Goood morning gentlemen welcome to our first boar hunt of the season says Harvey,please ensure you have all registered and paid any fees,aahh here are the boars now says Harvey as a cattle truck pulls up a guy gets out and opens the back door,out he says sternly slowly 10 young guys with boar hoods on walk down the door,nice selection of boars says Charlie looking at the naked guys, all intact says Tobias for naow they are says Harvey let’s get 5 of the boars tethered says Harvey,Samuel takes a collar and fastens it round a lads neck then fastens it to a post he does the same to 5 more lads,lets have the boars into the wood says Harvey Samual picks up a whip and cracks it towards the remaining lads who run dont damage the goods shout the shooters they all laugh rules says Harvey first round 2 hours is using paint guns, next 2 hours boars are changed over then lunch break ,all boars then are in the woods rifles issued no head shots are allowed till after 5 pm all boars to be castrated after 5pm spit roasting boars is extra fee ,let’s go shoot some boars says Harvey the shooters run off into the woods theres a few bangs as the first boar is found then a scream what the hell says Harvey as one of the shooters runs out of the wood what’s happened says Harvey one one one of the boars had dropped into a pit the guy gasps is it dead asks Harvey no but its impaled with 3 spikes,Harvey and Samuel follow the guy back to the pit ,they look down at a lad with 2 spikes through his belly and one through his chest what we going to do says one shooter Samual climbs down into the pit green paint he says whose green ,mine says a tall guy cut its throat says Harvey Samuel takes a knife out you want to do it asks Samual holding the knife out it’s your kill ,the tall guy climbs down into the pit he takes the knife and lifts the boars head and slowly cuts its throat blood slowly drips from the boars cut throat,I’ll get you some help to remove it from the spikes says Harvey,continue he shouts as the shooters disperse ,theres more shots and shouts as the boars run through the woods,Harvey releases 2 of the tethered boars and leads them into the woods to the pit get in there he says and release that boar they climb down and slowly lift the dead boar off the spikes Samuel ties the boars arms and legs together then slips a 10 foot post through the loops ,you 2 carry it says Samuel they set off back through the woods the boars heads lolling back as they enter the meeting place Harvey presses a air horn the shooters return followed by the 4 remaining boars,change boars over says Harvey Samuel releases the 5 boars tethered by their necks and sends them off in to the woods shooting starts again then another scream it’s one of the shooters shooting stops what’s the problem shouts Harvey got my leg in a trap shouts the shooter we’ll get you help calls back Harvey,a boar breaks cover and presses the lever on the back of the trap the shooters legs released,the shooter looks at the boars collar silver he says the boar runs his left hand across his throat what says the shooter the boar moves his hand across his throat again,you gotta cut the boars throat says another shooter,but he got my leg out dont matter says the shooter,Harvey appears with Samuel what’s going on asks Harvey,boar released me says the shooter he says I have to cut the boars throat pointing at the other shooterreorieve this time says Harvey but he is your boar ,run says the shooter the boar turns and runs into the woods,theres another scream we have a trapped boar shouts a shooter Harvey,Samuel and the other 2 shooters run to the sound,theres a boar laid in a trap with 4 rows of 9 inch spikes through its body,you shoot it asks Harvey yes says the shooter,Samuel checks the shooters arm band then the boar it’s his says Samuel,Samuel hands the shooter a knife you want to cut its throat or keep it alive till after 5 keep it alive keep it alive Samuel and 2 of the shooters release the trap then drag the boar out to the meeting places air horn sounds lunch break calls Harvey the shooters eat the air horn sounds again ,collect your rifles and bullets please gentlemen and remember no head shots till after 5pm there are 8 boars remaining all the boars are having their wrists and ankles at tied at 6pm any boars remaining alive after 7pm will be tethered by the neck and shot in the head at point blank range ,the boars disperse then 5 minutes later the first rifle goes off the boar with a blue collar gets shot in the left leg and goes down the shooter puts the rifle against the boars head not allowed says another shooter the boar hobbled off theres more rifle shots then a scream as a boar is shot in the back,the silver collard boar had gone down it’s trying to crawl away and gets under a bush weres it gone says the shooter looking round ,theres a commotion to the shooter left what the fuck he says as another boar breaks cover the shooter holds his rifle up the boar points to a shooter lying down what the says the shooter the boar goes over and starts to check the shooter over then starts chest compressions the other shooter lowers his rifle get some help in here quickly he shouts the shooting stops as Harvey and Samuel enter the wood looks like he’s having a heart attack says another shooter we’ll take over says Harvey to the boar,the boar moves his hand across his throat Samuel takes a knife out and hands it to one of the shooters who goes behind the boar he pulls thr boars head back and places the knife blade above the green collar you want him slow or quick the shooter asks the guy having the heart attack leave that boar alone gasps the shooter,the shooter with the knife looks at Harvey get him out of the wood says Harvey the boar can help,they carry the guy out ,spare this boar Harvey says the guy having the heart attack who are you boy asks not allowed to tell says Harvey back into the woods boar he turns and runs 5 minutes later the air horn sounds,you can now shoot the boars in the head the silver collard boar is found heres yours shouts a shooter the guy who shot the boar comes over I want to fuck it before I kill it he says undoing his trousers and shoving his cock into the boars ass the boar squeals as its penetrated squeal more says the guy the boar squeals the guy cums in its ass then gets up he picks up his rifle and places it against the boars head under it’s right ear a d squeezes the trigger the boars twitching as he squeezes the trigger twice more ,then drags the dead boar out of the wood,7 left says Harvey as another shot rings out that sounds like 6 as another dead boars dragged out the air horn sounds the remaining 6 boars gather at the meeting place their hands are tied together then their ankles with 4 feet of rope,the boars set off into the wood 45 minutes calls Harvey as the shooters set off theres more shots ring out then a scream we have an impaled boar shouts a shooter Harvey and Samuel run into the wood to the sound the boars gone backwards says the shooter and slipped onto that stake it’s gone in his ass and out his chest what we going to do,your descision says Harvey has your boar I want him alive says the shooter they drag the boar off and drag it to the meeting place 4 left says Harvey as the air horn goes off the shooters and 4 boars exit the woods,tether thr boars to those posts says Harvey the shooters tie the boars by their necks to short posts,gentlemen we have 4 boars left if the shooters who have the arm bands matching the boars collars would like to step up please 4 shooters step up the guy who had the heart attack has a green arm band yours says Harvey take his hood off not allowed says Harvey fuck man I’ve paid enough for this boar hut says the guy ,OJ says Harvey hese boars Samuel removes the gren collard boars hood Wayne ssys Senator Jenkins as a shot rings out theres more shots as the rest of the boars are shot
Friday night—it was time to party. It was time to hang out with friends, to relax, to enjoy the end of the work week.
It was time for another fag to die.
Jake had pulled over to the curb twenty minutes earlier. It was a hot night, but he’d shut off the engine of his big Ford pickup and was sitting in the darkness, a thin sheen of sweat coating his taut, muscled body. He sat as still as a hunter with prey in his sights, and that’s exactly what he was.
The whore was halfway up the block.
He’d spotted it while he was driving by and had circled the block, switching off his headlights before he made the final turn. He wanted to take a good look at the potential fuckmeat.
It was young—no older than twenty. Maybe not even that; it was clearly a street whore that hadn’t even risen to the level of being a rentboy escort. That kinda life can age a faggot, Jake knew, so it was likely younger than it looked.
The cunt had a decent body but was a little short—no more than five feet six or seven. Its long, tousled black hair had a slight curl to it. He noted its dress with a certain ironical amusement. In many respects, its outfit was similar to his own. They were both wearing wifebeaters, but where Jake’s was white, the whore’s was black. Both had jeans on, but Jake’s, while old and torn in spots, were mostly intact. The fuckboy had converted its jeans into shorts, cutting off the legs so high up the thigh that an inch and a half of swollen boycock peeked out from the ragged edge. And both wore boots; Jake still in his knee-high lineman’s boots from his job. The slut sported glossy black leather combat boots.
It was looking for dick; the way it held itself and the way it leered lewdly as every car that slowed down while driving by made its intentions obvious. At one point a car crawled nearly to a stop in front of it and for a moment Jake thought he’d lost his prey. Just then, a police car turned the corner behind him. Jake slouched down in his truck, the other car sped off, and the human fucktoy slipped back into the shadows of an alley. The patrol car followed the other vehicle down the street and out of sight.
The timing was perfect. The street was empty. Jake started his truck up and moved slowly down to the streetlight, where the little cocksucker had reemerged.
He edged over to the curb; the boywhore approached immediately, with an air of eagerness—for money. Once it saw Jake’s hard, handsome face, though, its eyes lit up with lust. There was no doubt about it—it was a worthless homo. He could off it and no one would give a shit.
That was good. He wanted it to die on his dick.
“Name’s Cliff. Whatcha lookin’ for?” the cunt asked openly.
“Just a quick fuck,” Jake replied.
“Gettin’ or givin’?” it queried.
Jake snorted. “I ain’t no bottom.” Inwardly, he raged at the rentboy’s presumptuous faggotry. Once he had it in his control, it’d learn its mistake—but not until then. Street whores were notoriously skittish, and he didn’t want this one to get away. It needed to be snuffed in the worst possible way.
“It’s a hundred an hour for that,” it responded.
The unmitigated gall. Fucking slut wasn’t worth even a quarter of that—but it didn’t matter. Jake merely grinned. “That’ll work.”
Perhaps he agreed too readily; the whore was suddenly wary. “You got the cash?” it asked, “Show me.”
“Shit, man, I got paid today,” Jake said, trying to keep the anger from showing in his face as he dug out his wallet and showed the cunt that it was full of twenties. It worked, though; the whore relaxed visibly and opened the door of the pickup.
“Excellent,” the faggot said as it settled into the passenger seat. “Go up the road here and turn right at the light. There’s a motel about three blocks down. I gotta room there. It’s cool; they know me. I’m in there a lot.” Jake glanced over at the cocksucker; the info didn’t surprise him at all. Homo had probably gulped down gallons of cum in the place.
That was gonna all end tonight. One last load and it was lights out for the cunt. Jake managed to get the evil smirk off his face before he pulled into the motel parking lot.
The office was surrounded by floodlights; Jake avoided it without thinking—almost a form of predatory instinct. As he pulled to the far end of the dilapidated, single-story building, the whore nodded in approval.
“Good,” it said, “My room is this end one. Just cause the night clerk knows me don’t mean I don’t try to keep shit on the DL, y’know?”
Jake knew. He also knew that by the time he was done with this little fucker, there wasn’t any way of keeping the place off the radar of the police or anyone else in town. He was gonna make it famous, if not downright notorious.
The punk hopped out of the truck as soon as the engine was shut off and led the way towards the door. The crumbled asphalt of the parking lot crunched under its combat boots, only to be drowned out by the heavier tread of Jake’s knee-high black leather lineman’s boots. It tried to open the door but had difficulty, fumbling with the lock.
“Whatsa matter—ya don’t want this dick?” Jake said sneeringly. Just then, the little cumsucker managed to get the door open.
The room was small and irregularly shaped. In a niche to one side, completely out of view from the bed, was a decrepit stand with a small TV on top of which was a cheap coffee maker; next to it was an open door that revealed a surprisingly large closet, given the size of the room. Across from this was a desk/dresser combo unit that appeared to be bolted to the wall. It was accompanied by a single armless desk chair with a metal frame; the seat and back were a solid unit of plastic.
Next to the entrance door was a window covered with thick, dirty curtains in a pattern that hadn’t been popular for more than thirty years. Opposite the window was the queen-sized bed—easily the largest thing in the room, it was so big that the single tiny nightstand with its lamp and clock barely had room to fit in the corner.
The whore headed towards the bathroom door on the far wall. “Gotta do somethin’ real quick,” it said, leering at Jake with its bloodshot brown eyes. Jake heard its footsteps on the tile floor, then the sound of a lighter. Swiftly and silently, Jake locked the room door behind him. At some point, a keyless deadbolt had been added; he locked that, too. He wanted no interruptions while he was putting the fag down like the dog it was.
As he did so, a harsh chemical smell filled the room, as if someone had spilled of bottle of cleaning solvent. Jake recognized it right away; the homo was smoking meth in the bathroom.
A shark-like grin spread across his face as him massive cock throbbed in his jeans at this confirmation of his plans. He could do whatever he wanted to the motherfucker. No one was gonna give a shit if there was one less fagot methhead whore in the world. And they damn sure weren’t gonna care how much it suffered as it was taken out.
The boy emerged from the bathroom, already sweating and twitching. It had already stripped off its shirt and shorts; it still sported its combat boots, but they were loose and unlaced. It’s boycock wasn’t thick, but it was nearly seven inches long and pulsing. It approached Jake, its gaze fixed on his bulging crotch with a pathetic eagerness that filled the sadistic alpha with disgust.
It also filled him with a sense of his own power. With an even broader grin, he reached down and pulled off his own shirt, revealing his sculpted, powerful abs, covered with fur. The cunt was distracted enough to stare at Jake’s chest while the stud unzipped his fly and hauled out his enormous hog.
Seeing it, the fag’s mouth gaped with pleasure and anticipation. “Oh fuck, man,” it moaned like a bitch in heat, “I want that in me so fuckin’ bad!”
“And that’s just what yer gonna get,” Jake chuckled, “So fuckin’ bad—when you’ve earned it. Get over here and start workin’ on my nipples, asswipe. You ain’t getting’ the D till ya deserve it.”
It approached slowly, almost as if it was in awe, but the moment its lips touched Jake’s chest, the alpha’s disappointment began. The cunt’s tongue worked his nipples, all right—in the mechanical, almost lackadaisical manner of a whore bored with its job, only in it for the money.
Jake, already filled with hate for the money-grubbing cocksucker, felt his anger rise within him. But the inner rage triggered a bloodlust that made his huge member twitch and swell even more. The rentboy, feeling the response, was sure that its actions were pleasing to the hot muscled stud.
It would learn its mistake soon enough—but not so soon as to avoid the consequences.
“Awright, enough,” Jake growled. “Work my cock, faggot. And do it right.”
The fuckboy scrambled to its knees and guzzled the hardbodied stud’s swollen, throbbing shaft like a pig gobbling its swill. It certainly acted eager enough, but once again, Jake was far from impressed with its skills. More, he couldn’t believe that it dared to demand money for them.
“You piece of utter shit,” he said in a calm cold manner the froze the slut’s blood in a way that screaming the same words wouldn’t have done, “You worthless fucking cocksucker.”
The teen fuckmeat had been on the streets long enough to know trouble when it heard Jake speak, but not long enough to develop the quick reflexes needed to survive. It hadn’t braced itself fully when Jake clamped his hand in a vise-like grip around the back of its head and thrust forward, completely blocking its trachea with his engorged rod.
“Mmmmmph!” it tried to protest, then the conscious realization that it couldn’t breathe kicked in. “Mmmmmmph! Mmmph! MMMMMPH!!!”
It eyes watered and its face darkened as it tried shoving Jake’s rock-hard, denim-clad legs away. Realizing the futility of its actions, it was reduced to beating its fists helplessly against the sadist’s thighs.
While it was busily occupied choking on his dick, Jake slowly reached his free hand around and into his back pocket. Stealthily, he retrieved a metallic object, a surprise he wanted to spring on the useless little homo gagging in his crotch. If it looked up, the sheer malignancy of Jake’s grin might’ve made it piss itself.
But it didn’t look up. And even if it had, it still wouldn’t have been able to see the brass knuckles the buff sex killer had slipped onto his hand.
Finally, Jake released the slut. It popped off his cock like a champagne cork coming out of a bottle, gagging and drooling, trying desperately not to retch. As it smeared away the streamer of saliva dangling from its lower lip with the back of its hand, it glared up at Jake, initially too upset to notice the alpha’s look of sadistic glee.
“Wha-what the fu-fuck ya tryna d-do?” it gasped, doing its best to speak without coughing, “Ya tryna choke me to death?”
“Not yet, motherfucker—not yet,” Jake hissed. This time, something in his tone caught the rentboy’s attention. It peered up, scanning Jake’s face attentively. So attentively, in fact, that it never saw his arm swing.
The impact was unbelievable, almost literally. The next thing the whore knew, it was on the floor, halfway across the room. There were solid objects in its mouth and a pain as if it’d been hit in the jaw with a baseball bat. This latter feeling was validated when it spit out the things in its mouth—which turned out to be three of its own teeth.
“Wha—” it croaked, looking at Jake in stunned disbelief. It noticed the metallic glint of the brass knuckles on his right hand but was too dazed to follow the revelation to a logical conclusion.
“You—” it started, then paused to spit out blood, “You hit me!”
“Ya think, ya fuckin’ dumbass?” Jake sneered. “That’s just foreplay, bitch. By the time I’m done hurtin’ ya, death is gonna feel so good you’ll cum when I waste ya.”
The punk was still jittery and sweaty from the meth. This sudden intimation of torture and murder accelerate its heartbeat to the point that Jake could see its pulse pounding like a hummingbird’s in its carotid artery. He moved closer, his heavy lineman’s boots leaving deep impressions in the carpet, despite its thinness.
The cocksucker paled. Like most of its kind, it had been aware that such things happened—but they always happened to someone else. Not him.He was too smart to fall into that kinda trap.
And now that he had, he was too smart to die in it. Not him. He would get out, he would survive.
He would continue to deny reality until the final few seconds of his worthless life. But he’d be utterly unable to deny the agony. There was no escaping that—and Jake knew it.
Ruthlessly, he strode forward. Grabbing a hank of the kid’s hair, he ruthlessly dragged it to its feet. When he let it go, it swayed, as if it was not going to remain standing for long. That was ok, though; he didn’t need it to stand long. Just a few seconds would be enough to hit the target.
Hit it he did, the brass knuckles plowing into the cunt’s solar plexus like a runaway semi.
The fuckmeat curled forward, folding up like a fan. Just as it seemed about to collapse to its knees, Jake’s right boot lashed out, the steel-reinforced toe making contact with the thick boycock dangling between the fag’s legs. The kick had enough power to knock the boy back into the TV. TV, stand, coffee maker, and whore all fell to the floor with a resounding crash. The glass coffee pot shattered on the homo’s head; within seconds, tiny trickles of blood started leaking from numerous small lacerations across its face.
This time, it did puke. In a fetal position, it vomited a thick white foam, redolent of alcohol. Jake gave it a cheery smile.
“Don’t know whatcha been drinkin’, bro,” he smirked, “But better out than in, haw!”
Again, he approached the prone youth, slowly and menacingly. This time, the kid was in too much pain to notice. Its field of vision, blurred with tears, was filled with the muscle-bound stud’s leather boots, the knee-high laces laddering out of its sight. When one of the boots drew back, the whoreboy knew that it was going to be kicked again, but that knowledge did not lead to any emotional reaction. Its psyche was too busy trying to process what it had already endured to attempt to prepare itself for any new onslaught.
And in any case, it would have been unable to prepare itself for the brutal attack that came next. Jake kicked it hard and fast, landing a dozen direct blows within fifteen seconds. Each time his boot made contact with the teen’s lithe, lean body, it snapped a rib or an ulna, punctured a lung, tore the liver, spleen, or intestines. The bitch rolled and wallowed on the floor, emitting a high-pitch squeal like the pig it was. Its feet kicked and flailed, its combat boots scraping on the carpet.
Standing over it, Jake took off his brass knuckles and tossed them clattering onto the table. Standing over the writhing boytoy, he spit on it. “Fuck you,” he jeered, “I don’t need no help to make the likes of you suffer. I can do it with my bare hands.”
The meat reached out, one hand grasping at Jake’s booted foot, tentatively at first, then with a firmness born of desperation. It turned its swollen and bruised face up to the alpha, its expression one of utter misery.
Jake knew better, though. It needed this. Fuck, it knew it needed this. Suffering completed faggots. They craved it, knowing that the only expiation for their worthless existence was through pain and terror.
And in the end, no matter how much they screamed and struggled, they always blew a wad in the end. Whatever their mouths said, their homo bodies knew the truth and their fag cocks responded.
So Jake only smirked when the teen boywhore grabbed his boot. Quickly shaking the punk’s hand off, he stepped on it, grinding his thick heel in. He could barely hear the faint, twig-like snapping of the cunt’s fingers over its pathetic mewling, but it was enough to make his engorged shaft ooze precum.
“Does it hurt, fuckwad?” Jake asked, his deep, masculine voice smooth as silk. “Yeah? Ya like that shit, dontcha? Yer sick little queer-ass soul knows how much you deserve this. Well, don’t worry, cocksucker, we’re only getting’ started.”
