Carlos and Nick 5: Teen Angst

The outside temperature was hovering somewhere around 110 degrees when Carlos strolled into the office area of Nick warehouse film studio.  He was dressed for the heat; forsaking his usual jeans and boots, he was sporting a black and white pair of Adidas Varial IIs and a pair of bright red workout shorts.  The shorts were a cut in a football style, with a lace-up crotch—the contrast of the black lace on the red shorts was extremely eye-catching, as were Carlos’s thick, muscled legs, revealed from mid-thigh down to where they vanished into the ped socks in his kicks.

 

Nick, sitting at the computer, lifted his head and glanced admiringly at the hulking ex-con.  “That’s a good look for you,” he said, raising his eyes from the white cotton tank-top, so wet with perspiration that it was no more than a transparent screen over the stud’s hairy, inked chest, up to the killer’s hard, masculine face, his shaved head shaded from the intense sun by a black satin do-rag.  “Gotta remember that outfit someday; it’d look great on camera.”

 

Carlos stood in the doorway, looking his snuff flick partner.  “Ya said ya had somethin’ lined up?” It was a statement, but he ended it on a questioning note.

 

Nick grinned, giving his handsome face a boyish look.  “Fuck yeah, bro, look here.  Just got another commission in by email.  Remember that dude who paid us a big wad of cash for the father/son snuff?  He’s back.”

 

Carlos settled into one of the black leather chairs in front of Nick’s desk.  “Yeah?” he asked, a slight hint of eagerness in his voice belying his assumed nonchalance.  “What’s he want this time?”

 

“Someone young,” Nick replied.  “According to this, no older than eighteen.  And—you’ll like this—he wants to see the kid suffer.”

 

Carlos perked up, throwing off his air of indifference.  “Cáspita!  I been wantin’ to carve up some fagmeat.  Been too damn long!”

 

Nick leaned back, smiling thoughtfully, his long dark hair gleaming in a reflected ray of sunlight.  He knew exactly how long it had been; the cameras he’d hidden in the condo had caught every detail of the night Carlos had slaughtered the blackjack dealer.  In fact, it was likely that the video of that brutal snuff that he’d edited and posted that had drawn them this commission.  Not that Carlos needed to know about that.

 

He just needed to keep ruthlessly snuffing homo scum, and their fortunes were assured.

 

Standing up, the older and slightly more muscular filmmaker headed to the studio space in the rear.  Pausing at the door, he turned back to the buff Latino stud.  “You got anyone in particular you wanna work over, or should I put out an ad?”

 

He was slightly taken aback to see Carlos flush, a look of outrage crossing his face.  “Hell no, I ain’t got nobody!” he barked.  “I ain’t looking at no other dudes—I ain’t no fag!”

 

“Chill out, man, I didn’t say ya were,” Nick replied.  “I just wanted to know if ya had anyone ya specifically wanted to snuff.  I’ll put out an ad; it ain’t a problem.”

 

Heading back into the open area of the warehouse, Nick was smiling as the thick heels of his ropers thudded on the concrete floor.  Carlos’s anger hadn’t scared him; in fact, it had thrilled him.  He’d always know the psychological motives behind the ex-con’s extreme hatred towards faggots, and he did his conscious best to stoke it.  After all, it was the extreme masculine brutality that rage unleashed in Carlos that was the main selling point of the videos.

 

As a director, Nick felt is was his duty to coax the best performance possible form his actors.

 


 

It was another three days before Carlos got another message to come to the warehouse; Nick had found him some meat to tenderize.  Since there was no word on if this was an initial meet-and-greet or the actual snuff shot, the hardbodied Hispanic stud dressed for an on-screen appearance.

 

He knew what Nick wanted: skin-tight jeans, preferably well-worn but clean, and a pair of big black boots.  Carlos had gotten a new pair recently and was anxious to try them out.  It had taken some specialized searching to find what he was looking for, but when they arrived, he was perfectly satisfied.

 

They were a pair of vintage lace-up lineman’s boots, seventeen inches tall, and—what had been Carlos’s main interest—had a knife sheath hidden in the right boot.  Today, he slipped on the jeans and eagerly laced up the boots, his blade in place.

 

It was a thirteen-inch Bowie hunting knife, with a black rubber handgrip and a nine-inch carbon-steel blade with grooves down each side to channel blood away from the wielder’s grasp.  Secured inside the boot, he only had to slip his fingers into his boot and the whole thing slid out smoothly and easily.  Carlos was happy with it; the thought of reaming that long, hard blade into some helpless faggot’s vulnerable flesh made him hard…

 

He slipped on a leather vest but was otherwise bare-chested.  By the time he got to the studio, his muscle-bound torso was glistening under a faint sheen of sweat.  The moment he hit the chill air in the lobby, though, his body reacted, his nipples instantly hardening into large knots of flesh.

 

He strode straight into the warehouse, where Nick and a teen boy were waiting.  Nick was working on his camera but stopped and looked up as the hot Latino ex-con walked in, his new boots thumping loudly on the concrete floor.  “’Bout time ya showed up,” he told Carlos with a mischievous grin and a hot glint of bloodlust in his eyes, “This is Jeff—he likes to be tied down.  Once I finished this, I was gonna start it myself, but now that you’re here…”

 

Jeff was young, almost achingly so.  He was eighteen but there was an innocent arrogance about him—the arrogance of someone who hasn’t yet learned that life doesn’t owe him a living—that, added to his smooth, soft skin, gave him the appearance of being at least two years younger, if not more.

 

And he traded on it. He’d only been in Vegas for about a year, but it was totally different from his life before.  Waco had offered him sex, sure, but he’d felt an intense compulsion to leave the emotionally claustrophobic confines of his hometown.  As much fun as it had been, getting banged by half his high school football team had gotten dull, and in such a heavily Baptist town, he had little chance to brag and get the recognition he felt his exploits deserved.

 

Plus, he couldn’t make decent money whoring himself out in Waco.

 

And so, at seventeen, Jeff headed west, hitchhiking and “working” his way across the country.  His initial destination had been California, but a stopover in Vegas had convinced him that he was in the right place to make good money.  And he’d been right, to an extent; he certainly found richer johns willing to pay more here than Waco—but he just couldn’t seem to get into anywhere that had clientele with the kind of wealth he was looking for.

 

Part of the reason was his appearance—his very youthfulness, the way he had of brushing the silken bangs of his sandy blond hair up out of his eyes, the full, red lips continually parted in an almost petulant pout—all combined to keep him out of the casinos and bars.  He’d gotten a fake ID but was continually challenged on it.  And since he wasn’t actually twenty-one, he had to back down.

 

And that was when he’d seen the online ad, and he knew—knew—that things were gonna change for him.  An adult film, something that would get him noticed—and he was exactly what the ad said was needed!  Young, discreet, into rough role play and bondage…well, for that matter, Jeff would do damn near anything if the money was right, but this was shit he liked.

 

Once he responded to the ad, he was even more eager.  This dude Nick was gonna give him five fucking grand to get fucked by some hot stud—and a percentage of the residuals!

 

This was it.  This was the big time.  And now here he was, and kinda surprised at the set.

 

This guy Nick, though—he was a serious hunk.  That shoulder-length black hair and that huge, well-built body…and the dude wasn’t shy about showing it off, either, not in those tight black Nike running shorts or that black compression t-shirt.  Even the dude’s Chuck Taylor Converse hightops in black leather turned the kid on; as he shook Nick’s hand, he found himself hoping the hot stud was more than just the director—and said as much.

 

“Well, I may step in and lend a hand, so to speak,” Nick replied with a knowing leer, “But the real star is gonna be Carlos—speak of the devil, here he is now.”

 

Jeff had whirled and found himself staring at an overpowering, almost scary-looking Latino who’d just come through the door.  He and Carlos spent a brief moment sizing each other up.

 

Jeff noted that Carlos was slightly more compact than Nick, and perhaps a little younger, but there was something about him—his shaved head, his black goatee, the sleeve of ink that writhed over his muscle-bound arm—that made him seem inherently dangerous.  Jeff could see Carlos’s broad, furry chest under the leather vest he wore—he couldn’t help it; the gleam of the thick gold chain half-buried like treasure in the dude’s body fur drew his attraction as it would any good whore.   The Hispanic alpha’s jeans were tight enough for Jeff to be somewhat intimidated by the massive bulge in his crotch.  But he was fascinated with the dude’s high lace-up boots.

 

And above all else, Jeff was hard.  His red knee-length Under Armour gym shorts weren’t terribly tight, but his seven-inch boycock was still able to prominently tent the crotch.  He shuffled his long, smooth legs nervously, his Nike Jordan Son of Mars kicks—in the same shade of red as his shorts—scuffling on the concrete.  His lean, firm torso was well-wrapped in a white cotton tank top that left a lot of his pale, smooth skin exposed.

 

Jeff wasn’t quite dressed to whore himself out, but then again, he didn’t need to be.  He’d already agreed to the act; he had no need to sell himself again.

 

“Jeff, this is Carlos,” Nick said by way of introduction.  Jeff held his hand out.  Carlos stood and stared at it for a moment—lengthened just to the point of discomfort—before reaching out and taking it.  He didn’t shake Jeff’s hand so much as crush it in his huge muscled paw.

 

“So, uh, so how’s this gonna work?” Jeff asked as he massaged his aching hand, his uncertainty making his voice rise in pitch.

 

“Yer here to get fucked, aintcha?” Carlos asked.  “So get on the bed, faggot.”

 

Nick looked sharply at his partner; Carlos was still in a bad mood.  That’d make for a great scene—but not if he scared the meat off before they started filming it.  “Anytime you’re ready,” he followed up in a soothing tone, “You can lay your clothes over there on that table, if you want.”

 

Jeff approached the table and wriggled out of his shorts, letting them drop to the floor and stepping out of them without bothering to remove his Nike Jordans.  As he did, he glanced at the set—nothing but a bed up on a platform, with several small video cameras on tripods surrounding it.  The bed was bare except for what looked like some kind of weird fitted sheet; the headboard, consisting of vertical brass bars, seemed unusually ornate compared to the stripped-down feel of the rest of the set.

 

As he peeled off his t-shirt, Jeff noticed that Carlos approached the bed, unbuttoning and casually slipping off his leather vest.  The Hispanic stud tossed it so that it draped over the headboard of the bed, then turned back to face Jeff, letting the latter see the full glory of his hairy, massively muscled and tattooed chest.

 

Jeff had been commando under his shorts; at the sight of Carlos’s bare torso, the kid’s dick began to drip.  He caught his breath, swallowed, and approached the platform.

 

This was it, he thought again, this is the big time…and nude except for his Nikes, he climbed up onto the bed.

 

“How—um, how do you want me, uh, positioned?” he asked hesitantly.

 

“Hold it a sec,” Nick demanded, and crossed the room to the light switches.  There were a couple of clicks and suddenly everything vanished and Jeff found himself sitting on the bed, swathed in a circle of brilliant overhead light while the rest of the vast warehouse space remained in darkness.

 

From the darkness, there were footsteps—the heavy, measured tread of a man in thick boots.  Carlos loomed suddenly out of the black, stepping into the light.  “On yer back, boy,” he commanded.  “Nick’s payin’ ya good, right?  So yer prepared for it to get rough, right?”

 

“Uh, yeah…” Jeff replied tremulously.  He was prepared to take a fuck of a lot if he could get fucked by this stud on camera—fuckin’ hell, it’d make his career, to have this in his portfolio—but there was still something so menacing about the tatted Latino that he felt needling pangs of fear.  But the game was worth the candle, as they say—Jeff didn’t know why; candles were useless unless you’d lost your dildo—so he stifled his unease and lay on his back.

 

He was instantly uncomfortable.  “What is this, a plastic sheet?” he squawked.

 

“Yeah,” Nick’s voice came laconically out of the darkness, “Film a lotta shit in here.  Some dudes are into watersports.  Don’t worry; it’s sanitized after each use.”

 

“C’mon, boy, raise yer arms over yer head,” Carlos said.  For the first time, Jeff noticed a glint of metal in the alpha’s left hand.  As he raised his arms in almost instinctual obedience to the alpha’s command, Carlos reached over and Jeff realized the metal items were handcuffs.  Before he could react, Carlos had cuffed his right hand to the brass headboard.

 

“Hey, man, whatcha doin’?” the kid demanded.

 

“Whassa matter, punk, ya ‘fraid of a little bondage?  Thought a whoreboy like you was up for anythin’,” Carlos jeered and Jeff shut up and lay back, again disregarding the obvious red flags in favor of a rosy view of his financial future.

 

Carlos, who knew the Jeff’s future was more likely to have a blood-red view, smirked as he cuffed the boy’s left hand as well, making sure the kid wasn’t going anywhere.

 

“Hey Nick,” he called, “Think we’re ready.  Lemme know when ya wanna start.”

 

“Gimme a sec; I’m preppin’ the hand-held now,” came Nick’s deep, masculine voice from the outer darkness.  A moment later, he too stepped into the circle of light, holding the video camera.  He’d also prepped himself for the filming.

 

Just like Jeff, the hardbodied older man was nude except for his leather Converse sneakers.  His towering form, his wide, furry abdomen, ripped abs and narrow waist were all slightly better developed than Carlos’s, but somehow seemed to exude less danger—or at least so Jeff felt.  Nick’s cock was terrifying, though; it was at least eight inches long and an inch and a half thick.  In a way, Jeff was relieved; the thought of how bad that enormous shaft would hurt made him shudder.  The man was a freak; surely Carlos wasn’t hung like that.

 

Then a slow scratching sound reached Jeff ears; looking towards the source, he saw that Carlos was unzipping his fly.  The ex-con grinned maliciously at Jeff—as if he knew what the boy was thinking—as he reached into his crotch with both hands and slowly began extracting his shaft.

 

It just kept coming and coming.  Jeff’s eyes widened with disbelief as the Hispanic alpha pulled nearly ten inches of manmeat out of his jeans—and then it began to stiffen.  Consciously, Jeff began to think five grand might not be enough for what he might have to endure tonight.  Unconsciously, he began jerking at the handcuffs.

 

Both Carlos and Nick noticed and exchanged grins.  “Time to saddle up,” Nick said.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Carlos replied, “I been needin’ to wreck a fag bigtime.”

 

Jeff watched in silent fascination as Carlos mounted the bed and straddled him, knees by Jeff’s sides and his legs behind him.  In this position, his enormous cock was dangling directly over Jeff’s face.  From here, the teen whore had an extreme close-up of every vein that wrapped around the huge throbbing tube of manmeat.

 

Carlos was determined that he was gonna get an even better view.  “Open yer mouth, cunt,” he snarled.

 

“I, uh, I don’t thin—AACK!  GURK!”

 

Jeff learned that opening his mouth to protest meant opening his mouth.  Carlos wasn’t waiting for an invitation—he rammed his tool in at the first opportunity.  Before Jeff knew what had happened, he had a three-inch-thick cock wedged nearly half a foot down his trachea.  Carlos had leaned forward and grabbed the headboard for a better angle to throatfuck the helpless punk.

 

Suddenly, all the red flags Jeff had ignored flashed back to his notice; he couldn’t breathe, and he hadn’t been prepared for that, physically or emotionally.  He began to struggle, but he couldn’t do a damn thing.  His hands jerked frantically, the cuffs jangling loudly against the brass bars of the headboard as his Nikes kicked and scuffed on the slick cold plastic sheet.

 

“Damn, yer a terrible fuckin’ cocksucker,” Carlos jeered and leaned back, pulling his tool out of Jeff’s throat.  It bobbed in midair between them, glistening with the kid’s spit halfway back form the tip.  “Can’t even take a real man’s dick, can ya, you little assmunch?”

 

Jeff was too busy coughing and gagging to take in much of what Carlos was saying and his eyes were blurred by tears.  He knew something was wrong, though, something besides the fact that he’d just damn near been suffocated.  This was taking a dark turn—and then Carlos got off him.  As the scared teen tried desperately to blink his eyes clear, he could hear the hardbodied Latino walk around the bed to where Nick was standing.

 

“Dude, I don’t feel like fuckin’ round with this meat.  This piece a’ shit needs to be tenderized now—ya get me?” Carlos growled loudly.

 

“Dude, you can go to town on it; you can stick it like a fuckin’ pig, as long as I get it on camera.  Make the meat suffer bad—hell, it’s what we’re gettin’ paid for, right?” Nick replied jauntily.

 

By now Jeff’s eyes were clear.  He had an impressive view of Carlos as the latter approached him with a grin that glittered as coldly as the gold chain around his thick neck.  “Hey, dude,” the ex-con said quietly, almost seductively, “Time to get down to business, yeah?  Time to give yer worthless faggot existence some purpose, huh?”

 

“Wh-what?” Jeff blinked, looking deeply into the Hispanic’s large dark eyes but seeing nothing more than his own confused face reflected back.

 

“See, yer only here for one reason, right?  I mean, you know that.  Yer here to die, right?”

 

Jeff pulled himself backwards by his arms, trying to sit up but failing, his red kicks scrambling uselessly failing to find traction on the slick plastic sheet.  He wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard Carlos correctly but somehow, he knew he had.  “Wait—wait, what?  No!  I’m here—no!

 

“Sure ya are, ya useless pansy.  Ain’t no one gonna care if we snuff some fuckin’ cock-gobblin’ homo pervert, now are they?  But there are dudes who’ll pay us for doin’ it, as long as they get to see it—and as long as it’s long.  Ya feelin’ me, fuckwad?”

 

Jeff was panting, almost hyperventilating.  His smooth, lithe body was suddenly slick with sweat as fear overstimulated his adrenal glands, pumping his system full of adrenaline.  Combined with the overabundant adolescent testosterone already flooding him, the chemical stew kept his thick shaft still jutting stubbornly from the tangled nest of his pale pubes despite his terror.

 

“Y-you—he—he was g-gonna pay me…” Jeff turned his head desperately from one side to the other, seeking out Nick, but the director had faded into the darkness beyond the circle of light.

 

It was just Jeff and Carlos for the moment.

 

“Wanna know what’s gonna happen, dude?  Wanna know what I’m gonna do to ya?  Huh?”

 

The powerful ex-con stood next to the head of the bed, looming over him.  Suddenly, the inked stud lifted his right leg and planted his boot on the bed, right next to Jeff’s head.

 

The young boywhore looked up. From the corner of his eye his peripheral vision was filled with the tight lacing of Carlos’s lineman’s boot; it seemed to go up and up forever—but above that, bending over him he could see the top’s grinning face.

 

“I’m gonna stick somethin’ in ya, faggot, somethin’ long and hard—yer gonna like that, aintcha, ya disgustin’ piece a’ homo meat?  Fuck, lookitya squirm at the thought a’ gettin’ reamed out by my dick.  Well guess what, queerboy?  Yer gonna be massagin’ my cock all right, but I wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout that.”

 

Carlos kicked Jeff in the face.  It happened in a flash; the older man lashed out and the thick sole of his boot impacted Jeff’s face hard enough to snap his cheekbone.  The boot was back in place as if nothing had happened before Jeff had the chance to cry out.

 

“You payin’ attention, boy?” he jeered, and spit in Jeff’s face.

 

“Wh-wh-why—wha…” the youth sobbed.

 

“Yeah, I thought so.  Here, fag, here’s somethin’ to catch yer eye.  This is what I meant when I said I had somethin’ long and hard to stick into yer punk-ass body…”

 

Carlos slipped his fingers into the boot and whipped out the knife so effortlessly it seemed like a magic trick.  He held it in front of Jeff’s wide, terrified eyes.  “Look at it, you stupid sack of fagmeat,” he hissed maliciously.  “That’s nine solid inches of carbon still.  Sexy as hell, huh?  Whaddaya think it’s gonna feel like when I pump it into ya?”

 

The sadistic convict had certainly been right—the blade had attracted Jeff’s notice; in fact, the teen slut seemed fixated on it, whimpering and unable to look away.  Nick had come back in closer now, using the handheld to zoom in on the boy’s face.  “Fuck, this is good shit,” he whispered to Carlos, “This is gonna make a fuckin’ fortune.   Keep it up, dude, keep mindfucking the meat.”

 

“Look at it, cunt,” Carlos snarled, “Look at the blade—see how sharp it is?  What’s that gonna feel like when it splits your tender flesh and sinks deep into yer fagmeat body, huh?  Fuck, man, I can’t fuckin’ wait to find out.  Ya see these grooves on each side of the blade?  They’re there to channel blood away from my hand.  Your blood, bitch.  I can carve yer worthless ass up without losin’ my grip; ain’t that cool?”

 

Jeff moaned, almost delirious with terror.  This couldn’t be happening—it wasn’t happening; he’d been drugged, he was having a bad trip, something, but shit like this didn’t happen to him.  This happen to street whore and needle junkies not cute white boys like him.  Whatever he was on needed to wear off fast, though, cause this was gettin’ hairy, man, real hairy—

 

—and then the tears cleared momentarily from his eyes and he could see Carlos standing at the foot of the bed, his muscular, inked torso glistening with perspiration from the heat inside the metal warehouse building. Jeff watched, fascinated, as a bead of sweat trickled down the Latino’s neck, to be buried in the thick forest of chest fur.  Deep within that fur was a sparkling glint—light reflecting off the stud’s thick gold chain.

 

For a moment, Jeff had been so caught up in admiring the top’s physique that he’d almost entirely forgotten about the imminent danger, but a flash of reflected light that didn’t come from Carlos’s necklace drew his attention—it was the knife.

 

Fuck, this was for real.  His face, which had lit up with lust again, fell into despair—but this time, Nick was on hand to record it, zooming in on the teen’s anguished expression as the hardbodied director chuckled.

 

“Whaddaya think, asswipe?” Nick jeered.  “This is gonna make us a fuck-ton of money.  Course, you won’t see a fuckin’ dime.  You’re gonna end up a pile of dead boymeat left to rot in the desert, but Carlos and I, we’re gonna make a fortune.”

 

“No…” Jeff whispered, staring directly into the camera, “P-please let m-me go, I won-won’t tell anyone…”  His voice trailed off and he broke down into sobs.  Nick was delighted—the shot of the teen punk’s horrified pleading was perfect; he couldn’t have directed it better himself.

 

“Yeah, keep begging, ya piece of shit,” Nick chuckled and turned the camera to Carlos, zooming in on his hard, well-developed body.  The camera ran over the ex-con’s tattooed chest, then closed in on the blade before panning back out to catch the action as Carlos mounted the bed.

 

Suddenly, Jeff’s legs were parted forcibly and his ankles were propped on Carlos’s shoulders.  There was a sudden pressure against his sphincter and Jeff had a brief lucid moment in which to wonder how he could possible have forgotten the Latino’s monstrous rod before it tore into his rectum with the force and violence of a pneumatic jackhammer.

