Rocko Breaks Up

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.

Leather Dave and the Poor Little Rich Boy

It was a warm and humid night, and something about the heat and stickiness was irritating Dave’s temper. It wasn’t that he was dressed too warmly—he was wearing a pair of old jeans, worn thin by use, tucked into a pair of Xelement Tribal Skull bike boots; the tight jeans held his long thick cock snugly against the throbbing body of his Harley Fat Boy. Above, a tight leather vest left his thickly muscled arms and furry chest, already slick with sweat, open to the air as he cruised down the darkened highway.

But he was still irritated and edgy.  He knew what the problem was—he needed meat, and he needed it bad.  He hadn’t snuffed a bitch since the Bike Fest, and he was long overdue.  Tonight was gonna be some lucky fagmeat’s last night on Earth.

His handsome face curled into a frightening sneer at the thought.

He pulled into the bar’s parking lot.  He hadn’t hunted here in a while; the place was a murky dive, but every now and then a hot boywhore who didn’t know the score would show up.  It was worth a try, at any rate, and there were other places he could check out later if he didn’t land any prey here.

Luck was with him tonight, though.  Once inside, it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the smoky gloom; the air pulsated with the cacophonous roar of ill-played music from a band in the corner, blaring distortedly out of cheap speakers.  Once he got his bearings, though, his dark, flashing eyes were able to pierce the darkness.  He’d just gotten a beer when he spotted the cunt and knew immediately that tonight was gonna end with the faggot dying on his dick.

The little homo didn’t blend in well.  It was way too young to be in the bar—not that anyone was bothering to check.  More than that, its fashionably slashed $200 Diesel jeans and immaculately white t-shirt, both skin-tight, bespoke its upper-middle-class background.  A trucker’s cap, as dazzlingly clean and white as its shirt, was drawn down over its eyes, as if for protection from the rough trade surrounding it.

The punk was slumming, peeking furtively out from under its cap.  Suddenly, its eyes lit on the leather-clad stud and gleamed with an intense lust.  Dave smirked. Whatever it had been looking for, it had found it in him.

At least, by the time he was done with it, it wasn’t gonna be looking for anything anymore.

The boy sidled up to Dave.  “You, uh, you wanna buy me a drink?” it asked—hesitatingly but not shyly. 

“Fuck no,” Dave sneered, “I wanna jam my thick shaft up yer fuckhole, cunt.”

The boywhore reacted like an ecstatic puppy; if it had had a tail, it would’ve wagged it.  “Yeah!” it enthused, “Fuck yeah!  C’mon, dude, let’s get outta here and you can seed me as hard as ya want!”

“Go wait for me in the parking lot, bitch,” Dave said, “I’m gonna finished my beer.”

The cold contempt in his voice only excited the kid more.  He opened his mouth to object but thought better of it after catching a glimpse of Dave’s glare.  Meekly obeying the alpha’s command, he headed for the door.  Dave finished his drink, secure in the knowledge that no one would be able to say that the boy had left the bar with anyone.

 Once finished, he strode straight out of the bar.  Sure enough, the little cunt was waiting for him, sitting on a low parapet that adjoined the building, kicking the heels of its Air Jordan 1 Cool Grays against the wall.  Even from a distance, Dave could hear the faint thudding of the slut’s hightops against the brick over the sound of his own heavy boots striking the pavement.  For some reason, the sound irritated him.

“Over here, boy,” he barked, wheeling about and heading for his bike.  Behind him, the sound stopped and was replaced with soft footfalls as the kid hurried behind him like a dog anxious to obey its master. 

“Get on behind me, cunt,” Dave said, straddling the Harley.

“Donnie,” the kid said suddenly, with a slight touch of defiance in his voice, “My name is Donnie.”

“Like I give a fuck,” Dave growled.  “You ain’t nothing but a fucktoy.  Now get the fuck on.”

Donnie’s face flushed red, but the bulge in his tight jeans throbbed visibly at the alpha’s gruff commands.  He still hesitated a moment, though.

“Where we goin’?” he asked but spoke again before Dave could open his mouth.  “I gotta place.  Garage apartment at my folk’s house.  Just a single room, but I got it all fitted out.  Get fucked there all the time—my parents never bother me there.  And they’ll be in bed anyway.”

It was lucky that Dave’s face was in shadow; the shark-like grin that curled his lips into an ugly sneer might have been a red flag for the boy.  But the adolescent whore was so hormone-ridden it probably wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  Donnie hopped on the bike and wrapped his arms around Dave’s muscled torso, burying his face in the stud’s leather vest

“It’s north of Main.  421 Royal Oak—the old historic district, y’know?  House was built in 1912,” he chirped, so intoxicated by the musky scent of the leather that he was unaware that he was starting to babble.  Dave fired up the Harley, the loud roar of its engine silencing the kid’s blathering; in seconds, they were speeding off into the darkness.

 It didn’t take Dave long to find the place.  It was a huge and incredibly ugly pseudo-Elizabethan pile, complete with false half-timbering and a back garden filled with crazy paving.  Next to the garden was a three-car garage with an exterior staircase leading to a dormered second floor.

He also noticed lights on in the back of the main house as he shut off the Harley.  “I thought you said they’d be asleep,” he said menacingly.

“They usually are,” was Donnie’s sheepish reply.  “C’mon, let’s get upstairs before they come out.  They had to’ve heard the bike.”

It was a close thing.  Donnie had just managed to unlock the door at the top of the stairs and let Dave in when a shrill, nagging voice arose from the garden.

“Donald, is that you?” it demanded querulously, “Why aren’t you in bed?  We have church in the morning—you know we’re going to the early service!”

“Aw, I’ll be in soon, Ma,” Donnie called back, “I just wanna, um, finish up something real quick.”

“Well, I’m warning you—if you’re not up and dressed by eight, I’ll be sending your father for you.”

“Sure thing, Ma—I’ll be there.”

Dave smirked.  If there was one thing he could guarantee, it was that Donnie wouldn’t be present for the early service at church.

The boy brushed past him and flipped the light switch.  By the dim light of a small bedside lamp, Dave could make out a single room with sloping walls and a peaked ceiling.  In the space cut by the dormer was a king-sized bed with rumpled, cum-stained sheets; the coverlet was in a wad on the floor.  Next to the bed was the table with the lamp; it also held a dildo and a bottle of poppers.

On the far wall beyond the bed were two doors, both ajar.  One led to a half-bath, the other to an apparently empty closet.  The room was devoid of anything else except a rank smell of stale weed smoke and mansex.

“Hang on,” Donnie said suddenly as Dan entered the room.  Stepping past him, the teen slut locked the deadbolt, a complicated maneuver that involved engaging a small lever under the knob. 

“Just in case,” he said.  “They’ve never come up here, but Dad was made a deacon this week and is being officially presented in church tomorrow—I think they’re kinda antsy about it.”

Dave just grunted and slipped off his leather vest, revealing his massive pecs and jutting nipples in all their glory.  Donnie had opened his mouth to say something else, but the sight of the hardbodied alpha’s muscled, furry chest stopped him cold.  His jaw hung open for a moment, then snapped shut as he swallowed with a loud gulp.

“What’re you waiting for, faggot?” Dave barked.  “Get your clothes off and get on that fuckin’ bed.  I gotta load to drain and my balls are already boilin’ over.”

Again, Donnie flushed red.  No one had ever verbally abused him like this, and he was offended—but he could also feel the way it made his boycock pulsate.  With an eager grin, he took off his cap and tossed it in the corner, revealing a shock of unruly black hair.  He stripped off his t-shirt, his lithe teen body already slick with sweat—it was a warm night, and the room wasn’t air-conditioned.

After kicking off his Nikes, he quickly peeled down his expensive jeans, his long boycock leaping out and swaying in the air as soon as it was freed from its denim confines.  He was left standing in front of Dave wearing nothing but ankle socks and a leer.

Dave, in turn, had unzipped his fly and hauled out his enormous shaft, vein-wreathed and visibly throbbing.  As Donnie gaped at the huge tool, uncertain that his ass could handle such a gigantic member, the alpha calmly looked the boy over.

“Yeah, you’ll do,” he said calmly and punched the teen in the face.

Donnie cried out and reeled back, stumbling and falling against the bed.  Clutching his cheek where a deep bruise was already starting to spread, he stared up at Dave.  “What the fuck, dude?!?” he asked, his face clouded by disbelief and a touch of anger, but not fear.

Not yet.

“I was dead serious about needing to release my load,” Dave replied in an almost conversational tone, “And the only way you’re gonna milk my cum is to die on my dick. But first, you gotta suffer. You get it, cunt? The more pain you’re in, the more intense my orgasm. Buckle up, bitch, I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad you’re gonna blow a wad in sheer agony.”

Now the fear showed on Donnie’s face, crowding out the anger, but not the disbelief.  The adolescent slut simply couldn’t believe his ears.  Dave expected that.  Teenaged fuckmeat wasn’t able to conceive its own demise; that was why he preyed on it.  It kept fighting and struggling, working his shaft, right up to the moment it died.

“No, man—you-you’re joking,” the boy stuttered, “But this ain’t funny, dude.  Stop it.”

Dave kicked him, hard, the steel toe of his harness boot sinking deep into the punk’s flat belly.  Donnie exhaled violently with a loud “OOF!” and curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach, and desperately gasping for air.

“Ya feelin’ me yet, asswipe?” Dave jeered, “No?  How about now?”

This time, the expertly-aimed kick struck Donnie’s back, right on the kidney.  It was enough to make the lithe teen straighten out.  Groaning in agony, he rolled face-up; in that position, he had an excellent view of the tread of Dan’s boot as the sadistic alpha raised his foot and stomped the kid’s chest.

The wet cracking sound as one of Donnie’s rib’s snapped was loud enough to be heard over every other noise in the room.  If the punk hadn’t already had so much on his mind, he might have noticed the sensation of Dave’s precum dripping onto his smooth skin like hot melted wax.

Even if he didn’t believe he was going to die tonight, Donnie was convinced by now that the stud he’d brought home—and with whom he’d locked himself in—was going to try to kill him and was definitely going to hurt him badly.  He needed to get out; he needed to get help.  His parents were just yards away.  There’d be consequences for revealing his sexual escapades, but he’d deal with that later if he could only reach them now.

For Dave, the faggot’s thoughts were as obvious as if he’d spoken them aloud.  The meat was gonna make a run for it; the meat always made a run for it. 

Fuckmeat was stupid; that was why it was so easy to hunt it down and slaughter it.

Dave decided to play with his fucktoy for a little.  He walked to the closet and peered in, giving the meat a chance to get up and bolt for the door.  It thought it was being quiet when it did so, but the jagged edges of the broken rib were lacerating internal tissue; its grunts and groans of pain made it easy to track its exact location without having to look directly at it. 

Dave only turned back when the faint thudding of its socked feet on the floor told him it was heading for the door.  Even then, he was in no rush.

Donnie reached the door in a state of intense fear.  He knew that if he couldn’t get out now, he probably wouldn’t be leaving the room under his own power later, whatever happened.  Tears ran down his cheeks as he twisted and yanked the doorknob, but the door refused to open.  Then, behind him, he heard the slow, steady tread of Dave’s boots as the sadist approached him.

On the verge of blind panic, the teen suddenly remembered the lock and fumbled with the catch.  The muscled psycho was coming closer and closer; he had to get it open—he had to, oh Christ oh holy fuck why wasn’t it opening—the lever!  Yes!

Just as Donnie disengaged the deadbolt, Dave’s hand clamped on his shoulder and spun him around, his heavy fist pistoning into the punk’s face with enough power to drive the teen into the wall next to the door.  Donnie’s head snapped back with enough force to leave a large dent where it caved in the sheetrock.  Stunned, the adolescent slipped to the floor, drooling out blood and one of his canine teeth.

“Ok, cunt, that’s enough foreplay,” Dave commented casually, “I’m ready to stick it up your ass now.”

Donnie was only vaguely aware that he was being dragged across the room. It was only when Dave clutched his throat and dead-lifted him into the air with one arm, cutting off his breath, that the slut came back to full consciousness. He’d never been choked before and it was absolutely terrifying.

But it only lasted a moment.  The muscle-bound stud tossed the boy onto the bed on his back like a rag doll, then climbed on himself, placing his hands on the teen’s firm, smooth thighs and roughly parting them.

“You’re gonna die soon,” Dave jeered, sneering down into the boy’s swollen face, “But first I’m gonna ream your fuckhole.  It’s time for you to learn that the only reason you exist is to be my cumdump.”

And with that, he remorselessly plowed his enormous pulsing shaft into the slutboy’s asshole, shoving it all the way home in a single ruthless balls-deep thrust.

Donnie’s sphincter was torn apart like a rubber band stretched beyond its limit.  There was no lube beyond Dave’s precum and his own blood; the billiard-ball-sized head of the alpha’s cock shredded his rectal lining and ground horrifically over his prostate.  Out of everything he’d endured so far, this was the worst; it was the most excruciating thing he’d ever experienced.

And somehow, it made his own dick swell and throb so intensely it ached.

Dave noticed it and grunted contemptuously.  “Fuckin’ faggots—y’all always piss and moan about gettin’ slapped around, but you little whores just fuckin’ love it rough, dontcha?”

Donnie didn’t love it; in fact, he was already so traumatized by the brutality that he was unable to speak.  Nothing in his useless upper-middle-class existence had prepared him for what he was enduring.  His only experience with violence had been in movies and video games—he associated it more with entertainment than actual physical pain.

The teen punk might have been too overwhelmed to verbally object, but his body had its own way to object, even if involuntarily.  With frantic, mindless energy, he began to claw at the hardbodied alpha.

Dave had wasted enough cunts to know the signs of meat about to lose its shit;he’d been leaning over the homo, so close the teen asswipe could smell the heady mix of sweat and abundant testosterone the powerful sadist gave off. Now he pulled back—not much, but enough to keep his face out of the teen’s frenetic reach.

His face, but not his body.  Within seconds, Donnie’s hands were grasping at Dave’s rock-hard pecs and dark body fur.  Digging into his chest, the little asswipe actually managed to draw the alpha’s blood.  Not a lot, but it didn’t take much to trigger the violent killer’s rage.

It happened in a flash.  With a vicious snarl, Dave drew back his fist.  Donnie’s eyes widened in sudden terror, but he had no time to do more than register the image of Dave’s bicep, bulging with power like a coiled spring, before the killer’s fist slammed into his face with the force of a speeding locomotive.

Pain tore through the unlucky whoreboy’s head, but even worse followed immediately.  In the next moment, Dave had grabbed Donnie’s right arm.  “You stupid fuckin’ piece of shit,” he growled, the bloodlust glittering in his eyes, “You ain’t ever gonna that again.  Yer gonna take my dick like a good piece of fuckmeat, then yer gonna die so your convulsions can milk my shaft.  You get that?  No, ya dumbass cunt?  Here, maybe this’ll teach ya!”

His handsome face contorted in a bestial mask as he wrapped his own powerful arm around the slut’s thinner one.  He gave a quick, vicious jerk and Donnie’s arm was suddenly bent ninety degrees in the wrong direction at the elbow.

The adolescent’s shriek was loud, echoing off the bare walls of the small room, but it wasn’t loud enough to completely cover the gristly cracking sound of a major bone shattering, so similar to that of the breaking of a live tree limb.  Donnie’s face had gone a pale gray except for the large dark rings that physical trauma had painted around his eyes.  His lithe body stiffened, going rigid with agony.

Dave loved it; the cunt’s sphincter might have been mangled but it was still intact enough to clench with pain, tightening around the base of Dave’s thick, massive shaft.  The violent sadist had managed to inflict the suffering on the fuckmeat without breaking his relentless ass-pounding tempo; the slut’s reaction to its salutary lesson only increased the alpha’s pleasure.

But Dave wasn’t done yet.  Like a jackhammer, his huge, heavy fist pounded the meat’s chest in the same spot that his boot had inflicted damage earlier.  The whoreboy’s broken ribs were driven deeper into his torso, the jagged ends shearing into his left lung and tearing it open.

Instantly Donnie’s screams became muffled, almost inaudible as his lung deflated.  His face developed a bluish tinge and he began to gasp like a dying fish.  His expression was one of sheer terror.

Dave grinned malevolently.  The meat was scared of being short of breath?  Worthless asswipe was gonna be in stark panic in a few seconds.

And that was gonna be hot.  The more it thrashed, the more it worked his cock like good fucktoy.

Despite his impaired respiration, Donnie soon found his voice again—what little was left of it.  All he could do was emit a keening noise, something like a high-pitched bleating that became louder and higher the more roughly Dave pounded his ass.  It was pissing the alpha off—he could already feel his massive ballsack starting to pucker as his potent semen began to seethe with eager heat.  He didn’t want to hear the meat whimpering and mewling as he got close to unloading.

“Aw, shut the fuck up!” he yelled in rage, slamming his fist repeatedly into the teen’s face.  The punk was really squirming about now, trying to get away from the hail of blows that the muscled sadist was raining mercilessly upon him, to no avail.  He was pinned to the bed by the killer’s hard body, impaled by his gigantic horsecock—

—on the same bed that he’d gotten fucked on the night before. The memory was made dim and fleeting by the maelstrom of suffering being inflicted on him; he could just recall that the boy was cute but wasn’t fucking him as roughly as he wanted…

…then Dave dragged him back to the present by breaking his nose.  But even through the pain and fear, Donnie was still aware of Dave’s raw sexual attraction and while the violent rape and assault weren’t conducive to eroticism—at least, from the whoreboy’s point of view—his dick responded instinctively. 

As the teenager’s pulsing member slid against Dave’s hard, flat belly, the wiry body fur abraded it like steel wool, increasing the boy’s pain—but his rod still left a clear trail of precum that matted his rapist’s hair.

Dave could feel it too.  With a loud grunt, he stopped beating Donnie, leaned forward and stared the directly into the homo’s swollen, terrified eyes.  “Ya ready for it, cunt?” he growled, “Ya ready to die?  It’s time to get it on, motherfucker!”

Then his hands clenched around the kid’s throat, strong as iron bands, and he began to squeeze. At the same time, he shifted slightly, digging the toes of his bike boots into the bed. He started to pump the teen’s fuckhole furiously, his powerful, rock-hard glutes flexing visibly inside his jeans.

Donnie’s immediate, involuntary reaction was blind panic.  He ceased to be a human being—he’d hardly been that to begin with, the useless piece of fuckmeat—and became an animal, scrambling frantically and vainly for escape from death.  He kicked and flailed frenziedly, his lithe, smooth legs wrapping around Dave’s waist with his feet in the air, toes curling in desperation.

The stupid punk was only adding to his own pain.  While his left hand clawed at his neck, futilely trying to pry away the alpha’s steely grip, his right arm jerked and flopped uselessly, each movement grinding the shattered ends of the bones against each other.  The boy was awash in a nightmarish sea of blood-red agony.

But within seconds, the nature of that agony began to change. It wasn’t that he could no longer feel the broken bones, or his bashed-in face; they just seemed to recede into the background as new, even more excruciating sensations came to the fore. Even the misery of having his windpipe slowly crushed took a back seat to the echoing, sledgehammer-like pounding in his skull and the burning, fiery pain in his already-damaged lungs; both were accompanied by an unbearable feeling of pressure.