He bent down and grabbed a fistful of the kid’s hair with one hand, wrapping the other around its neck. Using them as handles, he pressed the fuckmeat back against the wall, then lifted it upwards, its back sliding up the thin sheetrock. It clawed at Jake’s iron-hard grip on its throat—its good hand did, anyway; the other flailed uselessly in the air—as he lifted it off the ground and it started to choke.
Jake leaned in close, his hard, handsome face illuminated by an almost satanic look of malignant triumph. “You wanted my load, right, faggot?” he whispered, “Here’s your chance to get it. I’m gonna make you milk it outta me.”
Here his hand clenched even tighter; the pansy grimaced, its tongue momentarily protruding as the crushing pressure on its esophagus increased sharply. “Wanna know how I’m gonna do that?” the alpha hissed. “I’ll give ya a hint—its gonna hurt like all fuck, hah!”
Things happened very quickly after that. The whore barely had time to realize it was flying across the room before it wasn’t anymore; it had smashed into the nightstand with such force its body caved in the wall, leaving a slut-shaped hole in the sheetrock. As the boy bounced back onto the bed, the bedside lamp—still functional despite being knocked to the floor with a crushed lampshade—thew lurid, phantasmic shadows on the opposite wall.
The whore rolled onto its side. It didn’t have the mental fortitude to watch the slow, ominous approach of its killer—and yet, seeing his grotesquely towering shadow projected onto the wall in front of its eyes didn’t help. It pissed itself.
Jake had enough experience as a serial killer to recognize what the acrid scent that suddenly flooded his nostrils was. With a single deft move, he jerked the urine-soaked blanket and sheet off the bed, tossing them to the floor. He’d acted quickly enough to avoid any of it seeping down to the fitted sheet.
The muscled sadist bent over. Gasping the meat’s shoulder, he roughly flipped it onto its back. “Ready to die, motherfucker?” he chuckled, his furry chest glistening with sweat and his stallion-sized cock visibly pulsating, “Cause I wanna unload this thick wad of spunk that’s boilin’ over in my balls, bitch. You gotta die on my dick for that to happen; ya feelin’ me, faggot? But not yet. You ain’t suffered enough yet—”
Here the hard-bodied lineman stud bent over the battered body of his teenage fucktoy and stared straight into its terrified, bewildered eyes.
“—and trust me, you worthless piece of faggot shit, you’ll be fuckin’ beggin’ for death before I’m done. When you finally die, it’ll feel so good you’ll cum. I promise. I fuckin’ promise.”
He sat back and, placing his hands on the whore’s smooth thighs, parted its legs. “After all,” Jake added conversationally, “They always do. Ain’t like this is my first rodeo.”
As the homicidal lineman positioned himself between his victim’s legs, he begin unbuckling his belt with a menacing air. At last, some part of the whore’s innate warning system went off; it had heard things about other sluts being beaten with belts by dangerous johns. Needless to say, it was a case of too little, too late; all the rentboy’s delayed red flag did was increase its abject terror.
But Jake merely removed his belt and laid it beside the teen’s firm lean bruised body. Leaning over the unfortunate youth, he held up his right hand, balled into a fist. The rentboy experienced a pang of fear far greater than anything it had felt before. That fist—it looked like a mallet, it looked like fucking Mjolnir (about which he’d learned from the movies)—would destroy him. This amazingly hot stud—there was still enough of the cockpig left to appreciate its killer’s physique—was not only capable of beating it to death but was eager to do so.
Somewhere in the very back of its semen-craving homo soul, there was an involuntary response.
“You know,” Jake said insinuatingly, his eyes glowing hypnotically, “This is the best thing that could happen to you. You need to die in nightmarish agony. You fuckin’ want this, yeah? This is what you were meant for from the moment you entered this world. You’ve always been a piece of faggot shit. I can tell that shit by yer fuckin’ cock, dickhead.”
He reared up on his knees, brandishing his enormous member in his hand like a lethal weapon, which it was. “Your highest and best use,” he said, smirking into the teen’s face, “Remember that. As bad as it hurts, as scared as you get—this is your highest and best use. You’re not good enough for anything else.”
Then he speared the homo, his massive, precum-lubed shaft piercing the kid’s fuckhole like a javelin, tearing its way through the adolescent’s sphincter as easily as if it had razor-sharp blades. And that’s exactly what it felt like to the punk.
It damn sure wasn’t a virgin, but the length and girth of Jake’s tool was more than anything it had ever taken before. It was too much. It opened its mouth to scream—
—and then Jake closed its mouth for it. His huge fist came rocketing out of seeming nowhere and smashed into the punk’s jaw just before it could vocalize its pain. It grunted, a deep, visceral, involuntary noise as its entire body jerked under the brutal impact.
“Aw, fuck yeah!!” Jake howled in savage ecstasy, “Bro, I felt that all the way down to the root of my dick! Goddam, we gotta do that again! You ready, motherfucker?”
The fuckboy coughed and spat up two more of its teeth. That was the only response it had time for before another merciless punch plowed into it so hard that the lower jaw broke with an audible snap.
“AAAAGGGGFFHHH!!” the cunt spat out, utterly inarticulate in its misery.
“That’s it, faggot, just like that,” Jake said, his voice almost seductive. “Show me. Show me how much it hurts.” He stared deep into the teen’s hazel eyes, the long lashes bedewed with tears, and could see fear and confusion in equal parts.
“You got only one way outta this, fucker. Ya get me? One way—that’s death.” As he spoke, he continued to plow his long thick tackle relentlessly up the boy’s agonizingly torn rectum; each time his swollen hog ground its way over the meat’s prostate, the fag’s dick pulsed and oozed, despite the pain.
“And I ain’t gonna kill ya till I’m done with ya,” Jake continued, digging the toes of his lineman boots into the bed to get better traction for fucking the stupid rentboy in the guts, “You hear me, ya homo piece a’ shit? I’m gonna use you so hard, you ain’t gonna be no use to no one after I’m done.”
He leaned over, laying the full weight of his hairy muscular body on top of the adolescent, pinning its smooth, sweat-lubed form, writhing helplessly, beneath him. He continued to whisper lovingly to the teen whoreboy, enjoying the mindfuck as much as the literal assrape. “You’re gonna be begging to die before I’m done with ya. But you already know that, dontcha? Good. That’s good. Cause, ya see, the only way for you to earn that death yer gonna want so bad it to milk it outta my cock.”
He bent even further, his cruel erotic face filling the street whore’s field of vision. The punk was barely clinging to lucidity; it took a few seconds for the sensation of contact—and then pressure—on is throat to register in its brain. But now, Jake’s manner changed. The evil alpha was back, not that it had ever truly been gone.
“You followin’ me, asswipe?” he hissed, his face contorting with a spasm of vicious sadism that drove home the force of his words with a profound impact. “You want the pain to stop, you gotta earn it. Remember that, faggot. You gotta earn death. Only way to do that is to make me cum—and the only way to do that is take as much pain as I can give you.”
“So here’s how your last few minutes on earth are gonna go down, dude,” Jake continued, returning back to his conversational tone. “I’m gonna choke you to death. I’m only gonna use one hand, cause I don’t need to use two to off a worthless fag like you. That leaves this hand free.” He held his right hand up, again balled into a solid mass of tremendous power potential.
“They say it takes three minutes without oxygen for the brain to die,” the hardbodied alpha said. “It doesn’t. Healthy young kid like you? It’s gonna be closer to five minutes, maybe more. Even better, you’re gonna be awake most of the time.”
Jake gave another seductive look—this time, focused on his fist. “And I’m gonna be beatin’ the living fuck outta you the entire time, bitch. By the time you die, yer own fuckin’ mamma ain’t gonna recognize you. Fuckin’ hot, yeah? C’mon, cocksucker, let’s get started!”
Leering at the traumatized youth, Jake reached down. Without looking, his hand unerringly grasped his belt. As he held it up, his leer darkened, became more menacing. The slut shook its head, its eyes wide with fear, faint whimpering sounds coming from its slack, contorted mouth.
But it wasn’t just that the boy whore was terrified. Some part of its cockpig soul was turned on and that realization was, somehow, even worse than the fear. The way the alpha’s hard hairy body was lit at an extreme angle by the lamp on the floor emphasized the massive mounds of his pecs, the rippling roll of his fur-covered abs…
…and the erotic musk of adrenaline, sweat, and testosterone that filled the small room, some of it pumped out by the punk’s own suffering body. Its left lung had collapsed, forcing it to gasp for air. With each ragged inhalation, it filled its right lung with pheromones that triggered the abundance of hormones circulating it its adolescent bloodstream.
It didn’t know any of that, of course. The chemical nature of its reactions were beyond its understanding. It only knew that the more pain it suffered, the more precum its cock oozed.
That was wrong. It knew it was a faggot cocksucker, but it wasn’t that perverse. It couldn’t—
Then Jake stuck it with the belt, the buckle leaving such a deep impression in the soft, smooth skin of the homo’s flat belly that pinpricks of blood welled up from the welt. All thoughts of what its cock was doing were wiped from the pansy’s mind; it could only think of the pain, and how to avoid more of it.
“Fuckin-A, bro!” Jake cheered with malicious enthusiasm, “Ya like that shit, dontcha? Damn, bitch, you backed yer faggot fuckhole up on my rod that time! I heard you cumsuckers like a good whippin’ every now an’ then. Is that right, motherfucker? Just another homo pervert, right? Then yer gonna fuckin’ love this shit, asswipe—I’m gonna rip yer skin off!”
Jake didn’t literally flay it, but the rentboy didn’t know that. And it certainly couldn’t tell by the sensations it was enduring. The hardbodied sadist beat it continuously with the belt, each blow slamming into the helpless youth with unflinching aim and relentless force. As the fuckmeat writhed on the bed, the twisting of its lithe, lean form torqued its colon around Jake’s engorged, leaking member planted firmly in its guts.
The kid continued to make a series of shrill, nerve-wracking squeaks and squawks. Even in the frenzy of the bloodlust beating, the sound wormed its way into Jake’s ear and started to irritate him. “Goddam painslut,” he barked, “I already know you fuckin’ love how bad it hurts—ya don’t need to tell the whole fuckin’ world, ya whore!”
He leaned back, almost—but not quite—completely extracting his huge tackle from the fucktoy’s hole. With inevitably perfect aim, he snapped the belt down with the speed and precision of a bullwhip in the hands of a master artist. The steel buckle slammed into the faggot’s balls with a force approaching that of a bullet’s.
It tried to scream; it really, really tried. It was just too much. The noise backed up in its throat.
And then Jake made sure it couldn’t scream, ever again.
Later on, he marveled at how neatly he’d done it. The slut shoulda been meat, right there. Game over. After all, he’d punched it in the Adam’s apple, as hard as he could. “GACHCK!” it spat out, inarticulate testimony of its suffering. Jake had smashed its larynx—yet, somehow, had managed to avoid collapsing its trachea completely.
It could breathe. It was still alive. But it could no longer make a sound above a rasping whisper.
“That was it, cunt,” Jake said, his eyes glittering, his handsome face erotic in its cruel indifference, “That was your death warrant. Time to flood your faggot guts with the hot potent seed of a real man. Yer gonna love this shit, fucker. This is what you were meant for, and you know it. Yer gonna cum, faggot. Fuck, lookit how much precum is leaking from yer pansy shaft right now, you sick-ass homo. Yer gonna cum when I off you, cocksucker. You need this. Hell, you want this.”
Clinging to the last (and probably the only) shred of pride it had left, the fag whoreboy knew that it had no way whatsoever to prevent the seductive stud from following through on its threats. But it was determined that it would somehow prove it wasn’t the complete bottom pig whore this hot psycho thought it was.
It wouldn’t cum for him. It had made up what passed for its mind. No matter how intense things got, it wouldn’t cum for him.
With a cocky smirk, Jake held the belt up and threaded the end back through the buckle, making a very simple—but very effective—noose. During this display, he maintained the tempo of the deep, brutal thrusting of his hips with impeccable precision. By now, he no longer thought of the teen rentboy as a human. It was nothing but a cock holster, a single-use cumdump. He was ready to unload in it and make it into meat.
The muscled alpha, his furry body gleaming with sweat, looped the thick leather belt around the boy’s throat and began to pull it tight. “Time to die, motherfucker,” he whispered, his mesmerizing, inescapable gaze locked into the whore’s bewildered, shock-darkened eyes. “I’m gonna put you outta yer misery, faggot. Time to cum and die.”
The last tiny sliver of the cockpig slut’s soul that had remained human rose up rebelliously; it knew it couldn’t fight back—but it damn sure wouldn’t give this psycho motherfucker the satisfaction of watching it shoot its wad. No. Wasn’t gonna happen. It’d find a way, some way—
Then Jake jerked the belt viciously, instantly cinching off the fuckmeat’s airway. The boywhore’s attention was suddenly focused elsewhere.
Its hands came up, one of them clawing frantically at the leather strap around its neck. The other hand flailed uselessly in the air, the broken fingers flopping back and forth like a grotesque party favor.
“Does it hurt, cunt?” Jake hissed. As he brought his face in close, the off-kilter lighting slid a shadow over his eyes, leaving them backlit by their own internal glow—a kind of emotional lava that puddled passion, rage, and hate into a boiling pool of lust.
It was the most terrifying, most erotic thing the fagmeat had ever seen. And as the crushing pain in its throat was matched by the burning agony in its chest and the explosive pounding of its own frenetic pulse inside its skull, the punk was vaguely aware of the way in which its body was responding. It was following the motions of its killer, its smooth thighs, already wrapped around the alpha’s waist, would tighten and squeeze with every relentless thrust up its ass.
And its cock—it wasn’t gonna cum, it wasn’t—pulsed and oozed, hypersensitive and aching so badly the slut could feel it even over the agony of being strangled to death. Every time the wiry fur on the killer’s belly brushed against it made the boy’s dick feel like it had been fucking steel wool.
“That’s it,” Jake leered, “Give it up. You’re almost done, bitch. Your short, stupid story is over. You don’t need to be taking up space on this planet once I unload in you. Ain’t no one gonna need you no more, faggot.”
The cocksucker heard the words but was having trouble following them. It had stopped trying to pull the belt away from its throat; it simply didn’t have the leverage. By the time it realized this, though, it had burned up too much of its precious oxygen in the attempt. It transferred the attention of its good hand to Jake’s face, but with so little power or coordination that it managed little more than weak slaps.
The meat was having trouble with its senses as well. What little it could hear over the crashing of its pulse was tinny and fuzzy, as if coming from a great distance. Its bulging eyes had become so distorted, it could no longer focus.
The faggot was close, so close. Jake could feel its smooth, lean body start to tremble under him. He knew what that meant. It wasn’t meat yet, but it was about to be a vegetable. The homo cunt was at the edge of brain death.
Jake lowered his head, his rough, unshaven cheek brushing against the kid’s as he murmured into its ear. “This is the only reason you ever existed, asshole—so you could die on my dick. Lights out, motherfucker.”
Lifting up, he could see the petechial hemorrhages stippling its eyes, which were bulging from a face so black and swollen from congestion that it was unrecognizable as the teenage whore that had climbed into Jake’s truck an hour ago.
Its mouth dangled open, giving the purple tongue plenty of space from which to protrude. Thick, foamy streamers of drool trickled from both corners of the mouth. On occasion, a faint, moist grunt managed to emerge from its blocked airway.
Placing one hand over the whore’s face, Jake wrapped the belt around his other hand. Holding the faggot down, the sick sex killer snapped his other arm back, as if he was starting a lawn mower or outboard motor. In a fraction of a second, not only was the rentboy’s esophagus crushed into a space of less than one inch diameter, but its spinal cord had been yanked out the bottom of its skull.
It couldn’t have known—and yet it did. The damage to the central nervous system was so severe that it couldn’t have felt its own violent convulsions. It couldn’t feel its feel kick so violently that one of its combat boots came off, thudding onto the floor. It couldn’t have felt its hand caress its killer’s face as its torn rectum clutched his cock, squeezing it and massaging to the point of orgasm. It couldn’t feel the searing heat of manseed hosing its intestines. It couldn’t feel its own deathload as it ejaculated copiously and involuntarily at the moment of its death, spewing thick, ropy sperm all over Jake’s hairy chest.
And yet, somehow, in the midst of that mind-shattering blast of mortal trauma that carried all of existence before it, the teen fag knew that despite its promises to itself, it had cum. It had been that much of a pervert.
Then it was gone, its last second on earth an event horizon composed of agony, screaming terror—and humiliation. Its killer had been right.
The whore was gone. Its meat wasn’t quite convinced of the fact. Jake held on, riding the convulsing corpse like a mechanical bull, letting the dead teen milk out a second and third orgasm as its destroyed nervous system continued to short circuit.
Eventually, the muscular alpha grunted and shuddered for the last time. Pausing briefly to catch his breath, he pulled out of the dead kid and stood next to the bed. Looking down at the corpse, he was dismayed at the depth to which the belt had sunk into the homo’s throat. For a moment, Jake considered just leaving it there—but he liked that belt. It was one of his favorites.
Ruthlessly, he knelt on the bed, placing one knee directly on the boy’s face. Digging his fingers into the meat’s neck, he managed to work them under the belt. With slow and patient maneuvering, he was able to slowly work it loose.
As he did, he could feel the crushed cartilage of the punk’s trachea through its skin. He could hear it, too—every now and then he had to push a little hard. Pieces inside would break. And every time one did, a pearl of cum would leak from his semi-erect cock…
Eventually, Jake got his belt back. He headed to the bathroom, the tread of his boots heavy on the tiled floor. It only took a few minutes to wipe the slut’s cum off his chest and his own cum off his cock. Grinning maliciously, he dropped the towel into the toilet and flushed it, making sure that water was overrunning the bowl before he left the room.
He paused as he was putting his wifebeater back on, looking down at his kill. Had it learned? It looked like it had. Its face was starting to fade to a bluish-gray, but it was still horrifically bloated. A pink mix of semen and blood was leaking from its mangled asshole and staining the bottom sheet. Its legs were spread; one foot still booted, the other clad only in a sock but its toes visibly curled in death agony.
The mark around its neck was so deep and dark it could have been mistaken for decapitation if not for the obvious signs of strangulation on the face. The fact that it was a sex murder could not have been made more clearer—but the fact that the victim’s shaft was leaking cum drove the point home.
It looked like it had suffered enough learned its purpose. After all, that was the whole point. Faggots need to learn their purpose.
And their purpose was to die for his sexual pleasure. That was why they were on the planet.
Jake opened the door, but before stepping out of the motel room, he stopped and took another backwards glance.
So many fags that needed to learn. So many fags that needed to suffer. It was overwhelming. A question started forming in Jake’s mind…
…how does one find an assistant in this line of missionary work?
“What? ID? What da fuck you t’ink dis is, de Ritz? Not, I don’t ask fer no fuckin’ ID!”
The small hairy man of indeterminate nationality was evidently either the owner or the manager of the motel. Possibly both. His thick but unplaceable accent made it difficult for the investigators to tell.
“He come in two, t’ree days ago,” the little man continued, “He a whore. Get lot of whores. Girl whores, boy whores, girlyboy whores, all kind. No, I don’t see who go in his room.
Who found? Maid found. Every day, she come. This not no dump! We keep clean! He not dead yesterday. Happen last night, maybe.
Unper—unpurtur—what you say? Calm? I calm? Why hell I should not be calm? Whore die here every month. Lots fag whore die here. Last time, cops not even here half hour. Why you come? Fag always die; no one care.
You go. You go now; you bother me. I let you know when real person die. You go now.”
Finishing his beer, Dan tossed the empty can over his shoulder and ran the back of his hand over his lips to make sure no foam remained. He turned to Pete and the boys, surveying them with a grin.
“Ok, gents, listen up,” the Sheriff said, “We got a dozen niggers left to dispose of, right? So I have an idea. I’m gonna let the monkeys outta their cells and we’re gonna chase ‘em down one by one. You catch an ape, you can do whatever you want to it. Just don’t use a gun unless absolutely necessary. Any objections?”
There was a brief pause, then Mike stepped forward. “Can you give us a coupla minutes before you set ‘em loose? There’s somethin’ I’ve always wanted to try on a coon, but I’m gonna need time and maybe a little help to set it up.”
“Whatcha got in mind?” Dan asked. Mike approached him and whispered into his ear. The fact that his idea, whatever it was, strongly impressed Dan was so clear to everyone in the room that Pete felt a deep pang of what could only be jealousy.
