Rocko Busts Out

The car was a twelve-year-old Ford, battered and nondescript.  It sat in the motel parking lot, backed into a space at the far end, facing the building.  Its darkened interior apparently empty, it drew no attention.


Any observer would have had to have been remarkably quick-eyed to see the brief flash of flame as Rocko fired up a blunt.  The red glow of the tip was too faint to see from more than a few feet away, especially when the hardbodied man exhaled a cloud that filled the car with acrid cigarette smoke mixed with the sweeter scent of marijuana.


Rocko leaned back in the seat and relaxed.  He could take his time; now that he’d tracked Jessie down, there was no rush.  This would go down better later on, when there were fewer people about.  Few people to witness anything, or to hear the screaming.


And besides, it looked like Jessie had company—not that there would be long delay because of that.  Jessie’s company typically only stayed around long enough to cum.  Jessie was usually smart enough to get them to pay first.


Maybe not, though.  Rocko’s face was handsome and hard, but it could get mean with frightening speed—and it got truly terrifying when he thought about Jessie.  Kid sure hadn’t been smart last time they’d seen each other.


Jessie had been so very, very stupid.  But that was ok.  Rocko was here tonight to teach Jessie, to make him learn some basic lessons that the boy’s mama and daddy didn’t get into his thick skull…


Taking another hit off the blunt, the buff stud felt his cock stirring; he grinned ferally in the darkness.  Yeah, Jessie was gonna learn tonight.  He’d definitely be learning the hard way—and it was a lesson he’d never forget.


Rocko was gonna make goddam sure of that.


He’d seen the guy go into Jessie’s room—only from the back, but enough to recognize the type.  Middle-aged, pudgy, almost certainly married.  Had lunch or after-work “meetings” involving boys and drugs.  Rocko smirked—for twenty bucks and few hits of meth, Jessie would let anyone do anything they wanted.


Well, almost anything.  He damn sure wouldn’t let Rocko do the things he had planned, not that Jessie’s opinion mattered.  They’d be done to him in any case.


And soon.  Rocko glanced at his phone; the pudgy dude had been in the room nearly twenty minutes.  Rocko was kinda impressed; the guy hadn’t seemed the type to last long, particularly not with Jessie’s talents.  The boy was definitely skilled.  Rocko’s hard shaft throbbed again as he briefly pictured how he’d made use of those skills before…


Grinning, he stubbed out his blunt and got out of the car.  His thick-soled Georgia steel-toed workboots hit the ground with a thud as he pulled his full six-foot-two height erect.  His muscle-packed body was just barely encased in a pair of tight, worn Diesel jeans—the laced boots had been jammed on in a hurry afterwards, not tied—and the tautly-stretched, ribbed fabric of an even tighter wifebeater.


The latter garment displayed his thickly-muscled arms, writhing with tattoos.  Jessie had some of the same tattoos, from the same source.  After all, they’d spent the better part of two years sharing the same cell in the state pen—for nearly the same crime.


It had been that “nearly” that had made the difference.


One spring break, Jessie had gotten handsy with a sixteen-year-old boy for whose family he did lawn work.  The boy’s mother had walked in from the store just as Jessie had finished jerking the kid off.  He’d had some minor offences before, and ended up getting five years in prison, where his new cellie was Rocko.


Rocko had already been in for two years.  He’d gotten handsy too—but his version had involved the vicious beating and rape of a fourteen-year-old homeless boy he’d lured in.  With a string of increasingly violent sexual assaults on his record, he was given thirty years.


In their tiny shared cell, it hadn’t taken Rocko long to establish his dominance over Jessie.  And while the younger con worshipped Rocko’s hard, masculine body—made increasingly more powerful each week in the prison weight room—the stud’s brutal and sadistic nature began to scare him more and more.


In his early twenties, Jessie was about ten years younger than Rocko; at five-ten, he was both shorter and physically less developed than the violent rapist.  As opposed to Rocko’s strawberry-blond goatee and buzz-cut hair, Jessie’s untidy mop was mouse-brown, the same color as the thin, weedy mustache he was continually trying to coax out of his upper lip without ever quite managing it.


Jessie’s body wasn’t bad—firmly-muscled, with huge dark nipples that seemed to be highlighted by the smooth pale skin of his chest.  His legs were thick and tight and half a foot of uncut boycock dangled from the dark nest of pubes between his thighs.


It was nowhere near as impressive as Rocko’s was, though—the alpha’s huge hubcap pecs were covered with a dusting of golden wiry fur that thickened and darkened as it moved down over the washboard abs and finally terminated in a dense mass of tangled auburn pubes from which jutted a vein-wrapped monster of a dick, large enough to intimidate the most reamed-out fag.


The physical dominance, therefore, had been easy to establish.  To gain mental control over the boy, all the older man had to do was start telling about his past—about the other rape, the one the authorities didn’t know about.


Oh, they knew about the victim.  But he was a just a name on a list, a teen missing in the next state over.  Rocko had made damn sure his body wouldn’t be found, which he described in great detail to Jessie, along with the kid’s death and the suffering he endured prior to it.


At first, Jessie hadn’t believed it, but as he got to know Rocko better, in every sense of the term, he began to think that maybe this psycho bastard really could have done those horrific things to that kid.  But it was the first assrape that made Jessie decide on a course of action.


It wasn’t that Jessie hadn’t had pipe laid up his ass before, of course; he’d done all kinda sexual shit for money and he damn sure wasn’t a virgin.  But Rocko’s cock was on a whole different order of magnitude, exponentially larger than anything that’d been shoved into his colon before.  There was no lube in prison—and there was no privacy; that was the problem.


More specifically, the problem had been Jessie’s screaming.  Rocko solved it by shoving the boy’s face into the mattress and holding it there until he unloaded.


Jessie couldn’t breathe, and Rocko knew it.  He took his time.


It took over a week for Jessie to approach the prison chaplain privately to get a request to the warden, and another two weeks for a meeting to be arranged, conveniently during one of Rocko’s many workout sessions.  In the meantime, though, the boy’s rectum continued to be violent assaulted on a nightly basis.  As his torn sphincter loosened, unable to heal, his screaming ceased, so Rocko just started choking him out as he fucked him.  As much as the little homo pervert loved getting plowed by someone of Rocko’s physique, the look in the stud’s eyes as Jessie, gagging and thrashing, began to pass out, was terrifying.  One day Rocko would just keep going, and there’d be no one there to stop him.


And so, when he finally got his requested private meeting with the warden, he coughed up all the details of Rocko’s sex kill—which included the location of the body.  In this state.


That was all it took to bring in the FBI.  It took another two weeks—the longest two weeks of Jessie’s short, wasted life—before enough progress had been made for guards to show up one morning just after breakfast to drag Rocko out of the cell.


“Warden wants to see ya,” one said laconically, “Federal boys got some questions.”


Rocko never came back.


Thanks to his info, Jessie’s lawyer managed to secure him an early release after just twenty-four months.  He’d have to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life, of course, and he was still on parole for five years, but he was out of jail.


Rocko, on the other hand, ended up with a life sentence a private correctional institution on the other side of the state, where he was forced to endure nearly sub-human conditions under a corrupt and incompetent staff.


Until he escaped three weeks ago.


Thanks to the sex offender registry, it hadn’t taken him long to track Jessie down; the little weasel was apparently being visited by his parole officer on a monthly basis, so he’d had to keep his address updated.  Not that he’d had much choice of address to begin with; with minimal education, his primary job skill was manual labor.


He was a worthless fag whore; there were easier ways to make money using his body.  Rocko knew exactly where he’d find Jessie long before he had the actual address—in a cheap by-the-week motel where he could turn tricks for all the meth, coke, and weed he could smoke.  The only question in Rocko’s mind was how the fucker was passing his monthly UA’s; Jessie piss had to be full of chemicals.  But lack of education didn’t preclude development of an animal cunning; the bitch clearly had something worked out.


Didn’t matter.  That contract, whatever it was, was gonna get canceled tonight.  Along with everything else Jessie had in the works.


It was room seventeen.  The door had been painted dark green amateurishly, the thick, sloppy brushstrokes showing in the dim but pure white light of the floodlight by the office.  As Rocko approached it, the door opened; he darted quickly to the side, remaining unseen in the shadows as the pudgy man left.  No words were exchanged as Jessie’s john departed, but the kid kept the door cracked, peering out as his trick turned the corner.


This paranoia, this need to make sure the john truly left, was formed from experience; the experienced boywhore had one or two come back.  Sometimes for their money, sometimes for another round—free.  One of them had knocked out one of his molars.  As a result, Jessie made sure they were out of sight before bolting the door and relaxing.


This time, it backfired.  The moment the john vanished, Rocko appeared.  Jessie never had the chance to close the door.


“Hey there, boy,” Rocko said, his deep bass voice soft and gentle, rumbling like a cat’s purr and a benevolent grin spread across his hard, manly face.  “Long time, no see.  How ya been?”


Jessie pissed himself.


The boy was nude.  Semen had trickled from the corner of his mouth and congealed on his cheek.  His firm, smooth body glistened with sweat under the bleak glare of an unshaded bedside lamp—the shade itself lying partially crushed on the floor—and his thick dick was semi-erect.


Terror wilted it quickly.  Jessie wasn’t aware of the sensation of warm urine running down his leg; he was looking death in the face, and he knew it.  He staggered back, inadvertently allowing room for Rocko to enter.


Stepping in, the older man turned, very calmly and deliberately, and locked the door behind him.  All three locks.  Then, just as calmly, he turned back to the terrified punk.


“You know why I’m here?” he asked evenly.


Wide-eyed and trembling, Jessie nodded.


“You know what’s gonna happen?”


Jessie nodded again.


Rocko’s smile became shark-like.  “The fuck ya do, bitch.  This is gonna be worse than you can possibly fuckin’ imagine.”


Jessie gulped audibly, took another step back, and fell over a pile of his dirty clothes.  The room was just as seedy as the slut who occupied it, and Jessie’s housekeeping skills were minimal.  Jessie had fallen flat on his back in a space between the bed and a small table with a single chair; he’d just missed whacking his head on the one nightstand, with the unshaded lamp.


Rocko glanced around quickly—there was a low dresser with a cheap, no-name TV on it on the far side of the bed with the closet and the entrance to the bathroom beyond—before he walked slowly towards the frightened cunt.  The sight of the worthless little rat shuddering with terror made his cock throb; already, it wanted to be let out of its denim confines to be able to rip its way back into the fucker’s guts.


Jessie shuddered on the floor, his mouth opening and closing like a fish’s, with no words coming out.  Rocko had escaped, but beyond that obvious fact, his mind couldn’t progress.  He’d never imagined this possibility, never planned for it.  The fact that the hardbodied psycho might get out had never occurred to him, much less that the sadistic motherfucker would hunt him down.


Rocko stood over him.  The towering stud lifted his leg and planted his boot in the middle of Jessie’s chest, glaring down at the helpless prison bitch.  He spat in the punk’s face while simultaneously unzipping his fly.


Jessie had closed his eyes, but he felt the warm spittle—and then, another warm fluid spattering his face.  Opening his eyes unwillingly, the weasely cunt saw Rocko’s huge, ass-reaming hog dangling over him, precum dripping from its swollen purple head.


“You ratted me out, you dumb fuck,” Rocko snarled.  “Yeah, yer gonna die—eventually.”  Without warning, the buff sadist kicked Jessie in the face, his steel-toed Georgia workboot easily cracking the punks’ cheekbone and knocking two teeth down his throat.  “First, though, I’m gonna have some fun learnin’ ya a lesson.  And the only way to teach a stupid piece a’ faggot shit like you somethin’ is to beat it into ya.”


Here Rocko’s grin became malevolent.  “And yer stupider than most.  Bet I’m gonna hafta beat ya to dogfood ‘fore yer gonna learn anything.  That’s ok, though.  Gonna have my hog buried in yer fuckhole the entire time.”  Jessie didn’t think Rocko’s grin could have gotten more malicious; he saw that he was wrong.  His lean body was still frozen with fear; the tatted, aggressive alpha reveled in the stoolie’s terror.


“Gonna be just like old times, yeah, fucker?  Fuck yeah, I kinda liked poundin’ yer homo hole.  ‘Cept this is gonna be even better.  Just the two of us, bitch.  No guards, no coon or spic howlin’ in the next cell.  I been wantin’ to wreck yer worthless ass from the moment they tossed ya into my cell, and now there ain’t no one to stop me.  Get up, cunt, time to rock an’ roll.  Get the fuck UP!!”


Instinctively, Jessie rolled over and began to push himself up on his hands and knees.  Obedience to the harsh, demanding tone in Rocko’s voice had become ingrained in the young fag during the years they’d spent together in the cell.  As he crouched, swaying, his eyes focusing blearily on the way the blood drooling from his mouth was staining the already-filthy carpet, when Rocko’s boots appeared in his field of view.


Jessie didn’t want to get kicked again.  In fact, he didn’t want to be in this room anymore at all.  It didn’t matter that he was nude, covered in his own blood and piss.  It was time to leave.  He rose slowly up from the floor into a sprinter’s crouch, then bolted for the door.


Rocko was a bully and a brutal sadist, but he wasn’t an experienced killer.  His one prior snuff had been a defenseless teen who he’d gotten too drunk and too high to put up much of a fight once he realized what was happening to him.  The adolescent had kicked and clawed a little, but Rocko had put him down without much trouble.


The aggressive alpha was caught off guard by his prey’s sudden attempt to escape.  But Rocko had more of both intelligence and animal craftiness than his ex-cellmate.  His foresight in locking the doors was proof enough.


As Jessie gibbered in fear, his shaking, desperate fingers fumbling uselessly with the knobs on the door, Rocko slowly approached him from behind.  Jessie was too intent on getting away to notice Rocko’s proximity until the swole ex-con reached out a hand, grabbed a huge hank of the boy’s untidy mop of hair, and jerked him bodily back into the room.  He spun the kid around, his glittering green eyes as cold and feral as a cat’s.


“Where you think yer goin’?” he asked in a dangerously silky voice.  “We’re just gettin’ started.  Time to rock an’ roll, motherfucker!”


Jessie saw the swift and brutally powerful blow that Rocko dealt him as a brief flash, like lighting.  The impact had much the same effect, sending the bitchboy reeling back into the bedside table.  There was a clattering crash as the cheap piece of furniture collapsed and Jessie went to the floor, along with the lamp, phone, and alarm clock.


Jessie groaned; ignoring the dull ache radiating from the center of his face—a clue that his nose had been broken—he doggedly pulled himself back to his feet.


There was a window in the bathroom.  It was small, but he might fit.  He had to try, though, he had to get to it, otherwise he was gonna die in this room tonight.  It was a risk he had to take…


…it was a risk doomed to fail.  But he didn’t know that.  And, ultimately, he might have suffered less nightmarish agony prior to his horrific, drawn-out death had he not tried to escape—but then again, he might not have.


After all, killing him wasn’t Rocko’s sole purpose.  Rocko was there to inflict pain.  And it was only when Rocko was satisfied he’d inflicted enough pain that’d he’d grant the release of death.


Jessie tried again, knowing failure this time meant a long, agonizing death.  He leaped onto the bed, the cheap inner-coil mattress loudly protesting the sudden pressure as the lithe, tattooed young man used it as a springboard to reach the bathroom door.


He actually made it to the window.  Escape was so close that he sobbed aloud as he grappled with the latch—then he heard the thud of Rocko’s boot on the tile floor.


There was no urine left in his bladder or he’d have pissed himself again.  His eyes teared; his vision became too blurry for him to see what he was doing.


It didn’t matter.  He was dead.  He’d keep fighting it because…well, because, but at least some part of him was aware that he was gonna die.


Rocko had decided to drive the point home.


“Can’t trust ya at all, bitch, can I?” he growled, “Time to put yer punk ass outta commission.”


