Nick decided he was going to get himself a rent boy for the evening. He fired up his computer and went to rentboys .com. He scanned a few pages and then spotted the one he wanted. A young kid no more than twenty caught his attention. His name was Chad. His profile pic had him posed in jeans, shirtless. Nick admired the slim lad. His chest was smooth with a nice set of pecs and slim waist. He shot him a message. Chad responded quick. They bantered a bit and Nick asked if he was into a bit of kinky roleplay and leather. Chad responded he was for a price. Nick got right to the point of price, time and location. He told Chad he wanted him for the night. Money no problem. Chad told him he rented a room at a Motel 6 for his tricks. He gave Nick the room number and which Motel 6 it was.
Chad got ready for the night ahead. He dressed in a tight pair of cut off shorts and a tight sleeveless tee and flipflops as requested by Nick. He wondered what Nick would be like. Chad was new to this and the money was good. He never thought of the dangers of being a rentboy. He had heard of a couple of escorts being murdered by their clients but he never thought it would happen to him. He had no idea Nick was going to strangle him to death before the evening was done.
Nick parked his truck in the Motel parking lot. He grabbed the duffle bag with his props and went to the door. He wrapped on the door. Chad opened the door to let him in, nearly dropping his jaw when he got a look at Nick. Nick entered and closed the door as he dropped the bag to the floor. Chad took in the sight of Nick. Dressed in tight jeans, t-shirt that hugged his muscled build and black leather boots. Chad had an instant hardon.
Nick liked what he saw. “Nice slutty look baby” he said to Chad. Nick handed the money to Chad and Chad placed it on the nightstand.
Nick grabbed Chad and gave him a deep kiss. Chad ran his hands over Nick’s shirt feeling the power beneath it. Nick stepped back and removed his shirt. He pulled Chad’s shirt off and ran his rough hands down Chad’s smooth chest. “Nice baby, nice”. He ran his hands down to Chad’s ass and squeezed tight. “Yeah this ass is going to do real fine for me”
Chad explored Nick’s hairy chest. He licked his nipples. His tongue made its way down his chest to his stomach and to his treasure trail. He undid Nick’s leather belt with his teeth. He nuzzled Nick’s crotch. He felt Nick’s wood through his jeans, hard and hot.
Nick picked up Chad and threw him to the bed. He landed on his back and Nick removed his shorts. Chad lay there naked, his cock fully erected and oozing with precum. He wanted Nick bad. Nick kicked his boots off and stepped out of his jeans. His cock was erected straight up against his hard stomach. Clear precum dripped out of his pisshole and ran down his shaft. He looked down at Chad and smiled. He wanted to fuck him hard. Nick climbed in the bed and spread Chad’s legs. He entered Chad and began to fuck him. Chad took it in and moved to the rhythm of Nick’s fucking. His huge cock slammed Chad over and over. Chad’s hard and wet cock was pressed against Nick’s stomach ready to explode. Chad and Nick were chest to chest as Nick fucked harder and harder. “I’m cumming” yelled Nick. His cock erupted and he let out his man seed inside Chad. Chad blew his load as he felt it explode out between them. Nick’s hot semen filled Chad’s ass. Chad’s cum felt warm and gooey between the two. Nick collapsed on top of Chad and let out a sigh of relief. The two kissed passionately. Nick softened and pulled out and off Chad rolling to his side. Chad ran his hands over Nick’s sweaty chest. He played with the cum and licked a bit off.
Nick turned to Chad, “Ready for a little game baby”? “Are you ready for daddy’s kink”?
Chad smiled and nodded yes. Nick got off the bed and went for his bag. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and dangled them over Chad. “What are those for” asked Chad. “Just to keep you secure baby. Don’t worry it’s our little game” said Nick. Nick took Chad’s hands and cuffed them to the headboard above his head. Chad was securely cuffed to the bed. Chad was a little nervous but thought this was all part of Nick’s game. Nick got off the bed, He grabbed his boots and the bag and headed into the bathroom. Chad lay naked and cuffed to the bed. He heard the shower. He waited and heard the water stop.
After a few minutes Nick emerged from the bathroom. Chad’s cock became hard immediately as he took in the sight of Nick. Nick was dressed in tight leather pants showing his bulge. He was shirtless, black boots a black leather hat and wearing black leather gloves. Chad was ready to cream all over again as his hard cock twitched. Nick looked sexy, manly and dangerous. He stood silently at the end of the bed staring down at Chad’s naked body. He clinched one hand and slapped it into the other as he pumped his muscled chest at Chad. Chad stared at this hunk of a man. Nick adjusted his gloves tighter as he climbed on the bed and straddled Chad. Chad squirmed a bit under him as he stared up at Nick. Nick kept silent as he breathed heavy in and out staring down at Chad.
Nick ran his hands across Chad’s chest. He placed his other gloved hand on Chad’s cock and squeezed it hard and firm. Bits of cum oozed out. Chad loved the feeling. “oh baby you were just what I wanted” said Nick as he clamped his gloved hand on Chad’s mouth and nose blocking off his air. Chad jerked a bit and tried to move. “Smell that leather baby, smell it” He squeezed Chad’s cock tighter as more precum oozed out onto the glove.
. Chad tried to breathe. muffled sounds came from him. His eyes were wide open. Nick let go. Chad took in a breath of air. Just that quick Nick smothered him again. Chad’s body squirmed under Nick. Nick felt his cock stiffen in his leather pants. Nick let go again. Chad exhaled’ “Please stop”. Nick chuckled “You wanted this baby, this is what I paid for”. Chad became frightened. He pleaded. Nick ignored him and placed his hand down again blocking Chad’s air. He held tight. Chad smelled the leather. He let go again and gripped his gloves tight.
“Oh baby you were good”. Nick wrapped his hands around Chad’s throat and began to strangle him. Chad felt the hard grip and the feel of the leather wrapped around his throat. He began to buck. His hands shook violently in the cuffs banging the headboard. Nick gripped harder. His hands were like a vice around Chad’s throat. “Die you little whore, die” he said. “Whore’s like you deserve this”. Chad’s body shook under Nick. His hands flailing in the cuffs as Nick strangled him harder. Chad knew he was going to die. His head pounded, his ears rang. His whole body pained. Nick’s cock was rock hard. Chad felt his ready to explode. With one final grip and squeeze Nick strangled him to death crushing his throat. Chad’s cock blew its last load up Nick’s chest. His body arched and dropped to the mattress. His hands flicked in the cuffs and stopped. His body convulsed one last time and stopped. Chad was dead. His eyes gazed wide open at the ceiling. His body lay still.
Nick kept his hands tight around Chad’s throat and flopped his head back and forth. He released his hands from his throat and hovered over him admiring his kill. Nick stated softly “Noone’s gonna miss ya”, nothing but a dirty whore”.
Nick had to release his load. He unzipped and inserted his cock into Chad’s mouth. He throat fucked him and spewed his load in his mouth. Cum spilled out and ran down his cheeks. Nick got off the bed and removed his gloves. He shoved one in Chad’s gaping mouth. He shoved the other glove’s middle finger and shoved it up Chad’s ass.
Nick grabbed his jeans and shirt and threw them in his bag. He picked up Chad’s shirt and wiped the cum off his chest then dropped it to the floor. He grabbed the bag and headed out of the room. He looked back at Chad one last time. His naked body lay sprawled and cuffed to the bed, fucked and strangled. The cum on his naked body was beginning to dry. Nick took in the wonderful sight.
Nick left the money on the stand and chuckled. He headed to his truck. As he climbed in he noticed a young lad standing at another door staring at Nick. He quickly entered the room and shut the door. “Oh fuck” thought Nick. “I can’t have a witness”. Nick climbed back out of the truck. He didn’t bother putting his shirt on. He headed to the guy’s motel door. ‘Knock, knock’…………………….
Nick stepped from the shower and admired himself in the mirror. Even
at age 38 he still looked awesome. His huge muscular chest, his
massive arms and biceps flexed to perfection. He eyed his naked body
and stared at his massive cock erect straight up to its 10″ as he
thought of his evening ahead. His killer body was ready for another
night. His urges were stirring and tonight he needed release. He
would be on the hunt.
Nick was in construction by trade, a bodybuilder for show, and
concealed a dark side. The dark side was a muscle beast killer who
liked to snuff young hustlers and fags.
Nick dressed in his tight jeans. His thighs massive, his bulge
revealing a huge cock beneath. He slipped on a white t-shirt, his
leather jacket and black saddle boots. He placed 3 $100 dollar bills in his
pocket. Nick climbed in his truck and headed for the Gay Bar noted
for hustlers on the take.
Nick parked his truck and entered the bar. It was close to midnight. The place was packed with young
studs. Nick sat at the bar and cruised the room. His massive
presence caught quite a few eyes. Nick spotted a young kid no older
than 21 eyeing him up and down. The kid was dressed in jeans, a
sleeveless t and boots. He wore a thick gold chain around his neck.
Nick picked him out as his victim for the night. The hustler would
soon be fucked and strangled before the night was over.
Nick lumbered over to the kid.
“$100 per hour” he replied. “JD’s the name” the hustler stated.
“I’m Nick, now let’s talk business” retorted Nick.
JD’s cock pained in his jeans. He was in awe of this muscular stud and wanted him and the money bad. He
stared at Nick’s bulge in his crotch following the shaft trailing
down his left thigh. Nick flashed the $100 dollar bills and
suggested they take it to a motel. JD agreed.
Nick put his massive arm around his shoulders and led him out of the bar and to his
truck. JD’s fate was sealed as he climbed into the truck and closed
the door. Nick placed his hand on JD’s thigh as they headed to the
motel. JD’s cock was rock hard and his jeans were warm to the touch.
A wet spot formed on his crotch as Nick rubbed. JD glanced at Nick’s
massive arms stretched in the leather jacket as he drove.
They arrived at the motel and Nick parked away from the office. The
motel was noted for local hustlers’ one night stands. Nick handed JD
some money and told him to go rent a room. “Tell them a room for
one, no need for them to know there are two”. JD entered the office
and returned shortly with the key. Nick grabbed a bottle of body oil
from the truck. He met JD at motel room door and grabbed the key
from him, unlocking the door. He led JD into the room. Nick bolted
the door behind him and drew the curtains tight. No chance of
witnesses he thought. Nick placed the oil on the dresser.
JD wanted the cash up front. Nick pulled out $200 dollars and handed
it to JD. “I’m yours for the next two hours” stated JD. “You’re so right”
replied Nick. JD placed the money on the nightstand and turned to
Nick removed his jacket and set it on the chair. His muscles
were bulging through his shirt. His tight shirt revealed his massive
chest underneath. His chest hairs crept up above his collar and his
dark erect nipples pressed against the fabric.
Nick noticed JD’s cock was rock hard under his jeans as he stood
before him. Nick embraced JD squeezing his massive arms around him.
His body towered over him. JD’s cock throbbed under his jeans.
Nick could feel his own cock stirring to an uncomfortable pain in
his jeans. He told JD to strip.
JD removed his shirt and kicked off his boots. His smooth chest and erect nipples gleamed of sweat in
the motel light. His gold neck chain sparkled around his neck. He
took off his jeans revealing an 8″ thick cock. He stood naked before
Nick, his cock fully erected and oozing precum. Nick picked him up
with one arm and laid him on his back on the bed. He played with
JD’s neck chain in his fingers as he deep kissed him with his
tongue. He caressed his chest and nibbled at his erect nipples. He
worked his tongue down his chest and stomach making his way down to
JD’s pulsating cock. JD felt Nick’s hard cock pressed against him
through the fabric of his jeans.
Nick got up from the bed. He wanted to give JD a show. He untucked
his shirt from his jeans and slid it slowly his up his chest,
shoulders and over his head exposing his bare chest. He tossed his
shirt to the side and posed for JD. JD looked up from the bed at
Nick, his chest massive with a perfect matt of hair fanning across
his abs, around his 3″ nipples and the trail running down to the top
of his thick leather belt. He posed and flexed as JD’s cock
twitched and leaked precum. He glanced at himself in the mirror. He
admired his own hulking body. JD stared at his bare back and looked
at his reflection in the mirror. Nick stared back in the mirror at
JD and continued to pose. JD had no clue this was going to be his
last fuck. His life soon to end at the hands of Nick.
Nick unbuckled his belt, pulling it from the loops with one tug, tossing it to the
chair with his jacket. He unbuttoned his jeans and unzipped. His
cock flew out straight out, fully erected to its 10″. It slapped
back, straight up against his hard stomach. He kicked off his boots and climbed out of
He climbed on the bed and straddled his massive body on JD. JD ran
his hands up his chest and cupped his hard nipples. He caressed
Nick’s muscles and chest hair. Nick curled his biceps as JD pressed
his fingers against them. They were rock hard. Nick moved down and
spread JD’s legs exposing his hole. He lifted his legs and placed
them on his muscular shoulders. Nick slapped his hard cock on his
ass and slowly entered. JD felt his cock entering and clamped tight
holding it in. Nick began to pump. His thrusts became harder and
harder. JD screamed out in pleasurable pain. His hands rubbed Nick’s
massive arms as Nick fucked him harder and harder. They found their way across his muscular chest as
he took in his cock.
Nick felt himself ready to explode. Nick erupted his load up JD’s ass as JD cascaded his own cum between
the two. Nick collapsed on JD as they both completed their orgasms.
His cock stayed semi-hard as he pulled out. Nick rolled over and got
off the bed. The fucking was finished. He grabbed his jeans and
boots and headed for a shower. He ordered JD to stay on the bed and
wait. JD lay sprawled naked on the bed. He listened to the water
running and then stop.
Nick came out of the bathroom and stood at the end of the bed. He
was shirtless, dressed in his jeans and boots. Nick picked up his
belt and looped it back through his jeans.
He buckled it as he moved to the dresser, picked up his bottle of oil and started to apply it
to his chest and arms. He looked at his reflection in the mirror,
his chest and arms were slicked with oil and glistening. Nick loved
to kill his victims bare-chested. He wanted them to see his massive
muscles pumped and strained as they died. He felt his cock start to
harden in his jeans as he thought of what he was going to do to JD.
His reflection in the mirror stared back at JD laying on the bed. JD
could see his menacing eyes looking at him.
Something didn’t feel right with JD. JD felt fear as Nick turned and approached the bed. Nick made a fist
with his right hand and punched his left palm a few times as he
hovered over JD. JD’s naked body vulnerable to the bare-chested
JD leaped from the bed and headed for the door.
Nick’s massive arm reached out, grabbed him by the hair and tossed
him to the floor. JD tried again. He felt the hard boot kick his
ribs CRAACK. JD screamed. Nick reached down and picked him up by the
throat tossing him towards the dresser. His body crashed on top
hitting and shattering the mirror. Shards of glass pierced his back
as blood started to trickle out. Nick pulled him off and threw him
across the room. His body hurtled across the room and smashed
against the wall. He slid down stunned. Blood started to trickle
from his nose and mouth. His body was hurting. Nick smirked and
approached. JD looked up at his menacing killer. His chest glistened
with oil and sweat. The veins in his arms and chest were bulging.
His cock was fully engorged under his jeans. He gave him a hard kick
again in the ribs with his boot. JD felt a few ribs crack, the pain
searing through his chest. His heart beat in terror. Nick lifted him
by the throat and pressed him flat against the wall. JD’s arms and
legs beat against the wall. Nick’s massive hand tightening around
his throat. His muscles bulged. JD looked into his killer eyes. Nick
bear hugged him and began to squeeze tight. JD felt like his back bones
were breaking. He screamed and kicked in pain.
Nick threw him back on the bed. His arms and hands flailed as Nick mounted him. He
grabbed the neck chain and started to twist tight. JD gasped as the
chain dug in. His cock hardened as he struggled. He gasped trying to
take in air. His hands reached out and slapped against Nick’s chest.
He tried to push Nick away but the oil only made his hands keep
sliding from Nick’s chest. Nick twisted harder. Nick felt his cock
hard and throbbing in his jeans. He was enjoying the moment and
ready to cum as he killed.
JD’s legs kicked wildly as his thrashing became weaker. Nick gave one last twist of the chain. He could hear his esophagus crush as it embedded his throat. JD shuddered and convulsed once and stopped. His hands fell to his side. JD was dead. His dead eyes stared up at Nick. Nick shot his
load in his jeans as JD died. JD cascaded a death load of cum up Nick’s back. Nick felt the hot cum hit his bare back and begin
to drip down into the crevice of his jeans.
Nick got up. JD’s body lay sprawled across the bed, eyes wide open,
naked, fucked, beaten and strangled to death.
Nick picked up the money from the stand and tucked it in his pocket. “Have no need for
this anymore, thanks for the free fuck”. He unzipped his jeans and
scooped his cum in his hand. He smeared it across JD’s face and
lips, wiping his hand clean. He grabbed his shirt and jacket,
tossing them over his shoulders. He gave one last look at the naked
and contorted body sprawled across the bed and left the room. Nick had satisfied
his murderous urges again.
JD’s body was found the next morning. M.E. determined the victim was raped and strangled. The police ruled it as another gay hook-up gone bad. No further investigation would take place.
Nick entered the gay bar. It was a late Saturday night. As usual his intent was to pick up a young stud, bring him home for sex and strangle him. He looked over the room and saw a few pickings he liked.
On the other side of the bar a young good-looking guy caught Nick’s sight. His cock stiffened in his pants as he took in Nick’s looks. Nick’s white t-shirt clung to his muscular chest. His nipples hardened against the fabric. His jeans tight against his thighs, his package bulging. No one would be able to resist him tonight.
The kid got up and moved next to Nick. He noticed Nick’s black leather boots and was instantly turned on. Nick turned and gave him a nod.
“What?” said Nick.
“Nickname’s Bootlicker,” said the guy. “Great boots you got there.”
“Thanks, Nick’s the name, nice to meet you.”
Bootlicker bought Nick a drink. He was hoping for a score. Nick played along. He took a good look at Bootlicker and decided he would be the one. Bootlicker was going to be murdered.