“You’re sure we’ve got everything you need?” Dan asked Mike; upon the latter’s affirmative reply, the older cop said, “Ok, grab somebody and go get it. Pete, grab a coon from the top row and have it untie the hanging meat. I’ll have one from the bottom drag it out to the vans. I don’t want more than two out until the end; Mike can use one of ‘em. In the meantime, we can all collect whatever we think will be useful for exterminating this infestation. And remember, boys—the nigger scum needs to be punished. It needs to suffer.”
The hardbodied young man fanned out, their faces radiant and their still-exposed cocks stiff with racial hatred and malicious glee. Nobody felt the slightest need to tuck their swollen, engorged members back into their pants, no one had the slightest trace of self-consciousness. On the contrary, it bound them even closer.
None of them were fools; they all knew their actions were illegal and considered reprehensible by society. But neither laws nor societies were perfect. Both were capable of errors. Every white man in that blood-soaked building was devoutly convinced that he was not only correcting a major error, but that the purgation of such a base, corrupted form of the human species was a crucial duty—one so important to their existence as true men that it demanded consecration with semen.
Mike went to the storeroom with Jack as the thick tread of Pete’s knee-high camo hunting boots rang echoingly on the iron stairs. Dan headed towards the lower cells but before he reached hem, he was halted by Pete’s words from above.
“Hey, Sheriff!” the young, but already experienced killer called out, “Don’t bother getting’ any down there. I got two big ol’ black bucks up here that look up to the job. I’m sendin’ one down.”
After a few muffled but sharply-barked commands, a nigger tremulously descended the stairs, its eyes wide with fear. It had a muscled, well-toned body and despite being utterly limp, it was obviously sporting major tackle. The hardbodied Lieutenant leaned over the railing and grinned. “The other one looks just like it—bet they’re outta the same litter!”
At that, the remaining Aryans in the hall began hooting and catcalling. The spade shrank back in terror. Dan sneered and strode brusquely towards it, clamping his powerful hand around its thick muscled bicep and manhandling it towards the bottom floor of cells. “Get over here, you sack of shit,” he snarled, and pointed to a dangling ape with an abdomen so severely damaged it had practically been disemboweled.
He unholstered his service revolver and place the barrel flush with the coon’s skull. “When the meat hits the floor, you’re gonna drag it outside to the van. I’m comin’ with ya the entire way. Listen up, you worthless cockroach—you try anything, you drop the meat, you so much as look at me or any other white man, I’m gonna do the world a favor and empty your fucking skull of whatever wad of diseased tissue it uses for a brain.”
He spoke calmly and coolly, his voice even and his tone level. It was somehow more terrifying than if had been screaming and the darkie responded by pissing itself.
“Fucking sub-human garbage,” Dan muttered, wrinkling his nose at the sour, acrid odor, “Can’t even be house-trained. Gonna make you clean that up once you’re done with the bodies,” he growled at the trembling nigger. “Hell, I might even make you lick it up, just for the laughs.” His handsome face twisted into a malicious smile as he envisioned the suffering the muscled black youth could be forced to endure—but then reality set in and his face became wry.
“Of course, it all depends on how long you survive. Maybe someone else will be cleaning up your piss—and your blood.”
The body at the far end began to jerk and twitch as the barbed wire noose that help it aloft began to be unmoored. Pete called down, “Hey, Sheriff? Gonna need another one after all. This fuck ain’t strong enough to both lift the meat and untwist the wire.”
The clank of a cell door opening was followed by a brisk series of barked orders. “Over there! Move! Grab the wire and lift.” There was a momentary pause and then Pete’s voice came again, not harsh and demanding, but with an ice-cold matter-of-fact tone. “Grab that barbed with your bare monkey paws and lift, you motherfucking jigaboo, or I’m gonna gut you like a deer and jack off while I watch you try to keep your bowels inside you.” Sounds of misery permeated down as the corpse rose a few inches, shuddered for a minute, then fell suddenly, hitting the concrete floor with a wet splat.
“Go get it, boy,” Jack told the coon. He kept a bead on it as it hesitantly approached the carcass, too emotionally traumatized to do more than blubber and moan as it mindlessly obeyed. It bent down and reached under the corpse’s arms.
“Not like that, boy, not like that,” Dan said. The Aryans gathered around it, grinning. “Best do as he says,” Frankie warned, giving the spade a gentle nudge with his steel-toed combat boot that barely even fractured a rib.
“Grab it by the wire and drag it out,” Dan said calmly. The nigger looked at the barbed wire, then down at its own palms, then turned a completely blank stare on Dan.
As if on cue, a commotion from above had increased in volume enough to be clearly heard now, with Pete snarling, “I don’t care how much your fuckin’ ape paw is bleeding! Here—” There was a wet cracking sound, reminiscent of the snapping of a fresh green twig. It was instantly followed by a shriek, cut off abruptly by a thick, meaty slap. “Shaddup,” Pete growled menacingly, “Or I’ll break something worse than your fuckin’ pinkie. Get back to work, monkey.”
Dan returned the coon’s stare. “Your kind can only learn through pain. And the next time you look a white man in the face, I’ll have nails driven into your eyes—unless, of course, something worse is already happening you. Heh!”
Tears welling in its eyes, the jigaboo grabbed the barbed wire noose and began to drag the corpse. Almost at once, its hands began to bleed. It stopped for a moment, bleating in pain, but Dan got it moving again with a swift kick to the ass from his steel-toed boot.
In the time it took for yard ape to haul the meat out and return, a second body dropped from above, accompanied by the agonized mewling of the monkeys. In this way it progressed, taking twenty minutes to clear the upper tier. The lower was done in fifteen because it wasn’t necessary to raise the dangling coons to untie them. By the time it was over, the bodies had been cleared. Three niggers stood in the middle of the room, moaning in fear and pain, the palms of their hands shredded to hamburger.
“Housecleaning’s done,” Dan said with a cheerful smile, “Time to have some fun. You ready, Mike?”
“Yeah, I am,” Mike replied, stepping aside to show what he and Jack had created. It was a harness consisting of four electrical lines wired into a set of battery jumpers. It was connected to the overhead power cables via what looked like a dimmer switch. Even Jack looked impressed.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” he asked.
“Worked as a trainee electrician for about six months,” Mike said nonchalantly, “Then I found out the guy teachin’ me was a half-Jew. Jumped him in the dark one night and fractured his kike skull. Last I heard, he was in a coma—never went back.”
“Go ahead and pick your ape,” Dan said. “No point in auctioning them off, they ain’t worth nothing,” he added with a chortle. Mike strolled over to the quivering trio of coons, the tread of his heavy engineer boots echoing in the concrete expanse.
“This one,” he said, nodding towards a lithe young porch monkey with a swimmer’s build. The moment it was selected, it began to gibber in terror and back away. Mike grabbed a zip tie from his utility belt.
“Here, someone help me snag this coon,” Mike called. Ed was closest; he rounded on the nigger and sucker-punched it so hard, it was too busy spitting out its teeth to object to or even notice Mike binding its hands behind its back. It wasn’t until he began to frog-march it over to the harness that it began to shriek in abject fear.
“Fuckin’ howler monkey,” Mike growled as he secured to a metal post by looping a second zip tie through the one on the nigger, then around the post.
“Now we gotta wire it up,” Mike instructed, raising his voice over the jigaboo’s cries. It wasn’t necessary for long, though; the spade’s voice suddenly cracked, leaving it emitting a frantic wheeze.
Mike continued, “It’s like the electric chair—ya need one connection at the head and another below the heart. So—here.” He clamped the red cables to the nigger’s earlobes, then with a vile grin, clamped the black ones onto its balls.
“You ready, ya fuckin’ scum?” Mike snarled as he picked up the dimmer. “Y’know,” he said, pausing and turning to Dan with a playful smirk, “Seems to me the state owes us somethin’ for all this. After all, this motherfucker woulda ended up in the chair someday anyways. Think of how much money we’re savin’ ‘em but goin’ ahead and taking the coon out now!”
Then he flipped a switch on the bottom of the dimmer. Even at the lowest setting, nigger moaned and went rigid. Mike gave the knob a vicious twist.
“URK!” the darkie spat out. Its lean body, slick with sweat, suddenly jerked into a rigidity so severe that it rose up onto its toes, its spine curving back in an arc. Its eyes rolled back into its head, leaving only the bulging whites.
“Aw, fuck yeah,” Hank said, stepping forward and beating his meat. “Ya likin’ that white lightnin’, nigger?” he sneered. Jack stepped forward, as did Pete, both of them jacking their rods. Soon all of them were standing around, jeering and catcalling. Only Dan held back, as befit his position of authority—but it didn’t stop him from stroking his own powerful weapon.
“Fry, you goddam black scum,” Mike roared, jerking the dial up to two-thirds of the way while pounding his shaft.
The effect was immediate. The coon pissed itself, the hot salty fluid an excellent conductor of electricity down its spasming legs. Hemorrhages began to appear in the whites of its eyes and a thick, slimy trail of foam exuded from between teeth that were relentlessly clamped down on its tongue.
“Burn in hell, ya fuckin’ subhuman jigaboo!” Jack shouted, his cruelly handsome face contorted with a blend of racial hatred and a triumphant bloodlust that could only be sanctified by a release of semen. The only way of combatting the racial evil on the spiritual level was by repeated offerings of potent seed of the True White Man.
“Do it, man,” Pete gasped, obviously as close to the brink of orgasm as everyone else was, “Smoke that nigger fuck!”
Mike didn’t need to be told. He cranked the power to full and fried the monkey to a crisp.
The trickle of foamy drool became a torrent. It shuddered in violent convulsions, its lean, chimp-like body sweating and thrashing. Blood spewed from its eyes and ears. Suddenly, with a violent thrust of the hips, its dangling cock rose straight up and ejaculated with explosive force. The nigger probably would have enjoyed it if its brain hadn’t been boiling inside its own skull.
However intense its deathload was, though, it was utterly lost in the deluge of white boy cum that immediately followed.
Surprisingly, it was Dan who led the way. “Aw, fuck,” he grunted, “Fuckin’ nigger punk getting’ what it deser—aw, fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Even though he was standing some distance away, the long, ropy strand of spunk geysering from his cock managed to spatter Jack’s green Doc Martens.
Mike, having switched off the power, let fly next as the dead ape slumped to the floor, followed by Pete, whose hot, milky sperm splashed all over the dead coon’s flat belly and trickled down its abdomen.
Frankie and Hank shot simultaneously, their thick spunk coating the nigger’s feet. Jack was more vocal than the others.
“Ya liked that, ya dead piece a’ shit?” he jeered, furiously cranking his shaft, “That’s what white fuckin’ power feels like yeah? Too much for you, ya worthless coon! You can’t take real white power! Can’t take—oh, fuck—can’t take my—fuck! Yeah, white power, bitch. White—gah, FUCK!!!—white fuckin’ power!!!” As he spewed his hot potent manseed, Hank joined him almost soundlessly, as if Jack’s release had given him permission to unload as well.
For several minutes, the only sounds in the abandoned jail were the gasping of the Aryans, catching their breath, and the subdued whimperings of the niggers. The stench of cremated coon pervaded the room; it had a sickly-sweet smell, like overcooked pork.
As the group of brutal killers regained their composure, Dan spoke up. “Hope you boys didn’t completely empty your nutsacks,” he said with a wicked grin, “There’s plenty more niggers left needing a good baptism in White Power. Anyone got any ideas for these two?” He nodded at the two spades standing by the staircase, their shredded hands still oozing blood.
“Aw fuck yeah,” Pete growled, “I wanna teach that one a lesson.” He nodded at the taller of the two, which immediately started sobbing. Edging back into the corner, it pissed itself in terror. Pete sneered. “I had a dog that I couldn’t housebreak. Had to put it down, just like I’m gonna do to you, fuckhead. Any of you gents wanna help me out and hold it down while I show it who’s boss?”
Mike and Frankie stepped forward. Grabbing the gibbering, terrified ape by its arms, they dragged it into the far corner. Pete followed, slipping his hunting knife from its sheath and holding it so that its nine-inch blade of carbonized steel glittered in the light.
In the meantime, Jack’ voice rang out. “I got dibs on the other one. Fuck, my balls ain’t drained at all. Ed, you and Hank, bend it over that table there; I gotta go get somethin’.” The coon squalled like a money in pain as the hardbodied Aryans, their long cocks still hard and dripping, manhandled it over to one of the metal tables and bent it over. It was still struggling as Jack reappeared from the storeroom holding a flat screwdriver with an eight-inch shank.
Dan held back, stroking his shaft, enjoying the cruel creativity of the younger men. He liked that they were self-starters and needed no guidance from him in these matters. He spent a moment observing Jack.
The young skinhead was speaking to Hank and Ed. “Y’all ever try nigger pussy? They’re all fuckin’ fags, so their holes get reamed out. Watch this.” He jammed his massive rod up the jigaboo’s ass with a single brutal thrust; its agonized scream spiraled up into an octave usually reserved for sopranos, making the vicious racist grin in triumph.
“Aw, fuck yeah, take it all, ya goddam black cunt! That white boy meat hurts, don’t it? That’s how you know you got a real man inside ya, not just another monkey!” As his enormous cock plunged balls-deep into the helpless coon, both Ed and Hank laughed brutally. Still holding the ape down with one hand each, they used their free hands to slap their erect dicks in its face, smearing their thick oozing precum on its lips and in its eyes.
In the far corner, Pete slowly approached the horrified coon being pinioned by Mike and Frankie. “Hey, boy,” he said gently, a slight smile on his face as sadism lit his pale blue eyes with a frightening glitter, “Remember how I toldja I was gonna gut ya like a deer? I changed my mind. Deer are noble animals; yer just a porch monkey. I’m gonna gut ya like a pig, har!” Without a warning, he rammed his blade into the nigger’s belly up to its hilt.
“GACKGH!” the yardape gurgled as nine inches of hardened steel sliced through its guts like they were wet paper. “Goddam, yeah!!!” Mike cried, precum oozing from his stiff hog in a steady stream, “Teach that stupid fuck a lesson it won’t forget!”
Getting up close, Pete began sawing upwards, cutting the spade open from the navel to the base of the sternum. He pulled the knife out; grabbing the cunt by the back of its neck, he forced its head down and wiped its blood off on its own nappy hair, then stepped back and began to masturbate.
“You can let it go,” he said. Frankie and Mike immediately began beating off. The coon gasping and gurling, looked own as its intestines began to spill out of the seven-inch gash in its belly. Looking back up at Pete in abject horror, it clutched its hand over the wound in a desperate and useless attempt to keep its guts inside its abdomen.
“Ya gotta do better than that, nigger!” Frankie jeered, ginning in manic bloodlust, “Lookit—some of ya is still oozin’ out!”
Back in the center of the room, Jack was still assraping the other coon. “Goddam it,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “I told y’all all these fuckin’ nigs take it up the ass. This one’s already startin’ to get loose on me. You boys know how make nigger ass pussy tight again? Ya gotta do it manually. Here, I’ll show ya.”
Putting one hand on the back of the monkey’s head, he forced it down onto the table. He took the screwdriver in the other hand and started shoving it into the pigfuck’s ear.
Slowly. Very slowly.
Its screaming became almost unendurable as its eardrum was punctured, but once the steel shaft began to grind through the middle ear, the ape’s vertigo increased to the point that it couldn’t scream anymore. It could only retch and vomit, its hard, muscled body thrashing in unimaginable agony.
“That’s it!” Jack cried, “Work my shaft, ya fuckin’ nigger! You know you want my load, ya goddam faggot coon—fuckin’ milk it out as you die!”
Even though he was inching the screwdriver into its cranium, it didn’t take long to reach the point where Jack wasn’t able to inflict any more pain—there are no nerve endings inside the brain. Jack still hadn’t cum yet, though; he wasn’t gonna let it go till he did. He had only one option left.
He began to skullfuck the coon with the screwdriver, brutally and ruthlessly reaming the steel shank inside its head, scrambling its cerebellum into mush.
Back across the room, Pete was close to orgasm and the monkey was close to death. As it bled out, it began to weaken. It sank to its knees, then seemed to lose the strength to keep holding its innards in. Its hands fell to its sides and immediately its intestines fell out in a thick, ropy pile of guts, accompanied by a thick, viscous splat. It looked up at Pete, its mouth gaping, an agonized, pleading look in its eyes—and that was all it took.
“Fuckin’ worthless piece a’ monkey meat—aw, fuck! FUCK! FUCKIN’ DIE, YA GODDAM NIGGER!!!”
His first jet of semen shot directly into the coon’s open mouth. It was instantly followed by Mike’s, then Frankie’s—the latter hitting its eyes while Mike spilled his seed into its exposed and newly-vacated abdominal cavity. The ape died in a shower of sperm, its last sight on earth that of the hate, rage and lust in the faces of the white men who’d killed it, just because they could.
Jack unloaded as he angled the screwdriver down and destroyed the monkey’s brain stem. It began to convulse violently, its firm, hard body thrashing and kicking. “Yeah! Yeah! Fucking die on my dick, jigaboo! Take this white load and die!”
As Jack’s shaft erupted deep in the nigger’s guts, both Ed and Hank blew thick wads of white boy cum into its face. At the last moment, Dan stepped up. As his orgasm built, he looked over at the coons still locked in the cells. “This is what happens to coon who set foot in white country. This—aw, fuck—this is why we don’t have a nigger problem ‘round here.”
He pried the dying spade’s mouth open and shoved his massive tool down its throat. “Take it, ya worthless jigaboo! Swallow my cum, ya subhuman ape!” As he unloaded down its throat, he grabbed the screwdriver from Jack and stabbed the black fuck in the back of the neck, repeatedly severing its spinal cord. The nigger skidded into the cold screaming vortex of death with the salty taste of a white man’s semen in its mouth.
The Sheriff, his cock still dripping, strode over to the switch that controlled the cell doors. “All right, boys, warm-up is over,” he announced, “It’s time to hunt some coons!” He threw the switch, opening the cells at once. Whooping and cheering, the hyper-sexed skinheads dashed into the lower cells while Pete and Dan, smirking with evil pleasure, mounted the stairs to roust out the three niggers still left on the upper tier.
At the far end of the upper catwalk, two of the spades were huddled against the far wall, trembling in terror. The cops disregarded them; their objective for the moment was to force the monkeymeat downstairs into the killing pit. But one was still in its cell; they both entered to get it out.
This one looked younger than the others; it must have been about seventeen or eighteen, but it didn’t appear to be that old. It was curled into a fetal position in a corner of the cell, whimpering and crooning to itself.
“Goddamit,” Pete muttered, “Looks like this one’s blown a fuse. Ain’t gonna be any fun.”
“No, it isn’t,” Dan agreed grimly, “It’s not gonna give any sport at all. Might as well off it now.”
If the yardape heard its death sentence, it didn’t react. It didn’t react at all—until Dan and Pete started kicking to it death.
Dan led the way, slamming his combat boot down into its face, stomping its teeth down its throat. Next, he transferred his attention to its nose, grinding it brutally under the thick tread of his sole.
The muscle-bound young Lieutenant didn’t hesitate to join in. He drove his knee-high hunting boot into the coon’s crotch with vicious force. The jigaboo had done nothing during all this but try to curl up in a tighter ball, but Pete’s next move changed that. He stepped on its black balls, crushing them into the concrete floor with such relentless power that they ruptured, spurting out their contents like crushed grapes.
The nigger let out a piercing, agonized screech that sounded utterly inhuman—the sound of an animal in terrible suffering. “Aw, fuck yeah!” Pete cheered, the bleating of the darky making his dick go hard.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Dan grinned. “Let’s finish this scumfuck off and get back to the fun downstairs.”
It took less than three minutes to kill the nigger. Pete’s lace-up camo boots rose and fell on its midsection, imprinting deep bruises on its belly as he stomped it so hard, he tore its intestines and stomach and ruptured its liver. Dan continued to focus on its head, his hard-soled boots shattering its jaws and cheekbones and so utterly destroying the orbits of its eyes that the latter organs collapsed back into its sinuses. They alternated brutal kicks to its flanks, each one rewarded with the erotic crunching of breaking ribs.
By the time they were done, both sadistic killers were completely rock-hard again. The young porch monkey was so mangled that it wasn’t even recognizable as being primate; even dental records wouldn’t have helped. Both of its lungs had been so riddled with bone shards from its ribs that they collapsed. As Dan and Pete watched with intense satisfaction, it convulsed violently and expelled its final breath in an agonized cloud of blood and foam that erupted from the hamburger that had once been its face. Its useless life ended on the cold concrete in a puddle of its own blood and stinking piss.
