Carlos and NIck 8–Remy’s Big Break

Remy was getting despondent.  It was getting late on a hot weekday afternoon, and no one had approached him.  And he was dressed—or, at least partly dressed—to attract attention, too, although it was more out of necessity than deliberate effort.


Vegas can be unbearable in August, so once he found a shady spot just outside one of the large casinos on the north end of the Strip, he peeled his t-shirt off and tucked behind him in the waistband of his pants, letting part of it hang out.  Even so, beads of sweat trickled down his firm chest, making his smooth teen skin glisten.


The pants weren’t the most comfortable for the heat—skintight leather jeans.  Those, and the designer leather hightop sneakers in black and gold, had been purchased as what Remy had thought was a good investment.


The adolescent punk wasn’t completely stupid; he’d left school at the age of fourteen and had run off with a wealthy older man he’d met.  The dude got him high, gave him a home and all the money he asked for, and only occasionally asked for sex in return.  Remy could go party and get laid almost anytime he liked—for a couple of years.  Then his sugar daddy OD’d one night when Remy was out.


He was out on the street, selling his teen body, within a week.  Already experienced and street-savvy, he managed to make some contacts via his party buddies and after just over three months of whoring himself out, had gotten his opportunity.


Remy had sandy blond hair, large blue eyes and a pert nose in addition to his lithe but muscled adolescent body; the thought of doing porn had always appealed to him, so when he got the chance to be bottom to a famous top known for his rough sex, the young slut jumped at it.


He was responsible for his own wardrobe, so he made a calculated choice to get something really eye-catching.  After all, this part could lead to huge things, he told himself as justification for spending not only his rent and food money, but the cash he had laid up for a drug debt, on the pants and kicks.


The scene went great.  The top fucked the shit outta him; Remy shot a huge wad for the camera, took his surprisingly small cash payment home, and waited for the calls to come in.


The calls came in, all right, but not the ones Remy was wanting.  The landlord was phoning daily, when not banging on the door.  His dealer was calling even more frequently—and more ominously.  But the movie led to nothing.


It led to nothing for Remy because the producer did a little late research on him.  One he found that he had graphic sexual footage of a minor on his hands, he personally cut the scene out and destroyed all copies.  Even digital versions were securely wiped.


Remy never appeared on screen at all.


And then he was gone.


He was in too much of a bind to stay where he was, so he fled.  Sometimes he hitched rides (or, more accurately, traded them for sex), sometimes he took the bus, crammed uncomfortably into a window seat, unable to close his eyes and rest due the non-English cacophony of voices surrounding him.  But one way or another, he managed to make it to Vegas, only to find that it did him a fat lot of good.


Sure, he could turn tricks, and the income from that was enough to support a shitty apartment and his meth habit, but he wanted more.


Well, more certainly hadn’t come today.  And it wasn’t likely to come tonight.


He shrugged and sweat ran into his eyes, stinging them.  He clenched them shut and was still rubbing at them when a deep bass voice spoke, so near that it startled the shit out of him; he hadn’t heard anyone approach.


“Ya look like you could use a few bucks.”


He opened his eyes and was instantly in lust.


The dude was Hispanic, with a shaved head and a tight black goatee.  He sported a wifebeater and jeans that clung to him like a second skin, leaving no detail of his powerful, heavily-muscled body to the imagination.  The worn denim was wrapped so tightly around the stud’s cock that Remy could easily see the shape of the huge head.  And the wifebeater seemed designed too display the guy’s thick pecs and muscle-bound arms covered in an intimidating display of tats, some crudely inked.  A pair of black combat boots completed the look.


Remy really hoped the stud offered him money—because he wasn’t gonna ask for any.  As much as he wanted cash, he wanted that enormous rough trade cock reaming out his ass, and he was prepared to give it up for free.


But the guy had already mentioned money; with that and his body he had about 120% of Remy’s attention.


“Uh, yeah,” the teen said, batting his long lashes; his attempt at innocence had all the subtlety of a silent-movie vamp.  “I ain’t been in town long, and I ain’t found a job yet…”


“No?  You found any cock yet?”


The look on the dude’s face was cold and almost contemptuous, but Remy didn’t care.  He’d sure found the cock he wanted tonight, at any rate.  He blushed and grinned, a natural reaction much more attractive than his earlier attempt.


“I’m Sam,” the hardbodied stud said abruptly, “Ya like it up the ass?  Wanna get fucked on camera?  Pay’s good.”


“Yeah?  How much?”  The boy was suddenly as alert and focused as a hound on a scent.


“A grand now and five percent of the online revenue.”


Well, fuck—that was more than Remy had got for the professional flick.


“Who’s gonna fuck me?  You?”


The tatted hunk grinned for the first time, Remy noticed—but the adolescent slut was so full of greed and hormones that he disregarded the feral, shark-like nature of the grin.  “Yeah, man, I’ll be the one fuckin’ ya.”


The kid practically beamed at hearing this.  “Give it to me rough,” he bleated, “Treat me like shit.  You c’n do that, right?”


This time there was no mistaking the predatory gleam that illuminated Carlos’s dark eyes with an almost psychotic glow; Remy’s dismissal of the meaning of that look was a willful act.  All he cared about was the answer and “Sam’s” reply was what he wanted to hear.


“Bitch, this is gonna be the roughest, rawest fuck you’re ever gonna get in yer life—I fuckin’ promise ya.  Now c’mon, my partner’s already got the cameras up.”


“Where we goin’?” Remy asked, his rounded leather-encased ass practically wriggling in anticipation.


“We got a place out in the warehouse district.  Nice and private for a movie set.  You’ll see.  Hop in.”


They’d arrived at Carlos’s Benz.  One look at the car was enough to convince Remy that this was a legit deal.  Sure, the car was older, but the kid didn’t pay much attention to model years.  He knew it was a Mercedes convertible and it looked great.


Appearances were more than enough for Remy.  He climbed in next to Carlos and in a moment, they were heading off into the darkness.  For one of them, the darkness would be permanent.



From the moment Remy entered the set, he knew that this was it, this was the chance he’d been waiting for.  The set itself wasn’t quite as professional as his single prior experience, just a bed and a nightstand on a carpeted platform, but the stud he’d be working with made up for—and then there was the cameraman.


Nick was focusing a tripod-mounted camera at the bed when they arrived.  He’d already been alerted by a call from Carlos, a call overheard by Remy in which he was referred to as “a hot one” and felt flattered.  Nick’s long wavy black hair fell to bare shoulders; he was shirtless.  His massive chest narrowed to the waistband of an incredibly tight pair of jeans, the hems of which had been negligently caught and hiked up when Nick had pulled on his pair of laced but untied Rockrooster logging boots.


The teen slut’s jaw almost hit the ground as he was introduced; Nick was bigger and better built than “Sam”, even if he lacked the dangerous edge that the tattoos and shaved head gave the ex-con.


“You ready to get fucked?” the cameraman asked laconically, his grin touched with the merest hint of malevolent contempt.  “Show us what we’re paying for, boy.  Strip.”


As Remy balanced precariously on one leg, pulling off a sneaker, his eyes were drawn to the huge bulge in Nick’s crotch.  He could see the details of every last inch—and there were a lot of inches—of the cameraman’s massive tackle.  Still staring at Nick, the whore wriggled his way out of his tight leather jeans, everything finally coming down, letting his long thick boycock spring free, achingly erect.  The left cuff, though, caught at his foot; still standing on only one leg, Remy lost his balance.  Just as the pants came free, he staggered into Carlos.


The muscle-bound convict had shed his wifebeater by this time, revealing a thick gold chain half submerged in the thick fur covering the killer’s powerful chest.  As Remy stumbled forward, he ended up with his face inadvertently buried in the dark forest of wiry hair.  The boy needed no encouragement; with his face already in a place he wanted, he began nuzzling the older man’s hair, inhaling his musky scent.  Within seconds, he’d transferred his attention to Carlos’s nips, licking and gnawing at the hard nubs of flesh.


The kid began jacking himself, his hand moving furiously in his crotch as he worked the fagkiller’s chest, but as he did, he could hear the sound of a zipper sliding behind him, and he knew what that meant.


Remy liked nipples but he loved cock. And he was about to get some.


The skin-headed rough trade pushed him roughly away.  Remy stumbled back and feel to his knees.  He didn’t mind, though; from here, Nick enormous dripping dick was right at face level.


All he had to do was open his mouth and his throat was full of manmeat.


Nick was only semi-hard as he inserted his shaft into the whore’s mouth, but he swiftly reached the massive extent of his full erection as he skullfucked the teen slut.  Remy had enjoyed the slick, salty precum and the feeling of fullness in his mouth but as the huge tool kept swelling in his esophagus, he realized he needed to come up for air.


And then he realized he couldn’t.  Nick was clutching his head, the cameraman’s powerful hands clamped like a vise to his cranium, making any movement impossible.  His eyes watering, Remy began to gag and choke.  He pressed his hands against Nick’s thick, strong thighs, trying to force the older man away.  As he struggled uselessly, he heard Nick’s malicious chuckle.


That was when he vomited, a thick wad of foamy drool erupting from around the huge hog in his mouth and dripping off his chin.


“Can’t breathe?” the muscle-bound cameraman asked jocularly.  “Whore like you should be able to hold its breath longer than that.”


Remy might have had a rejoinder had he been able to speak; as it was, he could only beat against Nick’s rock-hard, immovable body as the stud kept forcing his cock further down the gagging teen’s trachea.  As the huge tube of manmeat inched its way further in, something tripped in the kid’s brain, slow asphyxia setting off a kind of claustrophobic panic response.  Remy became frantic, struggling wildly to pull away as Nick clutched him tight and Carlos looked on in amused contempt.


Finally, Nick let the boy free.  The teen faggot fell back, coughing and retching as drool continued to pour down his chin and smear across his smooth chest.  His face was a livid purple and as he tried to wipe his lips with the back of his hand, it was trembling visibly.


Nick noticed and guffawed.  “What, did you think I was trying to snuff ya?  Not yet, bitch—you’re not dying till I get the cameras on.”


Remy listened to the words, partly incredulously and partly in terror.  Surely that was a joke—but it inspired enough fear in him to get him to his feet.  As Nick, still grinning, to a step towards him, Remy took a step backwards.  Nick took another, Remy took two—and bumped into something firm and unyielding.  He whiled around to find it was Carlos.


The look on the ex-con’s face almost made the boywhore lose control of his bladder.


“Where ya think yer goin’, faggot?” the inked killer snarled.  “Yer gonna die on my dick tonight and we’re gonna film it.  Thousands of dudes around the world are gonna pay us good money so they can beat their meat as they watch me rape and snuff your worthless homo ass.  They wanna watch me destroy your teen fag body, ya dig?  The more you hurt, the more you scream, the more they pay—and the more I get off.”


There was a brief, pregnant pause and the sadistic fagkiller spoke again.  “You wanna end the pain?  Make me cum, motherfucker, and I’ll snap yer neck and put you outta yer misery.  Remember that, cunt.  You die when I cum.  I’m gonna leave yer spunk-filled body to rot in the desert—but not till I’ve filled it.  Got it, cocksucker?”


Yes and no.  Remy had heard the words, but he couldn’t process them; it was as if his brain was refusing to understand them.  And once it did, it flat-out refused to believe them.  This was some kinda sick joke.  Maybe a prank.  He didn’t know anyone personally who would prank him, but there were cameras—maybe this was one of those cable reality shows…


Carlos, seeing the boy’s confusion regarding the veracity of his speech, cleared the matter up for Remy by punching him in the face hard enough to send the teen reeling back onto the concrete floor, where he lay dazed, spitting up blood and his left incisor.  As he struggled to regain his equilibrium, he heard the thudding of thick-soled boots on the floor and looked up to see Nick looming over him.


The long-haired musclestud grinned and flexed his pectorals.  The sight of his huge, glistening pecs would normally have instilled pure lust in Remy; now, that lust was mingled with fear.  There was a lot of power there, and if it was unleashed against him…


Slowly and reluctantly, he climbed to his feet.  He knew he was making himself a target, but he had to be upright if he was to have a chance at escape.


Nick, though, was even more experienced as a fagkiller than Carlos.  He knew what was bubbling in the teen slut’s mind; the stupid little fucks always tried to make a break for it at this point.  That could be fun, but Nick had a job to do—namely, to get this cunt onto the bed so Carlos could fuck it and snuff it.  He decided to forestall any flight attempt the pansy might try.


His method was swift and brutally efficient.  Remy just barely had time to see the hardbodied cameraman’s huge pec and powerful bicep swell.  The fact that he was gonna get punched again was obvious.  He drew his hands to his face…


…and Nick’s fist plowed into his firm flat belly like a runaway train.   “EEEEGGH!” Remy cried out in a high, girlish shriek as the vicious impact forced the air from his lungs.  He stumbled backwards, gasping for air.


Nick powered up the camera be fore advancing towards him and suddenly the adolescent whore found himself in some sort of alternate time, a kind of involuntary slow-motion with heightened senses.  He was aware of so much, but couldn’t move fast enough to do a damn thing about any of it.


He was aware of Carlos standing to the side, smirking, his huge horsedick pulsing visibly with each blow he watched the boy take.


He was aware of incredible pain in his gut and wondered vaguely if it had caused organ damage; he seemed to visualize internal bleeding…


He was aware that the camera was on, and that this was being recorded for the sexual satisfaction of complete strangers.


He was aware of a swath of blue denim filling his field of vision.  He had just enough time to realize that, as he was bent over in agony, Nick was kneeing him in the face—and to think oh fuck before he was struck hard enough to crush his nose and jerk him fully erect, his eyes wide open.


Nick was swinging his fist even before the pain hit Remy; the kid saw it coming at him but there wasn’t anything he could do.  And then there was blissful nothingness.  With the squealing bleat of a slaughtered sheep, the teen whore was knocked backwards, sprawling unconscious on the floor, his battered face swelling and bleeding, his legs spread—and between them, his long boycock still semi-erect, despite the ferocious abuse the boy had just endured.



The first thing Remy was aware of was pain.  The second thing he was aware of was more pain.  Any part of reality not involving pain was a distant third.


He was on his back.  He was on something firm, but not as hard as the concrete floor.  His eyes were badly swollen; it was difficult to open them, so he didn’t try at first.  He had no problem hearing, though.


“I’m about ready to take this cunt down.  Ain’t ya got something to wake it up?”


That was the one he knew as “Sam.”


“I’ve got some ammonia caps if we need them, but I’ll bet it starts up screaming and yelling the moment you get your tackle into it.”


That was the cameraman.  Remy desperately pried his eyes open, filled with terror by the unconscious recognition—he didn’t dare recognize it consciously—of the significance of the pronoun “it.”


He was on the bed, on his back.  The overhead lights were simple shop lights in reflective metal cones, but they were nearly blinding from his perspective.  He turned his head to the side and the thickly-muscled forms of his assailants swam into view.


Nick had removed his jeans.  He’d slipped his boots back on; the concrete floor was slippery with only socks on, but otherwise, he was stark nude.


At the moment, he was working on the camera, facing away from the bed.  Remy, despite his obvious peril, couldn’t help but admire the stud’s tight, muscular ass, imagining those muscles tautening and flexing as his hips drove his shaft up a homo ass…


Carlos, on the other hand, was facing him, still in boots and jeans.  His enormous shaft jutted out intimidatingly, like the ram on an ancient warship.  He noticed Remy’s movement and jeered, “Looks like all ya had to do was mention dick and the fag woke right up.  Shit, even got it hard again, haw!”


The teen slut understood that very bad things were going to happen.  He still didn’t believe that his worthless ass was going to die this night, but given the damage already inflicted on him, he knew that unless he could get out of here real quick, he was gonna suffer.  A lot.


Carlos approached the bed.  He’d been nearly eye-level with the prone youth until he mounted the platform.  Still blinking and shielding his dark, swollen eyes from the overhead lights, Remy peered up at the hulking sadist looming over him.  He could barely see Carlos’s cold, hard face over the ex-con’s huge, thickly-muscled chest, but the gold chain buried in his fur twinkled gaily under the bright lights.


As he stood over the bitchboy, Carlos took one hand and wrapping it around the base of his massive cock, began slapping it into his other hand.  Hot precum splattered over Remy’s lithe nude form as the killer leered at him.


“Ya like dick, dontcha, asswipe?”  Carlos sneered.  “Fuckin’ faggot.  Tonight yer gonna learn what faggots are good for, cunt.  Tonight, yer gonna learn what real men do to cocksuckin’ perverts.”


He bent down, and now Remy could see his face very clearly.  Given the utterly insane mix of hate and lust that gleamed in the hardbodied convict’s eyes, the terrified adolescent didn’t want to see him that clearly.  Or hear him.


“And I promise ya, motherfucker, it’s gonna hurt. It’s gonna hurt so bad you’ll beg us to waste your pansy ass.  I fuckin’ promise.