 

The teen’s screams echoed back off the warehouse walls but the entire district was otherwise deserted at this time of night.  There was no response to his frantic shrieks of agony other than an intensity of tempo as Carlos plowed his shaft deeply and brutally into the teenager’s guts.  Jeff thrashed his head from side to side, but when he turned to the left, there was something lying on the bed next to his head.

 

He wasn’t trying to see what it was—he didn’t want to see anything; he just wanted to escape from this living hell—but he couldn’t help it.  It was right there—the knife.  The razor-sharp blade, so brutal, so inexorable, was inches from his face.  No, he couldn’t think about that—

 

—then a deep thrust from Carlos, much more penetrating than any before it, gave Jeff a new source of agony to focus on, and for the moment he forgot about the knife.  He was getting ripped open on the inside; he’d never been fucked so relentlessly, so painfully before.  It was like getting raped by some sort of beast; Carlos’s cock, so long, so thick and so powerful, was tearing at his guts; disemboweling him from the inside out.

 

Jeff didn’t know if it was possible to be fucked to death but if it was, it was happening to him now.

 

“O-oh g-g-god, stop!” he cried out, his lean young body jerking violently each time Carlos plowed his unhuman shaft into the boy’s torn rectum, “St-stop!  You-yer fuck-fuck-fuckin’ killin’ me!”

 

Carlos turned and grinned at the camera, his handsome face with its trimmed goatee twisted into an evil malevolent leer.  “Hey, Nick, ya hear that?  The fuckin’ meat thinks it’s dyin’!”

 

They both laughed at that, a cold cruel sound that forced its way into Jeff’s panicked mind and wrapped icy tendrils around his pounding, overwrought heart.  God, this dude was so hot, he thought–but his dick was too much even for the well-used boywhore, who could only sob jerk his arms, straining painfully and uselessly against the unyielding steel that circled his wrists.  His red Nikes, propped on the stud’s shoulders, thrashed uselessly in the air.

 

Nick, in the meantime, had circled the platform with the camera.  He’d paused for a moment and zoomed in on a shot of Carlos’s taut, well-rounded ass pumping as the stud raped the living fuck outta the teenaged rentboy.  He lingered long over the way Carlos’s jeans were glued to his strong, firm buttcheeks like they’d been painted on.  The large dimples that formed on his ass as he thrust his tool ever-deeper into Jeff’s guts were clearly visible to the camera lens.

 

Once on the other side of the bed, Nick panned out for a moment to take in the full scene of the hulking, hardbodied Latino stud mercilessly whaled on the cunt’s fuckhole, taking time to zoom in occasionally on Jeff’s own thick cock, kept involuntarily erect by the unremitting grinding pressure Carlos’s dick was putting on his prostate.  Despite his pain and terror, there was already a glittering hint of moisture oozing from the kid’s piss slit on the kid’s rod.

 

Nick swung the camera back onto Jeff’s strained, tear-streaked face.  This time, he stood right next to the bed and pointed the camera straight down; his own semi-erect shaft appeared in the shot, more than eight inches of manmeat hanging out over the punk’s head, in between his face and Carlos’s.

 

“Hey, dude,” he drawled laconically, “I don’t think this piece of faggot shit is sufferin’ enough—in fact, I think the sick fuck is enjoyin’ it.”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos sneered.  He looked at the camera and winked, then spit in Jeff’s face.  “Figures; fuckin’ whore’s gone loose on me.  Ya hear me, ya worthless homo garbage?  You ain’t even a good fuck, ya goddam punk-ass bitch!”

 

Jeff was overwhelmed by confusion, terror, and pain; that might have been some sort of excuse for his actions, but when he thrashed violently before jerking suddenly to the left in a feeble and utterly hopeless attempt to both get out from under the heavily-muscled stud and off his Louisville Slugger of a dick, he made a serious mistake.  Up to this point, Carlos had been more or less playing along with the idea of being recorded again—he had no idea how many times Nick’s hidden camera had allowed his solo activities to be broadcast to thousands—and had been mugging for the camera.

 

That ended now.  Jeff had pissed him off.

 

Carlos drew his arm back and the young homo had just enough time to notice how the Hispanic top’s bicep swelled with power under its ink sleeve before Carlos’s fist was driven into his face so hard his head rocked back into the mattress.  Jeff let out a loud grunt, then blinked and shook his head, dazed by the impact to his already-injured face.

 

“Wha…wha…” he moaned, looking up at the ex-con’s hard face, so twisted Jeff couldn’t tell if he was grinning or snarling.  Then Carlos held up the rubber-handled Bowie knife.

 

“This is how I get fucked-out faggots like you to tighten back up on my dick.  Ya feel me, cunt?  No?  How ‘bout now, motherfucker?”  He rammed the knife into Jeff’s left flank.  The razor-sharp tip pierced the teen’s smooth flesh like it was butter, the blade slicing deep into the tangled mass of the boy’s small intestine without meeting the slightest resistance.

 

Jeff’s face went gray and his eyes widened with shock.  As Carlos had anticipated, the sudden trauma made the youth’s lean, firm body go rigid, his muscles momentarily locked in an unrelenting stiffness.  That included his sphincter; it tightened around the base of Carlos’s engorged dick like a cockring. “Fuck yeah, pussyboy, that’s it,” he had time to grunt before Jeff’s piercing scream filled the air.

 

The shrill sound echoed off the metal walls; the effect on the recording was something like reverb.  Nick chuckled gleefully, pointing the camera down the front of his own incredibly-built body so that the lens got a full view of his erect shaft dripping translucent beads of precum onto Jeff’s strained, agonized face.  “Keep on screamin’, cocksucker,” Nick jeered, “Ain’t no one gonna hear ya—and it’s makin’ my dick drip.  Fuck, dude,” he turned to Carlos, “That was hot—ya gotta make ‘im scream some more!”

 

“Don’t worry,” the muscle-bound sadist said with a grim smile, “Now that I got my blade into the fag, it ain’t nothing but a meat puppet.  Watch me make it dance.”

 

Jeff’s smooth, flat abdomen was already heaving as the Latino alpha pounded his ass; now, excruciating pain was making him sweat.  Each time their bodies slapped together in the throes of violent assrape, there was a loud smacking sound.  Without any warning, Carlos twisted the knife in the wound, shearing the blade around inside the teen’s guts and slicing open his transverse colon.  The rhythmic slapping sound of flesh on flesh suddenly became erratic as Jeff thrashed in agony and squealed like a stuck pig—which was exactly what he was.

 

Carlos was very good at what he did; it was what Nick admired about him.  Despite his nightmarish suffering, the kid’s internal wounds weren’t quite severe enough to let him bleed out to a quick, merciful death.  And Carlos felt the need to share the info.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid fuck?  Yeah?  Feels fuckin’ great on my dick, asswipe!  That’s what it’s gonna take to make ya work my dick the way a real man’s dick deserves, huh?  Then ya better saddle up, bitch, cause I can make ya hurt like that for a long, long time.  Yer gonna be fuckin’ beggin’ and pleadin’ to die long before I’ve make yer worthless sack a’ whoremeat milk the spunk outta my balls–and the longer you squirm an’ scream, the better it’s gonna feel on my cock.”

 

Still rigidly avoiding any movement that might cause the knife to hurt him any further, Jeff lay back on the bed, his legs pinned on Carlos’s shoulders so that even now he could see his red Nikes kicking in the air.  In a surreal way, he noticed that the laces of the left shoe had come untied; he’d have to remember to fix that or he might trip and hurt himself…

 

Then Carlos yanked all nine inches of sharpened steel out of his guts with a single violent jerk.  On the outside, all that could be seen was an inch-an-a-half slit with a slight trickle of blood.  On the inside, Jeff could feel still feel the glassy pain deep in his guts; it was like the blade was still there.

 

But it wasn’t.  Because now it was somewhere else.  Carlos had shifted the knife to his other hand and stuck Jeff higher up on his right side, the blade slipping easily in between the boy’s ribs.  The grooved steel shaft speared the punk’s liver.  Angled slightly toward the back, it sliced his gall bladder neatly in half, to end up embedded deep in his pancreas.

 

Again, massive organ trauma triggered electrochemical shock as Jeff’s adolescent body, already pumped full of testosterone, was flooded with adrenaline.  His face, already swelling from Carlos’s kick and the blow of his fist, was clenched in a rictus of agony as the older man took ruthless advantage of the boy’s horrific pain to pound his constricted asshole.

 

Nick stepped back for a moment to show how Carlos had stretched himself out, almost as if he was doing push-ups.  The toes of his tightly-laced lineman’s boots were dug into the mattress to give him the traction he needed to rape the fuck out of the dying teen. Then, by crouching down near the head of the platform and zooming in, Nick got a great shot of Jeff’s thick boycock, still helplessly and involuntarily erect, smacking against Carlos’s hairy ripped abs, keeping time to the assault.

 

“Hell yeah—now that’s how ya fuck a faggot!” Nick said, cheering Carlos on for the camera.  “Tighten it up, use it up, fill it up and toss it the fuck out!”

 

Jeff hadn’t known, hadn’t ever considered that such pain could exist.  The slashing pain of his torn rectum was long forgotten, a minor discomfort compared to the nine-inch shaft of solid steel that had impaled his torso, right to left.  He couldn’t breathe without his diaphragm and chest muscles contracting around the sharp edge and slicing themselves open even more.

 

He literally couldn’t breathe; it hurt too much.  Carlos smiled beatifically down at the boy’s soft, smooth face, so young and so almost innocent as it gaped, the mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a dying fish.  “You ready, cunt?  Ya want it to be over?  Ready to take my load and die?”

 

Jeff didn’t want to die; he still had delusions of somehow surviving this experience—but he knew he had to do something, he had to breathe for fuck’s sake, he needed that thing out of him for fuck’s sake GET IT OUT

 

Carlos obliged, withdrawing the blade slowly, lovingly, letting Jeff savor the icy sensation of the knife as it cut a new path through his organs on the way back out.  It hurt so bad the teen punk nearly passed out; his body trembled and convulsed for a moment as his eyes rolled back in his head.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Nick said, reaching down and backhanding the tortured youth across the face.  Illogically, the blow actually seemed to have some effect—Jeff inhaled deeply and opened his eyes.

 

“P-p-pl—” he sputtered, “Ple-please—”

 

“Please what?” Carlos sneered, “Please kill ya?  Hell no; you ain’t endured enough to make me cum yet.  And besides, we gotta give the audience a show, right?  There’s gonna be dudes payin’ to watch a worthless faggot suffer long and hard, the way it deserves.  And anyway, I just wanna hurt ya; I fuckin’ love doin’ it, cunt.”

 

He swung his right arm up, holding the knife with the tip pointing straight down.  Even though he was nearly out of him mind with pain and fear, Jeff was still entranced by the view—Carlos’s broad, hairy chest with large dark nipples protruding above the wiry forest of fur, the thick links of the alpha’s gold necklace hanging free in the air between them, the look of an experienced killer of the Latino skinhead’s face—it was all so masculine, so fuckin’ hot…

 

It wasn’t possible, Jeff decided.  He’d been slipped some bad acid or something; nobody this erotic could be so cold and cruel, could put him in so much pain…

 

…then his eye caught a glint of light reflected from the wickedly sharp tip of the Bowie knife and Jeff felt sick sense of despair that managed to rise over the torment he was already experiencing and he knew nothing could be worse…

 

…then the blade flashed down.

 

It hit the teenaged boy like a bolt of lightning; it was that fast and that traumatic.  Carlos had slammed the knife down in slightly diagonal direction, plunging it into the center of Jeff’s right pectoral muscle, ramming the blade in so deep the hilt pressed against the kid’s chest.  The steel blade punctured the youth’s lung and stuck a rib on the inside, taking out a chip of bone as the knife exited the kid’s back and sank into the mattress beneath him.

 

The boywhore’s face was a mask of pain and shock.  He gasped and whimpered uncontrollably, each movement dragging his muscles and fragile lung tissue against the sharpened steel edge and causing more damage internally.  The punk gave a loud gurgle and, as Nick closed in with camera, a bubble of blood arose in the boy’s open mouth and burst, leaving a crimson trickle down his smooth chin.

 

“Aw, fuckin’-A!” Carlos cried out at the adolescent’s lithe body clenched, the slut’s rectum gripping his killer’s massive rod like a velvet glove.  The vicious sadist pumped the suffering teen violently, the rough denim of his jeans scraping the boy’s smooth asscheeks.

 

Jeff was beyond such trivial annoyances.  Helpless under the weight of the heavily muscled psycho who was torturing him, the youthful rentboy was finally accepting the inevitable fact that he wasn’t getting off this bed alive.  Every breath, every single second of existence, was nothing but the most nightmarish agony that needed to end.   Even when the hulking ex-con yanked the knife back out of him, the youth was so traumatized that he was unable to react to the fresh blast of searing pain.

 

“Almost there, dude,” Carlos muttered breathily, his face taut with the strain of his impending orgasm.  He’d spoken to Nick, to make sure the older man used the camera to the best advantage during the money shot, but Jeff had heard him as well.

 

The hardbodied director took the hint and jumped up onto the bed.  He stood with his leather Converse kicks planted on each side of Jeff’s head, pointing the camera down as Carlos leaned slightly back.  Nick knew what was coming and was in the perfect place to record the teenager’s death agonies.

 

“This is gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you goddam faggot cunt,” Carlos hissed and clamped one hand over Jeff’s mouth, clutching it with the excruciating power of a bear trap.  Holding the knife in the other, he pressed the tip against the underside of the kid’s jaw.  “Fuckin’ fagmeat—remember as you scream yer worthless life out, you fuckin’ deserve this, ya sack of shit!”

 

And with that, he shoved the blade upwards.

 

It pierced the teen boy’s lower jaw. The blade sliced up through the tongue, impaling it and pinning it to the roof of the mouth as the sharpened steel shaft cut smoothly up though the soft palate.  The kid had literally been speared through his mouth.

 

Moving inexorably, the blade sheared upwards through the upper sinus cavity.  Trapped beneath his powerful killer, pinned to the bed by the stronger man’s dick in his ass, Jeff could only kick his legs as Carlos continued to drive the knife deeper into his skull.  For a brief moment, the agony reached a point that the punk was awash in nauseating vertigo; he seemed to smell the bloody shaft of steel tearing into him—and then the blade tore through the olfactory bulbs at the top of his sinuses and Jeff never smelled anything ever again.

 

By now, his lean young body was flailing uncontrollably.  The kid’s legs thrashed violently; he no longer needed to worry about tripping over his untied shoelace as he kicked the loose sneaker off, leaving his foot in nothing but a ped sock, his toes curling as he spasmed.

 

“Time to die, meatsack,” Carlos growled, “Fuckin’ faggot, all yer good for is soaking up my fuckin’ manspunk.  You ain’t nothin’ but a cumrag, ya stupid homo; now die like the worthless piece a’ shit you are, cunt!”

 

He shoved the knife home.

 

It punctured the base of Jeff’s cranium with a loud crunch that the dying teen felt as much as he heard.  In a split second, Carlos embedded all nine inches of solid steel in the boy’s head, the sharp tip of the Bowie knife gouging the inside of the top of Jeff’s skull.

 

There are no nerves in the brain; Jeff never felt the final slash of the blade through his cerebellum.  That wasn’t to say that he didn’t experience pain—his cringing cockpig soul slid screaming into dark eternity on a wave of mind-shattering agony.  And he never knew that his own deathload was the source of his pain.

 

Carlos’s gigantic balls had contracted, hosing the punk’s guts full off seething mansperm. The heat of the spunk and the pressure against his prostate had primed Jeff’s tool, but the way Carlos’s knife had lodged in the pleasure center of the teen’s brain and shorted it out was what led to the kid’s explosive orgasm.

 

Nick’s downward view of the snuff captured the geysers of boycum that erupted from Jeff’s cock as he died.  The kid spurted several times, each time sending a thick creamy jet of semen splashing against Carlos’s chest or Nick’s hairy, muscled legs, or his own blank dead face.  Carlos held on, grunting and rutting as he drained his rod.

 

Nick didn’t even have to touch himself; he recorded his own dick pumping huge wads of pearly manseed onto the corpse’s already-loaded face.  The same downward angle showed the dead kid’s cum trickling down Nick’s legs and spattered on his black leather sneakers.

 

Carlos collapsed, his bulked-out form falling heavily on the still-shuddering boymeat.  Nick jumped off the bed,  set the camera down, and crossed to the far wall to turn on the lights.  Carlos had recovered before he got back, separating himself stickily from the teen’s corpse.  He pulled his blade back out of the dead faggot’s skull and stuck it, smeared with blood and gray matter, back into his boot.

 

“You’re a mess,” Nick chuckled.  “Don’t worry, the bathroom’s stocked.  Go clean yourself up; I’m gonna take a finishing shot or two and then do the same myself.”  As the heavy tread of Carlos’s boots faded down the hall, Nick picked his camera back up and got a few quick close-ups of the dead boy’s convulsing body, zooming in on the way his feet, one missing a shoe, kicked and twitched in death.  He stopped once Carlos returned—knife and all cleaned—and went to wash himself up and put on his clothes.  The Latino stud had sponged the dead homo’s cum off his chest and had decided to remain as he was, in nothing but jeans and boots, to let his chest hair dry.

 

Nick was very particular about keeping things looking legit, and Carlos agreed with him completely on this; before anything else was done, they tidied the scene by the simple expedient of pulling the plastic fitted sheet off the bed and wrapping the corpse in it.  Nick looked at the hole in the mattress where Carlos’s blade had completely impaled the meat; there was a small bloodstain around the hole.

 

“Make sure nothing leaks from the hole in the sheet,” he said as he grabbed another plastic sheet from a shelf and re-covered the mattress.  By the time he was done, Carlos had confirmed that nothing had leaked from the slit in what was now Jeff’s burial shroud—or would have been if they intended to bury him.

 

Instead they tossed him into the bed of Nick’s pickup like a sack of garbage and headed towards the desert.

 

On the southwest side of town there was a plot of land that had been laid out for a subdivision ten years ago.  When the economy collapsed, building had ground to a halt, the developer had gone bankrupt, and now the ownership of the land was locked in a maze of impenetrable lawsuits.

 

In short, roads and sewers had been laid out, but no houses built.  No one ever went there—it wasn’t even suitable as a lover’s lane, since it was flat, with no cover at all.  What it did have, aside from crumbling streets and rusting stop signs, was a set of drainage ditches and culverts that weren’t being inspected by either Las Vegas or Clark County officials.

 

Nick had found it several weeks ago while out scouting locations—not for movies; for body dumps just like this one.

 

At the far end of the development, the road took a right-angle turn and crossed over a dry wash; the under the roadbed, three large concrete pipes allowed storm water to drain down the gully.  Nick parked the truck right over the dry wash and tossed the corpse over the side.  It fell into the arroyo with a loud, meaty thump like a side of beef.

 

“I got it,” Carlos said, and scrambled down the side of the gully, his high leather boots digging into the sandy soil.  At the bottom, he saw that the meat’s legs were sticking out of one end of the sheet, the red Son of Mars sneaker and the white ped sock both glaringly obvious against the beige sand.  He bent down, and, grabbing the corpse’s ankles, he dragged it to the culvert.  Shoving the dead teen inside the concrete tunnel was no strain for his powerful muscles; in no time, he was back in the truck beside Nick, heading back to the studio.

 

“That was incredible,” Nick chuckled as he accelerated onto the highway.  “We’re gonna make a shit-ton of money on this one, dude.”

 

And he was right.

 


 

Schweitz was pissed.  Here he was, out in the middle of the fuckin’ desert, sweatin’ his fat ass off, while Nuñez got to lay on his ass for a couple a’ weeks, just cause he got a case of appendicitis.  Bet the lazy Spic ain’t even sick…

 

“Ok, whadda we got?” he said aloud with a weary sigh.

 

“Caller lives in that apartment complex on the other side of the highway—the one that was just built,” the patrol cop said.  “He says he rides his bike over here for exercise—does it every other day.  He’s sure the corpse wasn’t here Monday.”

 

“That don’t mean nothin’; that storm yesterday coulda flushed it out from further up in the hills, for all we know.  What’s the ME say?”

 

“Uh, lessee here,” the cop said.  He was conscientious and organized; he’d taken notes and referred to them now.  “Um, young Caucasian male, late teens at oldest.  Been dead three-four days by the looks of it.  Really fuckin’ nasty, detective; he was stabbed several times but not in a way that was instantly fatal.  Looks like someone wanted ‘im to suffer.  Death blow was in the skull, seriously sick.  Oh, yeah—ME says he’d been violently fucked in the ass.”

 

“Aw, goddamit,” Schweitz exploded.  “You called my ass all the way out here for another faggot?  What, you don’t think we got enough real murders on our hands to worry about some useless cocksucker who’s better off dead?  Jesus Christ!”  He turned and started to head back to his car.

 

“Sorry, detective,” the cop called out, abashed.  “What, uh, whaddaya want me to do with my report?”

 

“Round-file it,” Schweitz snapped over his shoulder.  “Trash it.  Wipe yer ass with it, for all I care.  And remember this, boy, if ya wanna make it in this department: unless they’re rich or famous, don’t no one care about dead fags in this town, ya got me?”

 

“Yessir,” the beat cop said respectfully.  As he watched Schweitz stomp angrily back to his car, he erased the notes he so carefully made.

 

“Anything else ya need?” came a voice behind him.  Startled, the cop whirled, to find the morgue assistant laboriously dragging a collapsible gurney with the corpse zipped into a body bag.

 

“Naw,” the cop said, taking a cue from his superiors, “Get that fuckin’ piece of shit outta here.”

Carlos Solo–A Bad Deal

Carlos drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.  Where was the little faggot?  He shoulda shown up by now.

 

Most of the larger casinos had massive employee parking garages or some kind of transportation service, but the Magic Carpet, as the little hole in the wall on the north edge of the Strip was called, couldn’t aspire to anything so grand.  The workers parked in an open lot three blocks to the east, and this was where Carlos was waiting.

 

He wasn’t sure why he’d gone into the Magic Carpet in the first place.  He’d been bored, and things with Nick had hit something of a dry spell; no new commissions had come in for a few weeks.  Nick had remained cheerful, utilizing his videography skills on more legitimate projects like porn films.

 

Carlos, though, had been left high and dry.  It hadn’t taken too long for the sick hatred and lust to bubble over in his perverse soul; tonight, he’d finally been overwhelmed and needed to leave the condo.  He needed to get out, to wander the street—to hunt for new prey.  He needed to kill.

 

It was late on a Sunday night, and while the Strip wasn’t crowded to the insane levels it reached on Friday or Saturday nights, it was still clogged with enough traffic to ensure that the hulking, muscled psycho didn’t spend too ling cruising it.  He’d pulled the Mercedes convertible off the main road into a parking lot and wandered into the first place he came to, almost on autopilot.

 

The Magic Carpet was more of a slot palace than a full casino, but there was a small pit in the back with four blackjack tables, a roulette wheel and a craps table.  Carlos sat down at a five-dollar limit blackjack table and began playing, practicing his card counting while watching the crowd, trying to spot a good piece of fuckmeat.