This pressure was so intense it seemed to be forcing his eyes right out of its head.  The blackened lids had been swollen shut; now the bulging orbs popped them open.  And as red blooms of hemorrhages began to burst in the whites of the adolescent’s eyes, his tongue, already dark with congested blood, shoved its way past his split lips, lubed by a thick, steady stream of foamy drool that ran down his cheeks and chin.  

But the worst were the dicks—his and the alpha’s.  As his brain began to die, his nerve endings cruelly began to grow more sensitive.  His ravaged fuckhole felt like it was being reamed by a cactus the size of a baseball bat.  Yet somehow the pain in his own tool was even worse.  It throbbed with the same out-of-control tempo that his head and chest did, but it seemed to be even more intense and agonizing—a glassy, pulsating pain that clutched his balls like a bear trap and spread outward over his heaving, sweat-slick belly.

“Fuck yeah, get it,” Dave said, thickly and gutturally.  “Get my wad, you worthless piece a’ fuckin’ faggot shit.  Die on my shaft, you goddam cocksucker!”

For a moment, the pain in the meat’s throat became noticeable again.  The fucktoy’s brain was shutting down at a cascading rate, but there was still enough of it left to both feel and hear its esophagus collapse under the serial killer’s hands.  The loudest noise in the room was that of a huge styrofoam cup being crushed; the crackling sound was exactly what Dave had been waiting for—it was the end of the fuckmeat.

Or at least, close enough for the end for it fulfill its only real purpose on the planet and become the cumdump for a real male.  But even though Donnie, as Donnie, was brain-dead, the shuddering, convulsing meat still retained the ability to physically sense things.

The sheer hell of it was, the brain was so damaged it could only interpret its sensations as pain.

The eardrums could still pick up Dave’s cursing and jeers, but those vibrations went to a part of the fag’s brain that no longer functioned. It could feel Dave’s fist pounding on it, slamming into its chest, its jaw, its mouth. And it could definitely feel the continuous stream of potent virile manseed that spewed into its fuckhole—an excruciatingly searing pain as if its guts were being hosed by hot lava.

And then came the worst agony of all.  It could feel the entirety of its young, wasted life being ripped from its abused body, spurting out through its cock.  If it had been capable of thought, it would have been astonished at how badly an orgasm could hurt—but this was its mortal load, its deathwad. The last essence of its useless life actually was spewing out its cock.

There’d been a lot of life in the faggot for it to spew, too.  It shot a solid stream of spunk for nearly a full sixty seconds.  If it had survived, its balls would have been irreparably damaged.

Dave’s load lasted nearly as long, but he was stronger and more experienced.  Even so, he collapsed onto the shuddering corpse, spent, and lay there a few minutes as his rod continued to ooze and leak into the dead kid’s guts.  Finally catching his breath, he slowly extracted his still-erect shaft from the teen’s ass like a boring machine being pulled from a well and rose to his feet.

He was covered with sweat and needed to towel off, but first he wanted to remove the sticky boycum that was matting his chest hair.  He glanced around and instantly noticed that one of the meat’s socks had come off; the corpse’s toes were still curling slightly as its trashed nervous system continued to fire randomly.

It was barely big enough to satisfy his need; when he was done, it was thick and heavy with teen spunk.  Looking down at the meat’s congested face, Dave grinned and forced the cumrag sock into the kid’s mouth, shoving it past the blackened, protruding tongue.

He stepped into the bathroom and found some hand towels—there were no bath towels since it was only a half-bath.  It took three of them to wipe his own cum and sweat from his muscled body; when he was done, he jammed them into the toilet and flushed it, letting the water back up and overflow as a final “fuck you” to the privileged cocksucker and its family.  He tucked his dick back inside his jeans, retrieved his leather vest, and headed for the door.

His boots pounded heavily on the outside stairs as he headed down.  Even now, his massive rod was firm and pulsing.  Worthless faggot hadn’t been enough to satisfy him.  Fucking cunt.  He knew he’d need to find more meat soon.

Lights came on instantly in the house when the Harley roared to life.  Stupid homo was wrong about his parents getting to bed.  Even over the noise of the motorcycle, Dave could hear the mother’s hectoring voice issuing from the back yard.

“Donald, what on earth is going on?  That’s it; your father’s coming out there.  Henry!  Henry!  You need to go see what Donald is doing!”

Dave had no desire to spoil their surprise.  With a faint smirk that radiated pure evil, he flipped up the kickstand and pulled out of the driveway.

He was at the end of the block by the time slippered feet padded angrily up the stairs to the garage apartment and he’d made it to the main road by the time the screaming started.

He was on the highway, heading west and halfway home by the time sirens started heading towards the small room where the teenager’s badly beaten corpse lay, still quivering and oozing cum from its torn asshole.

Jake Makes His Mark

Jake turned the ignition and felt the heavy rumble of the Ford F350’s powerful engine.  He liked the sensation; after a long day’s work on the counties’ power lines, it almost felt like a full body massage.  Even now, as he was leaving the bar, he lay back for a moment in his tight jeans, sweat-streaked t-shirt and knee-high lineman’s boots to enjoy the vibration.

Whether or not the fag whore sitting next to him felt the same way didn’t really matter.  It had approached him in the bar, clearly angling for a drink and some dick.  Jake was willing to give it the former but didn’t see any need to spend money on it, so he told it he’d give it a drink when they got back to his place.

It was wearing a replica Rush concert t-shirt under a light leather aviator’s jacket.  Its skin-tight jeans concealed its long boycock as badly as Jake’s did his own massive hog; beneath was a pair of Adidas Stan Smith kicks in white leather.  The whore was eager for cock—if it’d had a tail, it’d have been wagging it.

When they got into the truck, it told Jake its name—Billy, Bobby, something like that.  Jake didn’t listen; he didn’t care.

After all, meat didn’t need a name to die.

Jake liked wasting fagboys.  Useless scum taking up valuable space, they were only good for milking his enormous rod as they died in nightmarish convulsions.  And no one ever missed them.  Every Friday night for years now, the hardbodied stud had stopped off at some bar or another somewhere in the county; there was always a homo hanging around, hoping to catch some straight dude drunk and horny enough not to care about what was sucking his dick.

The ones that left with Jake were never seen again—or at least, not until they’d become unrecognizable.  Every now and then, one would be ID’d by DNA or dental records and there’d be a brief blurb on the local news, but no questions were ever asked—because no one cared. 

Jake grinned as he put the truck into gear.  Fuck, he was doin’ the county a favor, ridding it of these worthless cocksuckers.  And tonight, he’d take out another one.  His dick was already oozing at the thought.

His apartment was a short-term rental; a late-winter storm had done a lot of damage to the lines in this part of the state and there was still a lot of repair work to do.  The complex was small and half-empty most of the time.  Jake had only been there himself for two months and at that, his was the third-longest tenancy in the place—there were a couple of ancient crones up near the front who eked out their welfare pittance by staying inside all day with the TV cranked up. 

A narrow drive ran from the street to the rear parking lot.  The muscled killer had to drive right past one of the old bats’ bedroom windows on the way, but the curtains were closed and the lights out, as always.  The meat was still yammering away in the passenger seat as Jake parked the truck, but it had the sense to shut its trap once it got out.  The soft footfall of its Adidas sneakers as it followed Jake into the complex was drowned out by the crunching of buff stud’s boots on the gravel surface.

Jake’s unit was on the bottom left in the back.  It had come furnished, full of mismatched garage-sale rejects.  The hardbodied lineman didn’t spend much time cleaning it; it was a dump, and he didn’t spend much time in it in any case.  Billy/Bobby stared at the sprung sofa with a large stain on one of its cushions and the armchair in cracked faux leather in distaste.   

Jake sneered.  Fucker didn’t think it was a decent enough place to get banged in?  It’s gonna fuckin’ love gettin’ snuffed in here, worthless cunt.

Heading for the kitchen, the twisted muscleman grabbed a bottle of Hennessey and a single glass—no sense wastin’ good booze on meat.  He threw himself on the sofa and raised a leg into the air.

“Get over here, bitch,” he snarled.  “Take my boot off.  Now, ya fuckin’ faggot—move it!”

Bobby/Billy instantly dropped to its knees with the instinct of a cocksucker, despite the look of shock on its face that showed how unused it was to being treated the way it deserved.  It ran its hands over the black leather of Jake’s boots, its fingers caressing the tight laces as its large dark eyes focused with lustful eagerness on the killer’s face.

Jake had trimmed his red-gold hair in an extreme buzz cut but let a short beard of the same shade grow; combined with his glittering emerald eyes, it gave him a masculine appeal that homos found irresistible.  With his large dark eyes locked on Jake’s, it was clear Bobby/Billy was under the influence of that appeal now.  It brushed a bang of lank black hair out of its eyes and untied the knot on the left boot.  With a frantic lunge, Billy/Bobby manage to pry the boot free, his own cock visibly throbbing in his jeans, then turned his pig attention to the other one.

The meat didn’t immediately untie the right boot; first, it applied its tongue to the long length of glossy black leather running up the stud’s muscled calf.  “Work it, cunt,” Jake, “Lick it like it’s my fuckin’ dick.”  Billy/Bobby responded in true faggot spirit, mounting Jake’s boot, its swollen package sliding along the top of the alpha’s foot while it played at the knot of the bootlace with the tip of its tongue.

Finally lifting its head, it reached up and untied the boot.  Placing its Adidas kicks flat on the floor, it grasped the boot by tip and heel and began to pull.  “That’s right,” the hardbodied lineman grunted as the cuntboy strained at the knee-high boot, “Faster you get ‘em off, faster you get my cock inside ya.” 

The boot came off suddenly, sending Billy/Bobby backwards onto its ass with a grunt.  Jake smirked and stood up abruptly, peeling his t-shirt off in a single continuous movement that revealed his furry, chiseled torso in all its masculine glory.  Tossing it aside casually, he unbuttoned the waistband of his jeans and slowly slid the zipper down, grinning contemptuously at the eager, hunger look on the faggot’s face.

“Been waitin’ for this, cocksucker, aintcha?” he sneered, then chuckled aloud as his massive shaft of pulsing, vein-wreathed manmeat sprung out, its spongy, billiard-ball-sized head bobbing in the air.  As the hardbodied stud let the jeans slid to the floor, he noted a look of trepidation on the homo’s face.  “Whassa matter, pansy, my rod too big for ya?” he jeered as he stepped out of the pile of wadded denim, “I’m getting’ another slug of booze; that’ll give ya time to get in the mood to get yer ass wrecked.  Strip, cunt, I wanna see what I’m gonna be stick my dick into when I get back.”

Nude except for his calf-high tube socks, Jake plodded into the kitchen and poured himself another glass of Hennessey.  It took only a few seconds at most, so when he returned, he was surprised to see that the meat had not only pulled off its clothes but had had the audacity to pull his wallet out of his crumpled jeans and rifle through it.  There was a fair amount of cash in it—Jake had gotten paid two days ago, plenty of overtime—and the worthless cumdump was so absorbed in counting the bills that it didn’t hear Jake’s approach.

“You worthless motherfucker.”  It was said calmly and coldly, but there was something in the words that made Billy/Bobby’s blood run cold and the rest of its lean adolescent body freeze in fear.  “Y’know, I was gonna off yer faggot ass tonight anyway,” Jake continued, almost casually, “But now I’m gonna make it fuckin’ hurt.”

The meat slowly rose to its feet, its dark eyes huge with fear.  “Wha—no, I just…I mean, I didn’t—” it whimpered, its boyish face ashen.

Jake took another step forward, his gigantic shaft jutting out in front of him.  “You didn’t?  Yeah, ya fuckin did.  Aw man, fuckwad,” he grinned, “I’m gonna enjoy hurtin’ you so fuckin’ much.  I’m gonna kill you while ya ride my cock.  Yer gonna spend yer last few moment on earth kickin’ yer worthless life out on my dick.”

The faggot had its back against the wall by now.  It bleated inarticulately as fat tears ran down its cheeks, but its long teen rod was still erect despite its increasing terror.  Its eyes darted wildly but finally came to rest on Jake’s balled-up fist, big as the head of a mallet, that the muscled alpha was starting to draw back.

The thick, ropy muscles on the sadist’s arm were coiled like a spring; the raw power was obvious.  It would be a devastating blow.  Just as the fist shot towards it, the fuckmeat jerked to one side with the instinct of a lower life form evading a predator.  Jake’s hand plowed into the thin wall, puncturing it like wet paper.

With a roar of thwarted rage, the vicious alpha yanked his arm back, his hand covered with white dust, the remains of pulverized sheetrock.  One glance at his face was enough to make Billy/Bobby that it had only made things worse for itself.  It wouldn’t have the chance to repeat the mistake, though—by the time the thought had flashed through its slow, dim mind, Jake had already reset his power blow.

This time, it was aimed directly at the teen meat’s smooth, flat belly—and it didn’t miss.

“HOOG!!” the cunt squawked as the air was forcibly expelled from its lungs.  It bent over, clutching its abdomen, and collapsed as its legs folded under it.  Jake stood over the gagging lump of teen sneering at its pathetic attempts to draw breath.

“Kinda a shame ya took my boots off, bitch; I’da loved ta stomp yer teeth down yer faggot throat.  Looks like I’mma have to do it with my fist.”

He knelt beside it and grabbed a handful of hair.  Jerking its head back, he spat in its agonized face, then stood up, pulling the adolescent slut up to its knees.  Jake held it upright by its hair; Billy/Bobby hadn’t regained enough air to be able to support itself.  As a result, it could only dangle helplessly as the powerful killer aimed his fist directly at its face.

In a way, the effects of this impact were more merciful than those of the first.  Its head snapped back so hard and fast that it tore free of Jake’s hand, leaving him with a fistful of dark lank hair.  The back of the cunt’s head made another hole in the wall, the force knocking it out.  It didn’t immediately feel the pain of having its nose crushed into a useless wad of cartilage; it was spared the sensation of drooling an incisor and cuspid out its mouth in a trickle of blood.

When it slowly began to climb its way into consciousness out of a sea of red pain, it became aware that it was face-down on something—the sofa.  Its face was throbbing and its mouth seemed swollen; the memory of the beating it had endured was slow and gradual in its return.  But it did return, accompanied by the sensation of something poking and prodding at its soft, tender fuckhole—something that seemed to be about the size of a baseball bat.

The adolescent slut suddenly came to completely, with a realization that it was feeling the brutal alpha’s dick as it prepared to ream the meat’s ass like a jackhammer.  As horny as the little cunt was, it knew there was no way it could take that massive tube of manflesh up its rectum without sustaining terrible internal damage.

It needed to get out.  Now.

Jake had expected a show of resistance from the meat at some point; the cunts always put up a fight, even though they always enjoyed it in the end.  At any rate, they always shot huge deathwads as they died.  And if they didn’t like it—who cared?

It was just fuckmeat, after all.

The fag whirled around, throwing itself off the couch and landing on the thin, cheap carpeting.  It could feel the synthetic weave scratching its back as is stared up at Jake towering over it, and it realized it hadn’t improved its position at all.  The muscle-bound sadist loomed menacingly, his enormous shaft oozing transparent beads of precum that spattered onto the punk’s smooth, flat belly, seeming to burn the flesh as they hit.

The despair Bobby/Billy felt was obvious in its face as it gazed up at the hardbodied stud; those powerful muscles that had to attracted its homo lust were now revealed as the means to cause the boyslut further pain.  Even when Jake turned and bent to retrieve something on the floor, the visible strength revealed by the rock-hard globes of his ass muscles simply drove home the point—by showing how much power was available to thrust that huge horsedick up into the teen’s guts.

Jesus Christ, this guy could fuck him to death.  Literally, to death. 

But even as a cold chill ran through the boywhore’s lithe body, its dick remained pulsatingly erect.  Jake noticed.

“You want this, ya fuckin’ faggot bitch,” he snarled in a low tone that was somehow erotic.  “You know you want to die impaled on my cock.  Don’t worry, you piece of cocksucking shit, it’s gonna happen—but not yet.”

His grin broadened, becoming so malevolent that Billy/Bobby moaned in terror.

“But I ain’t done hurtin’ ya.  Street whores like you are tough, gamy meat.  Yer gonna need a lot more tenderizin’ before I’m ready to grant you the mercy of death.  And believe me, motherfucker, by then death will be a mercy.”

He held up his hand and the cunt could see what he’d pick up.  It was a socket wrench.  A metal socket wrench, very large, very heavy.

“Ready, motherfucker?  Time for you to learn to appreciate death.  Goddam, I’m gonna get off on hurtin’ you so fuckin’ much!”

Ginning excitedly, Jake waded in, his furry chest glistening in the dim light as it flexed with each swing of the wrench.  The teenaged faggot moaned in terror as the hulking alpha stooped over him; it knew it was about to suffer unimaginable pain.  It didn’t understand why, though, and bewilderment filled its face as it held its hands up in a desperate plea for mercy.

Then the blows came thick and fast, falling like steel rain onto the tender adolescent flesh.

Jake managed to avoid the cunt’s flailing hands and landed the first blow on its chest, striking the swelling mound of the pectoral just to the right of the sternum. Almost simultaneously with the meaty thud of metal-on-skin contact was a sharp crack as a rib fractured explosively, scattering razor-sharp bone shards through the whore’s body like shrapnel.  “GUK!” the kid cried out inarticulately as its right lung was punctured in three places.  As it slowly collapsed over the next five minutes, the cocksucker found it increasingly difficult to breathe.

By that time, though, it had a lot of other things to worry about.  Like its left hand.  Jake’s first blow may have avoided the fucker’s scrambling fingers, but the second plowed into them with all the brute force the hardbodied killer could muster; in the blink of an eye, Billy/Bobby’s left hand was crushed into a useless wad of bone chunks and torn muscle. 

The boy paused for a moment, staring wide-eyed at the mangled lump of twitching flesh at the end of its wrist.  It was breathing heavily, each inhale deeper and longer than the last one.  Jake had beaten enough fags to recognize an impending scream.  He nipped it in the bud by leaning down and almost casually popping the little motherfucker in the face with the wrench, breaking its jaw in three pieces.

The sound the meat made was inhuman—at least, it couldn’t be recognized of the scream of a human.  Jake tossed the wrench aside and squatted down next to the writhing, blubbering homo.  He could see that the kid’s cock was still hard, even if the pansy didn’t realize it itself.  “Ya like that, huh, motherfucker?  Ya like it when a real man shows a worthless fag like you what it really deserves?  Here, dude, getta load of this.”

He curled his arm in front of the boy’s face, the massive bicep swelling with the alpha’s innate strength.  “Fuck yeah,” the sadistic killer crowed, “That’s some real fuckin’ power, yeah?  Well guess what, asswipe, it’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, cause I’m gonna use it all on your sorry ass.  No holds barred, no punches pulled—I’m gonna beat ya to death.  I’m gonna cave yer fag face in while my cock is buried in yer guts.”

Jake stood back up, his furry glistening body backlit by the lamp on the table.  “You want it,” he murmured in a low, almost seductive voice.  “You know you do, bitch.  You want the D and you wanna die to earn my load.  You ain’t good for nothin’ else and you know it deep down in the core of yer rotten faggot soul.  Yer almost ready for it.  Almost.  There’s still an edge on ya, fuckmeat, I can see it in yer eyes.  It’s the look of a beaten dog ready to lick its master’s hand again.  You know what you deserve—but you don’t know it, ya feel me?  No?  Here’ maybe this’ll learn ya.”