“Aw, now, don’t be cruel,” came Nick’s jeering voice as he approached with a hand-held camera, “You know you won’t off the fuckmeat till it milks your load, no matter how much it begs.”


The long-haired cameraman grinned, turning in all his nude glory to the kid on the bed.  His smile was genial, almost beneficent.  “There’s your pro-tip for when the pain gets too much, fag.  You’ll have to make him cum before he’ll be merciful enough to kill you.”


And deep down, some corner of his shallow cockpig mind made Remy aware that even as he was being told that he was gonna be raped and tortured to death, his own dick was still hard.  He didn’t want this, he’d never wanted this, but he couldn’t control his erection.


Oh fuck, he had to get out of here.  It might not be too late—


It was.  He hadn’t begun to rise when Carlos was on the bed with him, forcing his legs apart with the careless violence of a child yanking a wishbone.


“What the fuck?” the teen homo yelled in an outraged tone—as if that had any impact—as he felt the inhumanly large head of the muscled killer’s shaft pressing against the soft tender pink edges of his asshole.  “No way, asshole you ain’t fuckin’ me, you can’t dooaaAAAAAIIIEEE!!!”


Remy’s shriek spiraled up over an octave as Carlos plunged his tackle into the boy’s fuckhole, tearing him so badly in the process that—if he lived—he’d need surgery.  His enormous tool not only tore the teen’s sphincter in three places, it also split the kid’s rectal lining before it ground his prostate into paste and lodged deep in his guts.


The pain was not something Remy could comprehend.  Compared to this, the vicious beating was a good-night kiss from mother, and that was the thought that stuck in the teen’s agonized mind.


“Mommy,” he begged softly, tears streaming down his bruised face, “Please, mommy…”


“Aw, shaddup,” Carlos barked and gutpunched the kid.  Forced halfway into a sitting position by the blow, Remy found himself staring directly into the eyes of the fagkiller fucking him.


“I ain’t yer mommy, I’m yer fuckin’ god,” the ex-con snarled.  “I’m the one who decides when the pain stops, motherfucker.”  With that, Carlos laid him back on the bed again with a love tap to the jaw, so gentle it barely dislodged two more teeth.


Tears welling in his eyes, Remy could see a large blur by his side; the loud guffaw that it emitted was in Nick’s voice.  As his sight cleared slightly, he found himself looking directly into a camera lens.  “Does it hurt, boy?” came the long-haired sadist’s deep basso voice, “Come on, show us.  Beg for it to stop, whore, beg the camera!”


And that’s exactly what Remy did.  Turning his battered, once-handsome face to the lens, he painfully opened his damaged mouth and sobbed, “Please…please, d-don’t hurt me no more, mister…”


Nick’s laugh was crueler and more raucous than before.  He turned to Carlos.  “Mister!  Did ya hear that?  He actually called me mister…”


“He ain’t the one with his dick up yer ass, faggot!” Carlos snarled.  He drew back his huge, piston-like arm and plowed his fist three times into Remy’s smooth, firm belly in rapid-fire succession. Each blow elicited a high girlish squeal from the gasping youth as the massive impact forced the air out of his lungs and past his vocal cords at high velocity.  His entire body jerk spasmodically each time Carlos’s fist fell; the ex-con grunted with pleasure as the cunt’s asshole clenched his thick pulsing shaft repeatedly during the attack.


Nick caught it all on film.  As Carlos leaned back for a moment, keeping his shaft buried in the teen’s ass, Nick stepped forward, holding the camera in one hand and his huge, club-like cock in the other.  He dangled it, engorged and dripping, over Remy’s dark, grimacing face.  The kid still hadn’t been able to inhale from the brutal pounding on his solar plexus; his wide-eyed look of desperation and his useless mouth, gaping and closing, gave him the look of a landed fish asphyxiating in the open air.


He could still see, though, and as his taut young body writhed in a frenetic attempt to breathe, he was well aware of the way Nick was wielding his gigantic tool above his face.


“So you like dick, boy?  You want this dick?  Sure you do; I can see it in your eyes.  Guess it’s your lucky night, punk—here ya go!”


And with that, Nick began swinging his thick, meaty shaft, slamming it into Remy’s face.  It was a formidable weapon, having enough length and girth to give it a hefty mass.  When the vein-wreathed rod of manflesh walloped the teen across his bruised face and broken jaw, the pain was phenomenal.


Remy had been dickslapped hundreds of times before; he’d never know it could hurt, much less cause such horrible pain as this.  Even the precum spattered from the cameraman’s monstrous dick seemed to sear Remy’s skin where it landed.


The adolescent slut felt his mind slipping away from him.  This was the hottest sexual encounter he’d ever had in his short, wasted life—two incredible alpha studs, one fucking roughly while the other’s cock was in his face.  But this was no wet dream—it was a fucking nightmare.


And then it took a turn for the worse.


Carlos wrapped one huge powerful hand around Remy’s throat.  “Goddam faggot ain’t even good for fuckin’,” the hulking alpha growled, hatred radiating from his muscular body with an almost palpable heat.  “Bitch can’t even take a real man’s cock; I had to wreck its hole to get my dick in.”


As he pounded Remy’s ass, viciously and rhythmically, he spoke to Nick, who turned to him with the camera, so it appeared that the brutal sadist was talking directly to his audience.  “Worthless homo can’t tighten up on my shaft.  Whaddaya think—time ta make it into meat, yeah?  Fuckin’ cunt’ll get all nice and tight as it chokes to death.  Hey, bro,”—this was directly to Nick—“Give it a couple more haymakers.”


Remy heard it and tried to fend off the blows.  His head was pinned into place on the bed, but his arms were free; the urge to resist was involuntary.  It was also a huge mistake.


For some reason, Remy split his forces—so to speak—with one hand clawing at Carlos’s face while the other came up to ward off the looming blow.  This was useless, of course; even Remy, flat on his back and looking up at the hardbodied cameraman towering over him, could see the immense power as Nick’s pecs tensed and his bicep swelled to deliver the punch.


Nick’s fist shot forward twice, rapidly, knocking aside the teen’s protesting arm and impacting his face with the force of a wrecking ball.  The pain would have been overwhelming but at the same time, Carlos’s free hand caught at Remy’s wrist.  The punk’s clawing hadn’t managed to injure the ex-con, but it pissed him off.  With breathtakingly cruel ease, he bent the boy’s hand backwards until the wrist broke with multiple faint popping sounds, then tossed the arm aside, letting it flop uselessly on the bed.


For one single soul-searing moment, time seemed to freeze for the terrified, agonized teenager. He could see, could feel, could sense everything about him as if his mind had somehow become infinitely sharper under the impetus of rape, torture, and impending death.


He could feel the tiny individual bones that had broken in his wrist.  He could see, as if in slow motion, Nick’s arm drawing back for another punch, his thick, hard muscles tautening, their massive power potential about to be unleashed to inflict pain on him yet again.  He could feel the cheap yellow comforter that covered the bed as it scratched the smooth soft flesh in the small of his back.  He could smell the testosterone and adrenaline given off by the two hulking alphas working so relentlessly to destroy him; it was a sharp, acrid scent that mixed with the sour tang on mansweat.


And, of course, he could hear.


“Time to own this faggot’s ass,” Carlos grunted as his hard, handsome face clenched in sexual rage.  “Gonna shoot soon.  Time for it to die.” Just as Nick’s second blow landed, he began to squeeze.  Instantly the pain in Remy’s face and ass began to recede as the horrible vise-like grip of Carlos’s hand slowly constricted his windpipe; as his breath whistled in his narrowing esophagus, it became harder to inhale with each passing second.


In a dim way, just as its air was permanently shut off, the boyslut was vaguely aware that is was sporting a massive, aching erection, but it had more important things to worry about. Panic set in.


“Hey, dude, catch this shit,” Carlos grinned at Nick, his powerful, thickly-muscled body heaving and thrusting as he pumped his enormous hog into the teen’s mangled fuckhole, “Stupid cunt just figured out it can’t breathe.”  With a “Fuck yeah!” and an equally malignant grin, the nude, buff cameraman leaned in for a close-up view of the teen’s strangulation.


The terror in Remy’s face was obvious.  Less sadistic observers might have been moved to pity; it merely goaded the two powerful fagkillers to greater heights of cruelty.  “Hey, motherfucker,” Nick jeered, “Smile for the camera!  Show the folks out there how much you’re loving a nice hard fuck, har!”


Carlos was strong enough that he was able to choke the punk out one-handed.  This left his other hand free—but not for long.  Soon it was slamming into Remy’s vulnerable, unprotected flesh.  The teen’s chest, his belly, his already-smashed face, nothing was sheltered from Carlos’s onslaught.  In addition to the erotic sounds of male-on-male rape was added the heavy, meaty sound of fist on flesh as the vicious ex-con pounded the boywhore in the ass—and everywhere else.


The kid was flailing and thrashing, desperate to escape the crushing agony.  Nick pulled the camera back for a wider shot of the tableau—the powerful killer, his muscular arm rising and falling as he beat the teenager, his firm, tight ass flexing as he plowed his huge manshaft remorselessly into the kid’s colon—everything was recorded so that others could take sexual pleasure in Remy’s suffering.


The pounding inside Remy’s head was getting so loud he couldn’t think—but he could still feel.  He definitely felt the crushing pain in his esophagus as his unbelievably powerful rapist choked him to death with just a single hand.  The pressure in his head and the searing agony in his chest as his lungs heaved and strained against an utter lack of oxygen was almost more than he could bear; it almost—almost—overwhelmed the torture of having his ass shredded by a dick too big to fit.


The weight of the hardbodied top pinning him to the bed was inescapable; despite the nightmarish torture he was enduring, Remy could still feel Carlos’s thick, strong muscled working and flexing against his own body as the older man raped and strangled him; he knew all that power was being expended to make him suffer and die, but there was nothing he could do about it.  His one good hand was beating at the hulking sadist with as much effect as if he were beating an oak tree.


The adolescent whore began to die.  The rapid drumming of his pulse ratcheted up several notches, echoing through his skull to the exclusion of most other sounds.  There was something wrong with his eyesight; he couldn’t close his eyes at all, and great black blossoms were beginning to bloom in his field of vision.  For a moment, he tried to focus on a dancing glint of light that he could make out—his vision too dim for him to realize that it was Carlos’s gold necklace that had caught his attention—when a movement to his side reminded him that Nick was still there.


Remy’s thinking was vague by now; his oxygen had been cut off too long for his brain to continue its normal function.  He remembered Nick, but at the moment, all that mattered was that he wasn’t the one in the process of killing him right now.  If he’d just help…


The shot Nick got was perfect; it helped make this film one of his highest-earning to date.  The badly injured teenager, his blackened, swollen face beaten beyond recognition, reached out in desperation—directly to the camera.  Nick zoomed in on the struggling youth, capturing the suffering and despair of his bulging, staring eyes and the way his tongue was just starting to peek out from between his purple lips, prompting a flood of foamy drool down his smooth cheeks.


And while his jackhammering pulse drowned out most noises, by a cruel trick of fate, both men’s voices were pitched just right to break through the background and enter his consciousness.


“Fuck yeah, bro, get in there and let ‘em watch me put this faggot down like a fuckin’ dog!” Carlos jeered, his harsh voice filled with cold, hateful glee.


“Here, let me get in closer for a second,” Nick told him.  Without throwing the tempo of the brutal rape off, Carlos leaned back and let Nick get even closer.  The muscular cameraman pointed his lens straight down into the dying boy’s face and began dickslapping him again.  A moist smacking sound filled the room as Nick’s monstrous tool slammed into Remy’s bloated, congested face.  The hardbodied psycho grinned down at the choking slut as he ran his pulsating cock over the teen’s black, protruding tongue.


“Yeah, that’s it, lick my dick, boy,” Nick sneered, mostly for the camera.  Enough of Remy was still alive to be aware of what his killers were saying—but not for long.


A cold fog was creeping in around the edges.  Things were receding; not the pain—Remy’s entire universe was nothing but pain—but things didn’t seem to matter.  The fear was fading; the damage to the teen’s brain had been mounting by the second.  He’d finally reached a critical point—even if he was allowed to breathe again instantly, he’d already suffered irreparable brain damage.


His vision was nearly gone.  He was aware that a powerful man was on him and in him, but the details of who or why were gone.  All there was, was now.  He was suffering, he would always suffer.  And what hurt most was his dick.  More than his ripped-open ass or traumatized face, it seemed like every nerve ending in his agonizingly erect shaft was on fire.


“Gonna fuckin’ blow,” Carlos grunted, his thrusting, muscle-bound form slick and glistening with the sweat that was forced from him by the exertion of the brutal rape and murder, “Time to say goodnight ya homo sack a’ shit!”.  Beneath him, struggles slowing to caresses, Remy heard the words distortedly, as if at half speed with reverb edited in.  His good hand was no longer beating at the Hispanic ex-con’s tattooed chest; now, it was involuntarily stroking those huge pecs, fingers curling spasmodically in the thick, wiry chest fur.


Carlos lay full length on Remy’s shuddering body and turned to Nick who was squatting beside the bed, his firm muscled asscheeks tense with the strain and his long shaft dangling nearly to the ground; he was holding the camera right at the level of the bed.  Carlos looked directly at the lens when he spoke.


“Ya wanna see it?” he said with a cruel, shark-like grin the took in all of his unseen audience, inviting their complicity in his remorseless hatefuck.  “Ya wanna see me kill this stupid fuckin’ cunt, yeah?  Wanna watch the worthless homo die?  Here ya go!”


He turned at looked down at what was left of Remy, spitting into the black, grotesque mask that had once been the teen’s face, before screaming, “Fuck you, faggot!  FUCK YOU!!!”  As his powerful, muscle-bound body bent over the teen whore and jerked violently, he wrapped both hands around the boy’s neck, applied his thumbs to the jaw and popped Remy’s skull off its spine like he was popping the cap off a bottle.


Remy didn’t die instantly; that mercy was denied him.  His spinal cord suffered massive damage but wasn’t severed.  The trauma sent an electrochemical pulse through the adolescent’s nervous system that swamped the punk’s shuddering, sweating form like a tsunami.  It was as if Remy had been struck by lightning—a searing, burning shock that seemed to reach his furthest extremities.  Every nerve in the teen’s young, fit body screamed in agony.


Especially those in his raging erection.


At the same time, his hypersensitive nerve endings felt heat deep in his guts, burning pain of a different kind, like lava hosing his ass.  Remy was too brain-dead to realize that Carlos was filling him with hot, potent alpha seed; he could only interpret it as pain.  He couldn’t hear the fagkiller grunting and cursing, or Nick vicious taunts—but when Carlos, in the violent throes of orgasm, began slamming his fist into Remy’s face, the near-dead teen was made aware of it.  The first blow was powerful enough to sever the spinal cord as jagged edges of shattered vertebral bone slashed through the thick bundle of nerve tissue.


If the prior trauma had been a lightning strike, this one was a direct hit by a nuclear bomb.  Remy was annihilated, disappearing in a white-hot blast of agony that caused a spontaneous, prolonged ejaculation.   The teenaged slut shot its deathwad for nearly thirty seconds continuously.  It was the last thing the cunt experienced while it was alive, and every microsecond of it was filled with excruciating pain.


Remy’s life spewed out from his cock, and it hurt.  His DNA splattered on his hulking killer’s inked, furry chest.  At the same time, Nick’s huge, club-like shaft began to spunk, a thick, ropy geyser of cum that splashed into the dead whore’s bulging eyes and on its protruding tongue.  Professional as always, Nick managed to capture every detail of the slut’s death while still coating it with his load.


After that, there were a couple of minutes of gasping and deep breathing as the muscle-bound alphas recovered from their exertions.  Nick stepped off the platform, his boots thudding heavily on the concrete floor, as he left the set area and headed for the restroom to clean up.  By the time he’d finished, Carlos had managed to extract his enormous rod form the dead boy’s ass and was headed to the restroom himself.  Passing in the hall, they high-fived each other–nude, booted, grinning, their gigantic alpha cocks dangling as they walked.


Once they were clean and dressed, it was time to take out the trash.  The meat was sprawled on its back, twitching.  The left foot in particular was jerking rhythmically, the toes still curling.  The faggot’s cock was going limp, the semen that had been trapped in the boydick slowly oozing out as the rod shriveled in death.  Even though it was covered in a glaze of cum, the dead kid’s face was a grotesque caricature, while its bruised chest was pooled with its own spooge.


“So how do ya wanna do this?” Carlos asked.  “Meatsack ain’t goin’ in my car like that.”


“Hell, the comforter’s shot anyway.  Just wrap it up and dump the whole thing.  Hang on a sec.”  Nick retrieved the whore’s sneakers, balled-up shirt, and leather pants, tossing them onto the quivering corpse.  “Come on,” he said, beginning to fold the cheap, thin fabric around the dead teen like a shroud, “I’ll carry it out; you get the doors.”


