was making his silent, deadly way through the forest.  He’d grabbed a black tactical assault jumpsuit from the department and tucked it into his own pair of ten-inch black lace-up utility boots.  One of the reasons he’d chosen the outfit was for the extra weapon carrying capacity, and he was taking advantage of it now.

 

He’d been attracted by the sound of splashing water and had slowly closed in on a small creek that spilled over a five-foot ledge into a waterfall.  Approaching from the top side, Dan peered down and spotted two niggers lounging around the pool beneath him.  One was fucking around on its phone, trying unsuccessfully to find a signal; it was wearing a t-shirt with a college logo, jeans, and tan Timberland boots.  The other nig had gone full weekend warrior, with combat fatigues and boots.

 

Neither one deserved the name of warrior, Dan thought with contempt.  He was standing in plain sight, but the dumbass monkeys didn’t even look up.  He signaled to Ed, off in the distance, and withdrew from his prominent location to await backup.

 

Ed’s golden buzz-cut hair glinted in the dappled sunlight that broke through the trees.  Wearing a khaki-brown wifebeater that showed off his bulging, tatted biceps, the Aryan punk also sported a tight pair of Diesel jeans tucked into his oxblood Doc Martins.  He closed in swiftly on Dan’s position and soon they both had the enemy in view.

 

Dan and Ed were both experienced killers; no words needed to be said.  Dan nodded at the camo-wearing coon and ran his finger across his throat.  Ed nodded, bent his head at the other one, and did the same thing.  Using his fingers only, Dan counted down from three and they both sprang forward.

 

The jungle bunny in fatigues was farthest from the bank; Dan reached it before Ed reached his target.  The cop had his weapon ready in his gloved hands—a length of piano wire with wooden handles on then ends, a professional garrote.  He approached the ape from behind and, swiftly looping the wire, dropped it over the nigger’s head, cinching tight instantly.

 

“Gak!” the choking coon gagged out, “Grk! Guh!”  Dropping its paintball gun, it began clawing frenetically at the wire sunk into its neck.

 

“What the fuck?” the other jigaboo said, turning in confusion, only to be confronted with Ed, grinning and swinging at him.  Before the buck could react, the powerful Aryan had punched him in the face, hard.  The jig stumbled backwards, reeled, and fell face-down on the bank of the creek, its head over the water.

 

Ed instantly pounced on top and forced its head under the surface.  It thrashed and flailed as the hardbodied nigger-killer lay on top of it and began drowning it.

 

Behind Ed, Dan held on tight as he strangled the young coon to death.  It kept clawing and struggling, as if trying to rise to its feet, but the buff cop kept it down on its knees.  “Think yer gonna come out here and fuck my town, motherfucker?” he hissed at it as he bent over it and choked its life out.  “Fuckin’ die, ya worthless pickanniny.  All you nasty-ass yard apes need to fuckin’ die.  My boys are gonna take out all yer nigger cousins—you all related, right?  Fuck yer own sisters like goddam jungle monkeys, huh?”

 

The young buck couldn’t reply.  Its face was already blacker and lips thicker than usual.  Its huge eyes bulged comically as it gagged and jerked, dying helpless and alone in the woods.  It could see its friend dying, as well.

 

Ed felt the big buck nigger’s taut muscles flexing under him as it struggled to get its head above the water.  He had to clamp down on it, his bicep bulging with the pressure he was exerting to keep the jungle bunny’s head under the surface.  Its Timberland boots kicked out helplessly, scraping up leaves and carving furrows in the dirt.  Its arms splashed frantically in the creek, the sound becoming lost in the noise of the miniature waterfall.

 

No one else could hear the niggers die.

 

It took a while.  Dan’s coon kept swinging and swaying to each side, its struggles becoming weaker and more erratic.  A sudden acrid stench filled the air; the darky had pissed itself, a large dark wet spot forming in the crotch of its fatigues.  By now its tongue, thick and grotesque, was sticking out from between the ludicrously swollen lips.  Its eyes had rolled back in its head and it was drooling like a fucking dog.

 

Hank’s porch monkey was also slowing, its attempts to breathe becoming more and more feeble.  Its hands splashed limply just at the surface of the creek and its boots were not so much kicking as twitching and jerking among the fallen leaves.

 

With a hearty grunt, Dan tightened his wire around the nigger’s neck one last time.  This time, he put enough force into it to break the skin; in fact, the wire sank so deep he damn near cut the coon’s throat.  It hung loosely and limply from the garrote, its hand dangling in front and shuddering convulsively.

 

The sadistic sheriff finally had enough.  He let the cunt drop to the ground, then retrieved his wire.  It was so deeply embedded in the homeboy’s neck that Dan had to brace himself by planting his combat boot on the jigaboo’s chest to yank his weapon from its body.

 

Behind him, Hank finally rose to his feet.  The ape he’d offed was halfway in the water, only its jeans and boots visible.  Its legs still trembled and quivered.

 

“Thin they’re dead?” Hank asked.

 

“Good as,” Dan replied, “They damn sure ain’t gonna be infestin’ the woods anymore.”

 

“This is gonna be easy,” Hank went on, “Fuckin’ animals—ain’t as smart as us humans.”

 

“Apes don’t hunt, not with stealth,” Dan observed.  “Gonna make it easier to stop this coon invasion dead in its tracks—literally.  Mark the location so we can get this pile of fuckin’ monkey meat dragged outta here later.”

 

Seconds later, they were back out on the hunt themselves, heading silently toward the partying young jigaboos who were blissfully unaware of the brutal Aryan predators about to ambush and slaughter them mercilessly.

 


 

Back on the west side, Pete was crouched expectantly in the undergrowth; he’d seen movement in the distance and had pulled out a pair of binoculars.  Cautiously and quietly, Mike and Frankie approached him.  By the time they got to him, Pete had spotted what he was looking for.

 

“Here,” he said, handing the binoculars to the first arrival, Mike, and pointing to the west, “See ‘em?  Coupla niggers—and they got drugs.  The Cap—er, the Sheriff—was right as usual.  If we don’t wipe ‘em out now, they’re gonna fuck this place up.”

 

The view through the intervening foliage wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough for Mike to make out the two coons Pete was referring to.  One of them, in a dark t-shirt tight across his broad ape chest, loose jeans hanging halfway off his ass, was rolling a huge fat blunt.  The other, with a crooked ball cap, torn jeans and white Nike hightops, was sprinkling white power into it from a baggie which it replaced into its hip pocket when finished.

 

The second jig was the one that had caught Pete’s attention; its neon-yellow t-shirt was easily visible, even in the overgrown brush.

 

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, handing the binoculars to Frankie, who’d just arrived, “Ya gotta treat ‘em like roaches.  Ya see one, ya know there’s hundreds around somewhere, spreadin’ filth.  Best thing to do is find the nest and wipe ‘em all out—any that get away can breed more.”

 

“Hell yeah,” Frankie said, grinning as he peered at the prey, about five hundred yards to the west.  “Fuckin’ hard to kill as roaches, too.  Ya gotta hit ‘em hard and keep hittin’ ‘em till they ain’t nothin’ but twtichin’ apemeat.”  He paused, keeping one hand on the binoculars and rubbing the swelling bulge in his crotch with the other.  “I ain’t down with this ‘fast’ and ‘quiet’ shit, though,” he muttered.  “I wanna take my time over it.  I wanna hear ‘em beg and scream when they die, fuckin’ jigaboos…”

 

“Time for that later,” Pete said peremptorily, “We gotta get to the camp first.  Once we corral the apes, you can worry about havin’ some fun with whatever’s still alive.”  As he spoke, he could see that the coons had fired up the blunt and were passing it back and forth.  “C’mon,” he said, “Looks like they’re too busy gettin’ fucked up to see us comin’ to fuck ‘em up.”

 

The three aggressive young killers slowly moved forward; Pete, in the lead, making sure they remained undetected.  Even though the prey was getting high, he still didn’t want to take the chance of panicking the jungle bunnies before he was close enough to catch one.  He and Frankie didn’t really have different aims, it was just that Pete, under Dan’s tutelage, had learned the value of Discipline and Authority, and for both, control was needed.

 

Pete was becoming one of the most dangerous of killers, a buff, hardbodied young who got off on inflicting pain and death but had the self-control to pick and choose the appropriate moment to indulge himself.  And he had a badge.

 

He had no problem with lingering over a nigger, making it squeal and suffer before dispatching it to monkey hell, but first, he wanted information.  He wanted to catch one alive and interrogate it, find out where its nest—er, camp was.  He’d waste it when he was done with it, but not before he’d pumped it for all it knew.

 

He was looking forward to making a monkey talk.  His hand slid down to the handle of his utility knife.  He hoped it would resist.  As he unclipped the strap securing the blade in its sheath, his dick started to stiffen.

 

He was still in full control—but he really, really hoped the jigaboo would resist.

 

They burst suddenly out of the underbrush.  “Freeze, niggers!” Frankie yelled.  One did and one didn’t.

 

The coon in the dark shirt, the one who’d rolled the blunt, took off like a shot, earning the name of jungle bunny by scampering through the woods like a wild hare.  Just a swiftly, Mike and Frankie went after him, vanishing back into the undergrowth.

 

Pete was left alone with the jig in the yellow shirt.  It popped up as if to flee, but Pete sprang forward and clamped it in a power hold, one hand tightly over its mouth while using the other to press his knife into its throat.

 

“You can feel that, cantcha,” he said menacingly.  It wasn’t a question.  “I’m gonna ask some questions.  You don’t answer, I cut your fuckin’ throat.  You do anything but answer, I’m gonna cut yer throat.  You dig, nigger?  Ya feelin’ me, tarbaby?”

 

The coon nodded its head.  Clutching the muscled black buck tightly, he could feel it tremble.  In a mix of anger and fear, it was sweating, a nasty niggery reek.  Pete closed his mind to it, thinking the smell was proof that offing these disgusting apes was utterly justified, if nothing else was.

 

“Where’s yer camp, fuckwad?” he asked quietly.

 

“Down dere by de riber,” the porch monkey replied, fear making his coon accent thicker.

 

“How many more guards you got out?  Where are they?”

 

“Homie, I dunno that kinda shit!  We’s jist here fo’ some—” Pete cut it off, clamping his huge strong hand back over its mouth, feeling its thick soft lips crushed under his palm.  He drew the blade across the cunt’s throat—not deeply, just enough to break the skin and leave a thin line of blood encircling the jigaboo’s neck.

 

“Not an acceptable answer,” the hardbodied cop growled, “And you call me homie again and I’ll gut you here and now like a fuckin’ pig, you got me, boy?  Now where are the rest of yer fuckin’ tribe?”

 

The young nigger was almost in tears when Pete lifted his hand this time; it was clearly confused and terrified.  Stupid motherfucker couldn’t figure out what was going on.  Pete felt nothing but contempt and impatience.

 

“Answer me, ya black piece of shit, or so help me God—”

 

“I dunno!! I really don’t!!  I mean I saw Andre an’ Deontay go dat way an’ Marquis an’ Lamar said dey wanted to off an’ do some hits—but I dunno!!” the coonboy wailed.

 

Pete snorted in disgust.  It figured.  He shoulda known better than to expect an ignorant fuckin’ yard ape to talk sense.  He pressed the knife against its neck again.

 

“Yer a worthless sack a’ monkey meat, aintcha,” he muttered and ripped its throat open.  “Doin’ the world a fuckin’ favor.”

 

The razor-sharp blade sliced easily through apeflesh, but once it reached the nigger’s trachea, Pete had to put some pressure on it; it took a little effort to saw through the rubbery tissue.  The jungle bunny had tried to scream as its white deathmaster began the kill, but Pete kept its jaw in such a tight grip that all it could do was give off the despairing bleat of a dying lamb.

 

That changed once the windpipe was penetrated.  The monkey still wasn’t able to scream—the buff lawman had carved its larynx to gristly shreds—but its trapped air burst out in a high-pitched squeal, followed by violent gagging on blood.  It was the sound of a young nigger cunt in mortal agony.

 

Pete let it go and stepped back to watch it die, his dick so hard it hurt.

 

It fell to its knees, blood spewing from the gash in its neck.  It coughed and choked and vomited up blood in stunned shock, holding its hands up to the wound.   Pete chuckled at the dumbass coon, thinking it could hold back the blood.  For a moment it turned to look at him, its eyes wide with sheer terror.  Then, as Pete watched, the nigger’s eyes rolled back in its head.  It pissed itself and collapsed, lying huddled on the ground.

 

The cop had done his duty.  He went in search of Mike and Frankie, leaving behind him a pile of apemeat, struggling convulsively to breathe, its muscled body heaving and wheezing as it bled out in a muddy pool of its own blood and urine.  Its Nikes twitched in the leaves a few times as it died alone in the woods.

 


 

Fifty yards west, Frankie and Mike had come across their prey struggling to free its expensive Air Jordan from a crack in a boulder; the coon had tried to scamper over it and gotten its foot stuck.  It had just managed to get itself free when the hardbodied apekillers burst in on it from the underbrush.  Trapped with its back to the rock it had been unable to climb, it looked at the muscled Aryans and whimpered, its eyes comically wide.

 

“Hey there, spook,” Frankie grinned.

 

“Gonna be a fuckin’ spook by the time I’m done with it,” Mike muttered, drawing the heavy bludgeon from his utility belt.  Frankie had already pulled out his expandable baton.

 

The nigger was a big black buck, well-built and strong.  It was obviously scared but was pathetically trying to brazen it out.  “Wh-wh—” it began, paused and gulped, and then restarted.  “Wh-what you white b-boys want?”

 

What they wanted was to explode and the coon had set the bomb off perfectly.  “Shut the fuck up, ya stupid black ape!” Frankie roared, his young, hard face twisted in rage and his thick cock so hard it was visible in the crotch of his camo pants.  He slashed at the nig’s face with the baton, laughing with malevolent glee as the street monkey wailed in pain.

 

“Goddammit, the piece a’ shit’s makin’ too much noise,” Mike said, stepping forward.  With a single brutal incapacitating blow, he pounded his bludgeon into the jigaboo’s simian face, shattering its jaw into shards.  The nigger made an odd squealing sound, then gagged and retched before vomiting out bloody clots of teeth.

 

As it did, Frankie, who’d torn the fucker’s left cheek open and broken its cheekbone with his baton, shifted to the other side.  Mike stood back for a moment to let him work, watching his brother-in-snuff demonstrate the flexibility of the baton.  Standing behind the coon, he whipped the thin metal rod horizontally against the side of its head.  It had enough give to follow the contours of the skull.

