The outside temperature was nearing 100 degrees Fahrenheit and every one of the motel’s under-window AC units were droning away, continually and deafeningly.  It was a bleak, run-down place just off the interstate—so close, in fact that the AC noise was often overcome by the sound of the traffic from the highway that was only located fifty yards from the room’s front door.

Not that Rocko minded.  He was still free.  And he’d managed to find another teen fag to bang.

This one said his name was Rory, but Rocko had gotten a glimpse of an old ID card in his wallet, and Rory was his middle name.  His first name was Andreas, of all things, and despite his declarations of being over twenty-one, he was still four months shy of being twenty.  But then again, the only thing the little slut had ever said that Rocko had ever actually believed was that he’d been on the street for nearly four years, after his mother had caught him getting fucked by his stepdad—and Rocko was highly suspicious of that last part.

At any rate, this particular fucktoy was nearing the end of its useful life.  Rocko had pretty much reamed it out.  Plus, he had a feeling that it was fucking around on him, and that was the real issue.  First, he didn’t know where it was going, and that last thing he needed was it bringing some disease or nigger methhead back to the room.

Second, and much, much more important, Rocko didn’t know who the little fucker was talking to or what about.  And it had let slip a couple of days ago that it knew that Rocko was an escaped convicted murderer.  The situation couldn’t continue.  It was payday and Rocko had stopped off at a liquor store and gotten a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

He’d pulled his old Ford into the motel parking lot, rolled down the driver and passenger windows, and shut the engine off.  Then he sat there, sweating in the heat, drinking swigs from the bottle as he pondered the problem.  He’d only gotten a third of the way through the bottle when he decided that he needed to have it out with the bitch and find out exactly what it had been doing—even if he needed to beat the information out of the little faggot.

He rolled up the windows on got out of the car, the thick soles of his Chippewa 8” black leather workboots grinding on the crumbling chunks of the decaying tarmac surface.  Their laces were left loose so he’d been able to tuck in the cuffs of his old Levi jeans, now so worn and faded that they were a pale sky blue and almost threadbare.  His cotton t-shirt had been relatively clean and white when he’d left that morning to work but was now so soaked with sweat that it clung to his broad chest and washboard abs, leaving nothing in the way of his muscles, body fur, and prison tats to the imagination.  The mystery wasn’t why the adolescent whore had been drawn to him, it was why it had felt the urge to stray.  Well, that was one thing Rocko planned to resolve.  Now.

But it wasn’t there when Rocko got home. 

He peeled off his sodden shirt and used it to sop up whatever extra sweat it could before tossing to the floor.  He placed the whiskey on the table in front of the window—drapes closed for other reasons beyond keeping out the glaring sunlight, obviously—and sat in one of the two shabby and slightly mismatched chairs that accompanied it.  He continued to dwell on the problem of Rory.  And drink.

And drink.

There wasn’t any good reason for it to be gone, he felt.  They didn’t need anything—the homo liked cheap vodka mixed with just about anything.  There was half a large bottle of the stuff left, along with a twelve-pack of soda.  Lotsa ramen that it liked and cans of the thick beef stew that Rocko preferred.  The microwave sitting on top of the mini-fridge worked well.  The TV got basic cable.  And there was plenty of weed hidden away in one of Rocko’s boots in the closet.  What else could an adolescent cocksucker want?

Well, a cock, of course.  But Rocko considered himself worth waiting for.  Any pansy that couldn’t do that didn’t deserve him.

Or to live.

The thought of wasting the worthless little bitch at once, today, actually came to mind idly.  It hadn’t occurred to Rocko earlier; he’d only been musing over the need to dispose of it at some point.  Now that it had occurred to him, it was clinging tightly.  And the alcohol only helped it along.  And the fact that by this late in the day, the decrepit, rattling AC unit under the window could no longer keep up with the outside temperature.

As the temperature inside the sleazy, smoke-stained unit rose, it became obvious; the motherfucker was whoring around on him.  Probably had a buncha disgusting diseases.  Rocko took another swig.  Yeah, whoring around on him—and not cutting him in on the take.  Fucking cunt.

Just then, the door opened unexpectedly, and the fucking cunt walked in, grinning with that freshly-fucked look.  It was wearing a pink tank top that displayed its smooth skin, slick with the sweat that covered its firm, lightly-muscled chest and arms.  Below its white shorts that were just a bit too short, its perfectly formed thighs, covered with a faint, golden haze of light hair, descended down into succulent calves.  On its feet, it was sporting a pair of gray-and-white Puma Rebound Layup hightop kicks.

The rage-prone convict had all the proof he needed.  The motherfucker was dressed to get fucked.

Rocko waited until it had closed and locked the door behind it before he rose and spoke—or, rather, roared.  “Where the fuck have you been, ya useless cumdump?!?”

Startled by the tone of Rocko’s voice, Rory turned towards him, his eyes still adjusting to the change in lighting from coming indoors.  His heart began to race, making him gasp once, reflexively.  Had Rocko found out about his side hustle?

Rocko had.  And his sweaty, muscled body was primed for revenge.

“You been fuckin’ around on me, aintcha?” the convicted killer hissed.

Rory’s heart began to beat so quickly he had to gasp for air, depriving him of the ability to answer—not that Rocko would have been willing to listen to anything he had to say.  By the time he was able to respond, it was too late.

“I-I was only giving this-this old dude BJs,” he stammered, “He-he’s a law-lawyer…oh fuck, lawyer, an-and he can help…”

“Goddammit, I knew it!” Rocko shouted in triumphant rage, “You been tellin’ others about me!”

Rory realized his mistake and went pale in terror.  As if illuminated by a sudden bolt of lightning, he was instantly aware that his young faggot ass wasn’t going to be able to talk its way out of this.

Not that it would stop him from trying; of course; he was utterly oblivious as to how much worse it would make things for him.  “Aw, ma-man, I, I only been try-tryin’ ta help ya!!”, he blurted out, mustering as much faux rage as he could.  It was almost a primeval defense mechanism, like a smaller creature making itself look larger when faced with a predator.

But this predator was not only smarter than that, it was burning with a psychotic and homicidal bloodlust.  As Rocko twisted his hard, cruel face into a mask of vicious rage, Rory shrank back against the door he’d just locked behind him.  He’d forgotten that, in the fear of the moment, but he’d remember it a later, when he only had a brief fraction of a second to savor the fact that he’d locked himself in with a sadistic sex killer.

But that was still to come.

Rory had known about Rocko’s nasty temper and tendency towards physical violence since day one, of course; it was part of what had made him so attractive.  Rory liked to be used like the slut he was.  The idea that he hadn’t completely plumbed the depths of what Rocko thought was the appropriate use of a slut was slowly dawning on him now as the buff alpha brusquely yanked his zipper down in a single motion and extracted his enormous, throbbing cock.  It came out, long, hard, looking exactly like the dangerous weapon it was—not so much a sword for stabbing, but a club for bludgeoning. 

And it was more swollen than Rory had ever seen before.  His heart ratcheted up several notches.  He’d lived the last year or so staying with older men, pretending to work by whoring himself out, not just for his room and board, but for drugs and money too.  As a result, the feral instincts he’d developed as a cheap street rat had subsided, even if they hadn’t completely died out.  They should have gone off the moment he first entered the motel room, but they were certainly screaming now.

It was in almost in a heightened state of awareness that the terrified adolescent considered his options.  While he didn’t truly believe—it might be more accurate to say, couldn’t truly conceive—that this was literally a matter of life and death, he knew that the situation was profoundly serious.  He glanced around for avenues of escape.

This, of course, was totally expected.  The stupid young whores inevitably had the instincts of animals—but then again, as far as Rocko was concerned, they were only human in their outward form.  They were living sex toys, to be disposed of when used up.  Unfortunately, they had been endowed with the gift of speech, and it was usually necessary to take measures to ensure that they talked as little as possible.

And in this case, those measures were going to be extreme.  It had talked to a lawyer.  A fucking lawyer!

Slowly, a plan was evolving in Rocko’s mind, and he wanted a little time to work it out.  So, he noted the cunt’s eyes shifting about with a cold contempt.  Let it look.  Let it try.  Let it hope…

Thus, when Rory’s fear reached the point that he could no longer bear the idea of not attempting to escape, the only resistance he met from Rocko was an instinct reaction from the alpha.  The escaped murderer almost absentmindedly reached out and grabbed at the back of Rory’s shirt, grasping a handful of pink fabric. 

Rory lunged powerfully forward.  Instantly, there was a ripping sound and Rocko was left with the shredded remains of the teen’s shirt while the latter, now clad only in shorts, socks, and shoes, dove through the nearest door and closed it behind him.

Admittedly, Rory’s options were few, but it was a bad choice—it was the closet. Still, it did contain a possible weapon.  The boywhore looked at the folded suitcase stand propped against the back wall, his mind racing…

Rocko’s mind, however, had raced much more swiftly and smoothly and had come to a bold conclusion.  To do this right, he was gonna have to leave the room briefly.  He’d take his key, of course, but the slut was too scared to try anything.  Even though his cock was now oozing in anticipation of what he was going to do, he regretfully penned it back up in its denim confine.

Rocko was an experienced homicidal sexual predator, but he could be taken by surprise on occasion—and this was one of those occasions.  No sooner had he left than Rory came out of the closet, shaky and pale.  He was brandishing the collapsed stand, holding two legs in each hand.  The stand was old and scratched up, but it was solid wood, and it was heavy.  This time, Rorry would be ready.

He made only one fatal mistake.  He lost the element of surprise by re-locking the door.

It didn’t take Rocko long to find what he was looking for in the trunk of his car.  He sauntered back to the room, well aware of the dark, spreading stain of precum in his groin.  But the doorknob refused to yield to his touch.

The cunt was awake.  Good.  It was time to saddle up.  He was ready to dump a load into this stupid piece of meat and end its life in unspeakable agony.  It deserved no less.

A slow, cold grin spread across Rocko’s hard face as he turned the key in the lock.

The chain lock had been set.  The muscled sadist placed the sole of his boot on the door and shoved, his thick thigh muscle flexing visibly in his tight jeans—but he didn’t have to kick.  The chain parted as if it had been made of pipe cleaners, the door swung wide, and Rocko entered, carrying what he’d retrieved from the car.

It was a sixteen-inch double-bladed steel Bowie knife.  And it was knocked out of his hand the moment his booted foot stepped onto the carpet.  Rory, armed with suitcase stand, had been hiding behind the door.

Rocko was rarely taken by surprise these days; perhaps he’d grown over-confident.  But he’d been caught off guard by the little cunt and nearly knocked to the ground.  He’d gone down on one knee, taking the majority of the impact on an upraised arm.  The knife skittered away, coming to rest under the nightstand, where it was almost completely hidden. 

In a split second, the homicidal alpha launched himself back up in a counterattack, springing upon the hapless adolescent like a ravenous tiger.  With the full weight and force of Rocko’s muscled body slamming into him, Rory was thrown across the room, hitting the far wall hard enough to go through the sheetrock.  Slumped and groaning on the floor, he’d ended up semiconscious before he even knew something had hit him.

He could still make out some of what was happening, though.  Rocko walked over to him, rubbing his arm where bruises were already forming.  The look on his face was a somehow gleeful hatred, but when he spoke, his voice was like frozen stone.

“You’re gonna die,” he said flatly, “and it’s gonna hurt worse than anything your little fag ass can think of.”

With that he stepped back, snatching the phone off the nightstand and yanking out its cord.  Wrapping it around his hands he turned back to Rory, a faint smile on his face, but the look in his eyes unchanged.  The boywhore, becoming more conscious, attempted to move, uttering a series of urgent grunts as he struggled to rise.

“No, I ain’t gonna strangle ya,” Rocko said in the same cold, flat voice, “You’d probably actually enjoy that.  No, when I’m done with you, not only ain’t your momma gonna recognize you, she’s gonna puke if she tries.”

With that, he lunged forward and looped the cord around Rory’s left wrist.  Holding it close, he slammed his workboot down onto the kid’s flailing right arm and looped that wrist as well, he began to drag Rory toward the bed.

And at that moment, something changed in the room.  The unique combination of Rocko’s rampant testosterone, exuded by his own sweat and Rory’s fear-driven adrenaline, pumped out by his sweat, had an impact on the atmosphere that went beyond the visceral to be nearly mind-altering.

There was no more Rocko, no more Rory.  There were now the Alpha and the Whore.  And the Whore didn’t want to die. 

It kicked wildly, its sneakers thrashing on the floor.  “Stop!” it plead, “Please!”

The Alpha merely grunted “Shaddup.”  He dragged the Whore up onto the bed by its wrists, the only sign of the effort being the bulging of his massive biceps, gleaming with sweat.  As the slut continued to struggle and kick, the muscled sadist calmly tied its hand to the steel headboard. 

Now the Whore looked Rocko straight in the face, the tears in its eyes belied by the throbbing bulge in its crotch that matched that in the Alpha’s.  “Let me go or I’ll scream,” it said.

“No you won’t,” Rocko replied calmly.  “I can guarantee it.”  He stooped down and, retrieving the knife, he held it up to show the adolescent rentboy.

It was like a spark had been lit in the already charged atmosphere in the room.  The powder trail was now ignited; when it reached the keg, the explosion was going to be catastrophic.

The Whore screamed loudly.  It thrashed frantically, its lithe, smooth torso arcing up off the bed so that its flat belly was caught by the light.  The skin glistened with sweat, an effect that gradually ebbed towards the lower part of the abdomen where a faint down appeared that darkened, thickened, and grew wirier as it trekked beneath the waistline of its shorts.

Well, it wouldn’t need those.  With cold efficiency, Rocko began to cut them off, using the serrated edge of his blade.  The Whore kept screaming and kicking, making the process not so much difficult as irking, especially when the fuckmeat’s screeches were caused by its own movements.

In a sudden burst of animalistic fury, the Alpha stabbed it in the balls…and then instantly regretted it.  Not because of the pain he’d inflicted—never that—but because he’d created the opposite reaction than the one he’d expected.

He’d seen dudes shanked in the nuts in prison a couple of times; in each case, the guy had been left gasping in shock.  That didn’t happen with the Whore.  While one testicle had missed the blow—it had come in at an oblique angle—the other had been squarely punctured.  In fact, it had been nearly, but not quite, slashed in half.  The Whore shrieked so hard its voice almost cracked.

Rocko had wanted to quiet it; now he was sure it could be heard outside.  Still clutching the knife, now smeared with the kid’s blood, he balled up his hand and spoke to the cunt, emphasizing his words with his fist.

“Shut [WHAM] the [WHAM] fuck [WHAM] up!!!”

By the time he finished, the Whore had responded beautifully.  Its head was lolling, its eyes open but rolled back in its head so that only the whites could be seen.  It was drooling out a trickle of blood, and an occasional tooth, from its slack and open mouth.  The mouth was unusually agape—Rocko had broken its jaw in two places.  Satisfied, the alpha slashed its shorts to shreds.

Rocko unbuttoned the waist of his jeans and lowered the zipper, releasing his pulsating member.  The Whore was still out, drooling and making guttural sounds, as the Alpha climbed onto the bed and parted its legs.  It quickly regained some form of consciousness, however, when the muscular ex-convict speared its rectum with his engorged shaft.

It wasn’t as if Rocko hadn’t fucked it before, but this was different.  The atmosphere that had turned the Alpha and Whore modes on in his head, enhanced by Rocko’s inherent rage and sadism, gave an impetus to his brutal thrusting that went beyond rape to physical torture.  And he wasn’t the only one to feel it.

Rory began to surface from blank blackness into a sea of undifferentiated agony.  The first sensation that he could feel was the searing agony of his punctured testicle; he had no idea that his long teen boycock was still erect and pulsating.  While his brain was trying to manage that nightmarish pain, he was also become aware that he was being brutally assraped.

All of it processed in a millisecond and was then overwhelmed by crushed face.  His eyes were swelling shut, his nose was smashed, and his mouth—

He tried to scream, but his broken jaw not only prevented it, it added to the sheer misery of the moment.  As Rory underwent more pain than he had even imagined, all he could do was utter garbled bleats and mewls.  And worse was rapidly approaching.

As the Whore tugged frantically at the plastic-covered cord that bound it to the headboard, the Alpha noticed that even though its dick was still hard, its ass was losing traction on his on vein-wreathed tool.  It was starting to accept its role.  They all did, sooner or later.  It happened every time because they were all whores and deep inside, this was what they needed.  The Whores might bleat and gurgle and struggle like this piece of shit was doing, but the fuckpig that filled whatever hole their souls should have filled, needed it.

No, they might not want it, but they goddam sure needed it.  And it was time this one learned that.

“I’m gonna put you in yer place, ya fuckin’ faggot,” Rocko growled, “And your place is grasping my cock until I kill you.  Get it?  I’m gonna cum when you die.”  With that he picked up the blade, already lying unnoticed on the bed, and held it up to the kid’s left nipple, hard and jutting above the dark areola.

“So, ya see, ya really, really wanna make me cum,” he stated with hate-filled malignancy as he calmly sliced the boy’s nipple off.  Its lithe torso writhed against his wiry chest fur, but there was little change in the way it was gripping his dick.  He transferred his attention to the right nipple.

“’Cause that way, you die sooner, so the pain stops sooner.  Ya feel me, bitch?”  It only took a brief flick of the wrist, and that nipple was gone as well.

Better.  At least that got a response out of it.  But it was nowhere near enough for what was needed—thus showing that the Whore had answered the Alpha’s question.  It didn’t feel him.

Well, it was gonna.  Rocko punctuated his statement by, suddenly and without warning, plunged his knife into the slut’s smooth, flat belly.  The blade slashed through the skin and muscle effortlessly, the honed, razor-sharp edge puncturing the intestine and emerging out the back, pinning the worthless homo to the bed.

There.  That was what it needed to really respond.  “Betcha love that shit, dontcha, cunt?” he sneered, lust now obvious in his sadistic joy.  “Ya got two hard shafts rearrangin’ yer guts at the same time, yeah?  You like that?  Don’t cum yet, motherfucker.  Enjoy the pain—there’s more comin’, I promise!”

Rory gasped as he was punctured.  He clutched at the Alpha’s upper arms in a reflexive reaction, trembling at the edge of shock as his fingers tightened around his killer’s bulging biceps.  But the homicidal sadist kept his promise; more pain was coming forthwith.

The Alpha, now overcome with a hate-filled bloodlust, yanked the knife free.  With an uncanny aimed honed by numerous prison yard shankings, he rammed it into the Whore’s upper abdomen.  Turing his wrist ever so slightly, he managed to impale its gallbladder, liver, and right kidney with a single thrust.  Each of the injuries would be fatal on its own—eventually.  In the meantime, its cock agonizingly hard from electrochemical shock, the Whore writhed on the blade like a bug on a pin.

Which, as far as the Alpha cared, was what it was.  Whores were closer to insects than humans and needed to be exterminated as vindictively as possible.  They deserved what their tiny pig souls craved: sexual abuse, nightmarish agony, and death.  Preferably all at once.  He tugged the blade out and stuck it in the other side, this time getting the spleen and the left kidney.

Rory was only vaguely aware of the profoundly traumatic injuries his lithe adolescent body was enduring; he’d retreated into a catatonic state in an instinctive reaction to avoid shattering his psyche.  He was awake, but he wasn’t processing sensory inputs.  He couldn’t see Rocko’s muscular torso as he thrusted and heaved, his chest fur matted with sweat, his face twisted with cruel lust as he spat on the helpless teen.  He couldn’t hear Rocko snarling about him being a useless slut. 

What he could feel, somehow, was the brutal and relentless rape of his already well-used fuckhole—and his own agonizing erection as his teen cock was being ground like grist in a mill between his own flat, firm, sweat-slick belly and Rocko’s hairy, muscular abs.

It was time.  Deep down inside, both the Alpha and the Whore could feel it.  Rocko felt it in his balls, seething near the exploding point.  Rory felt it unconsciously, in the little corner of his faggot pig psyche.  The agonizing, degrading death he’d needed and craved was here.  It was time.

Rocko jerked the knife out of the fuckmeat, reversed the angle, and slammed it in under the cunt’s jaw.  Clutching the kid’s head in one hand for leverage, he muscled the blade up through the tongue and soft palate.  The hard palate offered some resistance to the razor-sharp tip, but not much.  Even less was offered by the bone and the base of the skull after the professional shiv traversed the nasal passages.  Ripping upwards, he nicked the temporal lobe and slashed through the frontal lobe.

The slut immediately lost the ability of voluntary motion, contracting inwards so that it clutched the Alpha’s shoulder while tightening its legs around his waist.  It’s Puma hightops dug into his back.  But it was still alive, and while not exactly conscious, it was still sensate to a degree.  But not for long.

It was an incredibly ugly, vicious, and excruciating way to die.  Rocko stirred the blade, scrambling the teenaged whore’s brain like eggs for breakfast.  That was the final catalyst.  The meat had brain damage beyond any hope of survival.

It convulsed with all the vigor of a hormone-riddled adolescent fag, beating the Alpha despite its profound sexual release.  Rocko felt the hot, intense gush of its boyseed spewing over their chafing abdomens, and it was what tripped his switch.  Immediately, he started to mark the dead whore as his own, flooding its guts with his searing hot load.

It’s at least possible that the Whore felt the burn in its intestines before it died.

Rocko raised himself up on one arm, yanked the blade out of the corpse’s skull, and continued to stab it as he gushed semen in periodic spasms.  Somewhere along the line, the meat convulsed so intensely that one of its Puma kicks came off and was flung halfway across the room.

After a while, it was done.  Rocko pulled his dick out of the dead teen and sat up to assess the situation. 

He was sweaty and soaked with fag cum, and a little bit of blood.  His knife was still buried up to the hilt in the rentboy’s chest, probably piercing its quivering heart.  The room was a disaster, clearly showing the violence of the assault—not that he cared about that.  It was time to move on.

Rocko pulled the knife out of the dead meat, causing it to spasm and tremble, forcing spooge out of its still semi-erect penis.  It didn’t matter.  He was done here.  He headed into the bathroom and took a leisurely shower, cleaning his knife along with himself.

When he was thoroughly cleansed of the taint of faggot, Rocko exited the bathroom and began to pack up.  He didn’t have much to pack; he always travelled light.  After all there was no telling when he might need to bug out suddenly—like now.

He tossed everything into the trunk of his car, including the slut’s weed in one of his boots.  After all, it might help lure some new bitch in.  After emptying everything he wanted (or might possibly identify him), he paused in the doorway and turned back to take stock one last time.

It was clear, profoundly clear, that an incredibly savage gay rape and murder had occurred.  The adolescent whore lay sprawled on the bed, oozing blood from a score of stab wounds.  It was still bound to the headboard and there was blood oozing from its wrists where it had struggled against the plastic-wrapped phone cord.  Cum was pooled on its chest and was leasing out is ass.  Its eyes were rolled back in its head and blood leaked from its nose and ears.

That was what the body looked like as Rocko sped off into the evening and it still looked like that the next morning when the police arrived.  The only difference was that it had gotten stiff, and the fluids had congealed.  The spasms had stopped too, but the cops didn’t know that and didn’t care that the teenager’s last signs of life had abated in the early evening hours when it was alone in a dark locked room.

“Well,” said the responding officer to the homicide detective, “The maid found this and gave us a call.  You’ve seen what we got from the manager about the kid paying for the room with cash by the week.”

“Yeah,” the detective replied, “But he also says that there was an older man living with him who probably the one paying for it.”

“Ok, but there’s no evidence for that,” the officer answered.

The detective rolled his eyes and wondered if the crime scene unit had been called.  Well, if not, he certainly wasn’t going to waste their time on what was clearly a faggot domestic dispute.  And if the victim was a whore, as he suspected, this whole file would end up in the trash.

“Call the meatwagon,” he said laconically, “Just another John Doe.  No one’s gonna care.”

The outside temperature was nearing 100 degrees Fahrenheit and every one of the motel’s under-window AC units were droning away, continually and deafeningly.  It was a bleak, run-down place just off the interstate—so close, in fact that the AC noise was often overcome by the sound of the traffic from the highway that was only located fifty yards from the room’s front door.

Not that Rocko minded.  He was still free.  And he’d managed to find another teen fag to bang.

This one said his name was Rory, but Rocko had gotten a glimpse of an old ID card in his wallet, and Rory was his middle name.  His first name was Andreas, of all things, and despite his declarations of being over twenty-one, he was still four months shy of being twenty.  But then again, the only thing the little slut had ever said that Rocko had ever actually believed was that he’d been on the street for nearly four years, after his mother had caught him getting fucked by his stepdad—and Rocko was highly suspicious of that last part.

At any rate, this particular fucktoy was nearing the end of its useful life.  Rocko had pretty much reamed it out.  Plus, he had a feeling that it was fucking around on him, and that was the real issue.  First, he didn’t know where it was going, and that last thing he needed was it bringing some disease or nigger methhead back to the room.

Second, and much, much more important, Rocko didn’t know who the little fucker was talking to or what about.  And it had let slip a couple of days ago that it knew that Rocko was an escaped convicted murderer.  The situation couldn’t continue.  It was payday and Rocko had stopped off at a liquor store and gotten a bottle of Maker’s Mark.

He’d pulled his old Ford into the motel parking lot, rolled down the driver and passenger windows, and shut the engine off.  Then he sat there, sweating in the heat, drinking swigs from the bottle as he pondered the problem.  He’d only gotten a third of the way through the bottle when he decided that he needed to have it out with the bitch and find out exactly what it had been doing—even if he needed to beat the information out of the little faggot.

He rolled up the windows on got out of the car, the thick soles of his Chippewa 8” black leather workboots grinding on the crumbling chunks of the decaying tarmac surface.  Their laces were left loose so he’d been able to tuck in the cuffs of his old Levi jeans, now so worn and faded that they were a pale sky blue and almost threadbare.  His cotton t-shirt had been relatively clean and white when he’d left that morning to work but was now so soaked with sweat that it clung to his broad chest and washboard abs, leaving nothing in the way of his muscles, body fur, and prison tats to the imagination.  The mystery wasn’t why the adolescent whore had been drawn to him, it was why it had felt the urge to stray.  Well, that was one thing Rocko planned to resolve.  Now.

But it wasn’t there when Rocko got home. 

He peeled off his sodden shirt and used it to sop up whatever extra sweat it could before tossing to the floor.  He placed the whiskey on the table in front of the window—drapes closed for other reasons beyond keeping out the glaring sunlight, obviously—and sat in one of the two shabby and slightly mismatched chairs that accompanied it.  He continued to dwell on the problem of Rory.  And drink.

And drink.

There wasn’t any good reason for it to be gone, he felt.  They didn’t need anything—the homo liked cheap vodka mixed with just about anything.  There was half a large bottle of the stuff left, along with a twelve-pack of soda.  Lotsa ramen that it liked and cans of the thick beef stew that Rocko preferred.  The microwave sitting on top of the mini-fridge worked well.  The TV got basic cable.  And there was plenty of weed hidden away in one of Rocko’s boots in the closet.  What else could an adolescent cocksucker want?

Well, a cock, of course.  But Rocko considered himself worth waiting for.  Any pansy that couldn’t do that didn’t deserve him.

Or to live.

The thought of wasting the worthless little bitch at once, today, actually came to mind idly.  It hadn’t occurred to Rocko earlier; he’d only been musing over the need to dispose of it at some point.  Now that it had occurred to him, it was clinging tightly.  And the alcohol only helped it along.  And the fact that by this late in the day, the decrepit, rattling AC unit under the window could no longer keep up with the outside temperature.