And with no other warning Jake dropped, slamming his rock-hard fist down like a pile driver deep into the teen’s taut smooth belly.

The fag seemed to wrap around Jake’s hand, nearly engulfing it.  At the same time, the boywhore let out a high, girlish squeal—as the air was forcibly expelled from its lungs, it came out with the sound of steam escaping a ruptured pipe.  This was the point at which the shredded right lung collapsed, leaving the miserable youth retching and gagging in near-asphyxia.

“Now yer ready, motherfucker,” Jake sneered, dragging the thrashing homo to a clear space near the center of the room.  “And so am I.  Good workout with a punching bag always gets me horny.  Guess it’s a good thing I found a cumdump to unload into, yeah?  Har!”  He brandished his monstrous tool with vicious pleasure in the full knowledge that the mere penetration would cause the teenager serious internal damage.

Kicking Billy/Bobby’s legs apart, Jake kneeled between them and spat on his cock.  He placed the enormous purple head against the punk’s way-too-small fuckhole.  “I ain’t just gonna fuck ya, faggot,” he chortled, “I’m gonna fuck ya up.”

Then he jammed himself in balls-deep.  He had to put his huge muscles to work.  Everything from his hard rounded glutes to his thick knotty biceps worked in tandem and instantly, tearing open the meat’s sphincter and rampaging through its rectum like a plumber’s snake.  Before the slut could let out a screech from its misshapen mouth, Jake had already torn its rectal lining off like old wallpaper and brutally crushed its prostate, leaving the cunt’s cock helplessly and agonizingly erect. 

But Billy/Bobby never got the chance to cry out.  Almost immediately, Jake had begun beating it again.  True to his word, he whaled its face as he mercilessly raped it.  “Take it, motherfucker,” he snarled, totally immersed in the hatefuck, “Take my dick.  This how faggots die, you piece a’ shit—beaten to death on the floor with a cock up their asses.  You deserve this and you fuckin’ know it.”

The fuckmeat gagged on its own blood as its smooth teen body shuddered in agony and terror.  It still didn’t understand what was happening to it; it had thought it’d lucked out and found a seriously hot stud to pound its ass all night.  Well, the seriously hot stud was pounding its ass—and its face.

It had heard Jake’s taunts and abuse, but it couldn’t believe that its short, pathetic life was almost over.  But some small part of its worthless cockpig soul acknowledged the truth of the alpha’s venomous insults—and responded by an achingly raging erection that even the horrific trauma of being beaten to death couldn’t mask from the dying faggot.

Jake didn’t confine his murderous intentions to the cunt’s face; he made damn sure to land a few sledgehammer blows on its firm chest and soft belly as well.  “Aw, fuck yeah!” the sadistic killer grunted when the fagboy reacted strongly to a particularly vicious blow, “Ya fuckin’ love this shit, dontcha?  Goddam fuckhole grabs my shaft and milks it good every time I give ya a little love tap!”

The hard-bodied alpha flexed his tight ass as he reamed the punk out, his powerful glutes going concave with each brutal, merciless thrust, powering Jake’s enormous, vein-wrapped tool on its rapid path of destruction through the adolescent whore’s colon.  Sweat trickled down the stud’s back and into the crack of his ass as his cock and his fist plunged again and again into the teenager’s body, using the lithe, agonized form as a receptacle for his rage and his lust.

It was meat to be used, and he was gonna use the fuck outta it, goddam it.

Billy/Bobby was starting to slip into a coma; the cranial damage was becoming overwhelming and its brain was starting to bleed.  As pressure started to build inside the meat’s skull, its world started shrinking.  Its senses were starting to dull.  Its vision was long gone anyway; Jake had landed several punches directly onto its eye sockets.  Even if it had been able to open its swollen lids, the eyes themselves were no longer functional.  The blows had been hard enough to detach the slut’s retinas and break the orbits of the eyes.  Billy/Bobby was blind.

And its hearing was going—things were faint and tinny.  But by a cruel trick—of fate, of genetics, whatever—the fag whore could still feel every tactile sensation; in fact, the nerves seemed to have become hyperactive.  It could feel the jagged ends of broken bones grinding into each other and slicing him up internally in his jaw, his hand, his chest.  And in the chest, his lung had finally collapsed completely.  In a matter of seconds, the bitch would be devoting all its attention to the struggle for breath.

But before that happened, it had time to savor the most agonizing source of pain—its cock and its ass.  The former felt like it was swelling to the point of bursting, so sensitive to the touch that the wiry fur on Jake’s heaving abs felt like steel wool every time they pressed together during the violent rape.  And while it was too brain-damaged to think in such terms any longer, it could still physically feel that that the trauma to its rectum was so severe that it’d need massive surgery if it survived.

Jake, of course, had no intention of letting it live that long.  Once he was done, it was done.  And he was getting close.

“Ya want this load?” the heaving, thrusting alpha grunted, then chuckled and answered his own question.  “Course ya do; yer a cum-guzzlin’ faggot.  Time to die, ya useless pansy; time to thrash in death agony and milk out my hot thick wad of manseed.  Yeah?  Want it?  Here ya go—fuck you, faggot!”

With a vicious snarl of rage, he slammed his fist into Billy/Bobby’s throat with the force of a runaway train car.  The cunt’s trachea instantly collapsed with a loud, gristly cracking sound.  The fuckmeat made a thick wet noise, somewhere between a grunt and a gag, as the crushing of its esophagus forced its tongue out past its swollen, split lips.

The last spark of consciousness left inside the teen meat was aware that death was immediate and irrevocable.   It didn’t try to claw at its throat—instead, for some unknown, instinctive reason, it reached out and lightly caressed Jake’s furry, sweat-matted chest.  And then, between asphyxia and severe cranial hemorrhaging, the brain damage reached a tipping point.  Billy/Bobby was gone; all that was left was convulsing fuckmeat. 

Unluckily for it, the meat was still sensitive to pain.  The boywhore’s slide into hell was inaugurated with a blast of nightmarish agony.

As its rectum clenched around Jake’s cock with a force it couldn’t have generated during conscious sex, the older man’s rock-hard ass tensed, huge dimples forming in the cheeks as he drove his shaft deep into the dying adolescent.  “Yeah, bitch!” he yelled in an erotic frenzy, “Get it!  Get my load, you fag!”  And he drove one final blow into the hamburger that had been the teenager’s face.

That, evidently, was what the queerboy whore had been waiting for, one final excruciating impact to put it into sensory overload and trigger a massive deathload.  As Billy/Bobby thrashed about, the drool and blood from its blackened, unrecognizable face spattering the carpet, its long boycock spasmed and erupted into a stream of semen that continued uninterrupted for a good forty-five seconds straight.

The human body was not designed for that kind of performance.  The pain was horrific, and it was the last thing that the punk felt.  It slid into death with the sensation the its dick had been torn off and its life was spurting out through the hole.

The next two minutes were unclear for Jake.  Afterwards, he had vague flashes of cursing and heaving and pumping, of feeling his balls tighten up until the pain was released by a violent, brutal jet of cum that was repeated, over and over, as he spewed searing manseed deep into jerking corpse.  He might have beat the fuckmeat some more; that was a little fuzzy.

And that was the problem.  His orgasms were so intense that they kinda erased the memory of themselves.  To get it back, he had to kill again.  And again. 

And again.

Luckily, there’s always fuckmeat to be had.

Gasping and panting, the sweat-slick serial killer extracted his massive rod from the adolescent’s corpse and shakily rose to his feet.  Looking up, his eyes caught the full-length mirror he’d hung on the closet door.

He couldn’t resist posing.  He planted his left foot on the cunt’s chest—his white tube sock wasn’t so thick that he couldn’t feel the dead boy, still warm and quivering, beneath him.  Stretching his arms out from his shoulders, he curled them, making his huge biceps bulge even more, and admired himself in the mirror.

It was an image of true male power, virile and rampant.  Glaring back at him in masculine triumph was a beautifully-built hardman with a perfectly-chiseled chest and ripped abs covered with thick, wiry fur, his stallion-sized tackle jutting proudly out in front.  As he flexed his arms, admiring the way his sweat made the light glisten on his skin with every movement of his powerful muscles, thick pearly drops of cum continued to ooze from his angry purple shaft, splattering on the dead fuckmeat, continuing to mark it as his prey.

And now that Jake had made it his, he didn’t need it any more.  Time to dump it like a used cumrag.

He considered taking a shower first, but it was a warm, humid evening, and he’d be sweating again after taking out the garbage.  Better wait till he was completely done.  He slipped back into his jeans, tucking his cum-dripping cock back down inside them, before getting into his t-shirt.

The only thing different he wore was the boots; he didn’t want to take the time to lace the lineman boots back up.  He slid his feet into a battered pair of Ariat Groundbreaker work boots.  After poking his head out of the door to ensure that be wouldn’t be seen, Jake picked up the dead bitch in a fireman’s lift, carried it out to the truck and threw it into the bed, where it bounced limply, landing with a meaty thump.

The drive wasn’t exactly long, but it was rather tortuous.  He’d used this place to dump meat before, though, and he knew it was safe.

It was located at a paper plant.  There were five dumpsters near the loading dock at the rear of the plant; at this time of night, only a skeleton crew was at work and it was unlikely he’d be seen.  But come the morning shift change, all the waste from the night shift would be emptied into the dumpsters—then every weekday, they were hauled away to the city landfill.

Pulling into the lot, Jake looked around carefully, making sure no one was out, taking a smoke break or something.  Last time he’d been here that had happened after he’d gotten rid of his fucktoy; he’d had to sit in the lot with his lights and engine off for fifteen minutes until the dude stubbed out his butt and went back inside.

But the coast was clear.  He headed around to the back of the building and pulled up at the dumpster that was farthest from the building.  Dragging the corpse out of his truck by the arms like a recalcitrant child, he hoisted it over the edge and let it drop.

Another meaty thud, but the dumpster was empty, so it reverberated.  After quick glance around assured Jake no one had heard anything, he jumped back into the driver’s seat and headed home.

As he drove, Jake speculated on the number of times he’d used that body drop; it was one of his go-to dumps.  No one had ever found anything.  It was true that one of his used cumdumps had been found a couple of years ago in the landfill, but it had been there so long there was no way to tell where it had come from.  Hell, it’d been in such bad shape by the time it was discovered that it had to be identified by DNA.  Turned out to have been a runaway teen from out of state, but the investigation stalled immediately and was eventually moved into the cold case files.

Still, it wasn’t good to use the paper plant too often.  He needed to search for another place to dispose of his used fuckmeat.  He didn’t want to go back there with the next one.

And there would be a next one.  With an evil grin, Jake took one hand off the steering wheel and adjusted the swelling bulge in his crotch.  Fuck yeah, there’d be a next one.  Someone was gonna die on his dick this weekend.

Jake just needed to select the lucky faggot.

Load-Bearing Bitch

It was already past quitting time, but Jarrell hadn’t packed up his gear yet.  Brock had said he wanted to talk—not that it would do any good.  As far as Jarrell was concerned, Brock was an asshole.  Of course, there were a lot of assholes in the construction business; Jarrell knew that.  But this was only a temporary job for him; he had no intention of making a career of manual labor, and he could see no reason for dealing with a foreman who was a dick.

And dick was the operative word.  Jarrell knew that Brock had been looking at him funny, eyeing the teen’s ass and his crotch.  Brock was in his early thirties, incredibly well-built, with wavy sandy hair, pale blue eyes and an intimidating, muscular physique.  Jarrell himself hoped to achieve that kinda build one day—unlikely since he was a good five inches shorter than Brock and nowhere near as solid—and though the kid denied any kind of same-sex attraction, the lure of the older man’s amazing body only added to the tension between them.

Especially after Jarrell had put in a call to Jonas Howard, the contractor who owned the company, and accused Brock of sexual harassment.

It wasn’t true, of course; Brock might look, but he had enough self-control not to go any further.   And while the foreman wasn’t as closeted as the teen, he damn sure didn’t advertise his inclinations at work; that would be fatal to his career—and given the violent rednecks he commanded, could possibly be fatal, period, if one of them took it wrong.  As a result, he prized his privacy very highly.

Jarrell’s phone call had put all that in jeopardy.  It was time to have it out with the little punk.  But the shit that needed to be aired also needed no witnesses; Brock had told the kid to come by the office after five.  It was a Friday—and a payday—so the muscle-bound foreman knew none of the rest of the crew would hang around long.

But it was past quitting time and Jarrell hadn’t shown up yet.  Kid was probably dawdling over his gear, padding his work hours—five minutes over was paid as fifteen minutes—so Brock went to find him.  The office, a large trailer that had been trucked onsite, was set back from the construction area some ways; a large swath of former ranchland had been cleared for the subdivision being built.  The row of cookie-cutter homes that were being erected at the moment was some distance away from the office and couldn’t be seen directly from it.

The roads in the subdivision wouldn’t be paved until the heavy equipment was finished; Brock’s black Timberland construction boots crunched loudly on the gravel, accompanied by a faint, rhythmic clanking from the toolbelt at his waist.  It was warm for the time of year and the hardbodied stud’s stained cotton t-shirt clung so tightly to his chest that his jutting nipples were plainly visible.  His skin-tight jeans did nothing to hide his physique, either; the way they cradled the firm rounded globes of his powerful ass would have attracted the attention of any observers. 

But the only observer was Jarrell.

He’d been nailing fascia boards on a nearly-completed home as quitting time had approached and was still scrambling off the roof when he saw Brock coming, the older man’s shadow stretching out far behind him in the sharply-slanted blood-red rays of the setting sun.  The kid was lean and lithe, but several months of construction work were starting to full him out nicely.  He was sporting a torn and dirty Packers jersey—he was a Redskins fan and the shirt was no more than an old rag to him—a pair of torn, stained jeans, and a cheap knockoff pair of black and red Air Jordans that he felt gave him acceptable traction on the sloping roofs.

Even from this distance, Jarrell could make out the foreman’s muscles working under his clothing, but the arrogant punk refused to acknowledge the stirring in his crotch.  He maintained his disgust at Brock’s faggotry by utterly ignoring his own, totally disregarding the way his own body so obviously responded to the buff hardman’s physique. 

The boy was in dire need of a rough, hard fuck in the ass, but he’d rather die than admit it, even to himself.  The problem was, that attitude was causing all kinds of trouble—not for him, but for others.  Now, it had snared Brock—but Brock wasn’t the kind to calmly accept the teen’s bullshit, especially when it put his job at stake. 

Jarrell could see Brock’s body moving, but not his mind.  If he had, he might have had a bit more anxiety about their meeting.

The house Jarrell was working on was nearing completion; the external plywood had been installed.  No windows or doors were in place and the interior divisions were represented only by studs, but within a week or so, it would be recognizable as a dwelling.  The boy had scrambled off the roof by this point and was in what would become one of the bedrooms, in the process of stowing his gear, when he heard the heavy clumping of Brock’s thick boots on the wooden subflooring below.

“Where are you, J?  We need to talk,” came his deep bass voice.

“I’m up here,” the kid called out, managing to squeeze a considerable amount of surliness into three words. 

The staircase was only half-built, but the steps were in place.  Brock was up in no time.

The two buff males glared at each other; the tension in the air was palpable—and sexual.  As much as Jarrell remained in denial, he couldn’t keep his eyes off the older man’s well-built form.  The punk was so out of tune with himself, he wasn’t aware of his own erection—but Brock damn sure was.  It made him even angrier.  The kid wanted dick, but was such a closeted fuck that he’d do his best to take down any male who inspired erotic thoughts in his twisted little mind. 

That kinda cunt was utterly worthless, in every way.  The young asshole was a mediocre worker at best, and Brock suspected—but didn’t have the proof yet—that he was altering his timecards.  Really, if anything happened to him, the job wouldn’t suffer at all.  Jarrell would be the one suffering.

Deep in Brock’s mind, some part of him wondered why that thought made his long, thick cock pulsate inside his tight jeans, but he ignored it.

“You called Howard on me, you little fuck,” he snarled.

Jarrell blinked; he knew this was gonna be ugly, but he’d expected some kind of palaver at first.  But if that was how the foreman wanted to play it…

“Yeah,” the boy sneered, “I don’t like fags, and I ain’t workin’ for one.”

To his surprise, Brock broke out in a loud, raucous guffaw.  “You don’t like fags?”  the older man chuckled, “Boy, the way yer eyein’ my bulge, even a blind man could see how bad you want the D.  How many cocks you guzzled in the last week, motherfucker?”

Jarrell flushed with rage.  “I ain’t no fuckin’ homo!” he screamed, his unacknowledged, subconscious awareness of the truth of Brock’s taunts jacking up the pitch of his voice. 

The hardbodied stud grinned at the punk.  “Son, yer the biggest cocksuckin’ pansy I ever seen.  Fuck, only reason you were put on this planet is to service real men like me, and I think is past fuckin’ time ya learned it, too.”

Jarrell’s eyes bulged in outraged horror as Brock opened his jeans at the waist, unzipped his fly, and hauled out his massive, dripping shaft.  “C’mon, asswipe, get on yer knees and put it in yer mouth like a good little fairy.”

“You sick fuck…” the teen gasped.

Brock’s grin became evil.  “You have no idea, motherfucker.  But yer gonna.”

The foreman pulled a foot-long crescent wrench out of his toolbelt and advanced on the kid.  Jarrell saw him coming, but it took a moment for him to realize what was happening and react. 

“Wha-what the fuck you doin’?” he stammered, his attempt at threatening anger belied by the sudden fear in his voice.  “You lay a hand on me an’ yer gonna regret it, asshole!”

Saying nothing, Brock continued to advance.  Jarrell began to back up, holding his hands up in front of him.  Somewhere in the depths of his ignorant, white-trash brain, it began to dawn on him that hurling threats at the much more powerful man hadn’t been the best idea, especially since they were alone—and no one else had known about this meeting.  The boy’s fear came sharply into focus.

“H-hey, man, I, uh, I was just kiddin’, y’know?” he babbled, “I ain’t really gonna do nothin’, honest!”

“Yeah,” Brock growled, “I know you ain’t.”  He kept advancing and Jarrell kept retreating until the boy found his back pressed against the rough exterior shell of plywood.  The older man raised his arm; a stray ray of light glinted from the steel wrench into the punk’s eyes, making him flinch.

“Wait—please, no, I—”

He never got to finish the sentence.  Brock slammed the tool into the side of his head and Jarrell slumped to the floor, unconscious.

The first thing Jarrell was aware of was the throbbing ache in his skull; it was echoed by an external throbbing that he knew to be the generator that supplied power for the various on-site tools; he’d shut it off himself.  There was no time to think about why it was on again or what that might mean, though; the next thing he was aware of was a breeze on his torso chill enough to make his nipples achingly erect.  It took a few moments for him to follow the thought process though to the point of realizing that his shirt had been removed.

“Wha—?” he muttered groggily as he felt his legs being jerked around; as he became more conscious, he was able to lift his head, only to see Brock squatting over him, boxcutter in hand, slicing off his jeans. 

“Whafuck ya doin?” the dazed punk slurred.

“I’m gonna give ya what ya want so bad, bitch—my cock.  Gonna shove my rod up yer ass.  Ya like that, yeah?  We both know ya want it, so just shut up and take it.”

