Meat Chronicles 21—Homo for the Holidays

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


It’s a perfect place to snuff the fag.


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


They might fit me.  I’m keeping them.


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


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


Just not enough.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


And they invariably blow a thick deathwad.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


And then the convulsions begin.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Carlos and Nick 7–Rubbin’ One Out

Carlos was trolling for a slut.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Like gettin’ fucked?  On camera?”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Whaddaya think?” Carlos asked.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


With a gasping, terrifying sense of suffocation, Caleb sank to his knees and bent forward, his forehead touching the concrete.  Just for the moment, he wasn’t scared; he wasn’t even surprised.  He didn’t have the luxury to indulge in those emotions; everything had become subordinate to his need to breathe.


“Got the camera ready?” Caleb could hear Carlos ask.  “I really wanna fuck this one up before I waste it.”  Turning his head up, the kid saw with horror that the ex-con’s huge, rigid tool was oozing from the tip as he spoke.  The dude was sexually pumped at the thought of inflicting pain on him.


Gasping and wheezing, the slim, firm-bodied youth managed to force enough oxygen into his lungs to function.  The next reaction was instinctive and immediate—the imperative of air had been instantly replaced with the imperative of escape.  Rising unexpectedly to his feet, Caleb bolted for the door.


It took both Carlos and Nick by surprise.  It took just a moment for Carlos to respond, springing forward in angry pursuit, but by that time, Caleb had cleared the door and the frantic pounding of his bootheels echoed down the hallway as he fled for the exit.


He burst through the anteroom with Carlos right behind him, then veered right and plunged through the front door into the parking lot.  Except for his boots, he was still nude, his long rod slapping against his smooth thighs as he ran.


Carlos hadn’t had time to put his weapon away, either.  He emerged into the lot with his raging manshaft still dripping as he chased down his prey.


“Help!” Caleb cried, “HELP!  For fuck’s sake, someone help me—”


Then Carlos had him.


Grabbing the kid by the arm, he whirled him about and sucker-punched him in the jaw, hard.  Caleb was aware of a violent, painful sensation, but it happened too fast to sort out the details.  He wasn’t out, but he was badly stunned.  Agony bloomed in his mouth; his bottom lip was split, and he’d bitten through his tongue.


The nude boy spat blood onto the asphalt as Carlos caught him under his arms and dragged him back to his death.


Nick was at the door, grinning.  He held it open as the grunting, sweaty convict hauled the meat inside.  As a producer, he appreciated it when the fags fought back; it always made Carlos angrier and more violent.  Those videos generated the highest profits.


And Carlos was pissed now.  He dumped the moaning kid onto the bare cement floor, not even bothering to get him to the set.  Nick barely had enough time to pick up the camera and focus before the livid serial killer began literally putting the boot in, kicking Caleb brutally and repeatedly in the gut.  The kid gagged and cried out as the steel toes of the ex-con’s harness boots sank deep into his belly, damaging his spleen and liver.


Carlos paused for a moment, his hairy, muscled torso heaving with exertion and glistening with sweat under the bright overhead lights.  At his feet, Caleb was curled into a fetal position, sobbing and moaning.  Nick knelt down and zoomed in on the boy’s anguished face.


“How’s that feel, motherfucker?” he asked, “Hope yer likin’ it, cause he’s just gettin’ started on yer worthless ass.  By the time he’s done, yer own mama ain’t gonna recognize ya.”


Having caught his breath, Carlos raised his boot and used it to nudge the cunt over onto its back.  It didn’t resist, but it kept its hands crossed over its belly, protecting the area that hurt the worst.


Carlos merely aimed elsewhere.  Caleb opened his eyes to see the heavily-muscled Latino towering over him.  Looking up from floor level, the prettyboy slut got a menacing perspective, up the ex-con’s powerful legs to the enormous jutting cock, now dangling directly over him and dripping hot clear beads of precum.   Carlos leaned forward and spat on him; as he did, Caleb could see the broad furry expanse of his ripped abs and huge pecs.  The killer’s nipples were large and as hard as his cock and between them, the thick gold necklace twinkled—


—then Carlos raised his foot.  Caleb got a brief glimpse of the harness boot’s deep tread before it slammed down on his chest.  There was a cracking sound, like twigs breaking, as three of Caleb’s ribs caved in on the right side of his chest.  Carlos ground the boot into the flesh; he was deliberately trying to leave deep bruise showing the tread pattern.


Caleb couldn’t speak.  His abdomen was in excruciating pain and the broken ribs made it difficult to breathe.  He could see both Carlos and Nick bending over him, the two muscle studs grinning and savoring his pain.  He’d shoved aside his bewilderment over the how and why and was focused on stopping the pain.  He looked into the faces of his tormentors, his large soft eyes pleading for mercy.


They were met with cold contemptuous eyes, eyes filled with hate, with lust, with sadistic glee.


“Is it ready for your cock yet?” Nick asked with a smirk.


“Naw,” Carlos drawled, “Dumbass homo still don’t get it.  I still gotta beat some sense into it, make understand how fuckin’ worthless it is.”  And with that, he bent down, grabbed a hank of Caleb’s wavy brown hair, and lifted.


Despite the agony of movement, the slender whoreboy had to shift and scramble up onto his knees to avoid having his scalp torn.  Every time he bent his torso, the jagged ends of the broken ribs ground against each other and poked at his lungs, forcing a high-pitched squeal out of his tortured body.


“Fuckin’ pig,” Carlos snarled.  Holding Caleb upright on his knees with one hand, be began to beat the cunt in the face with the other. He made sure the pansy knew why it was happening, using the blows to emphasize his point.


“You goddam faggots need to die [SMACK, knocking out three teeth], and it needs to hurt bad [SMACK, blackening the left eye] so ya know just how much I fuckin’ hate [SMACK, breaking the right cheekbone] yer disgustin’ pervert asses. [SMACK, knocking out another tooth and splitting the upper lip] Hear me, cocksucker? [SMACK, blackening the right eye] Think yer a man? [SMACK, fracturing the jaw] Yer gonna die with a real man’s dick up yer ass, cunt! [WHAM, a roundhouse blow to the center of the boy’s face, smashing his nose with a wet crunch]”


Nick kept the entire scene in a tight frame.  It was perfect; he managed to capture the kneeling young faggot, on its knees in helpless submission as the booted, hard-dicked muscle stud beat its face in.  Every time Carlos’s fist plowed into the homo’s head, Nick’s camera caught the violence of the impact, the sound of flesh on flesh, the spatter of blood and mucus.


Finally, the ex-con let go of Caleb’s hair.  The pulped boywhore slumped to the floor in a state of semi-consciousness.  Carlos stood over it, shaking out his hand.  “Fucker’s got a hard head,” he joked to the camera, grinning.


Turning back, he shook his huge throbbing shaft over the huddled pile of moaning boymeat, letting hot clear drops of precum splatter on the kid’s heaving, sweat-slick skin.  “Ok, I think he’s ready now,” he told Nick.


The hulking cameraman didn’t know if the pronoun referred to the whore or to Carlos’s dick, and it didn’t matter.  “Help me with something first.  I got an idea for staging.  Here, pull that cart over by the bed.  That one, there, with the TV on it.”


Carlos, still wanting a chance to cool down after tenderizing his meat, grabbed the cart and positioned it while Nick readied his latest expensive camera.  “What’s this for?” he asked.


“I’ll show ya.  Drag the meat around the other side and toss it face down bent over the bed.  Let its legs dangle onto the floor.”


As Carlos manhandled Caleb’s limp body onto the stripped bed, Nick was fixing a webcam to the top of the TV that was now facing Carlos.


“See,” Nick explained, “Yer gonna bang the fucker from behind.  I gotta have something here that you can choke the bitch with—here, this’ll do—and you not only get to watch it die on the monitor, you can force the dumb cunt to watch itself die.”  His leer got more malignant as he spoke; when he finished, he reached down and unzipped his shorts, letting his own enormous throbbing tool out for some air.


Carlos, meanwhile, looked down at what Nick had tossed him.  “What is this—old-school stereo wire?  Aw hell yeah, fuckmeat,” he chuckled, nudging Caleb’s writhing form, “It’s fuckin’ on.  Hear me, faggot?  Yer gonna fuckin’ die and it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.”


Caleb had heard him.  Caleb, in fact, had heard every word they’d said as they staged his rape and murder.  He was already having difficulty breathing, and the slightest movement sent jagged shock waves of pain through his firm body.  As Carlos continued to position his body, the young whore knew that the hardbodied sadist was lying; death wouldn’t hurt.


Caleb wanted death.  With the same single-mindedness with which he’d once focused on the now-forgotten thousand dollars, he now sought an end to his suffering, and death was the only answer he could see.  No matter what they did, as long as it killed him, he’d be out of pain.  He wouldn’t resist.


Then Carlos impaled the slut’s virgin fuckhole with his freakish huge cock, slamming home in a single, brutal thrust that stretched Caleb’s asshole wider than it was meant to go.  For a fraction of a second, there was a ring of pressure around the massive engorged head of Carlos’s shaft as the punk’s sphincter reached the end of its elasticity.  The ex-con applied a little more—a lot more—pressure himself and felt a momentary spurting sensation as the youth’s asshole tore open.  Lubed with its victim’s blood, Carlos’s hog plunged remorselessly into the kid’s guts.  It ground roughly over Caleb’s prostate before lodging deep in his intestines, adding to the boy’s misery by stimulating an intense, if involuntary erection.


The fagwhore tried not to move.  It all hurt if he moved.  The vicious convict had filled him with cock, more than he could take, but he wasn’t moving.  As long as he didn’t move, maybe he could accept it.  Maybe he could handle the agony.  But even breathing caused him pain.  Maybe he should stop breathing—


—and then he did stop breathing, as the sex killer wrapped the strong copper wire around his throat and tightened it.


“Yeah, that’s it,” Carlos said, looking at the camera, “Gotta good one here.  Clenched up its fuckhole nice and tight when I cut off the air.”


“Nothin’ better than a deathpig that knows its place,” Nick chuckled in reply.  “Hey, cunt,” he called out, shoving his camera in Caleb’s panicked face, “Does it hurt good?  Ya likin’ it?  Look up here, meat, yer face it already turnin’ purple—what’s left of it, anyway, haw!”


Caleb was losing himself; a vast tide of sheer terror was sweeping him away.  He clutched at the bed momentarily, feeling the cheap fitted sheet scratching against the nascent chest hair on his firm, bruised chest, then the clawing began.


“Yeah, cunt, fight it,” Carlos grunted and finally started fucking him.  Despite the sudden terrifying inability to breath, the sudden introduction of this unimaginable agony temporarily distracted Caleb.  The hardbodied ex-con was plowing his ass with jackhammer-like intensity, his insanely thick, vein-wrapped shaft reaming out the boy’s colon like a plumbing snake, shredding the nerve-rich rectal lining.


And yet even as he choked and gagged and struggle weakly and ineffectually to escape from this ongoing nightmare of agony, the whore was still aware in the depths of its pig soul that it was hard, and its own cock was starting to leak…


And then the pounding began.  In its head, in its chest, its racing heart furnished the tempo for its panicked horror.  It dug frantically at its neck, its nails digging deep and clawing bloody furrows in the flesh.  At some point, it clutched at its own bead necklace, snapping the string and sending the beads pattering over the bed.  The necklace had meant a lot to Caleb; Sarah made him that, and he’d gone longer with her than any other chick.  It was part of what made him Caleb.  But there was no more Caleb, only a feral animal, fighting desperately for its life.


“Now it’s gettin’ good,” Carlos said, again speaking into the camera directly to his fans.  “See, once it starts strugglin’, its fuckhole tightens up on my hawg real good.  Not as good as later, when it’s dyin’, sure, but enough to milk me good.”


The panic won out.  Caleb’s hands left his throat and he grabbed handfuls of the sheet, trying to dig into the mattress, to get some kind of purchase—trying to pull himself off Carlos’s dick.


He was trapped and utterly helpless, unable to move the slightest inch.  His vision was going weird and there was a humming in his ears almost as loud as the pounding—but still he struggled.  And then he felt weight, pressure—Carlos was laying on top of him.  The serial killer still kept the wire tight around his throat, but he was only using one hand.  The other he used to reach around and grab Caleb’s jaw in a viselike grip, grinding the fractured bones together for a new source of suffering.


But more than that was the mindfuck.  Carlos lifted Caleb’s head and forced him to watch the TV screen.


Through his distorted, bulging eyes, the faggot could see a face on the screen that looked like a grotesque caricature of his own.  Swollen, blackened and bleeding, it was a taut mask of suffering and fear from which his tongue protruded sickeningly.  And even though he couldn’t feel it, he could see the drool bubbling out from between his thick purple lips and dangling off his chin in foamy streamers.


It was all being captured by the camera on top of the TV.  Nick had shifted his position for the moment and had gone around to the other side of the bed.  For a few moments, he closed in on their legs—both of them with their boots on the floor, Carlos’s thick, denim-wrapped legs on the outside, his harness boots flexing with each deep thrust of the sadist’s hips.  Caleb’s smooth, firm legs were pinned between, his shitkickers sliding on the floor as he struggled.


“Watch it, bitch,” Carlos hissed, “Watch yerself die.  Lookit how black yer face is gettin’.  You been without air for a coupla minutes, cunt—how much longer can ya hold out?”  As he spoke, Nick pulled back from the boot footage and came around, kneeling on the bed and zooming the camera in on the punk’s face; Caleb was aware that the long-haired hardman’s cock was just inches from his face, but that meant nothing to him now.


Nothing meant anything—nothingness meant everything, if he could achieve it.  The agony he was enduring was soul-shattering; what little was left of his lucid mind had long since retreated, screaming, into the dark recesses of his psyche.  What remained was a panicked meat scrambling uselessly for its life, with no consideration for its next course of action.  It just needed to get away.


“It’s tryin’ to get up off yer dick, bro,” Nick laughed.  He pointed the camera at Caleb’s twisted, tear- and snot-streaked back, “Must think it’s got someplace to go.  Haw—you ain’t even going to yer grave, cocksucker.  You ain’t worth the effort or diggin’ one.  Yer gonna be dead in another two or three minutes, and then we’re gonna dump yer ass in the desert to rot.”


As Nick spoke, a change was coming over Caleb.  Carlos was experienced enough as a sex killer to recognize the signs just by the way meat was gipping his dick inside its rectum.  The boy was reaching a tipping point; in a few more moments, the brain damage would be irreversible.  Actual brain death wouldn’t be far behind.


Time to give his fans their money shot.


Still plowing the shuddering whore relentlessly, Carlos raised himself up off the boy and spoke directly to the camera.  “Yo, dudes, ya wanna see the best part?  Watch this shit.”


He pulled back on the wire, now so deeply embedded in Caleb’s neck that it couldn’t be seen.  The fag’s head was pulled back until it could go no further; then, his inked biceps bulging with the effort, Carlos pulled the fucker up off the bed as well.  Nick was able to get a shot of the kid’s heaving chest, imprinted with the tread of his killer’s boot.  Further down, Caleb’s long boycock stood erect from a mass of brown curly pubes.


“Meat’s good for edgin’, but when yer done, ya only get one chance.  Watch this—I’ll show ya how to use faggots to milk out yer load as they die.  Trust me, dudes, it feels so fuckin’ good.”


He grinned and stuck his tongue out at the camera.  Beneath him, riding his pulsating shaft, Caleb’s tongue was also out—as were his hands, splayed helplessly in front of him and clawing at the air as if trying to reach directly into the camera for help.


“Yeah…that’s it, cunt…work it…almost there, faggot,” the musclebound ex-con muttered as his dick plunged into the dying slut’s asshole, “Fuck yeah…yeah…yeah…fuck yeah!”


Carlos’s face twisted with the intensity of his approaching orgasm.  His whole body seemed to tighten, his muscles swelling with the final effort of the snuff.  “FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCKIN’ DIE, YA PIECE A’ FAGGOT SHIT!!”


With a loud grunt, the powerful killer tightened the wire around Caleb’s neck so deeply it nearly cut the homo’s throat.  With an audible crunch, the fucker’s esophagus collapsed into a thick wad of mangled cartilage.


There was no more Caleb, but the piece of flesh that had been him (and was still technically alive) responded, as much to brain death as to the crushing of its windpipe.  It jerked violently, froze rigidly for a single brief moment, then spewed a single steady stream of cum from its rock-hard rod for more than twenty seconds.


As the dead whore spilled its boycum over the sheets, the camera captured a different shower of spunk.  Nick, who was still kneeling on the bed, spattered the fag’s face with his own load, his huge hard body jerking and heaving as he unloaded.  Thick gobs of semen coated the homo’s protruding tongue and eyes.


Behind him, Carlos got what he’d been aiming for.  When the meat shot its death load, its colon spasmed violently; the punk’s dying convulsions only added to the sensation of hungry velvety suction.  With an inarticulate cry, the buff convict flooded the homo’s guts with his seething hot manseed.


It took nearly a minute for the three of them to pump their balls dry.  They all fell limp on the bed, two of them gasping and all three twitching.  After another minute or so, both Nick and Carlos had recovered enough to get up.  Carlos extracted his massive hog from the corpse as Nick shut the cameras off.


“Think we got ourselves a gold mine with this one,” the long-haired stud said.  Carlos grinned and headed for the door.


“Gonna go wash up,” he said he headed down the hall towards the bathroom.


Nick just used an old cleaning cloth to wipe off his dick before stuffing it back into his shorts; even though it was already semi-soft, it still took some maneuvering to get the massive tube confined again.  He collected the pile of Caleb’s clothes and tossed them on the bed.  Then he walked around to the other side, bent down and grabbed the dead homo’s still-twitching boots, and shoved the corpse into the center of the bed.


When Carlos came back into the room, Nick had just pulled the fitted sheet loose and wrapped everything on the bed up in it, a nice, tidy bundle containing the cum-filled fagmeat and its clothes.  “Help me get this into the bed of my truck real quick,” he told Carlos.


Even as dead weight the fag whore caused the two buff musclemen little difficulty.  They tossed it into the back of the pickup like a sack of dirty laundry.


“You need help dumpin’ the garbage?” Carlos asked.


“Naw, I found a good spot coupla weeks ago,” Nick replied, “As long as I can find my way back out there in the dark, it’ll be easy.”


And it was.  Carlos left, and Nick followed him till they got to the highway.  Then Carlos turned and went south, towards downtown, while Nick headed north, away from town and into the desert.  Thirteen miles north of the city limits, he exited and drove west down a small road that lead to a cement plant.


Half a mile short of the plant, there was a dirt road running north/south; it was a service road for a long line of electrical pylons that ran past the horizon.  Nick had already scouted the area and knew that the road crossed a gully some three miles north, equidistant between two pylons.  His truck had four-wheel drive, so he had no difficulties when he reached gully and turned to the west, off-road.


He only went some two hundred yards from the road.  At this point, the gully deepened from a few feet to more than two dozen.  Nick’s boots crunched in the sandy soil as he jumped out of his cab, and he paused to look up.  Out here, away from the city, the night sky was amazing.  The hardbodied stud gazed upwards, entranced for a few moments, then retrieved the still-quivering corpse from the bed of his truck.


Carrying it to the gully, he tossed it in, hearing the rattling, avalanche-like sounds as it tumbled and slithered its was down into the depths.  Returning to his truck, he to another lingering, longing look at the sky.  “Just beautiful,” he muttered, “Wonder if I have a camera good enough for night shots…”


He climbed back in; his truck roaring its way back out of the desert.  Within fifteen minutes of his departure, the dust had settled.  It was if he’d never been there.


There were to be no sneering cops or sobbing kinfolk for Caleb; his body was dumped too far from regular human activity to be noticed.  That didn’t mean that it went undiscovered, though.  As arid and lifeless as the desert seems, it supports a tremendous diversity of life, much of which turns scavenger from sheer necessity.


Fresh meat is never wasted in the wild.


It had been a rough week at work.


Joe felt tense and restless.  He usually enjoyed his work—a lot—but sometimes, some people made it unpleasant, especially when they fought—well, it didn’t matter.  It was over.  But Joe couldn’t relax.


He turned to his usual resource in times like these—the hookup app on the various phones he’d collected.  He no longer remembered who they’d belonged to; occasionally, he’d dump one to make sure activity couldn’t be traced back to him—but he’d pick up a new one as well, now and then.  It all balanced out.


The one he picked up at random was a white iPhone 6.  It had several apps uploaded; Joe chose one, again at random.  Then he leaned back on the sofa and casually scanned through the posts.  The first two pages were a mix of scrawny, effeminate twinks, bald pudgy trolls and obvious fakes using airbrushed models’ photos as profile avatars.  It wasn’t till he hit the third page that something caught Joe’s eye.


The kid looked like he was in his early twenties, and his profile said twenty-three.  His chestnut-colored hair was soft and wavy with long bangs, but there was a certain cast to his face betrayed a lack of youthful innocence behind the young face.  The boy’s hazel eyes, wide and long-lashed were slightly sunken and underneath, the flesh was just starting to sag and become lined.


The kid was a whore, and probably a junkie.


That he was a whore was certain; it was part of his profile:


“—Clint, 23, 4.8 miles

Looking for:  generous daddy

Preferred position:  all up in me

Favorite activity:  you pay you pick I do it all”


There were a couple more photos, showing Clint in nothing but bikini shorts.  He had a swimmer’s build, slim with taut wiry muscle.  A light coat of dark brown hair furred his belly, condensing into a dark line that ran down to his groin, vanishing beneath the waistband of the shorts.


The part about being a junkie was just something that Joe felt; there was nothing to prove, or even specifically indicate it.  But the dark circles under the whore’s eyes, the vague hint of pallor on the boy’s skin—Joe had seen that before.


Yeah, this one could get used.  No one would miss it; no one could care.  He could have some fun with the faggot and then—well, not put it out of its misery, no.


It was gonna endure a fuck of a lot more misery before he was done with it.


The first thing Joe had done when he’d gotten home was take a shower; he still wasn’t dressed.  He took a quick selfie torso shot, nothing above the shoulders or below the waist.  He replied to the post with the image, then strolled casually to the dresser to put some clothes on.  He already knew it wouldn’t be a matter of if the whore would respond back, but when.  And he suspected that it’d be sooner than later.


The stupid cunts always responded back.


The buff hardman pulled on a pair of jeans, so tight that damn near every vein on his huge cock was visible, and so worn they felt like suede, cinching it to his narrow waist with an inch-wide black leather belt.  Over this went a plain white t-shirt, clean but just as tight as the jeans.  He slipped on a pair of Chippewa eight-inch steel-toed boots, leaving them loosely laced and untied.


It was then that the phone buzzed.  Joe had been right; the little whore had responded.


“Fuk yeah daddy 100 and u can do what u want make me ur bitch rm 118”


Accompanying the notification was a location tag.  Joe didn’t know the Tavern Inn, but he was familiar enough with the part of town it was in to have a pretty good idea of what the place would be like.


Yeah, he could have some fun with this one, and no one would complain.  Whores of every gender were found dead in that neighborhood on a monthly, if not weekly, basis.


Grinning, the muscled killer paused in front of the mirror.  The jeans tucked onto the boots, the t-shirt so tight his large nipples tented the thin cotton stretched across his broad pecs…yeah, there was no way any fag whore was gonna be able to resist.  But still, it was a chilly evening…


When he stepped back in front of the mirror, he’d donned a black leather aviator jacket, zipping it up only a couple of inches from the waist.  It completed the outfit and Joe, satisfied, headed out.


Three highway exits and four stoplights later, the homicidal stud pulled his Camaro into the parking lot of the motel.  It was a one-story L-shaped building running back from the street, with the office a separate cinderblock structure across from the end of the hotel building.  No street number was visible, but the backlit sign stretched across the façade of the office read “Tavern Inn”.  Under that was a poster that read “Newly renovated—rooms by the week or month available!”


Turning in, Joe drove past the office and back into the motel lot.  Room 118 turned out to be in the far corner, near the end of the building.


Avoiding the potholes in the in the poorly-maintained parking lot, Joe parked at the far side, up against a vine-engulfed chain link fence that separated the motel property from the auto body lot next door.  He wasn’t too close to room 118 but he could cross the lot straight from his car without having to pass in front of any other rooms.


It got better; a glance back at the office showed a car pulling in and stopping at the entrance.  Anyone on duty was about to be needed at the front desk.  He was out of the car and striding across the lot in a heartbeat, the thick treaded soles of his boots making faint grinding sounds on the loose surface of the deteriorated asphalt.


The door in front of him was a faded turquoise.  He gave three sharp taps, it popped open and he stepped in unseen.


It was perfect; the fuckmeat had invited him in of its own free will.


Inside, the room was dim, but Joe had no problem focusing on Clint.  The well-used young rentboy was wearing nothing but red gym shorts and a pair of red and black Adidas Pro Model kicks.  He stood near the center of the room, his lean, firm body silhouetted by the bedside lamp directly behind him.


The sheets on the queen-sized bed were tangled into a mass off to one side; they looked cheap and thin, but they at least appeared clean.  True to the sign out front, the room did seem to have been remodeled, judging by the hastily-installed paneling and the slapdash paint job.  Some of the furniture looked as if it had been expensive at one point, but it was mismatched, marred, and at least a decade out of fashion—possibly leftovers from a hotel liquidation broker.  The heavy musk of mansex and various kinds of smoke was undercut by the sharper tang of paint and toxic chemicals from the cheap paneling.


Clint noticed Joe looking around.  “It’s cheap,” he said without any tinge of embarrassment.  “I usually Uber to a trick’s place but I went on a rock binge this afternoon.  Dude offered me some and after I left him, I blew all my cash on more.  Damn—crack’s great, but the down sucks after.  Anyways, now you’re here.  You got the cash?”


Joe smiled.  He did have it, and he pulled out his wallet to prove it, opening it up and letting the slut see the Franklin nestled inside.  The moment Clint reached for it, though, he closed it back up and slid it back into his pocket.


“Uh-uh,” he said brusquely, “Afterwards.  Let’s see if ya deserve it all first.”


There was a brief flash of fire in Clint’s eyes, a last flicker of a human soul that resented the dishonor of the insult.  Then it was gone, as the whore won out.  The punk smiled.  “Time yer done with me, daddy, you’ll wanna take care of me for the rest of my life.”


It was Joe’s turn to grin.  “If yer that good, boy, I may do just that.  Now get outta them shorts and let’s see what I’m payin’ for.”


Clint grinned and began shucking off his shorts.  While he did so, Joe slipped out of his leather jacket, laying it carefully on the back of an upright chair, then peeled off his shirt as well.  His last action before turning back to face the whoreboy was to unzip his fly and extract his freakishly large cock.


The look on Clint’s face when he saw Joe’s monster hog was pure awe.  The kid wasn’t badly hung himself, with nearly eight inches of thick stiff boymeat, but it looked like an overcooked frankfurter compared to the buff fagkiller’s tackle.  Joe noticed Clint’s intimidation and grinned maliciously.


“Ya ready to service my dick, boy?  Ready to give it what it deserves?” he jeered as the hot young punk approached slowly, mouth agape and hand reaching out to take Joe’s huge manhood.  There was something in the older man’s tone of voice, though, that made Clint pause—not a red flag, just a hint of something half-acknowledged.  The rentboy hesitated, giving Joe a good once-over.


The dude was certainly his type; older, erotically masculine, incredibly well-built.  From his boots and thickly-muscled legs wrapped in denim, up past his gigantic jutting cock, to the coarse, wiry fur spread heavily across his ripped abs and the broad mound of his pecs, the stranger had everything Clint wanted in a man.   And there was something more, something unseen, just below the surface—a hard, cold edge that the slut to which the slut somehow found himself attracted…


“Yeah,” he said breathily, “I’m ready to service it, bro.  Whaddaya want me to do?”


“Aw, that’s easy,” Joe grinned, “I want you to suffer.”  Clint was only briefly aware of movement on his left side before Joe’s fist slammed into his jaw like a runaway train, stunning the whoreboy and knocking him to the floor.


Dazed and groaning, Clint rubbed his aching face, feeling his split lips and swelling skin.  Blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, he looked up just in time to see Joe lock the room door and slip the chain on.  As the buff sadist turned and headed back towards him, Clint swiveled into a half-sitting position and spoke up, his voice weak and shaky.


“Wh-what th’ fuck, dude?” he whined, “What’s that for?”  He had to crane his neck as Joe loomed over him, cock dangling just above his head.


Joe answered in action, not words.  He kicked Clint in the belly, the rigid steel toe of his Chippewa boot sinking deeply into the punk’s firm, flat belly.


“HOOG!!” the whore spat out as his breath was violently expelled.  Clutching his injured gut, the kid fell over and writhed on the floor.


“Stupid piece a’ shit,” Joe drawled casually, “I toldja I wanted you to suffer.  I wanna see you hurt.  The more pain yer in, the more I get off.  Ya feel me, bitch?  Not yet?  Don’t worry, you will.  You gotta work for my load, cunt, and these little love taps don’t even count as foreplay.”


As Clint huddled and sobbed on the floor, Joe raised his leg and stomped on the kid, driving the tread of his boot deep into the soft, smooth flesh on the boy’s back and leaving a detailed black bruise.  It was too much for the young rentboy; he rolled to the side and scrambled on the floor, gasping and desperate to escape.  Clawing at the foot of the bed, he managed to get enough leverage to raise himself upright.


But there was nowhere for him to go.  And Joe was right there.


“Hey, motherfucker, where ya goin’?” the older man said, and Clint turned to look at him.  The kid’s hazel eyes were huge with fear and bewilderment, but there was something else, too—a wounded look, as if the punk had no right to expect such treatment.


Joe’s sense of homicidal contempt shifted into high gear.  The boy was a faggot whore.  If he didn’t already know that this was exactly what he deserved, Joe was gonna go to great lengths to ensure that he learned it thoroughly.


Clint open his mouth to speak but he never got a chance.  Joe clocked him in the side of the head, a stunning blow that sent the rentboy staggering across the room into the dresser.  The nude whore clutched at the furniture to keep from falling.


When he looked up, Joe was coming at him, fists—and dick—upraised.