 

In fact, he’d gotten so busy counting and watching that he hadn’t noticed when the dealers had rotated, each one moving one table to the left with the last one in line taking a break.  It was only when he looked up that Carlos saw Dino.

 

The dealer was young—he had to be at least twenty-one to work in the casino, but he looked considerably younger.  He wore the same outfit as the other dealers, a white tuxedo shirt with his name tag pinned to the chest, black slacks and black dress shoes. Dino had short black hair; there was a somewhat melancholy expression on his young face that his large brow eyes, fringed with long lashes, seemed to enhance.  Above his full red lips, the kid was trying to grow a moustache; far from making him seem older, the growth of black facial hair emphasized the boy’s youth.

 

As Carlos studied the kid, he realized that Dino was studying him back.  There was no mistaking the way the boy’s large, lascivious eyes were glancing from under those long, flirtatiously feminine lashes.

 

Carlos knew he’d found his fagmeat for the night.

 

Dino, on the other hand, knew he’d finally found a hot rough trade stud to plow his hole.

 

The kid had zeroed in on Carlos the moment he’d seen him, lust lighting up the homo’s eyes like a signal flare as he stared.  The ex-con wasn’t hiding his physical assets; he was a natural draw for any nearby fag.  The dark, unshaven haze that covered Carlos’s strong jaw accented the aggressive skinhead look of his recently-shaved scalp.  Around his neck, Dino could see that there were some letters tattooed, but in the dim lighting, the dealer couldn’t make them out.  He could clearly see the thick gold necklace, though.

 

The alpha’s jeans were tight enough to make the size and shape of his massive junk obvious to anyone who so much as glanced at his crotch, while the firm roundness of his muscular ass seemed to be almost deliberately displayed.  The jeans were black; so were his leather harness boots, and it was hard to tell where one left off and the other began.  Above the waist, Carlos wore nothing but a thin white cotton wifebeater.

 

It had been a warm day and Carlos’s skin glistened with a slight sheen of perspiration that dampened the wifebeater just to the point of transparency.  The sleeve of his tattoos on his right arm gleamed; the winged skull inked on his left bicep flashed and winked at Dino as the latter stood entranced by the convict’s broad, over-developed chest.  The young dealer could see Carlos’s large jutting nipples through the thin cotton; hell, he could see the dark mass of body fur that ran down the ripped abs to vanish below the thick leather belt around the alpha’s waist.

 

Dino could feel his dick getting stiff; he wanted this fucker inside him, wrecking his hole.  And then he made eye contact.

 

And he knew.  He knew it was gonna happen.

 

They couldn’t speak; there were three other men and an old woman at the table, and Ralph, the pit boss, was practically breathing down his neck.  One of the other dudes was drunk and casually tossing out seventy-five and hundred-dollar bets—and winning.  The luck of the drunk, maybe, but it was concerning.  Ralph had to keep an eye on it.

 

Thirty minutes of bad shoes and negative counts, Dino was tapped on the shoulder and it was time to move to the next table down the line.  Ralph was still standing at the table, eyeing the action when Dino left.

 

The next table to the right, where Dino went next, was empty—which wasn’t really a surprise, it was a twenty-five dollar minimum table.  In this dive, that was a lot of money, and there were still spaces left at the lower limit tables.  No one was gonna come bother Dino.

 

At least, not till Carlos sat down, grinning.  This close, Dino could read the uneven prison ink on his neck—it said “revenge”.

 

Dino was twenty-two and this was his first job in Vegas.  He’d been working at a place down in Laughlin—lotta truckers taking detours from I-40 for a little gambling and a little fucking; Dino was happy to help with both.  But dealing paid jack shit.  He needed to go to Vegas—not that the dealers were paid much more there, but there was more money around in general, so Dino would have a better chance of getting some one way or another.

 

And one way was as good as another for him.  The Magic Carpet was a cheap dive, but it was owned by a branch of a company that was a major player in the world of Vegas casinos.  That meant that Dino had access to decent insurance and other benefits.  It barely covered the rent, even for the roach motel he was living in, but once he got settled in he might be in a position to better himself.  After all, if nothing else come up, he could turn tricks.

 

At the moment, though, something better had come up—his dick.  The moment he’d set eyes on Carlos, he wanted the stud so bad his asshole itched.  He could tell just by looking that this dude’s cock was big enough to scratch that itch.  The massive ridge of manflesh, obviously semi-erect, was plainly visible through the skin-tight denim in Carlos’s crotch.

 

And now here he was, alone with him.

 

“Revenge?” Dino asked nonchalantly, nodding at the tattoo as he dealt a round of cards, “Revenge on who?  For what?”

 

“Anyone who tries to fuck me over,” Carlos growled, his eyes intense under his dark brows.  “I’ll fuck ‘em up good and hard.”

 

The aggressive persona and the deep bass rumble of the muscled skinhead’s voice sent an almost electrical thrill down the length of Dino’s dick.  He kept dealing mechanically, not noticing that Carlos was counting cards perfectly and varying his bet with each new hand according to the count.

 

What he did notice were Carlos’s powerful muscles gleaming with sweat, the way the bicep on the dude’s right arm bulged under its thick covering of colorful ink, the way the skull on the left arm seemed to wink at him with every movement the hardbodied stud made.  Dino became so distracted he forgot to offer insurance on a dealer ace and flipped over a blackjack.  Blushing with embarrassment, he had to call over a pit boss and explain his mistake, but since Carlos had a sixteen anyway, there was no objection to simply moving on.

 

Once the pit boss left, Dino cleared his throat.  “You, uh, you sure look like you could fuck up anyone you wanted.  You must work out, dude; you’re built as fuck.”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said laconically, “I hit the gym almost every day.  Came here straight from there, in fact.  Don’t know how long I’m gonna stay, though—kinda sore after my workout.”  The look he gave Dino was surreptitious and suggestive.

 

“Um, I, uh, I’m stuck here for another hour,” Dino began hesitantly, “But if, uh, you could maybe come back then, I could give you a massage.  Honestly, I’m really good.  Get a lotta tension outta your, um, muscles…”

 

Carlos’s hard masculine face broke into a leering grin.  “Yeah, I got one muscle in particular that needs a good massage.  An hour?  Sure, dude, I’ll be here.  I’ll meet ya by yer car and bring ya back to it later—where’d ya park?”

 

And that was how the sexual predator ended up sitting in a parking lot, waiting for his prey to walk into the trap.  At least there weren’t any cameras around; it was too far from the casino building to be covered by its security.

 

Via the rear-view mirror, Carlos suddenly detected motion behind him.  The kid was walking swiftly towards the Mercedes convertible.  As he approached the passenger door, Carlos unlocked it.  “Wow, nice car,” Dino commented as he slid into the seat next to the muscled stud.

 

“Buckle up,” Carlos said dryly.

 

“Is it a long way?” Dino asked.

 

“No,” Carlos replied, “But I like to drive hard.”

 

Heading east to Paradise, Carlos had them back at the condo in just over fifteen minutes.

 

“You weren’t kidding,” Dino said as they headed up in the elevator, “You do like to drive hard.”

 

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, boy,” the alpha said evenly.  Dino didn’t respond; he was too busy shifting his stiffening cock around inside his slacks so that it had room to expand.  He was still adjusting himself as the elevator came to a stop and he followed Carlos into the darkened condo.

 

Carlos didn’t bother to turn on the lights; Dino had to follow him carefully in the dark.  But once he got the bedroom door open, it was a different matter.  Dino didn’t need the lights on to see; the room was aglow with the bright lights of the Strip coming in through the broad picture window.  The view was magnificent.

 

“Damn,” Dino muttered, awestruck.  “How much does a place like this cost?”

 

Carlos didn’t bother to answer.  He didn’t need to; as soon as Dino turned around and looked at the bed for the first time, the kid’s mind was no longer on the view.  “Why’s yer bed like that?” he asked.  “What’s with the plastic?”

 

“Yer gonna gimme a rubdown, right?” Carlos rejoined.  “I got some mineral oil here for you to use.  Don’t wanna get it on the sheets, so I stripped the bed and laid down a layer of painter’s plastic.”

 

Dino paused for a moment.  “That’s a good idea.  And I don’t wanna get any on my work clothes, either.  Here, lemme get outta of them.”  The way Dino’s hands scrabbled at the buttons on his tux shirt, it was obvious he was happy at finding a plausible reason to strip.  At the same time, he kicked off his black loafers; gathering them, he folded his shirt carefully and placed it on top of them.  His name tag, still pinned to the shirt, was clearly visible.

 

He noticed Carlos’s scornful glance as he shimmied gingerly out of his dress slacks, scrupulously avoiding making any new crease or wrinkle.  “Yeah, I know,” the dark-haired boy said with a wry grin, “But I gotta pay to keep ‘em clean and pressed.  It adds up, man…”

 

Under the slacks, the kid was wearing basic white cotton briefs.  After he was done arranging his slacks, he turned to face Carlos.  His chest was broad but slim, smooth with large dark nipples jutting proudly.  A very faint haze, almost peach fuzz, ran down Dino’s smooth flat belly and vanished beneath the elastic waistband encircling the boy’s narrow waist.  The white cotton was unable to completely contain Dino’s large dick; a good three inches hung out on the right side, pressed up against his firm, smooth inner thigh.

 

As the kid bent down and pulled off his socks, Carlos peeled off his wifebeater.  Now it was Dino’s turn to stare at the alpha’s body, and he stood stunned at the ex-con’s huge muscular torso.  Dino let his eyes linger on the older man’s thick hubcap pecs and his ripped, fur-covered abs.

 

“Fuck,” the kid gasped, “I ain’t never seen anyone as built as you—not in person, I mean.  Geez, I bet you gotta work them hot hard muscles real good to get ‘em that big.  No wonder you’re sore.”

 

“You like my body, boy?” Carlos asked.  Dino, still staring breathlessly at the alpha, didn’t notice the contemptuous ring in his voice.  “Get over here and start making it feel good, then.”

 

Carlos sat on the edge of the bed, facing the window.  Dino scrambled onto the bed and scooted behind him.  Kneeling, he faced Carlos’s back and began massaging his shoulders.

 

“C’mon, boy, is that the best you can do?  I can barely feel ya,” the sadist jeered.

 

“Jesus, dude,” Dino grunted, digging his fingers in as hard as he could, “Your muscles are like fuckin’ iron.  I’m doin’ the best I can.”

 

After a few minutes, the youth gave up; it was obvious that he wasn’t making any progress on Carlos’s back.  “Lie down, man,” he said.  “Maybe I need to try somewhere else.”

 

Carlos laid back on the bed and Dino climbed on, straddling the hardbodied alpha.  Reaching down, he laid both hands on Carlos’s bulging pectorals and began fondling them, letting his fingers slide up and work the thick protruding nipples.

 

“That ain’t no massage, boy,” Carlos growled.

 

Dino lowered his hands, running them through the coarse, wiry fur that covered Carlos’s chest.  He let his hands drop even lower, one exploring every detail of the alpha’s washboard abs—and with the other, he reached around behind him and placed it on Carlos’s crotch, grasping the sex killer’s cock and squeezing it.

 

What happened next happened with both the suddenness and ultra-illuminated clarity of a lightning bolt.  Carlos’s hand shot up and clamped around Dino’s throat; at the same time, the alpha rolled to the side and kept on going.  Before Dino could take another breath, Carlos was on top of him, pinning him to the bed by his throat.

 

With his windpipe closed off, Dino wasn’t able to speak, but he didn’t really need to.  Fear, anger, and a kind of hurt bewilderment all crossed his face as he stared at Carlos.  Fear was dominant as the hot top he lusted after so badly suddenly transformed into a demon.

 

“You goddam little cocksucker,” Carlos snarled, his face contorted with rage.  “What’d ya grab my dick for—you think I’m a faggot?  I ain’t no faggot, motherfucker, I’m a real man.  You know what real men do to pieces of homo shit like you?  Huh?  No?  Then I’m gonna teach ya, boy.  Cum-drinkin’ fags like you gotta learn to respect us real men.  Ya feel me, fag?  No?  Yer damn sure gonna be feelin’ me here soon, I can promise yer sorry ass!”

 

This Jekyll and Hyde change had come so suddenly from nowhere that Dino was unable to adjust mentally.  The guy was kidding, surely.  As Carlos ceased to speak and started to remove his hand from Dino’s throat, the kid ventured to ease the tension with a laugh.

 

It was a bad idea.  The muscles hidden under the colorful sleeve of tattoos on the alpha’s right arm bulged and relaxed with a sudden explosive use of force—he punched Dino straight in the face, a powerhouse blow right from the shoulder that was rewarded with a loud crunching, squelching sound.

 

Dino cried out, then moaned, cradling his broken nose.  “I wasn’t joking, faggot,” Carlos said quietly, standing over the boy.

 

“Wh-what the fuck!” Dino yelled.  His voice had a stuffed-up quality, as if he had a head cold.  His sinuses weren’t blocked with snot—they were blocked, at least partially, with his own gristle and blood.  “You fuckin’ came on to me, dude!  What’s yer goddam problem?!?”

 

Carlos lunged back down at the kid.  Dino saw him coming—saw the white-hot flash of rage in the hulking ex-con’s eyes—but didn’t even have time to cower.  “No!” was all he had time to shriek before Carlos began pummeling the prostrate youth.

 

The first shower of blows fell on Dino’s face, blackening both eyes, splitting his lips and knocking out an incisor and two molars.  After a moment, though the raging muscle stud transferred his attention to the boy’s lean, smooth body and began pounding on his chest, knocking Dino’s breath out of him.

 

Just as the unlucky punk managed to take another lungful of air, Carlos expertly aimed his fist and scored a direct hit on Dino’s solar plexus.  The jarring electrical jolt that ran through his body and seemed to paralyze his respiratory system at least had the advantage of making Carlos’s vicious gutpunches seem almost minor by comparison.

 

Carlos drew his fist back one more time, paused, then lowered it anticlimactically.  Shaking his hand out, he turned his back on Dino and walked over to the mirror.  He admired himself in it for a while, running his hands down his furry, muscled chest for a while.  He spent a little time thumbing his nipples until they were stiff and as hard as granite.  The entire time, he kept one eye on the brutalized young man writhing in agony on the bed, gagging as he frantically tried to breathe.

 

He knew it was time to go back to the meat when it started to talk.

 

“…s-sorry…” Dino muttered, his raspy voice just barely audible.  “So so-sorry, pl-pl-please, man, do wh-whatev-ever ya want, j-just don-don’t hurt m-me no more…”

 

Carlos walked slowly and deliberately to the edge of the bed.  Forcing the swollen lids of his eyes apart, Dino peered up at the stud, hoping for some sign of mercy.

 

What he saw was a massively-muscled alpha looming over him.  It was a sight he’d always dreamed about but this had taken a surreal—and physically painful—turn into nightmare territory.  And then Carlos’s hand started to move.  Dino flinched, knowing that he was going to get hit again—

 

—and the hardbodied convict jerked his zipper down; the sound was eerily similar to tearing cloth.  Dino pried his eyes open again, but when he saw Carlos pulling his dick out, the kid’s eyes widened on their own.  It just kept coming and coming; Dino couldn’t believe there was that much manmeat stuffed down the alpha’s pant leg.

 

It had been semi-soft while it was still trapped; now, as Dino watched, it grew visibly stiffer—and longer.  The tip of the huge purple head was already glistening with precum; the harder it got, the more began to ooze out in transparent drops.

 

“You wanna know what a real man does to a piece a’ shit faggot like you, boy?  Yer about to find out.”

 

Dino’s gaze was dragged upwards from the enormous, ominous cock, sweeping up the dark body hair that rolled over Carlos’s perfect six-pack abs.  The wiry fur widened as it went up, spreading across the hardbodied psycho’s massive pecs where his still-hard nips were clearly visible in the colorful display of lights reflected into the room.  The tats on the alpha’s thickly-muscled arms were painfully clear as well; the winged skull on Carlos’s left bicep suddenly seemed to take on new meaning for Dino.

 

And above that, above the gold chain circling the prison ink, that hard, masculine, angry face, with the shaved head and the unshaven scruff…and those eyes, aglow with cold rage and hot lust…

 

The alpha lunged forward, grabbing Dino by the neck and pinning him to the cold plastic film covering the bed.  He leaped onto the bed kneeling on his left knee with his right boot planted two feet from Dino’s head, directly in his line of sight.  He squeezed the cunt’s neck—not enough to cut off his air; just enough to get his attention.

 

“Ya wanna know what a real man like me wants to do to homo asswipes like you?  Huh?  I wanna stick things into ya.  Betcha like that idea, dontcha, you fuckin’ pervert?  You already seen one of the things I’m gonna stick into ya, now lemme show ya the other.”

 

The knife he pulled out of his harness boot had a couple of things in common with his dick.  Both were incredibly hard—and like his cock, Dino watched in stunned amazement as the knife just kept coming and coming.  By the time Carlos had fully extracted it from his boot, Dino was staring at a blade that was itself a full seven inches of viciously serrated razor-sharp carbon steel.

 

Dino got one good long look at the knife, then flat-out refused to believe in it.  It made no sense; it didn’t belong to his world.  He was here for a good fuck and yeah the guy was a lot rougher than he wanted—but he wasn’t gonna die tonight.  It couldn’t happen; all he had to do was not believe that it could.

 

But it was there, right in front of him.

 

Before the abused twink could come to terms with imminent death, Carlos gave him something else to think about.  Kneeling, the hulking alpha parted Dino’s legs like he was trying to break a wishbone; the sudden jerk of pain in his groin brought the bewildered faggot back into the present.  He looked down at the huge furry torso between his legs and blinked but the realization of what was happening was a little tardy. The second the kid realized he was getting fucked, Carlos slammed his massive hog all the way home, his pubes flush with Dino’s smooth bubble asscheeks, the wiry hair scraping and scratching them.

 

Not that Dino felt the scratching.  He was far too focused on the horrific in his rectum, the brutal slashing sensation as Carlos’s shaft tore its way relentlessly through his colon, ripping apart his sphincter, plowing over his prostate and embedding itself deep in his guts.

 

Dino had been impaled by Carlos’s cock.  He was literally full of dick; he’d never felt so full of anything in his life.

 

It hurt like fuck.  Instinctively, he began beating on Carlos’s chest, his own cries of pain drowning out the faint, futile thumping of his fists on that strong, sculpted body.  The hardbodied sadist grinned demoniacally and with a powerful thrust of his hips, shoved his cock even deeper into the suffering homo.  Dino screeched, his hands curling into claws and clutching fistfuls of Carlos’s chest hair as the boy desperately tried to ride out the spasm of agony that convulsed his colon.

 

Carlos was prepared for that.  He held the blade up to Dino’s face.  “Shaddup and let go or I’ll give somethin’ to really scream about, faggot,” he snarled.

 

Sobbing hysterically, Dino managed to regain enough possession to force his hands to relax.  He kept his crying at a low volume but was unable to stop it.  “P-pl-please…pl-please…” he moaned, “St-stop…s-stop…ple-please…no-no more…”

 

“I’m just gettin’ started,” Carlos said.  “This is what it feels like to get fucked by a real man, cunt.  Ya like it?  Yeah?  Yer dick sure does, ya little fuckin’ pervert; look how hard yer fag cock is. See, I’m gonna ream yer worthless little faggot fuckhole out, then I’m gonna show ya my trick for gettin’ ya all nice an’ tight again.  Cool, huh?  Here’s a hint on how I do it, bro—it involves pain.  A whole fuckload of pain.”

 

The heavily-muscled stud bent down over the young dealer.  Dino’s vision was blurred with pain and fear, but at this close distance, he could see individual beads of sweat tricking down Carlos’s chest, moistening the fur without matting it.  The small passage left through the remains of his nostrils was filled with the musky, pheromone-laden scent of sexually excited males that filled the room and the testosterone in his own system responded. Despite his physical agony and his mental terror, Dino became aware that his painfully erect cock had begun leaking a slow but continuous trickle of precum.

 

This was a nightmare.  This couldn’t be happening.  This dude was gonna fuck him up so bad…no, he couldn’t think about that…dear God why was his dick hard and leaking?

 

Dino reached the end of his endurance.  Mentally, he checked out.  Carlos knew the moment it happened; the pansy became limp and compliant underneath him.  He’d been expecting it—he hadn’t known exactly when it would happen, but he’d whacked enough fairies by now to recognize the inevitable mental collapse.  Meat just couldn’t take the realization that it was meat.

 

Well, that just meant it was time to tighten the meat’s fuckhole a bit.  With a cheerful, almost boyish smile—and without missing a beat in the vicious, merciless thrusting of his thick engorged shaft—Carlos fondled the handle of his knife.

 

“Hey, dude,” he said, “Time to lissen up and get the point.”

 

Reversing the tip of the blade, the powerful alpha plunged the knife into Dino’s flat, heaving belly, the point penetrating the kid’s navel.  The cold razor-sharp steel sliced through the boy’s tender, smooth flesh and parted the layer of muscle underneath like it was wet paper before lodging deep into the unlucky homo’s intestines.

 

Dino had gotten the point, and he was no longer able to ignore it.  The moment the blade pierced his skin, his swollen eyes widened and he gasped in agony.  The slashing pain that tore through his abdomen was somehow cold, and the sensation of hot blood flowing inside his guts seemed to amplify the excruciating torment.

 

Carlos had slammed the blade down with enough force to drive the air out of Dino’s lungs.  By the time he was able to inhale, the sadistic alpha was twisting the knife in the wound, grinding the sharp serrations on the blade into the raw, mangled flesh and shredding it.  This new pain was even worse than the agony in his reamed, raped asshole.  Despite a lungful of oxygen, the kid found himself unable to scream; his entire body went rigid in an attempt to keep from moving against the blade that was run through his gut.  Dino could only squeal and mewl his pain to the uncaring world.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Carlos said, his cruel glee increasing as Dino’s agony became more intense, “Squeal like the fuckin’ cockpig you are, bitch.  Feels good, huh?  I can tell ya love it, shitsack; yer ass is grabbing my cock like it wants more.  Well don’t worry, cumdump—” here the sadist pulled the knife out of Dino’s gut with a swift jerk “—I’m gonna give ya plenty more.  I’m doin’ ya right, fuckwad; you ain’t gonna bleed out.”

 

Carlos bent forward, almost lying flat on Dino, his hard, hairy belly pressed against the kid’s smooth flat abs.  There was little blood from the wound; the slow bleeding from Dino’s shredded entrails was mostly internal.  Which wasn’t to say that the knife itself was clean.  When the sick sex killer held the blade up, just four inches from his victim’s face, the poor kid could clearly see his own blood smeared down the seven-inch length of viciously-sharpened steel.  He could see tiny scraps of stringy meat caught in the cruel serrations.