The two had a few more drinks. Their conversation turned to kinks they both had. Bootlicker told Nick he got into leather and especially liked leather boots and gloves. Nick smiled.
“Wanna try it?” he asked. Bootlicker nodded. He told Nick he had a place and they could both go there. Nick agreed. They left the bar and headed to Bootlicker’s place. Nick told him they could go in his truck. He would bring Bootlicker back in the morning for his car. Bootlicker climbed in. He had no idea he was taking home a serial killer.
Bootlicker showed Nick in. Nick grabbed Bootlicker by the back of his neck and pressed his lips against his. “Let’s get to the bedroom,” Nick whispered, “I want to do you good.” Bootlicker led him to the bedroom.
Both guys cocks were hard in their jeans. Bootlicker removed his shirt. He removed his shoes and jeans standing naked in front of Nick. His cock rock hard and dripping precum. The two kissed as Nick ran his hands down Bootlicker’s neck and chest. He squeezed his oozing cock. Bootlicker’s cock throbbed. Nick pushed Bootlicker’s face down to his crotch as he removed his shirt. Bootlicker licked at the wet spot on Nick’s jeans. He felt his hard, hot cock underneath. His hands made their way up Nick’s hairy chest. He felt his hard pecs and erect nipples. Nick undid his belt and jeans. His hard cock sprung out slapping Bootlicker’s lips. Bootlicker licked the precum from his cock. He worked his way down to Nick’s boots and started to lick each one slowly. “Yeah, lick those boots baby,” said Nick. The scent of the boots made Bootlicker harder. Nick’s cock dripped precum landing on the back of Bootlicker’s neck.
Nick lifted him up and laid him on his back on the bed. He removed his boots and jeans and climbed on top of Bootlicker. Bootlicker ran his hands up Nick’s chest. His chest hair felt so good on his hands. The two embraced. Bootlicker spread his legs. Nick entered and started to fuck Bootlicker. The two moved in rhythm. Nick fucked hard. They were chest to chest as the two bodies grinded against each other. “I’m going to cum” screamed Bootlicker. Nick was ready to explode also. Bootlicker let his load explode out. He and Nick felt the warmth of the cum against their stomachs. Nick shot his load into Bootlicker, thrusting hard as his hot semen filled his hole. Nick collapsed on Bootlicker and kissed his neck and lips. He pulled out and rolled over. Bootlicker ran his hands down Nick’s chest wet and sticky with his cum. He worked his way down and played with the cum and Nick’s wet cock.
Nick knew it was time to kill Bootlicker. He got off the bed and put on his jeans and boots as he remained quiet looking down at Bootlicker. He spotted a pair of Bootlicker’s leather gloves on the dresser. Bootlicker noticed Nick was staring at the gloves. ‘Go ahead, try them on”. Nick picked up the gloves and turned to Bootlicker. He watched as Nick slowly put each glove on. Nick smirked at Bootlicker as he deliberately put them on each hand. They were tight and snug. Bootlicker started to get aroused again. He laid naked in the bed staring at Nick, standing shirtless in his jeans, boots and leather gloves. The sight made him hard. He liked the sexy and dangerous look Nick had. Nick smirked and climbed back on the bed. He straddled Bootlicker and looked down at him. Bootlicker was hard. He ran his hands up Nick’s chest thanking him for the fuck. Nick ran his hands up and down Bootlicker’s chest across his face and under his nose. Bootlicker took in the scent and feel of the leather. He had no idea of Nick’s plans and the danger he was in. Nick leaned in giving him another kiss knowing what he was about to do.
Nick moved his hands around Bootlicker’s neck. Bootlicker liked the feel. Nick began to squeeze harder and harder. Bootlicker became uncomfortable. His breathing became harder as Nick squeezed. He looked up at Nick. Nick’s face was different, evil, glaring eyes. Bootlicker became scared as Nick tightened the grip.
“You like leather Bitch? You’re getting it—time to die fucker!” he heard Nick state.
Bootlicker tried to push Nick off. He pressed his hands against Nick’s chest with no luck. He grasped at the leather gloves trying to pry them off. It was like a vice grip. Bootlicker was scared. He realized Nick was strangling him to death. His naked body thrashed under Nick in a desperate attempt to escape. No use, Nick was stronger and had him pinned down on the bed. He slapped Nick’s chest and back to the gloves, clawing at them. His hands reached out to Nick’s face and chest. At one point he scratched Nick’s chest pissing him off more. Nick gripped harder. Bootlicker was fading. His cock pulsating, his body was writhing with pain. He struggled hard beneath Nick. He couldn’t believe he was being strangled to death in his own bed. Nick cock was getting hard again in his jeans. Nick gave one last hard grip around Bootlicker’s neck, one last thrust, crushing his throat, killing him. Bootlicker’s cock let loose as he died. His cum cascaded up Nick’s stomach and chest. His body convulsed once, his hands slowly slid down Nick’s chest and fell to the bed. Bootlicker was dead. His body lay still. Drips of death cum trickled from his slit and ran down his thigh.
Nick removed his hands from his neck and kneeled above him. He admired his kill for a bit. He kissed him on the forehead and got off the bed. He removed the leather gloves and used them to wipe the cum off his stomach and chest. He tossed the gloves down on Bootlicker’s naked body. One landed aside him, the other on his chest. “There’s your leather, bitch. You were a good fuck.” Nick’s cock pulsed inside his jeans. He needed release again. He unzipped and whipped out his cock as it spurted out cum landing across Bootlicker’s face. Nick grabbed his shirt, not bothering to put it back on, tucking it in his back pocket. He looked at Bootlicker’s naked body sprawled across the bed one last time. His neck and head contorted. His eyes frozen in time staring up at the ceiling, fucked and strangled. Nick was sexually satisfied. Nick left the apartment, climbed in his truck and headed home.
You hear your name and turn towards the voice. Sure enough, it’s Alex.
The movie has just let out and you’re standing outside on the pavement. It was a good show, but Alex was supposed to see it with you. He bailed at the last moment, saying he’d meet you afterwards. Well, at least he’s kept his word on that part.
“Man, I’m so sorry about that,” he says with an apologetic smile, “Shit. It was a work thing. Y’know how that goes. Anyway, didja like the movie?”
“Yeah,” you tell him, “But I’d have like it better if I’d had someone to see it with. So, what do you wanna do know?”
You know what you want to do. Alex has a nice chest that isn’t completely obscured by his thin windbreaker and dark blue polo shirt. Beneath his slim-fit Banana Republic jeans, cinched by a leather belt, his feet are laced into a pair of white Jordan 4 White Oreo sneakers. Above his slightly upturned nose, large pale blue eyes twinkle underneath a carefully disarranged mop of sandy blond hair. He’s practically begging to be fucked—but that’ll come later. You can be patient.
“Why don’t we go over to Buck’s Tavern? It’s a cool place—I hang with Robbie and Stu there sometimes. Won’t see ‘em tonight—they went to Florida for the week—but we can have a drink or two.”
You’re not fond of sitting in gay bars; it seems cheap and tawdry, at best. But then Alex adds, “And after that, maybe we can chill at my place, see what happens…”
That, you want. So, you agree to go to the bar.
The moment you enter Buck’s, you can feel the eyes on you. It’s not that you’re self-conscious—and, on the other hand, you’re not anything spectacular. But you’re aware your black long-sleeve button-down silk shirt and black Levi’s emphasize your dark eyes and your hair, which is so glossy black it almost has a blue tint. The dark color scheme is slightly offset by your dark brown Timberland Redwood Falls boots, and the thick belt of the same color.
And, of course, there’s your height; it never fails to draw notice. Alex is almost six feet tall—but you tower nearly six inches over him.
Not that you complain, of course—you’ve never had any problems getting laid. They come to you like moths to a flame. But the constant attention gets old sometimes, and lately you find yourself preferring a quiet, intimate evening in private to a rowdy night in a bar or a club.
But Buck’s isn’t too obnoxious. Alex selects a booth on the side. The conversation is light and casual—but you can’t help but notice that he’s knocking back two shots of whiskey to every one of your scotch and sodas.
Your mind goes back to the day he approached you in the coffee shop. You’d been patronizing the place for less than a week since you’d just been contracted for an electrical job in the neighborhood. It was a skilled trade that paid extremely well, and you were good at it—but a little caffeine in the mornings helped you be better. So there you were, seven in the morning on weekdays, plain coffee, black, one sugar—and there was Alex. Staring.
He wasn’t bad looking, so you frequently found yourself returning his gaze. But it took him four days to get up the courage to come over and introduce himself, then another two to finally ask for a date. Alex worked in middle management for a tech company and seemed inordinately proud of his MBA. That kinda thing has never impressed you, but you don’t shoot him down. He’s got a good body and otherwise seems kinda nice—who knows what it might lead to?
The idea of going to dinner and a movie tonight had been his. He was going to meet you at Ricardo’s Steakhouse, then you were going to the show. He picked out the movie—the latest superhero action flick. Again, not your bag, but if he wanted to see it, why not? Besides, a lot of fondling can go on in the dark…
But then he called just as you were about to leave for the restaurant. Big fuckup at work, his ass was on the line if he couldn’t straighten it out, yadda yadda yadda. Said he’d meet you after the movie—so you cancelled he reservation at the steakhouse went and paid way too much for popcorn and a ticket to a movie you’d never wanted to see.
Now he’s trying to explain what had happened. The alcohol has loosened his tongue a bit and he’s getting kinda garrulous. The details of the server crash are outside of your knowledge base, but he sounds apologetic.
Still, it’s difficult not to hold a grudge. After all, this date night was his idea to begin with.
Suddenly, he reaches over and grabs your hand, breaking in on your thoughts. “Fuck man, I’ve been wanting it all day. No more waiting. Let’s get outta here—my place?” he says. “I’ll make it up to you.”
As you stare deeply into his light blue eyes, you can feel your cock pulse with anticipation. You want him, yes, but it’s kinda surprising how much you want him. You want to sink your throbbing shaft into his bubble butt and plow him till he screams in ecstasy…
He stands up quickly, and you can’t help but notice the outline of his erection in the crotch of his jeans. He wants this just as badly as you do.
“Fuck yeah, let’s go,” you growl. He blushes and ducks his head; his boyish grin is adorable. The thought of him riding your dick is irresistible—you hope his apartment isn’t far.
It’s not. Two blocks north and three west, and you’re there. A century-old brick building five stories tall, converted to luxury apartments. He has you park on the street in front; the rear lot is for tenants only. You meet him in the entry hall—he needs to pick up his mail, anyway.
The floor and the stairs are marble. The gleaming woodwork and polished brass trimmings show how much more expensive this place is than yours. Not that you couldn’t afford it, but it does confirm your suspicion that there’s a certain pretentiousness abut Alex.
That’s ok, though. As he leads the way up the stairs, you lag far enough behind that his smooth, tight, denim-encased ass is directly in front of your face. No matter how pretentious the owner is, that fuckhole is gonna be nice and tight on you tool when you stick it in.
He’s on the second floor. A thick, heavy door with a brass number plate. The inside is luxurious, with thick carpeting, elaborate molding and recessed lighting. The furniture is solid, in a retro mid-century modern style. “Let’s make it a little cozier,” Alex says with a coy grin as he ignites the gas fireplace. “Go have a seat; I’ll make us drinks. You like scotch and soda, right?”
“Yeah,” you respond as you sit on the soda and unbutton your shirt. Alex makes the drinks, turns to bring them—and nearly drops the glasses. He’s staring at your chest, slack-jawed. “Goddam, that’s…” he gasps somewhat incoherently, “Fuck, they sure know how to use you on your job. First time I laid eyes on you, I was watchin’ you through the window, flexin’ while lifting all that equipment outta your truck, but goddam, bro…love that furry chest of yours…and that necklace. It’s hot as hell; what is it? Silver?”
“No,” you reply, “It’s platinum. Gift from an old friend. The dagger pendant is supposed to represent protection.” But you wear it because you like it, not because you need protection. You can take care of yourself.
Handing you your glass, Alex sits next to you. Immediately, his hand is in your chest hair, his fingers entwined in the thick, wiry curls. As he fondles your necklace and caresses your pecs, his breathing changes and becomes more ragged. Suddenly, he grabs your face, pulls it to his, and begins kissing you.
It’s not a gentle, loving kiss. It’s rough and somehow desperate, his tongue probing deep within your mouth. It’s almost as if he wants to be the top—but you know that’s not the case. You’d talked about it. He says he loves rough sex, but he’s purely a bottom, which makes this precipitous move on his part something of a surprise.
“Take your shirt off,” he says, his voice husky with excitement. As you slip out of it and lay it carefully over the arm of the sofa, he peels off his own. His smooth, muscled chest appeals to me; you instantly reach over and twist one of his large, dark nipples.
He moans in pleasure. Forcing your hand away, he stands up abruptly and begins unbuckling his belt. “Whip it out, dude,” he gasps breathlessly, “I wanna see your cock.”
You don’t mind, but you want to see his too, and you tell him so. He unbuttons his shirt, exposing his smooth, muscled chest, and you can feel your cock twitch. It wants to be free of the confines of your jeans, and you want it to be free. You stand up and grasp your zipper; at the same time, you notice that Alex has removed his belt and slipped his jeans down to his knees. He’s got boxers on underneath; they’re tented, with a small wet spot forming.
He’s wearing an embarrassed grin, but the light in his eyes is pure lust; they gaze with a laser focus on your crotch as you slowly unzip your fly. It takes a moment to reach in and extract your massive hog; it reaches halfway down your thigh.
The look on Alex’s face changes as your rod leaps out into the open air. Eager anticipation is replaced by awe, and perhaps a touch of fear. “It’s—it’s…” he falters, gulps, and starts again, almost whispering. “Dude, I knew you were…but holy fuck, bro…”
Yeah, he wants it. He wants your dick. And he’s gonna get it, too, right up his tight hole. “Turn around,” you tell him, “I wanna see your ass. I like to survey the landscape before I lay pipe.” He turns—slowly, with some hesitancy.
Damn, he’s got a nice ass. Smooth, firm, tight, just begging for your thick shaft to be sunk into it. “Oh hell yeah, bro,” you say, “I’m gonna plow that hole. You like it rough, yeah? Dude, I’m gonna ream your ass like a fuckin’ jackhammer.”
Alex turn around. He’s blushing and there are beads of sweat on his forehead. “Man, Mike, I, uh—I dunno about this…”
What? “Whaddaya mean? Don’t know about what?”
“I, um…well, it’s just…I mean, you’re so big…”
Your cock is throbbing so bad it hurts. You need release, and you need it soon. He needs to get over whatever his bullshit is.
“Yeah? I thought you liked that.”
“Well, yeah, but—y’know, there’s a limit—”
You can feel something deep inside start to churn. It’s an ugly feeling, this sense of anger, and you know from past experience that it can become uncontrollable, so you do your best to remain calm and reasonable.
“You want this. You know you do; you said so.” You’re trying hard not to let your anger creep into your voice, but it’s difficult. He invited you back here for sex; there was no mistaking his signals. “C’mon, put your mouth on it.”
He comes closer, his reluctance obvious. You know he’ll do it, though; there’s no mistaking the expression of lust that’s clearly battling with his trepidation. Finally, he leans forward, opens his full, lush lips wide, and tries to encircle your engorged member with his mouth.
It’s a tight fit. You can feel how your thick, spongy head fills his mouth, but it’s not enough. You want your pubes to be scratching his face; you know he’s gotta want that too. So you place your hands on the back of his head and shove.
The pulsing head of your shaft lodges in Alex’s trachea and he gags. Holy fuck, it feels good. You hold his head in place, enjoying the way his throat is massaging your cock. He starts resisting, trying to pull his head up off your dick, but you’re not done yet—hell, you’re just getting started. As he struggles, you find yourself applying more and more force to keep his head in place.
Well, he did say he wanted it rough. And he’s giving one hell of a skullfuck.
His hands come up. They start slapping at your thighs, but soon his efforts intensify and he’s actively beating at your abs. It doesn’t matter—you can feel his esophagus milk your rod as he strains. It feels too good to release him.
Suddenly, he give a burst of force so strong it catches you off guard; you didn’t think him capable of it. He practically leaps backward, away from your crotch, leaving your toll bobbing in the air, glistening with his saliva. You notice with a vague surprise how dark his face is. Gasping frantically for air, he wipes the drool from his lips with the back of his hand; you can see the fear in his eyes.
“You—you need—” he breaks off and coughs till he gags, then starts again. “You need to go. I can’t—I just can’t…”
As he speaks, your vision becomes clouded. It’s as if a red mist is forming in front of your eyes. You know what it means—you’re getting angry. Bad angry, not normal angry. You’ve got to keep control.
“Go?” you ask calmly, “What do you mean, go?” Your voice is barely about a whisper. You know your smile is perhaps a little too broad, but you’re in control. “You invited me here. You asked me in. We both know what I’m here for, but you don’t need to worry. I’ll make it easy for you but remember—I’m in control.”
And you are in control. He’ll put out; all you have to do is establish eye contact. But he’s not looking at your face. His attention is directed towards your right hand…
Alex’s belt—you don’t remember picking it up, but you’re holding it, and that seems natural. It seems to make sense. As you look at it, you can feel your cock swell. It’s going to go around Alex’s neck. You don’t exactly know why, but that also makes sense. And you’re still in control.
He’s talking, but you’re not paying attention. You’re looking at the belt and trying to figure—ah, there it is. So easy—you just loop the belt back through its buckle, a simple, basic noose. Casually, you toss it over his head.
Alex is still on knees. As soon as the belt is over his head and resting loosely on his shoulders, he begins to rise. “Wh-what are you doin’, bro?” he asks as he cautiously tried to get upright, “Gonna call the cops if you don’t—gaackthph!!”
You jerk him back down to his knees, cutting off his threat. He’s not gonna do anything—you’re in control. He gags and claws at the strap to leather around his throat, his huge eyes expressing his bewildered terror.
