A Volunteer By Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

What if there were a genius who created all kinds of fantastic inventions and cures that massively improved the world?  No more pandemics, no more cancer, no more global warming, etc.  Wouldn’t you want to accommodate and reward him if he had a few simple requests for his own pleasure that required some trivial sacrifices?


Paul stood at rigorous attention, his body taught and his hands respectfully clasped behind his back.  He was entirely focused on the Intake Officer seated behind a glass-topped desk in front of him.  They were the only two people in the room, and Paul knew that his fate rested in the hands of this official.  If Paul fucked up, he would be rejected, and he was determined not to let that happen.  This was his life’s ambition that was at stake.


“Are you nervous?  You appear to be sweating a little,” the official commented.


“Yes, sir.  Being accepted as a volunteer is my only goal in life, and I am anxious to pass inspection.”


“That’s appropriate, so don’t worry about that aspect.  If you get too nervous, it will affect your erection, which I do care about, so feel free to stroke yourself to stay hard if that’s needed.”


“Thank you, sir.  But that won’t be necessary.  This interview is a huge turn-on, so I’ll be OK.  Focusing on your body also helps.”  It had been a test question, and Paul had sensed that and answered correctly.  Being sexually turned on by the chance to volunteer was a key requirement.  And that was a requirement Paul fully met, as his hard cock demonstrated.


Both men were completely naked, and each had a throbbing hard-on.  The glass desk enabled Paul to see how the Officer’s cock stood quite hard and quite large, and of course Paul was completely exposed to the Officer, even his backside being easily viewed via mirrors in the room.  Each was a fantastic example of young male perfection, turning each other on sexually.   They even had similar body types – swimmers builds with exceptionally well developed muscles that reflected intense exercise regimens.  Paul was younger, just 18, and the Officer was in his mid-30s, almost a somewhat older version of Paul.  Both were devoid of body hair, but with conservative haircuts.  Indeed, everyone who worked or volunteered at the Institute bore these characteristics, including being sexually aroused by the chance to be there.  Everyone had a great body, enhanced by rigorous workouts, and stayed naked and hard to exhibit it.  One never knew when sexual performance would be required.


“Have you signed the paperwork?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Did you understand it?”


“I believe so, sir.”


“Good, but we have to be sure.  There are restrictions on accepting volunteers that were imposed when this program was established, given how many hundreds apply to volunteer every day, so we have to be certain you understand the nature of the transaction.  Therefore, please explain to me what you understand is about to happen if you are accepted.”


“I believe it is very simple, sir.  I am about to willingly and enthusiastically donate my body for use and disposal by the Inventor.  If I am accepted, I will have no further rights as a person, and will be one more piece of property the Inventor owns to do with entirely as He pleases.”


“So you’d become a slave?”


“Oh no, sir.  Much less than that.  A slave is a person owned by another person.  I would no longer be a person – just live meat deserving of humiliation, torture, and use as a sex toy prior to being snuffed however the Inventor feels like killing me.”


“Exactly.  And are you in agreement with that, knowing that you’ll endure huge amounts of pain being used as a sex toy and ultimately likely as meat being eaten alive?  This will include being an object of ridicule as others laugh at your stupidity for volunteering.  The Inventor likes to torture and snuff sex toys with lots of people staff like me participating.  He is a very generous employer and we enjoy watching the volunteers get what they deserve and helping Him torture and destroy them.  It’s a lot of fun, the more humiliating for the volunteer the better.  Joining Him in eating a live volunteer’s meat is a great bonding experience for us.  For you it would be a combo of pain and humiliation.”


“Absolutely, sir.  It’s what I seek.  Given all that the Inventor ahs done for society, it is the least I can do to add to His pleasures in whatever small, irrelevant way I can do so.”


“Excellent.  Then I have good news for you.  You have passed the physical with flying colors, and your very strong gay orientation means we won’t have to reorient you sexually.  Your body is exceptional both in looks and physical fitness, just the kind He enjoys, and I think if this interview goes well you can expect to begin your service as early as this afternoon.  The Inventor has gotten bored with one of His current urinals and will torture it to death this afternoon, which leaves an opening that would allow you to serve very directly as a repository for his urine.  Are you good at drinking piss?  It would not do to spill any on the fine carpets of the Institute or the Inventor’s homes.”


“Yes, sir.  In preparation for my application I worked as a student urinal at my high school.  I have not spilled any urine in over a year, including sessions when my mouth was the target of multiple streams as students rushed from class to class.”


“Good.  The recommendation from your high school principal was very positive.  And what’s your experience at sucking cock and swallowing sperm?”


“I also performed that service, sir, and I received highly favorable reviews from guys of all different cock sizes.  I am able to suck to the base of most any cock without chocking.  The principal has an unusually long and thick cock and was thoughtful enough to train me regularly.  The same is true for a number of the seniors on the football and basketball teams, and I provided service to the teams both with blow jobs and as the team urinal during my own senior year.  This meant kneeling naked on the field and the gym, which also helped me learn to appreciate how appropriate it is for me to be jeered and laughed at.”


“Your principal said you were one of the best cocksuckers he ever used, and was complementary on that point as well.  Do those activities turn you on so that you get an erection?”


“Yes, sir.  Always.  That’s one of the things people liked to laugh at during games.  They’d point at my hard dick, make rude comments, then laugh at me.  And that made me get even harder.”


“And beatings?”


Yes, sir.  Our team wasn’t very good, and both the team and the fans took out their frustrations by kicking and hitting me.  Since that was fun for them, they also did so if we won.  But the coach made sure I wasn’t damaged, to preserve my value as a potential volunteer.  The same was true when the team took turns whipping me, which was part of their aerobic exercise routine.  Those kinds of activities also caused me to get sexually turned on.”


“Very good.  Do you understand that you will not be permitted to provide yourself any sexual relief except as ordered by the Inventor?  Once you become His property, your pleasures are of course irrelevant, and He keeps His live meat as horny as possible so the meat animals perform better.  Unless He decides He wants to watch you shoot a load – which He might form time to time given your fine physique – you have likely already had your last orgasm before you’re killed.   He does tend to enjoy watching the meat reach orgasm during the snuff process, typically as he cuts off the cock, so you also might luck out then too.   If you jerk off without permission, you’ll be thrown out in disgrace.”


“I understand, sir.  It is a small price to pay for the honor of service, and I fully understand I am only of value as a source of pleasure for the Inventor.  I am again grateful to my principal, who trained me not to cum without his permission, and usually just had a session once a month where the seniors would get together, I’d give everyone a blow job, drink their piss as they drank tons of beer, and then get beaten up and laughed as I jerked off for their amusement.  These were the only orgasms I’ve been permitted to have this past year or so and I have never disobeyed.”


“OK, so far so good.  Have you ever been butt-fucked?”


“No, sir.”


“Why not?  You’re obviously gay and sexually very active.  Are you reluctant to have another cock up your ass?”


“Oh, no, sir.  I would welcome that.  But I read that the Inventor enjoys fucking virgin assholes, and I have therefore refused to let anyone use me.  Losing my virginity to Him as He ploughs His penis up my ass would be the culmination of all my dreams, second only to having Him snuff me.  But I do not presume to think He’d be interested.  I will be content and honored with whatever use He makes of me, and drinking His piss would be a fully sufficient use of my body to fulfill my ambitions.”


“I think your odds are good.  He really likes to fuck good looking young guys, and you fit the bill.  And you’re right, it’s quite an honor.  He actually was the first one to fuck my ass, and I still consider that my greatest contribution.  By the way, He’s got a really good sized cock and He’s good at fucking.  With a virgin butt, you should anticipate it will hurt a lot.”


“Wow.  That would be even better, sir.  I have read how much He enjoys inflicting pain, and so I would look forward to enduring as much as possible.”


“That is one thing you can count on.  Torture sessions are regular events and I think you’ll be surprised just how good He is at is.


“One final question before I accept your application, and keep in mind this is in many ways the most important.  Why do you want to volunteer?”


“That’s easy, sir.  I learned early on that I am gay, and I am a natural and fairly extreme masochist with a body dominant guys like to use.  As I attended school, I continued to read about the astonishing things the Inventor has discovered and given to society.  I can’t imagine the contribution of a pill that cures cancer of all types, as well as diabetes and even AIDS, or of other procedure that reverses the bad effects of aging.  Everyone’s lives are now so much better as a result.  And His research on global warming led to reusable fuels that freed society from fossil fuels, halting and reversing global warming.  He even saved the economies of the middle east countries by figuring out how to turn their deserts into lush forests and farmlands that replaced the revenue from oil.  I’m sure I’m forgetting lots of other things, but I quickly realized He is the greatest person ever.


“When I read about His desire for young males to donate our comparatively irrelevant lives in order to service His pleasures, and the initial resistance of many countries to supplying young males for His use and disposal, I was horrified at their reaction to such a modest request.  What a lack of gratitude!  Then I read about the compromise program where guys like me could volunteer to donate our bodies for His pleasure when we turned 18, and I became determined to do so.  I want to do something worthwhile with my pathetic life, and know that it has to be in the form of some kind of sexual service involving me enduring huge amounts of pain to arouse or amuse another male.  The thought that this could be for the benefit of such a deserving hero as the Inventor is overwhelming, and I’ve tried to live my life so that I will be considered.  That’s why I’ve learned helpful skills like drinking piss and sucking cock, and why I have very carefully monitored my diet and focused on rigorous exercise so my body does not have any excess fat and is in fantastic shape.  I understand he likes his meat lean, at 3.5% BMI, and I have maintained exactly that.  I realize very few of the volunteers have the honor of being eaten alive by the Inventor, given how many get snuffed each day, but all my efforts would be worthwhile if He even took the time to cut off my balls and use them as a snack.  My incentive for all the exercises to sculpt my body to His taste, especially getting my glutes into the bubble-butt he likes, would be fulfilled if He used me as part of a meal as well as for a fuck target.  Providing nourishment to Him as well as sexual amusement is an almost incomprehensible source of potential fulfillment for me.”


The intake officer was quite pleased with the answer, and made a note that this volunteer showed special promise.  The marketing they were spreading in the schools was clearly paying off.  He was pretty sure his employer would enjoy fucking and eating this animal alive, especially since there was every prospect of an engaging conversation with it on which parts would be most tasty, and how it could cooperate in the process.  But that would come later, after it was used as a urinal.


“That was very well said, one of the best responses ever,” the officer stated.  “So you’re officially accepted.  From this moment on, you are the property of the Inventor.  As you know there is no turning back.”


“Thank you, sir.  Of course not.”  The new volunteer was so excited the officer could see some pre-cum dripping from his throbbing cock.


“A couple of pointers.  When in the presence of the Inventor, you are to kneel on His left side, slightly behind Him.  That’s where His urinal is always placed.  You are always to maintain an erection, but you may not cum unless ordered to do so.  When your owner wants to use you, He will simply say “drink” and you are to then kneel in front of Him with your mouth open to receive His piss.  If He wants a blow job, He’ll say “suck.”  If you are fortunate enough to get butt fucked, He’ll simply point to where He wants you to bend over.  He usually prefers to fuck guys doggie-style rather than having them lie on their backs, but that can vary.  Pay attention to His directions.  You are never to speak unless asked a direct question, and then answer briefly and respectfully.  He sometimes gets frustrated and releases tension by torturing to death a volunteer on its first day.  So have no expectations of long service.  No one lasts very long.  He usually averages about ten kills a day, which is not a problem as He has hundreds of active volunteers at any given time and thousands of applicants.  It’s important you understand just how little your life matters.  If He decides to keep you alive long enough to need to have you fed, a handler will inform you what to do.  He likes to let volunteers know that their own food, if any,  consists of the entrails of another volunteer that are soaked in piss before serving.  You are to eat doggie style from a dog dish if you are fed.  Given that you are on the high end of sexual attraction with a body type He particularly enjoys, you might be lucky enough to be a prime target in one of His torture/snuff sessions.  If He decides to snuff you in a sex/torture session, it is considered good manners to thank Him as He begins the actual kill.  If you have the exceptional good fortune to be eaten alive, then you are to answer His questions and again express your gratitude as you watch Him cut off and eat parts of your body.  He usually prefers breast meat and thighs along with testicles, but you’ll be pleased to know He also likes to roast the buttocks and occasionally lets the animal live long enough to watch Him consume them.  Your cock and balls will be gone by then, of course, but given your looks and how you’ve taken care of yourself I suspect you have a chance of that result.  He doesn’t like eating the penis – it’s a muscle, after all, and kind of tough – so you might be permitted to eat yours after He cuts it off, just because He likes to watch guys eat their own cocks.  And you don’t have to worry about your body being wasted.  Whatever’s left over will be recycled and used for things like bone meal, leather, and slave or pet food.  The inventor is a strict environmentalist.  Is all that understood?”


“Perfectly, sir.”


“Good.  You have done well.  Now you can walk through that door and someone will take you to where you can begin your service.  I think you will do very well and provide considerable pleasure to the Inventor through your trivial sacrifice.”



Paul served exceptionally well.  His first two weeks were indeed as the Inventor’s favorite urinal, and he was proud of the yellow slave collar he wore to signify his use.  (After all, the Inventor could hardly be bothered to remember which slaves were trained for which functions.  The identifying collar meant He wouldn’t accidentally snuff His urinal.  The volunteers scheduled for that day’s snuff sessions wore red slave collars.)  The Intake Officer had alerted his employer to Paul’s virgin status and had suggested the Inventor consider Paul as a possible fuck target and  live entrée.  After several delightful weeks of service drinking piss and sucking cock not only for the Inventor but for the employees and others the Inventor  held meetings with – including the Intake Officer, who deposited a particularly large load of both piss and cum down Paul’s eager throat – the Inventor informed Paul that he had not chosen to damage his body during the torture sessions that were part of every volunteer’s daily routine because he didn’t want to scar Paul’s wonderful skin or bruise his meat.  Instead, Paul learned that he was to be simultaneously buck-fucked and eaten that very evening.  Paul’s yellow slave collar was transferred to the new urinal and Paul now wore a green collar signaling his imamate use as food.  Paul was so excited at this prospect that he almost shot his load, but with great self-control he managed to just leak a little more than his usual pre-cum.  The Inventor was amused by the reaction of Paul’s cock.  As He talked with Paul He was amusing Himself by applying the final, fatal lashes to another volunteer strung up in front of Him, whole belly and chest were bleeding profusely from the metal-tipped whip and whose cock and balls had been expertly destroyed by the same instrument.  The volunteer let out one final scream before the torture session was over and the dead body was removed for disposal after the staff enjoyed themselves fucking the nice warm butt-hole.  It was one more illustration of the Inventor’s generosity with his employees.  The Inventor, meanwhile, was covered in sweat from the great combo of a workout and torture session.  He released His sexual tension by selecting a red-collared young volunteer to fuck and choke to death as volunteers tended to Him in a large shower.


The Inventor casually explained his decision process to Paul as he showered, and fucked and choked his latest victim..  “ I decided to fuck you and eat you alive.  That’s why I haven’t tortured or whipped you to the extent it would scar you, despite how tempting that has been given your wonderful smooth skin.  The meat not only needs to be alive but also smooth and undamaged.  It was a tough choice, as I also considered skinning you alive and making your skin into a leather jacket.  That won’t work once you’re dead since I’ll be cutting into your skin as my friends and I eat you.  I only like leather made from skin I’ve removed in large smooth sections while the volunteer is alive.   But these are the tough choices I need to make.  I think in your case I’d prefer dining on your body while you watch.  Besides, I want to use that virgin ass of yours.”  The Inventor enjoyed talking with His victims about how they would die, which added to His sexual turn-on from the kills.  The volunteers understood that this was a part of how they could add to His pleasure, and were fully responsive and cooperative, always expressing their gratitude.  Paul was no exception, and complemented the Inventor on His analysis.  Paul also let Him know that this death was Paul’s lifelong dream, which pleased the Inventor.  He liked having a volunteer understand how much of an honor it was for Him to take the time to personally fuck, eat, and kill it.  After all, they were utterly worthless and deserved as painful and humiliating death as possible.


Paul was carefully washed, his asshole was cleaned out with a thorough enema,  and what little body hair he had was removed  – all in preparation for the Inventor’s evening meal.  When Paul was ready he was laid on his back on a specially constructed dining table.  Paul’s legs were spread and an opening at that end of the table allowed the Inventor to walk between them and easily access Paul’s virgin ass.  Paul was excited and his rock-hard cock reflected his enthusiasm.


The Inventor entered with a group of guests, and they enjoyed cocktails and snacks (including the testicles of that day’s snuffed volunteers)  while they examined Paul and commented on various options on how best to fuck and eat  him.  After a conversation that included Paul, who expressed his gratitude once again and offered the thought how the Inventor could simultaneously fuck and eat Paul. Cutting into Paul’s  chest meat while fucking his ass seemed like the most convenient way to enjoy both in Paul’s mind.  To his delight, the Inventor decided to go with that approach, with only a little variation from Paul’s excellent suggestion.  Paul was secretly a little disappointed the Inventor wasn’t going to roast his glutes, which he’d worked so hard to get into shape, but realized that would mean the butt-fuck wouldn’t be satisfying for the Inventor, and that was the only thing that mattered.  However, one of the guests suggested carving them after everyone finished fucking the volunteer, and Paul was thrilled to hear the Inventor agree.  It just wasn’t clear if Paul would still e alive at that point, although it quickly became clear he would not be.  Oh well, no big deal.


One of the most thoughtful aspects of the Inventor’s personality was his interaction with the volunteers.  He got great satisfaction form their suffering and death, but he also enjoyed the fact they were so willing, and he enjoyed chatting with them on how to make their suffering and his pleasure more intense.   “I always enjoy the ideas of my volunteers, and you seems particularly eager to please.  As a reward I think it would be fun to watch you start to cum while I’m fucking you.  So, Paul, you can stroke your cock and you have permission to cum when I tell you to do so.  However, just so you know, when you start to cum I’ll cut off your cock.  The medical types will keep you from passing out, and I want you to eat the cock while I watch.  Then I’ll remove your balls and eat those – unlike the cock, they’re tasty.  As I get closer to shooting my own load – which will take a while, as I plan to enjoy this – I’ll be cutting into your chest and removing some of that wonderful breast meat that is a real favorite of mine.  You’ll be tied down, so you won’t be able to writhe and thrash as much as I’d like, but it’s necessary to keep you from moving so much my cock wouldn’t stay inside you.  We’ll leave one arm free so you can masturbate, however.  Do you prefer to jerk off using your right hand or your left?”  Paul was impressed with the courtesy of that question, and let Him know he tended to use his right hand.


“Fine.  I  want to feel you die, which will increase the intensity of my orgasm as I shoot into your virgin hole.  That will happen while I’m fucking and eating you even though cuts into your breast aren’t necessarily fatal, because everyone else will also be helping themselves to your meat, cutting off the parts they want to eat.  We’ll cook your butt once you’re dead and everyone has had a chance to fuck your carcass, but we want to enjoy your raw meat as you die.  Oh, and feel free to scream.  That makes it more fun for us.  How does that sound?”


“I am deeply honored, sir.  I will do my best to please you, such as by eating my cock once you cut it off.  You might consider smearing my cum on my breast meat to add a little more flavor as you cut into me.”


“Great idea.  It’s been a long time since you’ve been permitted to cum, so I suspect there will be a lot of it.  I’ll wat a little as you shoot to get as much out as possible.  Like I said, my volunteers often have great ideas on how to add to my pleasure, which is, after all, their sole purpose.”


Paul was overwhelmed and deeply grateful for this final exchange.  He continued to express his thanks as the Inventor’s giant cock entered his virgin asshole, causing great pain that showed on Paul’s face and pleased his master.  While the fucking started, Paul reached to his own cock and began masturbating for the amusement of the group.  His training paid off as he was able to hold back until the Inventor signaled for him to shoot his last load.  As planned the moment Paul’s throbbing cock finished spewing cum his master lifted a knife from a silver platter being held nearby by another volunteer, and slowly cut off the penis at its base.  Paul’s pleasure turned instantly to extraordinary pain, and he screamed as he had never done before.  Now it was the Inventor’s turn to hold back, as the sight of the severed cock and the sound of the inhuman screams nearly caused Him to shoot His own load.  But He also had remarkable self-control, and reached over to put the cock into Paul’s hand – the same one that had previously been stroking it.  Paul understood, and transferred the drained cock to his moth, where he slowly chewed and eventually swallowed it, as the medics applied treatments to keep him awake and functioning for a little while longer.  They had a particular challenge as the master now used the knife to cut into Paul’s scrotum and remove his testicles, which the master enjoyed immensely while Paul watched another of his dreams come true.  The other dinner guests cheered as the Inventor swallowed the remainder of Paul’s manhood. 


It was remarkable how long Paul stayed alive as the Inventor  continued to pump his sass and He and His guests cut off Paul’s prime meat from Paul’s once-beautiful body.  After carefully slicing into his skin and pulling it aside, the Inventor smeared cum on the meat as Paul had suggested and even had a view of Paul’s still-beating heart as he removed choice pieces of the lean young breast meat.  The diners had nearly had their fill of the lean choice meat before the efforts of the medics were no longer of any avail and Paul began his final death-throws.  That’s when the Inventor shot his own load, shooting a huge amount of cum as he felt Paul die, putting added pressure on the Inventor’s cock and adding to His pleasure.  The Inventor was so thrilled He continued His thrusts and soon shot a second load into the dead body, only then removing His cock so others could do the same.  The life and painful death of a volunteer was such a trivial thing compared to achieving this level of sexual climax.


Paul had done well, and his body provided not only nourishment and entertainment, but it set a tone for what turned out to be a wonderful evening for the Inventor and His friends, filled with sex, torture, and the deaths of five other volunteers.  None of them had the honor Paul did, however, of providing living meat for the worthy Inventor.  Paul’s dreams had been utterly fulfilled.

Replacing Norman An AMS Celebration By Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

I am indebted to one of my readers for the core idea of the AMS organization, which I turned into a story (with his help) called THE AMS NETWORK.  The premise is an inspiring organization of Sadistic Alpha Males called The Art of Male Snuff, which takes great and deserved pride in how they artfully snuff fellow males for fun and profit, especially sexual fun.


In that story there was a slave named Norman, who is patterned after another reader.  But Norman is still alive at the end of the last story, although destined to be snuffed.  This is a description of a thoughtful, fun party where he gets snuffed, as all male slaves should be.  It contrasts the views of William – Alpha 1 and all-powerful leader of AMS, and his buddy the Chief of Police, who is Alpha 2 and in charge of the Americas.  In emails with the real Norman, I learned he and I share our view of us as snuffslaves who should be used and disposed of by our owners, but differ on how long and in what kind of situation a slave should be permitted to exist and serve, and  how we think the snuff is best done. I think Norman views himself almost like a favored pet, serving his master and put down when no longer able to serve as well as the master deserves.  In my view I am only property, of lower status than a favored chair because an owner can develop a level of affection for a chair and regret having to cut it up for firewood and replace it.  My role Is to get fucked, to suffer extreme  torture and humiliation, and to obey absolutely, especially while I’m being snuffed.  So I serve as a human urinal and sex object for the pleasure of an alpha male and his friends.  I am grateful for that use because it is what I deserve.  When and how I am snuffed is not only not my choice but none of my business. Should a chair get to comment on whether it’s chopped up for kindling or sold to another owner?  But in the end we both agree it’s the alphas who rule.   And another reader pointed out to me the satisfaction of snuffing unworthy males even if they resist.  Killing an unwilling inferior male can be very satisfying for an alpha, confirming his absolute power and superiority.


I welcome ideas and requested themes, along with any feedback – positive or negative – from readers.




Stevie tried hard in high school but hadn’t done very well.  He we held back for a year, but had hoped his last year would be better.  It wasn’t, and despite a lot of effort on his part he flunked two of his courses.  That meant he couldn’t be on the wrestling or swim teams, sports where he was in fact very talented.  And he liked the fact those sports showed off his amazingly fit and sexy body – now  20years old as of today.  He was extremely  handsome and totally gay.  But being gay had meant he was thrown out by his foster parents and forced to live in a homeless shelter.  He was on his own and his situation was one reason he struggled so much in school.  But he somehow knew this was what he served, as everyone around him made clear.


It was early evening on a warm spring day and Stevie was walking to the shelter from school.  He was shirtless, wearing only a tight Speedo swimsuit and flip-flop sandals.  Pretty much everything he owned was in his backpack.  He was in a good mood and enjoying the weather, having just finished swimming practice.  He had cut a deal with the coach so that he could at least still practice with the team, which he enjoyed immensely.  And he liked the conditions the coach (who was openly gay and hugely attracted by Stevie’s great looks) placed on him:  he had to swim nude and after the practices he had to give the coach a blow job.  Stevie was totally OK with those, and since the coach tended to recruit gay swimmers it wasn’t long before most of the team worked out naked both in the pool and in the gym.  After workouts Stevie knelt in the corner of the shower room and provided blow jobs, followed by him jerking off with everyone watching and pissing on him.  Given Stevie’s status it didn’t seem appropriate for any of them to suck him off, which was fine with Stevie.  He liked having lots of good-looking naked guys watch him cum and he shot giant loads all over his chest for their amusement. He also discovered he liked drinking another guys’ piss.  Getting lots of gay sex was the one thing that was going well for Stevie, and his exceptional good looks and willing submissive attitude contributed a lot to his popularity.  He got off big time when other guys dominated and used him, and even more so if they did it with others watching, laughing at him and enjoying the show.  Sometimes guys would amuse themselves by beating him up, to which Stevie did not object and which actually caused him to get more sexually aroused.  The coach instructed the team on how to cause the greatest amount of pain without doing permanent damage.  The beatings soon expanded to including whipping and CBT, and on this particular evening the coach had demonstrated the most effective use of a cattle prod on Stevie’s nipples and balls.  Of course, all the team members practiced on him and the session lasted much longer than usual.  Stevie was sore from the tortures, but glad he could provide them with so much pleasure.  He had shot a truly massive load at the end to everyone’s satisfaction.  The only condition the coach placed is that no one fucked his ass, despite Stevie’s willingness to let them do it.  But the coach was adamant and Stevie was obedient, so he was still a virgin as to being butt-fucked.


As he paused at a light, stroking his hardened cock inside his Speedo, Stevie became utterly confused.  He was suddenly arrested by two NYC policemen who got out of a nearby van parked behind him.  They led him to the back of the police van and as one cop, named Jack, opened the rear door the other, Jeremy, commanded Stevie to strip, taking and opening his backpack.  Stevie objected but the cops made it clear there was no choice.  They were bigger than Stevie and very heavily muscled, although not that much older.  As Stevie took off the Speedo and sandals, revealing his erect cock, Jack examined his backpack, taking out the cell phone and small amount of cash and telling Jeremy there was nothing else worth keeping inside it.  Jack then grabbed the swimsuit and sandals, laughing and stroking the erect penis as he tossed the backpack, swimsuit, and sandals  into a nearby trash can.  Stevie protested even more, telling them that all his clothes and his ID were in the backpack, along with his schoolbooks.  “You just threw away everything I own,” he shouted at them.


“Shut up.  Sex slaves don’t wear clothes or need IDs.  You’ll be assigned a number instead of a name.  A chip will be implanted in you that will provide identification.  And school is over for you other than training on how best to serve your owner.” explained Jeremy mater-of-factly.  As he did so Jack handcuffed Stevie’s wrists behind his back.  Mat was frightened as Jack then slammed him against the back of the van and started feeling out his butt, stroking his cock again (which was still hard, or maybe even harder as Jack stroked Stevie’s naked flesh) and unzipping his own pants.    Jack had moved closer and Stevie could feel the large cock that he assumed would be inserted into his boy-hole as the passers-by stopped to watch.  He was embarrassed but got even more erect.   He was now about to get fucked in the ass for the first time.  And the coach couldn’t object since it was a cop doing the fucking.


“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Jack” Jeremy warned.  “This fag isn’t for us.  It’s for the Chief.”


“So I get in a little trouble,” responded Jack, sounding irritated as he pulled out his eager cock.  “I’m horny and this is an ass that begs to be fucked.  Fuck, I think the fag even wants it and the report on him says he’s never been butt-fucked before.  I’m in charge of this precinct and I get to do what I want..”


Stevie didn’t understand what happened next, but suddenly Jack collapsed and was writhing on the ground. He had been tazzed by Jeremy.  Stevie turned to watch as Jeremy cuffed Jack’s wrists and then his ankles, and then pushed Jack into the van.  “not any more you aren’t,” Stevie heard Jeremy announce.  Stevie could see that there were already three other young males in the back, each of whom appeared to be handcuffed, naked, and quite attractive.  Before Stevie could comprehend what was going on he, too, had been tazzed, full power to his balls, and pushed into the van.  As the pain subsided his cock rubbed against the thigh of one of the naked young men, and Stevie ejaculated.  He was embarrassed and justifiably afraid as the young male screamed obscenities and threats at him, but nonetheless his cock burst with ribbons of think cum all over the other youth, despite having jerked off a short time before.  Stevie was confused, but also surprised at how wonderfully intense the orgasm felt.  As Jeremy closed the door, Stevie heard the cop yell to the onlookers.  “OK folks, show’s over.  Move on.”




William’s Morning


William was lounging naked in the warm sun by his pool, having finished a vigorous swim and an exercise routine focused on strength building.  He was in q quirky mood and felt like having some fun.  As he relaxed and admired his amazing body he had of course also gotten horny, so he summoned a slave that was kneeling nearby, naked and erect, ready to serve William as instructed.  The animal was a beautiful 22-year-old youth in perfect shape, whom William enjoyed using as a urinal, sex toy, and torture object.  He liked the grateful and enthusiastic manner the slave displayed when it was used, and how far its dick could shoot a load of cum when permitted to reach orgasm.


“I’m bored and I want you to entertain me by killing yourself.  First, jerk off and shoot your load as far as you can.  After that I want you to lick up the cum and then slowly cut off your cock while it’s still hard and eat it.  Next, you are to cut open your scrotum and remove your balls, wash them, and serve them to me on the silver platter next to me.  While I eat them you are to eat the scrotum and then gut yourself, cutting upward as far as you can.  Then I’m going to fuck you while you finish dying.  The vet will stop the bleeding as you cut off your genitals so it’s not too messy, but I want to see your inwards spill out form the gutting.  Got it?”


“Yes, master, it will be an honor and I hope you enjoy my pain and death” acknowledged the slave as it began stroking its hard dick. The slave was excited at its good fortune.  William – Alpha 1 of the AMS Society – always finished killing slaves once he started emasculating them, and this slave was well aware its only path to freedom was death.  Given how slaves usually died in William’s household, emasculating and gutting himself was a quick snuff.  The slave felt sorry for the other slaves, one in particular, whose deaths likely would be far worse, but at least it would no longer be a sex toy used for torture and humiliation, which Alpha 1 had turned the young male into.  It did exactly as instructed, grateful that it was able to produce a decent load of cum despite having been masturbated earlier in the day as part of William’s morning sex and torture session that he combined with his workout.  The sperm shot across William’s chest and landed on the patio on the other side of his lounge chair.  The slave knew this would please William and crawled to where the cum landed, careful to appear eager and grateful as it licked up the cum on its hands and knees – as William admired the beautiful ass that he would soon fuck and destroy.    The slave was careful to cut slowly as it returned to its original position and sliced off its manhood.  The house veterinarian had been summoned by then, and quickly cauterized the wound as the slave chewed slowly and eventually swallowed its own meat.  Alpha 1’s preferences were well known and the slave did not want to fail. This could get a whole lot worse in a big hurry if it did.


It was hard to concentrate given the pain from cutting into itself, but the slave also did a credible job peeling off the scrotum, removing the balls that were then exposed, washing them, and presenting them to their real owner on the platter.


William’s own cock was now rock hard, enjoying the show and the man-seed snacks.  It was a great show with the slave obeying every command, now having also had the wound from its balls cauterized to keep things tidy.  The show included the slave’s ongoing expressions of gratitude that William expected.  He was pleased how well the slave had been trained, remembering how defiant it had originally been when he purchased it at an auction.


“Now take the knife and slowly gut yourself, cutting upward as deep and far as you can,” William reminded the doomed youth.  “Cut sideways as well so your guts spill out and I can laugh at how wonderfully your body is being destroyed.  I’m going to fuck your ass while you die.  So as I fuck you keep trying to cut further.  It’s fun to watch.  And feel free to scream and to express your appreciation for this honor.”


The slave again did as instructed, starting with thanking Alpha 1, but it was now barely able to function due to the pain and loss of fluids.  Yet, it was extremely close to freedom and determined to achieve it.  “Fuck this asshole.  I can do this and I’ll escape this demon forever,” the dying slave told himself.  Unfortunately for the slave, it mouthed its thoughts as it started gutting itself, and William was watching.


“No one escapes me, especially when they fail to appreciate my generosity in their form of death,” snarled William angrily, summoning the vet.  The slave realized what it had done and reacted in horror.


“Please master, I am sorry.  I didn’t mean any disrespect, but the pain was nearly more than I could handle.  I was just trying to force myself to do your will.  I am truly sorry.  Please have mercy on me.”


Alpha 1 laughed.  “I don’t believe in mercy for slaves.  That’s downright stupid and just makes it worse”.

William turned to the vet, who was himself an AMS alpha.  “Peter, repair this piece of shit and turn it over to the torture research center.  I want it kept at maximum pain for 3 months before it is permitted to die.


“And didn’t this meat have a lover?  I remember a particularly amusing and arousing 69 session with two of them while some friends and I whipped their writhing bodies.”


“Yes, sir.  They are identical twins who are extremely close lovers and do everything they can to support each other.  By letting them fuck each other we got great results in sex and torture sessions like the one you mentioned.”


“Good,” smiled Alpha 1. Send that one to the torture center as well with the same fate, making sure it knows why.  Let them watch each other suffer, and mess with their psyches so they learn to hate each other.  Love creates hope, which can sustain even a slave’s mental state as it is killed.  Slaves deserve despair.


“Also, they only have one cock and balls set between them now, so have them share it.  Cut off the lover’s genitals and attach them to this one.  Since they’re twins that should work fine.  Then after a while remove them and reattach to their original animal.  And so forth.  Oh, and set up a web cam so the AMS viewers can enjoy the fun.”


The doomed slave was now utterly devastated, its concern for its brother and lover overshadowing even its growing pain and despair.


“Please sir, I’m the one who fucked up.  Just punish me.  I deserve it.  Leave my lover to a regular death and extend my punishment to six months before I’m permitted to die as further punishment for me.”


“How utterly sweet,” Alpha 1 observed sarcastically.  “That’s quite a gesture given how intense and constant your pain will be.  I’m touched.  So I’ll grant part of your request.  You will now suffer for six months.  But so will your lover.  He’ll hate you even more when he learns how stupid you’ve been.”


William waved away the slave and the vet, and the animal was dragged to a veterinary center for repairs prior to starting its horrid (but entertaining) fate, the sense of guilt almost equal to the pain and despair.  William, meanwhile, was amused and pleased with himself as he signaled for another slave to be brought over for his morning fuck and kill.  He was hornier than ever, but now he had awakened his blood lust.  This slave would not be offered a quick, easy snuff like the last one.  William was going to have a LOT of fun with it and rearranged his schedule so he could take his time with it.  He also made a mental note to alert his buddy Alpha 2 that there was still work to be done on the drugs and methods used to train their slaves.



The Chief’s Morning


The scene as the Chief finished his morning workout had a different tone than at Alpha 1’s estate, but his morning would also include slave snuffing.  That’s how senior AMS leaders started their day!  After a morning workout that included fucking and whipping to death one of his “used up” slaves (a great cardio workout, over 45 minutes of vigorous lashing that left the slave not only dead but missing the skin on its torso and all of its genitals), he cleaned up and dressed in the leather garb that was almost a uniform for the top Alpha members of AMS.  He was joined by his two naked “butler” slaves, Norman and Anthony, who had helped with hi morning routines.  When the Chief had finished the preliminaries and was ready to officially start the day Norman knelt in front of his master with his mouth open while Anthony positioned himself over a leather fuck bench, making his ass conveniently available for his master’s use.  The Chief, in turn, walked over to Norman, who used his teeth to open the leather pouch covering his master’s genitals, followed by licking his balls and taking his hardening cock into his mouth.  The Chief unleashed a large load of piss down Norman’s throat, which Norman obediently drank, then kept his cock in the slave’s mouth so that Norman could use his tongue to get it fully hard.  But the Chief did not want a blow job, and once the cock was at full staff he moved over to Anthony and thrust it into that slave’s tight slave-hole.  There was no lube or hesitation, since he wanted Anthony to feel pain.  Anthony had only recently become a slave, and he had a tight, near-virgin ass that hurt like hell when fucked by a giant cock like the Chief’s.  Indeed, it had been the Chief who had ended Anthony’s virginity shortly after purchasing him at an AMS slave auction. As the Chief began fucking Anthony he signaled that they could report on their morning tasks and the day’s schedule.  Norman, who was by far the senior slave, spoke first.


“Thank you master.  The latest indoctrination session for the herd when extremely well.  All preliminaries are taken care of in preparation for you reviewing the slaves acquired for the party.  It is a particularly good collection of young males.  There are 60 of them, so there will be the 50 needed unless you decide to cull more than 10 between now and then.  I have alerted the collection team in case you do, of course.”


“So the school administrators and police precincts came through?”


“Yes, master.  Perhaps even better than in the past.  Your generosity for the last shipment clearly paid off, along with very clear instructions as to the body types, looks, and cock sizes you require.   They are all in the age range of 18-23, at their sexual peak, and they are all gorgeous specimens.  We have stored them in the cages for a little over a month, so there has been plenty of time to remove tattoos and body hair, figure out their sexual orientation and desires, test their endurance for pain, and get them used to being publicly naked and treated like the cattle they are.  They are confused and scared, having no idea why they’re here or what’s going to happen.  We have also spotted a clear leader among the group for your initial focus this morning.  Nearly all of them are clearly deserving of being snuffed, although a few were included just because our contacts know your preferences for the event and are motivated to please you.  They  thought you’d enjoy these particular animals and I think they are correct.  I believe one of those merits consideration for ongoing use after the party, perhaps as a gift.  It’s gay and so naturally masochistic it does not need conditioning to gratefully function as a sex slave. And the youth is an amazingly handsome specimen.  The rest are a good mix of gay and straight, dominant and submissive, and so forth.  Your guests should find a nice variety to play with.  We will of course have enough butchers on hand so they can have the carcasses carved to their preferences to take home with them for their meat lockers.  I also took the liberty of arranging for a taxidermist so guests can take a cock and balls set, or a head, as a souvenir or trophy.  Some of the animals have very large cocks, and most are handsome enough to merit being kept in the trophy cases many of your guests keep celebrating their snuff sessions.”


The Chief smiled.  His arrangement with various schools and police was such a win-win approach.  The schools and neighborhood precincts would identify students who were troublemakers, not likely to graduate, or just causing problems.  The Chief and his AMS buddies would gather them up and use them for their entertainment.  The schools would then function better, the streets would be safer, no one would miss these losers, and society would not have to deal with them as criminals or other drags on the communities.  The AMS members could enjoy fucking, torturing, snuffing, and eating great young flesh.  If a few innocent males got tortured and snuffed in the process, that was hardly an issue given the contribution to society the Chief was making.  And the Chief even had AMS reimburse the cops and administrators for their efforts – very generously.  A few of the administrators even used some of the money to help out the schools, although most of it went for their own pleasures.