The bathroom had a small medicine cabinet on the wall over the sink, a basic metal box with an interior shelf and a mirrored door.  Grabbing Jessie’s hair again, he jerked the boy over to it.


“Lookit yer little faggot face, cunt.  Look at it!” He clutched the crying slut tightly by the back of the head.  “Aw, you ain’t gonna get no more dicks to suck with it all snotty like that.  Here, lemme help ya clean it up—motherfucker!”


He slammed Jessie’s face into the cabinet with such force it crumpled and fell to the floor, shards of glass tinkling on the tiles around the kid as he sank to his knees, his face bleeding and swelling.


“No ya don’t, asswipe,” Rocko said with grim humor, “This dance just started.”  Again, a handful of Jessie’s hair, this time pulled straight upwards.  Squealing in pain like a pig, the young ex-con scrambled to his feet to avoid having his scalp torn.


“Get in here,” he snarled, dragging the boy into the bedroom.  “Before you get the privilege of dyin’ on my dick, faggot, you gotta pay for it.  You understand, you worthless fuckin’ stoolie?  You gotta pay.”


Jessie could barely think.  His face felt like it’d been jackhammered.  He heard Rocko’s words, but they were just noises.


He understood actions, though.  As Rocko’s hand suddenly tensed on the back of his head and he felt the violent acceleration of his face towards the bedroom wall, his mind was fast enough to comprehend that it was happening again—but his reaction time was still too slow for any defense.


The drywall was softer.  The big oval dent, streaked with blood, left by his face, didn’t hurt as bad.  Rocko seemed to realize it too; he whirled Jessie around and looked him over.


“Fuck, gonna hafta find somethin’ harder,” he smirked, and Jessie snapped.


The prison punk had heard and understood Rocko this time; he flung himself at the muscular alpha in blind desperation, beating and clawing at him.  For a brief moment, the sadistic convict was caught off guard by the sheer intensity of Jessie’s panic and backed up a step.  But that was only an instinctive reaction, and one that Rocko’s intrinsically brutal nature quickly overcame.


As Jessie batted at him ineffectively, Rocko leaned forward and wrapped his hand around the fucker’s throat.  As the terrified boy gagged and grappled with Rocko’s iron grip, the buff killer lifted him off the ground.  The punk’s toes curled in the air for a moment—then Rocko drove him back through the wall, this time slamming his head against a stud.


Realizing that he was unable to loosen Rocko’s grip, Jessie’s frenetic scrambling turned outwards, and, in a flash, he’d latched onto the alpha’s wifebeater.  His first jerk had torn it halfway off; within seconds, it was lying on the floor in shreds as Jessie’s fingernails scored long red lines across Rocko’s huge pecs, digging at the wiry golden haze of the stud’s body fur.


The vicious jail-breaker didn’t put up with the bitch’s thrashing for long.  Keeping his promise to find something harder, Jessie found himself whirled around again.  This time, he had a brief, lightning-like glimpse of his own bloody and unrecognizable face in the dull reflection of the TV screen before his head was rammed into and through it.


Then things went black for Jessie for a bit.


When he awoke, surfacing in a dark pool of throbbing, aching pain, the punk was on his back on the bed.  The bedding had been swept off; he could feel the itch of the cheap polyester fitted sheet on the back of his shoulders and on his ass.


There was smoke in the air.  He couldn’t smell it—his nose was a mass of crushed cartilage, his sinuses plugged with snot and clotted blood—but he could taste it, the acrid taste of cheap tobacco mixed with the lighter taste of weed.


It was one of Rocko’s blunts.  Suddenly Jessie remembered, and was filled with despair.


Rocko was on the other side of the room, watching him closely, the thick cigar-like blunt dangling from his lower lip.  Once he realized Jessie was awake, he grinned.


The older man approached the prone, badly beaten youth slowly.   With each step he took, precum from his jutting shaft spattered on the steel-toed tips of his boot.  He towered over Jessie, sneering as the boy slowly raised his eyes to take in his hard, flat abs and his hubcap pecs, covered in thick, golden body fur.


Rocko bent and picked up the broken remains of the bedside lamp.  “Ya see my cock, fucker?  See how it’s drippin’?  Ya know what that means, dontcha?”


Grinning, he leaned over Jessie.  He wrapped the lamp cord around his right hand a couple of times, gripped the lamp in his left, and pulled.  For a brief moment his thick, powerful biceps bulged noticeably, then the cord ripped free of the lamp, which Rocko promptly tossed aside.


“It means it’s time to drain my hog.  But ya already knew that, right?  Since I done drained it up yer ass plenty of times, yeah?”  By now, Rocko was kneeling on the bed.  He’d kept the cord wrapped around his right hand, but was using both hands to force Jessie smooth boyish thighs apart.  “But see, that’s the problem, homie—I done reamed yer fuckhole out good and hard already, yeah?  So whatcha gonna do to work out my load, faggot?”


Jessie wasn’t up to making a reply, and a second later was utterly unable to as Rocko’s monstrous cock plunged into his intestines with the remorselessness of a pneumatic drill.  There had been no warning; the alpha’s balls were slapping against the boy’s fuckhole before the pain reached his brain.


“Fuck, cunt, this is what I’m talkin’ ‘bout,” Rocko grunted as Jessie gasped, the agony of the violation so intense he was unable to scream.  “Fuckin’ whore; didja get plowed by every dude ya met?  Goddam ass is a loose as yer lips, asswipe—you ain’t good for shit.”


Jessie had instinctively brought up his arms and tried to push Rocko off him, his palms flat against the killer’s hard, hairy chest, but he didn’t beat at him.  He didn’t want any more pain.  He was a coward, but as afraid as he was of death, what he’d experienced in the last few minutes had made him even more afraid of pain.


Sadly for him, Rocko realized that.


“Y’know,” the inked stud said musingly with his cock buried balls-deep in his ex-cellie’s ass, “Might be somethin’ you are good at.”


Grabbing Jessie’s right arm, he held it just below the elbow with one hand and at the wrist with the other.  His face grew tense and he gave a faint but audible grunt as he snapped the stoolie’s arm by sheer brute force.


Jessie got his voice back, wailing loudly.  “Aw, fuck yeah!” Rocko chuckled, “now yer feelin’ me, bro!  Just like the old days, yeah?  Remember how me an’ some of the dudes caught a nigger alone in the shower and beat it till it died?”


He bent down, his face close to the whimpering slut’s ruined visage, “It was just a nigger.  I didn’t hate it; it had to die ‘cause it was a nigger.  But I hate you.”


Jessie remembered.  He didn’t want to; he’d succeed in almost erasing that horrific incident from his memory, when he’d stood outside the prison showers listening the begging and screaming of the dying coon.  It’d been about Jessie’s age, too.


Breaking the boy’s arm didn’t deprive his fingers of sensation.  Rocko started on them, pinkie first, working his way to the thumb.  Each one broke with a wet snapping sound like that of a fresh green branch being broken.


And each one was accompanied by vigorous thrashing and writhing from the unfortunate prison rat, whose shuddering rectum transformed all his pain into pleasure for his torturer’s cock.


By the time Rocko had worked his way through the cunt’s right hand, his huge cock was pulsating so hard, even Jessie could feel the way it was swelling and plugging his ravaged asshole.  The alpha was getting close to seeding his prey—now he just needed to make it into meat.  Rocko reached for the cord.


As the buff killer held the lamp cord in front of his face, Jessie knew death was close.  Consciously, he told himself he didn’t care; the pain was too much.  He was ready for it to end.  His face was caved in so badly he could barely breath, his right arm had been crushed as thoroughly as if it’d been run through a machine—and it felt like Rocko’s cock was literally ripping his mangled rectum out of his body…


He didn’t fight as the grinning stud wrapped the power cord around his throat.  “Yer gonna die with my dick inside ya,” the muscled sadist said with malicious glee, “I’m doin’ the fuckin’ world a favor by exterminatin’ a squealin’ rat like you.  You deserve this, motherfucker; you deserve to choke to death long an’ slow, kickin’ yer useless life away.”


Jessie could barely see the heavily-tattooed convict looming over him through his swollen and hemorrhaging eyes, but he could clear feel Rocko, both on him and in him.  Suddenly, he felt something else—a constriction around neck.


“I’m just about ready to unload, faggot.  You want it, yeah?  Fuckin’ cum-guzzlin’ homo like you always wants to get seeded, even when yer dyin’, hah!  Don’t worry, asswipe, you’ll go to yer grave as my cumdump.  Ya like that idea, huh?  Rotting in hell forever with a real man’s sperm inside ya?  Well fuck, cocksucker, let’s get it on!”


With a wide sadistic grin, the hardbodied prison-breaker jerked the cord so tight it sank beneath the surface of the boy’s skin and Jessie discovered that his conscious desire for death to end his pain meant exactly jack shit when asphyxia-induced panic kicked in.  He’d been choked before, sometimes during sex and sometimes with more violent intent—but on none of those occasions had he been beaten to a bloody wad of boymeat first.  He’d gotten punched a few times in prison, but no one had ever broken a bone, much less crushed his right hand and arm into a shattered, grotesquely twisted mass.


He tried to struggle.  The huge muscled sadist was lying between his legs; Jessie wrapped his smooth thighs around Rocko’s waist and squeezed as he drummed his heels on the killer’s firm, flexing ass, still covered by the thin worn jeans.  It did no good—Rocko, intent on the way Jessie’s quivering rectum was massaging his thick, vein-wreathed shaft, never even noticed the cunt’s feeble attempts to stop him.


Jessie made himself more noticeable with his left hand.  He wasn’t as accurate with it as he would have been with his right, but as his already-bruised and battered face began to darken and swell hideously, he began clawing at Rocko’s face.


The faggot stoolie had decided he wanted to live after all, but that choice was no longer his to make.


Rocko grunted angrily as he ducked and bobbed his head to avoid the frantic scrambling of fucker’s talon-like fingers.  Tightening the cord down on Jessie’s throat, he twisted it around and was able to hold it with one hand just long enough to lace the fingers of his right hand with those of the prison bitch’s left hand.  By sheer muscle power, he forced the kid’s hand backward so hard and fast the wrist broke, the tiny bones snapping and dislocating with a series of faint crunches.


“Goddam piece a’ fuckin’ shit,” he snarled, letting Jessie’s arm drop limply and uselessly back onto the bed.  Spurred on in his intense hatefuck, Rocko sped up the tempo by which he reamed the boy’s ass while taking the cord back in both hands and pulling it tighter and tighter.


The more Jessie’s windpipe constricted, the further his thick swollen tongue began to protrude from his mouth.  When it made its appearance, forcing the homo’s lips apart and leaking out a streamer of foamy drool, it was as purple and engorged as Jessie’s cock.  The long thin tube of boymeat had such a pronounced upward curl as it was forced erect that the way it was being crushed between Jessie’s flat firm belly and Rocko’s furry washboard abs was excruciating, despite being lubed by mansweat.


“Yeah, look at’cher sorry ass now, motherfucker,” Rocko sneered at the dying bitchboy.  “You hadda know the moment you started flappin’ yer lips that I’d shut you up permanently someday.  Musta wanted this bad, cunt, to piss me off this much.  Ya likin’ it, ya pervert?  Yer homo dick is sure lovin’ it, so just lay back and enjoy the pain.”


Rearing up, the muscled killer pulled the youth up off the bed; Jessie’s head a lolling, blackened mass.  Rocko leaned back and pulled the thrashing pile of fuckmeat up into his lap.


“I’m about to blow my wad, faggot.  Last thing yer gonna feel in yer useless wasted life is the blast of my hot potent seed up yer guts.  A thick spurt of cum to keep ya warm as ya die, fucker.  Ya ready?  Ya want this load, fag?  Die for it, motherfucker, die on my goddam shaft!”


With a loud grunt and bulging biceps, Rocko yanked the cord as tightly as he could around the stoolie’s neck.  There was a momentary rubbery resistance, then Jessie’s esophagus collapsed with a gristly crackling sound.  The fuckmeat went rigid, its mutilated sphincter tightening like a cockring around the base of Rocko’s throbbing, engorged tool.  With a loud, inchoate cry, Rocko’s massive hog began spurting.  Holding the cord around Jessie’s neck with one hand, the heaving, bucking hardman used his free hand to pound the youth repeatedly in the face.


It was in that last moment of final physical and mental dissolution that Jessie finally came to appreciate his place in the universe.  He did want this, he did deserve it.  The pounding and the pressure had faded, leaving the one spark of his mind still clinging to life a moment of crystal clarity.  It had taken progressive and irreparable brain damage to reconcile himself to giving up his life simply to be a cumdump for a powerful and brutal alpha, but the moment his increasingly-cold body felt the searing heat of Rocko’s thick spunk coating his innards, he knew he’d never be worthy of experiencing any higher purpose.  And it made him cum.


But even there the boy was unlucky.  His nervous system had become hyperactive and hypersensitive as his brain shut down.  This last physical act on Jessie’s part brought him unspeakable agony.  As his young, smooth, sweat-slick body convulsed uncontrollably and Rocko’s fist beat against his face again and again, Jessie’s unnaturally extended orgasm seemed to rip the kid’s very soul from his body.


He died in horrific pain, still spurting boyspunk all over his own and Rocko’s belly.


After a while, Rocko himself finished unloading.  He moaned unintelligibly and shook himself.  For a moment, he was content to remain leaning back with the shuddering corpse in his lap, but eventually he manhandled the dead kid up and off his still-erect rod, tossing it onto the floor like the wadded-up cumrag it was.  Jessie landed on his knees, face down, reamed asshole pointing straight at the door.


Rocko rose to his feet and leisurely strolled to the bathroom, shards of glass from the broken mirror crunching under the thick tread of his heavy boots.  Running warm water in the bathroom sink, he grabbed a washcloth and casually cleaned Jessie’s cum off his belly and blood off his fist.  When he was done, he tossed the washcloth into the toilet with a contemptuous smirk.


As he left the bathroom, he picked up the remains of his blunt—no sense in wasting good weed—and looked around the room.  His shirt was in shreds on the floor, and so was Jessie.  The dead stoolie still trembled every few seconds, but even as Rocko watched, the intervals between became noticeably longer.  There was nothing left of the prison bitch but a pile of cum-filled meat.


Rocko’s lips twisted with displeasure as he reached for the door.  If he hadn’t been so horny, he wouldn’t have fucked the squealer.  Fuckin’ rat hadn’t deserved to go sailing off into eternity filled with the sperm of a real alpha male…



The patrol cop looked up as the homicide detective pulled into the lot.  He waited outside the room, next to the open door, and was speaking before the detective reached him.


“This one’s somethin’ else, Mike,” the cop said agitatedly, “I’ve seen some shit, but this…”


“Yeah, so I understand,” Mike said quietly, but the cop kept on.


“Manager says the occupant is Jessie Knowles, and he’s an ex-con.  That’s presumin’ that’s who our corpse actually is—the face is so caved in, his own mother ain’t gonna know him.”


“It’s ok, Artie—” Mike tried, but the cop still had his grievance to vent.


“Yeah, it’s fine for you to say that, but you ain’t seen this.  Dead guy was a fag and it looks like he died gettin’ fucked by a horse.  And I know how you guys in homicide work—I’m gonna be the one trolling every fag bar and begging every deviant in this town for info—”


“Artie, will you chill, for God’s sake?” Mike broke in, “The state police called.  We already know who did it.  I mean, we’re collect evidence to make sure—oh, that reminds me, does it look likely that there’ll be DNA evidence?”


“Jesus, yes,” Artie muttered, shuddering.  “And quit holdin’ out—who did it?


“Turns out our victim turned state’s evidence on his cellmate while in the state pen.  Man’s name is Robert Tarleton, but he goes by Rocko.  Escaped three weeks ago.”


Artie pondered for a moment, then turned back to the detective.  “So this was a revenge killing, right?  Killer can’t be stupid enough to stay around.  We hand everything over to the state policy and call it a day.”