 

When the tip came to the front of the skull, it whipped around and punctured the spade’s eye.

 

It wheezed.  It was trying to scream, but it was trying too hard.  Then it wasn’t trying at all; it was bent over, vomiting uncontrollably.

 

“Well fuck,” Frankie said, smirking at Mike, “That’s kickass!”

 

“Aw, you can to the same thing with an untwisted coat hanger,” Mike said with a grin.  “Here, lemme put it out of its misery.  Mamma always told me to be kind to animals…”

 

His thick-soled engineer boots crunched in the fallen leaves as he closed in for the kill.  The quivering nigger was too overwhelmed with agony to notice his approach.  He was able to walk right up to it and, with his unerring precision of aim, break its neck with a single blow.  The coated metal bar caught the ape just at the nape of its neck, three vertebrae splintering with a loud crunch.

 

The jigaboo twitched violently, twice, then went limp.  It instantly soiled itself.

 

“Jesus,” Frankie said in disgust, “Ya try to do ‘em a favor, and ya end up havin’ to deal with this stench.”

 

“That’s what ya get for tryin’ to do a coon a favor,” said a voice close behind them, making them jump.  They whirled simultaneously to find that Pete had caught up to them.

 

“I take it you got what ya needed from yours?” Mike asked him.

 

“Aw, stupid darkie didn’t know shit,” Pete muttered.  His eyes shifted to the pile of monkey meat lying behind them.

 

“Y’all do know that one’s still alive, right?” he drawled casually, a gleam of humor in his eyes.

 

“Huh?” Frankie blurted.  Mike spun and looked carefully.  Sure enough, it was still breathing.  Shallowly and badly, but it was breathing.

 

“Dude, it’s gotta be dead; it shit itself,” Frankie protested.

 

“Sometimes the spinal cord ain’t severed,” Pete continued.  “I been readin’ up on how to break necks.  Seems ya gotta really work the fucker to make sure ya do enough damage to kill it and not just leave it paralyzed.”

 

“I think we can handle that,” Mike said.  Standing over the nigger, he raised his leg and stomped on its neck, grinding the heel of his big black boot into its spine.  Again and again he stomped it, crushing its throat and leaving no uncertainty whatsoever that the jungle bunny was dead.

 

“So, which way now?” Mike asked, turning his back on the corpse and heading towards Pete and Frankie.

 

“Well, it’s gotta be further east,” Pete replied.  I’ll go this way.  You”—said to Frankie—“go thirty yards north and you”—to Mike—“the same to the south.  If we’re lucky, we should be able to locate their camp soon.”

 

The three men merged back into the underbrush, silently moving forward, on the hunt and primed to kill.

 


 

Dan and Ed were the oldest members of the coon-killing squad.  They had the most experience and the most control.  Dan had divided the groups up knowing that Pete and Jack could handle those with them.  Ed didn’t need to be handled; he and Dan moved on parallel courses, close enough to help each other if needed but not actually coordinating their movements.

 

That’s how Dan happened to be alone when he unexpectedly stumbled across an armed nigger.

 

Dan had decided to take advantage of some of the SWAT tactical gear stored in the back of the new jail.  He’d gone all in black, with a tight-fitting jumpsuit belted at the waist with the nylon utility belt he’d handed out to the others.  The cuffs of his jumpsuit legs were neatly bloused into his SWAT 8” Alpha Fury boots, a black knit cap covered his head and on his hands was a pair of custom-made fingerless leather tactical gloves with metal insets in the palms and brass (well, steel) knuckles sewed into the right glove.

 

Dan was literally dressed to kill, and it saved his life.

 

The jigaboo was leaning back, basking like a lizard in a small spot of sun.  It had a black satin do-rag on its head, an Oakland Raiders t-shirt stretched across its broad monkey chest, a pair of dark, low-slung jeans, Nike Air Jordan IIIs on its feet, and a Newport dangling from its thick lower lip.  If Dan hadn’t been upwind, the smoke would have told him it was there.  As it was, he popped right into the small clearing, making the yard ape jump up and go for its waistband.

 

Dan saw the Glock G17 in its hand; his reaction in the split-second he had before it drew a bead on him was the result of professional training.  He punched the nigger in the throat.

 

The brass knuckles in his glove collapsed the dumb ape’s esophagus instantly with the sound and sensation of crushing a foam cup.  The jig dropped its gun and clutched at its ruined throat, its eyes wider than seemed physically possible.

 

Strange thick sounds came from its blocked windpipe.  “GUK!  GRK!  NGK!”  The porch monkey was too stupid to realize it was dead; it staggered forward, reaching out to Dan as if pleading for help.  Its face was already swelling and becoming congested; tears welled from its bulging eyes as it gagged and choked.  It took another faltering step towards Dan, then fell to its knees, its hands still upraised in a beseeching gesture.

 

“Bad idea to draw on the sheriff, nigger,” Dan said evenly.  “See, yard apes with gats get the death penalty in this county.”

 

It may have even been stupid enough to feel hope when Dan suddenly grinned at it; if it did, it was soon dashed as the muscular, black-clad ape killer reached down and unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, he hauled up his enormous tackle and brandished it, semi-hard in the coon’s face.

 

“Aw, I’m just kiddin’,” Dan said cheerfully.  “Gats or no gats, all you jigaboos are gonna die.  I got death squads out there now, huntin’ yer monkey kin down.”

 

The nigger knew it was going to die now; its tongue was already starting to protrude.  Snot from its nose trickled down to mingle with the drool spilling over its thick dark lips and blood vessels ruptured like fireworks in the whites of its eyes.  A hot, sour smell filled the air as dark moistness spread out from the crotch of its jeans.

 

“Boy, yer a fuckin’ mess,” Dan drawled.  “Here, lemme help ya wash that off.”

 

And with that he started pissing in the dying nigger’s face, the hot, acrid urine splashing over the gagging monkey’s exposed tongue and into its protruding eyes.  Its hands, which hadn’t ceased clawing at its throat, now came up in a weak attempt to block the flow.  They fluttered like dying birds, splashing in the stream of hot piss, before the jungle bunny suddenly pitched forward, face down into the dirt, and began to convulse violently.

 

Dan had a bladder like a barrage balloon.  He kept giving the spade a nice warm golden shower as it kicked its life away, its Nike kicks scraping in the dirt as a puddle of urine formed around the depression where it had faceplanted.  As the stream finally trailed off into a trickle, Dan took a moment to shake the last few drops out onto the soaked do-rag on its head, then tucked his rod back in.  Bending down and retrieving the gun from where the nig had dropped it, Dan left his prey still twitching in its own little sunny spot.

 

He was in a hurry; some inner sense had told him Ed had found something interesting.

 

 


 

 

Ed had.  Crouching behind a huge, moss-covered oak, his gaze was riveted on a wooden shed, about twenty feet square.  He’d seen at least three niggers go in, and the front was guarded by two coons carrying what looked like paintball guns.

 

It was the base camp he’d been looking for.  Deep in the groin of his tight Diesel jeans, his long, thick, white cock stirred with the through of the slaughter that was about to occur.  He needed Dan to put in an appearance, quick, or he was gonna start wasting the fuckin’ porch monkeys on his own.

 

Luckily for his libido, Dan slipped silently out of the undergrowth just in time.  “Lookee here,” the buzz-cut Nazi grinned, “Found the fuckin’ coon nest.”

 

Dan grinned back, the cold, hard grin of an experienced calculating his target’s death.  “How many inside?”

 

“I’d say five to ten, maybe more.”

 

“Ok, here’s the plan…”

 

Dan wanted to reconnoiter the structure before making his move, making sure the one visible door was the only practicable exit.  They agreed to circle around to the rear, Ed heading to the left and Dan to the right, giving the open space in front of the shed a wide berth and moving quietly so as to leave the guards undisturbed—for the moment.

 

The next time they saw each other, they were peering around the back of the shed; it was up against a thickly wooded bank, and didn’t even have windows.  The set-up was perfect; this team of nigs had been stupid enough to set up headquarters in a trap.  As the muscled killers—one a skinhead and one in cop gear—conferred behind the shed, they could head the motherfuckers chattering away on the inside like a troop of apes.

 

“The two in front,” Dan whispered, holding up his knife and making a slashing gesture across his throat.  Dan nodded, and they each began to creep back to the front of the shed, along opposite side, staying low to avoid the windows in the sides.  They reached the front simultaneously, crouching at the corners of the building and scoping out the guards.

 

Two big buff bucks, with their backs turned.  One was in a too-small t-shirt advertising some fraternity event, a pair of tight jeans full of holes and so elaborately patched that they’d clearly been manufactured that way, and a pair of bright blue Nike Air Jordan Flight Varsity hightops.  The other wore the same t-shirt with a black flat peak cap worn backwards, worn but intact jeans and replica white-and-black Jordan 1 Homage sneakers.

 

The jeans and kicks were enough to tell—the one on the right came from money, the one on the left didn’t.  Not that it mattered—they’d both die just the same, hard and ugly.

 

It happened fast.

 

Dan’s boots were silent on the trodden dirt clearing in front of the shed as he crept forward.  Ed’s Doc Martens made faint grinding sounds, but the two coons never noticed.  They’d just finished sharing a blunt and were both higher than fuck.  The whole thing was a game, after all—until it wasn’t.

 

Dan took the one on the right.  His hand, in its fingerless leather tactical glove, clamped tightly across the jigaboo’s mouth.  It just had time to let out a startled grunt before he jammed his knife into its throat, powering up his bicep and punching the blade through any resistance he felt.

 

Ed did the same, but he didn’t stifle his target; as a result, his yard ape managed to blurt out a thick, gagging bleat of agony, unrecognizable as human and nowhere near loud enough to be heard inside.

 

Ed’s coon—the poor one—choked and spat out a spray of blood.  It and the other one turned to look at each other in shock and horror, each clutching their punctured, bleeding necks.  The wealthy one staged forward a few steps after Dan let it go, its thick rubbery lips working as if it was begging for its worthless life, but nothing came from its open mouth beyond the sound of a dying nigger gargling on its own blood.  As it shuffled its expensive Nikes in the dirt, it ruined its expensive jeans by losing control of its bladder.

 

“Aw, fuck, nigger piss stinks,” Dan muttered.  The jungle bunny paused and swayed, its already-huge pupils dilating as it started to lose consciousness.  The hardbodied cop darted forward; catching it as it fell, he dragged the shuddering spade off to the right and dumped it into the undergrowth where it spent its last few seconds facedown in a clump of poison sumac, drowning on its own blood.

 

The poor jigaboo with the replica Jordans had wrapped both hands tightly around its own throat as if it could stop the flow of blood that way.  Lightheaded and panicked, it stumbled ahead and to the left—instinctively trying to flee the danger.  Ed didn’t chase it; he didn’t need to.  As it lurched away, he swung out with the knife, twice, lightning-fast, and caught the black cunt in the throat again each time.

 

It made it three steps before falling to its knees and pissing itself.  Its hands dropped limply to its sides and it tried desperately to breathe, twice.  Both tries resulted in nothing more than grotesque, gurgling wheezes.  Then it fell facedown, its legs kicking spasmodically.

 

Following Dan’s lead, Ed dragged it off to the side and shoved it into one of the small creeks running through the area.  He didn’t check to see if it had stopped breathing yet; it would soon enough anyway.

 

He and Dan then executed perfect stealth approached to the shed.  The front had one centered door with a small window on each side of it.  Dan and Ed sidled along the front to the door, staying low to avoid the windows.  Once the reached it, they paused, flanking it, two muscled warriors awaiting their backup.

 

It didn’t take long for Jack and Hank to catch up.  There was no need to ask how their hunting had gone; the disappointment on their faces was obvious indication that they hadn’t managed to snuff as many coons as they’d wanted.  Dan grinned; once the monkeys were penned up in the Poorhouse, the Aryan punks could torture them to death to his sick little heart’s content.  Fuck, Dan was gonna be glad to help.  But they needed to have them corralled first.

 

The four killers put their heads together and came up with a quick plan of assault—not that the ramshackle shed justified the need of a plan, but the last thing anyone wanted was for a yard ape to escape and go off howling into the woods.  The actual attack was over faster than they would have thought possible.

 

Dan and Jack broke through the door as Ed and Hank blocked the windows from the outside.  The niggers paused, unsure of what was happening; it took the sight of the muscle-bound cop brandishing his shotgun to get the concept of danger through their dense skulls.

 

Then hell broke loose.

 

None of the coons had a real weapon, or any kind of hand-to-hand combat training; some had joined in street brawls, but it wasn’t the same.  Ten of the dozen made it out alive—bleeding and bruised, cowed into submission, but alive.

 

One big black buck, clearly the alpha of his tribe, tried to stand up to Dan.  He threw up his fists as if offering to box.  Dan let go of the shotgun, letting the shoulder strap catch it, and grinned holding up his palms.  The bull nigger waded in like he was going to deck the sheriff good and hard.  He drew his arm back, clearly telegraphing his swing, and that was when Dan’s arm shot out like a knife-wielding piston, driving the sharp steel tip of his blade between the jigaboo’s ribs and into its heart.

 

“Gurk!” the monkey cried, its eyes huge as a huge bubble of blood broke on its thick lips.  For a brief moment, its powerful ape body was rigid with shock and agony; Dan twisted the knife inside of it to ensure maximum damage before stepping back.  The nigger trembled, then fell tot the floor in heap of quivering, bleeding monkey meat.

 

At the sight of this, another one, this one young and slim, panicked and leaped head-first through the window.  It managed not only to avoid cutting itself too badly but to maneuver into a tuck-and-roll with an animal-like agility.

 

What it didn’t manage to avoid was Ed, with his bludgeon.  Just as the young niglet staggered to its feet, Ed swung the heavy metal bar against its head, knocking it to the ground.

 

“Hey,” Hank said, “We need to keep ‘em alive, remember?  They gotta drag away the ones we already killed.”

 

“Yeah, but this one’s already damaged,” Ed said.

 

“Don’t look that badly damaged to me,” Hank replied.  Planting his oxblood Doc Martens on each side of the moaning, shuddering pickanniny, Ed bent down and bashed it in the again, twice, his huge biceps flexing with the power he delivered to the crushing blows.

 

Standing triumphantly astride the thrashing nigger, Ed gave Hank a malevolent smile.  “How ‘bout now?”

 

Even Hank had to admit this one was brain-damaged beyond repair.  Hell, he could see its brain.  Ed had cracked its skull open like an egg.