The Chief also smiled as he looked at his two slaves.  He had owned Norman for 10 years, and the slave was amazingly obedient and efficient.  The Chief had no doubt every detail would be handled perfectly, including some he hadn’t considered, such as arranging for guests to have slave parts as souvenirs of the evening.   But Norman had aged, and his service as a sex slave had taken its toll on his body.  Not only was his ass no longer very tight, (a function of being fucked so often -literally thousands of times – not just with cocks but with dildos and especially with fists), but all the electricity applied to his genitals had reduced the slave’s sperm production, albeit not by much.  Norman was still amazingly fit and still made a great and exceptionally reliable sex toy, but the trends were not favorable.


The Chief liked fisting slaves, and Norman had been his favorite target.  He’d considered having the vet do some repairs, but concluded it was just time for Norman to be snuffed.  To that end he had branded Norman on the chest a few months back as a “snuffslave” to remind him of his status and ultimate use.  Norman had of course cooperated and thanked the Chief for the clarification.  They even had quite pleasant and informative conversations on how the Chief could get the most pleasure from killing him and what use to make of the body.  The Chief was especially pleased with Norman’s idea of using him as fertilizer, since his meat was not young enough to be of the highest quality.  They had reviewed the Chief’s floral garden to identify the plants that would benefit from Norman’s ground-up remains, and Anthony had made notes for future use by the gardening slaves.


The Chief had purchased Anthony as a replacement, consulting with Norman to assure the new slave would have the right characteristics and attitude, which Anthony clearly did.  Though new to slavery, he had been carefully trained and conditioned using the methods the Chief had developed to transform candidates into willing slaves.  Anthony was both gay and naturally highly masochistic, so it had worked especially well.  The Chief got his maximum sexual pleasure from young males like the one he’d destroyed this morning with his whip, but he also liked “grown-up” slaves who were mature, fit, handsome, obedient, and accepting of their purpose and fate.  Anthony was in his late 30s and fit all those characterizes, being every bit as obedient and eager to serve as Norman.  He knew the Chief would snuff him when he felt like it, and that was perfectly OK.  Fuck, it was the way things should be for slaves like him and Norman.  They were property, to be disposed of when their usefulness faded.  Further, Anthony had one advantage over Norman.  Norman endured pain, knowing it was his master’s right to inflict it and desiring to provide every possible pleasure for his master.  But Anthony was more of a masochist and enthusiastically welcomed pain and humiliation, getting even more hard as he was whipped and beaten while others watched and got off sexually as he suffered.  His obvious gratitude for the pain and humiliation made the sex/torture sessions even more pleasurable for the Chief and his fellow AMS members, which, of course, is the only thing that matted.


“How well did Anthony handle the gutting this morning?” the Chief asked Norman.


“Extremely well, master.  There were two fat pigs that had also been collected with the herd, and he took a full hour each for the vivisections, remaining fully erect and doing a nice job fucking each pig once it was dead.  I was able to watch the other slaves carefully to confirm our conclusions as to aggression and attitude.  I am confident he is ready to assume full responsibilities whenever you decide to dispose of me.”


The “gutting” of the fat teens was a part of the indoctrination process that the Chief left to other slaves.  In addition to the miscreant students the districts and precincts would also send a few candidates teens who were very fat.  Obesity was a big turn-off for the Chief (who was as fit as he was large), so Norman always processed those animals.  As the other slaves watched form their cages, the fat pigs would be led to tables where each was instructed to lay on his back and masturbate for everyone to watch.  It was not uncommon, as had happened this morning, for the animal to be unable to do so given their terror at what was happening.  This would generate jeers and laughter from the other slaves, including name calling.  Anthony then announced that the animals obviously had no use for their balls, and after telling the youth to squeal like the fat pig he was, he very slowly removed the scrotum and then each of the testicles, cleaning them off and placing them in a silver bowl for the Alpha males to enjoy later.  At this point the reaction of the other slaves was mixed.  Most kept up the jeering, intensifying the name calling to reference their neutered status and cheering on Anthony.  Others became scared, realizing the implications for themselves.  This was the first real damage they had seen to a member of the herd.  Norman took note of these reactions, which would help with sorting the slaves into different snuff groups for the party. The Chief was going to host an important party in a week and wanted to demonstrate a variety of snuff methods as part of the fun.  He also wanted a variety of reactions from the victims to enhance the variety in the entertainment.


Next, Anthony said the squeals had not been loud enough, so he was going to generate more from each pig.  That’s when the actual gutting began.  But it was more than gutting.  As he inserted the knife just above the cocks he cut open the bellies and reached in to remove layers of fat.  These he tossed into a vat near the tables.  He had soon removed all the layers of fat in the torsos, and then did the same in the thighs, legs, and buttocks.  The fat pigs no longer had any fat, and their squeals were inhuman-sounding screams.  Anthony performed the terminal lipofections with great skill and care, managing to avoid cuts that would generate immediate death, and using drugs to keep the animals alive and awake so they would feel all the pain.  As he cut, one of the watching slaves, whom Norman had identified as the natural leader of the group, started a chant of “gut the pigs” that was taken up by most of the rest of them.  There was no sympathy from this group of troublemakers, although Norman observed that several of them were silent, and a couple became ill watching the slaughter.


Once all the fat was removed, Anthony turned to his next task.  Using the penises as a sort of handle, and again cutting carefully, he removed the intestines.  No amount of drugs could keep the animals alive at this point, and as Anthony pulled out the last of its innards each of the fat pigs died.  Anthony hardly noticed, as he took the bloody heap and tossed it into the food troth from which other slaves doled out daily food rations into dog dishes placed in the cages where the slaves were kept.  The caged slaves were permitted to kneel and eat their daily portion of cheap dog food drenched in piss.  Anthony used a hoe to mix the innards into the rest of the food, adding his own load of piss to the mixture as he did.    Anthony announced that they would now have a higher protein content, for which they should be grateful, laughing at their shock and horror.  He explained that this demonstration was so they would understand their status and the kinds of things that were going to happen to them.  They would all wind up dead, he announced to the shocked audience, and should be honored that their worthless lives were going to be used to entertain deserving Alpha males.  He explained that he and Norman were also snuff slaves, but ones who knew and accepted their destiny.  This was how the real world functioned.  It was all about the Alpha males, who ruled absolutely.


Anthony also gave them an incentive.  There were many options on how they would die.  Their attitude and cooperation would be a factor in those decisions.  Some lucky ones might just be hanged or beheaded, very quick deaths with minimal pain; others would be eaten alive; others would suffer amazingly painful deaths like these pigs, but far worse and longer lasting.  Their bodies would be used as food, the best cuts of their meat being served to the deserving Alpha males who would be administering their deaths, the other parts being added to the dog food eaten by other slaves, as happened with the pigs.  Or perhaps other uses.  In the case of the pigs, all that fat would be used to make soap, a special brand the Alpha males enjoyed, knowing its origins.  As Anthony was explaining all this to the horrified future victims, he had inserted his own cock into what was left of one of the pig’s asshole and pumped the dead body until he reached a very satisfying orgasm.  He then did the same with the other carcass.


As Norman watched, proud of how well Anthony had done and feeling a special pride as to the effectiveness of the training Norman had provided, he saw the different reactions of the other slaves.  Some were still defiant, others began to beg and plead.  And a fair number had thrown up, physically manifesting the horror they felt.   Norman noted each reaction, and he and Anthony left the slaves to wallow in the sight and stench of the remains of the pigs.  It was a highly successful demonstration.


After Norman finished his report to the Chief there was a pause as the Chief considered his next steps, still enjoying a relaxing fuck of Anthony’ ass.


“Was there a lot of fat?”


This time Anthony answered.  “Yes, master.  The animals were extremely obese and also very large.  This will help as we were starting to run low for our soap production.  The “boy soap” line is very popular, as you know.”


“Yes,” the Chief mused.  “We do clean up on that one.”  Both slaves laughed obediently at the bad pun.  The Chief liked to make puns and they knew a good appreciation of them pleased him, which they genuinely wanted to do.


“The party is now exactly a week away, and we need to get busy testing some of the equipment Norman has identified and acquired.  I suspect this will require using up more than the 10 bodies Norman referenced, so we should get some more right away so we can use those to test and not waste the ones who are already conditioned to at least some extent.  Those won’t have to be of any special quality, so long as they are in good enough shape to be test animals for the torture equipment.  Meanwhile, I do want to inspect the herd.  I assume the cage area has been cleaned out by now?”


“Yes, master.”  Anthony was again the one who answered, having taken over the lead.  “All the slaves have been thoroughly doused with ice cold water from fire hoses and the pigs’ bodies have been removed and processed.  I have taken Norman’s notes and created a spreadsheet for your consideration as to the best uses of each of the slaves.”


“Excellent.  I think Norman is correct, and you are indeed ready to take over.  So the timing should work well for me to snuff Norman at the party.”


The Chief turned his attention to Norman.  “As we have discussed, I have decided to dispose of you, and the party makes an ideal public setting for your death.  While you will be only one more incremental kill, of no more importance than any of the other snuffslaves being killed, I think that adds to the appropriateness of the setting.  You are just property that has outlived your usefulness.  But because I enjoy watching slaves cum as I choke them into unconsciousness, as I’ve done many times with you, I currently plan to do the snuff myself, this time making sure you’re dead by the time you finish your final orgasm and your ass gets filled with my cum.  My guests have all enjoyed fucking and fisting you over the years and I think they’ll be amused by this scene.  Some of them might even want to fuck your carcass, although I’ll warn them about your ass being rather loose from all the fisting.


“But there is an issue. Frankly, over the past several months, as you’ve trained Anthony and gotten things ready for the party, you have shown signs of pride.  That is unacceptable.  I am aware you have done a nearly perfect job in the preparations and the training, and I have always enjoyed the fact you are an utterly reliable urinal with an ability to cum whenever it amuses me for you to do so.  But you seem to forget your status as mere property, privileged to be of use for whatever I choose until you are killed for my amusement.”


“I am deeply sorry Master,” responded Norman, who realized his Master was correct and hung his head in shame.  He already knew full well it was time for him to get dead, and the Chief had discussed with him the method and timing even though it was none of his business.  That was the reason for purchasing Anthony.  And it had actually been Norman who suggested it would be the most fun for the Chief if Norman was killed at the upcoming party, since the Chief’s best friends, including William, Alpha 1, would be there to watch.  After all, the party was in honor of William’s 50th birthday, and it would amuse William for that also to be Norman’s death day.  While there would be 50 slaves killed at the party, like 50 candles snuffed on a cake, Norman was one the guests knew, having served the Chief all those years, and it would be entertaining for them to watch as the Chief fucked him and choked him to death.  Much of Norman’s gratitude was for the likelihood he would die by the Chief’s hands, quite literally since the Chief was so fond of strangling slaves.  The Chief loved the feeling of life literally flowing out of their bodies as their ability to breathe was cut off.  The Chief was expert at timing his own climax to occur as the slave also had its final orgasm simultaneous with its death.


As Norman remained silent, his head still bowed in shame, the Chief continued.  “I have decided on an appropriate punishment.  You will have only one more orgasm, which will be as you die.  I had considered cutting off your cock and eating your balls to accomplish that, but then I’d be deprived of watching and feeling you cum as I choke you to death.  Instead, you will provide an example of obedience and self-control for Anthony.  If you fail, you will not live to participate in the party and your death will be extraordinarily slow and painful.  The needle is on the table next to me, and you are to inject yourself.  You can guess what’s in the syringe.”


Norman nodded, stood up, and moved to the table.  It had a syringe on it with a very large needle.  He bowed to the Chief, and when he received a nod in return he took the instrument and plunged the needle deep into his balls.  He then pressed the plunger and pushed a large quantity of liquid into his scrotum.  It hurt a lot, but he endured it.  He deserved the punishment, but even if he had not it was his duty to obey.  This was his owner’s wish, and he knew that is all that mattered.


The Chief smiled and bragged to Anthony:  “This is one of the best poisons I’ve ever developed.  It’s almost a miracle drug.  You see, it will have no impact on Norman beyond making him exceptionally horny and his cock consistently erect until he has his next orgasm.  It will be very difficult for him to resist masturbating.  But when that happens, it will be fatal.  And unless I relieve the pain by chocking him to death, which will only happen if he can hold off until the party, he will die a massively painful and very slow death.  The drug activates all the nerves in the body and causes them to emit extreme pain signals to the brain.  It takes several days before the body dies since there is no actual damage.  The slave is in total, utter pain but its actual death is from dehydration.  Better still, the version Norman just injected is a newer one that is designed so the body can receive fluids as it suffers, extending the agony to nearly a week in the latest tests.  It is literally death by pain.  The mind is still aware but unable to stop the pain.  So Norman will die whenever he shoots his next load.  He is used up so it’s time for him to die.  But he also has become too familiar and confident, which is not acceptable for a slave.  For that he needs to be punished, and he will be deprived of any sexual release during his last week.  He needs to hope nothing causes that fatal orgasm doesn’t happen too soon.  That will be difficult for an animal that jerks off at least several times a day like he does.  It doesn’t really matter to me, though, since watching a slave die like this is wonderfully entertaining. It’s a “no lose” scenario for me and a “no win” scenario for Norman, as it should be.”


“Thank you, master.” Norman responded.  “I am truly sorry for my transgression and know I deserve to be punished.  I accept your wishes as my duty and am grateful you have taken steps to correct me.”  Anthony said nothing but marveled at how brilliant their master was, vowing to use this lesson to remind him of his status as a disposable object.



Inspecting the Herd


“Attention Slaves!  You are about to be presented to your Master for inspection.  Knell before Him!”


Norman finished his announcement as the Chief entered the slave storage arena, then knelt himself with his head bowed (and his dick hard).  Anthony did the same.  The 60 slaves were held in cages not large enough to permit standing or lying straight, in two rows of 30 cages each that were stacked one row on  top of the other.  The room had been darkened but as the Chief entered bright spotlights illuminated the rows of vulnerable, naked male flesh.


Some of the slaves knelt as instructed, but most did not.  Despite the demonstration with the two slaves who were used to make soap, there was still a great deal of defiance.  This was as the Chief expected, and wanted, and he was looking forward to managing it.  At his nod, Anthony touched a screen on a special remote-control unit, and Norman made a second announcement as the slaves began to convulse and scream.


“Scum!  You have failed to obey and honor your Master.  You will suffer as a result, with electricity flowing through the cages.  The voltage will increase until ALL scum slaves are kneeling.  Those who take the longest to kneel will suffer further pain to teach you to obey.”


As the electricity intensified, so did the screams.  And within a very brief time all but one of the slaves were kneeling.  As Norman had anticipated, it was the one who appeared to be their natural leader.  But as the voltage increased even more, this slave too succumbed and knelt.  The inspection was starting out exactly as anticipated.


Anthony and Norman stood and walked to the cage holding the rebellious leader, which was one on the second level.  The more dominant slaves were stored at that level, so that when they pissed it would drench the more submissive slaves kept on the bottom layer.  Norman and Anthony had observed how, shortly after the slaves had been put in storage, the dominant ones made it a game to see how much piss they could direct at their cellmates underneath them.  Some of the submissive ones even were intimidated into letting them use their mouths for target practice or, better yet, to provide a blow job as the dominant slave lay on the floor of his cage with his hard cock sticking downward into the cage below where the submissive slave could reach it with his mouth and suck off the dominant cell-mate.  Even the dominants who viewed themselves as straight took advantage of this service quite frequently.


The leader, who called himself Bjorn, resisted when the cage door was opened, but Norman and Anthony easily subdued him and dragged him out of the cage in front of the Chief.  Bjorn was a beautiful Nordic specimen with long blond hair trailing down his back and thickly covering his chest and crotch.  He was tall and muscular, with thick biceps suggesting strength that was quite real.  He was a wonderful example of Aryan perfection, and Norman had considered recommending him to the Chief for a special torture session at the party.  But he knew the Chief’s rules, and the leader of a herd like this had to be taken down.


Once again, Bjorn refused to kneel.  But this time they dealt with him more directly.  Despite his strength and athletic ability he was no match for Norman and Anthony combined.  They pushed him against a wall and quickly nailed his hands and feet to the wall, so that he was displayed spread-eagled for the Chief’s inspection.  At a nod from the Chief Anthony took a nearby sledgehammer and used it to crush each of Bjorn’s kneecaps.  Then Norman slipped a wire noose around his neck that was also attached to the wall and ripped his hands free of the nails that were now needed to hold him up.  Now unable to stand, Bjorn collapsed onto his ruined knees, the wire noose keeping him from falling forward but cutting deeply into his neck.  Despite the pain Bjorn did not scream and said nothing.  The Chief admired the toughness.  This animal might have made a great AMS member, but it was too late for that and an example was required for the rest of the herd.


The Chief approached Bjorn, his leather garb towering over the defiant victim.  “You are to remove the leather fasteners and then suck my cock.”


“Fuck you, faggot.  I’m no mother-fucking cocksucker.  If you stick your dick in my mouth I’ll bite it off.”  Bjorn then spit at the Chief.


The Chief’s response was one of amusement.  “You continue to show very poor judgment,” he said with no hint of anger.  The Chief had actually hoped for this sort of response and nodded at his two slaves.  Norman inserted a dental appliance that forced Stevie’s mouth open.  He then took a nearby set of pliers and slowly removed Bjorn’s teeth.  The cocky gang leader was taken off guard, now horrified by what was happening to him and astonished at the level of pain being inflicted.  His will was starting to crack.  When Norman was finished Bjorn’s mouth was bleeding profusely and his pain level was extreme.  The Chief repeated his command, adding that he expected Bjorn to use his tongue to massage the cock and lick off the blood.  But Bjorn still had a level of defiance remaining and  refused again, this time barely able to utter the stream of profanity due to the pain and the bleeding.


“I will not tolerate this kind of language in my presence.  If this scum is unwilling to use its tongue to give me pleasure, it has no purpose.  Remove it.”


Norman quickly used a scissors to cut out Bjorn’s tongue, holding it up in front of the gang leader and also the other slaves, then tossing it into the herd’s food vat.


“Fortunately, you have another hole where you can service my cock.”  And as the Chief made that comment Anthony and Norman lifted Bjorn onto a sling, lying on his back with his broken legs in the air – all set to be butt-fucked.  When he was positioned, Norman knelt in front of his Master and used his own teeth to remove the clasps that covered his master’s giant cock.  He then took that in his mouth and lovingly massaged it to a full erection, which did not take long given the Chief’s level of arousal.  He was totally turned on and thoroughly enjoying himself.  Bjorn fit his ideal sex object and the Chief loved it when the slave showed résistance.   Anthony took a nearby syringe and injected the same poison injected into Norman deep into Bjorn’s exposed balls.  At that point the Chief walked over to the one-time tough guy and rammed his hard cock into the virgin asshole.  Bjorn’s combination of pain, humiliation, pride and homophobia finally broke his spirit and he screamed in.  Then, to his further horror and shame, his cock grew erect as he was being fucked.  A camera was projecting the events onto a large screen in front of the rest of the herd, so everyone could see Bjorn’s reaction.  Most of them jeered and cheered, calling Bjorn a fag who liked getting fucked and deserved it.  They of course had no idea the erection was triggered by the poison just injected into the doomed slave, who was more horrified by this reaction than even the pain he was enduring.  Of course, no one explained the real reason for the erection to him.  The humiliation of this gorgeous homophobe was just too much fun to enjoy.


The Chief took his time and enjoyed a quite satisfying orgasm.  As Norman and Anthony picked up Bjorn he totally broke down, starting to cry and begging for mercy.  They ignored that (although both they and the Chief were delighted with their triumph) and strung up Stevie upside down by his ankles so his broken body was swinging freely like the piece of meat it was becoming.  The Chief added to the pain and humiliation by brutally whipping Bjorn both front and back, causing deep welts in his young flesh, especially the exposed cock and balls.  Once Bjorn was bleeding freely from a massive set of welts all over his body, but with his cock still hard, the Chief addressed the herd.


“You are all slaves, and you will all be snuffed as you deserve.  Your deaths and bodies will be the entertainment and meat course at an important party I’m hosting, which will celebrate the birthday of William, Alpha 1 of AMS, the Art of Male Snuff.  Since it’s his 50th birthday, we are going to snuff 50 of you at the party.  Some of you will die reasonably quickly – the lucky ones.  Others will be much slower, such as those who will be skinned and eaten alive.  And some will suffer excruciating, extreme pain, like this piece of scum I just fucked and whipped.  It’s going to be a great party and a lot of fun, although of course not for you.  No one knows or cares what happens to you, and the world is better off with you being dead.  Having your bodies butchered for meat, soap, and fertilizer is a much better purpose for you and you should be honored to make the contribution of your worthless lives and bodies to celebrate such a great Alpha Male.  You have been drags on society and you deserve your fate. Oh, I know this confuses a few of you who have not broken the rules, but you have the good fortune of having bodies that turn on me and my fellow members.  So you just get to make a contribution that you should be honored to make given your low status and our role as superior Alpha Males.  The sacrifice will be a bit greater because we will take our time torturing you in particular, in amazingly painful and humiliating ways, since your suffering will give us the greatest pleasure.  That is clearly the best use for your wonderfully sexy bodies.


“We really don’t care if you cooperate, but it might be better for you if you do.  To illustrate that, one of my slaves is going to suck off this animal.  That will trigger a reaction from the poison injected into his balls, which will cause him to suffer extraordinary pain – every nerve in his body will send pain signals to his brain – such that he’ll die in agony.  But it will take about a week for that to happen, with no relief from the pain.  The drug even stops him from passing out so he’ll be awake the entire time.  The party is in a week, so he’ll finally die just as the party starts.  We’re going to leave him here for you to observe.  If you fail to obey, we’ll likely do the same to you.  Or worse.


“By the way, my slave who is sucking the cock will also die at the party, or maybe sooner.  But he has been trained to understand his role and accepts his fate with gratitude for the honor of serving an Alpha Male.  You could learn from him.”


As the Chief finished, Norman stood in front of Bjorn and sucked his still-hard cock, which erupted quickly in light of both the physical fitness of the victim and the impact of the drugs.  As the cock emitted its final load of cum, Bjorn began to feel the pain and his body started to gyrate.  He was soon screaming loudly, begging for mercy, and overwhelmed by the unbelievable amount of agony.  It was a great show and a useful object lesson.  The herd would now understand it must obey its owner.




A Well-deserved Promotion, with a Worthwhile Future


Later that afternoon the Chief attended an upbeat celebration at one of the many police stations he supervised.  He was very devoted to the men who worked for him, and it was mutual.  So when one of them was promoted he always made it a point to attend.  But this time he was especially pleased, since the promotion was based on demonstrated loyalty to the Chief and to AMS.


As he entered the Chief saw that everything had been well prepared.  This was also reassuring, as this event had been arranged by Anthony – his first task all on his own.  The Chief was totally confident Anthony was ready to take over for Norman, and wondered if it would be more fun to have Anthony give Norman a blow job that would trigger the torture drugs or to wait until the party and snuff him then.  Tough choices, but fun either way.


The first part of the ceremony was to be a gang rape and orgy, and the Chief saw that everything was in place, including the target, and all the officers were already naked, erect, and ready to party.  The object of the rape was suspended from the ceiling  and had already serviced the horny crew over the past several days.  This was an ongoing party.  The target knew what was likely to happen next and bore a justified look of considerable fear.  But he also knew things would be far worse if he didn’t cooperate.  His only relief would be his death, and he hoped that would happen soon.


The Chief, decked out in his AMS leather, was handed a drink and proposed a toast:


“I am so proud of all of you, and especially of our new precinct captain, whose promotion we are celebrating today.  Jeremy is the kind of officer I want all of you to use as a role model.  As you can see now that he’s naked, he keeps himself totally fit and has a great cock and a nice ass.  I can especially attest to the latter, as I can with most all of you and will with those I haven’t tested yet.  I’m guessing you’ll all soon get a chance to learn how well his cock functions, up close and personal.”  There were chuckles in the room.  The Chief enjoyed fucking his staff, as was his right, and they all respected him for it and admired his stamina and giant cock.  Being fucked with a cock that size was painful, but giving the Chief pleasure was more than worth the pain.  They knew Jeremy would do the same, and he had been a great role model when the Chief would visit the precinct to inspect, which would include Jeremy stripping naked along with a few other guys and the Chief fucking all of them as the rest of the precinct watched in admiration and jerked off for the Chief’s further amusement.  The staff, in turn, had free reign of those below them in rank, and of course everyone used the prisoners however they wanted.  There were no limits there unless the Chief had designated a prisoner for his own use or an AMS event..


The Chief continued.  “As you all know, Jeremy was the most successful cop at cleaning up our streets by removing the scum that pollute our city. And he is also astute about the opportunity to provide extra quality for senior Alpha Males of AMS, as you can see from the sex slave kneeling in the corner and serving as our official urinal today.  That slave, formerly known as Stevie, is of exceptional quality and it would be a waste to include it in the regular herd.  I am keeping its ass virgin until my party next week, and if it weren’t for Jeremy that would not have been possible.  So let’s toast his success and give him a huge cheer.”


Everyone raised their glass and cheered loudly as Jeremy beamed with gratitude.


“I am also pleased to announce that Jeremy will not only be the captain in charge of this precinct, but he approached me with a request to apply for a position as one of my “butler” slaves, ready to take over when I decide to snuff Anthony.  I have agreed, and since he’s just in his early 20s this will likely be a smooth transition in about a decade, as it is with Norman getting snuffed next week and replaced by Anthony.  He and Anthony did a great job working together on this transition and planning my party next week, and I am confident that partnership will continue between Jeremy and Anthony once I snuff Norman. And like our urinal, Jeremy is utterly obedient by his nature and I don’t anticipate needing to do any conditioning.  He is a great Alpha Male and will lead you well in that role, including applying appropriate discipline and enjoying your bodies and those of other males of lower rank than he is.  But he ultimately was born to be a slave, knows it, and is now able to look forward to someday functioning in his highest and best use, serving a very senior AMS leader.  As a future slave he will always remain naked, even here in the precinct, but don’t misunderstand.  That is the only concession to his future role.  He’s  in charge and for now, and for years to come,  I am the only one with permission to fuck him.


“And that brings us to Jack, who disgraced himself and will be leaving us in due course – literally turned into a piece of shit after we enjoy eating his meat.  Of course, that won’t happen until we’re all done fucking his ass and torturing his body.  He will serve as a lesson for all of you on what happens when someone breaks the rules.  There is no forgiveness and those who disobey die horrible deaths.  I understand all of you have been having tons of fun with him over the past few days, and I can see the evidence of cuts  and welts on his body.  These look like more than the usual whipping aftermath.  It also looks like you turned his balls into pin cushions and I don’t see much left of his nipples.  I also see he’s now devoid of body hair, which is quite a change from his usual thick mat on his chest, crotch, and back.  I just hope his ass is still nice and tight, like I remember it, so I can enjoy fucking it as he dies.  It looks to me like you guys have done a great job teaching him the first part of his lessons.  So, with that, let’s enjoy a fun orgy and make sure Jack gets the death he deserves.”


Jeremy spoke next as the crew started to move Jack onto a nearby fuck bench so everyone could humiliate him one more time.


“Good observations, Chief.   It turns out Jack wasn’t very popular.  So we started by cutting off his body hair.  We used a straight razor so it would cut him if he resisted, which I’m pleased to say he did a lot.  Those are the larger cuts you see added to the welts from when we whipped him.  We made sure there was not only no body hair left, but no part of him that wasn’t solidly lacerated.  The balls were particular fun.  We had a game of “pin the tail on the donkey” but with a few changes in the rules.  Everyone had large needles, and no one was blindfolded.  So we could put the needles where we wanted, and we all chose his balls.  In the second round we added his cock and nipples, and a couple of guys nailed his tongue.  That shut up the string of profanity we were getting tired of.  The nipples are gone because we thought it would be fun to rip them out, which it was.  Oh, and his ass is full of cum and his belly is full of piss, so we’ve made good use of his mouth and butt.”


“Wow.  Sorry I missed the fun.  Should I assume the cock doesn’t work anymore?  It looks pretty shriveled.”


“No.  We decided he didn’t deserve a final orgasm so we’ve been highly aggressive in having fun with his cock and balls.”

The Chief nodded and walked over to where a couple of the crew were holding Jack.  “Before you lay him on his belly on the fuck table, we might as well finish off that part of your fun.”  The Chief then took out a pocketknife he always carried, opened the largest blade, and reached down to Jack’s genitals.  He had one of the guys take out all the pins, and then he slowly cut off Jack’s shriveled cock.  “This is certainly worthless,” the Chief scoffed, as the crew all laughed.  Then he tossed the muscle, once Jack’s primary source of pride, to where the slave once called Stevie was obediential kneeling.  At the Chief’s signal Stevie bent down, picked up the cock with his mouth and ate it.  A little blood dripped down his chin, but one of the crew quickly washed that off with piss, emptying the rest of his load down Stevie’s willing throat.


“Well, laughed the Chief.  Our urinal slave even got a chaser with his snack.”  As the crew laughed even louder, and Jack looked on in horror, the Chief next cut off the scrotum, separating the two testicles and offering one to Jeremy as the Chief swallowed the other.  But they used the expensive champagne being served at the party as their chaser.


The Chief encouraged everyone to do their last fuck of Jack’s ass, to continue whipping and applying a cattle prod to his body, and to cut off a small meat snack to eat in front of Jack as he was forced to watch.  “We’ll enjoy the main course after he’s dead and we butcher him, but I want him to get a feel for being eaten alive so he knows how lucky he is that we’re going to fuck him to death,” the Chief instructed.


Once the gang rape was done and everyone had enjoyed a snack, the Chief positioned himself behind Jack’s bleeding butt and inserted his giant cock into the much-used hole.  It was nicely lubricated with a massive amount of sperm, and the Chief regretted that this reduced the pain for Jack.  But there were compromised that had to be made to get the thrill the Chief was after.  The Chief loved the feel of achieving his climax as the guy he was fucking was painfully snuffed, dying simultaneous with the Chief’s orgasm.  Meanwhile, Jeremy had forced an O ring into Jack’s mouth that prevented him from closing it, and inserted his own hard cock down Jack’s throat.  Jack wasn’t used to giving blow jobs, and gagged at the size of Jeremy’s cock.  Jeremy went in and out for a bit so Jack could get used to the experience, but then he inserted his cock all the way down Jack’s throat, thrusting it vigorously as the Chief did the same up Jack’s ass.  The two colleagues leaned forward and the Chief inserted his tongue deeply into Jeremy’s throat, further increasing the pleasure for both men.  Then, as Jack realized he could not resist Jeremy’s cock, he also realized he was effectively being strangled.  He tried breathing through his nose, but the cock fully occupied his throat and windpipes.  Jack slowly faded as the pain of no oxygen increased, and the two experts perfectly timed their thrusts and orgasms so that they each shot their loads into Jack exactly as Jack painfully died.  There was loud cheering form the crew, many of whom also shot a load as they watched this amazing show.


Several of the crew now moved Jack’s body to a carving table and expertly cut his meat for everyone to enjoy.  Accompaniments were brought out and the party continued with lots of great conversation and comradery.  As they celebrated the Chief fucked Jeremy in the ass, which was familiar and highly pleasurable territory for both of them, one that would be repeated more often when Anthony was snuffed and  Jeremy changed roles.  Jeremy liked being fucked in public, and he was totally comfortable with his new status – both as the Alpha Male head of the precinct and as a future slave belonging to the Chief for whatever use the Chief choose.


As the celebration concluded, the eager young urinal watched in wonder.  It knew it was not worthy to perform actual tasks like Jeremy or Anthony.  It knew its use was just for sex and to suffer as much pain and humiliation as was possible.  It wondered why it had not been fucked yet, or seriously tortured or whipped, but knew its owners would do so when the Chief was ready.  What was done with it was none of its concern.   it was just grateful beyond measure to be the property of such an outstanding owner.  If it’s role was just that of a urinal for now, so be it.  He would do that job well, as instructed.



The Birthday Party


The day of the party had finally arrived, and the guests assembled in the early afternoon to start the celebration.  As they entered the huge dungeon their first sight was of 50 young oriental males standing on a stage, naked and erect with their hands tied behind their backs and nooses around their necks.  The specimens were amazingly beautiful, their young skin smooth and fit, glistening with oil that made their bodies reflect the light. Their faces bore broad smiles of welcome.  When everyone had arrived, AMS Director Fong walked onto the stage and stood in front of them.  He was a large alpha male attired in the same leather garb as William and the Chief, and his leather vest identified him as “Alpha 3.”  He looked out over a sea of eager AMS members, of all ages and body types.  Many wore the same AMS leather attire that he did, while most others were totally naked.  And there was every variation in-between.  AMS valued its diversity, which was reflected not merely in attire (or lack thereof) but in race and ethnicity.  What united them all, and was not negotiable, was a core commitment to the Art of Male Snuff.  And for that purpose there was an even greater number of naked slaves ready to be snuffed.  Many understood and accepted their purpose and fate, but many would resist.  Both would provide pleasure, especially sexual pleasure, for their deserving owners.  It would be a wonderful party.


“On behalf of the Chief and myself, welcome to this great celebration.  As you know, as Alpha 3 of AMS I have responsibility for Asia, which I’ve run now for over 25 years.  Knowing that this event would come to pass, I arranged a major breeding event 20 years ago.  I contributed a considerable amount of sperm that was used to breed over 75 males.  Those were raised as slaves and taught that their purpose was to someday provide brief entertainment for Alpha 1 when he turned 50.  You will note that they look alike – even for Chinese, who of course all look alike to you Caucasians (everyone laughed) – but in this case it’s also because they are half-siblings and the surrogates were also selected to look as much alike as possible.  The 50 best specimens are assembled behind me.  We bred extras since we knew some would not be high enough quality, and the extras are also here today for you to snuff however you like.  These beautiful specimens want to offer a traditional song in celebration of Alpha 1’s 50th birthday, which will be followed by a dance in his honor and then a candle-lighting ceremony.”


At this point Alpha 3 stepped off stage, and all 50 slaves bowed deeply in deference and respect.  The purpose for their existence was about to be fulfilled.  (The ropes around their necks were loosened from above to permit the bow, then tightened again.)  As they finished their bow and stood with every aspect of their bodies erect (especially their throbbing cocks, which pointed upward from their sexual arousal and dripped pre-cum), they began to sing:


“Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday dear Alpha 1, Happy birthday to you.”


Everyone laughed and joined in.  The idea of all these Chinese slaves singing the traditional English song went over very well with the crowd.  But there was a second verse:


“We’ll die now for you;

It’s what we were bred to do;

our deaths are your birthday gift;

as our cocks shoot on cue.”


At that point the platform under their feet quietly slid open and all 50 beautiful males dropped.  The platform had been designed to be totally silent so the crowd could hear the sound as 50necks were broken and the slaves did that cute little death-dance that is so entertaining when slaves are hanged.  The dance didn’t last long, but it was great fun to watch as the bodies slowed and the heads drooped at unnatural angles, eyes open and smiles still in place.  Best of all, each of the 50 eager slaves had a giant orgasm, its cock erupting with cum that shot out on each other and the watching (and cheering) crowd.  Then, after the quests had a chance to enjoy the smiles turning to expressions of pain as the dancers  finished dying, the lights were dimmed and flames shot up from under the platform, setting on fire the oil with which the young meat, especially their cocks and balls, had been soaked.  The presentation was now of 50 slave candles – lit lanterns wonderfully lighting the room with burning flesh and torch-like flaming cocks, all in tribute to Alpha 1.  Their lives and bodies had been put to an appropriate use for slaves.  When the torches faded the lights came back on and Alpha 3 returned to the stage to the sound of enthusiastic clapping and cheering as the guests continued to enjoy the sight and also the aromatic smell of cooking slave meat.  His gesture had been well received.  He bowed to Alpha 1.  “William, my friend and leader, I wish you the best birthday ever and hope this will prove a good start to the afternoon.”


William joined him on stage and graciously expressed his appreciation, complimenting Alpha 3 on a great show and also thanking him for his outstanding leadership running the Asia division of AMS.  “This display is just one example of your great organization and creativity, and of how you always plan for the future.”


The Chief joined his colleagues and the three leaders embraced.  The friendship and respect among them were obvious, a great example for the other guests.  The Chief spoke next.


“Let me add my welcome to all of you, and my congratulations to Alpha 3 on a great show.  What a wonderful use for these animals, and we’ll all share in generous cuts of meat as they are butchered for our dining pleasure.  But we’ll leave them hanging here for a while so we can all enjoy the scene.  Fifty freshly hanged slaves with their cocks nicely burned off is a great sight.   And don’t worry, we’ll put the bodies onto fuck benches before we butcher them for those of you who would like to fuck them.


“Most of all my welcome goes to my friend and leader, William, Alpha 1, with great good wishes for this birthday.  I hope this celebration is worthy of him and this occasion.


“As you know, William has recently appointed me to run the European division as well as the Americas, pending replacement of Alpha 4.  His performance had not met our standards, so William, Director Fong, and I snuffed him a few weeks ago.  To his credit, he understood and cooperated, providing a worthy death and an excellent meal.  Alpha 1 will announce a successor in due course, but in the meantime I have responsibility for that area.  So, since I also know how much William is interested in European history, I thought it would be fun to make that, especially British history, our theme for the afternoon and evening.  You will note that the dungeon has been filled with numerous devices used over the years in torture and executions by our European forebearers, and we have assembled a group of 50 more slaves who will be used to demonstrate them, a number chosen, of course, in honor of our beloved Alpha 1.  I hope everyone has a great time and enjoys the fun as we snuff all 50 of these slaves, and an ample supply of others, for your amusement and in honor of the occasion.”  The crowd clapped in appreciation, and at this point other slaves brought drinks and appetizers for them to enjoy, including a generous supply of fresh testicles and other slavemeat treats.  (The 100 testicles being served had once been attached to 50 young males held in a detention center, part of an experiment to see if they would reform better if turned into eunuchs.  It was an AMS research project that was one more example of their community service.)


The slaves being snuffed were, of course, the truant teens and street scum rounded up earlier and conditioned in the Chief’s slave cages.  Some had been trained as slaves under the methods developed by the Chief, so they would be appropriately obedient.  Others had not, so the guests could enjoy inflicting pain and watching them die horrible deaths on the torture machines despite their efforts to resist.  The Chief started the fun by pushing one of those into the heated Iron Bull placed near the stage.  This was an old Roman idea, consisting of a bull made of iron which had a flame under it that made it red hot.  A naked slave would be pushed inside, and reeds on the bull’s mouth would emit the sounds of the slave creaming as he burned to death.  The fun part was that the reeds made it sound like an actual bull, a source of amusement that always pleased the Roman onlookers. The Chief, at Norman’s suggestion, made it more fun by making the bull out of tempered glass, so the guests could watch the slave’s agony as it was burned horribly no matter where its naked flesh touched the inside of the bull.  The teen he selected had been particularly uncooperative so it was even more fun than usual to watch and listen as the desperate animal suffered in despair.  A careful balance of temperature assured constant burning but also meant the slave would remain alive for at least an hour to prolong the agony.  A new slave would replace it when it finally died.


“By the way, Chief,” William asked as the three senior AMS leaders left the stage to enjoy the party.  “Whatever happened to that slave you had for such a long time?  I think its name was Norman.  I thought you were going to finally get around to snuffing him.”