“No,” you say, your voice reflecting the profound calmness and serenity you feel. “I’m not ready to leave yet. C’mon, I still haven’t checked out your bedroom yet.”
You drag him across the floor by the belt around his neck. The gurgling, choking sounds he’s making change pitch, as if it’s become harder to emit them. His legs kick and flail frenetically as he tris to gain some sort of traction. He can’t, of course—you’re in control.
There’s something about the way his Nikes dance a panicked, oxygen-deprived jig across the carpet—it’s a sign of how utterly helpless he his, and how much control you truly do have.
“You lied to me,” you tell him, “You led me on.” His face is swelling and becoming purple. He looks like he’s in a lot of pain; which, for some reason, makes your cock ache and throb a little more. His bulging eyes are starting to form pinprick hemorrhages—they stare straight at you, begging in terror.
“Shh,” you whisper soothingly. “It’ll be over soon. After that, it won’t hurt. Nothing will ever hurt you again.”
You’re not sure why you said that. It seemed to come, spontaneously and fully-formed, from somewhere deep in your brain, but one thing you do know—you’re going to make it come true. Your dick tells you that.
His hands scramble desperately at you, his fingers curling in the hair of your forearms. He’s kicking so violently he actually manages to get his left foot under. It’s enough for him to start to leverage his way upward. That’s not gonna happen; you yank the belt so hard sideways that he topples over, the Nike on his left foot popping off.
You can see his toes curling repeatedly, almost reflexively in his white ankle sock. He seems to be a lot more panicked now. How long has he been without oxygen? There’s a detail you missed. Next time, you’ll need to remember to time it.
You’re at the bedroom door now, and he’s still fighting. He’s transferred his attention from your arms to the door frame, clutching it for all he’s worth. “Let go,” you tell him. “You’re ok. You’re in your own bedroom. Let go—I’m in control.” You give the belt another vicious jerk and wrench him free.
He seems to be giving up the fight as you approach the bed. You stop and kneel down, your cock achingly erect and oozing, and there you see it. In his face, you see proof that you are in control.
He’s so dark he’s almost black in the face. His eyes are bulging grotesquely, but no less than his tongue, purple and distended. A long, thick streamer of white foam dangled from his chin onto his bare chest. It’s hot. It’s so fucking hot, and you’re controlling it. He isn’t doing it to please you. He has no control—only you. Only you.
He’s almost dead. You watch life fade from his eyes, and for a moment you draw a blank.
Oh, yeah. Alex. His name was Alex. You don’t want to forget that.
You lean close to him, so close you can hear the involuntary spasming of his cinched esophagus, and whisper softly into his ear.
“Hey, Alex, bro—still with me? ‘No’ was the wrong answer…”
And another jerk of the belt. There’s a gristly crunching sound, somewhere between crushing a foam cup and ripping off a chicken leg, and his trachea collapses. You established your control over Alex so completely that he was utterly unable to prevent the last few moments of his life being spent in mind-rending agony.
His firm muscular body thrashes like a landed marlin, his heels drumming mindlessly against the floor. His hands are raised, fists clenching and unclenching in midair. His head shudders violent, spittle flying through the air. And then you see something you didn’t know was possible.
As you’d taken him into control, you’d noticed that his jeans had finally ended up around his ankles and that the tent in his boxers had never been taken down. Now, as you watched, the wet spot suddenly and very swiftly expanded in size as a pearly froth bubbled up at the tip of the tentpole.
He’d unloaded. He’d liked it. The fucker wanted it, wanted it so bad he’d blown his wad as it happened.
Well, if he wanted that, then he’d wanted this too. Reaching under its arms, you lift the convulsing corpse up to the bed. You jerk the boxers down by the waistband; the hard cock leaps up, still spewing jizz even after death. You suddenly find yourself seized by an overpowering urge—bend down and take the spurting shaft into your mouth.
Poor Alex—if only he’d given you what you wanted, he’d be having a great time right now.
But that’s no reason for you not to enjoy yourself. You suck his tool as if he was still alive to feel something, letting your tongue linger on its slick, engorged head. Within minutes, though, you can feel the dude’s generous tackle begin to wither and withdraw. There’s no more sperm to be gotten, either.
It’s time to get what you came for. You roll Alex’s firm but limp body over onto its belly, positioning it so you have perfect aim at its asshole. Slapping your cock into the palm of your hand, you climb onto the bed and mount the corpse.
Holy fuck, that feels good. Alex’s sphincter provides just the right amount of resistance before it gives way, accepting your aching, pulsing rod. You sink balls-deep into the dead kid’s ass, barely aware that you’re groaning with intense pleasure.
No other fuck has ever felt this good, and you’re just getting started.
Alex lies there, uncomplainingly accepting your dick. You have control; you can do whatever you want. You can fuck him as long and as hard as you want. He can’t say no, and that makes you want to fuck him even harder.
You can hear sounds echoing off the walls—your own physical grunting and the swift slapping of flesh created by vigorous sexual activity. You can still smell the tang of Alex’s flesh in the air, against a backdrop his cologne; you can still taste his salty cum on your tongue. He’s yours now, and he’ll never be anyone else’s.
That’s it; that’s what you needed to know, to feel, to really get. Alex is truly yours. Once you fill his tight fuckhole with manseed, no one else ever will. He’ll never be able to say he’s had a better fuck than you, and he’ll never be able to tell anyone he turned you down.
You don’t take no for an answer.
Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. Show Alex. He didn’t want to take your dick? Hose his guts with hot semen. Fucker can’t do anything to stop you—
It hurts. You cum so hard it hurts, burning, searing, like your dick is spewing lightning, not jizz. It goes on and on, your entire body spasming and convulsing as if you yourself were dying with each successive load. At some point, you become aware that you’ve been cursing Alex and slamming your fist into his lifeless back. Eventually, you come to a shuddering stop, but it still takes you another five minutes to regain your composure—and your breath.
Eventually, you’re back in control. You always are, sooner or later. You extract yourself, carefully pulling your cock back out of the corpse’s still-quivering asshole. You head back to the living room to get your clothing, but as you reach the bedroom door, you can see Alex’s Nike sneaker sitting upright by itself in the middle of the living room floor. For some reason, the image compels you to turn back and face the enormity of what you’ve done in the bedroom.
Alex is face-down on the bed. His arms are at his sides, his legs are spread as far as possible given that his jeans and boxers are down around his knees. The belt around his neck has sunk in so deep, it’s barely visible.
On the other hand, even from the doorway, you can clearly see how your cum still trickles from his ass.
The toes on the foot without the shoe are still curling, faintly and spasmodically. At the same time, the sneaker on the other foot jerks in sync. The entire corpse twitches randomly, but the movements are farther and farther apart each time.
You did this. Not an hour ago, Alex was a viable human being with a career and a social life. Now he’s a pile of human meat, filled with your cum. It hits you all at once, the full knowledge of exactly what you’ve done, and you feel…you feel—
—you feel inspired. You feel excited. You’ve had an epiphany.
You tuck your member back down your pants ad put your shirt back on. There’s a mirror by the front door; you stop and make sure that you look no different than you did when you came in. It confirms that you give no sign of the violent scene in which you’ve just participated.
You peer out the door—no one in the hallway. You luck holds; you leave the building unseen. As you head back to your place, you obey the speed limit and all traffic signs and signals. You’re filled with an understanding that you are at the doorway of a wondrous and dark new world, and you’re going to have to be very, very careful if you want to continue to taste its unspeakable pleasures.
The next day, you don’t think about it. You can’t. You didn’t kill someone; that was a bad dream. You go through your day, your mind relentlessly shying away from any train of thought that has Alex as its final destination.
But you can’t fool yourself. You won’t think about it because you don’t want to acknowledge, even to yourself, that you just nonchalantly committed murder…
…and because every time you do think about it, your dick gets hard.
And so you get through the day. And the next day. By that evening, though, you’re feeling the strain. You pour a drink as you sit down for you daily perusal of the local news apps—and there it is.
You don’t have to read the caption to recognize Alex’s apartment building. The link goes to a video clip from the local affiliate of a major network; you follow it compulsively, needing to recognize the enormity of your actions. The reporter is pretty and perky, and actually seems to have difficulty keeping the perkiness out of her voice as she speaks.
“Police responding to a welfare check at an apartment in the 5300 block of Anderson Avenue found the body of twenty-three-year-old Alexander Wallis. According to the report, the young man had been found strangled and had been sexually assaulted, but the police aren’t releasing any further details at this time.”
The clip segues into interviews with neighbors on the sidewalk in front of the building. A vivacious blond claiming to be Alex’s next-door neighbor is babbling away about not hearing a word from next door last night and of course she knew he was gay but didn’t think he was seeing anyone steadily…but your attention is suddenly riveted on the background.
A gurney is emerging from the front door, on top, a form covered by a sheet. It’s Alex, and everything immediately seems to slow down as if the clip was running at half speed.
A pair of orderlies are wheeling him out; behind is a tall, lanky young man with sandy blond hair. At that moment, the interviewee mentions something about the security of the front door, and the camera briefly zooms in. The young man’s name is embroidered on the breast of his white lab coat. The wind is flipping his lapel, so only part of it can be seen, and that not clearly—but you can make out ‘Harris’.
There’s something about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but then your eye lights on the pocket of his coat. There’s something in it; you know that shape…
Then it hits you—it’s a shoe. It’s Alex’s Nike sneaker. And right at that moment, he looks at the camera.
No. At you. He’s looking at you.
He knows what happened. He knows you’re out there. He may not know specifically who you are, but he’s seen this before. The sneaker—what does he want with Alex’s sneaker?
And then the image fills your mind—the Jordan 4 White Oreo sitting in the middle of the floor, your turning and admiring your kill with no shame, just the erotic thrill of domination. It rewinds like a film—his desperate, flailing death as he spunked in his shorts, the look of bewildered terror in his eye as you established control…
And you cum. Good thing you just got out of the shower and you’re still nude, because your sperm explodes like a geyser—and you didn’t even touch yourself. Just the memory of that night…
You head back to the bathroom to clean up, your mind racing madly. You have no idea what’s going to happen next. And that Harris dude—what the fuck was he up to?
But as you wipe your cum off your chest, you know one thing—you’ll never forget that night. You’ll never forget what it felt like to gain ultimate control.
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I saw the teasing photo he posted: lifting up a tight t shirt to show rippling abs, a bulging pec, a left nipple. A photo to show he had built himself into a muscle god. He said that his name was Luis Adam Bree. Real or not, I didn’t care. He said he wanted to be tamed, to be humiliated and punished. That said all I wanted to know about him. That he knew what he was, this waiter/bartender in his late twenties. Meat. Beautiful and well shaped. But meat. Nothing more.
I messaged him to find out what he meant by saying he was very kinky. He wanted to role play over Skype first. I said no. He wanted photos of me. I said no. I told him what I looked like made no difference to meat like him that deserved punishment. I told him to send more photos , and these nude. And he did. I told him to describe the kinky sexual encounters he had had. He did. In detail. He was mine already. I gave him the address of my house outside London. I gave him a date and a time that we could play at his punishment. And for the next two weeks I answered none of his messages.
He was precise, I’ll give him that. My bell rang at exactly the appointed time. I opened the door and he stepped inside, wearing the tight t and jeans of that first picture. I instructed him to stand, hands behind his back, legs spread, eyes ahead. I cupped my hand around the impressive cock and balls beneath the jeans, looking him in the eyes. He smiled as he grew hard and started to say he was pleased to finally meet me. I cuffed him hard across the mouth. I needed no words from him.
I took my time going to get a sharp knife. When I returned he stood stock still where he had been. I started to slowly shred the tight t, exposing his nipples. When he objected about how he couldn’t go home without a shirt I cuffed him again and pressed the point of the knife against his throat. I told him he would walk home totally naked if that was what I told him to do. I went back to my work shredding. His nipples were hard by the time I cut the collar of the t and it dropped to the floor. I started work on the jeans next. Cutting off piece by piece starting at his ankles, watching the cock strain against the crotch, darkening it with precum. It took a while, as I intended, until he stood naked, still with legs spread, hands behind his back, and eyes focused on a spot on the wall across from the front door. His cock stood out from his crotch, nicely hard.
I walked around him, close but not touching, inhaling his scent, feeling the heat coming off of his skin, inspecting every bit of his exposed flesh. When I stood behind him, I put an arm around his chest and drew him to me. I put my other hand over his nose and mouth, clamping them shut as I pulled his head against my shoulder. He tensed but stayed still. I held him as I felt his chest start to strain for air under my arm, and his heart to pound. Then his chest started to heave. As his hands grabbed for mine, I released him and stepped around him, punching him hard in his heaving stomach and cuffing him against the mouth. He was doubled over gasping for breath. I grabbed his hair and pulled his face up near mine. There were bruises beginning under the scruff around his mouth, and a trickle of blood. I told him calmly and slowly to stand with hands behind his back, legs spread, and eyes straight ahead. He did as told. I waited as his breath returned to normal.
I told him there would be no more words between us. I told him we were going to my playroom where I would begin his true humiliation. I repeated the safe word he had used with another partner. I knew it from the account he had sent to show how kinky he could be. I asked if he remembered it. He opened his mouth to speak, and then remembered, and nodded instead. I told him there were no safe words here. That that was how kinky I was. I told him I would punish him until I was satisfied and that he had no more say about what happened to him. I asked if he understood. He nodded. I told him it made no difference whether he understood or agreed. Nothing about him made any more difference. He nodded again. His cock was still hard. I took hold of it and led him to the basement.
I had made only one improvement to my basement to make it a playroom. On one wall was a large mirror I had acquired from a dance studio that had gone out of business. I liked my boys to watch their own humiliation. As you have probably guessed, this is not the first time I have taught a boy the hard lesson of punishment. There have been other boys who wanted to suffer pain. There have been others who have had to watch what was happening to their bodies as they slowly figured out that, no matter what we had agreed, there were no safe words here. And that I was never satisfied with their punishment. There have been others. This was merely the prettiest. And the first to be led down those stairs knowing he could not call a stop to what was going to happen.
I led them by their cocks because it made the stairs awkward. Luis Adam Bree only stumbled once, but he kept his hands behind his back and did not fall. Still his bow legged gait was hardly the elegant movement he probably expected out of his finely tuned body. Humiliation took many forms. And there would be no more elegance in this young man’s life. I led him to the center of the dank, bare room, facing his reflection in the mirror. He could look at the darkening bruises on his face. He could wonder how much they would show at work next week. He could wonder what other marks his body might have by then. He could wonder what it would feel like when he came. He could wonder if there would be a next week for him. He could wonder what death would feel like, and how he would react. He could wonder many things. I left, locking the house. He could not escape.
I ran some errands. I had a nice dinner at the restaurant where he waited tables. It was hours before I returned.
When I did, he was standing just as instructed. On the concrete floor between his legs was a puddle. He really had not moved. I grabbed the back of his head, forcing him down on his knees, not an easy movement on stiff legs with hands still behind him. But he was strong. I forced his face down to the puddle, my face close to his. To watch. He knew what I wanted. And I knew what he wanted. Humiliation. He started to lick. He gagged a couple of times. The floor was dirty. The piss smelled strong. But I didn’t let him up until the puddle was gone. Then I took his wrists and stretched his arms high, tying them to hooks set into the ceiling. I stepped to a cabinet against the wall and took off my own clothes, folding them on top of it. My body was not as impressive as his, but that was not the point of being naked. I wanted to feel flesh quivering in pain against my own. I took a cat o’ nine tails out of a drawer. It was spiked. He saw it as I stepped up behind him. He gripped the ropes that tied him. He set his jaw. But he made no sound.
I cracked it across his back. He gave a little grunt, and shook his head as if to shake off the shock of the sharp pain. Red lines opened up on his right shoulder blade. Blood began to trickle. The second crack was harder, and his body shook at the blow. The third caught in the flesh of his shoulder and I dragged it across, shredding his back like I shredded his t shirt. I switched hands and began again on his left side. His body shuddered at each blow. Again and again and again. He gave little grunts and moans, but did not cry out. He was hanging now by his wrists, but he was stretched so tight he was still on his feet. I could see his face in the mirror, his eyes watching every blow. I saw his determination to prove himself. To prove the strength of this body he had built. To prove the only thing about himself that was worth anything to him. Or to me.
I stepped back and admired the sight before me. The red stripes crisscrossing the muscles of the back. The shredded flesh. The bright red blood flowing. The sheen of sweat. The ripples as he heaved in air. I saw him looking at me in the mirror and I smiled at him in approval. He nodded. I placed the whip on he floor and walked around, standing face to face with him, close. Our chests rubbed against each other, our nipples hardening. My cock, long and stiffening, rubbed against his. His reacted as it started to get hard again. I wrapped my arms around him, smearing my hands in the blood of his back. Then, staying close, I used my fingers to write. I started with his left pec, over his heart. I was writing backwards, again and again pressing my fingers in the wounds of his back to get fresh blood. I held his eyes, to see if he was figuring out what I was writing. Both of our cocks were hard now. Brushing against each other’s legs. It was short, what I was writing. Ten letters. Three words. But I took my time. Savoring the intimacy. As he was, I think. I wrote the last word across his belly, his rock hard abs. And then I stepped back, still watching his eyes. Their focus shifted, looking at his torso in the mirror. Looking at the words I had written backwards so they were forwards in the mirror. And then his eyes got wide, and wild. He started shaking his head, muttering no, no, no. So he had been holding out hope then. He hadn’t really let himself believe where this was going. Just a game for him. A role play. I turned to look at what he was seeing. At the mirror, where his body read, “Gut me. Alive.”
I went to the cabinet and took out a knife. A gutting knife. I placed it on the floor near the mirror, where he could see himself and the knife together. Then I stepped back close to him, taking care not to smear my message. His cock was limp now, his nipples flat. He was afraid, tamed. So he did not resist when I put my hand behind his head and pulled his face to mine, when I kissed him deep. He returned the kiss after a while, although his cock stayed limp. Then I left him to the knife and the message and his imagination. Imagination about pain and blood and death could be torture on its own. I had a strong feeling though, that for Luis Adam Bree, there had been many nights when imagination about pain and blood and death had been ecstasy. Tonight, if he was lucky, it would be both.