“Get ‘way from me…” Jarrell started when Brock leaned over and punched him in the face, almost casually.  The blow was devastating enough to shut the teen punk up, though.  The older man resumed cutting as the boy moaned and wiped away the blood from his split lip with the back of his hand.

“See, cunt, yer mine now,” the foreman continued in a conversational tone, “And I’m gonna do whatever I want to ya.  I mean, you didn’t tell anyone you were gonna meet me here, right?  Stupid fuck.  And everyone knows what a goddam flake ya are, so when you go missin’, it ain’t like anyone’s gonna be worried.”

“Wha?  Missin’?  I ain’t goin’ nowhere…”

Brock’s chuckle was deep and malignant.  “The fuck you ain’t, faggot.  And you ain’t comin’ back, either.”

The kid was still too stunned to fully process the muscle-bound stud’s words beyond realizing that a threat was implied.  The nature of that threat was beyond his grasp at the moment, but Brock planned to make sure he was fully cognizant—in a moment.

First, though, he needed to secure the fuckmeat.

“Get up, cunt,” he snarled, and made sure Jarrell did so, grabbing a handful of the punk’s long dark hair and dragging him upright by the scalp.  The boy was on his feet and being led, stumbling, towards one of the window openings before he even realized what was happening.  For a brief moment, he was seized with a panic, a fear that the angry hardman was gonna hurl him from the second floor.

If he’d known what Brock had planned, he’d have gladly jumped out of his own volition.

His first clue was the industrial nail gun lying on the bare subfloor next to the opening.  The boy’s deficient imagination could find no purpose for the tool in the current context, so he dismissed it—until Brock bent down and picked it up.  Since the buff stud had yet to relinquish his grip on Jarrell’s hair, the kid found himself yanked down to floor level, then back up.  This close, he realized that the tool had been attached to the generator and was fully powered.

Suddenly, the nail gun took on a new and sinister connotation.

“Wh-what’s that f-for?” he quavered, the question forced form him almost involuntarily—he really didn’t want to know the answer.

“To make sure you don’t go no place for a little while,” Brock jeered, his handsome face twisted with malicious lust, “I don’t like faggots tryin’ to get away when I’m plowin’ ‘em.”

And again, the words “I ain’t no faggot” formed in the closeted homo’s mind, but before he could utter them, Brock had grabbed his wrist and forced his hand against the wall, palm against the raw plywood and fingers splayed. 

Jarrell should have been able to guess what was going to happen, but the loud “thunk” of the nail gun firing took him by surprise.  He stared dully at the shining half-inch disk of metal on the back of his hand; it took another ten seconds before the searing pain of having his hand nailed to the wall made its way through his dim, dazed mind.

His scream was projected out the window; it echoed back from the empty shells of the other houses scattered beyond.  Brock chuckled, unconcerned—the site was empty.  Everyone had cleared out and there wasn’t another person within three miles.  “Fuck yeah, now yer startin’ to sound like the bitch you really are.  Here, lessee if we can getcha to do it again!”

He grabbed at Jarrell’s other wrist, but the boy jerked his hand away—instinctively at first, but with increasing determination as he realized that the sadistic foreman was gonna do the same thing to his free hand.  His sudden attempt to struggle was as useless as it was stupid—he had no chance of evading Brock with one hand permanently attached to the wall, and all he was doing was pissing off the musclebound alpha.

“Quit fightin’ me, faggot!” Brock barked.  In his rage, he pressed the nail gun against Jarrell’s smooth, sweat-slicked back and fired it, driving a three-inch nail through both the scapula and the third rib.  The damage was minor, but excruciating, and Jarrell’s shriek made his prior cry seem like the mewling of a kitten.  The sudden rigidity the trauma produced gave Brock the opportunity he was looking for; Jarrell’s lithe body had barely registered the pain before the new agony in his other hand made him weep.

Brock stepped back, grinning, to admire his work.  The teen fuckwad, nude but for his Air Jordans, had been nailed up in front of the window opening, his long boycock flopping in the open air, his firm rounded ass exposed, vulnerable, and perfectly positioned for the older man’s monstrous hog to tear into it at any time Brock wanted.

And Brock wanted—now.

Sobbing and shuddering, the latent pansy asshole could hear the older man’s boots on the floor behind him.  Part of Jarrell’s fear was his inability to understand what was happening to him—not five minutes ago, he was looking forward to having it out with the masculine foreman; what the fuck had happened?

He craned his neck in an attempt to see what Brock was doing.  The buff older man smirked when he saw the teen’s tear-streaked face.  He approached the boy, peeling off his t-shirt and standing next to the trapped punk in muscular semi-nudity.  Despite the pain and the awkward angle of his neck, Jarrell could clearly see Brock’s massive chest, his large nipples jutting above the broad, hubcap pecs and the golden haze of fur that covered the stud’s rock-hard torso.  But it was the threat of his visibly pulsating cock that forced the boy to speak in spite of his fear.

“Y-you can’t do this,” he moaned in the quavering voice of a frightened child, “I’ll tell.  I’ll tell everyone what you did to me—”

He was interrupted by a loud guffaw from the hardbodied foreman.

“Lemme tell ya something, bitch,” Brock said, grinning, “I been thinkin’ ‘bout this for a little bit.  See, this is a construction site.  Lotsa places for accidents to happen—and lotsa places for stupid little cunts like you to go missin’.  And ain’t no one gonna miss ya if you do.”

He approached Jarrell closely enough that the terrified punk could smell the acrid tang of mansweat and testosterone the stud gave off; in spite of the agony of fear in the teen’s conscious mind, his libido responded involuntarily.  Jarrell was a master of denial, though, and utterly refused to acknowledge his own raging erection.

Brock noticed it, of course; it only increased his determination.  “I’ve been havin’ some…interestin’ ideas lately about what I’d do to a worthless piece a’ shit like you if I ever got the chance, but I didn’t think I’d ever get to do ‘em.  Now you just handed me a whole wad of reasons to try ‘em out on you.  Gotta thank ya for that, you dumbass motherfucker.”

He placed his hand on his toolbelt.  Stupid as Jarrell was, he still understood the significance of the movement and very quickly changed his tune. 

“P-pl-please, oh god, please, I-I was just kiddin’ when I said I’d tell,” the teen babbled in panic,  “I sw-swear I won’t tell no one, just don’t hurt me, oh fuck oh god please don’t—”

Brock smiled sweetly, almost gently at the weeping punk.  “Hurt ya?  Cunt, I ain’t gonna hurt ya.  Hurt don’t come close to what I’m gonna do to ya.”

As Jarrell moaned in abject terror, Brock realized how erotic the mere mindfuck was and kept up the pressure.  “And I know you ain’t gonna tell no one.  By the time they find you, I’ll’ve fucked you up so bad they ain’t gonna be able to tell what happened to ya…if they find ya at all, har!”

The stupid young punk’s moaning became more pronounced when Brock stepped behind him and the boy felt the massive head of the stud’s cock probing his virgin asshole.  “Yer gonna love this, faggot,” the foreman jeered as his big strong hands grabbed Jarrell by the hips and pulled his pelvis backwards to position him for penetration.  The kid cried out in pain as the movement jerked his hands, tearing the wounds caused by the nails—not enough to free him but enough to hurt.

“Aw fuck yeah!” Brock said, “Ya like that feelin’, huh?  Ya like bein’ hurt, you worthless fuck?  Buckle up, asswipe, ‘cause I’m gonna rip yer ass open like a log splitter!”

Jarrell didn’t have time to brace himself before Brock was inside him, plowing deeply and relentlessly though his colon. 

As bad as the pain in his hands and his shoulder was, it was nothing compared to the agony of having his tender sphincter torn to shreds by the older man’s huge, vein-wreathed shaft.    It hurt so bad that Jarrell couldn’t believe he was being fucked—he was sure that Brock had jammed a baseball bat up his ass; only the feel of the foreman’s wiry fur scraping against his smooth back as he thrust himself remorselessly into the boy’s guts convinced him otherwise.

Brock ran his hands along Jarrell’s smooth, heaving flanks, slick with the cold sweat that physical agony was forcing from the teen’s lithe body.  The kid’s subdued blubbering added an aural counterpoint to the rough smacking sound of flesh on flesh and the hardbodied sadist’s grunts of pleasure as he plowed the youth’s fuckhole.

Jarrell’s mind was starting to cave under the physical onslaught—and it wasn’t helping that he could feel his own long, thick dick swinging between his legs with every thrust of the alpha’s hips.  What little lucidity the pain and terror left him with was unable to process why he was sporting a raging erection during a violent rape; he had no idea that part of it was an involuntary reaction from the way Brock’s tackle was brutally massaging his prostate—and he damn sure refused to recognize his own deep-seated desire to get reamed like a whore.  But his body understood what his mind shied away from, and as the older man’s pounding became more intense, precum began to ooze form the teen’s rod, spattering against the bare plywood wall beneath the window opening.

As Brock’s fucking became more intense, he felt his loosened jeans begin to slide down.  Soon his muscular ass was bare, the taut, hairy cheeks clenching and flexing visibly with each deep, brutal thrust.  They didn’t slide any further, so he didn’t bother to pull them back up—his toolbelt was still in reach, which was the important thing.  But the nail gun wasn’t, and Brock realized he was likely gonna need it soon—the fuckmeat was getting restless.

Between the pain and the sexual assault, Jarrell had been in a deep, uncomprehending mental fugue, a haze of agony and bewilderment.  It was sunset on a Friday night; he was supposed to be meeting some buds to down a few brews, pass a joint or two, and brag about the chicks they’d fucked—all lies, of course, but it was his routine, and one he enjoyed.  What was happening to him now was surreal, not real.  This was some kinda nightmare and he needed to force him self to wake up.  Twisting and jerking his lithe, sweating body, the teen pulled himself forward every time Brock’s enormous hog was thrust up his ass, deliberately avoiding the sheer agony of the massive member tearing into his guts.  It was pissing Brock off, but Jarrell didn’t know that and wouldn’t have cared if he had.  All he wanted to do was stop the pain.

“Stop it, ya useless faggot,” the alpha snarled, “Yer gonna stay still and take my cock if I hafta nail you in place to do it.”

That was enough for Jarrell.  He heard the threat without processing the literal meaning of the words, and he couldn’t take it anymore.  With a violent lunge forward, he managed to pull himself off Brock huge shaft with an audible popping noise, a loud, inarticulate cry of relief slipping from his lips as he did so.

Brock’s handsome face flushed with rage—but now he was free to retrieve the nail gun.  He stooped and swiftly snatched it up as Jarrell began gingerly testing his hands, trying to find a way to free them without incurring more pain.  The assfuck had hurt so bad that it literally hadn’t occurred to him that he was still trapped and no better off now than he had been, aside from the fact that he was no longer being impaled by Brock’s rod—but that was only temporary.

“Ok, you worthless piece a’ shit, you asked for it,” the hardbodied foreman barked, brandishing his dick in one hand and the nail gun in the other.  Jarrell whimpered in terror and yanked his hands even harder, tearing at the flesh and tendons but still unable to break free.  When the pain hit him from behind, that cruelly lucid part of his mind was amazed at how full of cock he was; it was like being hollowed out so his body could be nothing more than a sheath for the older man’s shaft.

But then Brock wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled, bending Jarrell’s lean young body backward.  The boy could see the alpha’s hand coming around, clutching the large, intimidating nail gun; he could feel the cold metal pressed against his flat, heaving belly—and he could hear the loud “thunk” as Brock fired it.

There was no bone to arrest the progress of the nail; all three inches of sharp steel punched cleanly and instantly into the kid’s guts with the head flush against his smooth skin.

“NGAH!” he screamed mindlessly as his body went rigid with pain.  “Aw, fuck yeah, that’s it, bitch!” Brock muttered as the teen’s asshole gripped his pulsating tool in agony, “That’s whatcha needed to work my dick, huh?  Shit, cunt, take it again!”

He fired four more nails into Jarrell’s belly in rapid succession, lowering the gun about an inch each time until the lowest was just above the punk’s jutting erection.  This last one tore into the boy’s bladder, eliciting a scream that reverberated in the empty room and beyond.

And at each one, the teen’s colon clutched Brock’s massive tool as if the bitch was actively working to make the alpha cum.  His torso, slick with cold sweat, shuddered against the foreman’s hairy chest with every puncture as his entire body bucked involuntarily in pain.

For Brock, it was an epiphany.  He’d fantasized about doing this kinda thing before, but he’d always kept himself under enough control to avoid doing anything that would cause trouble.  But the meat had started the trouble this time; in the alpha’s mind, that relieved him of any responsibility for what happened next.  Jarrell had brought this on himself—and Brock was having the time of his life.

“Goddam, asswipe, I gotta remember this next time,” he whispered to Jarrell, the rough blond scruff on his cheek scraping the teen’s ear.  “Course, you ain’t gonna be there for that—yer gonna die on my dick here and now.  Fuck, cunt, feels so fuckin’ good, don’t it?  Lessee if I can make it feel any better…”

Jarrell felt the nail gun’s removal from his belly but he didn’t start babbling in utter terror until he felt it pressed against his right ear.

“Oh Jesus no don’t dear God NO NO—” KA-THUNK!

The teen’s physical reaction as three inches of sharp steel tore through his ear drum and plunged into his brain were indescribable; Brock’s pulsating rod had never been worked so well.  It didn’t shut Jarrell up—but the effect of a nail to the skull was obvious.

“AAAGH no pleath no more sthop it Jethuth help me MOMMY PLEATH—”

WHAM!  WHAM!  Brock had raised the gun slightly and fired two more into the punk’s long dark hair.  The lithe young body thrashed and flailed as the kid continued to cry out, but by now his brain had been damaged past the point of no return.

“IGTH!  AGG!  NGTH!” the young faggot blurted out incoherently, no longer able to form words—but still conscious and excruciatingly aware of what was happening to him. 

But just in case he wasn’t, Brock made certain to enlighten him.

“There we go, motherfucker—now yer just a piece of meat to be fucked, yeah?  All ya ever were to begin with, cocksucker, but now I don’t have to hear ya beggin’ for yer worthless life.  It’s all gonna be over soon anyway, cunt—just make me cum and I’ll end yer pain.  That’s whatcha want now, meat, right?  So work my dick, you useless faggot.  Milk my load so I can put ya down like ya need, bitch!”

Jarrell heard Brock’s words, but he didn’t have the ability to process them.  The nail shot through his right ear had done more than just fuck up his hearing; the delicate balance mechanism of the inner ear had been instantly destroyed and the hapless teen was swept up in a tidal wave of nauseating vertigo that only enhanced his agony. Even the vision in his left eye was gone.

The young punk gagged and babbled uselessly as his heart raced in panic.  Deep under the screaming agony, enough of what passed for his intellect still existed—enough to know that he’d suffered irremediable brain damage.  Worse, it wasn’t bad enough to prevent him from suffering; in fact, it had increased his sensitivity in some perverse way.  Every nail embedded in his lean youthful body felt like a railroad spike, Brock’s vicious reaming seemed to be ripping his guts out through his ass with each powerful thrust—even the swinging and bobbing of his own swollen, leaking cock caused him unspeakable agony.

And deep inside, the stupid little cunt had managed to realize that worse was to come.  He knew that the death the alpha was going to inflict on him would culminate in unspeakable pain, even if he didn’t know how.

Brock didn’t keep him long in suspense.

The helpless homo, lost in his terror, never heard the metallic click as the buff foreman opened up his boxcutter, but he felt it when Brock placed the well-worn edge of the blade against the soft, vulnerable flesh of his throat.   “I’m gonna cum in yer ass, bitch,” Brock hissed in his ear, “And I’m gonna rip yer throat open when I do.  Fuckin’ hot as hell, yeah?  Shit, I always wanted to do this to a useless piece a’ meat—and you gave me just what I wanted, cunt.  Goddam, my balls ache so bad—aw fuck, I’m gonna unload!  Ya ready, asshole?  Ready to gargle yer own blood as I fill yer guts with my spunk?  Yeah, faggot, here we fuckin’ go!”

For one brief moment, Jarrell felt the hot splash of the foreman’s potent seed spurting into his intestines, and then it was lost in the horror of the boxcutter digging into his neck.  The blade needed changing; a sharper blade would have made a smoother, faster cut but this one was old and nicked.  It didn’t slit the teen’s throat so much as puncture the skin, then rip the flesh apart.

It took some effort, too.  The esophagus is a rubbery piece of tissue; Brock grunted and spewed, his masculine face twisted into a mask of rage and lust as his bicep bulged with the force needed to open up the punk’s windpipe.  Jarrell screamed loudly and shrilly, the sound of a pig being slaughtered; as his trachea was torn open, the shriek became a gurgling hiss accompanied by a spray of aspirated blood.

A n iron-like scent filled the unfinished room as a scarlet jet pumped out of the gaping wound, spattering on the mud and dirt below the open window space.  The dying boy thrashed in terror and mortal agony as blood poured into his lungs but his dick never lost its excruciating rigidity.  Jarrell never knew that Brock had dropped the boxcutter and swung the nail gun around to his crotch, but in his last few moments alive, he experienced the nightmarish pain of having two nails fired into his scrotum.  The sharpened steel tore through his semen-filled testicles; the sudden explosion of physical trauma triggering an orgasm of unimaginable force.

As Jarrell died, a steady geyser of blood-tainted cum erupted from his thick boycock, shooting out the window and into the coppery pool that was already seeping into the dusty ground below.  The convulsion had been so intense that the kid had jerked backwards against Brock’s hard, hairy torso with such violence that he ripped his hands loose, finally freeing himself when it was too late to do him any good.  The nails were still embedded in the wall, bloody, a length of tendon dangling from the one on the right.

With a deep, satisfied moan, Brock stepped back and let the quivering fagmeat slide off his still-oozing shaft; it collapsed in a heap on the raw subfloor.   The buff older man was sweaty and trembling with exertion and sexual satisfaction; he’d known a snuff kill would be hot, but he’d had no idea it would feel so good.  The sheer sense of power he’d had over the trapped youth had intensified his pleasure so much that it rang a warning bell in the back of his mind—he could easily get addicted to the sensation.

He’d have to be very, very careful.

That started now.  He looked down at the huddled pile of boymeat shuddering at his feet.  Luckily, there wasn’t much blood on the interior of the structure—it was notoriously hard to remove from bare plywood—but the well-used corpse needed disposal.  The foreman pondered for a moment, then remembered the subdivision entrance.

A large sign was being erected where the primary drive for the area under construction branched off the main road; it was going to be a tall, elaborate structure and deep pilings were needed to support it.  The excavations for the pilings had already been dug and the concrete was going in tomorrow.  It would be a simple matter to dump the dead bitch down the hold, shovel some dirt over the corpse, and let the crew finish the job in the morning.  The worthless little fuck would never be found.

As he bent to retrieve Jarrell’s body, Brock felt the chill breeze on his firm, hairy ass and realized his jeans were still around his knees.  He pulled them up and fastened them at the waist, leaving his cock hanging out the open fly—it was still dripping and he didn’t want a stain in his groin.  Then he grabbed the dead teen, sliding his hands under the boy’s arms, and dragged him out of the room.