“I am, and he will die tonight,” answered the Chief.  “He’s a great organizer and I wanted to use him to help on the party.  He located and designed a lot of the torture equipment, and he did a great job as you’ll see.  I also had him train a successor, who is one of the urinals.”  The Chief pointed at Anthony, who was kneeling near the two Alpha males, ready to receive any piss they might need to get rid of, or to be fucked if they felt like doing that.  Or snuffed.  Anthony bowed to the ground in respect for his master and William.  As he returned to kneeling, William signaled to him that he was to use his teeth to unclasp the leather covering William’s cock, after which William took advantage of the new slave and unloaded a giant gusher of piss down its throat.  “Well, the slave does seem well trained as a urinal,” observed William.  “Does it also have a tight ass?  As I recall Norman became pathetically loose.”


“It does,” answered the Chief.  “And I encourage you to check for yourself, although I don’t plan to kill Anthony for a while since he’s very useful, and there are lots of young twinks for you to fuck and snuff that are probably more to your taste.  You can fuck Anthony any time you feel like it since he’ll probably be around.  But if you decide to snuff him that’s obviously your right and perfectly OK with me, and with him.  I’ve already picked his successor, although that male is probably not quite ready to take over yet.”


“Do you intend to keep this one  for years like you did Norman,” asked the Chief.  He had never really approved of keeping a slave for many years, since he viewed them as mere meat useful for sex and the pleasure of torturing them as they died for his amusement.  He hired staff to perform the sorts of duties the Chief assigned to Norman and Anthony.


“Probably not as long, but I do find slaves useful as staff.  I know you disagree, but I think they can serve useful purposes as sort of “man servants” who get to know what I want done and take care of it with total obedience.  I don’t think your staff is as reliable, although the fact you torture them to death if they fuck up does help motivate them.”  The two friends laughed at the exchange, which they had been doing for decades.  It was a friendly disagreement, and William had actually decided to convert some his house staff to longer-term slaves, using the Chief’s conditioning to assure their complete obedience.  It would be fun to dispose of them when they outlived their usefulness, and it would cost less since they would not need salaries, clothing, medical care, or pensions.  Housing could be in bunk rooms and they could eat table scraps, dog food, and the entrails of snuffed slaves.  Of course, his sexual pleasure would still be focused on young twinks whose bodies he thoroughly enjoyed destroying in horribly painful deaths.  A smooth, 20-year-old twink was his favorite sex object by far.


“So where’s Norman”” William asked, his curiosity aroused.  The Chief pointed to a scaffold beside them, where Norman was displayed hanging slightly off the ground with his cock erect and a noose around his neck.  William did have to admit (to himself) that the slave, although old for William’s purposes, was still an excellent specimen of male flesh, with a fit and handsome body and a very decent sized cock.  Maybe the Chief had a point.


“Are you going to leave him there until he dies from strangulation, or do you have something else in mind?”


“I’ll take him down and snuff him personally in a while.  The noose isn’t tight enough to strangle him, just to make him suffer.  I want him displayed and humiliated but I also want the fun of a personal kill.  I want to feel him die as I fuck his ass and choke him.  Afar all, despite the effect of the Hell Drug being injected into him a week ago he’s managed not to cum, which is a remarkable demonstration of obedience and discipline.  I think killing him personally is a good reward.  It’s what he wants.  And I knew he wanted to hang around for most of the party, which I obviously arranged.”


That was too much for William. He was used to the Chief’s bad puns, but the thought of rewarding a slave was beyond his comprehension.  He shook his head.  “Sometimes I think you’re getting soft in your old age, my friend,” he admonished.


“Hey, I’m not the one dealing with old age,” responded the Chief, which got a groan and a laugh from his friend.  Of course, there was only a year’s difference in their ages, as William was quick to point out.  But the Chief had clearly won the round of jesting.


Meanwhile, guests were mingling, enjoying the drinks, meat snacks, and exhibits.  One that was particularly popular was the “wheel,” a medieval British torture that involved tying the victim cock-side up to a large wheel and then turning it over a set of spikes that would tear into the flesh.  It quickly turned into a betting game based on how many times the slaves could survive being punctured by the spikes before they died.  But this wasn’t as popular as the “pit and pendulum” station, based on the delightful Poe story.  Unlike the story, the slave of course was not rescued and, better yet, it was sliced in half lengthwise.  It had taken a lot of practice to get it right, but Norman had designed the device so precisely that it even sliced the cock and balls lengthwise, splitting the scrotum so each half of the slave had a testicle and half its penis.  (The penis was kept erect by drugs and stapled to the belly to keep it in place.)  The best part of this fun station was the growing terror the slave exhibited as the ultra-sharp pendulum swung above it, closer with each pass until the actual cutting began.


Other popular demonstrations included the rack, which although well known to the guests was still lots of fun as the slave was literally pulled apart for their enjoyment.  There were lots of whipping posts where the guests could participate, taking turns lashing the young animals front and back until their skin was just a mass of bleeding welts and their cocks were literally cut off by the metal-tipped whips.  To assure that result the animals had been drugged to cause the cocks to remain hard until the whips could cut through them.  Some of the slaves were suspended upside down, so the erect cock was hanging down and more readily available as the whip strokes struck the exposed flesh.


For those who wanted to collect slave skin for conversion into leather mementos there were slaves tied down to tables where they could be skinned alive as their flesh collected for that purpose.  All the torture stations had written displays giving the history of the torture, and this one pointed out how Henry VIII not only skinned alive the monks who didn’t follow him but nailed their skin to the door of their abbey as a warning to others.  The Chief knew what a fan of history William was, and all the guests enjoyed the extra detail.


Well-endowed slaves were displayed so their huge cock and balls sets could be removed to be turned into an artistic memento of the event.  As Norman had predicted, this was especially popular given the impressive size of some of the young cocks.  Besides the betting on when a slave would die at a particular torture session, there were contests among the guests so they could show off their skill, especially at archery and (even more popular) axe throwing.  The arrows were aimed at the heart and the axes were aimed at the erect  cocks.  But one exceptional archer managed to get an arrow perfectly into the piss slit, generating considerable cheers and collecting on a lot of bets.  After each contest the dead slave was beheaded and its head was presented to the winner as a trophy.


Perhaps the most popular of all the exhibits was one commemorating the quant British tradition of having a criminal hanged, drawn, and quartered.  This was reserved for the teens who had been least cooperative and were the best looking.  The Chief wanted to display handsome bodies that were strongly resisting their deserved fate.  As was the tradition in the Middle Ages in England, the slaves were first tied to a wire rack that was dragged from the cage area on a meandering route to the scaffold.  That way the guests could observe the animals and enjoy their struggles and terror, while also spitting, pissing, and whipping the bodies as they were slowly dragged to their doom.  It was very satisfying and the slave was dragged very slowly to maximize the show.


Eventually the slave would reach the scaffold and be pulled up to stand under the noose, which was carefully placed around its neck.  The key at this point was not to have the body drop very far, breaking the slave’s neck and killing it much too quickly.  Instead, there was just a short drop sufficient to partially break the neck and trigger the slave’s final orgasm, an essential part of the entertainment.  Then the slave was slowly pulled into the air, its legs dangling for the amusement of the onlookers.  To be sure there was adequate pain and damage to the animal, these nooses had a refinement, which was a thin wire on the inside of the noose that would cut into the slave’s neck as it hung on display, cum and then piss dripping from its spent cock.  The more the slave moved the deeper the cut.  So the hangman would push the body to gain that effect.  The notice by the station pointed out that this wasn’t the way it was actually done in olden days, when there was an effort to have the prisoner hang alive in pain for a period of time, but there would be more of a drop.  But as famous criminals like Guy Fawkes had demonstrated, if there was a material  “drop” a clever victim could actually jump just before the drop and gain enough extra leverage to assure its neck was broken enough to cause a very quick death.  The Chief would not run that risk.  These slaves were to die as slowly and painfully as possible, with maximum humiliation and entertainment.  Pushing the body so it swung while the wire cut into its neck worked great for that purpose.


The Chief also enhanced the next steps, which started after the slave was cut down from the noose and placed on its back on a bench.  The executioner would bring the slave back to the point of orgasm and then cut into the genitals as it again started to cum.  The slave’s innards would be “drawn” out of it, starting with the genitals and then slowly reaching the intestines, carefully enough so the slave would not escape into death.  This was where using a fit young male made it possible to have a much better spectacle.  The same was true with quartering, although it was technically “sixing” since the executioner would cut off the cock and intestines, then each arm, each leg, and, finally, as the slave died it would be beheaded.  It was a great show.   For one of the sessions the Chief also threw in a wrinkle to add to the fun.


“Every party needs a clown,” the Chief announced.  So I thought we’d have some fun with a clown executioner who’s easily confused.”


At that point a young male entered the room, naked and erect with his face painted into a clown mask.  He pretended to read a piece of paper in his hands, then  looked down at his genitals and addressed the guests.  “Let’s see, the instructions say I’m supposed to generally inflate some balloons.”  I think that means my genitals, so I guess the existing ones have to go.”  The guests giggled at his “confusion” over generals v. genitals but enjoyed the scene as the clown proceeded to take a nearby knife and cut of his cock.  Holding it up as it drained, he pretended to look for a peace to throw it away, and upon seeing none he popped it into his mouth and ate it.  His scrotum was next, but this time he found a place to deposit the testicles, offering one to the Chief and the other to William.  Then he ate the leftover skin.  Another slave appeared at this point and cauterized the open wound so the clown wouldn’t bleed to death before the end of the show, and then handed him three balloons, two round and one cock shaped.  With the help of the “assistant” the clown attached them to where his “generals” had once been.  The idea had been to make the clown look as ridiculous as possible, and it was quite effective.  The giggling had now turned to laughter and jeers.


“Task 2,” read the clown.  “Hang, draw, and quarter your assistant.”  The assistant pretended to try to escape, but the clown grabbed him and pushed him down onto a nearby torture table.  The clown paused for effect, then quickly secured the victim’s wrists and ankles to the four corners of the table.  “Got it,” he announced triumphantly.  “Quartered, drawn, and hanged it will be!”  As the audience watched and laughed ever louder, the pretend idiot took a clown-style saw and proceeded to saw off each of the victim’s arms and legs, slowly and carefully so the audience could enjoy watching and listening to the infliction of pain and resulting screams.  Some of the humor came from the fact the clown’s genital balloons bounced around and got in the way, with the cock balloon popping at one point. It had been partially filled with cum, which leaked out in front of the absurd-looking clown.  As the laughter grew the balloon was quickly replaced, and soon the two arms and legs were detached and hanging from the four corners of the table as the clown turned to the next part of the process.


The victim had been treated with drugs to assure its cock would remain hard during the vivisection, and the clown stroked it as he picked up a knife to begin “drawing” the victim.  That resulted in the cock erupting with a final orgasm as the knife cut into the base of the scrotum and the clown began pulling out the entrails.  He kept pulling until he had a considerable mound of intestines piled up, and then pretended to notice the victim was near death.  “Better hurry!” exclaimed the clown, and he pulled down a noose that hung over the table and placed it around the neck of the dying torso.  As the victim faded, it was pulled by its neck up off the table, and shortly thereafter it died, having been quartered, drawn, and hanged.  It too looked absurd, with its limbs cut off and a very long string of entrails hanging from where its cock had once been.


The clown then pretended to reread the instructions and realize its error.  “Oh no,” it exclaimed.  “I fucked up again!  My master will be very unhappy with me.  I better punish myself.”  And with that the clown walked to a nearby guillotine and laid down on its back.  But it was upside down on the table, with its legs and butt positioned under the blade.  The clown used some pins left on the side of the bench to pop all three genital balloons, and announced to the crowd:  “Sorry I fucked up.  But I hope you enjoyed the show.”  It then pressed a nearby button that released the blade.  The audience laughed and cheered as the blade, much wider than the usual type, sliced the slave’s body in half at the waste, which was of course a far longer, more painful, and amusing death than the traditional beheading.  It had been a fun show for everyone, not only providing a little comic relief to add to the variety of the evening but also demonstrating how completely effective the slave indoctrination techniques developed by the Chief were in achieving the absolute obedience appropriate for slaves.


After the clown fun it was getting close to time for the actual dinner, which would feature live slaves as entree’s.  The Chief went back on stage, where a torture table had been set up with Norman placed on it on his back.


“I hope everyone is enjoying themselves, and please continue to do so.  We have lots more slaves, and there were way more than 50 to choose from.  We deliberately overstocked to be sure everyone can fully enjoy themselves on this great celebration.    So let’s all do our part!”  This got a big cheer.  “But I did want to take a moment for a personal task that I’ve been looking forward to.  As you all know, I’ve kept the slave Norman for ten years, and I have found him very useful.  But he has aged a bit and his usefulness isn’t as great as it was.  So I’ve replaced him with Anthony, and I wanted to share his death with all my friends, since I know I’m going to particularly enjoy snuffing him.  As most of you also know, one of his failings is that his ass isn’t very tight anymore, which might have to do with all the times I’ve (and many of you) enjoyed fisting him as well as fucking him.  But for this occasion I’ve had the vet tighten it up so I can enjoy fucking it one last time.  (Don’t worry, there was no anesthetic .)  And after I’m done we’ll leave the body here for any of you who might want to do so as well, perhaps a nostalgia fuck.  I don’t plan anything elaborate, but it will be satisfying.  Oh, and I realize the meat is not young enough to merit serving it.  So he’ll be turned into fertilizer and spread among some of my favorite plants.  I’m committed to recycling, especially slaves.”


With that the Chief approached the table where Norman lay, his cock now more aroused than ever and his face the very image of contentment and gratitude.  The Chief was also erect, having stripped naked to better enjoy the fuck.  He slammed his cock into Norman, as had been his custom since he had purchased Norman all those years ago, and Norman felt a wave of pleasure that far surpassed the pain.  Then, as the Chief began the rhythm of fucking his used-up slave, he also reached over and grasped Norman’s neck with his strong hands.  The fucking and the choking soon became almost the same motion, as the Chief got more sexually aroused by the reaction of Norman trying to breathe but not being able to do more than just gasp as his windpipe was crushed by his master’s enormous strength.  The Chief had used Norman for breath play many times, but the intensity, and goal, was different this time.  There would be no recovery.  Norman knew that as he felt the Chief near orgasm inside him, and Norman began to lose consciousness.  There was considerable pain, but mostly there was joy at having been a good slave, and the overwhelming pleasure as Norman’s cock erupted simultaneously with the Chief’s.  Norman was snuffed as the Chief’s cock emptied inside of him and his own cock emptied on his chest.  The Chief’s orgasm perfectly coincided not only with Norman’s but also with the wonderful feeling as Norman’s ass tightened as he died and then everything went limp.  Both men were wonderfully satisfied.


A few guests used Norman’s body for fucking, but not all that many.  There were too many younger males to fuck, and they were sexier.  But with the Chief’s permission Anthony did do so, having been totally turned on by the appropriateness of how the Chief had snuffed his former mentor.  It was a fuck of gratitude and hope that he might someday earn the same treatment.  And, again at the Chief’s order, it was followed by Jeremy fucking Anthony, as he likely would do again when Anthony was snuffed.


Norman’s snuff did not slow down the party.  The sound of a bull’s roar that signaled fresh naked flesh being fatally burned was fairly constant, as was the sound of whips tearing into vulnerable skin.  The screams were intermittent, occurring as slaves were ripped apart on the racks, cut in half by the pendulum, stabbed by the spikes under the wheels, or just cut into pieces by guests free forming their tortures.  It was a joyous time for everyone.


But now it was time for dinner, and the guests gathered together to enjoy live meat being carved for their nourishment and further entertainment.  As the Chief observed that they were mostly done with their meals, he again stood to address the group.


“This is a great party, and I thank you all for joining us.  And it is a great party in part because it is such a great occasion, honoring our beloved leader.


“I have thought long and hard about what kind of present I might present to William, and I think I have found the ideal gift.  As you know, I have developed methods to convert any male into a completely obedient slave, grateful for whatever its master does to it. We have all enjoyed snuffing lots of those this afternoon and evening, and we will continue to do so well into the night.  However, on rare occasion there is a male that is already aware of its purpose, anxious to serve and grateful for the pain and humiliation it knows it deserves.  These slaves know they are otherwise  utterly worthless and have no purpose other than to serve, suffer, and die.  They are especially satisfying, but hard to find.


“I have come upon one of these, and it is my pleasure to present it as your birthday present.”  At this point the slave formerly named Stevie walked into the room, its excitement demonstrated by its erect cock and the look of anticipation on its face.  It stopped in front of Alpha 1 and knelt, continuing into a full kowtow.   Its young body was resplendent in its sexual prime, ready for whatever use the Alpha 1 chose to make of it.  It was overwhelmed by the honor of being owned and used by one so important, and utterly embraced that opportunity.  The Chief had not had to use any of his techniques and the slave had embraced its fate as soon as that fate was explained to it.  William smiled broadly as the Chief continued.


“Obviously, this slave no longer has use for a name, and I am aware that you recently snuffed your most recent acquisition, snuffslave 549.  So we have heated up the branding iron so you can accept this gift as snuffslave 550, reflecting its status as a snuffslave designated for special use, not just a routine animal to be disposed of casually like those we’re snuffing here tonight.  And it has one other characteristic that is exceptionally hard to find in a slave of this type and this stage of sexual development.  It has never been butt-fucked.  It has a virgin ass for you to ravage as you wish.”


William was ecstatic.  This was indeed the perfect gift.   A truly willing slave that embraced its purpose and fate.  He ordered the slave to stand, which it did.  William reviewed and stroked the smooth young skin, observing the obvious strength and development of its muscles, thinking how wonderfully they would take the pain he would inflict.  He observed the hard cock that pointed upwards form the strength of its sexual excitement, and the balls that he would someday enjoy removing and consuming after he finished torturing them.  But not too soon, as slaves like this were indeed rare and their destruction should be as slow and careful as it was painful and humiliating.  As the slave stood obediently in front of its new master, head bowed, William reached over to the handle of the branding iron that had been placed near him.  As the Chief held the slave in place, not for fear of resistance but to prevent involuntary movements that might blur the brand, William enjoyed the smell of the searing meat as the red-hot iron burned into the young chest, making clear William’s ownership.  The slave did not scream, or make any movement beyond further bowing its head in obedience.  It had not been necessary for the Chief to have held it in place.  William sensed it wanted to speak but knew it was not permitted to do so without permission, a further sign of its natural instincts.  Curiosity caused him to grant it permission to speak.


“Thank you, master.  From now on I exist to bring you pleasure through my pain, humiliation and destruction as you wish.  I am grateful for you accepting me for whatever use you make of me.”  William signaled for the slave to bend over, and as the guests clapped and cheered he savagely raped the young slave, ending its virginity and introducing it to the first part of the agony and public use that lay ahead.


“This is the perfect gift, and I am delighted,” William told his host.  “But it does present a dilemma.   I am quite tempted to use it up in due course by ripping it apart as part of its torture and death.  That would be great fun.  But I also have decided to add a new feature to my statue garden.  It is already a place of great beauty, with the perfectly preserved bodies of slaves displayed for my pleasure and that of my guests.  There are slaves hanging from the trees, their heads dangling at odd angles reflecting their broken necks and their cocks preserved with the erections they sported as they died.  There are exhibits showing deceased AMS members who time to die had arrived, whipping or otherwise torturing slaves as they had in life.  And there are lots of slaves positioned over fuck benches with their assholes preserved so that they are still very appealing fuck targets.  I spend a lot of time there, contemplating how wonderfully ordered the world is, with slaves performing the functions they exist to perform.  But I realized recently that I should have a fountain of some sort, and the other possible use of this exceptional specimen would be to have it impaled with its arms outstretched in a joyous pose as its cock spews a constant flow of cum over a bed of bright flowers.  I think that would be a beautiful sight and this snuffslave could fill the role.  I’ll take my time and torture it for quite some time before deciding, of course, but I think I’ll avoid scarring it in case I conclude it’s the right object for my garden.”  And with that, William used a cattle prod to introduce the snuffslave to the pain of electric shock as he proceeded to rape it again.  The Chief looked on and smiled, now also fucking a nearby twink as he slowly cut off its cock and balls.


The gift, and the party, was a total success.


Carlos Solo–Doubling Down On a Losing Pair

It had been a cloudy, and for Vegas, a cool day, never getting higher than the mid-sixties.  Tooling around in the convertible Benz, Carlos had kept his leather biker jacket on all day.  Now that the sun was setting, he was disinclined to remove it, especially since he was heading into a gay bar.


He didn’t want to go in; the sight of so many worthless perverted faggots flaunting themselves in public would enrage him—hell, the thought of slaughtering some of ‘em already had him hard—but Nick had a commission, so he needed a boywhore that was willing to put out on film.


Of course, by the time he and Nick were done with the slut, it would be put out permanently.  And Carlos could inflict on it all the suffering he wanted to mete out on all the disgusting assmunchers he was about to endure.  That would make it worthwhile.


The bar actually occupied the entirety of a small L-shaped strip center.  The place was only a few blocks west of the Strip, but it was some ways south of the airport.  The main entrance was on the extreme left, under a backlit plastic sign reading “Ruby’s Roadhouse” in red letters, each one of which was outlined a different color of the rainbow.  It was a low, non-descript building with windows lining the front that had either been heavily tinted or simply painted over on the inside.


The parking lot was full of a random assortment of vehicles, but the number of California plates indicated that a number were rentals.  This wasn’t the kinda place most tourists knew about, but there were some dudes who could find boymeat in any town.  Carlos’s black harness boots thudded heavily on the asphalt as he made his way between the cars.  There was no line; he walked right in—and had to fork out a cover charge.


The hardbodied killer ground his teeth.  Whatever cunt he found better have some cash to make up for it, or he’d take it out of its flesh.


As he headed into the bar, he grinned, knowing he’d take it out of the whore’s flesh in any case.


He had to cross the dance floor to get to the bar itself.  He shoved his way through the crowd, glowering at the homos and pansies that surrounded him.  The looks they returned were just as intense, if less hostile.


The fagkiller was dressed to lure in his prey; under the jacket was a white cotton wifebeater two sizes too small.  It clung to each individual ab on his ripped six-pack and showed off the ink on his bulging biceps where the leather jacket hung open.  Around his neck the thick gold chain flashed brilliantly when a spinning disco light happened to fall on it.  In the darkness, it was difficult to see how much his tight black jeans revealed of his thickly muscled legs and the massive bulge in his crotch; that became obvious only when he emerged into the light.


He could feel homo eyes crawling over him like a literal physical sensation; it made him shudder with revulsion in the same way he would if he’d had insects on his skin.  They all needed to die.  Not quickly, with a gun or a bomb, but slowly and individually, each one bleating out its worthless life in Carlos’s hands…


Lost in reverie, the buff ex-con suddenly found he’d reached the bar.  He ordered a shot of Jack, tossed it back, and turned around, leaning on the bar and surveying the crowd.  A room full of provocatively-dressed useless twinks, writhing against one another to the pulsing beat of industrial dance music and disco lighting effects—yeah, they all needed to be snuffed, but Carlos didn’t see anyone worthy of bearing their sins on camera.  Then his eye was caught by movement on is extreme left.


The boy had been in the shadows next to the restroom entrance.  He’d caught Carlos’s attention by stepping forward under one of the dim overhead lights, but his appearance didn’t provide much information.


He was wearing a plain gray fleece hoodie with the hood up, obscuring his face in shadow; all Carlos could make out was lower half, which showed a cocky grin, and a faint golden haze on the upper lip.  The jacket was only zipped a quarter way up from the waist, though, showing that the kid was wearing a tight dark tank top underneath.


The punk sported a pair of Nike mid-thigh shorts in Green Bay Packers colors, green spreading out from the thick lump in the crotch to the yellow running down the sides of the legs, drawing attention to how the smooth firm thighs descended to strong calves covered with a golden dusting of fur similar to that on the boy’s lip.  On his feet were a pair of expensive Nike Jordan 4 Breds.


Carlos had no doubt he’d found his whore.  He’d want to see it in the light before making the final call but the way the fucker dressed, the way it carried itself—it didn’t get to be that obvious a cumslut without having looks worth paying for.


The boy sidled up to Carlos.  Now that he was closer, the buff fagkiller could make out the cunt’s face.  He was young, early twenties at the latest.  His face was strikingly handsome, with regular features, clear skin, a pert, upturned nose and sandy blond hair.  But the boy had the face of an experienced whore; his expression was hard and calculating and his beautiful blue eyes were cold.  As like called to like, Carlos recognized the slut as a predator, looking to prey on anyone he felt was weaker or more stupid than he was.


Not that he wasn’t still a faggot.  His long side-eye glances at Carlos were full of equal parts cupidity and lust.  The little cocksucker was obviously torn between the desire to get fucked by Carlos and the urge to rip him off.   To Carlos, though, it didn’t matter; what mattered was him being able to lure the fucker to the warehouse.  To that end, he needed to strike up a conversation, since it didn’t seem like the kid was gonna speak up himself.


“You a Packers fan?” he asked brusquely, looking down at the boy’s shorts.


“Naw,” the kid drawled easily, “It’s just a look, y’know?”


That got the ball rolling.  His name was Colton—at least, that was the name he gave to Carlos—and he was plenty interested in the ex-con’s porn movie offer.  If, that is, the price was right.


“You’ll really pay me a grand?” he asked, his eyes glinting with greed, “For just an hour’s work?”


“Sure,” Carlos grinned, repressing his anger and refusing to allow a snarl to form on his face—not that the boywhore would’ve noticed; he was too lost in dreams of incipient hardcore fame.


“Cool!” the cunt said eagerly, “You can bill me as Colt.  No, even better—Colt 45!”


The convicted killer had to make a major effort not to gag.  “Sure, if that’s what ya want,” he commented blandly.


“Hang on, I wanna ‘nother drink,” Colton said, digging into his pockets and pulling out an anemic wad of cash that turned out to consist of exactly three ones.  “Hey, gimme some money,” he said to Carlos.


“What?” the muscular sadist asked blankly.


“Front me some cash.  An advance.  I ain’t leavin’ this place without at least fifty bucks in my hands.”


Carlos looked levelly at Colton for a long while.  Usually, he didn’t mind advancing money to the meat; he always got it back when he was done.  This one, though, wanted to spend some of it.  It wasn’t the loss of the cash that bothered Carlos, it was the principle.  Goddam faggot should be paying him for putting it out of its miserable existence.


“Ok,” he said reluctantly, digging into his back pocket.  He pulled two twenties and a ten out of his wallet and handed them to the boy.


“Thanks!” the cunt chirped and headed for the bar.  While he was gone, Carlos texted Nick that he’d landed some prey and would be out at the warehouse soon.  As he typed, he occasionally glanced up, keeping an eye on Colton and making sure the fucker didn’t duck out with his money.


The rentboy didn’t sneak out, though; he had other plans.


“Hey, I wanna run by my place before we go to the set,” Colton said, returning to Carlos with a big bottle of cheap malt liquor.  The ex-con was amused to find a bar selling the shit—at least the cocksucker hadn’t spent much money yet.


“What for?” he asked the kid.


“I wanna shower before gettin’ nekkid,” the punk said with a mischievous grin.


“We gotta shower at the set,” Carlos responded.


“…and I wanna change.  And get my poppers.  C’mon, dude, just a quick pitstop.”


Carlos’s lips were compressed into a thin straight line when he agreed to run the motherfucker by his apartment on the way out to the warehouse.  This cunt was asking for too much and the more he gave way, the more Carlos’s vicious, perverted combination of rage and lust mounted within him.


The meat was gonna pay.  One way or another, it was gonna pay.


“Awright,” the convicted killer growled, “Let’s get moving.”


The slut chugged his bottle of cheap booze and followed the hardbodied older man out the door.  Carlos wasn’t concerned about being seen; at this hour on a Friday night, the fag bar was packed, with dude entering and leaving constantly.  The heavy traffic hid the fact that the kid in the hoodie was following the leather-clad stud into the parking lot.


Carlos slid soundlessly into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes.  The boywhore, clearly impressed at the ride, slid into the passenger seat and gave the ex-con his address.  Soon, they were out of the parking lot, heading north on Las Vegas Boulevard.  Carlos left the top of the convertible down; it was a pleasant evening—and, more importantly, the outside noise was long enough that he didn’t have to hear whatever the meat jabbering away about.


Judging by what little he could pick, up, the stupid cunt was blathering about something he was going to do tomorrow—as if the motherfucker was gonna be alive tomorrow.  Well, it would learn its mistake soon enough.


Colton’s apartment turned out to be in a squalid little building south of Sahara and east of Boulder Highway, a two-story structure built in the early sixties and not maintained with particularly loving care.   It stretched the width of the narrow block, shaped like a bracket—a long row of apartments with metal stairs and an exterior balcony for the second floor.  The units at each end were turned end-on, forming the short sides of the bracket; in the middle was the parking, entered by either street.


The building’s address was on Worth Street; the ground floor unit on that end was the manager’s apartment.  Colton’s was the other end.  Carlos drove to the far end of the lot, avoiding any open spaces, and pulled up next to the building at the far end, well past the parking area—and all the doors and windows.  He figured the faded ocher mark on the crumbling asphalt was a no parking fire line—but he knew damn good and well that cops in this neighborhood had more important things to do than worry about illegal parking.


Colton jumped out of the car, heading briskly around the corner.  Carlos got out and slipped off his leather jacket, tossing it onto the floorboards of the back seat, where it was virtually invisible.  He started to follow the whore, when suddenly he heard one of the apartment doors open.  Freezing momentarily, he forced himself to relax and crept to the corner of the building.  Just then, he heard voices.


“Hey, Colt, that you, dude?”


“Uh, yeah, hey, Denny…I, uh, I don’t have time—”


“’S’cool, man.  Just wanted to tell ya Buddy’s been lookin’ for ya.  He sez he gotta great batch of quality meth, but you ain’t gettin’ nothin’ till he gets the fifty bucks back, ok?  Said he’d be back latter for it.  Gotta run, yo.  Peace!”


There was the slam of a car door, then Carlos saw a small foreign car with a make indistinguishable in the darkness—there were no lights on the apartment building and on the other side of the parking area was a featureless wall of concrete blocks three stories high.  The car headed away, towards the street.  Deciding it was a bad idea to wait any longer, he dashed around the corner, his boots pounding on the pavement, and got to Colton’s front door just in time to keep the whore form slamming it his face.


“I changed my mind,” the kid said, struggling to shove the door shut, “I ain’t goin’.”


Carlos’s fury didn’t impair his intelligence.  He was able to put the conversation he’d just heard together with the fucker’s request for fifty bucks in the bar and realized the piece of shit had never intended to accompany him to the set.


He thought he could rip Carlos off for drug money and just walk away.  The goddam little motherfucker actually thought that.


Colton must have seen something in Carlos’s eyes; his efforts to close the door, which had been energetic, suddenly became frenzied—downright panicked, in fact.


They didn’t do him a damn bit of good.


Carlos force himself through the door with such violent intensity that the inside door hand was buried in the sheetrock and Colton was flung halfway across the room.  The kid landed flat on his back on top of a brass-and-glass coffee table that had been the height of Eighties fashion but was by now so decrepit that Colton’s weight reduced to a pile of bent metal and razor-sharp shards.


Groaning and rubbing his face, Colton looked up to catch the muscle-bound ex-con grinning sadistically as he pulled the door free of the wall, closed it, and locked it behind him, maintaining eye contact with the kid the entire time.  There was something deliberately malicious about the actions that filled Colton with an almost overwhelming fear.


The room was small.  Colton lay on the floor between a loveseat and an easy chair.  The loveseat had been an expensive piece at one time, but now its blue-and-gold brocade was worn and split, with tufts of soiled stuffing peeping through.  The easy chair, with its ottoman was brown velour, stained and rubbed bald in spots.  There was a spindly side table with a thrift-store lamp; on the other wall, a large LED TV completed the living room furniture.


The kitchen was the far end of the room, just beyond the loveseat.  There was no dividing line, just a small fridge, a single sink and what almost looked like a miniature electric range lining the far wall with about two square feet of tiled counter.


The place was so small, Carlos could see the grout missing between the tiles from the front door.


To the left, just past the TV, was a doorway that presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom.  At least, that was what Carlos assumed when he noticed the way Colton’s eyes kept darting towards it, as if he was calculating his chances of making it.


And that’s exactly what the terrified little rentboy was doing.  Colton was a greedy, drug-addled slut, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could make it into the bedroom before the muscular psycho reached him.  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t maneuver himself into a position that tilted the odds in his favor…


His hood fell back, revealing a sandy blond disheveled mop.  Carlos’s eyes narrowed as he watched Colton’s tight, fur-covered calves shift and his Nikes dig into the carpet.  He knew exactly what the fucker was trying to do, but he wasn’t worried.  This little wad of fagmeat wasn’t going anywhere except to its grave.


Suddenly, Colton sprang into movement, exactly as the experienced boykiller expected.  The only thing Carlos hadn’t specifically foreseen was the direction of Colton’s flight; instead of breaking for Carlos’s right or left, the homo tried scrambling right over the loveseat.  Carlos reached out to grab him and caught a firm grip on the edge of his hoodie.


Colton fumbled frantically with the zipped; as he did so, in his fear, he kept straining to get away from the hulking sadist.  When, quite by chance, he managed to get his zipper undone, he was so overbalanced that instead of breaking for the kitchen, he simply tumbled over the back of the loveseat onto the floor.


He braced his palms on the thin, scratchy carpet, lifted his eyes—and before he could get level, found himself confronted with Carlos’s black leather harness boots.


Colton didn’t want to keep raising his eye, but he was somehow compelled.  The Latino convict’s jeans did nothing to hide his thick thigh muscles and firm calves, but once Colton got the bulge in the sicko’s groin, the kid had to pause.


His faggot pig interest in the powerful older stud had been subdued by need for cash (he wouldn’t let himself go far enough to recognize the meth addiction that caused the need for cash) but Carlos could see the look that now crept over the cocksucker’s face.  Grinning with malignity, he reached down to his crotch and slowly slid his zipper down.  Then, with equally dramatic pacing, he extracted his massive tube of thick, potent manmeat, laying his pulsating rod out for the worthless pansy to admire.


Colton, in his tank top and shorts, rose onto his hands and knees.  Looking up, he reached out for Carlos’s throbbing hog.  “Dude, I want that in me—”


“Too late, asswipe,” Carlos snarled, and kicked him in the face, snapping his cheekbone and knocking out two teeth.  “Ya tried to rip me off, motherfucker.  Ya need to learn whadda real bad idea that was.  Betcha startin’ to figure that out, huh?  That was lesson one.  Here’s lesson two, cunt.”  Raising his foot, he stomped hard on Colton’s head, driving the thick sole of his boot deep into the boy’s cheek, leaving a deep, livid bruise that matched the tread pattern perfectly.


The young punk, stunned by the repeated impacts to his cranium, moaned and shuddered on the floor as Carlos stood over him, sneering.


“Didja like that, faggot?  Betcha did; you little cumsuckin’ pansies love it when a real dude lays a good hard beatdown on ya.  Every goddam homo I wasted died with a hard-on and you ain’t gonna be no different.”  He stopped to spit on the groaning whore.


Colton was in a lot of pain.  He’d been beaten before; sometimes, he even got paid for it.  And sometimes, the other guy had been really trying to hurt him, but somehow, this time was different.  He head was still reeling, too much to for him to analyze anything—but he knew he had to get away from this nutjob, or he was gonna die.


He began to climb to his knees, slowly.  He was well aware that Carlos was standing right next to him, watching his movements, but whatever happened, he wasn’t gonna be in a position to do anything if he was still on the floor.  So he got up.


As the boy rose shakily to his feet, his eyes, desperately avoiding his tormentor’s massive, jutting cock, skipped up to the Hispanic stud’s ripped abs, clearly visible through his skin-tight cotton wifebeater, and furry, muscle-bound torso.  For a moment, his gaze was caught by the glimmer of the thick gold chain around Carlos’s neck—like any good whore, gold could distract him even in times of crisis—but he had to look away once he reached the ex-con’s handsome face and found the cold, contemptuously amused smirk waiting for him.


His next glance was at the killer’s thickly-muscled arms, writhing with ink, but he had to look away from them, too.  It was an instinctive reflex; it meant he didn’t have to consciously acknowledge the sheer physical power capable of being unleashed upon his lean young body.


Carlos knew the little slut was gonna run.  They always thought they could get away.  Maybe he should warn the motherfucker; he didn’t feel like chasing the meat—just pounding it.  “Don’t even try, you stupid little—”


Colton bolted.


He fled like a startled deer and was through the doorway on the side of the room, Carlos hot on his heels.  It was another instinctive reaction for the boy; he had a vague idea of locking he bedroom door behind him, buying enough time to get out the bedroom window.  But when he turned into the tiny L-shaped hallway that led to the bathroom one way and the bedroom the other, he was confronted with the fact that he’d closed his bedroom door.


He was sweaty with panic, and his palms were slick.  The few seconds he spent fumbling with the doorknob were enough for Carlos to catch up.


Colton had no way of knowing the details of what was happening to him; he felt a violent whipping sensation followed by a bone-jarring impact that seemed to tear at him.  A fraction of a second of weightlessness was followed by an impact of such intensity that he lost consciousness.


Back in the hallway, Carlos snarled.  In his rage, he reached up to his collar and without thinking about it, ripped the thin cotton top like wet paper, tearing the shreds from his ripped, muscled torso and tossing them on the floor behind him.  Throwing the fucking cunt through the closed door had whetted his rage, not diminished it.  He barged through the open doorway, dislodging the remaining pieces of the door that still clung to the twisted hinges—mute evidence to the violence of Colton’s impact.


The kid was huddled on the floor near the head of the bed, moaning and twitching in a pile of splintered particle board that had once been a cheap nightstand.  Carlos flicked on the overhead light as he entered; under its bleak glare, he could see the heaving fuckmeat stirring and regaining consciousness.  Its smooth, youthful skin hadn’t yet started the inevitable roughening that was the natural result of drug addiction, but blood was trickling from a number of lacerations across its back, chest, and thighs.  Some of the cuts had been inflicted by a porcelain lamp, the shattered remains of which could be seen spread around Colton’s body.


The kid was vaguely aware of Carlos’s approach.  His vision was blurred, and his swollen eyes didn’t want to open.  When they did, he was confronted with a familiar sight—and one that filler him with despair.  Some part of his faggot soul thrilled at finding himself at floor level with a muscular stud’s harness boots, but he already knew that Carlos’s proximity meant pain.


He had no idea how right he was about to be proved.


The dazed slut had been aware that Carlos had picked up something behind him.  The powerful killer’s grunt indicated that he was putting effort into something, but even when the bent and stripped base of the lamp fell to the floor in front of him, Colton still hadn’t figured out what Carlos was up to.


Not that it mattered; he’d learn in good time.  In any case, the fagkiller’s next action put that lamp right out of the boy’s mind.


Colton was still mostly face-down; Carlos pressed his boot down on the nape of the fucker’s neck, pinning him to the floor.  Casually reaching down and grabbing the collar of kid’s tank top, he proceeded to rip it off the whore as easily as he’d torn his own off.


Standing back upright, looming over his victim, Carlos looked down at the pathetic faggot huddled shirtless on the floor.


“Get up, motherfucker.  Now, goddamit!”