As Pete left the cell and confirmed that the other two coons had already fled downstairs, Dan sneered as the quivering corpse. “Fuckin’ yardape,” he muttered, “Deserved every bit of what you got for comin’ onto my turf.” He turned and followed Pete to the lower level.
From then on, the situation devolved into an extended testosterone-soaked bloodbath.
Mike and Jack had cornered one coon near the staircase; as it held up its arms in a pathetic attempt at self-defense, they repeatedly stabbed it. Its hands were already slashed to useless ribbons, and it was screaming and begging—until Mike got a lucky blow in to its throat. It gagged and made a loud sound like it was blowing a raspberry, but it was the sound on a dying ape choking on its own blood. As it spat a thick, coppery spray, Mike and Jack stepped back, cheering and jacking.
The nigger sank to its knees. “Feel it, motherfucker!” Mike yelled at it, “Feel what White Power really means, fuckface!”
“Aw, fuck, take it, ya nigger cunt,” Jack moaned, sweating and beating off, “Take my pure white load, ya—fuck! Yeah, fuck!”
The spade looked up, despair and agony written large on its simian countenance, as both the Aryan shot searing loads of their potent white seed all over its face. Then it slumped to the ground, just another pile of jigaboo meat covered in cum.
Frankie, Ed, and Hank had trapped another pair. The coons were huddled up against a wall, with the boys forming a sort of semi-circle around them, taunting and jeering at their subhuman prey. Both nig-nogs were in tears. Suddenly, the one on the left tried to make a break for it.
The boys were prepared; they’d been waiting for this. All three were armed with the wire-wrapped boards. The two closest—Frankie and Hank—went at it like a moving piñata as Ed threatened the other. They only got two blows in before it rejoined its companion against the well.
The three skinheads traded a salacious look amongst themselves; as they did, their thick, vein-wreathed cocks began to throb and swell visibly. A prurient leer twisted Ed’s hard face.
“C’mon, men,” he growled throatily, “I think it’s about time these dumbass yardapes learn what happens when they cross paths with real White Men.”
“Hell yeah,” Hank replied, massaging his erect tool and looking the closest coon directly in the face, “You ready to die, monkeyboy? Fuck no, you ain’t ready for this shit. Yer stupid little ape brain can’t imagine how fuckin’ bad this is gonna hurt—we’re just gonna hafta show ya.”
And with that, all three Aryans waded in, swinging their improvised bats. For a solid three minutes, the large concrete hall echoed with the thick, gruesome splattering sound of barbed-wire-wrapped wood slamming into naked flesh and ripping it open, accompanied by a rising crescendo of shrill screams of nigger agony.
But only for about three minutes—then the screaming began to fade, as the coons’ throats were torn open. They slowly sank to the floor, gurgling and choking, and the boys began to unload. They didn’t even have to touch themselves to do it; as nigger blood began to flow around their boots, their orgasms were not only spontaneous but simultaneous.
There were also so intense that each of the Aryans had to reach out his hand to his brother next to him to steady himself. With their other hands, they were still beating the spades. Long after the monkeys had died, they were still being showered with cum and blows.
In the meantime, Dan noticed the Pete had two jigaboos to himself on the other side of the room. The sadistic young Lieutenant noticed his boss on grinned at him.
“Hey, Sheriff,” he called, “These two say they’re brothers. They look like littermates to you?”
Responding with a cruel leer, Dan stepped towards them. “Well, fuck,” he drawled, “They all look alike anyway. That’s why non one’s gonna miss ‘em—they’re like fuckin’ cockroaches. All of them the same, and always too fuckin’ many of ‘em.”
“So we’re kinda like heroes for exterminatin’ as many as we can?” Pete asked with mock innocence.
“Yeah, we sure fuckin’ are,” Dan responded. “Now show me what you can do with the little one there. You’ve been working out; I wanna see what kinda progress you’ve made.”
Pete didn’t need to be told twice. With a huge grin of sadistic lust, he reached out and grabbed the younger coon around the neck and deadlifted it straight up.
Instantly the nigger pup’s eyes, already bulging in fear, grew so wide it looked like they were about to fall out. The young ape clawed wildly at Pete’s hands as its feet kicked frenetically a good eight inches above the concrete floor.
The other nigger began screaming. “Deshanté!” it bawled, “Put ‘im down!” It lunged, but Dan stopped its forward momentum with a single, powerful blow to the face. The porch monkey retired back to the wall to consider its broken nose and watch its brother get slowly strangled to death.
It took a while for the young one to die, but, as Dan noted approvingly, Pete showed no sign of any strain as he held it aloft and squeezed its worthless life out. After two minutes, the young darky began to gag and drool. Its defense attempts became slower and less coordinated, the thrashing of its legs became more spasmodic.
And after spurting out a quart of piss, its nigger dick began to swell.
Dan noticed. “Hey, Pete, the fuckin’ retard likes it. Look at its goddam dork.”
“Yeah?” Pete asked and glanced down. He then stared it straight in the eyes. “Well, it ain’t gonna like this—but I goddam sure am!”
With an evil grin that twisted his handsome face into a vicious snarl, the hardbodied Lieutenant clenched his hands. Within seconds, the loud crunching, crinkling sound associated with crushing a foam cup was audible—but what had been crushed was the nigger’s trachea.
The coon’s eyes rolled back in its head, showing nothing but the bloody whites. Thick white foam bubbled over its swollen lips. Without warning, cum began to spill from its dick—not shooting out in a geyser but flowing out in a steady stream.
It was Pete who blew a ferocious geyser of sperm, triggered by the uncontrollably erotic sensation of killing a yardape with his bare hands. He was only vaguely aware that the screaming of the dead monkey’s brother had intensified behind him, then subsided under the meaty sound of flesh impacting flesh.
Pete shuddered as his balls emptied, then dopped the dead jigaboo. It hit the ground like a sack of dirty laundry. The Lieutenant turned to enjoy the view of Sheriff Dan beating the other spade to death.
The powerful older man had the ape pinned to the floor under him, his fist rising and falling like a piledriver and delivering damn near the same amount of force. Under the brutal, relentless rain of blows, the coon was barely clinging to consciousness. As Dan’s huge fist slammed into its face, its chest, its belly and its balls, it could only bleat in helpless agony like a sheep being butchered.
Each time his hand made contact with the niggermeat, Dan’s cock—already so engorged it was frightening—spat out hot, glistening precum. But the strain of holding back his violence-induced orgasm was building to the point of being uncontrollable. After a few minutes, the Sheriff reached the end of his tether and stood up, even though the nig-nog wasn’t dead yet.
His face terrifying with hate and bloodlust, Dan raised his muscled leg, holding his combat boot over the prone porch monkey. “Die, you worthless piece of shit,” he screamed at it, “Die, nigger motherfucker!!”
He slammed his boot down hard twice in rapid secession on the coon’s neck, immediately crushing its throat and snapping the cervical vertebrae. The ape’s smooth, muscular body jerked violently and blew a thick deathload all over its own belly—but it wasn’t anywhere near as thick or as large as the load Dan blessed it with, anointing the dead pile of nigger shitmeat with the righteous potent sperm of a true White Man.
As he stood, gasping and sweating, Dan cold hear the sounds of slaughter and lust dying away round him. Turning back, he saw the Aryans, grinning as they caught their collective breath. Soon the only noise in the room was the dripping of blood and the occasional thumping of a monkey’s limb as its mangles nervous system fired a mindless signal down its spinal cord.
Then, from off to one side, came a faint whimper. Everyone, to a man, turned to see the remaining three niggers crouching in the corner under the spiral staircase.
“Aw, man, I forgot about them!” Jack said with an eager grin, “Hey, boys, the fun ain’t over yet!”
He took a step towards the cowering trio only to be blocked by Dan.
“Not so, fast, mister!” the Sheriff barked. For a moment the two leaders stood in a face off, scowling. But Dan’s innate authority and his visibly larger cock, still throbbing and oozing, patently reinforced his status as Dominant Alpha. Jack wasn’t happy, but he backed down.
“They need to work,” Dan said. “They were bred to be slaves, right? So—” here he turned to the terrified apes “—get to work, asswipes. You two, drag this fucking meat out and dump it in the vans. Jack and Pete, you two oversee them. You know what to do if they start to get uppity—no mercy, no second chances.”
As the gibbering coons shuffled out of the corner, Jack, mollified by his own resumption of authority, began to bully them into corpse removal while Pete stood guard, fingering the trigger of his shotgun. Dan turned to the third nigger. “Hey, Mike, take this one into the store rom and make it fill a bucket and get a mop. Then put it to work cleaning the floor. Doesn’t have to be perfect; I just don’t want the smell to attract vermin.”
He paused, then added with a grim chuckle, “Room’s too full of fuckin’ vermin as it is. At least we taught it a lesson.”
It took over half an hour to clear the old jail of dead jigaboos and their blood (and piss). When it was over, Dan, Pete, the skinheads and the three pieces of slavemeat were gathered outside around the vans. Dan had already shut down the generator inside the Poorhouse; it wasn’t needed any longer. Dawn was breaking; the sky a bright gray with a piercing golden glow to the east.
It was going to be a beautiful day.
“Pete, you cuff those two; I’ll get this one,” Dan said; no one needed to ask to whom he was referring. “One in each van.”
That done, he gave the order for everyone to pile into the same vans in which they’d come. “You already got your bike out at the quarry?” he asked Pete. The Lieutenant, who’d recently purchased a motorcycle nodded. “Good,” the Sheriff replied, “I’ll take the lead.”
The vans pulled out in single file. After twenty minutes on the county road, the lead van swung off onto a rutted, barely passable gravel road that wound through the hills. At one point, it pulled away onto a very faint and obviously recent dirt track that detoured through the woods before re-connecting with the gravel path. Fifteen minutes later, they came to a halt at the edge of a cliff that towered over a hundred feet above a water-filled quarry.
They all exited the vans—except the cuffed coons still trapped in the back with the apemeat. “Ok, you know what to do,” Dan told Pete, who nodded. “Sorry you’re gonna miss this part, but duty is duty.”
“No problem,” Pete replied with an endearing grin, “I’m sure you’ll give me plenty of chances to make up for it in the future.” As he sauntered off to his previously-stashed bike, Dan turned to the skinheads. “He’s going back for the truck. We’re gonna need transportation after we dumped these in the quarry.”
Frankie peeked over the edge of the cliff. Despite the blackness of the water indicating its prodigious depth, he remained uncertain. “You sure it’s deep enough?” he asked, “This looks like a good make-out spot. Bet there’s plenty of kids up here fucking on weekends.”
“The water’s over three hundred feet deep here,” Dan replied, “And no one comes up here anymore. Remember my detour through the woods? That was around a place where the gravel got washed out. The road is blocked. I made the detour myself, and I’ll cover it when we’re done.”
“These fuckin’ monkeys breed like roaches,” Jack pointed out. “Whatcha gonna do if relatives of these ones come snoopin’ about?”
Dan’s hard, handsome face twisted with a slight sneer. “There’s plenty of room down there for more niggers,” he said, his quiet voice alive with menace, “C’mon, lets dump this pile of scumshit.”
Dan, Jack, and Mike each opened the driver’s doors of the vans; all three had been left running. It was an easy matter to pop the gearshift into neutral. It was also easy enough to push them to the edge; there was a slight downhill slope.
Just was the vans began to tip, faces appeared simultaneously at the rear windows. It was clear that the trapped live coons knew something was happening, even if they didn’t know what, and the look of utter terror on their faces was all that was needed to stoke the racist killers’ bloodlust to a new frenzy.
As the vans tumbled over and hit the water, every one of the men, Dan included, stood at the cliff edge and beat off.
The weight of the engines pulled the vans under nose first, tilting the rear doors up. Even though they were over a hundred feet away, the pleading, tear-stained faces of the jigaboos were clearly visible, pressed up against the windows.
‘Fuckin’ die, ya worthless scum!” Hank shouted as his racial sadism boiled up; soon the catcalls from the others proved he wasn’t alone.
“Does it hurt, ya nigger cunt? That’s what White Power feels like, bitch!”
Even Dan joined in. ‘Fuckin’ drown like rats in a trap, you disgusting shits!” he called out, Fuckin’ die, fuckin’ yeah! Yeah!!
They all unloaded at the same time, a thick pearly rain of Caucasian seed splattering across the surface of the water. Dan’s massive, potent load hit the window of the left-most van—as the rear filled with water, the last glimpse the dying coon had of the surface world was smeared with hot white cum.
Then water filled its mouth and its lungs. It kicked and thrashed for a few moments, foam sewing from its mouth and nose, before it drowned like a dog, helpless, terrified and alone in a pile of dead bodies.
As the stepped back from the cliff, Dan pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned the still-leaking cum from his cock. The Aryans hadn’t thought to provide themselves with such a convenience, but they didn’t care. They shoved their oozing dicks back inside their pants, except for Mike, who remembered he had a tissue.
Just like Dan, he cleaned himself. It wasn’t obvious that he was beginning to idolize the powerful Alpha, but the signs were there for those who know what to look for.
And Dan did.
For now, they all had to wait for Pete to get back. Dan nodded to Mike, and they stepped aside, talking quietly as a sense of post-coital emptiness began to fill others.
Large rocks were strewn across the site. Jack sat heavily on one. It had been fun, but it was over. He was already feeling dejected, with a yearning to get home. After all, there were plenty of niggers back there that needed offing. And kikes and faggots and chinks, too. Some many fucking cunts that needed to learn the true meaning of White Power.
The thought perked him up. “Any of you boys got a smoke?” he asked. Ed gave a cigarette and as he lit it up, Jack leaned back and contemplated the future with a smile that boded pure evil.
Nick decided he was going to get himself a rent boy for the evening. He fired up his computer and went to rentboys .com. He scanned a few pages and then spotted the one he wanted. A young kid no more than twenty caught his attention. His name was Chad. His profile pic had him posed in jeans, shirtless. Nick admired the slim lad. His chest was smooth with a nice set of pecs and slim waist. He shot him a message. Chad responded quick. They bantered a bit and Nick asked if he was into a bit of kinky roleplay and leather. Chad responded he was for a price. Nick got right to the point of price, time and location. He told Chad he wanted him for the night. Money no problem. Chad told him he rented a room at a Motel 6 for his tricks. He gave Nick the room number and which Motel 6 it was.
Chad got ready for the night ahead. He dressed in a tight pair of cut off shorts and a tight sleeveless tee and flipflops as requested by Nick. He wondered what Nick would be like. Chad was new to this and the money was good. He never thought of the dangers of being a rentboy. He had heard of a couple of escorts being murdered by their clients but he never thought it would happen to him. He had no idea Nick was going to strangle him to death before the evening was done.
Nick parked his truck in the Motel parking lot. He grabbed the duffle bag with his props and went to the door. He wrapped on the door. Chad opened the door to let him in, nearly dropping his jaw when he got a look at Nick. Nick entered and closed the door as he dropped the bag to the floor. Chad took in the sight of Nick. Dressed in tight jeans, t-shirt that hugged his muscled build and black leather boots. Chad had an instant hardon.
Nick liked what he saw. “Nice slutty look baby” he said to Chad. Nick handed the money to Chad and Chad placed it on the nightstand.
Nick grabbed Chad and gave him a deep kiss. Chad ran his hands over Nick’s shirt feeling the power beneath it. Nick stepped back and removed his shirt. He pulled Chad’s shirt off and ran his rough hands down Chad’s smooth chest. “Nice baby, nice”. He ran his hands down to Chad’s ass and squeezed tight. “Yeah this ass is going to do real fine for me”
Chad explored Nick’s hairy chest. He licked his nipples. His tongue made its way down his chest to his stomach and to his treasure trail. He undid Nick’s leather belt with his teeth. He nuzzled Nick’s crotch. He felt Nick’s wood through his jeans, hard and hot.
Nick picked up Chad and threw him to the bed. He landed on his back and Nick removed his shorts. Chad lay there naked, his cock fully erected and oozing with precum. He wanted Nick bad. Nick kicked his boots off and stepped out of his jeans. His cock was erected straight up against his hard stomach. Clear precum dripped out of his pisshole and ran down his shaft. He looked down at Chad and smiled. He wanted to fuck him hard. Nick climbed in the bed and spread Chad’s legs. He entered Chad and began to fuck him. Chad took it in and moved to the rhythm of Nick’s fucking. His huge cock slammed Chad over and over. Chad’s hard and wet cock was pressed against Nick’s stomach ready to explode. Chad and Nick were chest to chest as Nick fucked harder and harder. “I’m cumming” yelled Nick. His cock erupted and he let out his man seed inside Chad. Chad blew his load as he felt it explode out between them. Nick’s hot semen filled Chad’s ass. Chad’s cum felt warm and gooey between the two. Nick collapsed on top of Chad and let out a sigh of relief. The two kissed passionately. Nick softened and pulled out and off Chad rolling to his side. Chad ran his hands over Nick’s sweaty chest. He played with the cum and licked a bit off.
Nick turned to Chad, “Ready for a little game baby”? “Are you ready for daddy’s kink”?
Chad smiled and nodded yes. Nick got off the bed and went for his bag. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs and dangled them over Chad. “What are those for” asked Chad. “Just to keep you secure baby. Don’t worry it’s our little game” said Nick. Nick took Chad’s hands and cuffed them to the headboard above his head. Chad was securely cuffed to the bed. Chad was a little nervous but thought this was all part of Nick’s game. Nick got off the bed, He grabbed his boots and the bag and headed into the bathroom. Chad lay naked and cuffed to the bed. He heard the shower. He waited and heard the water stop.
After a few minutes Nick emerged from the bathroom. Chad’s cock became hard immediately as he took in the sight of Nick. Nick was dressed in tight leather pants showing his bulge. He was shirtless, black boots a black leather hat and wearing black leather gloves. Chad was ready to cream all over again as his hard cock twitched. Nick looked sexy, manly and dangerous. He stood silently at the end of the bed staring down at Chad’s naked body. He clinched one hand and slapped it into the other as he pumped his muscled chest at Chad. Chad stared at this hunk of a man. Nick adjusted his gloves tighter as he climbed on the bed and straddled Chad. Chad squirmed a bit under him as he stared up at Nick. Nick kept silent as he breathed heavy in and out staring down at Chad.
Nick ran his hands across Chad’s chest. He placed his other gloved hand on Chad’s cock and squeezed it hard and firm. Bits of cum oozed out. Chad loved the feeling. “oh baby you were just what I wanted” said Nick as he clamped his gloved hand on Chad’s mouth and nose blocking off his air. Chad jerked a bit and tried to move. “Smell that leather baby, smell it” He squeezed Chad’s cock tighter as more precum oozed out onto the glove.
. Chad tried to breathe. muffled sounds came from him. His eyes were wide open. Nick let go. Chad took in a breath of air. Just that quick Nick smothered him again. Chad’s body squirmed under Nick. Nick felt his cock stiffen in his leather pants. Nick let go again. Chad exhaled’ “Please stop”. Nick chuckled “You wanted this baby, this is what I paid for”. Chad became frightened. He pleaded. Nick ignored him and placed his hand down again blocking Chad’s air. He held tight. Chad smelled the leather. He let go again and gripped his gloves tight.
“Oh baby you were good”. Nick wrapped his hands around Chad’s throat and began to strangle him. Chad felt the hard grip and the feel of the leather wrapped around his throat. He began to buck. His hands shook violently in the cuffs banging the headboard. Nick gripped harder. His hands were like a vice around Chad’s throat. “Die you little whore, die” he said. “Whore’s like you deserve this”. Chad’s body shook under Nick. His hands flailing in the cuffs as Nick strangled him harder. Chad knew he was going to die. His head pounded, his ears rang. His whole body pained. Nick’s cock was rock hard. Chad felt his ready to explode. With one final grip and squeeze Nick strangled him to death crushing his throat. Chad’s cock blew its last load up Nick’s chest. His body arched and dropped to the mattress. His hands flicked in the cuffs and stopped. His body convulsed one last time and stopped. Chad was dead. His eyes gazed wide open at the ceiling. His body lay still.
Nick kept his hands tight around Chad’s throat and flopped his head back and forth. He released his hands from his throat and hovered over him admiring his kill. Nick stated softly “Noone’s gonna miss ya”, nothing but a dirty whore”.
