Rocko, Riding Rough

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

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

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

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

“Wha—” the escaped convict muttered thickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only one of them was gonna leave that room alive.

And that one wasn’t gonna be Jeremy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And use it he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And with that he headed to the bathroom.

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

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

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

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

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

And he needed new meat.

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

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

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

Jake Rams It Home

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

It was time for another fag to die.

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

The whore was halfway up the block.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just a quick fuck,” Jake replied.

“Gettin’ or givin’?” it queried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His Name Was Alex

“Mike!  Yo, ‘sup man!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?  I thought you liked that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hands come up.  They start slapping at your thighs, but soon his efforts intensify and he’s actively beating at your abs.  It doesn’t matter—you can feel his esophagus milk your rod as he strains.  It feels too good to release him.

Suddenly, he give a burst of force so strong it catches you off guard; you didn’t think him capable of it.  He practically leaps backward, away from your crotch, leaving your toll bobbing in the air, glistening with his saliva.  You notice with a vague surprise how dark his face is.  Gasping frantically for air, he wipes the drool from his lips with the back of his hand; you can see the fear in his eyes.

“You—you need—” he breaks off and coughs till he gags, then starts again.  “You need to go.  I can’t—I just can’t…”

As he speaks, your vision becomes clouded.  It’s as if a red mist is forming in front of your eyes.  You know what it means—you’re getting angry.  Bad angry, not normal angry.  You’ve got to keep control.

“Go?” you ask calmly, “What do you mean, go?”  Your voice is barely about a whisper.  You know your smile is perhaps a little too broad, but you’re in control.  “You invited me here.  You asked me in.  We both know what I’m here for, but you don’t need to worry.  I’ll make it easy for you but remember—I’m in control.”

And you are in control.  He’ll put out; all you have to do is establish eye contact.  But he’s not looking at your face.  His attention is directed towards your right hand…

Alex’s belt—you don’t remember picking it up, but you’re holding it, and that seems natural.  It seems to make sense.  As you look at it, you can feel your cock swell.  It’s going to go around Alex’s neck.  You don’t exactly know why, but that also makes sense.  And you’re still in control.

He’s talking, but you’re not paying attention.  You’re looking at the belt and trying to figure—ah, there it is.  So easy—you just loop the belt back through its buckle, a simple, basic noose.  Casually, you toss it over his head.

Alex is still on knees.  As soon as the belt is over his head and resting loosely on his shoulders, he begins to rise.  “Wh-what are you doin’, bro?” he asks as he cautiously tried to get upright, “Gonna call the cops if you don’t—gaackthph!!”

You jerk him back down to his knees, cutting off his threat.  He’s not gonna do anything—you’re in control.  He gags and claws at the strap to leather around his throat, his huge eyes expressing his bewildered terror.

“No,” you say, your voice reflecting the profound calmness and serenity you feel.  “I’m not ready to leave yet.  C’mon, I still haven’t checked out your bedroom yet.”

You drag him across the floor by the belt around his neck.  The gurgling, choking sounds he’s making change pitch, as if it’s become harder to emit them.  His legs kick and flail frenetically as he tris to gain some sort of traction.  He can’t, of course—you’re in control.

There’s something about the way his Nikes dance a panicked, oxygen-deprived jig across the carpet—it’s a sign of how utterly helpless he his, and how much control you truly do have.

“You lied to me,” you tell him, “You led me on.”  His face is swelling and becoming purple.  He looks like he’s in a lot of pain; which, for some reason, makes your cock ache and throb a little more.  His bulging eyes are starting to form pinprick hemorrhages—they stare straight at you, begging in terror.

“Shh,” you whisper soothingly.  “It’ll be over soon.  After that, it won’t hurt.  Nothing will ever hurt you again.”

You’re not sure why you said that.  It seemed to come, spontaneously and fully-formed, from somewhere deep in your brain, but one thing you do know—you’re going to make it come true.  Your dick tells you that. 

His hands scramble desperately at you, his fingers curling in the hair of your forearms.  He’s kicking so violently he actually manages to get his left foot under.  It’s enough for him to start to leverage his way upward.  That’s not gonna happen; you yank the belt so hard sideways that he topples over, the Nike on his left foot popping off.

You can see his toes curling repeatedly, almost reflexively in his white ankle sock.  He seems to be a lot more panicked now.  How long has he been without oxygen?  There’s a detail you missed.  Next time, you’ll need to remember to time it.