Colton heard and knew he had to obey.  He tried, he really did, but only managed to make it to his knees before Carlos lost patience and grabbed him by the throat.


If Colton had been an impartial observer, he would have been impressed with the sheer physical strength it took to lift his strong young body one-handed and hold it aloft, arm ramrod-straight, with no other support.  Colton, of course, was not an impartial observer; in fact, given that his entire body was now dangling from a powerful hand clamped around his windpipe, he was starting to choke—and it was terrifying.


He did himself no favors.  His panic only made him kick his legs, his Nike 4 Breds swinging inches above the thin beige carpet, as Carlos tried to yank his shorts down.  If he’d kept his legs still, it would’ve been over faster—but then, Carlos wouldn’t have enjoyed an early preview of the punk gagging as his face darkened with asphyxiation.


Once Colton had nothing left on but his socks and kicks, Carlos tossed him onto the bed, then paused and waited for him to recover.


He wanted the meat to be fully awake and aware for what happened next.


It didn’t take long; the fucker was awake and scrambling much faster than Carlos would have given him credit for; the muscular fagkiller pounced on the bed with the swiftness of a tiger, not letting his prey have the opportunity to escape.  After a quick tussle, Colton found himself on his back with the Latino’s heavy, powerful body straddling him.


“You ain’t goin’ nowhere yet, cunt,” the tattooed convict snarled at the boywhore trapped helplessly underneath him.  Colton struggled, but Carlos was kneeling on his arms.


“L-look, dude, I, I didn’t wanna—” the kid started, but Carlos bent down over him.  The Hispanic ex-con, face to face with the young meth whore, shifted his right leg, reaching down and pulling Colton’s left arm free.


“Shaddup,” the hulking sadist growled, “What you want don’t matter anymore.  Yer gonna learn, asswipe; yer gonna learn what happens to thieving little faggot whores.  Good with stealin’ shit, are ya?  Got light fingers?  Tell ya what—let’s see if we can make ‘em a little lighter!”


He held Colton’s hand up into the kid’s face, wrapping one of his own huge hands around the boy’s smaller one, clutching it tight, with the fingers point straight out.  With the other hand, he grabbed the kid’s index finger and began bending it backwards.  Slowly.


He wasn’t trying to break the finger, he’d grabbed it far too close to the first knuckle to break the bone.  Instead, he slowly and relentlessly torqued it so far back he separated it at the knuckle joint.


Colton’s eyes began to bulge as his sinews and tendons began to rip free like cast-off mooring lines.  When the finger finally came loose with sickening gristly cracking sound like a chicken wing being torn from the carcass, the boy began to shriek.


Carlos reacted instantly—the walls of this shithole were too thin for him to enjoy the meat’s screaming.  A few line-drive punches straight to the fucker’s face shut him up, with Carlos emphasizing the point.


“Shut [WHAM] yer goddam cocksuckin’ mouth [WHAM] and take it, motherfucker [WHAM]!”


As Colton flopped back on the bed, Carlos, still straddling him, reached down and buckled the thick black leather belt that encircled his tight waist.  Pulling it gently free, he wound the end without the buckle around his right hand.


“Fuck, son, looks like yer daddy didn’t beat ya enough.  That the problem, huh?  That why yer a thief? That why yer screamin’ like a girl?  That why yer takin cock up yer ass like a girl?  I can fix that, you sick piece a’ shit.  I can fix you for good.  But first, I’m gonna beat ya like yer daddy shoulda.”


The metal edge of the buckle made a mean whistle as Carlos whipped it though the air.  The thud of metal on flesh was erotic as fuck, while Colton’s shriek of pain was glorious.


The belt buckle left a huge red welt on the punk’s smooth chest.  As the hulking sadist raised his powerful arm to land another blow, the whoreboy raised his left arm, index finger dangling uselessly, to try to ward off the impact.  With a snarl, Carlos batted it out of the way and began lashing the cunt.


The first two blows hit Colton on the face, the metal edges of the buckles splitting the skin, leaving the kid with a pair of slashes on his right cheek, trickling blood as the skin underneath turned black and puffed up with the intense bruising.   The boy kept yelling and crying; Carlos needed to keep him quiet, given the thin walls of the cheap apartment.  That was easily done—he pounded his fist into the slut’s face a few times, leaving the boy dazed and groaning as the vicious fagkiller continued to lash at him with the belt, leaving the punk’s smooth flesh severely marked with the evidence of a brutal beating.


Finally, heaving with the effort, his huge muscular body glistening with sweat, Carlos tossed the belt down.  He’d worked off his current surge of anger, but meth whores are tough meat and need a bit of tenderizing.  The cunt might need a few more love taps…


Colton was in a deep fog of physical agony and fear.  His entire body, from his impaled asshole to his pounded face, seemed to pulse with indescribable pain.  He’d stopped thinking coherently and was just enduring, holding on.  Never good at rational thought to begin with, the stupid little slut could only sink into the state of a dumb beast and try to weather the storm.


And yet through it, all, Colton was vividly hyperaware of his own inexplicable, humiliating erection.


Carlos was aware that he’d thrashed the meat too hard and that he was losing command of its attention when the whore’s fuckhole began to loosen up on his shaft.  It happened sometimes; the really stupid ones had some kinda mental breakdown at the concept of imminent death.  They’d never tried to conceptualize the end of their own existence, and they simply couldn’t handle it.


He wasn’t getting off that easy.  The mindfuck was half the fun.  And the one sure way to snap the fucker back to reality, as Carlos knew by experience, was to snap one of its bones.


Colton could see the hardbodied killer leaning over him, the thick gold chain dangling down as Carlos reached for his right hand.  As the powerful sadist began bending his right thumb backwards, the kid, realizing he was getting the same treatment as earlier, pulled himself out of his self-induced trance.


“No…w-wait… pl-please wait—AAIIIEEGHHughph!”


This one was like pulling a drumstick loose.  It was tougher; there were more tendons and ligaments to rip apart.  Carlos paused in the middle to quiet the kid’s howl of pain by popping him hard, once, in the jaw, then returned to pulling Colton’s thumb out of its socket.


By the time the sick fagkiller let go of the boy’s hand, Colton was through.  He lay back on the bed, limp, his eyes wide and surrounded by huge circles of shock so dark they almost looked like makeup.  He was used up.  There was no fight in him.  He wasn’t retreating into an inner world, he was just there, riding the Hispanic’s thick cock like an inflatable sex doll.


Well, that was an easy fix.  Reaching into his back pocket, Carlos pulled out something he’d tucked away earlier—the power cord he’d ripped out of the bedside lamp after he’d thrown the cunt through the door.  Smiling gently, he held it out, letting it dangle in front of Colton’s eyes.  The boy looked at it blankly, with virtually no curiosity.  Its significance utterly escaped him.


He didn’t retain the luxury of ignorance for long.


The moment Carlos looped the cord around his neck, Colton began shaking his head.  Dumbass meth head that he was, even he knew what it meant as the hypermasculine fagkiller cinched the plastic-covered wires around his throat.


“No…no, don’t, no no NOOOOackgth—” his final plea for his life ground to a choked gurgle as the muscled hardman tightened the cord.


The whoreboy choked and gagged, his eyes boggling incredulously as his oxygen supply ceased.  Instantly jerking and twisting, he began clawing desperately at his throat, his fingers—at least, the ones that were working—frenetically trying to dig at and under the vicious ligature.


Carlos grinned triumphantly as the boy writhed beneath him, feeling the kid’s smooth, firm body pressing desperately against his own heavy muscled bulk.  “Yeah, cunt, that’s it!  Show me how bad it hurts to die, motherfucker. Work my rod, you worthless whore, jack me off as you kick yer useless faggot life away, bitch!”


The cord had sunk too far into Colton’s neck for the slut to be able to grasp it; all he was doing was tearing and abrading his own flesh trying to reach it.  He transferred his attention to the next available thing: Carlos himself.


As an experienced whorekiller, Carlos knew that the meat would turn on him at some point.  Once the punk’s maimed hands flew up into the air, the sadistic psycho jerked his head up and back, keeping his face out of reach of the homo’s flailing fingers.  Colton brushed the tip of his chin a couple of times, then went for his chest.


Carlos’s furry torso and hard, sculpted pecs easily withstood the dying cunt’s onslaught, but the little fuck was spiraling into blind panic.  As the pressure increased inside Colton’s head, he could feel his eyeballs and tongue swelling.  It was fucking excruciating; his head felt like it was gonna pop like a balloon.  The was a crushing and fiery pain in his chest from his aching lungs and his heart was pounding faster than seemed possible, the frightening tempo slamming though his confused, congested skull.


And through the entire ordeal, he could still feel his innards being reamed by the muscle-bound ex-con; the enormous head of the Latino’s cock seemed to tear through his guts like a plumber’s snake, shredding him from the inside.  Yet despite everything, his own dick was still painfully hard; as it was compressed between his sweaty flat belly and Carlos’s ripped furry abs, he could sense the hot precum leaking from it…


In blind pain and terror, he clawed and scratched at Carlos, his fingers digging into the older man, leaving long red marks on his skin, running down his chest.  With a loud grunt, the convicted killer neatly shifted both ends of the cord to his left hand without loosening the hold on the kid’s neck.  This freed his right hand for necessary control measures.


“Keep yer hands [WHAM] to yer fuckin’ self, [WHAM] ya stupid cocksucker! [WHAM]” Punctuating his demand with his fist, Carlos watched the boy’s hands drop to his sides.  He’d gotten his message across.  The meat was learning its place.


It took a little longer for him to get the lesson across; the meth whore didn’t die easy.  Its eyes, huge and bloodshot, stared with blank horror into its killer’s face as thick, foamy drool bubbled out past its black, protruding tongue and ran down its smooth cheeks.  The lithe young body, slick with the cold sweat of massive physical crisis, jerked and thrashed against Carlos, the smooth skin rubbing erotically over his thick fur.


“You’re on yer way out, motherfucker.  Hope yer enjoyin’ yer last few seconds on Earth, faggot, cause you were gonna die tonight anyway.  I was gonna snuff ya on camera.  All you fuckin’ pansies are good for is drainin’ my load as ya die on my cock, but I’d’a made ya famous. But ya had to try to rip me off—what a fuckin’ moron.  Now, yer gonna be just another junkie whore strangled in a cheap rat trap.”


The meat was no longer fighting against Carlos; as its body began seizing, it clutched at him as if seeking something to brace itself while it convulsed.  Each jerk of the body tightly clenched the cunt’s colon and the torn remains of its sphincter; it was like the dying homo was trying to jack Carlos off with its asshole.


“Get it, bitch, get that load,” the muscular ex-con snarled as he pulled on the lamp cord, the veins in his thick biceps starting to bulge, “C’mon, faggot, milk my spunk, motherfucker!”


Most of Colton was dead.  His legs flailed randomly, his feet jerking and drumming so violently the lost the Nike in his left foot, kicking it to the floor.  On the inside, there was nothing left but a red fog filled with a high-pitched whine.  But as Carlos felt his balls pucker and an electric tingle at the base of his enormous shaft, he gave one last powerful tug to the cord.  With a loud, thick crunch, the whoreboy’s hyoid bone snapped and its esophagus collapsed, crushed inwards into an impenetrable wad of bloody, mangled gristle.


The sound and sensation penetrated the whining fog.  Somewhere deep within Colton misfiring brain, some last shred of the fag’s personality recognized the sound as the signal for the end.


It was ok.  He could stop fighting.  He’d always known, down inside, that it might come to this someday—getting wasted by a psycho john.  But until this moment, he’d never let himself realize that he’d always deserved this—it was why he did what he did.


He needed this.  The young cunt needed a strong, powerful man to put an end to his worthless existence.  He was getting exactly what he deserved.


At that moment, his ass was flooded with hot potent manseed.  It was the trigger for release—the release of the punk’s load, his life, his soul.


Colton died spewing a solid jet of thick boycum.  As Carlos pumped the meat full of sperm, the kid’s DNA and life poured of his body simultaneously in a geyser of semen that smeared across their chests as their shuddering muscled male bodies intertwined, once in orgiastic ecstasy, one in convulsive death.


Carlos lay on top of the meat for a few moments, his sweaty flanks heaving as he caught his breath.  As he finally peeled himself stickily from the corpse, it was still shuddering violently, spread-eagled on its back with one sneaker off and its grotesquely swollen face jet black.  He paused to admire his work for a moment—and then he heard something.


Someone was knocking at the door.  Loudly and insistently.


“Hey Colton, open up!  It’s me, Buddy!”


More knocking, rattling the knob.


“I know yer in there, asshat.  I want my fuckin’ money, ya hear?”


Now it was banging, the thin door barely withstanding the impacts.


“Goddamit, if you ain’t in, I know ya got that leather jacket worth fifty…”


The next sound wasn’t from the door, it was from the window in the front room.  A very faint tinkle of glass—just enough to let Carlos know that this Buddy fucker was breaking in.


Looking around quickly, the buff killer, still shirtless with his cock out and dripping cum decided the closet was his best chance to take the newcomer by surprise.  He slipped in, pulling the door behind him until it was open just a crack.  Just in time, too, as a shadow darkened the doorway.





Buddy knew exactly where Colton kept that hot leather jacket.  If that cheap piece of ass didn’t pay his debts, buddy had no hesitation in helping himself to even the account.


Buddy was a twenty-two-year-old thug, and looked it.  His build was similar to Colton’s but he was leaner and wirier, and slightly shorter.  He kept his dark hair trimmed short and his goatee was remarkably like Carlos’s in shape and color, if not effect.


Carlos looked hot and erotic with his goatee; Buddy just looked scuzzy.


He wore an Oakland cap under a pulled-up sleeveless hoodie in blue fleece.  He was shirtless underneath, the hoodie vest unzipped down to his navel to reveal his smooth chest and his flat belly.  His black mid-thigh gym shorts displayed his firm thighs and furry calves; on his feet were Adidas Entrap hightops.


Weasel-like, his dark eyes flitted form side to side as he made his way through the window and into the apartment.  With no lights on, it took him a moment to adjust to the dim ambient lighting that was tricling form the bedroom.  Once he did, it became obvious that something had happened.


His first presumption, on seeing the smashed furniture, was that he wasn’t the first person to come looking for Colton’s valuables tonight.  Well, he damn sure didn’t want to run into any trouble.  Hopefully, the other dude was gone.


Creeping around the corner, the young drug dealer was too high himself to notice the remains of the bedroom door.  Buddy was in the doorway before he spied the inert form of Colton spread out on the bed, luridly lit by the stark overhead bulb.


“Colt?” Buddy asked hesitantly, “Th-that you, mang?”  He stole forward, bending over and poking the still-warm body.


Then, with a sick grin on his face and a quick glance back at the doorway, he began fondling the dead boy’s still-oozing cock.


With his free hand, Buddy reached down and pried his own stiff rod free of his shorts; his dick bobbed in the air, already throbbing with excitement.  “Always knew someone’d fuck ya up right, motherfucker,” he whispered hoarsely as he jacked himself with one hand and let the other roam over the cum-glazed corpse.  “Goddam, wish I coulda been here to see ya get what ya deserved.”


Glancing down, he suddenly noticed Colton’s cast-off Nike 4 Bred on the floor next to the bed.  His grin broadened and got more perverse as he bent and picked it up, then held it up to his face.


For a brief moment, Buddy was in heaven, huffing the dead whore’s sneaker as he jacked off over the corpse.  Then he heard a noise behind him.


What happened next, happened fast—fast than Buddy could comprehend.  He never truly knew what hit him.  At the sound, he whirled around, still inadvertently clutching the Nike to his face.  He had one brief glimpse of Carlos emerging from the closet, but since they were less than four feet apart to start with, he didn’t have time to register anything beyond a huge, tatted, muscle-bound stud, shirtless and with his huge cock hanging out.  Then Carlos was on him.


Seething with rage at the faggot perversion he was witnessing from the closet, the sadistic killer launched himself at the thug cunt, slamming one hand into the sole of the shoe Buddy still had pressed to his face.  At the same time, Carlos’s other hand shot past the dealer’s head and circled back, anchoring the back of his skull.


With swift, vicious brutality, the ex-con crushed the Nike into the boy’s face, then twisted his head more than one hundred eighty degrees.


The snapping of the punk’s neck was a loud as popcorn in the silent bedroom.  As Buddy’s vertebrae became shrapnel, ripping through his spinal cord, the massive trauma to the nervous system sent a shock through his already-stimulated scrotum.


The last thing Buddy saw as everything went white was Colton’s black, congested face.  He never felt the spontaneous, hands-free geyser of spunk that he shot all over Carlos at close range.  Thick gobs of semen splattered on the toes of the fagkiller’s boots as the already-dead thug fell with a dull thud, a boneless sack of meat.  His Adidas kicked twice, violently scuffing on the floor, then trembled and became still.


Carlos looked around for a moment and spotted a t-shirt on the floor in the corner.  He used it to scrub the cum of two dead boys off his chest and belly, then tossed it back on the floor.  He’d left his belt on the bed next to the whore; kicking the dealer’s corpse aside, he retrieved it and slipped it back around his waist.


He turned back at the doorway, taking a last look.  Colton, of course, hadn’t moved.  He was still splayed on his back, legs spread like the whore he’d been.  Huddled on the floor next to him, Buddy’s face stared grotesquely backwards, the jaw agape and the eyes rolled back in the head with only the whites showing.  The Nike he’d coveted had rolled a yard away when it was dropped by his nerveless fingers in the seconds before the rest of him hit the floor.


All in all, Carlos felt relatively satisfied.  Since the door was still locked, he decided to leave the apartment by the window, after checking out the scene to make sure he wasn’t observed.  Slipping his jacket on when he got in the car, he started it up and crept out of the lot in first with the headlights off.  He was halfway down the next block before he switched them on and sped up.


One thing was still bothering him.  He’d told Nick he had a boy.  Well he’d had two, but hadn’t managed to get them on film.  Reaching for his phone, he decided he might as well break the bad news to his business partner.


Just then, as he was approaching the intersection with the highway, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.  Or, rather, someone.  A dude…just a glimpse.  But it might be something.


He put the phone down and made a U-turn.





“Aw, fuck,” Schweitz cried in disgust, “Not another garbage run.  Hey, Nuñez, will ya lookit this shit?  More dead fags.”


“Yeah,” Nuñez sighed, “I heard.  Let’s just get it over, huh?  Sooner we get done here, sooner we can get back to workin’ real cases.”


“Ain’t gonna make sergeant handlin’ fuckin’ animal jobs like this…ok, the one on the bed, rough play with faggot boyfriend.  Got what he was askin’ for.  The one on the floor—I dunno.  Don’t really care, neither.”


“Think he offed the one on the bed?”


“Maybe.  But he didn’t twist his own fuckin’ head off.  Wish I knew who did.  I’d shake the guy’s hand and give him a medal—”


“Hey, detective, the ME guys are here,” interrupted one of the patrol cops outside from the living room.


“The meatwagon?” Schweitz barked, “Great.  I dunno, we’ll say some jealous homo killed his pansy and the fag fucking the pansy.  Deep-six the file as killer unknown.”


“Fine by me,” Nuñez replied, nodding to the ME techs as they entered to collect the corpses.  “Tag ‘em, bag ‘em, and drag ‘em the fuck outta here, boys.  It’s time for lunch.”


By three that afternoon, both detectives had had three beers and forgotten they’d had a double murder case that day.


Meat Chronicles 22–Any Way You Slice It

He tells me his name’s Shawn.  He’s young and sweet, but he was stupid enough to climb into my van, and that means he’d gonna die.


I picked him up at the mall.  I’d been there legitimately but when I left, there was a knot of teenagers not far from my van.  I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.  They’d all gone to see a movie together and now that it was over, they were heading their separate ways.  One boy, though, didn’t have a car and couldn’t find anyone who was heading where he needed to go.


He was about seventeen, with wavy dark hair.  Tall and well-built, his broad friendly face radiated the kind of innocence that I love to destroy with my cock.  He wore a white button-down shirt, left unbuttoned halfway down his smooth muscular chest, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow so that I could see a tattoo on the inside of his right forearm, without being able to tell what it was.


His faded jeans were tight enough to show the exact dimensions of his thick boycock; on his feet, he sported a pair of white leather DC skate shoes.  And as his friends hopped into their cars and pulled out, he was left, forlorn, sexy, and helpless, in the parking lot.


I moved in, offering him a lift.


It was easy enough; he was looking for something specific for his mother’s birthday and it wasn’t in stock here.  One of the stores on the other side of town had it, but none of his friends had the time to go all the way out there.  All I had to do was tell him I had an errand on that side of town, and he hopped right into the passenger seat, grinning.


I glance at him as I head for the highway. He’s not wearing an undershirt; I can see enough through the thin material of his button-down to get a good idea of his well-built chest and his ripped abs.  For a teen punk, he’s pretty buff.


I can take him, of course; as well-muscled as he is, I can break him like a twig.  That’s not what I’m gonna do to this one, but it’ll come in handy when I have to establish dominance over the little fucker.  And that’s gonna be soon.


The store he wants is in center that was recently built on the edge of town; I deliberately miss the highway exit, telling the meat when he points out my mistake that I’ll take the next exit and loop back.


Thing is, there’s a building site just down from the next exit—a development going in just off a county road.  There’s nothing around it, and on a golden Sunday afternoon like this, it’ll be completely ended.


It’s the perfect place to waste this teenaged cunt.


I head down the road and pull into the lot.  There’s a chain link fence around the site, but no gate to it.  There’s a construction shack on the left with a couple of earth movers parked next to it.  I think they’re building a new office park, with several high-rises going in.   It’s gonna be a nice, pleasant place for a dirt nap.


“Wha-what are we doing here?” Shawn asks, his deep dark eyes peering at me quizzically from under his mop of wavy bangs.


“Whaddaya think of the place?” I ask him, smiling cheerfully.  He blinks, surprised by the question, and glances out the window.


“I, uh, I dunno,” he says hesitantly, “I-I mean, it’s kinda a mess.  Can, uh, can we go?”


“Aw ain’t that a goddam shame,” I say, commiserating, “He don’t wanna stay.  Tough shit, motherfucker; yer gonna stay here forever.  This place is gonna be your grave.”


I’m itching to strike, but not yet.  I have to see it register.  I have to see the shock and confusion in the adolescent’s face first.


And there it is.  “Wh-” he starts, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in bewilderment, “Wh-wh-wh-”


“This is what, dumbass,” I say and drive my fist into his face.  His head flies backwards, bounces off the van’s window, and rolls forward again just in time to meet my second sucker punch.


The teen may be strong and well-built, but he’s got a glass jaw.  The only thing preventing his buff young body from slumping into the floorboards is his seat belt.  He lolls limply in the nylon harness, waiting for me to come release him.  And I am.


I’m gonna release him from so much.  His restraints, his clothes, his virginity.  His life.


I open the door and jump out of the van.  The prints of my boots in the dirt blend in with those of the site workers; in the morning; no one will be able to tell I was here.  I open the side door first, then the passenger door, unbuckling the seatbelt and manhandling the unconscious punk out of the seat.


His firm teenaged body feels good in my arms.  It’s gonna feel so much better thrashing on my cock.


I sit him on the door sill, slumped forward and leaning on me as I rip his shirt open, tearing off the buttons and revealing the boy’s toned and muscled chest.  I run my hands over his smooth pecs for a moment, stopping to twist and yank the taut nubs of his nipples, before I slip the shirt back over his shoulders, where it falls off behind him.


I kneel down, letting the cunt slip forward, bent over me, as I pull his kicks off and toss them over my shoulder, then unbutton and unzip his jeans.  It takes a little more effort to drag the fucker upright so that his jeans slip down to his ankles, but he starts to moan as I do it.  I let him flop back onto the cold bare metal floor as I pull his jeans off the rest of the way, then his briefs.


He’s got a nice thick boycock, almost five inches soft.  Nude except for his ped socks, the teen’s lithe, smooth body is sprawled out on its back on the floor of my van, mine to use and abuse.  And goddam, am I gonna use it.


I position him properly, lengthwise on the floor.  To his right, just about face level, I’ve placed a two-foot square section of mirrored glass.  At a certain point, the cunt’s gonna have a nice view of the festivities.  As he starts groaning and fluttering his eyelids, I peel off my muscle t-shirt and unzip my fly.  Once I haul out my thick stiff rod, I’m ready to rock ‘n roll.  One last item, and then we wait for full consciousness.


The last item, of course, is my knife.  Seven inches of razor-sharp carbon steel, serrated, with grooves to channel blood away from the poly molded grip, it’s wicked and potent.  It’s as long and as hard as my cock, and just as eager to penetrate the adolescent fuckmeat.  Clutching it tightly, I spread the boy’s firm thighs and kneel between them, waiting for him to waken.  I don’t wait long.


“Hey dude,” I say casually, grinning at the kid as his big brown eyes open and gaze around bewilderedly, “Ya look like ya need to get fucked.”  Smiling gently, I slam my blade down into the punk’s belly with such force as to completely impale his body; the tip impacts the van floor beneath him.


The teen gasps as the sharpened steel slashes its way through his guts, his coiled intestines offering no resistance as the blade slides easily through him.  His young face is taut and gray with shock, his eyes wide with agony and disbelief as his body goes rigid.


This is what I’ve been waiting for.  Before the physical shock lets go and the kid relaxes again, I ram my huge erect tool into his ass.


He’s a virgin, of course.  No one’s ever been up his fuckhole before.  And now, his unstretched sphincter is clenched tight in physical agony.  I plow into it with the force of a wrecking ball, the only lube the slick coat of precum glistening on the massive engorged head of my rock-hard tool.


I tear him open.  I can feel it, I can feel the tissues parting and the blood flowing.  Even better, the meat can feel it too, and he screams.  Jesus, how he screams and shrieks as I completely wreck his asshole, shoving my rod deep into his guts with the same viciousness that I used with the knife.


Except this seems to hurt him more.  Even better, his dick starts to harden almost immediately.  His adolescent body, already overflowing with sexual hormones, is responding involuntarily to the pounding his prostate is receiving from my fat cock.


“Fuck yeah, bitch, lemme hear ya scream.  Tell me how much it hurts, motherfucker, yer sufferin’ is so goddam hot!”


I’m not sure he can hear me; he’s too focused on avoiding the pain.  I can feel it on my cock; he’s shifting his tight young ass, trying to minimize the pain when I go balls-deep up his mangled fuckhole.  The knife is bobbing back and forth in his belly; each thrust of my hips rams the kid’s body, moving it while the knife is pinned against the floor of the van.


Must be fuckin’ painful, but not painful enough.  I wanna destroy this boy.  He ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it but be in my way when I felt the urge to unload in some fuckmeat.  Sucks to be him, heh.


He’s clutching me tightly, his boyish face clenched and grimacing as he tries to endure the pain.   I can see beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.  Suddenly, he seems to hit a breaking point and his eyes open, large and dark and full of tears.  Sobbing brokenly, he speaks.


“Oh god, oh fuck,” he wails, loosening his grip on my arms and raising his head to stare in horror at the molded grip of my knife rising from his heaving guts.  “Wh-wh-why?” he moans breathily as he reaches for the blade.


“No ya don’t, fuckwad,” I snarl, knocking his fumbling hands away and grabbing the hilt myself, “That’s how I get yer fag teen ass to work my cock.  Like this.”


I twist the knife in the wound, swinging it around like a pestle in a mortar, carving his intestines into tripe.  He howls loudly and raggedly, his voice cracking and rasping into near silence as I pull the knife out of him, pink strings of guts still dangling from the serrations.


He loses it.  I don’t know if he knows that given enough time, that wound is fatal.  He acts like he still has a chance to survive this; once I regain control, I need to make sure he knows he’s gonna die.  In the meantime, I just hang on as the little cunt thrashes under me, his lithe, lean teenaged body pressing against mine.  I can feel his smooth skin sliding on mine, moistened by the cold sweat forced from him by severe trauma.  His hands beat uselessly against me, clawing at my beard and thumping against my hard, muscled chest.


I don’t even have to pump my rod up his ass.  I just stay still and let his terror bounce him on my cock.  He’s workin’ it good, but it won’t last long—and I’m gettin’ kinda bored anyway.  Time to remind the meat who’s runnin’ this show.


Two love taps to the jaw—one of which knocks out a canine tooth—and the cunt is, is not still, as least back under control.  His face is swollen, bruised and purple, but he’s more focused on me than his pain, which is where I want him at the moment.


“See that mirror there?” I ask him, nodding off to the left.  He slowly turns and looks at it, silently, every motion hesitant form fear.  “Yer gonna hafta keep an eye on that, cause yer gonna see somethin’ sexy as all fuck in the in a second.  Wanna know what it’s gonna be?”


His eyes snap back to mine in a flash, wide with terror.  It’s almost as if the adolescent punk knows what’s coming, but it doesn’t.  It’s gonna be worse than the meat could ever imagine.  I hold the blade back up in front of it.


“Remember this?  That little tickle in yer guts was just foreplay, bitch.  I’m gonna cut yer throat open and make ya watch yerself bleed out while I fuck ya to death.  Hot as fuckin’ hell yeah?  Fuckin-A!  Time to saw yer trachea open, asswipe.  This is gonna hurt like all fuck!”


He doesn’t try to fight; he paralyzed in absolute terror.  He does try to scream, his handsome young face distorted and swollen, but only a faint high-pitched croak comes out.  I place the razor-sharp blade across his smooth throat and begin slicing.




Oh holy fuck, the way his smooth teen body clutches at me in agony, holding me tight as I plow his torn virgin rectum and carve into his esophagus like I’m slicing lunch meat.  The look in his eyes, the bewilderment and horror, are so goddam erotic…fuck, it takes all my effort not to cum right now.  But the meat ain’t dead yet.


I place my hand on the cunt’s face and force it to the side—facing the mirror.  The punk’s neck twists, so I have to angle the blade a bit, but that’s not a problem.  With one hand on my knife and the other on fucker’s head, I force the teen to watch his own throat being cut open.


The adolescent meat shrieks as I cut into it, but not for long.  The moment I open up the trachea, the screams suddenly dissolve into a high-pitched wheeze.  As blood spurts from the huge gash in the teen’s throat, I can see the rubbery trachea, clenching open and closed in exactly the same tempo as the cunt’s ass is working my rod.


Goddam, it’s so fuckin’ hot.  This is why.  This is why the boy has to die on my cock, so I can feel his body convulse and react to my weapon.  So I can control his agony and jack myself off with his convulsive death throes.


And it ain’t like the little fuck ain’t enjoyin’ itself on the way out.  At that age, they’re all so horny and full of hormones that they’re all practically fags anyway.  Its thick teen cock is pulsin’ and strainin’ so fuckin’ hard as it slaps against my ripped six-pack abs that I’m surprised the slut hasn’t already unloaded.


It will, though, before it dies.  They always do.  I know when it reaches the critical point; I can tell by the sound.


“How’s it taste, bitch, huh?” I ask it as it gazes in terror at the pink foam bubbling in its open esophagus—I knew that mirror would come in handy.  “I can hear ya garglin’ yer own blood.  Can ya taste the salt and iron?  Tastes like fuckin’ death, don’t it, cunt?”


It’s still writhing under me, its skin growing colder as it bleeds out, when sudden I feel its final death struggle start.  It begins jerking and wheezing under me, straining desperately to suck in enough oxygen to keep the brain alive only to have it spill back out in the spurting blood, its hands clutching my shoulders as if that alone could save its worthless life.


“Yeah, that’s it, motherfucker,” I tell it as it convulses, its hard teen cock splattering my chest with precum, “Fuckin’ milk my hog as ya bleed out.  Die, ya piece a’ fuckin’ teen meat, die on my cock and make me cum!”


In the end, it seems to know.  It seems to hear and understand that its one purpose on this planet was to die so I can spurt inside it.  There’s one last despairing gurgle and suddenly a shudder goes through the adolescent meat that I can feel all the way to the base of my dick.  At the same time, I feel the hot spatter of its deathload across my chest—burning wads of hormone-filled semen striking my skin as I unload huge wads of manseed into the punk’s shredded fuckhole.


It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath afterwards.  The boy is dead and the back of my van is a bloody mess, but it was worth it.  And both those problems are easy to resolve; since the back of this van is uncarpeted, it’s easy enough to hose out.  And as for the quivering pile of boymeat, well, there’s a reason I picked this building site.


There’s a large square hole not fifty yards from here where they’re about to pour a foundation post.  It takes me no time to drag the teen slut out of the van and across the dirt lot.  I dump the twitching corpse into the hole, where it lands with a thud—must be a good thirty feet down.


Heading back to the van,  I pick up the the kid’s clothes and toss them down on top of it.  Peering down into the hole, I can barely see anything of the corpse, but I don’t want the workmen to notice anything before they start pouring concrete down the hole.  Grabbing a nearby shovel, I dump enough dirt down the hole to cover the dead teen.


Monday morning, they’ll crush the fucker flat with several tons of liquid concrete.


S’pose his family will wonder what happened to him.  Shame I can’t tell ‘em what a great fuck he was.  Might make his mom feel better about him missing her birthday.

Brotherly Love, part 2

Bound to a chair in a puddle of his own piss, Ross could only gaze on in abject horror as Eddie manhandled the corpse of his younger brother.  The buff ex-Marine took the dead teen’s wrist in one hand and grabbed a hank of his hair in the other and proceeded to drag the still-twitching body off the bed and along the floor toward the older adolescent.  Josh’s ped socks were peeled back and off, first the right, then the left.


In a moment of utter calm, Ross noticed that his brother’s toes were curling in their death throes, then wondered if he was losing his mind.  In the next two minutes, it became obvious that that was the more preferable alternative to accepting what was happening as reality.


“I’m gonna drain ya first, faggot,” Eddie chuckled, looming over him with his huge throbbing cock almost directly at eye level.  Even after everything that had happened, some part of Ross still wanted that massive, oozing, vein-gnarled shaft.  But he was able to break the spell long enough to glance hesitatingly upwards, taking in Eddie’s full physique as the muscular psycho hulked over him.  The stud’s bulging biceps and thick hubcap pecs were ample proof of the physical power the fagkiller was able to bring to bear on his helpless teenage victims.  Dogtags?  He hadn’t noticed the dogtags before.  His attention had been on other things, but there they were, dangling between the twin mound of his chest—


“There ya go,” Eddie said, snapping Ross back to reality, “Gonna milk ya dry first, so you can pay attention to milkin’ me when I waste ya.”


As he spoke, he lowered Josh’s head into Ross’s crotch, letting the teen’s stiff boycock project into the gaping mouth of his dead brother.


Ross gurgled in horror as Eddie forced the corpse further down onto his shaft, shoving Josh’s limp head forward until the dead kid was deepthroating his brother.  He titled the head back so that the eyes were staring straight up at Ross.


“Look at it,” the powerful sadist sneered, “Ya got a dead fag on yer cock.  Only good for one thing—use it, motherfucker, make it yer cumdump.”


And with those words, he began to bob the head up and down on Ross’s involuntarily erect boycock.  Looking into Josh’s vacant, starting eyes, the teen moaned in horror as the psychotic hardman started jacking him off with his brother’s skull—but part of the horror was that he’d jacked off himself, at one point, at the thought of his brother sucking his dick.


And this felt better than he’d imagined.  So much better, he couldn’t admit it to himself.


Eddie noticed, and laughed harshly.


“I thought so—you sick faggot fuck.  Yer fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?” he crowed, his clenched fist forcing the dead boy’s head repeatedly into Ross’s crotch.  The older teen shuddered and tried not to think about what was happening and how much it hurt that the words spoken by this cruel psychopath were right.  It did feel good—holy fuck, it felt fantastic the way Josh’s throat willingly engulfed Ross’s throbbing, hormone-primed cock—and that was wrong.


But the musclebound ex-Marine, spurred by an overwhelming sadistic impulse, kept jacking the adolescent punk off using his brother’s corpse.  The mere mindfuck alone was making Eddie’s massive tube of manflesh swell and pulse.


“Stop,” Ross moaned in a weak voice. In his pain and fear and confusion, he had a dim idea that what was happening now was some kind of challenge, or test.  If he blew a load down the dead boy’s throat, it meant, in some undefined way, that he was acknowledging the vicious stranger’s right to do what he had done, and was doing—and was going to do.


Ross stopped thinking at that point.  Or, rather, he closed his eyes tightly and tried desperately to think about anything else.


Eddie noticed his attempt and smirked.  “Tryin’ to ignore me, asswipe?  Haw!   Pansies don’t have any self-control.  That’s what makes ‘em so easy to snuff—it’s like they already know what they deserve.  This lil’ punkfuck here that’s milkin’ yer shaft, now, it knew it wanted a good hard exit.  It got so hot n’ horny about blowin’ its deathwad, it couldn’t even work my spunk out. That’s why I’m usin’ it to drain ya first.”


Here he bent down, grinning, his hard, handsome—and frighteningly jovial—face inches from Ross.  The hardman’s dogtags clinked as they bounced off Josh’s bobbing head.


“See, when yer time comes, ya piece a’ shit, I’m gonna make goddam sure that the last few seconds of yer useless life are devoted to making me cum.  Yer gonna go out like a fuckin’ dog, bitch, so hurry up and spunk.  C’mon, motherfucker, the sooner ya shoot, the sooner you can start dyin’ on my dick!”


And as Eddie pumped Josh’s head faster and faster on Ross’s cock, the teen turned his tear-streaked face away, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.  He couldn’t give in.  He couldn’t cum.  He’d die if he did.


He was gonna die anyway, but he didn’t know that.  Or, rather, his mind wasn’t capable of harboring that idea yet.  That would come later.  Ross was focused on not cumming now, but it was getting more and more difficult.


He could feel the precum seeping out of his hard teen cock, adding to the lubrication of Josh’s still-slick esophagus.  His younger brother had only been dead a few minutes; it was almost as if Josh was still there, deliberately giving him a blow job—no, he couldn’t think that; he’d shoot his wad…


“Yer gettin’ off, aintcha?” Eddie asked with an abrasive, mocking laugh as he continued to pump Josh’s skull onto his older brother’s shaft.  “Don’t matter if the faggot’s dead—it can still give head, huh?”  The powerful ex-Marine reached out and grabbed a handful of Ross’s hair, forcing the boy’s head down.


Having both brothers by the hair, Eddie manipulate the corpse even faster, keeping up an even stroke, making sure that Josh’s immobile throat was perfectly aimed for plugging by Ross’s oozing rod.  “C’mon, motherfucker, shoot.  Ya know ya wanna.  How many times you beat off thinkin’ about this pansy wrappin’ its lips around yer meat, huh?  Now ya got it, an’ it’s the best kinda fag to cum in—a dead one.  C’mon, you goddam punkfuck, unload a wad down its throat!”


Ross couldn’t hold back.  His eyes were clenched, his jaw was clenched even tighter; his teeth hurt.  The swollen bruise on his chin where Eddie had decked him was throbbing and his lithe adolescent body was slick with sweat as he vainly tried to stifle his orgasm.  Suddenly he cried out, a hoarse, inarticulate shout of visceral physical release.


As Ross hunched over his dead brother’s head, spewing hot jets of hormone-packed teen semen down Josh’s unresponsive throat, Eddie broke out in loud, cruel laughter.  Ross continued to grunt and spasm, but tears were trickling down his smooth cheeks.