No sooner said than done.  Nick causally tossed the meat over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and took it out to Carlos’s Benz, where he dumped it into the trunk.  “On second thought,” he said as the ex-con slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, “Dump the cunt but bring the comforter back; I don’t want it found with the body.  I can burn it.”


“Ya really think anyone’s gonna care about a dead fag whore?” the muscled convict asked sneeringly.


“These days, you never know,” Nick said.  “Anyway, no sense in taking a chance.”


Carlos grumbled under his breath as he headed off towards the desert.  When he finally got to the already-scouted dump site, he vented his frustration at the extra precaution Nick had insisted on by kicking the fuck out of the corpse with his combat boots before finally shoving it, nude and abused, into a gully to rot.


It made him feel a little better.  Stuffing the comforter back into the trunk, he turned back to town, whistling as he headed back up the isolated dirt track to the highway.



“Hey, Nuñez, Captain wants to know if they got an ID on that dead fag yet.”


Nuñez looked wearily as his partner in the doorway.  “It’s a dead fuckin’ faggot.  Why the fuck does the captain care?”


“Dontcha keep up with events?” Schweitz grinned, “It’s an election year.  Gonna be a lot of this touchy-feely bleedin’-heart crap.”


“Goddam bullshit,” Nuñez muttered under his breath.


“I can’t hear you,” Schweitz said loudly, his grin even broader.


“Yeah, we gotta ID on the cocksucker,” Nuñez replied just as loudly.  “Remember that broad in here last week?  The one from outta town?”


“The one who took one look at the body and puked her expensive lunch everywhere?  Thought she swore that wasn’t her precious little darlin’.”


“Yeah, well, the dental records came back, and it turns out her precious darlin’ got his face caved right the fuck in before bein’ raped and killed and left to rot in the desert.  Not surprised she didn’t recognize what was left.  Anyway, there’s your answer for the captain.  Now, what does he want me to do with the info, actually look for the killer?”


“Fuck no; dude’s doin’ the city a favor.  But now he can say progress is bein’ made on the case if anyone asks.”


Nuñez closed the file on his desktop and dragged the icon to the trash.  “Moving on, then,” he said in a more relaxed tone.  “After all, a couple of actual humans got offed last night, ya know.  We have real work to do.”


Both men returned to their jobs, Remy’s very existence wiped form their minds.

Jack’s Krew in Rigler County: The Great Coon Hunt

Dan had just settled into his new chair and leaned back on it when Pete burst through the door, grinning.


“Man, I just heard about it and I’m so stoked.  You deserve it, bro—I mean, sir!”


Dan looked up at the eager, muscle-bound cop and smiled in return.  “Well, I’m only sheriff pro tem.  I’ll be finishing out Waites’ term till it ends in January.”


“Yeah, but they ain’t gonna hire anyone else after that—are they?”


Dan let his smile edge into a smirk.  “Well—to tell the truth, I just got back from a meeting with Ethan Hobart—he’s head of the county elections office.  Seems that the reason Waites was unopposed in every election for the last seventeen years was because ol’ Ethan’s a big supporter of law and order.  He liked the way Waites did things, but he told me he knew I had pretty much been running the department solo since Waites took ill last spring.  Looks like I got the same deal, come election time.”


Pete nodded.  “Shame about the old man; I never knew he was that sick.  At least it was quick.  Sounds like yer gonna be the new sheriff of Rigler County, if Hobart keeps his word.”


Dan’s masculine face went cold and hard.  “He’d better, or we’re gonna have to pay him a visit one night.  That reminds me—I can’t be assigning a deputy to my important tasks.  I’ve already started the paperwork to make you my lieutenant.”


Pete was literally speechless, unable to express his appreciation in a coherent way.  Dan chuckled.  “Don’t worry about it, son—you done good.  In a way, you’re pretty much the son I never had, and I trust you.”


“I won’t let you down, sir,” the new lieutenant replied, his voice husky with solemnity.  Pete revered Dan and would have followed him to the ends of the earth—but Dan already knew that.  The two men had formed an incredibly intense bond based on authority and discipline—and the right way to handle someone who lacked them.


Which reminded Dan…


“Hey, my cousin’s supposed to be in town tomorrow.  I’ve asked him and his crew to stop by my place in the evening; I’d like you to be there too.”


“For the big coon hunt?  Fuck yeah, I’m gonna be there!”


“Good,” Dan grinned.  “I been doin’ a little research on what we’re gonna be up against, but we’re gonna need to work out some teams and tactics.  There’s practically gonna be a fuckin’ army of jigaboos comin’ in to pollute our county and we need to make sure we got a plan in place to track down and waste every single one of ‘em.”


“I’ll be ready, sir,” Pete said with a matching grin that was seconded by the huge erection tenting his chinos.  The thought of having free reign to hunt down and snuff niggers in his hometown had the lieutenant edging so hard he could barely concentrate for the rest of the day.



Dan’s place was far enough out of town for the gathering of strangers to go unnoticed.  They’d arrived in two separate groups; Jack, Ed and Hank, all riding their bikes, had arrived first.  Jack straddled a 2012 Harley Night Rod, his tight jeans and twenty-hole Doc Martens wrapped tightly around the hog.  Ed’s ride was a 2013 Harley Fat Boy, while Hank’s was a 2007 Honda Shadow.


The boys cruised up the well-maintained drive, their bikes scrunching to a halt in the gravel in front of the house.  Dan was waiting for them.  Leading them inside, he introduced them to Pete quickly, names only, since Mike’s car pulled up just then.  The boys could hear Mike and Frankie’s boots on the porch just as Dan got to the door.  Once everyone was inside, he passed around a twelve-pack of beer and got down to business.


“Ok, just so we know where we stand,” he said, looking around at the assorted skinhead killers, “I’m the law around here, and Pete here is my lieutenant.  This operation is under my command.  That means I’m in charge, and if I ain’t around, he is—got it?”


“Yeah,” Jack spoke up before any of his crew could object, “Yer callin’ the shots.”  He ignored the baffled looks of his gang, who were unused to seeing their leader take a back seat—but he knew what he was doing.


Dan grinned.  “Relax, men; yer gonna like this.  Pete, bring out that map ya brought.  Jack, what didja find out about this ape invasion?”


“Mike’s my guy for that—what’d ya find?”


Mike stepped forward.  In the dim interior light, his short hair and large eyes both seemed to be of the deepest jet black.  “Coupla coon fraternities from the main campus of the state college.  Not too much about ‘em online, although one was kicked off campus for drugs.”


“Fuck, that’s perfect,” Pete said, “Now they’re down here tryin’ to establish a safe base for their drug deals.”


“So we’re gonna handle it like a raid,” Dan said.  “Any idea how many monkeys are gonna be runnin’ loose in the woods?”


“I was able to access one of the frat’s websites,” Mike smirked, “Fuckin’ cunts don’t know a damn thing about security.  They’re doin’ what they call a Weekend Warrior Weekend where all the apes dress up like army men and play laser tag or paintball or some shit.  At least forty of ‘em are confirmed, and there may be more.  They got three fifteen-passenger vans rented.  Some place called Ranney’s Valley.”


Dan’s face darkened.  “Yer tellin’ me there’s gonna be forty niggers runnin’ loose out there?  Fuck.  Fuck.”


“What’s wrong?” Pete asked, concerned.  Jack leaned forward as well.


“That’s too many.  We can’t leave that much nigger meat out there; it’ll draw too much attention.  And it’ll be too difficult to clean up without some noticeably heavy equipment.”


There was a pause, and the room grew quiet.


“Not if the meat cleans itself up first,” Pete said, suddenly.


Dan looked questioningly at his lieutenant.


“You’re sheriff now, so that means you have access to all the county property, right?  Like access to the Poorhouse?”


Dan saw the light.  “Fuck yeah, we can herd some of ‘em in there.  And then your boys,” he went on, turning to Jack, “Can have some fun.”


“What’s the Poorhouse?” Ed spoke up.


“It’s actually an old jail overflow building.  It was abandoned eighteen years ago when the new county lockup was completed.  It’s got about twenty individual cells, and a nice large cinderblock cafeteria with a gallery and catwalk,” Dan responded grinning.  “It’s an ideal deathpit.”


“Aw, fuck yeah,” Hank said, “This shit is on!  What’s the plan?”


The sudden sense of agreement, of unity, swept wordlessly among the hardbodied testosterone-laden killers.  Their imaginations inflamed with the sheer possibilities, their cocks responded as well; it was inevitable.


But release was for later.  Now, plans needed to be made.


“Ok, lessee what we got here—Pete, you get a map of Ranney’s Valley in this pile?”


“Yeah,” Pete responded, digging through the pile of maps and handing one to Dan, “Here; it’s an old topographical map of everything north of the bayou and west of the Old Randville Road.  Folks at the county office don’t know what they have themselves.  Glad I spotted this; it’s got Ranney’s Valley in detail.”


“All right,” Dan said in a brisk, businesslike tone as he spread the map across his dining room table, “Gather round, boys, and we’ll get operation White Knight worked out.  There’s gonna be two squads.  I’m leadin’ one and Pete the other.”


He paused for a moment, glancing around the room, looking each of Jack’s crew dead in the face.  If there was gonna be any challenge to his authority, it’d happen now.


There was nothing.  They met his eyes, but said nothing; he was the oldest, the strongest, the most experienced.  They accepted him as alpha leader.


He relaxed and grinned.  “That’s only because we wanna have an official presence if any of the coons tries to resist arrest.”  He broke into a broad grin which visible eased the tension in the room.  The hardbodied young men turned their attention to the map.


“Now, if they’re doin’ some kinda war game bullshit, they’re gonna be split in two themselves, and will have two base camps.  One here on the east side of the valley, and one on the west—even niggers can’t be stupid enough not to realize where the camps should go.  And if they are, there’s plenty of info to tell ‘em so.  At any rate, two gangs of apes, so two squads of men to hunt ‘em down.”


“Makes sense,” Jack said, “But we can’t be sure they’ll make a base exactly on those spots, can we?”


“No,” Dan admitted, “Which is why we’re gonna hafta start this clean-up op in full stealth mode.  Each squad will start at the top of the valley, here and here, and slowly work its way down until it finds the base camp.  Any coon you come across before you find the base camp, you waste, but it’s gotta die quiet.  Last thing we need is a buncha howler monkey shriekin’ in the woods, yeah?”


“Don’t worry,” Mike spoke up, “I can make ‘em suffer and die without makin’ a squeak.”  His handsome face was twisted with an evil leer.  Pete noticed the buff young punk; he hadn’t paid him much attention before, but the confident tone of the killer punk’s voice stirred something.


“When you find the base camp, don’t kill the niggers.” Dan said suddenly.  “We’re gonna use them to help gather up and dispose of the dead ones.”


“Dispose?  How’re they gonna dispose of them?” Ed asked.


“Well to start, they can stack the bodies in one of the vans.  All the vans—and all the nigs, dead and alive—are gonna be driven to the Poorhouse.”


“What happens there?” Ed put in again, his interest clearly picking up.


Again, Dan slowly glanced around the table, meeting each man’s eyes—including Pete’s.  This wasn’t a moment of challenge, though; something else passed between them as Dan smiled at each in turn.


“I don’t care what happens there.  At all.”



Pete scanned the valley stretching out below him before glancing across to the slope on the east side.  He couldn’t see Dan’s squad, but that was the idea.


Dan hadn’t specified any particular dress code, other than telling them not to wear bright colors.  He had emphasized the need for extreme stealth until the base camps were found.


“Y’all get a herd of fuckin’ apes screamin’ and stampedin’ outta here, we’ll never hear the end of it.  Each squad is gonna have two shotguns, but they’re for emergency only, hear me?  I don’t care what ya do to ‘em as long as it’s quick and quiet.”


Dan had Jack, Ed, and Hank on his squad; they had the east side of the valley.  Pete, with Mike and Frankie, had the west side.  The east side was corrugated forestland with hidden dells and unexpected rock formations; the west side was completely different—it was a gentler slope, smoother and much more wet.  Little rills and streams crisscrossed it, draining into the creek at the bottom of the valley.  The west side was better suited to spreading troops out and would need more men to cover.


“Most of the coons won’t go too far from their base on that side,” Jack had said authoritatively, “Niggers don’t like the water.”


So now Pete crept through the underbrush, his ears straining to hear over the constant background sound of trickling water.  His tight jeans were tucked into a pair of TideWe sixteen-inch hunting boots, proof against the mud and muck of the rivulets he stalked into.  His olive-green t-shirt was cinched across his broad chest by the strap of a shotgun scabbard that dangled the weapon across his back—out of the way, but easy to reach when needed.  His black hair was covered by a camouflage cap, the brim low over his hard, cold eyes.


Wrapped tightly around his waist—around everyone’s waists; Dan had issued them out—was a webbed nylon belt with a sheath holding a combat utility knife, with a seven-inch, double-sided blade.  One side was a simple edged surface, the other was serrated for extra sawing power.  Both were excruciatingly sharp.  Also on the belt was an extendible whip-like baton and a thick heavy bludgeon—the latter were custom made for Dan, a solid lead bar coated in thick latex.  Everyone also had a pair of handcuffs; Dan, Pete, and Jack had several pairs each.


Pete and Dan also had radios; cell phones were useless out here.  But radio silence was to be maintained until the coons’ camps had been located.


Far off to Pete’s left, he was aware of Frankie’s progress through the boggy woods.  Frankie was taking the only other semi-dry path the descended the west side. He’d stuck to his usual gear of khaki t-shirt, camouflage pants and combat boots; it was perfect for the mission.  Pete couldn’t see Frankie, he could only hear an occasional rustle in the distance.  The sound would me nothing to someone who didn’t already know Frankie was there.


Mike followed in Pete’s footsteps, his black engineer boots getting muddy as he quietly made his way across the sodden landscape.  Not much sunlight penetrated the tree cover; his black jeans and t-shirt merged in with the shadows.  Like the others, he had something slung over his shoulder, but in his case, it was a tightly wound coil of nylon rope.


Silently and carefully, the three hardbodied young men sought out their prey, inching closer to the kill.



On the east side, Jack was carefully negotiating his way down a broad gully.  The grade wasn’t overly steep, but it the ground was uncertain and covered with leaves; he had to watch where he planted his calf-high green DMs.  His tight, faded jeans and pale orange tank top weren’t overly noticeable against the fall foliage, but he had no intention of drawing attention to himself.


Ahead and off to the right, he could just barely see Hank.  They’d split into pairs and then the pairs split just to the point that they could keep each other in sight.  Hank wasn’t easy to spot; his oxblood Docs were too close to the ground to be seen from a distance and his tight dark jeans didn’t stand out.  Despite the relative warmth of the day, Hank had worn his olive-drab flight jacket.  Only Jack could pick out the tell-tale signs of Hank’s presence.


Then Jack picked out more than just Hank’s presence; the skinhead had halted and was making a motion with his arm.  It was a prearranged signal—coon sighting.


Hank waited for Jack to approach, slowly and quietly, then pointed it out.  The yard ape was leaning back against a tree, smoking a joint.  It wore a tight black long-sleeve t-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans and a pair of bright red Nike Vandal hightops.  Tucked into its waistband was a paintball pistol.  As Jack and Hank watched, it burned the J down to a roach, which it tucked away in a cigarette pack.


When it began to amble away from the tree, it was so high, it didn’t realize that it was being followed until Jack and Hank were less than three feet behind it.  Jack nodded to Hank; the latter, seeing the feral gleam of bloodlust in his leader’s eyes, felt the rush coming on.  Deep in the crotch of his tight jeans, the nigger-killer felt the familiar pressure as his thick white cock swelled at the thought of wasting a coon.


He lunged forward, grabbing both of the jigaboo’s arms and pinning them behind its back.  The nigger buck was young and strong; Hank could feel its thick biceps flexing as it struggled against him, but he had no intention of letting the yard ape escape.  He clamped down on it, making it moan in pain.


“What the fuck—” It began when Jack stepped in front of it.  It just barely had time to focus on the hardbodied skinhead before the latter spoke, making the dark-skinned nigrah turn ashy gray with fear.


“Hey, dude,” Jack said with an ice-cold grin as he slid his knife from its sheath, “What’s a nice place like this doin’ around a nigger like you?”


Its eyes widened in panic, but it was utterly unprepared for the speed with which Jack’s hand darted forward and slammed the blade into the angle of the unlucky jig’s jaw.  There was a searing shock of unimaginable agony as seven inches of razor-sharp steel tore through its mouth, slicing completely though the muscle of the tongue at its thick base with ease.


It had been a rich nigger; its daddy had owned a number of successful dry-cleaning businesses.  It had lived a cushy life for a coon, and now its mouth was full of steel and horrific pain as it gagged on its own blood.