When I returned to my basement playroom he looked up to watch me come down the steps. His eyes were red-rimmed, like he had been crying. He was finding death wasn’t like his fantasy. So strong, he thought he was, strong enough to enjoy torture and even dying. So before I destroyed his body, I would destroy that, any chance that he would enjoy what I did to him.
I walked up to him and ran my hand along his cheek, running my hands over his impressive pecs, running my thumbs around and around his nipples until they grew hard again, running my hands over his hard abs and the v of his hips until I cupped his balls with one hand and grasped his cock in my other. It was a gentle caress, and his cock leapt to erection in my hand. His body was young, and always straining for pleasure. But I saw the hope come back in his eyes as well. I sneered at him. And spit in his face. His cock stayed hard. I could see he enjoyed it.
One of the fantasies on the site that young Mr Bree and I enjoyed was that a young man could have his best orgasm as he died, spraying cum everywhere. The difference was that I knew it was a fantasy. Young Mr Bree was expecting it to be real. So I was about to turn his expectation into frustration.
I moved around behind him, enjoying running my hands over the firm mounds of his butt. I moved two fingers into his crack, exploring his hole. His body quivered in delight, and he spread his legs expecting my cock to be thrust in next. But I simply explored until I found the spongy prostate inside him and began to rub. If I had used my other hand to stroke his cock, used my tongue to lick his butt, had given him any other pleasure, he would most likely have shot cum across the room. But I was not interested in his pleasure. So I simple rubbed his prostate. It took a while, but eventually I got what I wanted. His milky cum dribbling out of his now not-quite-erect cock. It made quite a puddle by the time it stopped. It would have made for an impressive and fulfilling orgasm. But this milking would leave his balls empty and unable to cum for longer than it was going to take him to die. And it would leave his body, I had been told, aching to cum, but not able to. Mr Bree would get nothing but pain and frustration out of his dying.
I moved around to face him again, wiping my fingers on his chest, smearing the words I had written. He had a puzzled look, looking from the puddle of wasted cum to me. Not understanding what I had just done, or why. In the stories that we read, that Mr Bree had even written, the torturer wanted the young buck to cum. Or he enjoyed the pain enough to cum. Or his body just came at the last second. This was not the stories. This was ugly and painful reality. My reality.
He took a breath and started to speak. I raised my hand and he cut the words off, flinching from the expected blow. I lowered my hand, smiled and walked over to my cabinet of toys. I had been thinking over our little break about how I would end this Luis Adam Bree. I read responses to his photo on the site. People saying what they would do to him if they had the chance. I took perverse pleasure in the fact that the object of their lust was hanging from the joists that supported the floor under my chair. I even hacked his account and posted a photo of his cock and balls that he had sent me. I thought they deserved the chance to beat off over them while I enjoyed the real thing. At last I remembered how my cock loved shredding his t shirt to expose that beautiful torso. So I opened a drawer and took out an extremely sharp scalpel.
I got the puzzled look again as he saw me approach with such a tiny knife. His eyes followed it as I raised it to his right shoulder, as I thrust it through his skin and just into his muscle. There was a sharp intake of breath and a long hiss as I drew a line with the scalpel, straight down, over the edge of his pec, down the side of his ribs to his waist, over the bone of his hip and down the outside of his leg to his ankle. Slowly and calmly. And then I just as slowly licked the beads of blood springing from the line up his leg and torso to his shoulder, my cock hardening as I followed the contours of his muscle, first with my hand, then with my tongue. As I reached the top of the line I had drawn in him, I looked him in the eye and gave him a gory smile. Then I raised my scalpel and drew a second line a little to the right of the first. A slight whimper as I drew over the bumps of his ribs. Again my tongue retraced the contours of his muscle and bone. My cock stood out hard from my crotch. His was long and thick, but it would never be erect again. Again and again I drew the lines, just deep enough to cut into the muscle, to bring the blood trickling down his torso and thighs and calves. I traced around his nipples, leaving them whole. And I left the center line of his body, so well defined on its own, unmarked. He was weakening now, from the constant pain, the slits in the muscles, the loss of blood. His breaths came long and ragged. But he was still far from dying. His body was coated in a sheen of blood and sweat. The bloody lines just helped define the contours of his muscles. His mouth hung open in pain and exhaustion. Tears of pain or despair tracked his cheeks, I didn’t care much which. He was fucking beautiful. His body shredded like I shredded his clothes. THIS is all you’re for, cunt. All you built up that magnificent body for. MY pleasure.
I admired my work for a while, stroking my stiff cock with my free hand. Still holding the scalpel in my right. There was one last part of him still to draw my lines in. I began at the base of the v of his collarbone. His body shuddered a bit at this last violation of so many. I traced the line down the valley of his pecs, the valley of his abs. My cock strained, wanting to cum at this beauty. But I left it alone and continued. I traced around the navel, giving him hope I would stop before I got to where this line was pointing. But I continued, down the trail of hair that led to his bush, through its center, and then … even more slowly … down the top of his long impressive cock, pressing deep now. He howled. But his muscles were shredded enough, the blood loss was enough, that he could only shudder, and hang from his wrists tied to the ceiling.
I continued my line. Cutting through the head, following the slit, and then holding the cock up to cut through the other side, cutting it in two. Then I continued down the center of his sack, between his heavy balls, around and up the back of it, until at last I reached his hole and stopped. He continued to moan and sob. I knew the pain must be excruciating, even compared to all the other cuts together. I began another line on his cock, cutting each of the halves I had created in two. Then I drew lines down its sides. In all, I cut the tube of his cock so that it hung from his crotch in six strips. Then I went to work on his sack, down under the balls and around, leaving it in six strips as well. But only the sack. The balls themselves hung glistening and untouched, poking through their net of skin and blood.
I licked some of the delicious blood. I smeared some of it on my straining cock. And then I stood, and applied my scalpel to that shredded chest once again. I cut a slit connecting two of my lines along his collarbone. I dug my scalpel under the layer of skin and started to pull loose the strip I had made. It was the one with his untouched left nipple. The one he had teased in his first picture. I had decided when I first saw it that it would be mine. I pulled sharply again and again as the strip came loose down his chest to his waist. I would have thought he didn’t have the strength left, but he howled. Each time I pulled. I left the strip attached to his leg as I put the perfect nipple in my mouth and began to chew while I looked him in the eye. I saw anger and frustration. I had cheated him of what he thought would be the fulfillment of his life, a perfect, cum-soaked death. I even deprived him of the delicious pain of feeling his nipple chewed into pulp. Behind the anger I saw the deep, searing pain that washed over him in waves from all the nerves of his skin severed. And I saw the utter, utter hopelessness. I was stripping away anything erotic from his dying, but he was dying anyway. And there was no way of stopping that now. I saw despair. And with it, something like love. He would not feel any of the pleasure he had imagined. He had no cum left to cum. But he could see by my cock my pleasure. And he was clinging to that.
I reached my fingers into the strips of his sack and circled his left ball. He grunted a bit like this was just a discomfort. He was fading now. I pulled down, sharp and hard until it came free. A soft moan. I looked him in the eye as I put his ball between my teeth and started to chew. I let my face fall into a look of pleasure, my eyes half closed as I savored this delicacy. I saw his look of relief as he saw me enjoying his meat. He even smiled. I just sneered at him. And spit the half-chewed useless thing in his face. He started to sob, tears running down his face now. That was the end of him I wanted.
I walked to the gutting knife, where it still lay on the floor by the mirror. I saw his eyes following me. I picked it up and started toward him. He just hung. Sobbing and crying. No attempt to regain his feet. To show any bravery. To “take it like a man.” His sobs reduced to moans. One with each breath. His eyes fixed on the knife, as I placed it on the center line I had drawn in him, at the base of his breastbone, the top of his stomach.
I thrust through muscle and tendon, into the body cavity. And I worked quickly, sawing down and down. His body jerked with my efforts and the last of his pain. He was strong enough to live through what was left. I was sure of that. I opened him from rib cage to cock. And then, dropping the knife, I thrust both hands, both arms into his belly and far up under his ribs. I felt the slippery beating heart, the heaving lungs. I grasped hold of what I could and heaved downward. Ribs cracked as I pulled it all out of the open wound that was his belly. Intestines and liver and stomach unwound onto the floor at his feet, my arms held heart and lungs and other unnamable things. I saw a glimmer of awareness holding on in his eyes as I had hoped. Just enough maybe, to see me thrust my cock into his steaming innards. And cum. Not cumming for his oh-so-carefully sculpted body, but into the same stinking slop that every body contained.
I left the corpse hanging as I went upstairs and showered. I sat naked, checking the site on my iPad. Posting another photo as Luis Adam Bree. I would continue his online presence for a while for his fans. His real self would disappear and never be found. I had enough contacts in the intelligence community and enough skill at technology to insure that. I would even post the actual description of his final hours as a story to the site. So many guys would beat off again and again, never knowing that it was all real.
At last I went back to the gutted corpse hanging in my basement. I cut off the left pectoral. It was large, but I was very hungry after this day. I took the surviving ball as well. I sautéed it, and ate it with the rare steak. Young Mr Bree would never know how much I enjoyed it. Or how hard I came each time I ate a piece of the meat I butchered and froze from his quite beautiful body. But then he never deserved to know. Because for him to die believing that all that he had worked for was useless to me, except for his pain, was exactly what gave me the most pleasure. And giving me the most pleasure was the only thing he ever deserved.
It was going to be a chilly night. Everyone thought of Las Vegas as being warm, but that wasn’t always the case—as Lenny had cause to know. He also knew that his denim jacket wouldn’t be much help, not over a thin black cotton t-shirt. His jeans, tucked into a pair of Polo Ralph Lauren ranger boots, were faded and worn. There really wasn’t much to keep the chill out.
Lenny needed to find a place to stay for the night. He needed to find a trick.
Tall and lean, with a shock of unruly jet-black hair, the boy was just barely eighteen—he thought. Lenny had been on the streets for more than three years, fleeing from the mental abuse of a viciously religious upbringing. He’d started selling his body right away; the heavy drug use followed soon thereafter. By now, the kid’s higher mental functions were shot—he was little more than an animal, with the narrow focus of cunning street smarts that enabled him to survive, and to acquire what he needed. His expensive boots, for example—they’d been stolen off a john.
Which brought Lenny back to tonight. What day was it—Saturday? But he’d been with that fat fuck on Wednesday night. Lenny craved cock as much as the next faggot, but the asshole tourist had been middle-aged and hung like a minnow. Enraged, the violent street punk had punched his lights out and cleaned out his wallet, netting more than three hundred bucks. What had happened to it since then?
Oh yeah—Angel. Bleary at best, Lenny’s memory still managed to churn up a vague recollection of running into the dealer in a bar on Paradise sometime Thursday afternoon. Lenny had already owed him money for fronting an eightball. Lenny had paid him back—he didn’t have much of a choice; Angel was armed—and things got hazy after that. The boywhore had no idea where he’d spent the last two nights, but he had a dim idea that by the time it was all done, he owed Angel even more than he had on Wednesday.
Well, he’d worry about that later. In the meantime, he needed to find a mark for the night—someone to take him in and provide for his needs, either willingly or unwillingly. Lenny wasn’t intelligent, but he knew how to get what he needed.
He’d been on the west side of I-15—he couldn’t remember why—and was heading east on Flamingo, back towards the strip. Lots of cum-thirsty fag tourists on the strip; he was sure he could find a nice, soft, rich trick there. Once he crossed the highway, though, and was passing alongside the Bellagio, he felt—he knew—he was being watched. He possessed the senses of a feral cat, and they weren’t leading him astray. A quick glance around, and he found the source.
The man was standing on the other side of the Flamingo, in the VIP valet lot for Caesar’s Palace. Latino, with a shaved head and a goatee, he was wearing a leather biker jacket. Something about the man screamed pure erotic machismo; Lenny’s dick was instantly hard.
Something else about the man screamed pure, unmitigated danger, and screamed it louder. But the dude was sliding into a cherry-red convertible Mercedes two-seater. Lenny’s survival instincts were finely-tuned—but they could easily be overridden by greed. And when the stud took advantage of an almost unheard-of gap in the traffic at the intersection at this time of the day and pulled across Flamingo to where he was standing on the far side, Lenny jammed those instincts as far down as he possibly could.
“You look like fun,” the older man drawled laconically, “Wanna party?”
“Aw, fuck yeah, man,” Lenny replied with a huge grin.
“Jump in, dude,” the man said, “I got two fifths of Johnnie Walker and an ounce of primo weed back at my place. Guess that’s enough to start with, yeah?”
Lenny leaped into the passenger seat with alacrity. He couldn’t believe his luck. He glanced over at the stud who was wearing a white t-shirt under his leather jacket and skin-tight jeans tucked into a pair of Caterpillar Revolver steel-toed work boots. “What’s your name?” he asked.
Carlos looked at him evenly. “Mark. Call me Mark.”
Carlos turned away. He didn’t need to know the faggot’s name. And in a little while, it wouldn’t need a name anyway.
Lenny could sense that the dude didn’t want to talk, so he kept his mouth shut. It took some effort, though, once he saw the condo building and entered the private elevator for tenants in the parking garage. Aside from one or two of the ritzier hotels, this was far and away the nicest place he’d seen in Vegas.
Carlos opened the door to the unit and strode into the bedroom with the wide-legged gait of a man with a massive set of tackle between his legs. “Strip, boy,” he called out, “I’m gettin’ a drink.”
Lenny complied, kicking off his boots, but he was still uncertain. “Dontcha wanna know my—um, what it’s gonna cost?”
Carlos strolled back in, a tumbler of Scotch in his hand. He’d already taken off his jacket and shirt revealing his heavily muscled and inked torso. “It don’t matter,” he replied tersely.
Lenny was too busy gaping at the older man’s chest to notice that he hadn’t been given a drink himself—or to take in the full import of Carlos’s words. “That’s ok,” he said faintly, “If you’re as good as I think yer gonna be, we can probably work out some kinda discount.”
He figured the deal was set when he saw the smirk on Carlos’s face; he utterly failed to notice the smoldering hatred in the muscle-bound stud’s eyes. Later on, he’d see it much more clearly—when it was too late to do any good. In the meantime, he peeled off his shirt and wriggled out of his jeans. Underneath, he was commando; he was standing in Carlos’s living room, nude but for his socks.
He was also sporting a boyish grin and a rapidly swelling erection. His member was nothing to be ashamed of, either; it jutted out in front of him, the pink, spongy head pulsing visibly.
“Well,” he asked, his grin growing cocky, “How ya wanna play? You want this up yer ass?”
“Get in the bedroom,” Carlos hissed. Lenny saw his face go beet-red—and managed to misinterpret the buff killer’s intense rage as sexual excitement.
“Sure, dude, whatever ya want,” he replied, strolling causally past the larger, more muscular man into the bedroom. “Damn, that’s a nice view!” He approached the huge window the looked out over the strip.
Carlos came up behind him. Just as he did, Lenny wheeled around. “Hey, where’s that weed you said you had? I wanna get fucked up.”
“Don’t worry,” Carlos replied, his grin becoming obviously malicious, “You will, motherfucker. Yer gonna get more fucked up than you thought possible.”
A tinge of concern pressed into Lenny’s fuzzy mind like a pebble in his shoe; that didn’t sound quite right. “Wha—”
Carlos punched him hard, twice. The first blow landed on his jaw, the second on his hard flat belly, driving the air from his lungs. The punk sank to the floor, gasping and stunned.
He looked up at Carlos in disbelief. This wasn’t the first time a john had turned violent on him before—hell, one had put him in the hospital last year—but he’d always known it was coming. His street sense had triggered an alert before he’d been attacked. Not this time. He hadn’t seen any warnings.
Not that he was cowed. Lenny knew how to fight, and he’d been in some rough scraps. He could give as good as he got. “You sonofabitch,” he snarled up at Carlos, his emerald eyes glittering like a feral cat’s, “You’re the one who’s gonna get fucked up, asswipe!”
The boywhore sprang off the floor, launching himself at the older man. But Carlos was much more experienced with violence that the rentboy was; he could read the fag’s every thought almost before it had entered Lenny’s mind. He merely twisted to one side and stuck his foot out, tripping the adolescent and sending him sprawling across the floor.
The carpet was thick and soft; Lenny was more angry than hurt. And when he heard Carlos’s soft chuckle behind him, he became enraged. No fucking trick was gonna get the better of him!
Of course, if his street smarts had been honed a little better, it’s possible that he might have recognized the danger hidden in that faint laugh—he might have heard the voice of a vicious sadist kicking into overdrive. But even if he had, it would have been too late.
Lenny didn’t know it—yet—but he was locked in with a serial killer.
Even as he began getting up, Carlos strode forward and kicked him in the flank, hard. “HOOG!” the teenaged rentboy spat out in pain. Rolling over and clutching his bruised ribs, he heard the soft chuckle again.
“You like that, faggot?” Carlos sneered. “You better, cause there’s plenty more of that shit comin’ for ya. I’m gonna fuck you up so bad yer momma won’t be able to recognize ya. And then I’m gonna stick my dick in ya. You want that, right? All you fuckin’ homos wanna ride my cock. Don’t worry—yer gonna ride it right into yer grave.”
Still trying to catch his breath, Lenny turned and looked up. Carlos loomed over him, his massive, erect cock throbbing, large dark nipples jutting out from his hairy, inked chest. The look on the boy’s face spoke of his confusion.
“Yeah, bitch, you heard me,” Carlos smirked. “I’m gonna hurt ya, and I’m gonna waste ya. It’s what you deserve—what all you fags deserve. I’m gonna use yer worthless ass as a cumdump and leave ya in the desert to rot. And ya know what? Ain’t no one gonna care! One less faggot whore in the world—hell, I’m doin’ this town a favor. Now get up. Get the fuck up, dickhead. You got to earn yer death. You got to earn it through pain.”