Jarrell’s feet thumped on the stairs; his heels dug furrows in the dirt as Brock dragged the twitching corpse the two hundred yards to the gaping hole.  With a twist of his muscular torso, he threw the body in, hearing the thud as it landed in the dirt twenty feet below.  Grabbing a spade from a nearby stack of tools, he quickly shoveled some loose dirt on top of the dead punk—just enough to cover it so it wouldn’t be seen from ground level; no more was needed.

Brock wiped his hands down and felt satisfied with his work, until he realized that the little cunt’s clothes were back in the unfinished house.  Muttering under his breath, angry at his own carelessness, he retraced his steps—and was glad he did so.  He hadn’t realized that Jarrell’s kicks had come off as the faggot had been dragged to his grave.  As he strode along, he bent down and snatched up one, then the other, before entering the house and gabbing the kid’s clothes.

By the time Brock got back to his truck, he’d made a decision.  The clothes were a total loss, cut to shreds; he’d dump them in a random trash can.  The Air Jordans, though, were a different matter.  He’d already used one to wipe off his dick, rubbing his long member inside it to clean the last of his cum of the head.  He wanted a trophy.  It had been a fantastic fuck, and he knew a physical connection to the kill would help keep it fresh in his mind.

Besides, they were in good shape and looked like they might fit him.  He tossed the clothes in the bed of his truck, then climbed inside and placed the sneakers in the passenger seat next to him, glancing at them periodically and grinning as he drove off the site.  Who knows? he thought.  He might wear them himself if he decided to do this again.

And the way he felt, that seemed very likely.

Rocko Busts Robbie

Rocko was drunk and angry, and that was a dangerous combination.  Stopping off at a bar after work hadn’t taken the sting out of getting fired; on the contrary, the cheap alcohol had stoked his temper to the boiling point.  But that was ok—he’d be able to vent it.  Robbie was waiting for him.

He’d picked Robbie up some three weeks ago as he was heading west after killing Jessie.  The boy had been hitching and eagerly jumped into Rocko’s battered Ford.  It was obvious from the start that the little fucker was a fag and the escaped murderer had no qualms about letting the boy service his dick.

So Rocko had gotten a room in a sleazy by-the-week motel that asked no questions, and had manage to work himself into a team lead job in a warehouse, under the table, cash pay only—the warehouse staff themselves were ex-cons and finding someone able to control them had been impossible; the owner was desperate.  

Robbie hadn’t been able to find anything.  He claimed to be eighteen, but he looked a couple of years younger and had no ID.  Youth and inexperience had prevented legal employment and while he could easily have turned tricks, Rocko didn’t need his fucktoy to get picked up by the police and lead them straight back to him—after all, he was officially a serial killer at this point.

But things were different now.  Evidently Rocko’s management style was too rough, even for a bunch of hard-core convicts.  Faced with a choice between dumping Rocko or a revolt among his ferocious workforce, the warehouse owner had very abruptly given Rocko the ax as of quitting time.

So now the muscle-bound killer was headed back to his cheap little motel room, drunk, in a foul mood, and with little cash.  He needed someone on whom he could vent his rage, and Robbie was a sitting duck.

Rocko was late, and Robbie was worried.  If he was late, something might be wrong, and if something was wrong, Rocko could get mean.  Like, real mean.

It was that aggressive roughness that had attracted the little homo to the hulking alpha with the buzz cut and the strawberry blond goatee; the moment he’d hopped into Rocko’s car, he’d inhaled the heady scent of testosterone and adrenaline given off by the dangerous-looking stud, and he’d been hooked.

Robbie’s body was relatively average; he wasn’t a skinny twink, but he wasn’t well-built, either.  He had brown hair with long bangs that almost covered his widely-spaced eyes, large and brown, like a spaniel’s.  The adolescent was a true bottom pig faggot; from the moment he’d hit puberty, he’d been shoving things up his ass.  His sexual behavior was out of control to the point that his parents sought professional help—at which point, Robbie ran away.

He was still running when he met Rocko, and he knew at a glance that this was a man who could give him the brutal assfuck of his dreams, and he’d been right.  In the few weeks they’d been together, Rocko had repeatedly plowed his hole with a total lack of respect that Robbie found incredibly erotic.

But as much as Robbie liked it rough, Rocko was becoming increasingly violent, and it had begun to scare the boy.  The tatted hardman was hot as hell, but he was much stronger and more powerful than the adolescent, and Robbie knew that if Rocko ever really decided to hurt him, there was little he could do to stop it.

Robbie didn’t believe Rocko would ever actually do anything to him, but that didn’t stop the butterflies in his stomach.  He had bad news tonight, and the thought of having to tell Rocko intimidated him.  It intimidated him even more when he heard gravel crunching outside the door to the room.  The heavy rumbling of the ancient Ford was unmistakable—Rocko was home.

The moment he threw the door open, Robbie knew there was gonna be trouble.  The older man filled the doorway, his muscular body as clearly revealed by his tight clothing as if he’d been nude.  The stained wifebeater was at least two sizes too small and stretched over his furry pecs nearly to the point of bursting.  The worn, faded jeans tucked into a pair of Carolina logger boots highlighted his powerful thighs, hard ass, and the massive bulge in his crotch.  Nearly visible waves of mansweat and alcohol radiated from him as he stormed in the door.

Robbie, who had been lolling on the bed, his youthful form clad only in red bikini briefs and white ankle socks, immediately jumped to his feet.  Rocko was drunker than Robbie had ever seen him, which was a bad sign.  The vicious alpha wasn’t just a mean drunk—he didn’t lose control.  Booze made Rocko violent and brutal, but it didn’t make him pass out.  Robbie needed to pass his news on before things got worse.

“Hey, uh, the manager was here today,” he blurted out before Rocko could speak, “He says if we don’t pay the past due rent by tomorrow morning, he’s calling the sheriff to have us thrown out.”

The effect on Rocko was surprising and not as bad as Robbie had anticipated, at least at first.  The older man paused and seemed to be thinking about something, which was better than just swinging his fists.  Thinking the worst was over, the boy turned back to the bed to light the joint he’d rolled just before he’d heard the car.  In that position, he couldn’t see the look on Rocko’s face change.

It was an easy calculation for the experienced killer; he didn’t have the money, and he didn’t want to face the sheriff.  He needed to bug out, now, tonight.

And he needed to travel light.  No useless meat tagging along for the ride.  Rocko had only kept Robbie around as a fucktoy; he thought the kid was a worthless piece of shit, but he was handy to bang. 

Rocko’s internal rage came to a sudden white-hot focus.  This was all the cunt’s fault anyway.  It had been the one to pick this dump, it was incapable of supporting itself—and Rocko had made it interact with the motel staff.  No one had seen, or could ID Rocko.

The look of anger on the escaped convict’s face became something much colder and more frightening.  As Rocko contemplated expressing his true hatred of the faggot piece of shit, his expression became one of malignant lust.  And poor teenaged Robbie, sitting on the bed and taking a huge hit of the cheap smelly skunk weed he’d bought, was utterly oblivious to the fact that a hellish nightmare of agony and rape would be unleashed on him before he could finish getting high.

The ultimate trigger was innocuous enough.  “Boy, go get me a beer,” Rocko demanded as he crossed the room and began pulling off his sweat-stained shirt.  Robbie, with a vague sense of the simmering anger beneath Rocko’s cold surface, did as he was told.  The minifridge’s modernity was jarringly incongruous with the dilapidated thirty-year-old furniture; the only thing it all had in common was cheapness.  The fridge would only hold a single six-pack—but tonight, it didn’t even hold that.

“There’s, uh, there’s only one left…” the teen slut stammered diffidently.

“What?” Rocko barked, “What was that?  You were supposed to go—”

“I forgot,” Robbie said quickly and quietly, and they both knew it was the truth.  He’d spent the day getting stoned and getting Rocko more beer had slipped his mind.

He was still reaching into the fridge when he heard a metallic rattling behind him.  Retrieving the single cold beer can, he turned around to see Rocko sliding the chain lock on the door.

“What’s that for?” he asked, handing the hulking convict the beer, but Rocko didn’t answer immediately.  He reached out and snatched the can that Robbie was holding, popped the top, and swilled down nearly half of it.  He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked steadily at Robbie.

“It’s for you, bitch,” he replied, then grabbed the teen by the neck.  Almost casually, he lifted the boy single-handedly by the throat and pulled him in close.  Robbie’s air was nearly cut off, but not completely.  This close, he could smell the mansweat, hormones, and alcohol washing off Rocko’s hard body.

Robbie’s fingers dug at Rocko’s hand as his feet kicked helplessly eight inches above the thin, stained carpet.  The boy was scared; Rocko had hurt him before, but this was on a different level.

It got worse when the escaped killer spoke.

“Yer a worthless piece of shit, ya know that, cunt?” he growled.  “I only asked ya to do one goddam thing today, faggot.  One—goddam—thing, just get me more beer.  I even left ya the cash for it.  What’d ya do, spend it on something else?  I’m fucking sick of this bullshit and I’m puttin’ an end to it right now!”

Robbie still had the cash—he hadn’t left the room—but before he could even formulate the words of denial, he was flying through the air.  He slammed into the wall, putting a huge hole in the sheetrock, before he even realized Rocko had flung him across the room with the ease of a rag doll.

Stunned, Robbie managed to pull himself up on his hands and knees.  He was still staring down at the floor when Rocko’s boots came into view and the older man’s voice came rumbling from above.

“Boy, yer lazy and stupid, and you ain’t even a good fuck no more.  Little homos like you can’t take a real man’s cock; yer fuckhole gets all stretched out and you ain’t no good for nothin’.”

Rocko bent down and, grabbing a hank of Robbie’s hair, used it to drag him up, first to his knees, then to his feet—squealing in pain all the way as his hair was nearly pulled out by the roots.  When he finally stood facing Rocko, his face was clouded by fear and confusion.

“I—I d-don’t un-understand—” he sniveled.

“Bitch, you’ve had this comin’ for a long time,” Rocko snarled.

Robbie saw Rocko drawing back his powerful, heavily-inked arm in horror; everything seemed to be moving in slow motion—especially Robbie himself.  He could see what was coming at him but knew there was no way he could avoid it.  The blow landed in his gut like a cannonball, forcing the teen to violently empty his lungs with a shrill squeal.  As he clutched his throbbing belly and doubled over, Robbie saw Rocko’s denim-clad knee shooting up towards his face.

This impact straightened the boy back up, sending him reeling backwards into the dresser; if the no-name flatscreen TV hadn’t been bolted to its surface, it would have been knocked off.  As it was, Robbie hit it hard enough to crack the screen.

The adolescent slut fell to his knees, still gasping.  He kept trying to inhale as he watched the hulking killer grin and unzip his jeans, extracting his massive, pulsating shaft like he was pulling a rope out of a well.  Rocko slowly approached, his grin broadening, until he stood in front of the kid, looming over him. 

Robbie didn’t look up; he didn’t dare.  Whatever Rocko had done to him before was nothing to what was about to happen; he knew that already.  And as much as he liked rough sex, he didn’t want to actually be hurt.  He began to beg, weeping openly.

“P-pl-please don’t,” he wailed, “Oh god, please, don’t hurt me, Rocko, I’ll do anything, please don’t no no NO NO NO—”

Rocko put an end to the pathetic babbling with a swift, vicious kick to the solar plexus.  Leaving the whore wheezing and gurgling on the floor in a fetal position, Rocko finished the beer he was still holding, then tossed it at the writhing, moaning fuckmeat.

“You stay right there, faggot, ya hear me?” the fugitive killer jeered, “I gotta take a leak.  Don’t you go nowhere, fucker; the real fun ain’t startin’ till I get back.  Haw!”

Still struggling to breathe, Robbie heard Rocko’s words.  He also heard the killer’s boots on the bathroom tiles and the loud steady pounding of the stud’s urine hitting the bowl.  It seemed to take forever.

It seemed to take forever to Rocko, too.  He knew he’d drunk a lot, but he was surprised at the volume his bladder seemed to hold.  After a while, the stream died to a trickle, and as it did, he realized he could hear noises from the bedroom.  The meat was up and moving.

Rocko dashed from the bathroom to find Robbie fumbling with the chain lock.  The kid turned and gave him one wild-eyed look and scrambled frenetically at the lock, sobbing loudly.  He managed to get the chain lock free, despite his hands trembling in terror—but then Rocko was on him, and it was too late.

Even as Rocko grabbed him by the right wrist and yanked him around, Robbie pissed himself in terror, the acrid urine darkening the red briefs and running down his smooth thighs.  The kid was bawling like a baby but his voice rose to a loud, shrill bleat of agony as the powerful killer casually jerked the punk’s arm up and back, snapping the bones of the forearm just below the wrist as well as breaking the wrist itself.  The sound of many small bones being broken at once was like popcorn, but it was barely audible over Robbie’s cries of pain.

That pissed Rocko off.  He liked to hear the meat being hurt.

“Shut the fuck up, you worthless sack of shit,” he snarled.  Pinning Robbie to the door, he drove his fist into the kid’s face in four rapid, powerful punches like the blows of an industrial piston.

The motel was old and not well kept up, but the management had—many years ago—provided a concession towards safety; the doors might have been hollow-core, but they were metal, and a relatively thick metal at that.  They didn’t remain on a number of the rooms, but it had taken SWAT team battering rams to remove them.  This room, though, still had one.

Rocko hit Robbie so hard it left a dent in the door.

He dropped the kid, leaving him coughing up blood and teeth, a huddled pile of meat on the floor, as he headed back to the fridge for another beer.  It took opening the door and seeing nothing behind it to remind him there were no more—but that was all it took to restoke his murderous rage.

He turned back to the helpless, crying teen boy, his black cold heart full of lust and rage.  The little cunt hadn’t suffered enough.  Oh fuck no—not nearly enough.

That was gonna change.  Now.

Robbie managed to roll over onto his back, his face smeared with blood, as Rocko strode back him.  Looking up through tear-blurred eyes at the towering alpha, Robbie could see the huge pulsing shaft already dripping with precum.  Somewhere deep inside his cowering faggot mentality, the teen punk realized that Rocko wasn’t gonna be satisfied with just beating him to a pulp.

His fears were confirmed almost immediately.  The hulking killer bent down, his huge furry pecs coming into view—a reminder of his overwhelming physical power, which he promptly demonstrated by hoisting Robbie by the neck single-handedly again, this time from a prone position on the floor. 

If the homo hadn’t been in such pain and terror, he might have admired the sheer strength required for such a feat—or perhaps not, as it was clear that all that power was about to be used to make him suffer.  But Robbie was too busy gagging and choking, blood splattering from his mangled mouth, to have an objective viewpoint.  His left hand dug futilely at Rocko’s vise-like grip; his right hand jerked and twitched uselessly, every movement painfully jarring broken bones together.

Rocko had lifted barbells heavier than Robbie with ease in prison; this was nothing for him.  He held the choking faggot straight out at arm’s length, grinning, as he carried him across to the door.  The boy’s white ankle socks flailed uselessly inches above the floor as Rocko slowly and patiently re-engaged the chain lock.

“Ain’t no one gonna disturb us now, boy,” Rocko chuckled, leering into the kid’s swollen, blackening face as he started back across the room towards the bed.  “You gotta lesson to learn, motherfucker, and I’m gonna make damn sure you learn it good.  You get me, cocksucker?  Yeah?  You ready to gain some knowledge, asswipe?  Fuck yeah!  Here’s lesson number one!”

Robbie was on the verge of passing out, and he was grateful.  He’d heard Rocko’s words and knew he should feel fear, but everything seemed to be fading…  Then Rocko drove his muscular arm downward with a violent lunge, striking the shabby bedside table with a blow powerful enough to collapse it—except Rocko hadn’t hit it with his fist.  He hit it using Robbie’s head.

“Lesson one—no pain, no gain.  You gain any knowledge yet, cunt?  No?  Figures, stupid fuckin’ faggot.  Guess I’m gonna hafta beat some sense into ya, then.”

Things had happened too fast for the adolescent slut; he could breathe again, but was too dazed to think; he could only lie among the pieces of the table and the now-broken telephone and clock.  Unfortunately, he was unable to control an involuntary jerk of fear. 

Even worse, Rocko saw it and interpreted it as a nascent attempt at escape. 

His movement were calm and controlled though.  Standing over the shuddering punk, he slowly raised one leg, his skin-tight jeans clinging to his powerful ass as one cheek dimpled with the flexing of his powerful thigh.  Robbie saw it and knew something bad was about to happen, but he had no idea what.

He had a very clear idea what a second later when the thick treaded sole of Rocko’s Carolina logging boot came crashing down on his kneecap, shattering the patella like a cheap china cup.  Rocko ground his boot into the wreckage of the meat’s knee as Robbie squealed and bleated like a dying lamb.

“Maybe that’ll tighten up yer loose faggot fuckhole,” the sadistic alpha grunted as he reached down and grabbed the mewling homo by the upper arm and tossed him onto the unmade bed like he was just another pillow.  “Lesson two—you don’t get nothin’ for nothin’.  I been supportin’ yer useless pansy ass for weeks, and you ain’t done nothin’ for me.  You ain’t even a good cumdump.  Time to pay up, motherfucker.”

He bent down and clutched Robbie’s jaw in an agonizingly tight grip, forcing the whore to look at him directly.  He spat in the boy face and snarled, “Here’s some more knowledge for ya, bitch.  Wanna know how to make a fag’s fuckhole nice and tight?”

He bent down till his hyper-masculine face, lit up with insane hate and lust, filled the terrified teenager’s field of vision.  “Pain, motherfucker.  Make it hurt.  The more the fag suffers, the better it works yer shaft.  Don’t believe me, yeah?  Fuck you, cocksucker—I’m gonna prove it to ya!  Saddle up, fuckmeat, you got some hot, hard learnin’ to do!”

With a single violent jerk, Rocko snatched Robbie’s briefs off, shedding the fabric like it was paper, leaving the kid’s thick seven-inch boycock lolling atop his large, spunk-filled balls on a bed of dark wiry pubes.  The towering sadist leered down at the agonized youth; he was already familiar with the lithe teen body, but the way it glistened now under the overhead bulb—the only light remaining in the room—filled him with the uncontrollable urge to fuck it into pieces, to utterly destroy the little cunt.

With a snarl of hate-stoked lust, Rocko mounted the bed, brandishing his enormous oozing cock like a deadly weapon.  Forcing the catatonic teen’s legs apart, the hulking convict aimed his massive shaft at the kid’s fuckhole and drove it in balls-deep like he was drilling for oil.

In the past, Robbie had always insisted that Rocko use lube and penetrate him slowly; otherwise, the alpha’s rod of manmeat was far too huge to take.  Now, the little homo slut was being forced to take it raw, and the glassy, knifelike agony of his sphincter being torn in three separate places was enough to bring Robbie out of his dazed state.  Blood flew from his badly-damaged mouth as his voice spiraled in monstrous agony till it cracked and became a useless wheeze—but at the same time, his own thick cock, helpless in response to the relentless grinding on his prostate, inexorably began stiffening despite the pain and terror.

Rocko felt the teen’s dick pressing against his rock-hard abs and sneered.  “Shit, I beat the fuck outta ya, and you get hard.  Fuckin’ sick-ass pervert—ya like it, dontcha?”

If Robbie had been in a position to speak, he might have protested—although he probably would have been too busy begging Rocko not to hurt him—but even in his agony, the teen was aware of his own erection.  At the moment, it was a minor distraction in a world of pain and once Rocko spoke again, it faded even farther into the background.