As the temperature inside the sleazy, smoke-stained unit rose, it became obvious; the motherfucker was whoring around on him.  Probably had a buncha disgusting diseases.  Rocko took another swig.  Yeah, whoring around on him—and not cutting him in on the take.  Fucking cunt.

Just then, the door opened unexpectedly, and the fucking cunt walked in, grinning with that freshly-fucked look.  It was wearing a pink tank top that displayed its smooth skin, slick with the sweat that covered its firm, lightly-muscled chest and arms.  Below its white shorts that were just a bit too short, its perfectly formed thighs, covered with a faint, golden haze of light hair, descended down into succulent calves.  On its feet, it was sporting a pair of gray-and-white Puma Rebound Layup hightop kicks.

The rage-prone convict had all the proof he needed.  The motherfucker was dressed to get fucked.

Rocko waited until it had closed and locked the door behind it before he rose and spoke—or, rather, roared.  “Where the fuck have you been, ya useless cumdump?!?”

Startled by the tone of Rocko’s voice, Rory turned towards him, his eyes still adjusting to the change in lighting from coming indoors.  His heart began to race, making him gasp once, reflexively.  Had Rocko found out about his side hustle?

Rocko had.  And his sweaty, muscled body was primed for revenge.

“You been fuckin’ around on me, aintcha?” the convicted killer hissed.

Rory’s heart began to beat so quickly he had to gasp for air, depriving him of the ability to answer—not that Rocko would have been willing to listen to anything he had to say.  By the time he was able to respond, it was too late.

“I-I was only giving this-this old dude BJs,” he stammered, “He-he’s a law-lawyer…oh fuck, lawyer, an-and he can help…”

“Goddammit, I knew it!” Rocko shouted in triumphant rage, “You been tellin’ others about me!”

Rory realized his mistake and went pale in terror.  As if illuminated by a sudden bolt of lightning, he was instantly aware that his young faggot ass wasn’t going to be able to talk its way out of this.

Not that it would stop him from trying; of course; he was utterly oblivious as to how much worse it would make things for him.  “Aw, ma-man, I, I only been try-tryin’ ta help ya!!”, he blurted out, mustering as much faux rage as he could.  It was almost a primeval defense mechanism, like a smaller creature making itself look larger when faced with a predator.

But this predator was not only smarter than that, it was burning with a psychotic and homicidal bloodlust.  As Rocko twisted his hard, cruel face into a mask of vicious rage, Rory shrank back against the door he’d just locked behind him.  He’d forgotten that, in the fear of the moment, but he’d remember it a later, when he only had a brief fraction of a second to savor the fact that he’d locked himself in with a sadistic sex killer.

But that was still to come.

Rory had known about Rocko’s nasty temper and tendency towards physical violence since day one, of course; it was part of what had made him so attractive.  Rory liked to be used like the slut he was.  The idea that he hadn’t completely plumbed the depths of what Rocko thought was the appropriate use of a slut was slowly dawning on him now as the buff alpha brusquely yanked his zipper down in a single motion and extracted his enormous, throbbing cock.  It came out, long, hard, looking exactly like the dangerous weapon it was—not so much a sword for stabbing, but a club for bludgeoning. 

And it was more swollen than Rory had ever seen before.  His heart ratcheted up several notches.  He’d lived the last year or so staying with older men, pretending to work by whoring himself out, not just for his room and board, but for drugs and money too.  As a result, the feral instincts he’d developed as a cheap street rat had subsided, even if they hadn’t completely died out.  They should have gone off the moment he first entered the motel room, but they were certainly screaming now.

It was in almost in a heightened state of awareness that the terrified adolescent considered his options.  While he didn’t truly believe—it might be more accurate to say, couldn’t truly conceive—that this was literally a matter of life and death, he knew that the situation was profoundly serious.  He glanced around for avenues of escape.

This, of course, was totally expected.  The stupid young whores inevitably had the instincts of animals—but then again, as far as Rocko was concerned, they were only human in their outward form.  They were living sex toys, to be disposed of when used up.  Unfortunately, they had been endowed with the gift of speech, and it was usually necessary to take measures to ensure that they talked as little as possible.

And in this case, those measures were going to be extreme.  It had talked to a lawyer.  A fucking lawyer!

Slowly, a plan was evolving in Rocko’s mind, and he wanted a little time to work it out.  So, he noted the cunt’s eyes shifting about with a cold contempt.  Let it look.  Let it try.  Let it hope…

Thus, when Rory’s fear reached the point that he could no longer bear the idea of not attempting to escape, the only resistance he met from Rocko was an instinct reaction from the alpha.  The escaped murderer almost absentmindedly reached out and grabbed at the back of Rory’s shirt, grasping a handful of pink fabric. 

Rory lunged powerfully forward.  Instantly, there was a ripping sound and Rocko was left with the shredded remains of the teen’s shirt while the latter, now clad only in shorts, socks, and shoes, dove through the nearest door and closed it behind him.

Admittedly, Rory’s options were few, but it was a bad choice—it was the closet. Still, it did contain a possible weapon.  The boywhore looked at the folded suitcase stand propped against the back wall, his mind racing…

Rocko’s mind, however, had raced much more swiftly and smoothly and had come to a bold conclusion.  To do this right, he was gonna have to leave the room briefly.  He’d take his key, of course, but the slut was too scared to try anything.  Even though his cock was now oozing in anticipation of what he was going to do, he regretfully penned it back up in its denim confine.

Rocko was an experienced homicidal sexual predator, but he could be taken by surprise on occasion—and this was one of those occasions.  No sooner had he left than Rory came out of the closet, shaky and pale.  He was brandishing the collapsed stand, holding two legs in each hand.  The stand was old and scratched up, but it was solid wood, and it was heavy.  This time, Rorry would be ready.

He made only one fatal mistake.  He lost the element of surprise by re-locking the door.

It didn’t take Rocko long to find what he was looking for in the trunk of his car.  He sauntered back to the room, well aware of the dark, spreading stain of precum in his groin.  But the doorknob refused to yield to his touch.

The cunt was awake.  Good.  It was time to saddle up.  He was ready to dump a load into this stupid piece of meat and end its life in unspeakable agony.  It deserved no less.

A slow, cold grin spread across Rocko’s hard face as he turned the key in the lock.

The chain lock had been set.  The muscled sadist placed the sole of his boot on the door and shoved, his thick thigh muscle flexing visibly in his tight jeans—but he didn’t have to kick.  The chain parted as if it had been made of pipe cleaners, the door swung wide, and Rocko entered, carrying what he’d retrieved from the car.

It was a sixteen-inch double-bladed steel Bowie knife.  And it was knocked out of his hand the moment his booted foot stepped onto the carpet.  Rory, armed with suitcase stand, had been hiding behind the door.

Rocko was rarely taken by surprise these days; perhaps he’d grown over-confident.  But he’d been caught off guard by the little cunt and nearly knocked to the ground.  He’d gone down on one knee, taking the majority of the impact on an upraised arm.  The knife skittered away, coming to rest under the nightstand, where it was almost completely hidden. 

In a split second, the homicidal alpha launched himself back up in a counterattack, springing upon the hapless adolescent like a ravenous tiger.  With the full weight and force of Rocko’s muscled body slamming into him, Rory was thrown across the room, hitting the far wall hard enough to go through the sheetrock.  Slumped and groaning on the floor, he’d ended up semiconscious before he even knew something had hit him.

He could still make out some of what was happening, though.  Rocko walked over to him, rubbing his arm where bruises were already forming.  The look on his face was a somehow gleeful hatred, but when he spoke, his voice was like frozen stone.

“You’re gonna die,” he said flatly, “and it’s gonna hurt worse than anything your little fag ass can think of.”

With that he stepped back, snatching the phone off the nightstand and yanking out its cord.  Wrapping it around his hands he turned back to Rory, a faint smile on his face, but the look in his eyes unchanged.  The boywhore, becoming more conscious, attempted to move, uttering a series of urgent grunts as he struggled to rise.

“No, I ain’t gonna strangle ya,” Rocko said in the same cold, flat voice, “You’d probably actually enjoy that.  No, when I’m done with you, not only ain’t your momma gonna recognize you, she’s gonna puke if she tries.”

With that, he lunged forward and looped the cord around Rory’s left wrist.  Holding it close, he slammed his workboot down onto the kid’s flailing right arm and looped that wrist as well, he began to drag Rory toward the bed.

And at that moment, something changed in the room.  The unique combination of Rocko’s rampant testosterone, exuded by his own sweat and Rory’s fear-driven adrenaline, pumped out by his sweat, had an impact on the atmosphere that went beyond the visceral to be nearly mind-altering.

There was no more Rocko, no more Rory.  There were now the Alpha and the Whore.  And the Whore didn’t want to die. 

It kicked wildly, its sneakers thrashing on the floor.  “Stop!” it plead, “Please!”

The Alpha merely grunted “Shaddup.”  He dragged the Whore up onto the bed by its wrists, the only sign of the effort being the bulging of his massive biceps, gleaming with sweat.  As the slut continued to struggle and kick, the muscled sadist calmly tied its hand to the steel headboard. 

Now the Whore looked Rocko straight in the face, the tears in its eyes belied by the throbbing bulge in its crotch that matched that in the Alpha’s.  “Let me go or I’ll scream,” it said.

“No you won’t,” Rocko replied calmly.  “I can guarantee it.”  He stooped down and, retrieving the knife, he held it up to show the adolescent rentboy.

It was like a spark had been lit in the already charged atmosphere in the room.  The powder trail was now ignited; when it reached the keg, the explosion was going to be catastrophic.

The Whore screamed loudly.  It thrashed frantically, its lithe, smooth torso arcing up off the bed so that its flat belly was caught by the light.  The skin glistened with sweat, an effect that gradually ebbed towards the lower part of the abdomen where a faint down appeared that darkened, thickened, and grew wirier as it trekked beneath the waistline of its shorts.

Well, it wouldn’t need those.  With cold efficiency, Rocko began to cut them off, using the serrated edge of his blade.  The Whore kept screaming and kicking, making the process not so much difficult as irking, especially when the fuckmeat’s screeches were caused by its own movements.

In a sudden burst of animalistic fury, the Alpha stabbed it in the balls…and then instantly regretted it.  Not because of the pain he’d inflicted—never that—but because he’d created the opposite reaction than the one he’d expected.

He’d seen dudes shanked in the nuts in prison a couple of times; in each case, the guy had been left gasping in shock.  That didn’t happen with the Whore.  While one testicle had missed the blow—it had come in at an oblique angle—the other had been squarely punctured.  In fact, it had been nearly, but not quite, slashed in half.  The Whore shrieked so hard its voice almost cracked.

Rocko had wanted to quiet it; now he was sure it could be heard outside.  Still clutching the knife, now smeared with the kid’s blood, he balled up his hand and spoke to the cunt, emphasizing his words with his fist.

“Shut [WHAM] the [WHAM] fuck [WHAM] up!!!”

By the time he finished, the Whore had responded beautifully.  Its head was lolling, its eyes open but rolled back in its head so that only the whites could be seen.  It was drooling out a trickle of blood, and an occasional tooth, from its slack and open mouth.  The mouth was unusually agape—Rocko had broken its jaw in two places.  Satisfied, the alpha slashed its shorts to shreds.

Rocko unbuttoned the waist of his jeans and lowered the zipper, releasing his pulsating member.  The Whore was still out, drooling and making guttural sounds, as the Alpha climbed onto the bed and parted its legs.  It quickly regained some form of consciousness, however, when the muscular ex-convict speared its rectum with his engorged shaft.

It wasn’t as if Rocko hadn’t fucked it before, but this was different.  The atmosphere that had turned the Alpha and Whore modes on in his head, enhanced by Rocko’s inherent rage and sadism, gave an impetus to his brutal thrusting that went beyond rape to physical torture.  And he wasn’t the only one to feel it.

Rory began to surface from blank blackness into a sea of undifferentiated agony.  The first sensation that he could feel was the searing agony of his punctured testicle; he had no idea that his long teen boycock was still erect and pulsating.  While his brain was trying to manage that nightmarish pain, he was also become aware that he was being brutally assraped.

All of it processed in a millisecond and was then overwhelmed by crushed face.  His eyes were swelling shut, his nose was smashed, and his mouth—

He tried to scream, but his broken jaw not only prevented it, it added to the sheer misery of the moment.  As Rory underwent more pain than he had even imagined, all he could do was utter garbled bleats and mewls.  And worse was rapidly approaching.

As the Whore tugged frantically at the plastic-covered cord that bound it to the headboard, the Alpha noticed that even though its dick was still hard, its ass was losing traction on his on vein-wreathed tool.  It was starting to accept its role.  They all did, sooner or later.  It happened every time because they were all whores and deep inside, this was what they needed.  The Whores might bleat and gurgle and struggle like this piece of shit was doing, but the fuckpig that filled whatever hole their souls should have filled, needed it.

No, they might not want it, but they goddam sure needed it.  And it was time this one learned that.

“I’m gonna put you in yer place, ya fuckin’ faggot,” Rocko growled, “And your place is grasping my cock until I kill you.  Get it?  I’m gonna cum when you die.”  With that he picked up the blade, already lying unnoticed on the bed, and held it up to the kid’s left nipple, hard and jutting above the dark areola.

“So, ya see, ya really, really wanna make me cum,” he stated with hate-filled malignancy as he calmly sliced the boy’s nipple off.  Its lithe torso writhed against his wiry chest fur, but there was little change in the way it was gripping his dick.  He transferred his attention to the right nipple.

“’Cause that way, you die sooner, so the pain stops sooner.  Ya feel me, bitch?”  It only took a brief flick of the wrist, and that nipple was gone as well.

Better.  At least that got a response out of it.  But it was nowhere near enough for what was needed—thus showing that the Whore had answered the Alpha’s question.  It didn’t feel him.

Well, it was gonna.  Rocko punctuated his statement by, suddenly and without warning, plunged his knife into the slut’s smooth, flat belly.  The blade slashed through the skin and muscle effortlessly, the honed, razor-sharp edge puncturing the intestine and emerging out the back, pinning the worthless homo to the bed.

There.  That was what it needed to really respond.  “Betcha love that shit, dontcha, cunt?” he sneered, lust now obvious in his sadistic joy.  “Ya got two hard shafts rearrangin’ yer guts at the same time, yeah?  You like that?  Don’t cum yet, motherfucker.  Enjoy the pain—there’s more comin’, I promise!”

Rory gasped as he was punctured.  He clutched at the Alpha’s upper arms in a reflexive reaction, trembling at the edge of shock as his fingers tightened around his killer’s bulging biceps.  But the homicidal sadist kept his promise; more pain was coming forthwith.

The Alpha, now overcome with a hate-filled bloodlust, yanked the knife free.  With an uncanny aimed honed by numerous prison yard shankings, he rammed it into the Whore’s upper abdomen.  Turing his wrist ever so slightly, he managed to impale its gallbladder, liver, and right kidney with a single thrust.  Each of the injuries would be fatal on its own—eventually.  In the meantime, its cock agonizingly hard from electrochemical shock, the Whore writhed on the blade like a bug on a pin.

Which, as far as the Alpha cared, was what it was.  Whores were closer to insects than humans and needed to be exterminated as vindictively as possible.  They deserved what their tiny pig souls craved: sexual abuse, nightmarish agony, and death.  Preferably all at once.  He tugged the blade out and stuck it in the other side, this time getting the spleen and the left kidney.

Rory was only vaguely aware of the profoundly traumatic injuries his lithe adolescent body was enduring; he’d retreated into a catatonic state in an instinctive reaction to avoid shattering his psyche.  He was awake, but he wasn’t processing sensory inputs.  He couldn’t see Rocko’s muscular torso as he thrusted and heaved, his chest fur matted with sweat, his face twisted with cruel lust as he spat on the helpless teen.  He couldn’t hear Rocko snarling about him being a useless slut. 

What he could feel, somehow, was the brutal and relentless rape of his already well-used fuckhole—and his own agonizing erection as his teen cock was being ground like grist in a mill between his own flat, firm, sweat-slick belly and Rocko’s hairy, muscular abs.

It was time.  Deep down inside, both the Alpha and the Whore could feel it.  Rocko felt it in his balls, seething near the exploding point.  Rory felt it unconsciously, in the little corner of his faggot pig psyche.  The agonizing, degrading death he’d needed and craved was here.  It was time.

Rocko jerked the knife out of the fuckmeat, reversed the angle, and slammed it in under the cunt’s jaw.  Clutching the kid’s head in one hand for leverage, he muscled the blade up through the tongue and soft palate.  The hard palate offered some resistance to the razor-sharp tip, but not much.  Even less was offered by the bone and the base of the skull after the professional shiv traversed the nasal passages.  Ripping upwards, he nicked the temporal lobe and slashed through the frontal lobe.

The slut immediately lost the ability of voluntary motion, contracting inwards so that it clutched the Alpha’s shoulder while tightening its legs around his waist.  It’s Puma hightops dug into his back.  But it was still alive, and while not exactly conscious, it was still sensate to a degree.  But not for long.

It was an incredibly ugly, vicious, and excruciating way to die.  Rocko stirred the blade, scrambling the teenaged whore’s brain like eggs for breakfast.  That was the final catalyst.  The meat had brain damage beyond any hope of survival.

It convulsed with all the vigor of a hormone-riddled adolescent fag, beating the Alpha despite its profound sexual release.  Rocko felt the hot, intense gush of its boyseed spewing over their chafing abdomens, and it was what tripped his switch.  Immediately, he started to mark the dead whore as his own, flooding its guts with his searing hot load.

It’s at least possible that the Whore felt the burn in its intestines before it died.

Rocko raised himself up on one arm, yanked the blade out of the corpse’s skull, and continued to stab it as he gushed semen in periodic spasms.  Somewhere along the line, the meat convulsed so intensely that one of its Puma kicks came off and was flung halfway across the room.

After a while, it was done.  Rocko pulled his dick out of the dead teen and sat up to assess the situation. 

He was sweaty and soaked with fag cum, and a little bit of blood.  His knife was still buried up to the hilt in the rentboy’s chest, probably piercing its quivering heart.  The room was a disaster, clearly showing the violence of the assault—not that he cared about that.  It was time to move on.

Rocko pulled the knife out of the dead meat, causing it to spasm and tremble, forcing spooge out of its still semi-erect penis.  It didn’t matter.  He was done here.  He headed into the bathroom and took a leisurely shower, cleaning his knife along with himself.

When he was thoroughly cleansed of the taint of faggot, Rocko exited the bathroom and began to pack up.  He didn’t have much to pack; he always travelled light.  After all there was no telling when he might need to bug out suddenly—like now.

He tossed everything into the trunk of his car, including the slut’s weed in one of his boots.  After all, it might help lure some new bitch in.  After emptying everything he wanted (or might possibly identify him), he paused in the doorway and turned back to take stock one last time.

It was clear, profoundly clear, that an incredibly savage gay rape and murder had occurred.  The adolescent whore lay sprawled on the bed, oozing blood from a score of stab wounds.  It was still bound to the headboard and there was blood oozing from its wrists where it had struggled against the plastic-wrapped phone cord.  Cum was pooled on its chest and was leasing out is ass.  Its eyes were rolled back in its head and blood leaked from its nose and ears.

That was what the body looked like as Rocko sped off into the evening and it still looked like that the next morning when the police arrived.  The only difference was that it had gotten stiff, and the fluids had congealed.  The spasms had stopped too, but the cops didn’t know that and didn’t care that the teenager’s last signs of life had abated in the early evening hours when it was alone in a dark locked room.

“Well,” said the responding officer to the homicide detective, “The maid found this and gave us a call.  You’ve seen what we got from the manager about the kid paying for the room with cash by the week.”

“Yeah,” the detective replied, “But he also says that there was an older man living with him who probably the one paying for it.”

“Ok, but there’s no evidence for that,” the officer answered.

The detective rolled his eyes and wondered if the crime scene unit had been called.  Well, if not, he certainly wasn’t going to waste their time on what was clearly a faggot domestic dispute.  And if the victim was a whore, as he suspected, this whole file would end up in the trash.

“Call the meatwagon,” he said laconically, “Just another John Doe.  No one’s gonna care.”

And he was right.  Rory was finally identified—and Rocko had been right also.  His mother vomited in the process.  But after that, there was no progress in the case.  It turned out that even she didn’t care about her homosexual son.  He was incinerated in a carboard box and his ashes were used to fertilize her garden plantsAnd he was right.  Rory was finally identified—and Rocko had been right also.  His mother vomited in the process.  But after that, there was no progress in the case.  It turned out that even she didn’t care about her homosexual son.  He was incinerated in a carboard box and his ashes were used to fertilize her garden plants.

It was early on a Friday evening and the slanted sun was throwing lurid shades of orange and red across the desert landscape.  Fall had already started but the heat was still close to ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit.  Buck was tired—but not too tired to satisfy his violently sadistic needs.

He was a ranch hand on the El Dorado cattle ranch located in the western part of the state.  He was trustworthy and had amazing physical strength and hardiness, so he was considered a valuable employee.  In addition to his income, he was living in a three-bedroom trailer located near the residential entrance to the ranch; most of the other hands lived in bunkhouses closer to the main house.

It was hours to the nearest city of any size; the closest town was Stanton, about 15 miles away along the ranch-to-market road that led west out of the town, past the ranch, and then north for about 35 miles to the interstate.  The road was mostly used by ranchers with an occasion semi going by.  On Friday and Saturday nights, Buck would go into town, looking for a little fun.

Tonight, Buck was hot and sweaty.  He pulled his skin-tight white wifebeater off and tossed it onto the passenger side seat of his Black Chevy Silverado 2500.  Rolling the windows down, he let the hot dry air blow across his huge chest, stirring his curly black body fur, causing his large dark nipples to stiffen and his long, wavy black hair to fan out across the back of his neck.  His tight jeans, worn and faded, were tucked into his work boots—a pair of brown Ariat Patriot square-toes boots with the shanks covered in a digital camo pattern with and American flag overlay stitched in the same tones as the camo.

The sun was halfway over the horizon, its reds and oranges softening to violets and roses, when Buck got to the arroyo bridge.  Much to his surprise, there was a teenage boy flagging him down.  Curious, Buck pulled over.

The kid couldn’t have been twenty; his youth was obvious.  He wasn’t dressed like a local.  He was in black, from his form-fitting sleeveless tee to his eye-wateringly tight skinny jeans and his Converse black leather All Terrain sneakers.  His light, sandy blond hair was short and carefully tousled, no doubt held in place by some kind of product.

In short, he looked like a faggot.

There was one bar in town that would accept that kind of thing, but only if it wasn’t obvious.  Buck didn’t hang out there, of course; he had a reputation to keep—most of his prey was from the local honky-tonks and Norte bars, full of temporary hires and migrants whom no one would miss. What he did know about that one bar was that this kid wouldn’t have an easy time there.  He was just too much of a flaming homo.

So what the fuck was he doing out here in the middle of nowhere?

Buck approached him, his thick rubber soles silencing his heavy tread on the pavement.  “Hey, dude, you ok?” he asked.

The boy was almost in tears.  He was also very, very drunk, judging by the alcohol odor wafting off him.  Already Buck’s predatory mind was shifting into high gear.

“My car,” the kid wailed, “It’s down there!”  He pointed over the edge of the bridge.

“Hang on,” Buck said, “Let me see how bad it is.”

It was pretty bad.  The drunken punk had managed not only veer off the road but had managed to roll the car—a tiny Mitsubishi—into the arroyo and partially under the bridge itself.  It was almost impossible to see from the road surface.

On examining the car more closely, Buck satisfied himself that it was totaled.  The passenger compartment was intact but the pillars and roof were bent and damaged, to say nothing of the frame and front axle.  And it reeked of alcohol as well.  Kneeling down in the dry creek bed, the hardbodied stud peered through the broken window.  Sure enough, he could see a plastic vodka bottle, now empty.

That explained a lot, he thought to himself as he climbed back up the slope to the road.  He thought about something else as well, and by the time he got back up to the boy, he’d formulated a plan.

“Yeah, yer car’s pretty fucked,” he drawled, “I sure can’t fix it; yer gonna need a tow.”

The kid became even more upset.  “I can’t get a signal!” he moaned, holding up his cell phone.

“This far out of town, there ain’t much signal.  I can give you a lift back to my place to use the phone there, if ya want.”

The homo wanted, of course; it was easy enough to see that.  Buck wanted, too.

Specifically, he wanted to beat, rape, and murder the little fucker.

“I’m Robbie,” the boy said, extending his hand.  Buck smiled warmly and shook hands with his prey.

Once they were in the cab together, Robby began letting his eye rove noticeably over Buck’s body.  “You’re a lot nicer than the dudes in town.  I was passing through and saw a bar that looked like fun, but it was like one of those old westerns, y’know?  Where a stranger walks into the bar and everyone gets quiet and stares at him? It creeped me the fuck out. I went somewhere else to get a drink.”

Yes, at the liquor story.  Buck already knew that.  He also knew that the kid had walked into the semi-gay bar in town—in any of the others, the reaction would have consisted of much more that silence and stares.

“Yeah,” he replied with a wry smile, “We don’t get a lot of strangers in these parts.”

“But you’re nice.  I like you.”  The cunt was obviously trashed, but—amazingly enough—he really wasn’t slurring too badly.  He was probably alcoholic and, Buck thought, had likely already fucked up his liver.

The muscled stud smiled grimly.  Hell, he’d probably be doing the fuckmeat a favor, sparing the agony of liver failure.

The agony he’d inflict would be much more intense, but it would be over faster.

First, though, he needed to find out who it was and where it was going.  No sense in taking any chances if anyone was gonna come looking for it anytime soon.  If so, he’d just get it drunk and rape it before sending it on its way—which was fun, but nowhere near as much fun as wasting it.

“You look pretty shaken up, dude,” he said.

Robbie gulped.  “I really kinda am.  Never wrecked a car so hard the airbags went off, much less rolled one!”

“Where ya headed?”

“Santa Fe—got some friends out there who’re gonna be throwing a party next weekend.  Bro, this thing it gonna be lit!”  There was a brief pause, then the boy spoke again.  “That is, if I get there,” he added mournfully.

“We’ll get a truck in from town for ya,” Buck said soothingly, “But what’ll you do if it takes a while to get fixed?  Get yer folks to help?”  He knew damn good and well that there was no fucking way that little rice-burner was going anywhere but the scrapyard, but the meat was too tanked to have realized that.

The youth twisted his lips, a sour expression on his face.  “Nah, I left home when I was sixteen.  They were giving me too much shit about my, uh, lifestyle.  I got a little place on my own.  I get by—but I still owe on this thing and I only got liability.  So I don’t know what I’m gonna do if I can’t get it back on the road in the next day or two.”  He began to tear up.

And with that, the punk sealed its own fate.  It wouldn’t be leaving Buck’s trailer alive.  The brutal sadist had learned what he needed.  He’d also figure out the little fag was a whore.  Yeah, he “got by”—but selling his lithe teen body out to be used by other men.

“Chill out, man, we’ll get ya taken care of,” Buck said.  The meat smiled gratefully.  “You look like you could use a drink.  I got a bottle of Jack at my place.”

The boy lit up and placed a hand on Buck’s thick, muscled thigh.  “Thanks, bro,” he said, smiling through his tears.  “I, uh, I can’t thank you enough.  I really can’t pay you for all your help, but, um if you have any, er…ideas…”

Buck grinned lecherously.  “Yeah, man, I got an idea.”

He turned right off the paved road onto a gravel track leading into his yard.  The trailer was large and fairly new, with three bedrooms, a laundry room, and a fireplace.  There was a small deck with steps outside the front door and another, larger one in the rear.  A large propane tank was on the side.