 

Dan and Jack emerged with the remaining coons, their hands up.  Some looked angry and defiant, some looked terrified, and some were openly weeping, snot running down their ape-like faces.

 

“You and you,” Dan said, pointing out two of the darkies with his shotgun, “Grab the bodies.  Well, what the fuck are ya waitin’ for, nigger, another slave auction?  Yer on fuckin’ corpse detail; move it!”

 

The porch monkeys’ panic was amusing to watch; they scrambled about in terror, falling over each other in their hurry to obey their new master.  Within minutes, the four white men were leading their captive coons back uphill towards the ridge.  Dan brought up the rear, his gun pointed at the line of ape in front of him—and especially at the ones dragging their dead homies, just to make sure they didn’t lag.

 

They were near the top when the sound of a shotgun blast echoed across the valley, from somewhere high up on the other side.

 

The Aryan brothers looked at Dan.

 

“Get ‘em into the vans,” he said curtly, unlocking the rear doors of the two vehicles the coons had left, then spent a few moments peering across to the slope on the far side of the valley.

 

“See anything?” Jack asked.

 

“No,” Dan answered, “But Pete and his team must have found the other camp.  And Pete knows how to take care of himself.  Are they loaded?  Good.  You take the other van .  We’re gonna go over and see what’s going on with Pete.”

 

Having loaded everyone into the vans the niggers had so thoughtfully brought with them, Dan began the five-mile journey to the nearest crossing.

 


 

Twenty minutes later, when Dan pulled up to far side, where the third van was parked, his lieutenant had already corralled his group of niggers.  The sheriff gave no outward sign of his relief except for a slight, almost unnoticeable relaxation of his taut muscled body.  He opened the door and slid out of the van, about to ask what had happened, when he noticed that a couple of the coons were toting the corpse of one of their kin that was missing most of its head.

 

The buff young lieutenant followed the gaze of his superior officer and grinned.  “Yeah, one of ‘em tried to make a break for it.  Got the jump on one of my guys.”

 

Pete said nothing about who or made any kind of indication, but the fiery flush on Frankie’s face made it clear who the peccant nigger-killer was.  He and Mike were overseeing the loading of the third van, packing the live darkies in with corpses like cattle.  Dan and Pete ambled over to make sure everything was settled before heading out for the Poorhouse.

 

“You got all the bodies?” Dan asked, “Last thing I want is some redneck out frog-giggin’ stumbling over a dead porch monkey and making me waste time on a fake investigation.”

 

“Yeah, we got ‘em all, but these homies are fuckin’ scared as shit of dead bodies,” Pete growled, “Fuck, the one I shot panicked when he touched one and slugged—well, you get the idea.”

 

If Dan didn’t get it, it was soon openly demonstrated for him.  There were already ten living coons in the van, but Pete’s crew had rounded up a dozen.  The last two were carrying the headshot ape.

 

The youngest—he looked too young to be in college—stumbled and fell to his knees about five feet from the van.  Immediately Pete and Dan stood up straight and began moving towards the downed jigaboo; the look on their faces made the other one move double-time, dumping its dead buddy into the van before scrambling in over the corpse.  It wanted to be out of the way of whatever was about to happen.

 

It was Pete who got there first.  The teenage niglet, in boxy low-hanging short, pale Timberland boots and yellow sleeveless Lakers LeBron jersey, peered up at the hardbodied cop looming over him and snarled, “Black lives matter, motherfucker!” in an agony of defiant fear.

 

Dan was there by now.  The two men exchanged a look, and a malicious grin.  Nothing was said or needed to be said; Dan simply handed Pete his own latex-covered lead bludgeon.  Pete gripped it lightly, testing the balance, and turned back to the kneeling pickanniny.  When he spoke, his voice was calm and even.

 

“Boy, I’ve taken shits that mattered more than your worthless nigger existence.”

 

With that, he swung the baton into the punk’s mouth, shattering its jaw and knocking out half its teeth.  It rose up instantly, hands clutched to its mangled, bleeding face, and Pete hit it again—in the same place.  There was much less damage to its face this time; the bones than snapped like twigs were the ones in its hands.

 

It bent forward, thick gouts of blood—and a few teeth—spewing from its mouth as it sprayed and gurgled.  Mike and Frankie found themselves having difficulty; as much as they were enjoying the show, the mutterings and weeping from their vanload of spades meant that the natives were restless and needed watching as well.  Fortunately, it didn’t last long enough for a revolt to start.

 

The agonized coon coughed up a thick gob of bloody phlegm, then tilted its head back—and that was when Pete delivered the death blow, smashing the baton horizontally across the jig’s throat, completely destroying its esophagus in one swift, devastating impact.

 

The young monkey’s eyes bulged and it fell to its knees again, its shattered fingers flopping uselessly at its crushed throat.  Its already dusky face, or what was left of it, swelled and blackened.  Then it pissed itself, acrid urine running down its smooth dark thighs.

 

“Get one or two of ‘em back out to move this one,” Dan called back to Mike and Frankie just as the baby ape pitched forward on its face and thrashed violently.

 

It was still shuddering and trembling as its terrified pack members reluctantly dragged it into the van.  They tried to avoid touching it as they climbed in; in fact, all the coons showed a distinct aversion to being anywhere near the still-convulsing corpse.

 

“Hasn’t even shit itself yet,” Mike remarked conversationally to the niggers as he locked them in with it.

 

Frankie, Hank, and Ed each climbed into one of the vans to keep and eye on monkeys.  Dan, Pete, Mike, and Jack met in the area between the vehicles to coordinate.  They’d already reviewed the maps.

 

“You’re five minutes behind me, right?” Dan said to Pete.  “And use the radio if there are any problems.”

 

“Five minutes, yessir,” Pete responded, then grinned.  “And if you’re referring to the cargo, sir—there won’t be any problems we can’t handle.”

 

Dan returned the grin.  “I know, Lieutenant.  Still keep your eyes open.”  He turned to Jack next.

 

“You’re five minutes behind him.  Need to get anything?  Any special equipment?”

 

Jack replied with a grin no less shark-like than those of the cops.  “Naw, my and my boyz, we specialize in improvisin’.  ‘Specially if there’s a lotta shit lyin’ around.”

 

“This was the old county overflow jail.  It’s falling apart, but it’s got plenty of debris and old tools that can be put to inventive use,” Dan said.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!  What are we waitin’ for?  We bagged us some coons; time to take ‘em back and gut ‘em!”

 

He scrambled eagerly into the van; it was the signal to depart.  Dan pulled out first; Pete obediently waited five minutes, then followed, with Jack trailing along the requisite five minutes after that.  Three vans, five Aryan brothers, two cops, twenty-one live niggers and at least a dozen dead ones, all heading out for a killing pit.

 

Once the dust from the vans settled, the valley was still and quiet again.  The piss-soaked terror, the bloody agony, the brutal slaughter wasn’t over—it was just being moved to a more convenient location.

Meat Chronicles 23–Alleyway Quickie

I need release.  The hate, the rage, the sperm, it’s all been building inside me, and I’ve reached the boiling point.  A faggot is gonna die riding my dick tonight.

 

There are plenty of them out, too.  The drag lined with gay bars teems with homos of all ages and flavors, all of them desperately seeking a real man to shove something long and hard into their pansy bodies.

 

I’m just the man they’re looking for.

 

I drive slowly down the street and park in a lot behind one of the bars; it’s packed, but I find a spot.  Most of the queers going in and out of the clubs aren’t alone, so I ignore them.  Extra helpings of meat can be fun, but I’m in the mood for something quick and nasty.

 

I wouldn’t have seen him if he hadn’t signaled to me, a call somewhere between a chirp and a grunt.  He’s in a narrow alley, barely four feet wide, that runs between a couple of the bars.  He’s about a yard in, outside the limited area light by the parking lot lights, and it’s obvious what he’s doing there—he’s turning tricks.

 

Aw fuck, this is perfect.  This stupid boywhore just made the worst, and last, mistake of his useless life.  I stride into the alley and he steps out into the light so we can size each other up.

 

It’s a warm, humid night; I decided to go shirtless, with nothing but a thin leather vest to cover my sculpted torso.  The rest of my gear consists of a pair of tight, faded jean tucked into a pair of black Smokejumper boots.

 

The slut is hiding even less of his lithe adolescent body; he’s utterly topless, his lean, smooth chest already glistening with sweat.  His cheap, shiny polyester-blend shorts are so short I can just barely see the head of his dick as it dangles.  A pair of tightly-laced black leather combat boots completes his whore outfit.

 

I can make out just enough of him in the light to see his red-gold hair that falls just barely closer to blond than copper.  His bangs sweep down near his eyes, which are as deep and sultry as the night.  His face is young and handsome, but signs of wear and rough use are starting to show around the eyes and the jaw line; he’s probably on something, maybe meth.  But it’s only just setting in; despite his lean swimmer’s build, his abs and chest ripple with muscle.

 

He says his name is Aaron and that he’s nineteen.  Both are lies.  I don’t care what his name is, and he knows it.  And as for his age—well, he ain’t gonna live to see nineteen.  Or eighteen, for that matter.  Even without my intervention, he’ll have destroyed himself before then.  Hell, I’ll be doing him a kindness by wasting his worthless homo ass.

 

He wants twenty for a BJ—getting one, not giving.

 

“Uh-uh, faggot.  You’re the one taking dick,” I sneer and his adolescent face lights up.  I knew it.  Goddam little perv has been waiting for an alpha to come along and put him out of his misery.  It’s his lucky night.

 

He still makes a show out of being a whore, demanding a hundred in cash to take it up the ass here and now, in the alley.  They like to pretend that things are going on like normal, right up until they’re overcome by their suffering.  I’m prepared; I hand him a Benjamin and note which pocket he stuffs it into so I can get it back when I’m done.

 

“C’mon, down here,” he says, leading me down the alley and further away form the light.  Suddenly, the alley is partially blocked; an emergency exit stairwell had been added to the building on the left and encroached on the space, taking up about half the width of the alley for a distance of about eight feet.

 

Once past it, we’re invisible from the parking lot.  The street is only twenty-five feet away—and still crowded with horny, twittering pansies—but the dumpsters are at that end.

 

The boy turns away from me.  Dropping his shorts, he leans forward and presents his ass to me, placing his hands on the brick wall to brace himself.  Grinning, I unzip my fly, letting my thick eager manshaft leap out, pulsing and throbbing.  Pressing my legs up against the punk’s thighs, I nudge his pink puckered asshole with my oozing purple head.

 

Then I shove it home, tearing into the cunt’s rectum like a mechanical punch.  He cries out; quickly, I reach around and clamp my hand tightly over his mouth.

 

“Shut the fuck up, motherfucker,” I snarl into his ear, my head to close to his I can feel my rough three-day growth scraping his baby-smooth cheek, “This is whatcha wanted, ain’t it, cocksucker?  Yeah? So shut yer worthless mouth, bitch!”

 

I release his mouth and plow his ass, the velvety feeling of his teen colon as my pound rod stretches it to the limit of its endurance stoking my lust.  What stokes it even more is hearing the homo whimpering in pain, desperately trying not to call attention to two dudes fucking in the alley, even though most of the fairies strolling by would probably pay to watch.

 

Heh, that’d be hot.  Love to see the horror on their twinkie little faces as I get to my version of a Happy Ending—and telling ‘em they’re next.

 

Meanwhile, though, this cunt is starting to relax.  I’ve reamed him out to the point that he can settle back and enjoy my rod jammed up his guts.

 

Fuck him.  Fag bitch is here to pleasure me, not the other way round.  Time I really had some fun.

 

“Ya like that, dontcha?  Ya like havin’ my long hard shaft inside ya?” I whisper into the boywhore’s ear as I reach around and fondle his firm, smooth chest, feeling his torso tense and relax with every stroke of my cock.

 

“F-fuck y-y-eah,” he moans shudderingly, arcing his back against my chest.

 

“Then I’m about to double your pleasure, bitch,” I murmur, moving one hand around behind me to the hunting knife I keep on a belt sheath hidden behind me.   The meat doesn’t know it’s there.  Yet.

 

He moans again, inarticulately, as I extract the seven-inch serrated steel blade silently.  “You ready, fucker?  You ready for another long, hard shaft in ya?”

 

He’s too far gone in his lust, his teenaged body so awash in hormones, to catch much of what I’ve said.  Doesn’t matter.  He’ll figure it out.

 

Now.

 

I clap my hand back over his mouth again.  At the same time I drive my knife into his side, low down under the ribcage, angling inwards.  His surprised grunt instantly spirals up into a muffled squeal of pain as his entire body tenses and goes rigid, rising up on the toes of its combat boots.

 

I’ve stuck him right in the kidney; he’s experiencing the first flush of shock from organ trauma.

 

“There ya go cunt, that long and hard enough for ya?  Yer right kidney’s got a steel blade in it, boy; it’s fuckin’ gone.  Well, maybe not—let’s make sure.”  I twist the knife in the wound, digging the serrated tip deep into the teen’s innards before swiftly jerking it back out.  Blood flies off the blade, spattering the wall.

 

I don’t relax the tempo of my fucking or my grip on the meat’s jaw.  The cunt is finally starting to work my dick good, and I don’t want it trying to ruin my fun.  It can hear the gabble of the passing crowd just feet away as well as I can, but I’ve got such complete control over it, it can’t cry out for help as I fuck it to death.

 

But one little stick in the flank isn’t enough.  My hard alpha cock demands more agony for the meat.  It’s still got a lot of suffering to do before I’m done with it.  I plunge the knife into the fucker’s back, feeling the resistance change as the razor-sharp tip slices through different type of tissue.  I come inward and down, spearing the cunt’s liver.

 

Again, the meat puppet succumbs to my control, shuddering and mewling in desperate, muffled agony.  “Fuck yeah, bitch, take my blade like it’s a thick cock, ya faggot.  Squeeze my dick as I cut you, ya worthless homo shit!” I growl into the teen’s ear as I grind my huge pulsing cock into his throbbing, spasming rectum.  His arms flail over his head as he desperately tries to reach me behind him.

 

I don’t let go of his mouth; he’s gonna die with my hand clamped over his face.  I can feel his tears running down his face and over the back of my hand.  The adolescent fuckmeat is suffering so damn bad—but I can still hear his hard teen dick slapping against his firm, flat belly as I pound his asshole.

 

His lithe body writhes against me, despite the knife buried in his back—that means he’s in such terror that he’s becoming oblivious to the physical pain; his every action is driving the tip of my blade deeper into his liver.  It’s gotta be excruciating.