By now, Lenny had figured out that the situation was serious. Despite getting punched out, he hadn’t grasped the fact that the dude wanted to kill him, but between Carlos’s words and the look of maniacal glee on his face, Lenny knew that that was exactly what was gonna happen if he didn’t get out of this place.
“Ok,” the teen said, playing for time, “Ok, I’ll get up—just don’t hit me again.”
“I don’t have to hit you to hurt you, cunt,” Carlos muttered. Standing next to the bed, he turned and opened a drawer on the nightstand. Reaching in, he extracted a four-foot length of straight link machine chain. As the three-quarter inch links clinked in his powerful hands, Lenny took advantage of his preoccupation and bolted for the door.
His socks made virtually no sound on the carpeted floor, but Carlos had noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye. His big black boots did make a sound, the heavy thudding of his footfalls telling Lenny that he was being pursued. The rentboy wasn’t in complete panic yet, but he was scared as hell—he knew that this was likely his only chance to escape.
If he didn’t make it—but his mind shut that line of thought down. He’d make it. The alternative was literally unthinkable.
And then there was a searing, slashing pain across his back, so bad it made him scream. He was so close to the front door, but the pain made him falter. And then it came again.
Lenny stumbled and fell, sobbing by now. He looked behind him and understood everything. Carlos was standing there, swinging the chain—he’d been wielding it like a whip. As he swayed on his knees, the teen whore could feel blood trickling down his back from the wounds where the chain had flayed his flesh.
“Big mistake,” Carlos hissed menacingly, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying mix of hate and lust, “I’m gonna make you beg for death, faggot.”
He lashed out with the chain again, striking the cowering youth across the chest. As the metal links tore open Lenny’s skin, the boy squealed like a piglet, making Carlos leer in sadistic pleasure.
“Now yer gettin’ it, fuckwad,” he jeered. “That’s just the beginnin’.” As the muscled ex-con approached, Lenny’s hands came up involuntarily in a supplicating gesture. Carlos knocked them aside and wrapped the chain around the boy’s throat, then gave it a twist over his own hand. Having thus fashioned a workable handle, he was easily able to deadlift the adolescent fag off the ground.
The metal links sank into the flesh of Lenny’s throat; the boy kicked and clawed frenziedly, trying to get free of the agonizing stranglehold. Carlos just smirked.
“C’mon, motherfucker,” he said quietly, “Let’s take this back to the bedroom. I’m gonna tie you down so I can take my time with you, asswipe. I’m gonna destroy yer fag ass, and I’m gonna take my time doin’ it. Yer gonna love this, ya sick faggot pervert. You’re gonna love the pain so much you’ll cum.”
He lifted Lenny up even higher to look him in the eyes; the boy’s socked feet flailed in the air almost a foot above the floor. “They always do. Remember that, fucker. Every fag I’ve ever offed blew a wad before it died. You ain’t gonna be no different.”
And with that, he bodily carried the dangling, struggling teenager back to the bedroom. The metal links sank into Lenny’s skin; the pain was excruciating. Thrashing and twisting in a vain attempt to free himself, the boy got a brief glimpse out the window.
It was dusk and the lights on the Strip were just coming on. To the adolescent’s swelling, bulging eyes they appeared as kaleidoscopic bursts of rainbow colors. It was indescribably beautiful, and he had been in the middle of it only minutes ago—what was happening? How had it happened? He swung again, face to face with his assailant, but what his eyes locked onto wasn’t Carlos’s steely glare, but the thick gold chain around his neck.
And for a brief moment, the fagwhore’s true nature kicked in. How had he missed that? If he could just get free, that’d be the first thing he’d steal. All he needed was a chance. He just had to get a chance.
What he got was utter darkness. Carlos punched his lights out. The teen cunt never even saw it coming.
Lenny’s first tentative forays into regaining consciousness did not bode well. He could breathe again, true, but there was the pain—so much pain. And there was a stiffness, a tightness; he couldn’t move…
He opened his eyes and realized that he was face down on the bed with Calos tying his leg to the footboard of the bed by looping what appeared to be nylon rope around the ankle. He could see it easily; the headboard of the bed was open metalwork with a mirror behind it—he could see himself; he could see the muscle-bound stud at the foot of the bed.
His other leg had already been bound by the same method, and both hands at the wrists. And it was tight, painfully tight. His right hand was already losing sensation.
Icy terror clutched at the rentboy’s heart, filling his mouth with an acrid tang. He’d been in dangerous positions before—any boywhore in this town was bound to run into trouble at some point—but nothing like this. He’d voluntarily placed himself in the power of someone who was going to take profound pleasure in torturing and killing him, and he was utterly helpless to prevent it.
“P-please—please, sir?” he quavered. “Sir, you-you don’t have to hurt me. I’ll d-do anything you want, sir.” It was all he had left. If he couldn’t talk his way out of this, he was dead.
“Yeah, you will, bitch,” Carlos growled. “And I do have to hurt you. You need to be hurt. All you faggots do. How else are ya gonna learn what useless sacks a’ shit you are? Get yer reamed-out homo fuckhole ready, cause I’m goin’ in dry.”
By staring straight ahead, Lenny had a perfectly framed view of Carlos climbing on the bed, his enormous cock jutting out from his open fly like a crane from a construction site. He could see that the hypermasculine ex-con was still wearing his black boots; he could even see fine details of the stud’s prison tats—although the rentboy was barely literate enough to have spelled out the words “Die motherfucker die” even had they not been reversed by the mirror.
And he could also clearly see Carlos mount his ass raw. The teenaged slut knew it was coming and tensed himself. It was a bad move. Carlos’s massive, throbbing member was an irresistible force, punching through Lenny’s sphincter like a rock through a window. The metaphor was apt—Lenny’s jagged shrieks of agony were shrill enough to shatter glass.
“Shaddup and take it, ya piece a’ fag shit,” Carlos snarled. Pulling both ends of the chain with one hand, he jerked the boy’s head up and punched him in the side of the face. The fuckmeat grunted but kept on screaming, so he hit it a few more times. He didn’t count how many, but by the time he was done, the screaming had subsided to an anguished moaning.
“Yeah, ya cocksucker, Carlos crowed, “You likin’ this? ‘Course ya are—you’re a faggot; you just love shit bein’ shoved up yer ass, right?”
“St-stop,” Lenny managed to bleat out through his snotty tears, “Please-please stop…”
“What kinda lame homo are ya?” the serial killer jeered, “I’ve gone to all this fuckin’ trouble—I ain’t stoppin’ till I full yer fuckhole with cum.” Carlos then lay full length on the boy, grabbing a handful of his hair and jerking his head back. Once again, Lenny had a full view of the muscled stud, now lying on top of him and grinding his enormous member into his ass. Carlos bent his head down, his thick goatee scraping the teenager’s cheek as he whispered.
“And you know what it’s gonna take to get my load, dontcha? You gotta die. When I see yer eyes glaze over and feel you convulse on my cock, I’ll hose yer guts with sperm. That’s whatcha want, ain’t it? That’s what every cumguzzlin’ pansy wants—to get offed by a Real Man, to feel the power of his spunk as they die. Not like yer ever gonna get a better fuck anyway, so I might as well put you outta yer misery, right?”
Terror pierced Lenny’s chest like an icy shaft of steel. He wasn’t gonna die—he couldn’t. Not him. His mind would not, could not accept the fact. He tried desperately to break free of his bonds, but his struggles only drew the slipknots tighter around his wrists and ankles.
Carlos grunted in animalistic pleasure as he felt the teen squirming under him. “Fuck yeah, bitch, work my dick. Fuckin’ faggot whore, show me how ya earn yer money!”
Lenny glanced up, only to see the hardbodied ex-con sweating and penetrating him, relentlessly using his ass as a sex toy. The heavily tattooed older man was so fucking hot; the gold chain swinging back and forth with each brutal, powerful thrust—for a brief moment, the cockpig at the core of Lenny’s innermost soul was able to forget that his lifespan could be measured in a handful of minutes.
For a brief moment, Lenny got off on his own rape. It didn’t last long.
“You’re enjoyin’ this too much, cunt,” the sadistic killer snarled. “Only way dumbass fags like you learn what inferior pieces a’ shit you are is to suffer—time to start yer lesson, motherfucker!” Without missing a beat of the vicious assfuck, Carlos grabbed the chain, making sure it was still wrapped around the boy’s neck. Then he rose up on his knees, jerking the chain up like reins until Lenny’s back bent in an excruciating upwards arc.
That was when the real nightmare began. That was when Lenny first began to understand that the psycho might have been telling the truth about something—that he’d be begging for death before it was all over.
The pain was beyond anything he’d believed possible. He could feel the individual links of the chain as they sank into the tender flesh of his throat, the skin welling up agonizingly in the center of each link. The pain was so intense that it almost distracted him from the fact that he couldn’t breathe—almost. The teen’s hands clenched into helpless fists as he instinctively struggled to get his arms free. His biceps swelled with effort as he jerked and thrashed, the nylon rope abrading and flaying the skin on his wrists and ankles.
An inadvertent glance in the mirror showed that he hardbodied convict who was strangling him had biceps even larger and more powerful, though. It also showed something else—Lenny saw his own face, swelling and blackening grotesquely….
No. No, this wasn’t happening—it couldn’t be. It was a bad dream. He wouldn’t look at the nightmare; he’d wake up soon and could forget all about this.
But Carlos had seen him looking. He pulled the adolescent’s head back and up until Lenny could see nothing but the mirror.
“Look,” the experience killer hissed, “This is what a faggot looks like when it dies. It chokes and drools like a dog. It’s slow and it’s painful and yer gonna want it to be over long before I put you outta yer misery, asswipe. Keep watching and remember how much scumshits like you deserve this shit. Watch yerself die, cunt and remember—this is your fault. I’m doin’ the world a favor by puttin’ you down.”
Lenny tried to speak. Even now, as his head pounded, every throb seeming to cause it to swell to the bursting point, he wanted to speak, to refute the insults, to plead for his life. He wanted to beg for the sake of his family—but things were becoming faint. He couldn’t remember them clearly. He couldn’t remember much of anything clearly—there was only the present. And the present was a tiny universe full of searing agony.
He saw himself in the mirror. He had to; his eyes were swollen, bulging from their orbits so far that he was unable to close his lids. The facility of thinking clearly was swiftly fading from his oxygen-starved brain, but even so, he knew that what he was seeing couldn’t be him. That black, puffy, congested face, those huge eyes, red with pinprick hemorrhages, that protruding tongue, sticking out between the thick blue lips over which flowed streams of white, foamy drool—no, that was a caricature. That wasn’t him.
He wasn’t that. He was…he was—he was pain. The crushing agony of his throat, where the chain had sunk in so deeply that was no longer visible, that was him. The unassuageable flaming agony in his lungs, that was him. The nightmarish sensation of being ripped apart by anal impalement, that was him.
The excruciating, eager, and deeply humiliating ache in his own seething scrotum and pulsing, oozing cock—yes, yes, that was him…
And that was when the teenaged whore realized that the brutal alpha had been right all along. This was exactly what he needed, what he deserved. He was willing to accept death, and all it had taken was slowly being throttled to the point of irreversible brain damage.
As the fuckmeat’s mental processes began to shut down, Carlos could literally feel the changes via its ass. “Yer ready, aintcha, fuckwad?” he jeered, “Ready to have my thick wad of spunk hose yer homo guts? Here it comes, faggot—lessee if ya live long enough to enjoy it!”
Twisting the chains so that he could maintain his stranglehold single-handedly, Carlos drew back his other fist, his inked bicep swollen with implicit power. The fuckmeat could barely see the poised blow through the black death-blossoms that were exploding in front of its eyes. It didn’t matter anyway. It had already lost the capacity for wonder or fear—or rational thought, for that matter.
As Carlos had predicted, it was nothing but agonized fagmeat desperately needing to be put out of its misery. And the psycho ex-con was so eager to oblige, his gigantic horsecock was on the verge of exploding.
“Die, motherfucker,” he growled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his orgasm, Die!!”
The last thing the young faggot felt in its life was the brutal donkey punch Carlos delivered to the back of its head.
A donkey punch is meant to contract the victim’s muscles, making the top’s orgasm more intense. This certainly accomplished that—by knocking the whore’s head so far forward its spine was severed, vertebrae shattering like dry twigs. The punk spewed nearly two pints of semen in a steady stream ionto the sheet beneath it, but its shredded spinal cord prevented it from feeling that.
But it was a blessing, too, in a way. With an inarticulate cry of rage, lust, and release, Carlos’s round, rock-hard asscheeks went concave as he jammed his gigantic horsecock deeper into the homo’s intestines that he ever had before. The cunt was at least spared the sensation of its rectal lining being torn like the wrapping paper on a toddler’s gift as its guts were hosed by searing potent manseed.
Carlos continued to slam his fist into the dead whore as it convulsed and milked his shaft. Fuck, it always felt so good at this point—even dead, a real faggot kept trying to get his prime alpha load. That’s how he knew he’d offed a true homo.
After several minutes, it was over. The corpse was still quivering, but the motions weren’t intense enough to have any impact on Carlos. Besides, the convict’s balls were empty; he’d need a few minutes at least to recharge. Not that there was time—he needed to meet Nick in couple of hours.
The sun had set. It was time to take out the trash.
An hour later, Carlos was cruising a state highway. It was a warm night, and he had the top down. Behind him, in the trunk, the body of the dead rentboy was wrapped in a sheet, along with its clothes—Carlos has used its t-shirt to clean the cum off the end of his cock. It was on its back, its boots lying on its cum-matted belly. The muscled sadist had considered keeping them for himself, but when he tried them on, they were too small.
He’d headed south out of town on Highway 15, then west towards Spring Mountain Ranch State Park. Just outside of the park, obscure roads twisted over the arid hills towards a couple of gypsum mines. Turning down one of these, the ex-con soon found a deep, narrow gully. Easing to a stop—there was no shoulder to pull over on—he shut off the engine and got out of the car. Retrieving the still-trembling bundle from the trunk he unceremoniously dumped it into the ravine.
As far as hiding places went, it wasn’t all that hard to spot, and the white sheet didn’t help—but it didn’t matter. Carlos knew no one would care. After all, it was just another faggot cumdump. They were a dime a dozen, and he was helping out the police by culling the herd.
As he swung the car around and headed back towards, the highway, Carlos had managed to work himself into a state approaching indignation. Hell, the way he was taking out homo cunts, the city shoulda given him a fuckin’ medal…
“So whatcha got, Schweitz?” Nuñez asked as he got out of the car.
“It’s down there,” Schweitz replied, pointing down into the gully. “Driver with a load of ore noticed something white flapping in the wind. Young male, late teens or early twenties—”
“Let me guess,” Nuñez interrupted. “Our favorite fagkiller.”
“Yeah,” Schweitz said. “This one was ugly. There’s a length of chain still embedded in its neck. Fucker must’ve really suffered.”
“Well, there’s a potential clue.”
“Nah,” Schweitz responded with a sigh. “Seen that type and gauge in dozens of home repair shops in the area. Not worth my time to follow up on it.”
“Yeah, I’m kinda in two minds about this guy,” Nuñez remarked. “I mean, part of me wants to shake his hand—the more fag whores he clears off the street the better, right? But I wish he’d he stop dumping them out in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m with ya. Fuck, far I care, he can leave ‘em in the middle of Boulder Highway. I ain’t huntin’ him down. I hate havin’ to drag my ass all the way out here just to make it like LVPD gives a shit about some dead homo scum, though—oh, the ME’s boys got it.”
Two men had laboriously climbed the slope from the bottom of the ravine, a stretcher between them. There was a gurney awaiting them at the top, next to the Medical Examiner’s van. The corpse was still wrapped in the white sheet in which it had been discarded.
Nuñez walked over to it and pulled back the sheet. He looked at the dead boy for a moment, then expressionlessly pulled the sheet back over its face before returning to Schweitz.
“Aw, what’dja want to do that for? Don’t need to look at it to fill out a couple of forms.”
“Curiosity, I guess,” Nuñez said. “Wondered if I’d seen it be before.”
“Sure enough. That one was getting booked on a charge of soliciting and indecent exposure at the same time as I brought Rodriguez in. Don’t remember its name, though.”
“Well, it’ll be in the records. C’mon, let’s get back to town. No reason to hang around here, and I found this coffee place I wanna show ya.”
The detectives got back in the car. Schweitz turned the ignition and put it in gear, then paused for a moment and pondered.
“Ya know, I wonder…”
“What?” Nuñez asked dispassionately; he know his partner had these quasi-philosophical moments.
“Why do the parents even bother to name them? They way they turn out, most of these fags might just as well be called meatbag…”
Nuñez rolled his eyes. “Let’s go. I need that coffee.”
HE WAS GETTING OFF ON IT THE WHOLE TIME!!!! Fuck, that was hilarious. I never guessed that. But then the other guys hadn’t. They screamed or begged. They fought or thrashed. This guy did too. A little. But now that I knew I thought back on it and it was more like a game. Like a role play. And it was. He was looking for this. Looking for me, even though he didn’t know me. He just knew that each summer for the last three a young guy hiking alone had disappeared in this area and never been found. Laying spread-eagled in this clearing, his wrists and ankles tied, knowing what was about to happen, he finally told me. But then what did he have to keep secrets for?
I had tracked him for three days. In his tight shorts and his bare chest with his t shirt tied around his waist. I tracked him until he set up his camp. I tracked him as he explored the area. His muscles rippling. The sweat glistening. But no matter how beautiful he was, I wouldn’t strike until I knew he was truly alone. I was good at being silent and invisible in the woods.