He’d never cum this hard before, ever.  Why couldn’t this have happened before Josh was…before he’d been…


And as the boyseed kept streaming out of him, Ross knew he’d been defeated.  He’d fight whatever was coming next; he’d have to, but the hot hardbodied man to whom he’d been willing to freely give his body earlier in the day was now going use his body in unspeakable ways.  And there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.


Eddie knew it, too.  He let go of Ross’s hair and stood up, jerking Josh’s head up off Ross’s still-leaking boymeat.  The dead kid’s jaw hung limply open, white trails of sperm leaking from both corners of the spunk-filled mouth.  Without glancing at it, Eddie forcefully jerked his arm, flinging the corpse down to one side like disposed garbage.


Ross looked at Josh in a kind of blank despair, then raised his eyes and met Eddie’s gaze.  The look of cold, cruel triumph twinkled in the fagkiller’s eyes like stars in a summer’s twilight.  Reaching into a pocket of his camo pants, he pulled out a set of handcuff keys.


“Now yer ready to ride my fuckin’ manhog all the way down into yer grave, fucker.  Buckle up, bitch, this is gonna be long and painful.  But remember, you better work my dick good, ya faggot asswipe, or I’ll make it hurt worse.  Milk my shaft or you’ll be fuckin’ beggin’ to die, yeah?”


The keys jingled as he bounced them in his palm, slowly striding to Ross’s rear.  “Time to get the show on the road,” came the low and somehow still-sexy voice from behind, “I got some business tonight.  Need to start wastin’ yer ass so I can drain my nads and get goin’.”


Ross’s hands were suddenly pulled painfully up behind him, but even as he cried out, there were some metallic clicks and suddenly his arms were free.


The “fight-or-flight” response is strong in the young; it kicked in the moment Ross felt the cuffs released.  Directly from his sitting position, he lunged toward the door, completely forgetting that his legs were still strapped to the chair legs.  The panicked homo toppled forward, falling across his brother’s still-quivering legs and stunning himself as his forehead hit the floor simultaneously with the high wooden back of the chair striking the back of his head.


In a deep fog, Ross felt his legs being untied and the chair being removed, all to the sound of a deep rumble that he was too dazed to recognize as Eddie’s sardonic chuckling.  He came abruptly out of his haze, though, when the hulking sadist bent down, grabbed a hank of his dark hair, and jerked him up onto his knees; Ross had to cooperate with the movement to avoid having his scalp ripped open.  As he knelt, panting, Eddie grasped his upper arms form behind, the ex-Marine’s hands completely encircling the teen’s biceps.


With no more effort than if he was tossing a pillow, Eddie flung Ross onto the bed; the kid hit face-down, but his momentum rolled him up and over so that he ended up diagonally across the bed, on his back.


Ross raised his head to see Eddie approaching the bed, grinning ominously.  The psychotic ex-Marine’s well-defined body glistened in the dim light under a thin sheen of sweat.  The boy allowed the jingling of the dogtags to pull his eyes from Eddie’s cold deadly gaze, but in letting them drift down, he found himself confronted with the sadist’s enormous shaft, dripping in anticipation—


—and Ross, knowing what it was dripping in anticipation of, began whimpering.


Eddie reached the bed and climbed up on it, slowly parting Ross’s smooth, firm thighs like a lover; only the vicious smirk on the hardbodied top’s face showed that this wasn’t gonna be a romantic scene.  Bringing Ross’s legs up until they rested on his shoulders, Eddie nestled himself in and began slapping his huge rod on Ross’s dick and balls as if he was beating them with a club.  Ross moaned loudly, partly in pain and partly in pleasure.


Ross would have denied the pleasurable aspect if he’d had the chance, but Eddie beat him to it—literally, with a sudden powerful backhand the split the teen’s lip.  “Ya like real mancock, faggot?  Good.  Take it, cunt, take my thick meat all the down to its root!” he snarled.  Ross felt a sudden pressure against his sphincter, and then his virgin asshole was torn open.


“Aw fuck yeah!” Eddie grunted, “Nice and tight.  Caughtcha just in time, didn’t I, you and the other one?  Gonna waste yer faggot ass before ya can breed.  Yeah, bitch, ya feel that in ya?  That’s the dick of a real man, a man who knows how to put down the baby fags before they can spread their perversion.  Enjoy my cock, ya worthless homo; it’s too goddam good for the likes of you!”


He spit in Ross’s grey, taut face, then leaned back and started pounding the teen’s fuckhole in earnest, whaling on the kid’s ass like a jackhammer.   It was more than Ross could take; the initial penetration had been agonizing, but this was unendurable.  The thick, engorged head of Eddie’s tool was scourging the tender lining of the kid’s colon.


Ross shrieked, high and shrill, like a girl.  Eddie chuckled and reamed him even harder.  It was a big house, and the neighbors weren’t close.  The teen boy screamed for more than three minutes straight, to absolutely no avail, before Eddie got bored with the noise and put an end to it by punching Ross hard in the face, twice, breaking his nose.


“Goddam, cunt,” he growled, “Yer fuckhole gets a real nice flutter when ya scream, but it ain’t worth that shit.  Keep it down or I’ll do it for ya.”  All this was said with an even tone as the muscular ex-Marine fucked the teen relentlessly.


Ross hadn’t completely shut up, but he managed to back it down to a low, snuffling sob, made nasal by a crushed nose and sinus passages blocked with blood.  But the remorseless, machine-like pounding in his ass was painful, it was agonizing, it was…starting to feel good.


Pumped full of adolescent hormones, Ross realized with dismay that his cock was getting stiff again.  It was happening outside of his control, as his rectum slowly relaxed around the huge shaft that was impaling it.  His moaning was starting to subside, too, as his ass began to stretch to fit the shape of Eddie’s cock.


The sadistic fagkiller knew what was happening, and why.


“You know yer gonna die,” he said, looking down into Ross’s face a he fucked the teen inexorably, his dogtags resting on the kid’s smooth chest, “Fuckin’ faggots are all alike.  I wasted yer worthless little shit of a brother and I’m gonna waste you too—and yer still fuckin’ hard.  Love the D so much yer willin’ to die for it, huh, cocksucker?”


Ross responded by struggling.  He didn’t stop to consider if it was physically possible for him to escape the older, stronger man’s grasp; he began writhing and flailing as soon as Eddie’s words seeped into his consciousness.  He’d refused to acknowledge the obvious outcome of the situation, despite watching Josh get slaughtered in front of his eyes, but Eddie’s voice drove it home.


He fought hard.  Eddie chuckled as the teenaged punk thrashed beneath him, the way the boy’s smooth, sweat-slicked skin slid against his chest and belly like suede…not that he was a fag, of course.  But the homos needed to learn their place, and it felt so fuckin’ good teachin’ ‘em.


Ross curled his fists and beat at Eddie’s massive, rock-hard chest.  The kid was punching as hard as he could—harder, even, as fear and adrenaline amped up his power—but for all the effect he was having, it might as well have been a cinderblock wall.  He reached for Eddie’s face, but the powerful psycho knocked the boy’s hand’s away with ease.


Nothing was working, and Ross was wearing himself out.  He stopped struggling and lay back on the bed.


“Given up, huh?” Eddie sneered, “Figures.  See, there might be a reason to let ya live if you were a good fuck, but you dumbass fags can’t even do that right.  So now I’m gonna hafta make ya work might shaft, and work it right.”


He bent down and thrust his cold, hard face right into Ross’s, grinning maniacally.  “This is gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.  Goddam, I love this shit!”  He clamped his big left hand around the punk’s throat and began squeezing.


His grip had a steel-like strength, instantly narrowing Ross’s windpipe to a point where it nearly closed.  Not quite, though.  The sadistic hardman wanted to watch his prey struggle a bit.


Ross had exhausted himself into complacency, but that all changed when his air supply was cut.  He could still breathe, but it took effort—a lot of effort—to get oxygen; every strain was accompanied by a faint wheeze as a few cubic inches of air entered his lungs.


“How’s that feel, faggot?”  Eddie jeered, “Ya likin’ that?  No?  Better start workin’ my dick, ya little slut, cause the moment I get bored with yer homo ass, I’m gonna crush yer fuckin’ throat and let ya die on my cock.  Now move yer ass, motherfucker!!”


His right hand was still free to make the fist that he drove into Ross’s face.  The first one came so suddenly, so fast, that the kid didn’t have time to flinch.  Eddie pounded the boy six times, half a dozen meaty thuds reverberating in the room as the ex-Marine blackened the teen’s eyes and knocked three teeth down his throat.


And with each blow, Ross’s ass squeezed Eddie’s dick tightly.


And with each blow, Ross’s hard boycock lurched up off his flat smooth belly, a transparent bead of precum sparkling like a jewel on the head of his dick.


“That’s it, asswipe, just like that.  Ya need more?  Ya like bein’ a punchin’ bag, ya goddam homo?  Fine with me, ya sick fuck!”


Ross sobbed incoherently, his tears mingled with snot and blood, as Eddie turned his attention lower and sent two roundhouse punches into the boy’s chest, one landing on each firm pec with a loud, hollow thump.  “Hoog!” Ross cried out, not so much a spoken word as the inarticulate sound of air forced violently past the vocal cords.


Grinning, Eddie then plowed his fist like a piledriver into the teen’s flat belly, three powerful blows in succession, driving every last inch of reserve air from the bottom of the boy’s lungs.


Ross raised his head up off the bed.  His eyelids were swelling but they stayed open, and the look of horror and despair in the adolescent’s eyes was what Eddie wanted to see.  The faggot was starting to learn its real place in the world.


Time to finish the lesson.  He tightened his grip.  The movement was easy, nonchalant, barely noticeable—and it completely cut off Ross’s air.  The kid’s expression didn’t change; his body was still rigid and stunned by the battering it had endured.  And then he began to convulse.


It wasn’t a genuine convulsion, but he was trying violently to inhale.  Nothing was happening, no air was coming in, so the lithe teenaged fag began to spasm, almost as if he was drowing.


“Fuck yeah,” Eddie grunted, “Work for it.  Work for that air, ya stupid bitch.  Just keep tryin’, dumbass, it feels so good on my shaft.”


Ross heard the ex-Marine’s harsh taunting voice; he didn’t know what was happening to him, but he knew it was Eddie’s fault.  It gave him somewhere to focus his panic—and his hands.  He tried to pry off the vice-like hand that was squeezing his airway shut with no effect at all.  As the pressure inside his skull began to mount, the teenager was swiftly losing control.


Suddenly, Eddie found his face full of scrabbling, clawing fingers.  He quickly jerked his head to the left, dodging enough that Ross’s gouging fingernails ended up scraping across the buff killer’s broad, rock-hard chest.  The long red scratches weren’t painful, but Eddie was pissed.


“Don’t you fuckin’ fight me, faggot!” he roared and began pounding his fist into the boy’s face…but this time he didn’t stop.


It felt too good; every time his wrecking-ball fist plowed into the boymeat, it jerked and twitched, giving his huge throbbing rod an extra squeeze as it reamed out the cunt’s rectum.  “That’s it,” the muscular killer grunted, “That’s what fags are good for.  Gotta make fuckin’ meat puppets outta ‘em first, though, yeah?”


By some cruel quirk of fate, Ross was still awake.  His face was being caved in—with occasion blows to the chest and stomach to change things up—but he hadn’t lost consciousness yet.  The pain of the beating was terrible, but it was fading.  Even the unbearable burning in his chest was fading.


The pain in his head, though, that wasn’t fading.  The pressure and the pounding within his cranium were nightmarish; he could feel his eyes bulge excruciatingly despite swollen blackened lids.  The horrible sensation in his mouth was his thick purple tongue slowly protruding past his split, bleeding lips.  The pain below, where he was getting raped—


—but that wasn’t his ass.  He knew he was still getting fucked; he could tell Eddie’s tool was buried deep in his guts, but the pain, the intense aching pain he was feeling was from his own cock.  It was literally so hard it hurt.


“I gotta go; time to unload,” Eddie announced.  “Say goodnight, motherfucker; time to make ya into meat.”  He slammed his fist three times into Ross’s jaw, breaking it in several places.  Then, before the tortured adolescent could react, Eddie leaned forward and put his weight on the hand around the boy’s throat.  With the meat pinned into place, Eddie placed his other hand behind its head.  His next movement was so fast as to be nearly invisible, but it was effect.


He jerked the head up while pressing the neck down in one single, swift, and very powerful movement.  The loud wet cracking sounds of the fag’s vertebrae shattering were what triggered Eddie’s orgasm.  He’d done what he needed to.  He’d shown the faggot that he was a real alpha male.


“Aw, fuck yeah!  Yeah!  Die, ya faggot scum! Fuck! Fuck!”


All of Ross’s existence was compressed into the final nightmarish seconds of his life as his spinal cord was ripped out of his brain and a cataclysmic shock tore through his nervous system.  His entire being was distilled into that final blast of searing agony where his soul was stripped from its moorings and expelled from his body in jets of hot semen.  His deathload hollowed him out; as thick streams of boycum spewed from his erect shaft and covered both Eddie’s chest and his own, the teenaged faggot slid into the cold void of death.


Eddie shuddered and shot, grunting and punching the meat.  The homo was dead; it was shuddering and kicking in its death throes.  Even its sphincter flexed in death, milking Eddie thoroughly.  Finally, with a satisfied sigh, he extracted his mammoth shaft from the corpse and got off the bed.


Looking around, he spotted a door in the corner that evidently led to a bathroom.  He was right; the rich bitch had an attached bath.  Inside, he contemptuously swept aside bottles of cologne and scented body wash to soak a face towel in the sink.  Once wet, he used it to clean off his dick and wipe the dead boy’s cum off his chest before tossing it into the toilet.  Heading back to the bedroom, he paused in the doorway to admire the tableau.


Two dead baby fags—not a bad day’s work.  One was huddled on the floor, the thick red lines of blood that had leaked from the multiple holes in the body were now coagulated, thick and viscous.  From the way it was curled on its left side and partly rolled forward, its torn and bloody asshole was visible from the hall door.


The other was splayed on the bed, its face an unrecognizable mass of bruised and bloodied flesh, its lithe lean body covered with the evidence of a horrific beating—and with cum.  Its thick boycock, going limp in death, still oozed an occasional drop of semen.


It was perfect.  The parents should be grateful he put the worthless little homos outta their misery.  Even as he looked at the still-warm corpses, Eddie massive rod twitched.  He grinned, but reluctantly tucked it back into the combat fatigues.  After all, he did have other things to do tonight.


The tread of his boots echoed across the tiled entryway as he strode to the table where he’d tossed his shirt.  Slipping it on, he headed to the back door, stopping to exam the alarm.  He noticed it was set for internal alarm only; there was no central or police monitoring.  When he opened the door, it went off.  It was loud and shrill, but when he closed the door behind him, it became muffled.  As he headed deeper into the back yard it became inaudible.


He climbed back over into the vacant property and strolled back to his truck the way he came.  It was a weekend evening in upscale suburbia, and everyone was indoor, blinds closed, watching TV.  Not one of them noticed the well-built psychotic murderer casually walking their streets.



Following its programing when set for internal mode, the alarm sounded for four hours straight, then shut itself off.  It was still armed, though, so it went off the next time a door was opened—in this case, the front door.


“Goddammit, I’m gonna kill those kids!” Roger snarled as he dove for the keypad.


“Ross!  Josh!  What are you two doing?” his wife bawled up the stairs.  “Just look at this!  Josh left his shoes on the stairs!”  She headed up the stairs herself, not bothering to pick her son’s boots up.  “You answer me now!  I’m not your goddam maid that you can leave your shit lyin’ around for me to pick up!”


Roger dug his fingernails into his palms, tying to control his temper as his wife’s abrasive voice trailed off overhead.  For a brief moment, there was calm in the house.


Then she shrieked at the top of her voice.


Roger could feel his temper slip from his grasp as he raced for the stairs.  Dr. Stone of the First Baptist had practically promised him the vote of the congregation for the city council position.  He mounted the stairs, his anger rising with his elevation.


If either of those two little bastards did anything that could damage his election campaign, he’d tear them new assholes…






Brotherly Love, part 1

Eddie was angry.


Of course, that wasn’t unusual; Eddie was always angry.  But his anger, most of the time, was general and unspecific.  Today, it was focused on and a single burning point.


The kid was about eighteen.  He’d been walking with some of his buddies from the local high school past the gas station where Eddie was filling the tank on his truck.  The psychopathic fagkiller hadn’t seen him at first; it was only when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up that he realized he was being looked at that way.


He glanced around—sure enough, his homo detector was on point.  One of the boys in the passing group was scoping him out.


The boy had a mop of dark hair.  His build was firm but wiry; he certainly wasn’t any challenge for Eddie in terms of power.  The little fagboy was wearing a pair of low-rise white denim jeans so tight his pansy cock was outlined down to the last detail; Eddie could damn near see then veins around it.  The punk’s tight chest was wrapped in a black t-shirt with a retro Led Zeppelin logo on it, all just visible beneath a thin black nylon jacket with a hood and white stripes down the sleeves. The lid sported a pair of black and white Nike Motion 2 kicks on his feet.


Eddie memorized every detail as he and the boy stared at each other.  As the bulge in his groin pulsed visibly, the teenager turned and walked quickly down the sidewalk, catching up to his friends.  He had no idea he’d just been marked for death.


Eddie finished fueling up and climbed into his truck.  He was positively grinning in incandescent rage.  The way his psyche converted self-hatred into predatory homophobia was similar to a solar furnace, capable of keeping up unimaginable amounts of heat for a very long time.


He stoked the fires and headed left out of the gas station, the direction in which the kid had been walking.


By now, the boy was about a half mile down the road.  Eddie could easily make him out—his white jeans practically glowed in the late afternoon sunlight, and none of the other little punks he was with was wearing white.  Just as he spotted the boy, though, Eddie saw the kid split off, turning again to the left, down a side street.  There was a brief pause as he spoke a bit to his buddies, but then they continued down the avenue while the fagboy walked on alone.


Trailing the homo the rest of the way home took a little skill.  Eddie couldn’t drive at the kid’s walking speed; that was too obvious.  And if he kept circling and passing the boy too often, eventually the little shit would recognize his big black truck and become suspicious.  In the end, he darted ahead, turned down a cross street and waited for the kid to pass, then went over to a parallel street.  Heading up two blocks, he did it again.  Eventually the kid didn’t walk by.  Eddie pulled out onto the boy’s street, heading back the way he came, and was just in time to see the fucker entering a house.  Eddie noted its particulars and then parked three blocks down and two over.


The sun was setting as the thump of Eddie’s combat boots on the sidewalk echoed down the suburban street.  Inside the houses on either side, families were settling in for the evening.  Some were eating, some were arguing, some were watching TV—and all of them were utterly unaware of the muscle-bound young man stalking just outside in a khaki tank top and camo fatigue pants held tightly to his narrow hips by a wide meshed nylon belt.


If they had noticed him, at least some would have called the cops.  His intent to kill was literally visible, writ large across his hard, masculine face and his somehow aggressive manner of movement.


The kid’s house was larger than most of the others in what was already an upscale community.  The house to the right was no slouch, either, but it had an attribute that immediately drew Eddie’s attention—it was empty.  There was a for sale sign from a high-end realty firm planted in the slightly overgrown lawn.  The blinds and curtains had been removed and large front windows displayed empty rooms, writhing with carved molding and elaborate paneling.  And even more interesting, the backyard gate was wide open.


After a quick and reassuring glance around him, Eddie dove into the dim twilight of the tree-shaded yard.  A long open lawn stretched back to the property line; to his left, the house hulked, a darker mass in the blue dimness of the evening.  He crossed quickly to the fence on the other side of the yard—it was the one next to the kid’s.  It was nearly seven feet high, but that wasn’t a problem; the fence was lined with all kinds of trees.  As agile as he was strong, the obsessed fagkiller was soon ensconced in branches overhanging the next yard, from which vantage point, recon was easy.


A deep-set covered patio was attached to the back of the house and two boys were sitting in chairs on it.  For a moment, Eddie thought he was looking at twins, they were so much alike.  He soon recognized one as the punk who’d been scoping him out, though, noting that the other was slightly shorter and perhaps a year younger.  The fact that they were brothers was obvious in the physical similarities between the two.


Peering into the twilight, Eddie focused his eagle-sharp eyes on the boys.  They were chatting and the older one was doing something with his hands, bent over a side table.  Eddie wasn’t close enough to see what, be he soon rectified that.


He dropped form the tree into the darkened yard, his boots making no sound on the soft, lush turf.  This property was much more landscaped than the one next door, and Eddie used it to his advantage, concealing himself behind it as he approached close enough to see and hear what was happening on the patio.


The older kid, he saw, was rolling a joint.  He was speaking just as Eddie came into earshot.


“…and if I hadn’t been with some of the guys from school, I mighta gone and hit him up,” he said.


“Bro, if Dad heard ya talkin’ about picking up a strange dude at a gas station for a hookup, he’d shit a brick,” the younger one replied.  “You better watch out—if he ever even thinks you like guys, it’s gonna get ugly.”


“Like I don’t already know that,” the other answered, “Don’t worry, I’m careful enough—and I can take care of myself.”


“Shit, hide the weed,” the younger brother blurted, “Here he comes now!”


The older youth just managed to shove the baggie of pot back into his jeans pocket when the back door opened and a tall, square-jawed man in a button-down shirt and dress slacks strode out, his hair perfectly combed and an expression of disapproval on his face that seemed somehow innate.


“What are you two doing out here?” he demanded.


“Just talking,” the older boy said casually.


The man glared balefully at the boys.  “Listen up, you two.  This weekend is critical to my city council reelection campaign.  I’m the keynote speaker at the First Baptist’s “Pray for Trump” retreat, and if either of you does anything to embarrass me while we’re gone, so help me, I’ll—”


“Roger!  We’ve got to go!” came a woman’s voice from inside the house.  “Tell Josh he can’t bring that Annabelle slut over; he’s seventeen, but she’s not.  God only knows what they’ll get up to.  Ross, you hear me?  Watch your younger brother!  And NO parties!”


“Yes, ma!” Ross shouted, smirking at his kid brother.  Their father grimaced.


“Remember,” he growled, “Don’t fuck anything up, or kill you little shits.”  He turned and re-entered the house, slamming to door behind him.


“Fuckin’ big man,” Ross sneered.


“Yeah, he just loves this city council shit,” Josh muttered, “Runnin’ our lives ain’t enough for him.  And ma—”


“Aw, don’t get started on her,” Ross said as he fished the joint and handed it to his younger brother.  “Here, light it up.  I’m gonna go make sure they’re gone.”


As the younger teen fired up the blunt, the older headed into the house.  Eddie considered making his move, but, like the boys, he wanted to know the coast was clear too.  After all, he had plenty of time, by the sound of it.


That was good.  He was gonna need to figure out how to waste two fags at once.  It would be easy enough to take the younger one out quick and quiet, commando-style, but that wasn’t what Eddie wanted.


The younger one was a fag too.  He might be fucking around with girls, but if one was, they both were.  Stood to reason.  Older one probably corrupted the younger long ago, made his kid brother his bitch.  Raped his ass one night, muffling the kid’s cries with a pillow.


It’d what Eddie would’ve done if he’d had a younger brother.


Both of ‘em were perverted fuckin’ homos, and both needed to die.


Ross reappeared at the back door.  “It’s cool.  They’re gone; c’mon in, we’ll fire up my PS4.”


“Fuck yeah!” Josh said, bouncing happily up off his chair, “That’s my idea of a Friday night—gettin’ high and playin’ Mortal Kombat!”  He followed his older brother into the house.  Once he got into the light, Eddie could see Josh was wearing an oversized white t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans tight enough to cradle his teen asscheeks snugly.  The hems of the jeans were casually caught up on what looked like a pair of Timberland eight-inch workboots, except these seemed to be made of black suede.  He wore them loosely laced and untied


As the boys disappeared deeper into the house, Eddie swept across the patio, a dark shadow in the twilight, and slipped inside the back door.  He found himself in the kitchen.  It was dim, with only the light over the stove on.  To his right was a dark doorway; the square, bulky shapes of the laundry appliances loomed in the murk.


Directly ahead, on the far side of the kitchen, was another doorway.  It was from here that Eddie heard Ross call out, “Hang on a sec!  I gotta go set the alarm.  If mom and dad sneak back early, it’ll warn us.”


The keypad for the alarm was directly behind Eddie, next to the back door.  There was no time for anything elaborate; the psycho boykiller darted into the laundry room as the older kid came and secured the house.


From less than five feet away, Eddie could see the boy more clearly than he had yet.  There was a fine shadow of dark haze on the punk’s upper lip—a mustache just starting to grow.  Eddie’s eyes roved over the adolescent’s firm, lean form, taking in how large the denim-wrapped bulge in the groin was.  Yeah, he needed to waste this little homo before it matured into something dangerous.  His huge cock began to stir and swell, just at the thought.


Four feet away, Josh finished locking down the house for the evening, totally oblivious to the fact that he was being sized up for the kill.  He turned and headed back the way he’d come, his Nikes padding quietly across the tile floor.


Eddie followed at a distance, down a hall that led to the front.  The house was large; dark cavernous rooms opened on each side—a formal dining room, a study, a formal living room.  The staircase was an ornate, meandering affair that wound its way up to the second floor.  As Eddie waited for the kid to ascend, he noticed that the staircase seemed to back up on a media room; the room had a well-stocked bar that had been built partially under the stairs.


Once the boy got upstairs, the psycho stalker felt safe enough to follow.  He managed to make it up quick enough to note the punk going into one of the doors that opened off the upper gallery.  He’d closed the door behind him; silently, Eddie stole forward and pressed his ear to the door.


“You got another one rolled?” Ross was asking. “Oh, cool.  Here, lemme fire it up.  You ain’t got the game started yet?”


“Well, fuck, man, I was waitin’ for you to get back,” the younger one replied.  “So anyway, you saw some dude today…”


“Oh, yeah,” Ross muttered in the breathless squeak of someone who’d just taken a lung-busting hit of weed.  He exhaled audibly, then coughed for thirty seconds straight.


“Ya don’t cough, ya don’t get off,” Josh chuckled.


“Aw, fuck you,” his older brother muttered.


“Naw, man, I only like chicks.  But you saw some dude you’d let pop your cherry?”


Ross laughed, “Yeah, man, like I’d be lucky enough to have had this guy be my first—ya know, the first to really fuck me.  Speakin’ a’ which, remember our bet.  Fifty bucks to the first one to get laid, right?  So how’re ya makin’ out with Annabelle?”


Josh began, “Well, I got a lil’ somethin’-somethin’ planned Friday night if I can—”


Eddie burst through the door and stood before them, his massive, muscular form filling the doorway.  Both boys stared at him, slack-jawed and stunned.  Ross had just enough presence of mind to recognize the intruder.


“That’s him!” he said excitedly, “That’s the guy!”  His face lit up, hope radiating from his youthful countenance—and then he saw Eddie’s expression.


“Lookit this shit,” the powerful sadist growled, “Coupla little fuckin’ fairies havin’ a tea party.  Sorry to break it up, girls, but you two need to learn how a real man disposes of homo garbage like you.”


“Wh-what?” they both said, almost in perfect unison—Josh, starting to flush with anger and Ross, hopelessly confused, his erotic fantasy instantly crumbling.


“I said, I’m gonna teach y’all yer proper place, ya stupid sacks a’ shit.  Think I’ll start with the little one.”


By now even Ross had made the mental switch from love interest to potential antagonist; this threat was all it took for him to go on the attack in defense of his brother.  With an inarticulate cry, he darted forward.


Eddie had been expecting it; in fact, he’d deliberately provoked it.  As the older teen rushed him, the older and stronger man swung his arm, casually and easily, punching the punk in the jaw and dropping him to the floor in a senseless, ungainly sprawl.


The ex-Marine stared the younger teen dead in the face.  “You wanna try anything, motherfucker?”


Ashen and trembling, Josh shook his head.


Getting the older boy secured wasn’t going to be too much of a problem.  Eddie had started carrying a pair of regulation police handcuffs some time ago; he’d found them at a military surplus store.  But he wanted to make sure he could cuff the kid to something fairly immobile.  For the first time, he looked around and took in the detail of the room.


It was clearly the room of an adolescent male, but beyond that, any trace of the occupant’s personality was smothered with the same kind of bland décor that Eddie had glimpsed on his trek through the house.  The queen-sized bed was an expensive piece of furniture, and the sheets seemed to be of a high quality.  It was difficult to tell, the way they were wadded up on the floor.  But the fitted sheet that remained had the shimmer of expensive material.


Beyond the bed was a large alcove with a window.  In the wall adjoining the window was a desk with a computer and a sizeable monitor.  Directly behind the desk, against the opposite wall, was a set of shelves containing the peripheral—among other things, a nice laser printer and a musical keyboard with a USB cord.


On the wall opposite the bed, immediately to the left of the door Eddie came in, was a huge LCD TV on its own stand, with the game system and a sound bar underneath.  The desk chair and a second chair had been set up in front of the TV with a couple of TV trays next to them.  It was the second chair that attracted Eddie’s eye.


It appeared to be one of the dining room chairs, ornately wrought, but sturdy.  If he could bind the fucker’s legs to the chair legs…the little shit’s clothes were scattered over the floor; there had to be a belt or two…there.


Striding over to the heavy wood chair, Eddie lifted it easily with one arm and carried it over to where he’d dropped Ross at the side of the bed.


“You!  Boy!” he barked at Josh.  The younger brother had not recovered from the emotional shock of Eddie’s entry and was still standing at the foot of the bed.  He flinched violently at the sound of the older man’s voice, then turned and looked at him, his face almost blank.


“Go get me those belts,” he demanded, pointing to a pile four feet beyond where Josh was standing where the pile of clothing was almost two feet high.  On top were a couple of pairs of jeans with belts still in them.  One belt was black and ordinary; the other was white with a series of small metal plates along its length.


Josh turned and looked at the pile, then turned and looked back at Eddie, the same blankness in his face.  But he turned and headed towards the jeans.


Eddie, in the meantime, hoisted Ross and sat him in the chair, holding the limp homo upright as he circled around to cuff the kid’s arms behind the back of the chair.  He clicked the steel bracelets on so tightly they dug into the boy’s flesh.  He looked up just as Josh arrived with the belts.


“Here,” he grunted, “Give’m to me.”


Josh dropped the belts, turned quickly, and bolted out the door.


By the time Eddie got to the doorway, the boy was halfway down the stairs.  He knew what the kid was aiming for—the alarm keypad next to the front door.  The little fuckwad was going for the panic button.


Not if Eddie could help it.  His strength and build didn’t mean he was too musclebound to move; like any good hunter, he was swift and sure-footed.  He made it down the stairs much faster than Josh would have thought possible.  Just as the terrified adolescent reached out for the keypad in relief, Eddie caught up to him.  Before the punk could touch a single button, the powerful ex-Marine had clutched the back of the kid’s head and, using his own forward momentum against him, slammed Josh’s face into the wall next to the keypad.


The boy slumped to the floor, stunned, leaving an oval-shaped hole in the drywall.  As the kid groaned and ran his hand over his face, Eddie kicked him in the head, his steel-toed combat boot putting the cunt’s lights out.


Pausing for a moment, the sweating, heaving stud reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it up over his head, tossing it onto a table at one side of the entryway.  Much more comfortable without his shirt, Eddie bent down and grabbed the unconscious teen by his wrist and began dragging him towards the stairs.


As he reached the foot of the staircase, Eddie noticed a tray on the bar tucked under it.  On the tray was an ice bucket, ice pick, and four tumblers.  Without breaking his stride, the sadistic killer snatched the ice pick off the tray.  He continued up the stairs, dragging Josh along behind him like some nightmarish version of a child dragging its teddy bear off to bed.


As the boy was pulled up the staircase, his feet caught on every riser.  His left boot came off about halfway up, landing upright on the next step down.  Near the top, the other boot came off; this one tumbled down the stairs past its mate, coming to rest about three steps from the bottom.  The punk was wearing white ped socks underneath.  They stayed on as Eddie dragged the kid back to his brother’s bedroom and tossed him on the bed.



Even after Ross regained consciousness, he still wasn’t sure he was awake.  The scene in front of his eyes was too surreal too much like a nightmare, to be real.


Josh, nude and limp, was stretched across the bed in front of him.  Ross was a horny young fag; he’d lusted after his younger brother’s smooth, firm body for years—but he loved the kid and would never force himself on him.  Seeing the boy sprawled out in front of him was a shock—


—but not as much of a shock as the image of the hardbodied stud standing directly in front of him, shirtless, in the camo pants and combat boots only, with an enormous erection jutting out from his open fly and a malicious grin on his face.


“Glad ya decided to join the party,” the well-built man said, his cold, handsome face lit with an unsettling manic glee.  “You’re just in time to watch me ream out yer little bitchboy here.”


That was when Ross realized that he himself was nude, except for his kicks.  He didn’t remember his clothes being removed, but they had been, and he’d been bound to a chair.  This crazy dude had stripped him and Josh both and was talking about raping Josh—and he couldn’t move.


“Wha?” he muttered groggily, still stunned from the blow to the head he’d received and barely remembered.  “Wha—why?  Whya doin…”


Eddie smiled even more broadly and bent down in front of Ross.  He held out something; it took the teen a moment to focus on it and realize it was an ice pick.  “Yer askin’ why?  I thought all you faggots wanted a real man to stick something long and hard into yer worthless asses.  It’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, homo—you get to watch me stick all kinda things into that little cocksucker there on the bed.  A hot porno to get ya into the mood before it’s your turn, see?”


Ross didn’t see.  He wouldn’t let himself see.  But he had no choice but to see what happened next.


Josh was still out.  He was on his back, his lithe, smooth adolescent body sprawled and helpless on the bed, which had been swept clean of all but the fitted sheet.  Under the indirect lighting Ross had used in his room, Josh looked as if he’d been laid out on an altar.  Or, rather, a stage—for an audience of one.


Slipping the ice pick into his waistband, Eddie climbed onto the bed, brandishing his huge cock like a club and smiling malevolently down at the unconscious teen.  Kneeling on the bed, he bent down and scooped Josh’s legs up, placing the kid’s ankles on his shoulders.  With easy access to the boy’s ass, the serial killer began to probe the punk’s sphincter with the engorged head of his cock.


“Dude,” Ross began, his words still slightly slurred as he spoke, “Whatcha doin’?”  Ross knew damn well what it looked like they guy was doing, but that couldn’t be right.


“I’m gonna show this little cocksucker what a real man’s cock feel like,” Eddie replied nonchalantly.  “You might wanna pay attention, cunt—your turn’s next.”


Ross struggled furiously with his bindings.  He couldn’t see what was holding him back; the sound and sensation behind his back told him his hands were in cuffs, but he had no clue what was on his legs.  Whatever it was, nothing was giving—not that that stopped the well-built adolescent from trying.


“Keep yer fuckin’ hands off him!” the teen snarled viciously, “If he don’t kill ya when he wakes up, I will!”


Eddie grinned happily and plunged himself balls-deep into the younger boy’s asshole.


Both Josh and Ross cried out simultaneously; Josh screaming in pain as the agony of having his sphincter torn apart like wet paper pulled him violently form his semi-conscious state.  His older brother yelled inarticulately in rage and sympathy.


“Fuck yeah!” Eddie crowed, “That’s what I’m taking about.  Nice tight little baby fag—ya like that, dontcha?  All ya little boyfags crave mancock, yeah?”  He turned to Ross.  “Don’t get jelly, bro—I’m gonna be layin’ pipe up yer fuckhole soon.  The little one here’s just foreplay, a little somethin’ to get my meat nice and hard.”


As he spoke, the muscular ex-marine continued to plunge his freakishly large member as far as he could into the adolescent boy’s rectum.  His pelvis bounced off Josh’s ass, the rounded pink globes of the boy’s asscheeks quivering with each thrust.


Josh’s pain and fear were blatant; it was obvious—at least to anyone who wasn’t a psychopathic, sadistic serial killer—that the kid was a virgin.  Even Eddie could feel the blood that tricked from the punk’s ass as a kind of warm lube.  The teenager had gotten his cherry popped and was bleeding just like a chick.  He was also shrieking like one.


“Goddam, got me a screamer,” Eddie said, carrying on his casual commentary with his victim’s horrified older brother.  “Bitch fuckin’ loves ridin’ the D but ain’t got no volume control.  I know how to fix that.”


And in front of Ross’s horrified eyes, Eddie punched Josh twice in the face, hard and brutal roundhouse swings from the shoulder.  The boy grunted viscerally as each of the blows landed, his entire body clenching to ward off the impacts.  And even from where Ross was strapped down, he could see his little bro’s dick flop up, semi-erect, each time he was hit.


Ross didn’t understand that, and for some reason, it scared more than anything else.  After all, some part of him still hadn’t accepted that any of this was happening.  Maybe it was a hallucination; maybe the weed had been laced with something…


“Aw hell yeah!” Eddie grunted.  “Goddam faggot knows what it wants!”  He turned back to Ross, his happy grin somehow making his masculine face breathtakingly handsome and soullessly evil at the same time.  “Hey, asswipe, you like pain as much as this one?  It tightens its fagpussy around my shaft when I hit it—maybe I need to hurt it more, yeah?  Think that’ll make it work my dick real good?  Let’s find out!”


And as Ross looked on in terror and Josh moaned and coughed up two teeth, Eddie pulled the ice pick out of his waistband.  “Don’t worry, I’m gonna start slow,” he said to Ross, “Let the whore get used to it first.  But it’s gonna hatfa work my dick good to earn my seed.”


And without breaking eye contact with Ross, Eddie moved the ick pick down to Josh’s smooth, heaving flank and began shoving the nine-inch steel shaft into the teen boy’s side.


Despite being stunned by the blows to the face, Josh was still sufficiently conscious to feel pain.  He reacted immediately, wailing in pain and trying to wriggle out form under his rapist’s bulky form.  Eddie just grinned and continued to slowly push the pick into the kid.


Suddenly Josh gasped and went rigid.  “Yeah, that’s the spot,” Eddie grunted, then turned back to Ross.  “Gotta love combat trainin’.  Stick yer target in the kidney, and he’s helpless.  Organ trauma gets ‘em all nice and tight, too.”  He withdrew the thin steel shaft a couple of inches, then rammed it back in brutally, timing the jab with a powerful thrust of his hips.


Suffering from the double agony of his attacker’s cock in his guts and weapon in his kidney, Josh’s instinctive reaction, as Eddie had said, was to go stiff, in an effort to prevent the foreign objects in his body from doing further damage.  It was also an instinctive act to brace himself—when he reached out and grasped Eddie’s arms, his hands clamping tightly on, but not able to encircle, the killer’s huge biceps, it was an action of pain, not pleasure.  His bruised jaw tightly clenched, the agonized teen’s s breathing was harsh and fast, whistling through the gap form by the knocked-out teeth.


Eddie pulled the ice pick back out of Josh with an exquisite protraction, then held it up and admired the way the metal shaft was red with blood up to the handle.  It was too much for Ross.


“Stop it, you psycho!” he screeched.  Eddie turned slowly and smirked and Ross felt terror wash over him—not for himself, but for his brother.  “I said stop it, motherfucker!  Let him go!!”


“Stop it?”  Eddie asked innocently, the cold sneer on his face unchanging, “Stop stickin’ the fag in the kidney?  Sure—that was gettin’ old anyway.”  Leaning back, with a sudden motion almost too fast to be seen, he whipped the ice pick around and brought it down on the boy’s stomach, puncturing his smooth, flat belly and driving it in up to the hilt.