“NO!” Clint screamed, now truly scared, “Stop!  I didn’t do nothin’—”


Whatever the slut thought he could do to avoid the inevitable was useless.  The thickly-muscled hardman descended upon him like the wrath of God, fists raining down blows of unbelievable force.  As the young whore got the living fuck beat out of him, he sank to the floor, arms raised above his head to ward off the hammer-like impacts.


That pissed Joe off.


“Quit fightin’ me, faggot, and take yer fukkin’ beating.  The more you resist, the more I gotta hurt ya.”  Here Joe bent down, thrusting his hard, grinning, masculine face into the kid’s weeping countenance, “And believe me, motherfucker, I wanna hurt you.”


He kicked out hard, swiftly, twice, and was rewarded each time with the crunch of bone as his boot made contact with Clint’s ribs.  The fuckmeat squealed, a bleating, despairing cry of helpless pain.  Joe’s engorged cock throbbed with pleasure at the sound.


“Yer mine, asswipe,” he told the terrified rentboy, “Mine to use how I want.  Mine to beat to hamburger and fuck raw.  Mine to use and leave behind like cum-soaked toilet paper.  Hear me, motherfucker?  I wanna cum and I’m gonna use you to do it.”


Under other circumstances, the diatribe he’d just heard might have made Clint horny, but the beating he’d suffered drove all thoughts of sex out of his mind.  He’d gotten hold of a crazy john.  He’d heard stories of dangerous tricks who did…things…to the dudes they’d hired, but Clint was too smart for that shit.


This wasn’t happening to him.  It couldn’t.  He was too smart…


…but if he was so smart, why did he hurt so bad?


Then Joe clenched a hank of his thick brown hair and hoisted him aloft.  The pain was excruciating; Clint thought that his scalp was being torn off, but it only lasted until Joe had got him up off the floor.  Then the hardbodied killer grabbed the kid by the throat, releasing his hair and holding him straight out.  Joe’s right bicep bulged with power needed to keep the whoreboy’s Adidas Pros dangling inches above the carpet; as Clint watched wide-eyed in choking horror, a vein in the buff sadist’s arm began to throb.


Clint kicked wildly.  Staring the gagging slut in the face and sneering with contempt, Joe calmly and carefully turned and walked to the small round table in the corner of the room.  Unmatched to anything else in the room, it was small and incredibly flimsy, with a particleboard surface inadequately covered by a paper-thin veneer.  Together with an aluminum-framed chair, it served as a desk, but it didn’t allow much room for work given that it also supported a thirty-two-inch no-name flat screen TV.


It allowed even less room to work once Joe rammed Clint’s head right through it.


It didn’t take much effort to punch the cunt’s skull through the thin particleboard, but the force broke Clint’s nose and lacerated his cheek.  As he hit the floor, the rentboy had the brief, lucid thought that he’d be off his game until his face healed.  Then the pain hit.


“Owwww…” he moaned, “Dude…don’t do this… give ya anything ya want…”


“Yeah,” Joe said evenly, “Ya sure will.”


He bent down and grabbed Clint’s ankles, slowly dragging him out form under the table.  The kid was half-stunned still, but he could feel the motion and fear rose within him, a bitter taste like bile in the back of his throat as his taut young body throbbed in pain.


He couldn’t get out of this himself.  He needed help, and he needed it now.


“HELP!!” he shrieked, turning his face towards the door, “IN HERE!!  FUCKING HELP OH GOD OH SHIT—GAAGHGHK!!!”


Again, Joe responded with the icy precision of a professional killer.  He dropped Clint’s legs, stepped up to the boy’s head and raising his leg, stomped the whore’s face, swiftly, powerfully, brutally.


He ground the heel of his Chippewa boot into the faggot’s mouth, his dick pulsating each time he heard the crack of Clint’s jaw snapping.  The cunt gurgled and coughed, hacking up half a dozen of its teeth as the twisted hardman crouched over it and spit in its face.


“That’ll keep ya quiet, fuckmeat.  Now shut up and get ready for my dick.”


He snagged the rentboy by the throat again; lost in a vast space of fiery agony, Clint felt a faint weightlessness as he was tossed onto the bed on his back.  The impact wasn’t as severe as others he’d already endured, but anything that caused the jagged edges of broken bones to grind together deep inside him caused inexpressible suffering.


Joe knew that and planned to take advantage of it.  Of course, he needed to be in the right place to do so.


As Clint writhed and moaned in horrible pain, Joe climbed up on the bed, hoisted Clint’s red kicks up to his shoulders, bending the agonized punk in half, and started probing the slut’s anus with the cue-ball-sized head of his dick.  The boy could feel the pressure and he knew what was coming next.  He didn’t want it.


His head and face were afire with horrific pain—to the point that his prior injuries weren’t even distant memories—and every attempt to vocalize was cut short by instant agony.  His hands were still free, though, and the moment Joe started to force his member into Clint, the cunt responded with a frenetic, clawing frenzy.


The boy’s hands rose up like embattled birds of prey, talons gaping wide, searching for any weak spot.  The impetus given them by Clint’s sheer panic gave them a force the used-up whoreboy could never have attained in the usual course of his wasted life.  His fingers raked Joe’s face, nails digging into the dark, wiry scruff covering the killer’s jaw—not quite enough to draw blood, but much more than enough to piss Joe off.


It was a simple disarming move, so to speak; one Joe had often used on the job.  Batting Clint’s left arm away, he wrapped his right arm around it and twisted, forcing the sweaty, gasping youth to strain as hard as he could to stop his arm from being bent backwards at the elbow.


Clint failed, of course.  He knew he was gonna fail, and so did Joe—which was why the sick killer felt such an erotic rush as he gazed into the terrified whore’s huge dark eyes just before he ripped the kid’s elbow socket apart like it was a chicken carcass.  There was a gristly cracking sound and the rentboy howled in inarticulate agony, his slim firm body rigid and trembling as it tried to process the trauma.


He was still howling when Joe plowed his massive cock up the kid’s ass in a single powerful thrust.  Clint’s screams suddenly spiraled up past an audible pitch.  The sound he was emitting was more like a ragged wheeze than a cry of pain—not that he wasn’t in pain.


Clint’s physical suffering was so intense it was nearly hallucinatory; he had a sense that none of this was happening—that he was already dead and was being tormented for his sins.  He’d asked this muscle-bound stud over to give him a nice hard fuck—and at a discount; he’d been horny—and the sudden explosion of violence and pain, with no warning at all, had traumatized his psyche as much as the beatdown had damaged his body.


He was getting fucked now, but this wasn’t what he wanted.  Even the fuck itself, as Joe’s enormous unlubed member tore open his unprepared sphincter and ground roughly over his prostate, caused him unspeakable agony.  And his arm…oh fuck, his arm—


“Yeah, fucker, yer just what I was lookin’ for tonight,” Joe commented with a wicked grin as his well-developed torso, gleaming with a slight film of perspiration under the dim light, pumped rhythmically between Clint’s smooth thighs.  “I needed a piece of meat to work my frustrations out on.  I can jack yer worthless ass up as much as I want, and ain’t no one gonna care what happens to cheap fag whore, amiright?”


Clint wasn’t looking and he was trying not to listen.  In fact, he’d come pretty damn close to putting himself into a trance state—not because he was adept in meditation, but as an instinctive reaction to protect what was left of his fracturing mind from this excruciating nightmare.  He had gone utterly limp, and since every movement brought forth new waves of nauseating pain, he let his tight young body flow with Joe’s thrusts, matching the sadistic top’s vigorous pumping.  It somehow seemed to make everything hurt less.


“Uh-uh, cunt.  Yer goin’ slack on my hog, meat.  Ya got all nice and tight when you were sufferin’ an’ now yer actin’ like a cocktease.  That pisses me off, motherfucker.  I showed ya my money, yeah?  And you said whatever I wanted…”


Joe’s voice trailed off as he reached down to his crotch with both hands.  The kid hadn’t been able to shut out his assailant’s cruel taunts, but he was gonna keep pairing his motion with that of Joe’s as long as he could.  It was only a sound—a familiar metal clank—that brought him back into hellish reality.


The sound was a belt being unbuckled.  Clint couldn’t lift his head much, but he could see Joe on his knees, Clint’s own legs wrapped around his waist.  His sculpted, hirsute torso flexed with each powerful thrust of the hips.  And without missing a beat, the handsome killer was slowly pulling his belt from around his tight waist, winding the long black leather strap around his hand.  Once it was completely off, he unwound it and passed the tip back through the buckle, making a simple but effective garrote.


Grinning, he kept eye contact with Clint the entire time.


He finally dangled it out over the boywhore’s heaving chest.


“You know what this is for, dontcha?”  It was more a statement than a question.  “You know how this is gonna end.  It’s happened to plenty of yer fag whore buddies, yeah?  Now it’s your turn, bitch.


Clint’s hazel eyes were huge with panic.  Despite the horrific agony of his mangled mouth, he tried to plead for his life.  He’d heard the stories…and there was his old fuckbuddy Rick, they never caught the guy who did that…


This involuntary defense mechanism—drifting off into inconsequentia—was abruptly terminated as Joe slipped the leather noose over Clint’s head and tightened it.  From that moment on, Clint was in the here and now, fighting for every last second of his useless life.


This was the point Joe was hard for—the way the cunts always thrashed and jerked when he began throttling their life out.  The most reamed-out whorefucks invariably locked their assholes around his shaft as death set in and they panicked, and this one was no different.


Clint’s left arm was useless, but his right worked fine; as his battered and bruised face began to swell and darken even further, he clawed frenetically at the thick leather strap encircling his throat.  It was already sunken so deep that he couldn’t get his fingers under it—all he did was tear at his own flesh until he drew blood.


The rentboy’s lithe young body was awash in physical misery; the symptoms of asphyxia that began to occur only added to his suffering.  The tight, fiery ache in his chest, the overwhelming pounding in his head, the excruciating pressure on his throat—and through it all, he was fully aware of the killer’s huge hog plowing his guts.  And his own erection.


The dude was snuffing him and fucking him like a rutting boar—and he was so fuckin’ hard it hurt.


Somehow that scared him most of all.  It set off a blind panic that transferred the meat’s attention from the belt around its throat to the stud holding the belt; in a flash, the whore’s hand came up, scrambling and digging at Joe’s face.  Even an experienced killer can be caught off guard, and this was one of those occasions; Joe jerked his head back and arced back to keep his face out of the flailing kid’s reach.  Instead, the desperate hand first beat on the buff killer’s broad, muscled chest, then snatched a thick fistful of the older man’s chest hair.  When it jerked back, it didn’t manage to pull out any of the sadist’s fur—but it did manage to piss him off.


“Goddam motherfucker,” he growled, grabbing the punk’s wrist with his free hand while keeping the belt tight around its neck with the other.  Slamming the slut’s arm down on its chest, he grabbed its index finger and bent it backwards.


“Just don’t get it, ya dumbass fuck?” Joe snarled, “You only exist to make me cum when you die [CRACK].”  The unfortunate whore wasn’t able to scream as its finger was broken, but with his dick, Joe could feel the way the pain registered in its ass.  He grinned with pleasure and moved on to the next finger.


“You need to stop fightin’ me, faggot, and die like the fuckin’ slutpig you are [CRACK].”  Again, the meat clenched its sphincter in agony.  Joe held the belt around its throat steady, neither increasing nor decreasing the pressure.  The bitch’s air was sealed off—but it was still reversible, and the whore knew it.  It didn’t matter what Joe said, it had to believe it could survive.


Good.  The more it suffered, the more it milked Joe’s cock.  He moved on to the third finger.


“You know it yerself, asswipe; you know this is why you were put on this planet.  That’s why yer pathetic fag dick is hard [CRACK].”  Blackened and twisted in nightmarish pain, the punk’s once-handsome face had become a grotesque mask of agony.  Its wavy hair was dark and matted with sweat, the hazel eyes were red with hemorrhages and bulging frantically from their sockets.  A swollen purple tongue protruded from the loose, mangled mouth as foamy drool oozed down its chin.


And even so, there was still some Clint left inside to hear Joe’s words, and as his brain progressively died of oxygen deprivation, the sadistic sex killer’s perverted logic made sense to the young rentboy.  And when the next blast of pain came, some sick part of him was eager for it.  When Joe bent the pinky finger not backward but outward, off the side of the hand, Clint had become an almost mindless being, living solely for the sake of the next intense stimulus—looking for one intense enough for…but the lucid thought was interrupted.


Joe was close; he could feel his hot potent seed churning in his huge, hairy sack, but he still had some last rage to vent, and he did it by using the whore’s face as a punching bag, pounding the fucker with both left and right jabs, transferring the belt from one hand to the other.  With each blow, the cunt’s firm smooth body jerked violently; the legs curled and kicked.


If the whore hadn’t already suffered irreversible brain damage, Joe’s beating would have had the same effect.  As it was, the punk flailed violently enough to kick off the Adidas Pro on its left foot; the sneaker tumbled to the floor as the toes curled in death agony inside the white ped sock.


And still some part of Clint held on.  Something more, yes, it needed something more.


Joe could feel his dick begin to tingle and swell.  He could also feel the rentboy’s hot rigid shaft pressed against his own furry ripped abs; the fuck was still hard even after he’d pulped its face.  It wasn’t dead yet.  He could still see the huge puppy-dog eyes, now red and staring.  He was about to blow, and the fag didn’t deserve to see it.


He splayed out his huge strong hand and pressed it onto the slut’s ruined face.  At the same time, he dug his Chippewa boots into the bed, wrapped the end of the belt a couple of time around his other hand, and gave it a brutally powerful jerk.


In a fraction of a second, the whoreboy’s esophagus collapsed just above the larynx, the cartilage crushed into a wad of gristle.  At the same time, three cervical vertebrae—C2, 3 and 4—were dislocated, mangling the spinal cord.


The tiny spark of painpig soul left in the cheap whore finally found justification for its ultimate orgasm in death.  As the massive trauma to its central nervous system sent the cunt’s slim but strong body into violent convulsions, it began to spew semen from its hard thick rod like an oil well striking a gusher.


Joe felt the hot spray of boycum on his thickly-furred belly at the same time he felt the punk’s rectum grip his pulsing tool and milk his load out as if there was a conscious effort to make him shoot.


“Fuckin’ die, ya worthless faggot!” Joe roared, and as he hosed the meat’s intestines with his seething manload, he jerked the belt again, ripping the bitchboy’s spinal cord out of its skull.  The meat responded with one last violent jerk, the limbs drawing in and wrapping around Joe as if giving its killer one last embrace.


Then the whore flopped back, quivering and trembling, utterly owned and used.


Joe collapsed on top of it, heaving and spent, the weight of his furry muscled body pressing the shuddering corpse into the mattress.  After a few minutes, he’d caught his breath and began the slow process of peeling his cum-matted chest off the corpse’s torso while simultaneously extracting his still-oozing hog from its ass.


Climbing off the bed, he headed for the bathroom, his boots echoing loudly off its tiled surfaces.


The smell of new grout was overwhelming; even the thin, rough towels were new.  Joe found their sandpaper-like texture perfect for scrubbing congealed slutcum out of his wiry chest fur and off his massive schlong.  Tossing the towel into the toilet—which reeked of bleach—he tucked his enormous manhood back into his jeans and returned to the bedroom.


The room was mess, but the splayed corpse of the horribly beaten rentboy took center stage.  Spread-eagled on its back, with its parted legs and cum-dripping ass pointed directly towards the door, Joe decided it couldn’t be better posed if he’d done it deliberately.  He decided to leave his belt where it was; it was so buried in the dead whore’s throat, it’d be difficult to remove in any case.


Striding to the chair where he’d left his clothing, Joe picked up the t-shirt and balled it up.  He was still warm from his well-deserved and very satisfying workout; He slipped on the leather jacket and stuffed the t-shirt into its pocket.  He headed out the door without a backwards glance at the boy whose life he’d just so viciously and cold-bloodedly ended.


He took the T-tops off his Camaro for the drive home, basking in the crisp cool air with deep sense of well-being.





“Hey Danilo, whatcha got?”


The beat cop paused in the open doorway of the motel room, leaning against the jamb and glancing up at the detective, his face weary and his expression jaded.


“It’s a bad one.  Fag whore was offed.  Cocksucker died hard.”


“Bad trick?”


“Probably.  Manager says he’d been here about a month.  No regular hours.  Had guys in and out all the time.”


“ME seen him yet?”


“No, they’re on the way.”


The detective stepped into the room and took a good long look.  He returned to the beat cop.


“Musta been pretty goddam violent, and doesn’t look like it happened too long ago—you ask if anyone heard anything?”


The cop grimaced.  “C’mon, man, you know this place as well as I do.  Remember that chick that they hauled outta here last month?  The one that was gonna testify against that biker gang?  They held her down and injected her with battery acid and didn’t no one here hear or see a goddam thing.  You think anyone’s gonna care a pansy whore gets offed?”


The detective sighed.  “Yeah, I know, but its my job to ask.  Yer right, though, might was well sign off on this one and shove it to the back of the caseload pile.  Ain’t no one cares about these wastes of human flesh.  Tell the guys from the ME’s office to send me their report; I got crimes against real human beings to solve.”


The beat cop watched the detective walk off with contempt.  Figured he’d be the one left here with the stiff corpse of a worthless homo slut, waitin’ for the meat wagon to show up.  Like anyone would give a shit if he tossed it in the dumpster and went and had a beer.  If those ME dudes didn’t show up soon, that’s exactly what he’d do…

Young, Dumb and Full of Cum

Eddie was angry again.  In fact, he was angrier than he could remember being for a long, long time.  He didn’t know why or at what; he never did.  All he knew was that a titanic roiling rage filled his soul.


Well, he knew one other thing.  He’d figured out how to control it, to vent it so that life became bearable again.


That was why he was out cruising for faggots.


He was dressed for the hunt, in a khaki muscle shirt and tight battle fatigue pants tucked into his high laced combat boots.  His dogtags gleamed from deep within the valley formed by his huge pecs.  It was late in the afternoon; he was sporting a pair of polarized aviator sunglasses to ward off the slanting orange rays of the sun that glinted in his sandy buzzcut hair.


He’d liked to have been able to swing by the skate park again, but it was too soon to go there.  He’d somewhat underestimated the vehemence of the public outcry when the nude corpse of a raped and strangled teenaged boy had been found there.  The place was still attracting attention; there was even some kinda fuckin’ memorial growing up in the back where he’d dumped the meat.  A big pile of cards and flowers and fuckin’ stuffed toys and shit.  One night when things calmed down, he’d go out, douse the whole shitpile with gas and burn it right the fuck down.


But that was for later.  Right now, he needed prey.  Right now.


And that was when he spotted Hank.



Hank was eighteen and well-built.  Star of his high school wrestling team, his buff, muscled body turned heads every time he got into his tights, and he knew it.  He also knew that every time he grappled with other hardbodied young dudes, his dick got hard.  Sometimes theirs did too.


He wasn’t about to tell anyone that other guys made his shaft grow rigid; his father was the head of staff for the Lieutenant Governor, a powerful right-wing evangelical.  They attended the same church, where his mother ran the ladies’ auxiliary.  The thought of being gay horrified Hank, just as much as it would his parents, but there were times his hormones got the upper hand.


He’d always been able to calm himself down, closing his eyes, praying, reminding himself of his youth pastor’s exhortations against temptations.  But lately it was taking him more and more time to master the overpowering desire that radiated up from his balls into his thick, eager teenaged cock.


And then today, it hadn’t worked at all.


He’d left school early; no one was home when he got there.  He changed his clothes, leaving the house in his workout gear—black shorts with the drawstring dangling loosely in front, a black t-shirt with Pokémon characters printed across the front, and a pair of gray Nike Air Max 1 trainers.  Maybe some exercise would help exorcize the demon of lust living in his huge hairy scrote.  He set out walking more or less at random, with no fixed destination.  He didn’t want to go to the gym at school; his shorts did nothing to hide his stiff seven-inch boner, and he didn’t want anyone he knew to see him like this.


He succeeded; the person who saw him like that didn’t know him and didn’t need to.



There was something about Hank that snagged Eddie’s attention immediately.  The muscled teen with dark wavy hair, tousled with careful negligence, drew the psycho ex-Marine eyes off the road long enough for him to pull over into a fast-food parking lot and turn around.  The way the boy seemed to be deliberately displaying his smooth, hard build and his long erect dick screamed “faggot” inside Eddie’s dark and twisted mind.


The kid was a homo, and he needed to be put down.  All Eddie had to do was figure out a way to lure the faggot in.  But it wasn’t gonna be sex; Eddie wasn’t no pansy.  He was here to put the pansy in its place—taking a dirt nap.


But first it needed to learn what happened to fucking homo perverts.


He pulled up next to Hank and lowered the window of his truck.  “Hey, dude,” he called out, inspired by the kid’s workout gear, “Ya know a good gym around here?”


It was a measure of how deeply immersed Hank was in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear Eddie’s truck pull up.  The Dodge pickup had a deep throaty rumble that almost literally shook the ground.  But the young punk was too busy trying to come to terms with his rampant horniness to notice Eddie’s presence till the latter spoke—and even then, the hardbodied homo hunter had to repeat himself, loudly, startling Hank and making him jump.


The boy approached the jacked-up Ram, craning his neck to see inside.  All he could make out was the head and part of the upper torso of an incredibly fit young man with shades and a buzzcut.  It was more than enough to make his already-straining cock twitch and pulsate.


And that sealed his fate.  Eddie saw it, and saw red.  He’d been right, the little fucker was a faggot.  Faggots had gotten him kicked outta the Marines; they’d even thought he was one, for fuck’s sake.  But he wasn’t.  And he’d show ‘em—he’d show ‘em all.


By wasting every fucking homo he could lay his hands on with extreme prejudice.  Starting with this one.


“Uh, naw, man,” Hank replied diffidently.  He tried to force himself not to think of the stud’s hard firm body.  “I, uh, I was just tryin’ to find a place myself.  See, the, uh, the color squad is usin’ the school gym right now, and…well…”  He trailed off uncertainly.


“Yeah, there’s a Gold’s around the corner,” Eddie came back, “But I don’t like the clientele.  And anyway, my weight set is better that theirs, even if it ain’t all fancy and computerized.  Whatcha lookin’ for, my man?  Squats?  Curls?”


Hank blushed, feeling even more awkward, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a huge erection.  “Well, uh, whatever.  Y’know, just lookin’ to work off some energy.”


“I’ll bet,” Eddie said.  Hank was taken aback slightly by the cold edge in the older man’s voice, but the next time Eddie spoke, it was gone.  “Well if that’s all ya want, you c’n come back to my place if ya like.  Plenty of ways to burn some energy with my set.”


The hint was unmistakable, and Hank had to go to some effort to avoid panting with excitement.  “Sure, dude!” he chirped, then dialed it back a little.  “I mean, yeah, that’d be cool.”


Eddie unlocked the passenger door.  “Hop in,” he said, “It’s just a couple streets down.  Name’s Mike, by the way.”  He had no intention of letting the little fucker know his real name, just in case.


“Thanks,” the buff, naïve teen said as he climbed up into the cab, “I’m Hank.”


“Hank?”  Eddie asked.  The kid blushed again.


“Actually, it’s Horace.  Named after my grandpa.  But nobody calls me that.  I’m just Hank.”


“No problem,” Eddie replied, glancing over at his passenger.  When Hank sat down, the lower hem of his shorts rode up, exposing a good two and a half inches of his cock, including the thick, spongy purple head.


Yeah, the cunt was a fuckin’ fag.  The sight made Eddie hard himself—at the thought of wasting the queer motherfucker.  He was silent for the rest of the drive, trying to control his psychotic hate and lust.  Luckily, he didn’t have long to wait before he could satisfy himself; they were at his place in less than five minutes.


The parking lot was mostly empty at Eddie’s place; there was no one to see the boy climb out of the truck and follow Eddie into his apartment.  There were no witnesses to Hank’s last public appearance—well, his last live appearance.



The living room was small and dark, with an intensely sweet smell that seemed to be covering something ranker.  If Hank hadn’t been so randy, the odor might have raised some red flags; as it was, the subtle scents of testosterone and death stimulated the teen’s primitive midbrain, sparking a form of nervous energy that was easily converted to sexual energy.  By the time they made it back to Eddie’s bedroom, Hank had developed tunnel vision—he was focused directly on the military stud’s powerful, thickly-muscled body.  He didn’t even notice the poster-sized photos of dead bodies on the walls.


Eddie walked to the far corner, peeled off his shirt and tossed it into an open hamper next to the closet door.  It was one of his favorites, and he didn’t want to ruin it.


And what he had planned would definitely ruin it.


When he turned back, Hank’s jaw dropped.  The man had the body of a god—huge smooth pecs with thick, hard, dark nipples rising like sharp tall peaks of low, broad hills.  Between them, his dogtags dangled, silvery gray under the bleak overhead light.  Below the chest, the ex-Marine’s torso tapered to his waist, his amazingly ripped abs making Hank both horny and envious.  And below, that massive bulge in his camo-patterned crotch…


“So,” Eddie said nonchalantly, “Whatcha into?”


The hormone-addled teenager was so distracted by Eddie’s body that he couldn’t make a coherent reply.  He just stammered, his gaze riveted on the stud’s groin.


Eddie leered.  “Or maybe yer into this,” he growled and unzipped his fly.  With Hank’s utter, rapt attention, the hardbodied psycho pulled his gigantic tube of manmeat out of his pants, letting the boy admire it in all its pulsating, vein-wreathed glory.


Hank had never seen so big a cock—and he’d damn sure been looking; every kid he’d wrestled with had gotten “inadvertently” groped at some point during the match.  No one he’d encountered had been this hung.


“Yeah?”  Eddie said with a suggestive grin, coming closer, “This what ya like?”


He was almost close enough to touch.  Hank reached out, almost involuntarily; he felt compelled to have that enormous piece of meat in his hands.


“This whatcha, been looking for, faggot?”


The word and the change of tone made Hank look up, but not fast enough to be able to react to the sudden, vicious jab that Eddie planted in the center of the teen’s smooth flat belly.


Expelling the air form his lungs in a mighty wheeze, Hank doubled over.  His knees buckled but he didn’t have time to hit the floor before Eddie’s next blow caught him in the jaw with the force of a train wreck, putting his lights out quite effectively.  The boy collapsed with a boneless thud, like a sack of potatoes, leaving Eddie standing over him, grinning, and preparing to give the young homo exactly what it deserved.



As he was coming to, Hank was aware of a throbbing pain in his gut, a pain that pulsed so relentlessly that he was having trouble breathing.  Even before he regained full consciousness, he realized that he’d been brutally attacked by the muscle-bound stud he’d followed home.  When he finally opened his eyes, he was—in some slight measure—prepared to find himself in an unpleasant situation.


He was totally unprepared for the reality.


Above him, Eddie loomed intimidatingly.  From his near-vertical viewpoint, Hank could see the older man’s massive jutting cock hanging over him, somehow both arousing and ominous.  Above that, Eddie’s huge pecs swelled out in front, with the ex-Marine’s evilly leering face pointed down at him with contemptuous amusement.


“Thought I was gonna hafta wake you up the hard way,” the fag-killer jeered.  “Glad I didn’t need to.   Cunts don’t scream when they’re out.”  He reached down and stroked his enormous glistening shaft.  “And I like it when they scream.  You ready to scream, boy?  Ready top scream like a good little faggot?  Ain’t nobody gonna hear ya, asswipe, so G’wan ahead and scream yer bitch lungs out, haw!”


Hank didn’t react; his lithe firm body was struggling to inhale and his young hormone-flushed psyche was in vapor-lock, unable to process the sadistic input it was receiving.  He could only lay inert on the floor and goggle wordlessly as his hardbodied assailant towered over him.


Eddie knew how to get a reaction, though.


“Looks like yer havin’ a little trouble breathin’ there, little buddy,” he chortled, “Here, lemme help.


Lifting his right leg, Eddie leaned forward slight and drove his knee down, stomping on Hank’s torso with enough force to crack three ribs.


‘HOOG!!!” the kid cried as what little air he’d managed to accumulate in his lungs was violently forced back as if he was a bellows.  Eddie kept his foot planted right in the center of Hank’s chest, grinding his boot into the boy’s t-shirt.


Hank’s head came up off the floor, but the rest of his body was pinned down.  As a result, the pain-wracked teen found himself staring directly at the ex-Marine’s combat boot as it continued to crush his abdomen. Inches away from the glossy black leather, Hank realized that the boot wasn’t tied and was only loosely laced.


And then he saw why.


Rising up from the boot along the outside of the sadist’s leg was a huge knife, evidently held in place by a boot sheath.  Even as Hank looked on, Eddie bent down—incidentally throwing more of his weight onto the kid’s solar plexus and amping up his agony—and grasped the wooden handle.  He withdrew it slowly, letting Hank see the weapon in close detail.


The blade was so sharp it almost literally hurt to look at it.  The other side of the blade was serrated so sharply it could saw through a four-by-four post with ease.  Near the hilt, it was engraved with the brand name Master.  And it was long.  The blade—not including the handle—was nearly a foot.


Then Hank looked up and caught Eddie’s eyes and sudden terror swept over him so completely that a pool of piss began to form on the floor under him.  The look in those eyes—rage, lust, excitement, hatred, and unreasoning insanity—told him that the knife was meant for him.


Eddie laughed—a harsh, cold sound—as he saw the effect he had on the kid.  “Not yet, ya stupid homo.  That’d be too easy.  Naw, you gotta learn yer place before you die.”  He held the knife in front of Hank’s bulging, horror-filled eyes.  “An’ believe me, faggot, by the time ya learn it, yer gonna be beggin’ me to waste yer worthless punk ass.”


Lifting his leg, the muscled killer swooped down on the writhing, gagging teen.  Eddie swung the blade forward with seeming carelessness but somehow managed to snag the hem of Hank’s t-shirt.  Before the kid could literally blink an eye, Pikachu had been sliced in half from stem to stern, the blade neatly cutting the collar.  The cheap, thin cotton fell back, revealing Hank’s slim but well-developed torso, with just the barest hint of peach fuzz covering the boy’s smooth, silky skin.