When I first met him, I pretended to be coming from the other direction on the trail. We talked for a bit. I gave out signals that I was interested in something more than talk, in case he was good for a fuck or two. He responded with signals that he was. They were ancient signals. And still useful in a place where there was no Grindr or Scruff because there was no cell signal. I took him right by his fire. Pushing him face down in the dirt and leaves. Thrusting my swollen cock up his ass. He liked it rough. He liked to be dominated. Three times I took him that night. When I wanted. How I wanted. The second time he let me tie him facing a massive tree trunk. His ass bare to the night. I fucked him until I sprayed cum all over his back. Then I went to sleep and left him tied standing. Just before sunrise I untied him and let him lay by the fire. I lay behind him and thrust myself into him again. But this time I took hold of his swollen cock and jerked him off while I thrust into him. His body writhed and shuddered against mine as he came long thick ropes of cum. His asshole clenched around my cock as I spurted my load deep into him. I couldn’t get enough of fucking this muscle stud. Because I knew what I was going to do to him.
The next day I told him he should come to my site. That I had some toys there. He packed up and followed me. I took an overgrown trail. You wouldn’t know it was there if you didn’t know these woods. It led to a clearing. My truck was parked there where I’d followed an old logging road through the woods. There was no tent. No fire. Only four ropes laying in the middle of the clearing. Small nooses tied at the end of each one. The muscle stud saw them and tensed up. Lay down, I barked. But his eyes were following the ropes. They saw where they led. His eyes went wide. He turned to run.
But I was ready. I’d killed three other guys in these woods. There was always a point where they tried to escape. I threw my arms around his bare waist. And dropped to my knees. I heaved him over towards the center of the clearing onto his back. He hit hard, knocking the wind out of him. I was on top of him, our bare chests and bellies sliding against each other as he heaved trying to suck in air. I planted my knee in the center of his ribs.and leaned my weight, grabbing a wrist and a rope. Before he had his breath both wrists were in their tightened nooses. I was sitting on his legs. He had nowhere to move. He looked wildly around.
“No. No. Not this. Not like this.” It was almost a moan.
“Not like this?” I laughed. “I already tied you up and fucked you once.”
“But you’re not just going to fuck me. You’re going to … “
“No. I’m not going to fuck you at all. I’m done fucking you.”
“Is this … is this how you did the others?”
That was the first surprise. He knew about the others and was out here alone. When he fit the profile. I leaned in close, looking him in the eyes.
“No. I’m fucking creative. The first one, the 22 year old, he was smooth and slim and tall and I gutted him with a knife. The 31 year old, more muscles, more like you, I hogtied him face down and held his head against my belly while I sawed it off. The 26 year old hipster with the man bun and tattoos, I strangled him with my bare hands while his naked body struggled under me like we were fucking. But you’re the first one that wanted me to fuck him. And you’re the first one who came here … for this.”
I must have sounded puzzled. I was. His dick had grown and hardened as I described the murders.
“How far? Did you come?”
I’d recognized the accent, but there were lots of British in the US. And then the words came tumbling out.
“From Britain. From London. No one knows. I mean they know that I’m in America. But they don’t know. And they don’t know why. I searched for guys who. For disappearances. For where there might be. Well someone like you. And so I was hoping. I’ve always wanted to. But I didn’t think like this. I don’t want …”
I was grinning now. An evil grin.
“So you came all this way and you were getting off just on the chance. On the chance you might be here at the same time as me. On the chance that I might find you. And want you.”
He nodded. And his eyes followed the ropes that tied his wrists.
“But you had fantasies of dying a different way. Like maybe you wanted me to stick a spike in one temple and slowly push it through your brain until it came out the other side and your eyes glaze over and your heart stops. Or stick the barrel of my gun up your ass and start pulling the trigger until bullet after bullet ripped through your gut.”
His cock started straining at that.
“Ohhhhh. You like guns. Well I’m gonna do that. But not to you. And you know what? You don’t get to choose. You get what I fantasized about for the last year. You die like I tell you to die.”
And I cuffed him across the mouth and got up. And I slowly put the two remaining ropes around his ankles, stroking his calves and his inner thighs. He lay still and didn’t try to stop me. His chest heaved as he panted in fear. There was a sheen of sweat on his body that glistened in the sun.
“But I am gonna give you something I didn’t give the others. I’m gonna help you enjoy this. Since that’s what you came for.”
And I took his straining cock in my mouth. And I ran my tongue around his nipples. I savored the salt of the sweat of his armpits. I edged him for more than two hours. This was a new thing, this British muscle stud who got off on his coming death. He tried to talk a couple of times but I cuffed him again. There was no more need for talk. He was already dead.
Finally with the sunlight getting long and gold I decided it was time. His body was beautiful in the light. I got my ax out of my truck. I ran the flat of the blade over his chest as he arched his body. He let out a sigh that was part whimper. He knew what was coming. I used the sharpened blade to slice a line through the skin of his chest between his pecs down to his navel. I licked up the blood and swallowed its iron taste. His cock was straining as I took it in my mouth one last time and let it go.
His eyes followed the ropes to where they were tied to two strong saplings that had grown up next to each other in the clearing. Two saplings that were bent almost to the ground and held in place by ropes that looped around an old tree trunk and tied to the trailer hitch on my truck. I had used the truck to pull them into place. Now the muscle stud’s right wrist and left ankle were tied to one sapling. His left wrist and right ankle to the other. He looked me in the eye and gave a slight nod.
“Let’s see where you tear apart.”
I sliced his skin across his waist and through his navel, quartering his torso with lines of blood. Then I stroked his cock with the cold flat of the ax blade and that’s all it took. His body stretched and arched as his cock erupted once more in thick ropes of cum. They splattered his chest and face as I quickly stood and brought my ax over my head and then down on the ropes that held the saplings tied. His eyes that had closed in pleasure went wide as the young trees snapped back into place. He let forth a scream of terror that turned to pain as the ropes at his wrists and ankles went tight and tighter, as his body twisted and snapped trying to go two ways, four ways at once. I stepped between the saplings as his body was dragged into the air just over my head, grinding and crunching and twisting and pulling and tearing. I threw my head back and grasped my own straining cock with my hand and pumped it as drops of cum spattering down on me became drops of blood as the muscle stud tore open. Bits of muscle and tendon tore loose and fell on me. Intestines started to spiral out and slither over my chest. Still he shrieked and screamed until the rib cage gave way and tore apart, until larger things fell out of him, until he couldn’t breathe because one lung was on my foot. I came covered in his blood and piss and gore. My cum spattered like pearl in the reds and rusts and browns.
It took him only seconds to die. To become four sacks of muscle and bone flopping against two swaying saplings. A pile of guts on the ground between. His head had stayed attached to the left side of his rib cage, which had also managed to keep all of the collar bone. Some of the ribs were hanging from the right arm in the opposite tree. His face was twisted in pain, his eyes wide in terror. But empty. Dead.
“You die like I tell you to die, you crazy twisted fuckwad. You die like I tell you to.”
And I laughed. All this way to get off on dying. And I made him die in a way that scared the shit out of him. And made him cum while doing it. Life is fucking good sometimes.
I looked around at the mess that used to be an anonymous muscle stud from London. That was a lot of cleaning up so that I couldn’t be traced. But this was an isolated spot. I had some time. And it was worth it. It was so so worth it.
It was rush week at the University. I’ve always had luck with those. With any luck, I might even nab two! If I get one early enough in the week here, I could drive 4 or 5 states away and try another University. It’s happened before. More than once. I never try to nab more than one from the same school. Once one goes missing, it becomes too risky.
Most killers have a type. And while I can settle for a hustler or a fag from a bar, my main type is the pretty, rich, spoiled, straight frat boy. Damn, just thinking about one makes my cock ache. I never cum so hard as when I do in a mutilated frat boy that’s barely clinging on to life.
That’s why I love rush week. The easiest pickings. Those boys are drunk all week long so it’s pretty easy to find one passed out by himself, or puking in an alley, or a myriad of other ways. This year was the jackpot however! As I was casually walking along Frat Row, looking for opportunities, one of the doors burst open and a rowdy group of young men came rushing out carrying four hooded men on their shoulders. They were laughing and hollering as they trotted off as a group. I was curious and followed them at a safe distance. This campus was at the edge of a huge wood, and the pack of boys trudged into the trees with their captives.
I continued my stealth stalking of the frat boys deep into the woods until they came to a small glade. The hooded boys were placed on their feet and ordered to strip. I was safely hidden in brush and could see everything. The boys were quickly naked and ordered to lie on their backs. The rest of the brothers immediately started binding their wrists and ankles with ropes and staking them spread eagle. Soon all four boys were immobilized.
“Since you stupid fucking pledges failed your first test,” one of the boys started saying, “you are going to spend the night out here alone. This will give you a chance to really think about your failure. To see if you’re man enough to be our brothers. Cause we don’t care how rich your daddies are, we don’t accept shit in our house! Now you pus bags think about that and we’ll be back in the morning. Do you understand, MAGGOTS?!” He shouted.
“YES SIR!” The pledges shouted back. Only it was all muffled. They must be gagged under their holes. Easier for me!
“That is, if you survive!” Said another boy, maniacally.
“Hope something doesn’t eat you in the middle of the night!” Teased a third.
If only they knew.
I huddled in the shrubs as the boys stomped away, laughing and high fiving. When they were long gone, I quickly surveyed they area, found what I wanted, and took off. I had already formulated my plan, and I wasn’t wasting time. My van was parked not too far from the frat house, and in no time I was pulling it up close to the glen where the boys were staked. I grabbed my supply bag and headed toward my prey. I had restraints enough for two, but I had never taken two at once before. I’ve always snatched and got out. But here was a once in a lifetime opportunity. The only problem, there were four of them. That means I had to choose which two go with me toward a long, tortured death, and which two were destined for a quicker, but still painful death. My cock throbbed at the thought of my playing God with these four lives.
As I approached the staked boys, I knew they knew I was there by the way they were all trying to bend their heads toward my approaching steps. They probably assumed I was one of the frat brothers. Or feared I was a wild animal. Boy were they in for a rude surprise. And like I said, I like the pretty boys, so I would obviously take the prettiest two with me.
I ripped off their hoods and they all tried to focus their eyes on me, quickly realizing I wasn’t a bro or a critter. They all mumbled into their gags, but I ignored their pleas as I looked at their faces. All four were very handsome boys. Good family stock, future leaders. Except they didn’t know, their future ends tonight. It wasn’t hard to pick the two winners. One was a stunning Italian with thick wavy black hair and a proud Roman nose. The other was blond stud with a cute pug nose and cheekbones for days. Both these boys coulda been models.
But I didn’t waste time, I got to work. I wanted to be done and out of here. I grabbed a taser out of my bag, I always carried several, and quickly zapped the blond. A bys he convulsed in his bonds, I quickly cut his ropes and had his hands cuffed behind his back and his ankles shackled together. I repeated with the Italian as the boys continued their muffled screaming. In no time flat, I had my two prizes sitting upright against a tree.
My 10 1/2 inches strained hard in my pants as I thought about this next part. Two of my fantasies were about to come true at once. First, someone was going to witness me kill. My mouth went dry as I thought about it. For as long as I’ve been doing this, I’ve done it alone. I’ve always wanted to have someone watch me as I take a life. And second, and even better, the people that are going to watch me do it, will also soon be my victims. I shuddered as my cock twitched.
I rummaged in my bag and brought out my trusty partner. A Bowie knife with a 12 inch serated blade. This little beauty has never let me down. I held it up so the moonlight could bounce off its razor sharp silver blade. I could see four sets of terrified eyes looking at the knife. I’d never felt more powerful.
“As you can see.” I spoke, finally. “I’ve separated you. That’s because I can only take two with me. I based my decision on your looks. The prettier two,” I said, looking at the blond and the Italian, “will leave. You two,” I said, looking at the still staked boys, “will not.”
What that I kneeled between the legs of the first boy. I looked as his sweat covered face. His floppy brown curls were matted to his forehead as he trembled and looked at me in fear. He was cute, no doubt about it, just not cute enough. I placed the tip of my knife right against the kids puckered anus. Our eyes were locked. His, in mortal fear, mine, in murderous lust. I took a slow deep breath, then let out a growl as I plunged the knife with full force into the kids rectum.
Four blood curdling screams lit up the night. Thank God for the gags. But none so blood curdling as the one that came from the curly headed kid himself. But that’s to be expected as he was getting his insides shredded to pieces. Normally, if I knife a cunt, I do it slowly. I slide it in, letting the blade slice the anal ring, then slowly rip apart the intestinal wall. But I didn’t have all that time tonight. This time, the second I had the blade fully buried in Curly, I started pounding as hard as I could over and over, twisting my arm back and forth as I sawed it in and out. I scraped that kids insides like a Halloween Jack-o’-lantern. The knife had totally removed his anal ring and when I pulled it out, all that was left of the kids shitter was a big gaping hole that leaked blood and mucus and flesh. Oh how I wanted to fuck it.
Curly had stopped screaming as his body went into shock. He just layed there panting and moaning as he bled out.
I stood up and went over to the last guy. He was blubbering like a baby and pleading through the gag. I just looked down at him. I imagined him just a couple of hours ago, with his bros, probably laughing about the lastest slut he banged. Now, here he was, about to meet his maker. And not in a pleasant way. I decided that this guy looked like a date rapist, so I decided to handle him differently. I took hold of his cock and balls and wrapped my fingers around the base, pulling it tight. I placed the serrated blade against his taught skin and started sawing. Daterape started screaming and thrashing but I held tight, quickly slicing off his cock and balls. I stood up as Daterape convulsed and half screamed, half cried. I loved how the blood spurted from the hole where his penis had been.
I knew I should just collect my two prizes and get out of there and let Curly and Daterape bleed out, but the killer in me couldn’t do it. I had to see it through. But oh, how my cock ached. I had soaked my underwear in precum mutilating these two frat boys. I’ve never had two at once, let alone four, and it was overwhelming! I had to cum. But I didn’t want to risk leaving DNA. So I decided I needed to fuck Blondie. I had wanted to wait until later, but my carnal needs were taking over. I needed to nut, and I needed to do it while these two died.
I walked over to Blondie who rightfully cowered in fear. He had just watched me mutilate his two friends, after all. I grabbed his hair and dragged him in between the staked boys. He was whimpering as I threw him down. Now, normally I don’t ever use lube, but this time I did. I reached over to Daterape and held my hand under his bleeding groin and collected a handful of blood which I slathered all over my dick. Then I reached down to where Curly’s anus used to be and scooped up some more blood and mucus, rubbing it on my cock. I picked up some fleshy chunks and got a nasty idea.
I picked up Daterapes severed genitals from the ground and proceeded to stuff them into Blondie’s straight, frat boy hole. He was tight, but as soon as I got one finger in I was able to pop Daterapes two testicles in fairly easily. Then I just used my finger to stuff his scrotum in there followed by the limp, soggy penis. Once I had Daterapes genitals stuffed into Blondie’s cunt, I grabbed the knife and started sawing off Curly’s cock and balls. Curly was so weak from shock and blood loss that he barely cried out in pain at all as his genitals were sliced from his body. Blood didn’t even spurt as his blood pressure was so low.
I wasted no time in getting them stuffed into Blondie’s hole.
Now I was ready. I held onto Blondie’s hips as I placed my fat mushroom head against his blood slimy hole. I admired my dick for a moment. The beautiful 10 and 1/2 inch beast that has destroyed many a young hole. It had a big upward curve, and got fatter close to the base to a nice 6 inches. I pushed gently but firmly against Blondie’s pucker, pressing with my gut, until my head popped through his sphincter. Blondie let out a howl as his virgin straight boy pussy was breached and I slammed it home in one hard thrust.
I started pounding that straight boy hole like there was no tommorow. Blondie screamed and cried into the gag as I mercilessly raped the poor college freshman beneath me. I rammed the mutilated genitals as deeply as I could into Blondie’s guts. I laughed as I looked at Curly. He was barely conscious but his eyes were on me.
“That’s right.” I sneered. “You like watching me fuck your friend while you die, don’t you? You like knowing your cock and balls are being mashed into his guts right now? Huh? That as you die, your precious family jewles are being pulverized inside another man’s shitter?” I slammed Blondie extra hard a few times for emphasis. Curly just choked into the gag.
“And you.” I said turning to Daterape. “How would mommy and daddy like to see their precious baby boy like this? Their angel, dying, knowing his baby makers are now also deep inside another man? Being crushed, being brutalized? The same cock and balls that they used to diaper, and wash, and powder? Now they’re just shit!”
Daterape was a lot more conscious than Blondie, but he hadn’t been brutalized as badly. I would now correct that. I grabbed the knife and plunged it into his ass with a mighty plunge. Daterape let out new screams of torment as I gave his hole the same treatment I had given Curly’s. I plunged and twisted in and out, in and out until Daterape’s sphincter no longer existed.
I pulled out the knife and goo poured out of his missing butthole. I felt around in the grass and found several pieces of his anus. I also found several of Curly’s pieces as well. I pulled my cock out of Blondie and shoved those anus pieces into his cunt and stuck my cock back in. They may not know what I just did, but my cock almost shot off as I pushed anus pieces deep inside Blondie.
I was so close, these fuckers needed to die! I grabbed the knife again and shoved it back into Curly’s hole. Since there was no longer a sphincter, and the muscles were shredded, there was nothing to stop my fist from going right in. I rammed into him as hard as I could and started jamming the knife deep into his cavity, every which way I could. I jammed it straight up, to the right, to the left, over and over, making mincemeat out of his organs. When I pulled my hand out, I could tell he was gone. That just left Daterape.
I pushed and dragged Blondie closer to Daterape’s head, as I didn’t want to pull out of him. I reached up and slid the bloody, gut covered knife across his cheek and under his gag, slicing it off him. I wanted to be able to hear Daterape’s last gasp as I finished him off. He looked pleadingly at me as he tried to speak, but only managed a dry croak.
“Why?” He finally managed to get out.