“Fuck cunt, if ya get off on pain, yer gonna blow your load when I waste yer worthless ass.  Yeah?  Yer gonna die on my cock like a bitch.  Sound good, motherfucker?    Hell, bet yer fag ass has been dreamin’ of the day I finally end yer worthless pansy life, har!”

The muscled killer laughed maliciously, then spit again in the kid’s face.  After screaming his voice out, Robbie had become strangely inert; his twisted face, streaming with tears, evidenced his extreme agony, but he barely moved once Rocko’s massive tool was shoved into his guts.  The firm globes of the older man’s ass tautened into rock-hard masses with each vicious thrust of his hips, driving his long, stallion-like shaft deep into the adolescent’s innards, but the boy barely seemed to notice.  The sweat forced from him by sheer physical agony kept his skin smooth and slick; he slid against Rocko’s furry, muscled form as if he’d been lubed, his breathing was labored and he emitted a faint whining sound, but his resistance had ceased.  It was as if his psyche had completely collapsed.

Rocko had seen this before.  That teen cunt he’d raped and snuffed, the one that got him put in jail, had done this.  Stupid little fag had gone into shock while Rocko was busy laying pipe up its ass.  He’d learned something useful at the time—the best way to snap a bitch out of it was cutting off its oxygen. 

The huge, hardbodied killer grinned, wrapped his massive hands around the punk’s throat and began to squeeze.

Rocko had been correct; Robbie’s eyes instantly popped wide open.  His lean, slick body writhed under Rocko’s weight as his left hand dug frantically at the convict’s fingers.  Even his right arm beat against the stud’s flank, the hand flopping uselessly and agonizingly—the slut was in too much fear to notice the pain.

The kid had known that this was gonna be a bad scene, and he knew he had no way out.  He was a useless little faggot bitch with no coping skills; his only option was withdrawal into his oh-so-shallow mind until it passed.  It worked well; he heard Rocko’s announcement of his impending death but it utterly failed to register. 

That all changed the moment he found himself unable to inhale.  There’d been no warning, nothing to allow him to draw in a lungful of air to help hold on. The need for oxygen was immediate and so urgent that his mental refuge became a luxury he could no longer afford.

Robbie started to fight for air—really fight, for the first time in his short, wasted life.  The danger had been always been implicit, but the teen slut was finally realizing that he might not get out of the situation alive.  As usual, he his estimate was ill-informed; there was no “might” about it, and Rocko drove that point home.

By driving his fist into Robbie’s face.

The first blow had been one of annoyance; sick of the cunt’s pathetic attempts to fend him off, Rocko clutched his throat with one powerful hand, continuing the relentless pressure on his windpipe, while balling up the other fist and slamming it into the boy’s damaged mouth.  The sadist had hoped to teach the little fag to shut up and take what he had coming—but the impact made the fucker briefly go rigid.  All of him.  Including his torn asshole.

The way the teen’s silky colon gripped the engorged head of the alpha’s cock was unbelievable; it was like the asswipe was deliberately trying to jack him off.  “Fuckin’ asshole,” the heaving, thrusting muscleman grunted as he cornholed the adolescent’s fuckhole, “Gotta waste yer worthless ass to finally get ya to work my shaft right, so suffer and die, motherfucker.  I wanna get at least one decent fuck outta yer homo ass ‘fore I split this scene.”   

Robbie managed to get one of his swollen, blackened eyes cracked open just wide enough to see Rocko’s inked bicep swell with power as his fist surged forward like a runaway train, pulping the teen’s nose with a thick, meaty crunch.  After that, though, progressive asphyxia forced the unlucky teenager’s eyes to bulge from their sockets; while he could no longer close his lids, Robbie was unable to focus properly.

And anyway, the huge black blooms of petechial hemorrhaging were beginning to cover his vision.  Despite his desperate attempts to escape it, death was starting to overtake Robbie.  His lean, youthful body was sweating and shuddering, his firm smooth thighs locked tightly around Rocko’s waist as if he was a virgin fag getting its hole drilled for the first time—and the teen’s cock was just as hard on the day he was losing his life as on the day he’d lost his virginity.

It was so hard it hurt.  Robbie had on been vaguely aware of his hard-on—the beating, the broken bones, the vicious, raw rape had made it seem a minor matter.  But brutal prostate stimulation and lack of oxygen had both combined to force an erection of such rock-hard rigidity that the teen cunt couldn’t help but feel agony every time Rocko’s wiry belly fur abraded the hypersensitive skin of his shaft like steel wool.

The vicious serial killer could feel the boy’s dick pressed against him; experience had taught him what it meant, even if the punk’s blackened, drooling face didn’t paint an even clearer picture of Robbie’s imminent death.  The adolescent’s struggles were slowing; his feet were still flailing and kicking in mid-air, but somehow one of his socks had slipped off and fallen to the bed like a dead leaf, leaving the teen’s foot bare, toes curling in mortal agony.  His right arm twitched and jerked, while his left hand, which had been clawing at his closed-off throat, was now almost caressing Rocko’s hard pecs, the fingers trailing limply through the thick chest hair.

As the teen’s lithe, lean body convulsed under him, Rocko looked into the kid’s face, watching the drool foam around the black, protruding tongue.  The experienced killer stared into the faggot’s bloodshot eyes, hoping to catch the exact moment the light of life faded from them, but the wild frenetic look to be seen there told of nothing but the boy’s suffering and nightmarish terror as his brain began to shut down.

The last lucid piece of Robbie’s cockpig soul screamed silently in unimaginable agony inside his pounding, pressurized skull.  As it started to flicker out, it was aware that its ass was being shredded by a vicious, thrusting shaft.  Too much of the brain had shut down for the whys and hows to be remembered; the hormone-ridden adolescent body was on the verge of becoming a true meat puppet, its swollen boycock pulsating mindlessly, controlled by brutal internal stimulation and misfiring nerve endings.

Then it reached the tipping point.  The last sensation Robbie experienced in his short and utterly useless existence was an orgasm so intense that it sapped the last bit of force from his fading mind.

The teen punk died as his load spurted over Rocko’s chest and belly.  The body was convulsing so violently, it continued to ejaculate s steady stream of boyspunk for a good fifteen seconds after the faggot was dead.  But it was the convulsions Rocko had been waiting for; the whore’s ass collapsed around his massive, engorged rod like shrink-wrap, a unique combination of smooth massage and intense suction that the colon was unable to perform in the course of normal functioning. 

“Aw, fuck!” the muscled killer grunted, his hard, powerful body hunching over and his hips bucking as he fired thick potent wads of hot, potent alpha seed deep into the dead boy’s guts, coating the fucker’s innards and marking the kid as his property, his prey—his kill. 

It seemed to go on forever.  Part of Rocko’s mind was amazed at how long it was taking to empty his balls—but then his hands tightened involuntarily, there was a distinct gristly cracking sound, and Rocko pulverized the cunt’s windpipe as easily as if he’d squeezed a foam cup.  The sound and sensation trigged another round of body- and soul-shaking orgasms; the hardbodied stud felt he was pumping so much semen into the corpse that it had to overflow at some point.

Eventually the flow of sperm stopped.  Gasping and sweating, Rocko collapsed onto the dead slut’s quivering body.  Drunk and with his rage and lust abated, Rocko felt a heavy drowsiness coming on, and he didn’t fight.

Three minutes later, the buff killer was sound asleep, still balls-deep in the teen’s corpse.

He awoke sometime before dawn.  He was stiff and sore, and his erection had faded, withdrawing from the fuckmeat of its own accord.  That was a good thing; for a brief moment, Rocko considered going another round with the dead kid, but rigor mortis was setting in and the corpse was getting too stiff to have much fun with.

Besides, he needed to get a move on.

It took twenty minutes to strip and shower.  After cleaning the dried glaze of Robbie’s cum out of his fur, Rocko spent little time dressing and even less packing.  Prison—and escaping from it—had taught him the virtue of traveling light.

It had also taught him the virtue of traveling swiftly, but his nap had delayed his departure more than he liked.  As he unbolted the door, he scanned the room one last time to make sure he’d left nothing that he’d need.

It was hard to tell for certain; the room was a shambles.  The centerpiece, of course, was Robbie’s splayed corpse, legs still spread so wide that the shredded and mangled asshole was visible from the door.  The dead cunt’s face was unrecognizably grotesque; the lividity had drained back and the face was a ghastly white with bright blue lips, tongue, and circles around the eyes.  The cast of the right arm and the left leg showed the violence the teen had endured prior to death—as did the destruction of most of the room.  There were small but telling smears of blood on the walls at various places, as well as on the door.

Rocko grinned.  He’d fucking slaughtered the faggot bitch, just like it deserved.  Opening the door and glancing out first to make sure he wasn’t observed, Rocko strode quickly to his big car, his Carolina loggers crunching on the gravel lot.  He tossed his single bag into the passenger seat, back the car out of the space, and headed for the main road.

His timing was immaculate.  The motel manager had arrived fifteen minutes earlier, and after some routine duties in the office, headed out to deal with those deadbeats in room 17 as soon as the clock signaled eight.  He noted that a car was leaving the lot, but it meant nothing to him, and he noticed none of the details.

The door had locked automatically, but he had a passkey, of course.  The manager opened the door, took a step inside, and almost lost his breakfast.

Half an hour later, the man stood shaking and pale, giving all the info he had to a uniformed cop and a detective.  “Yeah, there were two of ‘em, but the one lyin’ dead in there is the only one I ever seen.”

“What about the maids?  Would they have gotten a look at the other one?” the detective asked.

“Maid, not maids,” the manager replied grimly, “Can only afford one.  I asked her already; she says no.”

“Billiston, you go question her when you’re done here,” the tec told the patrol cop before turning back to the manager.  “You notice anything else?  Anything out here, not in the room?  Any evidence will help.”

“Not really.  This gonna be hard for y’all to wind up, ain’t it?

The detective sighed.  “Yes and no.  Fairly certain we know who did this, but we have no way of tracking him, so any little clue helps.

“Yeah?” the manager asked, his eagerness for rumor stimulated, “You know who did it?  Who?”

“Sorry, can’t give that out yet,” the detective replied, “But he only seems to go after faggots.  If you ain’t one, you’ll be fine.”

At that moment, the county coroner’s van pulled into the lot.  “Jesus,” the manage gawped, “Get them to hurry up, wouldja?  That kinda thing is gonna kill business.”

“He ain’t the one killing your business, ha!” the tec chuckled.  The manager grimaced at the misplaced witticism and headed back to the office.  He was halfway there when the cop called out to him.

“Hey, I just remembered—the dead cocksucker in there only had one sock on.  We haven’t located the other.  Let us know if you find it, yeah?

“Uh, sure,” the manager said, “Is it important?”

“Might be,” the detective answered.  Never can tell—and like I said, we’ll need all the evidence we can to track down this sick bastard.”  The manager nodded in compliance and entered the office.

Once inside, he quickly went into the private rear office and locked the door.  Drawing the blinds, he peered out the slits between them for a moment, making sure no one was approaching.

Then, with trembling hands, he dug the missing sock from his pocket where he’d stuffed it prior to calling the policy.  He held it to his nose, deeply inhaling the aroma before unzipping his fly, pulling out his throbbing erection.  As Robbie’s stiff corpse was being zipped into a body bag, the motel manager sat in his darkened office, using the dead boy’s sock to masturbate furiously…

Leather Dave and the Biker Bitch

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


The teen punk dropped as commanded.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Now, he knew it meant pain and death.


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


And it did.


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


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


That was when Dave began beating him with the belt.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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


He was even less happy when he heard the details.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Thirty seconds later, he was back at his car.


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


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


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


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



Rocko Busts Out

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Rocko was gonna make goddam sure of that.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Rocko never came back.


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


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


Until he escaped three weeks ago.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Jessie pissed himself.


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


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


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


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


Wide-eyed and trembling, Jessie nodded.


“You know what’s gonna happen?”


Jessie nodded again.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Rocko had decided to drive the point home.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Then things went black for Jessie for a bit.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Sadly for him, Rocko realized that.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“Whaddaya mean?


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


“It is,” Artie muttered darkly.


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


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


“You need me anymore?” Artie asked abruptly.


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


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


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


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



Boot Blackened Bitch

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“How much?”


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




“You got the cash?”


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


Teddy nodded his head to the right.


“What, up the alley?”


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


“Naw—go on.”


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


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


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


Except it didn’t.


“Take off your shirt,” the john growled.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


“I’m cumming—fuck, aw fuck—”


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


Then the john began pounding him.


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


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


He didn’t live that long.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

Alpha Male Eddie

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


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


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


Well, for example, there was JJ.



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


They were almost all photos of corpses.


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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



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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


To Eddie, he was just a tight fuck.  And a noisy one.  “Aw, shaddap and take it like a fag, ya cunt!!” he roared, spitting in JJ’s face.  He then drove his point home by driving his fist into the kid’s face, cutting his scream off abruptly.  As the skatepunk lolled listlessly on the narrow bench, the buff ex-Marine took a savage joy in using the virgin boymeat as his own personal fuck toy.


Drifting in and out of consciousness, JJ was still aware that his ass was being pounded with relentless fury; he couldn’t help but be aware of it. The thick pulsing veins that sheathed Eddie’s massive tool rode roughshod over his prostate, massaging the hormone-filled adolescent until his own boycock rose up stiffly, as if in defiance of the vicious assrape.


He could only moan in bewildered agony, but it was enough for Eddie to hear.  It was enough to trigger another break.


“Ya like that, ya fuckin’ piece a’ shit fairy?  Moanin’ like a goddam whore with a dick in ya—cocksuckin’ pansies like you need to fuckin’ die!”


Leaning over JJ, Eddie wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat and began squeezing.


Nothing in the teen’s short, useless life had prepared him for this level of trauma and abuse; the entire attack had left him stunned and defenseless—not just physically, but in a profoundly psychological sense as well.  Despite the pain, he still simply couldn’t believe that what was happening was real.


That all changed now, instantly, with the cessation of breath.  Whatever his failings, whatever he’d suffered, JJ still had the lithe, lean body of a fit and active teenager.  That body sprang into action, instinctively, in a frantic attempt at self-preservation.


For his part, Eddie was taken by surprise.  He’d been heavily trained in the art of the hand-to-hand kill, but he’d never actually killed anyone before.  He didn’t expect such a violent reaction—but his training enabled him to retain control of the situation.


As JJ thrashed and kicked, Eddie leaned forward, pressing down on the boy and pinning him under the weight of his muscles.  He could feel the teen’s smooth, firm belly and strong pecs flexing valiantly under him, sliding against his own massive chest on a film of sweat.  His dogtags dropped onto the punk’s swollen, blackening face, then slid to the side.


The muscle-bound stud endured the aimless frenetic buffetings of the boy’s hands; he’d already wrapped his powerful arms around the kid’s legs as a grip to fuck him, so all the gagging youth could do with his legs was squeeze at Eddie’s waist.


“That’s it,” he hissed psychotically into JJ’s pain-twisted face, “Yer dyin’, homo.  Does it hurt?  I hope so, ya sick fuck.  Goddam piece a’ shit—yer dick is hard!  You deserve to die, ya disgustin’ pansy.  Fuck you, ya fuckin’ faggot!!”  And having worked himself into a frothing anger, he spit in JJ’s dark, congested face and dug his thumbs into the teen’s larynx.


JJ had been going on for nearly a minute with no oxygen; he should have been starting to black out, but some perverse physiological anomaly was enabling him to remain conscious.  It wasn’t a benefit.  He could hear and comprehend everything being said to him.  He didn’t understand why he was being called a faggot, but he knew his dick was hard and he knew he was dying.


And he knew when Eddie crushed his larynx.  He could feel the older stud’s thumbs slowly gouge the thick mass of cartilage out of place; he could hear as well as feel the gristly crunch as his voicebox was pulped.  Again, it was pain of a kind he hadn’t realized could exist and his physical reaction was innate, and instant.


Eddie had never experienced anything like it—the way the teen’s virgin rectum clenched up on his swollen member, squeezing it vigorously, almost desperately, as if it knew that making him ejaculate was the only way to stop the agony.  The boy’s thrashing ceased; he gripped his murderer tightly, sensually—an instinctive response to minimize movement and hence pain.   But to the homicidal ex-Marine, it seemed to be a drawn-out moment of intimacy—of him finally proving, and the worthless faggot finally understanding, exactly how Alpha Male Eddie truly was.


Now that Eddie had asserted himself as Alpha, he still needed to mark the meat as his.  He still needed to pump it full of his potent manseed, to neutralize its faggotry.  It needed it.  The faggot needed his cum.


And it hadn’t suffered enough.  It was still alive.


“Ain’t dead yet, faggot,” he grunted, pounding his shaft into the twink’s ruined fuckhole, “Ain’t dead yet.”  The hardman tightened his hands remorselessly around JJ’s neck, feeling the erotic sensation of the rubbery esophagus being crimped shut by the sheer force of his powerful hands.


JJ could feel it too, in a way.  The pounding in his head was worse than the pounding in his ass; the pressure that had built up in his skull felt like it was shoving his eyes out of their sockets.  In spite of the way they bulged grotesquely, he still couldn’t see much—but the great black explosions in his field of view weren’t just blood vessels rupturing in his eyes.  The oxygen deprivation was catching up to him.


He’d been a healthy little punk, and it betrayed him physically.  He’d managed to stay conscious long enough to still be awake as brain damage set in.  So he was unlucky enough to be able to feel his windpipe being crushed but was totally unaware that a long stream of drool was oozing out past his protruding tongue and was trickling down his left cheek.


Reason and meaning ebbed from the dying teen but sensation and pain remained.  The thrashing boymeat could still feel its own erection.  Eddie could feel it, too.


“Still hard, ya fuckin’ pervert?” he snarled, “Fuck you, faggot—fuck you!!”


Jamming his thumbs under the angle of JJ’s jaw, on each side, the ex-Marine, his phenomenal strength amped up by psychotic rage, squeezed his hands with all the power he could muster while simultaneously wrenching them in opposite directions.  In a fraction of a second, Eddie totally destroyed the major anatomic structures of JJ’s neck.


The collapse of the trachea yielded the same viscerally satisfying crunch that had accompanied the mangling of the unlucky youth’s larynx.  This was enhanced by a loud snapping sound that came from a deeper location—by the placement of his thumbs and pressure applied to the right way on the back of the neck, he’d managed to pop the kid’s skull right off his spine, shattering the first cervical vertebra and sending bone shards slicing into JJ’s spinal cord.


Whatever the punk’s screaming terrified adolescent brain wanted to do after that was moot; the electrical signals coming from the cerebellum shorted out.  The adolescent body responded to its damaged nervous system in the way it was most primed to: it went into instant convulsive orgasms.


It was the convulsions that got to Eddie, too; the way the smooth, lithe teen body suddenly clutched him tightly and shuddered beneath him—it was almost as if it was deliberately milking his swollen, pulsating rod.  He felt the hot splash of the boy’s cum on his chest and realized that the faggot was spewing a steady stream of boymilk all over him; it was being smeared across his chest as their bodies pressed together in a frenetic coupling of semen and death.