Reversing the blade, Eddie made a quick downward slash at Hank’s shorts—this time specifically pulling the kid’s waistband up to let the knife get underneath.  Once he did so, the elastic parted easily.  It took two swings of the blade to cut the shorts open down both legs, but once it was done, the revealed that the teenaged cunt was freeballing.  His spunk-filled balls nestled in a bush of curly brown pubes from which his long, thick boycock sprang.


And it was semi-hard, despite the fact that Hank was terrified and could barely breath.  Yeah, Eddie realized, the motherfucker really was a sick, worthless faggot.


It needed to fuckin’ die.


“You disgustin’ piece a’ shit,” Eddie growled at the prostrate youth, “Fuckin’ homos like you fuck it all up for men like me.  Got me kicked outta the Marines…you wanna real man?  That what yer worthless ass was out trollin’ the streets for?  Bro, ya goddam sure got one.  An’ it’s time show yer pansy little fuckhole exactly how real men treat perverted little pansies.”


He crouched down, leaning over Hank so that his dogtags jingled mere millimeters above the boy’s heaving, panicked chest.  “You wanted real mandick?  Yer gonna get some, right now.  I’m gonna ream out yer tight little boycunt like a goddam roto-rooter.  I’m gonna fuck yer guts so deep my cum’ll leak out yer fuckin’ nose.  C’mon, fuckwad, it’s time to get whatcha came for.”


He reached out and grabbed Hank by the throat, his huge hand clamping on the punk’s neck and completely cutting off his air.  In a moment, Hank found himself choking and gurgling, his hands clutching desperately at Eddie’s forearm while the toes of his Nikes flailed uselessly four inches above the worn bedroom carpet.


He didn’t remain dangling long.  Eddie slammed him down athwart the bed, so that his head impacted the drywall on the far side, but his legs below the knees were still bent down to the floor.  Hank groaned, raised his head and looked down the length of his own body to see Eddie standing at the side of the bed between his legs.  The ex-Marine’s cock was jutting out over the bed like the prow of a ship; all he had to do was bend down, scoop up Hank’s legs and expose his ass, and the rape would begin.


Except it didn’t.  Eddie stood there for a moment, looking down at Hank’s own throbbing shaft, getting more rigid by the second.  “Ya want my thick hog in ya, dontcha?” he asked with a sly smile.  “A’course ya do.  Fags always like havin’ somthin’ long and hard shoved into their guts, right?  Yeah?  Fuck yeah.  So here ya go faggot, here’ something long and hard buried in yer guts!”


Whipping his right arm up and over in a flash, he buried the knife in Hank’s smooth, flat belly to the hilt.  The razor-sharp blade pierced the abdominal muscle, slashed instantly through multiple coils of the teen’s intestines, and came out through his back, embedding itself over two inches into the mattress.


Hank’s screech was shrill and loud, finally tapering off into a guttural moan as his taut, firm frame went rigid and trembled in agony.  The boy clenched his fists, desperately trying not to move—with the blade embedded in the mattress, he was pinned to the bed and any movement forced his tender innards against the viciously sharp blade impaling his guts.  It might’ve worked—but Hank wasn’t calling the shots.


Grabbing the punk’s smooth, strong legs, Eddie wrapped his powerful arms around them and hoisted them so that Hank’s Nikes rested on his shoulders.  The motion this caused made Hank squeal in pain.  “Fuck yeah,” Eddie jeered, “Ya think that hurts, ya stupid cunt?”  He bent his legs just slightly and pressed the thick, spongy head of his cock against the teen’s fluttering asshole.  “See how ya like this, faggot!”


With a single monumental thrust, Eddie instantly drove his massively swollen manshaft balls-deep inside the adolescent virgin.  He had to tear flesh to do it, sighing with pleasure as the boy’s sphincter ripped open like wet paper against the sudden, inexorable pressure.  On the inside, the huge rod, unlubed except with its own precum, caught and tore the highly sensitive lining of the kid’s colon.


Hank had often fantasized about getting assfucked, and he’d suspected it might hurt—but he had no idea this kind of glassy, razor-sharp pain could happen.  For a moment—only a split second, but still a moment—he forgot about the blade sunk in his belly.


Then Eddie reached down and pulled the knife out.  Slowly.


Hank looked down in horror as inch after inch of the sharp bloody blade was extracted from his guts.  He could feel it moving inside himself, slashing at his intestines on the way out.  His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell limp.  The teen had passed out from sheer physical trauma.


It was ok.  He’d wake up again.  And in the meantime, Eddie continued to pound his ass, using him like a fucktoy—all the young fag was good for, after all.  The buff ex-Marine tossed the knife onto Hank’s heaving, sweat-slick chest and spent then next five minutes deep-plowing the teenager’s fuckhole as a thin stream of blood trickled from the gash in his belly.  The wound was deep, not wide, so the vast majority of the bleeding was internal.


For the second time in a half hour, Hank found himself waking to pain, but this time was worse.  After having both a dick and a blade shoved into his guts, regaining consciousness was a cruel experience.


Eddie recognized the boy’s fluttering eyelids as a sign that he was coming to and decided to make the experience even crueler.


“Hey motherfucker,” he hissed them moment Hank’s eyes were fully open, “See this?”  He held the knife directly in front of the kid’s face.  “See those little strings of meat hangin’ from the back?  That’s yer innards, fag.  That’s what yer goddam intestines look like. Ya like that shit?”


Hank could see it; he couldn’t understand it.  His youthful face, pale with shock, turned up to the older man.  “Wh-why?” he gasped, his breathy voice taut with agony, “I d-don’t…why?”


Eddie’s hard, masculine face twisted with hate and disgust.  “Cause yer a fuckin’ faggot cunt, that’s why” he roared, spittle flying from his lips as he spewed his rage.  “Fuckin homo scum like you needs to fuckin’ die!  Y’all goddam cocksuckers out there tryin’ to lure me in…make me a sick pervert like you…got me kicked outta the service—fuck you!!!”


Even as he lost it, Eddie still managed to keep perfect time with his hips, thrusting his huge rod into Hank’s rectum.  But the rant was over as suddenly as it started; the psycho fagkiller seemed to regain some measure of control.


Not a lot, though.


“Naw,” he smirked, “I could gut ya like a fuckin’ pig and you still wouldn’t suffer as much as you deserve.  Don’t mean it ain’t a good place to start, though.”  Without telegraphing his movements in the slightest, he whipped the knife around and drove it into Hank’s left flank.  The agonized adolescent felt the blade slicing through his organs before he even realized he’d been stabbed again.


This one was bad.  Penetrating between the eighth and ninth ribs, nearly twelve inches of razor-sharp steel bisected the punk’s torso.  The knife tore through Hank’s liver and gall bladder, slashing his stomach and pancreas and ended up impaling his spleen.  By the time the hilt was flush with the skin on the boy’s left side, the tip of the blade was less than an inch below the surface of the skin on the right side.


Eddie leaned over the suffering teen, his eyes glittering with lust at his ability to inflict unbearable pain.  “Say ‘thank you’, motherfucker,” he commanded.  “All you pansies ever say you want is to have somethin’ long and hard shoved inside ya; well, now ya got it.  And I’m the one that gave it to ya.  So say ‘thank you’, ya fuckin’ pigfag!”


Hank’s eyes were closed and his face twisted into a grimace of indescribable agony; he was past the point of being able to obey Eddie’s orders—unluckily for him.


“Say it, motherfucker, say it or I’ll make ya!!!” he screamed.  To his credit, Hank tried to speak, but could only emit a weak squawk of pain.  It wasn’t enough for Eddie.  Without inserting or removing the knife by even a fraction of an inch, he slowly twisted the blade inside the wound, rotating the handle so that the viciously sharp serrations and cutting edge carved a cylindrical wound all the way across Hank’s midsection.


The teen punk hadn’t imagined that pain like this couldn’t exist.  It was almost too much to handle; he was cruelly unable to pass out again, but he thought he was gonna throw up.  Every time his body tried to retch, though, his stomach was pressed against the blade’s edge, which only made it hurt worse.  He went rigid, his firm muscles locking his smooth young body stiffly into place to avoid bringing any more of his tender innards into contact with that vicious cutting edge.


“Aw, fuck,” Eddie moaned at the kid’s sphincter clamped around the base of his dick, “Fuck yeah, see, I knew this was how to treat you goddam cocksuckers.  You worthless pervs want this, dontcha?  All a real Alpha’s gotta do to make a faggot work his dick is fuckin’ gut it and it’ll massage his cock good and hard on its way out, haw!”


Eddie leaned forward.  Bracing himself with one hand on Hank’s smooth, firm chest, he jerked the knife back out of the kid’s side with a single, swift jerk, like he was checking the oil level in a car.  And in the dim light, there was some resemblance.  The blade was covered nearly to the hilt with dark, sticky liquid.


The kid was nearly full—at least, full of cock.


The extraction of the blade caused more damage than the insertion, including slicing open Hank’s stomach.  The adolescent was trembling on the edge of shock with massive organ trauma; the wound to the stomach alone would eventually be fatal—but right now, Hank’s guts were so compressed by his body’s doubled-up, easy-access-to-the-ass position, that even the internal blood lose was relatively minimal.


Death would take the teenaged homo, but not yet.  Not soon.  He still had a long time to enjoy his suffering, and Eddie knew it.


Hank didn’t know it; he could only endure and try not to think.  Thinking was just as painful as moving, because he’d be thinking about why this happened when all he wanted was to try to see if he could get a little dick for once on the DL.  He’d be thinking about death.  And some tiny part hidden deep in his brain would be thinking about the fact that he had a raging erection.  He damn sure didn’t want to think about any of that.


Eddie did, and he wanted Hank to as well.  With his free hand, he reached down and grabbed the teen’s thick, pulsing cock and wrenched it painfully to one side.  “Fuckin’ faggot, this kinda shit is why you perverts gotta die.  Ya like gettin’ hurt, dontcha?  Yer fuckin’ sick, bro, and the best way to use yer worthless ass is to let it soak up my cum when I put ya down like a dog.  Ya hear me, boy?  Ya feelin’ me?”


He let go of the seven-inch boycock, allowing it to slap back and forth between his rock-hard abs and Hank’s firm, flat belly with a loud smacking sound.  Then the sound was muffled as he hunched forward, laying his heavy muscled form down directly onto the writhing adolescent, feeling Hank’s smooth, sweat-lubed skin pressing and sliding against his own.  The humid friction made the hardbodied psycho’s nipples almost painfully erect; they dug into the kid’s pecs like fingers.


He was face-to-face with his prey now, savoring the look of confused terror and anguish in the teenager’s face.  His ability to cause suffer, to cause that look in the boy’s eyes, was part of what proved he was a true Alpha.


The other part was his ability to mark the fuckmeat as his by spraying its guts with his strong hot manseed.  He was almost ready to do it, too—but faggot was goin’ loose.  He’d reamed Hank’s virgin hole out so brutally, its torn sphincter could no longer clench his tackle.


Well, not without some stimulation.  A strong shock to the system, say.


He grinned evilly down at the helpless, pain-wacked youth, his eyes glittering and his dogtags lying on Hank’s heaving chest.  “Time to die, motherfucker.  You ain’t gonna see yer mommy an’ daddy no more, cunt; yer gonna die on my dick, right here and now.  Ya ready, bitch?  Ready to ride my fat he-man hog all the way down into yer grave?”


Hank finally found his voice.  His parents, oh fuck, what would they think?  “No, please dear God no, don’t do this, I’ll pay ya, my dad’ll pay ya, he’s rich, we got money, please anything—”


The hoarse, breathy quality of the teen’s voice was the result of blood loss.  Hank refused to acknowledge that he was already dying, but his body was betraying him.  Especially his hard, throbbing cock.  The kid was panicking, but his shaft didn’t seem to notice.


“—I swear, sir, please, sir, please don’t I won’t tell you don’t have to kill me just let me go somewhere I’ll never tell—”


Even as he begged, the teen punk shuddered and trembled with his lithe young form firmly compressed under the Eddie’s powerful body.  But all that did for the sadist was remind him of how useless Hank’s gaping boycunt had become.  As his grin became more shark-like, he raised the knife up above the kid’s shoulders—making sure that Hank saw it.


“—swear I’ll never oh god no please don’t no PLEASAAGGHthbbtpfft—”


Eddie drove the blade completely through Hank’s throat, from right to left, spearing the unfortunate boy’s larynx, easily slicing through the cartilage and the vocal cords—and the glottis, which seals off the lungs.  As Hank’s dark, puppy-like eyes bulged in horror and agony, blood trickled into his airway and he instantly found himself coughing it up, his mouth filled with a terrifying copper taste.


It was the shock Eddie had been looking for.  Involuntarily, the strong teen homo clutched at Eddie’s shoulders, his fingers digging in as he embraced his killer more closely than any lover could.  Simultaneously, the boy’s body went rigid again, this time with the added intensity of mortal agony.  As Hank’s rectum collapsed on Eddie’s straining, pulsating rod, the kid’s own long, glistening shaft suddenly swelled and spewed out thick creamy jets of boycum.  The abundance of hormones in the dying adolescent’s body seemed to ensure an endless supply of spunk—Hank kept shooting and shooting.


And it hurt.  It all hurt.  Pain was the only thing he could still feel—the way Eddie’s massive tackle tore cruelly at his colon, the way the sick ex-Marine had left the knife lodged in his throat so he didn’t bleed to death, the gaping holes carved deep into his vitals—and the way he just couldn’t stop blowing his deathwad.


“Uh—uh—aw—AW FUCK YEAH!!” Eddie screamed suddenly, feeling his hot semen boiling over and his dick swelling inside the kid’s ass.  “DIE YOU FUCKIN’ FAGGOT, DIE!!!”


As he’d done before, he twisted the knife in the wound, carving deeply into Hank’s throat before jerking the blade back out.  The presence of the blade in the wound had prevented heavy bleeding; Eddie made sure there was nothing to stop Hank from drowning in his own blood.  He’d been coughing it up before; now he was gargling it.


And still the muscular teen continued to cum.  As his life drained out through the gash in his throat, the only bit of warmth left of Hank to feel in the face of cold death was the engendered by Eddie’s potent manseed flowing into his guts.  Hank ejaculated his DNA into the void and Eddie filled the fagmeat with his own.


Hank’s eyes began to lose focus and to glaze over.  The stream of spunk from his hyper-sexed boydick slowed to a trickle and his body began to jerk and strain.  A wheezing, gurgling sound came from his damaged neck—the sound of human misery, of sodden lungs aspirating blood.  The kid was unconscious; in a way he was already dead, but his body was just now realizing that.


Even as the punk’s fingers lost their grip and fell from Eddie’s shoulders, the military stud still held on and erupted twice more, sending long jets of sperm into the corpse.  Only then did he back himself up, slowly extracting his enormous cock from the dead boy.  He headed for the bathroom, leaving the teenager gasping in extremis, but still with a heartbeat.


By the time he got back from cleaning off his dick and stuffing it back down his pants, even that was gone.


There’d been surprisingly little exterior hemorrhaging—given what the teenager had been forced to endure—but the sheets were an unsalvageable mess.  That was okay; he could get new ones.


Slipping his muscle shirt back on, Eddie approached the bed, staring down at the punk’s splayed form.  One of the kid’s Nikes twitched against the stained sheet as random nerves fired in the newly-dead corpse.  Leaning forward, Eddie planted one hand directly on the boy’s vacant, staring face, using it as a brace with he slowly pulled the blade from Hank’s throat with the same tender care as he’d pulled his cock from the teen’s ass.


Retrieving the sliced remnants of the faggot’s clothes, the ex-Marine used them to carefully clean the blood off the knife, then tossed them in the middle of the corpse’s chest, where they began to soak up the dead kid’s spunk that had pooled there and not yet begun to crust over.  Eddie then gathered the corners of the bedding, making certain that the meat was fairly well centered, so he could gather it all up like a bundle of dirty laundry.  As he bent over to grab the sheet on the far side of the corpse, he could see the youth’s dick slowly start to wilt in death.  It had still been full of cum when he died; as it shrank, it left behind pearls of semi-coagulated semen.


Fuckin’ faggot died too soon.  He’d make the next one suffer more.


Wrapping a tattered old blanket around the bundle to hide the bloodstains, Eddie carried the whole thing out to his truck and tossed it into the bed.  Five minutes later, he was heading down one of the main drags in town, heading for the Atopco factory.


Atopco was the largest manufacturer of custom tools and machine parts in this part of the state—until 1992, when the company went bust and the plant was padlocked.  It still was, which made it a great body dump.  Down on the south side of town, it was on a semi-abandoned block with no occupied buildings near.


The site itself was fenced in and locked, but that didn’t matter.  Just outside the fence, a drainage ditch, rank and overgrown with weeds, ran along the front of the property.  Eddie pulled up at the side of the road, quickly checking to make sure no one was around.  No one ever was; even the bums didn’t hang out down here—there was no real shelter, and no one to beg from.  It was perfect.


Eddie lifted the bundle out of the truck and carried it to the edge of the ditch.  Swiftly undoing it, he rolled the dead teen out of the sheet and down into the dank, scum-covered trickle of water flowing in the ditch.  He gathered the sheets up again; he’d get rid of them elsewhere.  Getting back in his truck, he felt satisfied with how he’d disposed of the faggot.  He figured didn’t need to take any more effort to hide the corpse; after all, he didn’t intend that it never be found.  It just needed a little time to ripen.


Let’s see what rich daddy has to say about that.


He felt his malicious grin creeping across his face as he headed away—but he also felt the anger brewing inside him again.  Yeah.  The next one would really fuckin’ suffer.

Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, Part 2

Brody’s head was filled with the fog of satiated bloodlust, but when Dan and Pete burst through the door into his bedroom, he knew there was gonna be trouble.  Their shirts were off and their dicks were out—they were in full snuff mode.  And the only other person in the room besides him was already dead.


They’d turned on him, the motherfuckers.


“You fuckin’ cunts!” he screamed, his anger not entirely covering his sudden fear.  He wasn’t sure he could handle them both.  Dan was larger than he was, and Pete—well, he hadn’t seen Pete in a few weeks, and the boy was swole.


And worse, their huge, hairy scrotes were seething with hot manseed.  Virile as Brody was, he’d emptied his sack inside Tony’s corpse and hadn’t had time to reload yet.  And that was important, because whatever was about to happen, it was obvious that the loser was gonna get raped before—or while—he died.


“You gone off the rails, boy,” Dan drawled, leaning against the wall at the foot of the bed.  “You gone rogue, and I don’t tolerate that.”


“Aw, fuck you,” Brody sneered.  “I’m sick of yer fuckin’ preachin’, you piece a’ shit.  Can’t trust a goddam cop.”


He was deliberately trying to get a rise out of Dan, and Dan wasn’t falling for it.


“Discipline, son,” the Captain continued in his unperturbed tone, “Ya can’t be a good soldier without it—”


“I ain’t no fuckin’ soldier!” Brody yelled, his flushed face betraying his nervousness.  Pete was slowly edging around the bed.  His silent, measured movement was redolent of sexual, self-assured masculinity.  The Pete Brody knew was a boy; the hulking, hardbodied figure that advanced menacingly towards him with a jutting, engorged cock was very obviously a man.


“You keep back, punk,” the redneck snarled.  Pete gave him an icy grin and stepped closer.


“You got my six, Captain?” Pete asked, tilting his head towards Dan but not taking his eyes off Brody.


“Yeah,” Dan responded brusquely.  “He’s all yours.  You c’n take ‘im.”


It was the placid, casual assumption of Brody’s inability to defend himself in Dan’s tone of voice that finally flipped a switch within the savage hick killer.  His balls might not be full, but when push came to shove, he knew he’d have plenty to shove.  And he needed to be the one to decide when to shove it.  He had to gain mastery of the situation.  Now.


The angry red flush dropped from his face and he returned Pete’s grin with one just a malevolent.  Then he crouched, raising his fists.


“Come at me, bro,” he murmured, feeling the first twinge of excitement in his long dangling manmeat.  Beatdown bloodlust was flowing in his veins again, and despite being spent, he was still a powerful and dangerous man.


What happened next happened fast.


Pete lunged forward, over two hundred pounds of buff male muscle flying through the air at the redneck killer.  Brody saw it coming and immediately dived onto the bed, neatly arcing over Tony’s twitching body and executing a damn near perfect tuck-and-roll off the other side of the bed.


Dan’s displeasure was visible on his face, but he didn’t move.  The boy was strong, but he was inexperienced.  He needed to learn how to take down his own fuckmeat; Dan had no intention of stepping in unless it looked like Pete was in danger.


Until later, that is.  He wanted a close-up view of Brody’s death.  Just because it was Pete’s kill didn’t mean that Dan couldn’t have some fun, too.


Pete quickly regained his feet, his face red with embarrassment.  He didn’t look Dan in the face; he already knew he’d fucked up.  But he was smart enough to realize it was because he was over-eager; he took a couple of deep breaths and calmed his raging sexual impulse to kill.


“C’mon, ya little punk,” Brody sneered, “That the best yuh can do?”


It wasn’t, and Pete was about to prove it.  He had the advantage not only of his private workout lessons but of police academy training as well.  He recognized that Brody’s sidelong glances were an indication that he was judging his distance from the door and was about to bolt.


Without signaling his motion, Pete suddenly dived onto the bed exactly as Brody had done—only he had already marked the position of both the door and his quarry.  He rolled and landed perfectly on his feet, his Wolverine boots thumping loudly on the thin trailer flooring between Brody and the bedroom door.  The trailer trash killer backed away.  With his escape cut off, his eyes darted about the room, desperately seeking anything he could use to his advantage.


While his focus was divided, Pete barreled at him again.  This time, Brody wasn’t able to react fast enough; the impact was loud, a rough smacking sound of flesh striking flesh.  Both men fell to the floor and Pete began punching Brody, brutally hard blows raining on the older man’s chest and abdomen.


For most men, gutpunching Brody would have been like beating a brick wall; the psycho’s flat ripped abs were impervious to all but the most violent impacts.  Pete had learned a lot in his past few weeks of intensive training, though—things like to how to deliver power where he really needed it.  His arm moved in a blur as he assaulted Brody’s solar plexus with a concentrated attacked.


Dan was much more impressed with Pete now; the kid had been overexcited at first, but now he’d gained some self-control and was utilizing his hulking male form as an efficient killing machine.  Brody was too busy warding off Pete’s blows to land too many punches of his own—there was no need to Dan to step in.  He could sit back and watch the kill.


“That’s it,” he said encouragingly, “You got the fucker.  Beat the shit outta him, wear ‘im down.  He’s gonna fight ya when ya try to stick yer dick up his ass, so ya gotta beat ‘im into submission now.”


“Ya hear that?” Pete sneered as he slammed his fist into Brody’s sternum like a demolition ball, “He sez you don’t want my cock.  Is that right, bro?  Ya don’t wanna get ridden like a bitch in heat, huh, motherfucker?”


Brody was in too much pain to answer; he was stunned—literally—by how strong the deputy had become.  He was also getting scared.  The kid was getting the better of him, and the Captain hadn’t even joined in yet.


Brody suddenly realized that there was a distinct possibility that he was gonna die tonight, and it was gonna be an ugly, squalid, and brutal death.  It spurred something within him; he began swinging his fists like a drunken prizefighter—no aim, but plenty of strength and fury.  He got lucky.  One of his wild punches connected.  Pete’s head rocked back; the deputy was momentarily stunned.  As a shiner started to darken his left eye, Brody squirmed out of his grasp and dived for the bedroom window.


Dan was there first.  “No ya don’t,” he said calmly, sticking out a booted foot and causing Brody to stumble headfirst into the wall.  By the time he recovered himself, Pete had too, and was closing in again.  Brody was becoming unnerved by the deputy’s steady attack; the black eye had done nothing to hinder the buff young man.  In fact, it gave his appearance a slight air of menace that it had previously lacked, somehow adding to Brody’s growing sense of fear.


Aching and bruised, he felt himself being literally backed into a corner.  All the violence and bitterness of his ignorant, uneducated rage began to seethe within his dark, twisted soul.


“So he wants me dead an’ yer gonna be the little bitch to do it, huh?” he spat at Pete.  “What, the jealous faggot to scared to take me on himself?  How many times he have ta dick ya down, boy, ‘fore you said you’d do it?”


“Only one gettin’ dicked down here is you, asswipe,” Pete said evenly, reaching down and brandishing his massive throbbing cock while smirking and staring Brody straight in the eyes.  The redneck killer recoiled momentarily—he wasn’t used to this level of self-confidence from the kid; something clearly had changed—but was soon buoyed back up by his anger.


“You goddam cocksucker,” Brody growled, “Ain’t no way a piece a’ shit fag like you’s gonna take me down.  All yer gonna do, boy, is take a nice long dirt nap.”


“Goddam, you talk a lot,” Pete said dismissively.


By now, Brody had backed into the angle of the wall by the bed’s headboard.  He had no place else to go.  Fight or flight had boiled down to this moment—and it would have to be fight.


The two hairy, hardbodied men stood just beyond arm’s reach, both panting and sweaty, staring at each other.  Pete was wearing only his jeans and boots; Brody even less—only his Red Wing boots.  And by now, the rampant flow of adrenaline and testosterone had given them both huge erections.  Again, the air in the room was heady and crackling with an almost electric discharge.


It was about to go down.


Pete closed in for the kill, his focus narrowing in on his muscular opponent’s vulnerable spot.  As an experienced killer, Brody knew what that intense, scrutinizing look meant, but even so, he was still taken by surprise when Pete darted forward and began pummeling the buff redneck’s chest.  As the deputy’s fists made repeated violent contact, the sound of him beating against Brody’s pecs was muffled by the older man’s chest fur; the loudest sound was the jingling of Brody’s gold necklace as it danced under the impacts.


The trailer-trash sadist couldn’t believe his luck.  He swung low, his huge meaty fist slamming brutally into Pete’s unprotected—but still rock-hard—belly.  And that was when Pete had him.  By lowering his arms, Brody had left his upper body exposed; before he could so much as inhale, the deputy had locked his fingers around his throat and was squeezing with the inexorable relentlessness of a bear trap.


Suddenly, Brody couldn’t breathe.  At all.  And he had virtually no reserves of oxygen in his lungs.


The violence of Brody’s prior actions had been motivated by rage, hate and fear.  Now, it was motivated by panic.  He suddenly found himself clawing frenetically at Pete’s hands, staring straight into the murderous deputy’s scruffy, handsome face.  There was no sign of recognition in the younger man’s face—Brody had become a thing, something to be used and disposed of.


It wasn’t working.  He couldn’t move Pete’s hands, couldn’t break the young killer’s iron grip on his windpipe.  The buff redneck changed tactics; snatching at Pete’s dark, curly hair, he managed to grab a handful, which he used as leverage to try to punch the dude in the face.


Pete saw it coming and tried to shift away without losing his grip.  As Dan watched, the two hardbodied shirtless men, locked in a tight and desperate embrace, suddenly lurched sideways and fell onto the bed.  Grunting and sweating, they remained intertwined in a life-and-death struggle, but the cop could see that Pete’s hard dick was already oozing in anticipation.


The problem was, with his hands locked around Brody’s throat, Pete couldn’t get his dick up the fucker’s ass.  The struggle was too intense for him to be able to let up long enough to aim his long thick meat at Brody’s tight virgin fuckhole.  And while it would have been simple enough to waste the trailer trash first and then fuck his dead body, that wasn’t what Dan wanted.


He wanted Pete to know the sexual thrill of true power—he wanted Pete to know what it felt like to have another man die on his dick.


The two hardbodied dudes continued to grunt and thrash on the bed, their flat furry bellies and hard throbbing cocks slapping together heedlessly in the struggle for control.  Dan circled the bed, looking for an opening.  Pete was establishing dominance; if he needed help aiming, Dan was willing to be the targeting assistant.


As Brody kicked and flailed, his face began to swell and turn purple.  He felt the skin on his face grow tighter as the relentless pounding inside his skull grew to excruciating levels.  The was a fire in his chest, and it felt like there was another one in his dick.  The various bruises and contusions from the beating Pete had inflicted on him had faded to nothing more than love taps as his body began to suffer the effects of extended oxygen deprivation.


“Yer doin’ real good, Pete,” Dan said approvingly, “But it looks like ya need a hand showin’ that faggot fucker his place.”


“Goddam,” Pete grunted as he continued to squeeze Brody’s throat, “He’s puttin’ up a helluva fight; not like his life’s worth anything anyway.  I can’t let go long enough to shove it in.”


“Tell ya what—I’ll be yer wingman.  Give ‘im hell quick and hard and I’ll make sure you’re right on target.”


“Fuck yeah!  I mean, yessir,” Pete responded and let go with his right hand, keeping the left clenched around the redneck’s throat.  Brody took advantage of the slight relaxation to inhale—a weak, gurgling action that brought a small but helpful amount of oxygen into his lungs.  The black explosions that had burst in front of his bulging eyes began to fade, just in time for him to see Pete’s upraised fist.  Then it moved so fast he never saw it again—but he damn sure felt it.


Pete beat the fuck out of Brody, his fist rising and falling like a jackhammer onto the older man’s face.  Brody brought up both arms, totally focused on the assault on his face.


And that was when Dan, standing by the side of the bed, bent down and reached between the two men.  Grabbing the deputy’s enormous pulsating rod, he pressed the massive oozing tip up against Brody’s pulsing pink fuckhole.  “Yer in, dude,” he called out, “Nail the motherfucker!”


Pete didn’t need to be told twice. Thrusting forward with as much force as he could generate, he simultaneously resumed his complete stranglehold on the cunt’s windpipe.  Brody wasn’t able to scream but the look of horror and agony on his face showed that he could feel every thick throbbing, vein-wreathed inch of the younger man’s hog as it reamed its way deep into his guts.


For the first time in his miserable life, the buff country sadist was feeling the literal pain of betrayal.  His own complicity in his downfall wasn’t something he’d have recognized in the best of circumstances; as it was, with Pete’s huge string hands slowly crushing his trachea, Brody could only feel rage, fear and despair.