“Because,” I said, lining up the knife, “You weren’t pretty enough!” I roared as I slammed the knife as deep into him as I could. I repeated what I did to Curly on him, dicing every organ I could possibly reach, until I finally heard the death gurgle in his throat. “Yes!” I cried out as I started slamming Blondie’s head into the ground. “Die you rich piece of shit.” I shouted as Daterape twitched a little, then went limp.
At that moment, finally, I blasted off inside Blondie. I buried myself balls deep and pumped shot after shot of hot cum, flooding his insides. Fireworks were going off in my head as I just spasmed like an epileptic. I hadn’t cum like that in years. And I cum A LOT! So I know Blondie was getting his formerly virgin straight boy guts filled to the brim.
When I finally came down from my high. I looked around, worried someone had come across us. I had spent way more time here than I had intended. Luckily no one had. I pulled out of Blondie, threatening him if he spilled any of my precious cum. I grabbed my bag and pulled out a fat plug. I always bring a couple. You just never know. Blondie’s ass had closed up back tight. Virgins, I laughed to myself. I placed the tip of the plug against his pucker and put the heel of my boot against it. Then I slammed my weight down on it, forcing it to pop past Blondie’s ring. He screamed as the plug sunk into him. As well he should! That plugs thicker than my cock! Now that I’ve busted his cherry frat boy hole, there’s no going easy on it! Two more days and my fist will be up there!
I grabbed a sniveling and moaning Blondie, and dragged him by his knees to the van, tossing him in. I walked over to the Italian, who I decided to call Guido, and laughed as I saw him furiously shaking his head and screaming no into the gag, trying to get away from me. They’re so cute when they’re scared. I just grabbed him and dragged him kicking and screaming to van. I shoved him in there, slamming the door. I smiled that I still had one more feisty one. And two more still to torture and snuff.
I waited at the door with Rico and John. This was the first time I had been at this door without a hood covering my face. I still had the candidate’s grey robe on, as before. The door opened and Rico and John removed my robe and nudged me forward, saying “ Go and be blessed, you’re worthy and you’re ready. Remember what we have told you, and what you have learned.”
Before I continue , a little back story. I met Rico at a cruisey bar six months ago. I was immediately attracted to him. He possessed a magnetism I had never seen before and I submitted to him instantly. Before we left the bar, I was acting like a complete whore. We went to his apartment , and fucked like there was no tomorrow. The sex was great…raw…animalistic. The following morning, introduced me to John and the sex got even hotter. There was something about them that was different, even mystical. After the weekend, I knew they would open my horizons and lead me further. I just didn’t know how much further. All I knew was I craved their depravity. After several weeks, they introduced some Satanic comments into the sex, which made it even hotter. We fucked and sucked and did things I would never have imagined myself doing.
After about two months, and without any real notice, John said to me “ Do you want to be one of us?” I answered “I am” “No, do you really want to be one of us…one of the brotherhood…the chosen?” I was confused but intrigued. He continued “Are you ready to submit to the Dark Lord?” I was confused. He looked at me and said “Are you willing to give your soul to Satan for unending pleasure? Do you want to be like Rico and me? You must be willing to
lose your soul completely. Go now and ponder this and let us know!”
Two days later, I called John and asked to be accepted.
The door opened, and voiced said “Chris (ironically short for Christian), enter! Rico and John removed the robe and moved me forward. I entered a line of naked men, some lean and predatory, others muscled and leathered. There were dogs as well. While I didn’t know any of them, I knew that they knew me and had used me over the past four weekends. I had been their sex slave, a vessel for their pleasure as they indoctrinated me into the brotherhood. As I passed between the men, they chanted welcome candidate. Some pissed on me and the dogs sniffed and pawed at me until I got to the end of the room. A door opened and I was bid to enter.
I knelt, head bowed, wearing nothing but the chastity cage which had bound me since I began my initiation. The Grand Master and his two lieutenants, wearing blood red robes. The Master spoke “Candidate, you have done well. There is but one task ahead of you. Have you thought about your sacrificial offering? The Dark Lord demands a sacrifice, and if you are unable to provide one, then you will become one. Do you understand?” I answered “Yes, Master!” He continued “Next weekend is the new moon. Saturday is the date. Your trainers will help you as needed. You are dismissed for now.” With that, they departed, and Rico and John entered the room. They placed my gray robe on me and led me away. We drove to their apartment, and had the most phenomenal and depraved sex imaginable. The next morning I discussed the things I would need for the sacrifice—a St Andrew’s cross of wood, some spikes, a heavy mallet, a knife, a length of chain and some wood. When asked about my choice of sacrifice, I could only assure them it would be an acceptable one. Even they could not know the depth of my evil.
A little more backstory now…I worked in the city as a mechanic. I had strayed far from my family and lived openly as a gay man. This had been a source of conflict and grief in my family. My parents had never cut me off, but made it clear they didn’t approve. They were gone now, one of cancer and the other of a heart attack soon afterward. That left just Zack, my younger brother. At twenty, Zack is my polar opposite. Where I and lean and rough, he is muscular and tanned. He works online with his head, and I with my hands. He is a bit withdrawn and keeps to himself where I seek all manner of bad company. His piety matches my depravity and he seems to be more concerned with my salvation than anything else. He is perfect!
“Hey Zack” I said when I called midweek “you have some time to talk to me Saturday? I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching. I need some help with my life and I know you are the person to help me!” “Oh course, Chris, I can’t wait. I’ve prayed for this time. I’m so happy! Can you come sooner?” He asked me, obviously elated. “Nah, wish I could, but can’t do this ‘til Saturday. See you then!” I replied, thinking to myself he’s just like a lamb.
We (Rico had come along to help) got to his place, actually my parents’ place about noon. I went inside alone leaving Rico in the truck, which was strategically parked where he could get to the house unnoticed. Zack greeted me warmly, and hugged me. We sat around and he started discussing my salvation. While meant well, it was really just short of a lecture. My mind was racing and my dick was hard as I thought about what was going to happen. After about an hour, I told him I needed a smoke. He frowned a little, and said “We’ll have to work on that later!”
I had just finished hauling my second Red when Zack came out. “ Gosh, it’s great to see you!” That was the last thing he said before Rico grabbed him from behind and out the chloroform over his face and his lights went out.
Rico and Chris bound Zack tightly and added a ball gag, ear plugs and a hood, so that when he awoke he would be unable to move, and in a state of sensory deprivation. Rico kissed Chris passionately, and played with his cage a little before whispering “Tonight you will be set free…I’m happy and proud of you!” He then robed Chris and blind folded him and drove him to the temple. John met them there to finish the preparations.
The night was moonless, and the altar area was lit only by torches and Chris finished the preparations. Zack was tied spread eagled to the St Andrew’s cross. He had struggled mightily but the ball gag had prevented him from speaking. The cross lay across the altar, which was a stone rectangle filled with wood.
Chris knelt at the foot of the altar as the brothers filed out of the temple and surrounded the altar. The Master and his lieutenants, more imposing than before appeared, and all heads bowed.
“What is your sacrifice, candidate?” the Master inquired.
“Master, I have renounced my Earthly family, and now present to Satan my last relative, my brother” I answered.
Zack was gagged and tied, but that didn’t prevent him from struggling fruitlessly against the bindings. His protests were muffled by the cloth in his mouth but his eyes revealed his terror. I parted the master’s robe and took his semi-hard dick in my mouth and nursed it into a state of full arousal. It was big, about 8 and a half inches and beer can thick. The veins stood out in high relief. Once he was fully engorged, I kissed my brother’s anus, savoring the manly scent for a moment, then looked in the Master’s eyes. “He is, I believe, a virgin to all things physical” I whispered. The Master approached my brother and drove his massive dick in to the hilt with no mercy and no lube. Zack bucked and released an muffled, guttural scream at the assault. Again and again, the Master long dicked my brother and rutted like the possessed man he was. A thin trickle of blood soon provided a bit of lube, but the attack was brutal and relentless. Zack fought back as hard as he could, but that only caused his ass to be tighter against the Master’s blood smeared cock. I had never seen a more brutal rape, and as I watched the attack, I realized I had never felt my own cock so hard. I grabbed Zack’s nipples and twisted them and whispered in his ear “You will die horribly so Satan May live mightily! You have become his food. Zack’s eyes bulged wildly as the Master continued his anal assault. The Master was fucking him wildly, ramming his cock, now massively engorged into the bleeding sphincter. As I had hoped, Zack’s cock had become turgid as well. I moved to it an tied it off at the base to trap the blood in it. As the brethren behind me chanted, the Master moved to his climax and bellowed in lust and pleasure. His orgasm was intense. As the cum bathed my brother’s now defiled ass, I deftly sliced off Zack’s dick and put it in my own mouth. The Master pulled out of my brother, his massive cock dripping with cum and blood and shit. I held my brother’s severed cock up to him and cleaned the Master with my tongue, then felched the Master’s load out of Zack’s destroyed hole. Wordlessly, I moved to my brother , removed the gag and dropped the load into his gaping mouth. He could not speak as the devilish mixture seared his throat.
By this time the lieutenants had moved in for the kill and began fucking Zack, moving between his ass and his mouth, always keeping him full. While they did inflict some pain, the damage done by the Master kept Zack from experiencing the true brutality of his further rape. When the lieutenants were spent, the Master asked me if I had planned more. He was clearly interested in the depths of my depravity.
Indeed, there was more. “With your permission, Sir!” I responded. He nodded assent. I claimed my supplies from Chris and set to work. I took the spikes and mallet and started the crucifixion. Zack screamed in pain as the first spike entered his forearm just behind the wrist. I made sure to “miss” the spike a few times to break his wrist and add to his agony. I moved to his other arm, then his feet. By the time I was done, even I was amazed at the pain I could inflict. I regarded my broken brother, nailed to the St. Andrews’s cross, with his ankles and wrists shattered, sobbing in agony.
At this moment I was tempted to end Zack’s suffering by slitting his throat, but I was afraid this would make me look weak and unworthy of acceptance. I moved to finish my offering.
Chris and Rico assisted me in raising the cross so it sat within the altar. Each jolt sent electric shocks through Zack’s arms and legs. I looped the chain around Zack’s neck loosely three times. His pain wracked body hung on the cross. The three of us then piled wood on either side of him and anointed the wood with a little diesel oil. Zack raised his head and whispered hoarsely “Why, why?” I reached around to his bleeding shredded ass and took some blood and cum and smeared it on his nuts. I turned to the brethren who were watching with rapt attention and said “Bring the dogs!” Two dogs were produced and I set them loose on Zack. He managed an agonizing scream as the dogs ripped away the last of his manhood before being led away. Then I took one of the torches and cauterized his bleeding crotch. I lit the wood on either side of him and looked him in the eye. “Ave Satanas, brother!” I said as the flames took hold. I had been careful to make sure his torso head and vital organs had been protected thus far, so even in his weakened state, he was full aware that he was being roasted. At first his skin reddened, then blister and blackened as the flame rose higher on either side. The brethren were invited to piss on his chest an face to cool him, and most did. With a loud crack, the right side of the cross burnt away and Zack’s body tumbled with a scream toward the fire. Chris and I used the chain to right his torso so he continued to roast alive. He was gasping, and I knew his end was near.
I produced the last implement I had brought—a branding iron shaped like a pentagram. I crawled to the Master and gave it to him. “If I have proven myself worthy Master, please let me know “ I begged. The Master looked at his lieutenant “Release him from his cage!” The lieutenant removed the cock cage I had worn for six weeks and began to suck my dick. Smoke and the stench of burning flesh swirled around me but my cock seemed to be larger and harder Thai I had ever known. I felt a massive climax rising in my groin from the expert oral I was getting. I knew I couldn’t last much longer—the sensation was too powerful. Just as I blew my load…jet after jet of pent up cum, I felt the fire of the branding iron on my ass. I collapsed in pain and pleasure.
I awoke twenty four hours later. My ass hurt from the new brand but I was filled with a deep and purposeful lust. Rico heard me stir and came over and kissed my deeply. “Welcome brother…that was quite a night! The Master wants to see you this morning.”
I quickly donned my black robe and presented myself to the Master, arrayed in his red robe. “ Welcome brother!” He said. He held out a skull, stripped of all flesh but bearing a few char marks. Your sacrifice was most satisfactory.” Then he handed me Zack’s gray rubbery dick. “Do you wish to keep these?” He asked me.
I pulled out my cock and jerked a load onto Zack’s skull, then rested Zack’s penis in the jaw, saying “Ave Satanas, Master”
It was a blustery night, and Mac found the wind rustling in the trees to be both a help and a hinderance. It muffled the sounds of his approach so that the guards would never hear him until he was right on top of them. By the same token, it also covered that sound of anyone approaching him.
Not that he was overly worried about being surprised. He’d already done a quick recon of the area. There were four guards outside the target structure, and three of them were punks. He’d have no trouble turning them into meat. The fourth one, though—he looked like a merc, a hired hardman. He’d be more of a challenge. On the other hand, he’d also be much more likely to know exactly how many men were inside the target.
It’d be worth keeping the fourth one alive a bit. Mac was sure he—and his expertly-wielded blade—would be able to make the fucker divulge his info on the target.
The structure wasn’t the actual target, of course. Little Bennie was. Bennie Scariolo, only twenty-eight, with seven known kills under his belt. Little punk was an iceman for the mob, but he was never gonna serve a single day for his crimes. He’d been arrested two months ago; the moment he was presented with irrefutable proof of his murders, he turned state’s evidence.
Mac had read the full dossier. This wasn’t the type of job he normally took on, but this one intrigued him. Bennie was planning on ratting out Paulo Gerocchi, his employer. But whoever had hired Mac—he never questioned the identities of his own employers—had inside info that Gerocchi had stage three pancreatic cancer. The mob boss had less than a year to live, and most of that time would be spent in excruciating pain.
It didn’t seem like much of a return for letting Little Bennie off scot-free.
Even more intriguing was the fact that Bennie had refused federal protection prior to the trial. He was evidently willing to enter witness protection once he’d given his testimony, but Mac’s omniscient employer had provided info that Bennie felt that the local agents assigned to protect him pre-trial had already been infiltrated. He’d hired his own guards.
Well, aside from the one hardman patrolling the perimeter of the blockhouse, Bennie hadn’t done a very good job. Of course, Mac didn’t know what was waiting for him inside. He’d question all four exterior guards before he killed them, of course, but he didn’t expect the three kids to tell him much. They wouldn’t know anything; they were just bullet-bait.
Mac grinned. It’d be a lot more merciful to just pop a cap in their brains and let them die like dogs, but they had no right to expect mercy in this line of work. Little bitches thought they could do the job of real men? Then they could die like real men—hard and painful.
The experience killer slid forward into the darkness, his taut, muscled body clad completely in black, from the knit cap on his head, to his black jumpsuit with its cuffs tucked into his eight-inch Danner Reckoning tactical boots. He’d daubed black camo paint on his face to prevent any tell-tale flashes of paleness. Practically invisible, he was a brutal killing machine, and he knew it. His long, thick dick was hard and aching in his groin, ample proof of how much he loved his job, and why he was so good at it.
Mac could detect the first guard’s presence from over thirty yards away. Stupid punk was not only out in the open, he’d even lit a cigarette. The glowing red point was like a beacon. With each drag he took, it illuminated the guard’s face, revealing a boy who didn’t look old enough to buy a pack of smokes. Judging by the wisp of the mustache dusting his upper lip, the kid couldn’t be more than eighteen, if that.
Well, he wasn’t gonna make it to nineteen. Stupid little fuck was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d voluntarily placed himself in the line of fire, and now he was gonna get burned. Fatally.
Silently, Mac crept up behind him, getting so close he could smell the sour tang of the boy’s sweat over the reek of his cigarette. The boy was in tight, faded jeans tucked into a pair of Carolina loggers. Over a stained white t-shirt, he wore an unbuttoned plaid felt shirt with long sleeves. His curly, sandy-blond hair was barely contained under a trucker’s cap advertising a local beer that the little bitch damn sure wasn’t old enough to purchase.
In a single, fluid move, lightning-quick, the muscled killer clamped one hand over the punk’s mouth, his fingerless leather glove creating a tight seal. With the other hand, he rammed his nine-inch Ka-bar knife into the kid’s back, sinking the serrated blade into his kidney—and holding it there.
Instantly, the young guard rose up on the tips of his toes, going rigid with shock. The muffled squeal that managed to get past Mac’s glove was carried away by the wind, useless as the bleating of a slaughtered goat. Mac jerked back, holding the thrashing youth tightly to him.
“Shaddup, cunt. You feel my blade? It’s in your kidney. Unless you want it somewhere else, you better calm the fuck down and answer my questions—after all, you can live with just one kidney. You get me, motherfucker?”
The kid continued to struggle, so Mac twisted the knife. The sudden blast of excruciating pain made the boy squeal and mewl under the experienced merc’s iron grip, but Mac could feel that he was nodding his assent. He lifted his hand from the guard’s mouth.
“I know you got Little Bennie up in the blockhouse,” Mac whispered, “How many other men are in there with him? What kinda weapons they got?”
“Wh-what?” the teen sobbed, “Who? I—I dunno, man, I don’t—they, they offered me five hundred if I spent the night out here and stopped anyone comin’ up the road. It’s true, dude—I dunno nothin’, please don’t hurt me no more!”
“You don’t know nothin?” Mac jeered maliciously; it was no less than he’d expected. “Then there ain’t no point in keepin’ you alive. See ya in hell, asswipe.”
Tightening his hand back over the adolescent’s mouth, he stabbed the boy in the throat. The blade went in horizontally, right to left, punching its way through the larynx as it severed the jugular and the carotid simultaneously.
“MMFF!!” the kid spat out in agony as Mac let go and stepped back. The boy staggered forward a couple of steps, his hands clutching his throat. He wheeled about, facing Mac.
There was something about this point that always brought the older man to the brink of orgasm. The kid gazed down at his own blood-stained hands, then offered them to Mac, as if asking how this had happened. The teen’s face was a mask of agony, terror, and utter bewilderment. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a thick, liquid gargling sound, followed by a gout of blood that spattered on the boy’s boots.