 

At any rate, Carlos made damn sure the meat knew what was what.  “Ya see that shit caught on my blade, dude?  That’s yer fuckin’ guts.  You’re lookin’ at yer own guts, faggot.  Bet that hurts—bet it hurts bad.   An’ you just fuckin’ love it, dontcha, ya fuckin’ cocksuckin’ pervert?  Yer goddam dick is still hard an’ leakin’, boy, so I know yer gettin’ off real good.  Try not to blow yer fag load when I do this—”

 

Before Dino had time to realize that Carlos was no longer holding the knife in front of him, the muscled hardman had whipped it around and driven it into the punk’s exposed, vulnerable flank.  The blade sheared through skin and muscle on Dino’s left side, just under the ribcage, and speared his liver, completely transfixing the organ.

 

The gut stab had been horrible.  This was organ trauma; it was on a whole new level.  Instinctively, Dino’s hand’s shot up, looking for something to brace themselves on, and clamped onto whatever was available—Carlos’s thick, bulging biceps.  Despite the slight sheen of sweat that covered the top’s skin, Dino held on, his entire body stiffening involuntarily as physical shock set in.

 

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Dino heard the alpha whisper, “That’s it.  That’s how ya work a real man’s cock.”  Again, Carlos twisted the knife in the wound, but this time he did it slowly, letting the slim youth trapped beneath him savor the feeling of the incremental damage to his internal organ.

 

Rigidly immobile, pinned to the bed in this strange room by a huge cock and a huge blade, Dino couldn’t breathe deeply enough to cry out; his shallow, irregular respiration only allowed him to emit a low keening sound, somewhere between a moan and a sob.  His face was still badly swollen from the beating he’d endured; even though the color had drained form it, it was still mute testimony on its own of how badly he’d been made to suffer.  But that had been nothing compared to this.

 

In spite of the nightmarish agony, Dino still refused to believe he was being snuffed.  To the extremely limited extent that he was able to think lucidly, his thoughts turned to how he was going to get out of this situation, how quickly he’d be able to summon help…and then Carlos twisted the blade again.  As the searingly cold agony wracked his lithe torso, the faggot punk went rigid again, his body tense and shuddered—and he caught sight of Carlos’s face.

 

The heavily-muscled thug was grinning down at the tortured youth, physical pleasure written all over his hard, scruffy face.  Noticing that he had the meat’s attention, he couldn’t resist.  “I can feel you suffer,” the sex killer whispered erotically.  “I can feel every twitch of yer fagmeat along my cock.  Every…little…twitch,” he said slowly, grinding the blade into Dino’s side with every word.

 

The boy held on tight, his hands clenched on Carlos’s huge, knotted biceps and his legs wrapped around the hardman’s narrow waist.  Paradoxically, when the agonized youth needed something firm to cling to as he was forced to endure the horrific pain, the most solid, most immobile thing around was the powerful, heavily-muscled body of his killer.  But even with this support, Dino was unable to remain utterly motionless; the pain was simply too much.

 

“Goddam, you fuckin’ cunt, yer just fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?” Carlos jeered.  “You can’t lie, you worthless sack a’ homo shit; yer ass is suckin’ on my dick like it wants to drain my balls dry.  That what ya want, queerboy?  Ya want a real man’s load in yer ass?  Huh?  That it?  Ya want genuine manseed in yer guts?  Answer me, cocksucker!”

 

Dino wanted it, yes.  Maybe this was it.  Maybe this was what the psychopath needed.  Maybe he’d leave Dino alone once he ejaculated.  Yes, Dino wanted that.

 

But also, deep inside his cockpig soul, he wanted this hot stud’s cum.  He refused to recognize the lust bubbling inside him; he couldn’t bear to think about what that meant—but he wanted Carlos’s load.

 

And Carlos knew it.

 

“Ok, cumdump, you want my load?  Faggot like you ain’t worth a single fuckin’ drop of real manspunk.  You gotta earn it, bitch.  Wanna know how to earn it?”  With this, he jerked the knife violently inside Dino’s slender twink body.  The viciously sharpened blade tore its way out of the kid’s liver and, traveling down and back, sliced through Dino’s kidney with virtually no resistance.

 

This was almost more than Dino could handle.  The kid shuddered and gasped; Carlos quickly jerked the blade out of the wound and lay flat on the writhing boy.  Dino jerked and kicked, the tender skin on his smooth chest scraping painfully against Carlos’s thick wiry body fur, as the kid trembled on the edge of consciousness.

 

The pain, the organ damage, the adrenaline overload caused by traumatic shock, it was almost too much.  But Dino had youth on his side; his lean twink body clung tenaciously to life for as long as it could.  The punk was still in the clutches of horrible torture, but he managed—just barely—to retain his consciousness.

 

Over the next couple of minutes, he was going to regret that deeply.  After that, he’d be past regret.

 

“You want my load, faggot, you gotta work for it.  You gotta fuckin’ suffer.  You ain’t suffered, yet bitch.  I know you think you have, you useless cunt, but you ain’t.  Know how I know?”

 

Carlos’s face filled Dino’s field of vision.  From here, he could just barely make out the thick gold chain around the convict’s strong, thick neck, the amateur tattoo underneath.  The twinkle of the gold caught the panicked youth’s attention for a moment, but it was the glitter of hot sexual insanity in the stud’s eyes that held the mangled punk’s attention.

 

“You ain’t dead yet, that’s how I know.  You wanna get yer ass filled with real mancum, you gotta suffer till it kills ya.  You ready for it?  You ready to die for my load?”

 

And Dino nodded.

 

He was ready to die.  He was ready for the agony to end.  He didn’t care about much else; he just wanted to stop hurting.  His guts, his ass—even his cock, erect, straining and oozing, was a source of pain to him.  If only this dude would kill him and end the suffering quick…

 

“Ok, fucker,” Carlos grinned.  “Remember, you asked for it.”

 

Dino would remember it for the rest of his life—about another ninety seconds.

 

Carlos clamped one hand over Dino’s face, his fingers digging in mercilessly like hooks of iron.  He forced the kid’s head back until he was looking at the underside of Dino’s jaw.  With the other hand, he brought the knife up, placed it directly in the center of the triangular expanse of pale skin under the punk’s jaw, and shoved.

 

The first thrust of the blade was powerful, but restrained.  The tip of the knife ripped up through the center of the jaw into Dino’s mouth, impaling his tongue from underneath and pinning it to the roof of his mouth.  And there it paused.

 

Dino’s eyes, widened with maddened agony, stared blankly into Carlos’s as the unfortunate homo tried to scream.  All he managed to do was grunt unintelligibly and tear his tongue open wider.  “Oh fuck yeah…” Carlos sighed in pleasure as the faggot thrashed in agony beneath him.  “What, did ya think you were gonna die easy?  I toldja ya had to suffer to earn my load, you stupid asswipe.  You’re gonna suffer so bad you’ll blow yer own deathload in silent screamin’ agony—how’s that sound, faggot?

 

And with that, he shoved the knife again.

 

This time, the razor-sharp carbon steel slashed open the soft palate at the roof of Dino’s mouth and continued traveling upwards.  There was a faint crunch as the knife punched through the palatine bone, followed by further cracking sounds as it ripped its way up through the maxillary and frontal sinuses, behind the nose and eyes.

 

Dino was stiff; his muscles tensed in near bone-braking rigidity as he felt the knife moving upward though his head, behind his face.  There was no thought now, there was nothing but the silent scream of pain he’d never known existed, pain he’d never dreamed possible in his young, wasted life.  Suddenly, there was an excruciating flash and everything went dark—forever.  The blade had cut through the kid’s optic nerve.

 

Then the blade hit a sudden obstruction.  “This is it, motherfucker.  Time to die like the useless cumdump you are, faggot,” Carlos panted as he felt the sperm seething in his balls.  Dino shuddered and jerked; Carlos could feel the cunt’s thick cock, pressed against his hard flat belly, as it pulsed and throbbed.  Clutching the top of Dino’s head, Carlos put the power of his huge bunched bicep to work and shoved on the knife.

 

There was another crunching sound—this one loud enough to be heard across the room—as the sadistic alpha powered the blade up through the base of the cranium and rammed it deep into Dino’s brain.

 

“You deserve this, you fuckin’ faggot,” Carlos snarled, feeling his sperm start to froth over in his puckered scrotum.  The sheer dominance of being able to fuck the twink while physically powering a knife into his brain was almost overwhelming; the muscle-bound alpha was almost literally burning with an intense erotic joy.  “You hear me, you worthless pansy?  Fuckin’ homos like you need to die on my cock, writhin’ in pain.  Soak up my spunk with yer agony, motherfucker!”

 

As the serrated steel tore into the dying punk’s cerebrum, the sharp tip came to rest deep inside the folds of gray matter that contained the pleasure center of the brain, where the carbon steel acted as an electrical conductor, literally short-circuiting the homo’s nervous system and triggering a violent orgasm.

 

Dino was gone.  All that was left was a convulsing piece of meat with a few functioning nerve connections.  It knew that there a terrible searing sensation in its cock; trapped between the grinding flat bellies of the two males locked in a mortal embrace, the thick shaft was jerking and pumping out thick ropy wads of boycum.

 

It knew that there was a similar but opposite agony in its ass, where boiling spunk was hosing down its reamed-out guts.

 

It knew that there was a heavy, hairy, powerful form pressing down on it, forcing it to submit to death, but it didn’t know much more…

 

…except that it was a fuckin’ faggot and it deserved everything that was happening to it…

 

Carlos finally shuddered to a stop, his massive cock still jammed deep into the dead kid’s fuckhole.  It felt so good; even though he’d completely emptied his overloaded balls—it felt like he’d shot a solid quart of semen—he left his dick buried in the corpse.  As it shuddered and kicked in convulsions induced by massive brain trauma, the dead body was literally stroking and massaging his rod.

 

The alpha placed one hand over Dino’s face, covering his dull, glazing eyes, and held it down as he jerked the blade out of the corpse’s skull with the other hand.  Dragging the serrated blade back out of the punk’s brain caused the body to thrash violently.  “Fuck,” Carlos grunted as the dead boy’s ass worked his shaft.  Damn, he thought he was dry—“Fuckin’-A!” he yelled explosively, slamming the blade down into Dino’s chest, spearing the corpse’s left pectoral and shredding the still-quivering heart as the alpha heaved and jerked in a second orgasm.

 

This time, Carlos made sure he was done before withdrawing the knife.

 

He calmly walked into the bathroom and began to clean the viscous spunk out of his thick chest hair before it could mat.  Behind him in the bedroom, and still totally unknown to him, Nick’s hidden cameras continued to record the way the twitching corpse slowly became still.

 

When he came out of the bathroom, the bulked-out convict had shoved his hog back into his jeans.  He didn’t bother looking for his shirt; he didn’t want one now.  He was glancing around; there was something else he wanted…there it was.  A huge, hard-sided suitcase Nick sometimes used for carrying camera equipment.  It turned out to be a perfect fit; he was able to fold the dead cumdump into a fetal position and wedge it in with the blood- and cum-smeared painter’s plastic.  Picking up the carefully-folded clothes with, Carlos noticed the kid’s nametag.

 

He tossed them into the suitcase with an ironic smirk.  There was no Dino; there was just rotting meat.

 

He closed the case and lifted it.  Most people would have found it uncomfortably heavy but Carlos had the strength to dead-lift it and carry it out to the elevator and down to the car.

 

It took twenty minutes to get out of the city, even at this late hour, but soon Carlos was heading west.  He left the top down and let the warm night air dry his still-moist body fur.  A nice drive in the hills was what he needed, he’d decided.  Up above the city, away from the traffic, with a nice canyon or two to dump a corpse in…

 

Grinning, he pulled off the highway and turned right, shifting into first as the grade grew steeper.

 


 

 

“Tell me again why we’re out here,” Schweitz said in an aggrieved tone.  “Why ain’t the county boys out here?  This ain’t in the city.”

 

“Actually, it is,” Nuñez replied.  “Annexed last November.  That’s why the body was found so soon.  Presuming the killer dumped it at night, it was probably too dark to see where they’ve already begun putting in the sewer lines; work crew found the corpse just after dawn.”

 

“Well ain’t you earnin’ yer pay,” Schweitz sneered.  “Still don’t tell me why I’m out here lookin’ at another dead faggot.  Shit, didja see that asshole?  Looked like a fuckin’ glazed doughnut.”

 

“Not like we knew that when we got the call, Schweitz,” Nuñez sighed.  “We gotta at least get some details.  There were some clothes an a nametag–looks like the vic was a dealer at the Magic Carpet.  Should be easy enough to get his full name so we can file a report.”

 

“Round-file it, you mean,” the older detective said.  “Look, you already know we ain’t got time for this shit.  I mean, the homo was offed with extreme prejudice, right?  I mean, a knife to the fuckin’ brain sends a real strong message, y’know?  So I figure the cocksucker musta deserved it.  The Magic Carpet don’t pay shit–queerboy was probably whorin’ himself out and ripped off a john or somethin’.”

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Nuñez admitted.  “Not like anyone’s gonna care.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Schweitz nodded.  “Fucker probably has AIDS too.  Let the med examiner deal with him.  C’mon, let’s head back to civilization.  Can’t believe they’re building more houses way the fuck out here.”

 

“Sure,” said Nuñez, and the headed back to the car.

 

As they reached it, Nuñez opened the driver’s door while Schweitz paused on the passenger side.  “Hey, can ya do me a favor?” he asked.  “Can we make a detour on the way back?  I got a hankerin’ for a glazed doughnut.”

Carlos and Nick 4: Tommy’s Lucky Break

The day after Carlos snuffed the punk handyman, Nick got back from LA.  He’d found a video editing software package he liked, and he was eager to try it out.  By the time Carlos dropped by the office, Nick had already installed it on the system in the back room and was working on something on the laptop in the reception area.

 

“We’re gonna shoot a new vid,” he said, looking up from the monitor as Carlos strode in the door.  “Hey, you changed your look—I like it.”

 

Carlos had been leaving his face scruffy and unshaven for some time now; overnight, he’d trimmed it down until he had a dark, well-defined goatee outlining his mouth and emphasizing his strong chin.  More noticeable, though, was the fact that he’d shaved his head clean.  He’d always kept his hair short, so his scalp was already bronzed by the bright Vegas sun.  It gave the tattooed ex-con a distinct rough trade appeal; he could easily be mistaken for a Mexican gangster thug.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, “I figured this’d draw faggots in like flies.  So we’re doin’ a new snuff?  How much is the commission?”

 

“There ain’t one,” Nick said, grinning.  “We’re doin’ this one on spec.  I just wanna see what kinda performance I can get outta this new software.  Once I put it online, we’ll make plenty of dough anyway.”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “I ain’t worried about the money; there’s lotsa horny fuckers out there who’ll pay a shitload to watch us take out a homo the hard way.  I was just wonderin’ if we had to do another scene with costumes…”

 

“What, you didn’t like that?” Nick grinned.  “That was fuckin’ great.  But no, this is gonna be just a straight snuff—ha!  ‘Straight snuff’—I like that.  I’m puttin’ an ad up now.  Here, take a look.”  He turned the monitor so Carlos could read what he’d typed.

 

“Two top men, fit, muscular, ages 28 & 32, seeking younger sub male 18-22 for video of intimate encounter.  Previous video experience not necessary.  Send photo.”  This was followed by an email address for an anonymous drop box where Nick could retrieve the replies untraceably.

 

That evening Nick dropped by the condo.  Carlos was in the kitchen when Nick walked in and dropped a manila folder on the condo.  “Got one,” he said.  “I printed off the info; take a look and tell me what ya think.”

 

Carlos opened the folder to find himself staring at the face of a young man with stunning electric-blue eyes, a beautiful boyish face and silky black hair.  He wasn’t quite model quality, but a few touch-ups here and there would elevate him to that status.  “Damn,” Carlos replied, “Pretty little faggot—bet he’s already been reamed out, though.  Face like that, though, gotta be kinda dangerous—someone might recognize him.  He’s done other shit, yeah?”

 

“Naw,” Nick grinned.  “It’s perfect.  Kid’s from some Mormon town over the state line, St. George or someplace like that where they don’t like homos.  Only been in town three months.  Here, lookit his bio—he’s only done a coupla softcore shoots, and one of them was straight.  Ain’t no one gonna miss him, but damn, can you imagine what dudes’ll pay to watch us off the pansy?”

 

“And he wants to do this shoot with us?”

 

“You saw the ad, man, he thinks it’s still gonna be kinda softcore.  But I sounded him out—he really wants to do hardcore fag shit, so I told ‘im to come by the warehouse tomorrow afternoon and we’ll see what happens.”

 

From where he was standing, Nick could see the bulge in Carlos’s groin start to swell.  “Yeah,” the inked killer chuckled, “Yeah, we can do ‘im.  How you gonna set it up?”

 

Nick paused for a moment before speaking.  “You know how to work the hand-held, right?  Cause I wanna fuck this one.  It’s been a long time, bro, I wanna feel this kid squirm and die with my cock up his ass.”

 

Carlos broke into a broad grin.  “Go for it, man—as long as I get the chance to beat the fuck outta the fairy.  That prettyboy face is just beggin’ for my fist.”

 

“Dude,” Nick said with a matching grin, “By the time we’re done with him, his own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between him and a pile of ground beef.”

 


 

It was near sunset on the following day when Carlos pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse that Nick used for some of his video shoots; he’d already converted a portioned-off area into a set of sorts, filling it with cheap bedroom furniture—the bed was fully made, covered with an incredibly ugly comforter crocheted from yellow wool; Nick had found it at a yard sale.  He was busy arranging the lights to get the best angles—it was clearly something he’d had prior experience doing, especially in this kinda setting.

 

Carlos never asked, but he was always curious about how many fags Nick had snuffed before they met.

 

“Is he here yet?” he asked as he walked in.

 

Nick was adjusting a tripod with a video camera mounted on top.  “No, but he called twenty minutes ago and said he’d gotten off late and would be over as soon as he showered.”

 

“Don’t bother me none if he don’t shower,” Carlos said.

 

“Yeah, well, he works at a cheap-ass burger joint over on Paradise while waitin’ for his ‘big break’—probably better if he washes the grease off first.”

 

Carlos noticed the dossier with the kid’s info, lying on a table near the door—Nick had brought it along.  He picked it up and idly started leafing through it.  Suddenly he stopped and snorted in laughter.  “Tommy LeBone?  Really?  That’s the name the stupid little shit wants to go by?”

 

“Yeah,” Nick said with a smirk.  “From what I can gather, Tommy is his real name, but he picked the last name because he wanted something to really ‘pop’ in the credits, as he put it.”

 

They both had a good laugh over that, knowing good and well that there weren’t gonna be any credits on the video they were shooting—and the only things about Tommy that were gonna pop were his bones.

 

As they were laughing, the electric chime went off, indicating someone entering the main entrance.  Nick left the room as Carlos returned the papers to the folder.  Knowing what was coming, he peeled the white cotton t-shirt, sticky with sweat, from his furry, muscle-bound torso.  For a moment the collar snagged on the catch of the gold chain around his thick neck, but it soon came free.  Within two minutes, Nick was back, followed by Tommy.

 

It was easy to recognize him from his photo, although it had evidently been taken some time earlier.  His glossy black hair was shorter now, and the bangs were spiked.  He was trying to grow a mustache, but all he’d achieved so far was the effect of a dead caterpillar on his upper lip.  A pair of “diamond” stud earrings glinted on his earlobes; the stones were much too large to be real.

 

The kid was slight but not slim; he was about five-foot-seven or so.  He was wearing a white t-shirt silkscreened with the image of Che Guevara in black.  Below, he sported a pair of sky-blue polyester satin shorts edged in white that hung down past his knees. Further down, his firm calves, dusted with a dark haze of hair, descended into a pair of red and white Nike Air Jordans.

 

“Tommy, this is Carlos. Carlos, Tommy,” Nick said, getting the introductions out of the way and letting Tommy look around.

 

The boy did, and liked what he saw.  He didn’t have much—or, really, any—experience with hardcore video and the setup looked professional to him.  There were two cameras on tripods, and even in his inexperience, Tommy could see that one was for wide-angled shots, while the other could be lifted off its stand and carried about.

 

The two dudes he was gonna be in the sack with were both hotter than fuck, too.  The one guy with the shaved head—he looked downright dangerous, with his bare broad hairy chest, the gold chain with thick links around his neck, his tight jeans and his black harness boots.  He looked kinda mean, too, but for some reason, Tommy found that no less enticing.

 

The other guy, Nick, had short sandy brown hair with a slight curl in it; there was a faint shadow of scruff on his firm cheeks and filling in the dimple on his strong chin.  He wore a black sleeveless t-shirt with the collar torn open about halfway down the chest, revealing a thick mass of body fur in the same sandy-brown shade as his hair.  A pair of khaki cargo shorts was secured at his waist with a thick canvas strap serving as a belt; it had no buckle but was kept taut by being looped through a pair of steel rings.  A pair of yellow leather construction boots, loose and untied, formed the perfect base for his thick, muscled legs.

 

Nick didn’t look as mean as Carlos, but he was incredibly well-built and radiated an air of hyper-masculine power.  Tommy wanted to service Nick badly, but there was something equally alluring in knowing the older man had the physique to snap him like a twig any time he felt like it, and Tommy wouldn’t be able to prevent it.

 

The boywhore was vaguely surprised by the way that this subtle air of sex and danger intensified his own lust, but he was young, horny and shallow, and not into introspection.  He was twenty-two, and although no longer an adolescent, his hormones were still stimulating his balls into seething sperm factories.

 

“So, uh, so whaddaya want me to do?” he asked.

 

“Strip, boy,” Nick commanded, grinning.  He kicked off his boots and peeled off his shirt, letting Tommy get a look as his massive chest and his broad pecs, glistening with sweat, his dark nipples jutting into the air.  The kid was practically drooling with excitement as he yanked off his t-shirt and dropped his shorts, stepping out of them easily with his kicks still on.  Under the shorts, his thick cock and loaded balls were packed into a black and red jockstrap.

 

“Keep that on,” Nick said as Tommy reached down to remove the jockstrap.  “It’ll turn our viewers on to watch ya die—uh, cum with that on…”

 

Tommy didn’t hear Nick’s slip of the tongue.  Carlos had unzipped his fly, pulling his massive, glistening dick out of his jeans.  The boy stood staring, entranced, by the huge tube of manflesh.  “Fuuuck…” he whispered—he wanted it in him so bad.

 

A sound behind him made him turn to see that Nick had shucked off his shorts.  He stood nude in front of Tommy, his hairy, bulked-out body lubed with sweat and glittering under the overhead spotlights.  The randy homo took one look and found himself literally gasping with sexual excitement and anticipation; a dark moist spot formed on the bulge of his jock and grew as the killers watched.

 

They exchanged a quick grin; it was lost on the fag.  They knew he was hooked.  He was theirs to play with and torture and fuck.  He wasn’t getting out of the room alive—and long before death claimed him, he’d be begging for it.