And pain.  Pain more than anything, pain in his head, his chest, his ass—and his cock.  It was so hard it fuckin’ hurt.  He could feel his own thick meat slapping against the wiry fur that covered Pete’s ripped abs, but he was too busy trying to stay alive to speculate on it now.  He wasn’t gonna die like this.


Pete had other ideas.  In fact, he was having an epiphany, a sudden onrush of feelings he’d never known to exist.  The sheer sense of power, of control and dominance that accompanied fucking and killing another man was so overwhelming that the hardbodied deputy found himself wanting to beat the faggot fuckmeat into a pulp.  He wanted to show Brody what a true sack of shit he was, wanted to make the choking redneck feel his rage and his power.  Pete was on the verge of losing control.


But he didn’t—that was what separated him from Brody.  He could control himself.  As good as it felt, he could maintain enough discipline to see the kill through to the end.  And having conquered his momentary weakness, the young stud refocused his mind on snuffing Brody—and without missing a beat, continued to slam eight and a half inches of glistening, throbbing manmeat into the fucker’s rectum.


Dan had watched it all carefully; this was what he’d been looking for.  This was the acid test—if Pete could master and put down the renegade sadist without giving into the bloodlust that Brody himself had been unable to handle, he’d be exactly what Dan had been looking for in terms of building up an elite law enforcement squad.


The Captain was leaning back against the wall, stroking his huge erection as he watched the fatal interplay of the two writhing, sweaty men.  The loud slapping sounds of two hard sweaty male bodies in contact was increased from another source—Tony’s corpse, still randomly twitching every ten seconds or so, kept rolling in towards the center of Brody’s cheap sagging mattress as if its only regret in being dead was that it couldn’t join the fun.  Dan took it all in, noting Pete’s irregular breathing as his lust amped up, and relaxing as he noticed the boy maintaining discipline, continuing to pump the fag’s ass while keeping up the intense pressure required for a slow manual strangulation.


The deputy was starting to get into the flow of the kill.  “That’s it, ya motherfuckin’ fag,” he grinned, realizing that the harder he squeezed Brody’s windpipe, the tighter the redneck’s ass got.  “Always knew you were the type to take up the ass.”  Digging the tread of his Wolverine workboots into the bedding to increase his traction, Pete glanced up at Dan.  “Goddam, Cap,” he moaned, “I had no fuckin’ idea it’d feel so good.  Jesus, the way his homo fuckhole is workin’ my hog—”


His words broke off as Brody, finding new reserves of strength by tapping the deep well of terror inside, began beating at his chest and face.  By now, the buff older man had been without oxygen long enough that he was on the verge of brain damage.  He could no longer see or hear very well, a dark cacophony of pounding and grunting filling his ears as his eyes bulged, the white speckled with pinpoint hemorrhages.


He’d long since stopped trying to curse Pete—if he could speak, he’d be begging now.  But even without his collapsed esophagus, his mouth was wrong; it wouldn’t work.  He couldn’t see the way his own tongue was protruding, thick and purple, from between his swollen blue lips.  He could feel the white foamy drool that leaked out past the tongue, but it was a minor sensation lost in a tempest of agony.


His frantic hands scrambled at Pete’s rock-hard body with no target; the dying man was striking at any target he could reach.  One target he could reach was Pete’s left nipple.  With no sexual intent in mind, Brody grabbed at the large hard nub of flesh, clawing at it and wringing it.


“SONOVABITCH!!” the deputy yelled—but he maintained his control, and his stranglehold.


There was the heavy tread of roper boots on the floor and then Dan was right beside him, repeatedly, swinging his big fist right into Brody’s face, using the blows to punctuate his words.


“Lie [WHAM] still [WHAM] and take [WHAM] what’s comin’ to ya [WHAM WHAM], you worthless [WHAM] trailer trash [WHAM] piece a’ shit! [WHAM]”


Each impact of Dan’s fist into Brody’s face brought the smacking sound of flesh on flesh, the squelching or snapping sounds of bodily injury and a visceral grunt of pleasure from Pete as the redneck’s sphincter clenched involuntarily with each blow.  Brody’s ass responded to the beating by lovingly gripping Pete’s massive shaft in a velvety embrace.


“Fuck yeah, man,” Pete muttered, grinning at Dan, “Keep that shit up.  Motherfuckin’ faggot likes it!”


“They always do,” Dan said, his furry torso gleaming with sweat as he pounded Brody’s black, swollen face.  “Worthless scum kept fuckin’ other fags till he could find someone to treat ‘im like he deserves.”


“Har!” Pete brayed raucously, his voice somehow amplified in the close, testosterone-laden atmosphere of the small, hot bedroom.  “Ya hear that, cunt?  You lookin’ to get what ya need?  I got it, asswipe.  You need pain, fucker.  You need to be loaded with my potent seed.  You need to die like the outta-control homo you are.  Ready for it?  Ya ready to die like a little fuckin’ bitch?”


Buff, muscular Brody had never been called a little bitch in his life, but his life was almost over—and despite his physique, he really was dying like a bitch, being beaten and raped as his life was slowly and painfully throttled out.  He was in no position to resent Pete’s words, though.


For one thing, he couldn’t hear them.  The incessant drumming of his runaway pulse inside his skill was so loud and intense, it drowned out most other sounds.


And for another thing, Brody’s brain was damaged and dying off.  The struggling redneck still had some slight lucidity and sense of self remaining, but it was fading fast—and what was remaining was almost overwhelmed by the physical agony of rape and death.  Even as his nervous system began to fail, Brody could still feel every agonizing thrust of Pete’s enormous member deep into his intestines, ripping his rectal lining and pulverizing his prostate.


Some of the boys Brody had raped and snuffed passed through his mind.  He wondered if they’d suffered the same nightmarish pain he was enduring, but it was a passing thought, brushed aside by the terror of his own impending death.  But he did remember how they’d all blown huge deathloads—and he knew his own dick was still tremblingly erect.


They were fucking him, they were killing him—and he was gonna cum.  He couldn’t stop it.  He was gonna reward his killers by shooting a massive wad, and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.


The last coherent piece of his mind that was left decided it was gonna try to do something.


Dan, an experienced killer, recognized the signs.  “Hold on tight, bro, the fucker’s gonna start thrashin’.  The meat kicks hardest right before it dies, so buckle down and ride it out.”


With his cock planted firmly in Brody’s colon and his hands not just locked around the musclemeat’s throat but sunk into it, Pete was pretty well secure, but he appreciated the heads-up—especially given that, once Brody did begin to flail, it with all the violence that his panicked strength could exert.  His muscled torso arced up as if trying to throw Pete off, pressing his rigid cock firmly between their hard flat bellies like a hot iron bar.  As the redneck’s hands grasped at the deputy’s shoulders in desperation, his strong, thick legs kicked frantically, the heels of his Red Wing boots digging furrows on the surface of the old and sagging mattress.


“Yeah, that’s it,” Pete grunted, feeling Brody’s trachea deform under the inexorable pressure of his crushing grip, “Die, you motherfucker!”  He rode the dying stud like a bucking bronco, clinging tightly as Brody’s brain shut down and his convulsions intensified.  The hick sadist wasn’t dead yet, but he was past the point of recovery.  He was no longer fighting to free himself; his physical reactions were the involuntary result of impending death.


His legs flailed so violently, his right boot came off.  He kicked it into the corner of the room, unaware he’d lost it.  He was past caring about that kinda thing now.


His vision had narrowed to a tiny tunnel at the far end of which was Pete’s handsome, scruffy face, filled with rage, lust and contempt.  Then something new appeared, something Brody couldn’t recognize as first.  Had he still retained sensation in his black, grotesque face, he might have realized that it was Dan’s dick as the cop slapped it against the dying man’s lips and tongue.


And then Brody saw nothing more.  His last few moments on earth were full of excruciating pain—and unremitting darkness.


The sounds of sex and death filled the room, the scent of three physically intimate men—and one corpse—giving an unmistakable tinge to the atmosphere.  Everything seemed to combine to spur the hardbodied young deputy to greater sexual intensity, but what really pushed him over the edge was feeling the cartilage of Brody’s esophagus cracking and crunching in his hands.  It caved under his fingers like plastic foam, collapsing into a mass of bloody gristle.


The constriction of his windpipe forced Brody’s tongue out his mouth to a gruesome extent; the dying killer making a thick gagging noise as his taut hard body suddenly snapped into rigid stiffness in mortal agony.  Every powerful muscle Brody clenched tightly, including his sphincter, which closed around the root of Pete’s tackle like a cockring and triggered an explosive orgasm.


“FUUUCK!  FUCK!  FUCK!!!!” Pete cried out as he frantically clutched at the gagging faggot, spewing his seething load into Brody’s raw, torn rectum, sending a steady stream of semen deep inside the fucker’s intestines.


“Aw, fuck yeah!!” Dan cried out, spraying a thick jet of hot cum directly into the redneck’s blind, bulging eyes.  The stinging sensation, so minor compared to his other sufferings, somehow sent him over the edge.  With one final titanic jerk, Brody blew his death wad.


It was the last thing he felt as he died, and it felt like his entire existence was being torn out of him through his dick.  And then there was nothing left of the trailer trash homo killer but a pile of twitching musclemeat.


For a moment, the room was silent, punctuated only by the ragged gasping of two physically spent men.  Then Dan spoke.


“Good goin’, son.  I’m proud of ya.”


For a moment, it was as if Pete hadn’t heard him.  His eyes were wide, his dick still up in the corpse’s ass.  His firm, muscular body was still trembling.  “I—I had—” he gasped hesitantly, not speaking directly to the Captain, “I had no idea it’d be like that…holy fuck, man…”


The deputy turned and looked his superior straight in the eyes.  “I wanna do that again.”


Dan smirked.  “Stick with me, son, and I’ll make damn sure ya get the chance.  Now pull yer cock outta the meat and c’mon, we gotta roll—but we gotta clean this mess up firsttunred to.”


Dan shoved his dripping rod back into his jeans and headed out of the bedroom as Pete extracted his shaft from the dead body and picked up one of Brody’s wadded t-shirts from the floor to wipe off his dick.  He was just putting his own shirt back on as Dan re-entered, carrying a red plastic five-gallon gas can, full and sloshing.


“Here,” he said, tossing it on the bed, “Douse the room with this, then the living room.  I’m gonna get the rest of the place.”


Three minutes later, they met at the front door amid a reek of gasoline.  Dan had made a wick of a twisted dish towel soaked in gas.  He’d placed one end of it on one of the over burners turned to medium-high–just enough for ignition–and the other in a puddle of fuel on the counter; once that went, there was enough gas splashed about to ensure an inferno.


“Hang on a sec,” Pete said suddenly and dashed back to the bedroom.


“Get yer ass back here, deputy!” Dan roared, “This place is gonna go up like the Hindenburg in a moment!”


Pete reappeared immediately.  From one hand dangled Brody’s gold chain.


“I wanted a memento,” the deputy said sheepishly, “And it ain’t like he had any use for it anymore.”


Dan grinned.  “C’mon, let’s get the fuck outta here.  It’s gettin’ chilly outside and I left my shirt in the truck.”


They made sure the door latched securely behind them.  Five minutes after they left, flames could be seen through the trailer’s windows.  But nobody was there to see them, and the fire raged unchecked.



Two days later—both Dan and Pete had had the intervening day off, quite by coincidence—Pete came into Dan’s off after returning from the courthouse on routine matters.  Dan tossed aside a file he’d been perusing.


“The coroner’s report,” the Captain said, nodding at it.  “Fire department was never called; it had burned to ash and gone out by the time it was discovered.  I told the doc it didn’t look suspicious, so he wrote it up as the remains of two males found in bed together, death by misadventure.  Didn’t even do an autopsy.”


“Cool,” Pete said expectantly.  He could tell by Dan’s manner that the Captain had more to say.


“Pete,” the older man began, “Ya done good.  I can trust you.  So what I’m gonna tell ya now, ya gotta keep to yerself, see?”


Pete nodded.  He trusted the Cap, too—and admired him.  He’d do whatever the Captain wanted.


“I heard that a couple of fraternities at the state college in Jacksboro are gonna be havin’ some kinda event in the woods just north of town.  Paintball war, laser tag, some kinda fake huntin’ thing.  Boy, these are gonna be nigger fraternities, you get me?”


Pete got him.


“We can’t have this kinda shit goin’ on here,” Dan went on.  “Once a buncha coons overrun the town, crime is gonna spiral outta control.  I aim to stop it before it starts.  If a passel of jungle bunnies from outta town wanna hunt, I say we give ‘em a hunt—a monkey hunt.”


“How many you expectin’, Cap?” Pete asked.


“Could be twenty to thirty.”


Pete whistled.  “You got anyone else you trust enough to help?  That’s gonna be too many for just the two of us.”


The Captain grinned, his icy eye twinkling with anticipation.  “Yeah, I got someone in mind.  Gotta a cousin up north who runs with a pretty strong crowd.  They’ve done a good job puttin’ down the nigger troublemakers in their neighborhood, or so I hear.  I’ve asked him to come down with some of his buds.  They should be here by Thursday.”


“Nice,” Pete grinned.


Dan eyed his deputy carefully.  “Sure yer up for it, boy?


Pete responded by smirking and reaching down to shift his stiffening cock.  “Y’know, Cap, I didn’t get out near as much as I’d wanted to last huntin’ season.  I gotta warn ya, with my lack of practice, some of these might not be whatcha’d call…clean kills.”


Satisfied that his trust in his deputy was well placed, Dan returned the evil grin.  “Well it ain’t like the fuckin’ coons deserve an easy death.  They gotta learn to stay outta our town the hard way.  Wanna go down to the armory and pick out some weapons for our guests?”


Pete was on his feet immediately, his speed the result of his enthusiasm.


“Oh, deputy,” Dan stopped him just as he got to the door.  “No handguns.  That’s too easy.  Use your imagination with the weapons, but the only guns I want are shotguns.  Any nigger that gets uppity is gonna have its guts splattered over three acres.”


Pete smiled happily and left to complete his mission.  Dan leaned back in his chair and planned tactics.  He was gonna need a good map of the area; the library might have some of the old topographical surveys done back in the sixties…


Spokoynoy Nochi, Soldier Boy by


Alfonso risked a glance over his shoulder to where he knew Ivan was waiting, hidden back at the base of the trees. His comrade’s camouflage was excellent – even though Alfonso knew exactly where to look, he could see no trace of Ivan. Perfect – stealth was essential for their mission. This deep behind enemy lines there was no chance of rescue if things went wrong.

There was no warning at all. One moment Alfonso was belly-crawling another few inches forward, the next he felt the muzzle of a rifle pressing into the back of his neck. The sun-warmed metal quickly grew uncomfortably hot against his skin, but he didn’t dare move. The owner of the rifle barked something at him in Russian, thick consonants sounding like they were being torn from his throat. Alfonso took a guess at what the harsh noises might mean and opened his hands, moving them slowly out to each side of his head. “Nye govoryu po-russki”, he replied, forcing his mouth to shape the ugly syllables of the invaders’ language in one of the few phrases he had memorized.

Booted feet appeared either side of him and his hands were roughly yanked behind his back. Cuffs were applied to ensure they would stay there. Alfonso was lifted to his feet and force-marched the rest of the way across the field, covering in two minutes the same distance that had taken him two hours to crawl earlier that morning.

Entering one of the tents, he was brutally hurled to the floor in front of a small man in a perfectly-pressed uniform. There was more Russian gabble, and then, finally, words Alfonso could understand.

“My men want to execute you right away, you know,” the neatly-dressed man said calmly, without a trace of an accent. “Such rash young things. How fortunate for you that I am the one in charge here and I have decided that you should live a little longer.”

“Now,” the well-dressed man said, kneeling down to stare into Alfonso’s brown eyes with his icy blue ones, “my men inform me that they found two sets of footprints in the woods, but only one footprint-maker. Logic suggests that you have a companion who is still roaming around out there, getting into who knows what trouble. Why don’t you help us save him from making an embarrassing mistake by telling us where we might find him?”

Alfonso stared at him for a moment or so, then quickly, striking like a cobra, spat in the man’s face. The commander backed away, never losing his calm expression, and fished a cloth from his pocket to dab at his face.

One of Vladimir’s two men stepped forward, aiming a booted foot toward Alfonso’s mouth, but Vladimir stopped him with a movement of his hand. He kept quiet for a few moments, continuing to stare into Alfonso’s eyes as he wiped the saliva off his cheek. Then, standing slowly, still moving with calm deliberation, he smiled. He spoke a few words in Russian and the two men disappeared. They returned a minute or so later, carrying a human-sized wooden cross. The sight of the cross made Alfonso’s heard pound in his chest. The men lifted Alfonso, removed the cuffs, and tied him to the frame, stretching his arms so much he thought his shoulders were going to pop apart. Then they left the room.

The boss-man approached and once more stared into Alfonso’s eyes. Slowly, methodically, he took hold of Alfonso’s shirt and tore it in half right down the centerline of the chest, ripping a few inches at a time. “Now, soldier,” he said, fitting the words into the spaces between pulls on the fabric, “my name is Vladimir, and I am looking forward to learning your name, along

with whatever other information you decide to tell me over the course of our conversation.” The shirt was now torn completely in half, the two parts dangling limply beside Alfonso’s ribs. “Do you know what I like about men like you?” he purred, placing his hand on Alfonso’s smooth chest. Alfonso could feel his heart beating like a drum beneath the man’s palm. “You’ve clearly got a tough body. It will be able to take more than most men. Which means… more fun for me.”

Alfonso looked down at his now slightly-sweaty chest and at Vladimir’s hand resting aggressively, intrusively on it, certain that Vladimir could actually hear the frantic beating of his heart, not merely feel it beneath his fingers. The commander dropped his hand and turned away. He walked back to a desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a large number of very long, thick needles. Alfonso swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat.

“Now,” Vladimir said, turning back toward Alfonso’s pinned, helpless body, “this is where the fun begins. For me.” He drew out one of the needles. Calling the implement a “needle” was an understatement, like calling a hawk a “bird” or calling a fighter jet a “plane” – the word did not do the object justice. It was approximately as long as his hand and perhaps half as thick as a pencil. He watched Alfonso’s eyes as the needle emerged to glint in the light – a slight widening, but not a panic reaction. Good to know, although Vladimir could have worked as easily with panic.

Vladimir gazed at the needle in his hand for a bit, then reached out to caress his victim’s side with his other hand, running it from the moderate dusting of chest fur at the front to the smoother parts beneath the armpit. “Why don’t we start with you telling me your name, hmm? I’d like to keep this as civilized as possible, and it seems tactless to keep thinking of you as ‘Victim Number Seventeen’. So dehumanizing. What should I call you instead?”

After a few seconds of silence, Vladimir reached forward with the needle and placed it against his captive’s skin, angling it forward from just behind the side of the pectoral muscle. He pressed and the finely-honed point dug a dimple into the flesh, depressing it briefly until the skin parted with a faint popping sound and the tip slid underneath. Vladimir kept pressing, smoothly applying pressure until the needle began to emerge just under and to the outside of the taut nipple. A tiny mountain raised itself up until finally the second layer of skin parted like the first, though with a much louder “pop”, and the tip of the needle emerged followed by a thin trail of dark red blood.

Alfonso’s breathing was rough and ragged and tiny moans emerged from his mouth as the needle made its transit. Without pausing for a break, Vladimir withdrew a second needle and placed it on the other side as a mirror image of the first.

“I have approximately five hundred of these,” he said casually. “That’s a total of about two and a half kilograms of metal. I can find places for every single one of them over the next few hours. I hope that will inspire you to take a greater role in our conversation than you have done so far, but if it doesn’t, then I’m sure I’ll be able to think of other alternatives afterward.”

“Well, don’t tell me your name if you don’t want, I don’t mind it at all to be honest. Actually, I already know some interesting things about you. Do you want to know?”. Vladimir got closer to Alfonso and whispered to him “I know where you’re from, according to the badge on your uniform. And here is the curious thing, I’m a soldier too, you know? Actually, I am one of the people who specializes in making stubborn enemy soldiers like you talk. It can be a difficult job, but I find it has certain… compensations”

The nineteenth and twentieth needles went through the meat of Alfonso’s thighs, causing the legs to tremble and quiver. Vladimir opened the next box of needles, but when he started to place the next… what was this? The very first two needles he had inserted were no longer oozing blood. How curious – usually the slow drips continued a while longer, but the entry and exit points were already scabbed over. He looked at the others, and found that all forty holes – even the four he had just created – did not look like fresh injuries. The oldest looked like they had been healing for a few days, the newest for a few hours. And yet it had only been minutes. Curious indeed.

He decided to experiment. The next needle went in through Alfonso’s side from front to back, drilling through the muscles of the belly but avoiding any vital organs. The next went in parallel to it and slightly higher, and gradually he built a ladder up his writhing victim’s side, setting needles into a parallel line running from the top of his pelvis to his lowermost rib. Sure enough, by the time he had finished placing the top rung of the ladder, the first one had stopped bleeding.

“You are a fascinating young man, it seems,” he said, looking into his victim’s face. “Were you aware, I wonder, that your body heals itself from wounds much more quickly than other men? Ah, I see you knew that already. I suspect your army knows it too. I wonder… could they be responsible for it? Hmm. Well, this adds an interesting wrinkle to what was already a very enjoyable job.”

Alfonso`s heart skipped a beat. Vladimir continued to drive spikes through the bound man’s skin and muscles, eliciting sharp intakes of breath and a few whimpering moans. By the time he had emptied the fifth box – 100 needles – Alfonso was trying – and occasionally failing – to hold himself unnaturally still because any movement set the needles to dancing uncomfortably in his flesh. “Now,” Vladimir said, “I don’t usually remove any of the ornaments until the end of the session, but this intriguing ability of yours is too fascinating. I need to experiment a bit.” He withdrew the first spike he had inserted and inspected the resulting hole. “Fascinating indeed,” he murmured. “Do you realize this has very nearly healed over? Your little cells have been working overtime, haven’t they? Building new skin, sealing off the injured area… in any other man, this would have taken months, but your body managed it in under an hour. And now as a result, you have a nearly-fully-healed body piercing. How remarkable. A shame I don’t have a ring or barbell of suitable size to insert in the hole… ah, wait, here is something.” He picked up a piece of rough twine from the floor. Using a small piece of clear tape, he attached one end of the twine to the thick end of the needle, then slowly pushed the needle back into the hole it had created. This time he kept pushing until the needle went all the way through and out the other side, drawing the twine after it. When the needle had fully emerged, he removed the tape and was left with a length of twine embedded in his victim’s body. He sawed the twine back and forth a few times, generating a raspy noise that grated on his ears. “Ah. Such an interesting sensation this must be for you. I can only imagine.”

“Wow, you are a tough one. I didn’t think you’d hold out this long”. Vladimir stated, standing back and looking at his work. He smiled at the panting form in front of him. Alfonso´s torso was now full of needles and drenched with sweat, his chest heaving uncontrollably. “We’ve been at this for nearly eight hours. I didn’t expect you to last for half that time, and I do, unfortunately, have other responsibilities that I must attend to. And so, alas, our time together must come to an end.” Said that, Vladimir left the tent.

Hardly being able to keep composed due to the pain inside him, Alfonso realized that at that rate, his torturer would eventually discover the secret behind his body. The truth was, waiting in the side of his neck (and causing an almost unnoticeable shimmer) there were billions of nanorobots which started flowing throught his blood the moment he got injured, healing almost every wound he could get in a short time. He wasn’t immortal, he could die as well, but the nanorobots made it less likely. Not everyone could be like him. The army injected the nanomachines into every recruit it got. In 90 cases out of 100, the enhancement didn’t work and the machines were flushed harmlessly out of the recruit’s body. But in those 10% of people that the machines were compatible with, they established a symbiotic relationship with their host, granting him increased resistance to pain, rapid healing from injury, and immunity to every disease and infection. Indeed, Ivan was one of those people, a normal soldier. Alfonso felt glad thinking that it was going to be him and not his mate who had to face whatever Vladimir had planned for him. He had no idea at all how much he was going to regret it, how sadistic Vladimir would get.

Taking advantage of this short moment of peace, Alfonso thought of his pregnant beloved, the moment they say goodbye and he promised to her he would marry her after that war finished. That happened a year and a half ago. “Could it have been a girl? A boy?”

Few minutes after, he heard the door opening and Alfonso looked to Vladimir, who was carrying a long dagger. Vladimir gave him another of his evil smiles as he noticed his beloved prisoner realizing what were about to happen.

Alfonso’s heart continued to pound erratically as Vladimir approached him, the dagger extended. He place the icy cold tip against Alfonso’s heaving chest, right over his hard-pumping heart muscle. Vladimir looked into Alfonso’s eyes, and shoved the blade deep into his hairy chest, careful not to puncture the heart. Alfonso’s eyes widened and he let out a gasp of pain as the man withdrew the blade and shoved his hand in the hole, right between his muscular tits. His face contorted into a grimace when Vladimir’s hand found the target, gave it a light squeeze, and pulled it from the mighty chest slowly. During the ripping procces, he witnessed with delightment the veins and arteries that were broken being repaired instantly. The torturer stood in front of the tortured, holding the pounding muscle in his blood-covered hand. Vladimir felt the pump kicking hard in his hand, the various veins and arteries connecting itself to Alfonso still attached.

Vladimir took one more needle.

Alfonso’s eyes opened in horror, realizing what was about to happen.

Vladimir smiled as he began to press the needle into Alfonso’s heart until the tough outer membrane broke. Alfonso gasped several times as the man grabbed another needle and pressed it in just as slow in another area of his pumping heart. Alfonso jerked his head back in agony as the needle was lodged into his heaving muscle. Vladimir carried on until 5 needles found themselves invading Alfonso’s heart, making him have no longer the strength to scream Alfonso had never felt such pain, nor had he ever been aware of his heart as a separate muscle until this moment as the needles sat there, prodding painfully into it.

“Look down,” Vladimir commanded. Despite all the agony, Alfonso did. Vladimir was holding what appeared to be a stick in front of his hips. As Alfonso’s eyes focused better, he realized the stick was actually his torturer’s erect cock.

You’re…a sick-…son of a…” Alfonso forced his words out without any air to support them so they failed him.

“And you’re a dead man.” Vladimir hissed, enjoying Alfonso’s lack of fight. Still with Alfonso’s quivering heart in one hand, he licked the bloody edge of the blade before thrusting it into Alfonso’s sternum.

Alfonso let out a pained grunt as his already air-deprived lungs felt like they were constricted. He gasped for air and let out a raspy cry as the blade was pulled out, he felt like it took half of his remaining life out with it.

While he was dying, his life slowly fading away through all the holes in his body, Alfonso thought once again of his beloved, lamenting that he had not been able to fulfill his promise to marry her and see the fruit of their love grow. In spite of all the pain, Alfonso managed to outline a weak smile, thinking that at least the image of her would be his last thought before dy….

His thoughts were interrupted as he felt his chin being elevated and his bloody lips being kissed slowly and carefully. He managed to lift his heavy eyelids and saw his torturer licking the blood from his lips and kissing them. The image disgusted him and closed his mouth tightly, but his punisher moved the fine needles that pierced his heart, which made Alfonso groan in pain, allowing his punisher to invade his mouth with his tongue. “At least it won’t last long,” thought Alfonso, surrendering and closing his eyes to at least not have to face such repulsive vision.

A few seconds later, Vladimir stopped kissing him and moved away from the cross where Alfonso was spending the last agonizing moments of his life. Alfonso took advantage of that momentary peace to recall the image of his beloved again before dying. He had barely managed it when suddenly he felt a hand resting on his aching right shoulder and then his abdomen was stabbed by something serrated in one of the few areas that were not invaded by needles with such fury that the little air left in his lungs escaped. The brutal pain disintegrated the image of his beloved from his mind and left him in shock. Too weak to reopen his eyes, and unable to react, Alfonso could only feel the razor being pulled out of his abdomen with the same fury with which it was embedded, taking small pieces of intestine with it, to be nailed back to it. Vladimir kept plunging the dagger again and again, making Alfonso only being able to focus in the pain, until his dying heart could no longer bear it and the darkness took him away.

Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, Part 1

The dark and crowded bar presented something of an obstacle course to anyone carrying a pitcher of beer, and especially to someone of Pete’s broad-shouldered, muscular build, but he managed to get back to the table without spilling any of the golden, frothy liquid.  Seating himself, grinning, he expertly poured a couple of glasses without generating an overflowing head.  He then slid one of the glasses across the table to Dan.


Pete had been working out heavily, as per Dan’s instructions, and it showed.  The younger cop was much more built now than he was when they’d first met.  This was the first night in two weeks that they’d both been scheduled off together, and they took advantage of the fact by going out to celebrate.


It was just sheer chance that Brody was in the same bar.


They’d kept up their surveillance of him; the pair of bulked-up cops hadn’t forgotten their pursuit of drug traffickers, but there’d been little movement in that area.  On the other hand, there hadn’t been much movement from Brody either.  Ever since he’d wasted the teenaged faggot, he’d laid low; they knew that because either Pete or Dan had spent part of virtually every day trailing him.  Not that they’d intervene if he initiated another snuff; Pete was still waiting for the signal, and Dan hadn’t given it yet.


Tonight, though, was for relaxing and celebration.  Both men had dressed down in plaid western-cut button-down shirts; Dan had rolled up the sleeve of his, showing off his furry forearms.  Both men also wore very tight, very worn jeans and boots—Dan’s was a pair of steel-toe Rocky western ropers while Pete sported a comfortable pair of Wolverine Moc Toe 8-inch workboots.  They pretty much looked like the other country guys in the bar—which was likely why Brody never saw them, even though they weren’t in stakeout mode.


It was Pete who first noticed him.  “Well, I’ll be goddammed!” he said in amazement.


“What is it?” Dan asked.


“Look over there, Cap—ain’t that Brody?  See, next to that buff, dark-skinned dude at the bar…”


Dan squinted into the crowd.  “Yeah, it sure is.  Well ain’t that a coincidence.  And here I thought we were givin’ him the evening off.”