Again Josh gasp and clenched in agony.  “That’s it,” Eddie grunted, “Just like that.  Work my cock, faggot!”


Josh moaned and mewled in desperate pain.  He and his older brother were in tears; Ross too horrified to speak, at least for the moment.


“Aw, yer goin’ loose again,” the buff ex-Marine said.  Josh was in too much pain to pay attention, but Ross heard him.  By now he knew what to expect.


“No…no…” he whispered.


“Shaddup,” Eddie snapped, “Yer little homo bro likes this shit.  See?”  He managed to twist his waist and tilt Josh’s still-rigid form slightly towards Ross.  The older couldn’t help but see his baby brother’s thick, erect cock.  It was surreal; it made no sense—but, bewildered and despairing, some part of Ross began to think this sadistic stranger was right.  Josh wanted to be hurt.


But no, that wasn’t right.  He wasn’t going to think about that.  And he damn sure wasn’t gonna think about the fact that his own tool was getting stiff.  It meant nothing; getting out of this situation meant everything.


Eddie plunged the pick back into Josh’s belly four times in lightning-fast succession, savoring the sensation of resistance, as if he was puncturing the head of a drum, with each one.  And the sobbing teen clenched everything—including his sphincter and rectum—with each stab.


Eddie turned back to Ross, his lips wreathed with a happy smile.  “Dude,” he said, “It’s like his fuckhole is jackin’ me off.  Fuckin’ fantastic.”


“…you sick fuck…” Ross gasped, barely audible.  But Eddie heard him and leered evilly at the compliment.


“Motherfucker, you ain’t seen shit yet,” he replied, jerking the steel shaft back out of the moaning teenager’s gut and plunging it into his chest, two inches southwest of his heart.


Josh cried out in agony as the ice pick penetrated his pectoral muscle—a massive steel needle that was suddenly and brutally driven through his body with such force that it pierced his lung and ended up lodged in the inside of one of his ribs, near the spine.


Eddie turned away from Ross; the taunting was fun, but this was getting good. The young fuckmeat stared up at him, its huge dark eyes ringed with gray circles of shock, its mouth open and moving, but no sounds coming out.  Suddenly, it heaved beneath him, a single spasm, and coughed, a fine trickle of blood leaking from the corner of its mouth.  The injury wasn’t fatal, but the punk’s lung was bleeding.


Josh remained loose; he didn’t go rigid.  Eddie was furious.  The faggot wasn’t cooperating.


“Boy, you ain’t workin’ my dick,” he growled.  Josh kept staring at him blankly, his lips making the motions for words he wasn’t voicing.  His hard cock kept jabbing against Eddie’s belly; the vicious fagkiller could feel the hot spongy warmth of its swollen purple head against his smooth ripped abs—but the cunt wasn’t moving its fuckhole.  “Only damn thing you fucking fags are good for is a cumdump, and you ain’t even good at bein’ that!  Hope yer bro over there is a better fuck than you are, ya worthless piece a’ shit.  Time to put you outta my misery, fuckwad.”


Slapping his huge strong paw of a hand on Josh’s face, he forced it to the left, towards where Ross was sitting, and pinned it there.  With the other hand, he pulled the ick pick out of the boy’s chest.  It took a little effort; the tip was tightly embedded in the rib.


Holding it aloft, he turned to Ross.  “Hey, asswipe, watch this.  Watch this close.”  He didn’t need to threaten, he knew the adolescent homo was compelled to see what was happening to his little bitchboy cuntbrother; he wouldn’t be able to turn away.


He was right.  Ross watched in growing horror as Eddie lowered the ice pick into Josh’s ear—and then kept right on inserting it, very slowly, into the boy’s skull.


Josh came out of his stupor almost immediately.  The terrible pain of the chest wound receded far into the background as a whole new universe of agony opened up to the buff young adolescent in the final two minutes of his life.


Two minutes is a long time.  The next two minutes that Josh and Ross endured lasted eons.


For Josh, it began with the pain of a punctured eardrum, to be suddenly replaced with a faint but distinct “crunch” inside his head as the steel shaft crushed the tiny bones of the middle ear.  Then the true nightmare began.


As Eddie continued to slide the pick slowly and lovingly into the boy’s ear canal, it ripped through the semicircular canals and Josh spent the rest of his life in unimaginable vertigo and nausea.  As Ross watched, frozen in shock, his younger brother began to kick and retch.  His smooth teen body was soon covered in sweat as the unfortunate youth dry heaved uncontrollably.


“Too late for that shit now, cunt!” Eddie crowed, speaking to Josh—but looking at Ross, who held his gaze helplessly.  “Too late to save yer useless ass by workin’ my cock, dumbass—time for ya to take a nice long dirt nap!”


Needless to say, all this motion didn’t help Eddie’s aim much—not that he cared.  Josh might have, since it prolonged his life, and hence his agony, for a few more seconds, but he was long past being able to control his actions in any case.  Nothing he’d suffered yet had been a truly mortal wound, but that changed in the next moment, when Eddie finally drove the sharp-tipped steel tool into the teenager’s brain stem.


Ross could see it in Josh’s eyes.  He didn’t know the details, didn’t know that Eddie was grinding the pick around in his brother’s ear, sending the long rigid shaft ripping through the brainstem—but that part of the brain controls facial muscles.  The look on his dying brother’s face was seared into Ross’s mind.


Josh arced his back.  Eddie pulled himself up as well, letting Ross see that despite everything, the kid’s rod was not only erect but pulsating.  Again, the older teen felt a sense of despair, not understanding his brother’s physical reaction.  How could he be hard now?


And then Eddie slashed through something important.  He’d angled the ice pick downwards and had badly damaged the medulla oblongata, which controls both the heart and the lungs.


Josh began to breathe hard.  As Eddie lay on top of him to get full enjoyment from his kill, the dying teen began to writhe, his sweat-slick skin sliding smoothly against Eddie’s own.  His breathing became faster and shallower, his empty eyes staring into his brother’s as his blood from his injured lung blew out of his mouth in a faint pink mist.


“Faggot’s close,” Eddie said with a grin.  “Wanna see it?  Wanna watch yer brother’s deathload?  Sure ya do, ya little sicko, yer already hard yerself.  Ok here ya go!”


And with the same motion he’d used earlier, he pulled himself off Josh and tilted him towards Ross, making one last dig in the boy’s brain with the ice pick.  Josh’s last sound on earth was a deep, mortal grunt, and it was accompanied by a solid jet of thick, abundant, adolescent semen that spewed forth out of the punk’s cock.


Ross watched it, his mind blank with horror.  Josh was dead.  He could see it in his face.  He was dead, but he kept on cumming.


As the corpse’s convulsions began to slow, the stream of sperm tapered off and slowed to an ooze.  Eddie slowly pulled himself upright and got off the bed.  Josh lay on his back, his legs splayed, his thick boycock slowly shriveling, and a tapioca-like puddle of spunk pooling on his flat belly.  The ice pick jutted grotesquely from his ear.  His eyes were wide open, and he had died with the expression of someone who had stared into Hell.


Ross stared at his younger brother’s raped and murdered corpse.  Tears trickling down his face, he seemed to be sinking into a fugue state when Eddie’s raucous, taunting voice hit him like a slap in the face.


“You’re next, fucker,” he growled, advancing towards the bound teenager, his enormous cock jutting out from his camo pants, “I ain’t shot my wad yet.  You better be better than he was.”


“In fact—” he paused and looked back at Josh’s quivering body, the turned to Ross again, “—I got an idea.  Looks like we got something here for you to practice on.”


Ross could follow the musclebound psycho’s line of thought as he advanced. He burst into tears and pissed himself.  He already knew there was nothing he could do to stop whatever it was that was coming next.

Meat Chronicles 21—Homo for the Holidays

Goddamn, it’s hard to maintain control sometimes.  There’s a pile of teenage fuckmeat lying on the floor in front of the passenger seat of my van and I wanna drain my distended, over-pressurized balls into it right away.  Can’t let myself go yet, though—I need to tenderize the fucker first; it’s a tough piece of meat.


I’d marked this one for prey some time ago, but he’s eluded me each time, mostly by proximity.  I first saw him about five weeks back, outside the liquor store.  Too young to buy his own booze, he was lurking in the parking lot and pouncing on anyone who seemed likely to make purchases for him.  I ignored him—for one thing, I’m known there, and for another, every square inch of the place, inside and out, is recorded on video.  You don’t shit where you eat.


I’d seen him there on a number of later occasions, but nowhere else.  As long as he stayed there, he was safe from me.


Today, I happened to spot him on the side of the road, three blocks from the liquor store.   Luring him in was so goddam easy; stupid fuckin’ cunt was looking to get fucked up.  I’d offered to give him a lift to the store, knowing he’d ask me to get him something, but he kept going on about wanting anything—from weed to meth to coke.


He said he was twenty, but he was barely eighteen, if that; his skin was too clear and his teeth were too intact for him to have experienced such heavy drug use for too long.  He had dark wavy hair and dark eyes, the wide oval lids ringed with long lashes.  He wore a black t-shirt with a Wu-Tang Clan logo in gold; the sleeves were ripped off showing his muscled arms.  The punk wasn’t badly built—nowhere near as powerful as I am of course; the little fucks I waste can never hope to compete—and the shirt was stretched tightly across his chest, highlighting his pecs.


His skin-tight brown jeans were very old and worn; they were tucked into a pair of brown leather harness boots that came almost halfway up the cunt’s calf.  It was the same outfit I’d seen him in each time.


He hopped in my van the moment I offered him a lift.  When talking about what he was looking for, he put his hand on my thigh; I could feel the warmth of his skin through the tight denim.  “You hook me up, bro,” he said, grinning lecherously at me, “And I promise you a good time.”


I grinned right back.  “Aw, dude, I’ll getcha so fucked up you won’t know what hit ya.”  I always try to keep my word.


As usual, the meat started babbling; it always does.  It can be about different things—its boring past, its dumbass desires or worthless ambitions—but as much as I try to ignore it, I can’t help picking up a thing or two.  He called himself Mikey, like I cared, and said he’d left home at the age of fifteen and had been on the streets ever since (I knew he was younger than twenty).


I drove past the liquor store and pulled into the parking lot of a half-empty strip mall.  “Whatcha got for me?” the cunt asked.


“A sucker punch,” I replied, driving my right fist straight out into his jaw with the speed and power of a pneumatic piston.  His head hit the window so hard I thought the glass had cracked.  It hadn’t, but the meat had.  It slumped forward, sliding limply off its seat, still and unconscious on the floorboards.  Stupid bitch had a glass jaw.


And now I get to make it die on my dick.  I just need to find the right spot to snuff out its worthless life.  Shouldn’t be too hard.


It takes me longer than I expected to find the right place, but I do find it.  Elmhurst Avenue, south of downtown—an old neighborhood, the side streets are lined with sixty-year-old apartment buildings and ninety-year-old houses cut up into apartments.  The avenue itself is lined with low brick buildings and empty lots; perhaps one out of every five buildings shows some hint of occupation.  It’s a place where the rents are cheap and yet still overpriced, a neighborhood reeking of failure and despair.


I find what I’m looking for at a corner formed by one of the side streets.  It looks like its most recent used had been as a car lot; the whole corner was paved flat.  In the middle of the lot is a cinderblock building with a canopy that may or may not have been a gas station in a past incarnation; at any rate, it had been gutted by fire at some point—above the gaping black holes of the windows and door, black cones of soot mar the peeling white paint.


The entire lot is surrounded by a high chain link fence topped with barbed wire; the fence is rusted and bent but it still stands.  The gate, which rolls parallel to the street on a track, had been forced and is still ajar.  I can’t see any other vehicle on the crumbling concrete pavement, so I cautiously pull in and head for the structure that first caught my eye—the sheet-metal garage in the back corner.  It’s got two overhead doors on the left and some sort of reception/office area on the right with a door and windows.  Well, doorways and window openings; the only thing intact is the overhead door on the extreme left.  The rest of the building has been gutted—not by fire this time, but by vandalism.


I slowly back my van in, making sure no one’s around to notice.  Luckily the building next door, a furniture clearance warehouse, had expanded at the back; the garage was up against two blank brick walls.  Shifting into park, I roll down the window and cut the engine, listening carefully.  A car goes by on the Avenue.  There’s a rustling in the corner that’s likely a rat.  Otherwise, there’s nothing.


It’s a perfect place to snuff the fag.


I get out, letting my combat boots hit the oil-stained cement with a thud, and casually stroll around to the passenger door.   Opening it, I bend down and grab the meat’s boots and pull them off his feet.


They might fit me.  I’m keeping them.


I open the back the van and dump the meat on the floor; he’s easier to strip that way.  I sit him up and pull off his shirt, tossing it over my shoulder to land on the filthy floor.  The kid has a great torso, with hard smooth pecs displaying large and jutting nipples.  I take a moment to squeeze and twist the firm mounds of flesh, pinching and pulling at them.


The cunt must like it.  He starts moaning and the long soft lashes ringing his large eyes begin to flutter.  He blinks blearily a few times, trying to focus—and then he comes to, all at once.  It’s easy to recognize.  He has the hard edge of a street slut faggot, but he’s still too young and naïve to be able to cover his fear.  And he is afraid.


Just not enough.


“Wha—?” he started, but I don’t want him awake yet.  It’d ruin the surprise.  A little love tap does it; I don’t clock him hard, just enough to split his full red lips and make them bleed a little.  But his lights go out and I’m able to peel his tight jeans off without further interruption.


He’s freeballin’ underneath, six and a half inches of uncut boycock lolling along his smooth thigh.  Underneath it, he’s endowed with a decent sack, covered with a forest of dark curly pubes.


Good enough for me.  I’ve been wearing a button-down flannel shirt, left open; I slip out of it and sling it over the back of the driver’s seat.  After unzipping my fly, it takes a minute to haul my tackle up out of my crotch, but it’s rigid and rarin’ to go them moment it hits the open air.


And so am I.  A quick glance around to confirm that no one was gonna spoil my playtime, and I hop in the van and close the door.  Next time I open it, this stupid little motherfucker ain’t just gonna be dead, he’s gonna be glad he’s dead.


It’s dim in the back of the van, but not too dark.  I can see the whoreboy; he’s starting to stir again.  That’s good—I want him awake for this.  I wanna see the pain and fear in his face.


Speaking of pain, it’s time I inflicted some on him.  I’ve got a number of random items in my kill van—things I’ve picked up from time to time that might come in handy.  Let’s see; what will fuck this cunt up…ah, that’ll work.


It’s a length of sixteen-gauge jack chain, about three and a half feet.  I kneel over him, slowly winding it around my fist.  The teen slut blinks and gazes up at me; I can see the glint of lust in his big faggot eyes was they scan my body, from my erect, jutting shaft along my ripped abs to my broad, furry chest.  They never make it to my face, thought; they stop dead at the chain around my hand.


Already scared and confused, the runaway punk turns gray.  “Wha—what’s goin’ on?”


Dumbass piece of shit can’t figure it out; in fact, he doesn’t even seem to realize he’d been stripped nude yet.  But I don’t suffer fools gladly; I gladly make fools suffer.


“Remember when I toldja I was gonna get ya so fucked up you wouldn’t know what hit ya?” I leer down at him.


“Uh-huh,” he nods, his face drawn with trepidation.


“Well, I lied.  Yer gonna know,” I say and hold up my chain-wrapped fist.  “It’s this.  This is what’s gonna hit ya.”


I slam it into his face as hard as I can, feeling his left cheekbone snapping under the impact.  The chain digs deep, tearing into his skin.


The cunt squeals and cries out, clutching his face.  I shift downward and land two rapid-fire blows in the center of his smooth, vulnerable belly.  They strike with the heavy slapping sound of flesh on flesh, the chain giving an added impetus to the force.


The kid rises up with an anguished expression, his face taut as the gutpunches violently expel the air from his lungs.  His cheek is already black and swollen, but he seems to have forgotten about that little bit of foreplay in his sudden inability to breathe.  Gasping futilely, he rolls onto his side in a fetal position.


The cunt doesn’t get to long to comfort himself.  I dive between his legs, forcing them apart as I roll him onto his back.  He squirms away, kicking his legs blindly.


“Don’t fight me, faggot,” I snarl.  As he twists to the side again, I pound on him again, this time nailing his kidney.  He instantly flops onto his back, gasping, and I can part his writhing teen legs with ease.  “You know ya want this dick, so shaddup and take it, cunt!”


I rub the thick oozing head of my dick over his ass, leaving a trail of precum through the soft down covering those firm rounded cheeks.  He’s still struggling, but not so much that I can’t easily overpower him.


He’ll fight later, when the panic sets in.  I can tell; he’s the type.  At some point I’m gonna hafta ride him hard and rough.  For right now, though, the only thing he’s afraid of is getting raped.  He has no clue how much worse it’s gonna get.  He gets a hint, though, when I suddenly plunge in balls-deep, with no warning and my precum the only lube.


I dunno if he’s a virgin, but I can tell instantly that anyone who’s been up his hole before me wasn’t anywhere near as hung as I am.  My massive erect tool punches through his asshole like an awl; I can feel it when his strained sphincter give way and tears open under my relentless cock.


His eyes grow huge and his face is a mask of pain and shock as my shaft plunges deep inside him.  He’s gripping my arms, each of his hands tightly clutching my powerful biceps while his guts are relentlessly pounded by my dick.


Well, the cunt damn sure ain’t a virgin now.


He’s finally getting enough air back into his lungs to speak.  “St-stop…no, fuck no, stop!”


I punch him again, this time landing one on his broad smooth chest, hitting the left pec with a satisfying thud.  Again, just a love tap—didn’t even break the skin with the chain.  “Shaddup, bitch, and take my cock.”


Dumbass motherfucker doesn’t shut up.  Goddam, I’m really doin’ a service to the planet by riddin’ it of stupid pieces of faggot fuckmeat.  Even worse, this one’s startin’ to struggle.


“Wh-wh-what? What?  Help! HELP!!!  HEL—”


Ok, so I make it shut up.  One hand on its throat, my chained fist emphasizin’ my point to the cunt.  Makin’ sure I drive it into its head, so to speak, though I’m specifically aiming for its face.


“I toldja [WHAM] to shut [WHAM] yer fuckin’ [WHAM] face!! [WHAM]”


Oh fuck, I can feel every individual impact reverberate through his firm adolescent body, his pain communicated directly to my dick, his traumatized colon milking and massaging it with every agonized muscle contraction.  It feels so good, I wanna keep goin’…but I can’t.  It’ll kill the meat, and I ain’t done with it yet.


And even now, I’ve reduced the left side of its face to hamburger.  The eye is swollen shut, the cheek is flayed, the lips swollen and bleeding, and the nose is listing badly to starboard.  It occurs to me that offin’ the homo will be a mercy killing—sparing it from a lot of painful reconstructive surgery.


Of course, by the time I’m done with it, it’ll be a mercy killin’ anyway, ha!


At the moment it’s still conscious; it turns its head and coughs up a gout of blood and a couple of teeth.  It’s lying back, gasping, with its mouth open and eyes—well, eye—closed.


And during the entire beating I never once even slow the tempo of the assrape.  Man, it felt so fuckin’ good, pounding the teen’s ass and face at the same time. The boy’s a natural painpig; the way his fuckhole worked my rod it all the proof I need.


The fact that he got hard as I whaled on his face just adds to the evidence.


“You fuckin’ pervert faggot,” I snarl, “Lookit this shit.  Goddam, I was right again.  All you little boyfags are lookin’ for is a real man to come along and make ya suffer like you deserve.  Tell ya what, motherfucker, if this kinda foreplay gets yer little homo dick hard, yer gonna blow yer pansy wad at what’s comin’ next!”


He looks at me, opening both eyes so wide that even the left one opens up a narrow slit—but since it’s leaking tears, I doubt it’s helping him.  He’s trying to speak, but the left side of his jaw is swollen and misshapen.  Wonder if I broke it—damn, I hate to have missed that.


Oh well. I can make up for it before I’m done with the kid.


He gurgles and bleats; it’s not incomprehensible—I just don’t care enough to try to figure out what he’s sayin’.  As long as his ass keeps grippin’ my hog, he can start singin’ the national anthem, for as much as I give a shit…


…except he ain’t grippin’ quite as tight as he was.


Well, goddamn.  Guess I gotta tighten the meat up again.  I start unwinding the chain from my fist.  I think I’m gonna start a rebellion here, and I need a little somthin’ to help me put it down.


“You know where this is headin’, dontcha, cunt?” I say, smiling down at him.  His fear is palpable, almost tactile.  Just a tiny spark to set it off.  “This kinda shit happens all the time.  Dumbass faggot picks up the wrong dude, ends up a pile of well-used homo meat.  Guess what, motherfucker—I’m that wrong dude.”


I was right.  He has the wiry athleticism of youth, keyed up to extremes by panic.  There’s no way he’s gonna be able to overpower me; as hard as he thrashes and beats his balled fists against my fur-insulated chest, he ain’t doin’ me any damage.


Still don’t mean I gotta put up with this shit, though.  Rising up on my knees without pulling my rod out of his ass, I start lashing him brutally with the chain.


The pansy screeches like a pig gettin’ its throat slit; I’m leaving welts in the shape of chain links on his smooth, tender boyflesh.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I jeer at him, spitting in his twisted, agonized face, “You just fuckin’ love this shit, dontcha?  Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it?  Hell yeah, bitch, keep screamin’—the more it hurts, the more ya work my dick.”


He squeals and throws up his arms to block the blows.  Big mistake.  Ever seen what a well-swung chain’ll do to human fingers?  His snap like toothpicks.


For a moment, he shuts up.  The only noise in the van is the slapping sound of a brutal assfuck.  The adolescent fagwhore stares, silent and agape, at the mangled remains of his right hand, splayed out like a crushed starfish.  I slash again with the chain, catching him across the left forearm with enough force to wrap the chain completely around it.  I grab his left hand with my free hand and stare him dead in the face.


“You deserve this, you motherfucking piece of faggot shit,” I sneer and jerk the chain, breaking both of the bones and ripping off a strip of flesh that completely encircles his arm.  He sputters and drools as his arm folds over, but I’m just about done with him.


“Yer a boring fuck, bitch, and I got shit to do today.  ‘Bout time to waste yer fag ass.  Hope ya kick a lot as ya die, motherfucker; it really helps get me off.”


Raising my hand in front of his bruised, terror-filled face, I let him watch me partially unwind the chain from my hand until I have a good two feet stretched in front of him.  “Ready to die, cocksucker?  Ready to choke to death so you can be my personal cumdump?  Not like you got any other reason for bein’ on this planet, ya useless cumguzzler; might as well work my shaft as ya get what’s comin’ to ya.”


He moans and shakes his head wildly as I lean forward and wrap the chain around his throat.  “Shh, shh,” I whisper, “Don’t worry—I promise, it’s gonna hurt. I promise.”


I yank the metal chain tight, so tight I can see his flesh welling up in the open spaces in the links.


The lithe teen body goes rigid with agony beneath me.  It feels so fuckin’ good, the smooth, soft flesh, taut with nightmarish suffering, pressed firmly against my hairy, muscular body.  The cunt doesn’t know how lucky he is; so many of his faggot buddies crave and yearn for the ultimate fuck.  Just like this stupid fucker, they deny it and fight it to the end, but I can see the gratitude in their eyes as they start to glaze over.  They stare into eternity with the knowledge that they’ve taken my load and thus achieved their greatest and highest use.


And they invariably blow a thick deathwad.


“That’s it, asswipe,” I grunt as I whale on his ass, “Fuckin’ die on my cock.  Ride my shaft right into yer grave, homo.  Ya know ya want this; that’s why yer teen dick is hard, right?  Fuck yeah, even a dumbass like you knows baby fags need to be put down by a real man.”


The meat’s eyes open wide—even the swollen one manages, a little—and it give me a look that tells me I need to hang on tight.   The boycunt is starting to panic; it’s not yet in a mindless frenzy of fear, but it’s coming soon.


And holy fuck does it feel good when the meat flails in mind-searing terror, its rectum sucking on my tool as if that’s what it was designed for.  On with the mindfuck.


“Yer gonna cum when ya die,” I casually remark to the meat, “Won’t be able to help it.  Shit, you shoulda seen the last teen cunt I offed; fucker musta shot damn near a quart of spooge.  Couse, he held out for a while.  Took him a long, long time to die…”


The meat’s close; there’s a developing glint in its one good eye reminiscent of insanity.


“You ain’t as good as he was, though,” I go on, “In fact, you’re a boring fuck.  Yer even useless as a faggot.  Hurry up an’ die, motherfucker, so I can toss yer worthless cumdump corpse out there in the filth and get outta here.  I’m a busy man, asshole—”


That did it.  The meat thrashes violently, as if its being electrocuted.  It can’t kick me, since I’m already between its legs, but they flail in the air behind me, feet and toes curling in agony in midair.  The cunt beats at my face with its right hand, slapping me since in can’t form its shattered fingers into a fist.  Its left arm flops and jerks uselessly at its side, the broken forearm limp and helpless.


And the entire time I hold the boyfag close to me, letting its ass milk my throbbing, oozing rod as I incrementally tighten the chain around its throat.


It’s obviously dying at this point.  Its face is congested and black, so distorted as to be almost unrecognizable.  Drool has bubbled out beside the engorged, protruding tongue and flows down both cheeks in white, foamy streams.  The slut is slick with sweat; the beads standing out on its forehead trickling painfully into its bulging eyes, now too swollen for mere bruised eyelids to hold them in.


“Now yer learnin’ yer place, cocksucker,” I tell the grunting, shuddering bitchboy, “You been needin’ this for a long time.  Die, fuckwad, choke and kick and die in agony!”


The cunt is arching its back, pressing its firm, flat belly against my furry ripped abs.  I can feel its hard thick boycock pressed firmly against me; the perverted little shit is so aroused by asphyxiation that its oozing precum as it dies.  Fuck, ain’t nobody gonna miss this disgustin’ babyfag.


Catch ‘em and take ‘em out while they’re still young so they do as little damage to society as possible.  And deep inside, the fuckers want it anyway.  They know gettin’ put down by a real man is the best thing that can happen to a fuckin’ useless pussyboy.


This one’s on its way out.  Its flailings are getting weaker and more uncoordinated; I brace myself and tighten the chain with as much force as I can.


The loud crunch of the teen’s larynx echoes in the confines of my van.  There’s a brief lull—the kid is shuddering beneath me, its blackened and drool-soaked cheeks distending with some final vain effort at exclamation, but no air is getting past the mangled wad of cartilage blocking its windpipe.  I can see one last gleam of consciousness left in its good eye, and in it I can recognize the true horror of a stupid faggot finally experiencing the brutal death it deserves.


And then the convulsions begin.


Once the convulsions start, the meat has reached a tipping point.  Too much brain damage has set in; whatever miserable excuse for a human once animated the body is gone and isn’t coming back.  But adolescent boys have a lot of stamina.  As the meat rhythmically writhes and kicks under my muscled weight, I realize it may be possible that there may still be some deep inner spark of personality still lit.


I let go of the chain and punch the thrashing cunt in the face.  Still pounding its ass, I lay at full length, my powerful form restraining its thrashing, and grab its head with both hands, forcing it back and to the side.


One hand is gripped around the jaw and the other around the back of the skull.  Slowly and inexorably, I force the fuckmeat’s head past its normal point of rotation.  I can feel “twangings”—the only way I can describe it—as the cervical tendons and sinews begin to snap. Suddenly, bone meets bone and I reach a hard stop.


The faggot is still convulsing beneath me.  It feels good, but my cock needs more.  And I know how to get it.


My biceps bulging with the effort, I twist the homo’s head with a might jerk and am instantly rewarded with the crunchy, popcorn-like noise of shattering vertebrae.


As bone shards tear through its spinal cord, the meat finally responds properly, its colon clutching tightly to my engorged shaft, milking the swollen, throbbing member desperately.  Fuck yeah, that’s it—don’t back off now…


With a primal grunt, I force the fucker’s head further.  More popcorn, the ass gets tighter—


Fuck fuck fuck I’m cumming take it you sack a’ shit, take my load ya worthless faggot scum, feel my hot manseed scald yer guts as you slide into cold death, motherfucker—


In the back of my mind I register the hot gooey splash of the teen’s thick and seemingly endless deathload.  The slut has stopped thrashing and is rigid from sudden massive nervous system trauma.  I’m locked into the corpse, almost helpless myself as I pump wad after wad of manspunk into the quivering cumdump.


After a moment, I realize I’ve finally emptied my huge aching sack.  The dead whoreboy has stopped unloading, too, only a slight pearlescent trickle oozing from the semi-soft dick.  Pulling my shaft out of the trembling corpse, I remain on my knees as I use the bitch’s t-shirt to sponge its death wad out of my chest fur.  After I wipe my tackle off, too, I stuff it back into my jeans, then open the van door.


I climb out and toss the cum-soaked t-shirt onto the floor.  Walking warily to the open doorway, I peer out and make sure the coast is still clear.  As I expected, no one is out in the middle of a muggy gray weekday, and close as it is to the holidays, this neighborhood damn sure isn’t considered a shopping area for anything but drugs and sex.


In other words, no one’s around, and if they were, they wouldn’t care.


I drag the dead punk’s body to the edge of the van and unceremoniously dump it out onto the filthy, oil-stained concrete floor, not bothering to remove the chain from around the throat of the the badly beaten corpse.  Some homeless bum or cheap whore looking for a quick pump-n-dump will find it sooner or later, but I don’t give a shit.  I toss its jeans out, too, after rifling the pocket and taking the wallet.  It’s got a driver’s license in it, but again, I don’t care.  I’ll take the three bucks in cash though; every little bit helps.


Easing the van out of the garage, I’m still carefully scanning to make sure no one’s noticing me.  I turn left onto Elmhurst and realize how good my timing is; half a block down is a city street crew attaching some forlorn-looking holiday decorations to alternate light poles.  Given the surroundings, the cheap and tattered tinsel isn’t so much a mockery as a final touch of sordidness.


Well, no one can say I didn’t do my part.  I left them a nice dead faggot with a creamy cum-filled center.  And my gift?  This nice pair of brown leather harness boots.  Think I wear ‘em on my next kill.

Carlos and Nick 7–Rubbin’ One Out

Carlos was trolling for a slut.


It wasn’t something the homophobic sex killer did much anymore; these days, the meat just seemed drawn to him.  Even Bryan had approached him—although his ex-prison “buddy” hadn’t been the usual prey.


Tonight, though, the Latino stud had a mission.  He and Nick had gotten a consignment but somehow hadn’t found the right victim yet.  He’d roped in a cunt he’d found on Fremont Street, but the bitch hadn’t shown up.  Then Nick came back with one too fey and fem for Carlos to touch—it was wearing makeup, for fuck’s sake.  And now the deadline was running out; if footage wasn’t shot tonight, Nick wouldn’t have time to process it and get it to the client.  Hence Carlos’s late-night jaunt.


He was cruising nice and slow down Boulder Highway, heading east away from downtown.  Despite the chill in the air, he kept the top on the Benz down; since he was shirtless under his leather biker jacket, his large thick nips were rigid in the cool breeze.  His skintight jeans were tucked into a pair of tall black harness boots.  The streetlights glinted off his smooth-shaven head and illuminated the sharp angles of his black goatee.


He spotted the kid off to the left.  Under the brightly lit canopy of a gas station, a boy in his late teens or early twenties seemed to be asking a woman for something; as Carlos watched, she shook her head emphatically and climbed into an SUV.  She pulled away so fast the kid had to jump back; he started after her for a while, crestfallen, then turned and headed off into the darkness.


He was going north up a side street.  Carlos had to wait for a red light to make a U-turn; by the time he got back to the gas station and turned up same street, he was worried that he might’ve missed the punk.


He hadn’t.  Halfway down the street, the buff ex-con could see the boy under a streetlight, walking away from him.  The kid wore skintight jeans; Carlos could see the boy’s rounded asscheeks flexing forward with each step.


He knew he was gonna be slamming his thick raging cock into that tight ass within an hour; he just needed to bait the dumb fag the right way and the homo would be his to destroy—on film.


In the cool of the desert evening, the boy sported a denim jacket.  On his feet, he wore a pair of genuine shitkickers—square-toed cowboy boots that thumped heavily each time they hit the pavement.


The boy paused at the next street corner, looking thoughtfully down the cross street in both directions, as if deciding where to go next.  Carlos solved the problem by pulling up next to him.


“Need a lift?” the sadistic serial killer asked, his masculine face beaming as he smiled broadly.  The punk turned to look at him, and Carlos caught sight of his face under the light for the first time.


The kid was no more than twenty or twenty-one.  His hair was dark and short on the sides, slightly longer and wavy in the front and on top.  Under long dark lashes, his eyes were a beautiful shade of aqua blue.  There was a haze of short dark scruff along his cheeks and chin, and, as he turned to face Carlos, the latter could see that under his denim jacket, the boy was wearing a ribbed cotton wifebeater with a low scooped neck that showed off the tops of the cunt’s pecs, lightly dusted with a faint covering of dark fur.  It also showed that he was wearing a necklace—handmade, beads stung in a regular pattern on a string.


There was an eagerness in those deep blue eyes that told Carlos he’d made a good choice.  “Well, I, uh…actually, uh, I need money more than a ride,” the punk said, grinning.


“Yeah?” Carlos asked, his own grin taking on a salacious slant.  “Whatcha willin’ do to for it?”


For his part, the boy was almost leering now.  “Well, if the price is right, I’ll do almost anything.”


“Like gettin’ fucked?  On camera?”


The boy’s grin fell, and a worried look crossed his face.  “I, um, I been in some threeways and got my dick sucked—but no one’s been up my ass before.”  Despite his protestation, Carlos could see that the young faggot had a massive woody.  His jeans were too tight to be tented, but the outline of the long rigid shaft of boydick was obvious.


“One scene, and it pays a grand,” Carlos said encouragingly, knowing the fucker would be past caring about money by the time he was done.


“Oh fuck yeah!” the boy said and, darting into the street, grabbed the door handle of the red Mercedes, his greed so intense that it startled even Carlos, who hadn’t had time to unlock the door.  He popped the button and the boy jumped in hurriedly.


“It’s cash, right?  And I get it tonight?  Name’s Caleb, by the way.”


“Just call me Sam,” Carlos replied with a subtle smile, “And yeah, you’ll get it tonight.”


As Caleb buckled the seatbelt, Carlos called Nick quickly.  Caleb could only hear one end of the conversation.


“Hey, it’s me—Sam.  Yeah, that’s right, I got one.  Promised him standard rate—one grand for one scene.”  Here he turned and, smiling, winked at Caleb.  “Uh-huh, right.  Yeah, heading there now.  About twenty minutes, I’d say.  Make sure it’s all set up, I think this one’s ready to rock ‘n roll the moment we get there.”


He was right in his estimate of timing, but it seemed longer.  The homo was a talker, and even though Carlos habitually tuned his fagmeat’s words out, some of them always seeped in.  He managed to avoid the details of the pansy’s Midwestern upbringing or his bi-curious sexual fumblings, but he did pick up some random comments about coming to Vegas looking for work, not finding any, and being reduced to begging and turning tricks.  He admitted to sucking cock and giving handies but still claimed his ass was virgin.


The only thing that really caught Carlos’s attention in whoreboy’s monologue was that he’d left the Salvation Army four days ago.  He’d spent three nights in a homeless camp and last night in a motel room with a trick, where he was able to shower.  He was on his last set of clean clothes, but with what he got paid tonight, he chirped, he’d throw it all out and buy new gear.


—from all of which, Carlos learned that no one was gonna come looking for the fagmeat when it went missing.  Dumb babbling motherfucker was just digging its own grave.


As Carlos negotiated his way through the industrial warehouses that surrounded the “studio”, the whore started to turn amorous, stroking Carlos’s thick muscular leg next to him.  He was acting like he was on a date, and every time he laid his faggot hand on Carlos, the vicious ex-con felt the bitter taste of anger and hatred rising in his throat.


This little homo needed to be put down, hard and brutally.  The thought of ending its life in a nightmarish blast of pain and terror made the murderous sadist grin; his dick throbbed at the thought.  He could hold his anger back until they reached the studio—but after that, no guarantees.  The kid was dead meat, no matter what happened.


For Caleb, it seemed to be a blur.  A grand wouldn’t go far in Vegas, but it was so long since he’d had any amount that he was ecstatic at the thought of getting some cash.  And if he was gonna give up his hole, it might as well be to this stud.  The dude was so masculine that the deepest cockpig corners of Caleb’s soul came to life, responding to the rampant testosterone wafting off Carlos.


There were a number of red flags about the whole situation, but the boy was so horny and desperate for cash that he ignored the very few he noticed.  One big one showed up when they pulled into the parking lot and Carlos killed the engine.  In an area full of workers and a cacophony of noise during the business day, it was utterly deserted and silent at night.


Caleb was too busy watching Carlos’s ass, encased in tight blue denim, to notice.  He followed his killer into the building like a puppy.


The anteroom was dark as the crossed it, the only light being shed by the computer monitor as it played a screensaver.  Beyond, the bare, concrete-floored hallway was dark as well, but light spilled into it from an open doorway some little distance down, and that was obviously where they were heading.


Carlos quickly stepped aside and revealed a huge, bodybuilder of a man with long dark hair.  A bright red t-shirt was stretched to capacity across the man’s broad, hubcap-like pecs, to tight his nipples jutted up like fire hydrants.  The dude had on a pair of cargo shorts; some of the pockets were in use for various items, although the only one Caleb could immediately recognize was a light meter.  The man’s powerful, hairy calves were bare but vanished quickly, as he sported a pair of Ariat ten-inch Linesman boots.


“I’m Caleb,” the boy said, stepping forward and holding out his hand.  Nick looked at it momentarily.


“Go ahead and strip,” he said curtly, “Over there.”  He pointed into the darkness, and Caleb finally noticed his surroundings—a very large dark space with a concrete floor and metal walls and roof.  The near corner had been finished off to resemble part of a bedroom with several intensely bright lights that hung from the ceiling trained on it.  It was on a dais that was carpeted but nothing else was.  To the immediate right of the bed, a couple of long folding tables had been set up; these were covered with computers and video equipment, along with a couple of small tabletop lamps.


The place Nick had pointed was beyond that.  No lights, no furniture.  Discomfited, Caleb walked into the far corner and pulled his boots off, leaving Nick and Carlos to converse privately.


“Whaddaya think?” Carlos asked.


“It’s a good one,” Nick agreed, “But we’re down to the wire.  Gotta keep this one short and sweet.  Beat it, bang it, break it, yeah?”


Carlos nodded.  Nick didn’t need to hear a verbal response, the look of anticipatory bloodlust in the Hispanic killer’s cold sneer said more than words would have.


Caleb had peeled off every item he had on except his and his socks.  Even with the latter still on, though, he thought the concrete was cold.  When he walked back into the light, holding his clothes, he’d slipped his brown leather western boots back on.  His long, tapered boycock dangled thickly between his legs.


“Where can I put these?” he asked, his jacket, shirt and jeans in his arms.


“I’ll take them,” Nick said, grabbing them from him.  “You need to get on the bed.”


Again, Nick’s abruptness unsettled Caleb; he didn’t even know the dude’s name yet, but he was obviously the cameraman.  Still, he followed Carlos over to the set, pausing while the ex-con took off his leather jacket and laid it over the back of a chair in front of the worktable.