Nick had to release his load. He unzipped and inserted his cock into Chad’s mouth. He throat fucked him and spewed his load in his mouth. Cum spilled out and ran down his cheeks. Nick got off the bed and removed his gloves. He shoved one in Chad’s gaping mouth. He shoved the other glove’s middle finger and shoved it up Chad’s ass.
Nick grabbed his jeans and shirt and threw them in his bag. He picked up Chad’s shirt and wiped the cum off his chest then dropped it to the floor. He grabbed the bag and headed out of the room. He looked back at Chad one last time. His naked body lay sprawled and cuffed to the bed, fucked and strangled. The cum on his naked body was beginning to dry. Nick took in the wonderful sight.
Nick left the money on the stand and chuckled. He headed to his truck. As he climbed in he noticed a young lad standing at another door staring at Nick. He quickly entered the room and shut the door. “Oh fuck” thought Nick. “I can’t have a witness”. Nick climbed back out of the truck. He didn’t bother putting his shirt on. He headed to the guy’s motel door. ‘Knock, knock’…………………….
Nick stepped from the shower and admired himself in the mirror. Even
at age 38 he still looked awesome. His huge muscular chest, his
massive arms and biceps flexed to perfection. He eyed his naked body
and stared at his massive cock erect straight up to its 10″ as he
thought of his evening ahead. His killer body was ready for another
night. His urges were stirring and tonight he needed release. He
would be on the hunt.
Nick was in construction by trade, a bodybuilder for show, and
concealed a dark side. The dark side was a muscle beast killer who
liked to snuff young hustlers and fags.
Nick dressed in his tight jeans. His thighs massive, his bulge
revealing a huge cock beneath. He slipped on a white t-shirt, his
leather jacket and black saddle boots. He placed 3 $100 dollar bills in his
pocket. Nick climbed in his truck and headed for the Gay Bar noted
for hustlers on the take.
Nick parked his truck and entered the bar. It was close to midnight. The place was packed with young
studs. Nick sat at the bar and cruised the room. His massive
presence caught quite a few eyes. Nick spotted a young kid no older
than 21 eyeing him up and down. The kid was dressed in jeans, a
sleeveless t and boots. He wore a thick gold chain around his neck.
Nick picked him out as his victim for the night. The hustler would
soon be fucked and strangled before the night was over.
Nick lumbered over to the kid.
“$100 per hour” he replied. “JD’s the name” the hustler stated.
“I’m Nick, now let’s talk business” retorted Nick.
JD’s cock pained in his jeans. He was in awe of this muscular stud and wanted him and the money bad. He
stared at Nick’s bulge in his crotch following the shaft trailing
down his left thigh. Nick flashed the $100 dollar bills and
suggested they take it to a motel. JD agreed.
Nick put his massive arm around his shoulders and led him out of the bar and to his
truck. JD’s fate was sealed as he climbed into the truck and closed
the door. Nick placed his hand on JD’s thigh as they headed to the
motel. JD’s cock was rock hard and his jeans were warm to the touch.
A wet spot formed on his crotch as Nick rubbed. JD glanced at Nick’s
massive arms stretched in the leather jacket as he drove.
They arrived at the motel and Nick parked away from the office. The
motel was noted for local hustlers’ one night stands. Nick handed JD
some money and told him to go rent a room. “Tell them a room for
one, no need for them to know there are two”. JD entered the office
and returned shortly with the key. Nick grabbed a bottle of body oil
from the truck. He met JD at motel room door and grabbed the key
from him, unlocking the door. He led JD into the room. Nick bolted
the door behind him and drew the curtains tight. No chance of
witnesses he thought. Nick placed the oil on the dresser.
JD wanted the cash up front. Nick pulled out $200 dollars and handed
it to JD. “I’m yours for the next two hours” stated JD. “You’re so right”
replied Nick. JD placed the money on the nightstand and turned to
Nick removed his jacket and set it on the chair. His muscles
were bulging through his shirt. His tight shirt revealed his massive
chest underneath. His chest hairs crept up above his collar and his
dark erect nipples pressed against the fabric.
Nick noticed JD’s cock was rock hard under his jeans as he stood
before him. Nick embraced JD squeezing his massive arms around him.
His body towered over him. JD’s cock throbbed under his jeans.
Nick could feel his own cock stirring to an uncomfortable pain in
his jeans. He told JD to strip.
JD removed his shirt and kicked off his boots. His smooth chest and erect nipples gleamed of sweat in
the motel light. His gold neck chain sparkled around his neck. He
took off his jeans revealing an 8″ thick cock. He stood naked before
Nick, his cock fully erected and oozing precum. Nick picked him up
with one arm and laid him on his back on the bed. He played with
JD’s neck chain in his fingers as he deep kissed him with his
tongue. He caressed his chest and nibbled at his erect nipples. He
worked his tongue down his chest and stomach making his way down to
JD’s pulsating cock. JD felt Nick’s hard cock pressed against him
through the fabric of his jeans.
Nick got up from the bed. He wanted to give JD a show. He untucked
his shirt from his jeans and slid it slowly his up his chest,
shoulders and over his head exposing his bare chest. He tossed his
shirt to the side and posed for JD. JD looked up from the bed at
Nick, his chest massive with a perfect matt of hair fanning across
his abs, around his 3″ nipples and the trail running down to the top
of his thick leather belt. He posed and flexed as JD’s cock
twitched and leaked precum. He glanced at himself in the mirror. He
admired his own hulking body. JD stared at his bare back and looked
at his reflection in the mirror. Nick stared back in the mirror at
JD and continued to pose. JD had no clue this was going to be his
last fuck. His life soon to end at the hands of Nick.
Nick unbuckled his belt, pulling it from the loops with one tug, tossing it to the
chair with his jacket. He unbuttoned his jeans and unzipped. His
cock flew out straight out, fully erected to its 10″. It slapped
back, straight up against his hard stomach. He kicked off his boots and climbed out of
He climbed on the bed and straddled his massive body on JD. JD ran
his hands up his chest and cupped his hard nipples. He caressed
Nick’s muscles and chest hair. Nick curled his biceps as JD pressed
his fingers against them. They were rock hard. Nick moved down and
spread JD’s legs exposing his hole. He lifted his legs and placed
them on his muscular shoulders. Nick slapped his hard cock on his
ass and slowly entered. JD felt his cock entering and clamped tight
holding it in. Nick began to pump. His thrusts became harder and
harder. JD screamed out in pleasurable pain. His hands rubbed Nick’s
massive arms as Nick fucked him harder and harder. They found their way across his muscular chest as
he took in his cock.
Nick felt himself ready to explode. Nick erupted his load up JD’s ass as JD cascaded his own cum between
the two. Nick collapsed on JD as they both completed their orgasms.
His cock stayed semi-hard as he pulled out. Nick rolled over and got
off the bed. The fucking was finished. He grabbed his jeans and
boots and headed for a shower. He ordered JD to stay on the bed and
wait. JD lay sprawled naked on the bed. He listened to the water
running and then stop.
Nick came out of the bathroom and stood at the end of the bed. He
was shirtless, dressed in his jeans and boots. Nick picked up his
belt and looped it back through his jeans.
He buckled it as he moved to the dresser, picked up his bottle of oil and started to apply it
to his chest and arms. He looked at his reflection in the mirror,
his chest and arms were slicked with oil and glistening. Nick loved
to kill his victims bare-chested. He wanted them to see his massive
muscles pumped and strained as they died. He felt his cock start to
harden in his jeans as he thought of what he was going to do to JD.
His reflection in the mirror stared back at JD laying on the bed. JD
could see his menacing eyes looking at him.
Something didn’t feel right with JD. JD felt fear as Nick turned and approached the bed. Nick made a fist
with his right hand and punched his left palm a few times as he
hovered over JD. JD’s naked body vulnerable to the bare-chested
JD leaped from the bed and headed for the door.
Nick’s massive arm reached out, grabbed him by the hair and tossed
him to the floor. JD tried again. He felt the hard boot kick his
ribs CRAACK. JD screamed. Nick reached down and picked him up by the
throat tossing him towards the dresser. His body crashed on top
hitting and shattering the mirror. Shards of glass pierced his back
as blood started to trickle out. Nick pulled him off and threw him
across the room. His body hurtled across the room and smashed
against the wall. He slid down stunned. Blood started to trickle
from his nose and mouth. His body was hurting. Nick smirked and
approached. JD looked up at his menacing killer. His chest glistened
with oil and sweat. The veins in his arms and chest were bulging.
His cock was fully engorged under his jeans. He gave him a hard kick
again in the ribs with his boot. JD felt a few ribs crack, the pain
searing through his chest. His heart beat in terror. Nick lifted him
by the throat and pressed him flat against the wall. JD’s arms and
legs beat against the wall. Nick’s massive hand tightening around
his throat. His muscles bulged. JD looked into his killer eyes. Nick
bear hugged him and began to squeeze tight. JD felt like his back bones
were breaking. He screamed and kicked in pain.
Nick threw him back on the bed. His arms and hands flailed as Nick mounted him. He
grabbed the neck chain and started to twist tight. JD gasped as the
chain dug in. His cock hardened as he struggled. He gasped trying to
take in air. His hands reached out and slapped against Nick’s chest.
He tried to push Nick away but the oil only made his hands keep
sliding from Nick’s chest. Nick twisted harder. Nick felt his cock
hard and throbbing in his jeans. He was enjoying the moment and
ready to cum as he killed.
JD’s legs kicked wildly as his thrashing became weaker. Nick gave one last twist of the chain. He could hear his esophagus crush as it embedded his throat. JD shuddered and convulsed once and stopped. His hands fell to his side. JD was dead. His dead eyes stared up at Nick. Nick shot his
load in his jeans as JD died. JD cascaded a death load of cum up Nick’s back. Nick felt the hot cum hit his bare back and begin
to drip down into the crevice of his jeans.
Nick got up. JD’s body lay sprawled across the bed, eyes wide open,
naked, fucked, beaten and strangled to death.
Nick picked up the money from the stand and tucked it in his pocket. “Have no need for
this anymore, thanks for the free fuck”. He unzipped his jeans and
scooped his cum in his hand. He smeared it across JD’s face and
lips, wiping his hand clean. He grabbed his shirt and jacket,
tossing them over his shoulders. He gave one last look at the naked
and contorted body sprawled across the bed and left the room. Nick had satisfied
his murderous urges again.
JD’s body was found the next morning. M.E. determined the victim was raped and strangled. The police ruled it as another gay hook-up gone bad. No further investigation would take place.
Nick entered the gay bar. It was a late Saturday night. As usual his intent was to pick up a young stud, bring him home for sex and strangle him. He looked over the room and saw a few pickings he liked.
On the other side of the bar a young good-looking guy caught Nick’s sight. His cock stiffened in his pants as he took in Nick’s looks. Nick’s white t-shirt clung to his muscular chest. His nipples hardened against the fabric. His jeans tight against his thighs, his package bulging. No one would be able to resist him tonight.
The kid got up and moved next to Nick. He noticed Nick’s black leather boots and was instantly turned on. Nick turned and gave him a nod.
“What?” said Nick.
“Nickname’s Bootlicker,” said the guy. “Great boots you got there.”
“Thanks, Nick’s the name, nice to meet you.”
Bootlicker bought Nick a drink. He was hoping for a score. Nick played along. He took a good look at Bootlicker and decided he would be the one. Bootlicker was going to be murdered.
The two had a few more drinks. Their conversation turned to kinks they both had. Bootlicker told Nick he got into leather and especially liked leather boots and gloves. Nick smiled.
“Wanna try it?” he asked. Bootlicker nodded. He told Nick he had a place and they could both go there. Nick agreed. They left the bar and headed to Bootlicker’s place. Nick told him they could go in his truck. He would bring Bootlicker back in the morning for his car. Bootlicker climbed in. He had no idea he was taking home a serial killer.
Bootlicker showed Nick in. Nick grabbed Bootlicker by the back of his neck and pressed his lips against his. “Let’s get to the bedroom,” Nick whispered, “I want to do you good.” Bootlicker led him to the bedroom.
Both guys cocks were hard in their jeans. Bootlicker removed his shirt. He removed his shoes and jeans standing naked in front of Nick. His cock rock hard and dripping precum. The two kissed as Nick ran his hands down Bootlicker’s neck and chest. He squeezed his oozing cock. Bootlicker’s cock throbbed. Nick pushed Bootlicker’s face down to his crotch as he removed his shirt. Bootlicker licked at the wet spot on Nick’s jeans. He felt his hard, hot cock underneath. His hands made their way up Nick’s hairy chest. He felt his hard pecs and erect nipples. Nick undid his belt and jeans. His hard cock sprung out slapping Bootlicker’s lips. Bootlicker licked the precum from his cock. He worked his way down to Nick’s boots and started to lick each one slowly. “Yeah, lick those boots baby,” said Nick. The scent of the boots made Bootlicker harder. Nick’s cock dripped precum landing on the back of Bootlicker’s neck.
Nick lifted him up and laid him on his back on the bed. He removed his boots and jeans and climbed on top of Bootlicker. Bootlicker ran his hands up Nick’s chest. His chest hair felt so good on his hands. The two embraced. Bootlicker spread his legs. Nick entered and started to fuck Bootlicker. The two moved in rhythm. Nick fucked hard. They were chest to chest as the two bodies grinded against each other. “I’m going to cum” screamed Bootlicker. Nick was ready to explode also. Bootlicker let his load explode out. He and Nick felt the warmth of the cum against their stomachs. Nick shot his load into Bootlicker, thrusting hard as his hot semen filled his hole. Nick collapsed on Bootlicker and kissed his neck and lips. He pulled out and rolled over. Bootlicker ran his hands down Nick’s chest wet and sticky with his cum. He worked his way down and played with the cum and Nick’s wet cock.
Nick knew it was time to kill Bootlicker. He got off the bed and put on his jeans and boots as he remained quiet looking down at Bootlicker. He spotted a pair of Bootlicker’s leather gloves on the dresser. Bootlicker noticed Nick was staring at the gloves. ‘Go ahead, try them on”. Nick picked up the gloves and turned to Bootlicker. He watched as Nick slowly put each glove on. Nick smirked at Bootlicker as he deliberately put them on each hand. They were tight and snug. Bootlicker started to get aroused again. He laid naked in the bed staring at Nick, standing shirtless in his jeans, boots and leather gloves. The sight made him hard. He liked the sexy and dangerous look Nick had. Nick smirked and climbed back on the bed. He straddled Bootlicker and looked down at him. Bootlicker was hard. He ran his hands up Nick’s chest thanking him for the fuck. Nick ran his hands up and down Bootlicker’s chest across his face and under his nose. Bootlicker took in the scent and feel of the leather. He had no idea of Nick’s plans and the danger he was in. Nick leaned in giving him another kiss knowing what he was about to do.
Nick moved his hands around Bootlicker’s neck. Bootlicker liked the feel. Nick began to squeeze harder and harder. Bootlicker became uncomfortable. His breathing became harder as Nick squeezed. He looked up at Nick. Nick’s face was different, evil, glaring eyes. Bootlicker became scared as Nick tightened the grip.
“You like leather Bitch? You’re getting it—time to die fucker!” he heard Nick state.
Bootlicker tried to push Nick off. He pressed his hands against Nick’s chest with no luck. He grasped at the leather gloves trying to pry them off. It was like a vice grip. Bootlicker was scared. He realized Nick was strangling him to death. His naked body thrashed under Nick in a desperate attempt to escape. No use, Nick was stronger and had him pinned down on the bed. He slapped Nick’s chest and back to the gloves, clawing at them. His hands reached out to Nick’s face and chest. At one point he scratched Nick’s chest pissing him off more. Nick gripped harder. Bootlicker was fading. His cock pulsating, his body was writhing with pain. He struggled hard beneath Nick. He couldn’t believe he was being strangled to death in his own bed. Nick cock was getting hard again in his jeans. Nick gave one last hard grip around Bootlicker’s neck, one last thrust, crushing his throat, killing him. Bootlicker’s cock let loose as he died. His cum cascaded up Nick’s stomach and chest. His body convulsed once, his hands slowly slid down Nick’s chest and fell to the bed. Bootlicker was dead. His body lay still. Drips of death cum trickled from his slit and ran down his thigh.
Nick removed his hands from his neck and kneeled above him. He admired his kill for a bit. He kissed him on the forehead and got off the bed. He removed the leather gloves and used them to wipe the cum off his stomach and chest. He tossed the gloves down on Bootlicker’s naked body. One landed aside him, the other on his chest. “There’s your leather, bitch. You were a good fuck.” Nick’s cock pulsed inside his jeans. He needed release again. He unzipped and whipped out his cock as it spurted out cum landing across Bootlicker’s face. Nick grabbed his shirt, not bothering to put it back on, tucking it in his back pocket. He looked at Bootlicker’s naked body sprawled across the bed one last time. His neck and head contorted. His eyes frozen in time staring up at the ceiling, fucked and strangled. Nick was sexually satisfied. Nick left the apartment, climbed in his truck and headed home.
You hear your name and turn towards the voice. Sure enough, it’s Alex.
The movie has just let out and you’re standing outside on the pavement. It was a good show, but Alex was supposed to see it with you. He bailed at the last moment, saying he’d meet you afterwards. Well, at least he’s kept his word on that part.
“Man, I’m so sorry about that,” he says with an apologetic smile, “Shit. It was a work thing. Y’know how that goes. Anyway, didja like the movie?”
“Yeah,” you tell him, “But I’d have like it better if I’d had someone to see it with. So, what do you wanna do know?”
You know what you want to do. Alex has a nice chest that isn’t completely obscured by his thin windbreaker and dark blue polo shirt. Beneath his slim-fit Banana Republic jeans, cinched by a leather belt, his feet are laced into a pair of white Jordan 4 White Oreo sneakers. Above his slightly upturned nose, large pale blue eyes twinkle underneath a carefully disarranged mop of sandy blond hair. He’s practically begging to be fucked—but that’ll come later. You can be patient.
“Why don’t we go over to Buck’s Tavern? It’s a cool place—I hang with Robbie and Stu there sometimes. Won’t see ‘em tonight—they went to Florida for the week—but we can have a drink or two.”
You’re not fond of sitting in gay bars; it seems cheap and tawdry, at best. But then Alex adds, “And after that, maybe we can chill at my place, see what happens…”
That, you want. So, you agree to go to the bar.
The moment you enter Buck’s, you can feel the eyes on you. It’s not that you’re self-conscious—and, on the other hand, you’re not anything spectacular. But you’re aware your black long-sleeve button-down silk shirt and black Levi’s emphasize your dark eyes and your hair, which is so glossy black it almost has a blue tint. The dark color scheme is slightly offset by your dark brown Timberland Redwood Falls boots, and the thick belt of the same color.
And, of course, there’s your height; it never fails to draw notice. Alex is almost six feet tall—but you tower nearly six inches over him.
Not that you complain, of course—you’ve never had any problems getting laid. They come to you like moths to a flame. But the constant attention gets old sometimes, and lately you find yourself preferring a quiet, intimate evening in private to a rowdy night in a bar or a club.
But Buck’s isn’t too obnoxious. Alex selects a booth on the side. The conversation is light and casual—but you can’t help but notice that he’s knocking back two shots of whiskey to every one of your scotch and sodas.
Your mind goes back to the day he approached you in the coffee shop. You’d been patronizing the place for less than a week since you’d just been contracted for an electrical job in the neighborhood. It was a skilled trade that paid extremely well, and you were good at it—but a little caffeine in the mornings helped you be better. So there you were, seven in the morning on weekdays, plain coffee, black, one sugar—and there was Alex. Staring.
He wasn’t bad looking, so you frequently found yourself returning his gaze. But it took him four days to get up the courage to come over and introduce himself, then another two to finally ask for a date. Alex worked in middle management for a tech company and seemed inordinately proud of his MBA. That kinda thing has never impressed you, but you don’t shoot him down. He’s got a good body and otherwise seems kinda nice—who knows what it might lead to?
The idea of going to dinner and a movie tonight had been his. He was going to meet you at Ricardo’s Steakhouse, then you were going to the show. He picked out the movie—the latest superhero action flick. Again, not your bag, but if he wanted to see it, why not? Besides, a lot of fondling can go on in the dark…
But then he called just as you were about to leave for the restaurant. Big fuckup at work, his ass was on the line if he couldn’t straighten it out, yadda yadda yadda. Said he’d meet you after the movie—so you cancelled he reservation at the steakhouse went and paid way too much for popcorn and a ticket to a movie you’d never wanted to see.