For a time after that, they ignored the rogue killer; after all, he wasn’t gonna kill anyone in public.  Dan was congratulating Pete on his physical progress, letting the younger man know how proud he was and suggesting some further areas of improvement, but Pete kept noticing how the captain’s eyes were wandering back to Brody.


Finally, his curiosity got the better of him.  “Ok, Cap, out with it—what’s he doin’?”


Dan shook his head.  “Naw, it ain’t him.  It’s the guy he’s talking to.  I swear I seen him somewhere recently.  Or maybe his picture.”


Pete craned his neck to see the guy better, but his view wasn’t as good as Dan’s; all he could make out was the guy’s back.  He seemed to be a well-built Latino in a yellow t-shirt, torn, stained jeans and a pair of black Timberlands.  His blue-black hair was nearly shoulder length and while he was older than most of the fags Brody went for, Pete could see the attraction.


“Yeah?” he asked, “Think we should keep an eye on them?”


Dan looked Pete levelly in the eyes and said, with little fanfare, words that made the young hardbodied acolyte’s heart leap with joy, “Yeah, we should.  You’re ready, boy.  You can take ‘im if ya hafta.”



Within ten minutes, Brody and the Latino man got up and headed for the door.  With little fuss, Dan and Pete left their table as well, keeping close to their prey but not close enough to be noticed.  Outside, it was even easier to stay in the shadows; while Brody headed for his truck, the cops headed for Dan’s.


The moment he was behind the wheel, Dan snapped his fingers.  “Tony Rodrigues, that’s who he is,” he said.


“Who, Brody’s new fucktoy?” Pete asked.


“Yeah,” Dan said, grinning.  “Came across the wire a couple of days ago—he’s wanted in Calabesa County on suspicion of raping and murdering seventeen-year-old Billy Webber—his stepson.”


Pete whistled, his eyes wide.


“Yeah,” Dan chuckled, “Looks like we’re might have us a rasslin’ match tonight ‘tween these two.  So much the better.”


His grin took on a darker hint that was mirrored in Pete’s face when he glanced at the younger man.  “Loser’s gonna take us on.  No matter what happens, Body’s goin’ down tonight.”


Pete felt his powerful muscles tighten in anticipation.  The feeling of rigid hardness penetrated his entire body, as the thick, pulsing bulge in his crotch proved.  “So we’re gonna be there for the kill?  How’re ya gonna manage that, Cap?”


“Easy,” Dan grinned.  “Who’s working the east side tonight?  Mike, yeah?”


He got on the radio and called out to Mike.  It seemed that nothing much was happening on the east side tonight and Mike was glad to do the Captain a favor.  Providing him with Brody’s plate number and a description of his truck, Dan asked Mike to delay the driver.


“Ya just want me to hold him for a few minutes?”


“Yeah, Mike—I just wanna check out a hunch without a possible suspect around.  I appreciate it.”


“No problem, Captain—glad to help!”


Pete looked at the older man questioningly.  “What was that for?”


“That’s how we’ll be in on the kill,” Dan replied, “We’ll get there first.  We’ll be there watching as it goes down.”


“Aw, fuck yeah!” Pete chuckled.  “Damn, that’s good.  Watchin’ one snuff the other so we can be on the spot to waste the one left alive.  Fuckin’ hot as hell!”


“You ready for this, boy?” Dan asked, his face serious for a moment.  “You ready to end a man’s life, to feel him die in yer hands?”


“Yeah,” Pete responded in a strained voice, “I been fuckin’ ready since day one, man.”


Dan didn’t have to see Pete’s huge erection straining the worn denim of his jeans to know that the younger cop was eager.  The question was—was he able?  Tonight, Dan would learn for certain just how far he could trust Pete with his plans for the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department.


And some of those plans were…extreme.



Brody was in a foul mood as he slowly maneuvered his pickup up the rutted gravel road towards his trailer.  He’d have to talk to Dan about that cop who pulled him over.  Pure fuckin’ harassment.  He wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t fuckin’ acting like it, either.


On the other hand, the dude was with was drunk; in fact; the fucker was totally bombed.  He was laying back in the passenger seat, slurring out boasts about his sexual prowess and leering at Brody.


Dude seemed to have no idea he was gonna be the one taking it up the ass tonight.  He’d learn soon enough, though. Maybe he’d put up a fight.  Brody kinda hoped so; his internal rage needed a good venting.  Beating the shit outta this drunk muscled faggot would feel damn good.


He shut off the truck.  “We’re here,” he told the guy—couldn’t remember his name and didn’t care anyway—and jumped out of the driver’s seat.  The other guy fumbled at the door handle, got it open, and managed to get out of the truck without falling.  Staggering, he followed Brody up the steps.


The buff killer had headed to the bar straight after work; he was still in his work clothes—torn, stained jeans tucked into his laced, untied Redwing construction boots and a white tank top clinging to his huge hairy chest.  As he mounted the steps, though, he could feel the gaze of the hardbodied homo behind him and knew that it was centered on his ass.  He grinned; if the motherfucker thought he was gonna be shagging Brody, it was gonna be a pleasure to teach him otherwise.


Brody was all man.  He didn’t take dick from nobody.


Neither did Tony.  At least, he never had before and had no plans to change that, but he was too fucked up at the moment to consider the matter at all.  He’d never had a problem getting hard even when he was drunk; his seven and a half inches of thick, vein-wrapped manmeat was already stiff as he watched the trailer trash stud climb the steps in front of him.


Brody flipped the light switch as soon as they entered.  Tony’s first drunken thought as his glance swept the trailer’s dark and dingy interior was that he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place.


Then Brody turned towards the kitchen and the sight of his firm, rounded ass covered in the soft, faded denim, filled Tony’s mind with other thoughts.


Brody grabbed a beer from the fridge.  He didn’t ask, or care, if his guest wanted one.  As far as Brody was concerned, it’d be a waste of a good beer. Drunk homo wouldn’t be around long enough to finish it anyway.


“Bedroom’s in there,” he grunted, nodding towards the partially open door on the other side of the clothing-strewn living room.  Popping the top of his beer, he took a long swig, then noticed that the motherfucker was still standing there, swaying slightly.


“Whatcha waitin’ for?” he snapped.  “G’wan, get in there an’ strip.  Get on the bed.”


Tony finally picked up on the instruction, without picking up any deeper meaning in the stud’s harsh tone.  By now, he’d absorbed all the alcohol that had still been in his stomach when he left the bar—he wasn’t just drunk; he was stupid drunk.  Grinning inanely, he staggered into the bedroom.


Behind him, the buff killer polished off his beer and crushed the can in his fist.  He peeled off his dirty t-shirt, baring his powerfully muscled torso.  The gleam of his sweat-slick skin under the dim overhead light was matched by the faint twinkle of his thick gold necklace, half-hidden in the dense fur that swept across his massive chest.


He was looking forward to this.  The piece of faggot shit in the other room might think it was a top but by the time Brody was done with it, it’d know its true place on earth—or in it.


Grinning maliciously, he reached down and unzipped his fly, then slowly extracted his formidable shaft.  Once free of the confines of his jeans, it pointed straight at the bedroom, so hard it ached.


It knew its prey was in there, and Brody wasn’t one to deny it.  He headed for the door with his rod jutting in front of him like a weapon; the thud of his boots was muffled by the threadbare carpeting.  He was intent on the kill and didn’t look back.


If he had, he might have noticed the way the guest bedroom door was being slowly and stealthily opened.



In the bedroom, Tony had at least been lucid enough to strip off his clothes; his t-shirt and jeans were piled sloppily on top of his Timberlands.  His hairy, muscular body was the first thing Brody could see when he entered.  The drunk Latino was grinning stupidly and hard as a rock.


“C’mon, man,” he slurred, “C’mon an’ suck it.  I got it ready for ya.”


Brody’s answering grin was colder and more malicious.  The dumbass actually though he was gonna be driving.  The psycho clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.  This was gonna be fun.


“Get on the bed, faggot,” he said, the cold steel in his voice cutting through the haze in Tony’s alcohol-soaked brain.


“Huh?” the buff Hispanic chirped, peering blearily at the larger man.  “Wha’, ya wanna suck me off on the bed?  Naw, get on yer knees.’


Brody didn’t bother to conceal the line-drive punch that he aimed at Tony’s head.  The nude furry fag saw the powerful blow coming at him but was too wasted to dodge it.  He took the full impact in his face, falling back, stunned, onto the bed.


Stunned and wasted, yes, but not incapacitated.  Tony wasn’t quite as tall and powerful as Brody was, but the difference was minor.  He was strong, and he’d been caught off guard to the extent he’d had no clue that he was about to be attacked.  He rose up off the bed before Brody could approach him.  A hurt anger glowed in his red-rimmed eyes as he wiped his busted lip with the back of his hand, leaving a bloody smear.


“Wha’ th’ fuck, man?” he demanded.  His voice had the slightest hint of a whine in it; just enough for Brody to hear, and to spark his contempt.


“Get back on that bed with yer fuckhole in the air, ya worthless pig,” Brody barked, “I’m gonna jam my rod so far up yer ass you’ll be gaggin’ on it from the inside.  Bend over, bitch—now!”


Tony’s drunkenness meant that his reaction was more stupefaction than anything else; it soon shaded into amusement.  “Aw, naw, dude, I fuck—I don’t get fucked,” he laughed easily, as if he’d entirely forgotten that he’d been punched in the face two minutes earlier.


Brody decided to remind him.  He kneed Tony in the crotch, driving his hard patella into the Latino’s hairy, low-hanging nads.  As he grunted, painfully and viscerally, and crumpled, Brody jerked his leg up again, this time planting his knee deep into Tony’s flat, firm belly.


The buff Hispanic expelled the air in his lungs with a forced wheeze and fell straight to the floor, gasping and shuddering at Brody’s feet.  The tall redneck killer squatted down and, placing one knee on Tony’s back, leaned forward.


“Guess what, asswipe,” he hissed menacingly, “You’re already fucked.”


He stood erect and drew back one foot, then drove his steel-toed Red Wing boot crushingly into the heaving, gurgling fag.  Brody’s cock visibly pulsed and stiffened at the wet snapping sounds caused by two of Tony’s ribs shattering under the brutal impact.


If the hardbodied Mexican had been able to catch his breath, he would have screamed; he’d broken bones before, but he’d never endured the pain of sharp jagged shards tearing open his left lung.  And suddenly, regaining his air became much, much harder.  The pain cut through the alcohol-induced fog in his brain like—well, like a sharp knife.  As he writhed, nude, on the filthy floor of a stranger’s bedroom, Tony understood that he was in trouble.  A lot of trouble.


Brody, on the other hand, was filled with satanic glee; his uncouth backwoods brain full of a barely controllable mix of red-hot lust and white-hot rage.  The faggot was learning his place.  But if this was kindergarten, Brody was ready to accelerate the lessons to post-graduate level.


“C’mon, motherfucker,” he sneered as be bent down and grabbed Tony, “My dick it gettin’ cold and I wanna warm it up in yer guts while I jack you up.”  Brody locked his hands around the moaning homo’s upper arms; they weren’t quite big enough to encircle Tony’s thick, strong biceps, but they were close.  He hoisted the Hispanic dude in the air and held him close—their chest fur bushed and tangled together—while he looked Tony straight in the eyes.


“Ready to get what’s comin’ to ya, spicmeat?  Fuckin’ wetback pansy—ready to get what ya deserve?”


Tony still couldn’t speak clearly, but he didn’t need to.  Much to his horror, he felt his long, thick tube of manmeat slowly but visibly growing rigid.  Since Brody was strong enough to hold him dead-arm straight at eye level mere inches away, within seconds the two hard cocks were practically jousting with each other.


The look of triumph in Brody’s eyes was cold, hard, and terrifying.  Dominance had been established, but in this pairing, there would not be an alpha and a beta.  There was only an alpha and a null—soon to become a negative.


Tony already knew he had to act fast if he was going to leave this room alive, but his vicious assailant’s inherent sadism worked against him in more ways than one.  He figured he might be able to scramble away once he was tossed on the bed.  Brody, however, had other plans, and he put them into action with a blindingly swift maneuver.  Letting go of Tony’s right arm, he grabbed at the fucker’s throat, his left hand clamping around it like a steel trap.


He was then free to ball up his right hand into a fist and slam it like a wrecking ball into the left side of Tony’s torso—exactly where his boot had landed.  The Hispanic homo had recovered enough breath to scream, but his throat was cinched off.  He could only gurgle and writhe, his toes curling in agony barely an inch above the dirty carpet.


When Brody tossed him onto the wadded pile of stained, yellowed sheets, Tony was less concerned with escaping and more concern with trying to breathe without shrieking.  He was about to find out it didn’t matter if he shrieked or not—no one would care.


It wasn’t that there was no one else nearby; it was just that those who were nearby wanted to hear him scream.



Pete crouched in the doorway with Dan right behind him.  As close as they were, the captain could sense the raw sexual excitement surging through his buff young deputy.  It emanated into the hazy atmosphere of the darkened hallway—an electric aftertaste, a whiff of cordite, something hot and powerfully charged.


The two men watched silently but intently as Brody beat Tony into submission before raping him.  They did nothing to intervene.  They were representatives of the law, but it was an artificial law, a human construct.  This situation was under the jurisdiction of the law of the jungle—a much older and more primitive law that gave to the strong the right to do whatever they desired to the weak.  It was the law by which all four men lived their lives—even Tony, who had used it to his advantage with his stepson.


Problem was, Tony met someone even stronger.


But four aroused hardbodied males within a fifteen-foot radius, all pumping out pheromones in an area already permeated with mansex, were adding fuel to a raging fire.  And the brutality Brody was inflicting on the Mexican fag was nothing compared to the explosion of violence that was soon to come.



As Tony wallowed in pain on the bed, Brody’s towering presence suddenly loomed over him.  In his agony, the well-built Latino had lost sight of the vicious bastard who’d inflicted it on him—until Brody was there, his shadow thrown across Tony’s muscular body.



For a moment, the battered boykiller glanced up at his assailant.  It was a terrifying sight—the hulking psycho standing over him, huge muscles gleaming with a light sheen of sweat and an angry, jutting erection that would intimidate the most submissive bottom whoreboy.  The glint of the thick gold necklace nestled in Brody’s wiry, luxuriant chest fur naturally drew Tony’s gaze up to the sadist’s hard, masculine face, covered with dark, unshaven scruff and filled with such hate and lust that Tony almost lost control of his bladder.


He had to get out of here.  Now.


Despite the pain it caused him, he managed to roll over onto his belly and begin to squirm away.  He might not have been as bulked-out as Brody, but he’d been powerful enough to waste his stepson without breaking too much of a sweat; he might stand a chance against this loco motherfucker if he could just beak away—


—and then Brody was on him, a sudden crushing weight as the hardbodied killer landed on his knees on Tony’s back, pinning him face-down on the bed.  The startled Latino reached out for the side of the mattress, seeking something to grip so he could pull himself out from under, but Brody stopped that maneuver cold.


He shifted his weight, keeping one knee in the middle of Tony’s back and placing the other in the middle of the spic’s right forearm.  “You ain’t going nowhere, ya fuckin’ wetback,” he snarled, his redneck voice thick with racial hate, “Not till I’m done with ya.”


He laid his right hand on top of Tony’s and curled his fingers between those of his victim.  In another setting, the gesture would have been intimate, even loving.


Here, it just gave Brody a better grip, letting him use greater force as he jerked Tony’s arm back with enough power to break it at the point where his knee was placed.


The thick, almost gristly double snap of the radius and ulna shattering simultaneously was drowned out by Tony’s screech of pain.  His escape plans evaporated as he stared incredulously at the way his useless right arm hung at a bizarre angle.  His muscled body heaved and twitched; Brody rode it out with a vicious grin, his thick meaty cock slapping on Tony’s bare back as the cunt flailed.


“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, cocksucker,” the sadistic top crowed, “Lissenin’ to yer bitch ass squealin’ like a fuckin’ pansy turns me on.”  Still kneeling on Tony’s back, he silently unbuckled his belt and snaked it out from around his waist.  Beneath him, the furry, muscled spicmeat was still bucking and jerking in pain.


Tony never saw Brody double the belt up; her never had the chance to flinch from Brody’s upraised arm or to try, however uselessly, to ward off the impending blow.  He never knew it was coming until it was there.


Then it was all he knew.


Instead of holding the ends of his thick leather belt, Brody held it in the middle, leaving the ends—including the large metal buckle—to cause the actual strike.  As a result, the power of his blows was instantly doubled.  The end with the leather strap left vicious welts that added to the agony caused by the buckled end tearing at Tony’s taut manflesh.


The first lash was almost as painful as the broken arm, a searing slice across his right shoulder blade, as if a butcher was making a preliminary cut before slicing off a specific cut.  The next one came before the fiery agony of the first had subsided, and from that point on, Tony only remembered that his arm was broken when his mindless thrashing ground the jagged ends of the bones together.  And even then, it didn’t matter.  What mattered was that the sheer excruciating torture of Brody’s insanely violent attack convinced Tony that he was being flayed alive.


He wasn’t that lucky.  Death would’ve come sooner that way.



Pete’s bloodlust was near the boiling point.  Dan couldn’t blame the younger man; he was no less full of testosterone and cum than Dan himself.  And the scene playing out in front of them certainly wasn’t cooling them off.  Two hardbodied males on the bed, one screaming in pain, the other grunting with the muscular effort of inflicting pain…


They could see well enough; Dan had decided it was safe enough to crack the door open a little wider.  The two motherfuckers in the bedroom were too engrossed in their own relationship, so to speak, to notice much of their surroundings at this point.


And so the pair of buff lawmen crouched with erect, straining cocks, as Brody beat the screaming Mexican to a pulp, whipping the thrashing faggot until he drew blood, then moving on to a different spot.



After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually closer to ten minutes, Brody stopped swinging his belt.  Still straddling the fagmeat, he could feel it twitch and shudder beneath his firm muscular thighs.  It moaned and sobbed quietly, as if it already knew that begging was useless and that its best choice was to accept what was being done to it.


It expected to be hurt again; some deep dark area of its brain, walled off by battlements of denial, even expected death.  What it didn’t expect was Brody’s long swollen shaft rammed brutally up its virgin hole as the violently powerful redneck mounted it from behind and took it like a bitch.


Tony was a top.  He’d enjoyed the fuck outta raping his teenaged stepson.  He’d never felt any desire to take it up the ass, and this new source of agony somehow transcended the pain of broken bones and lacerated skin.  It was…invasive, somehow, in in the way nothing else had been.


And despite his suffering, the memory of Billy’s snuff flooded into Tony’s traumatized mind.  From nowhere, the thought flashed through his head that he’d inflicted exactly this pain on the teenaged punk.  Adding to the effect caused by Brody’s cock grinding against his prostate, it created an involuntary physical reaction.


To his horror, Tony found himself with a raging hard-on while he was getting viciously assraped.


Again, he screamed at the top of his lungs—but not at top of his vocal cords.  He’d been shrieking and crying so long that his already hoarse voice cracked.  The sounds he gave off now were guttural and grating.


Brody found it instantly annoying.  He liked his meat screaming, but he didn’t like it gargling.  He’d never let go of his belt, even when he’d plowed his tool into the pansy’s asscunt; he’d intended to use at some later point.  The noise the spic homo was making decided him; that point was now.


If the fucktard wanted to gag, Brody would give it a goddam good reason to gag.  He looped the belt over its head, then switched the ends in his hands so that it crossed at the back of the neck.  After that, all he had to do was lean back and jerk on the reins.  By easing up on the belt (or vice versa), he controlled if the meat breathed or if it choked, if it gasped for air or if it gagged in suffocating horror.


The hairy, muscled wetback was his fucktoy, a sack of meat to enjoy as it died on his cock.



Tony, of course, didn’t think of himself that way, but nobody gave a shit what he thought.  And by this time, lucid ratiocination was beyond his abilities.  With a monstrous cock up his ass and a thick leather strap cinching off his windpipe, self-preservation took up more of his mind than self-image.


But some part of him was also recalling Billy’s violent convulsions as the teenaged punk had died.  Tony had strangled him with a belt.  He’d forgotten that.  He’d raped his stepson and choked the boy to death with a belt.  Now it was happening to him.


The inside of Tony’s head felt like it was going to start spewing out of his ears; the pressure and the pounding were unendurable—but he could only claw ineffectually at the thick strap with his one good hand.  He couldn’t move; he was pinned to the bed by what felt like a telephone pole being reamed up his ass.  He couldn’t even scream aloud anymore.


And that was the point when Tony lost his Alpha card.  He was suddenly flooded with remorse for what he’d done to his stepson.  Now that he was suffering the identical agony he’d put the little cunt through, he developed a rudimentary sense of empathy.


It came too late to redeem him as a human being; it just made his last few minutes on earth as thrashing fuckmeat even more painful.



From behind, Brody couldn’t see the spic’s face.  He didn’t get to watch the way his bitch was drooling, or the way its eyes bulged and its face darkened from purple to black, but he didn’t need to.  He could feel its asshole working his dick, massaging the full length of the thick, throbbing shaft as he plowed it into the fucker’s guts.


The more brain damage the homo suffered, the harder its fagcunt stroked Brody’s rod.  The hardbodied redneck pumped his massive hog faster and faster into the dying shitsack, feeling beneath him its powerful muscles clenching and relaxing involuntarily as it started to lose physical control and coordination.


One thing it hadn’t lost yet was consciousness.  Brody didn’t know how he knew it could still hear him—but he knew.  He bent down to whisper into the motherfucker’s ear, so close, his rough, unshaven cheek brushed against the faggot’s head.


“Stupid fuckin’ wetback,” he hissed, “Still drunk, asswipe?  Still so drunk ya think you can fuck me?  Only thing yer good for is sinkin’ in th’ swamp after you die and milk my load outta me.  Ya hear me, boy?  Work my dick, faggot, work it good!”


With a snarl, Brody rose up and jerked brutally on the belt, his hands tightly gripping the ends as the thick bands of muscles in his biceps strained visibly under the skin.  The pressure on the dying pansy’s throat was inexorable.



Tony both felt and heard his esophagus collapse.  It was a soft crunching sound, like some crushing plastic foam, with the snapping of the hyoid bone adding a moment of punctuation.


When it happened, Tony shot his load.  It was an instinctual and uncontrolled reaction—the reflexive response of hypersexual manmeat to overwhelming physical trauma.  Since he was pinned face down on the bed, no one knew he’d spunked.  Not even Tony.  What he’d felt was an excruciating ache, as if his scrotum had been turned inside out, and in a way, it had.


In other circumstances, it would have been his best orgasm to date; he unloaded more sperm onto Brody’s stained sheets than he’d ever shot before.



It wasn’t how the meat’s dick reacted to a mortal wound that interested Brody so much as how its rectum did.  And the spicmeat’s ass was handling the buff killer’s engorged member like it was deliberately jacking him off.  The faggot’s fuckhole seemed to have a mind of its own, one not affected by lack of oxygen—one that wanted the alpha’s seed.


“Oh fuck,” Brody grunted, dropping the belt, “Oh fuck!!”  With a loud, inarticulate cry, the muscular killer leaned forward and wrapped his powerful arms around the corpse’s head.  His hips pumping at a frantic tempo, the redneck stud gave a massive grunt and twisted his arms.


The movement was quick and brutal; he wrenched the spic’s head off its spine.  The top two cervical vertebrae shattered with a popcorn-like burst, clearly audible outside the bedroom.  The sound damn near made Dan and Pete cum.  It did make Brody cum.


He jerked and heaved, his muscle-bound form shuddering violently as he hosed the dead fucker’s guts with his semen.  As the dead man continued to kick and twitch on his cock, Brody hunched over and spewed jet after jet of seething sperm up the corpse’s ass.


Gasping and heaving, he finally slowed.  Gingerly, he began to extract his still-oozing manhood from the dead faggot when the door was kicked in.


Brody looked up, angry and confused, as Pete and Dan piled into the room.  Pete had his shirt off, baring his huge furry chest; Brody hadn’t realized how pumped up Pete had gotten.  Behind him, Dan just finished unbuttoning his shirt and was slipping it off.


Then Brody realized that Pete’s fly was open. and his enormous tackle was hanging out.  And hard.


It happened in the blink of an eye.  “Take ‘im, Pete!” Dan barked, and the younger man threw himself at Brody.


Brody might not have known why it was happening—but he knew what was happening.  It was gonna be a fight to the death.  And if he lost, he was gonna take it up the ass.




Alpha Male Eddie

Eddie was pissed, but that was nothing new.  It was what had got him kicked out of the Corps after three years; he still seethed with rage at the memory of the Marine shrink’s diagnosis: fragmented personality with psychotic breaks trigged by latent homosexuality.  That motherfucker.


Eddie was ALL man, and he damn sure knew how to show it.  Every facet of his image, from his chiseled, rock-hard body to his military gear and clothing, to his jacked-up matte-black Dodge Ram picked, was specifically designed to show that was a true Alpha Male.  Nothing—nothing—would ever disprove that.


But every now and then, something slipped.  And when that happened, things got—


Well, for example, there was JJ.



It started one summer evening just as the glaring sullen heat of the day was fading into a swift dusk.  Eddie just happened to be driving by the Hudson Street Skate Park when he saw the boy.  He didn’t know why he pulled over, but he did.


The boy was heading out, walking away from the park with his skateboard under his arm.  He seemed to be headed for the bus stop at the corner—that was when Eddie decided to make his move.  He quickly pulled to the curb and asked if the kid needed a lift.


“Sure, man,” the kid grinned, adolescent hormones giving the teen’s voice just enough depth to prove that he was sexually mature.  “Name’s Jeremy,” he said, opening the door and climbing up into the cab, “But my friends call me JJ.”


JJ was in fact seventeen—and was sexually mature.  Two years ago he’d managed to get Amy Schneider from down the block to give him a handjob and just lately he’d talked her into blowjobs.  He wasn’t going steady with her or anything, but none of the other girls he went with would suck his dick yet.  He was supposed to see Amy tonight and was anxious to get home.


For a brief moment, the two males sat and scoped each other out.  JJ’s face was smooth, with just a hint of youthful fullness; his hair was short and dark, but it was mostly hidden under a black ball cap—with, Eddie noted with interest, a Marine Corps logo.  Maybe the boy’s daddy was enlisted on the base.


The teen’s gear was nothing special—a gray t-shirt and black mid-thigh shorts covered his lean, lithe body but showed his smooth, firm legs to advantage.  A pair of black Converse Play hightops with a red heart logo completed the skatepunk look.


For his part, JJ was almost mesmerized by Eddie; he’d never seen such a perfect male form.  And Eddie wasn’t dressed to be ignored.  His military affinity was clear from the way he kept his dark blond hair buzzcut and his facial hair trimmer in a razor-straight line.  His khaki utility pants, bloused into a pair of black leather combat boots, wrapped tightly around his thickly muscled legs.  The pair of dogtags dangling against his skintight olive-drab t-shirt drew attention to his huge sculpted pecs and his almost-perfectly ripped abs.  But there was something both compelling and repellant about his face—JJ couldn’t say what.  Maybe it was the cold hard lines of his cheeks, or the grim set of his mouth…or maybe the unnerving glare of those piercing green eyes, icy and fiery at the same time…


It was Eddie who broke the silence.  “So, where ya goin’, man?” he asked, the friendly, open tone of his voice making the teen relax visibly.


“Aw, I’m headin’ out to Jupiter Road—over where it crosses Adams, y’know?  Gotta meet my girlfriend…”


Eddie chuckled and JJ blushed boyishly.  “Well, she ain’t my girlfriend…I mean… well, she kinda—”  He lapsed into a confused silence as Eddie continued to grin.


“Yeah?  What, she letcha dip yer wick, huh?” the older man laughed coarsely, making the teenager blush even harder.  Finally, Eddie decided to relent.


“Yeah, I gotta head out that way for business—ya mind if we stop at my place on the way?  Need to pick up something.”


“Naw,” JJ said, “And lissen, about Amy—”


“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Eddie said tersely.


“No, but seriously, man, I get to thinkin’—see, maybe I could get a real girlfriend—one a’ them hot senior bitches that won’t even look at a junior like me—if I had a hard body.  Like yours.  Man, how do I do that?  Whadda I gotta do to look like you?”


Eddie glanced at the teen covertly, noticing the boy’s wide-eyed, innocent look.  The little fuck wanted to pretend to be an Alpha Male?


“Ya wanna get swole?  C’mon, boy and I’ll show ya some of my routine if ya want.”


Of course JJ wanted.  Eddie shut off the loud rumble of the truck’s huge engine; from his vantage point in the jacked-up cab, he could see that there was no one about.


“You c’n leave yer board here,” he said and jumped from the truck, his combat boots crunching loudly in the gravel lot.  JJ followed, but his lean teen body made far less noise when he hit the ground; he watched the well-built older man enviously as he trailed him into the apartment.


Half of Eddie’s bedroom was devoted to weights; in the center was the standard inclined bench, now laid flat, with a rack of barbell weights on the left and one of dumbbells on the right.  All the weights, including the hex dumbbells, were metal—the set looked old, but was obviously still functional.


The other half of the room also caught JJ’s notice—not so much the twin bed and the inexpensive dresser as the posters on the wall.  For a moment, the kid thought they were movie stills—then he realized he was looking at blown-up photos from war correspondents across many wars.


They were almost all photos of corpses.


On the far wall was a large flag with a grinning skull superimposed over a pair of crossed daggers.  Chains of roses frames the image; a motto, split to appear above and below, read “Die, Motherfucker, Die”.


Eddie noticed JJ looking at it.  “I’m gonna get that tattooed,” he said proudly, “Right here, on my right bicep.  Already got the money for it, too.  But the guy I wanna do it is in prison; I gotta wait till next year for him to get out.”


JJ took all this in with the silent reverence of a teen who feels he’s in the presence of a serious badass.  His admiration for the red-blooded male in front of him overpowered any sense of unease the gruesome photos had generated—after all, the dude was in the military, just like his dad.  Mighta even had to kill someone.  If he got to know him better, he’d ask, JJ decided.