 

“Okay, bitch, get on the bed,” Nick demanded.  “Up on yer knees, boy; I’m gonna fuck ya like a dog.”

 

His dripping dick tenting the elastic pouch of the jockstrap, Tommy hastened to obey.  As Carlos powered up the camera and focused it, the smooth young faggot posed on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed, the delirious smile on his face showing his happiness at finally getting fucked by two real men—and in a porno, no less!

 

Just out of the camera’s view, Nick was at a control panel adjusting the lighting.  He plunged the room into darkness except for a single overhead spot shining directly down onto the bed, illuminating it—and it alone—brightly.

 

“Yeah, that’s gonna look hot,” he muttered to himself before raising his voice.  “You ready to get reamed, boy?”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Tommy moaned ecstatically.  “I want ya both in me!”

 

“Good, cause that’s how we’re startin’,” Nick responded with a smirk.  “After that—well, things might get a lil’…rough.”

 

“Oh yeah,” the boy moaned, wriggling his body like a dog wagging its tail.  Nick approached the bed, his bare feet padding silently across the concrete floor to the section of carpeting laid down for the bedroom set.

 

“So rough, in fact, that Carlos here is gonna have to hold the camera.  I’m gonna want him to get a good close-up when it starts.  Don’t worry, though, he’ll still have plenty of chances to let you feel the power of his muscles—especially those big biceps of his.  You see ‘em?  See those tattoos?  Wanna know where he got ‘em?”

 

With this speech, Nick was almost at the foot of the bed.  Carlos had already started the camera, watching the image carefully.

 

It was perfectly centered on the bed and the bed was hard to lit—harshly spot-lit, with nothing else visible in the surrounding darkness.  On the bed, a slim, smooth dark-haired figure on his and knees, his dick stretching out the mesh of his jockstrap pouch, looked behind him nervously; he was startled by something.

 

He hadn’t realized Nick was as close as he was.

 

From off-screen, the top’s voice spoke in a bass rumble, “He got that ink in prison, boy.  He killed a man.  More than one, in fact.  That do anything for ya?”

 

Nick appeared from the darkness, the dramatic lighting cutting his powerful form into bright glints reflecting from sweat-slick muscles and deep dark shadows, some lined with body fur.  Gold highlights sparkled in his sandy hair.

 

Tommy’s eyes grew wide, but his dick throbbed so intensely it was visible on camera.  He started to rise up on his knees, but Nick was already climbing onto the bed.  “That get ya off, boy?  Ya like ‘em dangerous?”

 

Tommy gulped ominous and spoke with a nervous quaver in his voice.  “That’s, uh, yeah, that’s hot man…and y’all can get rough if ya want, but, uh, just don’t do anything to really hurt me, y’know?”

 

By now Nick was pressed up behind him, his brawny, furry chest against the young homo’s smooth back.  Placing one hand on Tommy’s shoulder and forcing the kid back down to the bed with minimal effort, the strong alpha used his other hand to guide the oozing, purple head of his engorged shaft between the punk’s asscheek directly to his pink, pucker fuckhole.  With malicious glee, he bent down and whispered into Tommy’s ear.  “’Fraid I can’t make that promise, boy.  You’re gonna suffer.  You’re gonna get hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

 

The lithe young pansy blinked his gorgeous blue eyes in confusion.  “What?” he asked incredulously, “What was tha—AAAIIIIEEE!!!”

 

Nick had answered the question by jamming his rod up Tommy’s ass raw, with no lube.  The camera picked up the huge grin on his face. The way the slut’s sphincter had resisted his tool, and then finally gave way, letting him slide all the way in, grinding his wiry pubes against the boy’s round, firm asscheeks, scraping the smooth skin like steel wool—it felt fantastic.  “Fuck yeah,” Nick said, looking directly into the camera (and speaking loudly to be heard over the fag’s wailing), “It’s been too goddam long since I made a faggot into fuckmeat.  Bitch is squallin’ too much, though—Carlos, get over here and shove yer dick down its throat, make it shut the fuck up.”

 

The wide-angle camera was aimed perfectly at the spot-lit tableau on the bed, the boy hunched over on his face, sobbing loudly, the muscular alpha mounting him from behind, thrusting his cock deep in the kid’s ass, then pulling back—but never withdrawing completely—before ramming his rod back in as far as he could.

 

Suddenly, Carlos emerged from the darkness on the left side of the frame, walking towards the bed with his back to the camera.  The warehouse’s metal roof had been baking in the sun all day and the old AC system hadn’t been able to keep pace—beads of sweat were visible, running down the ex-con’s back.   It was impossible to ignore the way his tight jeans cradled his ass or the strong masculine tread of his harness boots on the concrete floor.  As he got to the head of the bed, he turned his profile to the lens so that his enormous, erect dick was obvious.  Reaching down and grabbing a handful of Tommy’s hair, he yanked the kid’s head up off the bed.

 

The youth’s face was streaked with tears and twisted into a grimace of pain.  “P-please,” he begged, stuttering as he tried to make himself understood without crying out in agony, “Pl-please sto-stop…”  He drew another shuddering breath before trying again.  “Th-this…not-not what I wa-wanted…it h-hurts, please, it-it hurts so b-bad…”

 

Carlos reached up under Tommy’s chin, placing his thumb on one side of the punk’s face at the joint where the jaw connected to the skull and his fingers in the same place on the other side.  A brutal clenching of his powerful hand forced the slut’s jaw to pop open involuntarily.

 

“Shaddup, ya fuckin’ perverted faggot,” Carlos jeered and drove his massive dick down the kid’s throat.  Using one hand to keep the meat’s mouth pried open, the killer stud clapped his other on the back of Tommy’s head.  Carlos wasn’t throatfucking Tommy, he was jacking off with his skull.

 

“Whaddaya think?” Nick asked, smirking at the camera.

 

“Whadda I think?” Carlos replied.  “I think this fuckin’ piece a’ faggot shit needs to learn how we handle dumbass homos around here.”

 

“Fuckin’-A, dude,” Nick laughed.  “Only thing better’n a dead fag is one that took a nice long time to get that way.  This piece of meat might live another forty minutes or so—plenty of time for it to die like pathetic garbage.”

 

“I wanna hurt it,” Carlos growled, his rage and suppressed lust vibrating deeply in his voice, “I wanna hurt it so fuckin’ bad, man…”

 

“Aw hell, bro, there’s plenty of meat to go around,” Nick responded.  “By the time we’re done with it, all that’ll be left is a bleeding sack of human meat.  Hey, back off a bit, dude—don’t wanna choke it out this quick.”

 

Tommy had heard the beginning of the conversation with horror, but his attention was soon drawn to the fact that with Carlos’s huge rod plugging his esophagus, he was utterly unable to breathe.  He tried to jerk his head away from Carlos’s hands, but the sadistic killer was so powerful, he didn’t even notice the slutboy’s attempts to break free.  The last thing Tommy consciously heard was the remark about living another forty minutes—death from asphyxiation seemed so imminent that he slipped into panic mode.  It was his frantic thrashing that had called Nick’s attention to his plight.

 

Carlos withdrew his shaft from the cunt’s windpipe, leaving his pulsing, oozing head in the fucker’s mouth.  Tommy coughed and slobbered all over it, weeping desperately as he tried to catch his breath.

 

“Oh god,” the kid gasped, “No…don’t…”

 

Carlos snatched a handful of Tommy’s hair and yanked his head up, staring coldly into the boy’s snot- and drool-smeared face.  “I told ya to shaddup,” he said calmly, then slammed his fist into the youth’s face like a piledriver, hard enough to knock the slut’s head out of his grasp.  “UH!” Tommy grunted as the blow drove his head to one side; as he brought it back up, he spit out a canine tooth in a dazed fashion.

 

“Hell yeah, show the fuckwad who’s boss,” Nick chuckled.  “Hey, dude, go get the camera.  I wanna get a close-up of this.”

 

Carlos turned and approached the camera, his massive hog jutting out in front of him from his unzipped fly.  Nick pulled his cock out of Tommy’s ass, leaving just the swollen head in the cunt’s rectum.  The terrified homo felt the slight abatement in his violent rape, and in a semi-instinctive move, made a break for it.

 

Scrambling like a scaled cat, Tommy dug his Air Jordans into the bedspread and lunged forward, pulling himself off Nick’s tool and off the bed at the same time.  Unfortunately for the panicked queerboy, he hit the ground headfirst with his arms out in front of him; he managed to regain his feet and bolt for the door, but he managed to take no more than two steps before Carlos brutally impeded his progress by decking him in the jaw.

 

Nick had gotten off the bed and was standing beside it, his buff, toned body glistening with sweat under the spotlight; with his enormous raging erection, he was a perfect image of raw masculinity.  He was still aware of the camera, but he wasn’t sure if Carlos remembered it—he didn’t want the ex-con to waste the faggot then and there out of rage.

 

“Send ‘im over here, bro,” he called to the shirtless, booted fagkiller, winking at the camera as he did.  Carlos, his arm pulled back, sweaty, tattooed bicep bulging as he prepared to smash Tommy’s face in—literally—held back the blow.  “Huh?” he asked, looking up at Nick.

 

The hardbodied stud nodded briefly at the camera and Carlos caught on, a wicked grin spreading slowly across his goateed face.  “Sure, man,” he drawled, “Here ya go.”  He gave the slim pansy a hard shove, sending him flying into Nick’s arms.  The latter grabbed the punk with his left hand, drawing his right arm up to his left shoulder and giving the unlucky youth a vicious backhand that split his lips.

 

Grunting in abrupt pain, Tommy wheeled and collapsed halfway onto the bed, but before he could slide limply to the floor, Nick snatched him up again.  “Back atcha, bro!” he called, aiming the kid at Carlos.  He planted his foot on Tommy’s ass and with a swift kick sent him stumbling back to Carlos, who caught the little fuck in the face with his elbow, dropping him to the ground with a black eye.

 

The hairy, well-built convict stooped and grabbed the inert form by the wrist, dragging it forcibly to an upright position.  Tommy, too stunned to defend himself, or even whimper, found himself flung back at Nick, who dropped his arms and let the flying slut slam into his furry chest face-first.

 

The slender fairy bounced off his rapist’s firm, massive pecs like he’d hit a brick wall, falling back to the floor—luckily for him, on the carpeted area—where he lay on his back, writhing in pain and moaning feebly.  Unable to open his bruised eyes to more than just slits, he tried to focus them on the hulking muscled god towering over him.  He could see the thick, firm legs and the frighteningly huge penis that was dripping hot clear drops of precum, but beyond that, Tommy’s vision went blurry.

 

He could hear footsteps, but there was something wrong with his hearing, the sounds seemed to be fading in and out.  There was raucous laughter that at times seemed very far away, but the well-pounded slutboy was very aware of a second pair of legs near him, encased in tight denim and terminating in black leather boots.  Like the other pair of legs, Tommy was unable to see any higher than a fat, dripping cock—although with this one, there was a very faint glint of gold somewhere high up in the distance…

 

In the camera frame, Tommy was laying on the floor, shuddering in agony.  Nick, knowing a good pose when it became possible, drew Carlos to his side and put his right arm around Carlos’s shoulders.  Carlos, already able to figure out what was coming, did likewise with his left arm around Nick’s shoulders.  He placed one boot on Tommy’s flat, heaving belly and with his index finger, little finger and thumb extended, flashed his right hand at the lens, sticking his tongue out and wagging it.  Nick grinned delightedly and placed his bare foot on the mesh pouch of Tommy’s jockstrap, pressing down and making the punk mewl and squirm.

 

“Dude,” he said, “My balls are startin’ to ache somethin’ fierce.  I gotta drain ‘em real soon here, bro—think it’s about time to make us some meat.  Do me a favor and get this subhuman cumdumpster up on the bed, wouldja?

 

Leering, Carlos bent down and grabbed Tommy by the throat, then lifted him single-handedly into the air in a show of brute strength.  Once again, the little slut found himself unable to breathe.  Carlos turned slightly to one side so the camera could get a clear view of the kid.

 

Tommy was flailing, his Nikes thrashing in midair.  The look of bewildered horror on the young homo’s face spoke volumes; it was obvious that the whoreboy couldn’t understand how a hot twofer fuck had become a nightmare of agonizing torture.  Gasping helplessly for air, Tommy’s arms clawed desperately at anything within reach.  One of his hands clutched Carlos’s right wrist in a panic-fueled grip, the other pawed at the buff ex-con, snatching at the thick links of his gold chain before sliding down the sweat-slick expanse of his chest to curl in his chest hair.

 

Then Tommy made a serious mistake—he yanked, tearing free some of the sadist’s body fur.

 

“You goddam motherfucker!” Carlos roared and threw Tommy bodily into the wall, ten feet away.  The kid hit the paneled cinderblock with a wet, meaty thump before bouncing back into the room—and into Carlos’s arms.  Grabbing his throat again, the enraged killer, his intense anger making his face glow, lifted the dazed, struggling faggot into the air and slammed him down hard on the bed.  Wild-eyed, Carlos quickly glanced around and caught sight of a boom—an extendable metal rod for holding a microphone—out of the corner of his eye.  He darted for it, snatching it up and brandishing it; Nick had just enough time to catch him and restrain him before he beat the queerboy to death.

 

“Naw, man,” Nick hissed.  “Chill.  That’s too fast.  The asswipe needs to suffer more, yeah?”

 

Carlos blinked and took a deep breath.  “Yeah, man you’re right.  But fuck, this one needs to learn the real meanin’ of pain, dude.  It’s gotta beg to be put down in mercy before we’re done.”

 

Nick flashed him—and the camera—a shark-like grin.  “Well fuck yeah, bro, that’s the whole fuckin’ point.  By the time we’re done with it, its own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between it and a pile of ground chuck.  C’mon.”

 

They walked back to the bed.  As they approached, Tommy managed to pry his eyes open.  He was still gagging for air, his body shuddering in pain.  He looked up, vainly hoping for some trace of pity in the faces of his assailants.  Instead, two hairy, muscular killers loomed terrifyingly over him.  The overhead spotlight was blinding; their disgust- and contempt-filled faces were lost in the blur of light—all he could see were thick, bulging muscles, dark patches of wiry body fur and two enormous cocks, each wreathed with pulsing veins and oozing out heavy, viscous drops of transparent precum.  What little air he could draw into his lungs was tainted with mansweat, heavily laden with pheromones and the acrid tang of adrenaline-fueled testosterone.

 

It began to dawn on the helpless little fag that he was in the power of a pair of incredibly strong men.  Real men, who thought he was a worthless piece of shit.  They weren’t going to make love to him; they were gonna use his body however they wanted to in order to empty their cum-filled balls, and it didn’t matter what he himself thought about it.

 

And they were gonna kill him—but no, that couldn’t be happening.  He was only twenty-two; he couldn’t die yet.  They were just trying to scare him.  They were gonna beat him and rape him, but despite everything he’d heard already, he simply refused to believe that he was looking death in the face.

 

Then death bent down and spit on him.  “Hold the meat down while I stick my dick in it,” the big sandy-haired brute said.  “If it squeals, pound the fuck outta it.”

 

The buff, tattooed skinhead with the face like Satan grabbed a handful of Tommy’s hair again and drew back his right fist.  “G’wan and cry, cunt,” he grinned, “Gimme a reason to beat yer faggot face into hamburger.”

 

Within ten seconds, Tommy knew he was getting beaten into hamburger.  It couldn’t be possible, but it felt like the big man’s cock had doubled in size since he put it in last time.  This nightmarish, glassy agony that was slashing at the tender, nerve-rich lining of his rectum, it was like nothing he’d felt yet—he’d only been fucked a couple of times before, but it had felt so good.  This, this was horrific, unbearable, he couldn’t…he tried, but there was no way…

 

Tommy screamed and Carlos, with a single pop to the face, broke his nose.  The punk wailed in agony, his shrill screams underscored by the low rumble of his killers’ cruel laughter.  “This is what happens to stupid little faggots like you,” Carlos jeered.  “You wanted to get fucked, you cumsuckin’ cunt?  Guess what—you are so fucked right now, dude.”

 

“Yeah,” Nick grunted, his powerful, sweaty body heaving as he pumped Tommy’s strained, torn asshole.  “You were just beggin’ for this, you dumbass motherfucker.  The thought of gettin’ double-teamed by two hot studs got yer little fag cock all hard an’ oozin’, huh?  Is it everthin’ ya dreamed it’d be?  Yeah?  Answer me, you fuckin’ piece of faggot garbage!”

 

Tommy’s eyes were blurred by tears and pain; he couldn’t focus clearly on Nick’s face, just inches away from his own, but he could make out the insane mix of hate and lust in his voice, his and the other one…he couldn’t make out the other one…

 

Carlos had gone to get the handheld camera.  He knew it was time for a close-up, even without prompting from Nick—who was enjoying the brutal fuck with such malevolent glee that he wasn’t giving his attention to camera angles at the moment.  The muscular, inked convict made sure he got a good shot of the meat writhing and struggling helplessly under the weight of Nick’s buff, toned body.  He let the frame linger on Tommy’s smooth, firm, slender legs wrapped tightly around Nick’s waist, the whore’s red and black Jordans kicking uselessly in the air.

 

Nick was pinning the kid to the bed, his hands grasping the boy’s upper arms.  With his hulking body pressing the slut down, Tommy was not only trapped, he was almost completely immobilized, able only to twist his smooth body, from side to side, his firm chest and flat belly scraping against those of Nick.  Despite being lubed by a thin film of panicked sweat, the whoreboy’s soft, silky skin was scratched and abraded by Nick’s coarse, wiry chest hair.

 

It hurt.  It hurt so fuckin’ bad—but it wasn’t unbearable anymore.  His sphincter had already been torn, his rectum was starting to relax and accept the enormous tube of flesh buried deep inside it, and although his face was swollen and bruised and he couldn’t breathe out of his crushed, flattened nose, the skinhead wasn’t beating him anymore.  Maybe—just maybe—they’d be satisfied with a violent rape and let him go after…

 

Nick glanced up as Carlos approached with the camera.  “Hell yeah, bro, good thinkin’.  Get a good shot of his face as I wring his fuckin’ neck.”  Turning to look down at Tommy, he spit a wad of phlegm into the tear-stained, horror-filled face.  “Hear that?  Time to fulfill yer purpose.  Time for me to use ya for the only thing yer good for—a meatsack to hold my cum.  I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out on camera and dump yer sperm-filled corpse in a trash bin so you can be hauled off to rot like the rest of the stinkin’, maggot-infested garbage.  Ya like that, meat?  That get ya off?  No?  Then why’s yer little homo dick all hard and throbbin’, huh, fuckwad?  Looky here, guys, the faggot’s gotten its dick outta its jock without even usin’ its hands—fuckin’ perv!” Nick said, rolling to one side so Carlos could focus the lens on Tommy’s thick, pulsing cock—obviously oozing precum; the guilty evidence was matted in Nick’s body fur. The jockstrap’s pouch had clearly been pulled to the side in the struggle. “This one wants it.  It’s gonna squeal and cry like a little pussy faggot, but it knows its place and it’s gettin’ off at the thought of bein’ put down with extreme prejudice by a couple of hardbodies.”

 

Tommy shook his head; it wasn’t a conscious reaction—his mind was blank with panic.  They weren’t gonna let him go.  He wasn’t gonna get out of here alive.  His dreams, his hopes, his plans were all gone; even he didn’t remember them in his cold, soul-searing terror.  His entire world, his entire life, was focused with pinpoint clarity on the next few minutes.  He was a vain, shallow fairy who’d wanted little more than dick and cash in the immediate future, but even he was able to figure out that what he’d already endured was going to seem like a lover’s caresses compared to the suffering about to come.

 

For the first time that evening, Tommy was right.

 

He started shuddering, a scream building behind his lips.  “Aw, man, ya better start soon,” Carlos said.  “If it starts bleatin’ again, I’m gonna break its jaw.”

 

Nick guffawed.  “Dude, you can break its jaw anytime ya want.  Beat it to a fuckin’ pulp as it dies.  Stupid fuck needs to take a long painful ride to Hell.  Long as it lives long enough for me to empty my balls in it, I don’t care how bad ya fuck it up.  But make sure the camera stays on the face.  That’s what the viewers want; they’ll jack off over and over watchin’ it die.”

 

As Carlos shoved the camera into the cunt’s face, chuckling in a cold, merciless tone, Nick let go of Tommy’s arms—and grabbed his neck.  He smiled gently down at Tommy.

 

For one single lucid moment, the hate was gone from Nick’s face and Tommy could see the beautiful face of the sexy, dominant lover he’d always dreamed of.  Then Nick started squeezing.

 

It was like a bear trap had closed on his throat.  He hadn’t been prepared; he hadn’t had time to inhale, to fill his lungs with air, and he never would again.  Nick’s big, strong hands had instantly compacted the unfortunate youth’s esophagus, the cartilage painfully deforming out of shape.  The mindless panic came back; it was a kind of white fog that clouded Tommy’s vision and dulled his senses; he never knew how violently he thrashed about, struggling vainly against death.

 

His frantic, clawing hands first went to those of Nick’s, but finding the latter clamped around his neck with the relentless strength of iron bands, Tommy reached out, clutching desperately at whatever was within reach.  One hand beat against Nick’s huge hairy pecs with as much effect as if he was beating against an oak tree; the other slapping at Carlos’s chest and grabbing at his gold chain.

 

“No ya don’t, motherfucker,” Carlos growled.  Transferring the camera to his left hand, he drove a roundhouse punch straight from his shoulder into the side of Tommy’s face, both feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch of bone as the unlucky fuck’s cheekbone splintered under the force of the impact.  “Quit tryin’ ta fight it, fuckhead, yer only makin’ it worse.”

 

If Tommy had been capable of rational thought, he might have wondered how it could have been worse.  Even though he was still being impaled by an enormous rod of manflesh that tore at his guts and ground roughly at his prostate with every agonizing thrust, it seemed to be the least painful part of his suffering—his power-bottom soul was starting to accept the dick and revel in the rough, painful rape.  Everything else, not so much.

 

There was a huge ball of fire in his chest, a kind of burning vacuum that ached vainly for oxygen.  The slim, smooth homo writhed and twisted involuntarily, instinctively seeking some way to allow air into his burning lungs.  Everything from his neck up was a solid mass of excruciating pain, from his slowly-collapsing throat to his pulped and pounded face to his throbbing brain, swelling with oxygen deprivation.

 

The wide-angle camera had a perfect view; two sweaty males, locked together in violent, thrusting intimacy, the older, more powerful, more dominant man obviously enforcing his sadistic sexual will on the thrashing, shuddering youth.  It also caught Carlos’s hulking, half-dressed form as he leaned in with the other camera.