You’re at the bedroom door now, and he’s still fighting.  He’s transferred his attention from your arms to the door frame, clutching it for all he’s worth.  “Let go,” you tell him.  “You’re ok.  You’re in your own bedroom.  Let go—I’m in control.”  You give the belt another vicious jerk and wrench him free.  

He seems to be giving up the fight as you approach the bed.  You stop and kneel down, your cock achingly erect and oozing, and there you see it.  In his face, you see proof that you are in control.

He’s so dark he’s almost black in the face.  His eyes are bulging grotesquely, but no less than his tongue, purple and distended.  A long, thick streamer of white foam dangled from his chin onto his bare chest.  It’s hot.  It’s so fucking hot, and you’re controlling it.  He isn’t doing it to please you.  He has no control—only you.  Only you.

He’s almost dead.  You watch life fade from his eyes, and for a moment you draw a blank.

Oh, yeah.  Alex.  His name was Alex.  You don’t want to forget that.

You lean close to him, so close you can hear the involuntary spasming of his cinched esophagus, and whisper softly into his ear.

“Hey, Alex, bro—still with me?  ‘No’ was the wrong answer…”

And another jerk of the belt.  There’s a gristly crunching sound, somewhere between crushing a foam cup and ripping off a chicken leg, and his trachea collapses.  You established your control over Alex so completely that he was utterly unable to prevent the last few moments of his life being spent in mind-rending agony.

His firm muscular body thrashes like a landed marlin, his heels drumming mindlessly against the floor.  His hands are raised, fists clenching and unclenching in midair.  His head shudders violent, spittle flying through the air.  And then you see something you didn’t know was possible.

As you’d taken him into control, you’d noticed that his jeans had finally ended up around his ankles and that the tent in his boxers had never been taken down.  Now, as you watched, the wet spot suddenly and very swiftly expanded in size as a pearly froth bubbled up at the tip of the tentpole.

He’d unloaded.  He’d liked it.  The fucker wanted it, wanted it so bad he’d blown his wad as it happened.  

Well, if he wanted that, then he’d wanted this too.  Reaching under its arms, you lift the convulsing corpse up to the bed.  You jerk the boxers down by the waistband; the hard cock leaps up, still spewing jizz even after death.  You suddenly find yourself seized by an overpowering urge—bend down and take the spurting shaft into your mouth.

Poor Alex—if only he’d given you what you wanted, he’d be having a great time right now.

But that’s no reason for you not to enjoy yourself.  You suck his tool as if he was still alive to feel something, letting your tongue linger on its slick, engorged head.  Within minutes, though, you can feel the dude’s generous tackle begin to wither and withdraw.  There’s no more sperm to be gotten, either.

It’s time to get what you came for.  You roll Alex’s firm but limp body over onto its belly, positioning it so you have perfect aim at its asshole.  Slapping your cock into the palm of your hand, you climb onto the bed and mount the corpse.

Holy fuck, that feels good.  Alex’s sphincter provides just the right amount of resistance before it gives way, accepting your aching, pulsing rod.  You sink balls-deep into the dead kid’s ass, barely aware that you’re groaning with intense pleasure.

No other fuck has ever felt this good, and you’re just getting started.

Alex lies there, uncomplainingly accepting your dick.  You have control; you can do whatever you want.  You can fuck him as long and as hard as you want.  He can’t say no, and that makes you want to fuck him even harder.

You can hear sounds echoing off the walls—your own physical grunting and the swift slapping of flesh created by vigorous sexual activity.  You can still smell the tang of Alex’s flesh in the air, against a backdrop his cologne; you can still taste his salty cum on your tongue.  He’s yours now, and he’ll never be anyone else’s.

That’s it; that’s what you needed to know, to feel, to really get.  Alex is truly yours.  Once you fill his tight fuckhole with manseed, no one else ever will.  He’ll never be able to say he’s had a better fuck than you, and he’ll never be able to tell anyone he turned you down.

You don’t take no for an answer.

Fuck yeah.  Fuck yeah.  Show Alex.  He didn’t want to take your dick?  Hose his guts with hot semen.  Fucker can’t do anything to stop you—

It hurts.  You cum so hard it hurts, burning, searing, like your dick is spewing lightning, not jizz.  It goes on and on, your entire body spasming and convulsing as if you yourself were dying with each successive load.  At some point, you become aware that you’ve been cursing Alex and slamming your fist into his lifeless back.  Eventually, you come to a shuddering stop, but it still takes you another five minutes to regain your composure—and your breath.