“So anyway, I’m up to pressing three hundred and twenty-five right now, but I like to start down at two seventy-five for a few reps before adding the final fifty,” Eddie explained.


JJ looked at him questioningly.  “You don’t use a spotter?” he asked.


“Fuck,” Eddie sneered, “Spotters are for pussies.  Real men don’t need no help to lift.  Watch.”  And with that, he pulled his shirt off in one smooth sweep, letting the dogtags fall jingling back to the center of his broad chest.


And even though neither of them realized it, the sight of Eddie’s smooth hubcap pecs and erect, jutting nipples got JJ hard.  Eddie wasn’t in a position to notice it and JJ was used to the spontaneous erections of adolescence without thinking about what caused them—although he did find it odd how his breath caught was he eyed the older stud’s six-, or fuck, eight-pack abs, so taut and ripped.  As Eddie stood before him, booted, in tight pants and with that amazingly sculpted torso, JJ realized he’d never seen a more perfect male form.  He was overwhelmed with desire, but in his mind, it was desire to be Eddie.


If he’d come right out and said that, it might have prevented what happened next.  But probably not.


“Ya gotta get yerself positioned right,” Eddie was saying as he settled back on the bench, sliding under the already-loaded barbell, “Yer gonna fuck up yer back if ya don’t…” he trailed off, his face going blank.  He was looking at JJ, but his gaze seemed to be miles away.


Only seemed.  His head was right at the level of the kid’s crotch.  Eddie had suddenly realized the little punk was hard.  He’d gotten hard while looking at Eddie.


The kid was a faggot.  A little fuckin’ faggot tryin’ to act like a real man.  A little fuckin’ faggot who’d wormed its way in, wantin’ to make him a homo too.


The break was swift and silent.  Eddie blinked, smiled, and sat up.  “But for you, dude, I’d suggest building up those arms first.  Try some daily reps with a five-pound dumbbell, like one of these.”  He picked one of the hex weights up off its rack and strolled over to the skatepunk.  “In fact, these are good for lotsa things.  Like puttin’ fags’ lights out.”


“Huh?” JJ asked, his youthful face full of innocent confusion as Eddie smashed it with the dumbbell, knocking the teen senseless to the floor.



JJ was climbing.  He didn’t know to where, but it was a long and painful climb, and the higher he went, the more painful it got.  It had started as a general agony but seemed to be devolving to a specific ache.  Just as he regained consciousness, he located it in his jaw.


The pain ballooned in severity as he blinked and groaned.  His eyesight was blurry, and he was utterly unable to comprehend the change of circumstances he’d undergone since his last memory.  He vaguely recalled the buff shirtless dude who was standing over him with a look that could be either a hate-filled snarl or a vicious grin.  And the teen couldn’t place the significance of the blood-smeared dumbbell the guy was holding.


“Www…wwh…whaa—” he tried to speak, but there were hard lumps in his mouth.  He spit them out and saw two of his teeth tumble down his own chest, leaving faint bloody streaks on his smooth skin.


That was when he realized he was nude.  Well, he still had his Converse kicks on; he could feel them, but otherwise he’d been stripped nude.  And he was—he was on the military dude’s workout bench, evidently.  It had been raised from a flat to an inclined position, and he was on it on his back, completely nude.


He didn’t try to move; it was useless.  he could see hid hands–hinging above his head, they’d been handcuffed separately to the barbell, one on each side of the bench.


As he looked at the barbell in confusion, Eddie spoke.  “G’wan and try it, cumsucker.  I got four hundred pounds on that thing.  Yer fag ass ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  His voice was filled with a cold glee that sent chills down the teen’s back.


“Ay…ain’t no fag…” JJ managed to mutter, rolling his head to the side and spitting out blood.


“Course ya ain’t, you fuckin’ lyin’-ass fairy.  I saw yer boydick get all stiff when ya saw a real Alpha Male.  That’s why ya came here, yeah?”


JJ couldn’t think.  His head hurt.  In a way, it was why he was here, but not that way—but he couldn’t think.


“Fuckin’ luring me in from the side of the road—betcha could barely keep from grabbin’ my cock right there in fuckin’ public, huh, ya goddam homo?  Ya wanna see what Alpha Male meat looks like?  Here ya go, asswipe.”


His eyes blazing with psychotic fury, Eddie jerked his zipper down and dug inside his tight utility pants.  And as dazed and bewildered as JJ was, he couldn’t help but be in awe of the massive tool the buff young stud pulled out.  Over eight inches long, nearly two in diameter, wreathed in pulsating veins and with a huge purple head—it was as terrifying to the trapped teen punk as any deadly weapon would have been.


And in its own way, that was exactly what it was.


The captive youth gaped at the erect member that dangled directly over his face.  With terrifying speed, the malicious grin on Eddie’s face was replaced with an enraged snarl.  “You fuckin’ pervert!!” he screamed, and before JJ could even flinch, the hardbodied ex-Marine began pounding him in the face with the blunt metal dumbbell.


The sounds in the next few minutes were unbelievable—the wet squelching sound of flesh beaten until it splits, the crying and bleating of the teenager as he was forced to submit to the brutal violence of the older, more powerful man, the rattling of handcuffs and jingling of dogtags, the crunching and snapping of facial bones…


When Eddie finally stood up and tossed the bloody dumbbell aside, his massive, well-defined torso glistened with a film of sweat.  He paused to catch his breath and admire his progress.


The faggot was still conscious, but not coherent.  It gurgled and coughed up some blood and a few more teeth before lying back, gasping—it couldn’t breathe through its crushed nose.  The eyes were dark and swollen shut, the lips were split, the jaw was fractured and both cheekbones were broken.


It wasn’t enough.  The faggot hadn’t suffered enough.  Eddie still needed to show what an Alpha Male did to impudent skatefags who tried to sneak in for gaysex.


He needed to fuck it, to plant his potent manseed deep inside the boymeat.  That’d show the fucker, all right.  Show it just what the fuck was up.


As he wandered in and out of dark clouds of pain, some small part of JJ’s mind that wasn’t cowering in a corner wondered exactly what the hell had happened.  This major stud had offered him a lift, had offered to show him how to get swole, and then just—


The kid’s thoughts were interrupted by a sensation of movement.  He could feel the Marine dude grab his ankles and yank; with a supreme effort, the youth managed to pry open his swollen eyes—to watch in horror as the buff psycho placed JJ’s Converse hightops on his shoulders.  Even then, his terrified psyche wouldn’t let him go all the way—he could see the huge pulsing shaft that was pointed right between his legs, but he refused to acknowledge what it meant.


But reality could be denied only so long.  Even with his eyes closed again, he could feel the pressure starting to build against his anus as the huge thick spongy head of Eddie’s dick probed the tiny opening.   Suddenly Eddie muttered, “Ya know what a real Alpha Male is? He’s a man who can make anyone submit to his cock.”  JJ braced—but it wasn’t enough.


This pain wasn’t like the pain of the brutal beatdown his captor had administered.  It was much, much worse.  His adolescent sphincter could only stretch so wide; it was a virgin hole utterly unused to external penetration and lacked the flexibility to handle the older man’s enormous tackle.


Eddie literally tore the teenager a new fuckhole.  JJ’s cry of outraged discomfort spiraled into a shriek of terrified agony as his ass muscle split open and Eddie’s gigantic throbbing member pounded its way relentlessly up his ass, tearing at his rectal lining as it went.  Nothing in the young skatepunk’s life had prepared him for this—this nightmarish pain of impalement, of being torn open from the inside—


To Eddie, he was just a tight fuck.  And a noisy one.  “Aw, shaddap and take it like a fag, ya cunt!!” he roared, spitting in JJ’s face.  He then drove his point home by driving his fist into the kid’s face, cutting his scream off abruptly.  As the skatepunk lolled listlessly on the narrow bench, the buff ex-Marine took a savage joy in using the virgin boymeat as his own personal fuck toy.


Drifting in and out of consciousness, JJ was still aware that his ass was being pounded with relentless fury; he couldn’t help but be aware of it. The thick pulsing veins that sheathed Eddie’s massive tool rode roughshod over his prostate, massaging the hormone-filled adolescent until his own boycock rose up stiffly, as if in defiance of the vicious assrape.


He could only moan in bewildered agony, but it was enough for Eddie to hear.  It was enough to trigger another break.


“Ya like that, ya fuckin’ piece a’ shit fairy?  Moanin’ like a goddam whore with a dick in ya—cocksuckin’ pansies like you need to fuckin’ die!”


Leaning over JJ, Eddie wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat and began squeezing.


Nothing in the teen’s short, useless life had prepared him for this level of trauma and abuse; the entire attack had left him stunned and defenseless—not just physically, but in a profoundly psychological sense as well.  Despite the pain, he still simply couldn’t believe that what was happening was real.


That all changed now, instantly, with the cessation of breath.  Whatever his failings, whatever he’d suffered, JJ still had the lithe, lean body of a fit and active teenager.  That body sprang into action, instinctively, in a frantic attempt at self-preservation.


For his part, Eddie was taken by surprise.  He’d been heavily trained in the art of the hand-to-hand kill, but he’d never actually killed anyone before.  He didn’t expect such a violent reaction—but his training enabled him to retain control of the situation.


As JJ thrashed and kicked, Eddie leaned forward, pressing down on the boy and pinning him under the weight of his muscles.  He could feel the teen’s smooth, firm belly and strong pecs flexing valiantly under him, sliding against his own massive chest on a film of sweat.  His dogtags dropped onto the punk’s swollen, blackening face, then slid to the side.


The muscle-bound stud endured the aimless frenetic buffetings of the boy’s hands; he’d already wrapped his powerful arms around the kid’s legs as a grip to fuck him, so all the gagging youth could do with his legs was squeeze at Eddie’s waist.


“That’s it,” he hissed psychotically into JJ’s pain-twisted face, “Yer dyin’, homo.  Does it hurt?  I hope so, ya sick fuck.  Goddam piece a’ shit—yer dick is hard!  You deserve to die, ya disgustin’ pansy.  Fuck you, ya fuckin’ faggot!!”  And having worked himself into a frothing anger, he spit in JJ’s dark, congested face and dug his thumbs into the teen’s larynx.


JJ had been going on for nearly a minute with no oxygen; he should have been starting to black out, but some perverse physiological anomaly was enabling him to remain conscious.  It wasn’t a benefit.  He could hear and comprehend everything being said to him.  He didn’t understand why he was being called a faggot, but he knew his dick was hard and he knew he was dying.


And he knew when Eddie crushed his larynx.  He could feel the older stud’s thumbs slowly gouge the thick mass of cartilage out of place; he could hear as well as feel the gristly crunch as his voicebox was pulped.  Again, it was pain of a kind he hadn’t realized could exist and his physical reaction was innate, and instant.


Eddie had never experienced anything like it—the way the teen’s virgin rectum clenched up on his swollen member, squeezing it vigorously, almost desperately, as if it knew that making him ejaculate was the only way to stop the agony.  The boy’s thrashing ceased; he gripped his murderer tightly, sensually—an instinctive response to minimize movement and hence pain.   But to the homicidal ex-Marine, it seemed to be a drawn-out moment of intimacy—of him finally proving, and the worthless faggot finally understanding, exactly how Alpha Male Eddie truly was.


Now that Eddie had asserted himself as Alpha, he still needed to mark the meat as his.  He still needed to pump it full of his potent manseed, to neutralize its faggotry.  It needed it.  The faggot needed his cum.


And it hadn’t suffered enough.  It was still alive.


“Ain’t dead yet, faggot,” he grunted, pounding his shaft into the twink’s ruined fuckhole, “Ain’t dead yet.”  The hardman tightened his hands remorselessly around JJ’s neck, feeling the erotic sensation of the rubbery esophagus being crimped shut by the sheer force of his powerful hands.


JJ could feel it too, in a way.  The pounding in his head was worse than the pounding in his ass; the pressure that had built up in his skull felt like it was shoving his eyes out of their sockets.  In spite of the way they bulged grotesquely, he still couldn’t see much—but the great black explosions in his field of view weren’t just blood vessels rupturing in his eyes.  The oxygen deprivation was catching up to him.


He’d been a healthy little punk, and it betrayed him physically.  He’d managed to stay conscious long enough to still be awake as brain damage set in.  So he was unlucky enough to be able to feel his windpipe being crushed but was totally unaware that a long stream of drool was oozing out past his protruding tongue and was trickling down his left cheek.


Reason and meaning ebbed from the dying teen but sensation and pain remained.  The thrashing boymeat could still feel its own erection.  Eddie could feel it, too.


“Still hard, ya fuckin’ pervert?” he snarled, “Fuck you, faggot—fuck you!!”


Jamming his thumbs under the angle of JJ’s jaw, on each side, the ex-Marine, his phenomenal strength amped up by psychotic rage, squeezed his hands with all the power he could muster while simultaneously wrenching them in opposite directions.  In a fraction of a second, Eddie totally destroyed the major anatomic structures of JJ’s neck.


The collapse of the trachea yielded the same viscerally satisfying crunch that had accompanied the mangling of the unlucky youth’s larynx.  This was enhanced by a loud snapping sound that came from a deeper location—by the placement of his thumbs and pressure applied to the right way on the back of the neck, he’d managed to pop the kid’s skull right off his spine, shattering the first cervical vertebra and sending bone shards slicing into JJ’s spinal cord.


Whatever the punk’s screaming terrified adolescent brain wanted to do after that was moot; the electrical signals coming from the cerebellum shorted out.  The adolescent body responded to its damaged nervous system in the way it was most primed to: it went into instant convulsive orgasms.


It was the convulsions that got to Eddie, too; the way the smooth, lithe teen body suddenly clutched him tightly and shuddered beneath him—it was almost as if it was deliberately milking his swollen, pulsating rod.  He felt the hot splash of the boy’s cum on his chest and realized that the faggot was spewing a steady stream of boymilk all over him; it was being smeared across his chest as their bodies pressed together in a frenetic coupling of semen and death.


“Aw, fuckin’ faggot!” he screamed, pounding his right fist into the dead boy’s already-ruined face, and felt his balls draw up beneath him.  Then he had to hold on tight as his own ejaculation rendered him powerless, clutching the trembling corpse as he spunked, again and again, pumping what felt like quarts of searing hot manseed into the worthless homo cumrag.


Eddie lay on top of the teenager’s dead body for nearly ten minutes, feeling the corpse quivering beneath him until it finally lay still.  When he disengaged himself, he had to peel his chest from the twink’s; the boy’s cum had already started to dry.  His thick shaft, still engorged and leaking, came out of the kid’s ass with an audible pop.


Eddie left the room and took a shower.



When he returned, he paused in the doorway to admire his work.  He was proud of himself; he’d taken a worthless faggot out of the world, and he’d shown it he was full Alpha Male as he did it.


It had fallen off the bench while he’d showered, but it was still handcuffed to the barbell, so it hung by its arms, resting on its left hip.  The smooth chest was covered by a crusty glaze.  One of the Converse sneakers still twitched every few seconds, but otherwise it was still.  The face couldn’t be seen; with its neck broken, the dead kid’s head was slumped forward.  Only the boy’s sweat-matted black hair was showing.  And its softening cock, pearls of semen dripping from the tumescent head.


Eddie had put his pants and boots back on after the shower; now he slipped the t-shirt back on as well.  Then he stepped up to the weight bench and unlocked the cuffs that held up JJ’s corpse, letting it slump to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.  Stowing the cuffs in his nightstand drawer, he paused and considered for a moment; then, picking up the teen’s clothes and cap, he left the apartment.


At his truck, he opened the bed.  He used an old section of carpeting as a bedliner, cut to fit; he rolled it back and tossed the clothes into the bed.  Retrieving the skateboard from the cab, he placed it in the bed, too.  Then looking around to make sure no one was observing him, he darted back into the apartment.


When he came back out, he was carrying the meat.  He placed it in bed of the truck, then rolled the carpet back over it—not perfect camouflage, but good enough in the dark.  Hopping in the cab, he started the huge beast up and headed out.


The front part of the skate park was still brightly lit and in active use; most of the punks out now were older, probably late teens or early twenties, but there were a few who looked younger—some much younger.  Eddie ignored them; if they weren’t faggots after his dick, he had nothing against them.  But now he knew that fags hung out at this park, and he intended to send a message.


The rear part of the skate park backed up to the interstate and wasn’t used after dark; this was enforced not so much by chains or fences as by the simple expedient of keeping the place unlit and as dark as possible.  The few daredevils who regarded it as a challenge had already injured themselves enough to serve as a warning.  One boy had died; another had suffered massive brain damage and was still on a respirator.


The back end of the park was left alone at night.  Tonight, though, it wouldn’t be.


All Eddie could see was a pit; he couldn’t tell its shape or form, and he didn’t need to know.  He tossed the reamed-out boymeat, nude except for its sneakers, into the darkness and heard it hit the concrete below with a boneless thud.  It was followed momentarily but its clothes, hat, and board, the latter of which clattered noisily down into the pit before evidently landing on its wheels and rolling some distance away.


An unexpected breeze picked up, ruffling Eddie’s buzzcut hair.  He glanced over at the lighted part of the park, his steely gazing sighting on the heedless youths darting about.  Yeah, this place was infested with faggots.  He’d have to keep his eyes peeled.

Blackie Goes Dark

Sighing with boredom, Blackie leaned back in the doorway and took a swig from the flask he’d stowed in his pocket.  It was a warm night and the mouthful of body-temperature Johnny Walker burned his throat on the way down.  It didn’t bother Blackie, though, he was used to it.  And he’d deal with being bored so long as he could get tanked.


Didn’t mean he couldn’t get pissed off, though, for having to stand out here in the hot humid night air just to earn a coupla extra bucks.  Damn Uncle Clayton, he grumbled inwardly, Coulda done more.  Coulda gotten me a better job.


Actually, Clayton Chambers had already done far more for his nephew Hayden (Blackie to his disreputable friends and, reluctantly, his family) than the strung-out young punk deserved.  Simply getting him into the police academy hadn’t been difficult—a matter of a word or two places with the right cronies in city hall, getting Blackie’s criminal record buried too deep to find—but number of strings the old man had to pull to ensure Blackie’s graduation was a different thing altogether.


The boy hadn’t had any issues with the physical parts of the course; he was twenty-three and his body was a hundred and fifty pounds of firm, strong muscle.  And, to everyone’s surprise, he turned out to be an excellent marksman.  But that was where his appropriateness for the police academy ended.


It wasn’t just that Blackie got violent when he drank—and he drank a lot—it was that he was stupid.  It was a stubborn stupidity that successfully resisted all attempts at improvement, making him sullen and ungrateful.  His innate arrogance and sense of entitlement had made him a pariah in his graduating class and universally loathed on the force.


The annual salary of a rookie cop wasn’t much, but it was more than enough for most young men his age to live on.  Blackie, though, continued to party like a teenager and his lack of responsibility naturally led to lack of funds.   Hence his moonlighting as a security guard—and his attitude towards doing it.


Fuck it, at least I can still get fuckin’ drunk, he thought and took another swig.


The night was still, but not quiet; the warehouse he was patrolling, a small metal building set back from the street by a parking lot, was only a few blocks from the highway and a couple of major thoroughfares.  The sounds of the city rose and fell like waves from all sides; even in the dead of night, it wasn’t silent.


Blackie checked the time; it was half past midnight.  He sighed petulantly and began his perimeter walk; there were stickers placed at points along the perimeter that he had to scan with his phone by a certain time, to prove to his employer that he was actually doing his job.


Another fuckin’ indignity.  Bastards couldn’t just trust him.  Of course, if they had, he wouldn’t be patrolling the property; he’d likely be too drunk even to walk.  As it was, he was having trouble keeping his feet.  The thick soles of his heavy workboots made loud scuffling sounds as he staggered his way along the perimeter fence.


His figure, silhouetted by the parking lot lights, wasn’t a bad one; he was just under six feet tall and despite his dissipation, his build was tight. The hip styling of the black hair that gave him his nickname—buzzcut on the sides and rear with the longer hair on top spiked at the front—was offset by the heavy dark scruff of four days’ worth of growth shadowed his cheeks and his chin.  If it weren’t for the dark blue short-sleeve button-down and tight chinos that were the required uniform of the job, he’d have looked exactly like what he was—an ex-high-school party boy several years past his glory days and rapidly going to seed.


Broad-shouldered and built, stupid and drunk, Blackie was already fulfilling his highest contribution to society—not as a cop, at which he was utterly incompetent, but as bullet-bait for a cartel-owned warehouse.


Blackie didn’t know that last part, of course, and if he had he wouldn’t have given a shit.  He also didn’t know that he was steps away from a nightmarish world of torture and terror that would end only with his agonizing death.


There was an oak tree in the far corner of the parking lot.  Massive and ancient, its limbs stretched up ninety feet and its vast umbrella of shade was more than sixty feet in diameter; the few cars that ever parked in the lot tended to crowd under the oak on hot summer days.


Tonight, the blackness under it was damn near impenetrable.  But there was a sticker he had to scan on the corner post, back behind the tree.  Squinting in the dark, the drunk young guard stumbled in his heavy boots but continued to plod sullenly forward.


The first hint that anything was off was also his last chance to save his life, but he was too fucked up to take it.  His police academy training had taught him how to recover from being blindsided by a blow like the one that sent him stumbling into the tree, but he could only clutch drunkenly at the rough bark to keep from falling to his knees.


The most dangerous aspect of Blackie’s employment on the police force was that it gave him an excuse to carry a gun 24/7.  He had one on him now, in a hip holster, but he was too stunned to even think of reaching for it.  And then a hand clapped over his mouth, a hand in a leather glove that had no fingertips, to allow for a tactical grip—like the one sealing Blackie’s lips with an iron grasp.


He couldn’t see the glove on the hand over his mouth, of course—but he could see his mate.  It was right in front of his face, holding the wickedest Ka-bar knife the young thug had ever seen.  At least seven inches of serrated carbon-steel blade glimmered faintly in the darkness, three inches from his eyes…


…eyes.  He could see eyes.  The face across from his was masked; there was an opening for the mouth and one for both eyes, across the bridge of the nose.  The rest was a hood of black material that completely covered the head.  Some self-preservation instinct tried muzzily to jump-start his training; the inebriated punk was able to get at least a vague idea of his attacker.


The Other Dude was all in black—some kind of jumpsuit, with soft-soled boots.  It made it harder to tell.  He was slightly larger than Blackie—and definitely stronger—and judging by the wrinkles around the eyes, somewhat older, perhaps early thirties.


But that wasn’t what Blackie noticed most about the eyes.


The knife vanished but instantly Blackie could feel its tip pressed against his stomach.  It was a pinprick, just barely there on his firm flat belly three inches above the navel.


“You feel it?” hissed the Other Dude—softly and abruptly.  The pressure on Blackie’s mouth eased.


“Uh-huh,” he muttered shakily.


“I ask.  You answer,” the Other Dude continued in a brisk, business-like manner.  “If you don’t…”


The sentence wasn’t finished.  It didn’t need to be.  Blackie could see the end of the sentence in the Other Dude’s eyes.  They were pale blue, opaque as deep-set ice.  The intoxicated punk had never seen eyes so cold.


He knew that the moment his usefulness ended, so did his life.  It scared him so bad he lost control of his bladder.  The hardbodied young punk was forced to stand, pinned against a tree, as warm piss ran down his firm legs and pooled in his boots.


He was utterly helpless, utterly alone, and utterly in the Other Dude’s control.  And he knew it.


“Y-yessir,” the young thug said, speaking to an older man in a respectful tone of voice for the first time in his life.  It had taken a knife pointed at his gut to make him do it, but he did it.


“Ok,” the Other Dude said evenly, “Where’s Ramirez?”


“Who?” Blackie asked blankly.  The hand clamped down on his mouth like a bear trap and then—


—and then it was inside him oh fuck the pain the knife was inside


“Relax,” the Other Dude whispered, pressing his full body weight against the shuddering punk, steadying him up against the tree, “It ain’t even penetrated yer abdominal cavity.  Yet.  Every question you don’t answer, it goes in another inch.”


Cold despair seized Blackie as he realized that no matter how willing he was to cooperate, it wouldn’t save his life if he honestly didn’t know the answers.  Tears rolled down his cheeks; he’d have begged for his life if the Other Dude wasn’t still handgagging him.


“Now tell me where Ramirez is,” the black-clad figure hissed menacingly.  He released Blackie’s mouth.


“D-dunno any Ramirez,” Blackie sobbed frantically.  It didn’t help; the Other Dude clamped down on his mouth again.


“That didn’t answer my question,” he snarled and sank the blade in another inch.  Blackie, his mouth sealed by the leather glove, moaned and shuddered.  “Ya feel that, bitch?” the Other Dude sneered, “I’m already through yer gut muscle.  Next one, yer gonna start feelin’ in yer bowels.  Answer me, ya fuckin’ sack a’ shit, or I’m gonna stick ya like a pig.  Who’s in the goddam warehouse?”


His eyes wide, Blackie frenetically shook his head.  The Other Dude let go.  “I-I-I hons-onestly don’t know,” the panicked young thug gabbled, “I on-only been inside a cup-coupla times…”  His hoarse, husky voice trailed off into broken weeping.


“Aw, bullshit!” the Other Dude spat out and rammed his blade up to the hilt in Blackie’s flat, firm belly.  Leaning forward, he pressed his face up against that of the suffering punk, whispering quietly into his ear.  Blackie could feel the Other Dude’s mask scraping against his own facial scruff as the cold, hard words penetrated his ear.


“I scoped it all out.  Yer a fuckin’ cop–I’ve seen you in uniform.  Ya gotta be in on this deal—Ramirez has too many contacts in the department.  You ain’t playin’ innocent, motherfucker—ain’t nothin’ worse than a crooked cop.”


The Other Dude leaned back again, his features becoming lost in the darkness.  Suddenly, he placed his hand in the middle of Blackie’s chest.  What happened next would have made him scream had the unexpected blast of agony not put him in shock first.  The Other Dude ripped the blade back out of Blackie’s stomach.


He didn’t twist the blade; he didn’t need to. The sudden brutal extraction of the serrated blade inflicted more physical damage than all of the initial thrusts had done.  The exterior wound wasn’t very large, but Blackie felt like his abdomen had been ripped open.  He clutched his bleeding gut, his eyes huge and dull with shock as the Other Dude held the bade up for him to see.


“Lookit that,” the vicious killer smirked, “See those shreds of meat danglin’ from my blade?  That’s yer guts, boy.  That’s what yer innards look like.  Know what the best part is?  You ain’t dead.  Fuck, son, we could getcha to a hospital and save yer life even now.  Good surgeon might have ta cut out some a’ yer bowels, but you’d live.”


Then he was back, the musty smell of leather flooding Blackie’s nose as the hand slammed down on his mouth again.  This time, though, the Other Dude momentarily sheathed his weapon; the prey was already sufficiently dominated by pain and wouldn’t put up any resistance.


Blackie blinked and flinched as the Other Dude ripped the young guard’s shirt open.  With the buttons of his short-sleeve uniform shirt torn off, it fluttered open, revealing his broad, smooth chest, nipples jutting from his pecs into the humid night air.  The Other Dude yanked his knife up out of the sheath and placed the tip of the blade two inches above the left nipple.


Even though he was in pain and terror—and still drunk, for that matter—even an idiot like Blackie realized that the knife was aimed directly at his heart.


“You get a second chance, asswipe,” the Other Dude said calmly.  “And this time, I’m goin’ slow, ya get me?  So you’ll have time to think about it when ya lie.  But after this, ain’t no fuckin’ doctor gonna be able to save yer worthless ass.  Tell me the truth or die, fucker.”


The tip pierced his flesh; the merest prick—just enough to let a tiny rivulet of blood trickle down Blackie’s smooth, rounded pec and drip down his torso.  He’d have pissed himself again if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder.  He was alone, helpless, and on the brink of death.


“Ok, buddy, ya don’t know Ramirez—and I’ll betcha say ya don’t know Andros either, huh?  But you been inside.  That I believe.  So where’s the safe?”


The contemptuous tone of the Other Dude’s voice was matched by the shove he gave the knife; not enough to actually wound Blackie, but more than enough to remind him it was still there.  Just in case he’d forgotten.


Blackie froze.  Safe?  What fuckin’ safe?  He’d never seen a safe—


“Where?  Back office?  Upstairs?  Answer me, fucker!”


This time, he intended it to hurt.  Exercising complete professional control over both his weapon and his victim, the Other Dude expertly drove the sharp steel tip of the blade into Blackie’s pectoral to a depth of one inch, as promised.  It parted the young thug’s pec muscle like a steak knife through hamburger, the thick, firm tissue peeling back with no resistance.


Blackie’s scruffy, dissolute face was a mask of pain and shock.  He could feel the muscle shearing apart and the blood spurt from the chest wound.  It hurt worse than the gut stab—far worse.


The Other Dude knew it.  “Just gettin’ started, cunt.  Yer gonna regret not answerin’ me.”


Blackie tried to speak, but he couldn’t make his mouth work right; all he could do was moan and gibber like an idiot.  He wanted to tell the Other Dude that he just didn’t know, please, stop the pain, don’t kill me I’d help you if I could oh please fuck no—


“Where is that goddam safe, motherfucker?!?”


Somewhere in the back of Blackie’s mind, some part of him realized how his own stupidity and irresponsibility had led him to this point.  If he hadn’t been such an entitled, drunken fool, he would have learned the skills needed to avoid this situation.  Problem was, it had taken the terror of impending death to sober him up enough to realize it.


By now, it was way too fucking late.


The Other Dude shoved the knife into Blackie again—this time with much more force.  It was needed; the professional killer’s bicep flexed with the effort required to drive the steel blade through the ribcage, snapping one rib and almost literally sawing through another.  Even so, he still retained enough finesse to halt the progress of the knife before it hit the pericardial sac.


Blackie’s face was contorted into a grimace; deep in his piss-flooded boots, his toes curled in agony.  He didn’t—couldn’t—scream but was emitting a high-pitched keening sound of extreme suffering.  His entire body was stiff, rigid with pain.