 

It’s so fucking hot.  “Yeah, asswipe, work ‘em.  Work my cock and my knife.  Carve yer fag ass up as ya jack me off, motherfucker.”

 

He’s shaking his head, or at least trying to.  I don’t have to hear his mewling, begging words to know what he’s sayin’.  He’s sayin’ that it hurts, that he doesn’t want it—and it’s all lies.  Little fuck wouldn’ta been out here selling his homo ass in a dark alley if he didn’t want this.

 

“Fuckin’ stupid-ass faggot,” I hiss viciously into his ear, “You know you been cravin’ this since you shot yer first load.  Only reason for yer pervert fag existence is so I can cum as I off yer useless ass, and you fuckin’ know it, dontcha?  You always knew someone was waiting out there to stick ya and cut ya and hurt ya, yeah?”

 

He goes rigid as I pull the knife out slowly, his asscheeks pressed flat against my groin and trembling.  I hold the knife free for a moment.

 

“Where’s it gonna go, fucker?  What part of yer tender young flesh to ya want punctured and probed with my sharpened steel blade, asswipe?  I know—let’s try this!”

 

Without warning, I sweep the knife around in front and plunge it up to the hilt in the punk’s smooth, flat belly.

 

He grabs at my hand just as I grind the blade into his guts and jerk it back out.  The motherfucker is stupid enough to try to grab at the knife; I let him get hold of it then rapidly twist it back and forth, literally carving up his palms.  I can tell it hurts; his faint squeaks of agony are slightly louder.

 

“Yer still hard, ya sick fuck,” I snarl at him, “Gettin’ loose on my tackle, but yer damn sure enjoyin’ yer perverted ass, aintcha?  Well, cunt, that ain’t fair.  Guess I’m gonna hafta tighten yer fuckhole up the hard way.”

 

This time I aim for his chest.  He sees it coming.  Goddamn, I can’t believe how dumb this one is; despite his bleeding, shredded hands, he still grabs at my wrist.  Teen whore like him shoulda had more street smarts; I really am doin’ the fag a favor by offin’ it now.  Hell, it coulda met someone really bad.

 

Y’know.  Someone evil.

 

I let the meat grab me, though; it’s not strong enough to prevent me from sticking it again.  But I want it to feel the helplessness and despair as it slowly realizes it.

 

It takes a good minute for the tip of the blade to reach the boy’s skin.  As he continues to try to pull my hand away, I land the razor-sharp tip in the center of the firm, smooth mound of his left pec, just above and inward of the hard, jutting nipple.

 

A trickle of blood starts to flow as I pierce the skin.  I apply a little more pressure and the tip slides in almost an inch.  He’s in pain now; the knife has gone past the skin and is slicing open the muscle.  My wrists are slick with blood from the meat’s wounded hands; the deeper the blade goes, the more force he tries to apply—and the more his hands bleed, making his grip more slippery.

 

He’s losing this battle and he knows it.  But again, he’s too fuckin’ stupid to realize that he’s prolonging his suffering by fighting me.  I damn sure ain’t gonna tell him; his ass is tense and rigid with his effort and his agony.

 

There’s some physical resistance—I’ve hit a rib.  My serrated hunting knife is designed to break through the bones of large animal carcasses; the ribcage of an adolescent faggot doesn’t pose a problem.  I just need to apply more pressure.

 

The cunt thrashes violently as I force the steel blade into his chest cavity with enough force to audibly snap the bone.  Fuck, his agony feels so fuckin’ good on my hard, aching tool.  Little homo backs his ass up, grinding my shaft good and hard each time I inflict more pain.  Teen fags are great for this shit; they really seem to get into the suffering.  They’ll piss and moan and cry, but deep inside, they’re all deathpigs.

 

The more it hurts, the more they like it.  Hell, this fuckin’ queerboy is as hard as I am.  Think I’ll give him something to really enjoy.  I slam the knife home, spearing the slut’s left lung and embedding the tip of the blade into the inside of his rib in the back.  Fuck, if it wasn’t for that rib, I’da been able to see the tip of the blade come out his back.

 

“Aw yeah, ya like that, huh?” I whisper into the agonized teen’s ear, nuzzling my scruffy cheek against his.  “Fuck, the way yer workin’ my meat as you die is so fuckin’ hot, dude.  Here, fucker, do it again!”

 

Again, I twist the blade inside him before yanking it back out with a swift, vicious jerk; his lithe body shudders and spasms against mine in nightmarish agony as a series of muffled squeals are forced past my iron grip on his mouth.  The ragged nasal sound of his breathing intensifies as blood bubbles and aspirates from his sucking chest wound.

 

“Havin’ trouble breathin’, asswipe?” I jeer softly, “Yer lung has collapsed.  Fuck, man, that’s gotta hurt.  Betcha feel like yer suffocatin’, huh?  Work it out, cocksucker, work that pain and fear out on my rod!”

 

He’s panicking.  His arms are flailing and he’s riding my cock like it’s a fuckin’ carousel horse.  Goddam, little pansy’s actually gettin’ me close.  Time to shift this bitch into high.

 

I hold the knife in front of his face.  “Last time, boy.  Where do ya want it?  Where do ya want the death blow, motherfucker?  In yer chest?  Wanna feel yer heart pop like a water balloon before it spasms and slices itself into shredded meat on my blade?  Fuck yeah!  Sounds hot as hell, don’t it?”

 

I can feel him trying frenetically to shake his head; I’ve got too tight a grip on him to permit much movement, but his intention is clear.  He’s still struggling, though, his torn and bleeding colon still clamping down on my engorged shaft.  And I can still hear the wet slapping sound of his own erect dick beating against his flat, blood-streaked belly.

 

“Not the chest?  Ok, then.  Funny, ya didn’t strike me as the type that wanted its throat cut, but what the fuck—yer the one bein’ snuffed, fucker.  Here ya go, asshole, and remember—you asked for it!”

 

Holding the blade horizontally, I stick it into the left side of the teenager’s throat, jamming it straight in.  At first it’s smooth and easy, like a hot knife in butter—but then I get to the trachea.  It’s a thick, rubbery piece of tissue, and I’d hit the larynx straight on.

 

Jesus, if I thought I had a hot piece of fuckmeat before, it’s nothing to the way my shaft gets milked as I slowly saw my way through its voicebox.  The faggot fucker gyrates on my pulsing rod like it consciously wants to feel my load in its guts before it dies.

 

Once I get through the larynx, it’s smooth sailing again; within seconds, the gleaming tip of the blade springs from the smooth, unblemished flesh on the right side of the kid’s neck, accompanied by a trickle of blood.  Just the sight of it makes my balls start to boil over; I’m about to grant the fuckmeat its final wish, not that the faggot deserves any mercy on my part.

 

The last thing the homo piece of shit is gonna feel is my hot spunk hosing its guts.

 

The blade is embedded horizontally in the meat’s throat, completely impaling it from side to side.  I’ve undoubtedly cut the carotid and jugular, but the physical presence of the blade in the wound is preventing the meat from bleeding out.

 

So now, instead of sawing into his throat, I cut forward, sawing out of it.

 

I can’t begin to imagine how much agony and terror the fuckmeat must be enduring; it’s not enough.  Goddam homo can’t suffer enough.  “Fuckin’ die, ya worthless piece a’ shit.  Fuckin’ die like a dog in this alley, faggot!” I mutter hoarsely as the dying teen’s throat parts and a loud whistling wheeze erupts briefly from the jagged edges of its open, exposed trachea.

 

Aw fuckin’ hell, it goes so goddam rigid on my cock, gripping it tightly, all the boy’s pain and fear focused onto my swollen rod, concentrated on making my shoot my sperm.  At the moment of death, it finally understands and accepts its true purpose on this planet.  There’s a splattering sound as the cunt’s life blood sprays against the brick wall, but it’s echoed by another, similar sound, a bit lower down.  The teen whore spews its deathload against the same dirty brick wall that’s already stained with its dark, copper-scented blood.

 

At the same time, I’m pumping its intestines full of my hot, potent manseed, letting the dying fag savor one last microsecond of living warmth before it slips pathetically into the cold screaming void of death.  I keep thrusting and shooting for several minutes; when the meat finally dies and starts to sag, I stick my blade into its left flank just below the armpit and through the ribcage, using it as a handle to hold the corpse up until I’m done unloading in it.

 

When I’m done, I press one hand against its back, forcing it into the wall while I slip my still-throbbing cock out of its ass.  Then I pull out my blade and let go, allowing the trembling corpse to fall the ground with a dull thump.  I bend down and use the homo’s shorts to wipe its blood off my blade, making sure to retrieve my money form the dead kid’s pocket, before sliding the knife back into its sheath, hidden under my vest.  As I tuck my dripping shaft back into my jeans, I watch the whore’s boots twitch, causing ripples on the iridescent surface of the filthy puddle in which the dead body lies.

 

I head cautiously and quietly back up the alley.  At the rear entrance, I scan the parking lot for a moment while staying in the shadows, but there’s no one about.  The coast is clear.

 

And so is my mood. Whistling happily, I stroll casually towards my car, my boots thumping regularly on the pavement.  I feel good.  I’ve vented my frustrations, and I’ve rid the world of another useless faggot.  Left in a stinking puddle down a dark, trash-filled alley, with its throat cut and its ass fulla cum—bitch deserved it.

 

Fuck, the bitch got of easy.  Next one’s really gonna suffer.

 

 

 

Leather Dave and the Biker Bitch

BikeFest 2020 was on and to Cody, that meant one thing: getting banged by dudes in leather with thick hogs between their legs.  Hell, he’d already gotten laid last night—not a roughly as he liked it, but it was a start.

 

Cody had been worried about the turnout, but the crown had only been down a little Friday night, the first day of the rally.  Rancho Vista’s BikeFest was nowhere near as large as the huge rallies in Sturgis, but the crowd was just as rowdy—and clearly didn’t give a shit about social distancing.

 

It was past eleven when Cody got to the Fire Lizard, the largest of the four biker bars in town.  Even though it was Saturday, he’d had to work late; they were short-handed at the meat packing plant, and overtime was mandatory.  Then he’d had to go home, shower, and change into something appropriate for the bar.

 

Cody had just turned eighteen three months earlier.  He’d dropped out of school a couple of years earlier after an incident at an earlier rally—he’d been gang-raped by a group of bikers.

 

He’d loved it.  He wanted it to happen again, he wanted to be one of them.  He left school and went to work, trying to save up for a Harley.  The meat packing plant, of course, was the only employment possible without a high school diploma; it took in a lot of the dregs of the town.

 

And somehow, Cody never managed to get his hog.  Booze and food and weed and the rent on his dilapidated single-wide and the tote-the-note payments on his twelve-year-old Toyota pickup seemed to take everything from him.

 

Everything but his love of dick up his ass.  He could still troll the rally, looking for a stud to fuck him like a dog.  He hurried home after his shift, his thick boycock already throbbing with excitement at the thought of so many hot leather-clad dudes in town.

 

He tried to dress the part.  He couldn’t afford real biker leathers, of course; his thin aviator jacket wasn’t even real leather.  His boots were black leather, but they were ropers.  But the black jacket and boots, worn with a basic white cotton t-shirt and a pair of distressed, slightly torn jeans, passed for authentic in the crush at the bars, as long as one didn’t look too closely.  He pulled the boots on quickly; the jeans caught on them and were hiked up but not tucked in, so the legs bunched up at the top of the boots and partly spilled over.

 

Cody already knew where he was heading.  He’d gone to the Third Wheel bar last night, so tonight would be the Fire Lizard.  Hopefully, it’d work out better than last night; the dude had been hot, but he’d been a pussy.  Way too nice to treat Cody like the faggot he was; the teen slut hadn’t been impressed.

 

The muscled youth threw eagerly threw himself into his battered truck and started it with some difficulty.  He was so excited heading into town that it just barely registered that he was almost out of gas.  It didn’t really cross his mind until he hit town—and the traffic

 

Needless to say, the main drag was a madhouse.  Rancho Vista had a population of less than six thousand most of the time, but tonight that number was increased by nearly fifty percent.  Every bar, diner, and fast food franchise in town was packed past capacity.  Hogs of every shape, size, and customization rumbled up and down the street and bikers of both sexes stumbled drunkenly along the sidewalks, laughing, fighting, and catcalling.

 

It was a scene of unbridled revelry, anonymous sexual encounters and rampant drug use and Cody threw himself into it with gleefully reckless abandon.  He was looking for a hot man in leather to fuck him violently and was about to succeed beyond his wildest dreams.

 

The Third Wheel was out near the edge of town—not that Rancho Vista’s edges were that far out—next to an abandoned restaurant.  Cody found himself parking at the restaurant; the bar’s parking lot was too full of motorcycles for him to find a space.  He wasn’t alone; more than two dozen cars, trucks, and bikes were using the overflow lot.

 

The bar was just as packed as its parking lot, of course.  From the moment Cody was in the door, he was in leather pig heaven.  The Third Wheel wasn’t a gay bar—no such thing in town—but given that more than three-quarters of the crowd were male, Cody knew he wouldn’t have any problem finding someone to fuck him.

 

He began squeezing his way through the crown, trying his best not to moan with pleasure like a slut every time he pressed himself up against a leather-clad biker’s hard furry body in the crush.  His dick was a swollen, pulsating ridge of denim in his groin; he did what he could to press it against every dude he could, hoping for a reaction.  He got a couple—but not from anyone who looked like they could give him what he needed.

 

He didn’t see Dave at first.  He felt something, though, something that felt like holes being bored into the nape of his neck.  He turned and scanned the crowd behind him—and that was when he saw the seductive, glittering emerald eyes staring straight at him.

 

The dude was in his early thirties, tall, with wavy jet-black hair, a matching goatee, and a faint haze of dark scruff on his cheeks.  He was dressed as the real deal in a genuine leather biker jacket—worn over his bare, hairy chest and belted at the waist, Cody noted with lust—and tight jeans tucked into a pair of sixteen-inch Wesco Boss engineer boots.

 

At least two other guys were trying to get the man’s attention, but he kept his riveting gaze focused directly on Cody.  The teen staggered towards him as if in a trance.  He was drawn to the stud like a bird to a snake—with the exception that it was purely voluntary.

 


 

For Dave, the rally had been somewhat disappointing.  He’d had a Harley for years—faggot bitchboys loved a man with some serious horsepower between his legs—but he preferred cruising the leather conventions to find horny little sluts that wouldn’t be missed, at least no until he was long gone.