“What’s that fuckin’ stink?  Smells even worse than niggers usually do,” Hank called out, a broad grin on his Aryan face.


“Aw, the fuckin’ jig’s pissed itself.  They always do when they die,” Jack responded, then spoke directly to the terrified jungle bunny.  “Yeah, yer dyin’, aintcha, coon?  Hope it hurts, motherfucker.  Hope yer sufferin’, ya black asswipe.”


The porch monkey made a horrible gagging sound and spit out its tongue.  It coughed again, this time spewing blood over its outstretched hands.


As it stared in bewildered horror at its own blood and meat, Hank swung his heavy bludgeon, popping the nigger on the back of its nappy head.  The latex-covered bar made contact with the cunt’s cranium with an audible crunch, like cracking an eggshell.  The jigaboo fell to its knees, eyes rolled back in its head as shards of its skull slashed through its cerebellum, inflicting massive brain trauma.


Its arms tensed up, the hand flailing limply and loosely.  It shit itself, completely losing control of its bowels.  But it still wasn’t dead.


“Goddam,” Jack muttered, “They’re gettin’ harder to kill every fuckin’ day.”


Hank had to shatter its skull to get it to lie still, smashing the heavy bar into its head until it pulped the coon’s brain.  As he beat it to death, Jack input the location on his phone for corpse retrieval, then both men headed out, fanning out to the east, remaining just within sight of each other, as before.


Behind them, the first dead coon of the day continued to twitch quietly as neurons in its pulverized brain matter randomly fired.  Its expensive Nike kicks—it’d waited in line five hours to buy them—jerked repeatedly, carving furrows in the leaves, each one slightly weaker and fainter than the last.  Its heart continued to beat for another hour, but it was nothing more than a pile of nigger meat, lying in the woods.



Three quarters of a mile to the south, Dan was making his silent, deadly way through the forest.  He’d grabbed a black tactical assault jumpsuit from the department and tucked it into his own pair of ten-inch black lace-up utility boots.  One of the reasons he’d chosen the outfit was for the extra weapon carrying capacity, and he was taking advantage of it now.


He’d been attracted by the sound of splashing water and had slowly closed in on a small creek that spilled over a five-foot ledge into a waterfall.  Approaching from the top side, Dan peered down and spotted two niggers lounging around the pool beneath him.  One was fucking around on its phone, trying unsuccessfully to find a signal; it was wearing a t-shirt with a college logo, jeans, and tan Timberland boots.  The other nig had gone full weekend warrior, with combat fatigues and boots.


Neither one deserved the name of warrior, Dan thought with contempt.  He was standing in plain sight, but the dumbass monkeys didn’t even look up.  He signaled to Ed, off in the distance, and withdrew from his prominent location to await backup.


Ed’s golden buzz-cut hair glinted in the dappled sunlight that broke through the trees.  Wearing a khaki-brown wifebeater that showed off his bulging, tatted biceps, the Aryan punk also sported a tight pair of Diesel jeans tucked into his oxblood Doc Martins.  He closed in swiftly on Dan’s position and soon they both had the enemy in view.


Dan and Ed were both experienced killers; no words needed to be said.  Dan nodded at the camo-wearing coon and ran his finger across his throat.  Ed nodded, bent his head at the other one, and did the same thing.  Using his fingers only, Dan counted down from three and they both sprang forward.


The jungle bunny in fatigues was farthest from the bank; Dan reached it before Ed reached his target.  The cop had his weapon ready in his gloved hands—a length of piano wire with wooden handles on then ends, a professional garrote.  He approached the ape from behind and, swiftly looping the wire, dropped it over the nigger’s head, cinching tight instantly.


“Gak!” the choking coon gagged out, “Grk! Guh!”  Dropping its paintball gun, it began clawing frenetically at the wire sunk into its neck.


“What the fuck?” the other jigaboo said, turning in confusion, only to be confronted with Ed, grinning and swinging at him.  Before the buck could react, the powerful Aryan had punched him in the face, hard.  The jig stumbled backwards, reeled, and fell face-down on the bank of the creek, its head over the water.


Ed instantly pounced on top and forced its head under the surface.  It thrashed and flailed as the hardbodied nigger-killer lay on top of it and began drowning it.


Behind Ed, Dan held on tight as he strangled the young coon to death.  It kept clawing and struggling, as if trying to rise to its feet, but the buff cop kept it down on its knees.  “Think yer gonna come out here and fuck my town, motherfucker?” he hissed at it as he bent over it and choked its life out.  “Fuckin’ die, ya worthless pickanniny.  All you nasty-ass yard apes need to fuckin’ die.  My boys are gonna take out all yer nigger cousins—you all related, right?  Fuck yer own sisters like goddam jungle monkeys, huh?”


The young buck couldn’t reply.  Its face was already blacker and lips thicker than usual.  Its huge eyes bulged comically as it gagged and jerked, dying helpless and alone in the woods.  It could see its friend dying, as well.


Ed felt the big buck nigger’s taut muscles flexing under him as it struggled to get its head above the water.  He had to clamp down on it, his bicep bulging with the pressure he was exerting to keep the jungle bunny’s head under the surface.  Its Timberland boots kicked out helplessly, scraping up leaves and carving furrows in the dirt.  Its arms splashed frantically in the creek, the sound becoming lost in the noise of the miniature waterfall.


No one else could hear the niggers die.


It took a while.  Dan’s coon kept swinging and swaying to each side, its struggles becoming weaker and more erratic.  A sudden acrid stench filled the air; the darky had pissed itself, a large dark wet spot forming in the crotch of its fatigues.  By now its tongue, thick and grotesque, was sticking out from between the ludicrously swollen lips.  Its eyes had rolled back in its head and it was drooling like a fucking dog.


Hank’s porch monkey was also slowing, its attempts to breathe becoming more and more feeble.  Its hands splashed limply just at the surface of the creek and its boots were not so much kicking as twitching and jerking among the fallen leaves.


With a hearty grunt, Dan tightened his wire around the nigger’s neck one last time.  This time, he put enough force into it to break the skin; in fact, the wire sank so deep he damn near cut the coon’s throat.  It hung loosely and limply from the garrote, its hand dangling in front and shuddering convulsively.


The sadistic sheriff finally had enough.  He let the cunt drop to the ground, then retrieved his wire.  It was so deeply embedded in the homeboy’s neck that Dan had to brace himself by planting his combat boot on the jigaboo’s chest to yank his weapon from its body.


Behind him, Hank finally rose to his feet.  The ape he’d offed was halfway in the water, only its jeans and boots visible.  Its legs still trembled and quivered.


“Thin they’re dead?” Hank asked.


“Good as,” Dan replied, “They damn sure ain’t gonna be infestin’ the woods anymore.”


“This is gonna be easy,” Hank went on, “Fuckin’ animals—ain’t as smart as us humans.”


“Apes don’t hunt, not with stealth,” Dan observed.  “Gonna make it easier to stop this coon invasion dead in its tracks—literally.  Mark the location so we can get this pile of fuckin’ monkey meat dragged outta here later.”


Seconds later, they were back out on the hunt themselves, heading silently toward the partying young jigaboos who were blissfully unaware of the brutal Aryan predators about to ambush and slaughter them mercilessly.



Back on the west side, Pete was crouched expectantly in the undergrowth; he’d seen movement in the distance and had pulled out a pair of binoculars.  Cautiously and quietly, Mike and Frankie approached him.  By the time they got to him, Pete had spotted what he was looking for.


“Here,” he said, handing the binoculars to the first arrival, Mike, and pointing to the west, “See ‘em?  Coupla niggers—and they got drugs.  The Cap—er, the Sheriff—was right as usual.  If we don’t wipe ‘em out now, they’re gonna fuck this place up.”


The view through the intervening foliage wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough for Mike to make out the two coons Pete was referring to.  One of them, in a dark t-shirt tight across his broad ape chest, loose jeans hanging halfway off his ass, was rolling a huge fat blunt.  The other, with a crooked ball cap, torn jeans and white Nike hightops, was sprinkling white power into it from a baggie which it replaced into its hip pocket when finished.


The second jig was the one that had caught Pete’s attention; its neon-yellow t-shirt was easily visible, even in the overgrown brush.


“Yeah,” Mike agreed, handing the binoculars to Frankie, who’d just arrived, “Ya gotta treat ‘em like roaches.  Ya see one, ya know there’s hundreds around somewhere, spreadin’ filth.  Best thing to do is find the nest and wipe ‘em all out—any that get away can breed more.”


“Hell yeah,” Frankie said, grinning as he peered at the prey, about five hundred yards to the west.  “Fuckin’ hard to kill as roaches, too.  Ya gotta hit ‘em hard and keep hittin’ ‘em till they ain’t nothin’ but twtichin’ apemeat.”  He paused, keeping one hand on the binoculars and rubbing the swelling bulge in his crotch with the other.  “I ain’t down with this ‘fast’ and ‘quiet’ shit, though,” he muttered.  “I wanna take my time over it.  I wanna hear ‘em beg and scream when they die, fuckin’ jigaboos…”


“Time for that later,” Pete said peremptorily, “We gotta get to the camp first.  Once we corral the apes, you can worry about havin’ some fun with whatever’s still alive.”  As he spoke, he could see that the coons had fired up the blunt and were passing it back and forth.  “C’mon,” he said, “Looks like they’re too busy gettin’ fucked up to see us comin’ to fuck ‘em up.”


The three aggressive young killers slowly moved forward; Pete, in the lead, making sure they remained undetected.  Even though the prey was getting high, he still didn’t want to take the chance of panicking the jungle bunnies before he was close enough to catch one.  He and Frankie didn’t really have different aims, it was just that Pete, under Dan’s tutelage, had learned the value of Discipline and Authority, and for both, control was needed.


Pete was becoming one of the most dangerous of killers, a buff, hardbodied young who got off on inflicting pain and death but had the self-control to pick and choose the appropriate moment to indulge himself.  And he had a badge.


He had no problem with lingering over a nigger, making it squeal and suffer before dispatching it to monkey hell, but first, he wanted information.  He wanted to catch one alive and interrogate it, find out where its nest—er, camp was.  He’d waste it when he was done with it, but not before he’d pumped it for all it knew.


He was looking forward to making a monkey talk.  His hand slid down to the handle of his utility knife.  He hoped it would resist.  As he unclipped the strap securing the blade in its sheath, his dick started to stiffen.


He was still in full control—but he really, really hoped the jigaboo would resist.


They burst suddenly out of the underbrush.  “Freeze, niggers!” Frankie yelled.  One did and one didn’t.


The coon in the dark shirt, the one who’d rolled the blunt, took off like a shot, earning the name of jungle bunny by scampering through the woods like a wild hare.  Just a swiftly, Mike and Frankie went after him, vanishing back into the undergrowth.


Pete was left alone with the jig in the yellow shirt.  It popped up as if to flee, but Pete sprang forward and clamped it in a power hold, one hand tightly over its mouth while using the other to press his knife into its throat.


“You can feel that, cantcha,” he said menacingly.  It wasn’t a question.  “I’m gonna ask some questions.  You don’t answer, I cut your fuckin’ throat.  You do anything but answer, I’m gonna cut yer throat.  You dig, nigger?  Ya feelin’ me, tarbaby?”


The coon nodded its head.  Clutching the muscled black buck tightly, he could feel it tremble.  In a mix of anger and fear, it was sweating, a nasty niggery reek.  Pete closed his mind to it, thinking the smell was proof that offing these disgusting apes was utterly justified, if nothing else was.


“Where’s yer camp, fuckwad?” he asked quietly.


“Down dere by de riber,” the porch monkey replied, fear making his coon accent thicker.


“How many more guards you got out?  Where are they?”


“Homie, I dunno that kinda shit!  We’s jist here fo’ some—” Pete cut it off, clamping his huge strong hand back over its mouth, feeling its thick soft lips crushed under his palm.  He drew the blade across the cunt’s throat—not deeply, just enough to break the skin and leave a thin line of blood encircling the jigaboo’s neck.


“Not an acceptable answer,” the hardbodied cop growled, “And you call me homie again and I’ll gut you here and now like a fuckin’ pig, you got me, boy?  Now where are the rest of yer fuckin’ tribe?”


The young nigger was almost in tears when Pete lifted his hand this time; it was clearly confused and terrified.  Stupid motherfucker couldn’t figure out what was going on.  Pete felt nothing but contempt and impatience.


“Answer me, ya black piece of shit, or so help me God—”


“I dunno!! I really don’t!!  I mean I saw Andre an’ Deontay go dat way an’ Marquis an’ Lamar said dey wanted to off an’ do some hits—but I dunno!!” the coonboy wailed.


Pete snorted in disgust.  It figured.  He shoulda known better than to expect an ignorant fuckin’ yard ape to talk sense.  He pressed the knife against its neck again.


“Yer a worthless sack a’ monkey meat, aintcha,” he muttered and ripped its throat open.  “Doin’ the world a fuckin’ favor.”


The razor-sharp blade sliced easily through apeflesh, but once it reached the nigger’s trachea, Pete had to put some pressure on it; it took a little effort to saw through the rubbery tissue.  The jungle bunny had tried to scream as its white deathmaster began the kill, but Pete kept its jaw in such a tight grip that all it could do was give off the despairing bleat of a dying lamb.


That changed once the windpipe was penetrated.  The monkey still wasn’t able to scream—the buff lawman had carved its larynx to gristly shreds—but its trapped air burst out in a high-pitched squeal, followed by violent gagging on blood.  It was the sound of a young nigger cunt in mortal agony.


Pete let it go and stepped back to watch it die, his dick so hard it hurt.


It fell to its knees, blood spewing from the gash in its neck.  It coughed and choked and vomited up blood in stunned shock, holding its hands up to the wound.   Pete chuckled at the dumbass coon, thinking it could hold back the blood.  For a moment it turned to look at him, its eyes wide with sheer terror.  Then, as Pete watched, the nigger’s eyes rolled back in its head.  It pissed itself and collapsed, lying huddled on the ground.


The cop had done his duty.  He went in search of Mike and Frankie, leaving behind him a pile of apemeat, struggling convulsively to breathe, its muscled body heaving and wheezing as it bled out in a muddy pool of its own blood and urine.  Its Nikes twitched in the leaves a few times as it died alone in the woods.



Fifty yards west, Frankie and Mike had come across their prey struggling to free its expensive Air Jordan from a crack in a boulder; the coon had tried to scamper over it and gotten its foot stuck.  It had just managed to get itself free when the hardbodied apekillers burst in on it from the underbrush.  Trapped with its back to the rock it had been unable to climb, it looked at the muscled Aryans and whimpered, its eyes comically wide.


“Hey there, spook,” Frankie grinned.


“Gonna be a fuckin’ spook by the time I’m done with it,” Mike muttered, drawing the heavy bludgeon from his utility belt.  Frankie had already pulled out his expandable baton.


The nigger was a big black buck, well-built and strong.  It was obviously scared but was pathetically trying to brazen it out.  “Wh-wh—” it began, paused and gulped, and then restarted.  “Wh-what you white b-boys want?”


What they wanted was to explode and the coon had set the bomb off perfectly.  “Shut the fuck up, ya stupid black ape!” Frankie roared, his young, hard face twisted in rage and his thick cock so hard it was visible in the crotch of his camo pants.  He slashed at the nig’s face with the baton, laughing with malevolent glee as the street monkey wailed in pain.


“Goddammit, the piece a’ shit’s makin’ too much noise,” Mike said, stepping forward.  With a single brutal incapacitating blow, he pounded his bludgeon into the jigaboo’s simian face, shattering its jaw into shards.  The nigger made an odd squealing sound, then gagged and retched before vomiting out bloody clots of teeth.


As it did, Frankie, who’d torn the fucker’s left cheek open and broken its cheekbone with his baton, shifted to the other side.  Mike stood back for a moment to let him work, watching his brother-in-snuff demonstrate the flexibility of the baton.  Standing behind the coon, he whipped the thin metal rod horizontally against the side of its head.  It had enough give to follow the contours of the skull.


When the tip came to the front of the skull, it whipped around and punctured the spade’s eye.


It wheezed.  It was trying to scream, but it was trying too hard.  Then it wasn’t trying at all; it was bent over, vomiting uncontrollably.


“Well fuck,” Frankie said, smirking at Mike, “That’s kickass!”


“Aw, you can to the same thing with an untwisted coat hanger,” Mike said with a grin.  “Here, lemme put it out of its misery.  Mamma always told me to be kind to animals…”


His thick-soled engineer boots crunched in the fallen leaves as he closed in for the kill.  The quivering nigger was too overwhelmed with agony to notice his approach.  He was able to walk right up to it and, with his unerring precision of aim, break its neck with a single blow.  The coated metal bar caught the ape just at the nape of its neck, three vertebrae splintering with a loud crunch.