He held the pose; he had to.  There was a knife in him, millimeters from his rapidly beating heart.  His chest was sliced open.  Oh holy fuck, he couldn’t move…


The Other Dude’s face came in close; once again the mask brushed his carefully sculpted facial scruff.  “This is it, fuckwad.  Yer last chance.  Tell me where the safe is.  Now.”


And that was when Blackie remembered.  He had seen a safe.  He’d never left the front room, but he’d seen it through an open door.


“It’s in the back.  It’s embedded in the concrete.  About five feet tall,” he said, gabbling it all out at once, then started sobbing. “Please don’t hurt me no more.  I dunno anything else, I swear.  I promise.  Please—” he broke down into tears.


“Now see, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?  Cheer up, punk; I’ll make it stop hurtin’,” the Other Dude said with a wide grin.  With a sudden final shove, he rammed the knife into Blackie’s heart, popping it like a water balloon full of blood.


The hardbodied young guard grunted in mortal agony, gripped by a pain so intense he was unable to think or act—he could only feel and suffer.  As his spasming heart pumped itself to shreds on the shaft of sharp steel, Blackie stared with horror and betrayal into the Other Dude’s cold eyes.  He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t; there was fluid in his throat.  The terrified young man gagged and retched, coughing up a gob of thick, coppery blood.


“Don’t worry, pal, it’ll stop hurting here in a sec.  Gotta go; catch ya on the flip side,” came the soft, mocking voice.  Blackie felt a deep tearing from within his vital organ as the Other Dude yanked his knife back out of the dying punk and, stepping back, vanished into the darkness.


Blackie sank to the ground, his face frozen in a look of stunned agony as his life drained away.  He still didn’t know who the Other Dude was or why he was dying; he could only feel the excruciating chill of death drawing him into nothingness.  He was terrified and suffering…and alone…


And then there was nothing left but a pile of manmeat, twitching in the darkness, its bootheels digging furrows around the oak’s roots as the corpse shuddered in its death throes.


The Other Dude had been right—the hurtin’ was over.


In the aftermath, Blackie’s body wasn’t found for more than six hours, by which time it was stiff with rigor.  The investigating cops recognized him but let him be carted off in the meatwagon as a John Doe.  His corpse was in the morgue three days before they got around to matching his fingerprints; no one had bothered to report him missing.  The body was reluctantly claimed by family.  With no public service—or even any death notice—Blackie vanished as if he’d never existed.


He wasn’t missed on the force.  It was noticed with sneering contempt that for all his bullshit horseplay with his gun, he’d let himself be tortured and murdered by a single assailant without even unholstering his weapon.  His name was stricken from the ranks with relief—and silent applause for the killer.

Family Pride by Gay Slavemeat


I have written a lot of fantasy gay snuff stories, usually with the victim being a willing slave that embraces its fate, since that’s my personal fantasy and what I think I deserve. Sometimes readers request a particular approach or plot.  I like to do that and those have been well received.  I was recently contacted by a fellow slave, who says his name is Bill, and who has shared the events that led him not only to become a willing sex slave but to want to be snuffed.  I think his story may well be mostly true, although of course on the internet one never knows for sure.  In real life I do not approve of anyone getting hurt involuntarily, let alone snuffed.  Human life is precious and should be preserved and nurtured, although for those of us who are masochists I have no problem with willingly being tortured, used sexually, and humiliated naked in public – so long as there is not permanent damage.  I get off big time on that sort of thing with me on the receiving end.  The thought of me being snuffed fills a strong need, and the fantasy keeps me away from seeking the real thing.


Bill appears to have reacted to initial involuntary abuse by embracing it totally and wanting more.  I find his story a major turn-on.  He asked me to write it and also to write how it might end.  That is what follows.  The past events and his current state of willing slavery are from what he claims to be real, as are some of the first names such as his original pimp, brothers and high school friends.  But to protect his identity somewhat I’ve used some fake names, like the bar name, which I took from the now-closed Mack’s in San Francisco.  (That was the best S&M club I ever attended, and he did not tell me the name of the Boston S&M club where he’s kept.)  I also included a much younger version of myself as a bit player in the events to advance the plot, as does the setting around a real estate deal.


So, here’s his story with one possibility on how it might end, an ending Bill says he would like to have happen.



Burlington, Vermont



“I love living in Vermont and it’s amazingly pretty in the winter, but this year is ridiculously cold,” said Mr. Thompson.  He had just finished Thanksgiving dinner, surrounded by his entire family, and the tryptophan in the fresh turkey (along with some excellent red wine) was starting to make him sleepy.  It had been a great day, with lots of turkey, football, family, and wine and beer.  He had been joined by his three sons and their families, and everyone was in a great mood.  He was incredibly close to his boys, and proud of them.


“You are right dad,” agreed Mark, who at 30 was the eldest of the three.  “And Kevin, Danny, and I think we all deserve a break from the cold.  We also think it would be great to have some quality family time with just you and the three of us.  We haven’t done that for a long time – a guys’ trip to someplace nice and warm where we can relax.  After all, you’re about to turn 55 and retire, and the three of us can afford to take some time off after the real estate deal we just closed.  We have a lot to celebrate and everything to be proud of.  We think this would be a nice Christmas present for you.  We planned for a trip to the Bahamas for the four of us, and when we mentioned it to Mr. Jordon he said he’d like to host us all, along with Tommy and Ryan, at his personal resort.  He’s really pleased with how the real estate deal turned out for everyone, and said he knows we’ll all make a lot of money when the property is developed.  He also thought Tommy did a great job as our lawyer and Ryan as our accountant, so he wanted to include them.  We’ve all bonded during the deal on a personal level and discovered we have a lot of values in common.  So now we can even do the trip pretty much for free.  How’s that sound?  I thought I’d bring it up before you fall asleep.”


Mr. Thompson was surprised and thrilled.  While he winced a bit about being proud of everything, he certainly was proud of the three amazing sons he had shared his holiday with.  They had worked together on a hugely successful deal with a very rich and prominent real estate baron, and he knew their new partner could easily afford the trip.  So he eagerly accepted the offer and they quickly delved into the timing and details.  It made the day even more special and Mr. Thompson drifted off to a well-deserved nap on the couch in due course.  As he did so, Danny, the youngest of the three, looked lovingly at him and commented to his siblings: “We really do need to use this trip to make sure he can be proud of everything.”  His brothers agreed.


Boston, Massachusetts

Mack’s S&M Gay Sex Club


Dennis and Paul were engaged in a friendly and animated conversation as they enjoyed some beers and watched the action at Paul’s club.  Paul owned the intense underground gay S&M club, which was nicely full that evening even though it was a weekday.  There were about 40 guys, a majority in leather garb that highlighted their macho alpha male status and bodies.  There were also slaves, who were mostly naked or nearly naked, as befit their inferior, subservient status, making their bodies readily available for inspection and use by their alpha owners.  The bartender was busy serving drinks and most of the group had just enjoyed the buffet that was part of Mack’s tradition.  The patrons were also enjoying the bar’s house slave, who was totally naked and busy sucking cocks.  The alphas even made him suck the cocks of other slaves, so he’d be reminded he was not even worth being taken into their households as a personal slave.  He was just a fuck toy at a S&M bar, of no more value than the bar stools or the backroom sling.  However, he was handy for the guys who needed to get rid of some beer, as he also functioned as a mobile human urinal.  Patrons wouldn’t have to leave their seats and could just piss down his throat or up his ass.  He had once been named Bill, but mostly answered to “fag pig” since that was branded on his lower belly just above his exposed (and currently erect) cock.  Guys also followed the instructions branded on his naked butt, which invited them to “fuck the faggot.”  He was popular since everyone was welcome to fuck him or piss into him (throat or ass), and there weren’t any limits on whipping, fisting, or beatings so long as Paul said it was OK.  Paul always approved so long as he got to watch, or to participate if it was an especially fun and humiliating idea.  Paul was solicitous of his customers and used all his property to satisfy them, including his sex slave, the fag pig fka Bill.  And the fag pig knew what it was and always cooperated and accepted whatever use was made of it, thanking the alphas who used it for doing so.  The fag pig was content and grateful, as it should be.


Dennis handed Paul a flier he had brought, with the comment “I assume this is yours, and refers to your fag pig?”  The flier read:



Snuff-ready subhuman live meat slave

Vitals:  25-year old Caucasian male slave, 6’1”, 170 lbs.  Brown hair and eyes, moderately good looking and in generally good physical condition.  Cock 7.25” and functional.  Body fat kept at 15%, to assure flavorful meat that is still very lean.


Training:  Well trained to suck cock, drink cum and piss, and eat shit.  Current tasks are janitorial, focusing on cleaning urinals and toilets, including doing so by licking clean the urinals and toilet bowls with its tongue, to enhance its training and humiliation and for entertainment of club patrons.  Responds well to being butt-fucked, whipped, and beaten, and especially to dildos and fisting.  Totally submissive and obedient.


Reason for sale:  Slave is showing deterioration in skin smoothness because of being whipped and beaten repeatedly, along with some burn marks, and slave’s asshole is damaged and overly loose as a result of large dildos, being double-fucked, and consistent fisting.  Efforts at repair were not sufficiently successful to meet club standards for fuck-toy slaves.  The current owner of the slave plans to have his premises painted and will use the proceeds of the sale to pay for that.  Slave understands and acknowledges its life is far less important than patrons enjoying a freshly painted setting, and will cooperate with whatever torture, snuff, and cannibalism scenes the purchaser determines.


Inquire to Paul at Mack’s S&M Club, Boston, Mass.



Paul laughed as he read the flier.  “Of course it is.  As you well know since you’re the one who sold me the pathetic piece of fag shit in the first place.”


“yeah, but you sure didn’t pay much for it.  And I think you’ve made good money as a result of how utterly depraved Bill is.  Not setting any limits for patrons when they use him has obviously paid off.  Plus having nice clean toilets.  But I hope you don’t think you’re going to get much for him.  About all he’s good for is getting snuffed.  I just fucked his ass and you could park a semi in there.”


Paul laughed again.  “True enough.  I’ve distributed the flier discretely and have had some promising inquiries.  Given the fact he’s relatively young, his cock still works, and he’s got the right attitude about being a shit-eating subhuman who deserves to be snuffed, I think I can get enough to pay for the paint job and a few new amenities.  And there are other slaves out there that I can train to replace him.  But I don’t have any delusions about his value.  So, do you want to buy him back?  And do you think you have a replacement for him I could get cheap?  I know you’re in the business of pimping and selling young males.”


Before answering, Dennis paused and watched as Bill held up a very large glass to his lips.  He had masturbated into it and then added the cum form used condoms of guys who’d fucked him.  Other patrons filled it up with piss and spit.  One alpha wiped his own ass with some toilet paper and added that to the mixture.  Bill thanked them all and slowly drank the entire cum/piss/spit/shit-stained toilet paper contents.  When he finished several other patrons dragged him over to the nearby sling for further amusement.


“Both,” answered Dennis.


Burlington, Vermont

8 years ago


Bill, Ryan, and Tommy were great friends, each dealing with the stress of high school and the accelerating onset of puberty as they had all turned 17 and hit their sexual prime.  For Tommy and Ryan, the opposite sex was now somehow mysterious and made them insecure and shy.  But Bill had a different reaction.  What got him going was the same sex –  other guys.  He realized he was gay, but he was amazingly ignorant about any aspect of being gay since it wasn’t ever discussed at home, and Bill figured it was no big deal.  But when he told Tommy and Ryan he learned he was completely wrong.  It was a huge deal.


“You’re a fag?” Tommy asked in horrified shock.  “Fags aren’t human, they’re subhuman.  You’re a thing, nor a person.”


“And you are no longer our friend,” added Ryan.  “We want nothing to do with you.”  Bill was horrified and embarrassed and begged them to reconsider.  He wanted to continue to hang out with his friends.  He told them he’d do anything to be able to continue to do so.


“Maybe we’ll give you a choice,” Tommy responded.  “We will either completely ignore you, or if you obey us we will allow you to be around us from time to time as a sex toy for us to use. Instead of us just herking off we could fuck your puny little ass.  That’s what straight guys do to fags like you.  But you would have to do whatever we say, no matter what.”


Bill was totally devastated.  He had thought these were his best friends and their reaction put him into shock and depression.  But he couldn’t stand not being around them at all, so he agreed to their terms.  “Like I said, I’ll do whatever you want me to do.  You can use me sexually as a fag if you want.   Just let me be with you at least part of the time.  And don’t tell anyone.”


“OK, let’s see if you really mean it.  Take off all your clothes and get on your knees.”  As Bill did so, Tommy unzipped his pants and took out his cock, which he proceeded to stroke until it got hard.  Then he shoved it into Bill’s mouth and told him to suck it, which Bill did.  And Bill liked doing so.  When Tommy shot his load, Bill also discovered he liked swallowing the cum.  Tommy told him he needed to be thanked for using Bill, and as Bill did so Ryan took his turn and also shot a load down Bill’s throat.   This soon became a pattern, with the two “friends” taking turns getting blow jobs from Bill.  Since Bill liked being naked in front of his former friends and loved giving them blow jobs and drinking their cum, Bill looked forward to the ritual. And they had promised to keep his status a secret.


But blow jobs soon weren’t enough for Tommy and Ryan, and after a few weeks of blow jobs they decided they wanted more.  They told Bill to bend over, naked, and then Tommy once again took the first turn, this time fucking Bill’s tight, virgin ass.  Bill wasn’t prepared for the pain, and his asshole bled as Tommy reached his climax.  It bled again when Ryan took his turn, but there was no sympathy.  They told Bill this is what fags deserved and he better get used to it.  This was all he was good for, and they laughed as he nearly broke into tears form the combination of pain and humiliation.  However, he not only didn’t resist, he begged for more.  Bill learned that day, and confirmed over the following weeks and years, that he liked being butt-fucked even more than he liked sucking cock.  And he accepted that this was indeed all he was good for.


What surprised and frustrated Tommy and Ryan was that being faced got Bill hard, and he clearly enjoyed it.  So, after a month or so of regular use of Bill’s butt and mouth for fucking, Tommy went a step further.  This time Tommy told Bill to get naked and lie on his back in the bathroom.  He again dropped his pans, but this time it wasn’t his cock that went into Bill.  He lowered his own butt onto Bill’s face and farted, laughing at Bill as he did so.  Then he took a dump.  The load of shit went into Bill’s mouth, and Bill obediently swallowed it.  Then it was Ryan’s turn, with both boys laughing at Bill as they told him to wash his mouth out, so he could function as toilet paper and clean their asses.  They told him to describe how wonderful their shit tasted, and to thank them for their “gifts.”  Bill did exactly as he was instructed.  Tommy and Ryan had found the ultimate humiliation, and their sessions with Bill now included not just using him as a cum depository, but also for their piss and their shit.  Bill was too embarrassed and ashamed to admit to them that he had soon come to want this too – he was turned on by being used and degraded, no matter how badly.  It frustrated Tommy and Ryan that even this depravity turned him on, and they slapped him around and beat him up to show their displeasure.  But they also kept using him as the fag they always reminded him he was.


Tommy had a further idea on how to humiliate Bill, which worked well and sealed Bill’s role as a worthless fag.  When he and Ryan were each fucking him, one in his ass and one in his mouth, Tommy arranged for Bill’s brother Danny to walk in and “discover” him serving two alpha males.  Danny was a year younger, and he was the brother Bill was closest too.  Bill and Danny shared a bedroom, and Bill secretly was massively turned on by Danny’s amazing, masculine body, which Bill often got to enjoy seeing naked.  Tommy had obviously already told Danny Bill was a fag, but Danny feigned shock and reacted just as Tommy and Ryan had done.  He told Bill he was subhuman and could not be his friend or brother any more.  Danny gave him the same choice as had Ryan and Tommy, and Bill was soon being used by Danny just like he was by Tommy and Ryan.  It was easier for Danny given the shared bedroom, so the use was more frequent.  Their nearby bathroom also made it easy for Danny to make shitting into Bill’s mouth a regular source of his entertainment.


Danny, despite promising not to do so as had Tommy and Ryan, soon arranged for the two other brothers, Nark and Kevin, to walk in on a fuck session and join in the condemnation.  In fact, the five straight boys began to compare notes on ways to better humiliate the fag.  Bill’s brothers added an evaluation, with the meanness that often happens with family members.


“You aren’t ever going to have a decent life.  You’re totally worthless even to other fags, and no guy is ever going to kiss you or hold you.  All you’re fit to do is be a whore, which is what you’ll become someday.  With a little luck, maybe you’ll get AIDS and die soon.  We hope you do that.”  The five alpha males enjoyed a contest to come up with the best way for Bill to die.  They made it quite clear that is what they wanted to happen to him, as soon as possible.  And when their father found out, he piled on to that same sentiment and told Bill he was no longer a son and would need to leave the house once he finished (or dropped out of) high school.


Once he was “out” high school was miserable for Bill.  He did find some solace playing baseball., being a good center fielder and a decent hitter, and he enjoyed the game a lot.  It was his only positive activity, and he spent his time mostly on baseball, some attention to schoolwork, and being used by his brothers and his former friends.  But being used was his favorite activity – he liked being a sex object, and he even liked being a human toilet.  Being a fuck-hole and a toilet was his only purpose.  Well, maybe not entirely his only purpose, as he’d also learned that his role included doing tasks for the alphas.  He performed the chores his brothers had been assigned, and even did some of the work for their part-time jobs.  Bill learned (and accepted) that he was a slave, serving his betters (which was most everyone) in however they wanted to make use of him.


In due course Bill did manage to graduate form high school and even entered college at the University of Vermont, studying prelaw.  As he entered college his father confirmed he was no longer welcome in his home and he no longer considered him a son.  His father was totally ashamed to ever have had contact with him.  Bill was not to show up, even for family events and holidays.  Making things worse, Danny made sure word got out at college that he was gay, and things started to deteriorate in the dorm and in classes too.  He was shunned and found himself unable to study, finally dropping out early in his second year.  He got a job for a while, but after about six months even that didn’t work out.  Bill was broke, despondent, and desperate.  As his brothers had predicted, there was only one option.  Bill became a street prostitute.


Bill was able to make enough to live on, sort of, as a whore.  The reason was that he was very “flexible” in terms of what he’d do, and word of that got around.   One guy, named Dennis, even let him stay the night in return for some rough treatment.  Then Dennis invited some of his friends over and they all shared Bill, introducing him to the world of S&M as well as using him for butt-fucking, piss, and shit.  Dennis had become his pimp and added to his training.  When Bill had asked if there was someone who would be willing to allow him to have a place to live in return for sex, it was Dennis who took Bill to Boston and introduced him to the fantastic world that was Mack’s.  Paul had accepted Bill, even paying Dennis a small fee, and initially letting him whore himself to patrons.  But soon Paul just kept Bill as a naked sex slave and allowed the patrons to do as they wished with him for free.  Bill did janitorial work, focusing especially on cleaning the toilets, and had access to a small storeroom in the back to live in, with a mattress and a few chairs.  He was allowed to shower and to eat leftovers form the club’s buffet (usually from a dog dish).  It was great for Paul’s business, and Bill very quickly realized this was the “life” he both wanted and deserved.


There were occasional events that stood out, such as a few times when he was allowed to visit his brothers.  One had sent a card asking if he had contracted AIDS yet, saying he hoped this had happened because it would be better if he died like they said he should.  All three brothers made it clear they would prefer him dead but wouldn’t pay a cent for his funeral if he had one.  When they allowed him to visit them on a couple of occasions, it was in the garage of his eldest brother, Mark.  They said they’d pay him a little money in return for once again fucking him and shitting in his mouth, but after Mark started the fun by administering a combo of cum, piss, and shit into Bill, they informed Bijl he’d have to pay them for the privilege of eating their shit.  So, Bill took what money he had and paid it to the three alpha males, getting the waste from his other two brothers, Kevin and Danny, as they also fucked him and then pissed and shat into his mouth.  He returned to Boston broke and even more humiliated, much to the satisfaction of his three brothers.  But he also returned more turned on than ever by their fantastic alpha bodies, especially Danny’s.  His father refused to see him at all, being completely ashamed of him and no longer considering him as a son, as he had made clear years before.


Other occasions related to his life as a slave.  To entertain the patrons Paul had had him branded on two occasions, once with “Fuck the Faggot” on his butt, and once with “Fag Pig” on his belly just above his cock.  Bill clearly understood how appropriate each of these were, and asked Paul to brand him with the term “sex slave” on the forehead so it would always be visible even on the rare occasions when Bill wasn’t naked.  But Paul said no since he did not want to risk damaging his property.  On another memorable occasion Bill was the target of a whipping contest at the club, with 7 guys participating and taking turns, then deciding they’d all whip him at the same time.  Bill was in the emergency room for a while after that, and some of the lacerations didn’t heal.  But it was useful as a reminder of his status and use, so over time his young skin became more scarred.


It was the fisting that did the most damage.  Bill really got off on being fisted – it was the perfect combination of pain and humiliation and again it had started with Tommy and Ryan but accelerated with Danny.  The downside was that it extended his asshole, and in time there was even room for two guys to fist him at once.  So, they did, and of course that made it even worse.  In his last visit to his brothers, Danny had gotten into him up to his elbow.  That was an unbelievable turn-on for Bill.


Some of the patrons started to complain to Paul that the bar slave had too loose an ass for a nice tight butt-fuck, and Paul was always highly attentive to his customer’s desires.  So, as Bill turned 25, Paul had decided to sell Bill and find a younger replacement.  After all, he’d owned the slave for nearly two years, and it was now damaged property.


Mack’s Gay S&M Club

Boston, Mass.


Dennis and Paul were once again enjoying drinks and entertainment.  It had been two weeks since Dennis had last been to the bar, and he had made a lot of progress on the terms he’d worked out with Paul for the purchase and replacement of the bar’s live fag meat.  They both had their cocks out and hard, and Bill was kneeling between the two of them servicing Dennis.  Next to him, also kneeling and totally naked, was another slave, somewhat younger, servicing Paul.


“I think you will find the new slave quite acceptable and reasonably well trained.  As you can see it is good looking and has a reasonably good-sized cock, a bit shorter than Bill’s, about 6.75 inches, but thicker.  It’s fresh out of high school, only 19, so you should get 3-4 years of service before it is used up like Bill is, obviously depending on how much it gets fisted and whether you repair the asshole as it deteriorates.  It can produce gobs of cum with impressive frequency and even a bit of distance when it shoots.  If you lie it on its back the cum easily reaches the chest and sometimes even the mouth.  The electricity to the balls all the time has likely affected the quantity and quality of Bill’s cum production these days.  The new slave also gives great blow jobs, as I hope you’re finding out.  Most important, it’s a natural masochist and fully understands that it’s a subhuman piece of slave meat.  There will be no issues on obedience.”


“Well, the slave’s doing a good job so far,” Paul acknowledged, his breathing starting to get a bit heavier as the slave’s tongue aroused his cock.  “And he’s attractive enough, with skin that doesn’t yet show the effects of being whipped and burned.  But what about willingness to do things like drink piss and cum, and eat shit?  Those turned out to be important in getting value out of my current piece-of-shit slave.”


“No issue on the piss and cum.  He seems to crave both, and we can demonstrate that once they finish sucking us off.  But you’ll have to train him to eat shit.  That shouldn’t be hard, given his attitude, and as I said he is totally obedient.  There will be no resistance. He just hasn’t been trained to do so and doesn’t have a natural inclination for it like Bill did.  If you let the guys shit on his food, and he doesn’t get to eat anything that isn’t covered with it, I’m sure he’ll adjust in no time.  And the training will be fun for everyone.  I’ve already talked to him about this and he’s eager to learn.


“Incidentally, you’ll also notice he hasn’t been branded yet.  I suggest you do that in a special ceremony, so you can charge guys extra to attend.  I always thought “fag pig” was a bad choice for Bill, by the way.  It’s insulting to pigs.  I think you should brand this one as what it really is – fag slave meat.  Or a phrase that empathizes its use for cum, piss, and shit eating.  Or a combo.  How about “fag slavemeat toilet?”  I’d do it right in the middle of the chest, so it’s more visible, and then require him to go shirtless even when he’s in public and not naked at the bar.  That would be extremely humiliating.  And maybe “fuck the fag” on its ass, like Bill’s, since that has always gotten a lot of laughs. Of course, that’s all up to you since you’ll own it – just be sure I get to join the fun when you do the branding.  I love watching the red-hot metal burn their skin, and I always cum when I smell it cooking and hear them scream.  Also, the slave has been informed it no longer has a real name since it’s not a person, and it has been trained to answer to slavemeat, which is why I think branding it that would be instructional and inform your patrons.


“Fair points and good ideas,” responded Paul, who was now very much enjoying the blow job and getting a bit distracted as the pleasure increased and the point of orgasm neared.  “I think I might have even consulted with Bill on the name prior to his branding, and that’s obviously a mistake.  Subhuman objects shouldn’t have any say in that – or anything else.  I plan to be much stricter with the replacement.”  As he considered how much fun that was going to be, Paul reached orgasm and shot his load down slavemeat’s throat.  Dennis did the same with Bill.  But they left their cocks in the slaves’ mouths since they would soon want to piss.


Paul changed the optic.  “How did the final negotiations go?  Do we have a deal?”


“They went great.  And your deal is a little better than I thought we could get.  You not only get the money for painting the place, you get this new meat for free.  The buyer is covering my fee as well as your renovation costs.”


“Wow!  That’s wonderful.  How did you pull that off?”  As they talked Paul released his load of piss down the eager throat of his new human urinal.  No need to interrupt the conversation to take a leak.  Dennis did the same with Bill.


“The whole thing is wonderfully fortuitous.  My biggest customer, for whom I procure a whole lot of young male slaves, lives in Burlington and is a really rich real estate developer.  He’s got the kind of money most of us can’t even conceive of and he uses up the slaves very quickly for his amusement.  I’ve joined him for some fantastic snuff scenes followed by great slavemeat meals featuring live meat.  He recently did a deal with some local guys who owned land adjacent to his that, if you put it all together, would make a hugely profitable development.  Things are booming up there, as you know.  He said everyone is going to make a bundle.  The others, I think it was some brothers, were great to deal with and they bonded on a lot of fronts, including their hatred of fags and their views on what should happen to them.  He wanted to give them a present to express his appreciation.  He had gotten to know them and their story very well during all the complex negotiations and realized Bill would be the perfect gift.  I’d had him come down with me that time I visited a few weeks ago and he checked out the merchandise I had available.  He bought a few other slaves too, but the irony is that his interest was only in Bill as the gift.  Even though Bill was obviously not in the best shape, especially for being fucked, he said there was something special about Bill that made him the perfect object to present.  Well, the idea of Bill being special is ludicrous but that gave me a lot of leverage and he hardly even resisted when I told him that would mean he’d have to pay my fee for the new slave as well as cover the cost of you renovating your club.  He also visited the bar and liked it, so getting it refurbished  appealed to him too.  So you get slavemeat for free and you can also upgrade the other furniture and equipment as well as repaint the place.  This is going to be the nicest S&M joint in the country, with new furniture that includes a fresh new slave.”


Paul was beyond delighted.  “And any idea what happens to Bill, not that it matters?  Just curious.”


“None.  But I’m pretty sure he winds up dead, which is what he deserves since he’s damaged and not as useful.  Fuck, he probably even wants to be snuffed, given how pathetic he is.  I just hope it’s painful and prolonged.”  Dennis kicked Bill in the nuts to get his attention and asked.  “Hey fag pig, are you looking forward to being snuffed after you’re sold?  I’m guessing it’s going to be pretty horrible.”  Bill nodded, not even pausing as he continued swallowing Dennis’ piss.  He had been listening and was in fact turned on by the conversation and the prospect of being snuffed.  He totally accepted Dennis and Paul discussing the two slaves as what they were – mere objects.

As both slaves continued to expertly massage the dicks they were servicing, bringing them back to evections after drinking the piss, in due course Dennis and Paul each reached a second orgasm and shot another load of cum down the throat of the slave serving him.


What followed was a wonderful evening, with lots more sex and torture to celebrate the transactions. Dennis had slavemeat demonstrate his lust for cum and piss, drinking the huge ceremonial glass of excrement that Bill often drank to amuse the patrons.  The bar patrons then refilled it and Bill then did the same, starting the mixture by masturbating into the glass.  As he did so Paul announced that Bill was being sold and slavemeat would replace him. Dennis added that this load of cum would be Bill’s last, as his new owner did not think he deserved the pleasure of an orgasm and planned to snuff him fairly soon.  Everyone chimed in on the hope the snuff would be especially prolonged and painful and Dennis assured them it was very likely to last several torture-and0humiliaiton-filled days.  That produced a cheer form the group and a hard-on for Bill.  He knew this was what he deserved.


Dennis attached a cock-cage to Bill to assure he could not cum any more unless his new owner changed his mind.  The patrons then had a particularly savage evening raping and fisting Bill, and then doing the same with slavemeat.  It turned out slavemeat had not yet been fisted, so this was a painful new torture for its education.  There were lots of jokes about Bill’s loose but-hole, and about how that would happen to slavemeat over time.  Paul even started slavemeat’s training at eating shit, telling Bill and slavemeat to crawl to the toilets and drink the mixture of water, piss, and dissolved shit left from a patron who had not flushed.  The stench was more than slavemeat could handle at first, and he threw up.  But that worked out well for training, and slavemeat eventually was able to also consume his own vomit along with a further supply of shit.  Paul was quite satisfied with his new slave and decided to follow Dennis’ ideas on the branding.  Slavemeat would always be naked in the bar and would wear only a thin jockstrap that left all three brands exposed if permitted to go elsewhere.  Paul was determined to assure slavemeat suffered even more humiliation and torture than had Bill.  But he would periodically have a vet repair the asshole so it remained tight enough to please his beloved patrons.