He parked just short of the steps and they got out and headed inside.  It was dark—most of the lights were switched off—and simply furnished, but clean.  When he switched on the living room lights, Robbie was impressed.

“Man, I wish I had this much space.  How much you pay for this?”

By now, Buck was already in the kitchen, getting out the whiskey and a tumbler.  “I don’t,” he called, “It’s part of my pay.  You want ice?”

“Aw, no,” the meat scoffed, “Fuck, I’ll drink it straight from the bottle.”

“I’m gonna go call the garage in town,” Buck replied, handing him the bottle.  “Here ya go, knock yerself out.”

That second sentence was the most truthful and sincere thing he’d said to the worthless fucker yet.

Robbie took a huge swig from the bottle, then another.  He could hear Buck’s voice from the landline phone in the kitchen.  “Hey Jimmy?  Yeah, it’s Buck, out at John Barsdale’s ranch.  We had a bit of an accident—this guy ran off the road and damaged his car.”  A pause.  “Ok, that’s good.  Just give me a call when you’re on your way.”  Of course, the adolescent cockpig had no way to tell that Buck had kept one finger on the headset cradle the entire time.

Strolling back into the living room with a wide manly, stride, the killer stud was clearly aware of the teen’s lasciviously hungry eyes roving greedily over every square inch of his hard, muscled alpha body.

“Gonna be a bit before he gets here,” he drawled, “Looks like we got some time on our hands.  I ain’t got no plans.  You want something to eat?”

The cumsucking homo’s response was exactly what he expected it to be.

“Fuck yeah, bro, I want somethin’ to eat,” it slurred drunkenly, ‘But it ain’t no food.”

“Good,” Buck replied with a nasty smirk, “Because I need a bitch to skullfuck.  And more.”  Much more, but he wasn’t gonna let the fuckmeat know that—yet.

The living room had an old-fashioned rustic living room set—wood chairs and sofa with wide flat arms and cushions patterned with western images—which faced a corner fireplace and a large dining area that appeared to be used to storage, but Buck headed past it all, going down the darkened hallway that led to the bedrooms.

“C’mon,” he commanded tersely as he opened the last door on the left, “Back here.”

Robbie tailed along behind him eagerly, the bottle still in his hand.  He stopped abruptly once he entered the door, though—the room looked like something he’d never seen in real life, only in porn movies.

It looked like a small, very basic sex dungeon.  There was a full-sized bed with what looked like a latex sheet tightly wrapped around it.  Hanging from the walls were straps and ropes of differing lengths and materials.  There was a large black leather easy chair that faced the bed.  On one side of it was an end table with a basic lamp and an ash tray with a half-smoked cigar.  On the other side was a simple, sturdy wood chair with no arms; a couple of bungee cords were lying on the seat.  On the far side of the room, opposite the bed, was a small dresser.  Spread across its surface were several pairs of handcuffs and shackles.  Next to them a rope lariat and a leather bullwhip were coiled.

As the twinkmeat gaped at the room, Buck grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him in.  Before Robbie could utter the slightest protest, the sadistic alpha cowboy had locked the two deadbolts.  It was only then that the punk homo realized that they had been installed with the knobs on the outside—Buck had locked them from the inside with a key.

Robbie didn’t know what that meant, but, drunk and horny as he was, he had a fuzzy sense that all was not right.  “Um, look,” he began, “I, uh—I think maybe I should go out and wait for the tow truck—”

“Ain’t no tow truck comin’, boy,” the buff ranch hand drawled.

“But…but, you said…you called.  I heard it!” The kid wailed.

“There ain’t no tow truck in town, bitch.  Closest one is ten miles east, in Armstrong—and they don’t come out here this late.  I lied.  You’re here, alone, with me and no one knows it.  Ya know what that means, you fuckin’ cunt?”

As much as Robbie refused—absolutely refused—to “know” what Buck meant, a sense of panic flashed through his drunken adolescent body like an electrical shock.  He almost lost control of his bladder; he did lose control of the whiskey bottle.  It fell to the floor and shattered, the loudest noise since Buck had informed the meat of its perilous position.

“Fuck, ya little shit, that was my last bottle.  Now I gotta go into town tomorrow, goddamit.  Yer gonna pay for that!” Buck barked. 

The next thing Robbie knew, he was on the floor spitting out the first premolar on his left side.  There was a taste of blood in his mouth and his left cheek was swelling and causing him great pain.  And he’d never so much as seen Buck swing, much less punch him in the face. 

He looked up and the hot, sexy cowboy was towering over him, his tight denim jeans bulging at the crotch, his furry, muscled chest still gleaming with sweat.  The upper part of his face was hidden in the shadow his cattleman crown cowboy hat shed, but enough of the lower part was exposed to show the cruelly jeering way his mouth was twisted.

“Get up, fuckwad,” the vicious killer demanded.  With tears running silently down his face, Robbie obeyed.

“Now strip,” Buck ordered, “I’m gonna fuck you hard, fast, and dry, faggot.  It’s gonna hurt.  Just so you know, motherfucker—it’s gonna hurt.”

Robbie hesitated, nervously licking his dry lips.  A single glance at the deadbolts made him despair of escape by that route; maybe the window—

Buck brought his plotting to an abrupt halt with a question, hissed quietly but pregnant with menace.  “You see that dresser, dontcha, asswipe?  Yeah?  But you don’t see what’s in it.  Do you wanna?  Trust me, you worthless little whore, I can make a 1300-pound steer do what I want and I’d just fuckin’ love to show ya how!”

Sobbing aloud, Robbie peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his smooth, flat belly and lithe—but nowhere near scrawny—torso.  Next, he knelt down, fumbling at the laces of his black leather Converses.  The homo punk was on the verge of panic, his frenetically scrambling fingers managing to do little more than to tighten the knot further.

Buck was losing patience.  The cuntmeat never noticed that he’d headed to the dresser and pick up the leather bullwhip, though—it was begging too loudly.  “Please, you don’t have to do this,” it moaned as it continued to struggle with the laces, “You can fuck me, dude, just please don’t hurt me!  I’ll give you whatever you want!”

“What I want, fuckwad,” Buck said calmly, “is to hurt you.”  He swung the whip violently.  It was eight feet long, and he was adept at using it at much closer distance than that—but he wasn’t ready to unleash its true power on the meat.  This was a gamey one; it needed some intense tenderizing before the finer details could be attended to.

But even though he’d bent it in half, holding the handle and the tip in the same hand, it struck the adolescent whore’s back like the equivalent of a rubber hose of the same size.  Robbie’s pleading instantly became howls of pain.

“Aw, yeah, faggot!” Buck crowed as he beat the helpless teen again and again, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  You love it, dontcha!  Take it, you bitch!”  The last strike of the belt impacted the kid’s head, driving his face down into the floor.  The thin, cheap carpet and even more meager padding were of no help.

The last thing Robbie experienced before the blissful darkness took him down was the agonizing squelch as his nose was crushed into the floor.

Even with the lithe teen whore limp and unconscious at his feet, Buck’s anger and lust continued to seethe within him, how powerful muscled clenched in rage.  He spent a good three minutes straight beating the insensate punk until its back was bloody and raw. 

Once he’d let the first wave of anger rise over him and move on, he was able to focus more clearly on what he needed to do.  The first thing was to strip the stupid faggot.  Buck knelt down and pulled out the knife he kept tucked into his boot.  With it, it was easy enough to rip the whore’s tight jeans to shreds.  Who cared if his hand slipped once or twice and the homo’s smooth skin got a couple of slices?  Not the adolescent cocksucker; its lights were still out.  And in any case, it’d soon have a fuck of a lot more to worry about than a few minor gashes on its legs.

He got the jeans off swiftly and was just about to slice the laces of its black leather hightops when it started groaning and moving.  Buck slid the blade back into his boot and stood up, waiting for the whore to make the first move.  Very slowly and stiffly, it tried to get up—obviously in great pain.

Buck wasn’t a patient man.  He was used to dealing with mindless brute animals and breaking them to his will.  He didn’t use pain on them unless it was necessary, of course.

With faggots, it was always necessary.

He grabbed a hank of its hair form the back of its head and dragged it upright, mewling and crying.  Steering it by his grasp on its scalp, he forced it over to the dresser.  It had three rows of two drawers each and had been painted white or off-white a long, long time ago. 

Not that Robbie got much of a chance to admire its authentically distressed appearance—Buck slammed his head down onto the top of the dresser hard enough to split the fucktard’s lips.  As the brutally sadistic alpha jerked it back up again, the kid knew instinctively what was about to happen, but the only reaction it had time for was a brief, despairing bleat before it went full-face into the dresser—this time, breaking its right cheekbone.

As it came back up for another round, though, it was determined to protest.

Flinging his arms out and placing his hands on the edge of the top of the dresser, Robbie locked his elbows, in an effort to avoid impacting it again.  He turned his ruined, bloody face towards Buck, his cheeks streaked with tears, snot, and blood.  “Why?” he asked—or, to be more accurate, pled— “Why are you doing this?”  His eyes were huge and dark, full of pain, fear, and confusion.  They had dark circles around them, as if Buck had blackened them, which he hadn’t.  Yet.

“Why am I doing this, you worthless little lickspittle faggot?  Because I fuckin like doing this.  You really wanna know why?  This is why, cunt.”  With his free hand, he unzipped his fly and let his frighteningly intimidating cock uncoil like a python.

“This is why,” Buck repeated.  “Putting useless cumsucking queers to death makes me cum.  So you can cancel whatever plans ya had for the night, asswipe.  I’m gonna fuck you to death.”

The words hit Robbie harder than a gutpunch, and with much the same effect.  Unluckily for him, he also dropped his guard.  Buck drove his face into the dresser for the third and final time.  The whoreboy hit the wood so hard he cracked—and broke—three teeth off at the gumline.  He slid down the front of the dresser until his legs curled up under him.  Hed ended up slumped, help up by the dresser, not unconscious, but in an utter stupor of agony.  Through the throbbing red haze that filled his mind, he heard his tormentor’s deep, masculine voice call out in a tone of expectant triumph, “Get ready, you cunt, I’m comin’ in hard, fast, and dry.  I’m gonna tear up yer ass like I’m roto-tillin’ a field, fuckwad.  You think yer in pain now?  Shit, boy, yer ass is ‘bout to get lit!”

Then things kicked into high gear.

Without warning, Buck’s foot lashed out, the square toe of the Arial Patriot boot catching the cunt on its left flank, about an inch below and to the left of its pink and inexplicably stiff left nipple.  There was a distinctive snap as its fourth rib splintered, sending slivers of bone into the surrounding tissue.  The whore was flipped onto its back, its writhing adolescent body slick with cold, clammy sweat.  Its expression of baffled misery somehow only stoked Buck’s rage further.

With a roar, he swept down and clenched his mighty hand—only one of them—onto the boy’s throat with a grip like an iron bear trap.  As Robbie’s air was utterly cut off, he felt himself deadlifted into the air by his neck.  Clawing frantically at the remorseless muscled forearm that was crushing his windpipe, Robbie kicked his feet, his leather hightops clearing the floor by a good five inches. 

He struggled to see as his eyes bulged; over the frenetic pounding of his own pulse inside his skull, he could hear his own thick, panicked gagging as he began to asphyxiate.  And yet…and yet…

And yet, despite the agony, despite the fear, he was hard.  He could feel it.  But it was trivial.  He was dying, he had to escape, this was no time to be thinking about his dick—

“Haw!” Buck jeered cruelly into the teenager’s swollen, blackening face, “Ya like this?  A lil’ ole breath control turnin’ yer faggot ass on, yeah?  Oh fuck yeah, motherfucker, it’s yer lucky fuckin’ night!  Jest imagine how hard your little fag cock is gonna spurt when I wring yer scrawny neck like a goddam chicken’s.  Hell, they keep walkin’ after they’re dead—I can’t fuckin’ wait to see if yer useless cocksuckin’ ass keeps cummin’ after I put ya down!”

And with that, he flung Robbie down onto the bed with the same look of calloused indifference on his face as when he tossed garbage into the landfill.  After all, to Buck, there was no difference.

Robbie felt differently, of course, and had an innate, instinctive desire to survive that would be unleashed reflexively when push came to shove.

Too bad it would make things much, much worse for the twink slut.

The second he hit the bed, Robbie felt a horrific stabbing pain in his left side, bad enough to impair his breathing.  The teen fag was certain that he was having a heart attack.  Unluckily for him, he wasn’t going to escape his whore fate that easily.  As excruciating as the pain was, it wasn’t his heart—it was the jagged edge of his broken rib ripping into his left lung.

But while mentally dealing with the new agony, he’d momentarily forgotten about Buck, a lapse of mere seconds that ended abruptly as Buck lunged onto the bed and grabbed his ankles, pulling them up and twisting them back violently, as if he was pulling both ends of a wishbone.  Without warning, the furry hardbodied alpha, glistening with sweat in the dim lamplight, slammed his muscled form down full-length on the kid, still gripping the cunt’s ankles.

There was a sound from both of the meat’s hips, the sound of tendons and ligaments being torn similar to that one hears when trying to tear a drumstick off a turkey.  The punk screamed as Buck guffawed sadistically.

“Har, I ain’t even in yer bitch ass yet—trust me, cocksucker, that’s gonna make ya scream!  Wanna see just how bad?  Hang on, motherfucker, yer about to get jacked up!”

He drove his huge shaft straight down vertically, tearing into the teen’s sphincter like a mechanical piledriver plowing into soft mud.  As well used as the slut’s rectum was, it had never experienced anything the size of Buck’s giant, pulsating slab of manmeat.  And as it tore through the boy’s colon like an auger, grinding roughly past the prostate on its way, the adolescent fuckhead began to shriek as the top of its lungs, screaming for help and for mercy.

“Fresh outta both, son,” Buck drawled with a sardonic grin, “Look around ya son.  See that chair over there?  If you’d been a real faggot instead of twink piece a’ shit, you’d’a gone a round or two in it.  I had one dude screamin’ for two hours straight on there before I fucked ‘im to death.”

Then he leaned down so close that Robbie could feel the man’s wiry chest hair on his own smooth pecs.  The heady scent of the killer’s sweat and pheromones filled the unlucky youth’s nostrils; an instinctive aphrodisiac that even exquisite agony couldn’t override.  But Robbie wasn’t paying attention to the fact that his cock, now pressed tightly between his flat belly and Buck’s hairy, ripped abs, was oozing.  Nor was he paying attention to the way the vicious alpha’s facial hair was scraping his cheek, almost as if Buck was trying to nuzzle him.

Almost as if…

“You wanna know why you ain’t in the chair, you fuckin’ cunt?” Buck whispered into the homo’s ear, “It’s because you can’t take it.  You ain’t even a real faggot.  Real ones don’t die in the chair, they die on my cock.  They all die on my cock, just like yer ‘bout to do.”

Robbie refused to hear this.  His lithe adolescent body was already rigid with the massive amount of trauma it had endured, from his smashed-in face to his splintered ribcage and deflating lung, to his ripped and bleeding asshole.  What little of his alcohol- and drug-sodden brain was able to function lucidly was in such extreme agony that death sounded pretty good.  But then he saw something in Buck’s hand.  It was the bullwhip.

The whoreboy didn’t know what it meant, but some feral, animal-like instinct inside the teenaged punk kicked in.  Shock had kept him passive throughout much of the assault, but now, there was death in the air.  Before he could make a move, though, the entire room was illuminated as if it was high noon outside for a fraction of a second.  After it was gone, Buck grinned down at the now-panicked meat.

“I always wanted to waste a queer in the rain,” he leered down at the fuckmeat.  He started winding the bullwhip around teen pansy’s neck, starting with the small end, just as the rumble of thunder came through the window.   

It was time for fight or flight—and flight was no longer possible.   Robbie’s hands began clutching at Buck’s face, his firm, wiry arms tense as he scrambled at the alpha killer’s beard.  At first, Buck swatted them aside as minor nuisances, but the more the whip was wrapped around the slut’s neck, the tighter it got.

And the tighter it got, of course, the harder the punk fought to stay alive—as always, a mistake that carried the penalty of even more torture before Buck was merciful enough to put the meat down like a dog.

Buck spent his days as a cowpuncher, but he was a much better faggot puncher.  When the scumshit’s fingers went to desperate, frantic clawing, he’d had enough.  It was time to teach the little piece of shit its place in the world.

Having gotten the whip completely around the homo’s neck, it was easy enough to wrap his left arm around the cunt’s right arm and pin it while simultaneously pressing the whip handle into its throat.  Once again, he slapped its other arm out of the way with his right hand, but before the unfortunate rentboy could pull back to defend itself, it was hit by a pair of sucker punches that Buck had delivered with the speed of a rivet gun.

The first impact hit the brutalized adolescent in the face, fracturing the orbit of the eye and knocking two molars down its throat.  It would have choked on them if esophagus wasn’t already too constricted for them to fit.  The second impact landed on the fuckwad’s left pec, just below its hard, jutting nipple.  This one was rewarded by an audible snapping sound as another section of an already-broken rib snapped off and tore into the worthless pansy’s lung, tearing another hole in it.  Not that it matter, functionally; the lung had collapsed several minutes ago.

As it happened, Buck saw the meat’s nipple get even harder.  At the same time, it had gone from fighting him to clutching—tightly, like a lover, its toes obviously curling in its leather Converses. 

“Aw, fuck yeah, shithead!” he jeered at the dying teen, “Love it, dontcha?  Goddam, I knew it!”  He grabbed its nipple and cranked it like he was trying to turn the dial to eleven.  The mortal agony the fuckmeat was enduring was visible on what was left of its face.  Not that much was—there was nothing of the lithe boyish slut that Buck had found on the side of the road.  There was only a gruesome black mask, swollen and mottled.  Its red-streaked eyes were bulging sightlessly.  Blood leaked from the squashed-tomato nose and drool bubbled up past its thick protruding tongue.

Robbie was teetering on the brink of annihilation and an inner part of his faggot pig mind that hadn’t yet been reached by the progressive brain damage knew it.  He was reaching the point where the agony was fading into the background.  The pain was still nightmarish, but it just didn’t seem to…matter as much.

The fire of torn and straining lungs and a racing heart were still there.  The insanely rapid banging of his pulse still felt like it would blow his head apart at any second.  The welts and broken bones—nothing had gone.  What eclipsed all of it was the rape.  Robbie’s fuckhole was being augured with a ruthless brutality the cunt could never have imagined.

Just as an icy gray haze began to surround e black blossoms that were exploding in his eyes, Robbie heard Buck speaking, the sadistic alpha’s husky rasp only just barely audible.

“I toldja you were gonna die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit.”  There was another blast of thunder, deep and vibrato.

It was the last thing Robbie heard.  As if given permission, the meat clutched the brawny cowboy close in a violent rigid spasm, its fingers digging into his shoulders and its thighs scissoring around his waist.  The whore arched its back, its smooth flat belly, slick with the cold sweat given off by the dying. 

Without a notice, Buck felt a hot jet of thick fluid being spewed across his furry abs.  “Aw fuck, YEEAAHH!” he bellowed as he rutted with the dying adolescent, his huge, swollen shaft flooding its innards with his potent manseed while the bitch continued to cum, even after it was dead.

In fact, its cock continued to spurt when there was no brain activity left, just random misfires of a catastrophically damaged nervous system.  Buck had been right about the chicken; even after he’d pulled out (after an orgasm that had felt like it had lasted for five-plus minutes straight), the corpse continued to spasm and twitch.  Each time it did, its slowly deflating dick expelled more semen.

Buck left the room and headed to the bathroom.  He cleaned the cum off his chest and his cock and tucked the latter back into his jeans, then headed back to his killing pit.  It wasn’t until he’d gotten back into the room that he realized the asswipe’s final struggles had been intense enough for it to have kicked its left sneaker off.  Even as he watched, a spasm curled the toes inside the white ankle sock and forced more spunk out of the flaccid cock.

Then there was a bright flash and another, even louder clap of thunder, and Buck realized he was being presented with a perfect opportunity to take out the trash.  But he needed to be fast.

Doffing his cowboy hat and putting on a shirt—there was already a chill and freshening breeze ahead of the storm—he grabbed the cuntmeat off the bed and draped it over one arm like a pile of dirty laundry.  Buck had more than enough strength to carry the slut’s dead weight down the hall and outside, where he unceremoniously dumped it into the bed of his pickup.  Returning back through the trailer, he collected all the rentboy’s belongings and headed out.  Everything got tossed into the bed, where the punk’s leather Converse came to rest on its still-swollen face.

As Buck negotiated his way back out to the ranch-to-market road, he could see the storm off to the northwest.  The flashes of lighting illuminated the towering clouds from within; he didn’t need a meteorologist to tell him this was going to be a real gully-washer.

And he was counting on it being literally that.

It didn’t take him long to reach the bridge over the arroyo.  Pulling his four-wheel drive truck off the road and partly down the embankment, he stopped and engaged the parking brake.  Exiting the cab, he made certain that his boots had good traction on the steep slope; he had work to do.

The first step was to take all the shit out of the bed of the truck and stuff it into the whore’s wrecked car; it took a bit of effort because of the terrain.  Buck had deliberately parked on the opposite side of the bridge from where the car had ended up.  Once he reached the crumpled vehicle, he stuffed everything inside of it, treating the corpse like the sack of trash it was.

Buck then returned to his truck and grabbed the hook off the winch on the front bumper.  Taking this back down the arroyo, he hooked it to a section of the car’s frame.  Climbing back to his truck again, he started the winch.

It took about ten minutes, during which the storm had come appreciably closer but still wasn’t right on top of him—which was good. He’d managed to drag the wreckage and all it contained directly under the bridge, where it was completely invisible to the road above.  Even if this storm didn’t wash the vehicle itself away, it’d strip everything from the interior.  But he needed to get down and unhook the winch before he got washed away too.  The arroyo came down from the mountains to the north and was almost certainly already filled with floodwaters somewhere upstream, rushing in his direction.

But he got the winch back together safely and headed back home.  It started sprinkling on his way back down the gravel road and when he got home, he caught a bit of light rain between the truck and the front door.

Once inside, he started to relax.  It had been a good workout.  He’d enjoyed putting another homo in its place, but it had been a long day, and he was tired.  He decided to take a shower and head to bed.

Just as he was about to turn on the water in the bathroom, there was a blast like an explosion that shook the entire trailer.  Simultaneously, the patter of rain on the roof became an almost deafening roar.

The storm had broken.

He says his name is Ryan, but that’s a lie.  He says he’s twenty-one, and that’s a lie, too.  He can’t be more than eighteen. 

But you want him.  You want to possess him, to own him, here and now, and that’s what matters.  And he’s a street whore, which makes it even better, because there’s only one way to make a whore yours.

And no one else will ever miss him.

When it happened before, it was an accident but it had been so good—you’d never known sex could be that intense.  Now you do, and you want—no, you need—to recapture that feeling.

This time, you know what’s going to happen.  The excitement, the anticipation, already have your long thick cock already swollen so visibly that a mere glance at your crotch makes your arousal painfully obvious.

But above all, it’s the sense of power, of control, that sparks your desire.  You’re anxious to get to that ultimate conquest, that moment when the boy can never belong to anyone else and is yours to do with as you will.

And, after all, this is only a practice run.  You’re working on a rewiring job, bringing an older office building up to code.  It’s long, hard work, and you need to blow off some steam.  There’s that guy who works in one of the offices, the one that’s been eyeing you.  No, not eyeing—ogling. 

If he went missing, questions would be asked.  Best to work out your technique on a non-entity.  A non-entity that you still want to possess.

So you decided to go trolling, and that’s what led you here.  Despite your deep desire, you still feel awkward, of course—it’s not like you’re used to doing this often.  But you have done it before, on rare occasions.  You know about the alleyway behind a certain block of bars in the gayborhood. 

The alley is narrow enough to make fitting your F-250 into it somewhat difficult, but nowhere near impossible.  Thirty yards ahead is a spot where it widens a little, and that’s where you pull in.

You see him almost immediately.  He’s about another fifty feet down the alley.  He’s standing next to a dumpster, under a security light, but at first, it’s hard for your eyes to make him out.  The light is fluorescent, and it’s about to fail—it’s flickering like a strobe.  Further down the alley, you can see several other guys, but not clearly.  Two of them seemed to be engaged in oral sex.

Not your business.  The boy closest to you has seen you and is coming closer.

He has straight blond hair that falls to shoulder length at least, if not beyond.  The hair is likely dyed, since his eyebrows are as brown as his puppy-like, long-lashed eyes.  He’s seriously whoring himself out, to judge by the skin-tight black leather jeans, white t-shirt, and black leather biker’s jacker that highlight his lithe adolescent body.  The cuffs of the leather jeans are caught up in a pair of tightly laced red, white, and black Adidas Rivalry hightops.

He approaches the passenger door; you’ve already lowered the window.  As he leans in to start the ball rolling, you notice the clear skin on his face, and the faint black smudge on his upper lip that betrays the onset of facial hair.  That’s one definite sign that his stated age is a lie.

Not that it matters.  You start to tell him your name is Mike, thinking it can’t hurt for him to know, but at that moment, he whips out a phone and starts texting, saying he always likes to check in with a friend before taking on a trick. 

You immediately change tack and give him a false first and last name.  You also bitch about dealing with a loaner since you Chevy Tahoe is in the shop, hoping it throws him—and his friend, more likely his pimp—off the track.  You’ can’t afford to make that kind of mistake in the future, but you push that aside.  You’ll deal with that later; right now, you have the kid to deal with.

He demands three hundred bucks for an hour, anything goes—no boundaries.  That’s not a lot of money to you in general—hell, you’ve got five hundred in your wallet right now, for that matter—but it’s a fuck of a lot to spend for sex.  It takes a moment for you to realize that it ultimately won’t matter.

You agree and “Ryan” demands to see the cash.  Not a problem. 

All it took was a quick glance at the money and the boy eagerly pops open the passenger door and climbs up into the passenger seat of your pickup.  You cautiously back out of the alleyway and head for home.  Once you hit the freeway, the kid starts asking about booze.

Well, you got some nice single malt scotch back home, but you’re not gonna waste that on this punk.  That’s for a real date—like that guy at the office building…

Stop counting that chicken before it’s hatched.  You’ve got a fluffy little chick right here with you that needs some attention first.  There’s half a bottle of Smirnov left from a party you had three months ago, and this kid says he’s satisfied with that, especially when you add the fact that you have liter of fresh orange juice in the fridge.

When you get home, you park in the garage, closing the door behind you before shutting off and exiting the truck.  None of your neighbors has the chance to see that someone else is riding with you.

It’s time to get it on.

You lead the way from the garage down a short hallway, your Timberland boots thudding on the tile until you reach the carpeted living room.  The moment you get to the sofa, you turn to him.  Without a word, he reaches out and grabs the groin of your Wrangler boot cut jeans, fondling your erect shaft through the tight denim.

You look him deeply in the eyes, those huge, adorable, puppy-dog brown eyes.  You know what’s happening, you know how this will end for him.  But yet your heart, contrarian as always, swells with pity and love for the youth.

You wrap your hand around the nape of his neck and slowly pull him to you until you can feel his slim, firm body pressing against you.  Your lips meet and instantly your tongue is probing his mouth, entwining with his own tongue.  Part of you regrets what you have to do to him—and certainly regrets doing it here, in your own home.  But the boy is a whore and any place of his own would likely be compromised by others.

And as far was what you’re going to do—well, that’s an expression of love.  This is the only way to keep him safe, to make him yours, to make sure no one else can ever hurt him again.

If he truly knew how much you loved him in this moment, how you were going to protect for all time, he’d be eternally grateful.