The jigaboo twitched violently, twice, then went limp.  It instantly soiled itself.


“Jesus,” Frankie said in disgust, “Ya try to do ‘em a favor, and ya end up havin’ to deal with this stench.”


“That’s what ya get for tryin’ to do a coon a favor,” said a voice close behind them, making them jump.  They whirled simultaneously to find that Pete had caught up to them.


“I take it you got what ya needed from yours?” Mike asked him.


“Aw, stupid darkie didn’t know shit,” Pete muttered.  His eyes shifted to the pile of monkey meat lying behind them.


“Y’all do know that one’s still alive, right?” he drawled casually, a gleam of humor in his eyes.


“Huh?” Frankie blurted.  Mike spun and looked carefully.  Sure enough, it was still breathing.  Shallowly and badly, but it was breathing.


“Dude, it’s gotta be dead; it shit itself,” Frankie protested.


“Sometimes the spinal cord ain’t severed,” Pete continued.  “I been readin’ up on how to break necks.  Seems ya gotta really work the fucker to make sure ya do enough damage to kill it and not just leave it paralyzed.”


“I think we can handle that,” Mike said.  Standing over the nigger, he raised his leg and stomped on its neck, grinding the heel of his big black boot into its spine.  Again and again he stomped it, crushing its throat and leaving no uncertainty whatsoever that the jungle bunny was dead.


“So, which way now?” Mike asked, turning his back on the corpse and heading towards Pete and Frankie.


“Well, it’s gotta be further east,” Pete replied.  I’ll go this way.  You”—said to Frankie—“go thirty yards north and you”—to Mike—“the same to the south.  If we’re lucky, we should be able to locate their camp soon.”


The three men merged back into the underbrush, silently moving forward, on the hunt and primed to kill.



Dan and Ed were the oldest members of the coon-killing squad.  They had the most experience and the most control.  Dan had divided the groups up knowing that Pete and Jack could handle those with them.  Ed didn’t need to be handled; he and Dan moved on parallel courses, close enough to help each other if needed but not actually coordinating their movements.


That’s how Dan happened to be alone when he unexpectedly stumbled across an armed nigger.


Dan had decided to take advantage of some of the SWAT tactical gear stored in the back of the new jail.  He’d gone all in black, with a tight-fitting jumpsuit belted at the waist with the nylon utility belt he’d handed out to the others.  The cuffs of his jumpsuit legs were neatly bloused into his SWAT 8” Alpha Fury boots, a black knit cap covered his head and on his hands was a pair of custom-made fingerless leather tactical gloves with metal insets in the palms and brass (well, steel) knuckles sewed into the right glove.


Dan was literally dressed to kill, and it saved his life.


The jigaboo was leaning back, basking like a lizard in a small spot of sun.  It had a black satin do-rag on its head, an Oakland Raiders t-shirt stretched across its broad monkey chest, a pair of dark, low-slung jeans, Nike Air Jordan IIIs on its feet, and a Newport dangling from its thick lower lip.  If Dan hadn’t been upwind, the smoke would have told him it was there.  As it was, he popped right into the small clearing, making the yard ape jump up and go for its waistband.


Dan saw the Glock G17 in its hand; his reaction in the split-second he had before it drew a bead on him was the result of professional training.  He punched the nigger in the throat.


The brass knuckles in his glove collapsed the dumb ape’s esophagus instantly with the sound and sensation of crushing a foam cup.  The jig dropped its gun and clutched at its ruined throat, its eyes wider than seemed physically possible.


Strange thick sounds came from its blocked windpipe.  “GUK!  GRK!  NGK!”  The porch monkey was too stupid to realize it was dead; it staggered forward, reaching out to Dan as if pleading for help.  Its face was already swelling and becoming congested; tears welled from its bulging eyes as it gagged and choked.  It took another faltering step towards Dan, then fell to its knees, its hands still upraised in a beseeching gesture.


“Bad idea to draw on the sheriff, nigger,” Dan said evenly.  “See, yard apes with gats get the death penalty in this county.”


It may have even been stupid enough to feel hope when Dan suddenly grinned at it; if it did, it was soon dashed as the muscular, black-clad ape killer reached down and unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, he hauled up his enormous tackle and brandished it, semi-hard in the coon’s face.


“Aw, I’m just kiddin’,” Dan said cheerfully.  “Gats or no gats, all you jigaboos are gonna die.  I got death squads out there now, huntin’ yer monkey kin down.”


The nigger knew it was going to die now; its tongue was already starting to protrude.  Snot from its nose trickled down to mingle with the drool spilling over its thick dark lips and blood vessels ruptured like fireworks in the whites of its eyes.  A hot, sour smell filled the air as dark moistness spread out from the crotch of its jeans.


“Boy, yer a fuckin’ mess,” Dan drawled.  “Here, lemme help ya wash that off.”


And with that he started pissing in the dying nigger’s face, the hot, acrid urine splashing over the gagging monkey’s exposed tongue and into its protruding eyes.  Its hands, which hadn’t ceased clawing at its throat, now came up in a weak attempt to block the flow.  They fluttered like dying birds, splashing in the stream of hot piss, before the jungle bunny suddenly pitched forward, face down into the dirt, and began to convulse violently.


Dan had a bladder like a barrage balloon.  He kept giving the spade a nice warm golden shower as it kicked its life away, its Nike kicks scraping in the dirt as a puddle of urine formed around the depression where it had faceplanted.  As the stream finally trailed off into a trickle, Dan took a moment to shake the last few drops out onto the soaked do-rag on its head, then tucked his rod back in.  Bending down and retrieving the gun from where the nig had dropped it, Dan left his prey still twitching in its own little sunny spot.


He was in a hurry; some inner sense had told him Ed had found something interesting.





Ed had.  Crouching behind a huge, moss-covered oak, his gaze was riveted on a wooden shed, about twenty feet square.  He’d seen at least three niggers go in, and the front was guarded by two coons carrying what looked like paintball guns.


It was the base camp he’d been looking for.  Deep in the groin of his tight Diesel jeans, his long, thick, white cock stirred with the through of the slaughter that was about to occur.  He needed Dan to put in an appearance, quick, or he was gonna start wasting the fuckin’ porch monkeys on his own.


Luckily for his libido, Dan slipped silently out of the undergrowth just in time.  “Lookee here,” the buzz-cut Nazi grinned, “Found the fuckin’ coon nest.”


Dan grinned back, the cold, hard grin of an experienced calculating his target’s death.  “How many inside?”


“I’d say five to ten, maybe more.”


“Ok, here’s the plan…”


Dan wanted to reconnoiter the structure before making his move, making sure the one visible door was the only practicable exit.  They agreed to circle around to the rear, Ed heading to the left and Dan to the right, giving the open space in front of the shed a wide berth and moving quietly so as to leave the guards undisturbed—for the moment.


The next time they saw each other, they were peering around the back of the shed; it was up against a thickly wooded bank, and didn’t even have windows.  The set-up was perfect; this team of nigs had been stupid enough to set up headquarters in a trap.  As the muscled killers—one a skinhead and one in cop gear—conferred behind the shed, they could head the motherfuckers chattering away on the inside like a troop of apes.


“The two in front,” Dan whispered, holding up his knife and making a slashing gesture across his throat.  Dan nodded, and they each began to creep back to the front of the shed, along opposite side, staying low to avoid the windows in the sides.  They reached the front simultaneously, crouching at the corners of the building and scoping out the guards.


Two big buff bucks, with their backs turned.  One was in a too-small t-shirt advertising some fraternity event, a pair of tight jeans full of holes and so elaborately patched that they’d clearly been manufactured that way, and a pair of bright blue Nike Air Jordan Flight Varsity hightops.  The other wore the same t-shirt with a black flat peak cap worn backwards, worn but intact jeans and replica white-and-black Jordan 1 Homage sneakers.


The jeans and kicks were enough to tell—the one on the right came from money, the one on the left didn’t.  Not that it mattered—they’d both die just the same, hard and ugly.


It happened fast.


Dan’s boots were silent on the trodden dirt clearing in front of the shed as he crept forward.  Ed’s Doc Martens made faint grinding sounds, but the two coons never noticed.  They’d just finished sharing a blunt and were both higher than fuck.  The whole thing was a game, after all—until it wasn’t.


Dan took the one on the right.  His hand, in its fingerless leather tactical glove, clamped tightly across the jigaboo’s mouth.  It just had time to let out a startled grunt before he jammed his knife into its throat, powering up his bicep and punching the blade through any resistance he felt.


Ed did the same, but he didn’t stifle his target; as a result, his yard ape managed to blurt out a thick, gagging bleat of agony, unrecognizable as human and nowhere near loud enough to be heard inside.


Ed’s coon—the poor one—choked and spat out a spray of blood.  It and the other one turned to look at each other in shock and horror, each clutching their punctured, bleeding necks.  The wealthy one staged forward a few steps after Dan let it go, its thick rubbery lips working as if it was begging for its worthless life, but nothing came from its open mouth beyond the sound of a dying nigger gargling on its own blood.  As it shuffled its expensive Nikes in the dirt, it ruined its expensive jeans by losing control of its bladder.


“Aw, fuck, nigger piss stinks,” Dan muttered.  The jungle bunny paused and swayed, its already-huge pupils dilating as it started to lose consciousness.  The hardbodied cop darted forward; catching it as it fell, he dragged the shuddering spade off to the right and dumped it into the undergrowth where it spent its last few seconds facedown in a clump of poison sumac, drowning on its own blood.


The poor jigaboo with the replica Jordans had wrapped both hands tightly around its own throat as if it could stop the flow of blood that way.  Lightheaded and panicked, it stumbled ahead and to the left—instinctively trying to flee the danger.  Ed didn’t chase it; he didn’t need to.  As it lurched away, he swung out with the knife, twice, lightning-fast, and caught the black cunt in the throat again each time.


It made it three steps before falling to its knees and pissing itself.  Its hands dropped limply to its sides and it tried desperately to breathe, twice.  Both tries resulted in nothing more than grotesque, gurgling wheezes.  Then it fell facedown, its legs kicking spasmodically.


Following Dan’s lead, Ed dragged it off to the side and shoved it into one of the small creeks running through the area.  He didn’t check to see if it had stopped breathing yet; it would soon enough anyway.


He and Dan then executed perfect stealth approached to the shed.  The front had one centered door with a small window on each side of it.  Dan and Ed sidled along the front to the door, staying low to avoid the windows.  Once the reached it, they paused, flanking it, two muscled warriors awaiting their backup.


It didn’t take long for Jack and Hank to catch up.  There was no need to ask how their hunting had gone; the disappointment on their faces was obvious indication that they hadn’t managed to snuff as many coons as they’d wanted.  Dan grinned; once the monkeys were penned up in the Poorhouse, the Aryan punks could torture them to death to his sick little heart’s content.  Fuck, Dan was gonna be glad to help.  But they needed to have them corralled first.


The four killers put their heads together and came up with a quick plan of assault—not that the ramshackle shed justified the need of a plan, but the last thing anyone wanted was for a yard ape to escape and go off howling into the woods.  The actual attack was over faster than they would have thought possible.


Dan and Jack broke through the door as Ed and Hank blocked the windows from the outside.  The niggers paused, unsure of what was happening; it took the sight of the muscle-bound cop brandishing his shotgun to get the concept of danger through their dense skulls.


Then hell broke loose.


None of the coons had a real weapon, or any kind of hand-to-hand combat training; some had joined in street brawls, but it wasn’t the same.  Ten of the dozen made it out alive—bleeding and bruised, cowed into submission, but alive.


One big black buck, clearly the alpha of his tribe, tried to stand up to Dan.  He threw up his fists as if offering to box.  Dan let go of the shotgun, letting the shoulder strap catch it, and grinned holding up his palms.  The bull nigger waded in like he was going to deck the sheriff good and hard.  He drew his arm back, clearly telegraphing his swing, and that was when Dan’s arm shot out like a knife-wielding piston, driving the sharp steel tip of his blade between the jigaboo’s ribs and into its heart.


“Gurk!” the monkey cried, its eyes huge as a huge bubble of blood broke on its thick lips.  For a brief moment, its powerful ape body was rigid with shock and agony; Dan twisted the knife inside of it to ensure maximum damage before stepping back.  The nigger trembled, then fell tot the floor in heap of quivering, bleeding monkey meat.


At the sight of this, another one, this one young and slim, panicked and leaped head-first through the window.  It managed not only to avoid cutting itself too badly but to maneuver into a tuck-and-roll with an animal-like agility.


What it didn’t manage to avoid was Ed, with his bludgeon.  Just as the young niglet staggered to its feet, Ed swung the heavy metal bar against its head, knocking it to the ground.


“Hey,” Hank said, “We need to keep ‘em alive, remember?  They gotta drag away the ones we already killed.”


“Yeah, but this one’s already damaged,” Ed said.


“Don’t look that badly damaged to me,” Hank replied.  Planting his oxblood Doc Martens on each side of the moaning, shuddering pickanniny, Ed bent down and bashed it in the again, twice, his huge biceps flexing with the power he delivered to the crushing blows.


Standing triumphantly astride the thrashing nigger, Ed gave Hank a malevolent smile.  “How ‘bout now?”


Even Hank had to admit this one was brain-damaged beyond repair.  Hell, he could see its brain.  Ed had cracked its skull open like an egg.


Dan and Jack emerged with the remaining coons, their hands up.  Some looked angry and defiant, some looked terrified, and some were openly weeping, snot running down their ape-like faces.


“You and you,” Dan said, pointing out two of the darkies with his shotgun, “Grab the bodies.  Well, what the fuck are ya waitin’ for, nigger, another slave auction?  Yer on fuckin’ corpse detail; move it!”


The porch monkeys’ panic was amusing to watch; they scrambled about in terror, falling over each other in their hurry to obey their new master.  Within minutes, the four white men were leading their captive coons back uphill towards the ridge.  Dan brought up the rear, his gun pointed at the line of ape in front of him—and especially at the ones dragging their dead homies, just to make sure they didn’t lag.


They were near the top when the sound of a shotgun blast echoed across the valley, from somewhere high up on the other side.


The Aryan brothers looked at Dan.


“Get ‘em into the vans,” he said curtly, unlocking the rear doors of the two vehicles the coons had left, then spent a few moments peering across to the slope on the far side of the valley.


“See anything?” Jack asked.


“No,” Dan answered, “But Pete and his team must have found the other camp.  And Pete knows how to take care of himself.  Are they loaded?  Good.  You take the other van .  We’re gonna go over and see what’s going on with Pete.”


Having loaded everyone into the vans the niggers had so thoughtfully brought with them, Dan began the five-mile journey to the nearest crossing.



Twenty minutes later, when Dan pulled up to far side, where the third van was parked, his lieutenant had already corralled his group of niggers.  The sheriff gave no outward sign of his relief except for a slight, almost unnoticeable relaxation of his taut muscled body.  He opened the door and slid out of the van, about to ask what had happened, when he noticed that a couple of the coons were toting the corpse of one of their kin that was missing most of its head.


The buff young lieutenant followed the gaze of his superior officer and grinned.  “Yeah, one of ‘em tried to make a break for it.  Got the jump on one of my guys.”


Pete said nothing about who or made any kind of indication, but the fiery flush on Frankie’s face made it clear who the peccant nigger-killer was.  He and Mike were overseeing the loading of the third van, packing the live darkies in with corpses like cattle.  Dan and Pete ambled over to make sure everything was settled before heading out for the Poorhouse.


“You got all the bodies?” Dan asked, “Last thing I want is some redneck out frog-giggin’ stumbling over a dead porch monkey and making me waste time on a fake investigation.”


“Yeah, we got ‘em all, but these homies are fuckin’ scared as shit of dead bodies,” Pete growled, “Fuck, the one I shot panicked when he touched one and slugged—well, you get the idea.”


If Dan didn’t get it, it was soon openly demonstrated for him.  There were already ten living coons in the van, but Pete’s crew had rounded up a dozen.  The last two were carrying the headshot ape.


The youngest—he looked too young to be in college—stumbled and fell to his knees about five feet from the van.  Immediately Pete and Dan stood up straight and began moving towards the downed jigaboo; the look on their faces made the other one move double-time, dumping its dead buddy into the van before scrambling in over the corpse.  It wanted to be out of the way of whatever was about to happen.


It was Pete who got there first.  The teenage niglet, in boxy low-hanging short, pale Timberland boots and yellow sleeveless Lakers LeBron jersey, peered up at the hardbodied cop looming over him and snarled, “Black lives matter, motherfucker!” in an agony of defiant fear.


Dan was there by now.  The two men exchanged a look, and a malicious grin.  Nothing was said or needed to be said; Dan simply handed Pete his own latex-covered lead bludgeon.  Pete gripped it lightly, testing the balance, and turned back to the kneeling pickanniny.  When he spoke, his voice was calm and even.