“Uh-uh,” Mike shook his head, a wry, humorless smile on his craggy face.  “We may have a bigger problem on our hands now.”


“Whaddaya mean?


“The crime out victim spilled his guts about?  Child rape and murder.  This Rocko woulda gotten the chair if the jury had been completely comfortable with a jailbird as the star witness.  But if your report on the mode of death is correct—”


“It is,” Artie muttered darkly.


“—then it might be that this psycho has gotten a taste for this kind of murder.  I don’t know if we have a child murder or a gay killer running around, but it’s gonna be one of the two.”


Just then the coroner’s van pulled into the motel parking lot.  The manager stood in the office doorway in a torn house robe, her sour face clearly expressing her dissatisfaction with the state of affairs.


“You need me anymore?” Artie asked abruptly.


“Uh, no,’ Mike said slowly, “Not as long as you get your report properly filed—”


“You can count on it.  I’m gonna get it filed so fast you won’t believe it, ‘cause the very next thing I’m gonna do it request three weeks’ vacation.  Fucking faggot child killer on the loose—I’m too old for this shit.  I’m gonna book the first flight outta here…”


Mike shook his head and sighed as the patrol cop walked off, muttering to himself.  He hoped Rocko would be found soon; if not, he suspected that he’d be dealing with a rising body count.  If the bodies were homos, no one would care, but if they were kids, there’d be all kinds of hell to pay.


He’d just have to wait and see how it played out.




Joe wasn’t worried about breaking lockdown.  After all, it wasn’t like his job allowed him to practice social distancing, and it was damn sure essential.  When the government needed him to do a job, there were no excuses.  But Joe didn’t use a gun and the only other was to neutralize a target silently and swift was to get up close and personal.


So the thought of venturing out for some R&R didn’t bother him.  And he was sure that there was some dumb fag out there who was just as willing to ignore his own safety to get some dick.


That was just what he wanted—young dumb fagmeat.  Much as he enjoyed getting paid to off dudes, he always appreciated the chance to do it on his own time so he could drain a load into the fucker as it died.  And it seemed the younger the homo was, the more it wanted cock.  Probably raging hormones, he figured.  Didn’t matter, as long as there was one available.


There was always one available.


He spun through the hookup apps on his stolen phone.  He’d have to remember to take the one belonging to his next cumdump; he’d been using this one too long.  It didn’t take him too long to find some prospective meat.


“Looking for hookup RIGHT NOW

–18, 5’10”, 132lbs.  Home alone @ Kappa Tau frat house, brothers at formal.  Want 2 get plowed but u gotta cum & go by 11”


It was accompanied by a torso shot, a lean, firm swimmer’s build with muscle but not overly developed.  A second photo showed a hard stiff boycock rising eagerly from a tangled mass of dark pubes.


Joe responded with a shot of his own chest.  Letting the image of his swollen pecs and ripped abs, covered with wiry fir, do its magic, he started to dress.  He’d just slipped into a tight pair of jeans, comfortably worn and faded, when the phone pinged.  The little homo slut had responded.


And he hadn’t been kidding; he wanted Joe to come to the frat house.  Seemed he was a pledge who’d drawn the short straw and was left to watch the house when everyone else went to the formal.


And he was a virgin.


Joe got the map location and slid his feet into his big black pair of Chippewa loggers, tucking the jeans into the wide, untied boot tops.  Over this, he pulled on a navy-blue compression t-shirt that emphasized his incredibly well-developed upper body.  Slipping the keys to the Camaro into his pocket, the last thing he did before he left was tie a bandanna around the lower half of his face.


It was jet black with a skull’s grin.  He strode to his car, dark erotic death stalking the night.



The frat house was two blocks from the college, over on Ramsdale Street.  Ramsdale was more or less the Greek Row for the local campus of the state college.  About half a dozen frat houses—and half as many sorority houses—were located on it, in what had once been large, upscale homes.


The Kappa Tau house was no different than the others, except it was dark and quiet.  A two-story white Colonial, from the front it bore a striking resemblance to the Cunningham’s house on “Happy Days.”  But Joe, who’d parked on the next street over and had slid noiselessly though the shadows, was to go around to the back.  The gate was open; once past it, he found himself in a paved area with a large swimming pool.  A wing of the house extended down one side of the pool area and wrapped around to the back—there was a lot of space inside.


He knocked at the rear door.  An overhead light flashed on and the door opened.


The boy who opened it was young and cocky.  Well, maybe he wasn’t, but he was unlucky enough to have full lips which formed a natural pout and large emerald-green eyes circled by long dark lashes.  With his prey’s dark bangs sweeping low across his forehead, his pert snub nose and smooth white cheeks with a faint down on the upper lip, barely visible, Joe felt his cock pulse and throb in his jeans.


On opening the door and finding Joe looming over him with his leering mask, the boy flinched.  Then he blushed and grinned embarrassedly.  “Nice mask.  C’mon in, my room’s this way…”


He led the way through a large kitchen fitted with industrial appliances.  Out in the hall, the were passing a dimly-lit game room when Stu paused at the doorway to dark, cavernous media room from which a deep bass hum was coming.


“Hang on, someone left somthin’ on,” he said, then darted in.  There was a click and the hum stopped.


“Assholes,” he muttered, emerging form the darkness, “I drew the short straw, so I gotta housesit while they go off and party…”


“Everything’s closed,” Joe said quietly as he followed the kid up the stairs.


“Yeah, they’re all over at Mikey’s.  His folks got a huge place over on Conover—you know, in that gated community?  And since the hotel cancelled the reservation, the bros decided to move it there.  Fuck, I bet they’re having a blast—his folks are in Colorado, y’know.”


Joe didn’t know and didn’t care, but it explained how bunch of fratboi douches could hold a formal in the middle of a lockdown.  And without any nearby authority figure to shut it down, the buff serial killer figured he’d have plenty of time for some nice brutal foreplay before he finally snuffed this bitch.


He kept close behind the kid, the boy’s ass at his eye level.  He glued his eyes to the tender rounded buttcheeks, tightly wrapped in denim, as they flexed in front of him.  The punk was in a bright yellow t-shirt and his jeans were so pale and worn they were a faint sky blue.  His Nike Air Force 1 hightops were nearly the same shade.


At the top of the stairs, the kid turned left and opened the first door on the left.  Flicking on the overhead light, he unapologetically led Joe into the most stereotypically filthy dorm room he’d ever seen.


He already knew that most of the assholes associated with the fraternity came from wealthy families; the detritus in the room confirmed that fact.  There were the usual piles of beer bottles pizza boxes, and dirty clothes—but the beer bottles were imports and craft beers, the pizza boxes were from local gourmet parlors, not the big chains, and the wadded-up clothing included designer jeans and expensive dress shirts.


Stu caught Joe’s glance and had the decency to blush.  “Yeah, since they cancelled classes, we ain’t done too much.  See, my dad says he’s spending enough for this place and I might as well stay here.  Most of the guys have heard something like that from their folks.  It’s fucking great—we eat and drink and party, an’ don’t even gotta go to class!”


The boy crossed the room, pulling his shirt off over his head as he did so.  He missed Joe’s contemptuous smirk behind his back, but by the time he turned and face his guest, Joe was taking his own shirt off, revealing his huge, hairy chest, so much more developed than Stu’s smooth, lithe torso.  The well-built sadist shook out his shirt—his bandanna had come off and gotten caught in it—before laying over the back of a chair.


Stu’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of Joe’s chest; it was one thing to have seen a photo but for the virgin slut to have such a stud in his actual presence was more than he’d hoped for this evening, and he was willing to abandon all caution in his near-mindless lust.


“Well?” Joe barked gruffly, “Strip, fucker.  I wanna see what I’m gonna be stickin’ my dick in.”


The young homo damn near wriggled with pleasure at the command.  Joe’s disgust at the worthless cocksucker rose in proportion to his need for sexual release.  It was a combination that invariably had horrific consequences for the object of Joe’s attention.


Stu was on the verge of learning that, but he was too horny to pay attention to any red flags.  He kicked his Nikes off and shimmied his way out of his jeans, his long, thick boycock swinging ponderously from side to side as he did so.  He was generously endowed, six inches already and only semi-hard.


It was nothing compared to Joe’s meat, though, and the hardbodied fagkiller thought it was time for his prey to see that for itself.  He unzipped his fly and hauled out his throbbing, erect cock, maintaining eye contact with Stu the entire time.  The boy wanted to look but couldn’t bring himself to break the older man’s hypnotic gaze; he already knew he would do whatever the man asked of him.


Of course, he had no idea how much was to be asked of him.


Then Joe chuckled and blinked, letting the boy drop his eyes and behold the enormous tube of manflesh that was going to be rammed up his ass.  Stu gulped.  He reached a slightly shaky hand up and swept his dark chestnut bangs from his eyes.


“That’s—I, uh, I mean…” he faltered.


“What’s wrong, boy?” Joe asked, his deep basso silky smooth as he leered at his prey.  He reached down and began unbuckling his belt.  Stu hadn’t noticed the inch-wide strap of black leather circling the older man’s waist before, and there was something somehow sinister about the stud’s action.


“I, uh, I ain’t never had no one up in me before,” the fratboi said tremulously, his expression suddenly wary.  He took a step back.  “That, um, your—your dick, I mean, it’s, uh, it’s so big, and, and, I’m just not sure…”


“You backin’ out, boy?” Joe asked, giving his voice an edge.  Just a little one.


Stu gulped again, loudly this time, and blushed.  “It’s not that, it’s just…it’s, uh, it’s—”


“It’s what, faggot?” Joe asked.


The fratboi reacted to the word as if he’d been slapped.  Despite his own obvious desires and everything he’d initiated, he couldn’t acknowledge it out loud, especially not with that word.


“I ain’t no faggot!” he cried out, so angry he was almost in tears.


Joe threw his head back and laughed, a deep, manly vibrato of derisive amusement.


Something snapped in Stu’s head.  Had he been experimenting with someone similar to himself in physique who’d happened to call him a faggot, Stu might have become a sex murderer himself.  A red haze of anger filled his mind that focused his attention and his rage on Joe; he launched himself at the older dude he’d invited over for sex.


Joe was surprised the kid had it in him.  He wasn’t surprised in a literal way, his training prevented him from ever truly relaxing.  He was always prepared to be attacked—and to kill in self-defense—at all times.  He could kill coming out of a sound sleep.


A pissed-off rich little frat punk wasn’t a threat.  Joe had his belt off by now; as soon as Stu got within reach, he lashed out, cutting the boy across the face with the doubled-over leather strap.  The teen meat fell to his knees, clutching the dark angry welt on his cheek and squealing like a bitch.


“Wha—wha—” Stu moaned when suddenly he heard Joe laugh.  It was that same deep laugh of supreme satisfaction.  As the fratboi kneeled, his eyes downcast, Joe’s Chippewa boots came into view.  Reluctantly raising his eyes, Stu ran his gaze up the stud’s thickly-muscled legs in tight denim to the huge jutting tackle—he had to skip that; it led to imagining what it’d be like in him but there was no way that could happen without causing him permanent damage.


Above, though, those furry washboard abs and the broad hubcap pecs with the thick nipples standing out in silhouette, and then that cold, confident, masculine face leering down at him, obviously enjoying his pain…how had this happened?  He’d just wanted a little fun…


And then the older dude raised his arm again, the one with the belt.  Stu’s eyes kept rising, following the upward arc.  As it paused, he whimpered, but did nothing to protect himself.


It was a bad call.  Joe had no mercy in him; this blow was more vicious than the first.


Stu squealed like a pig as the thick leather belt slapped across the side of his head, knocking him to the floor where he lay cowering and cradling his aching skull.  Joe stood over the quivering pile of boymeat, leering and fondling his enormous rod.  He was anticipation plunging his swollen member into that tender young flesh when he noticed movement from his prey.


Stu was trying to crawl away.


Joe stood for a moment and let him go.  When he was about halfway across the room, the fratboi got up onto his hands and knees, the rounded, peach-like globes of his asscheeks pointed directly at the older man.


Joe couldn’t resist such a target.  Three quick steps and he was beating Stu’s ass mercilessly, the kid crying as his ass reddened and formed welts under the assault.  At some point it got to be too much; the punk rolled over and began to resist.


“Stop it!  Stop it!  Fucking stop it!!!” he screamed, when a well-aimed slash with the belt form Joe reminded the fucker that in rolling over, he’d exposed his balls to attack.  With a loud screech, Stu tucked back into a fetal curl, sobbing loudly.


Joe tossed the belt onto the bed.  His bloodlust, his need to dominate this little faggot, to force it to suffer and die for his sexual gratification, was rising to an uncontrollable point.  He approached the writhing teen.


In his pain and fear, Stu could hear the footfalls of Joe’s heavy boots get nearer.  He still didn’t know how things had gone bad, but it was obvious they had.  But he was a young and dumb homo with a limited imagination.  Stu had no idea that within minutes, if not seconds, what now seemed “bad” was going to appear as gentle as his mother’s caresses.


He got his first inkling when Joe began kicking him.


The Chippewa boots were steel-toed.  Everyplace they landed developed a huge black bruise—at the least.  Since the boy was curled up on his side, his back bore the initial brunt of the alpha’s attack.


“Ya fuckin’ little piece a’ shit faggot—how’s that feel, huh?  Goddam homos need to get kicked around a little, just to remind ‘em that they’re garbage.  Right, motherfucker?”  Every time his boot contacted Stu’s flesh, the boy jerked and cried out in pain.  Joe put a little more force into the next kick, catching the fratboi in the upper back, just left of the spine.  There was a muffled snapping sound and Stu’s next cry had a difference in tone and tenor that let the sadist know he’d succeeded in inflicting some internal damage to the pansy.


The kid rolled onto his back, his teen body heaving and covered in sweat as he panted, looking desperately up at his assailant.  “Pl-please, no…” he gasped, his dark eyes casting a beseeching gaze on the hardbodied killer.


“No?” Joe said with an evil smirk as he raised his boot, “Ya don’t like this?”  Driving his leg down with all the power his thick muscles could muster, he stomped Stu’s flat smooth belly, driving the sole of his boot down into the boy’s gut like a piston.  The sound the homo fratboi made as his lungs were violently and forcibly compressed was an extended, wheezing grunt, devoid of all consonants.


As he plunged his boot into Stu’s belly, Joe had leaned over, staring into the boy’s face, maintaining eye contact so he could enjoy not only the cunt’s pain, but his sudden, frantic fear as he found his diaphragm momentarily paralyzed by the sudden physical shock.


For about twenty seconds—the longest twenty seconds of Stu’s life, at least up to this point—the teen fag was unable to inhale.  He literally couldn’t breathe; it was the most terrifying thing he’d ever had to endure.  But it was more than a scare; it was an epiphany.


This dude could do this to him.  And if he could do this so easily and casually, what else could he do?


And it was at that point that Stu realized that he’d let the muscled stud do anything he wanted, anything, as long as he didn’t do that again.  Please, whatever happened, just let him keep breathing.  He clutched at Joe’s leg, one hand tightly gripping the unlaced Chippewa boot, the other higher up, clenched behind the stud’s knee like an embrace.


It wasn’t an embrace; it was desperate plea, and Joe recognized it for what it was.  He ground his boot into the cunt’s firm belly, leaving an exact image of the tread as a deep, black bruise.  Stu lay on his back, beating his curled fists on the floor as he tried to inhale.  Tears welled in his huge eyes as his face went red; then, in a loud and sudden gasp, his diaphragm stopped spasming and he was able to suck in air.


The muscled stud was laughing at him, standing over him with his huge jutting cock dripping with anticipation.  If it hadn’t been for the pain, Stu would have thought he was in a porno.


But he couldn’t ignore the pain; it hurt to breathe.  The sadistic alpha he’d invited over had kicked him hard enough to break one of his ribs, in the back.  The jagged edges of the bones ground against each other every time his chest expanded or compressed.