He breaks away and steps back momentarily, breathing deeply and fixing me with a lascivious gaze.  Tremblingly, he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.  “Where, uh, where’s that drink you mentioned?” he asks in a strained voice.

“This way,” you reply, and lead him into the kitchen.  You pull a highball glass from a cabinet and place it on the counter; it’s soon joined by the vodka and orange juice.  “Go ahead and help yourself,” you say casually, and head back to the living room.

As you wait for the kid, you remove your dark blue button-down and white cotton t-shirt, laying them carefully over the back of a chair on the far side of the room.  No sense, after all, in getting your work clothes mussed.

Then you unzip your fly and yank your huge throbbing tackle out.   When the boy returns, he’s greeted by the sight of your jutting cock. 

His jaw drops; the only reason his glass doesn’t do the same is because he raises it to his lips and empties the entire thing in two consecutive chugs.  He sways for a moment—the alcohol can’t have fully entered his bloodstream yet, so it must be a reaction to the strength of the drink.  Then he grins in a stupidly endearing way and shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor.  Two seconds later, his t-shirt is lying on top of it and he’s massaging his leather-covered shaft.

His grin gets even wider.  “You got any weed, dude?”  That I can provide, and he knows it—my bong is in plain sight, so I nod to indicate my agreement.  He takes a couple of lung-busting hits and as he staggers, coughing and gagging in a cloud of sweet bluish smoke, you reach out and grab him around the waist, pulling him to you again.  This time, you unbutton his fly and pull his long boydick out of his leather jeans.

He looks down at you, his grin now goofy and loveable.  You take the head of his dick into your mouth, showing him how much you truly love him.  As you lavish your tongue on his thick head and lap at the thin tube of spongy tissue running along the underside of his meat, you hope that he’ll be able to sense what you feel about him. 

You hope he knows that it might hurt a little to start, but it’s only being done to ensure he can never hurt again.  And if that’s not true love, what is?

You run your head down his shaft, savoring every inch of it.  He does, too, judging by the way he pulls his balls out so you can rest your chin on them, your face buried in his silky adolescent pubes.

This time, it’s your turn to break it off.  “C’mon,” you say, rising suddenly and grabbing him by the hand.  “Let’s go into the bedroom…”  Your voice trails off as you smile seductively and pull him into the next room.

Once inside the door, you maneuver him around in a semicircle, like a ballroom dance move, so you can seat him on the foot of the bed with you standing in front of him, your dick bobbing in his face.  Fuck, it’s so erotic, the way your oozing precum slathers his young, greedy face with transparent glaze. 

He’ll know.  He’ll know why.  He wants you as much as you want him right now.

“Your turn,” you whisper gently to him, “Let me see what you can do.”  He obliges by gulping down my raging erection.  He can’t quite get as far down on mine as you got on his, but he’s doing his damnedest to get there.

And as he does so, you unbuckle your belt and very slowly remove it from around your waist.  Raising it up, you wrap each end once about your palms, leaving a sizable leather strap in between.  Holding this above the teen’s head, you jerk your hips backward and drop the belt down around the boy’s neck.  Already drunk and stoned, his unprepared reflexes are no match for your determination and you’re able to close his throat off with ease.

This is it.  This is the moment that makes him yours.  You know—or, at least, experience has led you to expect—that he’s not going to want this, not at first.  He’s gonna be scared, he’s gonna resist.  You need to calm him, to explain why this is the best thing that could ever happen to him.

You can do this.  You can make him understand your utter devotion in offering the gift of death.

He fights, of course; he will at first.  But he’s really struggling to push you away.  He keeps trying to stand but you pull down on the belt while tightening, ensuring that the kid can’t rise.  Poor boy, he must be terrified.  His arms claw at you wildly, his fists beating futilely beating on your bulging, fur-covered pecs.  Between your spread, booted legs you can see his leather-clad thighs thrashing as he kicks in sheer panic.

Sometimes, suffering is needed to understand love—but you still want to soften the blow for the beautiful teenager.  You’re able to twist the ends of the belt together so you can still hold the noose tight with your left hand.  With your right hand, you cradle his jerking head and press his purple, gagging face into you ripped abs.

“Shhh,” you whisper, stroking his long, silky hair, “It won’t hurt for long.  I promise.  And then nothing will ever hurt again.”

You stand up and pull him erect by his neck, keeping the belt taut and gently clutching his chin.  His hands start scrabbling at the black leather strap around his neck, alternating that target with your own hands and wrists.  But he’s not hurting you.  You can look directly and deeply into his horrified eyes and watch as they slowly start to bulge, pinprick hemorrhages discoloring the whites.

Poor, poor boy.  You don’t want to make him suffer like this, but there really is no other way.  If only he wouldn’t resist, if only he understood how soon he’d be at peace. 

You pull him close, so close your cheeks brush.  In this tight proximity, you can hear every single strained grunt that is the ghost of an unborn scream of utter terror.  “Don’t fight it, my love,” you murmur into his ear as he gags and chokes, “Let it come.  Submit to it.  Embrace the darkness that will make you truly mine, and no one else’s.”

You pull back again, to see it he heard you, if he understands who much you love him.   He seems to.

He’s gazing into your eyes, a long, deep unfocused look.  He’s no longer resisting you; in fact his hands are caressing your face, his fingers making a fluttering motion—although they grow weaker with each pass.  Suddenly he stiffens. His face is almost jet black and his eyes roll back until nothing can be seen but blood-streaked white.  His purple lips have been forced apart by his dark, swollen tongue.  As his head bobs erratically, thick foamy spittle drips from his chin.

Oh god, he’s irresistible.  You want him now, more than ever.  As his brain flicker out, you grab the back of his head and pull him to you, kissing him deeply, forcing your tongue past his despite its thick, swollen state.  His face is so puffy and black that he’s almost unrecognizable, but you don’t care.  Now, in this moment, you love him.  The only thing needed to make it right is some sign of his acceptance, some acknowledgment of your intense, profound love—

—and he gives it.  You hold his dying body close to you, feeling that firm teenage form writhe in its death throes, when suddenly he experiences a powerful convulsion.

At the same time, what seems to be a gallon of sticky, white boyspunk splashes up your torso, splattering on your erect, oozing rod and matting your pubes and chest hair.

He’s dead.  He’s still thrashing and ejaculating, but you’ve done what you promised.  He’ll never belong to anyone else; he’ll never be hurt by anyone else, ever again.  But even better, he knew it.  He knew it, and he loved you for it.

You have his semen to prove how much he loved you for it.

And now, you can love him back.  Now, he’s really, truly yours.

You lower his quivering body back onto the bed, slowly loosening the belt enough to slip it back out from around his neck.  It takes a bit of force, though; it’s been embedded pretty deeply.  You step back and circle around the foot of the bed, walking slowly, struck by the marble-like beauty of the dead you.  His face is still badly swollen, but the blackness is already fading into a faint indigo.  You admire his expression as he stares into eternity, fully at peace.

You glance up and notice your reflection in the mirror on the dresser on the far side of the bed from you.  From this distance you can see not only yourself, but the corpse as well—and you’re struck by a sudden urge.  It’s not something you’ve ever felt before and you don’t know where the compulsion comes from, but, well, why not?

Staring at the mirror, you grin as you flex your powerful arms and, in that moment, you knew why you felt the need to do it.

It’s the link between seeing the power of your muscles and the sensation of power you’ve derived from using them.  The thick biceps and triceps, the swollen pecs and the bulging delts and lats are a visual testament to your power.  You can do this.  You can make a man yours, forever—any man you wanted.  You can end another man’s life.

You LIKE ending another man’s life, as the sight of your ragingly erect, dripping cock proves. 

And now it’s time to claim him, to mark him as yours.

You kneel down to pull his shoes off.  One has come off already; evidently, he managed to work it off during his convulsions.  Shame; you’d have liked to see that.  You pause for a moment to imagine it…

But enough of that.  You slip the other sneaker off.  He can keep his calf-high athletic socks.

Rising, you lean over and begin peeling his leather jeans off, a smooth, musky second skin that slowly reveals the alabaster skin of the dead boy underneath.  They get tossed to the floor.

Nude but for his socks, he’s finally ready for you.  You still love him, in a way.  It’s time to finish showing him how much. 

Climbing onto the foot of the bed, you take his feet by the ankles and bend his legs up until his knees are nearly touching his chest.  From there, you can mount him with ease.

And mount the boy you do.  He accepts you, almost willingly, but there are moment of resistance where you need to use…force.  It’s ok, though, you’re not hurting him.  Once you’re fully inside him, you lower his feet until his ankles rest on your shoulders.

And now, you give him what he needed, what he desired, what drove him to you on this dark, fateful night.  As you pump him full of your achingly hard member, you lean forward and plant kisses on his face.  Fuck, the jaded look in the face of a dead man is almost more than you can take.  More, his dick is still semi-erect and slapping between his belly and yours, smearing your ripped abs with his still-dribbling semen.

It’s coming, you can feel it.  You lean forward, letting his legs splay out on either side.  For a moment, you run your hands over his taut, smooth thighs, then lean forward again and kiss him on the mouth.

Make him yours.  Mark him with your manseed.  No one will ever breed him again.

You kiss him deeply, your tongue thrusting into the crushed remains of his throat as your long, hard dick explores his guts.  Yes.  Now you’ll show him.  Now, you’ll prove he’s yours.

When the orgasm comes, it’s of an intensity you’ve never experienced before.  Clutching the teen’s corpse tightly, you continue to French his mouth long and hard as spurt after spurt of hot jizz spits from your engorged shaft up into the kid’s intestines.

Even after it feel like your balls have drained, you keep fucking him, emitting grunts and moans of agonized pleasure.  Finally, it ceases and you collapse, sweating and panting, your heaving flanks glistening with sweat.

After several minutes, you finally recover enough to pull out of him and get up so you can head to the bathroom and clean yourself off.  Afterwards, you put your shirt and belt back on.  At the tough of the thick black leather strap, your knowledge of what you are able to do with it make your dick, back snug inside your jeans, twitch and begin to stiffen again.

But you don’t have time for that.  It’s time to clean up the results of your experiment.

The dead kid is easy to handle; you just scoop him off the bed, carry him out to the garage, and dump him in the bed of your truck.  A return trip into the house clears up his clothes and shoes, and they join him soon enough.

Now, it’s time to put him back where you found him.

It’s four-thirty in the morning, but as you approach the alley, you can see a pair of shapes down in the darkness.  There aren’t any cameras back there—that’s why whores hang out there, but it’s also a spot for quick sex after the bars close.  You pull into a near-empty parking lot across from the alley and shut your lights off.

You feel a sense of impatience, but it’s replaced by a sharper pang of concern when a police car turns down the street.  It soon turns out to be beneficial, though—the cop isn’t interested in you, but he is in the alley.  He shines his searchlight down it. 

From where you’re sitting, you can see that his light isn’t quite making it into the corner where the figures are.  But it’s extremely close, and they stop moving.  Not seeing anything, the cop shuts the light off and continues down the street.  Less than sixty seconds later, two young men come out of the alley, one zipping his pants.  They scan up and down the street and immediately depart on foot in opposite directions.

The alley is clear.  You drive straight to the dumpster where the kid had been standing.  You shift into park and exit the truck.  Thirty seconds later, the dead kid hits the bottom of the dumpster with a loud thud, reminiscent of over a hundred pounds of meat being disposed of.  He ends up on the reeking, rusting metal floor face down, legs spread, ass bared and still leaking your spunk.  When you toss his clothes in, they land to the side.  The boy’s cooling, stiffening corpse has no cover against the elements.

 It doesn’t matter, though.  He past the need for any.  Your desire for him has ensured his immunity from any possible pain or discomfort, ever again.

As you drive home, your mind seethes with epiphanies and possibilities.  This is who you are.  This is how you love.  And in the end, they love you back.  They love you so, so much for your ultimate devotion, your need to own them and protect them.  After all, if they didn’t, why did they cum so hard when they finally realized what you were doing for them?

When you’re home and undressing, another thought occurs to you—you can’t count this as successful until you know there won’t be any further consequences.  You need to watch the news to see if there’s any mention of that alley or the kid himself.

What did he say his name was again?  Oh, yeah.  His name was Ryan.

Aaron plunged the syringe into Will’s forearm and the boy winced.

“Keep still and watch,” the older man growled, “Maybe you’ll learn how to do this yerself.  Now that it’s in, ya wanna confirm you actually got the vein with a backflush, see?”

He pulled the plunger back slightly and blood flowed up into the syringe, tinting the yellowish, nearly transparent fluid already in it.  “Bingo!” Aaron crowed and pushed the plunger home.

“Take the tie off your arm now and get ready for the train,” he told Will, “You should already be tastin’ metal.”

As Will, his tongue protruding, nodded with the fixed, vacant stare of someone mainlining coke, Aaron bound his own bicep and prepared a hit for himself.

Aaron was thirty-one and up until three weeks ago, he’d been living alone in a mobile home he was renting on the south side of town.  The park in which it was located was located next to a cement plant and across from the city landfill.  The place wasn’t very popular—it was mostly inhabited by immigrants on a short-term basis—and was about to become even more so, since the empty field on the other side of the park had just been rezoned for industrial use.

Not that Aaron gave a shit about any of that.  It was cheap and no one stuck their fuckin’ nose into his business as long as he paid his rent to the property manager each month.

Three weeks ago, though, he’d been at his dealer, scoring some meth, when he met Will.  The kid said he was twenty-one but was actually no older than eighteen.  Granted, it was a rough eighteen. The boy had gotten hooked on meth in junior high and had fled home when he was fifteen, living on the streets and whoring himself out to feed his habit.  There was still a boyish handsomeness to his face, but even at such a young age, he was beginning to show dark rings around his eyes and the sharp, angular cheekbones visible on a hopeless junkie.

But he’d always been good at finding the right guy—the guy who would breed his faggot fuckhole and pay him by getting him high.  For Will, money was only the means to an end, and that end was meth.

For his part, Aaron wasn’t fooled; he knew a boywhore when he saw one.  But this looked like a hot young piece of meat with which he could have some fun with for a while, then kick it out when he was done with it.

So Aaron had spent a couple of weeks getting Will high on meth and fuckin him so hard it verged on sexual abuse with no problems.  Over the last week, though, the little cunt began showing increasing signs of resistance to being used as Aaron’s animate fucktoy.  And while the sadistic older man didn’t mind slapping around a playmate that fought back a bit, too much of a good thing irritated the living fuck out of him.

Tonight, then, was Will’s last chance.  This time Aaron was gonna try something different.  Instead of meth, they were gonna shoot up coke.  And if the bitch didn’t perform as expected after that, then he was going to kick it out the door, literally.

But the coke was taking effect.  Will leaned back on the sofa as Aaron headed to the kitchen for another beer.  The latter was shirtless, his dark body hair confined to a small but furry path from his waist up to a couple of inches above his navel.  Most of his unfurred torso was covered with tattoos, including his pecs, shoulders, and arms.  His skin writhed with symbol, Asian characters, skulls, and knives.

Below the waist, he was wearing a pair of worn and faded work jeans that showed off his powerful legs and thick, bulging cock to perfection.  In fact, the latter was so massive that he found it more comfortable to leave the button at the fly undone.  Sometimes, when he sat, the fat head of his dick stuck up and out of the jeans.  On his feet were a pair of Timberland boots, just as scuffed and worn as the jeans.  They were laced up but untied and so open at the top that the cuffs of his jeans just naturally fell inside them.

His face was young and hard, with a short, dark-brown beard.  His short wavy hair, of the same color, was covered by a red cap with a straight brim.  Around his neck, a heavy silver chain glittered, setting off a large bit of ink on his neck.  The design was elaborate but seemed to involve a demonic face fashioned out of a biohazard symbol.

In other words, he was a hardcore trailer park thug and was just as brutish as his appearance.  He worked at the cement plant next door in the grinding and blending process.  His job, though, was pure manual labor.  As a result, Aaron was a man for whom might meant right.  He anticipated using his physical strength to do what he needed to.

He also didn’t mind using it to do what he wanted to do.  And what he wanted to do was abuse faggot sluts.

He was content to live in a wretched mobile home because it gave him the privacy to indulge his sadistic whims—and privacy was needed.  Some of them screamed.  Some left with bruises, some with missing teeth.  A few had left with broken bones.

One hadn’t left at all.  Aaron still remembered that occasion fondly.

Will, on the other hand, was only willing to take it up the ass as long as he got high—or, at least, so he rationalized it to himself.  He still had the firm, muscled body of a high-school athlete, with curly russet hair and a faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of his snub nose.  But the toll of drugs and rampant sex could already be seen in his face.  There was just the slightest hint of a downy, golden fuzz across his cheeks—where were themselves not completely free of specks of adolescent acne.

And around one of his jaded eyes was a nearly-healed bruise, the remnants of a black eye Aaron had given him two weeks prior, during a bout of particularly rough sex. 

He’d actually enjoyed that.  He didn’t like to admit how much.  But sex with Aaron was growing incrementally more violent, more painful each night.  Now Will was worried how much further it was going to go.

And unluckily for him, mainlining coke did more than just get him high—it also gave him a major paranoid mindfuck.  As his tongue hung out and he experienced the full rush of the drug, he knew—he knew—that Arron was going to kill him.

Aaron for his part, got off on abusing the bitches, but he’d never killed one.  Well, not deliberately.  Although, that one had been kinda fun…  But anyway, at the moment, he was horny as hell and there was Will, in a tight black tank top and jean shorts cut so short that his long teen cock peeped out form under the frayed hem.  He was also wearing tube socks and a pair of red Converse All-Stars that a prior trick had bought him.

As far as Aaron, was concerned, the boy was high and ready to get fucked, and Aaron was ready to fuck him.  He wasn’t going to take no for an answer, not tonight.

As far as Will was concerned, he was in imminent danger.  His brain was scrambled by the cocaine flooding his bloodstream, but his street skills weren’t.  He would defend himself.

At this moment, the atmosphere in the trailed was thick with the scents of smoke, sweat, and mansex, but there wasn’t the slightest hint of the explosive scene about to unfold—a scene that would end very, very badly for one of the big-dicked males in the room.

All it took to set it off was Aaron’s gipping of Will’s arm. 

“C’mon, boy,” he demanded, standing by the couch and towering over the punk. “I wanna stick it up yer ass.”

Will looked up at him in horror.  Aaron was about five inches taller than he was and thirty pounds heavier, the latter all muscle.  In his runaway paranoia, the punk inflated the difference until the older man had become, in his mind, a hulking ogre determined to destroy him.

“Leggo!” the kid yelled shrilly, “Don’t touch me!”

Aaron jerked back, momentarily startled, then his face flushed with anger.  “Whaddaya mean, don’t touch you?” he spat out.

“You keep away from me,” Will said, not quite able to make eye contact, “You wanna—you wanna hurt me, I know it!”

Aaron’s upper lip curled into a sneer.  “Goddam, you’re just now figuring that out?” he asked with mock credulity before coming back with contempt, “What a stupid little cunt.  Yeah, bitch, I’m gonna hurt you.  And the longer it takes you to strip and get in that bed, the more I’m gonna hurt ya, you hear me?”

Will heard, all right, but he was having none of it.  He popped up off the sofa and began backing away from Aaron, wide-eyed and shaking his head.

“Where ya going, whore?” Aaron asked in silky tones, wearing a wide grin.  “Ain’t nowhere for you to hide.  You get out that door—” here, he nodded at the front door, the only exit to the mobile home, “—and the only folks who’ll hear you scream ain’t gonna care.  Trust me, motherfucker, I know that from personal experience.”

By now, Will had his back against the thin fake pine veneer that covered the wall, his eyes darting frantically to either side.  Aaron had been approaching him slowly, warily, like a tiger stalking its prey, his grin growing more and more sharklike the closer he got.  With no prior warning, the teenager suddenly turned to his left and took off, heading to the bedroom.

Instantly, he could hear the pounding of Aaron’s Timberlands in hot pursuit.  Will ran as if he instinctively knew that his life depended on what happened in the next seven seconds.

He just didn’t run quite fast enough.

Just as Will reached the bedroom door, Aaron reached out and grabbed his shoulder, roughly twisting him so that his back slammed into the wall.  Before the boy could speak, the enraged alpha gutpunched him twice in quick succession.  Will exhaled forcibly, clutching his midsection but any other reaction to the blows was overwhelmed when Aaron brutally slammed his steel-toed boot into the punk’s groin.

Instantly, the muscled teen youth was transformed into a writhing ball of fetal misery on the floor.  Arron grabbed it by the back of its collar and began to drag it into the bedroom.  Just as he got it through the doorway, the thin cotton shirt gave way.  The slut, still croaking in pain, slumped back to the floor, leaving Aaron with a useless rag in his hand.  He tossed what was left of the shirt aside and knelt down, viciously yanking the cunt’s shorts down and off over its kicks.

Rolling onto his back, Will’s hands quickly covered his hairy, swelling balls.  The whoreboy didn’t know what was going on; he was higher than a kite and could only understand that Aaron was inflicting horrible pain on him.  The inked stud wanted him dead, he knew that, but he didn’t know why, and he needed to know.  He tried to ask but could only get out a few garbled moans.

It was enough to set off Aaron’s cocaine-fueled rage again, though.

“Shaddup!” he screamed, “Only thing I wanna hear outta you is screamin’ when I shove my cock up yer ass, fuckmeat!”

The rentboy only got a momentary look at the tread on Aaron’s boot as the sneering, sadistic top stomped its teeth down its throat.

That searing blast of pain wiped everything else from the slut’s mind.  It was still gagging on its own blood and teeth as it was picked up and flung onto the bed like a sack of potatoes.  By the time the adolescent whore regained some sense of awareness, it was on its back and Aaron had pried its legs apart with enough force to sprain the tendons and ligaments of its hip joints.  It was suffering phenomenally—and it had no idea that it was about to get exponentially worse.

Aaron was hung like a stallion, but tonight he was even more massive than usual.  Aside from the extra impetus given by the drugs and the indulgence of his vicious cruelty, he’d strapped a leather cock ring tightly around the root of shaft, encircling his huge balls, bulging with semen.  Aaron’s dick was a much more formidable weapon that it had ever been before, at least in the teen’s brief experience with it.

And without warning, it was suddenly buried full-length in the punk’s fuckhole, lubed only by its oozing precum.

The meat’s face was literally that—meat.  Its nose was flattened and broken, its lips crushed, torn, and bleeding.  Every motion of its mouth brought new pain—but that was nothing compared to the agony of anal impalement. 

And that was pure sexual joy for the rutting alpha, hearing its fucktoy bleating in pain.  That was what it fuckin’ needed, and he was just the hardbodied stud to do it right.  His taut, smooth flanks and furry abs glistened with sweat as his muscles rippled, driving his hips in a brutal and relentless jackhammer motion, plunging his engorged tackle deep into the kid’s intestines, completely wrecking its colon.

It was obvious that the meat couldn’t handle this level of pain.  Its shrill keening swelled into a sharper, more defined scream—not that Aaron cared.  Fucktoys had screamed before.  No one had ever done anything; no one would help this one.

It was fucked, in more ways than one.

By now, though, it seemed to be getting used to the abuse.  At least, it was under enough control to start resisting.  They usually did; they usually had to learn the error of their ways.  But then again, they also hadn’t usually started by pissing Aaron off.  This one had.  And worse, its shredded sphincter and ravaged rectum were going loose.

This one was outliving its usefulness—but it still hadn’t made him cum.

Aaron ramped up his fucking, his hips hammering the whore’s pelvis mercilessly as he plowed his swollen member ever deeper into the teenager’s guts.  The meat began to struggle more forcefully, its hands clawing at the roughneck alpha’s face, but Aaron knew how to fight fire with fire—and violence with violence.

He began slamming his fist into the whore’s face with the power of a speeding semi, repeatedly.  The impact resounded through the messy, mansex-infused room with a wet, beefy smacking sound as the adolescent’s face was reduced to an unrecognizable pulp under Aaron’s mercilessly brutal beating.

And it paid off.  Each time his drove his fist home, he could feel the worthless little whore’s asshole contracting.  In his drugged bloodlust frenzy, the cruel white trash stud found that he could even time his blow to create something like a ripple effect on the meat’s mangled sphincter.  He manage to time each punch with the thrust of his gigantic rod.

After a couple of minutes, the meat’s scrambling hands began to weaken, to flutter like dying birds.  Within another sixty seconds, its arms had fallen limply so its sides.  Aaron had beaten it so hard that brain damage was setting in.

That didn’t mean that the meat once known as Will didn’t know what was happening to it; it could still feel every single impact, every single plunge of the sadist’s cock.  It just no longer had the physical control to fight back.

It could only feel—and suffer.  And suffer it did.

As his balls began to seethe and boil, Aaron no longer confined his blows to the meat’s face.  He began pounding its chest and abs, striking hard enough to break a rib with a faint but satisfying crunch.  But it wasn’t enough.  He was about to blow his load, and he needed some way to express his utter contempt for and degradation of the faggot he was using as a cumdump.

So he stopped beating it and wrapped his hands around its throat.

It was then, and only then, that he realized the whore was almost as erect and ready to blow as he was.  Its hard boycock was between them, slapping their bellies and leaving a snail-like trail of precum on both of them.  Its firm legs were still pinned up and over his shoulders, its smooth, muscled thighs taut with agony.  He could tell by the tensing of the calves that its sneaker-bound feet were kicking frantically behind him.

“Fuck yeah,” he grunted hoarsely, “You ready for it, ya worthless whore?  Huh?  Yeah?  Ready to die?  Ready to be put outta yer misery, faggot?”  He wrapped his hands around the teen’s throat and applied pressure.

He meant to strangle the fuckmeat, but the sudden convulsive onrush of violent orgasm got the better of him.  Clutching the slut’s neck with his left hand, he placed his huge, strong right hand over its face.  With a brutal, lightning-fast movement, he jerked his left hand upward toward himself while pressing down on his right hand with all his weight.

When every single one of the teenager’s cervical vertebrae shattered, it sounded like popcorn.

Everyone thinks death from a broken neck is instant; it isn’t.  The dying whoremeat that had once been named William endured a prolonged chemo-electrical agony that was nearly identical to what it would have experienced if he’d been stuck by lighting.  With, of course, one major difference—a truly nightmarish and excruciating orgasm.

The teenaged drug slut went rigid.  By now, it’d managed to work of one of his Converse hightops off; Aaron couldn’t see the meat’s toes curling in its death throes, but he could see everything else.  Like the way it spewed out what looked like a quart of boycum for its deathload.

It was enough for Aaron; he could no longer control his raging hatelust.  With the deep, guttural grunting of a rutting animal, he started hosing the adolescent corpse with semen.

It went on and on.  Both of them, one utterly brain dead and nearly physically so, the other wearing a mask of snarling rage, shooting huge amounts of manseed.  The dead slut’s balls were emptied long before Aaron’s was.  The latter left no part of the fucker’s digestive system unmarked with his potent manspew.

When he was finally done, he slowly pulled his shaft from the corpse as if he was unsheathing a sword.  He was shaky, tired, and depressed; the coke was wearing off.  He needed sleep.

Aaron kicked the twitching body off the bed, turned out the light, and drifted off, still in his boots and jeans.

He woke up at six in the morning.  He had to be at work at the plant by nine that day—but right now he was horny.

And there was cold meat in the room.

For a moment, Aaron toyed with the idea of fucking it again, but he didn’t like the idea of playing sloppy seconds to himself.  On the other hand, there was nothing to say a dead whore couldn’t give him head…

Within five minutes, Aaron was seated in a chair, holding the meat upright with a fistful of its hair.  Rigor mortis had already set in, but hadn’t progressed far, rending the dead teen into something along the lines of a mannequin instead of a limp pile of meat. 