 

The handheld’s frame was filled with Tommy’s face.  It lingered lovingly on the physical effects of the strangulation on the terrified young homo.  The kid’s skin was already so battered and bruised that it was hard to tell when his face began to darken, but the swelling soon turned his split lips and broken nose into a grotesque parody of himself.  His thin black mustache, already moist with blood that had trickled from his left nostril, all but disappeared as his face distorted from asphyxia.

 

As the boywhore whipped his head from side to side in panicked denial, the stones in his stud earrings caught the light and created a twinkling effect on his ears that remained a constant as everything above his neck began to blacken.

 

“Yeah, brah, now ya got ‘im,” Carlos encouraged Nick.  “Lookit the little fuckwad.  It’s learnin’ how real men treat worthless pansy cocksuckers.”

 

“You ready to die, boy?” Nick hissed.  “It hurt bad enough yet?  Ya wantin’ it all to go away?”  He paused as Tommy’s head came to a stop, the dying slut looking up at him with an almost insane gleam of hope in his eyes.

 

Nick chuckled cruelly. “Tough shit.  I ain’t ready to cum yet, so you’re gonna hafta keep sufferin’ till I say yer hurt bad enough.  Hey, dude, he ain’t fucked up enough yet.”  This last was to Carlos, as Nick drew his legs up under himself, repositioning so he could ram his huge erect cock even faster and deeper into the punk’s ass.

 

As Carlos laughed and repeatedly slammed his fist into the boy’s face, Tommy learned that things could indeed be worse.  The wide-angled camera captured several minutes of footage of two muscular men beating and raping a slim, helpless youth, whose body kicked and jerked with every brutal thrust and blow.

 

After a while, things began to fade in Tommy’s mind; a gray fog descended, filled with a loud, fast banging.  Some part of him knew that the banging noise was his pulse, but as his brain began to die, that rational part grew dimmer.  Perversely, as the rational grew dimmer, the sensory grew sharper; as brain death progressed, Tommy’s nerve endings became more sensitive.

 

The pain of impending death started to blur with the overstimulation of his brain’s pleasure center.  His cock, forced erect by the pressure on his prostate, was pressed against Nick’s belly; the killer’s wiry body hair scraped against it rapidly with each pump of his pelvis.  To Tommy’s inflamed nerves, it felt like someone was taking a belt sander to the tender underside of his prick.

 

The pain was phenomenal.  It felt like the flesh of his dick was being shredded.  It felt like…it felt like he wanted to cum.

 

Nick noticed the change.  “Meat’s startin’ to go,” he grinned up at Carlos—and right at the handheld camera.  “Lookit the little faggot—fuckin’ perv still wants dick even as it’s gettin’ whacked.”

 

“Well fuck, man, that’s all they ever want,” Carlos sneered.  “Stupid cunts are so cum-hungry they’ll walk right into a death trap if they think they can get some manseed.”  He spit in Tommy’s face, then spoke directly to him.  “What, didja think gettin’ our loads would turn ya into a real man, ya fuckin’ pile of fagmeat?”

 

Even if there was enough left of Tommy to formulate a reply, he wouldn’t have been able to say it.  His mouth was plugged with his tongue, so thick and swollen that it forced his jaws apart and protruded, a mound of purple-black muscle, from between his cracked blue lips.  Thick streamers of drool bubbled from the boy’s mouth, oozing down his cheeks in a thick white froth that gave the appearance that the faggot had just given a wet, sloppy blowjob.

 

The light was fading from Tommy’s eyes; they were fixed and bulging, the whites turning bloodshot as millions of tiny blood vessels ruptured within.  His hands had stopped flailing randomly; the wide-angle camera clearly captured how one was clenched tightly around Nick’s sweaty, bulging bicep while the other was spread flat on Carlo’s belly as if fondling the ex-con’s ripped abs.  His legs were still kicking, but not as violently; they drew up at the knee, then straightened again, the heels of his Nikes carving furrows in the ugly crocheted comforter.

 

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Nick whispered spitefully, “Die.  Die with my dick in yer guts, you fuckin’ sack of shit.  Yer gonna rot with yer innards fulla my cum, ya cumsuckin’ pig.  Yer gonna end up—fuck!  Goddam! FUCK!”

 

Nick hunched and shuddered as he felt his seed boiling up from his overloaded balls, then he went rigid in explosive orgasm.  As his powerful hands clenched involuntarily, he crushed Tommy’s throat, the cartilage cracking and snapping like dry kindling as the esophagus collapsed into a mangled mass of useless bloody tissue.

 

Rational Tommy was dead but sensory Tommy was still dangling in a nightmarish world of tactile torture that was unable to distinguish pleasure and pain.  The horrific agony of his crushed windpipe and larynx and his snapped hyoid bone trigged an intense release in his swollen, tortured scrotum.  Tommy’s first death load squirted up between him and Nick, smearing as their chests rubbed together in his agonized throes.

 

“Aw hell yeah!” Carlos cried, pulling the zoom out to capture Nick’s look of rage as he shot his load and Tommy’s blank, shuddering face as he spent his last few moments on earth ejaculating uncontrollably.  Without warning, the convulsing punk twisted violently to the side; as he did, another geyser of sperm erupted from his spasming cock.  This one jetted into the air, splattering not just over Carlos’s sweaty, hairy chest, but over his face and the camera lens as well, smearing both with milky cum.

 

With a loud grunt, Carlos returned the favor, a thick, ropy strand of semen spewing in an uninterrupted flow from his erect shaft.  The muscled convict hadn’t so much as touched his dick; he’d shot his wad hands-free the moment Tommy’s spunk had splashed on his chest.  His own jizz spattered on the boy’s black, swollen face, blending in with the drool.

 

“Fuck!” Nick cried again, releasing Tommy’s neck.

 

In a blinding rage, Carlos tossed the handheld down and leaned forward.  Grabbing the back of Tommy’s head in one hand and his chin in another, the muscle-bound killer gave the head a swift, brutal twist, rotating it up and back a hundred and eighty degrees.  Tommy’s neck snapped, the vertebrae shattering like shrapnel, tearing the spinal cord to shreds.  The corpse went rigid as the massive trauma to the nervous system forced one last spurt of cum from the dead kid’s dick; this flew out with just enough force to clear the bed and spatter on the toes of Carlos’s black harness boots.

 

“Fuckin’ faggot, fuckin’ cummin’ on me,” the ex-con whispered in barely contained rage.

 

For a moment, Nick paused, looking down no longer at Tommy’s black, strangulated face, but at the back of his head.  Then he slowly withdrew his cock from the corpse.  Even in death, the faggot somehow maintained suction in his fuckhole; Nick’s rod came out with an audible sucking sound.  Getting off the bed, he stood beside Carlos, looking down at the dead boy.  In a shot from the wide-angle camera that Nick edited into the footage, they both remained standing for a minute, admiring their work.  The slim young homo’s cum-drenched corpse was still twitching, his black-and-red Air Jordans scuffling nervelessly on the comforter.  Both studs were still heaving with exertion as the overheat spot glinted on their sweat-soaked backs; thick pearly beads of jizz still dripped from their cocks—and the meat’s as well.

 

“Goddam, I needed that,” Nick muttered.

 

“So did he, stupid little faggot,” Carlos sneered.  He leaned forward as if he was going to attack the corpse again.

 

“Hey, man,” Nick said, “I wanna get rid of the meat here soon.  Go splash some water on yourself and cool off; I’m gonna need a hand gettin’ rid of it and its car.”

 

Carlos paused.  “Yeah, dude, you’re right.  Hang on.”  He headed to the bathroom.  After a few minutes, he returned, his body glistening with moisture.  In the meantime, Nick had redressed, pulling on his shorts and slipping back into his construction boots.  He’d slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on but the deep tear at the neck revealed that his chest hair was still crusty and matted with the dead boy’s cum.

 

“Grab the clothes and see if you can find any keys,” Nick said.  “I’m gonna take the trash out.”  He grabbed the corpse by one quivering ankle, just above the Nike sneaker, and dragged the body off the bed.  Tommy’s head had remained twisted around backwards; his face his the floor with a splat.  Heading out the door, Nick dragged the body along the floor behind him, not minding the faint trail of blood from the kid’s brutalized face; there’d be time to clean it up later.  He was excited; he wanted to clear out the meat and get to working on the video.

 

As Nick dumped the corpse into the bed of his pickup, Carlos gathered Tommy’s t-shirt and shorts.  From the latter, he retrieved both keys and a wallet with forty bucks inside.  Carlos pocketed the cash; the young faggot certainly didn’t need it anymore.  Following Nick out, he headed towards a ten-year-old Ford Focus with a taped-up taillight.  Sure enough, the key he’d found fit—it wasn’t hard to figure out; the only other vehicles in the lot were Nick’s truck and his own Mercedes.

 

Tossing the clothes in the back, he put the car in gear and followed Nick’s green truck out to the highway, where they headed south towards downtown.  Traffic was bad, as it always was at this time of day, and the AC in the cunt’s car was barely functional.  Carlos soon found himself sweating again.  To keep himself calm, the psycho killer imagined the homo piece of shit already starting to rot under the blue tarp Nick had wrapped around it.

 

After several road-rage-inducing merges, Nick finally took the Las Vegas Boulevard exit, heading south into downtown.  Turning west on Bridger Avenue, he made a sudden right into an alley between Third and Fourth Streets, pulling up next to a large industrial dumpster.  Carlos parked behind him and got out.

 

It took less than thirty seconds to hoist the corpse over the edge of the dumpster and roll it out of the tarp.  Within three minutes, they were heading south on Las Vegas Boulevard again and within twenty, pulling into the parking lot of a casino located well to the south of the airport.  The left the Focus at the far end of the lot, Carlos climbing into Nick’s truck for the ride back to the warehouse.

 


 

Some twenty-four hours later, an unmarked car pulled up in an alley between Third and Fourth.  It wasn’t able to get very far down the alley thanks to the two patrol cars and the ambulance already in place, surrounding a dumpster.  A fat middle-aged man with a shaggy moustache opened the driver’s door while a taller, thinner man of about the same age emerged from the passenger side.

 

“Hey, Patterson, what’s up?” the fat one asked the first uniformed cop he came across.

 

“Hey, Nuñez—whatcha doin’ here?  Didn’t think this was yer beat.” Patterson replied.

 

“Me an’ Schweitz was just comin’ back from lunch when we heard the call, figured we’d check it out,” Nuñez said.  “Whatcha got?”

 

“Just another stiff,” Patterson yawned.  “You can check it out if ya wanna.”

 

Nuñez headed for the corpse, already out of the dumpster and lying bagged on a gurney.  Schweitz headed after him, but paused when he saw the fat detective open the body bag, recoil violently, and zip it back up.  He waited as Nuñez returned quickly to the car.

 

“So?” he asked laconically.

 

“Not worth it.  Another faggot.  Damn, you could smell the cum three feet away once I got that fuckin’ bag open.  Goddam corpse was covered in the shit.”

 

Schweitz snorted with disgust.  “Who the fuck bothered to call it in?” he asked.

 

“I dunno,” Nuñez replied, “But I wish they’d kept their traps shut.  We got real people out here gettin’ robbed and killed, and some asshole calls in a dead fag.  Like I give a shit who snuffed some fuckin’ homo—they guy should get an award, if ya ask me.”

 

“Yeah,” Schweitz agreed, garrulous as ever.

 

“C’mon, let’s get back.  Central can handle this; they’re good at ‘misplacing’ this kinda file.  And anyway, I gotta get caught up on some paperwork.  Goddam bureaucrats, always comin’ up with a new way to keep a man from doin’ his job, y’know?”

 

Still bitching, the fat cop backed out of the alley and drove off, wiping the image of the raped and murdered youth from his mind as if the boy had never existed.

 

 


 

Forty-eight hours after that, Carlos got a text from Nick: “Told u that software was the bomb got a great commission meet me @ office ASAP u won’t believe this shit”

Carlos and Nick 3: Keeping It in the Family

For Carlos, it started with a text from Nick: “be @ office in ½ hr—got a job”.  In this context, Carlos knew exactly what “job” meant.  And the fact that Nick wanted him at the office so quickly meant it had to be something good; at this hour of the day, traffic made that timetable impossible.  Nick must be really excited.

 

Carlos was already casually dressed in tight but faded jeans, a navy-blue thermal shirt with long sleeves; it clung to the hard-bodied convict like it had been painted on.  On his feet were a pair of boots—brown leather ropers, so worn, they slouched and were soft as leather.  The outside temperature was in the lower 40’s—a chilly evening for Vegas.  Carlos was used to colder weather; he didn’t bother to put a jacket on before he left the condo.  On the other hand, he kept the top up and the heat on in the Mercedes.

 

The office that Nick referred to was literally that; he’d rented some space in an office/warehouse park in the southwest part of town off Blue Diamond Road.  It consisted of a suite of two rooms, the inner devoted to the technical aspects of the production.  Carlos rarely entered it; Nick kept it freezing for the sake of the server and expensive desktop units he used for editing and storage.

 

The outer room, however, was furnished for people to meet.  A sofa and four chairs, all cheap but relatively comfortable, were spread out with a couple of strategically-placed chairs.  In one corner was a desk with a monitor; this desktop was considerably cheaper than anything in the inner room but served well enough for things like bookkeeping and communication.  This was where Nick was seated when Carlos entered.

 

The slightly older stud was clearly eager; Carlos wasn’t fully in the room before Nick started talking.  “Look at this,” he said, gesturing to an email he had up on the computer screen.  “It’s a commission, and a damn good one—look at that amount!”  The young killer sat casually on the corner of the desk and leaned his buff body inwards for a better view of the monitor; he blinked in surprise and grinned when he saw the number of zeros after the dollar sign.  “Holy fuck—where’d that come from?  What do they want?”

 

“They wanna cop scene with two vics.  Busting a couple of fag whores, blackmailing them into sex and then snuffing them.  One vic is strangled, the other—well, let’s just say they’ve seen your work and they want you to get creative with a blade.”  Carlos chuckled at this news, and Nick noticed the bulge in the younger stud’s jeans swell visibly.

 

And the psycho killer said he wasn’t gay.  Nick knew better, but he was too smart to admit it.  He was also too smart to admit that this commission had been the result of his posting the video he’d secretly recorded of Carlos raping and murdering the young blond hustler.  Carlos still had no idea his brutal performance had been witnessed—by this time—by many, many others.

 

“Oh hell yeah, I’m down for wastin’ more homos,” the buff, tattooed sadist smirked.  “I take it you already got a plan.  Any good meat lined up?”

 

Nick’s face broke into a broad grin.  “Fuck yeah, man, you know it.  I already have this one framed in my head to get the right shot. I was savin’ these two for a special occasion, and if this doesn’t fit the bill, then nothing ever will.  Check these fuckin’ cunts out.”  And with that, he pulled up a video file, moving his chair aside to give Carlos a better view as he did so.

 

“This was sent to me by someone who wanted to see them snuffed,” Nick added by way of explanation, “But they couldn’t fund the project and I wasn’t gonna waste my time on it.  Now that we got a job, I’ll see how much these two fags want and offer them more.”

 

The video popped up to full screen; Carlos could feel his hog swelling even more within twenty seconds.  It showed two dudes, one obviously older than the other, fucking in the missionary position.  The older man was firm, fit, and looked like he was in his late thirties.  He had light brown hair that was starting to recede slightly in the pattern caused by an excess of testosterone; he compensated with a short goatee that was almost a dark gold in color.  His broad chest was covered with tightly curled fur and was almost—but not quite—as muscled as either Nick or Carlos.

 

The younger slut’s hair was lighter, almost blond, but was darkening in places.  His form was slim and smooth, and he looked like he was in his late teens.  He was the bottom in the sex scene; despite the way his handsome young face was twisted in the pain and pleasure of rough anal sex, there was still a noticeable resemblance between him and the older dude fucking him.

 

“This was shot a couple of years ago,” Nick said by way of explanation.  “The older dude is Ed and the younger is Johnny.  When this was shot, they were thirty-six and sixteen.  Video came with contact info, see—I’ve already talked to them.  They’re local—and they’re father and son.  Seriously.”

 

“Fuckin’ hell!” Carlos barked in surprise.  “So that’s why they look alike?  These perverted sacks a’ shit need to die like dogs!”

 

As a chilly grin spread across Nick’s face, he could feel his own cock start to stiffen.  “No shit, man; that’s the idea.  You up for puttin’ ‘em down?  I’ll take daddy and you can take son.  We’ll set it up like the cop porno and fuckin’ waste the faggots with extreme prejudice.  First, though—we gotta meet them.”

 

“What?  Why?”

“I want them to feel comfortable.  Nothing to alarm them. And we can set up the cop scenario—that’s what we’re being paid for, after all.  Let ‘em know where the shoot’s gonna be, that sorta thing.”

 

Carlos’s face showed the reluctance with which he acquiesced; it was obvious he wanted to get hold of the incestuous pair and wreak havoc on their unsuspecting male bodies right away.  “Yeah?” he demanded, “So where is it gonna be?  Gonna whack ‘em in the condo?”

 

“Naw,” Nick chuckled, “I gotta better idea than that.  Leave it to me, dude, just leave it to me…”

 


 

Four days later, on a much balmier Saturday, the long violet dusk of the desert was fading into blackness as Carlos stepped out of the bathroom in cheap but clean motel room.  Looking around the room, he could see Nick, already in costume.

 

Carlos himself was dressed as agreed; he was role-playing a motorcycle cop.  But since this was supposed to be “straight” gay porn, so to speak, he was dressed as the gay ideal of a motorcycle cop, which meant lots of black leather—tight leather pants tucked into a pair of nearly knee-high glossy motorcycle boots.  Even the utility belt and shoulder harness were leather straps, the latter worn over his broad, bare chest.  Shirtless, the winged skull tat on the ex-con’s left pec would be visible on camera, as would the fully inked sleeve on his right arm.

 

Picking up a classic black and white bike helmet from the dresser, Carlos turned to Nick.  Around his throat, the massy links of his thick gold necklace glinted in the bleak light of the bare overhead bulb.  “So?” he asked, “How do I look?”

 

Nick grinned appreciatively.  “Those homos will be beggin’ for yer shaft when they see ya in that getup,” he chuckled, “But speakin’ of shafts, I can see the one in yer boot”.  Glancing down, Carlos could see the hilt of his shank protruding from his boot.  It was a Ka-Bar Becker, a Bowie combat knife with a nine-inch blade of jet black carbon steel, customized with jagged serrations.  It was unlikely that the cocksuckers in the next room would notice it against his black leather gear, but there was no sense in taking a chance—he slid the viciously-edged weapon deeper into his boot.

 

Nick’s costume, while erotic, was slightly more conservative; a standard police uniform, complete with badge.  On the other hand, it was two sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin, the white stripe running down the outside of the legs of the slacks highlighted his bulging thighs and muscular calves as it disappeared into Nick’s tightly laced combat boots.

 

“And them?” Carlos asked, nodding at a door in the side wall.  “Are they ready?”

 

Nick’s grin grew wider and more shark-like.  “Fuck, whaddaya think?  Ain’t no way they’re ready for how bad we’re gonna fuck ‘em up.”

 

The door led to a connecting room in the cheap one-story motel Nick had found east of downtown, off the Boulder Highway—an old, run-down motor court with a defunct neon sign displaying the name Snake Eyes.  During the initial meeting, he’d given Ed some cash to rent a room there on his own—then Nick had gotten the connecting room himself under an assumed name.

 

There had been some rocky moments in the initial interview; Ed and Johnny had been somewhat hesitant about the scenario.  The rough sex wasn’t an issue, once they were told they’d be paid extra, but the cuffs were more of a concern—turned out they’d never done bondage before.  It took the offer of even more cash to get them (well, Ed, actually, like a good boy, Johnny let daddy do the talking) to agree.

 

And even then, the older pervert demanded a down payment.  Nick simmered with repressed rage as he handed five Franklins over to the well-built but slightly smaller man.  That cash was gone for good, he reflected angrily; the fucker wasn’t likely to bring it back to the shoot.

 

Once the money was settled, though, things went more smoothly for a while.  The meeting at the motel was arranged and the plot agreed to—Carlos and Nick were to bust in and find Ed and Johnny fucking; after separating and cuffing them, Carlos would fuck Johnny while Nick fucked Ed.  Surprisingly enough, Ed—who’d only appeared in the video as a top—had no problem with the thought of taking Nick’s cock up his ass, but Johnny seemed intimidated by Carlos’s massive dong; both tops had been  wearing revealingly tight jeans that day specifically to show off.

 

After a hurried, whispered conference between father and son, Ed spoke up in an embarrassed tone.  Johnny thought Carlos was hot as fuck but, had admitted, the kid had never taken a dick that size and was gonna need something to help with the pain.  It took another ten minutes of hemming and hawing for him to confess that Johnny wanted meth on the set.

 

Nick and Carlos glanced at each other.  They didn’t particularly care what the fuckmeat did to itself, but they didn’t want to be inhaling those toxic fumes themselves.  It was agreed that Johnny could smoke in the bathroom with the fan on prior to the killers entering the room.

 

And that was what was presumably happening on the other side of the connecting door right now.  Nick had a video feed from one of the cameras he’d set up previously over there streaming to his phone; the screen showed Ed utterly nude but for the thin gold chain around his neck, from which a plain cross of the same shiny metal gleamed in a nest of his chest fur.  The wiry muscles of his hairy body rippled as he paced the room, his long tool swaying as he turned.

 

The sick faggot was clearly impatient for his son to come out of the bathroom so he could fuck the slim teenager.

 

He didn’t have long to wait; the door opened suddenly and the blond kid walked out.   Unlike his dad, he wasn’t nude; he sported a pair of plain white cotton briefs that barely contained his short but incredibly thick cock and cradled his smooth bubble-butt asscheeks.  He’d left his sneakers on too, a pair of Puma Redon Moves in black.

 

There were two double beds in the room, each under the gaze of several different types of camera.  Nick hadn’t left any angles uncovered by either video or a still camera set for multiple timed shots.  As the father/son pair approached the bed on the left, Johnny’s face swam into view; even on the small screen of Nick’s phone, the kid’s twitching bloodshot eyes showed how hard the little fuck was tweaking.

 

Not that it mattered.  The adolescent homo embraced the older man; as they kissed, each obviously thrusting his tongue deep into the other’s mouth, the family resemblance became very clear.  The same deep brown eyes with long lashes, the same snub nose, dimpled chin and full, red lips—no one watching the scene could miss the fact that they were watching father and son indulging in incestuous gay sex.

 

Ed reached down and with a swift yank, jerked Johnny’s tighty whities down past his knees; they fell to the floor and Johnny stepped out of them, his fireplug-like dick popping up and smacking his abs, splattering his smooth flat belly with precum.  Panting with lust, Johnny hopped onto the bed and, rolling onto his back, spread his kicks in the air as he waited for daddy to come mount and penetrate his ass.  Ed was already there, his erect shaft probing at his teenaged son’s sphincter.  The moment daddy rammed it in, Johnny grimaced and he let out a loud moan that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

 

Smirking, Carlos looked over at Nick, who nodded back.  It was time.  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Carlos, chuckled, then put his boot to the connecting door.  Kicking it open, he drew the gun from his shoulder harness holster and burst into the other room.  “Police!” he bellowed ferociously for the camera, “Everyone freeze!”