He’d been hurt.  This wasn’t some sort of mind game.  As Stu lay on the floor, looking up at the buff stranger, something else crossed his mind, something that he refused to recognize in full.  It wasn’t just that this scary motherfucker could do something as terrifying as stop Stu’s breath—it was that he might want to.  Blinking away his tears, the fratboi peered up at Joe with sudden terror in his eyes.


Joe was experienced enough as a killer to recognize the look; he pounced on the little fuck, clamping one hand around the boy’s neck like a claw and lifting the teen bodily from the ground, one-handedly, until the boy’s toes curled frantically in the air four inches above the dirty, scarred wood floor.  The cunt gazed in horror at the alpha, its hands clawing frenetically at Joe’s iron-tight fingers, to no avail.  He held it aloft, watching it choke.  It was time, he decided.  It needed to know its place.


“You know where this is goin’, dontcha.”  It was said as a statement, not a question.  “Yer gonna die.  Ya hear me, cunt?  You were put on this planet for me to use you.  The only value of your existence is in how hard you make me cum as you die.  You get it?  No?  Don’t worry, faggot, you don’t have to understand, you just have to convulse hard enough as you die to jack me off.”  With a grunt and a jerk of his massive bicep, he flung the fratboi into the wall hard enough to crumble and collapse a square yard of plaster.


Stu lay on the ground, not processing anything.  Part of him had known, of course; the scene had gotten too bad too fast for any other outcome.  This psycho couldn’t let him live, not after what had already happened.  But that part had also convinced itself that he’d be able to talk his way out it maybe.


Now he knew that there was no way to talk himself out of whatever what gonna happen next.  And then he heard the footsteps.


He couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes.  He couldn’t bring himself to watch death approach.  And when Joe’s scuffed Chippewas strode into the narrow area of floor on which he’d focused his eyes, Stu snapped.  He tried to beg but started sobbing uncontrollably, then pissed himself.


“Christ, what a worthless goddam faggot,” Joe sneered, “I offed fourteen-year-old guards in South America who put up more fight than you, ya piece a’ shit.  Get up here.”  Grabbing Stu’s arm just above the wrist, he spun his shoulder and flung the punk onto the closest twin bed.


The privileged and entitled teen, now terrified and humiliated, saw Joe approach him, grinning malevolently and wielding his enormous shaft like a club, slapping it vigorously into the open palm of his other hand.  He knew that that huge rod was going to get shoved into his ass, and he would suffer, and he would die…and he suddenly felt something in his groin.


He was getting hard.  No, that wasn’t right.  It couldn’t be right.  But then Joe spoke.  “There ya go,” he chuckled malignly, “Fuckin’ homos always want the D, even when they know they’re gonna die.  Just can’t help it, can ya, cocksucker?”  Still in his jeans and boots, he climbed onto the bed and, planting his hands on the teen’s firm, smooth thighs, forced the boy’s legs apart.


“Here ya go, cunt,” he grunted, “This is whatcha want—fuckin’ take it, bitch!”


And suddenly Stu was full of cock.


It wasn’t like being stabbed or impaled; it was like being shot.  The massive, unlubed rod of manmeat had literally ripped open his sphincter and ramrodded its way through his colon and into his intestines before Stu even realized he’d been penetrated.


The teen’s eyes widen, huge dark circles of shock forming around them.  The circles were contrasted by the paleness of his face as the pain hit.




Joe cut off the meat’s scream with two quick punches to the face.  As it lolled and gurgled for a moment, shuddering in agony, he reached out and picked up the belt.  He looped it through the buckle, making a basic but effective noose.  Once he was done, he began plowing the teen’s fuckhole.


Stu, cowed by a black eye and bloody nose, had a sudden, vivid mental image of an industrial plumber’s snake up his ass, ripping out his guts.  He had no idea getting fucked could hurt so bad; this couldn’t have been what he’d wanted—but as his lithe young body was violently jerked by the brutal force of the rape, it was accompanied by the sound of flesh on flesh as his own hard boycock slapped against his belly and Joe’s.


Then Joe held the noose in front of his face.  “Time to die, fuckmeat.”


The fratboi panicked.  He knew what the noose meant; in an instant, his scrambling arms entwined with Joe’s as the punk tried to snatch at the instrument of his death.  Joe’s face twisted into an angry snarl; knocking the kid’s arms out of the way, he balled up his huge fist and raised it.


“Stop fightin’ me, faggot [POW]!  You want this [POW], you need this [POW] and goddam sure know you deserve it, you cumsuckin’ pile of fuckmeat [POW], so stop resistin’, motherfucker!”


As each roundhouse blow landed on Stu’s cheek or chest or jaw, his teen body jerked and went momentarily stiff, his ravaged colon clutching tightly at Joe’s engorged member.  The fratboi was responsive to the pain; it only made Joe more eager to begin choking the life out of the worthless little cumdump.


The worthless little cumdump was almost ready to allow it to happen.  The beating had broken Stu’s will; he surrendered.  His arms fell, twitching, to his sides and he didn’t react when Joe grabbed a handful of his long bangs to jerk his head up off the bed so the noose could be slipped over it.  He even felt the rough, rawhide-like sensation of the unfinished leather on the inside of the belt as it settled around his throat without reacting.


Then it tightened, and everything changed.


The pain of the sudden, crushing constriction of his esophagus was nothing compared to the terror provoked as his airway collapsed to barely a tenth of its former diameter, reducing Stu’s ability to breathe down to a laborious, drawn-out wheeze.  The punk’s eyes were huge with panic; he grabbed at Joe’s arms, his fingers clamped to his rapist’s biceps as if they were riveted, while his taut, smooth body arced and heaved under the stud’s weight.


As the fratboi jerked and spasmed, struggling tortuously to inhale, Joe leaned over, his rugged, unshaven face leering down at the helpless teen.  “I can feel my load about to boil over, bitch,” he grinned as his hard, taut body hunched and thrusted, plunging his huge shaft balls-deep into the virgin adolescent.  “Yer one lucky faggot, asswipe—you get to die so you can be my cumdump.  You want this; yer homo cock is hard as hell.”


And it was.  Stu’s long thick boycock was so stiff it ached; in his terror, he’d forgotten about it but, but now he could feel it again, being compressed between the firm flat bellies of two males locked in a violent embrace of sex, pain and power.


And death.  With a grunt and a brutal jerk, Joe tightened the belt around Stu’s neck and cut off his air completely.  The overprivileged fratboi found himself enduring his worst nightmare; something so horrifying he hadn’t considered the possibility of it happening to him before this terrible, surreal evening.


He lasted about thirty seconds.  Then Stu disappeared and the primitive animal emerged from the midbrain, engaging in the primal struggle for survival.


It might have been dangerous for Joe—if he hadn’t been a powerful, well-built, and highly experienced killer.  He knew what to expect from his fuckmeat; all faggots died pretty much the same way.  They fought it at first; they fought it hard.  It wasn’t till irreversible brain damage set in that they could let go of the desire to cling to their worthless little homo lives and work his dick like it deserved.


And in the end, they loved it.  Joe knew that.  Even the most useless cocksucker he’d ever snuffed had blown an enormous deathload as he ended its miserable existence.  This one wouldn’t be any different—but for now, it needed to be brought back under some control.  The stupid fuck wasn’t brain-dead enough to appreciate what Joe was doing for it and the kicking and clawing was getting annoying.


Time to remind the fucking cunt who was boss.


Jerking the belt noose tight with his left hand, the muscled mankiller began beating the fuckmeat’s face in.  As his huge right fist slammed into the punk’s once-handsome face, the faggot threw its arms up to block the devastating blows, to no avail.  As impact after brutal impact crushed the fratboi’s nose and knocked half his teeth down his throat, he was still suffering from oxygen deprivation.


It was more than the twink could handle.   His lithe young body wasn’t used to this level of abuse.  He continued to shudder and tremble, his velvety homo colon milking Joe’s gigantic, vein-sheathed rod, but the frantic panic-inspired thrashing slowly ceased under the vicious beating he was enduring.


Sweating and heaving, Joe finally stopped pounding on the meat.  He’d managed not to break the swift, rough tempo of his fucking even as he punched the living (just barely) fuck out of the spoiled rich kid.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he growled at the quivering, semiconscious pile of boymeat he was raping, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere but a long dirt nap, motherfucker, so stop fightin’ and work my dick!”


The boy’s face was ruined, beaten to a pulp and swollen beyond recognition.  His skin was black and his bulging, horror-filled eyes were dilating as ruptured blood vessels turned the whites to dusky pink.  His entire body began to move in rhythmic spasms; each one was accompanied by a thick, sickening grunt from the kid’s sealed-off throat.  And with every grunt, a streamer of foamy drool trickled down the dying fratboi’s chin.


“I’m getting close,” Joe suddenly muttered in a choked voice.  “Ya ready, you little piece a’ shit?  Ready to die on my cock like yer supposed ta?  Fuckin’ milk me as you kick off, faggot; this is yer only shot.  You were put here to make me cum as you die, you worthless spunkpig; do yer fuckin’ job and I’ll let ya rot in a ditch with my load in yer guts, yeah?  So come on, cunt, earn my seed!”


The hard-bodied alpha dug his Chippewas in for traction as he fucked the boy to death, the deep tread of the boots digging into the mattress as the brutal assrape made the twin bed bump and creak.  On top of it, the sweaty male bodies slapped together in a frenzied combination of bloodlust and brain death.  The shuddering sack of boymeat that had been Stu had slipped past the point of conscious thought with Joe’s taunts ringing in his ears; he fell screaming into the cold vortex of death knowing that everything he was suffering was so that a complete stranger could cum.


But the body wasn’t dead yet.  The heart still beat—wildly and ever more erratically, but it still beat.  The nerves still functioned; there was still enough gray matter left alive to suffer.  The meat could still feel pain, and still respond to it.


That was all Joe needed.  He was so fucking close, but he had to hurt the faggot one last time.


As the dying teen homo jerked and convulsed on his cock, Joe placed his hand over the meat’s face, pressing down on it, covering those blank bulging eyes as he wrapped the end of the belt a couple of times around his other hand.  Pressing down on the cunt’s head, Joe pulled back on the belt.  He looked down at the adolescent’s sweat-slick lithe body thrashing under him and grinned.


And in that last moment, the part of Stu’s brain that could still register sensation went hyperactive.  Everything, from the rough, wiry chest hair scraping his skin like sandpaper, to each individual vein encircling his killer’s gigantic cock as it tore through his rectum, was taken in by the agonized, dying fratboi.


Then, his massive biceps bulging at the effort, Joe jerked the belt, violently.  It was quick, brutal, and very effective.  By pushing the meat’s head and body down as he pulled its neck up, Joe not only shattered the kid’s cervical vertebrae, he severed the spinal cord from the brain, literally pulling it out through the hole in the bottom of the skull with a thick, gristly, cracking sound.


The teen’s taut body reacted instinctively to the massive nervous system trauma.  Already fully erect from a combination of overabundant hormones, remorseless prostate stimulation, and basic faggot horniness, Stu wasn’t mentally present to enjoy the massive deathload that spewed involuntarily from his rigid form.  In fact, with his spine ripped from his brain, he couldn’t feel anything at all.


That didn’t stop his dying nervous system from responding to Joe’s massive load.  As the muscled, booted killer clutched the teen’s thrashing corpse, he cried out, hoarsely and inarticulately, and hosed the fucker’s guts with his sperm.  Thick, hot jets of semen coated the dead fag’s rectum and intestines, the sudden warmth setting off another blast of spunk from the dead boy—huge, pearly wads that splattered and matted Joe’s thick chest fur.


The heaving hardbodied fagkiller spent the next five minutes shuddering and gasping, his enormous tackle still buried in the corpse’s ass as he randomly spewed his DNA, pumping and thrusting until his aching balls were completely drained.  Then he felt composed enough to extract his manmeat from the dead fratboi and get off the bed.


He paced around, looking for a bathroom so he could clean the homo spooge off his chest.  He finally found one—a connecting bath, shared with the two punks in the next room.  Used by four adolescent boys with no supervision, no self-discipline, and minimally-paid housekeeping, the room was so filthy that Joe went back to the other bedroom and snatched the dead fuck’s yellow t-shirt off the floor.  Returning to the bathroom, he used it as a washrag to clean the cum off, then tossed it into the disgusting toilet.


Tucking his rod back into his jeans, the hulking stud strode back into the killing room and picked up his own shirt and his bandanna.  Remembering his need for a new phone for his next fag hunt, he swiped the dead punk’s iPhone off the dresser and pocketed it.  He was about to head out when he remembered his belt.  He liked that belt.  He didn’t want to leave it behind.


Retrieving it was a bit difficult; it had been tightened around the boy’s throat to the point that the dead fuck’s neck had been compressed to about three inches in diameter.  Even after Joe managed to get the belt back through the buckle, the part that was still actually wrapped around the neck was embedded too deep for him to easily pull it out.


In the end, he dragged the still-trembling corpse off the bed, letting it tumble face-first onto the floor.  Then, placing his big black boot on the homo’s back, he was able to get enough leverage to pry the belt loose.


Looping it back around his waist, he had a moment to admire his kill.  The fratboi was huddled on the floor like a sack of garbage, partly turned on its side, its ass was pointed directly at the door, the cum and blood seeping from the shredded sphincter clearly visible from across the room.


Joe felt great; he loved his work, but he had to be quiet and efficient.  He couldn’t linger over it and savor it, the way he could when he put down fags just for the fuck of it, like this.  As he slipped on his shirt and head out of the room, he was a very happy sadist.


And a careful one.  He didn’t forget to tie his bandanna back on before he left.  After all, it was dangerous out there…



It was Ben who raised the alarm; he was Stu’s roommate in the fraternity.  He’d been one of the last ones to arrive back from the “formal”, and was no more (or less) drunk than any of the rest of them, but unlike the others, he’d decided to go up to his room to divest himself of his uncomfortable rented tux as soon as he got in.


The sound he made couldn’t really have been described as a scream; nonetheless, it got everyone’s attention.  A crowd of elaborately-dressed boys clambered up the staircase, to be met by Ben, stumbling down it.  He was ashen-faced, trembling, and damn near incoherent.


“Stu!” he moaned, pointing upstairs, “He’s…oh, fuck!  And he’s…oh, Jesus, he’s, he’s been—”


Realizing they weren’t going to get more out of him, the majority of the members headed up to confront the gruesome scene awaiting them.


For some time afterwards, confusion reigned in the frat house, except for one small room where Sam, Mark, and Ronny met.  Sam was the fraternity president, Mark the veep and Ronny was the secretary.  By rights, the treasurer should have been there too—but Ben was the treasurer, and he wasn’t very useful at the moment.


“Shit,” Sam muttered, “This is gonna get us shut down.  Sure as shit, you just watch.  And for a fuckin’ pledge, too!”


“When are we gonna call the police?” Ronny asked querulously.  “The longer we wait, the worse it looks!”


“I know that, asshole,” Sam snarled, “We’re waiting to hear back from Mark’s dad, remember?  He said he’d help us with any legal trouble.”  Suddenly, he rounded on Mark.  “He did say that, right?  And he’s gonna return your call, right?”


“Yeah, yeah, he’s gonna call me back,” Mark replied, obviously nowhere near as calm as he was desperately pretending to be.  “But y’know, he’s gonna be asking about a lotta shit…they always do when a frat’s involved…”


“What kinda shit?” Sam demanded nervously.  “Whaddaya mean?”


“Well, he’s a pledge, and, well, y’know, frats have a bad name nowadays because of hazin’, and shit like that…”


“Yeah, well—” Sam started out defiantly, then fell quiet.  They all did.  They were all trying very hard not to think about the fact that their hazing ritual involved inserting certain…items…into the pledges’ anuses.  Depending on the inserter, the insertee, and the item being inserted, things had gotten carried away on occasion in the past.