“Boy, I’ve taken shits that mattered more than your worthless nigger existence.”


With that, he swung the baton into the punk’s mouth, shattering its jaw and knocking out half its teeth.  It rose up instantly, hands clutched to its mangled, bleeding face, and Pete hit it again—in the same place.  There was much less damage to its face this time; the bones than snapped like twigs were the ones in its hands.


It bent forward, thick gouts of blood—and a few teeth—spewing from its mouth as it sprayed and gurgled.  Mike and Frankie found themselves having difficulty; as much as they were enjoying the show, the mutterings and weeping from their vanload of spades meant that the natives were restless and needed watching as well.  Fortunately, it didn’t last long enough for a revolt to start.


The agonized coon coughed up a thick gob of bloody phlegm, then tilted its head back—and that was when Pete delivered the death blow, smashing the baton horizontally across the jig’s throat, completely destroying its esophagus in one swift, devastating impact.


The young monkey’s eyes bulged and it fell to its knees again, its shattered fingers flopping uselessly at its crushed throat.  Its already dusky face, or what was left of it, swelled and blackened.  Then it pissed itself, acrid urine running down its smooth dark thighs.


“Get one or two of ‘em back out to move this one,” Dan called back to Mike and Frankie just as the baby ape pitched forward on its face and thrashed violently.


It was still shuddering and trembling as its terrified pack members reluctantly dragged it into the van.  They tried to avoid touching it as they climbed in; in fact, all the coons showed a distinct aversion to being anywhere near the still-convulsing corpse.


“Hasn’t even shit itself yet,” Mike remarked conversationally to the niggers as he locked them in with it.


Frankie, Hank, and Ed each climbed into one of the vans to keep and eye on monkeys.  Dan, Pete, Mike, and Jack met in the area between the vehicles to coordinate.  They’d already reviewed the maps.


“You’re five minutes behind me, right?” Dan said to Pete.  “And use the radio if there are any problems.”


“Five minutes, yessir,” Pete responded, then grinned.  “And if you’re referring to the cargo, sir—there won’t be any problems we can’t handle.”


Dan returned the grin.  “I know, Lieutenant.  Still keep your eyes open.”  He turned to Jack next.


“You’re five minutes behind him.  Need to get anything?  Any special equipment?”


Jack replied with a grin no less shark-like than those of the cops.  “Naw, my and my boyz, we specialize in improvisin’.  ‘Specially if there’s a lotta shit lyin’ around.”


“This was the old county overflow jail.  It’s falling apart, but it’s got plenty of debris and old tools that can be put to inventive use,” Dan said.


“Aw, fuck yeah!  What are we waitin’ for?  We bagged us some coons; time to take ‘em back and gut ‘em!”


He scrambled eagerly into the van; it was the signal to depart.  Dan pulled out first; Pete obediently waited five minutes, then followed, with Jack trailing along the requisite five minutes after that.  Three vans, five Aryan brothers, two cops, twenty-one live niggers and at least a dozen dead ones, all heading out for a killing pit.


Once the dust from the vans settled, the valley was still and quiet again.  The piss-soaked terror, the bloody agony, the brutal slaughter wasn’t over—it was just being moved to a more convenient location.

Meat Chronicles 23–Alleyway Quickie

I need release.  The hate, the rage, the sperm, it’s all been building inside me, and I’ve reached the boiling point.  A faggot is gonna die riding my dick tonight.


There are plenty of them out, too.  The drag lined with gay bars teems with homos of all ages and flavors, all of them desperately seeking a real man to shove something long and hard into their pansy bodies.


I’m just the man they’re looking for.


I drive slowly down the street and park in a lot behind one of the bars; it’s packed, but I find a spot.  Most of the queers going in and out of the clubs aren’t alone, so I ignore them.  Extra helpings of meat can be fun, but I’m in the mood for something quick and nasty.


I wouldn’t have seen him if he hadn’t signaled to me, a call somewhere between a chirp and a grunt.  He’s in a narrow alley, barely four feet wide, that runs between a couple of the bars.  He’s about a yard in, outside the limited area light by the parking lot lights, and it’s obvious what he’s doing there—he’s turning tricks.


Aw fuck, this is perfect.  This stupid boywhore just made the worst, and last, mistake of his useless life.  I stride into the alley and he steps out into the light so we can size each other up.


It’s a warm, humid night; I decided to go shirtless, with nothing but a thin leather vest to cover my sculpted torso.  The rest of my gear consists of a pair of tight, faded jean tucked into a pair of black Smokejumper boots.


The slut is hiding even less of his lithe adolescent body; he’s utterly topless, his lean, smooth chest already glistening with sweat.  His cheap, shiny polyester-blend shorts are so short I can just barely see the head of his dick as it dangles.  A pair of tightly-laced black leather combat boots completes his whore outfit.


I can make out just enough of him in the light to see his red-gold hair that falls just barely closer to blond than copper.  His bangs sweep down near his eyes, which are as deep and sultry as the night.  His face is young and handsome, but signs of wear and rough use are starting to show around the eyes and the jaw line; he’s probably on something, maybe meth.  But it’s only just setting in; despite his lean swimmer’s build, his abs and chest ripple with muscle.


He says his name is Aaron and that he’s nineteen.  Both are lies.  I don’t care what his name is, and he knows it.  And as for his age—well, he ain’t gonna live to see nineteen.  Or eighteen, for that matter.  Even without my intervention, he’ll have destroyed himself before then.  Hell, I’ll be doing him a kindness by wasting his worthless homo ass.


He wants twenty for a BJ—getting one, not giving.


“Uh-uh, faggot.  You’re the one taking dick,” I sneer and his adolescent face lights up.  I knew it.  Goddam little perv has been waiting for an alpha to come along and put him out of his misery.  It’s his lucky night.


He still makes a show out of being a whore, demanding a hundred in cash to take it up the ass here and now, in the alley.  They like to pretend that things are going on like normal, right up until they’re overcome by their suffering.  I’m prepared; I hand him a Benjamin and note which pocket he stuffs it into so I can get it back when I’m done.


“C’mon, down here,” he says, leading me down the alley and further away form the light.  Suddenly, the alley is partially blocked; an emergency exit stairwell had been added to the building on the left and encroached on the space, taking up about half the width of the alley for a distance of about eight feet.


Once past it, we’re invisible from the parking lot.  The street is only twenty-five feet away—and still crowded with horny, twittering pansies—but the dumpsters are at that end.


The boy turns away from me.  Dropping his shorts, he leans forward and presents his ass to me, placing his hands on the brick wall to brace himself.  Grinning, I unzip my fly, letting my thick eager manshaft leap out, pulsing and throbbing.  Pressing my legs up against the punk’s thighs, I nudge his pink puckered asshole with my oozing purple head.


Then I shove it home, tearing into the cunt’s rectum like a mechanical punch.  He cries out; quickly, I reach around and clamp my hand tightly over his mouth.


“Shut the fuck up, motherfucker,” I snarl into his ear, my head to close to his I can feel my rough three-day growth scraping his baby-smooth cheek, “This is whatcha wanted, ain’t it, cocksucker?  Yeah? So shut yer worthless mouth, bitch!”


I release his mouth and plow his ass, the velvety feeling of his teen colon as my pound rod stretches it to the limit of its endurance stoking my lust.  What stokes it even more is hearing the homo whimpering in pain, desperately trying not to call attention to two dudes fucking in the alley, even though most of the fairies strolling by would probably pay to watch.


Heh, that’d be hot.  Love to see the horror on their twinkie little faces as I get to my version of a Happy Ending—and telling ‘em they’re next.


Meanwhile, though, this cunt is starting to relax.  I’ve reamed him out to the point that he can settle back and enjoy my rod jammed up his guts.


Fuck him.  Fag bitch is here to pleasure me, not the other way round.  Time I really had some fun.


“Ya like that, dontcha?  Ya like havin’ my long hard shaft inside ya?” I whisper into the boywhore’s ear as I reach around and fondle his firm, smooth chest, feeling his torso tense and relax with every stroke of my cock.


“F-fuck y-y-eah,” he moans shudderingly, arcing his back against my chest.


“Then I’m about to double your pleasure, bitch,” I murmur, moving one hand around behind me to the hunting knife I keep on a belt sheath hidden behind me.   The meat doesn’t know it’s there.  Yet.


He moans again, inarticulately, as I extract the seven-inch serrated steel blade silently.  “You ready, fucker?  You ready for another long, hard shaft in ya?”


He’s too far gone in his lust, his teenaged body so awash in hormones, to catch much of what I’ve said.  Doesn’t matter.  He’ll figure it out.




I clap my hand back over his mouth again.  At the same time I drive my knife into his side, low down under the ribcage, angling inwards.  His surprised grunt instantly spirals up into a muffled squeal of pain as his entire body tenses and goes rigid, rising up on the toes of its combat boots.


I’ve stuck him right in the kidney; he’s experiencing the first flush of shock from organ trauma.


“There ya go cunt, that long and hard enough for ya?  Yer right kidney’s got a steel blade in it, boy; it’s fuckin’ gone.  Well, maybe not—let’s make sure.”  I twist the knife in the wound, digging the serrated tip deep into the teen’s innards before swiftly jerking it back out.  Blood flies off the blade, spattering the wall.


I don’t relax the tempo of my fucking or my grip on the meat’s jaw.  The cunt is finally starting to work my dick good, and I don’t want it trying to ruin my fun.  It can hear the gabble of the passing crowd just feet away as well as I can, but I’ve got such complete control over it, it can’t cry out for help as I fuck it to death.


But one little stick in the flank isn’t enough.  My hard alpha cock demands more agony for the meat.  It’s still got a lot of suffering to do before I’m done with it.  I plunge the knife into the fucker’s back, feeling the resistance change as the razor-sharp tip slices through different type of tissue.  I come inward and down, spearing the cunt’s liver.


Again, the meat puppet succumbs to my control, shuddering and mewling in desperate, muffled agony.  “Fuck yeah, bitch, take my blade like it’s a thick cock, ya faggot.  Squeeze my dick as I cut you, ya worthless homo shit!” I growl into the teen’s ear as I grind my huge pulsing cock into his throbbing, spasming rectum.  His arms flail over his head as he desperately tries to reach me behind him.


I don’t let go of his mouth; he’s gonna die with my hand clamped over his face.  I can feel his tears running down his face and over the back of my hand.  The adolescent fuckmeat is suffering so damn bad—but I can still hear his hard teen dick slapping against his firm, flat belly as I pound his asshole.


His lithe body writhes against me, despite the knife buried in his back—that means he’s in such terror that he’s becoming oblivious to the physical pain; his every action is driving the tip of my blade deeper into his liver.  It’s gotta be excruciating.


It’s so fucking hot.  “Yeah, asswipe, work ‘em.  Work my cock and my knife.  Carve yer fag ass up as ya jack me off, motherfucker.”


He’s shaking his head, or at least trying to.  I don’t have to hear his mewling, begging words to know what he’s sayin’.  He’s sayin’ that it hurts, that he doesn’t want it—and it’s all lies.  Little fuck wouldn’ta been out here selling his homo ass in a dark alley if he didn’t want this.


“Fuckin’ stupid-ass faggot,” I hiss viciously into his ear, “You know you been cravin’ this since you shot yer first load.  Only reason for yer pervert fag existence is so I can cum as I off yer useless ass, and you fuckin’ know it, dontcha?  You always knew someone was waiting out there to stick ya and cut ya and hurt ya, yeah?”


He goes rigid as I pull the knife out slowly, his asscheeks pressed flat against my groin and trembling.  I hold the knife free for a moment.


“Where’s it gonna go, fucker?  What part of yer tender young flesh to ya want punctured and probed with my sharpened steel blade, asswipe?  I know—let’s try this!”


Without warning, I sweep the knife around in front and plunge it up to the hilt in the punk’s smooth, flat belly.


He grabs at my hand just as I grind the blade into his guts and jerk it back out.  The motherfucker is stupid enough to try to grab at the knife; I let him get hold of it then rapidly twist it back and forth, literally carving up his palms.  I can tell it hurts; his faint squeaks of agony are slightly louder.


“Yer still hard, ya sick fuck,” I snarl at him, “Gettin’ loose on my tackle, but yer damn sure enjoyin’ yer perverted ass, aintcha?  Well, cunt, that ain’t fair.  Guess I’m gonna hafta tighten yer fuckhole up the hard way.”


This time I aim for his chest.  He sees it coming.  Goddamn, I can’t believe how dumb this one is; despite his bleeding, shredded hands, he still grabs at my wrist.  Teen whore like him shoulda had more street smarts; I really am doin’ the fag a favor by offin’ it now.  Hell, it coulda met someone really bad.


Y’know.  Someone evil.


I let the meat grab me, though; it’s not strong enough to prevent me from sticking it again.  But I want it to feel the helplessness and despair as it slowly realizes it.


It takes a good minute for the tip of the blade to reach the boy’s skin.  As he continues to try to pull my hand away, I land the razor-sharp tip in the center of the firm, smooth mound of his left pec, just above and inward of the hard, jutting nipple.


A trickle of blood starts to flow as I pierce the skin.  I apply a little more pressure and the tip slides in almost an inch.  He’s in pain now; the knife has gone past the skin and is slicing open the muscle.  My wrists are slick with blood from the meat’s wounded hands; the deeper the blade goes, the more force he tries to apply—and the more his hands bleed, making his grip more slippery.


He’s losing this battle and he knows it.  But again, he’s too fuckin’ stupid to realize that he’s prolonging his suffering by fighting me.  I damn sure ain’t gonna tell him; his ass is tense and rigid with his effort and his agony.


There’s some physical resistance—I’ve hit a rib.  My serrated hunting knife is designed to break through the bones of large animal carcasses; the ribcage of an adolescent faggot doesn’t pose a problem.  I just need to apply more pressure.


The cunt thrashes violently as I force the steel blade into his chest cavity with enough force to audibly snap the bone.  Fuck, his agony feels so fuckin’ good on my hard, aching tool.  Little homo backs his ass up, grinding my shaft good and hard each time I inflict more pain.  Teen fags are great for this shit; they really seem to get into the suffering.  They’ll piss and moan and cry, but deep inside, they’re all deathpigs.


The more it hurts, the more they like it.  Hell, this fuckin’ queerboy is as hard as I am.  Think I’ll give him something to really enjoy.  I slam the knife home, spearing the slut’s left lung and embedding the tip of the blade into the inside of his rib in the back.  Fuck, if it wasn’t for that rib, I’da been able to see the tip of the blade come out his back.


“Aw yeah, ya like that, huh?” I whisper into the agonized teen’s ear, nuzzling my scruffy cheek against his.  “Fuck, the way yer workin’ my meat as you die is so fuckin’ hot, dude.  Here, fucker, do it again!”


Again, I twist the blade inside him before yanking it back out with a swift, vicious jerk; his lithe body shudders and spasms against mine in nightmarish agony as a series of muffled squeals are forced past my iron grip on his mouth.  The ragged nasal sound of his breathing intensifies as blood bubbles and aspirates from his sucking chest wound.


“Havin’ trouble breathin’, asswipe?” I jeer softly, “Yer lung has collapsed.  Fuck, man, that’s gotta hurt.  Betcha feel like yer suffocatin’, huh?  Work it out, cocksucker, work that pain and fear out on my rod!”


He’s panicking.  His arms are flailing and he’s riding my cock like it’s a fuckin’ carousel horse.  Goddam, little pansy’s actually gettin’ me close.  Time to shift this bitch into high.


I hold the knife in front of his face.  “Last time, boy.  Where do ya want it?  Where do ya want the death blow, motherfucker?  In yer chest?  Wanna feel yer heart pop like a water balloon before it spasms and slices itself into shredded meat on my blade?  Fuck yeah!  Sounds hot as hell, don’t it?”


I can feel him trying frenetically to shake his head; I’ve got too tight a grip on him to permit much movement, but his intention is clear.  He’s still struggling, though, his torn and bleeding colon still clamping down on my engorged shaft.  And I can still hear the wet slapping sound of his own erect dick beating against his flat, blood-streaked belly.


“Not the chest?  Ok, then.  Funny, ya didn’t strike me as the type that wanted its throat cut, but what the fuck—yer the one bein’ snuffed, fucker.  Here ya go, asshole, and remember—you asked for it!”


Holding the blade horizontally, I stick it into the left side of the teenager’s throat, jamming it straight in.  At first it’s smooth and easy, like a hot knife in butter—but then I get to the trachea.  It’s a thick, rubbery piece of tissue, and I’d hit the larynx straight on.


Jesus, if I thought I had a hot piece of fuckmeat before, it’s nothing to the way my shaft gets milked as I slowly saw my way through its voicebox.  The faggot fucker gyrates on my pulsing rod like it consciously wants to feel my load in its guts before it dies.