Eventually, you’re back in control.  You always are, sooner or later.  You extract yourself, carefully pulling your cock back out of the corpse’s still-quivering asshole.  You head back to the living room to get your clothing, but as you reach the bedroom door, you can see Alex’s Nike sneaker sitting upright by itself in the middle of the living room floor.  For some reason, the image compels you to turn back and face the enormity of what you’ve done in the bedroom.

Alex is face-down on the bed.   His arms are at his sides, his legs are spread as far as possible given that his jeans and boxers are down around his knees.  The belt around his neck has sunk in so deep, it’s barely visible. 

On the other hand, even from the doorway, you can clearly see how your cum still trickles from his ass.

The toes on the foot without the shoe are still curling, faintly and spasmodically.  At the same time, the sneaker on the other foot jerks in sync.  The entire corpse twitches randomly, but the movements are farther and farther apart each time.

You did this.  Not an hour ago, Alex was a viable human being with a career and a social life.  Now he’s a pile of human meat, filled with your cum.  It hits you all at once, the full knowledge of exactly what you’ve done, and you feel…you feel—

—you feel inspired.  You feel excited.  You’ve had an epiphany.

You tuck your member back down your pants ad put your shirt back on.  There’s a mirror by the front door; you stop and make sure that you look no different than you did when you came in.  It confirms that you give no sign of the violent scene in which you’ve just participated.

You peer out the door—no one in the hallway.  You luck holds; you leave the building unseen.  As you head back to your place, you obey the speed limit and all traffic signs and signals.  You’re filled with an understanding that you are at the doorway of a wondrous and dark new world, and you’re going to have to be very, very careful if you want to continue to taste its unspeakable pleasures.    

The next day, you don’t think about it.  You can’t.  You didn’t kill someone; that was a bad dream.  You go through your day, your mind relentlessly shying away from any train of thought that has Alex as its final destination.

But you can’t fool yourself.  You won’t think about it because you don’t want to acknowledge, even to yourself, that you just nonchalantly committed murder…

…and because every time you do think about it, your dick gets hard.

And so you get through the day.  And the next day.  By that evening, though, you’re feeling the strain.  You pour a drink as you sit down for you daily perusal of the local news apps—and there it is.

You don’t have to read the caption to recognize Alex’s apartment building.  The link goes to a video clip from the local affiliate of a major network; you follow it compulsively, needing to recognize the enormity of your actions.  The reporter is pretty and perky, and actually seems to have difficulty keeping the perkiness out of her voice as she speaks.

“Police responding to a welfare check at an apartment in the 5300 block of Anderson Avenue found the body of twenty-three-year-old Alexander Wallis.  According to the report, the young man had been found strangled and had been sexually assaulted, but the police aren’t releasing any further details at this time.”

The clip segues into interviews with neighbors on the sidewalk in front of the building.  A vivacious blond claiming to be Alex’s next-door neighbor is babbling away about not hearing a word from next door last night and of course she knew he was gay but didn’t think he was seeing anyone steadily…but your attention is suddenly riveted on the background.

A gurney is emerging from the front door, on top, a form covered by a sheet.  It’s Alex, and everything immediately seems to slow down as if the clip was running at half speed.

A pair of orderlies are wheeling him out; behind is a tall, lanky young man with sandy blond hair.  At that moment, the interviewee mentions something about the security of the front door, and the camera briefly zooms in.  The young man’s name is embroidered on the breast of his white lab coat.  The wind is flipping his lapel, so only part of it can be seen, and that not clearly—but you can make out ‘Harris’.

There’s something about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but then your eye lights on the pocket of his coat.  There’s something in it; you know that shape…

Then it hits you—it’s a shoe.  It’s Alex’s Nike sneaker.  And right at that moment, he looks at the camera.

No.  At you.  He’s looking at you.

He knows what happened.  He knows you’re out there.  He may not know specifically who you are, but he’s seen this before.  The sneaker—what does he want with Alex’s sneaker?

And then the image fills your mind—the Jordan 4 White Oreo sitting in the middle of the floor, your turning and admiring your kill with no shame, just the erotic thrill of domination. It rewinds like a film—his desperate, flailing death as he spunked in his shorts, the look of bewildered terror in his eye as you established control…

And you cum.  Good thing you just got out of the shower and you’re still nude, because your sperm explodes like a geyser—and you didn’t even touch yourself.  Just the memory of that night…

You head back to the bathroom to clean up, your mind racing madly.  You have no idea what’s going to happen next.  And that Harris dude—what the fuck was he up to?

But as you wipe your cum off your chest, you know one thing—you’ll never forget that night.  You’ll never forget what it felt like to gain ultimate control. 

You’ll never forget his name was Alex.

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.