As they sat in the darkened room waiting for a call from the lawyer, it occurred to each of the young men that Stu had gotten hazed a little early–and had ended up blackballed.

Boot Blackened Bitch

Teddy leaned against the lamppost and reached down to his groin, adjusting his meat.  Goddam jeans were too tight; he made a mental note not to wear them again.  Displaying the goods on sale was one thing; highlighting them to the point of damage was something else.  Last thing he needed was to cut off the circulation to his dick so bad he couldn’t get it up for a john.


He hoped someone would come along soon.  This part of the park was known for its boywhores and Teddy usually did a good trade here, but it was a slow night and he was jonesing for a bump.  He needed money.


Plus, he didn’t want to be hanging out here all night.  It was unusually cool for this time of the year, and he hadn’t thought to bring a jacket.  His clothing wasn’t well-suited to the chill in the air either; his thin cotton t-shirt offered nothing but a chart of Pokémon characters across its front as protection against the cold.  And while his feet were fine in his black Reebok hightops, the skillfully-done slashes above the knees of his jeans reveal his smooth, firm thighs—and also let in the night air.


In short, Teddy wasn’t in the mood to be picky.  Coming from a broken, dysfunctional home, he’d been whoring himself out for years, quickly learning how to take dick from and give it to all sorts of men.  If they had the cash, he’d do what they wanted—and sometimes, he didn’t demand much cash.


Tonight was different.  Charlie had a big batch of the good stuff and Teddy was amped.  Someone had to come along soon, preferably some fat old fuck who’d cum in forty-five seconds and hand him a wad of cash out of guilt.


When Teddy first saw the dude approaching him, he briskly rubbed his eyes.  The man was a fucking stud; he damn sure didn’t look like the type who needed to pay for sex—which meant he probably wanted something beyond the realm of normal sex.  Well, that was fine—as long as he could pay for it.


He was an older man, perhaps mid to late thirties. He was on the far side of the next streetlight, just inside the circle of light, and Teddy could see the guy was wearing a black leather aviator’s jacket that hung open and showed he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath.  Even at this distance, the young slut could make out the stud’s washboard abs and huge pecs, dusted with dark, virile hair.


The man’s face was shadowed with scruff that faded back from a dark goatee around his full, yet somehow harsh mouth. He sported a black ball cap worn backwards; a hank of dark hair had escaped from under the brim and lay across his forehead.  His faded denim jeans were so tight that Teddy see that the dude was circumcised from nearly fifty yards away.  But the denim ended at the knee; below that, it was tucked into a pair of 20-hole Grinder Cs Derby leather boots, also in black leather.


Despite himself, Teddy found his dick getting hard.  That was a bad sign; this was business, not pleasure.  He’d charge the guy out the ass—literally—but damn, he hoped the john wouldn’t be into anything too weird.  He wanted to enjoy this.


The man kept coming.  He didn’t smile—in fact, his handsome face seemed hard and emotionless—but Teddy knew the dude was coming for him, wanted him.  Not that there was anyone else working this stretch of the street, but Teddy was pleased anyway.  Still, though, he better have money.


He paused four feet from Teddy; the slut had the chance to check him out and confirm his first impressions; the man was a serious stud, muscled and hairy.  This close, Teddy could pick up the heady odor of the john’s leather and the acrider scent of the dude’s testosterone, literally oozing form his skin.


“I wanna drain my load,” the guy growled abruptly, “You any good?”


“Make ya cum so hard you scream,” Teddy shot back, grinning insolently.


“How much?”


Teddy looked him over carefully, not from an erotic point a view but a mercenary one.  That jacket and those boots weren’t cheap.  “You c’n put it up my ass for two hundred.”




“You got the cash?”


The older man reached in his pocket and pulled out a wallet—also in black leather, of course—and gave Teddy a quick peek at the wad of twenties tucked inside. “You gotta place?”


Teddy nodded his head to the right.


“What, up the alley?”


“Yeah, unless you wanna pop for a hotel room.”


“Naw—go on.”


Teddy turned and led the way into the dark alley, ignoring the dude’s muttered “Fuckin’ street whore…” comment.  He didn’t need to turn and see if the john was following him; the stud’s booted footfalls easily drowned out the faint sound made by his Reeboks on the filthy alley pavement.


About a third of the way down, behind a restaurant, was a dumpster.  Teddy had been here often.  Redolent of chicken scraps and rotting greens, it formed a perfect screen; the area on the far side got just enough light for johns to be able to find his asshole.


Unfastening his jeans, Teddy let them drop to his ankles, then turned to face the wall.  He bent forward slightly, placing his hands up against the rough bricks.  There was a pause as he waited for the fumbling at his buttcheeks that invariably occurred at this stage.


Except it didn’t.


“Take off your shirt,” the john growled.


Teddy sighed; he’d been afraid of something like this.  He reached down and pulled the t-shirt up over his head, then balled it up and stuck it down into the denim hammock formed by his jeans at his ankles; he didn’t want it on the disgusting alley concrete.  “Weird shit’s gonna cost ya extra,” he warned.


Sudden a pair of hand clamped Teddy’s hips tightly.  Without a word of warning or a sign of any kind, the john was suddenly deep in the whore’s ass, his enormous engorged head grinding relentlessly into the punk’s colon, tearing at its tender lining as it plowed its way into his guts.


Teddy had been fucked rough; he’d been fucked dry, too.  But it had never been by someone this incredibly well-hung.  The dude had a dick like a horse and the slut had been totally unprepared for it; the pain was shattering.


It took all his effort to keep from screaming.  He bit his tongue, savagely and deliberately, but he would not let himself cry out.  Part of it was professional; it was a bad idea to make enough noise to draw attention to yourself when a john was fucking you.  But for Teddy, there was also a matter of pride.  He was gonna show this stud he could take it, no matter what.  Even though he could feel blood trickling from his torn asshole, he wasn’t gonna let the fucker know he’d hurt him.


He could feel the hardbodied stud’s hot breath on the nape of his neck and hear the dude’s grunting as he pounded Teddy’s ass.  The teen’s toes curled inside his Reeboks as the thick spongy head of the john’s hog plowed roughly over his prostate, forcing his already-hard dick to stretch and throb until it ached.


To accommodate the massive shaft impaling him, Teddy shifted his legs out, as best he could with his jeans shackling his ankles.  But he could only go so far, his sneakers penned between the dude’s boots.  Try as he might, the teen whore wasn’t able to find a position that made taking the dick any less painful; he’d just have to ride it out.  But even though it hurt, it hurt good.


Teddy was surprised at the dude’s silence; he’d looked like he could get real verbal, but he hadn’t uttered a word since he’d started fucking.  That was ok; a little abuse would have been fun, but the way he was reaming teddy’s fuckhole was amazing.  The deeper he went, the less pain and more pleasure there seemed to be.


The teenaged boy might have been an experienced street whore, but he was still an adolescent whose lithe lean body had been pumped full of testosterone and other hormones by his over-revved nads with little way to control the reaction.  He could feel his orgasm building as he got fucked up against a wall in a dark, dirty alley and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop it.


As the swift slapping sound of flesh on flesh echoed off the grimy brickwork, Teddy could feel his balls begin to contract.  Each plunge of the older man’s tackle into his anus forced a squirt of hot precum from the youth’s jutting, quivering shaft.


“Fuck, man,” he moaned as the john clutched his sweaty, heaving flanks in a vise-like grip, “I’m gonna blow…”


The muscled stud switched into overdrive; it was like a jackhammer had been jammed up Teddy’s ass.  The pain was phenomenal; he’d never had such a vicious, brutal assfuck—and he loved it.  He was surprised by his own reaction; the sheer agony of being violently used was getting him off.  Part of him wondered what it meant, but rational thought faded was fading.


“I’m cumming—fuck, aw fuck—”


And for the next forty seconds, there was no coherent Teddy, just a shuddering teenaged boy, inarticulate and helpless as it spasmed in the grip of an overwhelming orgasm.  As the boy grunted and jerked, a steady stream of hot boyseed splashed against the wall, spattering back down onto the kid’s hightops and the john’s boots.


“Aw, goddam,” Teddy moaned, gasping for air, “Fuckin-A, man—”


Suddenly, the dick was gone.  He’d pulled out, quickly and quietly, with no warning.  The trickling sensation he could feel wasn’t the john’s load, it was his own blood.


“What—” he began, and then he was on the ground.  He had no clue that the sharp pain he’d felt had been a kick from a steel-toed boot to the back of his knee.


Teddy found himself lying on his back in a nasty puddle, looking up at the john.  Something was very wrong.  The man leaned over him, his knee-high boots shiny and glinting in the dim light.  Above the massive cock, dangling over Teddy’s prone body, the stud’s huge chest and ripped abs could be seen under their haze of dark fur as the leather jacket swung open.  But the light faded at the neck; the hard, scruff covered face was hidden in the shadows.  Only a faint cold gleam hinted at the location of the john’s eyes.


“What the fuck?” Teddy demanded, his pleasure at getting reamed fading before his anger.  “What are you fuckin’ doin’?  Dude, you still owe me even if ya didn’t cum—”


“Goddam faggot,” the voice came out of the darkness, deep and icy in a way that chilled Teddy’s blood, “That wasn’t worth shit.”


Despite his fear, Teddy wasn’t about to give in.  It had felt fuckin’ great, but this was business, after all.  “You fuckin’ owe me.  You better fuckin’ pay!”  He tried to sound menacing; it came out as a whine.


The john took a step closer; the light bisected his face, leaving the top half dark but illuminating his strong, fur-covered chin and contemptuous smirk.  He raised his leg and suddenly Teddy found himself looking at the series of X’s that made up the tread of the heavy black boot.


“Oh, you’ll get paid, all right, cocksucker,” the dude said quietly, his manner still coldly composed, “I’m gonna make damn sure you get everything a fag whore like you deserves.”


With that, he slammed his boot down onto Teddy’s chest.  It hit the kid at the bottom edge of his ribcage like a piledriver, snapping two ribs and ripping his diaphragm muscle.  “HORG!!”  the teen slut cried inarticulately as air was forced violently from his lungs.  The john ground his boot into the flesh, putting his entire body weight onto that foot.


Teddy, his eyes bulging in pain and disbelief, reached up and desperately clutched at the john’s ankle, feeling the smooth leather and tight laces under his hands as he tried to lessen the intense, grinding pressure on his midsection.  The sadistic stud stood on the boy with that foot instead, using the other foot to kick the boy’s flank, hard, snapping another rib.  With a choking cry, Teddy let go of the alpha’s boot.


“You fuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the john snarled, spitting on Teddy.  The confused boywhore tried to wrap his mind around what was happening when suddenly the stud began kicking him brutally, driving his steel toed boots into the boy’s prone body.  Squealing like a piglet in his fear and pain, Teddy curled into a fetal position to protect his more vulnerable areas.


It didn’t slow the vicious alpha down.  Teddy’s exposed back offered plenty of flesh for the sick top to aim for.  He wasn’t able to break all the homo’s ribs, although he tried.  He scored a good shot on the cunt’s scrote, though; as Teddy brought his knees up to his chest, his balls dangled between his legs and were exposed on their back side when he rolled away from his attacker.


The impact between the hardbodied john’s Digger boots and the soft, pulpy tissue of Teddy’s gonads was so severe that Teddy’s left testicle was crushed like an overripe grape, blood and cum spurting over the whore’s taint and the alpha’s boot.  The pain was more traumatic than anything the teen slut had ever experienced—he literally shot up in the air, coming back down onto his back again, splashing the oil-scummed water pooling in the alley.


His scream was piercing but brief.  “Shaddup, cocksucker,” the top jeered, then kicked him again—this time in the face.  Teddy shut up.  He was too busy trying to maintain consciousness after having his jaw broken and three teeth kicked down his throat.


“Just another worthless faggot cunt,” the alpha growled, “Fuckin’ garbage that can’t even work the load outta my hog.  Ain’t no one gonna miss ya, pansy!”  He slammed his foot down on Teddy’s smooth bare chest and once again was rewarded with the splintering sound of breaking bones.


This time was different, as least for the teen slut.  This time, in addition to the breaking ribs, Teddy felt a horrible pain as something tore deep in his torso, a terrifying ripping sensation—and then he couldn’t breathe.


He tried to inhale and found that he could, but just barely.  It took all his effort to suck in air, and the pain was excruciating.  He had no idea that his right lung had been torn open by the jagged end of a broken rib and was slowly collapsing; he only knew that he was dying.


The john saw it too, and didn’t stop.  He kept applying his steel-toed boots to the mortally injured whoreboy, kicking him in the legs and hips, stomping on his arms.  As he pinned Teddy’s right hand to the pavement and ground it to a useless wad of flesh and bone shards, the adolescent cunt felt drops of hot liquid spattering his face.


Prying his eyes open reluctantly, Teddy looked up to see the john’s huge cock dangling directly over him, dripping precum.  The dude was watching intently as he inflicted physical damage on the teenaged punk, and he was getting off on it.


He hadn’t cum while fucking Teddy, but he was gonna cum while kicking him to death.


It wasn’t real.  He wasn’t lying here nearly nude in a puddle of filth in a back alley, being stomped to death by a rogue alpha john.  The pain was so intense, so severe, that Teddy was as disoriented as if he’d taken a huge dose of hallucinogens.  But the stud’s words penetrated his trauma-hazed mind, reinforcing the nightmarish reality.


“Fuckin’ scum—gonna hafta scrape what’s left of ya off my soles like dogshit, haw!  Does it hurt, cunt?  You deserve this shit, bitch.  I’m gonna kick you to death like a nigger, motherfucker!”


He kept his voice in control; the tone of joyous rage didn’t travel far down the alley, but it reached Teddy clear enough.  The alpha didn’t think so, though; he felt the need to drive his point home and punctuate it with his black leather footgear.


Teddy could see the muscled john raise his leg; cruelly, time seemed to slow down, extending his suffering and giving him a chance to see approaching agony that he was utterly unable to ward off or abate.


The black X’s on the dude’s heavy tread glistened darkly as the boot dangled over Teddy’s nude, shuddering body.  It was blood, the boywhore realized dully, his own blood.  He felt no surprise or shock at the discovery—he was far too full of pain and fear for there to be room for other sensations.


Then the john began pounding him.


“Fuckin’ [STOMP] piece a’ [STOMP] faggot trash [STOMP], die under my boots [STOMP STOMP]!!!”


The tearing feeling again, much worse.  The john had crushed Teddy’s other testicle, then slammed his feet so hard into the teen’s chest and gut that the punk had suffered severe injuries to his liver, stomach, and spleen and had punctured his other lung.  As he painfully coughed up a huge wad of blood, air was escaping from his torn lungs into his chest cavity.  In five minutes, the pressure would be enough to collapse both lungs and he would suffocate.


He didn’t live that long.


As he gasped and choked, expending more and more effort just to breathe, some part of Teddy wished he’d managed to get that meth; it would have made this so much easier to deal with…


Then the alpha kicked him twice in the face, the steel toes shattering his cheekbones and knocking four teeth out of his upper jaw.  Suddenly an acrid, sour stench filled the alley.  To far gone to maintain control, Teddy pissed himself.


The alpha chuckled.  Placing his boot on Teddy’s throat, he stood over the dying adolescent and started jerking his huge, oozing shaft.


“Guess yer finally gonna get my load, boy,” he said with a wicked grin, “Lights out, motherfucker.”


Slowly and intimately, he crushed Teddy’s trachea under his boot, increasing the pressure until it gave underfoot like a beer can.  As it cracked and crunched beneath his sole, the alpha grunted, a deep basso rumble, and spewed his hot jizz on the teen’s face.


Teddy felt his esophagus give way; as the older man’s boot destroyed his windpipe, the anguished youth jerked, his arms flailing and beating on the pavement until his hands were bloody.  His feet, trapped by his lowered jeans, were no help to him, and as his face darkened and his tongue protruded in choking agony, the alpha’s spunk spattered across his face.