 

But most of the leather cons were being canceled this year.  So Dave decided to break out his bike and head to the rally in Rancho Vista.  He knew the biker crowd didn’t give a shit about the virus or much else.  And there were always a few fags hanging around, hoping to get lucky.  They needed Dave there to show them that their lack of concern for the virus was well justified.  It was nothing. What he had in mind for them was much, much worse.

 

There was no way he’d find a motel room; the place would be packed.  His plan was to spend the night with whatever meat he’d taken home—if the corpse got too stiff in the bed, he could always kick it to the floor.  Just in case, though, he brought a sleeping bag and some camping gear.

 

And it turned out to be a good thing.  He struck out Friday night and left the back feeling angry and thwarted.  It wasn’t that he hadn’t had his pick of the fuckmeat; it was that none of the fuckmeat was worth picking.

 

Well, tonight needed to have a better outcome.  He wasn’t gonna sleep on the ground again’ if nothing worthwhile showed up, he’d just saddle up and head back to—

 

—and that was when Cody walked into his view.  A single glance at the biker wannabe and Dave could see the teen’s desperate aching lust, the kind of lust that can only be assuaged by death.

 

From that moment on, it was settled.  Even before Cody had set eyes on Dave, the muscled sadist had marked the boy for a kill.

 

Even the crowd seemed to abet the meeting, parting easily so that Cody could make his way towards the hardbodied stud.  Within seconds, he was by Dave’s side, looking the leather-clad alpha in the eye.  They didn’t bother to introduce themselves; names weren’t necessary.  Nor was much else; it was obvious what each wanted—up to a point.

 

“Wanna come back to my place for a beer?” Cody asked.

 

Dave looked at him levelly for a moment, sizing the meat up, then spoke.  “Yeah, you’ll do.  But I ain’t leavin’ my bike here.”

 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll leave my truck here,” Cody said, nearly stuttering in horny eagerness, “I’ll ride with you.”

 

Dave saw the way the bulge in the boy’s groin throbbed as he mentioned riding pillion on the motorcycle.  The fagkiller smirked; the little biker groupie was perfect fuckmeat.  Yeah, he’d take the kid back to whatever shithole he lived in and put him out of his misery…

 

“C’mon,” he said, jerking his head towards the rear door, “I’m parked out back.”

 

Cody wasn’t sure how the dude managed to pick his own out of the hundreds of other black bikes in the lot, but he led them straight to a Harley Fat Boy and straddled it, slipping a jet-black helmet on.  With a hard cock and wide, happy grin, Cody climbed on behind him, wrapping his arms around the stud’s leather-jacketed waist.

 

“Left out of the lot, then left at the last light in town.  It’ll be a couple miles out—first right past the dump.”

 

The Harley roared into life, the powerful engine throbbing between their thighs.  Cody had to hold on tight as they accelerated out of the parking lot; Dave saw no need to provide the meat with any kind of head protection.

 

One way or another, it would be beyond the need for protection of any kind within an hour, at the latest.

 

As the wind whistled around his head, Cody buried his face in Dave’s back, inhaling the musky aroma of the leather and feeling its smooth gloss against his skin.  His boycock throbbed achingly; Dave could feel it pulsing against his ass and grinned, knowing this one was hooked good.  He swung off the main road and headed out of town.

 

Making the turn past the dump, Dave found himself navigating the cracks and potholes on a poorly-paved road.  After heading north for about a mile, he pulled up where it dead-ended in front of the burned-out ruin of what had once been a large ranch house.

 

“Keep going,” Cody said, “There, where the gravel track goes over the hill.”

 

Dave eased his way over the hill and stopped at an old single-wide trailer.  It was dilapidated but at least it was inhabitable.

 

Cody slipped off the bike, his legs trembling so hard from the ride he could barely stand.  Dave swung his leg over the hog and stood smirking at the tumbledown mobile home.  Cody caught the look and flushed.

 

“Yeah, I know, but it only costs me three hundred a month.  This useta be a big ranch, but the family lost all their money.  Tyrin’ to sell the place now, but the land ain’t worth much.  House mighta been worth somethin’, but it’s gone.  This trailer useta be the foreman’s place.”

 

Dave grunted his disinterest.  Taking the hint, Cody bounded up the rickety wooden stairs and unlocked the door.  Dave followed, feeling the thin slats of the steps sag under his boots.

 

Everything inside was brown, from the peeling pine veneer on the walls to the dirty acrylic carpeting on the floor.  There was a distinctive sharp hint of formaldehyde oozing from the plywood walls; it was only partially overlaid by the heavier scents of weed and mansex.

 

“You, uh, you c’n help yerself to a beer; they’re in the fridge,” Cody said, almost shyly.  “I wanna go, um—well, I need to make the bed—”

 

“Don’t bother,” Dave said sharply, “Just strip the sheets off.  You too, boy.  Strip!”

 

When Cody flushed this time, it wasn’t with embarrassment, it was with pleasure.  He was sure he’d found his alpha.

 

Dave strolled into the small kitchen, pulled a can of beer from the fridge, and headed back into the living room.  What little counter space the kitchen offered was covered in filthy, unwashed dishes.  It was easier to set his beer down in the living room while he slipped out of his jacket, leaving it carefully folded on the back of the dilapidated sofa.

 

Cody came back in, grinning, his thick boycock already stiffening; he had just entered the room with Dave unzipped his fly and began to haul out his huge member.  It popped out, thick, erect, and glistening, wreathed with veins and with a huge scrotum dangling underneath.  The grin was instantly wiped off Cody’s face—he wasn’t able to smile with his mouth agape in awe.

 

Dave noticed, and sneered.  “Ya want my cock, faggot?  You ain’t good enough to make me cum, bitch.”

 

Cody was as erect as a steel beam.  “Yeah I am,” he gasped breathily, “But it’s gotta be rough.”

 

Dave’s grin grew shark-like.  “Rough is the only way I fuck worthless pansies like you.  Get down on yer knees, fucker.  Now!”

 

The teen punk dropped as commanded.

 

“Crawl over here, cunt; I wanna fuck yer skull.”

 

Cody shuffled his way forward, on his knees, until he was close enough for Dave to reach out and grab his head, clutching it with relentless, inexorable strength as his forced his massive shaft down the kid’s throat.

 

The first hint to Cody’s hormone-dimmed mind that this wasn’t going to be his dream fuck was his inability to breathe.  He was a serious cockpig and had gagged on dick often enough before.  He loved being forced to choke on an alpha’s tool—up to a point.

 

But this was going on too long, and Cody was starting to suffer.  This wasn’t what he wanted, but he couldn’t escape.  The dude was just too strong, rendering the kid’s head utterly immobile while he left his thick rod of manmeat buried deep in the fag’s throat, his heavy balls resting against its chin.

 

The teen beat his hands against Dave’s denim-wrapped, muscular thighs; it had as much effect as if he were beating a tree trunk.  He tried desperately to jerk his head away as his pulse began to pound in his head.  He gagged, forcing thick streams of drool out past Dave’s enormous cock and down his chin.

 

His only reward was a malignant chuckle from above, followed by a deep thrust of dick into his throat.  His struggles became more intense as his chest started to burn.  Frantically digging into the cheap carpeting, Cody yanked himself backwards as forcefully as he could—and suddenly found himself free.

 

Dave, feeling the boy pulling, let go of his head and Cody was flung back across the room under his own power.  As the fag slut lay huddled and coughing on the floor, the hot muscled stud stalked towards him, a wide, sneering grin on his face.  Once within range, he kicked the boy—not hard enough to do any real damage, but his leather Wesco boot had enough force to make the punk grunt.

 

“Hope yer a better assfuck than ya are a throatfuck, you worthless faggot,” he snarled, “But I gotta way of makin’ sure you are anyway.  Ya liked gettin’ choked, dintja?  Yer little homo cock got all hard as ya gagged on my dick, so yer gonna fuckin’ shoot gobs a’ cum when ya get choked to death ridin’ my shaft, motherfucker!”

 

Cody’s face had faded from its earlier livid color; when he heard Dave’s words, he paled even more.  He peered up from the floor at the hulking hardbodied biker looming over him.  The tall leather boots and the thick, muscled thighs supported the rod and tackle of a stallion; above, the waist expanded up a heavily-muscled torso, the ripped abs and huge hubcaps pecs were covered with dark wiry fur, from the latter of which thick nipples jutted like hills above a forest. And that face—

 

—but Cody wouldn’t look Dave in the face; he could see death there.

 

“No…” he whispered faintly, his mind already reeling with desperate plans for escape, “No, don’t…”

 

He sounded abject with fear, but Dave was an experience fagkiller.  He knew what was coming by the way the fucker’s eyes were darting about, like a trapped wild animal.

 

Which, Dave, thought, was exactly what he was.  A trapped animal, soon to be made into a piece of meat.

 

The boy popped up like a jack-in-the-box, his almost magical change from horizontal to vertical inspired by panic. He turned towards the front door and started to bolt, but he got no farther than the length of his own body; Dave stuck out one booted foot and tripped the slut.

 

This time Dave was on him before Cody could rise again, stomping the tread of his Wesco boot into the smooth tender flesh of the boy’s back and kicking him in the flanks until he was wallowing on the floor in pain.

 

“Ya like it rough, faggot?  That rough enough for ya?  Fuck, boy, that’s just foreplay.  I’m gonna make you suffer when I fuck ya to death.  Yer gonna be in more pain that you can possibly imagine, you stupid little fuck—not that yer gonna hafta imagine it.”

 

He bent down, grabbed a hank of the sobbing kid’s tousled hair, and began dragging him towards the bedroom.  Cody scrambled to his feet and lurched along behind his attacker, bent double to avoid having a chunk of his scalp ripped off.  Dave led the wailing homo relentlessly to the stripped-down bed, then let go.

 

Cody stood upright, his boyish face smeared with tears and snot as he whimpered, trying to avoid Dave’s eyes, already aware of the piercing hate and lust that glinted in them like burning ice.  His attention was distracted by a flash on the left and then something happened—intense pain, a powerful impact—

 

—he hadn’t seen the sucker punch Dave had thrown at him, but he damn sure felt it.  Groaning, he opened his eyes—well, the right one, anyway; the left one was already swelling badly—and peered up at the handsome grinning sadist looming over him.  Immediately, he rolled over onto his stomach and tried to scramble off the bed; deep inside, he knew he didn’t have a chance at escape, and he was right.

 

Dave grabbed Cody by the right arm and dragged him off the bed, letting him fall face-down on the floor with a heavy thud.  Before he could recover, the muscle-bound killer had his arm again, planting his black leather boot just above Cody’s elbow.

 

Dave snatched Cody’s wrist and began pulling up while pressing down with his boot. The moaning slut felt his arm being bent backwards to the full extent of his elbow.  Then, with a grunt, Dave gave a vicious jerk.  Cody shrieked like a factory siren as his elbow bent ninety degrees in the wrong direction with a wet gristly cracking sound.

 

The pain was like nothing Cody had experienced in his short, useless life.  His imagination hadn’t comprehended that this kind of pain existed.  He rolled to his side, his eyes bulging (even the blackened one) with pain and horror as he stared at his mangled arm.  Dave let him scream for a minute or two, then approached him.

 

Cody looked up and saw the thick clear beads of precum oozing from the huge purple head of the biker’s massive dick, and he understood that this wasn’t the end of his life, it was the start of an eternity in hell.  This sick motherfucker he’d brought home was getting off on hurting him and maiming him.

 

Cody screamed again.  “Shaddap,” Dave snapped and kicked the boy in the face, fracturing his jaw.

 

The teen faggot lay on the floor in a semi-conscious state, his lithe young body sweating and shuddering in agony.  Part of him just wanted to surrender, to let the hardbodied psycho do whatever he wanted, if that meant it would be over faster.  But he knew that he couldn’t control his automatic urge to fight off the source of pain.

 

And somewhere deep in the pit of his brain, he refused to acknowledge the fact that even surrender wouldn’t end it any faster; the dude was turned on by his suffering.

 

Dave didn’t give a shit what was running in the meat’s mind; whatever was going on in there would be shut down soon enough.  He was busy surveying his prey, trying to determine where to attack next.

 

“Lessee,” he chuckled malignly, “Wanna keep it even, yeah?  Left arm, so now right leg.  C’mere, bitch, this one’s gonna hurt so bad you’ll cum.”

 

He grabbed Cody’s right wrist and dragged him about a foot—just enough to turn him onto his back.  Then he stepped down and planted his boot on the punk’s thigh, just above the knee.  Recognizing what was about to happen, the homo wailed at the top of his lungs, despite the pain the movement caused his damaged jaw.  It did no good anyway, once Dave bent down, grabbed his ankle, and began pulling upwards.

 

This time was different.  Cody’s elbow had snapped like a turkey’s wishbone; his knee was a little sturdier.  Unfortunately for the teen cunt, this meant that Dave didn’t do it all in one swift, clean jerk.  It took a little time—time enough for Cody to feel and hear the ligaments and tendons tearing and snapping, time for him to see his patella bulge and finally shear to the outside as his leg was bent back at a right angle with a loud squelching sound.

 

Cody had been right that he wouldn’t be able to control his reactions once the pain hit; he just didn’t know that he’d be utterly helpless when it did.  With one arm and one leg useless, all he could do was writhe on the floor and squeal in such agony that his voice cracked and all that came out was a gargling hiss.

 

And yet through the glassy haze of suffering, he could still hear the contempt in Dave’s voice.

 

“Time to saddle up, motherfucker, yer prime fuckmeat now.  I’m ready to dump my load and hit the road.  Got shit to do asswipe, so it’s time to die on my dick.”

 

Cruelly dragging the thrashing youth upright by his useless left arm, Dave held Cody to him for a brief moment, feeling the eighteen-year-old boy’s smooth skin sliding against his own as the cunt flailed in nightmarish pain.  He threw the kid onto the bed, then followed, his huge cock visibly pulsing as he neared the quivering pile of boyflesh.

 

Again, Cody forced his eyes open to see Dave towering over him.  This time, though, the older man had unbuckled his belt and was slowly sliding it from around his waist.  It was an inch-wide leather strap, glossy black on the outside but raw on the inside.  The muscled stud wrapped the end without the buckle around his hand as he climbed onto the bed and pried the kid’s legs apart.

 

The teen homo knew what was coming.  Forty-five minutes ago, he’d been excited to nearly the point of orgasm at the thought of getting fucked by the hulking hardbodied biker.

 

Now, he knew it meant pain and death.