It took the alpha a moment to locate its mouth in the ruin of its face.  He couldn’t resist gloating for a moment.

“Yer own momma wouldn’t know ya know, bitch,” he smirked at the half-lidded, milky eyes, “Might not ‘a killed ya if you’d put out…”  This last was muttered with a sigh as he pried its mouth open and lowered the head onto his raging cock.

His monstrously long tool slid down the dead kid’s esophagus—if it had still been alive, it would have choked.  As it was, the corpse’s windpipe was just dry enough to offer the friction Aaron was looking for.

The muscular, tattooed trailer park thug hunched over the teenager’s body and skullfucked it.

“Aw, fuck yeah,” he grunted, “Goddam asswipe—yer a better fuck dead than alive, you fuckin’ cunt!”

With both hands entwined in the meat’s hair, he bobbed its head up and down, repeatedly, faster and faster, using it as the sex toy it was destined to be.  Suddenly his hard, muscled body went taut in the agony of intense pleasure as his spunk exploded into the corpse’s trachea, flooding its larynx and lungs.  He was still shooting as he slowly withdrew his pulsing rod from the adolescent’s body, forcing semen into its sinuses and out its nostrils.

When he was done, he kicked it to the floor again and went to take a shower.

He dressed and ate some breakfast—he could cook eggs and bacon to perfection—and found he had half an hour to get to work.  Work was next door; he had plenty of time to run to the dump and toss in all the trash bags from the last week he’d placed in the bed of his pickup.

Except this load, of course, would have an extra piece of trash.

Aaron opened his front door and peered out.  No one was visible, as usual.  As he expected.  He stepped out cautiously, the wooden steps leading down from the trailer’s front door creaking under his Timberlands.  They usually didn’t make quite as much noise, but this time the alpha stud was burdened with an extra hundred and twenty pounds.

Rigor had progressed slightly further at this point, and dead whore was getting a bit unwieldly.  It took some effort for Aaron to get it lodged in the bed of his truck, hidden (well, good enough for the dim morning light) under the four trash bags already there.  The dump was literally across the street.  In less the ten minutes, he was on the rim, overlooking the huge, rank pile of garbage.

The whore was the first thing to go, its pale, purplish-blue form tumbling swiftly down the thirty-foot embankment and easily blending in with the rubbish below, as if it belonged there.  And it did.  A few seconds later, Aaron’s trash bags landed on it, obscuring it enough that it would never be noticed when the municipal garbage trucks came back after their daily runs and completely covered it.

Aaron walked into his job perfectly on time, feeling refreshed and invigorated.  In fact, he felt amazing.

And now he knew what was needed to obtain that feeling.  He just needed to waste a bitch.

It after two am on Saturday morning before the door to the motel room opened and the trick emerged.  Barely visible behind him stood Jeremy, clad in nothing but a jockstrap and tightly laced combat boots—the fucking whore.

Gritting his teeth in anger, Rocko’s hands gripped the steering wheel of the old Ford so tightly they went white.  Just seeing the adolescent cunt’s lithe body and strawberry-blond buzzcut made the killer’s rage boil over.  His mind went back to the last time he’d seen the little fuck.

It had been two weeks ago—could it really have been that long?—and Rocko had been drunk.  He usually was these days; it helped release some of the pent-up anger that was corroding his homicidally aggressive soul.  The sex with Jeremy that night was been rough—really rough—but it wasn’t like the faggot didn’t deserve it.  Or want it, no matter how much it protested.

Rocko had gotten high afterwards, and that was where he’d made his mistake.  The combination of alcohol and marijuana had left him groggy.  In fact, he’d actually passed out at one point; he’d regained consciousness at the muffled, stealthy sound of the whoreboy trying to silently close a dresser drawer.

“Wha—” the escaped convict muttered thickly.

“I’m leaving, Rocko,” the boy said.  “I can’t do this anymore.  You hurt me, man, you hurt me too many times.  You scare me, dude.  When we met, I thought…” Jeremy’s voice trailed off as he stifled a sob.

Raising his head, Rocko noticed for the first time that the homo’s smooth young face was streaked with tears and sported an impressive shiner.  The muscle-bound sadist hadn’t remembered doing that—which was disappointing.  Looked like it’d been fun as all fuck.  He also noticed that the eighteen-year-old whore was carrying the backpack in which he’d toted his meagre collection of clothing when he’d first moved in with Rocko.

“Don’t try to stop me. Rocko,” Jeremy went on, “Don’t come after me.  Remember, I know who you are.  I know you’re a wanted man.  If I so much as think I see you, I’m calling the cops.  I mean it, bro.”

And with that, the teen rentboy walked out on him.

As the memory flowed through his mind, Rocko removed his hands from the steering wheel.  One had instinctively balled itself into a fist; he used the other to cradle it, desperately resisting the urge to punch out the car window.  As furious as he was, that would be stupid.  There was another, much more appropriate target for his rage and hatred.

No one ever walked out on Rocko.  And no one ever, ever threatened him—and got away with it.

And for Rocko, “getting away with it” was defined as surviving making the threat. 

There was a liter of Wild Turkey 101 riding shotgun.  He grabbed it by the neck and deftly opened it with the thumb and forefinger of the same hand that was holding it.  Taking a couple of hefty swigs, the muscled killer closed the bottle and climbed out of his car.   The moment the thick soles of his black leather harness boots hit the pavement, he dropped the booze back onto the driver’s seat and closed the car door—very, very quietly.

For a moment Rocko stood in the shadows by the motel room door.  It was a chilly night against which the hardbodied sadist’s jeans, as faded as they were tight, and size-too-small cotton wifebeater did little to protect.  Despite that, Rocko’s body, bedewed with sweat, glistened on the rare moments a stray beam from the sodium light that stood forty feet away, illuminating the entrance to the parking lot, fell upon his bare skin.  Anger and alcohol had combined to stoke the insatiable fires within.

He moved to the door and cautiously tried the knob.  He was able to open it a tiny bit—just a little, but enough to let him see that while the knob had been left unlocked, the chain was on the door.

Stupid little cunt, Rocko thought contemptuously, It needs this.  Fuck, it WANTS this.  It’s makin’ this way too easy for it not to want it.

He raised his boot and slammed it against the door.  The cheap wood screws used to secure the chain’s hardware gave way on the door end first; a doorstop screwed into the wall behind it halted the violent movement of the door itself.  Rocko stepped into the room with perfect timing, catching the door before it could bounce back and closing it swiftly but quietly behind himself.  Just as silently, he ensured that this time, the knob itself was locked—and the deadbolt.

The scene with which he was presented was one that made his most sadistic urges begin seething.

Jeremy had been lying on his back, smoking a joint, when Rocko burst in; he’d managed to get himself propped up on one elbow before he realized what was happening and had frozen in horror.

Something was exchanged between them, something best described as a mutual recognition of the realities of the situation.  Namely, that Jeremy was now locked into a room with a man who not only bore him a grudge, not only was an escaped felon, but was also a gay serial killer.

He’d thought he’d been pretty smart about that threat to rat Rocko out.  It wasn’t that he didn’t fear Rocko—the dude scared the living shit outta him—but in his teenaged naivety, he’d assumed it’d make him reconsider long enough for Jeremy to get several blocks away.  And after that, he’d assumed, Rocko would eventually forget about it…

But he hadn’t.  He was here, oh fuck he’s here…  And he was drunk.  Even from across the room, the sour smell of fermentation was evident.

Jeremy wasn’t aware of the slackening of his bladder—largely because he didn’t piss himself.  His dick was achingly—and bewilderingly—erect.  But this commanded such a small part of his attention at the moment that it was more or less ignored. He dropped his roach on the cheap, chemically-infused carpet, where it smoldered poisonously for a minute before going out

But from the moment Rocko’s dark eyes, the visual equivalent of the black hole’s irresistible gravitational tug, locked into those of the adolescent punk—glittering, cat-eye-green, and dilated in panic—one thing was known to both of them with utter, absolute certainty. 

Only one of them was gonna leave that room alive.

And that one wasn’t gonna be Jeremy.

“You worthless little sack of shit,” Rocko said, his calm and completely clear enunciation somehow more terrifying than if he’d blurted the words out in a drunken slur.  Because he was drunk; that was obvious.  His inhibitions were lowered and the inner rage that seethed beneath his surface like magma was starting to erupt.

Except it wasn’t exploding like a volcano.  It had narrowed its focus with the intensity of a laser onto one thing, and one thing only.

And that thing was making the fuckmeat understand that Rocko owned it—and making sure the understanding lasted for the rest of its life.

It was a form of instinct that made Jeremy rise from the bed; certainly, his conscious mind was too overwhelmed by shock to react with some sort of action.  From the point of view of the teenaged whore, everything seemed to have slowed down to quarter speed, especially himself.  There was a brief sense of déjà vu, disorienting, nauseating, and vaguely frightening—he’d experienced this before in a nightmare, this sense of slowly watching his own doom without being able to alter anything in the least.

So there was no surprise as Rocko’s arm flashed towards his face.  Jeremy couldn’t even react fast enough to flinch.  The surprise was the nothingness that hit him before he could actually process the pain of the blow; the only thing he knew before the lights went out was that he wasn’t dead—yet.

---

Pain.  Pain, and constriction, and…and binding.  Jeremy was hurt; his face ached abominably.  So did his hands and his wrists.  As the flutter of his long eyelashes betrayed his return to consciousness, he began to untangle the sensations of profound discomfort he was getting from his arms.

He was lying on his back with his arms twisted awkwardly behind him.  He jerked them almost reflexively only to confirm the feeling of being bound—his hands were tied at the wrist.  Had he not been so dazed by being punched in the head, he might have noticed how loose his combat boots now were and realized what had happened to the black nylon laces.

The adolescent’s lucidity was in no way helped once his eyes were fully open.  Looming over him was Rocko, now shirtless, the thick, meaty muscles of his arms writhing with prison tattoos of indistinct but menacing forms.  The dingy yellow shade of the bedside lamp washed the yellow out of the hardbodied killer’s strawberry-blond goatee and buzz-cut hair, leaving it looking almost copper.

But this was all familiar to Jeremy.   That furry chest, those powerful slabs of pure male muscle, yes; he knew it well.

That cock, that monstrous shaft of meat—oh fuck, he knew what that meant.  Rocko never got that hard with Jeremy unless he was planning to hurt him.

But Jeremy had never seen Rocko so excited that his gigantic tool throbbed visibly.  And then, to the boy’s horror, a large bead of precum, as transparent and glistening as a dewdrop appeared in the center of the massive head.

The punk jerked his head up, only to catch Rocko’s malevolent grin.  The latter was holding up an object, the domestic nature of which was so discordant with Jeremy’s terror-inducing reality, that it took him a few seconds to realize that Rocko was holding an ordinary electric steam iron.

Jeremy hadn’t given the thing a second thought when he’d gotten the room.  He was no stranger to this hotel; he’d been fucked in nearly every room here.  The place occasionally got raided by Vice or the drug squad.  In a rather pathetic attempt to make it look like he ran a respectable, family-friendly establishment, the owner had added amenities like coffee makers, irons, and hair dryers to the rooms. 

None of the items matched and it was well-known that the owner expected to suffer a certain amount of pilfering from his clientele.  Every “amenity” he supplied was gotten for pennies from the local pawn shops, largely as forfeited pledges that turned out to be non-functional.  To Jeremy, these things were simply more of the background squalor in which he wasted his short life.

But now, with the way Rocko was holding the iron in one hand while wrapping the cord around the other, grinning down at him, the helpless teen slut realized that if anyone could make anything into a weapon, that dude was Rocko.

“Hey, bro, glad to see yer awake again,” the sadistic felon said.  “I been waitin’ for ya, motherfucker.  See, you gotta learn, faggot.  Now, how ya gonna learn—really, really learn—if yer fuckin’ asleep, huh?”

Rocko’s cruel glee had become almost physically painful.  And it only got worse.

“You gotta learn what happens to fuckmeat that thinks it ain’t mine.  That’s some bad thinkin’, boy.  That means yer brains ain’t workin’ right.”

Here he knelt down and delivered a knockout blow to the kid’s psyche that was every bit as devastating and much more vicious than the physical punch had been.  Rocko kissed Jeremy, deeply, forcefully, his muscular tongue probing the teenager’s esophagus and leaving behind the smoky residue of straight bourbon.  As Jeremy shuddered, his agile young hormone-filled body instinctively reacting to the older man’s powerful cocktail of pheromones, testosterone, and adrenaline, Rocko lowered his head, his five-days-worth of unshaven scruff rasping against the homo’s smooth boyish cheek, until his mouth reached the level of Jeremy’s ear.

“Don’t worry, fuckmeat,” Rocko whispered tenderly, “I’m good at resettin’ faggot brains.  I reset ‘em so good, they don’t ever forget who they belong to.  Ever.  Ya feelin’ me, my dude?  Ever.”

After that, it wasn’t a fair fight.  The experienced alpha fagkiller had established his dominance right away and the young scumshit pansy wasted half its energy fighting its own terror.  More than that, though—Rocko established physical control as well.  Even as Jeremy’s lean but muscular body went rigid in instinctual anticipation of pain, Rocko leaned forward and wrapped the cord of the steam iron around the adolescent’s neck.

For the next hundred and twenty seconds, the teenaged whore struggled harder and more desperately than it ever had in its short, useless life.  The physical and psychological impacts of being strangled to death combined with Rocko’s terrifying hate/lust to spin the punk into a mindless panic.

Rocko was grasping the iron itself in one hand and the plug on the other; he’d simply looped the cord once around the meat’s neck and pulled it as tight as he could.  As his thick, manly biceps bulged with the frightening force of his psychotic anger, the cord itself gave way, tearing free of the iron.

The free end of the cord whipped around the kid’s neck, releasing the pressure on his esophagus, but flaying the skin from around his throat.  No major blood vessels were damaged, but that didn’t stop pinpricks of blood from welling up inside the quarter-inch band of raw flesh that encircled the fucker’s neck.

Now able to inhale, Jeremy came back to himself.  Now that the black vortex of abject terror had momentarily subsided, he could acutely feel all the damage done to his throat, both inside and out.  Even before the overwhelming pounding had faded from his foggy mind, he was aware—and somehow humiliated by the fact—that his thick boycock was erect and pulsing, despite everything that was happening to him.

Rocko was aware of it, too.  His laughter was raucous and cruel.  “Goddam, fuckface!  I knew—I fuckin’ knew—you were just like every other faggot I done run across.  You don’t just know ya need to die—ya want it.  Yer gonna say ya don’t an’ yer gonna try to fight me, but deep down, you know you need to die on my cock.”

With a grin that dripped pure sadistic malice, Rocko kept his icy gaze locked onto that of the fuckmeat’s as he reached down and slid his zipper down.  The traffic noise outside the sleazy motel room had died down for the moment; the unmeshing of the metal teeth could clearly be heard over the teen whore’s ragged breathing.  The meat should’ve known what was coming, but even as Rocko began probing its fuckhole with his dick, it seemed to be frozen, as if struck into silent contemplation by the escaped killer’s words.

This lack of concern didn’t last long.  As reamed-out as the teen rentboy’s ass was, Rocko’s hate-inflamed member was truly monstrous, even more menacing than it had been when they’d first met.  And this time, the muscle-bound sex murderer went in fast, hard, and dry.  Before the young homo knew what had happened to it, its sphincter had been torn and the lining of its rectum split in multiple places.  Even as Rocko’s enormous rod ground over its prostate, keeping the pansy fully erect, it was shrieking in agony.

“Shaddup, motherfucker,” Rocko grunted unsympathetically, “Yer pissin’ me off!”

The adolescent whore would have gladly shut up if it could’ve.  It had no idea pain like this could exist.  It was like being fucked by a dildo made of razor-sharp glass shards.  It continued to scream like a bitch.  And while the sound of the teenaged faggot sluit getting exactly what it had coming to it was hot as all fuck, Rocko knew he had to keep it quiet to prevent it from attracting attention.

While pumping its asshole remorselessly, the hairy, hardbodied killer reached down and grabbed the waistband of the homo’s jockstrap.  With a single upwards jerk, he tore it off the meat, snapping all the elastic bands simultaneously.  As the thrashing boywhore opened its mouth and inhaled for another scream, Rocko jammed its cum-stiffened jock as far down its throat as he could.  It was still breathing, but at least it was quieter.

And yet, bewilderingly, its own dick was not only still hard—it was leaking precum.  And no matter how nightmarish the agony it was enduring, the fuckmeat somehow maintained an awareness of what its shaft was doing.

Even after Rocko clamped his powerful hands around the faggot’s neck and started squeezing it with the inexorable relentlessness of a steel vise.

Once again, the meat struggled as an instinctual reaction to the cessation of oxygen.  This time, though, the desperate panic of its prior thrashing bore fruit; the bootlaces binding its wrists had stretched slightly—just enough for it to work its hands free.  It immediately began clawing at Rocko’s face.

The killer’s response was to sink the full weight of his bulging muscles down onto his prey, forcing it to first spread its legs, then wrap them around Rocko’s waist, the smooth firm flesh of its inner thighs pressing forcefully against the convict’s thrusting, sweat-slick flanks.

The unlucky homo could feel its tongue swell in its mouth from the constriction on its trachea.  As the pressure inside its head began to build, its eyes bulged, locking its stare onto its own boots, kicking in midair beyond Rocko’s heaving shoulders.  There was a ball of fire burning in its chest, just up under its breastbone, which seemed to be trying to eat its way out.

But most of all, there was the dick in its ass, that gigantic tool wreathed in veins and powered by an inexorable hate. 

The street whore was young.  In a pathetic sense, it could be called innocent, in that it had no concept that the pain still in store for it could even exist—but it wasn’t too innocent to know what was happening to it.

It had heard whispers in the circles in which it ran.  One day an acquaintance—not a friend, it had no friends—would stop showing up, and there would be stories.

But this young faggot had thought itself too smart to fall into a trap like that.  It still didn’t truly believe it, even though it was obvious that as far as the trap was concerned, it somewhat less intelligent than the average rat.  It was all just a nightmare, just like its own cock.  Its own treacherous, traitorous cock, erect and throbbing as it was continuously massaged by the friction and pressure generated from two male bodies locked together in an erotically violent and desperate embrace.

It was about to become unimaginably more violent.  The whore’s clawing hadn’t slackened in the least, and it was pissing Rocko off.

“Goddammit, ya stupid motherfucker,” he snarled into the adolescent boy’s tearstained face, already dark and bloated with congested blood, “You must either really fuckin’ love pain, or yer just too dumb to shut up and take whatcha got comin’, ya worthless faggot cunt!”

Straightening his left arm, Rocko pressed down on it with all his might, forcing the fuckmeat’s neck deeply into the mattress, the depression causing a deep, smooth curve to form in the yellowed, rough sheet.  In this position, he was able to keep choking his bitch to death while freeing up his right arm to use.

And use it he did.

Four blows to the mouth, dealt with the speed and force of a jackhammer. 

After the second, the meat felt both its lips split and warm blood trickle across its face, and maybe a quiver in its worthless homo cock

After the third, it felt three of its teeth being ground against the inside of its mouth by its relentlessly swelling tongue, and a definite throb in its aroused member.

After the fourth, when its jaw shattered, the bewildered piece of boymeat knew—down in some deep, sick, heretofore-unknown corner of its psyche, it knew—that it was leaking precum.

It was past trying to interpret any of it, though.  It was quickly approaching the point at which it would be past anything and everything.

Rocko’s “tough love” discipline had worked wonders, as far as he was concerned.  The scumshit had stopped trying to resist its only real reason for existing.  The sadistic killer knew that the solitary purpose for the faggot’s presence on the planet was to milk the cum out of his thick tackle as it died like the garbage it was.  

If it’d have stuck around, he’d have offed it in a day or two anyway.  That was why he was so pissed now; he’d had to wait a long time—way too long—to make the cocksuckin’ pansy suffer the way it needed.  The way it had to suffer.

By now the kid was in a mindless panic.  Its shattered jaw sagged, allowing its swelling tongue to slowly push the jockstrap out of its mouth.  As the sodden fabric tumbled down the cunt’s cheek, it was immediately followed by a foamy white trickle of spittle that had been bottled up.  The adolescent drooled like a rabid dog as it died.

“Aw yeah, take it, bitch!” Rocko barked, “Yeah, fuckin’ love this shit!!”

The hairy serial killer could feel that old familiar sensation rising from his potent, seed-filled sack.  He knew he needed to spew soon—and that meant it was time for the meat to fulfill its highest and best use.

“Almost done with ya, motherfucker,” he grunted viscerally, “It’s all over, ya stupid faggot.  Ain’t no one gonna miss ya or care what happened; ya know that, dontcha?”

Deep down inside, the writhing, dying piece of teen boymeat once known as Jeremy, likely had known that in the last few terrifying seconds of its utterly worthless existence, but the part of its brain that held that information was now dead.  It could hear—barely, over the once rapid but now staccato pulse pounding in its ears, but the ability to understand was almost completely gone.  It couldn’t see; the black blossoms that exploded like fireworks before its swollen, hemorrhaging eyes had utterly obscured its field of vision.

What it still could do—unluckily for it—was feel.  And it still felt everything happening to it.  In fact, just before its nervous system collapsed, its nerve endings became hyper-sensitive.

So when Rocko punched it in the throat hard enough to crush its larynx and collapse its trachea, it could feel the way its airway had been blocked by a mangled mass of bloody cartilage in absolutely excruciating detail.

“Aw, fuck YEAH!” Rocko bellowed as an immediate involuntary reaction made the meat go rigid on his cock.  Unconsciously, the adolescent whore clutched the sadistic sex killer in a desperate embrace as its limbs tightened around him reflexively, its arms clutching his shoulders as its legs pressed firmly against Rocko’s sides.

Wrapping his mighty paws around the teenager’s throat the buff, inked convict began to literally wring its throat, agonizingly grinding the whore’s trachea to splinters of cartilage and shreds of tissue.  As he did, the mindless fuckmeat convulsed powerfully, its smooth, flat belly rubbing against Rocko’s ripped abs, his wiry belly fur abrading the punk’s dick like steel wool.

It was too much.  It was too much.  Whatever the worthless teenaged slut had been looking for, whether emotionally or sexually, its brutal, agonizing beating, rape, and strangulation satisfied its disgusting pig soul to the point that it had an orgasm.

But that’s not entirely accurate.  To describe the final sensations that the Jeremy-meat experienced in its last few seconds as Jeremy as an orgasm would be similar to comparing an A-bomb to an H-bomb—while the impact might appear the same at first, the sheer magnitude had been exponentially increased.

In other words, the smooth, lithe rentboy’s hormone-fueled genitals expelled nearly a full pint of semen as the two male bodies clamped together in an elemental, deeply masculine embrace of pain, cum, and death.  But there was more to come—or, rather, more to cum.

Next up was Rocko.  Triggered not only by the massaging of his pulsing, oozing cock by the faggot’s death throes but by his overwhelming sense of dominance and righteousness in putting the homo whore down like the diseased animal it was, he emitted a loud, enraged grunt and began pounding to fuckmeat’s face.

“Take it, motherfucker!” he screamed, momentarily forgetting his concerns about being overheard outside the room.  “Take it all, ya worthless sack a’ shit!  Work my cum out, scumshit!  Get it! Get it as ya die! Get it—ahhAGGGH!!!!”

And the very last thing that eighteen-year-old Jeremy, a high-school dropout originally from Des Moines, Iowa, experienced in his short and completely useless life, was Rocko’s seething, potent manseed flooding his rectum and duodenum.  One last burst of warmth should have been a comforting spar to cling to as he was swept into the icy darkness of death, but his oversensitive nervous system, as part of its last function moment, let him die with the sensation of having molten lead poured into his asshole.

And then that was it, really and truly.  But Rocko wasn’t done; his balls were by no means drained.  And neither was the corpse; just because it was dead didn’t mean it wasn’t fuckable—and the postmortem convulsions were sometimes even better…

And this time they were.  Rocko collapsed onto the shuddering body; crying out inarticulately, he came again and again inside its dead asshole, slamming his fist into its face with almost every thrust.

By the time he had shot his last load and lay gasping and quivering, almost helpless, the meat’s countenance was beyond unrecognizable.  Everything between the hairline and the chin, and between the ears, looked exactly like fine-ground hamburger.

After about five minutes, the meat’s last few firing synapses had slowed to the point that even Rocko’s hyper-engorged manmeat was no longer stimulated.  Reluctantly, he pulled out, his massive mushroom-shaped head ripping out with a pop and bobbing in the air for a moment as a last few pearly orbs of his spunk dripped thickly on to the dead boy’s down-covered buttcheek.

Rocko stood up.  His body was still glistening with sweat, but his breathing was under control.  He looked down at the corpse.  It still wasn’t quite still; a limb or digit twitched roughly, about every thirty seconds or so.

“You deserved that, faggot,” Rocko whispered.  “You needed it.  Hell, you fuckin’ wanted it.”

And with that he headed to the bathroom.

Later, after having showered and redressed, he left the motel room.  He paused in the doorway and turned back.

The teenaged fag had been left splayed on its back on the bed, blood and cum leaking from its shredded asshole.  Its body still gleamed with the cold sweat forced from it in its mortal agony.   Little above the shoulders could be positively recognized as human by sight.

Then Rocko noticed something he hadn’t before—as it died, the cunt had kicked off both its boots.  One had landed on the floor a few feet away, but the other had landed on the nightstand—how had he missed that?  It must have been while he was spunking…

At any rate, Rocko now grinned in malevolent pride as he looked down on a corpse that had not only died fucked so hard that its toes curled, but that rigor mortis seemed to be setting in.  Everyone involved would see how much the cocksucking pansy enjoyed its own death.

After ensuring the door locked behind him, Rocko dropped himself into the driver’s seat of his old Ford and took half a dozen swigs from his bottle of Wild Turkey.  His dick began to swell almost automatically.  Hell, the bottle wasn’t even half-empty yet.  And it was only three in the morning; he knew of some illegal after-hour fag clubs. 

And he needed new meat.

---

Jeremey’s death did have an impact—but not much.  A maid found the body the next day.  The manager called the police, but both were so accustomed to finding dead whores of both sexes on the property that little fuss was raised.

Jeremy was finally identified by DNA but by that time, his parents, who were Baptist missionaries, had been killed in a plane crash in South America.

The teen whore was interred as a pauper in an unmarked grave.  Rocko had been right—no one would care that he was dead.

Friday night—it was time to party.  It was time to hang out with friends, to relax, to enjoy the end of the work week.

It was time for another fag to die.

Jake had pulled over to the curb twenty minutes earlier.  It was a hot night, but he’d shut off the engine of his big Ford pickup and was sitting in the darkness, a thin sheen of sweat coating his taut, muscled body.  He sat as still as a hunter with prey in his sights, and that’s exactly what he was.

The whore was halfway up the block.

He’d spotted it while he was driving by and had circled the block, switching off his headlights before he made the final turn.  He wanted to take a good look at the potential fuckmeat.

It was young—no older than twenty.  Maybe not even that; it was clearly a street whore that hadn’t even risen to the level of being a rentboy escort.  That kinda life can age a faggot, Jake knew, so it was likely younger than it looked.

The cunt had a decent body but was a little short—no more than five feet six or seven.  Its long, tousled black hair had a slight curl to it.  He noted its dress with a certain ironical amusement.  In many respects, its outfit was similar to his own.  They were both wearing wifebeaters, but where Jake’s was white, the whore’s was black.  Both had jeans on, but Jake’s, while old and torn in spots, were mostly intact.  The fuckboy had converted its jeans into shorts, cutting off the legs so high up the thigh that an inch and a half of swollen boycock peeked out from the ragged edge.  And both wore boots; Jake still in his knee-high lineman’s boots from his job.  The slut sported glossy black leather combat boots. 