“Aw, fuckin’ faggot!” he screamed, pounding his right fist into the dead boy’s already-ruined face, and felt his balls draw up beneath him.  Then he had to hold on tight as his own ejaculation rendered him powerless, clutching the trembling corpse as he spunked, again and again, pumping what felt like quarts of searing hot manseed into the worthless homo cumrag.


Eddie lay on top of the teenager’s dead body for nearly ten minutes, feeling the corpse quivering beneath him until it finally lay still.  When he disengaged himself, he had to peel his chest from the twink’s; the boy’s cum had already started to dry.  His thick shaft, still engorged and leaking, came out of the kid’s ass with an audible pop.


Eddie left the room and took a shower.



When he returned, he paused in the doorway to admire his work.  He was proud of himself; he’d taken a worthless faggot out of the world, and he’d shown it he was full Alpha Male as he did it.


It had fallen off the bench while he’d showered, but it was still handcuffed to the barbell, so it hung by its arms, resting on its left hip.  The smooth chest was covered by a crusty glaze.  One of the Converse sneakers still twitched every few seconds, but otherwise it was still.  The face couldn’t be seen; with its neck broken, the dead kid’s head was slumped forward.  Only the boy’s sweat-matted black hair was showing.  And its softening cock, pearls of semen dripping from the tumescent head.


Eddie had put his pants and boots back on after the shower; now he slipped the t-shirt back on as well.  Then he stepped up to the weight bench and unlocked the cuffs that held up JJ’s corpse, letting it slump to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.  Stowing the cuffs in his nightstand drawer, he paused and considered for a moment; then, picking up the teen’s clothes and cap, he left the apartment.


At his truck, he opened the bed.  He used an old section of carpeting as a bedliner, cut to fit; he rolled it back and tossed the clothes into the bed.  Retrieving the skateboard from the cab, he placed it in the bed, too.  Then looking around to make sure no one was observing him, he darted back into the apartment.


When he came back out, he was carrying the meat.  He placed it in bed of the truck, then rolled the carpet back over it—not perfect camouflage, but good enough in the dark.  Hopping in the cab, he started the huge beast up and headed out.


The front part of the skate park was still brightly lit and in active use; most of the punks out now were older, probably late teens or early twenties, but there were a few who looked younger—some much younger.  Eddie ignored them; if they weren’t faggots after his dick, he had nothing against them.  But now he knew that fags hung out at this park, and he intended to send a message.


The rear part of the skate park backed up to the interstate and wasn’t used after dark; this was enforced not so much by chains or fences as by the simple expedient of keeping the place unlit and as dark as possible.  The few daredevils who regarded it as a challenge had already injured themselves enough to serve as a warning.  One boy had died; another had suffered massive brain damage and was still on a respirator.


The back end of the park was left alone at night.  Tonight, though, it wouldn’t be.


All Eddie could see was a pit; he couldn’t tell its shape or form, and he didn’t need to know.  He tossed the reamed-out boymeat, nude except for its sneakers, into the darkness and heard it hit the concrete below with a boneless thud.  It was followed momentarily but its clothes, hat, and board, the latter of which clattered noisily down into the pit before evidently landing on its wheels and rolling some distance away.


An unexpected breeze picked up, ruffling Eddie’s buzzcut hair.  He glanced over at the lighted part of the park, his steely gazing sighting on the heedless youths darting about.  Yeah, this place was infested with faggots.  He’d have to keep his eyes peeled.

The Return of Leather Dave

The building was located off Randolph Street, some three blocks from the river.  On a side street facing the massive rail yard of a huge train station, the hotel didn’t give a view of anything worth looking at—not that you could tell by the prices.


Dave supposed it was the décor.  The place had been refurbished from a turn-of-the-century theater into a bijou hotel; the theater itself too small for modern stage productions but, once the balcony was redone as a mezzanine floor, perfect for smaller conventions.  Like the Chicago S&M Leather Club’s SpikeCon.


Dave wasn’t staying at the hotel himself; he knew better than that.  He was hunting.  He wasn’t into the hard-core masochists that he knew would be attending, but these kinda events drew curious little cunts looking to be dominated and willing to go farther than most before realizing they’d gone too far.


Stupid fuckers, Dave thought with a grin and at least two dudes looking in his direction feel in love with his handsome, porn-star features.  His long-lashed green eyes sparkled in the oddly dim “unconventual” lighting, and the dark hair on his head gleamed.


But Dave was used to that, especially decked out in all leather.  He’d gone high-gloss black leather on everything, from the vest that hinted at the stud’s broad chest while showing off the thick wiry black fur that covered his torso to the skin-tight jeans that left neither his taut, firm ass or the enormous bulge in his groin to the imagination.  He’d topped it off with black Wesco harness boots and smooth, tight leather gloves.


He looked every inch a man, and judging from the leather-wrapped ridge running down his leg, that extended a number of inches.  As a matter of course, he drew stares of raw, naked lust as he moved silently through the leather-clad crowd.


The time was near midnight and the convention hall was packed.  Behavior wasn’t quite as licentious as it would have been in a gay nightclub—and, in fact, a number of attendees had already left for a tour of the local clubs—but the throng was rowdy and horny.


No one would notice anything unusual about him picking up a fuckbuddy and heading out.  He just needed to find the lucky stiff.


And that was when Dave spotted him, about ten yards away, at a cash bar by a side door.  The slut had noticed him, too, and they kept eye contact as Dave approached across the crowded floor.


The kid was young—at least twenty-one, since he’d bought a beer and the bartender was carding, but surely no older.  What little of his hair could be seen under his backwards leather ball cap inclined more to strawberry than to blond, and his smooth, youthful face was sprinkled with a band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his upturned nose.


The punk was wearing a white tank top that showed off his smooth arms.  He wasn’t anywhere near as well-built as Dave, but he wasn’t scrawny.  The boy looked like he could hold his own, and that made Dave happy.  The sadistic killer wanted a good workout and had been hoping to find a sparring partner that could last for a little while.


The kid’s concession to leather included combat boots tightly laced to nearly mid-calf and a pair of short shorts that ended inches down the thigh and didn’t quite conceal the florid head of the cunt’s dick.  But it was the thick leather dog collar the fag was sporting around his neck, with its triple row of jet-black steel spikes, that caught Dave’s eye, and set his imagination working.


“Hey,” he said smoothly, his baritone voice resonating deeply as he glided up to the boy.


“Uh—hi,” the kid replied nervously, grinning and blushing boyishly.


“I wanna fuck you,” Dave said bluntly.


The slut’s gentle shyness evaporated instantly and his muddy brown eyes lit up with expectant lust.  “Oh fuck yeah, dude,” he said with breathless excitement, “I gotta room here—you, uh, ya wanna go?”


“We gonna be alone?”


“Yeah,” the punk replied, “Buncha us got a suite but the others all went out clubbin’.  They won’t be back for at least three hours, if they come back at all, the fuckin’ whores.”


“Let’s go,” Dave said and followed the kid out.


The boy was so eager, if he’d been a dog, he’d have been wagging his tail.  On the way up to the third floor, he told Dave his name was Harold, “but everybody calls me Buddy.”  He rattled on about his personal life—how he’d come to the convention with a group of gay friends all into leather, how his father, some high-ranking judge, had no idea why his son had taken a week off his classes to visit Chicago.


“He thinks it’s to tour the Art Institute,” Buddy finished up smugly as the elevator reached the third floor and opened.  The suite was to the left, last door on the right.  The mellow lighting, tasteful carpet and ambient music went some way towards explaining the hotel’s ludicrous pricing.


So did the interior of the suite.  There was a bathroom to the left and a kitchenette off to the right of the entry; Dave had a brief impression of stylish cabinets of dark wood and glass and steel appliances and fixtures, but he had little interest in those rooms beyond ascertaining that they were empty.  Past the entry was a small living area minimally furnished with a loveseat, coffee table, floor lamp, and a huge TV on a stand.


“I’ma go grab us a drink,” Buddy chirped, heading for the fridge.  Dave grunted absently in agreement and checked out the bedroom.  It was a sight worth seeing.


Most of the room was taken up by an almost grotesquely huge bed; it seemed too big to be a king.  The bedding mostly crumpled on the floor; in fact, the whole room looked like the set for an orgy scene in a porno.  Clothes, sneakers, boots and random pieces of leather gear were scattered around.  Dave found himself admiring the Red Wing harness boots propped on the recliner in the corner, along with the harness draped over them.


A large window was opposite the door; it looked down onto the street and the railyard.  There was a dresser next to it and a desk opposite the bed; both were covered with sex toys, popper bottles and wads of tissue.  On the desk was an enormous black dildo, reflected in the large mirror above.


Dave smirked and turned back to the other room.  Buddy emerged from the kitchen with a couple of tumblers.  “Here,” he said, somewhat unsteadily, “It’s Frieball.  I mean, Fireball.  Good shit.”


Dave took a sip of the whiskey.  “So how many of ya are here?” he asked.


Even though Buddy was seriously buzzed and horny as fuck, he still knew what the leather stud meant.  “Ya saw the bedroom?  Yeah, there’s three of us all in there.  Man, Lee wanted to fuck me so bad last night, but I been waitin’ to get plowed—hopin’ I’d find someone like you—” he here broke off and blushed charmingly again.  “So, anyway, I gave ‘im a BJ instead an’ helped ‘im use the dildo on Todd.  Todd’s such a fuckin’ whore…”


The punk trailed off as Dave slowly stood up and slipped his leather vest off, tossing it down onto the coffee table.  It knocked both drinks onto the floor, adding the heady scent of whiskey to an atmosphere already redolent of testosterone and mansex.  Buddy didn’t notice; his attention was riveted to the older man’s huge hairy hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.


Buddy rose too, not gracefully as Dave had, but popping so eagerly his leather cap came off, revealing his light wavy hair.  The kid almost lunged at Dave, fastening onto the muscular killer’s chest, his tongue lapping at the large nips while he ran his fingers through the black wiry fur.  He paused a moment to lift a finger and run it around Dave’s goatee, outlining the stud’s mouth before bringing it back to his own and sucking on it.


Suddenly the boy broke off.  “I want you in me,” he muttered breathlessly, then pulled off his shirt, revealing his smooth, firm, wiry torso.  Grabbing Dave by the hand, Buddy led the way to the bedroom, wriggling out of his tight leather shorts as he did.  By the time they reached the bed, the only things Buddy wore besides his gleaming leather boots and his spiked collar were an eager grin and a raging hard boycock.


Dave didn’t bother to pull his dick out; he didn’t need to.  Buddy did it for him, hands trembling with excitement as he worked the older stud’s zipper.  Dave could feel the boy’s fingers around his massive, throbbing member as Buddy excitedly began to extract the enormous manshaft from its leather confines.


“Goddam,” the punk whispered in awe, “It just keeps comin’…”


“Wait’ll it’s fuckin’ in ya, whore,” Dave growled and Buddy squirmed in submissive glee.  “Now get over here.  I wanna fuck you right here in front of the window.  Show all those cunts down there what a fuckin’ slut you are.  C’mon, fucker!”


The ginger-blond fag obediently assumed the position, bent forwards with his hands placed on the huge plate-glass window and his ass posed and ready for receiving.  He had a great view of the street—and in the backlit bedroom, the conventioneers milling about on the street below had a great view of him.  Whistling and catcalling, faint but still audible, could be heard from below as the leather-gear crowd began to realize they were being given a free show.


Dave stayed far enough behind that he couldn’t be seen from the street.  They knew he was there, though, from Buddy’s reaction as the muscle-bound older man began to shove his huge, vein-wrapped mantube up the boy’s fuckhole.


The kid rose up on his toes, flexing his feet inside his tightly-laced boots and bending his waist in a vain attempt to find a position that would be more accommodating to the enormous rod being relentlessly thrust into his colon.  He was into pain, sure, and he knew he could take the dude’s cock, if only he’d used lube…


The youth beat on the window in sexual pain, groaning loudly and erotically as his eyes rolled back in his head.  “Aw yeah—fuck, brah, yer killin’ me…” he moaned to the faint cheering from below as his own thick, dangling boycock slapped against the glass.


“Not yet, cunt,” Dave muttered and started pounding the boyhole remorselessly.


Fuck YEAH!!!” Buddy cried out, his smooth young body already slick with sweat.  For a moment, Dave was surprised the little fucker could take it, before realizing what a serious whore the kid truly was.


The problem with major asssluts is that even if they start out tight, they always go loose.  Dave smiled, already anticipating the enjoyment he’d take in making sure he got the fuckmeat properly re-tightened.


Buddy had no idea what Dave was thinking about; it was sheer coincidence that made him speak.  “Hurt me, dude,” he moaned, “C’mon, show me yer a man—hit me…”


“Ya like that, cunt?” Dave sneered.  “Ya like gettin’ hurt when yer gettin’ fucked?  Cause I’m about to put a serious fuckin’ beatdown on yer twink ass!”


Sexually supercharged by the banter, Buddy never considered the possibility that Dave was speaking literally.  “Oh hell yeah bro, make me feel it,” he grunted in erotic abandon.


“Ya got it, motherfucker,” Dave chuckled, and grabbed Buddy’s dog collar at the buckle, where there were no spikes.  It wasn’t tight–in fact, it was loose enough around the kid’s neck that he could easily slid his hand under it and jerk it back like a horse’s rein.  At the same time, his swung his balled-up leather-wrapped fist like a wrecking ball, giving the punk a brutal donkey-punch to the back of the head.


The impact was hard enough to bounce Buddy’s head off the thick window glass.  “Ahh!” the kid cried out, “What the fuck, man?!?”


“You said ya wanted to be hurt,” the muscle stud chuckled, not missing a beat as he pumped his tool up into the twink’s ass with a driving tempo, “Why—want more?”


“Not like that!” Buddy shouted indignantly, but it was too late.  Dave was swinging again.  This one was a roundhouse blow from the shoulder that swept wide and caught the youth on the side of the face.  As such, it was visible to the horny dudes watching the sex show from the street, and it was roundly applauded—well, it was an S&M convention.


Buddy was much less appreciative.  He squalled and yelled, jerking himself forward and managing, somehow, to get himself off the huge spear of manflesh.  He whirled around and faced Dave.  From outside, the crowd realized the show was over and several loud and distinctive boos came wafting up to express their displeasure.


“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the kid whispered, wide-eyed with a fear that came far too late to be useful.  He reached behind his neck and unfastened the dog collar; determined that it wouldn’t be used to snare him again, he tossed it onto the bed.


“You fuckin’ pussy,” Dave growled, “You wanted to be hurt?  I ain’t even started on ya, you stupid cunt.  Those were just love taps.  By the time I’m done workin’ over yer worthless fuckmeat, you’ll be in so fuckin’ much pain you’ll cum in agony.”


Cold terror flushed through the lithe boyslut, causing his smooth skin to pale.  He began edging towards the corner of the room as Dave started closing the distance between them.  “You—you fuckin’ stay away from me, you psycho—NO!!”


Buddy scrambled onto the bed.  Dave lunged at him, but the limber youth somehow managed to tuck into a somersault and roll off the bed; the move was spontaneous and amateurish and he ended up sprawled on the floor, but it bought him a precious few seconds. As Dave floundered his way off the huge bed, the terrified cunt bolted out of the bedroom, heading for the hall door.


Gaining the door, Buddy fumbled frantically with the deadbolt.  His fingers finally caught it and he gave a sigh of relief as the lock clicked open.  Then Dave’s hand clenched in his hair, jerking backwards and tossing him to the floor.


The hairy, hardbodied stud re-locked the door and turned to his victim.  From the floor, Buddy looked up at the older man, still in clad in tight black leather from his boots to his waist; only his gigantic cock was free, pulsating as it swung, erect, in the air.  Above, the boy’s eyes followed the vast, furry expanse of Dave’s broad chest and huge hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.  Above that, the handsome face, that charming, cheerful grin framed by the virile black goatee…


…Buddy had fallen back in lust with Dave so hard and fast that he forgot what he was doing.  Dave didn’t.


He bent down and clamped one hand around the punk’s throat, his black-gloved fingers digging in excruciatingly as he lifted the kid into the air.  Buddy’s reverie came to an abrupt halt as his windpipe was closed off and he was hoisted agonizingly by his neck.  The young whoreboy clawed at Dave’s wrist and arm while his combat boots flailed uselessly four inches off the ground.  His bulging eyes stared directly into those of his torturer, without the latter showing the least concern—or the slightest bit of exertion, despite single-handedly dead-lifting the kid off the floor.


“What the fuck is wrong with you, ya little asswipe?” Dave asked him, the deadly gleam in his eye belying the almost conversational tone of the question.  “You said ya wanted to be hurt.  I came all the way the fuck up to this room to hurt ya, so you goddam sure better enjoy it, motherfucker!”


With that, he hurled the kid into the loveseat.  Buddy hit it on his back hard enough to bounce off, falling forward onto the coffee table, which promptly broke under his weight.  The kid ended up on his hands and knees in a mess of broken wood and leather—his cap and Dave’s vest—coughing and gagging, but essentially unhurt.  For the moment.


Staggering to his feet, the fair-haired boy glared at Dave, sullen and defiant.  “What are ya, some kinda sicko?  Lookit this shit—you gonna pay for that table?  You better get the fuck outta here or I’m gonna call—UHH!!”


Dave, tired of the chattering, popped the kid right in his gaping maw, knocking out a canine and shutting him up.  Buddy stared at him wide-eyed, one hand clamped over his injured mouth.


“Like I said, I ain’t even got started on hurtin’ ya, son.  I’m gonna hurt you so good, ya perverted little cocksucker, you ain’t ever gonna need anyone else to hurt ya again.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  No?  You will.  Trust me, faggot, ya damn sure will.”  Almost casually, he reached out and gripped Buddy by the upper arm; before the youth even realized he’d been grabbed, Dave had spun around and flung him into the TV.


This one didn’t leave the punk unscathed.  The flat screen TV was totaled and a large dent left in the drywall behind it.  Buddy landed badly, wrenching his right arm.  He lay on the floor wheezing, trying to breathe, but the only thing his hazy eyes seemed to focus on were the gleaming toes of Dave’s Wesco harness boots as they came closer…


“On yer feet, motherfucker.  Or do ya want me to carry ya into the bedroom?”


The threat worked; still gasping, Buddy clambered to his feet and dove into the bedroom with an abortive plan to try and lock Dave out.  Dave was already in the room when the boy turned back—and Dave locked the door behind him.


“No more interruptions,” he said with a sinister grin, “And no more fuckin’ foreplay, bitch.”


Buddy hadn’t noticed Dave was wearing a belt; the wide leather strap with the chrome buckle had more or less blended in with the rest of his leather gear.  It wasn’t until he unbuckled it and started sliding it off that Buddy even realized it existed.  And even then, he still didn’t understand what was going on; at least, not until Dave wrapped the end without the buckle around his hand a couple of times.


With a screech, the young slut tried to dodge out of Dave’s reach, but the experienced killer was able to swing his makeshift lash wide.  Buddy howled in pain as the strap whipped across the smooth, soft flesh of his back, the thick buckle leaving a vicious purple welt.


“Aw, fuck yeah,” the buff older man crowed, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”  With a wide grin, he slashed the belt at Buddy twice.  The first blow went across the whore’s back again; with an agonized yelp, the kid spun around just in time to receive the second squarely across his firm, flat belly, the loud slap instantly echoed by another cry of pain.


“You son of a motherfuckin’ bitch, I’m gonna—AAAHHH!!!”