 

So did Dave, and he drove the point home as he pressed the enormous, precum-smeared head of his cock against the boy’s tender quivering fuckhole.  “Now yer gonna know what it feels like to have a real man inside you, faggot.  And it’s gonna hurt.  It’s gonna hurt so fucking bad.”

 

And it did.

 

Dave shoved.  There was a brief resistance, then Cody’s sphincter tore like a wet paper towel and the killer’s monster cock plowed its way remorselessly through the teen’s colon and lodged itself in his guts, mercilessly grinding the boy’s prostate as it did.

 

Despite the physical trauma he’d already endured, this new pain sent Cody’s brain into vapor lock.  It was too much for him to process; not just the searing agony of his mangled asshole, but the amazingly excruciating fullness, the sensation of having an object jammed up his ass that was far larger than the space into which it’d been forced.

 

That was when Dave began beating him with the belt.

 

The first stinging lash of the leather strap broke Cody out of his stupor; the mark left by the buckle was so deep it had cut the skin.  As the sadistic fagkiller raised the belt again, the boy held out his good right arm in an instinctive attempt to ward off the blow—another of Cody’s bad decisions.

 

Dave brought the belt down with a powerful whip-like movement and Cody’s right hand took the full force of the buckle, snapping all but his thumb and pinkie finger.  With a shriek, the punk drew back his crushed hand as Dave roared in rage.  “Goddam dumbass motherfucker!”

 

He began to rain blows on the helpless teen homo, feeling the boy’s ass muscles clench his swollen cock in agony each time the belt landed on the kid’s chest or belly.  As Cody’s silky, smooth flesh was beaten to a mass of bleeding purple welts, his torturer grunted with pleasure.

 

But the law of diminishing returns soon asserted itself; the young pansy was simply too exhausted to react.  The pain had become so overwhelming that the pile of bleeding, shuddering meat that had once been a meatpacker named Cody had just stopped responding.

 

“Goddamit, you really are worthless, even for a fuckin’ faggot,” Dave growled.  “Can’t even work a load outta my cock, even with all the help I been givin’ ya.  I’m ready to pump and dump, and I ain’t got the time to beat ya till ya get it right.  Yer done, bitch.”

 

He spit in Cody’s face, punched him twice, hard, then wrapped the belt around his neck and, looping it back through the buckle, made a simple noose that he quickly tightened.

 

The teenaged homo truly was little more than meat at the moment; he had been tortured and terrorized so badly by this point that his psyche had shattered.  But he was still very much alive and able to feel—and suffer.  His reaction to having his air supply shut off might have been reflexive, but it wasn’t any less desperate or violent for that.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, that’s it,” the vicious killer grunted as the desperate teen bucked and jerked, “Now yer bein’ a good little faggot, aintcha?  This is what it takes to earn my load, cocksucker; ya gotta die for it.  Now yer gettin’ it, boy.  Kick and choke and die, motherfucker!”

 

Cody was no longer the handsome boy he’d been less than an hour ago in the bar, but now he was becoming unrecognizable.  His already swollen and bruised face was turning black, his bulging eyes giving him a frantic expression that was completely appropriate; he felt like his head was going to explode.  All the other pain had receded behind this, the mortal agony of slow, painful asphyxiation.  His useless right hand beat against Dave’s broad, muscular chest, the limp fingers dragging helplessly in the wiry black body fur.

 

But there was another pain, too; one that had grown so gradually that it only began to make its presence known as Cody’s brain began to die.  It was an ache, like a throbbing tooth, that quickly built in intensity until it matched the pounding agony inside his skull.  It was his cock.

 

It was so rigid, so painfully erect that the repeated friction of being pressed between Dave’s furry ripped abs and Cody’s welt-covered belly swiftly became an excruciating, fiery ache.  Dave noticed it too.

 

“Now yer gettin’ it, ya piece a’ homo shit,” he grunted, thrusting his massive shaft vigorously into the dying boy’s ass.  “Fuckin’ faggots need to be put down like dogs.  The more it hurts as ya die, the more ya cum.  I’m doin’ yer worthless ass a favor, puttin’ ya outta yer perverted misery, and ya love it so much ya blow a load.  Every goddam time.  All you fuckin’ sick-ass queers need to die.”

 

Some part of Cody’s personality might have heard Dave’s jeering words as it flickered and faded in a dark corner of his mind, but the damage to the teen’s brain had passed the point of no return.  As thick streamers of drool bubbled past Cody’s protruding tongue and ran down his smooth cheeks, his lithe, sweat-slick body began to jerk and convulse.

 

Dave grinned and held on tight; this was it, this was the whole point.  This was why the faggot had to die—so its death throes could jerk the psychotic stud off.

 

As the meat thrashed under him, Dave could feel his scrotum tingling; soon electric shocks were playing at the base of his cock.  Pulling tightly on the belt with one hand, he placed his other hand palm down over the cunt’s black, swollen face and pulled.  With a thick wet crunch, the teen’s trachea collapsed into a mass of bloody, mangled cartilage, sealing his throat forever.

 

That sound, that sensation, was the trigger.  The meat was capable of two last sensations—a searing blast of heat inside it and a burning agony in the genitals.

 

It ended the way Cody had hoped it would the moment he met Dave: Cody shot his wad as Dave unloaded inside him.  The only difference was that Cody wasn’t alive to enjoy the solid jet of sperm he spewed all over Dave’s hard, hairy belly and his own flat, battered chest.  And Dave was cursing him and beating his face in as he spunked uncontrollably.

 

The body kept thrashing for a while, though; Dave had considered snapping its neck, but the meat just kept milking him and milking him until he thought his balls would collapse.   After a while, it settled into a steady, gentle quivering and the sick killer finally, reluctantly, withdrew his rod form the corpse.  Rising to his knees, he peered down at his victim—the perfect image of an alpha male, sweaty and cum-covered after marking his prey.

 

Somewhat unsteadily, he staggered out of the room to locate the bathroom.  He was happy; any fuck good enough to leave him weak in the knees was with the effort.

 

Finding the cleanest towel he could, Dave wiped himself down, sponging the dead boy’s cum off his torso and cleaning his dick before stuffing it back inside his jeans.  Tossing the towel into the toilet, he headed into the living room and put his jacket back on before returning to the bedroom to retrieve his belt.  He’d thought about leaving it behind, but it was a good belt and that worthless homo fuck didn’t deserve to keep it.

 

The meat was still twitching.  Its arms and legs were splayed at odd angles—especially the broken ones—and the toes on the left foot had locked into a tight curl at the moment of death.  The thick boycock was starting to shrivel, beads of cum forced from its head as it shrank.

 

Approaching the head of the bed, Dave grabbed the corpse by the hair and began to work the belt free.  Spittle had dried to a crust on the face in the same way that the tick pools of semen on the chest were congealing into a glaze.  The belt was deeply embedded; the hardbodied killer was forced to manhandle the dead boy to get it loose, finally prying it from around the throat and dumping the body on the floor as he looped it back around his waist.  The extra bit of effort had caused his temper to flare again.

 

“Stupid piece of shit,” he snarled, lashing out with his Wesco boot.  If Cody had been alive, the blow might have been fatal; it cracked his skull.  As it was, all that happened was that the corpse flopped over, its ravaged asshole pointing skyward.

 

Dave paused in the doorway, looking back at the dead teen fag lying on the floor like a wadded-up cumrag, and smirked.  Fucker had got what he deserved.  Wheeling about contemptuously, he mounted his bike and headed out; by dawn he was two counties away, the throbbing hog between his legs vibrating the last few drops of sperm left in his deflated scrote.

 


 

Ames wasn’t happy when the welfare check call came across; clean-up after BikeFest was always monumental.  One rape, three attempted rapes, three attempted murders and more alcohol and drug violations than he could count; it was always the same.  And now a welfare check.

 

He was even less happy when he heard the details.

 

“Come again, dispatch?  You want me to go all the way over to the Wakefield Ranch to check on some eighteen-year-old who didn’t show up for work at the plant?  After last weekend, I’m surprised any of them did show up…”

 

But the response that the kid in question hadn’t been seen since Friday—it was now Tuesday morning—and that he was know to keep bad company (“he’s one a’ them homasexshools”) shut the deputy up and he proceeded as directed.

 

The moment he pulled up to the trailer, his heart sank.  A warm front was moving through, and it was a gusty day.  The front door of the trailer was wide open and banging in the wind.

 

Ames exited his car carefully, unsnapping his holder and withdrawing his gun.  There was no other vehicle visible.

 

“Hello?  Cahill County Sheriff’s Department—anyone there?”

 

His call was answer by nothing more than the arrhythmic banging of the door.

 

The deputy cautiously climbed the front steps and entered the trailer, doing a quick sweep of the living area and kitchen.  Nothing seemed to be disturbed—or, rather, the place was too much a mess to tell if anything had been disturbed.  Ames headed for the bedroom.

 

Thirty seconds later, he was back at his car.

 

“Yeah, dispatch, ya better send the whole works.  Looks like the fag got buttfucked to death.  Someone who really hates homos, too, by the looks of it.  I ain’t never seen a body beat up so bad that hadn’t been run over by a truck.  Been dead for several days.  Better let the sheriff know, too; find out what he wants to do.”

 

As he waited for a response, Ames crossed back to the trailer and closed the front door; the relentless banging was getting on his nerves.  He wasn’t worried about preserving fingerprints; he knew it wouldn’t matter.

 

He didn’t know how quickly he’d be proven right; the sheriff’s response was to secure the scene for the meat wagon and head back to the hospital.  The rape victim had said she could give a description of her attacker; the department had bigger things to worry about than some dead faggot.

 

Ames got back in the car and peeled out.  Behind him, Cody’s battered corpse, cold and lonely, remained lying on the bedroom floor for another three hours before the coroner’s van arrived.

 

 

Rocko Busts Out

The car was a twelve-year-old Ford, battered and nondescript.  It sat in the motel parking lot, backed into a space at the far end, facing the building.  Its darkened interior apparently empty, it drew no attention.

 

Any observer would have had to have been remarkably quick-eyed to see the brief flash of flame as Rocko fired up a blunt.  The red glow of the tip was too faint to see from more than a few feet away, especially when the hardbodied man exhaled a cloud that filled the car with acrid cigarette smoke mixed with the sweeter scent of marijuana.

 

Rocko leaned back in the seat and relaxed.  He could take his time; now that he’d tracked Jessie down, there was no rush.  This would go down better later on, when there were fewer people about.  Few people to witness anything, or to hear the screaming.

 

And besides, it looked like Jessie had company—not that there would be long delay because of that.  Jessie’s company typically only stayed around long enough to cum.  Jessie was usually smart enough to get them to pay first.

 

Maybe not, though.  Rocko’s face was handsome and hard, but it could get mean with frightening speed—and it got truly terrifying when he thought about Jessie.  Kid sure hadn’t been smart last time they’d seen each other.

 

Jessie had been so very, very stupid.  But that was ok.  Rocko was here tonight to teach Jessie, to make him learn some basic lessons that the boy’s mama and daddy didn’t get into his thick skull…

 

Taking another hit off the blunt, the buff stud felt his cock stirring; he grinned ferally in the darkness.  Yeah, Jessie was gonna learn tonight.  He’d definitely be learning the hard way—and it was a lesson he’d never forget.

 

Rocko was gonna make goddam sure of that.

 

He’d seen the guy go into Jessie’s room—only from the back, but enough to recognize the type.  Middle-aged, pudgy, almost certainly married.  Had lunch or after-work “meetings” involving boys and drugs.  Rocko smirked—for twenty bucks and few hits of meth, Jessie would let anyone do anything they wanted.

 

Well, almost anything.  He damn sure wouldn’t let Rocko do the things he had planned, not that Jessie’s opinion mattered.  They’d be done to him in any case.

 

And soon.  Rocko glanced at his phone; the pudgy dude had been in the room nearly twenty minutes.  Rocko was kinda impressed; the guy hadn’t seemed the type to last long, particularly not with Jessie’s talents.  The boy was definitely skilled.  Rocko’s hard shaft throbbed again as he briefly pictured how he’d made use of those skills before…

 

Grinning, he stubbed out his blunt and got out of the car.  His thick-soled Georgia steel-toed workboots hit the ground with a thud as he pulled his full six-foot-two height erect.  His muscle-packed body was just barely encased in a pair of tight, worn Diesel jeans—the laced boots had been jammed on in a hurry afterwards, not tied—and the tautly-stretched, ribbed fabric of an even tighter wifebeater.

 

The latter garment displayed his thickly-muscled arms, writhing with tattoos.  Jessie had some of the same tattoos, from the same source.  After all, they’d spent the better part of two years sharing the same cell in the state pen—for nearly the same crime.

 

It had been that “nearly” that had made the difference.

 

One spring break, Jessie had gotten handsy with a sixteen-year-old boy for whose family he did lawn work.  The boy’s mother had walked in from the store just as Jessie had finished jerking the kid off.  He’d had some minor offences before, and ended up getting five years in prison, where his new cellie was Rocko.

 

Rocko had already been in for two years.  He’d gotten handsy too—but his version had involved the vicious beating and rape of a fourteen-year-old homeless boy he’d lured in.  With a string of increasingly violent sexual assaults on his record, he was given thirty years.

 

In their tiny shared cell, it hadn’t taken Rocko long to establish his dominance over Jessie.  And while the younger con worshipped Rocko’s hard, masculine body—made increasingly more powerful each week in the prison weight room—the stud’s brutal and sadistic nature began to scare him more and more.

 

In his early twenties, Jessie was about ten years younger than Rocko; at five-ten, he was both shorter and physically less developed than the violent rapist.  As opposed to Rocko’s strawberry-blond goatee and buzz-cut hair, Jessie’s untidy mop was mouse-brown, the same color as the thin, weedy mustache he was continually trying to coax out of his upper lip without ever quite managing it.

 

Jessie’s body wasn’t bad—firmly-muscled, with huge dark nipples that seemed to be highlighted by the smooth pale skin of his chest.  His legs were thick and tight and half a foot of uncut boycock dangled from the dark nest of pubes between his thighs.

 

It was nowhere near as impressive as Rocko’s was, though—the alpha’s huge hubcap pecs were covered with a dusting of golden wiry fur that thickened and darkened as it moved down over the washboard abs and finally terminated in a dense mass of tangled auburn pubes from which jutted a vein-wrapped monster of a dick, large enough to intimidate the most reamed-out fag.

 

The physical dominance, therefore, had been easy to establish.  To gain mental control over the boy, all the older man had to do was start telling about his past—about the other rape, the one the authorities didn’t know about.