The last sensation Teddy received as he died was the salty taste of his killer’s sperm on his tongue.  His cock pulsed and twitched but his faggot balls had been too irreparably damaged for the boywhore to experience a deathload.  He quivered and died in a puddle of oily water, blood,  and piss in in the foul-smelling alleyway.


Smirking, the top stuffed his still-dripping tool back into his jeans.  He was still zipping his fly as he turned and headed back down the alley, whistling “Turkey in the Straw”.  Behind him, as the tune and the heavy booted footfalls faded away, the body of the teen boywhore, battered and bruised beyond recognition, continued to tremble.


As the night wore on and the corpse cooled and stiffened, rats began to gather.

The Faggot at the Gym by

My name is Andrew, I’m 28 years old and I live with my boyfriend Joe. We’ve been together for 5 years, and even though I love him very much, lately the sex hasn’t been great or often. He is 35, 6 feet tall, a little overweight, with a 4-inch dick that just doesn’t satisfy on the rare occasions we actually fuck, as he’s a bottom-vers and I’m a total bottom. Lately, I can’t stop looking at alpha male porn where guys fuck the shit out of bottoms their huge dicks, as well as staring at any muscled alphas on the street or at the gym.

I’m shorter than Joe at about 5 foot 6, I have dark hair, a beard and am fairly muscular, though I can’t quite seem to bulk up as much as the straight guys at the gym. I’ve always been attracted to masculine men, and while I’m fairly masculine-presenting, I’ve always known deep down that I’m on a lower level than the alphas I see at the gym, and have gotten off on guys calling me names, treating me rough and hurting me. No one knows I think like this, not even Joe.

The other night after a particularly bland lovemaking session (I ended up giving him a handjob to finish it off as soon as possible, I don’t think I got harder than a semi the whole time, and I definitely didn’t cum), I let Joe fall asleep while I got up and opened up some porn in the lounge room.

The video was of a strong alpha fucking a boy mercilessly, sweat dripping down from his face onto his chiseled abs. His cock had to be longer than 9 inches, and the boy was moaning in pleasure. Every now and again the top would say things like “you like that, faggot?” and “you’re my fucking bitch” which would make the bottom moan louder. I’d seen this video before, where between poundings of his dick, the top would push over, kick, slap and punch the bottom hard, and the bottom would thank the top for each one. I’m pretty sure they weren’t faking it, too, because the bottom’s face swelled up. It’s one of my favourites, even though it cuts out right as the top says “time for the load of your life, faggot”.

I was getting pretty hard, but didn’t want to wake Joe, so I decided to pack up my laptop and head to the gym to vent my frustrations. I put on a tight black tank top, a pink jockstrap and my favourite tiny gym shorts. The shorts are made of white mesh so you could see my pink jockstrap underneath and so short that they barely cover the bottom of my bubble butt, and the jockstrap waistband stays well above the waist of the shorts, leaving a gap between them. I always feel so slutty in this outfit, and I wear it whenever I’m getting ready for the gym without Joe seeing, and it took a little effort for my dick to soften before I headed out.

It was just after midnight when I left for the gym, I had the day off the next day and Joe had work, so I didn’t have to worry about how much time I took. I live near the edge of the city, basically a suburb but with industrial buildings taking up most of the 15 minute walk to the gym. The streets are usually abandoned that late at night, except maybe some homeless guys sleeping in some of the dark, unlit alleys on the way, and tonight I didn’t see a soul on my walk.

I got to the gym without incident, and beeped myself in with my tag. After putting my bag on a hook (I didn’t have much in there aside from my phone and drink bottle, and even though I always carry cash in my wallet, I wasn’t worried about it being stolen), I cast my eyes over the gym.

At the resistance machines, two guys were chatting to each other as they did some leg extensions, one guy was stretching in the back, and around the corner I could hear someone grunting using the free weights. It was about as quiet as I thought it would be. It’s not a gay gym, so the guys are normally straight, and I checked out the three I could see on my way over to the treadmill. The two guys were pretty hot, definitely stronger than I am, one taller than the other, and the stretching guy wasn’t too bad either, although he finished up his stretching and left not long after I walked by.

As I stepped up to the treadmill to start my run, I’m pretty sure I heard one of the two guys say, “what the fuck is he wearing?”, with a scoff.

“Haha, that’s fucking hilarious, man” said the other guy.

I ignored them and tried to concentrate on running. I built up quite a sweat after a few minutes, building up around my forehead, armpits and crotch. The sweat soaked into my shorts, revealing the pink jockstrap even
more and my exposed ass.

When I was done on the treadmill I decided to head over to the free weights, and on my way the two guys were heading out past me to leave the gym.

“Nice panties, bro” said the shorter guy, and laughed with his friend as they quickly left the building. My cheeks flushed and I felt my cock stir a little against the fabric of the very jockstrap they were teasing me for.

As I turned the corner towards the free weights, I got a look at the source of the earlier grunting. Holy shit, this guy was a beast! He had huge, bulging muscles, glistening with sweat, easily over 6 feet tall with cropped, dark hair and a clean-shaven face. His face was contorted into a frown as he curled a heavy dumbell that I couldn’t hope to even take off the rack, let alone pump them as he did (I’d tried, and they didn’t budge). His biceps and back rippled with the effort of his workout, and just as I realised I was staring he looked up at me. I immediately broke his gaze, hoping he didn’t notice and I went to the dumbell rack, and picked a heavy set, though several times lighter than the other guy’s.

I snuck another look at this godly figure as I leaned over, but he was looking back at himself in the mirror. He wasn’t checking me out, but I did notice his frown had deepened slightly. I sat down on the nearest bench, with the weight rack on my right, and two benches separating him and me on my left. I started curling the weights, noticing my biceps had grown slightly, but I felt practically skinny next to the muscled hunk across from me.

I kept stealing furtive glances over at this guy, and he noticed every time, either straight away or because if he didn’t notice I couldn’t help but stare. His deep grunts as he lifted his weights reverberated through my head, reminding me of the video from before. He was so hot, I could feel the power emanating from him, and before long I couldn’t look away at all, my own weights forgotten on the floor next to my bench. He caught my eye and looked frustrated, dropping his weight with a clatter to the ground.

“Are you right, mate?” He said, clearly annoyed.

“Ah,” I stammered, “sorry, I couldn’t help but admire your build, man”, trying to play it cool.

“Haha, yeah,” he said as he took me in, “I get it, but could you quit it? It’s a little distracting.”

“Sorry Sir” (Sir? I didn’t expect to say that), “I’ll let you get back to it” I said, wondering what Joe would think if he saw me like this.

“Hm, just keep your eyes to yourself”, he said dismissively, and went back to it, though I think he noticed something in the way I called him Sir.

I finished my biceps and got up to change the bench position. As I bent over I heard him snigger, he clearly saw my jockstrap. It didn’t really surprise me, but hearing him laugh at me got my dick working again, and I sat down to do my next exersize, trying and failing to stop checking him out.

When he caught my eye yet again, he said “Are you checking me out? What are you gay or some shit?”.

I was shocked by his reaction, “uh yeah, sorry man” I said, nervously.

“I knew it, look, I’m not interested mate, keep your fucking eyes off me”, he said angrily.

“Of course, sorry Sir”, I said, surprising myself by calling him that, I felt so submissive right then.

“Fucking faggots,” he muttered under his breath, which made my semi form into a full on hard-on.

I kept my eyes to myself, but my boner wouldn’t go down. He got up to put his weight away, and must have seen, because I hear him away “what the fuck?” I looked over at him and he’d definitely seen. “Jesus christ, you really are a fuckin’ faggot.”

I couldn’t believe he was calling me faggot again, which only made my cock go fully rock hard. Repulsed, the alpha took a step back. I’d clearly gotten in trouble here, so I apologised and put my weights away, wiped up my bench, grabbed my bag and headed out the door without a backwards glance. I knew I was going to fap hard to this when I got home.

I’d turned two corners when I realised there was someone behind me, so I quickened my pace a little. I heard their footsteps quicken, so as I turned a third corner into the next street I sped up and hid in one of the dark, industrial alleyways. The main street only had one light, which barely reached this alleyway, and the alley itself had no lights at all, so I thought it would be a good place to hide. I looked down the end to see it blocked off with a brick wall. *Fuck, dead end* I thought, and tried the only door. Locked.

The steps got louder and I saw a big shadow appear, when the figure reached the opening I saw it was the guy from the gym! I gasped and then cursed my mistake as his head whipped around, looking me dead in the eye.

“There you are, faggot.” He said with a smirk, “Do you think you can fuck up my workout and then get away? Fuck you.”

I was scared, not knowing what was going to happen, but his words made me hard all over again, pushing my jockstrap and clearly tenting my shorts. I was cold in the night air with my tight clothes and exposed legs, but I don’t think that’s why I was shivering.

“Holy shit, you actually like being called a faggot, don’t you?” He said aggressively, slowly walking up to me “I should have known, you’re dressed like a stupid queer, no one would even give a fuck if you wound up dead in that outfit, they’d figure you had it comin'”

He had backed me almost up to the brick wall, and I could feel his breath coming towards me. He looked me up and down and then shoved me hard into the wall, forcing the wind out of my lungs.

“Haha, you fucking weak fag, you couldn’t take me on, so don’t fucking try” I knew he was right, so I said nothing, he was shaking with fury.

“You know your kind aren’t fucking welcome at the gym, queer, so why do you show up in your stupid gear and check me out? I’m going to show you your mistake, and make sure you can never come back and piss me off again.”

He held my face with one hand, hurting my jaw with his strong grip, and hitme hard in the gut with his other powerful fist, and I only stayed on my feet because of his hold of my face.

“Now what do you say?” He sneered into my face.

“Th- thank you”, I stammered through his hand, barely able to move my mouth.

He spat in my face.

“Thank you, WHAT?” He glared

“Thank you, Sir”, I said, a tear rolling down my cheek.

He laughed and then slugged me once more in the gut before noticing my erection.

“Wow, you’re really getting off on this, aren’t you faggot?”

I nodded weakly, stiff at attention.

“Well clearly the lesson isn’t sinking in”, and he punched me as hard as he could in the face, knocking me to the floor. Blood flew from my face and I heard a couple of teeth bounce across the hard ground.

“You. Are. Fucking. Scum.” He kicked me as hard as he could with each word” Faggots like you deserve pain, you deserve this for being a fucking queer”

I thanked him over and over, blood still dripping from my face and new wounds. He stepped onto my ankle, putting all his weight on it until it broke.

I was in fucking agony, but I loved it. Why did I feel this way? This alpha male was giving me attention, and even though it was negative attention, I got off on the idea that he was putting me in my place. My ankle burned as I saw him lean over and grab the wallet my bag.

“This cash is mine, faggot. Your fee for the beating, I don’t do that shit for free, and you clearly love it.” He spat in my face again, and kicked me hard in the face while I was still lying on the ground, I felt my nose break. He grabbed his crotch, “I’ll bet you wanna suck my dick now, hey fag boy? Well too bad, this cock is for women, no faggot will ever get a taste of this pole.”

“Yes Sir, fair enough Sir, I’m sorry”. My words sounded garbled and stupid through my injuries as I sat up, trying to stand. “I won’t bother you again, Sir, I’ve learned my lesson.”

“I don’t think you realise what’s happening here, faggot” the Alpha spat, a darkness coming over his face, “I’m going to make sure you don’t bother *anyone* ever again.”

A chill ran through my spine, “Please Sir-”

“No, you shut the fuck up”, he spat, “you fucking faggots need to be exterminated, I’m not here to hurt you, I’m here to *end* you, you’ve already said your final words.”

He pulled a knife from his bag, holding it in front of my face. It looked sharp. And was serrated near the tip. My hard dick did not soften, as I realised there was no way out. This man was going to take my life.

“I think you know you deserve this, don’t you?” He sneered.

I simply nodded. I knew I was a faggot and a piece of shit, I hated myself and knew my place.

“You know you loved your bones being broken, and not because you enjoyed being hurt, because you knew it brought me pleasure.”

I nodded again, he was right.

“Your entire life has been devoted to pleasing men, especially men like me far better than you could ever hope. So it’s fitting that I’ll be ending your fucking pathetic life tonight, no one will even care that you’re gone.”

My thoughts flashed to Joe, but I didn’t care.

“I’m sick of fucking looking at you, faggot, good riddance.”

Sudden pain as he began to saw the knife roughly through my throat, I felt the warmth of my own blood flowing freely and quickly down my body. As the knife sawed through the pipes, my vision blurred and my cock began to throb, painfully.

“Filthy fucking faggot, fuck you” was the last thing I heard before my cock started unloading, and I faded, my last sensation orgasm and pure, horrible agony.

The Trucker 19–Trucker vs Plague Rat

The Trucker had a need for prey.  He usually took his time and enjoyed the hunt, but tonight was different.


The last few weeks had been insane, and it didn’t look like things were getting better anytime soon.  Constantly on the move and always in demand, his job qualified as an essential service.


Tonight, he needed some essential servicing himself.  He’d dropped a trailer full of supplies at the distribution warehouse for a small chain of grocery stores in central Texas this morning, then headed north and east in his unburdened cab.  Wanting to avoid the larger cities, he pulled over about forty miles south of Dallas in a small town well off the interstate.


He’d headed here specifically, based on an app he’d downloaded.  Just outside of town was a small roadside motel, and on the other side of the state highway, sitting in about two acres of crumbling asphalt, was a huge metal building housing a nightclub.  According to the app, the place wasn’t a gay bar, but it was known for the likelihood of faggots propositioning men from the bar in the parking lot.


The Trucker had also heard about the place from some of his fellow drivers.  Seems the fags got taken up on their offers enough for the place to develop a reputation.  Of course, it had another reputation—sometimes the homos hit on the wrong dude, and bad things happened.  Very bad things.


Tonight, the Trucker was full of built-up testosterone and rage.  He needed to do some very bad things.


He pulled into the motel parking lot and headed for the office.  His sleeper cab was his home, and he didn’t want to mess it up.  He needed a temporary killing pit.


There was a small Hispanic woman behind the counter with a bandanna over her face.  No shelter-in-place order had been given locally, so everything was still open, but she clearly wanted to avoid the Trucker.  She handled his cash gingerly and shoved the key across the counter at him as if he was visibly radiating plague germs.


Clearly no one at the honky-tonk was worried about physical contact; as his thick, heavy Timberland Pro Logger boots thudded on the cracked cement pavement, he could see the full parking lot across the street and hear the loud, raucous music.  He was in number fifteen, the next-to last on the right end of the ground floor.


The moment he opened the door, the overpowering reek of bleach hit his nose; the cleaning staff weren’t taking any chances.  The buff hardman quickly strode to the window and opened it; the atmosphere was damn near toxic.  As he waited for the eye-watering fumes to clear, he glanced around and took in his accommodations.


A queen-sized bed with a thin mattress, thin, flat pillows and a thin and scratchy comforter of quilted polyester.  A dresser/desk unit that had no legs; it was evidently bolted directly to the wall.  There was a small and battered chair for the desk and, on the other side of the room, a mismatched armchair that didn’t look sturdy enough to support his weight next to a small round table.


The bathroom, to one side, was small and white-tiled.  Very, very white.  Housekeeping had gone through a full gallon of bleach in here, at least; almost too much to be accounted for by the virus.  The Trucker wondered idly if the place had been used as a killing pit before.


Well if it hadn’t, it was about to be broken in.  He’d seen what he needed to—it’d suffice.


He flicked off the lights and headed out, a muscular man in a leather jacket and tight jeans tucked into laced but untied logger boots striding purposefully towards the bar.  Anyone seeing him would know that he was a man with a mission, but few would be able to guess at a distance what a violent and murderous mission it was.


There was movement in the club parking lot; he could sense the surreptitious mansex occurring all around him and grinned viciously.  If the stupid fags couldn’t stay in quarantine, what else could they expect but death?