The next morning Bill left with Dennis, naked with no possessions at all and the cock-cage preventing him from giving himself any pleasure.  Bill crawled into a cage that was then locked, to be delivered to his new owner, and slavemeat started its new duties and continued its training.  Paul scheduled the branding for a time that was convenient for Dennis to return and enjoy it.  After all, Dennis had done a first-rate job that satisfied everyone.  He provided a valuable and appreciated service, assuring pathetic fag slaves received the ridicule, pain, and ultimate snuff fate they deserved.


Spanish Cay City, The Bahamas


Mark, Kevin, Danny, and their father got off the plane at the Spanish Cay airport, excited to escape the cold Vermont winter and start their vacation.  They had flown non-stop on Mr. Jordon’s private G-7 jet from Burlington to the luxurious Bahamian resort – the first time any of them had ever been on a private plane.  It had been a great flight, with exceptional food and drinks, and they were more excited than ever at what lay ahead.  Even Mr. Thompson, who did not like flying, enjoyed the trip, although he was very tired when it was over.  As Mr. Jordon had suggested, they were joined on the flight (and the vacation) by high school buddies Tommy and Randy.  They had been friends of the three brothers since then, growing closer over the years, and since Tommy had served as the lawyer for the real estate deal and Ryan as their accountant, being part of the celebration made lots of sense.  Mr. Jordon knew of the friendships and admired how they had bonded in high school, and he wanted to express his appreciation to everyone.  This worked well since Mr. Thompson viewed Tommy and Ryan as if they were his own sons, admiring them for all they’d achieved.  Mr. Jordon met them at the airport with a stretch limo, and when they arrived at the resort they were shown to their rooms – again, a level of luxury none of them had ever experienced before.


It was early evening by then and the group gathered for cocktails and desert, having had an outstanding meal on the flight.  When everyone was seated, Mr. Jordon stood up to greet his guests.


“I want to welcome all of you and thank you for joining me at my resort.  This is a special place where I only invite special friends like yourselves.  It’s not open to the public.  All of you have become friends, and our transaction together has created positive personal relationships that will last for many, many years.  And, now that it’s all closed, you will be able to afford more luxuries and I wanted to introduce you to them.  In fact, I want to partner with you on some other real estate deals very soon.  But we’re not here about that; we’re here to celebrate what we’ve all done already.


“There is another aspect to this event as well that I hope will make the vacation even more special.  I learned from conversations with you that we share a mutual distaste.  We are alpha males disgusted by the faggots who pollute our society and pretend to be human.  We know it is our task to punish them and make them go away, permanently.  I learned that my five younger colleagues became friends in part by sharing that task.  Sadly, and I apologize for bringing up what I know is a sad aspect for Mr. Thompson, it involved what had been a member of the family.  And that sadness has continued since the fag has not disappeared as it should have and as its one-time siblings had ordered it to do.  I have acquired the fag and as part of my gift I have arranged for that to happen on this vacation, so you can all finally be done with it.”


Mr. Jordon signaled a waiter, and in short order two servants carried in a metal cage containing a naked male.  The servants were young with slender twink bodies that were also naked except for slave collars.  Their cocks were erect, and they each had “fag snuff meat” branded on their left buttock.  Mark, David, and Danny had known Mr. Jordon’s plan, but Tommy, Ryan, and Mr. Thompson were stunned and immensely pleased.  The fag was Bill, who was also stunned to realize who had purchased him.


“Like all fags, this one is worthless.  It’s not even fit to serve as meat for our meals, and in any event, we will have my house fags to enjoy for that purpose in due course.  They have been trained to understand their role as targets of alpha males and as meat, and they will join our meals as entrée’ courses.  Their meat is of far higher quality than the fag in the cage.


“But as we discussed plans for this wonderful chance to get together Danny had a great idea on how to make the fag useful for the first time ever, and simultaneously restore the Thompson family pride.  Since it was his idea, as the two fag slaves unload the animal I’ll let him take it from here.  By the way, the fag slaves are among many that I maintain for punishing them until they are ready and eager to be disposed of, having realized their place and purpose.  So feel free to use them as you wish.”


The cage was opened, and Bill was dragged out, then placed on a nearby table on his back.  Danny got up from the table, drink in hand, and went over to a fire pit nearby, grabbing the handle of a red-hot branding iron.  He invited everyone to stand next to the table and with no greeting to the fag other than spitting in his face he administered the brand to its chest, the burning causing a loud, painful, and almost inhuman scream, along with the delightful aroma of burning fag meat.  As they all realized what had been branded onto Bill’s chest in large letters, they all cheered and doubled over with laughter.  They slapped Danny on the back, toasted him with their drinks, and congratulated him on his cleverness.  Bill could not see what had been burned onto him, but knew he was not permitted to ask, or to speak at all unless spoken to.  His two years as a bar sex slave had been good training.  He fully understood and agreed with their assessment of him.  He was indeed worthless fag meat, now realizing he wasn’t even fit for consumption by the alpha males he worshiped.  But they were saying he’d finally be useful, and he hoped that was true.  The fact he’d be dead didn’t bother him at all.  He was secretly thrilled that his brothers and former friends were going to be somehow involved.  He was grateful and hoped they enjoyed themselves during whatever was going to happen to finally snuff him as he disserved.


At that point the vacationers returned to their seats and continued to celebrate, making final plans for the next few days.  Mr. Jordon suggested that they conclude the evening with the alpha males using the fags for their entertainment.  Everyone enthusiastically agreed.  Even though Mr. Thompson declined since he was exhausted from the flight, he encouraged them to do so.  As he left to rest, he did take the time to spit in the face of the fag and tell Bill he was glad Bill’s existence would be ending, and he would not have to be embarrassed by him any longer.  He told Mr. Jordon how much he appreciated this gift, and that he knew this would be the best and most fulfilling vacation he’d ever have.  Mr. Jordon also left, saying he didn’t want to intrude on a family event, but again encouraging them to take full advantage of the amenities he had available for punishing fags, along with the drinks, deserts, and the house fag slaves.  The slaves would obey and there were no limits with what could be done to them either.  Mr. Jordon planned to dispose of them during the week’s fun.  They were well trained, aware and accepting of their purpose and fate, and eager to cooperate.


As the two older alphas excused themselves, the slaves opened a sliding door that revealed an extension of the dining area, which was set up for S&M sex of all types.  As the five young alpha males entered this awesome space, they discussed options as they removed their own clothing to make it easier to use the fags as sex objects.


“I think we should start by fucking our own fag,” suggested Kevin.  “But I remember that his ass is loose, so that might not be as much fun.”


But Mark had a solution, also pointing out it would be fun to get all the fags fucked at the same time.  “How about if Tommy and Ryan each start by fucking one of the house fags, who look like they’re in good shape.  As for our family fag, I suggest Kevin and I double-fuck him, which should make it tight enough to be fun.  At the same time, he can give Danny a blow job.  So, he’ll have all three of our cocks inside him at the same time.  We’ve had a lot to drink, so I’m sure we can all fill the fags with piss after we fill them with cum.”


Everyone quickly agreed, but Tommy said he was feeling a little drunk and wanted to work off a bit of the booze affect first so he could enjoy the fucking more. He also was anxious to whip the animals as they so obviously deserved.  As a result, the first activity was to string up each fag by its wrists from chains in the ceiling, so its feet were slightly off the ground and its body was able to be whipped from all sides.  The five alphas selected whips from among the wide collection displayed in the room and enthusiastically beat the backs, asses, chests, bellies, and cocks of their victims.  (They unlocked the cock cage that Bill still wore so his cock and balls would be vulnerable to the blows.  As soon as it was removed his cock got hard, which was a source of humor for the alphas.  Better still, that made it easier to whip.)  The alphas traded off among the animals, but Bill got most of the attention and was bleeding nicely from multiple fresh wounds by the time they were done.  Danny was the most enthusiastic, working up quite a sweat as he wailed on his one-time sibling.


“OK fags.  What do you have to say to us?” Ryan mockingly snarled at them.  All three fags immediately expressed their thanks for the beatings, with Bill being the most enthusiastic.  He was totally thrilled and turned on by what had just happened, and what might happen next.  He felt he might finally suffer the snuff he deserved.


The fucking session was next, and it too was a lot of fun.  Mark and Kevin commented that Bill’s ass was still too loose even with two cocks in it, adding a dildo to assure it was tight enough and that Bill felt pain as he was fucked. Danny commented that Bill at least knew how to suck cock, allowing Bill to also lick his ass and his balls.  Tommy and Ryan complemented their fags on having tight assholes, noting that this also meant there was a chance for some fun fisting to ruin theirs in anticipation of their disposal.  They all commented on how much better looking than Bill the house fags were, and on the fact their cocks were bigger than Bill’s.  None of that was actually true, but it enabled them to jeer at Bill and further humiliate him.  “Yeah,” Tommy jeered, “cock size is one more area where he underachieved.  Fuck, he managed to fail at absolutely everything – even being a decent sex slave.”


The alphas also traded off on the fucking, so the brothers would be able to enjoy the tight asses of the house fags and Tommy and Ryan could once again fuck Bill.  After all, they were the first to have done so.  They even had the house fags double-fuck Bill, adding an even larger dildo to increase the pain, just so he’d understand that he was an even lower sub-human than they were.  And they used Bill, not the house fags, as their urinal for the same reason.  That part of the evening’s entertainment was culminated with each of the fag slaves shitting into Bill’s mouth, as the alphas laughed, pointing out that Bill was fit to eat subhuman slave shit.  Bill, of course, cooperated fully and demonstrated his reaction with a very erect cock and expressions of thanks.


After the alphas satisfied their initial desire to fuck the fags, Danny asked the group: “Does anyone think they will still want to fuck Bill’s ass?  I’m personally not interested in fucking something that loose any more.”  The other four agreed, and Danny continued.  “Great.  Because I found something in the attic at home during Thanksgiving that I brought for just this occasion.  At one time it was Bill’s, and I think we should return it to him.”


With that, Danny went over to a nearby table and pulled back a cloth.  Under it was a large baseball bat.  It had been given to Bill by the high school coach with an admonition to practice hitting.  While Bill was a good center field player, he wasn’t that great a hitter.  The other team members, especially Tommy and Ryan, had laughed at Bill on the occasion.  “The fag fucker even sucks at hitting,” Tommy had told the rest of the team after the coach left.  It was Bill’s first public humiliation as a known fag.  They all laughed as Tommy recalled the event, reminding them that they’d used the bat to beat Bill and then taken it from him for further use in his beatings.  Danny had wound up owning it.


As Danny took the bat and walked over to Bill, he asked Bill if he would want it back.  “Of course, you know where it will go, my dear older brother” added Danny.  Bill said yes and thanked Danny for returning it to him.


Bill had been fisted numerous times, and had large dildos inserted into his hole, but this was far larger.  All five alphas laughed and toasted themselves with fresh drinks as first Danny and then each of the others forced the thick end of the bat into Bill’s ruined asshole.  Nor did they stop when they reached the natural end of Bill’s cavity.  They continued to push, using a large mallet to pound the bat further into the fag’s fuck channel – crushing its internal organs and increasing the intensity of its screams.  They no longer even sounded human, which made it a lot more fun for the alphas to hear.  Danny used the mallet to make sure the bat was inserted as far as we possible.


“Don’t worry,” Mark assured Bill, laughing as he again spit in his face.  “This is not what is going to kill you, although it would, given the damage to your insides.  What we’ve just done is fatal and you are now officially dying.  Your internal organs are ruined and won’t function, so your system will shut down.  But the bat also acts to stop most internal bleeding, so it will take a few days.  The bat will never come out since you’d then die far too quickly.  It’s now a permanent part of you and will assure you’re in constant, extreme pain until you’re finally disposed of.  Meanwhile, we have something far more appropriate and painful in mind.  It might even be something you could succeed at, but you’ll probably fuck that up too.”


“Speaking of that,” added Kevin.  “I’m getting a little hungry.  Anyone up for a snack?  I am, and then I think I might be all in for the night.  I’m also a little drunk so some food might help.  After all, we want to be well rested for more fun tomorrow.”


Again, everyone agreed and at this point Danny again took the lead, having spent the most time planning the trip’s fun.

“We know you like to eat shit, and that is what you deserve because you are shit.  But you don’t have any money to pay us for our shit like you should and have done in the past.  We have a solution.  First, you are to jerk off, so we can laugh at you while you cum.  To be sure you’re in the right frame of mind all five of us are going to piss down your throat as you play with your cock.  When you shoot your load, I’m going to cut off your cock as it spews your final cum.  Then I’m going to eat it.  After that Mark and Kevin will each cut off one of your balls and eat them.  That’s not much meat since your cock and balls are so puny, so we’ll find some other parts of you to make it a proper snack and let Tommy and Ryan share in the fun. Understood?”


Bill was impressed with how creative Danny’s plan was.  He thanked Danny for the chance to be used as meat even though he was not worthy, and did as instructed, using his right hand (he was right-handed) to start massaging his cock.  It quickly became hard again despite the pain he was in form the beatings and fucking, and now especially from the large bat that impaled him.  Or maybe he quickly got hard because of all that, along with the loads of piss pouring down his throat and his contemplation of the fact he was about to lose his cock and balls in an astonishingly humiliating and painful way.  Plus, it had been several days since the cock cage had been attached so he couldn’t jerk himself off.  His cock responded to acceptance of how much he deserved what was happening, and his body gyrated a little as he approached orgasm and his cock started to spew a thick final load of cum.


As Bill oozed man-juice from his throbbing cock Danny took a knife and slowly cut it off.  That instant of pleasure turned into one of unbelievable pain and humiliation.  Danny now had Bill’s manhood in his hand, holding it so Bill could see it and letting the liquids flow into Bill’s piss-filled open mouth.  Then Mark took the knife and cut off the left testicle, followed by Kevin cutting off the right one.  Bill was now totally emasculated, his manhood divided among his three brothers.  He fainted from the pain but was quickly revived.


“As Mr. Jordon mentioned, your meat is not fit for human consumption like these other fags’ is.  But we are going to give you the honor of contributing to the meat we will digest and that will become the shit we will make you eat in the morning.  We are going to eat your cock and balls,” Kevin announced.  “But first we want to hear you thank us for doing this.  After all, it was actually your idea, which you told Danny about the last time you were permitted to visit so we could fuck and whip you.  Your fag-meat genitals will become shit that we will return to you.  You will then thank us again for that gift.”


Bill responded immediately, despite all the pain, and truthfully.  “Thank you for cutting off my cock and balls and making me a subhuman eunuch as I deserve.  And thank you for doing me the honor of eating my meat and turning it into shit, which is also what I deserve and ultimately what I am.”   Bill was sincere in what he said.  He knew this was more than he deserved.


Danny started by putting the drained cock into his mouth, positioned so Bill could watch.  “Fuck, this tastes terrible,” he announced.  “I doubt it will even make decent shit.”  To avoid any further taste, and since it was so puny, he just swallowed the cock whole.  Mark and Kevin went next, actually enjoying the freshly cut testicles.  “This is kind of tasty,” Kevin commented.  “But I don’t think there’s any point eating the scrotum.  It probably tastes as bad as the cock.”  So he tossed the little piece of skin into Bill’s mouth, instructing to eat his own ball sac, which of course Bill did.  As his brothers ate the genitals while Bill watched, Mark elaborated on the process.  “We didn’t eat much today so we can be sure our morning dumps tomorrow will include what had been your cock and balls.  And we’ve taken some diuretics that will cause the meat to move through our systems far more rapidly than usual.  We don’t want any part of you inside us any longer than necessary, even as meat being digested.  That means we’ll shit in your face what had been your own meat, but it won’t be completely digested and will be even more disgusting than usual.  Just to be sure there’s enough, and to let Tommy and Ryan also join in the fun, we’re going to help ourselves to some of the rest of your meat.”


Danny picked up the theme as he reached for Bill’s right hand, explaining: “Now that you don’t have a cock to jerk off, you really don’t need your right hand.  That’s the one you used to use for that.  We could eat that, but it’s not very tasty and doesn’t have much meat.  Your fucking cock was disgusting enough.  We’re thinking your arm might have some meat that’s better, but the worthless hand is in the way.   I’m going to cut it off and save it for later use.  But first I’m going to punish it for all that jerking off.”  Danny smashed the useless jerk-off tool with the mallet he’d used to drive the bat into Bill’s ass, crushing the bones and laughing at his own cleverness as he then cut it off and tossed it into a nearby container.  What he was after was the meat on the arm, and he used the knife to slice that off, sharing it among all five alpha males.  They ate it raw, again with Bill watching in agony.  The amount of pain from having flesh cut away from his live body was beyond Bill’s comprehension, and he was horse from screaming and had to be revived several times.  “There, that should assure there’s enough shit made from you to provide what you deserve to eat tomorrow.”  And with that, the alphas left for their luxurious rooms while the house fags cauterized Bill’s bleeding body, so it would remain alive for further use.  Then they, in turn, reported to Mr. Jordon’s room for further punishment.


The Angry Reaper

Near the Coast of the Bahamas

The morning after their arrival had been as much fun as the prior evening had been.  It started with the five young alpha males assembling in the S&M torture room where Bill had spent the night in the cage.  They laughed at his ruined body as they awakened him.  The house fags had simply cut off what remained of his right arm and applied a tourniquet to prevent further bleeding, tossing what had remained after the meat was sliced off and eaten the night before into the nearby bucket with the crushed hand.  Ryan joked that they had found the perfect way to prevent a fag from jerking itself off.


All five took turns taking their morning dump into Bill’s open and willing mouth, following it with loads of piss.  It was even more fun than they’d anticipated because the effect of the diuretics was not only to make much of the shit unusually runny and disgusting, but also to cause some to contain undigested pieces of the meat.  As Danny took his dump the group noticed one piece of shit that was clearly the remnant of Bill’s cock, which Danny had swallowed without chewing.  The glans at its tip was still recognizable even in the rest of the pile of shit and hey made sure Bill chewed it thoroughly before swallowing his own man-muscle.  The testicles had been more thoroughly digested so they weren’t distinct within the piles Mark and Kevin contributed.  Besides, as they pointed out, they were very small – an observation that generated more laughter.  The runny mass of shit was truly disgusting, but Bill swallowed all of it as instructed, thanking the alphas for their gift.  He literally was eating himself in his proper form – as shit.  The degrading sight led to lots more fun abuse, and while they ridiculed Bill they also had him clean out his mouth, so he could give each alpha a morning blow job, gratefully swallowing their cum to follow all the piss and shit.  It had been a fabulously fun and entertaining start to the day.


As Bill finished expressing his thanks, Danny spoke up again, asking the group: “Does anyone want to hear any more out of this fag?”  They all said no, so Danny took a scissors and used it to cut off Bill’s tongue.  He tossed that into Bill’s mouth with instructions and an explanation.  “It’s about time you bit your tongue, faggot.  But this won’t get digested since your innards are ruined and your asshole is plugged for good.  But you are still required to chew it and swallow.  Other than shit and piss it’s the last thing you’ll ever eat.”   As the rest of the group spat in Bill’s face, Danny lashed his chest brutally for failing to thank Danny for preventing him from embarrassing himself by talking.  Bill tried to mouth a thank-you, but hat just caused Danny to whip him harder.

“I’m ready for a hearty breakfast and then ready to go deep sea fishing,” Mark announced next, to the cheers of the group.  They all had gone down to the dock and boarded Mr. Jordon’s impressive fishing yacht, The Angry Reaper.  He had named it in honor of his lifelong passion for ridding the world of useless fags.


The house fags were on board in case anyone wanted to beat them or fuck them, but the focus of the day was on fishing, and there was an expert crew to assist them.  Bill had also been brought on board, placed on his back in a tub that was designated not only to store him but also for the passengers to use when they needed to urinate or take a dump.  His severed arm and hand were in a small tub next to him.  After everyone pointed to where his cock and balls had been and had a good laugh, Mr. Jordon explained the day’s plan, and Bill suddenly realized what had been branded on his chest and what his purpose was.  He once again admired and appreciated the appropriateness of Danny’s ideas.


“We want to attract the big fish that inhabit these warm waters, and that requires the right bait.  Over the years I’ve learned that fresh fag body parts work wonderfully well for that, and as you can see we have a fag already branded for what it now is – “live bait.”  But I have also discovered that the fish are even more interested if the live bait has been soaked in a mixture of piss and shit.  So, while I know it’s a little embarrassing for some of you to urinate and shit in public, you’ll be adding to that mixture and increasing the chances of catching something impressive as fag parts are attached to your fishing lines.  Our expert crew will do the cutting, as it is important to keep the fag alive, so the bait stays fresh.  We think there’s enough of it to serve as bait for all three days of our adventure if we’re careful.  And, of course, this also means it will spend part of the day, and each night, soaking in a solution of filth that attracts fish and befits its status.  Also, try to aim for its mouth so it will swallow as much as possible, which also helps flavor the meat to be better bait.”


The group moved a little closer to the tub where Bill was being stored.  The young alphas had stripped down to tight Speedos, which allowed them to enjoy the warm sun, get a tan, and show off their awesome alpha bodies.  The sheer dominance of the situation – themselves as big sea fishermen, the house fags as service animals, and Bill as live bait – had aroused their masculine instincts big time.  The tight swimsuits did nothing to hide the large erections that resulted.  What they did not realize, and what would have annoyed them, is how much this turned Bill on.  He was no longer a sexual animal, of course, but he was still a fag.  And as he viewed the fantastic man-flesh looming over his ruined body he once again realized how much he worshiped their forms and how right it was for them to use, torture, and dispose of him.  If he had still had a cock it probably would have shot a load without him even touching it.


Since it was Danny’s idea to use Bill as bait he got the first piece of meat to add to the hook at the end of his fishing line.  It was a nice slice of thigh-meat, and everyone enjoyed watching the expert crew cut it off while listening to Bill’s pathetic attempts at screaming without his tongue.  Yet as Danny moved even closer to enjoy the show his god-like body and the sight of his perfect, erect cock outlined by the tight Speedo meant Bill had no complaints.  A little blood flowed into the tub before the wound was closed by adding a tight tourniquet just above the right thigh below the butt.  That way they could remove more bait from the thigh and leg, which they did as they prepared the lines for the other vacationers.  Danny’s added load of piss down Bill’s throat contributed a bit more fun to the opening scenario and set a good example for the others when they needed to piss.  Since Bill’s cock had been removed and his sphincter crushed by the bat, the piss that went into his mouth soon emptied out of the piss-hole that remained, for him to lie in.  Mr. Thompson especially approved, and everyone got another good laugh.  By the time the vacationers were set up with their fishing lines, Bill’s right leg and thigh were mostly devoid of meat or muscle.    The crew saw to it he stayed alive and awake to entertain the passengers, but Bill had another purpose to fulfill once they reached the desired fishing area and the boat was put at anchor.  Bill was tied with ropes, using the handle of the bat and his neck as the key points of contact to keep his body upright, and lowered over the side of the board, bouncing off the boat to the amusement of everyone.  As Mr. Jordon explained, the piss-soaked live body was the key to attracting large fish to within range of the lines of the fishermen.  Bill was literally live bait, and Mr. Jordon was correct.  Within a short time, Bill’s body attracted a large shark, which surfaced as it took a bite out of Bill’s butchered leg.  Mr. Jordon was quite pleased as this meant the tourniquet would stop further bleeding and they could leave Bill in the water to keep performing his function of attracting fish.  But the big excitement was when the shark bit the piece of fag meat at the end of Tommy’s line, and with help form the expert crew Tommy was able to land the huge predator.  He was absolutely thrilled.


“Hey, Tommy, you just caught a shark.  I thought you lawyers didn’t do that.  You know, professional courtesy and all that?”  Ryan’s joke got a huge laugh, and although everyone caught at least something on their first day of fishing, this catch was the highlight of the day.  Fag bait was once again successful, as Mr. Jordon had predicted.  Bill was hauled back into the boat and placed in the tub to marinate further, so he’d be ready for day 2 of the adventure.  By then the tub was full and the five young alphas added some piss and shit to fill it even more, as always aiming at Bill’s open mouth.


The vacationers returned to the resort and had another fantastic evening, enjoying delicious food and fine wines, which included fresh shark along with one of the house fags that Mr. Jordon had ordered bar-be-cued live for their enjoyment.  Everyone agreed the fag’s meat was delicious, and the young alphas commented how much better it was than the samples they’d had of Bill.  They had contemplated eating a bit more of him, so they could again shit on him with his own meat, but concluded he wasn’t good enough and didn’t deserve the honor anyway.  “We clearly allocated the fags to the right tasks,” Mark noted.  The real joy, however, was everyone seeing how happy Mr. Thompson was with the day’s events.  He had caught a large snapper, so he had enjoyed the fishing, but mostly he was thrilled with how the day reflected on their shared view of fags and the need to dispose of them.  He and Mr. Jordon had a lively, enthusiastic exchange on that, and Mr. Thompson was effusive in his complements, also taking note of how well the young alphas were humiliating, punishing, and dismembering Bill.  Mr. Thompson was both thrilled and grateful.


After dinner the young alphas again had fun torturing and fucking the house fags.  Mr. Jordon had not only replaced the one who had been eaten but added four others, so each young alpha had one to play with.  It was especially fun as the three new ones were still in training.  Training a fag to know its place and purpose was great fun.  Their live bait, meanwhile, remained on the yacht marinating in the tub of filth.


Day 2 was also successful, starting on the yacht with everyone shitting and pissing into Bill’s mouth and all over what remained of his body.  Tommy had joked about his Speedo creating a tan line, and Mr. Jordon encouraged the young alphas to skip the swim suites. “Young alpha males traditionally hunted and competed naked, and I think you’ll enjoy that as well as taking care of Tommy’s tan line concern.”  Then Danny also pointed out being naked would be more convenient for pissing and shitting on Bill, and for using the house fag slaves for sexual release.  Of course, what he really liked, but didn’t say, was the fact it meant he could show off his well-shaped cock, which was a bit bigger than the other four.  Given the amount of testosterone that the setting generated, all five of the young cocks were erect for much of the day, with the house fags well used for sexual relief.  Bill, of course, was no longer an option to use for that, with his ass plugged by the bat and no tongue remaining to give a proper blow job.


The only slight hitch of the day was Bill being severely bitten by a barracuda as he danged form the side of the boat.  The bite was obviously no problem – it was amusing to watch – but it meant he had to be hauled up for a bit while the wound was treated.  The fish had bitten him in the chest, where he had been branded “live bait” so at least the interruption had an ironic and humorous aspect.  Mr. Jordon ordered the repair because he wanted the bait to stay alive for all three days.  However, the huge plus side of that was that the prize game fish had then bitten Mr. Thompson’s line, generating what he would often refer to as the most fun day he’d ever had.  Even Bill was pleased, listening to the events while being repaired and realizing he had caused something good in his father’s life.  Of course, no one else considered that aspect, especially not Mr. Thompson.


As they again headed back to the resort, they all commented that the experiences and comradery were terrific.  So was the evening, this time not featuring the prize game fish to accompany the live fag meat, as Mr. Thompson wanted to have his trophy prepared for mounting in his living room in Vermont.  But the fresh snapper went well with the grilled live fag.


As they reached the boat for day 3, they all observed that Bill had been thoroughly marinated in blood, shit, and piss from their efforts, but they were amused to note he also had been the target of seagulls during the evening and early morning.  “Even the birds think he’s best used as a target for shit,” Tommy observed, and everyone agreed.  They then engaged in the now-traditional entertainment of pissing and shitting on Bill, and then they increased the quantity of bait used on their lines, leaving Bill with neither arms nor legs, let alone a cock, even before he was lowered into the water to perform a final day’s duty as live bait.  This was followed by dumping the tub overboard so all the “marinate” soaked his body and the water around him.  Bill was live bait, and after the day’s fishing he would be of no further use.  So there was no further need for the marinate and no one paid attention when he was bitten multiple times.  His body had attracted lots of fish this day as well, so it didn’t matter if he was still alive or not.


When the day was done, and the yacht powered up for the journey back to the resort, Danny happened to look over the side and, to his surprise, realized that Bill was still alive, albeit barely.  Danny also saw another giant shark in the distance heading toward Bill.  He alerted the rest of the group, since he not only had no objection to Bill being eaten by a shark, he figured that would be fun to watch.  The group assembled quickly to observe the fun, but then Danny remembered Mr. Jordon had told him sharks tend to leave a lot of the carcass to float away.  It would be inconvenient if part of Bill washed up on shore.  Mr. Jordon had recommended a different approach, and the five young alphas did a fast game of rock/paper/scissors to see who would do the honors.  Danny won, and as the group watched he casually cut loose the rope that was keeping Bill upright in the water near the side of the ship.  As Bill was pulled under the ship by the powerful engines and props his eyes briefly met Danny’s, and Bill tried to mouth the “thank you” he genuinely felt.  He had finally been used to provide pleasure for his former family and then disposed of as befit a fag object as disgusting as he always had been, removing a point of family shame.  But, to the cheers of the onlookers, Danny flipped him off and spat into the water.  They all heard a satisfying “thud” followed by a brief slowing of the engines.   Mr. Jordon assured them the special design of the props meant what was left of the fag was now thoroughly ground up.  Bill wasn’t the first fag who’d been used as live bait needing to be fully disposed of after use, nor even a noteworthy one.


As the engines returned to full power and the yacht began its journey, the vacationers were served fresh drinks and celebrated both the great day fishing and the disposal of Bill.  Mr. Thompson suggested a picture of the five young alphas, who quickly returned to the side of the ship and posed.  Their naked bodies glistened in the sun, shoaling off their masculinity (which included impressive cocks since the recent thrill had caused each to become erect).  They smiled at the camera and held their drinks up for a toast. Danny, in the center, held up the end of the rope he had just cut, with an appropriate look of triumph.  It was the perfect reminder of their vacation and their accomplishment, and they continued to congratulate each other as they recalled the fun details.


The final evening was the best celebration of all, and Mr. Jordon processed another of the house slaves to create his favorite “fish and fag fry” feast.  All his guests were effusive in their thanks, especially Mr. Thompson.  “This was a fantastic trip in every respect, and I now feel I can truly have pride in my entire family.”  Neither he nor anyone else was ever bothered by the thought of Bill again, and the photo was a treasured reminder of the reason why.