 

Oh, they knew about the victim.  But he was a just a name on a list, a teen missing in the next state over.  Rocko had made damn sure his body wouldn’t be found, which he described in great detail to Jessie, along with the kid’s death and the suffering he endured prior to it.

 

At first, Jessie hadn’t believed it, but as he got to know Rocko better, in every sense of the term, he began to think that maybe this psycho bastard really could have done those horrific things to that kid.  But it was the first assrape that made Jessie decide on a course of action.

 

It wasn’t that Jessie hadn’t had pipe laid up his ass before, of course; he’d done all kinda sexual shit for money and he damn sure wasn’t a virgin.  But Rocko’s cock was on a whole different order of magnitude, exponentially larger than anything that’d been shoved into his colon before.  There was no lube in prison—and there was no privacy; that was the problem.

 

More specifically, the problem had been Jessie’s screaming.  Rocko solved it by shoving the boy’s face into the mattress and holding it there until he unloaded.

 

Jessie couldn’t breathe, and Rocko knew it.  He took his time.

 

It took over a week for Jessie to approach the prison chaplain privately to get a request to the warden, and another two weeks for a meeting to be arranged, conveniently during one of Rocko’s many workout sessions.  In the meantime, though, the boy’s rectum continued to be violent assaulted on a nightly basis.  As his torn sphincter loosened, unable to heal, his screaming ceased, so Rocko just started choking him out as he fucked him.  As much as the little homo pervert loved getting plowed by someone of Rocko’s physique, the look in the stud’s eyes as Jessie, gagging and thrashing, began to pass out, was terrifying.  One day Rocko would just keep going, and there’d be no one there to stop him.

 

And so, when he finally got his requested private meeting with the warden, he coughed up all the details of Rocko’s sex kill—which included the location of the body.  In this state.

 

That was all it took to bring in the FBI.  It took another two weeks—the longest two weeks of Jessie’s short, wasted life—before enough progress had been made for guards to show up one morning just after breakfast to drag Rocko out of the cell.

 

“Warden wants to see ya,” one said laconically, “Federal boys got some questions.”

 

Rocko never came back.

 

Thanks to his info, Jessie’s lawyer managed to secure him an early release after just twenty-four months.  He’d have to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life, of course, and he was still on parole for five years, but he was out of jail.

 

Rocko, on the other hand, ended up with a life sentence a private correctional institution on the other side of the state, where he was forced to endure nearly sub-human conditions under a corrupt and incompetent staff.

 

Until he escaped three weeks ago.

 

Thanks to the sex offender registry, it hadn’t taken him long to track Jessie down; the little weasel was apparently being visited by his parole officer on a monthly basis, so he’d had to keep his address updated.  Not that he’d had much choice of address to begin with; with minimal education, his primary job skill was manual labor.

 

He was a worthless fag whore; there were easier ways to make money using his body.  Rocko knew exactly where he’d find Jessie long before he had the actual address—in a cheap by-the-week motel where he could turn tricks for all the meth, coke, and weed he could smoke.  The only question in Rocko’s mind was how the fucker was passing his monthly UA’s; Jessie piss had to be full of chemicals.  But lack of education didn’t preclude development of an animal cunning; the bitch clearly had something worked out.

 

Didn’t matter.  That contract, whatever it was, was gonna get canceled tonight.  Along with everything else Jessie had in the works.

 

It was room seventeen.  The door had been painted dark green amateurishly, the thick, sloppy brushstrokes showing in the dim but pure white light of the floodlight by the office.  As Rocko approached it, the door opened; he darted quickly to the side, remaining unseen in the shadows as the pudgy man left.  No words were exchanged as Jessie’s john departed, but the kid kept the door cracked, peering out as his trick turned the corner.

 

This paranoia, this need to make sure the john truly left, was formed from experience; the experienced boywhore had one or two come back.  Sometimes for their money, sometimes for another round—free.  One of them had knocked out one of his molars.  As a result, Jessie made sure they were out of sight before bolting the door and relaxing.

 

This time, it backfired.  The moment the john vanished, Rocko appeared.  Jessie never had the chance to close the door.

 

“Hey there, boy,” Rocko said, his deep bass voice soft and gentle, rumbling like a cat’s purr and a benevolent grin spread across his hard, manly face.  “Long time, no see.  How ya been?”

 

Jessie pissed himself.

 

The boy was nude.  Semen had trickled from the corner of his mouth and congealed on his cheek.  His firm, smooth body glistened with sweat under the bleak glare of an unshaded bedside lamp—the shade itself lying partially crushed on the floor—and his thick dick was semi-erect.

 

Terror wilted it quickly.  Jessie wasn’t aware of the sensation of warm urine running down his leg; he was looking death in the face, and he knew it.  He staggered back, inadvertently allowing room for Rocko to enter.

 

Stepping in, the older man turned, very calmly and deliberately, and locked the door behind him.  All three locks.  Then, just as calmly, he turned back to the terrified punk.

 

“You know why I’m here?” he asked evenly.

 

Wide-eyed and trembling, Jessie nodded.

 

“You know what’s gonna happen?”

 

Jessie nodded again.

 

Rocko’s smile became shark-like.  “The fuck ya do, bitch.  This is gonna be worse than you can possibly fuckin’ imagine.”

 

Jessie gulped audibly, took another step back, and fell over a pile of his dirty clothes.  The room was just as seedy as the slut who occupied it, and Jessie’s housekeeping skills were minimal.  Jessie had fallen flat on his back in a space between the bed and a small table with a single chair; he’d just missed whacking his head on the one nightstand, with the unshaded lamp.

 

Rocko glanced around quickly—there was a low dresser with a cheap, no-name TV on it on the far side of the bed with the closet and the entrance to the bathroom beyond—before he walked slowly towards the frightened cunt.  The sight of the worthless little rat shuddering with terror made his cock throb; already, it wanted to be let out of its denim confines to be able to rip its way back into the fucker’s guts.

 

Jessie shuddered on the floor, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s, with no words coming out.  Rocko had escaped, but beyond that obvious fact, his mind couldn’t progress.  He’d never imagined this possibility, never planned for it.  The fact that the hardbodied psycho might get out had never occurred to him, much less that the sadistic motherfucker would hunt him down.

 

Rocko stood over him.  The towering stud lifted his leg and planted his boot in the middle of Jessie’s chest, glaring down at the helpless prison bitch.  He spat in the punk’s face while simultaneously unzipping his fly.

 

Jessie had closed his eyes, but he felt the warm spittle—and then, another warm fluid spattering his face.  Opening his eyes unwillingly, the weasely cunt saw Rocko’s huge, ass-reaming hog dangling over him, precum dripping from its swollen purple head.

 

“You ratted me out, you dumb fuck,” Rocko snarled.  “Yeah, yer gonna die—eventually.”  Without warning, the buff sadist kicked Jessie in the face, his steel-toed Georgia workboot easily cracking the punks’ cheekbone and knocking two teeth down his throat.  “First, though, I’m gonna have some fun learnin’ ya a lesson.  And the only way to teach a stupid piece a’ faggot shit like you somethin’ is to beat it into ya.”

 

Here Rocko’s grin became malevolent.  “And yer stupider than most.  Bet I’m gonna hafta beat ya to dogfood ‘fore yer gonna learn anything.  That’s ok, though.  Gonna have my hog buried in yer fuckhole the entire time.”  Jessie didn’t think Rocko’s grin could have gotten more malicious; he saw that he was wrong.  His lean body was still frozen with fear; the tatted, aggressive alpha reveled in the stoolie’s terror.

 

“Gonna be just like old times, yeah, fucker?  Fuck yeah, I kinda liked poundin’ yer homo hole.  ‘Cept this is gonna be even better.  Just the two of us, bitch.  No guards, no coon or spic howlin’ in the next cell.  I been wantin’ to wreck yer worthless ass from the moment they tossed ya into my cell, and now there ain’t no one to stop me.  Get up, cunt, time to rock an’ roll.  Get the fuck UP!!”

 

Instinctively, Jessie rolled over and began to push himself up on his hands and knees.  Obedience to the harsh, demanding tone in Rocko’s voice had become ingrained in the young fag during the years they’d spent together in the cell.  As he crouched, swaying, his eyes focusing blearily on the way the blood drooling from his mouth was staining the already-filthy carpet, when Rocko’s boots appeared in his field of view.

 

Jessie didn’t want to get kicked again.  In fact, he didn’t want to be in this room anymore at all.  It didn’t matter that he was nude, covered in his own blood and piss.  It was time to leave.  He rose slowly up from the floor into a sprinter’s crouch, then bolted for the door.

 

Rocko was a bully and a brutal sadist, but he wasn’t an experienced killer.  His one prior snuff had been a defenseless teen who he’d gotten too drunk and too high to put up much of a fight once he realized what was happening to him.  The adolescent had kicked and clawed a little, but Rocko had put him down without much trouble.

 

The aggressive alpha was caught off guard by his prey’s sudden attempt to escape.  But Rocko had more of both intelligence and animal craftiness than his ex-cellmate.  His foresight in locking the doors was proof enough.

 

As Jessie gibbered in fear, his shaking, desperate fingers fumbling uselessly with the knobs on the door, Rocko slowly approached him from behind.  Jessie was too intent on getting away to notice Rocko’s proximity until the swole ex-con reached out a hand, grabbed a huge hank of the boy’s untidy mop of hair, and jerked him bodily back into the room.  He spun the kid around, his glittering green eyes as cold and feral as a cat’s.

 

“Where you think yer goin’?” he asked in a dangerously silky voice.  “We’re just gettin’ started.  Time to rock an’ roll, motherfucker!”

 

Jessie saw the swift and brutally powerful blow that Rocko dealt him as a brief flash, like lighting.  The impact had much the same effect, sending the bitchboy reeling back into the bedside table.  There was a clattering crash as the cheap piece of furniture collapsed and Jessie went to the floor, along with the lamp, phone, and alarm clock.

 

Jessie groaned; ignoring the dull ache radiating from the center of his face—a clue that his nose had been broken—he doggedly pulled himself back to his feet.

 

There was a window in the bathroom.  It was small, but he might fit.  He had to try, though, he had to get to it, otherwise he was gonna die in this room tonight.  It was a risk he had to take…

 

…it was a risk doomed to fail.  But he didn’t know that.  And, ultimately, he might have suffered less nightmarish agony prior to his horrific, drawn-out death had he not tried to escape—but then again, he might not have.

 

After all, killing him wasn’t Rocko’s sole purpose.  Rocko was there to inflict pain.  And it was only when Rocko was satisfied he’d inflicted enough pain that’d he’d grant the release of death.

 

Jessie tried again, knowing failure this time meant a long, agonizing death.  He leaped onto the bed, the cheap inner-coil mattress loudly protesting the sudden pressure as the lithe, tattooed young man used it as a springboard to reach the bathroom door.

 

He actually made it to the window.  Escape was so close that he sobbed aloud as he grappled with the latch—then he heard the thud of Rocko’s boot on the tile floor.

 

There was no urine left in his bladder or he’d have pissed himself again.  His eyes teared; his vision became too blurry for him to see what he was doing.

 

It didn’t matter.  He was dead.  He’d keep fighting it because…well, because, but at least some part of him was aware that he was gonna die.

 

Rocko had decided to drive the point home.

 

“Can’t trust ya at all, bitch, can I?” he growled, “Time to put yer punk ass outta commission.”

 

The bathroom had a small medicine cabinet on the wall over the sink, a basic metal box with an interior shelf and a mirrored door.  Grabbing Jessie’s hair again, he jerked the boy over to it.

 

“Lookit yer little faggot face, cunt.  Look at it!” He clutched the crying slut tightly by the back of the head.  “Aw, you ain’t gonna get no more dicks to suck with it all snotty like that.  Here, lemme help ya clean it up—motherfucker!”

 

He slammed Jessie’s face into the cabinet with such force it crumpled and fell to the floor, shards of glass tinkling on the tiles around the kid as he sank to his knees, his face bleeding and swelling.

 

“No ya don’t, asswipe,” Rocko said with grim humor, “This dance just started.”  Again, a handful of Jessie’s hair, this time pulled straight upwards.  Squealing in pain like a pig, the young ex-con scrambled to his feet to avoid having his scalp torn.

 

“Get in here,” he snarled, dragging the boy into the bedroom.  “Before you get the privilege of dyin’ on my dick, faggot, you gotta pay for it.  You understand, you worthless fuckin’ stoolie?  You gotta pay.”

 

Jessie could barely think.  His face felt like it’d been jackhammered.  He heard Rocko’s words, but they were just noises.

 

He understood actions, though.  As Rocko’s hand suddenly tensed on the back of his head and he felt the violent acceleration of his face towards the bedroom wall, his mind was fast enough to comprehend that it was happening again—but his reaction time was still too slow for any defense.

 

The drywall was softer.  The big oval dent, streaked with blood, left by his face, didn’t hurt as bad.  Rocko seemed to realize it too; he whirled Jessie around and looked him over.

 

“Fuck, gonna hafta find somethin’ harder,” he smirked, and Jessie snapped.

 

The prison punk had heard and understood Rocko this time; he flung himself at the muscular alpha in blind desperation, beating and clawing at him.  For a brief moment, the sadistic convict was caught off guard by the sheer intensity of Jessie’s panic and backed up a step.  But that was only an instinctive reaction, and one that Rocko’s intrinsically brutal nature quickly overcame.

 

As Jessie batted at him ineffectively, Rocko leaned forward and wrapped his hand around the fucker’s throat.  As the terrified boy gagged and grappled with Rocko’s iron grip, the buff killer lifted him off the ground.  The punk’s toes curled in the air for a moment—then Rocko drove him back through the wall, this time slamming his head against a stud.

 

Realizing that he was unable to loosen Rocko’s grip, Jessie’s frenetic scrambling turned outwards, and, in a flash, he’d latched onto the alpha’s wifebeater.  His first jerk had torn it halfway off; within seconds, it was lying on the floor in shreds as Jessie’s fingernails scored long red lines across Rocko’s huge pecs, digging at the wiry golden haze of the stud’s body fur.

 

The vicious jail-breaker didn’t put up with the bitch’s thrashing for long.  Keeping his promise to find something harder, Jessie found himself whirled around again.  This time, he had a brief, lightning-like glimpse of his own bloody and unrecognizable face in the dull reflection of the TV screen before his head was rammed into and through it.

 

Then things went black for Jessie for a bit.