It was looking for dick; the way it held itself and the way it leered lewdly as every car that slowed down while driving by made its intentions obvious.  At one point a car crawled nearly to a stop in front of it and for a moment Jake thought he’d lost his prey.  Just then, a police car turned the corner behind him.  Jake slouched down in his truck, the other car sped off, and the human fucktoy slipped back into the shadows of an alley.  The patrol car followed the other vehicle down the street and out of sight.

The timing was perfect.  The street was empty.  Jake started his truck up and moved slowly down to the streetlight, where the little cocksucker had reemerged.   

He edged over to the curb; the boywhore approached immediately, with an air of eagerness—for money.  Once it saw Jake’s hard, handsome face, though, its eyes lit up with lust.  There was no doubt about it—it was a worthless homo.  He could off it and no one would give a shit.

That was good.  He wanted it to die on his dick.

“Name’s Cliff.  Whatcha lookin’ for?” the cunt asked openly.

“Just a quick fuck,” Jake replied.

“Gettin’ or givin’?” it queried.

Jake snorted.  “I ain’t no bottom.”  Inwardly, he raged at the rentboy’s presumptuous faggotry.  Once he had it in his control, it’d learn its mistake—but not until then.  Street whores were notoriously skittish, and he didn’t want this one to get away.  It needed to be snuffed in the worst possible way.

“It’s a hundred an hour for that,” it responded.

The unmitigated gall.  Fucking slut wasn’t worth even a quarter of that—but it didn’t matter.  Jake merely grinned.  “That’ll work.”

Perhaps he agreed too readily; the whore was suddenly wary.  “You got the cash?” it asked, “Show me.”

“Shit, man, I got paid today,” Jake said, trying to keep the anger from showing in his face as he dug out his wallet and showed the cunt that it was full of twenties.  It worked, though; the whore relaxed visibly and opened the door of the pickup.

“Excellent,” the faggot said as it settled into the passenger seat. “Go up the road here and turn right at the light.  There’s a motel about three blocks down.  I gotta room there.  It’s cool; they know me.  I’m in there a lot.”  Jake glanced over at the cocksucker; the info didn’t surprise him at all.  Homo had probably gulped down gallons of cum in the place.

That was gonna all end tonight.  One last load and it was lights out for the cunt.  Jake managed to get the evil smirk off his face before he pulled into the motel parking lot.

The office was surrounded by floodlights; Jake avoided it without thinking—almost a form of predatory instinct.  As he pulled to the far end of the dilapidated, single-story building, the whore nodded in approval.

“Good,” it said, “My room is this end one.  Just cause the night clerk knows me don’t mean I don’t try to keep shit on the DL, y’know?”

Jake knew.  He also knew that by the time he was done with this little fucker, there wasn’t any way of keeping the place off the radar of the police or anyone else in town.  He was gonna make it famous, if not downright notorious.

The punk hopped out of the truck as soon as the engine was shut off and led the way towards the door.  The crumbled asphalt of the parking lot crunched under its combat boots, only to be drowned out by the heavier tread of Jake’s knee-high black leather lineman’s boots.  It tried to open the door but had difficulty, fumbling with the lock.

“Whatsa matter—ya don’t want this dick?” Jake said sneeringly.  Just then, the little cumsucker managed to get the door open.

The room was small and irregularly shaped.  In a niche to one side, completely out of view from the bed, was a decrepit stand with a small TV on top of which was a cheap coffee maker; next to it was an open door that revealed a surprisingly large closet, given the size of the room.  Across from this was a desk/dresser combo unit that appeared to be bolted to the wall.  It was accompanied by a single armless desk chair with a metal frame; the seat and back were a solid unit of plastic.

Next to the entrance door was a window covered with thick, dirty curtains in a pattern that hadn’t been popular for more than thirty years.  Opposite the window was the queen-sized bed—easily the largest thing in the room, it was so big that the single tiny nightstand with its lamp and clock barely had room to fit in the corner.

The whore headed towards the bathroom door on the far wall.  “Gotta do somethin’ real quick,” it said, leering at Jake with its bloodshot brown eyes.  Jake heard its footsteps on the tile floor, then the sound of a lighter.  Swiftly and silently, Jake locked the room door behind him.  At some point, a keyless deadbolt had been added; he locked that, too.  He wanted no interruptions while he was putting the fag down like the dog it was.

As he did so, a harsh chemical smell filled the room, as if someone had spilled of bottle of cleaning solvent.  Jake recognized it right away; the homo was smoking meth in the bathroom.

A shark-like grin spread across his face as him massive cock throbbed in his jeans at this confirmation of his plans.  He could do whatever he wanted to the motherfucker.  No one was gonna give a shit if there was one less fagot methhead whore in the world.  And they damn sure weren’t gonna care how much it suffered as it was taken out.

The boy emerged from the bathroom, already sweating and twitching.  It had already stripped off its shirt and shorts; it still sported its combat boots, but they were loose and unlaced.  It’s boycock wasn’t thick, but it was nearly seven inches long and pulsing.  It approached Jake, its gaze fixed on his bulging crotch with a pathetic eagerness that filled the sadistic alpha with disgust.

It also filled him with a sense of his own power.  With an even broader grin, he reached down and pulled off his own shirt, revealing his sculpted, powerful abs, covered with fur.  The cunt was distracted enough to stare at Jake’s chest while the stud unzipped his fly and hauled out his enormous hog.

Seeing it, the fag’s mouth gaped with pleasure and anticipation.  “Oh fuck, man,” it moaned like a bitch in heat, “I want that in me so fuckin’ bad!”

“And that’s just what yer gonna get,” Jake chuckled, “So fuckin’ bad—when you’ve earned it.  Get over here and start workin’ on my nipples, asswipe.  You ain’t getting’ the D till ya deserve it.”  

It approached slowly, almost as if it was in awe, but the moment its lips touched Jake’s chest, the alpha’s disappointment began.  The cunt’s tongue worked his nipples, all right—in the mechanical, almost lackadaisical manner of a whore bored with its job, only in it for the money.

Jake, already filled with hate for the money-grubbing cocksucker, felt his anger rise within him.  But the inner rage triggered a bloodlust that made his huge member twitch and swell even more.  The rentboy, feeling the response, was sure that its actions were pleasing to the hot muscled stud.

It would learn its mistake soon enough—but not so soon as to avoid the consequences.

“Awright, enough,” Jake growled.  “Work my cock, faggot.  And do it right.”

The fuckboy scrambled to its knees and guzzled the hardbodied stud’s swollen, throbbing shaft like a pig gobbling its swill.  It certainly acted eager enough, but once again, Jake was far from impressed with its skills.  More, he couldn’t believe that it dared to demand money for them.

“You piece of utter shit,” he said in a calm cold manner the froze the slut’s blood in a way that screaming the same words wouldn’t have done, “You worthless fucking cocksucker.”

The teen fuckmeat had been on the streets long enough to know trouble when it heard Jake speak, but not long enough to develop the quick reflexes needed to survive.  It hadn’t braced itself fully when Jake clamped his hand in a vise-like grip around the back of its head and thrust forward, completely blocking its trachea with his engorged rod.

“Mmmmmph!” it tried to protest, then the conscious realization that it couldn’t breathe kicked in.  “Mmmmmmph!  Mmmph!  MMMMMPH!!!”

It eyes watered and its face darkened as it tried shoving Jake’s rock-hard, denim-clad legs away.  Realizing the futility of its actions, it was reduced to beating its fists helplessly against the sadist’s thighs.

While it was busily occupied choking on his dick, Jake slowly reached his free hand around and into his back pocket.  Stealthily, he retrieved a metallic object, a surprise he wanted to spring on the useless little homo gagging in his crotch.  If it looked up, the sheer malignancy of Jake’s grin might’ve made it piss itself.

But it didn’t look up.  And even if it had, it still wouldn’t have been able to see the brass knuckles the buff sex killer had slipped onto his hand.

Finally, Jake released the slut.  It popped off his cock like a champagne cork coming out of a bottle, gagging and drooling, trying desperately not to retch.  As it smeared away the streamer of saliva dangling from its lower lip with the back of its hand, it glared up at Jake, initially too upset to notice the alpha’s look of sadistic glee.

“Wha-what the fu-fuck ya tryna d-do?” it gasped, doing its best to speak without coughing, “Ya tryna choke me to death?”

“Not yet, motherfucker—not yet,” Jake hissed.  This time, something in his tone caught the rentboy’s attention.  It peered up, scanning Jake’s face attentively.  So attentively, in fact, that it never saw his arm swing.

The impact was unbelievable, almost literally.  The next thing the whore knew, it was on the floor, halfway across the room.  There were solid objects in its mouth and a pain as if it’d been hit in the jaw with a baseball bat.  This latter feeling was validated when it spit out the things in its mouth—which turned out to be three of its own teeth.

“Wha—” it croaked, looking at Jake in stunned disbelief.  It noticed the metallic glint of the brass knuckles on his right hand but was too dazed to follow the revelation to a logical conclusion.

“You—” it started, then paused to spit out blood, “You hit me!”

“Ya think, ya fuckin’ dumbass?” Jake sneered.  “That’s just foreplay, bitch.  By the time I’m done hurtin’ ya, death is gonna feel so good you’ll cum when I waste ya.”

The punk was still jittery and sweaty from the meth.  This sudden intimation of torture and murder accelerate its heartbeat to the point that Jake could see its pulse pounding like a hummingbird’s in its carotid artery.  He moved closer, his heavy lineman’s boots leaving deep impressions in the carpet, despite its thinness.

The cocksucker paled.  Like most of its kind, it had been aware that such things happened—but they always happened to someone else.  Not him.  He was too smart to fall into that kinda trap. 

And now that he had, he was too smart to die in it.  Not him.  He would get out, he would survive.

He would continue to deny reality until the final few seconds of his worthless life.  But he’d be utterly unable to deny the agony.  There was no escaping that—and Jake knew it.

Ruthlessly, he strode forward.  Grabbing a hank of the kid’s hair, he ruthlessly dragged it to its feet.  When he let it go, it swayed, as if it was not going to remain standing for long.  That was ok, though; he didn’t need it to stand long.  Just a few seconds would be enough to hit the target.

Hit it he did, the brass knuckles plowing into the cunt’s solar plexus like a runaway semi.

The fuckmeat curled forward, folding up like a fan.  Just as it seemed about to collapse to its knees, Jake’s right boot lashed out, the steel-reinforced toe making contact with the thick boycock dangling between the fag’s legs.  The kick had enough power to knock the boy back into the TV.  TV, stand, coffee maker, and whore all fell to the floor with a resounding crash.  The glass coffee pot shattered on the homo’s head; within seconds, tiny trickles of blood started leaking from numerous small lacerations across its face.

This time, it did puke.  In a fetal position, it vomited a thick white foam, redolent of alcohol.  Jake gave it a cheery smile.

“Don’t know whatcha been drinkin’, bro,” he smirked, “But better out than in, haw!”

Again, he approached the prone youth, slowly and menacingly.  This time, the kid was in too much pain to notice.  Its field of vision, blurred with tears, was filled with the muscle-bound stud’s leather boots, the knee-high laces laddering out of its sight. When one of the boots drew back, the whoreboy knew that it was going to be kicked again, but that knowledge did not lead to any emotional reaction.  Its psyche was too busy trying to process what it had already endured to attempt to prepare itself for any new onslaught.

And in any case, it would have been unable to prepare itself for the brutal attack that came next.  Jake kicked it hard and fast, landing a dozen direct blows within fifteen seconds.  Each time his boot made contact with the teen’s lithe, lean body, it snapped a rib or an ulna, punctured a lung, tore the liver, spleen, or intestines. The bitch rolled and wallowed on the floor, emitting a high-pitch squeal like the pig it was.  Its feet kicked and flailed, its combat boots scraping on the carpet.

Standing over it, Jake took off his brass knuckles and tossed them clattering onto the table.  Standing over the writhing boytoy, he spit on it.  “Fuck you,” he jeered, “I don’t need no help to make the likes of you suffer.  I can do it with my bare hands.”

The meat reached out, one hand grasping at Jake’s booted foot, tentatively at first, then with a firmness born of desperation.  It turned its swollen and bruised face up to the alpha, its expression one of utter misery.

Jake knew better, though.  It needed this.  Fuck, it knew it needed this.  Suffering completed faggots.  They craved it, knowing that the only expiation for their worthless existence was through pain and terror.

And in the end, no matter how much they screamed and struggled, they always blew a wad in the end.  Whatever their mouths said, their homo bodies knew the truth and their fag cocks responded.

So Jake only smirked when the teen boywhore grabbed his boot.  Quickly shaking the punk’s hand off, he stepped on it, grinding his thick heel in.  He could barely hear the faint, twig-like snapping of the cunt’s fingers over its pathetic mewling, but it was enough to make his engorged shaft ooze precum.

“Does it hurt, fuckwad?” Jake asked, his deep, masculine voice smooth as silk.  “Yeah?  Ya like that shit, dontcha?  Yer sick little queer-ass soul knows how much you deserve this. Well, don’t worry, cocksucker, we’re only getting’ started.”

He bent down and grabbed a fistful of the kid’s hair with one hand, wrapping the other around its neck.  Using them as handles, he pressed the fuckmeat back against the wall, then lifted it upwards, its back sliding up the thin sheetrock.  It clawed at Jake’s iron-hard grip on its throat—its good hand did, anyway; the other flailed uselessly in the air—as he lifted it off the ground and it started to choke.

Jake leaned in close, his hard, handsome face illuminated by an almost satanic look of malignant triumph.  “You wanted my load, right, faggot?” he whispered, “Here’s your chance to get it.  I’m gonna make you milk it outta me.”

Here his hand clenched even tighter; the pansy grimaced, its tongue momentarily protruding as the crushing pressure on its esophagus increased sharply.  “Wanna know how I’m gonna do that?” the alpha hissed. “I’ll give ya a hint—its gonna hurt like all fuck, hah!”

Things happened very quickly after that.  The whore barely had time to realize it was flying across the room before it wasn’t anymore; it had smashed into the nightstand with such force its body caved in the wall, leaving a slut-shaped hole in the sheetrock.  As the boy bounced back onto the bed, the bedside lamp—still functional despite being knocked to the floor with a crushed lampshade—thew lurid, phantasmic shadows on the opposite wall.

The whore rolled onto its side.  It didn’t have the mental fortitude to watch the slow, ominous approach of its killer—and yet, seeing his grotesquely towering shadow projected onto the wall in front of its eyes didn’t help.  It pissed itself.

Jake had enough experience as a serial killer to recognize what the acrid scent that suddenly flooded his nostrils was.  With a single deft move, he jerked the urine-soaked blanket and sheet off the bed, tossing them to the floor.  He’d acted quickly enough to avoid any of it seeping down to the fitted sheet.

The muscled sadist bent over.  Gasping the meat’s shoulder, he roughly flipped it onto its back.  “Ready to die, motherfucker?” he chuckled, his furry chest glistening with sweat and his stallion-sized cock visibly pulsating, “Cause I wanna unload this thick wad of spunk that’s boilin’ over in my balls, bitch.  You gotta die on my dick for that to happen; ya feelin’ me, faggot?  But not yet.  You ain’t suffered enough yet—”

Here the hard-bodied lineman stud bent over the battered body of his teenage fucktoy and stared straight into its terrified, bewildered eyes.

“—and trust me, you worthless piece of faggot shit, you’ll be fuckin’ beggin’ for death before I’m done.  When you finally die, it’ll feel so good you’ll cum.  I promise.  I fuckin’ promise.”

He sat back and, placing his hands on the whore’s smooth thighs, parted its legs.  “After all,” Jake added conversationally, “They always do.  Ain’t like this is my first rodeo.”

As the homicidal lineman positioned himself between his victim’s legs, he begin unbuckling his belt with a menacing air.  At last, some part of the whore’s innate warning system went off; it had heard things about other sluts being beaten with belts by dangerous johns.  Needless to say, it was a case of too little, too late; all the rentboy’s delayed red flag did was increase its abject terror. 

But Jake merely removed his belt and laid it beside the teen’s firm lean bruised body.  Leaning over the unfortunate youth, he held up his right hand, balled into a fist.  The rentboy experienced a pang of fear far greater than anything it had felt before.  That fist—it looked like a mallet, it looked like fucking Mjolnir (about which he’d learned from the movies)—would destroy him.  This amazingly hot stud—there was still enough of the cockpig left to appreciate its killer’s physique—was not only capable of beating it to death but was eager to do so.

Somewhere in the very back of its semen-craving homo soul, there was an involuntary response.

“You know,” Jake said insinuatingly, his eyes glowing hypnotically, “This is the best thing that could happen to you.  You need to die in nightmarish agony.  You fuckin’ want this, yeah?  This is what you were meant for from the moment you entered this world.  You’ve always been a piece of faggot shit.  I can tell that shit by yer fuckin’ cock, dickhead.”

He reared up on his knees, brandishing his enormous member in his hand like a lethal weapon, which it was.  “Your highest and best use,” he said, smirking into the teen’s face, “Remember that.  As bad as it hurts, as scared as you get—this is your highest and best use.  You’re not good enough for anything else.”

Then he speared the homo, his massive, precum-lubed shaft piercing the kid’s fuckhole like a javelin, tearing its way through the adolescent’s sphincter as easily as if it had razor-sharp blades.  And that’s exactly what it felt like to the punk.

It damn sure wasn’t a virgin, but the length and girth of Jake’s tool was more than anything it had ever taken before.  It was too much.  It opened its mouth to scream—

—and then Jake closed its mouth for it.  His huge fist came rocketing out of seeming nowhere and smashed into the punk’s jaw just before it could vocalize its pain.  It grunted, a deep, visceral, involuntary noise as its entire body jerked under the brutal impact.

“Aw, fuck yeah!!” Jake howled in savage ecstasy, “Bro, I felt that all the way down to the root of my dick!  Goddam, we gotta do that again!  You ready, motherfucker?”

The fuckboy coughed and spat up two more of its teeth.  That was the only response it had time for before another merciless punch plowed into it so hard that the lower jaw broke with an audible snap.

“AAAAGGGGFFHHH!!” the cunt spat out, utterly inarticulate in its misery.

“That’s it, faggot, just like that,” Jake said, his voice almost seductive. “Show me.  Show me how much it hurts.”  He stared deep into the teen’s hazel eyes, the long lashes bedewed with tears, and could see fear and confusion in equal parts.

“You got only one way outta this, fucker.  Ya get me?  One way—that’s death.”  As he spoke, he continued to plow his long thick tackle relentlessly up the boy’s agonizingly torn rectum; each time his swollen hog ground its way over the meat’s prostate, the fag’s dick pulsed and oozed, despite the pain.

“And I ain’t gonna kill ya till I’m done with ya,” Jake continued, digging the toes of his lineman boots into the bed to get better traction for fucking the stupid rentboy in the guts, “You hear me, ya homo piece a’ shit?  I’m gonna use you so hard, you ain’t gonna be no use to no one after I’m done.”

He leaned over, laying the full weight of his hairy muscular body on top of the adolescent, pinning its smooth, sweat-lubed form, writhing helplessly, beneath him.  He continued to whisper lovingly to the teen whoreboy, enjoying the mindfuck as much as the literal assrape.  “You’re gonna be begging to die before I’m done with ya.  But you already know that, dontcha?  Good.  That’s good.  Cause, ya see, the only way for you to earn that death yer gonna want so bad it to milk it outta my cock.”

He bent even further, his cruel erotic face filling the street whore’s field of vision.  The punk was barely clinging to lucidity; it took a few seconds for the sensation of contact—and then pressure—on is throat to register in its brain.  But now, Jake’s manner changed.  The evil alpha was back, not that it had ever truly been gone.

“You followin’ me, asswipe?” he hissed, his face contorting with a spasm of vicious sadism that drove home the force of his words with a profound impact.  “You want the pain to stop, you gotta earn it.  Remember that, faggot.  You gotta earn death.  Only way to do that is to make me cum—and the only way to do that is take as much pain as I can give you.”

“So here’s how your last few minutes on earth are gonna go down, dude,” Jake continued, returning back to his conversational tone.  “I’m gonna choke you to death.  I’m only gonna use one hand, cause I don’t need to use two to off a worthless fag like you.  That leaves this hand free.”  He held his right hand up, again balled into a solid mass of tremendous power potential. 

“They say it takes three minutes without oxygen for the brain to die,” the hardbodied alpha said.  “It doesn’t.  Healthy young kid like you?  It’s gonna be closer to five minutes, maybe more.  Even better, you’re gonna be awake most of the time.”

Jake gave another seductive look—this time, focused on his fist.  “And I’m gonna be beatin’ the living fuck outta you the entire time, bitch.  By the time you die, yer own fuckin’ mamma ain’t gonna recognize you.  Fuckin’ hot, yeah?  C’mon, cocksucker, let’s get started!”

Leering at the traumatized youth, Jake reached down.  Without looking, his hand unerringly grasped his belt.  As he held it up, his leer darkened, became more menacing.  The slut shook its head, its eyes wide with fear, faint whimpering sounds coming from its slack, contorted mouth.

But it wasn’t just that the boy whore was terrified.  Some part of its cockpig soul was turned on and that realization was, somehow, even worse than the fear.  The way the alpha’s hard hairy body was lit at an extreme angle by the lamp on the floor emphasized the massive mounds of his pecs, the rippling roll of his fur-covered abs…

…and the erotic musk of adrenaline, sweat, and testosterone that filled the small room, some of it pumped out by the punk’s own suffering body.  Its left lung had collapsed, forcing it to gasp for air.  With each ragged inhalation, it filled its right lung with pheromones that triggered the abundance of hormones circulating it its adolescent bloodstream.

It didn’t know any of that, of course.  The chemical nature of its reactions were beyond its understanding.  It only knew that the more pain it suffered, the more precum its cock oozed.

That was wrong.  It knew it was a faggot cocksucker, but it wasn’t that perverse.  It couldn’t—

Then Jake stuck it with the belt, the buckle leaving such a deep impression in the soft, smooth skin of the homo’s flat belly that pinpricks of blood welled up from the welt.  All thoughts of what its cock was doing were wiped from the pansy’s mind; it could only think of the pain, and how to avoid more of it.

“Fuckin-A, bro!” Jake cheered with malicious enthusiasm, “Ya like that shit, dontcha?  Damn, bitch, you backed yer faggot fuckhole up on my rod that time!  I heard you cumsuckers like a good whippin’ every now an’ then.  Is that right, motherfucker?  Just another homo pervert, right?  Then yer gonna fuckin’ love this shit, asswipe—I’m gonna rip yer skin off!”

Jake didn’t literally flay it, but the rentboy didn’t know that.  And it certainly couldn’t tell by the sensations it was enduring.  The hardbodied sadist beat it continuously with the belt, each blow slamming into the helpless youth with unflinching aim and relentless force.  As the fuckmeat writhed on the bed, the twisting of its lithe, lean form torqued its colon around Jake’s engorged, leaking member planted firmly in its guts.

The kid continued to make a series of shrill, nerve-wracking squeaks and squawks.  Even in the frenzy of the bloodlust beating, the sound wormed its way into Jake’s ear and started to irritate him.  “Goddam painslut,” he barked, “I already know you fuckin’ love how bad it hurts—ya don’t need to tell the whole fuckin’ world, ya whore!”

He leaned back, almost—but not quite—completely extracting his huge tackle from the fucktoy’s hole.  With inevitably perfect aim, he snapped the belt down with the speed and precision of a bullwhip in the hands of a master artist.  The steel buckle slammed into the faggot’s balls with a force approaching that of a bullet’s.

It tried to scream; it really, really tried.  It was just too much.  The noise backed up in its throat.

And then Jake made sure it couldn’t scream, ever again.

Later on, he marveled at how neatly he’d done it.  The slut shoulda been meat, right there.  Game over.  After all, he’d punched it in the Adam’s apple, as hard as he could.  “GACHCK!” it spat out, inarticulate testimony of its suffering.  Jake had smashed its larynx—yet, somehow, had managed to avoid collapsing its trachea completely.

It could breathe.  It was still alive.  But it could no longer make a sound above a rasping whisper.

“That was it, cunt,” Jake said, his eyes glittering, his handsome face erotic in its cruel indifference, “That was your death warrant.  Time to flood your faggot guts with the hot potent seed of a real man.  Yer gonna love this shit, fucker.  This is what you were meant for, and you know it.  Yer gonna cum, faggot.  Fuck, lookit how much precum is leaking from yer pansy shaft right now, you sick-ass homo.  Yer gonna cum when I off you, cocksucker.  You need this.  Hell, you want this.”

Clinging to the last (and probably the only) shred of pride it had left, the fag whoreboy knew that it had no way whatsoever to prevent the seductive stud from following through on its threats.  But it was determined that it would somehow prove it wasn’t the complete bottom pig whore this hot psycho thought it was.

It wouldn’t cum for him.  It had made up what passed for its mind.  No matter how intense things got, it wouldn’t cum for him.

With a cocky smirk, Jake held the belt up and threaded the end back through the buckle, making a very simple—but very effective—noose.  During this display, he maintained the tempo of the deep, brutal thrusting of his hips with impeccable precision.  By now, he no longer thought of the teen rentboy as a human.  It was nothing but a cock holster, a single-use cumdump.  He was ready to unload in it and make it into meat.

The muscled alpha, his furry body gleaming with sweat, looped the thick leather belt around the boy’s throat and began to pull it tight.  “Time to die, motherfucker,” he whispered, his mesmerizing, inescapable gaze locked into the whore’s bewildered, shock-darkened eyes.  “I’m gonna put you outta yer misery, faggot.  Time to cum and die.”

The last tiny sliver of the cockpig slut’s soul that had remained human rose up rebelliously; it knew it couldn’t fight back—but it damn sure wouldn’t give this psycho motherfucker the satisfaction of watching it shoot its wad.  No.  Wasn’t gonna happen.  It’d find a way, some way—

Then Jake jerked the belt viciously, instantly cinching off the fuckmeat’s airway.  The boywhore’s attention was suddenly focused elsewhere.

Its hands came up, one of them clawing frantically at the leather strap around its neck.  The other hand flailed uselessly in the air, the broken fingers flopping back and forth like a grotesque party favor.

“Does it hurt, cunt?” Jake hissed.  As he brought his face in close, the off-kilter lighting slid a shadow over his eyes, leaving them backlit by their own internal glow—a kind of emotional lava that puddled passion, rage, and hate into a boiling pool of lust.

It was the most terrifying, most erotic thing the fagmeat had ever seen.  And as the crushing pain in its throat was matched by the burning agony in its chest and the explosive pounding of its own frenetic pulse inside its skull, the punk was vaguely aware of the way in which its body was responding.  It was following the motions of its killer, its smooth thighs, already wrapped around the alpha’s waist, would tighten and squeeze with every relentless thrust up its ass.

And its cock—it wasn’t gonna cum, it wasn’t—pulsed and oozed, hypersensitive and aching so badly the slut could feel it even over the agony of being strangled to death.  Every time the wiry fur on the killer’s belly brushed against it made the boy’s dick feel like it had been fucking steel wool.

“That’s it,” Jake leered, “Give it up.  You’re almost done, bitch.  Your short, stupid story is over.  You don’t need to be taking up space on this planet once I unload in you.  Ain’t no one gonna need you no more, faggot.”