Dave had swung the belt with the precision of an animal tamer’s whip, landing the buckle in Buddy’s face with enough force to break his right cheekbone—and shut him up.


“Close yer cocksuckin’ cumhole, faggot,” the cruel leatherman sneered, “You’re mine now.  Got that?  Ain’t no one gonna come save you.  You’re here so I can do what the fuck I want to with ya—and when I’m done, you’re done.  Understand me?  When I’m done with ya, ain’t no one else gonna have any use for ya either.  So shut up and take it, cunt, no matter how bad it gets—cause I promise you, I can always make it worse.”


Buddy clutched his swelling face, whimpering and cowering.  He didn’t reply.  He was still trying to figure out what had happened—how a chance meeting with a smokin’ hot stud had somehow become a nightmare of pain and fear.  That was when Dave, annoyed with losing his fucktoy’s attention, gut-punched him, sinking his gloved fist deep into the boy’s tender abdomen.


Buddy knelt on the floor, trying to breathe, when Dave yanked his head back by the hair.  “You pay attention when I’m talkin’ to ya, you scum-suckin’ piece a’ shit, you hear me?  Say ‘yes sir’!”


“Y-yessir…” Buddy managed to gasp out painfully.


“That’s right, asshole,” Dave growled and gave the cowering punk a swift kick with his steel-toed boot.  Buddy gave a breathless yip, then started sniveling.  The sound enraged the older man; he glared down at the huddled mass of sobbing boymeat.  “Fuck, I’m gonna be doin’ the world a favor by takin’ a worthless piece of crap like you outta it,” he muttered in disgust, “Shut the fuck up!”


Lost in his little world of fear and pain, Buddy never heard him.  The lithe youth with the red-gold hair continued to sob on his knees until the muscled older man, fed up with the irritating mewling noise, began to beat him with the belt again.  At the first blow—across his upper arm—Buddy came out of his despairing reverie, squalling.


He bolted to the door, by now so panicked that he didn’t even try working the locked knob; he beat and clawed at the door, yelling frantic gibberish.  Dave let him go at it for a moment or two, to let the meat wear itself out, then casually strode over, yanked the boy back, and gutpunched him.  Hard.


Buddy went limp and would have fallen to his knees again, but by now Dave’s dick was raging hard and he was out of patience.  He literally picked the boy up and threw him bodily onto the bed.


Buddy gave a cry of pain as he landed on the spiked collar.  He managed to twist himself sideways and get off it, but he wasn’t able to get off the bed itself before Dave was on it as well.  As the young boycunt tried to wriggle away, Dave leaned over, drew back his gloved fist, and pounded Buddy in the face.  Three roundhouse blows with the force of an industrial piston put paid to the twink’s escape attempt.


The faggot was still moaning in semiconscious agony when Dave parted the boy’s smooth, firm legs, climbing between them and propping the fucker’s boots on his shoulders.  With a perfect view of the kid’s puckered asshole, the hardbodied leatherstud aligned his enormous manshaft with cunt’s fuckhole and plunged straight in, going balls-deep on the first thrust.


Even for a reamed-out whore like Buddy, it was too much.  The window fuck hadn’t been too bad, but Dave had taken the time to ease himself in.  There was no easing this time; this was brutal dead-on rape, and Dave wanted it to hurt.


It did.  Once again, Buddy found himself dragged out of a dazed state by a new burst of physical pain.


“Fuck!  Oh fucking God, stop it!” he screamed, doubling his fists and beating on Dave’s powerful hairy pecs like a small child having a tantrum, “Stop!  PLEASE DEAR GOD FUCKING STO—”


Dave backhanded him across the face, then swung his arm back, slapping him.  Whimpering, the abused boycunt continued to writhe and struggle.


“Ain’t nothing worse than a bad fuck—except a mouthy one.  You’re both, ya worthless piece a’ faggot shit,” Dave growled angrily.  Keeping his huge rigid cock buried deeply in the boy’s guts, he reached out one hand and began to feel around on the bed.  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.


“Good thing I know a way to fix both,” he said menacingly, and held up the dog collar, making sure that Buddy got the chance to focus on it and see clearly what it was.  The hulking leatherman leaned forward and began to put it around the punk’s neck—then stopped and leaned back again.


“Know what?” he said musingly, “I put down some dumbass twinks in my time, but yer the stupidest one yet.  Gonna need more control for a dumb motherfucker like you.  Here, it’s big enough—I’m gonna try it this way.”


Both of Buddy’s eyes were blackened and swollen, but he was still able to watching in incomprehensive fear as Dave flipped the collar over.  It was only when the older man leaned forward again that the kid realized he was putting the collar on inside out—with the spikes on the inside.


For a few moments, Buddy went wild in sheer panic but the weight and pressure of Dave on him (and in him) kept the youth, strong as he was, from moving an inch.  The sadistic killer just kept still, enjoying the way the punk’s thrashing was working his dick.  When the meat finally wore itself out, he calmly passed the collar around its neck.  There was just enough room to loop it back through the buckle with the spikes deeply indenting the tender flesh of the throat without piercing the skin.


“So ya like to be dominated?  Ya like to be hurt?” he sneered down at the trembling, terrified slut, “I’m gonna show ya what real control is like, you disgusting pansy.  I’m gonna show ya what it’s like to get used by a real man, faggot.  That means no matter how bad it gets, we ain’t done till I say we’re done.  I don’t give a shit how much it hurts you, ya motherfucking cunt; you’re only here so I have something to cum into.  Grin an’ bear it, asswipe, cause my dick is hard, my balls are full and it’s time to rock n’ roll!”


Dave placed one hand flat on Buddy’s chest—the twink could feel the leather-clad expanse of the older man’s palm across his pecs—grabbed the loose end of the dog collar with the other, and began pounding the kid’s ass like he was literally trying to fuck him in half.  As he did, he began slowly pulling the collar tight.


He did it so slowly that Buddy didn’t realize it at first; he could only feel the brutal, relentless way the older stud was reaming his captive ass, the way the huge engorged head tore at his rectal lining as it plunged into his colon, battering his prostate remorselessly on its way up his intestines.  And somehow, some way, his own dick was responding, his long thin boycock, slapping between his own flat abs and the hairy, ripped ones of his rapist, was getting harder by the moment…


…then the spikes began to break the flesh and the true nightmare of Buddy’s last few minutes on earth began to reveal itself.  Awash in agony and terror, the boy almost didn’t realize it at first; it was all part of the pain.  But as he continued to struggle, the spikes sank deeper into his flesh—incrementally, but remorselessly, the excruciating torment grew to overwhelming proportions.  There was nothing he could do to escape it, but he damn sure tried all the nothing he could.


Dave knew that the punk would panic and at some point he’d be having to rein in a thrashing piece of boymeat, so he was prepared when Buddy’s reaction set in.  The fucker went ballistic, flailing like a landed seabass, trying his best to fight Dave off, or, failing that, to wriggle his way out from under the horrific torture.


The lean, sweaty twink clawed frenetically at the hardbodied leather stud pinning him to the bed; his fingers, curled into talons, tried in vain to scratch at Dave’s face, but the serial killer was too experienced to let that happen.  As the spikes tore their way into his esophagus and his windpipe began to constrict, Buddy’s mindless terror only increased.  Unable to damage Dave’s face, the punk began scraping and digging at his chest, his fingers snagging in the thick wiry manfur covering Dave’s strong, broad pecs.


Undaunted, Dave planted his free hand on Buddy’s forehead, pinning the fuckmeat securely to the bed.  The hulking sadist could feel his spunk seething in his huge hairy scrote and knew it was time to shift into high gear.


“I’m gonna cum, motherfucker,” he hissed at the frenzied youth.  Something about it—his words, or maybe just his tone of voice—seemed to break through to Buddy.  Even though the meat wasn’t able to regain enough control to stop its involuntary flailing, Dave could tell it was hearing him.  “I’m about to coat yer guts with hot potent manseed.  Ya want it, dontcha, ya fuckin’ faggot?  Yeah, all you little homos want my load.  Earn it, asswipe.  Make your corpse a worthy receptacle for my semen.  Work my dick, fucker, milk my wad outta me!”


If Buddy heard him, he didn’t do anything new to indicate it.  In point of fact, Buddy did hear him, but was still in too much pain and panic to fully understand what was being said.  It didn’t matter.  What happened next would have happened in any case; it was what Dave had wanted from the moment he’d set eyes on the ginger-blond freckle-faced leather twink.


With one gloved hand on Buddy’s fist, Dave stopped pulling the collar back through its buckle with a slow, even force with the other.  Instead, with a single powerful jerk, he yanked the collar as tight as he fuckin’ could.  Instantly, the circumference of the leather strap decreased by more than thirty percent.  It was now so tight around Buddy’s neck that the queerboy was being strangled by the leather strap.


And, of course, for that to happen, the spikes had to be fully embedded in the youth’s throat.


It was…there weren’t words.  Buddy had never imagined such agony could exist.  The spikes were three quarters of an inch long and nearly a half-inch wide at their widest point—which wasn’t at the base, but just above it.


The steel spikes in the back of his neck had sunk in until they reached the cervical vertebrae.  It might have been merciful had they pierced the spinal cord; instead, they buried themselves in the bone and anchored the improvised garrote at the rear, giving Dave more leverage to choke the cunt to death.


In the front, it was different.  The metal points punctured first the jugular veins, then the carotid arteries on both sides.  If Dave removed the collar now, Buddy would bleed to death.


Dave wasn’t removing the collar now.  Increased pressure on the spikes merely drove them deeper into the blood vessels without allowing the blood to leak out.


As the twink endured the first sufferings of strangulation—the rise of pounding pressure to intolerable levels inside his head—he fought even harder.  There was no lucid thought involved; some instinct drove Buddy to concentrate on Dave’s arms, to try and yank them away in a fruitless effort to ease the throttling agony.  The boy clamped his hands around Dave biceps and pulled, but it was like trying to bend marble.  Deep inside, the choking faggot felt the sheer awesome power of the muscles being used to choke out his useless boywhore life, and despaired.


Dave bent forward, the stiff wiry hair of his goatee brushing Buddy’s cheek as the older man whispered in his ear.  “Die, motherfucker.  I’m gonna pump my load up yer guts and leave yer reamed-out corpse spread across the bed, so fuckin’ die, you homo shit.”


He gave another cruel, vicious jerk to the dog collar.  When the steel spikes tore through Buddy’s Adam’s apple, he could not only feel the way the sharp points ripped into his larynx, he could hear the crunching of the cartilage.


By now, Buddy wanted to die.  The pain, the terror was all too much.  Somewhere in the back of his fagslut brain, he was still aware of his own erection—he couldn’t ignore it; he was so hard it hurt.  He didn’t know it was an involuntary reaction to asphyxia; he could only feel his achingly rigid shaft pinned between the flat, firm bellies of two males locked in a fatal embrace.


As the young punk’s struggles began to fade, his faced showed the hideous effects of a drawn-out strangulation.  Already badly battered and swollen, the boy’s innocent, freckled-marked face was blackening grotesquely—long past purple, it was darkening to true black.  His eyes, bugling horribly, were streaked with red where blood vessels were bursting; Buddy could only see great black bursts of nothingness blooming in his field of vision like fireworks of eternity.  The bloody froth oozing from his choked-off throat found an outlet beside his purple protruding tongue, the pinkish foam trickling down the kid’s smooth cheek.


The dying boycunt was going under.  Its weak little faggot brain was suffering more and more damage; unable to hold out for much longer, it was no longer fighting its killer.  Dave grunted with exertion and pleasure—he knew that once his warm sweaty fucktoy stopped fighting and started caressing him, it was close to death.


“That’s it, faggot, time to die,” he whispered huskily, know the slut was too far gone to hear him.  By now, Buddy was a vegetable.  A tiny spark of his personality remained screaming in terror and pain, trapped in some small corner of a dying brain, but it could only suffer.


Even if the boy had been magically bestowed immediate medical care, his only use would have been as an organ donor.  Not that Dave planned on any medical care.  This was what he’d wanted.  From the moment he’d noticed Buddy, he’d planned to have the young man’s brain-damaged convulsions milking his hard shaft to orgasm—and the stupid little homo cunt had played along every step of the way.


What little coordinated motion the near-dead whoreboy had been able to command slipped away.  The hands that had been slowly caressing Dave face and trailing in his chest fur fluttered aimlessly for a moment, then rose to his shoulders.  At the same time, the meat’s legs wrapped around Dave’s tight waist; he could feel the firm, smooth flesh of the kid’s inner thighs pressed against his sweat-slick flanks and he knew that the final act had arrived.  He waited tensely for the signal, no longer thrusting himself into the dying fuck’s asshole.  He didn’t need to any longer, once he felt—there, that tight trembling in the rigid boymeat as the progressive damage reached a tipping point in the fuckwad’s dying brain—


Buddy’s death load was intense.  The violence even caught Dave by surprise; evidently, for all his whining and squealing, the little cunt had been a major pain pig deep down inside.


As the fuckmeat thrashed, it clutched Dave to itself with phenomenal strength, its fingers digging into his shoulders as its legs kicked and flailed with such convulsive violence that it managed to pry one of its combat boots loose, causing it to slide halfway off.


While this was going on, its internal muscles were convulsing as well—its colon gripping and releasing Dave’s engorged, throbbing shaft like it was deliberately trying to jack him off.  “Aw, fuckin’-A!” the brawny leather-clad muscleman grunted.  Then he felt it—the sensation, almost like an electric shock, that told him he couldn’t hold off anymore; his balls were unloading.


With a single brutal tug, he gave Buddy’s collar one last powerful jerk.  A loud gristly cracking sound filled the room as the young punk’s trachea collapsed, steel spikes deeply embedded in the bloody mass of crushed tissue.


There was just enough of Buddy left to feel the burn, and for it to trigger the disgusting little pain pig’s orgasm.


For Dave, this was it.  This was his reason for being—young smooth nubile boymeat thrashing beneath him in its death agony, squirting jet after jet of hot creamy spunk across his hard, furry chest, to be smeared between them as they intertwined in an agonizing, erotic orgasm.  The hardbodied older man was aware of his own inarticulate, animalistic grunts as he hunched over the dead boy’s corpse, spewing what felt like a steady stream of searing manseed into it.  As he shot his wad, over and over, Dave continued to pin the flailing corpse to the bed and beat it, driving his gloved fist into Buddy’s vacant face repeatedly.


By the time he pulled his dick out of the corpse and rolled, gasping, onto his back next to it, Buddy had been thrashed to hamburger.  The fresh-faced twink was utterly unrecognizable.


Unwillingly, the sweaty, satisfied serial killer rolled off the bed, his thick-soled boots hitting the carpet with a loud thump.  He bent down and retrieved his belt from the floor, looping it back around his waist as he went out into the living area of the suite.  Rooting about in the wreckage of the coffee table, he recovered his vest—and Buddy’s leather cap.  Dave held it for a moment, considering, then walked back to the bedroom to try it on in front of the mirror.


Well, fuck it—wasn’t like Buddy had any further use for it.


He like the look, especially worn with the brim backwards.  He hadn’t wanted to damage the expensive lining of his vest by wearing it over his sweaty, cum-covered chest, so he’d simple looped it through his belt, leaving it to dangle—and himself shirtless.  As he admired his furry ripped abs, matted with the dead boy’s sperm in the mirror, he realized he could see Buddy in the reflection—the splayed, twitching corpse on the bed behind him, cum pooling and already congealing on its flat chest, one combat boot still kicking at the twisted sheet while the other was half off.  Even now, the corpse’s face had faded from jet black to a vivid fuchsia as the blood started to drain away from the front of the head.


It was a fuckin’ hot scene and Dave was proud of his work.  As he watched the faggot’s limp cock continue to ooze semen after death, the buff sadist fondled his nipples, feeling them get rock-hard.  He grinned at his own reflection in the mirror, then realized his own dick was stiffening again.  He massaged it for a moment as well, still admiring his own hairy muscular body in the foreground and the twink’s mauled, fucked-out corpse in the background—then put his tackle away.  Playtime was over; he needed to put a little distance between himself and his playmate.


Dave locked the suite door on his way out, but otherwise left all the interior doors open and lights on; he wanted his handiwork to be viewed under the best possible circumstances.


Out on the street, there was still a large crowd of conventioneers still milling about; more than before, in fact, since most of the bars and nightclubs had closed and so most were heading back to their rooms.  Directly outside the hotel door, Dave bumped into a pair of twinks.


One, a slender homo with long blond hair, looked up at him, awestruck.  “Hey, sweetie,” it cooed with a feminine voice, “My name’s Lee.  Wanna blowjob?”


Dave looked at it with a sneer of contempt.  “No thanks, faggot; just got one.  Still drippin’.”  He strode of down the street, his leather-clad physique drawing appreciative stares.


“Just my luck,” Lee sighed sadly, “Best hunk I’ve seen all week, and I get turned down.  I can’t win for losin’.  Hey, Todd, wait up—let’s go see if Buddy got laid!”





“So, Kracznik, whadda we got?” the Sarge barked out.  “I ain’t got time for details; just gimme the basics.”


“Easy enough,” the beat cop responded.  “Seems those two faggots out there—” he nodded indicating where Lee and Todd were sobbing in the outer room, “—got back a few hours ago and found this faggot here—” here he nodded at the battered remains of Buddy sprawled across the bed, ‘—a little bit ago.”


“Jesus, what is this—another homo convention?  Fuck, just write it up and move on.  There’s one or two of these killings every time one of these conventions happens and they don’t ever get solved.  Too many suspects, most from outta town.  And it ain’t like anyone gives a shit about faggots anyway.”


“So ya want me to call the crime scene folks?  I already contacted the coroner…”


“Yeah, Kracznik, go ahead.  But tell ‘em to get here fast, I can’t wait around all day.  And you need to get down to Wabash and Wacker, remember?  There’s that big protest in front of the Trump Tower and it’s all hands on deck.


Swearing, the beat cop left the bedroom, telling his partner in the living area to finish up taking the statements.  The Sarge looked around, shaking his head.  It was clear from the state of the suite that there had been an explosion of almost unimaginable sexual violence.  No forced entry—the little cocksucker had let his killer in voluntarily.


The Sarge snorted in disgust.  Faggot probably enjoyed it, at least up to a point.  Well, he damn sure wasn’t gonna worry about it; cocksuckers got what they deserved.


He took a closer look at the corpse, prying at the thick leather collar wrapped tightly around the corpse’s neck.  As he tugged at it, he noticed the spikes.


Jesus, this one really died ugly.  Bad way to die, not that the Sarge cared.  The boy had been pounded into meat, too, but it wasn’t anything the seasoned cop hadn’t seen before.  Happened to homos all the time.  He managed to build up a good head of indignation at the pansy for getting itself killed on his watch when the ME finally showed up.


He already knew he wasn’t gonna be reading Kracznik’s report; it was destined to be round-filed.  But that didn’t absolve him from filling out his own paperwork.  Turning over the crime scene to the ME, he headed out to the living area and confronted Lee and Todd with an expression of extreme disgust.  “C’mon, I want you two nancy-boys down at the station to sign yer statements.  Get moving; I ain’t got time to waste on dead pansies.”


Behind him, the fucked-out, cum-covered corpse of the son of a Republican state supreme court judge was dumped unceremoniously into a plastic body bag.