Now he’s trying to explain what had happened. The alcohol has loosened his tongue a bit and he’s getting kinda garrulous. The details of the server crash are outside of your knowledge base, but he sounds apologetic.
Still, it’s difficult not to hold a grudge. After all, this date night was his idea to begin with.
Suddenly, he reaches over and grabs your hand, breaking in on your thoughts. “Fuck man, I’ve been wanting it all day. No more waiting. Let’s get outta here—my place?” he says. “I’ll make it up to you.”
As you stare deeply into his light blue eyes, you can feel your cock pulse with anticipation. You want him, yes, but it’s kinda surprising how much you want him. You want to sink your throbbing shaft into his bubble butt and plow him till he screams in ecstasy…
He stands up quickly, and you can’t help but notice the outline of his erection in the crotch of his jeans. He wants this just as badly as you do.
“Fuck yeah, let’s go,” you growl. He blushes and ducks his head; his boyish grin is adorable. The thought of him riding your dick is irresistible—you hope his apartment isn’t far.
It’s not. Two blocks north and three west, and you’re there. A century-old brick building five stories tall, converted to luxury apartments. He has you park on the street in front; the rear lot is for tenants only. You meet him in the entry hall—he needs to pick up his mail, anyway.
The floor and the stairs are marble. The gleaming woodwork and polished brass trimmings show how much more expensive this place is than yours. Not that you couldn’t afford it, but it does confirm your suspicion that there’s a certain pretentiousness abut Alex.
That’s ok, though. As he leads the way up the stairs, you lag far enough behind that his smooth, tight, denim-encased ass is directly in front of your face. No matter how pretentious the owner is, that fuckhole is gonna be nice and tight on you tool when you stick it in.
He’s on the second floor. A thick, heavy door with a brass number plate. The inside is luxurious, with thick carpeting, elaborate molding and recessed lighting. The furniture is solid, in a retro mid-century modern style. “Let’s make it a little cozier,” Alex says with a coy grin as he ignites the gas fireplace. “Go have a seat; I’ll make us drinks. You like scotch and soda, right?”
“Yeah,” you respond as you sit on the soda and unbutton your shirt. Alex makes the drinks, turns to bring them—and nearly drops the glasses. He’s staring at your chest, slack-jawed. “Goddam, that’s…” he gasps somewhat incoherently, “Fuck, they sure know how to use you on your job. First time I laid eyes on you, I was watchin’ you through the window, flexin’ while lifting all that equipment outta your truck, but goddam, bro…love that furry chest of yours…and that necklace. It’s hot as hell; what is it? Silver?”
“No,” you reply, “It’s platinum. Gift from an old friend. The dagger pendant is supposed to represent protection.” But you wear it because you like it, not because you need protection. You can take care of yourself.
Handing you your glass, Alex sits next to you. Immediately, his hand is in your chest hair, his fingers entwined in the thick, wiry curls. As he fondles your necklace and caresses your pecs, his breathing changes and becomes more ragged. Suddenly, he grabs your face, pulls it to his, and begins kissing you.
It’s not a gentle, loving kiss. It’s rough and somehow desperate, his tongue probing deep within your mouth. It’s almost as if he wants to be the top—but you know that’s not the case. You’d talked about it. He says he loves rough sex, but he’s purely a bottom, which makes this precipitous move on his part something of a surprise.
“Take your shirt off,” he says, his voice husky with excitement. As you slip out of it and lay it carefully over the arm of the sofa, he peels off his own. His smooth, muscled chest appeals to me; you instantly reach over and twist one of his large, dark nipples.
He moans in pleasure. Forcing your hand away, he stands up abruptly and begins unbuckling his belt. “Whip it out, dude,” he gasps breathlessly, “I wanna see your cock.”
You don’t mind, but you want to see his too, and you tell him so. He unbuttons his shirt, exposing his smooth, muscled chest, and you can feel your cock twitch. It wants to be free of the confines of your jeans, and you want it to be free. You stand up and grasp your zipper; at the same time, you notice that Alex has removed his belt and slipped his jeans down to his knees. He’s got boxers on underneath; they’re tented, with a small wet spot forming.
He’s wearing an embarrassed grin, but the light in his eyes is pure lust; they gaze with a laser focus on your crotch as you slowly unzip your fly. It takes a moment to reach in and extract your massive hog; it reaches halfway down your thigh.
The look on Alex’s face changes as your rod leaps out into the open air. Eager anticipation is replaced by awe, and perhaps a touch of fear. “It’s—it’s…” he falters, gulps, and starts again, almost whispering. “Dude, I knew you were…but holy fuck, bro…”
Yeah, he wants it. He wants your dick. And he’s gonna get it, too, right up his tight hole. “Turn around,” you tell him, “I wanna see your ass. I like to survey the landscape before I lay pipe.” He turns—slowly, with some hesitancy.
Damn, he’s got a nice ass. Smooth, firm, tight, just begging for your thick shaft to be sunk into it. “Oh hell yeah, bro,” you say, “I’m gonna plow that hole. You like it rough, yeah? Dude, I’m gonna ream your ass like a fuckin’ jackhammer.”
Alex turn around. He’s blushing and there are beads of sweat on his forehead. “Man, Mike, I, uh—I dunno about this…”
What? “Whaddaya mean? Don’t know about what?”
“I, um…well, it’s just…I mean, you’re so big…”
Your cock is throbbing so bad it hurts. You need release, and you need it soon. He needs to get over whatever his bullshit is.
“Yeah? I thought you liked that.”
“Well, yeah, but—y’know, there’s a limit—”
You can feel something deep inside start to churn. It’s an ugly feeling, this sense of anger, and you know from past experience that it can become uncontrollable, so you do your best to remain calm and reasonable.
“You want this. You know you do; you said so.” You’re trying hard not to let your anger creep into your voice, but it’s difficult. He invited you back here for sex; there was no mistaking his signals. “C’mon, put your mouth on it.”
He comes closer, his reluctance obvious. You know he’ll do it, though; there’s no mistaking the expression of lust that’s clearly battling with his trepidation. Finally, he leans forward, opens his full, lush lips wide, and tries to encircle your engorged member with his mouth.
It’s a tight fit. You can feel how your thick, spongy head fills his mouth, but it’s not enough. You want your pubes to be scratching his face; you know he’s gotta want that too. So you place your hands on the back of his head and shove.
The pulsing head of your shaft lodges in Alex’s trachea and he gags. Holy fuck, it feels good. You hold his head in place, enjoying the way his throat is massaging your cock. He starts resisting, trying to pull his head up off your dick, but you’re not done yet—hell, you’re just getting started. As he struggles, you find yourself applying more and more force to keep his head in place.
Well, he did say he wanted it rough. And he’s giving one hell of a skullfuck.
His hands come up. They start slapping at your thighs, but soon his efforts intensify and he’s actively beating at your abs. It doesn’t matter—you can feel his esophagus milk your rod as he strains. It feels too good to release him.
Suddenly, he give a burst of force so strong it catches you off guard; you didn’t think him capable of it. He practically leaps backward, away from your crotch, leaving your toll bobbing in the air, glistening with his saliva. You notice with a vague surprise how dark his face is. Gasping frantically for air, he wipes the drool from his lips with the back of his hand; you can see the fear in his eyes.
“You—you need—” he breaks off and coughs till he gags, then starts again. “You need to go. I can’t—I just can’t…”
As he speaks, your vision becomes clouded. It’s as if a red mist is forming in front of your eyes. You know what it means—you’re getting angry. Bad angry, not normal angry. You’ve got to keep control.
“Go?” you ask calmly, “What do you mean, go?” Your voice is barely about a whisper. You know your smile is perhaps a little too broad, but you’re in control. “You invited me here. You asked me in. We both know what I’m here for, but you don’t need to worry. I’ll make it easy for you but remember—I’m in control.”
And you are in control. He’ll put out; all you have to do is establish eye contact. But he’s not looking at your face. His attention is directed towards your right hand…
Alex’s belt—you don’t remember picking it up, but you’re holding it, and that seems natural. It seems to make sense. As you look at it, you can feel your cock swell. It’s going to go around Alex’s neck. You don’t exactly know why, but that also makes sense. And you’re still in control.
He’s talking, but you’re not paying attention. You’re looking at the belt and trying to figure—ah, there it is. So easy—you just loop the belt back through its buckle, a simple, basic noose. Casually, you toss it over his head.
Alex is still on knees. As soon as the belt is over his head and resting loosely on his shoulders, he begins to rise. “Wh-what are you doin’, bro?” he asks as he cautiously tried to get upright, “Gonna call the cops if you don’t—gaackthph!!”
You jerk him back down to his knees, cutting off his threat. He’s not gonna do anything—you’re in control. He gags and claws at the strap to leather around his throat, his huge eyes expressing his bewildered terror.
“No,” you say, your voice reflecting the profound calmness and serenity you feel. “I’m not ready to leave yet. C’mon, I still haven’t checked out your bedroom yet.”
You drag him across the floor by the belt around his neck. The gurgling, choking sounds he’s making change pitch, as if it’s become harder to emit them. His legs kick and flail frenetically as he tris to gain some sort of traction. He can’t, of course—you’re in control.
There’s something about the way his Nikes dance a panicked, oxygen-deprived jig across the carpet—it’s a sign of how utterly helpless he his, and how much control you truly do have.
“You lied to me,” you tell him, “You led me on.” His face is swelling and becoming purple. He looks like he’s in a lot of pain; which, for some reason, makes your cock ache and throb a little more. His bulging eyes are starting to form pinprick hemorrhages—they stare straight at you, begging in terror.
“Shh,” you whisper soothingly. “It’ll be over soon. After that, it won’t hurt. Nothing will ever hurt you again.”
You’re not sure why you said that. It seemed to come, spontaneously and fully-formed, from somewhere deep in your brain, but one thing you do know—you’re going to make it come true. Your dick tells you that.
His hands scramble desperately at you, his fingers curling in the hair of your forearms. He’s kicking so violently he actually manages to get his left foot under. It’s enough for him to start to leverage his way upward. That’s not gonna happen; you yank the belt so hard sideways that he topples over, the Nike on his left foot popping off.
You can see his toes curling repeatedly, almost reflexively in his white ankle sock. He seems to be a lot more panicked now. How long has he been without oxygen? There’s a detail you missed. Next time, you’ll need to remember to time it.
You’re at the bedroom door now, and he’s still fighting. He’s transferred his attention from your arms to the door frame, clutching it for all he’s worth. “Let go,” you tell him. “You’re ok. You’re in your own bedroom. Let go—I’m in control.” You give the belt another vicious jerk and wrench him free.
He seems to be giving up the fight as you approach the bed. You stop and kneel down, your cock achingly erect and oozing, and there you see it. In his face, you see proof that you are in control.
He’s so dark he’s almost black in the face. His eyes are bulging grotesquely, but no less than his tongue, purple and distended. A long, thick streamer of white foam dangled from his chin onto his bare chest. It’s hot. It’s so fucking hot, and you’re controlling it. He isn’t doing it to please you. He has no control—only you. Only you.
He’s almost dead. You watch life fade from his eyes, and for a moment you draw a blank.
Oh, yeah. Alex. His name was Alex. You don’t want to forget that.
You lean close to him, so close you can hear the involuntary spasming of his cinched esophagus, and whisper softly into his ear.
“Hey, Alex, bro—still with me? ‘No’ was the wrong answer…”
And another jerk of the belt. There’s a gristly crunching sound, somewhere between crushing a foam cup and ripping off a chicken leg, and his trachea collapses. You established your control over Alex so completely that he was utterly unable to prevent the last few moments of his life being spent in mind-rending agony.
His firm muscular body thrashes like a landed marlin, his heels drumming mindlessly against the floor. His hands are raised, fists clenching and unclenching in midair. His head shudders violent, spittle flying through the air. And then you see something you didn’t know was possible.
As you’d taken him into control, you’d noticed that his jeans had finally ended up around his ankles and that the tent in his boxers had never been taken down. Now, as you watched, the wet spot suddenly and very swiftly expanded in size as a pearly froth bubbled up at the tip of the tentpole.
He’d unloaded. He’d liked it. The fucker wanted it, wanted it so bad he’d blown his wad as it happened.
Well, if he wanted that, then he’d wanted this too. Reaching under its arms, you lift the convulsing corpse up to the bed. You jerk the boxers down by the waistband; the hard cock leaps up, still spewing jizz even after death. You suddenly find yourself seized by an overpowering urge—bend down and take the spurting shaft into your mouth.
Poor Alex—if only he’d given you what you wanted, he’d be having a great time right now.
But that’s no reason for you not to enjoy yourself. You suck his tool as if he was still alive to feel something, letting your tongue linger on its slick, engorged head. Within minutes, though, you can feel the dude’s generous tackle begin to wither and withdraw. There’s no more sperm to be gotten, either.
It’s time to get what you came for. You roll Alex’s firm but limp body over onto its belly, positioning it so you have perfect aim at its asshole. Slapping your cock into the palm of your hand, you climb onto the bed and mount the corpse.
Holy fuck, that feels good. Alex’s sphincter provides just the right amount of resistance before it gives way, accepting your aching, pulsing rod. You sink balls-deep into the dead kid’s ass, barely aware that you’re groaning with intense pleasure.
No other fuck has ever felt this good, and you’re just getting started.
Alex lies there, uncomplainingly accepting your dick. You have control; you can do whatever you want. You can fuck him as long and as hard as you want. He can’t say no, and that makes you want to fuck him even harder.
You can hear sounds echoing off the walls—your own physical grunting and the swift slapping of flesh created by vigorous sexual activity. You can still smell the tang of Alex’s flesh in the air, against a backdrop his cologne; you can still taste his salty cum on your tongue. He’s yours now, and he’ll never be anyone else’s.
That’s it; that’s what you needed to know, to feel, to really get. Alex is truly yours. Once you fill his tight fuckhole with manseed, no one else ever will. He’ll never be able to say he’s had a better fuck than you, and he’ll never be able to tell anyone he turned you down.
You don’t take no for an answer.
Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. Show Alex. He didn’t want to take your dick? Hose his guts with hot semen. Fucker can’t do anything to stop you—
It hurts. You cum so hard it hurts, burning, searing, like your dick is spewing lightning, not jizz. It goes on and on, your entire body spasming and convulsing as if you yourself were dying with each successive load. At some point, you become aware that you’ve been cursing Alex and slamming your fist into his lifeless back. Eventually, you come to a shuddering stop, but it still takes you another five minutes to regain your composure—and your breath.
Eventually, you’re back in control. You always are, sooner or later. You extract yourself, carefully pulling your cock back out of the corpse’s still-quivering asshole. You head back to the living room to get your clothing, but as you reach the bedroom door, you can see Alex’s Nike sneaker sitting upright by itself in the middle of the living room floor. For some reason, the image compels you to turn back and face the enormity of what you’ve done in the bedroom.
Alex is face-down on the bed. His arms are at his sides, his legs are spread as far as possible given that his jeans and boxers are down around his knees. The belt around his neck has sunk in so deep, it’s barely visible.
On the other hand, even from the doorway, you can clearly see how your cum still trickles from his ass.
The toes on the foot without the shoe are still curling, faintly and spasmodically. At the same time, the sneaker on the other foot jerks in sync. The entire corpse twitches randomly, but the movements are farther and farther apart each time.
You did this. Not an hour ago, Alex was a viable human being with a career and a social life. Now he’s a pile of human meat, filled with your cum. It hits you all at once, the full knowledge of exactly what you’ve done, and you feel…you feel—
—you feel inspired. You feel excited. You’ve had an epiphany.
You tuck your member back down your pants ad put your shirt back on. There’s a mirror by the front door; you stop and make sure that you look no different than you did when you came in. It confirms that you give no sign of the violent scene in which you’ve just participated.
You peer out the door—no one in the hallway. You luck holds; you leave the building unseen. As you head back to your place, you obey the speed limit and all traffic signs and signals. You’re filled with an understanding that you are at the doorway of a wondrous and dark new world, and you’re going to have to be very, very careful if you want to continue to taste its unspeakable pleasures.
The next day, you don’t think about it. You can’t. You didn’t kill someone; that was a bad dream. You go through your day, your mind relentlessly shying away from any train of thought that has Alex as its final destination.
But you can’t fool yourself. You won’t think about it because you don’t want to acknowledge, even to yourself, that you just nonchalantly committed murder…
…and because every time you do think about it, your dick gets hard.
And so you get through the day. And the next day. By that evening, though, you’re feeling the strain. You pour a drink as you sit down for you daily perusal of the local news apps—and there it is.
You don’t have to read the caption to recognize Alex’s apartment building. The link goes to a video clip from the local affiliate of a major network; you follow it compulsively, needing to recognize the enormity of your actions. The reporter is pretty and perky, and actually seems to have difficulty keeping the perkiness out of her voice as she speaks.
“Police responding to a welfare check at an apartment in the 5300 block of Anderson Avenue found the body of twenty-three-year-old Alexander Wallis. According to the report, the young man had been found strangled and had been sexually assaulted, but the police aren’t releasing any further details at this time.”
The clip segues into interviews with neighbors on the sidewalk in front of the building. A vivacious blond claiming to be Alex’s next-door neighbor is babbling away about not hearing a word from next door last night and of course she knew he was gay but didn’t think he was seeing anyone steadily…but your attention is suddenly riveted on the background.
A gurney is emerging from the front door, on top, a form covered by a sheet. It’s Alex, and everything immediately seems to slow down as if the clip was running at half speed.
A pair of orderlies are wheeling him out; behind is a tall, lanky young man with sandy blond hair. At that moment, the interviewee mentions something about the security of the front door, and the camera briefly zooms in. The young man’s name is embroidered on the breast of his white lab coat. The wind is flipping his lapel, so only part of it can be seen, and that not clearly—but you can make out ‘Harris’.
There’s something about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but then your eye lights on the pocket of his coat. There’s something in it; you know that shape…
Then it hits you—it’s a shoe. It’s Alex’s Nike sneaker. And right at that moment, he looks at the camera.
No. At you. He’s looking at you.
He knows what happened. He knows you’re out there. He may not know specifically who you are, but he’s seen this before. The sneaker—what does he want with Alex’s sneaker?
And then the image fills your mind—the Jordan 4 White Oreo sitting in the middle of the floor, your turning and admiring your kill with no shame, just the erotic thrill of domination. It rewinds like a film—his desperate, flailing death as he spunked in his shorts, the look of bewildered terror in his eye as you established control…
And you cum. Good thing you just got out of the shower and you’re still nude, because your sperm explodes like a geyser—and you didn’t even touch yourself. Just the memory of that night…
You head back to the bathroom to clean up, your mind racing madly. You have no idea what’s going to happen next. And that Harris dude—what the fuck was he up to?
But as you wipe your cum off your chest, you know one thing—you’ll never forget that night. You’ll never forget what it felt like to gain ultimate control.
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I saw the teasing photo he posted: lifting up a tight t shirt to show rippling abs, a bulging pec, a left nipple. A photo to show he had built himself into a muscle god. He said that his name was Luis Adam Bree. Real or not, I didn’t care. He said he wanted to be tamed, to be humiliated and punished. That said all I wanted to know about him. That he knew what he was, this waiter/bartender in his late twenties. Meat. Beautiful and well shaped. But meat. Nothing more.
I messaged him to find out what he meant by saying he was very kinky. He wanted to role play over Skype first. I said no. He wanted photos of me. I said no. I told him what I looked like made no difference to meat like him that deserved punishment. I told him to send more photos , and these nude. And he did. I told him to describe the kinky sexual encounters he had had. He did. In detail. He was mine already. I gave him the address of my house outside London. I gave him a date and a time that we could play at his punishment. And for the next two weeks I answered none of his messages.
He was precise, I’ll give him that. My bell rang at exactly the appointed time. I opened the door and he stepped inside, wearing the tight t and jeans of that first picture. I instructed him to stand, hands behind his back, legs spread, eyes ahead. I cupped my hand around the impressive cock and balls beneath the jeans, looking him in the eyes. He smiled as he grew hard and started to say he was pleased to finally meet me. I cuffed him hard across the mouth. I needed no words from him.