The cocksucker heard the words but was having trouble following them.  It had stopped trying to pull the belt away from its throat; it simply didn’t have the leverage.  By the time it realized this, though, it had burned up too much of its precious oxygen in the attempt.  It transferred the attention of its good hand to Jake’s face, but with so little power or coordination that it managed little more than weak slaps.

The meat was having trouble with its senses as well.  What little it could hear over the crashing of its pulse was tinny and fuzzy, as if coming from a great distance.  Its bulging eyes had become so distorted, it could no longer focus. 

The faggot was close, so close.  Jake could feel its smooth, lean body start to tremble under him.  He knew what that meant.  It wasn’t meat yet, but it was about to be a vegetable.  The homo cunt was at the edge of brain death.

Jake lowered his head, his rough, unshaven cheek brushing against the kid’s as he murmured into its ear.  “This is the only reason you ever existed, asshole—so you could die on my dick.  Lights out, motherfucker.”

Lifting up, he could see the petechial hemorrhages stippling its eyes, which were bulging from a face so black and swollen from congestion that it was unrecognizable as the teenage whore that had climbed into Jake’s truck an hour ago. 

Its mouth dangled open, giving the purple tongue plenty of space from which to protrude.  Thick, foamy streamers of drool trickled from both corners of the mouth.  On occasion, a faint, moist grunt managed to emerge from its blocked airway.

Placing one hand over the whore’s face, Jake wrapped the belt around his other hand.  Holding the faggot down, the sick sex killer snapped his other arm back, as if he was starting a lawn mower or outboard motor.  In a fraction of a second, not only was the rentboy’s esophagus crushed into a space of less than one inch diameter, but its spinal cord had been yanked out the bottom of its skull.

It couldn’t have known—and yet it did.  The damage to the central nervous system was so severe that it couldn’t have felt its own violent convulsions.  It couldn’t feel its feel kick so violently that one of its combat boots came off, thudding onto the floor. It couldn’t have felt its hand caress its killer’s face as its torn rectum clutched his cock, squeezing it and massaging to the point of orgasm.  It couldn’t feel the searing heat of manseed hosing its intestines.  It couldn’t feel its own deathload as it ejaculated copiously and involuntarily at the moment of its death, spewing thick, ropy sperm all over Jake’s hairy chest.

And yet, somehow, in the midst of that mind-shattering blast of mortal trauma that carried all of existence before it, the teen fag knew that despite its promises to itself, it had cum.  It had been that much of a pervert.

Then it was gone, its last second on earth an event horizon composed of agony, screaming terror—and humiliation.  Its killer had been right.

The whore was gone.  Its meat wasn’t quite convinced of the fact.  Jake held on, riding the convulsing corpse like a mechanical bull, letting the dead teen milk out a second and third orgasm as its destroyed nervous system continued to short circuit.

Eventually, the muscular alpha grunted and shuddered for the last time.  Pausing briefly to catch his breath, he pulled out of the dead kid and stood next to the bed.  Looking down at the corpse, he was dismayed at the depth to which the belt had sunk into the homo’s throat.  For a moment, Jake considered just leaving it there—but he liked that belt.  It was one of his favorites.

Ruthlessly, he knelt on the bed, placing one knee directly on the boy’s face.  Digging his fingers into the meat’s neck, he managed to work them under the belt.  With slow and patient maneuvering, he was able to slowly work it loose.

As he did, he could feel the crushed cartilage of the punk’s trachea through its skin.  He could hear it, too—every now and then he had to push a little hard.  Pieces inside would break.  And every time one did, a pearl of cum would leak from his semi-erect cock…

Eventually, Jake got his belt back.  He headed to the bathroom, the tread of his boots heavy on the tiled floor.  It only took a few minutes to wipe the slut’s cum off his chest and his own cum off his cock.  Grinning maliciously, he dropped the towel into the toilet and flushed it, making sure that water was overrunning the bowl before he left the room.

He paused as he was putting his wifebeater back on, looking down at his kill.  Had it learned?  It looked like it had.  Its face was starting to fade to a bluish-gray, but it was still horrifically bloated.  A pink mix of semen and blood was leaking from its mangled asshole and staining the bottom sheet.  Its legs were spread; one foot still booted, the other clad only in a sock but its toes visibly curled in death agony.

The mark around its neck was so deep and dark it could have been mistaken for decapitation if not for the obvious signs of strangulation on the face.  The fact that it was a sex murder could not have been made more clearer—but the fact that the victim’s shaft was leaking cum drove the point home.

It looked like it had suffered enough learned its purpose.  After all, that was the whole point.  Faggots need to learn their purpose. 

And their purpose was to die for his sexual pleasure.  That was why they were on the planet.

Jake opened the door, but before stepping out of the motel room, he stopped and took another backwards glance.

So many fags that needed to learn.  So many fags that needed to suffer.  It was overwhelming.  A question started forming in Jake’s mind…

…how does one find an assistant in this line of missionary work?

---

“What?  ID?  What da fuck you t’ink dis is, de Ritz?  Not, I don’t ask fer no fuckin’ ID!”

The small hairy man of indeterminate nationality was evidently either the owner or the manager of the motel.  Possibly both.  His thick but unplaceable accent made it difficult for the investigators to tell.

“He come in two, t’ree days ago,” the little man continued, “He a whore.  Get lot of whores.  Girl whores, boy whores, girlyboy whores, all kind.  No, I don’t see who go in his room.

Who found?  Maid found.  Every day, she come.  This not no dump!  We keep clean!  He not dead yesterday.  Happen last night, maybe.

Unper—unpurtur—what you say?  Calm?  I calm?  Why hell I should not be calm?  Whore die here every month.  Lots fag whore die here.  Last time, cops not even here half hour.  Why you come?  Fag always die; no one care.

You go.  You go now; you bother me.  I let you know when real person die.  You go now.”

“Mike!  Yo, ‘sup man!”

You hear your name and turn towards the voice.  Sure enough, it’s Alex. 

The movie has just let out and you’re standing outside on the pavement.  It was a good show, but Alex was supposed to see it with you.  He bailed at the last moment, saying he’d meet you afterwards.  Well, at least he’s kept his word on that part.

“Man, I’m so sorry about that,” he says with an apologetic smile, “Shit.  It was a work thing.  Y’know how that goes.  Anyway, didja like the movie?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, “But I’d have like it better if I’d had someone to see it with.  So, what do you wanna do know?”

You know what you want to do.  Alex has a nice chest that isn’t completely obscured by his thin windbreaker and dark blue polo shirt.  Beneath his slim-fit Banana Republic jeans, cinched by a leather belt, his feet are laced into a pair of white Jordan 4 White Oreo sneakers.  Above his slightly upturned nose, large pale blue eyes twinkle underneath a carefully disarranged mop of sandy blond hair.  He’s practically begging to be fucked—but that’ll come later.  You can be patient.

“Why don’t we go over to Buck’s Tavern?  It’s a cool place—I hang with Robbie and Stu there sometimes.  Won’t see ‘em tonight—they went to Florida for the week—but we can have a drink or two.”

You’re not fond of sitting in gay bars; it seems cheap and tawdry, at best.  But then Alex adds, “And after that, maybe we can chill at my place, see what happens…”

That, you want.  So, you agree to go to the bar.

The moment you enter Buck’s, you can feel the eyes on you.  It’s not that you’re self-conscious—and, on the other hand, you’re not anything spectacular.  But you’re aware your black long-sleeve button-down silk shirt and black Levi’s emphasize your dark eyes and your hair, which is so glossy black it almost has a blue tint.  The dark color scheme is slightly offset by your dark brown Timberland Redwood Falls boots, and the thick belt of the same color.

And, of course, there’s your height; it never fails to draw notice.  Alex is almost six feet tall—but you tower nearly six inches over him.

Not that you complain, of course—you’ve never had any problems getting laid.  They come to you like moths to a flame.  But the constant attention gets old sometimes, and lately you find yourself preferring a quiet, intimate evening in private to a rowdy night in a bar or a club.

But Buck’s isn’t too obnoxious.  Alex selects a booth on the side.  The conversation is light and casual—but you can’t help but notice that he’s knocking back two shots of whiskey to every one of your scotch and sodas.

Your mind goes back to the day he approached you in the coffee shop.  You’d been patronizing the place for less than a week since you’d just been contracted for an electrical job in the neighborhood.  It was a skilled trade that paid extremely well, and you were good at it—but a little caffeine in the mornings helped you be better.  So there you were, seven in the morning on weekdays, plain coffee, black, one sugar—and there was Alex.  Staring.

He wasn’t bad looking, so you frequently found yourself returning his gaze.  But it took him four days to get up the courage to come over and introduce himself, then another two to finally ask for a date.  Alex worked in middle management for a tech company and seemed inordinately proud of his MBA.  That kinda thing has never impressed you, but you don’t shoot him down.  He’s got a good body and otherwise seems kinda nice—who knows what it might lead to?

The idea of going to dinner and a movie tonight had been his.  He was going to meet you at Ricardo’s Steakhouse, then you were going to the show.  He picked out the movie—the latest superhero action flick.  Again, not your bag, but if he wanted to see it, why not?  Besides, a lot of fondling can go on in the dark…

But then he called just as you were about to leave for the restaurant.  Big fuckup at work, his ass was on the line if he couldn’t straighten it out, yadda yadda yadda.  Said he’d meet you after the movie—so you cancelled he reservation at the steakhouse went and paid way too much for popcorn and a ticket to a movie you’d never wanted to see.

Now he’s trying to explain what had happened.  The alcohol has loosened his tongue a bit and he’s getting kinda garrulous.  The details of the server crash are outside of your knowledge base, but he sounds apologetic.

Still, it’s difficult not to hold a grudge.  After all, this date night was his idea to begin with.

Suddenly, he reaches over and grabs your hand, breaking in on your thoughts. “Fuck man, I’ve been wanting it all day.  No more waiting.  Let’s get outta here—my place?” he says.  “I’ll make it up to you.”

As you stare deeply into his light blue eyes, you can feel your cock pulse with anticipation.  You want him, yes, but it’s kinda surprising how much you want him.  You want to sink your throbbing shaft into his bubble butt and plow him till he screams in ecstasy…

He stands up quickly, and you can’t help but notice the outline of his erection in the crotch of his jeans.  He wants this just as badly as you do.

“Fuck yeah, let’s go,” you growl.  He blushes and ducks his head; his boyish grin is adorable.  The thought of him riding your dick is irresistible—you hope his apartment isn’t far. 

It’s not.  Two blocks north and three west, and you’re there.  A century-old brick building five stories tall, converted to luxury apartments.  He has you park on the street in front; the rear lot is for tenants only.  You meet him in the entry hall—he needs to pick up his mail, anyway.

The floor and the stairs are marble.  The gleaming woodwork and polished brass trimmings show how much more expensive this place is than yours.  Not that you couldn’t afford it, but it does confirm your suspicion that there’s a certain pretentiousness abut Alex.

That’s ok, though.  As he leads the way up the stairs, you lag far enough behind that his smooth, tight, denim-encased ass is directly in front of your face.  No matter how pretentious the owner is, that fuckhole is gonna be nice and tight on you tool when you stick it in.

He’s on the second floor.  A thick, heavy door with a brass number plate.  The inside is luxurious, with thick carpeting, elaborate molding and recessed lighting.  The furniture is solid, in a retro mid-century modern style.  “Let’s make it a little cozier,” Alex says with a coy grin as he ignites the gas fireplace.  “Go have a seat; I’ll make us drinks.  You like scotch and soda, right?”

“Yeah,” you respond as you sit on the soda and unbutton your shirt.  Alex makes the drinks, turns to bring them—and nearly drops the glasses.  He’s staring at your chest, slack-jawed.  “Goddam, that’s…” he gasps somewhat incoherently, “Fuck, they sure know how to use you on your job.  First time I laid eyes on you, I was watchin’ you through the window, flexin’ while lifting all that equipment outta your truck, but goddam, bro…love that furry chest of yours…and that necklace.  It’s hot as hell; what is it?  Silver?”

“No,” you reply, “It’s platinum.  Gift from an old friend.  The dagger pendant is supposed to represent protection.”  But you wear it because you like it, not because you need protection.  You can take care of yourself.

Handing you your glass, Alex sits next to you.  Immediately, his hand is in your chest hair, his fingers entwined in the thick, wiry curls.  As he fondles your necklace and caresses your pecs, his breathing changes and becomes more ragged.  Suddenly, he grabs your face, pulls it to his, and begins kissing you.

It’s not a gentle, loving kiss.  It’s rough and somehow desperate, his tongue probing deep within your mouth.  It’s almost as if he wants to be the top—but you know that’s not the case.  You’d talked about it.  He says he loves rough sex, but he’s purely a bottom, which makes this precipitous move on his part something of a surprise.

“Take your shirt off,” he says, his voice husky with excitement.  As you slip out of it and lay it carefully over the arm of the sofa, he peels off his own.  His smooth, muscled chest appeals to me; you instantly reach over and twist one of his large, dark nipples.

He moans in pleasure.  Forcing your hand away, he stands up abruptly and begins unbuckling his belt.  “Whip it out, dude,” he gasps breathlessly, “I wanna see your cock.”

You don’t mind, but you want to see his too, and you tell him so.  He unbuttons his shirt, exposing his smooth, muscled chest, and you can feel your cock twitch.  It wants to be free of the confines of your jeans, and you want it to be free.  You stand up and grasp your zipper; at the same time, you notice that Alex has removed his belt and slipped his jeans down to his knees.  He’s got boxers on underneath; they’re tented, with a small wet spot forming. 

He’s wearing an embarrassed grin, but the light in his eyes is pure lust; they gaze with a laser focus on your crotch as you slowly unzip your fly.  It takes a moment to reach in and extract your massive hog; it reaches halfway down your thigh.

The look on Alex’s face changes as your rod leaps out into the open air.  Eager anticipation is replaced by awe, and perhaps a touch of fear.  “It’s—it’s…” he falters, gulps, and starts again, almost whispering.  “Dude, I knew you were…but holy fuck, bro…”

Yeah, he wants it.  He wants your dick.  And he’s gonna get it, too, right up his tight hole.  “Turn around,” you tell him, “I wanna see your ass.  I like to survey the landscape before I lay pipe.”  He turns—slowly, with some hesitancy.

Damn, he’s got a nice ass.  Smooth, firm, tight, just begging for your thick shaft to be sunk into it.  “Oh hell yeah, bro,” you say, “I’m gonna plow that hole.  You like it rough, yeah?  Dude, I’m gonna ream your ass like a fuckin’ jackhammer.”

Alex turn around.  He’s blushing and there are beads of sweat on his forehead.  “Man, Mike, I, uh—I dunno about this…”

What?  “Whaddaya mean?  Don’t know about what?”

“I, um…well, it’s just…I mean, you’re so big…”

Your cock is throbbing so bad it hurts.  You need release, and you need it soon.  He needs to get over whatever his bullshit is.

“Yeah?  I thought you liked that.”

“Well, yeah, but—y’know, there’s a limit—”

You can feel something deep inside start to churn.  It’s an ugly feeling, this sense of anger, and you know from past experience that it can become uncontrollable, so you do your best to remain calm and reasonable.

“You want this.  You know you do; you said so.”  You’re trying hard not to let your anger creep into your voice, but it’s difficult.  He invited you back here for sex; there was no mistaking his signals.  “C’mon, put your mouth on it.”

He comes closer, his reluctance obvious.  You know he’ll do it, though; there’s no mistaking the expression of lust that’s clearly battling with his trepidation.  Finally, he leans forward, opens his full, lush lips wide, and tries to encircle your engorged member with his mouth. 

It’s a tight fit.  You can feel how your thick, spongy head fills his mouth, but it’s not enough.  You want your pubes to be scratching his face; you know he’s gotta want that too.  So you place your hands on the back of his head and shove.

The pulsing head of your shaft lodges in Alex’s trachea and he gags.  Holy fuck, it feels good.  You hold his head in place, enjoying the way his throat is massaging your cock.  He starts resisting, trying to pull his head up off your dick, but you’re not done yet—hell, you’re just getting started.  As he struggles, you find yourself applying more and more force to keep his head in place.

Well, he did say he wanted it rough.  And he’s giving one hell of a skullfuck. 

His hands come up.  They start slapping at your thighs, but soon his efforts intensify and he’s actively beating at your abs.  It doesn’t matter—you can feel his esophagus milk your rod as he strains.  It feels too good to release him.

Suddenly, he give a burst of force so strong it catches you off guard; you didn’t think him capable of it.  He practically leaps backward, away from your crotch, leaving your toll bobbing in the air, glistening with his saliva.  You notice with a vague surprise how dark his face is.  Gasping frantically for air, he wipes the drool from his lips with the back of his hand; you can see the fear in his eyes.

“You—you need—” he breaks off and coughs till he gags, then starts again.  “You need to go.  I can’t—I just can’t…”

As he speaks, your vision becomes clouded.  It’s as if a red mist is forming in front of your eyes.  You know what it means—you’re getting angry.  Bad angry, not normal angry.  You’ve got to keep control.

“Go?” you ask calmly, “What do you mean, go?”  Your voice is barely about a whisper.  You know your smile is perhaps a little too broad, but you’re in control.  “You invited me here.  You asked me in.  We both know what I’m here for, but you don’t need to worry.  I’ll make it easy for you but remember—I’m in control.”

And you are in control.  He’ll put out; all you have to do is establish eye contact.  But he’s not looking at your face.  His attention is directed towards your right hand…

Alex’s belt—you don’t remember picking it up, but you’re holding it, and that seems natural.  It seems to make sense.  As you look at it, you can feel your cock swell.  It’s going to go around Alex’s neck.  You don’t exactly know why, but that also makes sense.  And you’re still in control.

He’s talking, but you’re not paying attention.  You’re looking at the belt and trying to figure—ah, there it is.  So easy—you just loop the belt back through its buckle, a simple, basic noose.  Casually, you toss it over his head.

Alex is still on knees.  As soon as the belt is over his head and resting loosely on his shoulders, he begins to rise.  “Wh-what are you doin’, bro?” he asks as he cautiously tried to get upright, “Gonna call the cops if you don’t—gaackthph!!”

You jerk him back down to his knees, cutting off his threat.  He’s not gonna do anything—you’re in control.  He gags and claws at the strap to leather around his throat, his huge eyes expressing his bewildered terror.

“No,” you say, your voice reflecting the profound calmness and serenity you feel.  “I’m not ready to leave yet.  C’mon, I still haven’t checked out your bedroom yet.”

You drag him across the floor by the belt around his neck.  The gurgling, choking sounds he’s making change pitch, as if it’s become harder to emit them.  His legs kick and flail frenetically as he tris to gain some sort of traction.  He can’t, of course—you’re in control.

There’s something about the way his Nikes dance a panicked, oxygen-deprived jig across the carpet—it’s a sign of how utterly helpless he his, and how much control you truly do have.

“You lied to me,” you tell him, “You led me on.”  His face is swelling and becoming purple.  He looks like he’s in a lot of pain; which, for some reason, makes your cock ache and throb a little more.  His bulging eyes are starting to form pinprick hemorrhages—they stare straight at you, begging in terror.

“Shh,” you whisper soothingly.  “It’ll be over soon.  After that, it won’t hurt.  Nothing will ever hurt you again.”

You’re not sure why you said that.  It seemed to come, spontaneously and fully-formed, from somewhere deep in your brain, but one thing you do know—you’re going to make it come true.  Your dick tells you that. 

His hands scramble desperately at you, his fingers curling in the hair of your forearms.  He’s kicking so violently he actually manages to get his left foot under.  It’s enough for him to start to leverage his way upward.  That’s not gonna happen; you yank the belt so hard sideways that he topples over, the Nike on his left foot popping off.

You can see his toes curling repeatedly, almost reflexively in his white ankle sock.  He seems to be a lot more panicked now.  How long has he been without oxygen?  There’s a detail you missed.  Next time, you’ll need to remember to time it.

You’re at the bedroom door now, and he’s still fighting.  He’s transferred his attention from your arms to the door frame, clutching it for all he’s worth.  “Let go,” you tell him.  “You’re ok.  You’re in your own bedroom.  Let go—I’m in control.”  You give the belt another vicious jerk and wrench him free.  

He seems to be giving up the fight as you approach the bed.  You stop and kneel down, your cock achingly erect and oozing, and there you see it.  In his face, you see proof that you are in control.

He’s so dark he’s almost black in the face.  His eyes are bulging grotesquely, but no less than his tongue, purple and distended.  A long, thick streamer of white foam dangled from his chin onto his bare chest.  It’s hot.  It’s so fucking hot, and you’re controlling it.  He isn’t doing it to please you.  He has no control—only you.  Only you.

He’s almost dead.  You watch life fade from his eyes, and for a moment you draw a blank.

Oh, yeah.  Alex.  His name was Alex.  You don’t want to forget that.

You lean close to him, so close you can hear the involuntary spasming of his cinched esophagus, and whisper softly into his ear.

“Hey, Alex, bro—still with me?  ‘No’ was the wrong answer…”

And another jerk of the belt.  There’s a gristly crunching sound, somewhere between crushing a foam cup and ripping off a chicken leg, and his trachea collapses.  You established your control over Alex so completely that he was utterly unable to prevent the last few moments of his life being spent in mind-rending agony.

His firm muscular body thrashes like a landed marlin, his heels drumming mindlessly against the floor.  His hands are raised, fists clenching and unclenching in midair.  His head shudders violent, spittle flying through the air.  And then you see something you didn’t know was possible.

As you’d taken him into control, you’d noticed that his jeans had finally ended up around his ankles and that the tent in his boxers had never been taken down.  Now, as you watched, the wet spot suddenly and very swiftly expanded in size as a pearly froth bubbled up at the tip of the tentpole.

He’d unloaded.  He’d liked it.  The fucker wanted it, wanted it so bad he’d blown his wad as it happened.  

Well, if he wanted that, then he’d wanted this too.  Reaching under its arms, you lift the convulsing corpse up to the bed.  You jerk the boxers down by the waistband; the hard cock leaps up, still spewing jizz even after death.  You suddenly find yourself seized by an overpowering urge—bend down and take the spurting shaft into your mouth.

Poor Alex—if only he’d given you what you wanted, he’d be having a great time right now.

But that’s no reason for you not to enjoy yourself.  You suck his tool as if he was still alive to feel something, letting your tongue linger on its slick, engorged head.  Within minutes, though, you can feel the dude’s generous tackle begin to wither and withdraw.  There’s no more sperm to be gotten, either.

It’s time to get what you came for.  You roll Alex’s firm but limp body over onto its belly, positioning it so you have perfect aim at its asshole.  Slapping your cock into the palm of your hand, you climb onto the bed and mount the corpse.

Holy fuck, that feels good.  Alex’s sphincter provides just the right amount of resistance before it gives way, accepting your aching, pulsing rod.  You sink balls-deep into the dead kid’s ass, barely aware that you’re groaning with intense pleasure.

No other fuck has ever felt this good, and you’re just getting started.

Alex lies there, uncomplainingly accepting your dick.  You have control; you can do whatever you want.  You can fuck him as long and as hard as you want.  He can’t say no, and that makes you want to fuck him even harder.

You can hear sounds echoing off the walls—your own physical grunting and the swift slapping of flesh created by vigorous sexual activity.  You can still smell the tang of Alex’s flesh in the air, against a backdrop his cologne; you can still taste his salty cum on your tongue.  He’s yours now, and he’ll never be anyone else’s.

That’s it; that’s what you needed to know, to feel, to really get.  Alex is truly yours.  Once you fill his tight fuckhole with manseed, no one else ever will.  He’ll never be able to say he’s had a better fuck than you, and he’ll never be able to tell anyone he turned you down.

You don’t take no for an answer.

Fuck yeah.  Fuck yeah.  Show Alex.  He didn’t want to take your dick?  Hose his guts with hot semen.  Fucker can’t do anything to stop you—

It hurts.  You cum so hard it hurts, burning, searing, like your dick is spewing lightning, not jizz.  It goes on and on, your entire body spasming and convulsing as if you yourself were dying with each successive load.  At some point, you become aware that you’ve been cursing Alex and slamming your fist into his lifeless back.  Eventually, you come to a shuddering stop, but it still takes you another five minutes to regain your composure—and your breath.

Eventually, you’re back in control.  You always are, sooner or later.  You extract yourself, carefully pulling your cock back out of the corpse’s still-quivering asshole.  You head back to the living room to get your clothing, but as you reach the bedroom door, you can see Alex’s Nike sneaker sitting upright by itself in the middle of the living room floor.  For some reason, the image compels you to turn back and face the enormity of what you’ve done in the bedroom.

Alex is face-down on the bed.   His arms are at his sides, his legs are spread as far as possible given that his jeans and boxers are down around his knees.  The belt around his neck has sunk in so deep, it’s barely visible. 

On the other hand, even from the doorway, you can clearly see how your cum still trickles from his ass.

The toes on the foot without the shoe are still curling, faintly and spasmodically.  At the same time, the sneaker on the other foot jerks in sync.  The entire corpse twitches randomly, but the movements are farther and farther apart each time.

You did this.  Not an hour ago, Alex was a viable human being with a career and a social life.  Now he’s a pile of human meat, filled with your cum.  It hits you all at once, the full knowledge of exactly what you’ve done, and you feel…you feel—

—you feel inspired.  You feel excited.  You’ve had an epiphany.

You tuck your member back down your pants ad put your shirt back on.  There’s a mirror by the front door; you stop and make sure that you look no different than you did when you came in.  It confirms that you give no sign of the violent scene in which you’ve just participated.

You peer out the door—no one in the hallway.  You luck holds; you leave the building unseen.  As you head back to your place, you obey the speed limit and all traffic signs and signals.  You’re filled with an understanding that you are at the doorway of a wondrous and dark new world, and you’re going to have to be very, very careful if you want to continue to taste its unspeakable pleasures.    

---

The next day, you don’t think about it.  You can’t.  You didn’t kill someone; that was a bad dream.  You go through your day, your mind relentlessly shying away from any train of thought that has Alex as its final destination.

But you can’t fool yourself.  You won’t think about it because you don’t want to acknowledge, even to yourself, that you just nonchalantly committed murder…

…and because every time you do think about it, your dick gets hard.

And so you get through the day.  And the next day.  By that evening, though, you’re feeling the strain.  You pour a drink as you sit down for you daily perusal of the local news apps—and there it is.

You don’t have to read the caption to recognize Alex’s apartment building.  The link goes to a video clip from the local affiliate of a major network; you follow it compulsively, needing to recognize the enormity of your actions.  The reporter is pretty and perky, and actually seems to have difficulty keeping the perkiness out of her voice as she speaks.

“Police responding to a welfare check at an apartment in the 5300 block of Anderson Avenue found the body of twenty-three-year-old Alexander Wallis.  According to the report, the young man had been found strangled and had been sexually assaulted, but the police aren’t releasing any further details at this time.”

The clip segues into interviews with neighbors on the sidewalk in front of the building.  A vivacious blond claiming to be Alex’s next-door neighbor is babbling away about not hearing a word from next door last night and of course she knew he was gay but didn’t think he was seeing anyone steadily…but your attention is suddenly riveted on the background.

A gurney is emerging from the front door, on top, a form covered by a sheet.  It’s Alex, and everything immediately seems to slow down as if the clip was running at half speed.

A pair of orderlies are wheeling him out; behind is a tall, lanky young man with sandy blond hair.  At that moment, the interviewee mentions something about the security of the front door, and the camera briefly zooms in.  The young man’s name is embroidered on the breast of his white lab coat.  The wind is flipping his lapel, so only part of it can be seen, and that not clearly—but you can make out ‘Harris’.