He was about two thirds of the way to the main entrance when words caught his ear; he suddenly found himself listening to a couple of homos having an argument two rows over.


“—couldn’t even stay in Dallas, couldja?  Lemme guess—with everything shut down, you couldn’t find any cock to suck but mine, and that ain’t good enough, is it?”


“Aw, chill out, man; I’m just havin’ a little fun—ain’t no big deal.”


“No big deal?  Fuck you, Jay.  I’m done.  You’re a whore and you’re gonna get me sick, one way or another.  I’m leaving.”


“What?  C’mon, Chris, you ain’t going—”


“The hell I ain’t.  Go on and have your fun, Jay.  I won’t be there when you get back—if you get back.”


They parted, one climbing into a mid-size SUV and pulling out.  The remaining one headed towards the club entrance—directly towards the Trucker.


The moment they were able to get a clear view of each other, something filled the air between them like powerfully charged ions; thunder and lightning smoldered in their eyes.


The Trucker, with his jeans, jacket, and boots, was enough to entrance any twink cocksucker; his skintight white cotton t-shirt clung to the vast rise of his huge pecs and the rippled surface of his muscled abs.  His long dark hair showed under the black trucker cap he sported and the three-days’ growth of scruff on his face emphasized its somehow dangerous masculinity.


The kid also wore a leather jacket and a tight white cotton t-shirt, but that was where the resemblance ended.  His t-shirt bore an Adidas logo and below he had on a pair of skinny track pants in shiny black polyester.  For some reason, he’d pulled sport socks up over the hem of the trackies, perhaps to better display his white Adidas All Star hightops, which he wore with the ankle straps hanging loose.


His face was young—the Trucker doubted the kid would’ve been let into the club without a fake ID, but maybe they were less strict out here.  Little fuck sure didn’t look country, though; with his carefully-arranged hair with the faggy upsweep in the front, it was obvious he wasn’t from around here…


The fag was horny and alone.  It was perfect.  The Trucker had homed in on his prey; now he needed to get it back to the room.  That, it turned out, was relatively easy.


Jay’s eyed had locked in on the Trucker’s bulging crotch the moment he got close enough to see it.  Between the teen’s salacious grin—he was still three months shy of his twentieth birthday—and the Trucker’s evil leer, they didn’t need to bandy words coyly about intent.  Each one wanted to use the other for sex, and each one knew it.


“It’s dark enough over there in the corner, if ya wanna whip it out,” Jay began, jerking his head to indicate the back of the parking lot.


“Naw, not in public,” the Trucker drawled laconically, “Like to take my time.  Gotta room in the motel over there.  C’mon.”


Jay’s skinny trackies were tight enough for his long boycock to tent as it sprang to attention.  “Fuck yeah, bro, right behind ya.”


As they headed across the street, the Trucker’s boots again thudded heavily on the road surface.  Jay’s kicks, in contrast, made no sound at all, as if the young fag was already a ghost.  As he approached the motel and followed the Trucker across the threshold, he had no idea that he would never re-cross it alive.


He was about to find out, though.


Nothing was said as they entered the room; nothing needed to be said.  As the Trucker drew the curtains over the window and locked the door, Jay slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing it on the armchair, and peeled out of his t-shirt.  His smooth bare chest revealed, he turned and expectantly waited for the Trucker to respond.


The older man locked eyes with the kid, grinned, and turned back to slide the chain lock on the door.  He took off his cap and tossed it onto the table, then pulled off his jacket and threw it on top of the kid’s.  With a single, smooth motion, he grasped the hem of his own t-shirt and jerked it up and over his head, shaking out his long dark hair as he did so.


Jay stared, jaw sagging, at the stud’s muscled, furry torso. The metallic glinting of dogtags drew the slut’s eyes to the muscled stud’s chest.  The huge nipples, thick and erect, rose up over the forest of fur that covered the valley between the pectorals and ran down his hard washboard abs to disappear beneath the waist of his jeans.  Seeing the fagboy gaping in lust, the Trucker smirked and unzipped his fly.  As Jay’s eyes strayed down towards his crotch, the hardman slowly pulled his enormous tool free from its confinement, letting it spring forward, jutting and throbbing in the open air.


With his mouth still hanging open, Jay fell to his knees.


“Get over here and suck it, cunt.  Don’t get up, you stupid faggot.  On your knees, boy, crawl for it.”


Jay obeyed, creeping forward until he was in reach of the massive, pulsating shaft.  He leaned in and gingerly put his lips on the thick, spongy head.  Instantly, the Trucker’s hands clamped onto the back of his head.  Before Jay had the chance to react, his esophagus was full of oozing mancock.


“I said suck it, ya useless homo, not lick it!  Fuck, cantcha give decent head, dumbass?”

Jay had no issues with a little rough talk but between the verbal abuse and the forced throatfuck, his bottom pig nature was already finding the encounter to be humiliating, uncomfortable, and a little scary.  He’d have said as much, only he was gagging and grimacing, tears leaking from his eyes as his face became red.


He beat his hands on the Trucker’s legs; the fagkiller’s thighs were thick and hard, like denim-covered marble.  The kid moved his arms up, his fingers clawing the dark wiry fur on the alpha’s muscled gut.  The Trucker responded by shoving the kid so that he fell back, still on his knees, throwing his left arm down and behind to support himself while gasping and coughing, wiping spittle from his lips with his right hand.  Blinking the tears from his eyes, he glared up at the Trucker.


“Dude, what the fuck—” WHAM!


The Trucker stopped the cunt’s squawking by popping it in the face.


Jay huddled on the floor, clutching his bruised cheek.  This time, he slowly and carefully raised his eyes.  He could see the hulking stud’s logger boots, the smooth black leather rising to nearly mid-calf before the denim took over.  Just above, the gigantic dick, dripping precum and boyspit—Jay had felt the way every vein wrapped around it had pulsed in excitement as he gagged on it.  And then that belly and those huge pecs with the dogtags jingling cheerfully between them.  And above that…


Above that, a leering, masculine stud and something else, something moving, a blur—


The second blow caught Jay in the mouth.  There was sharp pain and the coppery taste of blood and then everything went nice and peaceful and dark and he didn’t have to worry about what the fuck was happening—for a bit.



When he awoke, his cranium ringing like a cathedral bell, the boyslut thought he was nude.  He was in pain and his mind was vague—he remembered an assault but not much else—but he had no clothes on.  It was only when he flexed his toes that he realized he was still wearing his socks and shoes.


His trackies had zippers running up a few inches from the ankles so that he could have slipped them off over his kicks if he’d wanted, but he couldn’t remember wanting to.  And why that fuck did his face hurt so goddam bad?


“You finally back, fuckwad?  Whadda fuckin’ pansy.  Can’t even handle a little foreplay—just wait till I start actually fuckin’ ya, faggot.”


The deep masculine voice brought it all back.  Jay forced his eyes open and sat up, slowly and groggily on the bed. The Trucker was leaning casually against the table, smoking a Marlboro and eyeing the boy with lustful contempt.  In a corner by the door was a wadded pile of shiny polyester—what was left of Jay’s track pants.


And as the Trucker flicked his smoke at an ashtray on the table, the cunt’s eyes followed the motion and saw his wallet on the table.  It was open and had obviously been rifled through.


No matter how much or little money Jay had, he was greedily possessive of it; the thought that someone else had their hands on his cash made him forget the fact that he was locked in a room with a powerful stranger who’d already punched him twice in the face.  The moment he noticed the wallet, he popped off the bed like he’d been launched, his long, thick boycock swaying between his smooth thighs as he lurched unsteadily across the room.


“My fuckin’ wallet!  Where’s my cash, you asshole?  I’m gonna—”


His ranting came to an instant halt the moment he stepped within arm’s reach of the Trucker.  The powerful hardman shot out his right arm, grabbed Jay by the neck—his hand nearly large enough to encircle the fag’s throat—and hoisted him straight up in the air.  As the teen gagged and kicked, his flailing Adidas sneakers swinging four inches about the thin carpet, the muscled killer turned and slammed him into the door.


Still holding the meat aloft, the Trucker closed in, face to face, his cold blue eyes staring mesmerizingly into those of his prey, like a snake’s.


“You ain’t gonna need money by the time I’m done with you, queerboy.  I brought you in here to waste yer worthless ass.  Yer gonna die on my dick, ya piece a’ shit; I’m gonna use yer dyin’ convulsions to jack off.  Ain’t no one gonna miss a cumguzzlin’ fag like you, cunt, so shaddup and take what you fuckin’ deserve!”


With that, the Trucker gutpunched the whore, making Jay gag and thrash, his heels drumming against the door.  The hypermasculine fagkiller chuckled, his enormous cock throbbing as he watched the punk suffer for a moment, then dropped him.


Jay sank to his knees, both hands clutching his now-open throat as he choked and coughed between racking sobs.  Now that he could breathe again, he was aware of how the reek of bleach had become overpowered by a mixture of cigarette smoke, mansweat, and a musky smell that he couldn’t identify but that his cock recognized as testosterone and responded in kind.  This…this wasn’t happening.  He had to get out of here.  Maybe Chris hadn’t left yet, maybe he could find him in the parking lot or at least someone, anyone to help him—


In blind panic, the teen slut turned and scrabbled at the door, clutching desperately at the knob, fingers fumbling at the lock.  Behind him, the Trucker looked on in scorn, smirking at the meat’s noticeable relief when it managed to get the knob unlocked and open the door—only to find it had forgotten the chain.  He stepped forward, slammed the door, and grabbed the cunt by the faggy hairdo, dragging it back into the room.  As it moaned and bleated in terror, he bent down to its crotch and reaching one hand under its taint to its taut adolescent asscheeks, picked the homo up bodily and flung it across the room.


The kid slammed into the desk/dresser unit, rolling up on top and smacking into the wall behind hard enough to shatter the mirror and dent the drywall.  The unit had been poorly installed and had never been intended to hold much weight to begin with.  With a loud ripping sound, the entire unit tore free of the wall and fell forward onto the floor, projecting Jay halfway back across the room in the process.


When it was done, the sheetrock had been torn from half of the far wall.  The dresser/desk lay facedown on the floor and half the room was littered with dust, pieces of drywall and shards of glass.  In the middle was the huddled nude teen whore.


The Trucker walked casually over to him.  Lying on his face and groaning in pain, the youth reached out his left hand pathetically, as if pleading for help.


Bringing his big black boot down on the homo’s hand, the Trucker ground it into the floor, grinning with pleasure as he heard and felt the boy’s bones snapping and crunching under his heel.  The kid’s squeals of agony make his cock drip.


He was a long way from being done.  The fag needed to suffer more—a lot more—before the muscled killer planned on ending its useless life.


“Does it hurt, asswipe?” he muttered so softly that the agonized teen could barely hear him, “Not enough, it doesn’t.  Not yet.”


He knelt beside the boy.  For a brief moment, there was something in the way the older man was beside him, something about the Trucker’s movement and position the stirred some childhood memory inside Jay and made him think of a time when someone—his grandpa, maybe, had gotten down on his knees to help him.


But as the Trucker placed his knee on Jay’s left arm, just below the elbow, and grabbed his hand, pulling it up and back, the boywhore realized that the muscled stud wasn’t trying to express tenderness—he was breaking Jay’s arm.


The realization hit the cunt’s mind just as his arm bent upright at a ninety-degree angle, halfway between the wrist and the elbow.  The loud, wet snapping of the radius and ulna was almost, but not quite simultaneous—Jay heard as well as felt the Trucker break both bones with the ease of cracking a wishbone.


He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.  He lay on the floor, nude but for his kicks, staring at his mangled left arm and gasping loudly.  As the Trucker stepped back for a moment, the strong, smooth youth began to rise to his feet.  It was a painful and laborious process, since he only had one arm to brace himself with.  He used it to grab at the table, painfully clinging to the furniture as he pulled himself upright.


As he stood, swaying, his hair dark with the sweat that trickled down his lean body, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized at the last second that the process of getting up had been so intense, he’d lost sight of the Trucker.


The Trucker hadn’t lost sight of him.  Just as Jay turned his head in his direction, the Trucker swung the upright wooden desk chair he’d picked up.  The slut didn’t have time to duck; the chair struck him with such violent force that it shattered to kindling.  The impact knocked the young onto and over the table; since he was still tightly clutching the edge, he managed to pull it with him, flipping it over on top of himself as he fell on the far side.


It hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad, and Jay was scared to the point of panic, but his young, strong body served him cruelly, refusing to let him lose consciousness.  He was forced to endure, to feel everything happening to him.  And through it all, he was constantly aware of the Trucker’s hulking, intimidating presence.  Like now, when the older man suddenly jerked the table off him, sending it skittering halfway across the room as easily as if it had been made of balsa wood.


The Trucker bent down and lifted the meat by the throat again; he liked this hold–this way, he knew he had the fag’s attention when he spoke to it.  Jay gagged and kicked, but not as violently as he had the first time.  He’d been pretty well tenderized; his right arm was clawing at the Trucker’s grip on his neck, but the left dangled and twitched uselessly.


And yet, beneath all that, the Trucker saw the teen’s thick boydick swell and stiffen.  Even as he choked, tears of pain and terror running down his face, he was getting hard.


He knew.  He expected it.  Fuckin’ homos screamed and cried and fought, but they all died with hard cocks, shooting their final load in gratitude as he fulfilled their destiny and gave them their final purpose on this planet—to be used as a cumdump and tossed aside like the garbage they were.


Deep down, they all knew they wanted it.  Ya just had to beat some sense into ‘em sometimes.


“Ready, motherfucker?” he hissed, grinning with malevolent glee at battered punk slowly choking in his hand, “Foreplay is over.  I’m ready to cum.  Wanna know how I’m gonna get off?  I’m gonna stick my cock balls-deep in yer ass and strangle you so yer convulsions jack me off.  Yer gonna die just so I can have a fucktoy.  And ya better work my hog good, fuckmeat—I can make this as long and as painful as I hafta.”


As he spoke, he crossed the room accompanied by loud crunching and cracking sounds as debris was crushed under the thick soles of his logging boots.  Jay was kicking with a bit more spirit now; the Trucker hadn’t held him this long before, and he was seriously starting to choke.  As they approached the bed, a certain reality set in; stupid as Jay was, he realized that what he was experiencing now was what he’d be feeling as he died.  True panic set in; he began thrashing like a fish on a line.


The Trucker, for once caught somewhat by surprise by a meat’s struggling, grunted and braced himself to keep his hold on the cunt.  It flailed about vigorously, its hand beating fruitlessly at the older man’s broad chest, legs kicking so violently that one caught the bedside lamp, shattering it and sending the pieces flying into the wall.  With another grunt, the Trucker tossed the kid faceup onto the bed; before Jay could rise, the fagkiller was there beside him.


He didn’t have a chance, not that he could truly believe that yet.  Even as he peered up at the hardbodied, hairy-chested stud towering over him, eyes glaring, nipples jutting and cock oozing, he still could not accept that he wouldn’t survive the night.


The Trucker knew it, too.  These teen homos were all the same; unless they were hardcore whores or users, the young ones hadn’t seen enough of life to understand how brutal it really can be.  And those who had seen it thought they were smart enough to avoid the worst—until they crossed paths with the Trucker.


Now it was time for this cunt to learn.  The alpha stud’s cock was beginning to ache; it needed release.  He climbed onto the bed, feeling the thin scratchy comforter under his knees as he pried open the punk’s legs and brandished his massive erect member like a spear, aiming it directly at the kid’s fuckhole.


Jay saw it coming and braced himself, but it didn’t help.  He’d been taking it up the ass for four years but had never experienced anything this bad.


It didn’t just hurt, he was being damaged.  From the moment the enormous head of the Trucker’s cock ripped his sphincter open so wide that flesh and muscles were torn, Jay realized that things were being done to him that would require massive medical intervention to fix, if it could be fixed at all.  The horrible sensation of a huge alien impalement continued as the older man’s rod probed deep in the boy’s guts, ripping at the tender lining of his colon and grinding relentlessly over his prostate.