I took my time going to get a sharp knife. When I returned he stood stock still where he had been. I started to slowly shred the tight t, exposing his nipples. When he objected about how he couldn’t go home without a shirt I cuffed him again and pressed the point of the knife against his throat. I told him he would walk home totally naked if that was what I told him to do. I went back to my work shredding. His nipples were hard by the time I cut the collar of the t and it dropped to the floor. I started work on the jeans next. Cutting off piece by piece starting at his ankles, watching the cock strain against the crotch, darkening it with precum. It took a while, as I intended, until he stood naked, still with legs spread, hands behind his back, and eyes focused on a spot on the wall across from the front door. His cock stood out from his crotch, nicely hard.
I walked around him, close but not touching, inhaling his scent, feeling the heat coming off of his skin, inspecting every bit of his exposed flesh. When I stood behind him, I put an arm around his chest and drew him to me. I put my other hand over his nose and mouth, clamping them shut as I pulled his head against my shoulder. He tensed but stayed still. I held him as I felt his chest start to strain for air under my arm, and his heart to pound. Then his chest started to heave. As his hands grabbed for mine, I released him and stepped around him, punching him hard in his heaving stomach and cuffing him against the mouth. He was doubled over gasping for breath. I grabbed his hair and pulled his face up near mine. There were bruises beginning under the scruff around his mouth, and a trickle of blood. I told him calmly and slowly to stand with hands behind his back, legs spread, and eyes straight ahead. He did as told. I waited as his breath returned to normal.
I told him there would be no more words between us. I told him we were going to my playroom where I would begin his true humiliation. I repeated the safe word he had used with another partner. I knew it from the account he had sent to show how kinky he could be. I asked if he remembered it. He opened his mouth to speak, and then remembered, and nodded instead. I told him there were no safe words here. That that was how kinky I was. I told him I would punish him until I was satisfied and that he had no more say about what happened to him. I asked if he understood. He nodded. I told him it made no difference whether he understood or agreed. Nothing about him made any more difference. He nodded again. His cock was still hard. I took hold of it and led him to the basement.
I had made only one improvement to my basement to make it a playroom. On one wall was a large mirror I had acquired from a dance studio that had gone out of business. I liked my boys to watch their own humiliation. As you have probably guessed, this is not the first time I have taught a boy the hard lesson of punishment. There have been other boys who wanted to suffer pain. There have been others who have had to watch what was happening to their bodies as they slowly figured out that, no matter what we had agreed, there were no safe words here. And that I was never satisfied with their punishment. There have been others. This was merely the prettiest. And the first to be led down those stairs knowing he could not call a stop to what was going to happen.
I led them by their cocks because it made the stairs awkward. Luis Adam Bree only stumbled once, but he kept his hands behind his back and did not fall. Still his bow legged gait was hardly the elegant movement he probably expected out of his finely tuned body. Humiliation took many forms. And there would be no more elegance in this young man’s life. I led him to the center of the dank, bare room, facing his reflection in the mirror. He could look at the darkening bruises on his face. He could wonder how much they would show at work next week. He could wonder what other marks his body might have by then. He could wonder what it would feel like when he came. He could wonder if there would be a next week for him. He could wonder what death would feel like, and how he would react. He could wonder many things. I left, locking the house. He could not escape.
I ran some errands. I had a nice dinner at the restaurant where he waited tables. It was hours before I returned.
When I did, he was standing just as instructed. On the concrete floor between his legs was a puddle. He really had not moved. I grabbed the back of his head, forcing him down on his knees, not an easy movement on stiff legs with hands still behind him. But he was strong. I forced his face down to the puddle, my face close to his. To watch. He knew what I wanted. And I knew what he wanted. Humiliation. He started to lick. He gagged a couple of times. The floor was dirty. The piss smelled strong. But I didn’t let him up until the puddle was gone. Then I took his wrists and stretched his arms high, tying them to hooks set into the ceiling. I stepped to a cabinet against the wall and took off my own clothes, folding them on top of it. My body was not as impressive as his, but that was not the point of being naked. I wanted to feel flesh quivering in pain against my own. I took a cat o’ nine tails out of a drawer. It was spiked. He saw it as I stepped up behind him. He gripped the ropes that tied him. He set his jaw. But he made no sound.
I cracked it across his back. He gave a little grunt, and shook his head as if to shake off the shock of the sharp pain. Red lines opened up on his right shoulder blade. Blood began to trickle. The second crack was harder, and his body shook at the blow. The third caught in the flesh of his shoulder and I dragged it across, shredding his back like I shredded his t shirt. I switched hands and began again on his left side. His body shuddered at each blow. Again and again and again. He gave little grunts and moans, but did not cry out. He was hanging now by his wrists, but he was stretched so tight he was still on his feet. I could see his face in the mirror, his eyes watching every blow. I saw his determination to prove himself. To prove the strength of this body he had built. To prove the only thing about himself that was worth anything to him. Or to me.
I stepped back and admired the sight before me. The red stripes crisscrossing the muscles of the back. The shredded flesh. The bright red blood flowing. The sheen of sweat. The ripples as he heaved in air. I saw him looking at me in the mirror and I smiled at him in approval. He nodded. I placed the whip on he floor and walked around, standing face to face with him, close. Our chests rubbed against each other, our nipples hardening. My cock, long and stiffening, rubbed against his. His reacted as it started to get hard again. I wrapped my arms around him, smearing my hands in the blood of his back. Then, staying close, I used my fingers to write. I started with his left pec, over his heart. I was writing backwards, again and again pressing my fingers in the wounds of his back to get fresh blood. I held his eyes, to see if he was figuring out what I was writing. Both of our cocks were hard now. Brushing against each other’s legs. It was short, what I was writing. Ten letters. Three words. But I took my time. Savoring the intimacy. As he was, I think. I wrote the last word across his belly, his rock hard abs. And then I stepped back, still watching his eyes. Their focus shifted, looking at his torso in the mirror. Looking at the words I had written backwards so they were forwards in the mirror. And then his eyes got wide, and wild. He started shaking his head, muttering no, no, no. So he had been holding out hope then. He hadn’t really let himself believe where this was going. Just a game for him. A role play. I turned to look at what he was seeing. At the mirror, where his body read, “Gut me. Alive.”
I went to the cabinet and took out a knife. A gutting knife. I placed it on the floor near the mirror, where he could see himself and the knife together. Then I stepped back close to him, taking care not to smear my message. His cock was limp now, his nipples flat. He was afraid, tamed. So he did not resist when I put my hand behind his head and pulled his face to mine, when I kissed him deep. He returned the kiss after a while, although his cock stayed limp. Then I left him to the knife and the message and his imagination. Imagination about pain and blood and death could be torture on its own. I had a strong feeling though, that for Luis Adam Bree, there had been many nights when imagination about pain and blood and death had been ecstasy. Tonight, if he was lucky, it would be both.
When I returned to my basement playroom he looked up to watch me come down the steps. His eyes were red-rimmed, like he had been crying. He was finding death wasn’t like his fantasy. So strong, he thought he was, strong enough to enjoy torture and even dying. So before I destroyed his body, I would destroy that, any chance that he would enjoy what I did to him.
I walked up to him and ran my hand along his cheek, running my hands over his impressive pecs, running my thumbs around and around his nipples until they grew hard again, running my hands over his hard abs and the v of his hips until I cupped his balls with one hand and grasped his cock in my other. It was a gentle caress, and his cock leapt to erection in my hand. His body was young, and always straining for pleasure. But I saw the hope come back in his eyes as well. I sneered at him. And spit in his face. His cock stayed hard. I could see he enjoyed it.
One of the fantasies on the site that young Mr Bree and I enjoyed was that a young man could have his best orgasm as he died, spraying cum everywhere. The difference was that I knew it was a fantasy. Young Mr Bree was expecting it to be real. So I was about to turn his expectation into frustration.
I moved around behind him, enjoying running my hands over the firm mounds of his butt. I moved two fingers into his crack, exploring his hole. His body quivered in delight, and he spread his legs expecting my cock to be thrust in next. But I simply explored until I found the spongy prostate inside him and began to rub. If I had used my other hand to stroke his cock, used my tongue to lick his butt, had given him any other pleasure, he would most likely have shot cum across the room. But I was not interested in his pleasure. So I simple rubbed his prostate. It took a while, but eventually I got what I wanted. His milky cum dribbling out of his now not-quite-erect cock. It made quite a puddle by the time it stopped. It would have made for an impressive and fulfilling orgasm. But this milking would leave his balls empty and unable to cum for longer than it was going to take him to die. And it would leave his body, I had been told, aching to cum, but not able to. Mr Bree would get nothing but pain and frustration out of his dying.
I moved around to face him again, wiping my fingers on his chest, smearing the words I had written. He had a puzzled look, looking from the puddle of wasted cum to me. Not understanding what I had just done, or why. In the stories that we read, that Mr Bree had even written, the torturer wanted the young buck to cum. Or he enjoyed the pain enough to cum. Or his body just came at the last second. This was not the stories. This was ugly and painful reality. My reality.
He took a breath and started to speak. I raised my hand and he cut the words off, flinching from the expected blow. I lowered my hand, smiled and walked over to my cabinet of toys. I had been thinking over our little break about how I would end this Luis Adam Bree. I read responses to his photo on the site. People saying what they would do to him if they had the chance. I took perverse pleasure in the fact that the object of their lust was hanging from the joists that supported the floor under my chair. I even hacked his account and posted a photo of his cock and balls that he had sent me. I thought they deserved the chance to beat off over them while I enjoyed the real thing. At last I remembered how my cock loved shredding his t shirt to expose that beautiful torso. So I opened a drawer and took out an extremely sharp scalpel.
I got the puzzled look again as he saw me approach with such a tiny knife. His eyes followed it as I raised it to his right shoulder, as I thrust it through his skin and just into his muscle. There was a sharp intake of breath and a long hiss as I drew a line with the scalpel, straight down, over the edge of his pec, down the side of his ribs to his waist, over the bone of his hip and down the outside of his leg to his ankle. Slowly and calmly. And then I just as slowly licked the beads of blood springing from the line up his leg and torso to his shoulder, my cock hardening as I followed the contours of his muscle, first with my hand, then with my tongue. As I reached the top of the line I had drawn in him, I looked him in the eye and gave him a gory smile. Then I raised my scalpel and drew a second line a little to the right of the first. A slight whimper as I drew over the bumps of his ribs. Again my tongue retraced the contours of his muscle and bone. My cock stood out hard from my crotch. His was long and thick, but it would never be erect again. Again and again I drew the lines, just deep enough to cut into the muscle, to bring the blood trickling down his torso and thighs and calves. I traced around his nipples, leaving them whole. And I left the center line of his body, so well defined on its own, unmarked. He was weakening now, from the constant pain, the slits in the muscles, the loss of blood. His breaths came long and ragged. But he was still far from dying. His body was coated in a sheen of blood and sweat. The bloody lines just helped define the contours of his muscles. His mouth hung open in pain and exhaustion. Tears of pain or despair tracked his cheeks, I didn’t care much which. He was fucking beautiful. His body shredded like I shredded his clothes. THIS is all you’re for, cunt. All you built up that magnificent body for. MY pleasure.
I admired my work for a while, stroking my stiff cock with my free hand. Still holding the scalpel in my right. There was one last part of him still to draw my lines in. I began at the base of the v of his collarbone. His body shuddered a bit at this last violation of so many. I traced the line down the valley of his pecs, the valley of his abs. My cock strained, wanting to cum at this beauty. But I left it alone and continued. I traced around the navel, giving him hope I would stop before I got to where this line was pointing. But I continued, down the trail of hair that led to his bush, through its center, and then … even more slowly … down the top of his long impressive cock, pressing deep now. He howled. But his muscles were shredded enough, the blood loss was enough, that he could only shudder, and hang from his wrists tied to the ceiling.
I continued my line. Cutting through the head, following the slit, and then holding the cock up to cut through the other side, cutting it in two. Then I continued down the center of his sack, between his heavy balls, around and up the back of it, until at last I reached his hole and stopped. He continued to moan and sob. I knew the pain must be excruciating, even compared to all the other cuts together. I began another line on his cock, cutting each of the halves I had created in two. Then I drew lines down its sides. In all, I cut the tube of his cock so that it hung from his crotch in six strips. Then I went to work on his sack, down under the balls and around, leaving it in six strips as well. But only the sack. The balls themselves hung glistening and untouched, poking through their net of skin and blood.
I licked some of the delicious blood. I smeared some of it on my straining cock. And then I stood, and applied my scalpel to that shredded chest once again. I cut a slit connecting two of my lines along his collarbone. I dug my scalpel under the layer of skin and started to pull loose the strip I had made. It was the one with his untouched left nipple. The one he had teased in his first picture. I had decided when I first saw it that it would be mine. I pulled sharply again and again as the strip came loose down his chest to his waist. I would have thought he didn’t have the strength left, but he howled. Each time I pulled. I left the strip attached to his leg as I put the perfect nipple in my mouth and began to chew while I looked him in the eye. I saw anger and frustration. I had cheated him of what he thought would be the fulfillment of his life, a perfect, cum-soaked death. I even deprived him of the delicious pain of feeling his nipple chewed into pulp. Behind the anger I saw the deep, searing pain that washed over him in waves from all the nerves of his skin severed. And I saw the utter, utter hopelessness. I was stripping away anything erotic from his dying, but he was dying anyway. And there was no way of stopping that now. I saw despair. And with it, something like love. He would not feel any of the pleasure he had imagined. He had no cum left to cum. But he could see by my cock my pleasure. And he was clinging to that.
I reached my fingers into the strips of his sack and circled his left ball. He grunted a bit like this was just a discomfort. He was fading now. I pulled down, sharp and hard until it came free. A soft moan. I looked him in the eye as I put his ball between my teeth and started to chew. I let my face fall into a look of pleasure, my eyes half closed as I savored this delicacy. I saw his look of relief as he saw me enjoying his meat. He even smiled. I just sneered at him. And spit the half-chewed useless thing in his face. He started to sob, tears running down his face now. That was the end of him I wanted.
I walked to the gutting knife, where it still lay on the floor by the mirror. I saw his eyes following me. I picked it up and started toward him. He just hung. Sobbing and crying. No attempt to regain his feet. To show any bravery. To “take it like a man.” His sobs reduced to moans. One with each breath. His eyes fixed on the knife, as I placed it on the center line I had drawn in him, at the base of his breastbone, the top of his stomach.
I thrust through muscle and tendon, into the body cavity. And I worked quickly, sawing down and down. His body jerked with my efforts and the last of his pain. He was strong enough to live through what was left. I was sure of that. I opened him from rib cage to cock. And then, dropping the knife, I thrust both hands, both arms into his belly and far up under his ribs. I felt the slippery beating heart, the heaving lungs. I grasped hold of what I could and heaved downward. Ribs cracked as I pulled it all out of the open wound that was his belly. Intestines and liver and stomach unwound onto the floor at his feet, my arms held heart and lungs and other unnamable things. I saw a glimmer of awareness holding on in his eyes as I had hoped. Just enough maybe, to see me thrust my cock into his steaming innards. And cum. Not cumming for his oh-so-carefully sculpted body, but into the same stinking slop that every body contained.
I left the corpse hanging as I went upstairs and showered. I sat naked, checking the site on my iPad. Posting another photo as Luis Adam Bree. I would continue his online presence for a while for his fans. His real self would disappear and never be found. I had enough contacts in the intelligence community and enough skill at technology to insure that. I would even post the actual description of his final hours as a story to the site. So many guys would beat off again and again, never knowing that it was all real.
At last I went back to the gutted corpse hanging in my basement. I cut off the left pectoral. It was large, but I was very hungry after this day. I took the surviving ball as well. I sautéed it, and ate it with the rare steak. Young Mr Bree would never know how much I enjoyed it. Or how hard I came each time I ate a piece of the meat I butchered and froze from his quite beautiful body. But then he never deserved to know. Because for him to die believing that all that he had worked for was useless to me, except for his pain, was exactly what gave me the most pleasure. And giving me the most pleasure was the only thing he ever deserved.
It was going to be a chilly night. Everyone thought of Las Vegas as being warm, but that wasn’t always the case—as Lenny had cause to know. He also knew that his denim jacket wouldn’t be much help, not over a thin black cotton t-shirt. His jeans, tucked into a pair of Polo Ralph Lauren ranger boots, were faded and worn. There really wasn’t much to keep the chill out.
Lenny needed to find a place to stay for the night. He needed to find a trick.
Tall and lean, with a shock of unruly jet-black hair, the boy was just barely eighteen—he thought. Lenny had been on the streets for more than three years, fleeing from the mental abuse of a viciously religious upbringing. He’d started selling his body right away; the heavy drug use followed soon thereafter. By now, the kid’s higher mental functions were shot—he was little more than an animal, with the narrow focus of cunning street smarts that enabled him to survive, and to acquire what he needed. His expensive boots, for example—they’d been stolen off a john.
Which brought Lenny back to tonight. What day was it—Saturday? But he’d been with that fat fuck on Wednesday night. Lenny craved cock as much as the next faggot, but the asshole tourist had been middle-aged and hung like a minnow. Enraged, the violent street punk had punched his lights out and cleaned out his wallet, netting more than three hundred bucks. What had happened to it since then?
Oh yeah—Angel. Bleary at best, Lenny’s memory still managed to churn up a vague recollection of running into the dealer in a bar on Paradise sometime Thursday afternoon. Lenny had already owed him money for fronting an eightball. Lenny had paid him back—he didn’t have much of a choice; Angel was armed—and things got hazy after that. The boywhore had no idea where he’d spent the last two nights, but he had a dim idea that by the time it was all done, he owed Angel even more than he had on Wednesday.
Well, he’d worry about that later. In the meantime, he needed to find a mark for the night—someone to take him in and provide for his needs, either willingly or unwillingly. Lenny wasn’t intelligent, but he knew how to get what he needed.
He’d been on the west side of I-15—he couldn’t remember why—and was heading east on Flamingo, back towards the strip. Lots of cum-thirsty fag tourists on the strip; he was sure he could find a nice, soft, rich trick there. Once he crossed the highway, though, and was passing alongside the Bellagio, he felt—he knew—he was being watched. He possessed the senses of a feral cat, and they weren’t leading him astray. A quick glance around, and he found the source.
The man was standing on the other side of the Flamingo, in the VIP valet lot for Caesar’s Palace. Latino, with a shaved head and a goatee, he was wearing a leather biker jacket. Something about the man screamed pure erotic machismo; Lenny’s dick was instantly hard.
Something else about the man screamed pure, unmitigated danger, and screamed it louder. But the dude was sliding into a cherry-red convertible Mercedes two-seater. Lenny’s survival instincts were finely-tuned—but they could easily be overridden by greed. And when the stud took advantage of an almost unheard-of gap in the traffic at the intersection at this time of the day and pulled across Flamingo to where he was standing on the far side, Lenny jammed those instincts as far down as he possibly could.
“You look like fun,” the older man drawled laconically, “Wanna party?”
“Aw, fuck yeah, man,” Lenny replied with a huge grin.
“Jump in, dude,” the man said, “I got two fifths of Johnnie Walker and an ounce of primo weed back at my place. Guess that’s enough to start with, yeah?”
Lenny leaped into the passenger seat with alacrity. He couldn’t believe his luck. He glanced over at the stud who was wearing a white t-shirt under his leather jacket and skin-tight jeans tucked into a pair of Caterpillar Revolver steel-toed work boots. “What’s your name?” he asked.
Carlos looked at him evenly. “Mark. Call me Mark.”
Carlos turned away. He didn’t need to know the faggot’s name. And in a little while, it wouldn’t need a name anyway.
Lenny could sense that the dude didn’t want to talk, so he kept his mouth shut. It took some effort, though, once he saw the condo building and entered the private elevator for tenants in the parking garage. Aside from one or two of the ritzier hotels, this was far and away the nicest place he’d seen in Vegas.
Carlos opened the door to the unit and strode into the bedroom with the wide-legged gait of a man with a massive set of tackle between his legs. “Strip, boy,” he called out, “I’m gettin’ a drink.”
Lenny complied, kicking off his boots, but he was still uncertain. “Dontcha wanna know my—um, what it’s gonna cost?”
Carlos strolled back in, a tumbler of Scotch in his hand. He’d already taken off his jacket and shirt revealing his heavily muscled and inked torso. “It don’t matter,” he replied tersely.
Lenny was too busy gaping at the older man’s chest to notice that he hadn’t been given a drink himself—or to take in the full import of Carlos’s words. “That’s ok,” he said faintly, “If you’re as good as I think yer gonna be, we can probably work out some kinda discount.”