 

Nick followed, also with a drawn handgun—the guns were real but not loaded.  After all, shooting the pansies wouldn’t have been any fun.

 

“Well, whadda we got here?” Carlos jeered.

 

“Looks like that report about faggot whores in this room was right,” Nick replied.  “C’mon, ya sick perverts, up against the wall.”

 

Ed and Johnny disentangled themselves, got out of bed and slowly back away from the “cops”, hands in the air.  “Isn’t there something we can do about this?” Ed asked, sticking to the script, “Some way we can work this out?”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos leered, “Like what?”

 

Ed looked over at Johnny.  “Go on, boy,” he said, “Show him what.”  With his father’s sanction, the firm, slim youth reached out and grabbed Carlos’s crotch, rubbing his hand over the enormous bulge in the black leather, fondling the long shaft.  The boy’s eyes widened as his fingers slid over the detail of every vein wrapped around the monster hog; daddy wasn’t this big.  Johnny was glad he’d gotten high first; he was gonna need it.

 

Ed, for his part, had reached out and started unbuttoning Nick’s tight shirt.  “Hey, I think these cocksuckers are tryin’ to bribe us.” Nick laughed, slipping his gun back into the holster dangling from his thick belt.

 

“Yeah, ya think so?” Carlos replied.  “Bribin’ a cop’s a punishable offense.  I say we punish their asses, dude; whaddaya think?”

 

“I think we need to take these faggots into custody, man, make sure they don’t try to get up to nothin’,” Nick drawled, shrugging off his black shirt.  “Turn around and put yer hands behind yer back, ya queer-ass bitch!” he barked as he spun the older man around.  Ed, fit but less powerful, was a top with his son, but the rough manhandling he was getting from the muscled stud was keeping his dick hard.

 

As Nick locked the steel cuffs around Ed’s wrists and, pressing the helpless bound man to the wall, began fondling him, Carlos turned to Johnny.  A cold grin slowly crept over his sexy, cruel face as he reached up and slid the inch-wide leather holster harness strap off his right shoulder.  “You too, boy,” he hissed at the slim, firm teen who was backing away, intimidation clearly showing in his face.  “Turn around, bitch.  You don’t wanna make me come after you.”

 

The threat implicit in the ex-con’s husky voice carried to his intended victim, if not to the kid’s father.  But the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree; the harsh authoritative tone of command managed to fill the boy with both fear and lust.  He obeyed implicitly, almost unconsciously, whimpering slightly as Carlos removed the harness completely.  Placing the revolver on the dresser, he proceeded to use the leather straps to bind the teenager’s arms like a roast trussed for the oven.

 

“There ya go, boy,” the muscular, inked stud growled, “Now get over on the bed.  We’re gonna show y’all how the law ‘round these parts handles faggots.”  He pushed Johnny towards the bed on the left; the unexpected shove knocked the youth off-balance, causing him to stumble into the wall, knocking his head on the cheap pine paneling.

 

“Hey!” Ed yelled, “You leave him alone!”  It was improvisation for the sake of the porn film—but there was a note of concern in the tone the both of the sadistic killers picked up on.  “You too, cunt,” Nick spat out, “Sit down on that bed, motherfucker!”

 

As Carlos ran his hands over the teen’s smooth, silky skin, making the adolescent moan in anticipation, Nick stood spread-legged at the foot of the other bed, facing Ed.  “Unbuckle my belt,” he commanded the well-built older man.

 

“My-my hands,” Ed stammered, “They’re still cuffed—”

 

“You stupid cocksucker,” the alpha snarled, slapping the pervert’s face, “Use yer fuckin’ mouth!”

 

Ed winced and shuddered under the blow, but his erect shaft pulsed and squeezed out a dribble of precum.  Nick chuckled.  Oh yeah, this pansy liked it rough and hard.

 

Good—he was gonna get rough and hard in abundance.

 

In the meantime, though, he had to work his mouth assiduously on the thick leather strap of Nick’s belt.  It took a while for him to get it undone.

 

Carlos, on the other hand, wasn’t into foreplay.  He’d fondled the twink enough; now he was ready to fuck.  Standing up, he undid the fly on the tight leather pants—not a zipper, but several buttons he needed to release.  As his hand worked its way down his groin, his enormous rod suddenly fell out like a toppled tree—a big, thick log crashing down.

 

Johnny’s big brown soulful eyes grew wide; both fear and lust were reflected in them as the young fag was confronted with the longest, thickest cock he’d ever seen.  The kid’s own shaft, already semi-hard and pulsing, sprang to full attention.  Carlos leered down at the adolescent and chuckled.  “Yeah, ya like that, dontcha, ya little cock pig?  Put it in yer mouth, bitch.”

 

Johnny blinked at the powerful ex-con and hesitated.  “Suck my fuckin’ dick, cunt—now!” Carlos barked loudly.  The slim youth gulped, leaned forward, and wrapped his lips around the huge oozing tube of pulsing meat.

 

As his son started to suck Carlos’s cock, Ed, still seated on the other bed, had managed to get Nick’s belt undone. Now the latter had a new task for the older man’s mouth.  Lifting his leg, he placed his thick-soled combat boot on Ed’s thigh.  “Untie it, motherfucker,” he demanded, flexing a strong bicep in front of the manwhore’s face as a show of power.  “Work it with yer mouth, slut, and hurry the fuck up, cause yer gonna do the other one too.”

 

Ed was more experienced with this kinda thing; there was no hesitation on his part as he bent his head forward and seized the woven nylon laces with his teeth.  When he jerked his head to the side to free the knot, the side of his face brushed against the boot; like his son, his tool responded to the sexual stimulus by swelling and drooling precum.

 

“Fuckin’ bootpig pervert,” Nick sneered and Ed dripped even more.

 

It only took a couple of minutes for the older man to untie both boots and little more for Nick to unlace them to the point of being able to slip out of them.  The entire time, the action was accompanied by the slurping sound of Johnny deep-throating Carlos’s shaft.

 

“Get on your back, faggot, and spread your legs,” Nick demanded, “Time for you to learn how much trouble yer in—see, cops on this beat know how to make you homos hurt.  By the time we’re done reamin’ yer fuckholes, you won’t want any other men.”

 

Ed struggled to comply, scooting himself backwards up the bed as best he could with his hands cuffed behind him.  Lying on his back was gonna hurt with the handcuff on, but he was gettin’ paid extra, so he’d deal with it.

 

On the other bed, Johnny was having a little trouble maneuvering himself, so Carlos grabbed his arm, lifted him up, and tossed him down on the bed.  The kid’s cry of pain coincided with Nick’s sudden penetration of Ed’s sphincter; the older man’s face was twisted into a grimace of discomfort.  He was gritting his teeth and trying for too hard not to cry out in pain himself to pay attention to his son’s distress.  Besides, the boy liked getting hurt.

 

“You squeal like a worthless fuckin’ pig, boy,” Carlos growled menacingly, “I like that.  Let’s see if I can make ya do it more.”  Positioning himself between Johnny’s legs on the bed, Carlos propped the punk’s Pumas up on his own shoulders and slapped the swollen purple head of his dick against the teen’s quivering pink fuckhole, splattering the smooth asscheeks with clear precum.

 

Then, without warning, he rammed his rod home, spearing Johnny’s ass; his rigid tool tore through the boy’s colon, gouging the tender rectal lining and striking the prostate as it rocketed deep into the teen’s guts.

 

The look on Johnny’s face showed Carlos he’d gone too far—he’d wanted to make the kid yell, not scream, but his innate sadism had taken over.  Quickly, he leaned forward and, clamping his large, strong hand over the punk’s mouth, squeezed it shut.  Johnny’s shriek of agony was muffled to a high-pitched squeal as tears flowed copiously from his eyes.

 

In any other situation, the noise would have been both noticeable and startling; as it was, Johnny’ father was too busy getting fucked himself to care.

 

The small room, already crowded by two double beds, a cheap dresser and a single nightstand, was swiftly filling with the sounds and scents of man-on-man sex.  Sweat and testosterone filled the air with an erotic masculine musk as two pairs of tightly entwined male bodies writhed on the beds, locked together and rutting in an excruciatingly sexual embrace.

 

Ed moaned and groaned with pleasure as Nick’s swollen shaft plunged deep into his intestines; Johnny, on the other hand, needed to be held down and muffled until his teenaged fuckhole had relaxed enough to accept Carlos’s cock.  It took more than five minutes of powerful reaming for the kid to calm down enough for the ex-con to remove his hand; the mesmeric gleaming and jingling of the thick links in the stud’s gold necklace seemed to help, somehow having a calming effect.

 

“Just shut up and take my dick,” the powerful, tattooed alpha hissed at the youth, bound and pinned helplessly under his heavy muscles.  Johnny’s true fag nature came to the fore; doing what he was told, he relaxed his ass muscle and accepted the thick tube of meat.  Closing his eyes, the teen sank back into a sensation of both pleasure and pain, sighing as he heard his father’s staccato grunting—the older man was getting pounded good.

 

Ed had been right, the cuffs were painful as hell, given that his arms were compressed behind his back by not only his own body weight but that of the well-built fucker on top of him.  But the violently intense shafting the handsome furry daddy was getting felt so erotic that he ignored both the way the metal cuffs were digging into the small of his back and the way his gold cross  pendant had slid up his hairy chest to lodge uncomfortably under his chin.  He simply spread his legs wider.

 

Ed didn’t get a chance to indulge his bottom pig side often, since Johnny was naturally an intense power bottom.  He’d forgotten how good it felt to have a real man ramming a thick cock up his ass; it’d been far too long…

 

Lost in sexual indulgence, Ed paid no attention to what was happening to his son.  The kid was doing what he loved the most, getting fucked, and that was all Ed knew.

 

So Ed never noticed when Carlos reached down and slowly withdrew the wickedly sharp blade from his boot.

 

Nick noticed; he was expecting it.  He and Carlos glanced at each other; a quick nod was all that was needed to confirm that the action was about to swing into high gear.  First, though, Nick grabbed Ed’s chin and jerked it away from the other bed.  Simultaneously, the brutal convict leaned forward and slapped his hand over Johnny’s mouth, sealing the kid’s lips so he couldn’t scream.  Then he flashed Johnny the knife.

 

The teen’s eyes grew wide with horror as he stared at nine inches of viciously-serrated steel.  “Shh,” Carlos whispered, “Quiet, motherfucker or I’ll stick this in ya.”

 

Johnny was only eighteen; he’d never come up against anything like this in his short, wasted life.  Lying helpless and bound on his back, with this sicko’s huge cock up his ass, the youth knew he was utterly trapped.  His eyes scanned up Carlos’s ripped abs, past his massive inked chest, wiry fur matted with fucksweat, up to where the thick gold links glittered in the dim light.  The blade, evil and hard, was matte black; it didn’t reflect light–a dark, cold presentiment of death.

 

Something was seriously wrong here, the teen realized—and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do to escape whatever nightmare was coming.

 

He was right.

 

Grinning maliciously, Carlos hunched down over the bound punk, so close that every frantic breath Johnny took was impregnated with mansweat and testosterone; terrified as he was, he responded instinctively to the pheromones.  As the cruel alpha slid the sharp, icy tip of the Ka-Bar blade down, the smooth, silky skin of Johnny’s chest, the boy’s thick, fireplug dick began to throb and pulse on its own, standing up and slapping Carlos’s hard belly and splattering it with precum.

 

On the other bed, Nick was driving his steel-hard shaft into Ed’s ass, keeping the older man’s face turned away from the intimidation process his son was undergoing; daddy would see what was happening to his boy soon enough, but for right now, Nick wanted to make sure Carlos had a little sadistic fun.

 

After all, he’d have his own turn later.  They’d worked out a symbiotic plan of snuff, cruelly effective, in which each would enjoy his own kill.  Carlos got to go first; Nick got to watch.

 

And when it got bad, Ed got to watch, too.

 

Though cold terror had seized his soul at the sight of the vicious blade, Johnny couldn’t quite believe that anything bad was going to happen; this was the best fuck he’d even gotten. Even Dad wasn’t this well hung, this muscled, this well-wrapped in tight black leather–the smooth slickness of which Johnny could feel as his thighs brushed against Carlos’s powerful, pumping legs.  Despite the older man’s hand gripping his mouth painfully, the boy could still smell the dark, masculine scent of the leather.

 

Carlos was enjoying himself, digging his shiny motorcycle boots into the sheets to help with traction as he thrust his massive rod into the kid.  The teen’s large dark eyes glittered with both lust and fear—the prey was right where Carlos wanted it.  “Hey, boy, ya sure seem to like gettin’ stuck with a long, hard shaft, huh?  Yeah?  So lessee how ya like gettin’ stuck with another one!”

 

Rising up over the bound, helpless teenager, the well-developed convict placed all his weight on the hand over the boy’s mouth.  By this point, his other hand had reached the level of Johnny’s smooth, flat belly, now heaving in panic.  Slowly and steadily, Carlos applied pressure, driving the razor-sharp blade into the skin several inches above the navel.

 

The knife was designed for killing; it slid into Johnny’s guts easily, like a hot knife into butter.  Despite Carlos’s weight grinding his mouth shut, the youth’s high-pitched squeal was loud enough to catch his father’s attention.  Nick let him look—it wasn’t as if he was gonna be able to help.  Like Carlos, though, he understood the need to keep his victim quiet until fucker was fully controlled.

 

Clamping down on the older man’s mouth, Nick whispered in his ear.  “Wanna watch yer boy die, motherfucker?  I sure the fuck do, so shaddap and enjoy the show.”  Ed was strong and fit, but not as strong or as fit as the younger man who was now pinning him to the bed; he kicked and jerked frantically, trying to reach his son, but it was going to take him a little time to learn how futile his struggles were.

 

For the moment, Ed was forced to lie there and take Nick’s cock up his ass while watching his boy suffer.

 

And Johnny was suffering badly.  The serrated blade sliced down through his intestines but didn’t cut any major blood vessels on the way; Carlos was inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of fatal injury.  That way he got to play with his meat longer.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude, that sure tightens yer ass up,” the sadistic ex-con jeered. “You must really be likin’ my blade.  That’s whatcha been wantin’, huh, faggot?  You been lettin’ daddy fuck ya for years, but he ain’t never hurt you good enough, huh?  Go on and tell him, cunt, tell yer fuckin’ father how much you love me guttin’ ya like fresh kill!”

 

As he took his hand from Johnny’s mouth, Carlos twisted the nine-inch blade, now fully inserted into the teen’s belly, in the wound, then yanked it back out in a single, brutal jerk.  The youth stared at the dripping knife, the small strings of flesh dangling from the serrations reflected in Johnny’s wide, glazed eyes.  His mouth was wide too, but his pain was so extreme, all that came out was a single agonized croak.  Shuddering violently, the poor kid turned to his father, appealing mutely for help—and seeing that there was none to be had.

 

Carlos, in the meantime, ran the tip of the blade down the teen’s left flank, then rammed the blade upwards under the rib cage.  This time, the length of sharpened steel slashed through the punk’s spleen and liver.  “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Johnny cried involuntarily as his body went rigid with shock.

 

“Aw hell yeah,” Carlos moaned, grinning over at Nick—and Ed.  “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout, dude!  Goddam boy pussy gets all good and tight—fuckin’ piece of fag meat!  Shit, man, hope yours jacks ya off as good as this one when ya waste it, man!”

 

Nick chuckled, easily maintaining control as Ed’s struggles and muffled cries both became more frenetic.  “It will, bro, I got it covered.  Gonna take a while to put this one down, so go ahead and work that little bitch over.  Daddy here needs some tenderizin’—he gets to watch.”

 

“Hear that?” Nick sneered into Ed’s incredulous, bewildered face, “You disgusting perverts are both gonna die tonight.  Fuckin’ incest faggots—gettin’ both you and yer boy here killed, huh?  Look on the bright side, cunt; yer both gonna die fulla manspunk—now don’t that make ya feel better?”  The older man shook his head violently, as if trying to shake the words out of his ears; as his head whipped from side to side, his gold cross lodging in the crook of his neck as his furry pecs slid across Nick’s in the same direction.  As their chest hair entwined, it was compressed and matted by a thin layer of sweat.  Even in his fear for himself and his son, Ed was suddenly aware of how painfully erect his nipples were with each scrape of his chest.

 

And his dick was still erect too—what the fuck?  Johnny was being murdered right in front of him, how the fuck could his dick be hard?  Jesus, this guy’s cock, too, it hurt so fucking bad, it filled his ass so—

 

—and then a shrill scream from Johnny redirected Ed’s attention.

 

Carlos was in a rush of bloodlust.  He knew the symptoms by now; the intense eroticism of every moan, every whimper he elicited from the meat; the utter clarity that allowed him to control the desperate youth who fought like the wounded and dying animal he was.  He could feel the excitement start to build deep in his balls, but he’d need to exercise control over both himself and his meat to cum the way he wanted.  And after all, this one was gonna be a money shot in the literal sense of the word.

 

The boy was sobbing softly, almost lost in shock, with the long Ka-Bar knife buried to its hilt in his left side.  The belly wound was bleeding internally, but he wouldn’t bleed out from that for another half hour or so.  This one in his side, though had cut that time to less than twenty minutes; Carlos was going to have to get the motherfucker to milk his cock before the little shit’s lights went out for good.

 

Good thing the kid responded to pain; he was about to endure a lot of it.

 

“Ok, you cumsuckin’ sicko,” Carlos growled, “Foreplay’s over.  You ready to earn my load?  Fuck no, you ain’t; no way no incestuous fairy like you ever gonna earn my cum—but I’m gonna make you work it outta me anyway.”

 

“Hey, asshole,” Carlos called across to Ed, “Yeah, you, motherfucker—did ya smack yer boy while fuckin’ ‘im?  Y’know, give the little cunt a good whack across the face like he deserves?  No?  Too bad, asswipe; your pervert son likes pain.  Fuck yeah, dude, that get ya off the way it gets me off?  C’mon, lessee how much pain he likes—lessee how much I have to stick him to make me cum!”

 

Still without breaking eye contact with Ed—or the timing of a single thrust of his cock—Carlos jerked the knife from Johnny’s side, whirled it expertly in the air, and slammed it back down into the kid’s chest.  The blade speared through the left pectoral, slipping between the ribs to puncture the left lung and come out Johnny’s back.  By the time the hilt was resting on the teen’s chest, the tip of the blade had sunk three inches into the mattress.

 

It was a shame the involuntary reaction was so violent; the convulsive thrashing caused the embedded blade to shred the existing chest wound.  “Fuckin’-A!” Carlos yelled as Johnny’s legs clamped tightly around his waist; the killer’s leather-clad legs pumped furiously as the stabbed teen flailed helplessly against him, his own chest hair matted into dark, wiry swirls.

 

Johnny had been held too tightly in an iron grip of pain and fear to think rationally, but this impaling thrust was driven home with an icy shaft of agony that somehow brought clarity to the tortured youth.  The teen lifted his head, his pain-twisted face streaked with tears, his short hair now dark and slick with sweat.  There was no trace left of his meth high; he strained his eyes to focus on the jingling links of Carlos’s chain dangling just in front of his face.

 

The horrible rigid metal shaft embedded in his chest was starting to overwhelm the kid; despite a minimum of outward bleeding, his chest cavity was starting to fill with blood.  The pain in his lung, his guts, his ass—it was all starting to go cold and gray.  His ears were ringing—what was happening here?  He couldn’t quite remember…daddy had been fucking him and then there were cops…what had he done?  Why was a cop raping him and killing him?

 

Daddy would know.  Johnny turned his head and saw his father being held down and viciously fucked.  Daddy was looking at him—and crying.  Why was he crying?  Johnny tried to reach out to him to no avail, then tried to speak.  “Da—urk!” the teenager grunted as a bubble of blood burst from his lips and trickled down his chin.

 

“Daddy can’t help ya now, cunt,” the buff, inked sadist sneered.  “And you still ain’t worked the spunk outta my tool yet—fuck, you’re even useless as a faggot, ain’tcha?  Ok, looks like I gotta make yer ass work.”

 

“Hey look,” he called over to Nick, “I looked this one up online.  If I do this right, I can make this boymeat convulse so hard his ass sucks my load right outta my balls—course, it’s gonna cause nightmarish pain.  But after all,” he said, turning his handsome and gleefully malevolent face back to Johnny, “That’s what yer here for, ain’t it, meat?  To suffer and die on my dick just so I can cum, right?  So get to work, ya fuckin’ homo, start drainin’ my sack!”

 

With that, he pulled the knife out of Johnny’s chest with a flourish, sending a spatter of blood across the ceiling before he swiftly reversed the blade.  Leaning forward, he placed one hand on the boy’s forehead, shoving the head back and the jaw up.  “Time to die, fag,” he hissed as he placed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh on the underside of the jaw, about two inches back from the chin—and slowly inserted it.

 

The next thirty seconds were not only Johnny’s last, they were also the most nightmarish he’d experience.  Carlos was lying flat on top of the suffering teen, the kid’s slick, smooth body writhing beneath that of the powerful convict; during the entire cruel ordeal, Johnny was aware of his helplessness under the crushing weight of his powerful killer.

 

And Johnny was aware—as gruesomely slow as the upward progress of the blade seemed to the one who was enduring it, it was still faster than death, or even unconsciousness by blood loss.  Johnny experienced every single second of pain as nine inches of sharpened steel began to penetrate his skull.

 

As the knife inched its way up, it severed the boy’s tongue near the base before slicing up through the soft palate into the sinuses.  “Fuuuuck…” Carlos moaned, glancing over at Ed and Nick, intertwined in an intense male embrace of lust and power.  “The meat’s finally gettin’ it, bro, he’s sufferin’ so fuckin’ bad…”

 

Turning back, the cruel stud spat into the punk’s gray, agonized face; the teen’s wide, pain-crazed eyes were ringed with dark circles of shock.  With a loud grunt, Carlos reapplied pressure to the knife.  Immediately he encountered resistance; wrapping one tatted bicep around the top of the kid’s head, he shoved harder and was rewarded when the blade jerked upward with a loud crunching sound.

 

The expression in Johnny’s eyes as his septum shattered and the carbon steel blade ripped through his sinuses would be difficult to describe in words, but the grasping, shuddering convulsions that wracked the teen’s body culminated in his rectum, frantically (if involuntarily) milking Carlos’s swollen cock.