Then the thick, acrid tang of urine filled the air as a dark stain spread across the crotch of the youth’s jeans. His hands still outstretched and questing for answers, the punk staggered again towards Mac, but his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. The killer stepped forward and leered into the boy’s tear-stained face.
“Trust me, motherfucker, you’re better off dead anyway.”
Then he faded back into the darkness, vanishing without a trace like the angel of Death.
The boy pitched forward. He spent his last few seconds on earth with his mouth full of mud and blood, his toes curling in his piss-filled boots as his mind shrieked blankly into the howling, icy void.
But that was in the past, someplace Mac couldn’t afford to stay. He’d already lined up his next target and was closing in for the kill.
This one had the sense not to smoke, but that was about it. It stood out in the open as well, brightly illuminated by the full moon. Even worse, the dumbass was checking its phone; it was like setting off a flare. And it was utterly pointless—there was no signal this far out. Mac had made sure of that; part of his basic recon was checking what communication options were available to the target. There was a wired line to the blockhouse, but cells were useless.
This boy had straight, dark hair. He wore a white t-shirt and jeans, but evidently was—or a least wanted everyone to think he was—a biker, judging by the thick leather jacket he sported, and the Elsinore motorcycle boots into which he’d tucked his jeans. No older than his early twenties, he’d tried to increase his appearance of toughness by cultivating a three-day scruff on his cheeks—and brandishing what looked like an elderly hunting rifle that would have had difficulty harming an injured skunk.
Mac smirked as he drew closer. The little punk’s toughness was about to undergo the acid test.
When he was two yards from the guard, the experienced merc drew his blade. He’d had the handle of the Ka-Bar customized into brass knuckles; aside from their value as a weapon in themselves, they improved his grip if the knife got slippery. Admittedly, the latter didn’t happen often; the blade had grooves that channeled blood away from the hilt.
Stealthily, he got closer, closing in another yard. Then he made his move.
“Psst,” he called. The kid jumped and whirled about, his mouth agape in surprise. It was the perfect target for Mac’s roundhouse punch. He slammed the brass knuckles into the punk’s face with enough force that the fucker dropped his gun and fell backwards to the ground. Mac leaped on him instantly, not giving him time to recover from the blow.
The older man grabbed a handful of the boy’s shirt, lifting his head off the ground. He drew his fist back again, letting the moonlight glint off the knuckles and the blood-smeared blade. “Lissen up, dickhead,” he snarled, “Yer little boyfriend down the road there is already dead. If you don’t wanna join him, you’d better have some answers for me!”
The boy parted his split, bleeding lips and spat out a tooth. “Wha-whaddaya wanna know?” he groaned in a barely audible voice, “I don’t—they don’t tell us nothin’. Just, we stop anyone from comin’, raise an alarm. That’s-that’s all, man, I swear.”
“So you don’t know who hired you, or why?” Mac confirmed.
“Naw, man, honest. Please don’t hurt me, man—I knocked this chick up and I gotta HURKphpthth!!”
Mac had smashed his fist into the punk’s face again, this time pulping the nose with a wet squelching sound like an overripe tomato. The boy threw up his hands, trying to grapple with the muscled killer; Mac managed to stab his right hand hard enough to drive the blade through the palm and out the back of the hand in mid-air. The kid emitted a thick, wet yelp but continued to claw at his assailant.
“Stupid little piece a’ shit,” the hardman muttered, “Yer gonna take what’s comin’ to ya, like it or not!”
He began raining blows down onto the young guard, who was paying for his inexperience with a drawn-out, agonized death. Mac’s biceps bulged with power that he gleefully unleashed on the stupid punk who’d been unlucky enough to come within his murderous sights.
The boy fought and struggled. Between his hard, muscular legs, Mac could feel the youth’s lean, lithe body writhing and kicking. Its boots dug furrows into the ground; it was obvious that when the punk had drawn them on that day, he’d had no idea he’d be beaten to death while wearing them that night.
Well, that had his fault. When you play with the big boys, you gotta take all contingencies into consideration. Mac let the dying fucker’s flailing stroke his massive erection nestled inside his jumpsuit as he caved the guard’s face in.
Finally, he was done. The kid was utterly unrecognizable, its face nothing but ground beef. But it wasn’t dead, Mac realized. Blood bubbled from some of the holes in its face, sure proof that it was still breathing. It was undoubtedly brain-damaged; Mac knew for a fact that he’d cracked its cranium in at least two and probably three places—but hey, why take a chance?
It was obviously trembling on the threshold of death. The older man felt it was his duty to escort it across. After all, he was being paid to do the job right.
Standing up, his raised his fist high up over his head, then dropped like a falcon to one knee, simultaneously bringing down his arm. The brass knuckles slammed into the guard’s throat with piledriver force, instantly crushing the esophagus into a bloody wad of gristle.
The dying punk thrashed helplessly on the ground, thick gagging noises coming from its ruined face, in the approximate location of what had been its mouth. But like its buddy, it died alone in the dirt. Mac had already returned to the darkness. He knew his own power and the efficacy of his killing blow; he didn’t need to stand around and watch it work.
But he was sick of this shit. The next one wouldn’t know anything either; there was no point in wasting any time questioning it. It just needed to die, quickly and quietly.
This one seemed to be the same age as the last one. It had shoulder-length hair, brown or dark blond. It was wearing a denim jacket and jeans with what appeared to be brown leather harness boots. This one wasn’t quite as easy for Mac to make out, though.
It wasn’t out in the open like the others had been; it was facing a tree, leaning forward with one hand against the trunk. There was a steady trickling sound. A wide, shark-like grin spread over Mac’s face. Fucker was taking a leak. This was gonna be almost too easy.
He was right. The teen was still pissing as the buff hired killer approached it from behind and tapped it on the shoulder. It spun around, the sudden shock stopping the flow of urine. Mac’s arm popped vertically like it had been spring-loaded and jammed his blade through the guard’s ear before it had time to react.
“GACK!!” the boy cried as the serrated blade shredded his inner ear and lodged deep in his brain. “GUCK!!”
“Fuck you, asshole,” Mac sneered at the helpless teen. He rotated the blade quickly, scrambling the adolescent’s brain. For a single split second, the kid stood there, slack-jawed, then the inevitable reaction to sudden massive brain trauma kicked in. The teen punk bucked its hips and long, steady squirt of semen erupted from its exposed member.
The boy didn’t even know he was cumming. He just hosed Mac’s groin with his sperm, then sank to his knees. Mac released the knife, letting the dead guard slump to the ground like the sack of meat it was. It convulsed violently, its boots loudly scuffling in the carpet of dead leaves.
“Aw, shaddap, ya dumb cunt,” Mac hissed. Placing one of his Danner boots on the dead boy’s head, he bent down and grasped the hilt of the blade tightly, then began to ream it into the guard’s cranium. He spent nearly sixty seconds skullfucking the teenager with his knife, until it lay still and quivering on the forest floor, without enough intact cerebral matter left to send misfires to the long, lean limbs.
Mac extracted the blade from the kid’s skull and used its denim jacket to wipe off the bits of gray matter that had become lodged in the serrations. “There,” he said, satisfaction evident in his deep voice, “That’ll keep yer sorry ass quiet. Enjoy yer dirt nap, motherfucker.”
The punk had been nineteen, not that it mattered. He’d gone from a living, healthy human being to a trembling piece of meat with a pulped brain in less than three minutes.
But Mac was moving forward. This next one might be a challenge. He knew he was going to have to be very careful here—he hadn’t been able to get a close look at the last guard, but what little he’d seen had made him suspect the dude was just as experienced a killer as Mac was himself.
The guard was older than the others had been—maybe early thirties. He wasn’t muscle-bound but his lean form clearly had a formidable wiry strength. Like Mac, he’d opted for a black jumpsuit tucked into lace-up combat boots. In addition to a knife, he was armed with a silenced 9-mm in a shoulder holster.
Mac himself didn’t carry a gun; he liked feeling the target die beneath his hands. But he might need one once he was inside the blockhouse. It might be a good idea to take this dude’s.
First things first, though. He needed to waste the fucker before making plans for his gun. He cautiously moved forward again.
There—up ahead, about ten yards. Was that movement?
Mac hunkered down in the darkness, not moving, not making a sound. Above him, a strong, steady wind whipped the tree limbs into constant susurrating motion. The highly competent killer held his position and maintained silence, his eyes riveted to the place where he thought he’d seen a shadowy form.
Five minutes stretched to ten, and then longer, before Mac’s patience was rewarded. In the exact spot on which he’d been keeping his eyes, a man emerged. Older than the dead punks had been, this one had the hard, cruel face of a professional mercenary. Chances were, he knew just as much as Mac did about how to kill.
Not that Mac was intimidated. He wondered if the dude knew how to die. It was time to find out…
Creeping carefully, the muscled hardman tested every step of the ground he covered before planting the soft sole of his utility boot. The crunching of dead leaves, the snap of a twig—there were so many opportunities for him to give himself away. But he was skillful in the ways of stealth approach and silent death; he wasn’t about to commit a rookie mistake.
It took him nearly twenty minutes to reduce the thirty-foot distance between the guard and himself to six, but he did it right. The dude had no idea that death was standing right behind him.
Mac didn’t let him find it out on his own.
He tapped the guard on the shoulder. Visibly surprise, the guard jumped and whirled around, only to catch Mac’s brass knuckles full-on in the jaw. Grunting, the hardman stagged back; Mac leaped forward and shoved him back up against a tree with the blade of his knife jammed up under the man’s chin.
“Hey there,” Mac whispered with a grin, his breath slightly ragged. “Let’s talk. You look like you got plenty to talk about, buddy.”
“Fuck you,” the guard hissed. He barely moved his jaw, feeling the tip of Mac’s blade pressed against the tender flesh underneath it, but he took a deep breath, as if about to yell.
“Uh-uh,” Mac cautioned, “I wouldn’t.” He applied a little more pressure to the knife—barely any at all, actually, but enough to make the tip pierce the guard’s skin. Just a nick, though; there was only the tiniest trickle of blood.
“Now,” the experienced killer continued, “Let’s have that little talk, yeah? I know–let’s talk about Bennie and his friends. Like, say, how many friends he has with him. And what they’re armed with; that never gets boring.”
“I ain’t tellin’ you a goddam thing, asswipe,” the merc snarled. “I don’t sing, motherfucker.”
“Yeah?” Mac said, a faint smirk on his face, “Well ain’t that lucky. Here I am, the prefect dude to help ya learn. Lessee if we don’t get ya to make a pretty tune from this…”
His arm flashed; quicker than lightning, the knife was gone from the guard’s throat—and lodged in his flank instead, right up to the hilt, the tip embedded in his liver.
“GACK!!” the merc cried out in agony, “HAGH!”
“Aw, dude, you can do better than that,” Mac said with sympathetic condescension. “I bet you got a beautiful voice if you really try. Here, maybe this will help ya focus.”
The guard felt a horrific ripping sensation as the more skillful hardman yanked the knife out of his body. Over the agony, he experienced a sensation of despair, knowing he’d finally come across someone who was better at the game of hunting down and killing humans than he was—he’d always known it was a possibility—
—and then the sensation of the sharp tip of the blade probing at his scrotum filled him with terror.
“Enough! Stop!” he cried out, “Ok, ok, whatever ya wanna know—just stop.”
“How may people has Bennie got with him?”
“J-just two. His cousins—he don’t trust no one else. One’s got a .45 and one has a .357.”
“And Bennie—what’s he got?”
“I-I dunno. I heard something about a shotgun, maybe, but-but I dunno.”
“Wrong answer, motherfucker,” Mac growled. He clamped a hand over the merc’s mouth and drove the nine-inch blade of his utility knife into the dude’s nutsack.
Muffled as it was, the guard’s scream was shrill and loud, a true shriek of nightmarish agony. Once it died down, Mac released the man’s mouth.
“One more time, fuckhead. This time, it won’t be yer balls; it’ll be yer life. What kinda weapons is Bennie carrying?”
It took a couple of minutes for the guard to return to coherence and get his abject sobbing under enough control to speak.
“He-he-he’s got a-a shotgun an-and a high pow-powered Remington…” the man moaned brokenly.
“See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mac asked, placing the knife back under the merc’s chin. “Now, just relax and let yer Uncle Mac make it all go away.”
The man’s eyes instantly back to his, filled with terror.
“After all,” Mac said with a malicious grin, “I never promised I’d let you live.”
He jammed the knife up through the guard’s jaw, the blade swiftly parting the flesh and muscle. It slammed up through the oral cavity, piercing the tongue and pinning it to the roof of the mouth as it slashed its way into the sinuses. For a moment, the merc could both taste and smell his own blood. He could also hear the crunching sound of the knife being shoved into his cranium. There was a bright flash, and then he was blind—the razor-sharp edge of the knife had severed his optic nerves.
There are no nerve endings in the brain. But the instant the tip of the blade punctured the pleasure center in the middle of the cerebrum, the man jerked violently as he experienced the most intense orgasm of his life.
He didn’t enjoy it long. Mac knew it was coming; he pressed the dude against the tree and held still, letting the merc carve his own brain to lunchmeat with his orgasmic thrashing and convulsions. The man probably felt no more than a faction of a second of his explosive deathload; the rest of it had happened after brain death.
Brutally yanking his knife out of the merc’s skull, Mac stepped back, his own crotch covered with the dead guard’s seed. The man slid down the tree trunk, coming to rest in a seated position with his booted feet splayed and his head bent forward, still making odd gurgling noises.
As a threat, he’d been neutralized. Mac stepped forward with impunity, kneeling down and retrieving the dead man’s gun—a fully-loaded nine-millimeter with a silencer. Pocketing it, he turned his back on the shuddering pile of manmeat.
It was time to make sure Bennie got what was coming to him.
The blockhouse was small and squat, with cinderblock walls pierced by tiny windows. Tonight, they were shuttered, with only minute glints of light showing. Mac approached the building cautiously, but it seemed that Bennie was stupid enough to trust the punks he’d hired to keep him safe. A cold smile crossed Mac’s face at that thought. Bennie’s hardmen were damn sure hard now—in fact, they were getting downright stiff. Off to one side was a generator. Surprisingly unprotected, it roared loudly. Next to it sat a dozen five-gallon gas cans. Just beyond were another half-dozen, lying on their sides, clearly empty.
The experienced killer placed his ear door the door. He couldn’t really hear anything, but he was able to determine that the door wasn’t as solid as it had first appeared to be. That was good. That was very good.
It was go time. Time to earn his money. Time to ice some scumshits. Mac was ready, his long, thick alpha cock erect and throbbing inside his jumpsuit.
Leaping up, he slammed the thick sole of his boot against the door. It cracked and splintered, swinging wide, and Mac was inside the blockhouse.
He put his training to good use, absorbing the entire layout in a split second. It was a single room, with spaces walled off in opposite corners—presumably a bathroom and a closet. The far wall was arranged as a kitchenette. On the left was a small desk with a laptop. Most of the room was occupied by three folding beds. In the center was a small, round table around which sat three men, drinking, smoking cigars, and playing poker.
Their reaction was immediate. One of them—Mac instantly recognized him as his prey, Bennie–jumped out of his seat. “What the fuck?!?” he screamed, diving for his shotgun, propped in the corner.
Mac didn’t hesitate for a moment. He’d entered wielding the guard’s handgun; he put it to use right away. It emitted a faint cough and Bennie’s scream terminated in an agonized grunt. He crumpled to the floor, his spinal cord severed by a bullet.
He wasn’t dead, yet. “Get ‘im, Carlo!” he yelled. At the same time, one of the other dudes, in a white short-sleeved button-down and tight chinos, cried out, “MotherFUCK!” Like Bennie, he reached for his gun.
There was another quiet sound from Mac’s gun and the man sagged back. The small hole in his forehead that trickled blood belied the gaping crater in the back of his skull. As the red and gray mist that was all that was left of his brain settled on the wall, the man slumped to the floor. The room was filled with the stench of death as the corpse voided its bowels.
Mac whirled to the third man who sat frozen and gaping. “What the fuck, Tony?” Bennie sobbed, but Mac didn’t give Tony a chance to overcome his shock and surprise. He fired his pistol straight into the man’s mouth.
Tony’s front teeth were pulverized, but he never felt it. A slug of lead tore its way out the back of his neck, ripping his spinal cord from the base of his spine. Tony felt back on the floor, gurgling grotesquely and convulsing.
Once again, threat neutralized. Mac strolled causally over to Tony and gave the thrashing wiseguy a couple of taps to the head. The punk jerked and kicked each time the lead punched into his skull, but when it was over, there was no question that he was dead.
Bennie, on the other hand, wasn’t.
“Pl-please man,” he begged, “Don’t-don’t kill me. I’ll give ya anything you want. Ya want money? Fuck, dude, I’ll make ya rich. Girls? Drugs? Hell, you want little boys? Whatever ya want I’ll get it—just please, oh fuck, please—”
Silently, Mac turned and exited the room. Thirty seconds later he returned, carrying two of the gas cans from the generator.
“What—” Bennie began, but he didn’t even need to ask. Mac immediately opened the cans and began pouring the gas around the room.
“What are you doing?!?” Bennie squalled, horrified. “Wh-wha—for the love of God, what the fuck are you doing??”
Mac didn’t say a word. He just grinned and picked up Bennie’s own Zippo from the card table, letting some of the scattered chips fall to the floor. With a quick flick, he lit it.
“No…” Bennie whispered in abject terror, “No—please, no, don’t…”
Mac tossed the lighted into a pool of gas and left the blockhouse.
The screaming began immediately. It seemed to go on for a long time; it took Bennie quite a while to burn to death. After about five or six minutes, there was change in the quality of his shrieking—it became more frantic, more agonized.
And it was then that Mac, his groin stiff with the semen of dead men, unloaded in his pants, the dark stain of his hot potent manseed spreading over his crotch.