He figured the deal was set when he saw the smirk on Carlos’s face; he utterly failed to notice the smoldering hatred in the muscle-bound stud’s eyes. Later on, he’d see it much more clearly—when it was too late to do any good. In the meantime, he peeled off his shirt and wriggled out of his jeans. Underneath, he was commando; he was standing in Carlos’s living room, nude but for his socks.
He was also sporting a boyish grin and a rapidly swelling erection. His member was nothing to be ashamed of, either; it jutted out in front of him, the pink, spongy head pulsing visibly.
“Well,” he asked, his grin growing cocky, “How ya wanna play? You want this up yer ass?”
“Get in the bedroom,” Carlos hissed. Lenny saw his face go beet-red—and managed to misinterpret the buff killer’s intense rage as sexual excitement.
“Sure, dude, whatever ya want,” he replied, strolling causally past the larger, more muscular man into the bedroom. “Damn, that’s a nice view!” He approached the huge window the looked out over the strip.
Carlos came up behind him. Just as he did, Lenny wheeled around. “Hey, where’s that weed you said you had? I wanna get fucked up.”
“Don’t worry,” Carlos replied, his grin becoming obviously malicious, “You will, motherfucker. Yer gonna get more fucked up than you thought possible.”
A tinge of concern pressed into Lenny’s fuzzy mind like a pebble in his shoe; that didn’t sound quite right. “Wha—”
Carlos punched him hard, twice. The first blow landed on his jaw, the second on his hard flat belly, driving the air from his lungs. The punk sank to the floor, gasping and stunned.
He looked up at Carlos in disbelief. This wasn’t the first time a john had turned violent on him before—hell, one had put him in the hospital last year—but he’d always known it was coming. His street sense had triggered an alert before he’d been attacked. Not this time. He hadn’t seen any warnings.
Not that he was cowed. Lenny knew how to fight, and he’d been in some rough scraps. He could give as good as he got. “You sonofabitch,” he snarled up at Carlos, his emerald eyes glittering like a feral cat’s, “You’re the one who’s gonna get fucked up, asswipe!”
The boywhore sprang off the floor, launching himself at the older man. But Carlos was much more experienced with violence that the rentboy was; he could read the fag’s every thought almost before it had entered Lenny’s mind. He merely twisted to one side and stuck his foot out, tripping the adolescent and sending him sprawling across the floor.
The carpet was thick and soft; Lenny was more angry than hurt. And when he heard Carlos’s soft chuckle behind him, he became enraged. No fucking trick was gonna get the better of him!
Of course, if his street smarts had been honed a little better, it’s possible that he might have recognized the danger hidden in that faint laugh—he might have heard the voice of a vicious sadist kicking into overdrive. But even if he had, it would have been too late.
Lenny didn’t know it—yet—but he was locked in with a serial killer.
Even as he began getting up, Carlos strode forward and kicked him in the flank, hard. “HOOG!” the teenaged rentboy spat out in pain. Rolling over and clutching his bruised ribs, he heard the soft chuckle again.
“You like that, faggot?” Carlos sneered. “You better, cause there’s plenty more of that shit comin’ for ya. I’m gonna fuck you up so bad yer momma won’t be able to recognize ya. And then I’m gonna stick my dick in ya. You want that, right? All you fuckin’ homos wanna ride my cock. Don’t worry—yer gonna ride it right into yer grave.”
Still trying to catch his breath, Lenny turned and looked up. Carlos loomed over him, his massive, erect cock throbbing, large dark nipples jutting out from his hairy, inked chest. The look on the boy’s face spoke of his confusion.
“Yeah, bitch, you heard me,” Carlos smirked. “I’m gonna hurt ya, and I’m gonna waste ya. It’s what you deserve—what all you fags deserve. I’m gonna use yer worthless ass as a cumdump and leave ya in the desert to rot. And ya know what? Ain’t no one gonna care! One less faggot whore in the world—hell, I’m doin’ this town a favor. Now get up. Get the fuck up, dickhead. You got to earn yer death. You got to earn it through pain.”
By now, Lenny had figured out that the situation was serious. Despite getting punched out, he hadn’t grasped the fact that the dude wanted to kill him, but between Carlos’s words and the look of maniacal glee on his face, Lenny knew that that was exactly what was gonna happen if he didn’t get out of this place.
“Ok,” the teen said, playing for time, “Ok, I’ll get up—just don’t hit me again.”
“I don’t have to hit you to hurt you, cunt,” Carlos muttered. Standing next to the bed, he turned and opened a drawer on the nightstand. Reaching in, he extracted a four-foot length of straight link machine chain. As the three-quarter inch links clinked in his powerful hands, Lenny took advantage of his preoccupation and bolted for the door.
His socks made virtually no sound on the carpeted floor, but Carlos had noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye. His big black boots did make a sound, the heavy thudding of his footfalls telling Lenny that he was being pursued. The rentboy wasn’t in complete panic yet, but he was scared as hell—he knew that this was likely his only chance to escape.
If he didn’t make it—but his mind shut that line of thought down. He’d make it. The alternative was literally unthinkable.
And then there was a searing, slashing pain across his back, so bad it made him scream. He was so close to the front door, but the pain made him falter. And then it came again.
Lenny stumbled and fell, sobbing by now. He looked behind him and understood everything. Carlos was standing there, swinging the chain—he’d been wielding it like a whip. As he swayed on his knees, the teen whore could feel blood trickling down his back from the wounds where the chain had flayed his flesh.
“Big mistake,” Carlos hissed menacingly, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying mix of hate and lust, “I’m gonna make you beg for death, faggot.”
He lashed out with the chain again, striking the cowering youth across the chest. As the metal links tore open Lenny’s skin, the boy squealed like a piglet, making Carlos leer in sadistic pleasure.
“Now yer gettin’ it, fuckwad,” he jeered. “That’s just the beginnin’.” As the muscled ex-con approached, Lenny’s hands came up involuntarily in a supplicating gesture. Carlos knocked them aside and wrapped the chain around the boy’s throat, then gave it a twist over his own hand. Having thus fashioned a workable handle, he was easily able to deadlift the adolescent fag off the ground.
The metal links sank into the flesh of Lenny’s throat; the boy kicked and clawed frenziedly, trying to get free of the agonizing stranglehold. Carlos just smirked.
“C’mon, motherfucker,” he said quietly, “Let’s take this back to the bedroom. I’m gonna tie you down so I can take my time with you, asswipe. I’m gonna destroy yer fag ass, and I’m gonna take my time doin’ it. Yer gonna love this, ya sick faggot pervert. You’re gonna love the pain so much you’ll cum.”
He lifted Lenny up even higher to look him in the eyes; the boy’s socked feet flailed in the air almost a foot above the floor. “They always do. Remember that, fucker. Every fag I’ve ever offed blew a wad before it died. You ain’t gonna be no different.”
And with that, he bodily carried the dangling, struggling teenager back to the bedroom. The metal links sank into Lenny’s skin; the pain was excruciating. Thrashing and twisting in a vain attempt to free himself, the boy got a brief glimpse out the window.
It was dusk and the lights on the Strip were just coming on. To the adolescent’s swelling, bulging eyes they appeared as kaleidoscopic bursts of rainbow colors. It was indescribably beautiful, and he had been in the middle of it only minutes ago—what was happening? How had it happened? He swung again, face to face with his assailant, but what his eyes locked onto wasn’t Carlos’s steely glare, but the thick gold chain around his neck.
And for a brief moment, the fagwhore’s true nature kicked in. How had he missed that? If he could just get free, that’d be the first thing he’d steal. All he needed was a chance. He just had to get a chance.
What he got was utter darkness. Carlos punched his lights out. The teen cunt never even saw it coming.
Lenny’s first tentative forays into regaining consciousness did not bode well. He could breathe again, true, but there was the pain—so much pain. And there was a stiffness, a tightness; he couldn’t move…
He opened his eyes and realized that he was face down on the bed with Calos tying his leg to the footboard of the bed by looping what appeared to be nylon rope around the ankle. He could see it easily; the headboard of the bed was open metalwork with a mirror behind it—he could see himself; he could see the muscle-bound stud at the foot of the bed.
His other leg had already been bound by the same method, and both hands at the wrists. And it was tight, painfully tight. His right hand was already losing sensation.
Icy terror clutched at the rentboy’s heart, filling his mouth with an acrid tang. He’d been in dangerous positions before—any boywhore in this town was bound to run into trouble at some point—but nothing like this. He’d voluntarily placed himself in the power of someone who was going to take profound pleasure in torturing and killing him, and he was utterly helpless to prevent it.
“P-please—please, sir?” he quavered. “Sir, you-you don’t have to hurt me. I’ll d-do anything you want, sir.” It was all he had left. If he couldn’t talk his way out of this, he was dead.
“Yeah, you will, bitch,” Carlos growled. “And I do have to hurt you. You need to be hurt. All you faggots do. How else are ya gonna learn what useless sacks a’ shit you are? Get yer reamed-out homo fuckhole ready, cause I’m goin’ in dry.”
By staring straight ahead, Lenny had a perfectly framed view of Carlos climbing on the bed, his enormous cock jutting out from his open fly like a crane from a construction site. He could see that the hypermasculine ex-con was still wearing his black boots; he could even see fine details of the stud’s prison tats—although the rentboy was barely literate enough to have spelled out the words “Die motherfucker die” even had they not been reversed by the mirror.
And he could also clearly see Carlos mount his ass raw. The teenaged slut knew it was coming and tensed himself. It was a bad move. Carlos’s massive, throbbing member was an irresistible force, punching through Lenny’s sphincter like a rock through a window. The metaphor was apt—Lenny’s jagged shrieks of agony were shrill enough to shatter glass.
“Shaddup and take it, ya piece a’ fag shit,” Carlos snarled. Pulling both ends of the chain with one hand, he jerked the boy’s head up and punched him in the side of the face. The fuckmeat grunted but kept on screaming, so he hit it a few more times. He didn’t count how many, but by the time he was done, the screaming had subsided to an anguished moaning.
“Yeah, ya cocksucker, Carlos crowed, “You likin’ this? ‘Course ya are—you’re a faggot; you just love shit bein’ shoved up yer ass, right?”
“St-stop,” Lenny managed to bleat out through his snotty tears, “Please-please stop…”
“What kinda lame homo are ya?” the serial killer jeered, “I’ve gone to all this fuckin’ trouble—I ain’t stoppin’ till I full yer fuckhole with cum.” Carlos then lay full length on the boy, grabbing a handful of his hair and jerking his head back. Once again, Lenny had a full view of the muscled stud, now lying on top of him and grinding his enormous member into his ass. Carlos bent his head down, his thick goatee scraping the teenager’s cheek as he whispered.
“And you know what it’s gonna take to get my load, dontcha? You gotta die. When I see yer eyes glaze over and feel you convulse on my cock, I’ll hose yer guts with sperm. That’s whatcha want, ain’t it? That’s what every cumguzzlin’ pansy wants—to get offed by a Real Man, to feel the power of his spunk as they die. Not like yer ever gonna get a better fuck anyway, so I might as well put you outta yer misery, right?”
Terror pierced Lenny’s chest like an icy shaft of steel. He wasn’t gonna die—he couldn’t. Not him. His mind would not, could not accept the fact. He tried desperately to break free of his bonds, but his struggles only drew the slipknots tighter around his wrists and ankles.
Carlos grunted in animalistic pleasure as he felt the teen squirming under him. “Fuck yeah, bitch, work my dick. Fuckin’ faggot whore, show me how ya earn yer money!”
Lenny glanced up, only to see the hardbodied ex-con sweating and penetrating him, relentlessly using his ass as a sex toy. The heavily tattooed older man was so fucking hot; the gold chain swinging back and forth with each brutal, powerful thrust—for a brief moment, the cockpig at the core of Lenny’s innermost soul was able to forget that his lifespan could be measured in a handful of minutes.
For a brief moment, Lenny got off on his own rape. It didn’t last long.
“You’re enjoyin’ this too much, cunt,” the sadistic killer snarled. “Only way dumbass fags like you learn what inferior pieces a’ shit you are is to suffer—time to start yer lesson, motherfucker!” Without missing a beat of the vicious assfuck, Carlos grabbed the chain, making sure it was still wrapped around the boy’s neck. Then he rose up on his knees, jerking the chain up like reins until Lenny’s back bent in an excruciating upwards arc.
That was when the real nightmare began. That was when Lenny first began to understand that the psycho might have been telling the truth about something—that he’d be begging for death before it was all over.
The pain was beyond anything he’d believed possible. He could feel the individual links of the chain as they sank into the tender flesh of his throat, the skin welling up agonizingly in the center of each link. The pain was so intense that it almost distracted him from the fact that he couldn’t breathe—almost. The teen’s hands clenched into helpless fists as he instinctively struggled to get his arms free. His biceps swelled with effort as he jerked and thrashed, the nylon rope abrading and flaying the skin on his wrists and ankles.
An inadvertent glance in the mirror showed that he hardbodied convict who was strangling him had biceps even larger and more powerful, though. It also showed something else—Lenny saw his own face, swelling and blackening grotesquely….
No. No, this wasn’t happening—it couldn’t be. It was a bad dream. He wouldn’t look at the nightmare; he’d wake up soon and could forget all about this.
But Carlos had seen him looking. He pulled the adolescent’s head back and up until Lenny could see nothing but the mirror.
“Look,” the experience killer hissed, “This is what a faggot looks like when it dies. It chokes and drools like a dog. It’s slow and it’s painful and yer gonna want it to be over long before I put you outta yer misery, asswipe. Keep watching and remember how much scumshits like you deserve this shit. Watch yerself die, cunt and remember—this is your fault. I’m doin’ the world a favor by puttin’ you down.”
Lenny tried to speak. Even now, as his head pounded, every throb seeming to cause it to swell to the bursting point, he wanted to speak, to refute the insults, to plead for his life. He wanted to beg for the sake of his family—but things were becoming faint. He couldn’t remember them clearly. He couldn’t remember much of anything clearly—there was only the present. And the present was a tiny universe full of searing agony.
He saw himself in the mirror. He had to; his eyes were swollen, bulging from their orbits so far that he was unable to close his lids. The facility of thinking clearly was swiftly fading from his oxygen-starved brain, but even so, he knew that what he was seeing couldn’t be him. That black, puffy, congested face, those huge eyes, red with pinprick hemorrhages, that protruding tongue, sticking out between the thick blue lips over which flowed streams of white, foamy drool—no, that was a caricature. That wasn’t him.
He wasn’t that. He was…he was—he was pain. The crushing agony of his throat, where the chain had sunk in so deeply that was no longer visible, that was him. The unassuageable flaming agony in his lungs, that was him. The nightmarish sensation of being ripped apart by anal impalement, that was him.
The excruciating, eager, and deeply humiliating ache in his own seething scrotum and pulsing, oozing cock—yes, yes, that was him…
And that was when the teenaged whore realized that the brutal alpha had been right all along. This was exactly what he needed, what he deserved. He was willing to accept death, and all it had taken was slowly being throttled to the point of irreversible brain damage.
As the fuckmeat’s mental processes began to shut down, Carlos could literally feel the changes via its ass. “Yer ready, aintcha, fuckwad?” he jeered, “Ready to have my thick wad of spunk hose yer homo guts? Here it comes, faggot—lessee if ya live long enough to enjoy it!”
Twisting the chains so that he could maintain his stranglehold single-handedly, Carlos drew back his other fist, his inked bicep swollen with implicit power. The fuckmeat could barely see the poised blow through the black death-blossoms that were exploding in front of its eyes. It didn’t matter anyway. It had already lost the capacity for wonder or fear—or rational thought, for that matter.
As Carlos had predicted, it was nothing but agonized fagmeat desperately needing to be put out of its misery. And the psycho ex-con was so eager to oblige, his gigantic horsecock was on the verge of exploding.
“Die, motherfucker,” he growled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his orgasm, Die!!”
The last thing the young faggot felt in its life was the brutal donkey punch Carlos delivered to the back of its head.
A donkey punch is meant to contract the victim’s muscles, making the top’s orgasm more intense. This certainly accomplished that—by knocking the whore’s head so far forward its spine was severed, vertebrae shattering like dry twigs. The punk spewed nearly two pints of semen in a steady stream ionto the sheet beneath it, but its shredded spinal cord prevented it from feeling that.
But it was a blessing, too, in a way. With an inarticulate cry of rage, lust, and release, Carlos’s round, rock-hard asscheeks went concave as he jammed his gigantic horsecock deeper into the homo’s intestines that he ever had before. The cunt was at least spared the sensation of its rectal lining being torn like the wrapping paper on a toddler’s gift as its guts were hosed by searing potent manseed.
Carlos continued to slam his fist into the dead whore as it convulsed and milked his shaft. Fuck, it always felt so good at this point—even dead, a real faggot kept trying to get his prime alpha load. That’s how he knew he’d offed a true homo.
After several minutes, it was over. The corpse was still quivering, but the motions weren’t intense enough to have any impact on Carlos. Besides, the convict’s balls were empty; he’d need a few minutes at least to recharge. Not that there was time—he needed to meet Nick in couple of hours.
The sun had set. It was time to take out the trash.
An hour later, Carlos was cruising a state highway. It was a warm night, and he had the top down. Behind him, in the trunk, the body of the dead rentboy was wrapped in a sheet, along with its clothes—Carlos has used its t-shirt to clean the cum off the end of his cock. It was on its back, its boots lying on its cum-matted belly. The muscled sadist had considered keeping them for himself, but when he tried them on, they were too small.
He’d headed south out of town on Highway 15, then west towards Spring Mountain Ranch State Park. Just outside of the park, obscure roads twisted over the arid hills towards a couple of gypsum mines. Turning down one of these, the ex-con soon found a deep, narrow gully. Easing to a stop—there was no shoulder to pull over on—he shut off the engine and got out of the car. Retrieving the still-trembling bundle from the trunk he unceremoniously dumped it into the ravine.
As far as hiding places went, it wasn’t all that hard to spot, and the white sheet didn’t help—but it didn’t matter. Carlos knew no one would care. After all, it was just another faggot cumdump. They were a dime a dozen, and he was helping out the police by culling the herd.
As he swung the car around and headed back towards, the highway, Carlos had managed to work himself into a state approaching indignation. Hell, the way he was taking out homo cunts, the city shoulda given him a fuckin’ medal…
“So whatcha got, Schweitz?” Nuñez asked as he got out of the car.
“It’s down there,” Schweitz replied, pointing down into the gully. “Driver with a load of ore noticed something white flapping in the wind. Young male, late teens or early twenties—”
“Let me guess,” Nuñez interrupted. “Our favorite fagkiller.”
“Yeah,” Schweitz said. “This one was ugly. There’s a length of chain still embedded in its neck. Fucker must’ve really suffered.”
“Well, there’s a potential clue.”
“Nah,” Schweitz responded with a sigh. “Seen that type and gauge in dozens of home repair shops in the area. Not worth my time to follow up on it.”
“Yeah, I’m kinda in two minds about this guy,” Nuñez remarked. “I mean, part of me wants to shake his hand—the more fag whores he clears off the street the better, right? But I wish he’d he stop dumping them out in the middle of nowhere.”
“I’m with ya. Fuck, far I care, he can leave ‘em in the middle of Boulder Highway. I ain’t huntin’ him down. I hate havin’ to drag my ass all the way out here just to make it like LVPD gives a shit about some dead homo scum, though—oh, the ME’s boys got it.”
Two men had laboriously climbed the slope from the bottom of the ravine, a stretcher between them. There was a gurney awaiting them at the top, next to the Medical Examiner’s van. The corpse was still wrapped in the white sheet in which it had been discarded.
Nuñez walked over to it and pulled back the sheet. He looked at the dead boy for a moment, then expressionlessly pulled the sheet back over its face before returning to Schweitz.
“Aw, what’dja want to do that for? Don’t need to look at it to fill out a couple of forms.”
“Curiosity, I guess,” Nuñez said. “Wondered if I’d seen it be before.”
“Sure enough. That one was getting booked on a charge of soliciting and indecent exposure at the same time as I brought Rodriguez in. Don’t remember its name, though.”
“Well, it’ll be in the records. C’mon, let’s get back to town. No reason to hang around here, and I found this coffee place I wanna show ya.”
The detectives got back in the car. Schweitz turned the ignition and put it in gear, then paused for a moment and pondered.
“Ya know, I wonder…”
“What?” Nuñez asked dispassionately; he know his partner had these quasi-philosophical moments.
“Why do the parents even bother to name them? They way they turn out, most of these fags might just as well be called meatbag…”
Nuñez rolled his eyes. “Let’s go. I need that coffee.”