Once I get through the larynx, it’s smooth sailing again; within seconds, the gleaming tip of the blade springs from the smooth, unblemished flesh on the right side of the kid’s neck, accompanied by a trickle of blood.  Just the sight of it makes my balls start to boil over; I’m about to grant the fuckmeat its final wish, not that the faggot deserves any mercy on my part.


The last thing the homo piece of shit is gonna feel is my hot spunk hosing its guts.


The blade is embedded horizontally in the meat’s throat, completely impaling it from side to side.  I’ve undoubtedly cut the carotid and jugular, but the physical presence of the blade in the wound is preventing the meat from bleeding out.


So now, instead of sawing into his throat, I cut forward, sawing out of it.


I can’t begin to imagine how much agony and terror the fuckmeat must be enduring; it’s not enough.  Goddam homo can’t suffer enough.  “Fuckin’ die, ya worthless piece a’ shit.  Fuckin’ die like a dog in this alley, faggot!” I mutter hoarsely as the dying teen’s throat parts and a loud whistling wheeze erupts briefly from the jagged edges of its open, exposed trachea.


Aw fuckin’ hell, it goes so goddam rigid on my cock, gripping it tightly, all the boy’s pain and fear focused onto my swollen rod, concentrated on making my shoot my sperm.  At the moment of death, it finally understands and accepts its true purpose on this planet.  There’s a splattering sound as the cunt’s life blood sprays against the brick wall, but it’s echoed by another, similar sound, a bit lower down.  The teen whore spews its deathload against the same dirty brick wall that’s already stained with its dark, copper-scented blood.


At the same time, I’m pumping its intestines full of my hot, potent manseed, letting the dying fag savor one last microsecond of living warmth before it slips pathetically into the cold screaming void of death.  I keep thrusting and shooting for several minutes; when the meat finally dies and starts to sag, I stick my blade into its left flank just below the armpit and through the ribcage, using it as a handle to hold the corpse up until I’m done unloading in it.


When I’m done, I press one hand against its back, forcing it into the wall while I slip my still-throbbing cock out of its ass.  Then I pull out my blade and let go, allowing the trembling corpse to fall the ground with a dull thump.  I bend down and use the homo’s shorts to wipe its blood off my blade, making sure to retrieve my money form the dead kid’s pocket, before sliding the knife back into its sheath, hidden under my vest.  As I tuck my dripping shaft back into my jeans, I watch the whore’s boots twitch, causing ripples on the iridescent surface of the filthy puddle in which the dead body lies.


I head cautiously and quietly back up the alley.  At the rear entrance, I scan the parking lot for a moment while staying in the shadows, but there’s no one about.  The coast is clear.


And so is my mood. Whistling happily, I stroll casually towards my car, my boots thumping regularly on the pavement.  I feel good.  I’ve vented my frustrations, and I’ve rid the world of another useless faggot.  Left in a stinking puddle down a dark, trash-filled alley, with its throat cut and its ass fulla cum—bitch deserved it.


Fuck, the bitch got of easy.  Next one’s really gonna suffer.




Leather Dave and the Biker Bitch

BikeFest 2020 was on and to Cody, that meant one thing: getting banged by dudes in leather with thick hogs between their legs.  Hell, he’d already gotten laid last night—not a roughly as he liked it, but it was a start.


Cody had been worried about the turnout, but the crown had only been down a little Friday night, the first day of the rally.  Rancho Vista’s BikeFest was nowhere near as large as the huge rallies in Sturgis, but the crowd was just as rowdy—and clearly didn’t give a shit about social distancing.


It was past eleven when Cody got to the Fire Lizard, the largest of the four biker bars in town.  Even though it was Saturday, he’d had to work late; they were short-handed at the meat packing plant, and overtime was mandatory.  Then he’d had to go home, shower, and change into something appropriate for the bar.


Cody had just turned eighteen three months earlier.  He’d dropped out of school a couple of years earlier after an incident at an earlier rally—he’d been gang-raped by a group of bikers.


He’d loved it.  He wanted it to happen again, he wanted to be one of them.  He left school and went to work, trying to save up for a Harley.  The meat packing plant, of course, was the only employment possible without a high school diploma; it took in a lot of the dregs of the town.


And somehow, Cody never managed to get his hog.  Booze and food and weed and the rent on his dilapidated single-wide and the tote-the-note payments on his twelve-year-old Toyota pickup seemed to take everything from him.


Everything but his love of dick up his ass.  He could still troll the rally, looking for a stud to fuck him like a dog.  He hurried home after his shift, his thick boycock already throbbing with excitement at the thought of so many hot leather-clad dudes in town.


He tried to dress the part.  He couldn’t afford real biker leathers, of course; his thin aviator jacket wasn’t even real leather.  His boots were black leather, but they were ropers.  But the black jacket and boots, worn with a basic white cotton t-shirt and a pair of distressed, slightly torn jeans, passed for authentic in the crush at the bars, as long as one didn’t look too closely.  He pulled the boots on quickly; the jeans caught on them and were hiked up but not tucked in, so the legs bunched up at the top of the boots and partly spilled over.


Cody already knew where he was heading.  He’d gone to the Third Wheel bar last night, so tonight would be the Fire Lizard.  Hopefully, it’d work out better than last night; the dude had been hot, but he’d been a pussy.  Way too nice to treat Cody like the faggot he was; the teen slut hadn’t been impressed.


The muscled youth threw eagerly threw himself into his battered truck and started it with some difficulty.  He was so excited heading into town that it just barely registered that he was almost out of gas.  It didn’t really cross his mind until he hit town—and the traffic


Needless to say, the main drag was a madhouse.  Rancho Vista had a population of less than six thousand most of the time, but tonight that number was increased by nearly fifty percent.  Every bar, diner, and fast food franchise in town was packed past capacity.  Hogs of every shape, size, and customization rumbled up and down the street and bikers of both sexes stumbled drunkenly along the sidewalks, laughing, fighting, and catcalling.


It was a scene of unbridled revelry, anonymous sexual encounters and rampant drug use and Cody threw himself into it with gleefully reckless abandon.  He was looking for a hot man in leather to fuck him violently and was about to succeed beyond his wildest dreams.


The Third Wheel was out near the edge of town—not that Rancho Vista’s edges were that far out—next to an abandoned restaurant.  Cody found himself parking at the restaurant; the bar’s parking lot was too full of motorcycles for him to find a space.  He wasn’t alone; more than two dozen cars, trucks, and bikes were using the overflow lot.


The bar was just as packed as its parking lot, of course.  From the moment Cody was in the door, he was in leather pig heaven.  The Third Wheel wasn’t a gay bar—no such thing in town—but given that more than three-quarters of the crowd were male, Cody knew he wouldn’t have any problem finding someone to fuck him.


He began squeezing his way through the crown, trying his best not to moan with pleasure like a slut every time he pressed himself up against a leather-clad biker’s hard furry body in the crush.  His dick was a swollen, pulsating ridge of denim in his groin; he did what he could to press it against every dude he could, hoping for a reaction.  He got a couple—but not from anyone who looked like they could give him what he needed.


He didn’t see Dave at first.  He felt something, though, something that felt like holes being bored into the nape of his neck.  He turned and scanned the crowd behind him—and that was when he saw the seductive, glittering emerald eyes staring straight at him.


The dude was in his early thirties, tall, with wavy jet-black hair, a matching goatee, and a faint haze of dark scruff on his cheeks.  He was dressed as the real deal in a genuine leather biker jacket—worn over his bare, hairy chest and belted at the waist, Cody noted with lust—and tight jeans tucked into a pair of sixteen-inch Wesco Boss engineer boots.


At least two other guys were trying to get the man’s attention, but he kept his riveting gaze focused directly on Cody.  The teen staggered towards him as if in a trance.  He was drawn to the stud like a bird to a snake—with the exception that it was purely voluntary.



For Dave, the rally had been somewhat disappointing.  He’d had a Harley for years—faggot bitchboys loved a man with some serious horsepower between his legs—but he preferred cruising the leather conventions to find horny little sluts that wouldn’t be missed, at least no until he was long gone.


But most of the leather cons were being canceled this year.  So Dave decided to break out his bike and head to the rally in Rancho Vista.  He knew the biker crowd didn’t give a shit about the virus or much else.  And there were always a few fags hanging around, hoping to get lucky.  They needed Dave there to show them that their lack of concern for the virus was well justified.  It was nothing. What he had in mind for them was much, much worse.


There was no way he’d find a motel room; the place would be packed.  His plan was to spend the night with whatever meat he’d taken home—if the corpse got too stiff in the bed, he could always kick it to the floor.  Just in case, though, he brought a sleeping bag and some camping gear.


And it turned out to be a good thing.  He struck out Friday night and left the back feeling angry and thwarted.  It wasn’t that he hadn’t had his pick of the fuckmeat; it was that none of the fuckmeat was worth picking.


Well, tonight needed to have a better outcome.  He wasn’t gonna sleep on the ground again’ if nothing worthwhile showed up, he’d just saddle up and head back to—


—and that was when Cody walked into his view.  A single glance at the biker wannabe and Dave could see the teen’s desperate aching lust, the kind of lust that can only be assuaged by death.


From that moment on, it was settled.  Even before Cody had set eyes on Dave, the muscled sadist had marked the boy for a kill.


Even the crowd seemed to abet the meeting, parting easily so that Cody could make his way towards the hardbodied stud.  Within seconds, he was by Dave’s side, looking the leather-clad alpha in the eye.  They didn’t bother to introduce themselves; names weren’t necessary.  Nor was much else; it was obvious what each wanted—up to a point.


“Wanna come back to my place for a beer?” Cody asked.


Dave looked at him levelly for a moment, sizing the meat up, then spoke.  “Yeah, you’ll do.  But I ain’t leavin’ my bike here.”


“I’ll, uh, I’ll leave my truck here,” Cody said, nearly stuttering in horny eagerness, “I’ll ride with you.”


Dave saw the way the bulge in the boy’s groin throbbed as he mentioned riding pillion on the motorcycle.  The fagkiller smirked; the little biker groupie was perfect fuckmeat.  Yeah, he’d take the kid back to whatever shithole he lived in and put him out of his misery…


“C’mon,” he said, jerking his head towards the rear door, “I’m parked out back.”


Cody wasn’t sure how the dude managed to pick his own out of the hundreds of other black bikes in the lot, but he led them straight to a Harley Fat Boy and straddled it, slipping a jet-black helmet on.  With a hard cock and wide, happy grin, Cody climbed on behind him, wrapping his arms around the stud’s leather-jacketed waist.


“Left out of the lot, then left at the last light in town.  It’ll be a couple miles out—first right past the dump.”


The Harley roared into life, the powerful engine throbbing between their thighs.  Cody had to hold on tight as they accelerated out of the parking lot; Dave saw no need to provide the meat with any kind of head protection.


One way or another, it would be beyond the need for protection of any kind within an hour, at the latest.


As the wind whistled around his head, Cody buried his face in Dave’s back, inhaling the musky aroma of the leather and feeling its smooth gloss against his skin.  His boycock throbbed achingly; Dave could feel it pulsing against his ass and grinned, knowing this one was hooked good.  He swung off the main road and headed out of town.


Making the turn past the dump, Dave found himself navigating the cracks and potholes on a poorly-paved road.  After heading north for about a mile, he pulled up where it dead-ended in front of the burned-out ruin of what had once been a large ranch house.


“Keep going,” Cody said, “There, where the gravel track goes over the hill.”


Dave eased his way over the hill and stopped at an old single-wide trailer.  It was dilapidated but at least it was inhabitable.


Cody slipped off the bike, his legs trembling so hard from the ride he could barely stand.  Dave swung his leg over the hog and stood smirking at the tumbledown mobile home.  Cody caught the look and flushed.


“Yeah, I know, but it only costs me three hundred a month.  This useta be a big ranch, but the family lost all their money.  Tyrin’ to sell the place now, but the land ain’t worth much.  House mighta been worth somethin’, but it’s gone.  This trailer useta be the foreman’s place.”


Dave grunted his disinterest.  Taking the hint, Cody bounded up the rickety wooden stairs and unlocked the door.  Dave followed, feeling the thin slats of the steps sag under his boots.


Everything inside was brown, from the peeling pine veneer on the walls to the dirty acrylic carpeting on the floor.  There was a distinctive sharp hint of formaldehyde oozing from the plywood walls; it was only partially overlaid by the heavier scents of weed and mansex.


“You, uh, you c’n help yerself to a beer; they’re in the fridge,” Cody said, almost shyly.  “I wanna go, um—well, I need to make the bed—”


“Don’t bother,” Dave said sharply, “Just strip the sheets off.  You too, boy.  Strip!”


When Cody flushed this time, it wasn’t with embarrassment, it was with pleasure.  He was sure he’d found his alpha.


Dave strolled into the small kitchen, pulled a can of beer from the fridge, and headed back into the living room.  What little counter space the kitchen offered was covered in filthy, unwashed dishes.  It was easier to set his beer down in the living room while he slipped out of his jacket, leaving it carefully folded on the back of the dilapidated sofa.


Cody came back in, grinning, his thick boycock already stiffening; he had just entered the room with Dave unzipped his fly and began to haul out his huge member.  It popped out, thick, erect, and glistening, wreathed with veins and with a huge scrotum dangling underneath.  The grin was instantly wiped off Cody’s face—he wasn’t able to smile with his mouth agape in awe.


Dave noticed, and sneered.  “Ya want my cock, faggot?  You ain’t good enough to make me cum, bitch.”


Cody was as erect as a steel beam.  “Yeah I am,” he gasped breathily, “But it’s gotta be rough.”


Dave’s grin grew shark-like.  “Rough is the only way I fuck worthless pansies like you.  Get down on yer knees, fucker.  Now!”


The teen punk dropped as commanded.


“Crawl over here, cunt; I wanna fuck yer skull.”


Cody shuffled his way forward, on his knees, until he was close enough for Dave to reach out and grab his head, clutching it with relentless, inexorable strength as his forced his massive shaft down the kid’s throat.


The first hint to Cody’s hormone-dimmed mind that this wasn’t going to be his dream fuck was his inability to breathe.  He was a serious cockpig and had gagged on dick often enough before.  He loved being forced to choke on an alpha’s tool—up to a point.


But this was going on too long, and Cody was starting to suffer.  This wasn’t what he wanted, but he couldn’t escape.  The dude was just too strong, rendering the kid’s head utterly immobile while he left his thick rod of manmeat buried deep in the fag’s throat, his heavy balls resting against its chin.


The teen beat his hands against Dave’s denim-wrapped, muscular thighs; it had as much effect as if he were beating a tree trunk.  He tried desperately to jerk his head away as his pulse began to pound in his head.  He gagged, forcing thick streams of drool out past Dave’s enormous cock and down his chin.


His only reward was a malignant chuckle from above, followed by a deep thrust of dick into his throat.  His struggles became more intense as his chest started to burn.  Frantically digging into the cheap carpeting, Cody yanked himself backwards as forcefully as he could—and suddenly found himself free.


Dave, feeling the boy pulling, let go of his head and Cody was flung back across the room under his own power.  As the fag slut lay huddled and coughing on the floor, the hot muscled stud stalked towards him, a wide, sneering grin on his face.  Once within range, he kicked the boy—not hard enough to do any real damage, but his leather Wesco boot had enough force to make the punk grunt.


“Hope yer a better assfuck than ya are a throatfuck, you worthless faggot,” he snarled, “But I gotta way of makin’ sure you are anyway.  Ya liked gettin’ choked, dintja?  Yer little homo cock got all hard as ya gagged on my dick, so yer gonna fuckin’ shoot gobs a’ cum when ya get choked to death ridin’ my shaft, motherfucker!”


Cody’s face had faded from its earlier livid color; when he heard Dave’s words, he paled even more.  He peered up from the floor at the hulking hardbodied biker looming over him.  The tall leather boots and the thick, muscled thighs supported the rod and tackle of a stallion; above, the waist expanded up a heavily-muscled torso, the ripped abs and huge hubcaps pecs were covered with dark wiry fur, from the latter of which thick nipples jutted like hills above a forest. And that face—


—but Cody wouldn’t look Dave in the face; he could see death there.


“No…” he whispered faintly, his mind already reeling with desperate plans for escape, “No, don’t…”


He sounded abject with fear, but Dave was an experience fagkiller.  He knew what was coming by the way the fucker’s eyes were darting about, like a trapped wild animal.


Which, Dave, thought, was exactly what he was.  A trapped animal, soon to be made into a piece of meat.


The boy popped up like a jack-in-the-box, his almost magical change from horizontal to vertical inspired by panic. He turned towards the front door and started to bolt, but he got no farther than the length of his own body; Dave stuck out one booted foot and tripped the slut.


This time Dave was on him before Cody could rise again, stomping the tread of his Wesco boot into the smooth tender flesh of the boy’s back and kicking him in the flanks until he was wallowing on the floor in pain.


