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 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.

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 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…

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.