The punk didn’t even realized Carlos had unzipped his jeans until they reached the set platform and the stud turned around.  Caleb’s eyes widened at the sight of the shaft he’d agreed to take up his fuckhole.


“Um, I don’t—I don’t know…” he began hesitantly.


“You don’t know what, motherfucker?” Nick demanded, tossing the boy’s carefully-folded clothing onto the floor.


“Hey!” Caleb barked indignantly, “What the fuck, dude?”


“I’ll tell ya what the fuck, bro,” Carlos said, stepping closer.  The bright lights gleamed off the ex-con’s thickly-muscled torso and suddenly Caleb’s spell was broken and the full aura of menace the serial killer exuded hit the boy like a gravel truck.  The prison ink—the skull, the cross, the word “revenge” on his neck—it all spooked the whore.  Even the bright sparkle of the stud’s gold chain seemed sinister.  “Yer gonna die, that’s what the fuck.  See, I’m gonna beat the fuck outta ya, then rape yer virgin hole and snuff ya.  Nick here’s gonna film it all, cause lotsa guys will pay good money to watch a useless faggot like you get taken out.”


The young man’s face was beautiful when he grinned.  Even when that grin faltered, it was still beautiful, but now filled with uncertainty.  Caleb heard the words, but he refused to accept them literally.


“I, uh…dude, if this is a joke—HOOG!!”


Without the slightest warning, Carlos gutpunched Caleb, his huge, doubled-up fist slamming into the boy’s flat firm belly, sinking deeply into his guts.  The sudden intense pressure on his diaphragm forcibly expelled the air from the whore’s lungs.


With a gasping, terrifying sense of suffocation, Caleb sank to his knees and bent forward, his forehead touching the concrete.  Just for the moment, he wasn’t scared; he wasn’t even surprised.  He didn’t have the luxury to indulge in those emotions; everything had become subordinate to his need to breathe.


“Got the camera ready?” Caleb could hear Carlos ask.  “I really wanna fuck this one up before I waste it.”  Turning his head up, the kid saw with horror that the ex-con’s huge, rigid tool was oozing from the tip as he spoke.  The dude was sexually pumped at the thought of inflicting pain on him.


Gasping and wheezing, the slim, firm-bodied youth managed to force enough oxygen into his lungs to function.  The next reaction was instinctive and immediate—the imperative of air had been instantly replaced with the imperative of escape.  Rising unexpectedly to his feet, Caleb bolted for the door.


It took both Carlos and Nick by surprise.  It took just a moment for Carlos to respond, springing forward in angry pursuit, but by that time, Caleb had cleared the door and the frantic pounding of his bootheels echoed down the hallway as he fled for the exit.


He burst through the anteroom with Carlos right behind him, then veered right and plunged through the front door into the parking lot.  Except for his boots, he was still nude, his long rod slapping against his smooth thighs as he ran.


Carlos hadn’t had time to put his weapon away, either.  He emerged into the lot with his raging manshaft still dripping as he chased down his prey.


“Help!” Caleb cried, “HELP!  For fuck’s sake, someone help me—”


Then Carlos had him.


Grabbing the kid by the arm, he whirled him about and sucker-punched him in the jaw, hard.  Caleb was aware of a violent, painful sensation, but it happened too fast to sort out the details.  He wasn’t out, but he was badly stunned.  Agony bloomed in his mouth; his bottom lip was split, and he’d bitten through his tongue.


The nude boy spat blood onto the asphalt as Carlos caught him under his arms and dragged him back to his death.


Nick was at the door, grinning.  He held it open as the grunting, sweaty convict hauled the meat inside.  As a producer, he appreciated it when the fags fought back; it always made Carlos angrier and more violent.  Those videos generated the highest profits.


And Carlos was pissed now.  He dumped the moaning kid onto the bare cement floor, not even bothering to get him to the set.  Nick barely had enough time to pick up the camera and focus before the livid serial killer began literally putting the boot in, kicking Caleb brutally and repeatedly in the gut.  The kid gagged and cried out as the steel toes of the ex-con’s harness boots sank deep into his belly, damaging his spleen and liver.


Carlos paused for a moment, his hairy, muscled torso heaving with exertion and glistening with sweat under the bright overhead lights.  At his feet, Caleb was curled into a fetal position, sobbing and moaning.  Nick knelt down and zoomed in on the boy’s anguished face.


“How’s that feel, motherfucker?” he asked, “Hope yer likin’ it, cause he’s just gettin’ started on yer worthless ass.  By the time he’s done, yer own mama ain’t gonna recognize ya.”


Having caught his breath, Carlos raised his boot and used it to nudge the cunt over onto its back.  It didn’t resist, but it kept its hands crossed over its belly, protecting the area that hurt the worst.


Carlos merely aimed elsewhere.  Caleb opened his eyes to see the heavily-muscled Latino towering over him.  Looking up from floor level, the prettyboy slut got a menacing perspective, up the ex-con’s powerful legs to the enormous jutting cock, now dangling directly over him and dripping hot clear beads of precum.   Carlos leaned forward and spat on him; as he did, Caleb could see the broad furry expanse of his ripped abs and huge pecs.  The killer’s nipples were large and as hard as his cock and between them, the thick gold necklace twinkled—


—then Carlos raised his foot.  Caleb got a brief glimpse of the harness boot’s deep tread before it slammed down on his chest.  There was a cracking sound, like twigs breaking, as three of Caleb’s ribs caved in on the right side of his chest.  Carlos ground the boot into the flesh; he was deliberately trying to leave deep bruise showing the tread pattern.


Caleb couldn’t speak.  His abdomen was in excruciating pain and the broken ribs made it difficult to breathe.  He could see both Carlos and Nick bending over him, the two muscle studs grinning and savoring his pain.  He’d shoved aside his bewilderment over the how and why and was focused on stopping the pain.  He looked into the faces of his tormentors, his large soft eyes pleading for mercy.


They were met with cold contemptuous eyes, eyes filled with hate, with lust, with sadistic glee.


“Is it ready for your cock yet?” Nick asked with a smirk.


“Naw,” Carlos drawled, “Dumbass homo still don’t get it.  I still gotta beat some sense into it, make understand how fuckin’ worthless it is.”  And with that, he bent down, grabbed a hank of Caleb’s wavy brown hair, and lifted.


Despite the agony of movement, the slender whoreboy had to shift and scramble up onto his knees to avoid having his scalp torn.  Every time he bent his torso, the jagged ends of the broken ribs ground against each other and poked at his lungs, forcing a high-pitched squeal out of his tortured body.


“Fuckin’ pig,” Carlos snarled.  Holding Caleb upright on his knees with one hand, be began to beat the cunt in the face with the other. He made sure the pansy knew why it was happening, using the blows to emphasize his point.


“You goddam faggots need to die [SMACK, knocking out three teeth], and it needs to hurt bad [SMACK, blackening the left eye] so ya know just how much I fuckin’ hate [SMACK, breaking the right cheekbone] yer disgustin’ pervert asses. [SMACK, knocking out another tooth and splitting the upper lip] Hear me, cocksucker? [SMACK, blackening the right eye] Think yer a man? [SMACK, fracturing the jaw] Yer gonna die with a real man’s dick up yer ass, cunt! [WHAM, a roundhouse blow to the center of the boy’s face, smashing his nose with a wet crunch]”


Nick kept the entire scene in a tight frame.  It was perfect; he managed to capture the kneeling young faggot, on its knees in helpless submission as the booted, hard-dicked muscle stud beat its face in.  Every time Carlos’s fist plowed into the homo’s head, Nick’s camera caught the violence of the impact, the sound of flesh on flesh, the spatter of blood and mucus.


Finally, the ex-con let go of Caleb’s hair.  The pulped boywhore slumped to the floor in a state of semi-consciousness.  Carlos stood over it, shaking out his hand.  “Fucker’s got a hard head,” he joked to the camera, grinning.


Turning back, he shook his huge throbbing shaft over the huddled pile of moaning boymeat, letting hot clear drops of precum splatter on the kid’s heaving, sweat-slick skin.  “Ok, I think he’s ready now,” he told Nick.


The hulking cameraman didn’t know if the pronoun referred to the whore or to Carlos’s dick, and it didn’t matter.  “Help me with something first.  I got an idea for staging.  Here, pull that cart over by the bed.  That one, there, with the TV on it.”


Carlos, still wanting a chance to cool down after tenderizing his meat, grabbed the cart and positioned it while Nick readied his latest expensive camera.  “What’s this for?” he asked.


“I’ll show ya.  Drag the meat around the other side and toss it face down bent over the bed.  Let its legs dangle onto the floor.”


As Carlos manhandled Caleb’s limp body onto the stripped bed, Nick was fixing a webcam to the top of the TV that was now facing Carlos.


“See,” Nick explained, “Yer gonna bang the fucker from behind.  I gotta have something here that you can choke the bitch with—here, this’ll do—and you not only get to watch it die on the monitor, you can force the dumb cunt to watch itself die.”  His leer got more malignant as he spoke; when he finished, he reached down and unzipped his shorts, letting his own enormous throbbing tool out for some air.


Carlos, meanwhile, looked down at what Nick had tossed him.  “What is this—old-school stereo wire?  Aw hell yeah, fuckmeat,” he chuckled, nudging Caleb’s writhing form, “It’s fuckin’ on.  Hear me, faggot?  Yer gonna fuckin’ die and it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.”


Caleb had heard him.  Caleb, in fact, had heard every word they’d said as they staged his rape and murder.  He was already having difficulty breathing, and the slightest movement sent jagged shock waves of pain through his firm body.  As Carlos continued to position his body, the young whore knew that the hardbodied sadist was lying; death wouldn’t hurt.


Caleb wanted death.  With the same single-mindedness with which he’d once focused on the now-forgotten thousand dollars, he now sought an end to his suffering, and death was the only answer he could see.  No matter what they did, as long as it killed him, he’d be out of pain.  He wouldn’t resist.


Then Carlos impaled the slut’s virgin fuckhole with his freakish huge cock, slamming home in a single, brutal thrust that stretched Caleb’s asshole wider than it was meant to go.  For a fraction of a second, there was a ring of pressure around the massive engorged head of Carlos’s shaft as the punk’s sphincter reached the end of its elasticity.  The ex-con applied a little more—a lot more—pressure himself and felt a momentary spurting sensation as the youth’s asshole tore open.  Lubed with its victim’s blood, Carlos’s hog plunged remorselessly into the kid’s guts.  It ground roughly over Caleb’s prostate before lodging deep in his intestines, adding to the boy’s misery by stimulating an intense, if involuntary erection.


The fagwhore tried not to move.  It all hurt if he moved.  The vicious convict had filled him with cock, more than he could take, but he wasn’t moving.  As long as he didn’t move, maybe he could accept it.  Maybe he could handle the agony.  But even breathing caused him pain.  Maybe he should stop breathing—


—and then he did stop breathing, as the sex killer wrapped the strong copper wire around his throat and tightened it.


“Yeah, that’s it,” Carlos said, looking at the camera, “Gotta good one here.  Clenched up its fuckhole nice and tight when I cut off the air.”


“Nothin’ better than a deathpig that knows its place,” Nick chuckled in reply.  “Hey, cunt,” he called out, shoving his camera in Caleb’s panicked face, “Does it hurt good?  Ya likin’ it?  Look up here, meat, yer face it already turnin’ purple—what’s left of it, anyway, haw!”


Caleb was losing himself; a vast tide of sheer terror was sweeping him away.  He clutched at the bed momentarily, feeling the cheap fitted sheet scratching against the nascent chest hair on his firm, bruised chest, then the clawing began.


“Yeah, cunt, fight it,” Carlos grunted and finally started fucking him.  Despite the sudden terrifying inability to breath, the sudden introduction of this unimaginable agony temporarily distracted Caleb.  The hardbodied ex-con was plowing his ass with jackhammer-like intensity, his insanely thick, vein-wrapped shaft reaming out the boy’s colon like a plumbing snake, shredding the nerve-rich rectal lining.


And yet even as he choked and gagged and struggle weakly and ineffectually to escape from this ongoing nightmare of agony, the whore was still aware in the depths of its pig soul that it was hard, and its own cock was starting to leak…


And then the pounding began.  In its head, in its chest, its racing heart furnished the tempo for its panicked horror.  It dug frantically at its neck, its nails digging deep and clawing bloody furrows in the flesh.  At some point, it clutched at its own bead necklace, snapping the string and sending the beads pattering over the bed.  The necklace had meant a lot to Caleb; Sarah made him that, and he’d gone longer with her than any other chick.  It was part of what made him Caleb.  But there was no more Caleb, only a feral animal, fighting desperately for its life.


“Now it’s gettin’ good,” Carlos said, again speaking into the camera directly to his fans.  “See, once it starts strugglin’, its fuckhole tightens up on my hawg real good.  Not as good as later, when it’s dyin’, sure, but enough to milk me good.”


The panic won out.  Caleb’s hands left his throat and he grabbed handfuls of the sheet, trying to dig into the mattress, to get some kind of purchase—trying to pull himself off Carlos’s dick.


He was trapped and utterly helpless, unable to move the slightest inch.  His vision was going weird and there was a humming in his ears almost as loud as the pounding—but still he struggled.  And then he felt weight, pressure—Carlos was laying on top of him.  The serial killer still kept the wire tight around his throat, but he was only using one hand.  The other he used to reach around and grab Caleb’s jaw in a viselike grip, grinding the fractured bones together for a new source of suffering.


But more than that was the mindfuck.  Carlos lifted Caleb’s head and forced him to watch the TV screen.


Through his distorted, bulging eyes, the faggot could see a face on the screen that looked like a grotesque caricature of his own.  Swollen, blackened and bleeding, it was a taut mask of suffering and fear from which his tongue protruded sickeningly.  And even though he couldn’t feel it, he could see the drool bubbling out from between his thick purple lips and dangling off his chin in foamy streamers.


It was all being captured by the camera on top of the TV.  Nick had shifted his position for the moment and had gone around to the other side of the bed.  For a few moments, he closed in on their legs—both of them with their boots on the floor, Carlos’s thick, denim-wrapped legs on the outside, his harness boots flexing with each deep thrust of the sadist’s hips.  Caleb’s smooth, firm legs were pinned between, his shitkickers sliding on the floor as he struggled.


“Watch it, bitch,” Carlos hissed, “Watch yerself die.  Lookit how black yer face is gettin’.  You been without air for a coupla minutes, cunt—how much longer can ya hold out?”  As he spoke, Nick pulled back from the boot footage and came around, kneeling on the bed and zooming the camera in on the punk’s face; Caleb was aware that the long-haired hardman’s cock was just inches from his face, but that meant nothing to him now.


Nothing meant anything—nothingness meant everything, if he could achieve it.  The agony he was enduring was soul-shattering; what little was left of his lucid mind had long since retreated, screaming, into the dark recesses of his psyche.  What remained was a panicked meat scrambling uselessly for its life, with no consideration for its next course of action.  It just needed to get away.


“It’s tryin’ to get up off yer dick, bro,” Nick laughed.  He pointed the camera at Caleb’s twisted, tear- and snot-streaked back, “Must think it’s got someplace to go.  Haw—you ain’t even going to yer grave, cocksucker.  You ain’t worth the effort or diggin’ one.  Yer gonna be dead in another two or three minutes, and then we’re gonna dump yer ass in the desert to rot.”


As Nick spoke, a change was coming over Caleb.  Carlos was experienced enough as a sex killer to recognize the signs just by the way meat was gipping his dick inside its rectum.  The boy was reaching a tipping point; in a few more moments, the brain damage would be irreversible.  Actual brain death wouldn’t be far behind.


Time to give his fans their money shot.


Still plowing the shuddering whore relentlessly, Carlos raised himself up off the boy and spoke directly to the camera.  “Yo, dudes, ya wanna see the best part?  Watch this shit.”


He pulled back on the wire, now so deeply embedded in Caleb’s neck that it couldn’t be seen.  The fag’s head was pulled back until it could go no further; then, his inked biceps bulging with the effort, Carlos pulled the fucker up off the bed as well.  Nick was able to get a shot of the kid’s heaving chest, imprinted with the tread of his killer’s boot.  Further down, Caleb’s long boycock stood erect from a mass of brown curly pubes.


“Meat’s good for edgin’, but when yer done, ya only get one chance.  Watch this—I’ll show ya how to use faggots to milk out yer load as they die.  Trust me, dudes, it feels so fuckin’ good.”


He grinned and stuck his tongue out at the camera.  Beneath him, riding his pulsating shaft, Caleb’s tongue was also out—as were his hands, splayed helplessly in front of him and clawing at the air as if trying to reach directly into the camera for help.


“Yeah…that’s it, cunt…work it…almost there, faggot,” the musclebound ex-con muttered as his dick plunged into the dying slut’s asshole, “Fuck yeah…yeah…yeah…fuck yeah!”


Carlos’s face twisted with the intensity of his approaching orgasm.  His whole body seemed to tighten, his muscles swelling with the final effort of the snuff.  “FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCKIN’ DIE, YA PIECE A’ FAGGOT SHIT!!”


With a loud grunt, the powerful killer tightened the wire around Caleb’s neck so deeply it nearly cut the homo’s throat.  With an audible crunch, the fucker’s esophagus collapsed into a thick wad of mangled cartilage.


There was no more Caleb, but the piece of flesh that had been him (and was still technically alive) responded, as much to brain death as to the crushing of its windpipe.  It jerked violently, froze rigidly for a single brief moment, then spewed a single steady stream of cum from its rock-hard rod for more than twenty seconds.


As the dead whore spilled its boycum over the sheets, the camera captured a different shower of spunk.  Nick, who was still kneeling on the bed, spattered the fag’s face with his own load, his huge hard body jerking and heaving as he unloaded.  Thick gobs of semen coated the homo’s protruding tongue and eyes.


Behind him, Carlos got what he’d been aiming for.  When the meat shot its death load, its colon spasmed violently; the punk’s dying convulsions only added to the sensation of hungry velvety suction.  With an inarticulate cry, the buff convict flooded the homo’s guts with his seething hot manseed.


It took nearly a minute for the three of them to pump their balls dry.  They all fell limp on the bed, two of them gasping and all three twitching.  After another minute or so, both Nick and Carlos had recovered enough to get up.  Carlos extracted his massive hog from the corpse as Nick shut the cameras off.


“Think we got ourselves a gold mine with this one,” the long-haired stud said.  Carlos grinned and headed for the door.


“Gonna go wash up,” he said he headed down the hall towards the bathroom.


Nick just used an old cleaning cloth to wipe off his dick before stuffing it back into his shorts; even though it was already semi-soft, it still took some maneuvering to get the massive tube confined again.  He collected the pile of Caleb’s clothes and tossed them on the bed.  Then he walked around to the other side, bent down and grabbed the dead homo’s still-twitching boots, and shoved the corpse into the center of the bed.


When Carlos came back into the room, Nick had just pulled the fitted sheet loose and wrapped everything on the bed up in it, a nice, tidy bundle containing the cum-filled fagmeat and its clothes.  “Help me get this into the bed of my truck real quick,” he told Carlos.


Even as dead weight the fag whore caused the two buff musclemen little difficulty.  They tossed it into the back of the pickup like a sack of dirty laundry.


“You need help dumpin’ the garbage?” Carlos asked.


“Naw, I found a good spot coupla weeks ago,” Nick replied, “As long as I can find my way back out there in the dark, it’ll be easy.”


And it was.  Carlos left, and Nick followed him till they got to the highway.  Then Carlos turned and went south, towards downtown, while Nick headed north, away from town and into the desert.  Thirteen miles north of the city limits, he exited and drove west down a small road that lead to a cement plant.


Half a mile short of the plant, there was a dirt road running north/south; it was a service road for a long line of electrical pylons that ran past the horizon.  Nick had already scouted the area and knew that the road crossed a gully some three miles north, equidistant between two pylons.  His truck had four-wheel drive, so he had no difficulties when he reached gully and turned to the west, off-road.


He only went some two hundred yards from the road.  At this point, the gully deepened from a few feet to more than two dozen.  Nick’s boots crunched in the sandy soil as he jumped out of his cab, and he paused to look up.  Out here, away from the city, the night sky was amazing.  The hardbodied stud gazed upwards, entranced for a few moments, then retrieved the still-quivering corpse from the bed of his truck.


Carrying it to the gully, he tossed it in, hearing the rattling, avalanche-like sounds as it tumbled and slithered its was down into the depths.  Returning to his truck, he to another lingering, longing look at the sky.  “Just beautiful,” he muttered, “Wonder if I have a camera good enough for night shots…”


He climbed back in; his truck roaring its way back out of the desert.  Within fifteen minutes of his departure, the dust had settled.  It was if he’d never been there.


There were to be no sneering cops or sobbing kinfolk for Caleb; his body was dumped too far from regular human activity to be noticed.  That didn’t mean that it went undiscovered, though.  As arid and lifeless as the desert seems, it supports a tremendous diversity of life, much of which turns scavenger from sheer necessity.


Fresh meat is never wasted in the wild.


It had been a rough week at work.


Joe felt tense and restless.  He usually enjoyed his work—a lot—but sometimes, some people made it unpleasant, especially when they fought—well, it didn’t matter.  It was over.  But Joe couldn’t relax.


He turned to his usual resource in times like these—the hookup app on the various phones he’d collected.  He no longer remembered who they’d belonged to; occasionally, he’d dump one to make sure activity couldn’t be traced back to him—but he’d pick up a new one as well, now and then.  It all balanced out.


The one he picked up at random was a white iPhone 6.  It had several apps uploaded; Joe chose one, again at random.  Then he leaned back on the sofa and casually scanned through the posts.  The first two pages were a mix of scrawny, effeminate twinks, bald pudgy trolls and obvious fakes using airbrushed models’ photos as profile avatars.  It wasn’t till he hit the third page that something caught Joe’s eye.


The kid looked like he was in his early twenties, and his profile said twenty-three.  His chestnut-colored hair was soft and wavy with long bangs, but there was a certain cast to his face betrayed a lack of youthful innocence behind the young face.  The boy’s hazel eyes, wide and long-lashed were slightly sunken and underneath, the flesh was just starting to sag and become lined.


The kid was a whore, and probably a junkie.


That he was a whore was certain; it was part of his profile:


“—Clint, 23, 4.8 miles

Looking for:  generous daddy

Preferred position:  all up in me

Favorite activity:  you pay you pick I do it all”


There were a couple more photos, showing Clint in nothing but bikini shorts.  He had a swimmer’s build, slim with taut wiry muscle.  A light coat of dark brown hair furred his belly, condensing into a dark line that ran down to his groin, vanishing beneath the waistband of the shorts.


The part about being a junkie was just something that Joe felt; there was nothing to prove, or even specifically indicate it.  But the dark circles under the whore’s eyes, the vague hint of pallor on the boy’s skin—Joe had seen that before.


Yeah, this one could get used.  No one would miss it; no one could care.  He could have some fun with the faggot and then—well, not put it out of its misery, no.


It was gonna endure a fuck of a lot more misery before he was done with it.


The first thing Joe had done when he’d gotten home was take a shower; he still wasn’t dressed.  He took a quick selfie torso shot, nothing above the shoulders or below the waist.  He replied to the post with the image, then strolled casually to the dresser to put some clothes on.  He already knew it wouldn’t be a matter of if the whore would respond back, but when.  And he suspected that it’d be sooner than later.


The stupid cunts always responded back.


The buff hardman pulled on a pair of jeans, so tight that damn near every vein on his huge cock was visible, and so worn they felt like suede, cinching it to his narrow waist with an inch-wide black leather belt.  Over this went a plain white t-shirt, clean but just as tight as the jeans.  He slipped on a pair of Chippewa eight-inch steel-toed boots, leaving them loosely laced and untied.


It was then that the phone buzzed.  Joe had been right; the little whore had responded.


“Fuk yeah daddy 100 and u can do what u want make me ur bitch rm 118”


Accompanying the notification was a location tag.  Joe didn’t know the Tavern Inn, but he was familiar enough with the part of town it was in to have a pretty good idea of what the place would be like.


Yeah, he could have some fun with this one, and no one would complain.  Whores of every gender were found dead in that neighborhood on a monthly, if not weekly, basis.


Grinning, the muscled killer paused in front of the mirror.  The jeans tucked onto the boots, the t-shirt so tight his large nipples tented the thin cotton stretched across his broad pecs…yeah, there was no way any fag whore was gonna be able to resist.  But still, it was a chilly evening…


When he stepped back in front of the mirror, he’d donned a black leather aviator jacket, zipping it up only a couple of inches from the waist.  It completed the outfit and Joe, satisfied, headed out.


Three highway exits and four stoplights later, the homicidal stud pulled his Camaro into the parking lot of the motel.  It was a one-story L-shaped building running back from the street, with the office a separate cinderblock structure across from the end of the hotel building.  No street number was visible, but the backlit sign stretched across the façade of the office read “Tavern Inn”.  Under that was a poster that read “Newly renovated—rooms by the week or month available!”


Turning in, Joe drove past the office and back into the motel lot.  Room 118 turned out to be in the far corner, near the end of the building.


Avoiding the potholes in the in the poorly-maintained parking lot, Joe parked at the far side, up against a vine-engulfed chain link fence that separated the motel property from the auto body lot next door.  He wasn’t too close to room 118 but he could cross the lot straight from his car without having to pass in front of any other rooms.


It got better; a glance back at the office showed a car pulling in and stopping at the entrance.  Anyone on duty was about to be needed at the front desk.  He was out of the car and striding across the lot in a heartbeat, the thick treaded soles of his boots making faint grinding sounds on the loose surface of the deteriorated asphalt.


The door in front of him was a faded turquoise.  He gave three sharp taps, it popped open and he stepped in unseen.


It was perfect; the fuckmeat had invited him in of its own free will.


Inside, the room was dim, but Joe had no problem focusing on Clint.  The well-used young rentboy was wearing nothing but red gym shorts and a pair of red and black Adidas Pro Model kicks.  He stood near the center of the room, his lean, firm body silhouetted by the bedside lamp directly behind him.


The sheets on the queen-sized bed were tangled into a mass off to one side; they looked cheap and thin, but they at least appeared clean.  True to the sign out front, the room did seem to have been remodeled, judging by the hastily-installed paneling and the slapdash paint job.  Some of the furniture looked as if it had been expensive at one point, but it was mismatched, marred, and at least a decade out of fashion—possibly leftovers from a hotel liquidation broker.  The heavy musk of mansex and various kinds of smoke was undercut by the sharper tang of paint and toxic chemicals from the cheap paneling.


Clint noticed Joe looking around.  “It’s cheap,” he said without any tinge of embarrassment.  “I usually Uber to a trick’s place but I went on a rock binge this afternoon.  Dude offered me some and after I left him, I blew all my cash on more.  Damn—crack’s great, but the down sucks after.  Anyways, now you’re here.  You got the cash?”


Joe smiled.  He did have it, and he pulled out his wallet to prove it, opening it up and letting the slut see the Franklin nestled inside.  The moment Clint reached for it, though, he closed it back up and slid it back into his pocket.


“Uh-uh,” he said brusquely, “Afterwards.  Let’s see if ya deserve it all first.”


There was a brief flash of fire in Clint’s eyes, a last flicker of a human soul that resented the dishonor of the insult.  Then it was gone, as the whore won out.  The punk smiled.  “Time yer done with me, daddy, you’ll wanna take care of me for the rest of my life.”


It was Joe’s turn to grin.  “If yer that good, boy, I may do just that.  Now get outta them shorts and let’s see what I’m payin’ for.”


Clint grinned and began shucking off his shorts.  While he did so, Joe slipped out of his leather jacket, laying it carefully on the back of an upright chair, then peeled off his shirt as well.  His last action before turning back to face the whoreboy was to unzip his fly and extract his freakishly large cock.


The look on Clint’s face when he saw Joe’s monster hog was pure awe.  The kid wasn’t badly hung himself, with nearly eight inches of thick stiff boymeat, but it looked like an overcooked frankfurter compared to the buff fagkiller’s tackle.  Joe noticed Clint’s intimidation and grinned maliciously.


“Ya ready to service my dick, boy?  Ready to give it what it deserves?” he jeered as the hot young punk approached slowly, mouth agape and hand reaching out to take Joe’s huge manhood.  There was something in the older man’s tone of voice, though, that made Clint pause—not a red flag, just a hint of something half-acknowledged.  The rentboy hesitated, giving Joe a good once-over.


The dude was certainly his type; older, erotically masculine, incredibly well-built.  From his boots and thickly-muscled legs wrapped in denim, up past his gigantic jutting cock, to the coarse, wiry fur spread heavily across his ripped abs and the broad mound of his pecs, the stranger had everything Clint wanted in a man.   And there was something more, something unseen, just below the surface—a hard, cold edge that the slut to which the slut somehow found himself attracted…


“Yeah,” he said breathily, “I’m ready to service it, bro.  Whaddaya want me to do?”


“Aw, that’s easy,” Joe grinned, “I want you to suffer.”  Clint was only briefly aware of movement on his left side before Joe’s fist slammed into his jaw like a runaway train, stunning the whoreboy and knocking him to the floor.


Dazed and groaning, Clint rubbed his aching face, feeling his split lips and swelling skin.  Blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, he looked up just in time to see Joe lock the room door and slip the chain on.  As the buff sadist turned and headed back towards him, Clint swiveled into a half-sitting position and spoke up, his voice weak and shaky.


“Wh-what th’ fuck, dude?” he whined, “What’s that for?”  He had to crane his neck as Joe loomed over him, cock dangling just above his head.


Joe answered in action, not words.  He kicked Clint in the belly, the rigid steel toe of his Chippewa boot sinking deeply into the punk’s firm, flat belly.


“HOOG!!” the whore spat out as his breath was violently expelled.  Clutching his injured gut, the kid fell over and writhed on the floor.


“Stupid piece a’ shit,” Joe drawled casually, “I toldja I wanted you to suffer.  I wanna see you hurt.  The more pain yer in, the more I get off.  Ya feel me, bitch?  Not yet?  Don’t worry, you will.  You gotta work for my load, cunt, and these little love taps don’t even count as foreplay.”


As Clint huddled and sobbed on the floor, Joe raised his leg and stomped on the kid, driving the tread of his boot deep into the soft, smooth flesh on the boy’s back and leaving a detailed black bruise.  It was too much for the young rentboy; he rolled to the side and scrambled on the floor, gasping and desperate to escape.  Clawing at the foot of the bed, he managed to get enough leverage to raise himself upright.


But there was nowhere for him to go.  And Joe was right there.


“Hey, motherfucker, where ya goin’?” the older man said, and Clint turned to look at him.  The kid’s hazel eyes were huge with fear and bewilderment, but there was something else, too—a wounded look, as if the punk had no right to expect such treatment.


Joe’s sense of homicidal contempt shifted into high gear.  The boy was a faggot whore.  If he didn’t already know that this was exactly what he deserved, Joe was gonna go to great lengths to ensure that he learned it thoroughly.


Clint open his mouth to speak but he never got a chance.  Joe clocked him in the side of the head, a stunning blow that sent the rentboy staggering across the room into the dresser.  The nude whore clutched at the furniture to keep from falling.


When he looked up, Joe was coming at him, fists—and dick—upraised.


“NO!” Clint screamed, now truly scared, “Stop!  I didn’t do nothin’—”


Whatever the slut thought he could do to avoid the inevitable was useless.  The thickly-muscled hardman descended upon him like the wrath of God, fists raining down blows of unbelievable force.  As the young whore got the living fuck beat out of him, he sank to the floor, arms raised above his head to ward off the hammer-like impacts.


That pissed Joe off.


“Quit fightin’ me, faggot, and take yer fukkin’ beating.  The more you resist, the more I gotta hurt ya.”  Here Joe bent down, thrusting his hard, grinning, masculine face into the kid’s weeping countenance, “And believe me, motherfucker, I wanna hurt you.”


He kicked out hard, swiftly, twice, and was rewarded each time with the crunch of bone as his boot made contact with Clint’s ribs.  The fuckmeat squealed, a bleating, despairing cry of helpless pain.  Joe’s engorged cock throbbed with pleasure at the sound.


“Yer mine, asswipe,” he told the terrified rentboy, “Mine to use how I want.  Mine to beat to hamburger and fuck raw.  Mine to use and leave behind like cum-soaked toilet paper.  Hear me, motherfucker?  I wanna cum and I’m gonna use you to do it.”


Under other circumstances, the diatribe he’d just heard might have made Clint horny, but the beating he’d suffered drove all thoughts of sex out of his mind.  He’d gotten hold of a crazy john.  He’d heard stories of dangerous tricks who did…things…to the dudes they’d hired, but Clint was too smart for that shit.


This wasn’t happening to him.  It couldn’t.  He was too smart…


…but if he was so smart, why did he hurt so bad?


Then Joe clenched a hank of his thick brown hair and hoisted him aloft.  The pain was excruciating; Clint thought that his scalp was being torn off, but it only lasted until Joe had got him up off the floor.  Then the hardbodied killer grabbed the kid by the throat, releasing his hair and holding him straight out.  Joe’s right bicep bulged with power needed to keep the whoreboy’s Adidas Pros dangling inches above the carpet; as Clint watched wide-eyed in choking horror, a vein in the buff sadist’s arm began to throb.


Clint kicked wildly.  Staring the gagging slut in the face and sneering with contempt, Joe calmly and carefully turned and walked to the small round table in the corner of the room.  Unmatched to anything else in the room, it was small and incredibly flimsy, with a particleboard surface inadequately covered by a paper-thin veneer.  Together with an aluminum-framed chair, it served as a desk, but it didn’t allow much room for work given that it also supported a thirty-two-inch no-name flat screen TV.


It allowed even less room to work once Joe rammed Clint’s head right through it.


It didn’t take much effort to punch the cunt’s skull through the thin particleboard, but the force broke Clint’s nose and lacerated his cheek.  As he hit the floor, the rentboy had the brief, lucid thought that he’d be off his game until his face healed.  Then the pain hit.


“Owwww…” he moaned, “Dude…don’t do this… give ya anything ya want…”


“Yeah,” Joe said evenly, “Ya sure will.”


He bent down and grabbed Clint’s ankles, slowly dragging him out form under the table.  The kid was half-stunned still, but he could feel the motion and fear rose within him, a bitter taste like bile in the back of his throat as his taut young body throbbed in pain.


He couldn’t get out of this himself.  He needed help, and he needed it now.


“HELP!!” he shrieked, turning his face towards the door, “IN HERE!!  FUCKING HELP OH GOD OH SHIT—GAAGHGHK!!!”


Again, Joe responded with the icy precision of a professional killer.  He dropped Clint’s legs, stepped up to the boy’s head and raising his leg, stomped the whore’s face, swiftly, powerfully, brutally.


He ground the heel of his Chippewa boot into the faggot’s mouth, his dick pulsating each time he heard the crack of Clint’s jaw snapping.  The cunt gurgled and coughed, hacking up half a dozen of its teeth as the twisted hardman crouched over it and spit in its face.


“That’ll keep ya quiet, fuckmeat.  Now shut up and get ready for my dick.”


He snagged the rentboy by the throat again; lost in a vast space of fiery agony, Clint felt a faint weightlessness as he was tossed onto the bed on his back.  The impact wasn’t as severe as others he’d already endured, but anything that caused the jagged edges of broken bones to grind together deep inside him caused inexpressible suffering.


Joe knew that and planned to take advantage of it.  Of course, he needed to be in the right place to do so.


As Clint writhed and moaned in horrible pain, Joe climbed up on the bed, hoisted Clint’s red kicks up to his shoulders, bending the agonized punk in half, and started probing the slut’s anus with the cue-ball-sized head of his dick.  The boy could feel the pressure and he knew what was coming next.  He didn’t want it.


His head and face were afire with horrific pain—to the point that his prior injuries weren’t even distant memories—and every attempt to vocalize was cut short by instant agony.  His hands were still free, though, and the moment Joe started to force his member into Clint, the cunt responded with a frenetic, clawing frenzy.


The boy’s hands rose up like embattled birds of prey, talons gaping wide, searching for any weak spot.  The impetus given them by Clint’s sheer panic gave them a force the used-up whoreboy could never have attained in the usual course of his wasted life.  His fingers raked Joe’s face, nails digging into the dark, wiry scruff covering the killer’s jaw—not quite enough to draw blood, but much more than enough to piss Joe off.


It was a simple disarming move, so to speak; one Joe had often used on the job.  Batting Clint’s left arm away, he wrapped his right arm around it and twisted, forcing the sweaty, gasping youth to strain as hard as he could to stop his arm from being bent backwards at the elbow.


Clint failed, of course.  He knew he was gonna fail, and so did Joe—which was why the sick killer felt such an erotic rush as he gazed into the terrified whore’s huge dark eyes just before he ripped the kid’s elbow socket apart like it was a chicken carcass.  There was a gristly cracking sound and the rentboy howled in inarticulate agony, his slim firm body rigid and trembling as it tried to process the trauma.


He was still howling when Joe plowed his massive cock up the kid’s ass in a single powerful thrust.  Clint’s screams suddenly spiraled up past an audible pitch.  The sound he was emitting was more like a ragged wheeze than a cry of pain—not that he wasn’t in pain.


Clint’s physical suffering was so intense it was nearly hallucinatory; he had a sense that none of this was happening—that he was already dead and was being tormented for his sins.  He’d asked this muscle-bound stud over to give him a nice hard fuck—and at a discount; he’d been horny—and the sudden explosion of violence and pain, with no warning at all, had traumatized his psyche as much as the beatdown had damaged his body.


He was getting fucked now, but this wasn’t what he wanted.  Even the fuck itself, as Joe’s enormous unlubed member tore open his unprepared sphincter and ground roughly over his prostate, caused him unspeakable agony.  And his arm…oh fuck, his arm—


“Yeah, fucker, yer just what I was lookin’ for tonight,” Joe commented with a wicked grin as his well-developed torso, gleaming with a slight film of perspiration under the dim light, pumped rhythmically between Clint’s smooth thighs.  “I needed a piece of meat to work my frustrations out on.  I can jack yer worthless ass up as much as I want, and ain’t no one gonna care what happens to cheap fag whore, amiright?”


Clint wasn’t looking and he was trying not to listen.  In fact, he’d come pretty damn close to putting himself into a trance state—not because he was adept in meditation, but as an instinctive reaction to protect what was left of his fracturing mind from this excruciating nightmare.  He had gone utterly limp, and since every movement brought forth new waves of nauseating pain, he let his tight young body flow with Joe’s thrusts, matching the sadistic top’s vigorous pumping.  It somehow seemed to make everything hurt less.


“Uh-uh, cunt.  Yer goin’ slack on my hog, meat.  Ya got all nice and tight when you were sufferin’ an’ now yer actin’ like a cocktease.  That pisses me off, motherfucker.  I showed ya my money, yeah?  And you said whatever I wanted…”


Joe’s voice trailed off as he reached down to his crotch with both hands.  The kid hadn’t been able to shut out his assailant’s cruel taunts, but he was gonna keep pairing his motion with that of Joe’s as long as he could.  It was only a sound—a familiar metal clank—that brought him back into hellish reality.


The sound was a belt being unbuckled.  Clint couldn’t lift his head much, but he could see Joe on his knees, Clint’s own legs wrapped around his waist.  His sculpted, hirsute torso flexed with each powerful thrust of the hips.  And without missing a beat, the handsome killer was slowly pulling his belt from around his tight waist, winding the long black leather strap around his hand.  Once it was completely off, he unwound it and passed the tip back through the buckle, making a simple but effective garrote.