 

When he awoke, surfacing in a dark pool of throbbing, aching pain, the punk was on his back on the bed.  The bedding had been swept off; he could feel the itch of the cheap polyester fitted sheet on the back of his shoulders and on his ass.

 

There was smoke in the air.  He couldn’t smell it—his nose was a mass of crushed cartilage, his sinuses plugged with snot and clotted blood—but he could taste it, the acrid taste of cheap tobacco mixed with the lighter taste of weed.

 

It was one of Rocko’s blunts.  Suddenly Jessie remembered, and was filled with despair.

 

Rocko was on the other side of the room, watching him closely, the thick cigar-like blunt dangling from his lower lip.  Once he realized Jessie was awake, he grinned.

 

The older man approached the prone, badly beaten youth slowly.   With each step he took, precum from his jutting shaft spattered on the steel-toed tips of his boot.  He towered over Jessie, sneering as the boy slowly raised his eyes to take in his hard, flat abs and his hubcap pecs, covered in thick, golden body fur.

 

Rocko bent and picked up the broken remains of the bedside lamp.  “Ya see my cock, fucker?  See how it’s drippin’?  Ya know what that means, dontcha?”

 

Grinning, he leaned over Jessie.  He wrapped the lamp cord around his right hand a couple of times, gripped the lamp in his left, and pulled.  For a brief moment his thick, powerful biceps bulged noticeably, then the cord ripped free of the lamp, which Rocko promptly tossed aside.

 

“It means it’s time to drain my hog.  But ya already knew that, right?  Since I done drained it up yer ass plenty of times, yeah?”  By now, Rocko was kneeling on the bed.  He’d kept the cord wrapped around his right hand, but was using both hands to force Jessie smooth boyish thighs apart.  “But see, that’s the problem, homie—I done reamed yer fuckhole out good and hard already, yeah?  So whatcha gonna do to work out my load, faggot?”

 

Jessie wasn’t up to making a reply, and a second later was utterly unable to as Rocko’s monstrous cock plunged into his intestines with the remorselessness of a pneumatic drill.  There had been no warning; the alpha’s balls were slapping against the boy’s fuckhole before the pain reached his brain.

 

“Fuck, cunt, this is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” Rocko grunted as Jessie gasped, the agony of the violation so intense he was unable to scream.  “Fuckin’ whore; didja get plowed by every dude ya met?  Goddam ass is a loose as yer lips, asswipe—you ain’t good for shit.”

 

Jessie had instinctively brought up his arms and tried to push Rocko off him, his palms flat against the killer’s hard, hairy chest, but he didn’t beat at him.  He didn’t want any more pain.  He was a coward, but as afraid as he was of death, what he’d experienced in the last few minutes had made him even more afraid of pain.

 

Sadly for him, Rocko realized that.

 

“Y’know,” the inked stud said musingly with his cock buried balls-deep in his ex-cellie’s ass, “Might be somethin’ you are good at.”

 

Grabbing Jessie’s right arm, he held it just below the elbow with one hand and at the wrist with the other.  His face grew tense and he gave a faint but audible grunt as he snapped the stoolie’s arm by sheer brute force.

 

Jessie got his voice back, wailing loudly.  “Aw, fuck yeah!” Rocko chuckled, “now yer feelin’ me, bro!  Just like the old days, yeah?  Remember how me an’ some of the dudes caught a nigger alone in the shower and beat it till it died?”

 

He bent down, his face close to the whimpering slut’s ruined visage, “It was just a nigger.  I didn’t hate it; it had to die ‘cause it was a nigger.  But I hate you.”

 

Jessie remembered.  He didn’t want to; he’d succeed in almost erasing that horrific incident from his memory, when he’d stood outside the prison showers listening the begging and screaming of the dying coon.  It’d been about Jessie’s age, too.

 

Breaking the boy’s arm didn’t deprive his fingers of sensation.  Rocko started on them, pinkie first, working his way to the thumb.  Each one broke with a wet snapping sound like that of a fresh green branch being broken.

 

And each one was accompanied by vigorous thrashing and writhing from the unfortunate prison rat, whose shuddering rectum transformed all his pain into pleasure for his torturer’s cock.

 

By the time Rocko had worked his way through the cunt’s right hand, his huge cock was pulsating so hard, even Jessie could feel the way it was swelling and plugging his ravaged asshole.  The alpha was getting close to seeding his prey—now he just needed to make it into meat.  Rocko reached for the cord.

 

As the buff killer held the lamp cord in front of his face, Jessie knew death was close.  Consciously, he told himself he didn’t care; the pain was too much.  He was ready for it to end.  His face was caved in so badly he could barely breath, his right arm had been crushed as thoroughly as if it’d been run through a machine—and it felt like Rocko’s cock was literally ripping his mangled rectum out of his body…

 

He didn’t fight as the grinning stud wrapped the power cord around his throat.  “Yer gonna die with my dick inside ya,” the muscled sadist said with malicious glee, “I’m doin’ the fuckin’ world a favor by exterminatin’ a squealin’ rat like you.  You deserve this, motherfucker; you deserve to choke to death long an’ slow, kickin’ yer useless life away.”

 

Jessie could barely see the heavily-tattooed convict looming over him through his swollen and hemorrhaging eyes, but he could clear feel Rocko, both on him and in him.  Suddenly, he felt something else—a constriction around neck.

 

“I’m just about ready to unload, faggot.  You want it, yeah?  Fuckin’ cum-guzzlin’ homo like you always wants to get seeded, even when yer dyin’, hah!  Don’t worry, asswipe, you’ll go to yer grave as my cumdump.  Ya like that idea, huh?  Rotting in hell forever with a real man’s sperm inside ya?  Well fuck, cocksucker, let’s get it on!”

 

With a wide sadistic grin, the hardbodied prison-breaker jerked the cord so tight it sank beneath the surface of the boy’s skin and Jessie discovered that his conscious desire for death to end his pain meant exactly jack shit when asphyxia-induced panic kicked in.  He’d been choked before, sometimes during sex and sometimes with more violent intent—but on none of those occasions had he been beaten to a bloody wad of boymeat first.  He’d gotten punched a few times in prison, but no one had ever broken a bone, much less crushed his right hand and arm into a shattered, grotesquely twisted mass.

 

He tried to struggle.  The huge muscled sadist was lying between his legs; Jessie wrapped his smooth thighs around Rocko’s waist and squeezed as he drummed his heels on the killer’s firm, flexing ass, still covered by the thin worn jeans.  It did no good—Rocko, intent on the way Jessie’s quivering rectum was massaging his thick, vein-wreathed shaft, never even noticed the cunt’s feeble attempts to stop him.

 

Jessie made himself more noticeable with his left hand.  He wasn’t as accurate with it as he would have been with his right, but as his already-bruised and battered face began to darken and swell hideously, he began clawing at Rocko’s face.

 

The faggot stoolie had decided he wanted to live after all, but that choice was no longer his to make.

 

Rocko grunted angrily as he ducked and bobbed his head to avoid the frantic scrambling of fucker’s talon-like fingers.  Tightening the cord down on Jessie’s throat, he twisted it around and was able to hold it with one hand just long enough to lace the fingers of his right hand with those of the prison bitch’s left hand.  By sheer muscle power, he forced the kid’s hand backward so hard and fast the wrist broke, the tiny bones snapping and dislocating with a series of faint crunches.

 

“Goddam piece a’ fuckin’ shit,” he snarled, letting Jessie’s arm drop limply and uselessly back onto the bed.  Spurred on in his intense hatefuck, Rocko sped up the tempo by which he reamed the boy’s ass while taking the cord back in both hands and pulling it tighter and tighter.

 

The more Jessie’s windpipe constricted, the further his thick swollen tongue began to protrude from his mouth.  When it made its appearance, forcing the homo’s lips apart and leaking out a streamer of foamy drool, it was as purple and engorged as Jessie’s cock.  The long thin tube of boymeat had such a pronounced upward curl as it was forced erect that the way it was being crushed between Jessie’s flat firm belly and Rocko’s furry washboard abs was excruciating, despite being lubed by mansweat.

 

“Yeah, look at’cher sorry ass now, motherfucker,” Rocko sneered at the dying bitchboy.  “You hadda know the moment you started flappin’ yer lips that I’d shut you up permanently someday.  Musta wanted this bad, cunt, to piss me off this much.  Ya likin’ it, ya pervert?  Yer homo dick is sure lovin’ it, so just lay back and enjoy the pain.”

 

Rearing up, the muscled killer pulled the youth up off the bed; Jessie’s head a lolling, blackened mass.  Rocko leaned back and pulled the thrashing pile of fuckmeat up into his lap.

 

“I’m about to blow my wad, faggot.  Last thing yer gonna feel in yer useless wasted life is the blast of my hot potent seed up yer guts.  A thick spurt of cum to keep ya warm as ya die, fucker.  Ya ready?  Ya want this load, fag?  Die for it, motherfucker, die on my goddam shaft!”

 

With a loud grunt and bulging biceps, Rocko yanked the cord as tightly as he could around the stoolie’s neck.  There was a momentary rubbery resistance, then Jessie’s esophagus collapsed with a gristly crackling sound.  The fuckmeat went rigid, its mutilated sphincter tightening like a cockring around the base of Rocko’s throbbing, engorged tool.  With a loud, inchoate cry, Rocko’s massive hog began spurting.  Holding the cord around Jessie’s neck with one hand, the heaving, bucking hardman used his free hand to pound the youth repeatedly in the face.

 

It was in that last moment of final physical and mental dissolution that Jessie finally came to appreciate his place in the universe.  He did want this, he did deserve it.  The pounding and the pressure had faded, leaving the one spark of his mind still clinging to life a moment of crystal clarity.  It had taken progressive and irreparable brain damage to reconcile himself to giving up his life simply to be a cumdump for a powerful and brutal alpha, but the moment his increasingly-cold body felt the searing heat of Rocko’s thick spunk coating his innards, he knew he’d never be worthy of experiencing any higher purpose.  And it made him cum.

 

But even there the boy was unlucky.  His nervous system had become hyperactive and hypersensitive as his brain shut down.  This last physical act on Jessie’s part brought him unspeakable agony.  As his young, smooth, sweat-slick body convulsed uncontrollably and Rocko’s fist beat against his face again and again, Jessie’s unnaturally extended orgasm seemed to rip the kid’s very soul from his body.

 

He died in horrific pain, still spurting boyspunk all over his own and Rocko’s belly.

 

After a while, Rocko himself finished unloading.  He moaned unintelligibly and shook himself.  For a moment, he was content to remain leaning back with the shuddering corpse in his lap, but eventually he manhandled the dead kid up and off his still-erect rod, tossing it onto the floor like the wadded-up cumrag it was.  Jessie landed on his knees, face down, reamed asshole pointing straight at the door.

 

Rocko rose to his feet and leisurely strolled to the bathroom, shards of glass from the broken mirror crunching under the thick tread of his heavy boots.  Running warm water in the bathroom sink, he grabbed a washcloth and casually cleaned Jessie’s cum off his belly and blood off his fist.  When he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the toilet with a contemptuous smirk.

 

As he left the bathroom, he picked up the remains of his blunt—no sense in wasting good weed—and looked around the room.  His shirt was in shreds on the floor, and so was Jessie.  The dead stoolie still trembled every few seconds, but even as Rocko watched, the intervals between became noticeably longer.  There was nothing left of the prison bitch but a pile of cum-filled meat.

 

Rocko’s lips twisted with displeasure as he reached for the door.  If he hadn’t been so horny, he wouldn’t have fucked the squealer.  Fuckin’ rat hadn’t deserved to go sailing off into eternity filled with the sperm of a real alpha male…

 


 

The patrol cop looked up as the homicide detective pulled into the lot.  He waited outside the room, next to the open door, and was speaking before the detective reached him.

 

“This one’s somethin’ else, Mike,” the cop said agitatedly, “I’ve seen some shit, but this…”

 

“Yeah, so I understand,” Mike said quietly, but the cop kept on.

 

“Manager says the occupant is Jessie Knowles, and he’s an ex-con.  That’s presumin’ that’s who our corpse actually is—the face is so caved in, his own mother ain’t gonna know him.”

 

“It’s ok, Artie—” Mike tried, but the cop still had his grievance to vent.

 

“Yeah, it’s fine for you to say that, but you ain’t seen this.  Dead guy was a fag and it looks like he died gettin’ fucked by a horse.  And I know how you guys in homicide work—I’m gonna be the one trolling every fag bar and begging every deviant in this town for info—”

 

“Artie, will you chill, for God’s sake?” Mike broke in, “The state police called.  We already know who did it.  I mean, we’re collect evidence to make sure—oh, that reminds me, does it look likely that there’ll be DNA evidence?”

 

“Jesus, yes,” Artie muttered, shuddering.  “And quit holdin’ out—who did it?

 

“Turns out our victim turned state’s evidence on his cellmate while in the state pen.  Man’s name is Robert Tarleton, but he goes by Rocko.  Escaped three weeks ago.”

 

Artie pondered for a moment, then turned back to the detective.  “So this was a revenge killing, right?  Killer can’t be stupid enough to stay around.  We hand everything over to the state policy and call it a day.”

 

“Uh-uh,” Mike shook his head, a wry, humorless smile on his craggy face.  “We may have a bigger problem on our hands now.”

 

“Whaddaya mean?

 

“The crime out victim spilled his guts about?  Child rape and murder.  This Rocko woulda gotten the chair if the jury had been completely comfortable with a jailbird as the star witness.  But if your report on the mode of death is correct—”

 

“It is,” Artie muttered darkly.

 

“—then it might be that this psycho has gotten a taste for this kind of murder.  I don’t know if we have a child murder or a gay killer running around, but it’s gonna be one of the two.”

 

Just then the coroner’s van pulled into the motel parking lot.  The manager stood in the office doorway in a torn house robe, her sour face clearly expressing her dissatisfaction with the state of affairs.

 

“You need me anymore?” Artie asked abruptly.

 

“Uh, no,’ Mike said slowly, “Not as long as you get your report properly filed—”

 

“You can count on it.  I’m gonna get it filed so fast you won’t believe it, ‘cause the very next thing I’m gonna do it request three weeks’ vacation.  Fucking faggot child killer on the loose—I’m too old for this shit.  I’m gonna book the first flight outta here…”

 

Mike shook his head and sighed as the patrol cop walked off, muttering to himself.  He hoped Rocko would be found soon; if not, he suspected that he’d be dealing with a rising body count.  If the bodies were homos, no one would care, but if they were kids, there’d be all kinds of hell to pay.

 

He’d just have to wait and see how it played out.