There’s something about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but then your eye lights on the pocket of his coat.  There’s something in it; you know that shape…

Then it hits you—it’s a shoe.  It’s Alex’s Nike sneaker.  And right at that moment, he looks at the camera.

No.  At you.  He’s looking at you.

He knows what happened.  He knows you’re out there.  He may not know specifically who you are, but he’s seen this before.  The sneaker—what does he want with Alex’s sneaker?

And then the image fills your mind—the Jordan 4 White Oreo sitting in the middle of the floor, your turning and admiring your kill with no shame, just the erotic thrill of domination. It rewinds like a film—his desperate, flailing death as he spunked in his shorts, the look of bewildered terror in his eye as you established control…

And you cum.  Good thing you just got out of the shower and you’re still nude, because your sperm explodes like a geyser—and you didn’t even touch yourself.  Just the memory of that night…

You head back to the bathroom to clean up, your mind racing madly.  You have no idea what’s going to happen next.  And that Harris dude—what the fuck was he up to?

But as you wipe your cum off your chest, you know one thing—you’ll never forget that night.  You’ll never forget what it felt like to gain ultimate control. 

You’ll never forget his name was Alex.

Wes paused outside the door and sighed.  He was tired and, what was worse, depressed.  It had been a rough day at work and now an unpleasant confrontation was looming in front of him.

Wes had just turned eighteen but had been on his own for over two years.  He’d started by turning tricks on the streets, but one john had beaten him so badly he’d needed medical care.  He’d ended up in the county hospital, with indifferent staff and inadequate medication.  After that, he learned the value of a decent insurance plan.

He’d gotten a job in a convenience store; it was a shitty job with shitty pay, but it did offer an insurance plan.  He still turned tricks on occasion to supplement his income, but his main side gig was dealing weed.  As of last payday, he had almost two thousand dollars tucked away inside a balled-up pair of socks in his dresser drawer.

But he still had to live.  He rented a room by the week at a no-tell motel near his job, and he’d spent some of his carefully hoarded cash on decrepit but functional car.  Having someone else in his life would help with the finances.  And if he could find a hot stud with a big dick…

Three weeks ago, he’d found him.  An older man—definitely rough trade.  Heavily muscled, heavily inked.  There was a dangerous edge about the dude that turned Wes on; he was sure the man had been in prison although he never talked about his past.  And damn could he fuck!

But he wasn’t contributing financially.  He’d had some money when they’d met—he evidently still had some—but he wasn’t working.  He just fucked and drank, and he was a mean drunk.  It hadn’t bothered Wes too much at first, but the dude was getting meaner and more violent by the day, and it was worrying.  Between his inactivity and his temper, the guy needed to go.

That was why the lithe, black-haired teen, dressed in a white t-shirt, camo cargo shorts and white Converse hightops, was standing outside the door of his own room, hesitating to go in.  There was no way of knowing how it was going to play out, but one thing he knew for sure—it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Reluctantly, the teen whore opened the door.

Inside, Rocko heard the sound and glanced languidly at the entrance.  He was laying full length on the bed, shirtless, his furry, muscled torso on full display.  A thick leather belt encircled his waist, and his Diesel jeans were tucked into a pair of loosely laced Justin Drywall work boots.

The ex-con was slightly buzzed—just enough to be give an edge to his temper.  On the nightstand next to him stood a bottle of Wild Turkey.  As Wes came through the door, Rocko picked up a half-full plastic cup and knocked back a hefty slug.  He was bored.  He’d been banging the whore for three weeks and it was already reamed out.  He had nothing to do.  One day soon, he figured, he’d off the fuckmeat, take its money, and head out.  It was just a matter of when.

He didn’t quite expect the matter to be resolved so soon.

As was his habit, as soon as he closed the door and fastened the chain lock, Wes peeled off his t-shirt in preparation for his after-work shower.  “Hey—uh, look, Rocko…” he began hesitatingly as he wriggled out of his shorts, his long boycock dangling from a nest of wiry black pubes.  He kept his chucks on—he didn’t like the feel of the bathroom tile on bare feet; he’d kick them off once he was ready to hop in the shower.

And was he ever ready.  He knew Rocko wouldn’t be happy, so his plan was to blurt out the bad news, then lock himself in the bathroom until the muscled alpha had some time to cool down.  With that plan in mind, he paused right at the doorway to speak.

“It, um…this ain’t workin’ out,” he started.  “You know it as well as I do.  You, uh—you need to go, man.  Now.  I’m serious, dude—I ain’t supportin’ you no more.  I gotta do this, bro.  If you ain’t gone by the time I’m done with my shower, I’m callin’ the cops.”

Wes slipped into the bathroom, closing the door, and locking it audibly.  He sighed with relief.  It was over.  Rocko might be upset, but Wes had kept to his plan.  He wasn’t allowing the ex-con any time to kick up a fuss.

Or so he thought.

Rocko wasn’t upset.  He was outraged.  Who did that cunt think it was?  Rocko called the shots, not the homo scumfucks.  It was time that little piece of shit learned a crucial lesson.

But first, a little mind game.  Rocko picked up the bottle of bourbon and polished it off in a single extended chug.  As the alcohol fired his blood and stoked his anger, he began opening drawers and digging around in them.

To Wes in the bathroom, it sounded like Rocko had acquiesced and was packing—which was what the violent killer wanted the meat to think.  In fact, he was searching for its hoard of money.  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for—stupid little faggot cunts never got very creative about hiding their stashes—and he pocketed the cash before turning to the bathroom door.

Wes, lulled into the belief that things were working out nice and calmly, had brushed his teeth.  Turning off the sink, he was just headed for the tub when a loud crash at the door startled him so badly, he flinched.  Staring at the door in disbelief, he saw that a long vertical crack had appeared on his side.  A second crash, just a loud and as violent, and Rocko’s workboot appeared in the massive hole that the stud had just kicked in the door.  With a loud grunt, the sadistic alpha threw his shoulder into it and the remains of the door collapsed, leaving no barrier between the stunned teen and the serial killer.

“Guess what, bitch,” Rocko snarled, “It ain’t over till I say it’s over!”

Wes’s face flushed.  If he’d been looking at the convict’s face, he might have realized the danger he was in and been appropriately terrified—but he wasn’t.  Instead, he was looking at the door and wondering how much the management was going to charge him to replace it.

“You sonofabitch,” he squeaked, anger causing his voice to spiral up in pitch, “You’re gonna pay for that.  Cash, man, cash.  You hear me?”

Rocko’s response was swift and unanswerable.  He popped Wes in the face so hard the kid spun around and hit the rear wall before sliding, dazed, to the floor.  As his cheek began to blacken and blood trickled from his split, swelling lip, the boy placed a hand over his injuries and looked up at the hardbodied ex-con, his face displaying a mix of fear and loathing.

“I never shoulda let you move in,” he sneered in false bravado, “Even the sex wasn’t that great.  I been fucked by better men than you.”

The look that crossed Rocko’s face instantly told him what a terrible mistake he’d just made.  As the buff killer silently unbuckled his belt and began to remove it from his waist, the teen, ashen with terror, tried in vain to retract his words.  “W-wait, man—no…no I didn’t mean it, I—no…”

Rocko doubled the thick leather belt and swung it through the air a couple of times.

“No, p-please, man, I really, really didn’t mean that—oh God, no, please—no-NO! NO!  OH GOD OH FUCK NO!!!”

Rocko started beating him unmercifully.  Wes squealed in pain every time the leather strap hit, leaving angry red welts on his smooth adolescent flesh.  The slapping sounds bounced off the cold, unfeeling bathroom tile, intensifying the punk’s misery and the sadist’s desire to inflict pain.  Wes curled into a fetal position; at the moment, he was too preoccupied with avoiding blows of the improvised whip to think clearly.  And Rocko, for his part, was too busy venting is rage to speak.

But the muscled-bound killer soon felt another sensation—a powerful ache in his crotch.  He knew what was going to happen next; it played out the same way, time and again.  The faggot made him angry, his anger made him horny, his lust fed back into his rage—and soon the loop began to spin into a spiral that led to a violent orgasm and a brutal murder.

It was time to get it on.

He stopped beating the fuckmeat.  He stood over it, staring down at the cowering, whimpering homo in profound contempt.  Well, he damn sure wasn’t gonna fuck it in here, even if the bathroom was the most appropriate place for such a worthless fucking piece of shit.   He needed to move it.

That was easy enough.  Grinning maliciously, the convicted murder looped his belt back through its buckle, then gave Wes a vicious kick.  “Hey, faggot, looky here.”

The moment the cunt lifted its head, Rocko dropped the loop over it, around its neck.  “Gotcha,” he chuckled—and proceeded to drag Wes out of the bathroom by his neck.

The teen kicked and flailed as he slid across the tile floor, his Converse hightops scrabbling uselessly.  Once the reached the door, the boy grabbed hold of the frame, his biceps swelling as he resisted being dragged into the bedroom with all the power of his slim but strong young body.

He was too busy resisting to formulate exactly why he was resisting; he only knew, deep inside, that something irrevocably horrible was going to happen to him once he was out of the bathroom.  It had all gone wrong; he had miscalculated badly—and what was in store for him was going to be much, much worse.

Wes was a young, stupid boywhore who’d been taken in by a hot, hard-looking alpha male who’d fucked the living shit outta him, but he’d only allowed it to happen because he’d let his lust smother the faint vague danger signals his street smarts were giving off. 

Now, those signals were deafening and crystal-clear—but it was too late.  He was trapped, alone with an incredibly strong man whose uncontrollable anger issues were beyond any doubt.  Wes didn’t know exactly what was going to happen to him, but one this was absolutely certain—he was gonna suffer.

And his ability to cling to the door jamb was weakening by the second.  All Rocko had to do was pull harder—the belt tightened inexorably around Wes’s throat, slowly cutting off his air.  The teenaged rentboy realized that if he didn’t let go, he’d be throttled into unconsciousness—and if that happened, he really would be helpless, utterly at the mercy (or lack thereof) of this sadistic psycho.

Letting go of the frame was one of the greatest acts of willpower of Wes’s short, wasted life, so it was probably for the best that he never knew that doing so had extended his life by only a few minutes—all of which would be filled with mind-bending agony and terror.

Once in the bedroom, things got worse, just as the boy had expected, but in a way he couldn’t have imagined.  The adolescent knelt on the floor, clawing at the belt as he gasped for air, his lean, firm body heaving with the effort.  His pale, smooth skin was glistening with sweat and streaked with vicious red stripes from the beating. 

He looked up just as Rocko leaned over and spat in his face.  “You useless sack ‘a shit,” the alpha sneered, “You gotta lesson to learn, and I’m just the fucker to teach it to ya.  I’m the one who calls the shots around here, ya hear me?  Naw, ‘course ya don’t, and you’d be too fuckin’ stupid to understand if ya did.  Only one way homo asswipes like you ever learn a goddam thing.”

Here Rocko’s grin became truly terrifying.  “That’s with pain, cunt.  Fags like you gotta be hurt.  Hell, even if I didn’t hafta learn ya good, you’d still need to be hurt—cause you deserve it.  All you useless cocksuckin’ motherfuckers deserve to die screamin’ in pain.”  With his free hand, Rocko unzipped his fly, letting his enormous manshaft flop out.  Wes had seen it before, of course but now—now, it some how seemed bigger, more intimidating.  As he looked, he could see transparent beads of precum glinting on the huge mushroom-shaped head.

“And aw fuck, bitch, I can’t wait to be the one to give it to ya!”

Then the belt began to tighten again.  At first, Wes didn’t understand what was happening, but he arced his head back and saw that Rocko was twisting his hand slowly, winding the belt around it.  Soon, the leather strap was completely taut.

Wes wouldn’t have believed what happened next was physically possible if he hadn’t been on the wrong end of it.  He knew Rocko’s physical strength from personal experience, but he was amazed when Rocko curled his arm like he was pumping iron and hoisted Wes into the air.  As the teen choked, his Converse chucks kicking futilely in mid-air, his bulging eyes were focused on the ex-con’s left arm, the one that was holding him.  The sheer force of that swollen tattoo-covered bicep was unbelievable.

Distracted by his involuntary muscle worship, the gagging teenager never saw Rocko’s right arm draw back—but he felt it when the killer’s fist was driven deeply into his flat, tender gut.  He’d have violently expelled all the air in his lungs if his windpipe hadn’t been closed off; as it was, all he could do was flail wildly in pain and panic.

For the next two minutes, Rocko used Wes as his personal punching bag.  Somewhere along the line, as the blows wracked his lithe body with agony and the lack of oxygen began to have an impact on his rationality, the kid stopped clawing at the belt and began to claw at Rocko.  The hardbodied stud was able to keep the dangling slut out of reach of his face and body—but instinctively, the teen turned his attention to the hand that held him aloft.  A few seconds of frenetic digging, and he was able to break the skin.  It was a minor irritation at the most, but it broke the mood.  With a curse, Rocko dropped the punk to the floor.

“MotherFUCKER!!!” he roared in anger, viciously kicking the youth three times in succession.  Each one earned a snapping sound as the steel-toed Justin workboot broke a rib, the left ulna, and another rib.  In the meantime, all Wes had managed to do was loosen the belt from his neck.  He writhed and shuddered on the floor, unable to even scream out his pain and terror.

“Goddam rat,” Rocko muttered, “Time to put you down like the fuckin’ animal you are.”  But he’d seen too many scratches and bites become infected in prison.  He turned and headed for the bathroom.

The moment Wes heard the water running in the bathroom sink, he tried to make a break for it.  The process of rising to his feet was excruciating; his lungs felt like they were burning and his left hand was only semi-functional at best.  But his right hand worked, and that was the one he extended towards the lock as he staggered across the room to the door.

The moment Rocko heard the rattling sound of Wes fumbling at the chain bolt on the door, he muttered a curse under his breath and charged into the room.  The thin, worn carpeting did nothing to cover the heavy thuds of his Justin boots on the floor; Wes knew he was coming.  The teen slut whimpered, frenetically pawing at the lock with his one good hand, but his fear only made it harder for him to focus and coordinate.  Rocko was on him, spinning him around before he’d even managed to get the chain halfway off.

Experienced as he was, the young whore had never seen such hate, such bloodlust in a trick’s eyes before.

“That’s it, cunt,” the alpha growled, “The gloves are comin’ off.  All the shit up till now?  It’s all been foreplay.  Now it’s no holds barred and I’m takin’ you down the hard way.”

There was something hypnotically snake-like in Rocko’s eyes that sapped Wes’s will.  He could see the wide, haymaker punch coming at him as if in slow motion, the ex-con’s inked arm, knotted with muscles, swinging through the air, but he felt paralyzed, unable to move.

He moved fast enough when the blow landed.  The impact was violent enough to spin him around; he hit the dresser hard enough to knock off everything on its top and caromed back into the room.  The unlucky punk didn’t have the slightest chance of putting up a defense; before he could even reorient himself to the point of figuring out where Rocko was, the sadist was on him, beating him unmercifully.

As the blows rained down on him, Wes could only grunt and squeal like an animal in pain—which, by this point, was all that he was.  But he could still see that every time Rocko’s fists plowed into his firm young body, the older man’s dick oozed yet more precum.

And, of course, he could hear Rocko’s words as the punches kept coming in a remorseless flurry.

“Take it, bitch!  Ya know ya got this comin’!  Fuck yeah, don’t that feel great?  Taste it, cunt, taste the pain!  Fuck, ya love it, dontcha?  Ya fuckin’ love this shit!”

At last, the hardbodied ex-con pulled back, heaving and sweaty.  The once-handsome teenager collapsed onto the bed, a moaning mass of bloody and bruised flesh.

Rocko looked down and spat on it in contempt.  “Ok, we’re done here,” he said flatly.  “I wanna cum.  Time to die, fuckmeat.”  He bent down and grabbed Wes, manhandling the boy like a rag doll, laying his fucktoy out and positioning it to suit his needs.  Picking up the belt and tossing it on the bed, he climbed in himself, unfastening the button on the fly of his jeans.  They slid down just far enough to expose rock-hard, hairy globes of his glutes as he forcibly parted the meat’s legs.

“You never were a good fuck, ya know,” he told the stunned, semi-conscious youth while his massive rod poked at its firm ass.  “But here’s somethin’ I learned years ago, asswipe—even the most reamed-out faggot gets all nice ‘n tight again as it dies.  Don’t worry, homo, this one’s gonna make up for all the other times I had to imagine wastin’ you just to blow my load up yer useless hole—least this time, I won’t hafta imagine it, har!”

And then he was in.  All the way in, all at once.  For a split second, dazed as he was, Wes realized that he could feel Rocko’s enormous, semen-filled balls slapping against his taint—and then the pain hit.

In some small and curiously detached corner of the adolescent’s mind, Wes was surprised that he could feel such agony, given all the suffering he was already enduring.  But in the past, he’d always insisted that Rocko ease his way in, using plenty of lube.  Neither of those conditions appertained this time.  The older man had torn his sphincter wide open.  Wes’s rectal lining had been shredded as effectively as if a belt sander had been jammed up his ass.

He screamed.  It came from deep inside, seeming to bring his very soul up from within—but it didn’t last long.  Rocko had been through all this before.  The meat always screamed, and it always tightened up a little just before it did—probably from sheer agony.  The serial killer felt the cunt’s mangled asshole clench his rod and knew exactly what was coming.  The second Wes opened his mouth, Rocko punched him twice in the face, as hard as he could.

The first blow broke Wes’s nose; it squelched like a rotten tomato.  The second knocked the fucker’s two front teeth down its throat.

As it choked and coughed the teeth up, Rocko looped the belt through its buckle and yanked the loop down over its head again.  “Ain’t no one gonna hear you, faggot,” he grinned, “Yer gonna die nice and quiet-like on my cock.  After all, folks next door need their sleep, don’t they?”

Again, Wes’s air was cut off—but this was much worse.  Unless he did something drastic, and did it soon, he knew he’d never breathe again. 

The young faggot was in agony.  His broken arm and ribs, his caved in face, his battered and contused torso—all of it seemed to fight against his efforts to save his life with the fierce brutality of Rocko himself.  As his slick, firm body writhed frantically underneath the muscled weight of the convicted killer, Wes could feel the onset of blind terror.

He tried to fight it; he had enough street smarts to know that panic usually meant death.  But there was a jackhammer pounding inside his cranium as viciously as the hulking alpha was pounding inside his asshole.  His face felt hot and taut, there was a fire deep in his chest that grew in intensity with each passing second, and great black fireworks were exploding in front of his eyes.

He was dying.  Oh fuck he was dying.

And so the panic won.

Wes’s left arm wasn’t much use, but his right still worked perfectly—at least well enough to claw wildly at his tormentor.  Despite laying face down on top of the fuckmeat, Rocko was able to draw his head back far enough to avoid the hectic scrambling of its fingers.  He wasn’t able to do the same with his chest though, and that was where Wes’s hand landed next.

It wasn’t just the deep, red furrows the hysteric cunt left on his chest that set Rocko off; it was the fact that when Wes momentarily pulled his hand away, a few curls of the alpha’s chest hair were embedded under his fingernails.

With a roar of anger, the psychotic killer wrapped the loose end of the belt around his hand so he could keep tightening it while freeing up the other hand—which he immediately used to grab the meat’s right wrist.  His eyes narrowed in unspeakable hatred, he stared into the pansy’s blackened face.  It was already starting to drool, its purple tongue rising like an erection from between the split, swollen lips.  Its eyes bulged, ruptured blood vessels creating blooms of red inside the whites.

But it was still alive.  The faggot was so, so close to death, but it was still alive.  It could hear and understand.  This awareness spurred Rocko’s sadism on to make the fuckmeat’s last few moments alive such a nightmarish hell that death would be a mercy and a release.

And even better, it would suffer so badly that it’d milk a huge creamy load out of the buff alpha’s aggressive cock.  The thought alone put more power into the swift flexing of his firm, muscular ass as he drove his rod in like he was trying to split the fucker in two.

“It was always gonna happen, faggot,” he snarled at the dying teenager, “I always off the meat when I’m done with it—because it’s meat.  Only reason you exist is to take my jizz, and you ain’t even good at doin’ that.  But don’t worry, cumsucker—before you go join all the others, I’ll make you good at it.”

He clutched at the index finger of the cumdump’s right hand and bent it backwards, snapping it as easily as a twig.  It couldn’t cry out, but Rocko could see its suffering in its eyes and feel it in the involuntary clenching of its fuckhole.  Even more, he could feel the way its long boycock, pressed hard against his belly, pulsed and began oozing a trail of precum onto his dark body fur.

“See?” he crowed, a triumphant look of insane glee on his face that was somehow more terrifying than any other expression he’d displayed on this night of utter barbarity, “Ya know ya want this, faggot—ya know ya need it!”

The middle finger went next, with a thick wet crack.  Another clench, another pulse, more oozing slime, and tears leaking from the bulging red eyes as a heavy stream of foam trickled pout of the teen’s mouth and down its smooth cheek.  Its expression of agonized bewilderment was erotic as fuck, but Rocko had to hurt it more.  Piece of shit was so fuckin’ stupid.  It was getting off on getting what it deserved like and worthless faggot—but it didn’t understand.  It was gonna cum as it died, but that wasn’t enough.  He needed to teach it why.

Ring finger.  Same reactions, but this time Rocko tightened the belt considerably.  The meat began to shudder.  “Feels good, don’t it?” the older man murmured, “Yer gonna unload the biggest wad of yer useless life in a second here faggot, and when ya do, I’m gonna hose yer guts with hot potent manseed.  It’s why yer here, faggot.  Only reason for your pathetic existence on this planet is to make me cum with yer suffering and death.  Get it now, motherfucker?”

As he broke the last finger of the homo’s right hand, Rocko transferred his own free hand back to the cunt, covering and pressing down on its face.  He could feel his seething testicles pucker, aching for release, and he had no intention of denying them.  “Time to say bye-bye, fuckwad,” he whispered to the meat, then crushed its esophagus.

As the thick, gristly crunching sound echoed in the room, the faggot went rigid, its torn sphincter locking around the base of Rocko’s shaft as if in a conscious effort to milk his balls dry.  Between the splayed fingers of his hand pressing on its face, the killer stared directly into the adolescent’s eyes, and he saw what he needed to see—what he knew would be there.

It got it.  Deep within the overwhelming suffering and terror, the sadistic psycho could see understanding and gratitude.  “Fuck yeah,” he muttered, “You needed this to happen.  I completed you, cunt.  I’ve fulfilled your purpose.  You can go now.”

And it did.  Those were the last words it heard on earth before its brain died and it became nothing but by a convulsive fucktoy, jacking off its killer.

It held him tight for a brief moment, its hightop chucks thrashing in the empty air over his shoulders.  This was Rocko’s favorite part.  Homos were so happy to be put out of their miserable existence that they clung to him as he grunted and cursed, spewing thick ropy strands of vital manseed into their guts, marking them as his kills.  Having his sperm inside them was the closest the fags could ever come to being real men; even in death, the fuckmeat seemed to know it and crave it.

Somewhere along the line, the dead teen blew a huge pearly deathload all over Rocko’s furry belly, but the alpha was too intent on his own sexual pleasure to notice or care.  He expected the death wad as a matter of course.  Happened every time.

It had taken a bit of time for the hypersexed killer to drain his scrotum, but the adolescent meat was still trembling and jerking as he did.  Its left foot, still tightly laced into the Converse sneaker, seemed to be deliberately kicking at the wadded, cum-stained bedding.

With a grunt, Rocko withdrew his still-leaking tool and got to his feet, his hairy, well-muscled torso wet with sweat and the dead teen’s cum.  Goddamit—why did they always have to spurt their useless fagseed onto him?  Stupid goddam motherfuckers…

He headed to the bathroom to clean up, soaking a towel in the sink to wipe himself down and tossing the sodden, semen-soaked mass into the bathtub when he was done.  His boots thudding heavily onto the floor, he headed back into the bedroom.

Without so much as a glance at the corpse, Rocko began to rifle the room.  His own belongings didn’t take long to deal with; his few items of clothing easily fitting into his carryall.  He’d already grabbed the homo’s hidden cash; now he went through its wallet and removed the few bills left in it.  More importantly, he found its stash of weed.  It went into his bag as well; he could sell it, easy.  Satisfied he now had everything of value, he headed for the door.  He opened it slowly and silently, carefully putting his head out.  No one was in sight—good; that meant there would be no witnesses as he left.

Then, and only then, did he turn back and survey the room.  In a sense, the scene kinda surprised him—it was mostly intact.  Beyond the destroyed bathroom door, little violence had been done to the furnishings.

The same couldn’t be said of the dead teen whore sprawled across the bed.     

It was so bruised and mangled, it looked like it had been run over by a semi.  The damage to the left arm wasn’t obvious, but the right hand didn’t resemble anything human.  Its chest was black with bruises through which the red welts of the belt lashing were visible.  The face had been bashed in so badly that visual identification of the body wouldn’t be possible.

The belt was still around its neck.  It had been so deeply embedded in its throat that Rocko hadn’t bothered to try removing it.  It was probably the most gruesome part of the scene; the total circumference of the neck under the belt couldn’t have been more than two inches—and that two inches included the spine and the remains of the larynx, compressed into a solid wad of cartilage.

Smirking, Rocko armed the doorknob lock.  Once it closed behind him, he strolled jauntily to his Crown Vic, carefully parked at the back end of the lot, basking in the satisfaction of a job well done.

---

“You the manager, right?  What’s yer name again?”

“Harold.  Uh, look, officer—”

“Detective.  I’m a homicide detective.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry.  But look, can we get all…all this out of here?  I mean, you must understand how bad for business this is…”

The cop looked around the room with a sneer.  “Yeah, I’m sure the Kardashians are gonna cancel their reservations if they see a patrol car parked out front.  Anyway, we ain’t goin’ nowhere till the morgue van gets here.  That gives you plenty of time to go over the details again.”

The manager, a small, rodent-like man with a pursy mouth sighed in irritated dismay.  “Fine, fine.  Like I said, I hadn’t seen the kid coming or going in a couple of days, so I had the maid check.  It wasn’t the day for the room to be cleaned, but I wanted to make sure he hadn’t skipped out.  He still owes more for last week’s rent—to say nothing this week’s…”

“Yeah, you ain’t getting’ that now,” the detective said coarsely, “Anyway, are ya sure it’s the same kid?”

The manager went pale.  “I, uh, I think so—I mean, that face…it’s so very hard to tell…”

“Yeah, he got the fuck beat outta him.  Gonna need dental records to ID him for sure.  Got fucked in the ass, too.  Real hard.  What, was he some kinda fag whore?  Bring home lotsa guys?”

The rat-faced manager went from white to an angry red flush.  “This isn’t that kind of place.  That is—I mean, he occasionally brought men home.  But the past few weeks I think he had someone staying with him.”

An eager expression crossed the detective’s face.  “Yeah?  Who?  What’d he look like?”

The manager appeared crestfallen.  “I-I don’t know.  I never really saw him.  Maybe Angelita, the maid…”

“Yeah, we’ll ask her too.  Doubt we’ll ever catch the guy, though.  Not that it matters.  Far as I see it, he did us a favor, whoever he was.  Took another worthless faggot off the streets.

The manager glared at him disgustedly, but something outside had caught the detective’s eye.

“Aw, good.  ME guy’s here.  I’ll let them clean this mess up.  Me, I got more important work to do—crimes against real humans, y’know?  Anyway, don’t leave town without letting us know—someone from the department may be in touch if we need ya later.”  He headed out but paused in the doorway and turned back.

“Wouldn’t hold my breath on that, though.  No need to cancel yer vacation plans, if ya get my drift.” 

He smirked and left.  The manager shook his head resignedly and turned to deal with the men from the morgue.