“Ya like it rough, faggot?  That rough enough for ya?  Fuck, boy, that’s just foreplay.  I’m gonna make you suffer when I fuck ya to death.  Yer gonna be in more pain that you can possibly imagine, you stupid little fuck—not that yer gonna hafta imagine it.”


He bent down, grabbed a hank of the sobbing kid’s tousled hair, and began dragging him towards the bedroom.  Cody scrambled to his feet and lurched along behind his attacker, bent double to avoid having a chunk of his scalp ripped off.  Dave led the wailing homo relentlessly to the stripped-down bed, then let go.


Cody stood upright, his boyish face smeared with tears and snot as he whimpered, trying to avoid Dave’s eyes, already aware of the piercing hate and lust that glinted in them like burning ice.  His attention was distracted by a flash on the left and then something happened—intense pain, a powerful impact—


—he hadn’t seen the sucker punch Dave had thrown at him, but he damn sure felt it.  Groaning, he opened his eyes—well, the right one, anyway; the left one was already swelling badly—and peered up at the handsome grinning sadist looming over him.  Immediately, he rolled over onto his stomach and tried to scramble off the bed; deep inside, he knew he didn’t have a chance at escape, and he was right.


Dave grabbed Cody by the right arm and dragged him off the bed, letting him fall face-down on the floor with a heavy thud.  Before he could recover, the muscle-bound killer had his arm again, planting his black leather boot just above Cody’s elbow.


Dave snatched Cody’s wrist and began pulling up while pressing down with his boot. The moaning slut felt his arm being bent backwards to the full extent of his elbow.  Then, with a grunt, Dave gave a vicious jerk.  Cody shrieked like a factory siren as his elbow bent ninety degrees in the wrong direction with a wet gristly cracking sound.


The pain was like nothing Cody had experienced in his short, useless life.  His imagination hadn’t comprehended that this kind of pain existed.  He rolled to his side, his eyes bulging (even the blackened one) with pain and horror as he stared at his mangled arm.  Dave let him scream for a minute or two, then approached him.


Cody looked up and saw the thick clear beads of precum oozing from the huge purple head of the biker’s massive dick, and he understood that this wasn’t the end of his life, it was the start of an eternity in hell.  This sick motherfucker he’d brought home was getting off on hurting him and maiming him.


Cody screamed again.  “Shaddap,” Dave snapped and kicked the boy in the face, fracturing his jaw.


The teen faggot lay on the floor in a semi-conscious state, his lithe young body sweating and shuddering in agony.  Part of him just wanted to surrender, to let the hardbodied psycho do whatever he wanted, if that meant it would be over faster.  But he knew that he couldn’t control his automatic urge to fight off the source of pain.


And somewhere deep in the pit of his brain, he refused to acknowledge the fact that even surrender wouldn’t end it any faster; the dude was turned on by his suffering.


Dave didn’t give a shit what was running in the meat’s mind; whatever was going on in there would be shut down soon enough.  He was busy surveying his prey, trying to determine where to attack next.


“Lessee,” he chuckled malignly, “Wanna keep it even, yeah?  Left arm, so now right leg.  C’mere, bitch, this one’s gonna hurt so bad you’ll cum.”


He grabbed Cody’s right wrist and dragged him about a foot—just enough to turn him onto his back.  Then he stepped down and planted his boot on the punk’s thigh, just above the knee.  Recognizing what was about to happen, the homo wailed at the top of his lungs, despite the pain the movement caused his damaged jaw.  It did no good anyway, once Dave bent down, grabbed his ankle, and began pulling upwards.


This time was different.  Cody’s elbow had snapped like a turkey’s wishbone; his knee was a little sturdier.  Unfortunately for the teen cunt, this meant that Dave didn’t do it all in one swift, clean jerk.  It took a little time—time enough for Cody to feel and hear the ligaments and tendons tearing and snapping, time for him to see his patella bulge and finally shear to the outside as his leg was bent back at a right angle with a loud squelching sound.


Cody had been right that he wouldn’t be able to control his reactions once the pain hit; he just didn’t know that he’d be utterly helpless when it did.  With one arm and one leg useless, all he could do was writhe on the floor and squeal in such agony that his voice cracked and all that came out was a gargling hiss.


And yet through the glassy haze of suffering, he could still hear the contempt in Dave’s voice.


“Time to saddle up, motherfucker, yer prime fuckmeat now.  I’m ready to dump my load and hit the road.  Got shit to do asswipe, so it’s time to die on my dick.”


Cruelly dragging the thrashing youth upright by his useless left arm, Dave held Cody to him for a brief moment, feeling the eighteen-year-old boy’s smooth skin sliding against his own as the cunt flailed in nightmarish pain.  He threw the kid onto the bed, then followed, his huge cock visibly pulsing as he neared the quivering pile of boyflesh.


Again, Cody forced his eyes open to see Dave towering over him.  This time, though, the older man had unbuckled his belt and was slowly sliding it from around his waist.  It was an inch-wide leather strap, glossy black on the outside but raw on the inside.  The muscled stud wrapped the end without the buckle around his hand as he climbed onto the bed and pried the kid’s legs apart.


The teen homo knew what was coming.  Forty-five minutes ago, he’d been excited to nearly the point of orgasm at the thought of getting fucked by the hulking hardbodied biker.


Now, he knew it meant pain and death.


So did Dave, and he drove the point home as he pressed the enormous, precum-smeared head of his cock against the boy’s tender quivering fuckhole.  “Now yer gonna know what it feels like to have a real man inside you, faggot.  And it’s gonna hurt.  It’s gonna hurt so fucking bad.”


And it did.


Dave shoved.  There was a brief resistance, then Cody’s sphincter tore like a wet paper towel and the killer’s monster cock plowed its way remorselessly through the teen’s colon and lodged itself in his guts, mercilessly grinding the boy’s prostate as it did.


Despite the physical trauma he’d already endured, this new pain sent Cody’s brain into vapor lock.  It was too much for him to process; not just the searing agony of his mangled asshole, but the amazingly excruciating fullness, the sensation of having an object jammed up his ass that was far larger than the space into which it’d been forced.


That was when Dave began beating him with the belt.


The first stinging lash of the leather strap broke Cody out of his stupor; the mark left by the buckle was so deep it had cut the skin.  As the sadistic fagkiller raised the belt again, the boy held out his good right arm in an instinctive attempt to ward off the blow—another of Cody’s bad decisions.


Dave brought the belt down with a powerful whip-like movement and Cody’s right hand took the full force of the buckle, snapping all but his thumb and pinkie finger.  With a shriek, the punk drew back his crushed hand as Dave roared in rage.  “Goddam dumbass motherfucker!”


He began to rain blows on the helpless teen homo, feeling the boy’s ass muscles clench his swollen cock in agony each time the belt landed on the kid’s chest or belly.  As Cody’s silky, smooth flesh was beaten to a mass of bleeding purple welts, his torturer grunted with pleasure.


But the law of diminishing returns soon asserted itself; the young pansy was simply too exhausted to react.  The pain had become so overwhelming that the pile of bleeding, shuddering meat that had once been a meatpacker named Cody had just stopped responding.


“Goddamit, you really are worthless, even for a fuckin’ faggot,” Dave growled.  “Can’t even work a load outta my cock, even with all the help I been givin’ ya.  I’m ready to pump and dump, and I ain’t got the time to beat ya till ya get it right.  Yer done, bitch.”


He spit in Cody’s face, punched him twice, hard, then wrapped the belt around his neck and, looping it back through the buckle, made a simple noose that he quickly tightened.


The teenaged homo truly was little more than meat at the moment; he had been tortured and terrorized so badly by this point that his psyche had shattered.  But he was still very much alive and able to feel—and suffer.  His reaction to having his air supply shut off might have been reflexive, but it wasn’t any less desperate or violent for that.


“Fuck yeah, cunt, that’s it,” the vicious killer grunted as the desperate teen bucked and jerked, “Now yer bein’ a good little faggot, aintcha?  This is what it takes to earn my load, cocksucker; ya gotta die for it.  Now yer gettin’ it, boy.  Kick and choke and die, motherfucker!”


Cody was no longer the handsome boy he’d been less than an hour ago in the bar, but now he was becoming unrecognizable.  His already swollen and bruised face was turning black, his bulging eyes giving him a frantic expression that was completely appropriate; he felt like his head was going to explode.  All the other pain had receded behind this, the mortal agony of slow, painful asphyxiation.  His useless right hand beat against Dave’s broad, muscular chest, the limp fingers dragging helplessly in the wiry black body fur.


But there was another pain, too; one that had grown so gradually that it only began to make its presence known as Cody’s brain began to die.  It was an ache, like a throbbing tooth, that quickly built in intensity until it matched the pounding agony inside his skull.  It was his cock.


It was so rigid, so painfully erect that the repeated friction of being pressed between Dave’s furry ripped abs and Cody’s welt-covered belly swiftly became an excruciating, fiery ache.  Dave noticed it too.


“Now yer gettin’ it, ya piece a’ homo shit,” he grunted, thrusting his massive shaft vigorously into the dying boy’s ass.  “Fuckin’ faggots need to be put down like dogs.  The more it hurts as ya die, the more ya cum.  I’m doin’ yer worthless ass a favor, puttin’ ya outta yer perverted misery, and ya love it so much ya blow a load.  Every goddam time.  All you fuckin’ sick-ass queers need to die.”


Some part of Cody’s personality might have heard Dave’s jeering words as it flickered and faded in a dark corner of his mind, but the damage to the teen’s brain had passed the point of no return.  As thick streamers of drool bubbled past Cody’s protruding tongue and ran down his smooth cheeks, his lithe, sweat-slick body began to jerk and convulse.


Dave grinned and held on tight; this was it, this was the whole point.  This was why the faggot had to die—so its death throes could jerk the psychotic stud off.


As the meat thrashed under him, Dave could feel his scrotum tingling; soon electric shocks were playing at the base of his cock.  Pulling tightly on the belt with one hand, he placed his other hand palm down over the cunt’s black, swollen face and pulled.  With a thick wet crunch, the teen’s trachea collapsed into a mass of bloody, mangled cartilage, sealing his throat forever.


That sound, that sensation, was the trigger.  The meat was capable of two last sensations—a searing blast of heat inside it and a burning agony in the genitals.


It ended the way Cody had hoped it would the moment he met Dave: Cody shot his wad as Dave unloaded inside him.  The only difference was that Cody wasn’t alive to enjoy the solid jet of sperm he spewed all over Dave’s hard, hairy belly and his own flat, battered chest.  And Dave was cursing him and beating his face in as he spunked uncontrollably.


The body kept thrashing for a while, though; Dave had considered snapping its neck, but the meat just kept milking him and milking him until he thought his balls would collapse.   After a while, it settled into a steady, gentle quivering and the sick killer finally, reluctantly, withdrew his rod form the corpse.  Rising to his knees, he peered down at his victim—the perfect image of an alpha male, sweaty and cum-covered after marking his prey.


Somewhat unsteadily, he staggered out of the room to locate the bathroom.  He was happy; any fuck good enough to leave him weak in the knees was with the effort.


Finding the cleanest towel he could, Dave wiped himself down, sponging the dead boy’s cum off his torso and cleaning his dick before stuffing it back inside his jeans.  Tossing the towel into the toilet, he headed into the living room and put his jacket back on before returning to the bedroom to retrieve his belt.  He’d thought about leaving it behind, but it was a good belt and that worthless homo fuck didn’t deserve to keep it.


The meat was still twitching.  Its arms and legs were splayed at odd angles—especially the broken ones—and the toes on the left foot had locked into a tight curl at the moment of death.  The thick boycock was starting to shrivel, beads of cum forced from its head as it shrank.


Approaching the head of the bed, Dave grabbed the corpse by the hair and began to work the belt free.  Spittle had dried to a crust on the face in the same way that the tick pools of semen on the chest were congealing into a glaze.  The belt was deeply embedded; the hardbodied killer was forced to manhandle the dead boy to get it loose, finally prying it from around the throat and dumping the body on the floor as he looped it back around his waist.  The extra bit of effort had caused his temper to flare again.


“Stupid piece of shit,” he snarled, lashing out with his Wesco boot.  If Cody had been alive, the blow might have been fatal; it cracked his skull.  As it was, all that happened was that the corpse flopped over, its ravaged asshole pointing skyward.


Dave paused in the doorway, looking back at the dead teen fag lying on the floor like a wadded-up cumrag, and smirked.  Fucker had got what he deserved.  Wheeling about contemptuously, he mounted his bike and headed out; by dawn he was two counties away, the throbbing hog between his legs vibrating the last few drops of sperm left in his deflated scrote.



Ames wasn’t happy when the welfare check call came across; clean-up after BikeFest was always monumental.  One rape, three attempted rapes, three attempted murders and more alcohol and drug violations than he could count; it was always the same.  And now a welfare check.


He was even less happy when he heard the details.


“Come again, dispatch?  You want me to go all the way over to the Wakefield Ranch to check on some eighteen-year-old who didn’t show up for work at the plant?  After last weekend, I’m surprised any of them did show up…”


But the response that the kid in question hadn’t been seen since Friday—it was now Tuesday morning—and that he was know to keep bad company (“he’s one a’ them homasexshools”) shut the deputy up and he proceeded as directed.


The moment he pulled up to the trailer, his heart sank.  A warm front was moving through, and it was a gusty day.  The front door of the trailer was wide open and banging in the wind.


Ames exited his car carefully, unsnapping his holder and withdrawing his gun.  There was no other vehicle visible.


“Hello?  Cahill County Sheriff’s Department—anyone there?”


His call was answer by nothing more than the arrhythmic banging of the door.


The deputy cautiously climbed the front steps and entered the trailer, doing a quick sweep of the living area and kitchen.  Nothing seemed to be disturbed—or, rather, the place was too much a mess to tell if anything had been disturbed.  Ames headed for the bedroom.


Thirty seconds later, he was back at his car.


“Yeah, dispatch, ya better send the whole works.  Looks like the fag got buttfucked to death.  Someone who really hates homos, too, by the looks of it.  I ain’t never seen a body beat up so bad that hadn’t been run over by a truck.  Been dead for several days.  Better let the sheriff know, too; find out what he wants to do.”


As he waited for a response, Ames crossed back to the trailer and closed the front door; the relentless banging was getting on his nerves.  He wasn’t worried about preserving fingerprints; he knew it wouldn’t matter.


He didn’t know how quickly he’d be proven right; the sheriff’s response was to secure the scene for the meat wagon and head back to the hospital.  The rape victim had said she could give a description of her attacker; the department had bigger things to worry about than some dead faggot.


Ames got back in the car and peeled out.  Behind him, Cody’s battered corpse, cold and lonely, remained lying on the bedroom floor for another three hours before the coroner’s van arrived.



Rocko Busts Out

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Rocko was gonna make goddam sure of that.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Rocko never came back.


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


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


Until he escaped three weeks ago.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Jessie pissed himself.


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


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


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


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


Wide-eyed and trembling, Jessie nodded.


“You know what’s gonna happen?”


Jessie nodded again.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Rocko had decided to drive the point home.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Then things went black for Jessie for a bit.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Sadly for him, Rocko realized that.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Whaddaya mean?


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


“It is,” Artie muttered darkly.


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


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


“You need me anymore?” Artie asked abruptly.


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


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


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


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




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


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


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


There was always one available.


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


“Looking for hookup RIGHT NOW

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


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


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


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


And he was a virgin.


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


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“That’s—I, uh, I mean…” he faltered.


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


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


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


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


“It’s what, faggot?” Joe asked.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Stu was trying to crawl away.


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


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


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


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


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


He got his first inkling when Joe began kicking him.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


And suddenly Stu was full of cock.


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


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




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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Then it tightened, and everything changed.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Time to remind the fucking cunt who was boss.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Boot Blackened Bitch

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“How much?”


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




“You got the cash?”


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


Teddy nodded his head to the right.


“What, up the alley?”


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


“Naw—go on.”


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


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


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


Except it didn’t.


“Take off your shirt,” the john growled.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“I’m cumming—fuck, aw fuck—”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Then the john began pounding him.


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


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


He didn’t live that long.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

The Faggot at the Gym by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He spat in my face.

“Thank you, WHAT?” He glared

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

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

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

I nodded weakly, stiff at attention.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded again, he was right.

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

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

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

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

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

The Trucker 19–Trucker vs Plague Rat

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


He was about to find out, though.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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


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


“Dude, what the fuck—” WHAM!


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


No he wasn’t.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


He was immediately greeted with the sound of sirens.


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


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


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




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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

A Volunteer By Gay Slavemeat

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Have you signed the paperwork?”


“Yes, sir.”


“Did you understand it?”


“I believe so, sir.”


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


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


“So you’d become a slave?”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“And beatings?”


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


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


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


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


“No, sir.”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Perfectly, sir.”


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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