Jay screamed and kicked, thrashing as violently as he had when he was getting choked.  This wasn’t the panic caused by asphyxiation, though; the fucker was wailing in sheer agony, trying desperately to get off the huge shaft that was tearing him open on the inside.  His right arm beat again at the Trucker’s chest, his fist thudding dully against the wiry, sweat-matted fur and making the dogtags jump.  His legs flailed, his feet dragging and kicking to the point that the sneaker on his left foot was pulled off; it fell unnoticed to the floor with a faint thump.


It was the noise the Trucker fund most annoying; the meat was squealing like a stuck pig.  “Aw, shaddup, motherfucker,” he snarled and punch the boy twice in the face.


With his left eye blackened and his lips split, Jay lowered his cries to a faint mewling that still abraded the sadist’s nerves.  “Goddamit, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit, I said shut the fuck up!!”


Three blows strait into the fag’s belly, punctuated by the teen’s grunts as air was forced from his lungs by the impact: WHAM!  “Grk!” WHAM! “Hagk!” WHAM! “Guh!”


The Trucker went for the adolescent’s face again, before he could inhale, putting an end to the boy’s loud cries by dislocating, then breaking his jaw.  The entire time he was beating the cunt, his dick was still balls-deep inside it.  The killer could feel the fuckmeat take the brunt of every blow as it twitched and jerked on his cock.


And through it all, the faggot was hard too.  Jay had sunk into a near-trance state as an instinctive defense against the brutal mental and physical trauma he was suffering.  The pain alone was almost too much to endure in a conscious state.  He didn’t know the Trucker had beat him hard enough to tear his diaphragm and break his jaw; he only knew that he was in horrific agony—but despite all the other sensations overwhelming his brain, he was still aware of his own erection as it was compressed between his smooth flat belly and the Trucker’s muscled, furry abs.


Above him and inside him, the hardbodied fagkiller grunted and pumped, but he was getting diminishing returns.  The meat was tenderized enough.  Time to finish it off.


He leaned forward so that his huge muscled pecs rested on the punk’s chest.  His dogtags jingled as they struck the boy’s chest, then slid up and off to one side, by his left shoulder.  Wrapping his huge hand around the cunt’s neck, he started squeezing.


Jay opened his eyes—as much as he could open them—and his look of utter terror was what the Trucker had been waiting for.


“This is it, motherfucker.  This is why you were put on this earth, cunt—to milk my load out as you ride my cock while I choke ya to death.  Ready to justify yer faggot existence?  C’mon, bitch, fight it.  Struggle, asswipe, I wanna feel ya die.  Make yer mama proud, homo; she went through labor to give me a fag corpse for a personal cumdump.  Now fuckin’ die, meat!”


He tightened his hands; they clutched Jay’s throat with the cruel intensity of a steel trap, remorselessly constricting the boy’s windpipe.  The teen slut was panicking again; his air hadn’t yet been cut off as long as it had before—but the simple fact that he couldn’t breathe had pulled him out of his trance state.


He’d heard every word the Trucker had said.  This was it.  He was gonna die.  He’d end up beaten, raped, and strangled to death like a street hustler.  He was gonna fuckin’ die.


No he wasn’t.


In a Hollywood movie, his newfound courage and the way it rallied his strength to fight back against his cruel fate would have had a happy ending.  In reality, all it did was piss the Trucker off and cause Jay new trauma and horrible suffering before he died like a bitch.


Putting his one good hand to use, the gagging homo clawed desperately at his rapist’s face, his fingers seeking a grip on the older man’s unshaven cheeks and chin.  The Trucker angrily jerked his head away; feeling his target slip from his grasp, the dying teen transferred his attention elsewhere, beating and pawing at the Trucker’s massive, rock-hard chest.


The fur here was longer and wirier; Jay was able to hook his fingers in and jerk.  The hardbodied killer grunted in irked discomfort as the punk pulled some of the hair out, but it was the kid’s next handful that set the stud off—the kid managed to snag his dogtags.  That was unacceptable.


The Trucker wrapped his thickly-muscled left arm around the meat’s good right arm and began pulling and twisting.  The action began putting stress on the joints at the shoulder and the elbow; the harder the Trucker pulled, the greater the stress became.


Jay was worse off than he’d been before; the Trucker was easily strong enough to choke him out one-handed while ripping his arm out of it socket, and that’s exactly what he was doing. As his reamed-out, bleeding colon continued to suffer brutal punishment from the older man’s huge cock, he could feel the sinews and tendons in his shoulder and his elbow being stretched past the point of endurance.


“You stupid cunt,” the Trucker remarked calmly, “Hope this hurts like fuck.  You deserve it, bitch.”  Twisting his face into a snarl, he gave a might jerk.  With a sickening gristly crunch, Jay felt his muscles tear open and his ligaments snap like overstretched rubber bands.  The arm rolled sickeningly out at the shoulder and bent backwards at the elbow.


He would’ve screamed if he could have.  Some small part of him that had walled itself off from the agony felt a dull surprise that he could even feel the pain after already enduring so much—but he damn sure could feel it.


Able to return his right hand to the fucker’s throat, the Trucker applied more pressure. Letting go with one hand hadn’t allowed the meat to get any air; its swollen face was black and congested, physical proof of the sheer physical agony of strangulation.  The half-lidded, bloodshot eyes were starting to bulge, an expression of abject horror glinting deep with them.


Jay’s legs were kicking and flailing; by now, it was utterly involuntary.  His arms lay useless and twitching, twisted into odd shapes at his sides, but his thrashing legs showed the youth’s frenetic fight to hang onto his swiftly-fading life.  His boyfeet flexed in his death agonies; as he drummed his heels helplessly against the mattress, the sock on his shoeless foot was pulled off, leaving his toes curling in the open air.


The Trucker could feel the boymeat heaving under him, lubed by the cold deathsweat forced from its body in the last few moments of its life.  But Jay was experiencing a whole new level of tactile sensations.  As his brain began to die off, his nervous system kicked into overdrive, developing a hypersensitivity which amped up his susceptibility to physical sensation.


He could feel the polyester threads of the comforter, cold and wet with his sweat, as they scratched at his back.  He could feel the Trucker’s chest hair, also matted with sweat, as it scraped and ground like sandpaper against his smooth, slick flesh.  The weight of the stronger, more powerful man was unendurable as it pressed him into the cheap, nasty motel bed…


But these were side notes, flickering at the edge of his awareness.  What he felt most was the enormous, bludgeon-like cock that some seemed to be larger that his asshole, so that his lower intestines clung to its veined cylindrical length like a condom.  What he felt most was the slow, inexorable crushing of his windpipe, as the cartilage was distorted past the point of its ability to recover.


What he felt was the pain and the pounding, the confusion and the terror of being raped and choked to death by a powerful serial killer—that, and the way his own cock was responding, pulsing and aching excruciatingly, in a way he’d never experienced before.


Jay had no way of knowing that deep in his teenaged balls, his deathload was brewing—that final, ecstatic, agonizing burst as his spasming body desperately tried to save some of its DNA before it died.


Spunk was building in the Trucker’s huge, hairy scrote as well.  The meat was obviously near death; a thick white foam oozed out of its mouth past the swollen purple tongue and ran down its darkened cheek.  The eyes had rolled back into the head so that only the whites showed, blood vessels bursting like fireworks deep within them.  The real clue, though, was the easing of resistance.


Since the alpha had snapped both the teen homo’s arms, judging the intensity of its struggles required the in-depth knowledge of an experienced fagkiller.  The meat was nearly ripe for seeding; its brain was dying.


The firm, smooth adolescent body began to move rhythmically.  The convulsions were slow and gentle at first, but the Trucker knew enough to hang on.  This was the whole point of tonight’s wild ride; this was the destination, the payoff.  There was no sensation the Trucker wanted more, nothing else that felt so incredible, as young fag boymeat convulsing on his cock as it died, and he wanted to savor it.


As the cunt’s brain shut down, it began sending faulty signals through the nervous system.  As a result, its rectum began to clench and spasm, massaging the Trucker’s massive swollen member.  Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward.  Spitting in the punk’s black and congested face, he started plowing its ass mercilessly as he relentlessly increased the pressure on its esophagus.


His cock was so huge, and Jay’s fuckhole so collapsed around it, that the muscled sadist’s brutal thrusting literally shredded the unfortunate boy’s rectal lining.  The teenaged slut may have been in an irretrievable state of brain death at this point, but it could still feel.


All it could feel was agony as its asshole was torn apart.


As the aching pressure in his balls grew, the Trucker growled, a deep, guttural sound, and dug his thumbs into the dying faggot’s larynx.  There was a distinctly satisfying crunch as the delicate structure was pulped to a wad of bloody gristle under the inexorable pressure, sealing the bitch’s throat off for good.


The collapse of his trachea was the physiological trigger for Jay’s deathload, as if on some deep, instinctual level, the teen’s body knew it was lost and tried to expel its DNA.  The firm young body, warm and slick with sweat, arced up in a final, bone-wracking convulsion.


The meat couldn’t clutch at the Trucker, the way other meat had in the past; its arms were twitching violently and fruitlessly on the bed, but its legs wrapped tightly around the older man’s waist, the firm thighs squeezing him in death agony.


“Fuuuuck…” the hardbodied psycho moaned as the boy’s guts clutched and jerked at his engorged, oozing rod.  This was it, he couldn’t hold it back any longer—


—and that was he and the meat shot their loads together, the alpha crying incoherently, completely unaware that he’d started beating the punk’s face in as he hosed its guts with his hot potent mansperm.


The meat spewed thick gobs of boycum all over the Trucker’s ripped abs and broad, muscled chest, spattering it into the dark wiry fur.  The last sensations Jay experienced as he unceremoniously exited his short, wasted life were the Trucker’s seething load filling him like molten lead and his own spunk jetting from his body with a mortal pain, as if taking the last remaining shreds of his life with it.


And it did.  Jay was dead before he stopped cumming, his black, grotesquely-swollen head lolling on top of his compressed neck.


By the time the Trucker stopped shooting, he was a heaving, sweaty, spunk-covered mass of muscles, gasping for air after the intensity of rough sex.  It took him a moment to recover—and another moment to extract his massive tool from the corpse’s collapsed rectum.  A flow of blood-stained cum leaked from the dead boy’s ravaged asshole after the Trucker’s hog was out.


The fagkiller crossed to the bathroom, debris again snapping and crunching under his logger boots.  Once there, he took a few moments to tidy up, wiping off his still-oozing shaft and tucking it back inside his jeans before turning his attention to the larger task of cleaning the meat’s deathwad off his chest.  After cleaning himself, the buff serial killer returned to bedroom to retrieve his clothes and admire his work.


What was left of the adolescent homo wasn’t easy to identify.  The face was beaten to hamburger; the smooth flesh of the chest and belly was black with bruises and the arms were just—wrong.  They were twisted and bent in ways that hurt to look at.


The legs were spread, the one Adidas hightop the meat had retained still twitching as the corpse cooled.  Between the smooth boyish buttcheeks, blood and sperm continued to ooze from its well-reamed ass.


The room itself was devastated; the bed and the armchair the only pieces of furniture that survived the vicious assault intact.  There was easily several thousand dollars worth of damage


The Trucker slipped his leather jacket on over his bare chest, wadding up his t-shirt and shoving it his pocket.  Putting on his cap, he unlocked the door.  After taking one last satisfied look back, he opened it.


He was immediately greeted with the sound of sirens.


For a split second, he hesitated on the threshold.  But he realized they weren’t heading for the hotel; they were heading for the honky-tonk on the other side of the road.  There were two local cruisers in the lot already; as he watched, another pair of cars—these belonging to the state troopers—pulled in, sirens blaring.  There seemed to be a large crowd gathered in the parking lot, and from what the Trucker could tell, some sort of fight had broken out.


It was a perfect distraction.  He headed for his cab.  Climbing in and starting it up, he began to pull out of the parking lot when he noticed the desk clerk coming out of the office.  But she didn’t notice him at all; her attention was focused on the commotion across the street.


He chuckled and headed into the dark night, his thick cock still warm and happy with a job well done.




Pendleton had been on the force for six years.  He’d seen some shit in that time; shit that would’ve scarred a lesser man.  Appalling cases of domestic abuse, drug- and booze-induced fights, horrifying car accidents—but this was on a whole new level.


He waited outside the room for the ME to show up.


“Hey, Pendleton; who’s the lead on the case?”


“Hey, doc.  Ain’t one.  I’m the only one here.”


The ME, a wizened, gray-haired man in his fifties, frowned in concern.  “Whaddaya mean, you’re the only one?  I can’t wait around all day for a detective to show up; I need to get the body out of here!”


“They’re all workin’ on that fight from last night…”


“Oh yeah, across the street—what was the count?  Three stabbed and four shot?  I understand the chief wants see about getting some kind of lockdown order enforced…but anyway, I still don’t have time to wait.”


“Don’t think you’ll need to.  Take a look inside.  Pretty fuckin’ clear what happened.”


When the ME came back out of the room, his face was a gray as his hair.  “Jesus wept.  Kid was fucking beat to a pulp.  Looks like a goddam bomb exploded in there.”


“Didja see that shit leakin’ outta his ass?” the patrolman asked morosely, “Boy was raped.  Raped bad.


“Yeah, raped and strangled.  No detective work needed there, I admit, but won’t the chief want to have the scene processed?”


“You kiddin’?  You know the chief.  Some out-of-town faggot gets offed, he won’t wanna arrest the dude; he’ll wanna shake his hand.  Hell, the chief would lift a lockdown order for him—after all, by keepin’ the down the fag population, he performin’ an essential service.”


The ME sighed.  “I suppose so.  Things have changed since my day, when homosexuals knew their place.  Still, I don’t think it’s fair that my office has to clean up this mess.”  Grumbling under his voice, the disgruntled medical examiner pulled out his phone, calling for transport as he walked to his car.


Pendleton smirked.  “Whaddaya bitchin’ about, old man?” he muttered too quietly for the ME to hear, “I feel sorry for the maid.  Not only did she find the faggot this mornin’, she’s gonna hafta clean the room, too.”


Shaking his head, he scuffed the sole of his boot on the parking lot surface and idly considered his options for lunch as he watched the ME pulled a folded body bag from his trunk.

A Volunteer By Gay Slavemeat

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Have you signed the paperwork?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Did you understand it?”


“I believe so, sir.”


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


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


“So you’d become a slave?”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“And beatings?”


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


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


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


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


“No, sir.”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Perfectly, sir.”


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Replacing Norman An AMS Celebration By Gay Slavemeat

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


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


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




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


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


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


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


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


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


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




William’s Morning


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



The Chief’s Morning


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Was there a lot of fat?”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



Inspecting the Herd


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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




A Well-deserved Promotion, with a Worthwhile Future


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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


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


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


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



The Birthday Party


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


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


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


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


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


“We’ll die now for you;

It’s what we were bred to do;

our deaths are your birthday gift;

as our cocks shoot on cue.”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Carlos Solo–Doubling Down On a Losing Pair

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“What?” the muscular sadist asked blankly.


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


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


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


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


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


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


“What for?” he asked the kid.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Hey, Colt, that you, dude?”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Colton bolted.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Get up, motherfucker.  Now, goddamit!”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Someone was knocking at the door.  Loudly and insistently.


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


More knocking, rattling the knob.


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


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


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


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


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





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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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





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


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


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


“Think he offed the one on the bed?”


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


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


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


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


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


Meat Chronicles 22–Any Way You Slice It

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


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


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


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


I moved in, offering him a lift.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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




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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Brotherly Love, part 2

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Eddie noticed, and laughed harshly.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


The sadistic fagkiller knew what was happening, and why.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


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


Then she shrieked at the top of her voice.


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


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