Grinning, he kept eye contact with Clint the entire time.


He finally dangled it out over the boywhore’s heaving chest.


“You know what this is for, dontcha?”  It was more a statement than a question.  “You know how this is gonna end.  It’s happened to plenty of yer fag whore buddies, yeah?  Now it’s your turn, bitch.


Clint’s hazel eyes were huge with panic.  Despite the horrific agony of his mangled mouth, he tried to plead for his life.  He’d heard the stories…and there was his old fuckbuddy Rick, they never caught the guy who did that…


This involuntary defense mechanism—drifting off into inconsequentia—was abruptly terminated as Joe slipped the leather noose over Clint’s head and tightened it.  From that moment on, Clint was in the here and now, fighting for every last second of his useless life.


This was the point Joe was hard for—the way the cunts always thrashed and jerked when he began throttling their life out.  The most reamed-out whorefucks invariably locked their assholes around his shaft as death set in and they panicked, and this one was no different.


Clint’s left arm was useless, but his right worked fine; as his battered and bruised face began to swell and darken even further, he clawed frenetically at the thick leather strap encircling his throat.  It was already sunken so deep that he couldn’t get his fingers under it—all he did was tear at his own flesh until he drew blood.


The rentboy’s lithe young body was awash in physical misery; the symptoms of asphyxia that began to occur only added to his suffering.  The tight, fiery ache in his chest, the overwhelming pounding in his head, the excruciating pressure on his throat—and through it all, he was fully aware of the killer’s huge hog plowing his guts.  And his own erection.


The dude was snuffing him and fucking him like a rutting boar—and he was so fuckin’ hard it hurt.


Somehow that scared him most of all.  It set off a blind panic that transferred the meat’s attention from the belt around its throat to the stud holding the belt; in a flash, the whore’s hand came up, scrambling and digging at Joe’s face.  Even an experienced killer can be caught off guard, and this was one of those occasions; Joe jerked his head back and arced back to keep his face out of the flailing kid’s reach.  Instead, the desperate hand first beat on the buff killer’s broad, muscled chest, then snatched a thick fistful of the older man’s chest hair.  When it jerked back, it didn’t manage to pull out any of the sadist’s fur—but it did manage to piss him off.


“Goddam motherfucker,” he growled, grabbing the punk’s wrist with his free hand while keeping the belt tight around its neck with the other.  Slamming the slut’s arm down on its chest, he grabbed its index finger and bent it backwards.


“Just don’t get it, ya dumbass fuck?” Joe snarled, “You only exist to make me cum when you die [CRACK].”  The unfortunate whore wasn’t able to scream as its finger was broken, but with his dick, Joe could feel the way the pain registered in its ass.  He grinned with pleasure and moved on to the next finger.


“You need to stop fightin’ me, faggot, and die like the fuckin’ slutpig you are [CRACK].”  Again, the meat clenched its sphincter in agony.  Joe held the belt around its throat steady, neither increasing nor decreasing the pressure.  The bitch’s air was sealed off—but it was still reversible, and the whore knew it.  It didn’t matter what Joe said, it had to believe it could survive.


Good.  The more it suffered, the more it milked Joe’s cock.  He moved on to the third finger.


“You know it yerself, asswipe; you know this is why you were put on this planet.  That’s why yer pathetic fag dick is hard [CRACK].”  Blackened and twisted in nightmarish pain, the punk’s once-handsome face had become a grotesque mask of agony.  Its wavy hair was dark and matted with sweat, the hazel eyes were red with hemorrhages and bulging frantically from their sockets.  A swollen purple tongue protruded from the loose, mangled mouth as foamy drool oozed down its chin.


And even so, there was still some Clint left inside to hear Joe’s words, and as his brain progressively died of oxygen deprivation, the sadistic sex killer’s perverted logic made sense to the young rentboy.  And when the next blast of pain came, some sick part of him was eager for it.  When Joe bent the pinky finger not backward but outward, off the side of the hand, Clint had become an almost mindless being, living solely for the sake of the next intense stimulus—looking for one intense enough for…but the lucid thought was interrupted.


Joe was close; he could feel his hot potent seed churning in his huge, hairy sack, but he still had some last rage to vent, and he did it by using the whore’s face as a punching bag, pounding the fucker with both left and right jabs, transferring the belt from one hand to the other.  With each blow, the cunt’s firm smooth body jerked violently; the legs curled and kicked.


If the whore hadn’t already suffered irreversible brain damage, Joe’s beating would have had the same effect.  As it was, the punk flailed violently enough to kick off the Adidas Pro on its left foot; the sneaker tumbled to the floor as the toes curled in death agony inside the white ped sock.


And still some part of Clint held on.  Something more, yes, it needed something more.


Joe could feel his dick begin to tingle and swell.  He could also feel the rentboy’s hot rigid shaft pressed against his own furry ripped abs; the fuck was still hard even after he’d pulped its face.  It wasn’t dead yet.  He could still see the huge puppy-dog eyes, now red and staring.  He was about to blow, and the fag didn’t deserve to see it.


He splayed out his huge strong hand and pressed it onto the slut’s ruined face.  At the same time, he dug his Chippewa boots into the bed, wrapped the end of the belt a couple of time around his other hand, and gave it a brutally powerful jerk.


In a fraction of a second, the whoreboy’s esophagus collapsed just above the larynx, the cartilage crushed into a wad of gristle.  At the same time, three cervical vertebrae—C2, 3 and 4—were dislocated, mangling the spinal cord.


The tiny spark of painpig soul left in the cheap whore finally found justification for its ultimate orgasm in death.  As the massive trauma to its central nervous system sent the cunt’s slim but strong body into violent convulsions, it began to spew semen from its hard thick rod like an oil well striking a gusher.


Joe felt the hot spray of boycum on his thickly-furred belly at the same time he felt the punk’s rectum grip his pulsing tool and milk his load out as if there was a conscious effort to make him shoot.


“Fuckin’ die, ya worthless faggot!” Joe roared, and as he hosed the meat’s intestines with his seething manload, he jerked the belt again, ripping the bitchboy’s spinal cord out of its skull.  The meat responded with one last violent jerk, the limbs drawing in and wrapping around Joe as if giving its killer one last embrace.


Then the whore flopped back, quivering and trembling, utterly owned and used.


Joe collapsed on top of it, heaving and spent, the weight of his furry muscled body pressing the shuddering corpse into the mattress.  After a few minutes, he’d caught his breath and began the slow process of peeling his cum-matted chest off the corpse’s torso while simultaneously extracting his still-oozing hog from its ass.


Climbing off the bed, he headed for the bathroom, his boots echoing loudly off its tiled surfaces.


The smell of new grout was overwhelming; even the thin, rough towels were new.  Joe found their sandpaper-like texture perfect for scrubbing congealed slutcum out of his wiry chest fur and off his massive schlong.  Tossing the towel into the toilet—which reeked of bleach—he tucked his enormous manhood back into his jeans and returned to the bedroom.


The room was mess, but the splayed corpse of the horribly beaten rentboy took center stage.  Spread-eagled on its back, with its parted legs and cum-dripping ass pointed directly towards the door, Joe decided it couldn’t be better posed if he’d done it deliberately.  He decided to leave his belt where it was; it was so buried in the dead whore’s throat, it’d be difficult to remove in any case.


Striding to the chair where he’d left his clothing, Joe picked up the t-shirt and balled it up.  He was still warm from his well-deserved and very satisfying workout; He slipped on the leather jacket and stuffed the t-shirt into its pocket.  He headed out the door without a backwards glance at the boy whose life he’d just so viciously and cold-bloodedly ended.


He took the T-tops off his Camaro for the drive home, basking in the crisp cool air with deep sense of well-being.





“Hey Danilo, whatcha got?”


The beat cop paused in the open doorway of the motel room, leaning against the jamb and glancing up at the detective, his face weary and his expression jaded.


“It’s a bad one.  Fag whore was offed.  Cocksucker died hard.”


“Bad trick?”


“Probably.  Manager says he’d been here about a month.  No regular hours.  Had guys in and out all the time.”


“ME seen him yet?”


“No, they’re on the way.”


The detective stepped into the room and took a good long look.  He returned to the beat cop.


“Musta been pretty goddam violent, and doesn’t look like it happened too long ago—you ask if anyone heard anything?”


The cop grimaced.  “C’mon, man, you know this place as well as I do.  Remember that chick that they hauled outta here last month?  The one that was gonna testify against that biker gang?  They held her down and injected her with battery acid and didn’t no one here hear or see a goddam thing.  You think anyone’s gonna care a pansy whore gets offed?”


The detective sighed.  “Yeah, I know, but its my job to ask.  Yer right, though, might was well sign off on this one and shove it to the back of the caseload pile.  Ain’t no one cares about these wastes of human flesh.  Tell the guys from the ME’s office to send me their report; I got crimes against real human beings to solve.”


The beat cop watched the detective walk off with contempt.  Figured he’d be the one left here with the stiff corpse of a worthless homo slut, waitin’ for the meat wagon to show up.  Like anyone would give a shit if he tossed it in the dumpster and went and had a beer.  If those ME dudes didn’t show up soon, that’s exactly what he’d do…

Young, Dumb and Full of Cum

Eddie was angry again.  In fact, he was angrier than he could remember being for a long, long time.  He didn’t know why or at what; he never did.  All he knew was that a titanic roiling rage filled his soul.


Well, he knew one other thing.  He’d figured out how to control it, to vent it so that life became bearable again.


That was why he was out cruising for faggots.


He was dressed for the hunt, in a khaki muscle shirt and tight battle fatigue pants tucked into his high laced combat boots.  His dogtags gleamed from deep within the valley formed by his huge pecs.  It was late in the afternoon; he was sporting a pair of polarized aviator sunglasses to ward off the slanting orange rays of the sun that glinted in his sandy buzzcut hair.


He’d liked to have been able to swing by the skate park again, but it was too soon to go there.  He’d somewhat underestimated the vehemence of the public outcry when the nude corpse of a raped and strangled teenaged boy had been found there.  The place was still attracting attention; there was even some kinda fuckin’ memorial growing up in the back where he’d dumped the meat.  A big pile of cards and flowers and fuckin’ stuffed toys and shit.  One night when things calmed down, he’d go out, douse the whole shitpile with gas and burn it right the fuck down.


But that was for later.  Right now, he needed prey.  Right now.


And that was when he spotted Hank.



Hank was eighteen and well-built.  Star of his high school wrestling team, his buff, muscled body turned heads every time he got into his tights, and he knew it.  He also knew that every time he grappled with other hardbodied young dudes, his dick got hard.  Sometimes theirs did too.


He wasn’t about to tell anyone that other guys made his shaft grow rigid; his father was the head of staff for the Lieutenant Governor, a powerful right-wing evangelical.  They attended the same church, where his mother ran the ladies’ auxiliary.  The thought of being gay horrified Hank, just as much as it would his parents, but there were times his hormones got the upper hand.


He’d always been able to calm himself down, closing his eyes, praying, reminding himself of his youth pastor’s exhortations against temptations.  But lately it was taking him more and more time to master the overpowering desire that radiated up from his balls into his thick, eager teenaged cock.


And then today, it hadn’t worked at all.


He’d left school early; no one was home when he got there.  He changed his clothes, leaving the house in his workout gear—black shorts with the drawstring dangling loosely in front, a black t-shirt with Pokémon characters printed across the front, and a pair of gray Nike Air Max 1 trainers.  Maybe some exercise would help exorcize the demon of lust living in his huge hairy scrote.  He set out walking more or less at random, with no fixed destination.  He didn’t want to go to the gym at school; his shorts did nothing to hide his stiff seven-inch boner, and he didn’t want anyone he knew to see him like this.


He succeeded; the person who saw him like that didn’t know him and didn’t need to.



There was something about Hank that snagged Eddie’s attention immediately.  The muscled teen with dark wavy hair, tousled with careful negligence, drew the psycho ex-Marine eyes off the road long enough for him to pull over into a fast-food parking lot and turn around.  The way the boy seemed to be deliberately displaying his smooth, hard build and his long erect dick screamed “faggot” inside Eddie’s dark and twisted mind.


The kid was a homo, and he needed to be put down.  All Eddie had to do was figure out a way to lure the faggot in.  But it wasn’t gonna be sex; Eddie wasn’t no pansy.  He was here to put the pansy in its place—taking a dirt nap.


But first it needed to learn what happened to fucking homo perverts.


He pulled up next to Hank and lowered the window of his truck.  “Hey, dude,” he called out, inspired by the kid’s workout gear, “Ya know a good gym around here?”


It was a measure of how deeply immersed Hank was in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear Eddie’s truck pull up.  The Dodge pickup had a deep throaty rumble that almost literally shook the ground.  But the young punk was too busy trying to come to terms with his rampant horniness to notice Eddie’s presence till the latter spoke—and even then, the hardbodied homo hunter had to repeat himself, loudly, startling Hank and making him jump.


The boy approached the jacked-up Ram, craning his neck to see inside.  All he could make out was the head and part of the upper torso of an incredibly fit young man with shades and a buzzcut.  It was more than enough to make his already-straining cock twitch and pulsate.


And that sealed his fate.  Eddie saw it, and saw red.  He’d been right, the little fucker was a faggot.  Faggots had gotten him kicked outta the Marines; they’d even thought he was one, for fuck’s sake.  But he wasn’t.  And he’d show ‘em—he’d show ‘em all.


By wasting every fucking homo he could lay his hands on with extreme prejudice.  Starting with this one.


“Uh, naw, man,” Hank replied diffidently.  He tried to force himself not to think of the stud’s hard firm body.  “I, uh, I was just tryin’ to find a place myself.  See, the, uh, the color squad is usin’ the school gym right now, and…well…”  He trailed off uncertainly.


“Yeah, there’s a Gold’s around the corner,” Eddie came back, “But I don’t like the clientele.  And anyway, my weight set is better that theirs, even if it ain’t all fancy and computerized.  Whatcha lookin’ for, my man?  Squats?  Curls?”


Hank blushed, feeling even more awkward, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a huge erection.  “Well, uh, whatever.  Y’know, just lookin’ to work off some energy.”


“I’ll bet,” Eddie said.  Hank was taken aback slightly by the cold edge in the older man’s voice, but the next time Eddie spoke, it was gone.  “Well if that’s all ya want, you c’n come back to my place if ya like.  Plenty of ways to burn some energy with my set.”


The hint was unmistakable, and Hank had to go to some effort to avoid panting with excitement.  “Sure, dude!” he chirped, then dialed it back a little.  “I mean, yeah, that’d be cool.”


Eddie unlocked the passenger door.  “Hop in,” he said, “It’s just a couple streets down.  Name’s Mike, by the way.”  He had no intention of letting the little fucker know his real name, just in case.


“Thanks,” the buff, naïve teen said as he climbed up into the cab, “I’m Hank.”


“Hank?”  Eddie asked.  The kid blushed again.


“Actually, it’s Horace.  Named after my grandpa.  But nobody calls me that.  I’m just Hank.”


“No problem,” Eddie replied, glancing over at his passenger.  When Hank sat down, the lower hem of his shorts rode up, exposing a good two and a half inches of his cock, including the thick, spongy purple head.


Yeah, the cunt was a fuckin’ fag.  The sight made Eddie hard himself—at the thought of wasting the queer motherfucker.  He was silent for the rest of the drive, trying to control his psychotic hate and lust.  Luckily, he didn’t have long to wait before he could satisfy himself; they were at his place in less than five minutes.


The parking lot was mostly empty at Eddie’s place; there was no one to see the boy climb out of the truck and follow Eddie into his apartment.  There were no witnesses to Hank’s last public appearance—well, his last live appearance.



The living room was small and dark, with an intensely sweet smell that seemed to be covering something ranker.  If Hank hadn’t been so randy, the odor might have raised some red flags; as it was, the subtle scents of testosterone and death stimulated the teen’s primitive midbrain, sparking a form of nervous energy that was easily converted to sexual energy.  By the time they made it back to Eddie’s bedroom, Hank had developed tunnel vision—he was focused directly on the military stud’s powerful, thickly-muscled body.  He didn’t even notice the poster-sized photos of dead bodies on the walls.


Eddie walked to the far corner, peeled off his shirt and tossed it into an open hamper next to the closet door.  It was one of his favorites, and he didn’t want to ruin it.


And what he had planned would definitely ruin it.


When he turned back, Hank’s jaw dropped.  The man had the body of a god—huge smooth pecs with thick, hard, dark nipples rising like sharp tall peaks of low, broad hills.  Between them, his dogtags dangled, silvery gray under the bleak overhead light.  Below the chest, the ex-Marine’s torso tapered to his waist, his amazingly ripped abs making Hank both horny and envious.  And below, that massive bulge in his camo-patterned crotch…


“So,” Eddie said nonchalantly, “Whatcha into?”


The hormone-addled teenager was so distracted by Eddie’s body that he couldn’t make a coherent reply.  He just stammered, his gaze riveted on the stud’s groin.


Eddie leered.  “Or maybe yer into this,” he growled and unzipped his fly.  With Hank’s utter, rapt attention, the hardbodied psycho pulled his gigantic tube of manmeat out of his pants, letting the boy admire it in all its pulsating, vein-wreathed glory.


Hank had never seen so big a cock—and he’d damn sure been looking; every kid he’d wrestled with had gotten “inadvertently” groped at some point during the match.  No one he’d encountered had been this hung.


“Yeah?”  Eddie said with a suggestive grin, coming closer, “This what ya like?”


He was almost close enough to touch.  Hank reached out, almost involuntarily; he felt compelled to have that enormous piece of meat in his hands.


“This whatcha, been looking for, faggot?”


The word and the change of tone made Hank look up, but not fast enough to be able to react to the sudden, vicious jab that Eddie planted in the center of the teen’s smooth flat belly.


Expelling the air form his lungs in a mighty wheeze, Hank doubled over.  His knees buckled but he didn’t have time to hit the floor before Eddie’s next blow caught him in the jaw with the force of a train wreck, putting his lights out quite effectively.  The boy collapsed with a boneless thud, like a sack of potatoes, leaving Eddie standing over him, grinning, and preparing to give the young homo exactly what it deserved.



As he was coming to, Hank was aware of a throbbing pain in his gut, a pain that pulsed so relentlessly that he was having trouble breathing.  Even before he regained full consciousness, he realized that he’d been brutally attacked by the muscle-bound stud he’d followed home.  When he finally opened his eyes, he was—in some slight measure—prepared to find himself in an unpleasant situation.


He was totally unprepared for the reality.


Above him, Eddie loomed intimidatingly.  From his near-vertical viewpoint, Hank could see the older man’s massive jutting cock hanging over him, somehow both arousing and ominous.  Above that, Eddie’s huge pecs swelled out in front, with the ex-Marine’s evilly leering face pointed down at him with contemptuous amusement.


“Thought I was gonna hafta wake you up the hard way,” the fag-killer jeered.  “Glad I didn’t need to.   Cunts don’t scream when they’re out.”  He reached down and stroked his enormous glistening shaft.  “And I like it when they scream.  You ready to scream, boy?  Ready top scream like a good little faggot?  Ain’t nobody gonna hear ya, asswipe, so G’wan ahead and scream yer bitch lungs out, haw!”


Hank didn’t react; his lithe firm body was struggling to inhale and his young hormone-flushed psyche was in vapor-lock, unable to process the sadistic input it was receiving.  He could only lay inert on the floor and goggle wordlessly as his hardbodied assailant towered over him.


Eddie knew how to get a reaction, though.


“Looks like yer havin’ a little trouble breathin’ there, little buddy,” he chortled, “Here, lemme help.


Lifting his right leg, Eddie leaned forward slight and drove his knee down, stomping on Hank’s torso with enough force to crack three ribs.


‘HOOG!!!” the kid cried as what little air he’d managed to accumulate in his lungs was violently forced back as if he was a bellows.  Eddie kept his foot planted right in the center of Hank’s chest, grinding his boot into the boy’s t-shirt.


Hank’s head came up off the floor, but the rest of his body was pinned down.  As a result, the pain-wracked teen found himself staring directly at the ex-Marine’s combat boot as it continued to crush his abdomen. Inches away from the glossy black leather, Hank realized that the boot wasn’t tied and was only loosely laced.


And then he saw why.


Rising up from the boot along the outside of the sadist’s leg was a huge knife, evidently held in place by a boot sheath.  Even as Hank looked on, Eddie bent down—incidentally throwing more of his weight onto the kid’s solar plexus and amping up his agony—and grasped the wooden handle.  He withdrew it slowly, letting Hank see the weapon in close detail.


The blade was so sharp it almost literally hurt to look at it.  The other side of the blade was serrated so sharply it could saw through a four-by-four post with ease.  Near the hilt, it was engraved with the brand name Master.  And it was long.  The blade—not including the handle—was nearly a foot.


Then Hank looked up and caught Eddie’s eyes and sudden terror swept over him so completely that a pool of piss began to form on the floor under him.  The look in those eyes—rage, lust, excitement, hatred, and unreasoning insanity—told him that the knife was meant for him.


Eddie laughed—a harsh, cold sound—as he saw the effect he had on the kid.  “Not yet, ya stupid homo.  That’d be too easy.  Naw, you gotta learn yer place before you die.”  He held the knife in front of Hank’s bulging, horror-filled eyes.  “An’ believe me, faggot, by the time ya learn it, yer gonna be beggin’ me to waste yer worthless punk ass.”


Lifting his leg, the muscled killer swooped down on the writhing, gagging teen.  Eddie swung the blade forward with seeming carelessness but somehow managed to snag the hem of Hank’s t-shirt.  Before the kid could literally blink an eye, Pikachu had been sliced in half from stem to stern, the blade neatly cutting the collar.  The cheap, thin cotton fell back, revealing Hank’s slim but well-developed torso, with just the barest hint of peach fuzz covering the boy’s smooth, silky skin.


Reversing the blade, Eddie made a quick downward slash at Hank’s shorts—this time specifically pulling the kid’s waistband up to let the knife get underneath.  Once he did so, the elastic parted easily.  It took two swings of the blade to cut the shorts open down both legs, but once it was done, the revealed that the teenaged cunt was freeballing.  His spunk-filled balls nestled in a bush of curly brown pubes from which his long, thick boycock sprang.


And it was semi-hard, despite the fact that Hank was terrified and could barely breath.  Yeah, Eddie realized, the motherfucker really was a sick, worthless faggot.


It needed to fuckin’ die.


“You disgustin’ piece a’ shit,” Eddie growled at the prostrate youth, “Fuckin’ homos like you fuck it all up for men like me.  Got me kicked outta the Marines…you wanna real man?  That what yer worthless ass was out trollin’ the streets for?  Bro, ya goddam sure got one.  An’ it’s time show yer pansy little fuckhole exactly how real men treat perverted little pansies.”


He crouched down, leaning over Hank so that his dogtags jingled mere millimeters above the boy’s heaving, panicked chest.  “You wanted real mandick?  Yer gonna get some, right now.  I’m gonna ream out yer tight little boycunt like a goddam roto-rooter.  I’m gonna fuck yer guts so deep my cum’ll leak out yer fuckin’ nose.  C’mon, fuckwad, it’s time to get whatcha came for.”


He reached out and grabbed Hank by the throat, his huge hand clamping on the punk’s neck and completely cutting off his air.  In a moment, Hank found himself choking and gurgling, his hands clutching desperately at Eddie’s forearm while the toes of his Nikes flailed uselessly four inches above the worn bedroom carpet.


He didn’t remain dangling long.  Eddie slammed him down athwart the bed, so that his head impacted the drywall on the far side, but his legs below the knees were still bent down to the floor.  Hank groaned, raised his head and looked down the length of his own body to see Eddie standing at the side of the bed between his legs.  The ex-Marine’s cock was jutting out over the bed like the prow of a ship; all he had to do was bend down, scoop up Hank’s legs and expose his ass, and the rape would begin.


Except it didn’t.  Eddie stood there for a moment, looking down at Hank’s own throbbing shaft, getting more rigid by the second.  “Ya want my thick hog in ya, dontcha?” he asked with a sly smile.  “A’course ya do.  Fags always like havin’ somthin’ long and hard shoved into their guts, right?  Yeah?  Fuck yeah.  So here ya go faggot, here’ something long and hard buried in yer guts!”


Whipping his right arm up and over in a flash, he buried the knife in Hank’s smooth, flat belly to the hilt.  The razor-sharp blade pierced the abdominal muscle, slashed instantly through multiple coils of the teen’s intestines, and came out through his back, embedding itself over two inches into the mattress.


Hank’s screech was shrill and loud, finally tapering off into a guttural moan as his taut, firm frame went rigid and trembled in agony.  The boy clenched his fists, desperately trying not to move—with the blade embedded in the mattress, he was pinned to the bed and any movement forced his tender innards against the viciously sharp blade impaling his guts.  It might’ve worked—but Hank wasn’t calling the shots.


Grabbing the punk’s smooth, strong legs, Eddie wrapped his powerful arms around them and hoisted them so that Hank’s Nikes rested on his shoulders.  The motion this caused made Hank squeal in pain.  “Fuck yeah,” Eddie jeered, “Ya think that hurts, ya stupid cunt?”  He bent his legs just slightly and pressed the thick, spongy head of his cock against the teen’s fluttering asshole.  “See how ya like this, faggot!”


With a single monumental thrust, Eddie instantly drove his massively swollen manshaft balls-deep inside the adolescent virgin.  He had to tear flesh to do it, sighing with pleasure as the boy’s sphincter ripped open like wet paper against the sudden, inexorable pressure.  On the inside, the huge rod, unlubed except with its own precum, caught and tore the highly sensitive lining of the kid’s colon.


Hank had often fantasized about getting assfucked, and he’d suspected it might hurt—but he had no idea this kind of glassy, razor-sharp pain could happen.  For a moment—only a split second, but still a moment—he forgot about the blade sunk in his belly.


Then Eddie reached down and pulled the knife out.  Slowly.


Hank looked down in horror as inch after inch of the sharp bloody blade was extracted from his guts.  He could feel it moving inside himself, slashing at his intestines on the way out.  His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell limp.  The teen had passed out from sheer physical trauma.


It was ok.  He’d wake up again.  And in the meantime, Eddie continued to pound his ass, using him like a fucktoy—all the young fag was good for, after all.  The buff ex-Marine tossed the knife onto Hank’s heaving, sweat-slick chest and spent then next five minutes deep-plowing the teenager’s fuckhole as a thin stream of blood trickled from the gash in his belly.  The wound was deep, not wide, so the vast majority of the bleeding was internal.


For the second time in a half hour, Hank found himself waking to pain, but this time was worse.  After having both a dick and a blade shoved into his guts, regaining consciousness was a cruel experience.


Eddie recognized the boy’s fluttering eyelids as a sign that he was coming to and decided to make the experience even crueler.


“Hey motherfucker,” he hissed them moment Hank’s eyes were fully open, “See this?”  He held the knife directly in front of the kid’s face.  “See those little strings of meat hangin’ from the back?  That’s yer innards, fag.  That’s what yer goddam intestines look like. Ya like that shit?”


Hank could see it; he couldn’t understand it.  His youthful face, pale with shock, turned up to the older man.  “Wh-why?” he gasped, his breathy voice taut with agony, “I d-don’t…why?”


Eddie’s hard, masculine face twisted with hate and disgust.  “Cause yer a fuckin’ faggot cunt, that’s why” he roared, spittle flying from his lips as he spewed his rage.  “Fuckin homo scum like you needs to fuckin’ die!  Y’all goddam cocksuckers out there tryin’ to lure me in…make me a sick pervert like you…got me kicked outta the service—fuck you!!!”


Even as he lost it, Eddie still managed to keep perfect time with his hips, thrusting his huge rod into Hank’s rectum.  But the rant was over as suddenly as it started; the psycho fagkiller seemed to regain some measure of control.


Not a lot, though.


“Naw,” he smirked, “I could gut ya like a fuckin’ pig and you still wouldn’t suffer as much as you deserve.  Don’t mean it ain’t a good place to start, though.”  Without telegraphing his movements in the slightest, he whipped the knife around and drove it into Hank’s left flank.  The agonized adolescent felt the blade slicing through his organs before he even realized he’d been stabbed again.


This one was bad.  Penetrating between the eighth and ninth ribs, nearly twelve inches of razor-sharp steel bisected the punk’s torso.  The knife tore through Hank’s liver and gall bladder, slashing his stomach and pancreas and ended up impaling his spleen.  By the time the hilt was flush with the skin on the boy’s left side, the tip of the blade was less than an inch below the surface of the skin on the right side.


Eddie leaned over the suffering teen, his eyes glittering with lust at his ability to inflict unbearable pain.  “Say ‘thank you’, motherfucker,” he commanded.  “All you pansies ever say you want is to have somethin’ long and hard shoved inside ya; well, now ya got it.  And I’m the one that gave it to ya.  So say ‘thank you’, ya fuckin’ pigfag!”


Hank’s eyes were closed and his face twisted into a grimace of indescribable agony; he was past the point of being able to obey Eddie’s orders—unluckily for him.


“Say it, motherfucker, say it or I’ll make ya!!!” he screamed.  To his credit, Hank tried to speak, but could only emit a weak squawk of pain.  It wasn’t enough for Eddie.  Without inserting or removing the knife by even a fraction of an inch, he slowly twisted the blade inside the wound, rotating the handle so that the viciously sharp serrations and cutting edge carved a cylindrical wound all the way across Hank’s midsection.


The teen punk hadn’t imagined that pain like this couldn’t exist.  It was almost too much to handle; he was cruelly unable to pass out again, but he thought he was gonna throw up.  Every time his body tried to retch, though, his stomach was pressed against the blade’s edge, which only made it hurt worse.  He went rigid, his firm muscles locking his smooth young body stiffly into place to avoid bringing any more of his tender innards into contact with that vicious cutting edge.


“Aw, fuck,” Eddie moaned at the kid’s sphincter clamped around the base of his dick, “Fuck yeah, see, I knew this was how to treat you goddam cocksuckers.  You worthless pervs want this, dontcha?  All a real Alpha’s gotta do to make a faggot work his dick is fuckin’ gut it and it’ll massage his cock good and hard on its way out, haw!”


Eddie leaned forward.  Bracing himself with one hand on Hank’s smooth, firm chest, he jerked the knife back out of the kid’s side with a single, swift jerk, like he was checking the oil level in a car.  And in the dim light, there was some resemblance.  The blade was covered nearly to the hilt with dark, sticky liquid.


The kid was nearly full—at least, full of cock.


The extraction of the blade caused more damage than the insertion, including slicing open Hank’s stomach.  The adolescent was trembling on the edge of shock with massive organ trauma; the wound to the stomach alone would eventually be fatal—but right now, Hank’s guts were so compressed by his body’s doubled-up, easy-access-to-the-ass position, that even the internal blood lose was relatively minimal.


Death would take the teenaged homo, but not yet.  Not soon.  He still had a long time to enjoy his suffering, and Eddie knew it.


Hank didn’t know it; he could only endure and try not to think.  Thinking was just as painful as moving, because he’d be thinking about why this happened when all he wanted was to try to see if he could get a little dick for once on the DL.  He’d be thinking about death.  And some tiny part hidden deep in his brain would be thinking about the fact that he had a raging erection.  He damn sure didn’t want to think about any of that.


Eddie did, and he wanted Hank to as well.  With his free hand, he reached down and grabbed the teen’s thick, pulsing cock and wrenched it painfully to one side.  “Fuckin’ faggot, this kinda shit is why you perverts gotta die.  Ya like gettin’ hurt, dontcha?  Yer fuckin’ sick, bro, and the best way to use yer worthless ass is to let it soak up my cum when I put ya down like a dog.  Ya hear me, boy?  Ya feelin’ me?”


He let go of the seven-inch boycock, allowing it to slap back and forth between his rock-hard abs and Hank’s firm, flat belly with a loud smacking sound.  Then the sound was muffled as he hunched forward, laying his heavy muscled form down directly onto the writhing adolescent, feeling Hank’s smooth, sweat-lubed skin pressing and sliding against his own.  The humid friction made the hardbodied psycho’s nipples almost painfully erect; they dug into the kid’s pecs like fingers.


He was face-to-face with his prey now, savoring the look of confused terror and anguish in the teenager’s face.  His ability to cause suffer, to cause that look in the boy’s eyes, was part of what proved he was a true Alpha.


The other part was his ability to mark the fuckmeat as his by spraying its guts with his strong hot manseed.  He was almost ready to do it, too—but faggot was goin’ loose.  He’d reamed Hank’s virgin hole out so brutally, its torn sphincter could no longer clench his tackle.


Well, not without some stimulation.  A strong shock to the system, say.


He grinned evilly down at the helpless, pain-wacked youth, his eyes glittering and his dogtags lying on Hank’s heaving chest.  “Time to die, motherfucker.  You ain’t gonna see yer mommy an’ daddy no more, cunt; yer gonna die on my dick, right here and now.  Ya ready, bitch?  Ready to ride my fat he-man hog all the way down into yer grave?”


Hank finally found his voice.  His parents, oh fuck, what would they think?  “No, please dear God no, don’t do this, I’ll pay ya, my dad’ll pay ya, he’s rich, we got money, please anything—”


The hoarse, breathy quality of the teen’s voice was the result of blood loss.  Hank refused to acknowledge that he was already dying, but his body was betraying him.  Especially his hard, throbbing cock.  The kid was panicking, but his shaft didn’t seem to notice.


“—I swear, sir, please, sir, please don’t I won’t tell you don’t have to kill me just let me go somewhere I’ll never tell—”


Even as he begged, the teen punk shuddered and trembled with his lithe young form firmly compressed under the Eddie’s powerful body.  But all that did for the sadist was remind him of how useless Hank’s gaping boycunt had become.  As his grin became more shark-like, he raised the knife up above the kid’s shoulders—making sure that Hank saw it.


“—swear I’ll never oh god no please don’t no PLEASAAGGHthbbtpfft—”


Eddie drove the blade completely through Hank’s throat, from right to left, spearing the unfortunate boy’s larynx, easily slicing through the cartilage and the vocal cords—and the glottis, which seals off the lungs.  As Hank’s dark, puppy-like eyes bulged in horror and agony, blood trickled into his airway and he instantly found himself coughing it up, his mouth filled with a terrifying copper taste.


It was the shock Eddie had been looking for.  Involuntarily, the strong teen homo clutched at Eddie’s shoulders, his fingers digging in as he embraced his killer more closely than any lover could.  Simultaneously, the boy’s body went rigid again, this time with the added intensity of mortal agony.  As Hank’s rectum collapsed on Eddie’s straining, pulsating rod, the kid’s own long, glistening shaft suddenly swelled and spewed out thick creamy jets of boycum.  The abundance of hormones in the dying adolescent’s body seemed to ensure an endless supply of spunk—Hank kept shooting and shooting.


And it hurt.  It all hurt.  Pain was the only thing he could still feel—the way Eddie’s massive tackle tore cruelly at his colon, the way the sick ex-Marine had left the knife lodged in his throat so he didn’t bleed to death, the gaping holes carved deep into his vitals—and the way he just couldn’t stop blowing his deathwad.


“Uh—uh—aw—AW FUCK YEAH!!” Eddie screamed suddenly, feeling his hot semen boiling over and his dick swelling inside the kid’s ass.  “DIE YOU FUCKIN’ FAGGOT, DIE!!!”


As he’d done before, he twisted the knife in the wound, carving deeply into Hank’s throat before jerking the blade back out.  The presence of the blade in the wound had prevented heavy bleeding; Eddie made sure there was nothing to stop Hank from drowning in his own blood.  He’d been coughing it up before; now he was gargling it.


And still the muscular teen continued to cum.  As his life drained out through the gash in his throat, the only bit of warmth left of Hank to feel in the face of cold death was the engendered by Eddie’s potent manseed flowing into his guts.  Hank ejaculated his DNA into the void and Eddie filled the fagmeat with his own.


Hank’s eyes began to lose focus and to glaze over.  The stream of spunk from his hyper-sexed boydick slowed to a trickle and his body began to jerk and strain.  A wheezing, gurgling sound came from his damaged neck—the sound of human misery, of sodden lungs aspirating blood.  The kid was unconscious; in a way he was already dead, but his body was just now realizing that.


Even as the punk’s fingers lost their grip and fell from Eddie’s shoulders, the military stud still held on and erupted twice more, sending long jets of sperm into the corpse.  Only then did he back himself up, slowly extracting his enormous cock from the dead boy.  He headed for the bathroom, leaving the teenager gasping in extremis, but still with a heartbeat.


By the time he got back from cleaning off his dick and stuffing it back down his pants, even that was gone.


There’d been surprisingly little exterior hemorrhaging—given what the teenager had been forced to endure—but the sheets were an unsalvageable mess.  That was okay; he could get new ones.


Slipping his muscle shirt back on, Eddie approached the bed, staring down at the punk’s splayed form.  One of the kid’s Nikes twitched against the stained sheet as random nerves fired in the newly-dead corpse.  Leaning forward, Eddie planted one hand directly on the boy’s vacant, staring face, using it as a brace with he slowly pulled the blade from Hank’s throat with the same tender care as he’d pulled his cock from the teen’s ass.


Retrieving the sliced remnants of the faggot’s clothes, the ex-Marine used them to carefully clean the blood off the knife, then tossed them in the middle of the corpse’s chest, where they began to soak up the dead kid’s spunk that had pooled there and not yet begun to crust over.  Eddie then gathered the corners of the bedding, making certain that the meat was fairly well centered, so he could gather it all up like a bundle of dirty laundry.  As he bent over to grab the sheet on the far side of the corpse, he could see the youth’s dick slowly start to wilt in death.  It had still been full of cum when he died; as it shrank, it left behind pearls of semi-coagulated semen.


Fuckin’ faggot died too soon.  He’d make the next one suffer more.


Wrapping a tattered old blanket around the bundle to hide the bloodstains, Eddie carried the whole thing out to his truck and tossed it into the bed.  Five minutes later, he was heading down one of the main drags in town, heading for the Atopco factory.


Atopco was the largest manufacturer of custom tools and machine parts in this part of the state—until 1992, when the company went bust and the plant was padlocked.  It still was, which made it a great body dump.  Down on the south side of town, it was on a semi-abandoned block with no occupied buildings near.


The site itself was fenced in and locked, but that didn’t matter.  Just outside the fence, a drainage ditch, rank and overgrown with weeds, ran along the front of the property.  Eddie pulled up at the side of the road, quickly checking to make sure no one was around.  No one ever was; even the bums didn’t hang out down here—there was no real shelter, and no one to beg from.  It was perfect.


Eddie lifted the bundle out of the truck and carried it to the edge of the ditch.  Swiftly undoing it, he rolled the dead teen out of the sheet and down into the dank, scum-covered trickle of water flowing in the ditch.  He gathered the sheets up again; he’d get rid of them elsewhere.  Getting back in his truck, he felt satisfied with how he’d disposed of the faggot.  He figured didn’t need to take any more effort to hide the corpse; after all, he didn’t intend that it never be found.  It just needed a little time to ripen.


Let’s see what rich daddy has to say about that.


He felt his malicious grin creeping across his face as he headed away—but he also felt the anger brewing inside him again.  Yeah.  The next one would really fuckin’ suffer.