 

The tight leather pants cradling the buff killer’s ass afforded little protection as the dying boy’s Puma Redons kicked and flailed; Johnny’s smooth thighs had locked around Carlos’s waist reflexively as the convict’s vein-wrapped shaft ground against the adolescent’s hormone-swelled prostate. The sense of power the sick sex murderer felt in feeling the youth’s smooth body twist and jerk in agony beneath him became more intense the closer the kid came to death.  “Fuckin’ cunt,” the sweating, tattooed stud grunted as he hunched over Johnny’s thrashing form, “That’s it.  Now yer feelin’ me, meat.  Gonna unload in yer ass real soon here, ya worthless cumdump, my balls are already startin’ to boil over—aw, fuck!  Fuck! AARRRGGH!!”

 

With a loud cry, Carlos went rigid and shot a stream of hot spunk deep into Johnny’s guts; at the same time, he clenched his biceps and shoved the knife violently.  There was a crunching sound as the serrated steel blade tore free from the boy’s sinuses and thrust up through the brain, the tip embedding itself on the inside of the cranium.

 

At that point, Johnny ceased to be Johnny.  The teenager’s eyes rolled back in his head; he no longer felt pain or terror or his last nightmarish seconds on earth. He also didn’t feel his death load, spontaneously generated by massive brain trauma.  Carlos felt it, though; the adolescent’s sweating, heaving body suddenly went rigid—and then there was no teen boy left in Carlos’s arms, just a violently convulsing piece of meat that was orgasming explosively because it didn’t know it was dead yet.  A geyser of hot sperm splashed up along the alpha’s abs, matting in his dark, wiry belly fur. A second, stronger—and longer—jet of spunk splattered on the scruff-covered underside of the killer’s jaw; thick streams of cum trailed off to smear across the winged skull inexpertly inked over Carlos’s left pec.

 

The muscular ex-con kept fucking the meat, grunting and snarling as the cumdump’s death throes worked wad after wad out of the killer’s stiff, unyielding shaft.  When he’d finally emptied his huge, puckered sack, Carlos pulled out and knelt on the bed above the still-shuddering corpse.  He reached up and yanked the knife out of the meat’s head—it took both hands and a little effort to pry it loose—and glanced over at the other bed.  Nick, riding his prey like a bronco, grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

 

“Goddam, dude, that was one fuck of a money shot,” he said, chuckling, then spat into Ed’s face; the latter was weeping with his eyes shut.  “Got me so fuckin’ amped up, I think it’s just about time to put this queer bitch down too.  Here, toss me the phone; I’ll yank the cord out.”

 

“Naw, man,” Carlos replied, “Too much work.  Here, use these.”  With that, he spun Johnny’s trembling meat over and quickly untied the intricate knot he’d used on his holster harness; the corpse continued to thrash on the edge of the bed, but didn’t fall. “Here, use this,” he said, handing over the harness.

 

Nick grabbed one of the black leather straps and help it up.  “It’ll work; thanks, bro.”

 

Carlos wanted to get a close-up of the action; there was camera mounted on a tripod on the far side of his bed—there hadn’t been enough room to pose one similarly by Nick’s bed—and he reached back to get it.  The camera slipped from his hands; Carlos had to lunge for it, knocking the tripod over behind the bed.  From this awkward position, he turned to move closer; in order to steady himself, he planted one boot directly on the back of the dead kid’s head.

 

And that was the moment Ed chose to turn his head and open his eyes.  That was the image that was seared into Ed’s brain after watching Johnny’s horrific death—his boy’s killer posed on one knee over the quivering corpse, still-dripping hog hanging out of the tight leather pants, one boot grinding his poor dead son’s head into the mattress…he’d never get to fuck that sweet young ass again…

 

Despair rose up within the older man, despair that soon turned to terror once he remembered he was still helpless in the control of two younger, stronger sex killers.  He opened his mouth—even he didn’t know if he was gonna beg or plead or just scream—but to no avail; as he did so, Nick wrapped one of the holster straps around his neck and pulled.

 

“Ready to join yer boy in a dirt nap?” the dominant sadist chuckled, twisting the inch-wide leather strap around his hands for better leverage, “Cause it’s time to die, dude; yer gonna die on my dick like a fuckin’ dog…”

 

The older faggot had been so wrought up by the sadistically cruel assault on his son that his concern for himself had been subsumed into a general sense of terror and panic; now that he’d been forced to watch Johnny being raped and tortured, the words of his tormentor meant little.

 

The fact that he couldn’t breathe, though—that was something else.  He’d loved his son, in his own sick way—but he needed to breathe.  Ed went rigid immediately, fighting for air; the secondary pain of his gold cross, caught under the strap and digging into his flesh, was but a minor annoyance at the moment.

 

“That’s it, cumsucker!” Nick crowed.  “I knew ya had some fight left in ya; you faggots are too stupid to know death when ya see it.  Well, don’t worry, cunt, it’s gonna take several minutes to choke the life outta ya; you’ll have plenty of time to learn that yer dyin’.”

 

As the crushing pain circling his throat intensified, Ed was also aware of how much harder his ass was being pumped by the younger, stronger top.  And another presence—the other one, the one who killed Johnny—he was there, shoving a camera into Ed’s face.

 

And whispering.

 

“Hey, man,” Carlos was hissing, “Yer boy died hard.  Didja like watchin’ it?  Fuckin’ hot as hell, wasn’t it?  It felt so fuckin’ good, makin’ him suffer, and now yer gonna do the same for my bro here, yeah?  And the best part is, we been recordin’ it all.  Dudes all over the world are gonna pay us so they can beat off watchin’ you and yer cocksuckin’ kid get snuffed—ain’t that sexy shit?  Smile for the camera, asswipe, give ‘em a grin before ya get offed.”

 

The older man thrashed and heaved violently on the mattress, his chest and hard, flat belly writhing against Nick’s as their body fur interlocked like a zipper.  His handsome face was growing congested as the holster strap sank deeper into his neck.  His dark eyes bulged open, forcing him to stare into the faces of the two grinning alpha killers hovering over him, two hard, muscled men taking pleasure in his pain and suffering—

 

—and he was suffering.  Nick had never stopped fucking him, but now the sadistic top was aggressively plunging his engorged tool deeper into Ed’s rectum than ever before; even this pleasure had become agony.  The metal handcuffs that kept his arms twisted excruciatingly behind his back had dug in his wrists far enough to cut off the flow of blood to his hands; they were nothing but useless, throbbing lumps.

 

But the trauma being inflicted on his throat was merely the most unendurable; not only was his esophagus slowly compacting into a mangled mass, but his own pendant—the gold cross (that he’d always secretly superstitiously believed would protect him from the evil he now knew existed beyond any doubt) was compressed so firmly into the tender flesh on the side of his neck that it was literally tearing the skin, making a trickle of blood seep onto the sheets.

 

“Ya likin’ that shit, fuckwad?” Nick taunted his older but well-developed victim.  “Yer ass is grabbin’ my cock like it wants more—fuck, man, if I’d known it took a good strong chokeout to make ya work my shaft right, I’d squeezed yer throat long before now.  Hey, bro,” he called over to Carlos, “Did he teach his fucktoy kid right or did ya have stick ‘im first to have fun?”

 

“Naw, dude,” Carlos drawled, winking and sticking his tongue out at Ed’s swelling, horror-filled face, “Stupid sack of shit acted like he’d never had a dick up his ass till I slipped my shank into his guts—an’ even then, I hadda twist the blade in ‘im before he really showed how much he liked gettin’ buttfucked.”

 

“Shit, man,” Nick snarled down at Ed, “Like father, like son.  Both of ya lousy fag fucks who need pain to teach ya how to take a real man’s hog, ain’t that right, cunt?”

 

The buff sadist pumped his tool up the dying porn star’s colon with ruthless efficiency; his biceps and triceps, already glistening with mansweat, began to bulge with the effort he put into cranking Ed’s windpipe permanently shut.

 

Ed could feel it, too, the effort Nick was expending on both his neck and his fuckhole.  The jackhammer pounding of his frantic pulse in his head was echoed in the furious reaming that his rectum was enduring; there was a fiery ball of pressure that was swelling in his chest and his face was about to burst—and then his eyes…oh fuck, he couldn’t close his eyes, the hard, handsome faces of his killers hovering over him, so close they could kiss…with a sense of despair, he realized that their jeering triumph in his death would be the last thing he’d see on earth…

 

And still they tortured him, not just physically, but mentally as well.

 

Carlos was particularly cruel; as he sneered and spit on their helpless victim, his thick cock—still hanging out of his tight leather pants, dripping with cum—began to stiffen again.  “I really got off on hurtin’ yer son, ya perverted fuck,” he whispered. “He was really cryin’ for his daddy when he died—too bad you were too busy gettin’ fucked, faggot.  Know what part’s the best?  Loadin’ him up with my seed.  It don’t matter how many times ya fucked yer little boy in the ass, he’s gonna end up takin’ a nice long dirt nap fulla my jizz, not yers, asswipe.”

 

“Goddammit,” Nick barked in intense anger, “Yer gettin’ loose, old man.  What, ya want it tighter—or ya need some more pain?  Yeah, that’s it—just like any other faggot, I’m gonna hafta hurt ya to make ya grip my shaft right.”  Twisting the ends of the strap together, the sweating, powerful killer yanked them to one side so he could hold them both in the same hand; as he did, Ed’s gold cross bent under the stress of the increased pressure, tearing an agonizing three-inch slash into the side of Ed’s throat as it did so.  Sadly for Ed, it did no further damage—he had no hope of escaping his suffering by bleeding out.

 

But even that pain was soon overtaken by new suffering.  The buff, strong—but not quite strong enough—musclebound victim hadn’t noticed the sidelong glance Nick had slipped Carlos.  Carlos, did, though, and recognized it as a hint for a close-up.  Zooming the camera in on Ed, he had a perfect angle to capture Nick balled-up fist raining blows into the bound, trapped stud’s dark, puffy face.

 

Each loud, wet smack of flesh on flesh was accompanied by a raging curse from Nick; the hulking alpha had shifted into sadistic bloodlust mode.  “Stupid fuckin’ (WHAM) sack a’ shit (WHAM), ya wanted to get paid for me to fuck ya ( WHAM WHAM WHAM); are ya gettin’ paid good enough now (WHAM?) Ya worthless goddam (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) pervert (WHAM), how old was yer kid (WHAM) when ya started fuckin’ ‘im (WHAM) ya fucking child-molestin’ homo (WHAM)?”

 

Nick paused to catch his breath; without dropping the tempo of his brutal assfuck, he pulled back a bit, still gripping the leather holster strap tightly in one hand.  The lifted the meat’s head up from the blood-spattered pillow.  Carlos leaned forward, allowing the fag’s battered and swollen face to fill the frame.  Ed had been a strikingly handsome man of thirty-seven, with his testosterone-influenced receding hairline, his honey-gold goatee and the long lashes rimming his large, dark, liquid eyes.

 

The only thing recognizable in the bloody, pulped ruin now being captured on camera was the goatee surrounding the swollen, blue lips.

 

“Fuck, dude,” Carlos panted as he looked into Ed’s violently-beaten face, “I think this meat’s nearly done.  Ya fucked it over real good, bro.”  The erotic hoarseness in his voice was underscored by the steady transparent stream oozing from his by-now fully erect dick.

 

Semi-conscious in a universe of screaming pain, some pig corner tucked into the back of Ed’s brain heard and agreed.  His own thick, vein-wreathed rod, already achingly stiff, smacking swiftly between his own and Nick’s flat, furry bellies in time to the rapid assfuck, suddenly began to splatter beads of precum everywhere.

 

“Yeah?” Nick grinned at Carlos (and the camera), his cruel sadism glinting in his eyes like a cold light.  “Think it’s time to put the fucker down?  Ya may be right, bro; I’m gettin’ kinda bored with these faggots.  Guess it’s time to dump my load and split.”

 

He shifted slightly as Carlos moved closer to the headboard and reversed the angle, looking down on the writhing, interlocked male bodies, glistening with sweat and slapping together in a swift, animalistic rhythm.

 

Nick was close to shooting his load, but he recognized that he’d brutalized the meat too much for any further mental abuse to avail.  He needed one final blow to the nervous system, quick, strong and fatally brutal, to make the faggot’s fuckhole tighten up around his cock.

 

He knew exactly what to do.  Wrapping the strap ends around the palm of his right hand, Nick placed his right hand flat on the meat’s slick, heaving (but not breathing) chest.  Lowering his face, the psychopathic sex killer glanced up at Carlos and the camera impishly through his own tousled bangs.

 

“Hey, bro,” he whispered, “Check this shit out.”

 

And then he jerked on the holster strap.  Hard.  Gritting-his-teeth hard, tendons-standing-out on his-neck hard, veins-standing-out-on-bicep hard.  At the same time, grunting with the physical strain, he shoved his other arm down on the fuckmeat’s muscled chest.  The buff older man’s face bent forward and his neck seemed to elongate.  As his face turned down, his thick, protruding tongue pushed out of his mouth, forcing a long foamy stream of drool to fall into his chest fur.

 

“That’s it, cunt, time to go bye-bye,” Nick hissed and yanked again.  There was a sickeningly loud cracking, crunching sound as the muscle-bound alpha literally tore his victim’s head off the top of his spine, crushing the esophagus and shattering three vertebrae simultaneously.

 

The impact to Ed’s nervous system was immediate.  He died instantly, his entire musculature going rigid in a heartbeat.  The muscles in his cock stiffened, forcing a violent eruption of semen from his agonizingly erect shaft.  The first load was so abrupt and intense, it actually shot between his head and Nick’s, splashing against the wall three feet above the top of the headboard—although some fallout landed in his dark blond hair.

 

At the same time, his colon and lower intestines contracted around Nick’s engorged cock; it was like a hand in a velvet glove jacking him off.  With a loud, inarticulate cry, Nick flooded the meat’s guts with boiling sperm.  He continued to twist Ed’s head around, mangling the spinal column.

 

This triggered Ed’s second deathload, a steady jet of spunk that lasted a good ten seconds straight, spewing huge pearly loads of spunk all over both his chest and that of his killer.  This load, though was interrupted by a third one, form a different source.

 

Still holding the camera, recording all the action, Carlos had shot a second wad completely hands-free.  Recorded for the paying viewers to see, his thick, creamy load squirted a flood of hot manseed over both the corpse and its killer.

 

“That’s it, bro,” Nick gasped hoarsely, “Spunk all over that fuckin’ faggot!”  Inwardly, he exulted in feeling Carlos’s hot semen splatter on his chest, but, still ejaculating uncontrollably himself, he didn’t process the emotion; he could only shudder and shoot.

 


 

Several cum-drenched minutes later, Nick and Carlos both found themselves in enough control of themselves to disengage from the bed and get themselves cleaned up.  Carlos moved first—largely because, unlike Nick, his dick wasn’t stuck in a quivering corpse.  Retreating to the bathroom to wash up, he chuckled with contemptuous amusement at Johnny’s meth pipe sitting on the top of the toilet cistern, along with a lighter and small baggie partially full of powder.  He left them alone.

 

Nick, for his part, withdrew his leaking shaft for the dead man.  He rolled Ed over and uncuffed him; when he did, the shuddering body slid limply to the floor with a thump.  Picking up his discarded cop outfit, he went back through the connecting door into the adjoining room, using that bathroom to wash off the evidence of violent sex.

 

By this time, Carlos had finished up and returned into the death room.  He gathered up his own gear, including the gun and the holster harness Nick had used to kill Ed; that took a bit of time to recover, given how deeply it was embedded in the meat’s neck.  At one point, he ground his boot into Ed’s face to hold his head down as he pried the strap out of the corpse’s crushed throat.  He carried the armful  of gear back into the other room and dumped it on the bed, only to be brought up short when Nick asked, “Where’s yer shank, bro?”

 

He couldn’t remember what he’d done with it.  He went back into the other room and began poking around on the bed; almost immediately, he noticed it tangled in the sheet on the other side of the teenager’s cooling, stiffening corpse.  It was still covered in gore, so Carlos used the cheap motel sheet to wipe it down; his actions made the bed shake slightly.  Not enough, but enough to dislodge Johnny’s body.  The dead teen rolled off the bed, landing on top of his father’s corpse.  Ed was face-up and Johnny face-down; they’d have been looking each other in the eye, had Johnny’s eyes not been rolled too far back in his head that only the whites showed from under his half-open lids.

 

Just then, Nick came back into the room.  “Aw, ain’t that sweet,” he jeered, “the faggot lovebirds united forever in death.  Let ‘em rot there.  You get the cameras on that side an’ I’ll get the ones on this side.  We should be able to clear out in about half an hour or so.”

 

Because of the layout of the room, the bodies on the floor between the beds made it difficult to reach everything on his side, which might account for what happened later.  But Nick had been right; they were gone within thirty minutes.

 


 

The bodies weren’t found for another eighteen hours; the maid who found them subsequently required psychiatric treatment, as did one of the two first responding police officers.  The other, a twenty-six year old rookie named Rog, found a camera tripod that had fallen behind one of the beds.  Even before the autopsy results revealed that both males had been raped as well as murdered, Rog had realized that someone, somewhere, had a video of what happened.

 

And despite the tremendous swell in publicity surrounding the case once DNA results revealed that the victims were father and son, Rog kept his surmises to himself, and laid his plans.

 


 

Nick was laying plans, too.  The commission was not only paid promptly, it included a sizeable gratuity—and a distribution agreement, with a percentage on the gross.

 

“Shit, bro, we’re gonna be fuckin’ millionaires,” he laughed a week later.  He and Carlos were both sitting in the office.  “I already paid the condo off.  Think I’m gonna soundproof that second bedroom.  We can have all kinda fun in there.”

 

Carlos didn’t care; Nick was giving him all the cash he needed.  He had wheels and a crib—and the opportunity to waste any fag he wanted, when he wanted…how he wanted…

 

“Cool, dude,” he drawled contentedly.  “Ya got any new hits?”

 

“I got a message yesterday, saying somthin’ might be coming.  Believe it or not, I haven’t checked email yet; I was too busy payin’ off debts.  Lessee if we got anything.”

 

Turning on the monitor, Nick fired up the PC, grinning broadly.  Part of it was the financial—and artistic, so to speak—success.  But part of it was what he’d learned about Carlos.  Straight, my ass, some cold, calculating part of his mind thought—he mighta gone into prison straight, but he came out a full-blown fag.  That might come in handy someday.

 

It took a while for the system to boot up; it took even longer for the email to come up.  Carlos had lost interest and was surfing on his phone when a loud ping echoed through the office.  Nick clicked on a couple of things, then his eyes grew wide.

 

“We got another commission,” he said quietly.  “Holy fuck, bro, come lookit this.”

Carlos Solo: A Little Time to Kill

When the light changed, Carlos eased off the brake and turned left off the Strip, heading east on Flamingo.  Even though it was past one in the morning, the crowds on Las Vegas Boulevard had diminished only slightly; it took several minutes to complete the turn while he waited for the idiots who’d decided to cross against the signal.

 

Finally the way was clear; Carlos gunned the Benz.  He’d gotten angry at the delay.  Given that he was already bored and horny, it was a lethal combination.

 

Someone was gonna die tonight.  Somewhere out there was a fag who was gonna soak up Carlos’s cum and die on his dick.

 

Nick was out of town.  He’d had a sudden offer to film a straight snuff flick in Tahoe; he’d packed his equipment in his truck and driven up yesterday.  Prior to that, though, they’d planned to go hunting this weekend.  With Nick gone, Carlos had decided not to alter his plans.

 

So here he was, heading east on Flamingo.  It was a pleasant night with the temperature in the mid-seventies, so the top was down on the bright red luxury car.  Inside, the hard-bodied convict displayed his broad, sculpted chest and flat ripped abs in a leather vest with no shirt underneath; a thick gold chain sparkled alluringly around his muscular throat.  His skin-tight black leather jeans were tucked into a pair of engineer boots.

 

And he’d found something while idly poking around the condo last night—likely left over from one of Nick’s earlier flicks.  A pair of thin leather gloves that fit Carlos’s powerful hands like a black second skin.  He was wearing them now, as his fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.

 

He turned right off Flamingo into what had been a decent middle-class neighborhood.  Now it was little more than a cluster of run-down cinderblock homes with dirt yards and questionable tenants.  There was still some activity on the street, most of it furtive and probably criminal, but Carlos couldn’t spot anything worth fucking.

 

Heading further south before turning east again, the leather-clad predator found the streets less well-lit—and less-populated.  After a couple of blocks, he no longer saw anyone at all, so he turned back towards Flamingo, fuming in frustration

 

That was when he saw the boy.

 

He had come to a stop at a stop sign.  The kid was on the sidewalk, leaning against the sign itself.  Late teens or early twenties—at the latest—the punk had a mane of sandy blond hair that came nearly to his shoulders.  Completely bare-chested, the youth wore a pair of denim shorts that stopped just above the knee.  On the feet were a shiny pair of black Adidas Originals X hightops.  Otherwise, the boy’s smooth, muscular body was as visible as meat on a butcher’s counter.

 

It seemed an odd place to find a trick, but the moment the convertible Benz came to a halt, the punk stepped off the curb and approaching the car, reached in.  “You can put it in my mouth for twenty or my ass for fifty,” he said, grabbing the enormous bulge in the crotch of Carlos’s leather jeans.

 

For a moment, the brutal sadist was actually surprised.  Prey was hunted; it didn’t just wander into the killing pit on its own—but this one had.

 

“How much for the rest of the evening?” Carlos asked, knowing that the amount the boywhore named wouldn’t matter, since he wouldn’t be in a condition to collect it anyway.

 

The rentboy’s eyes opened wide with surprised greed; he clearly hadn’t expected an offer of this magnitude.  The eyes in question were dark, dark brown, almost black, and the white were stained red as a result of drugs and/or alcohol.  “Two-fifty and you can do what ya want till morning,” the slut responded, its breath confirming the at least the alcohol part of Carlos’s estimation.  The killer chuckled inwardly—this was Vegas, for fuck’s sake; kid with a body like that coulda asked for at least double that.

 

Good.  Ain’t no one was gonna miss a cheap fucking fag whore.

 

“Get in,” Carlos said gruffly.  “I ain’t fuckin’ ya in public, cunt, I got class.  My place is a coupla miles north.”  Class had nothing to do with it; he was gonna destroy this cheap-ass hustler, and he didn’t want an audience while he worked the bitch over.

 

The rentboy obeyed, jumping into the passenger seat and buckling himself in.  As Carlos stepped on the gas, he noticed the kid sizing him up with sidelong glances.  He also noticed—he couldn’t help it, it was too obvious—that a tentpole was stretching the denim in faggot’s groin.  Little cocksucker was horny himself. Carlos headed out.

 

They were inside the condo in less than twenty minutes.  “Damn,” the meat said, looking around in awe, “This is some nice crib ya got, dawg.  Name’s Kris, by the way—Kris with a K.”

 

Carlos ignored the cunt and headed to the bedroom in silence.  He didn’t turn on the bedside lamp; instead, he opened the curtain on the picture window, allowing the bright neon of the Strip to reflect gaudily off the gold satin bedspread.

 

Kris staggered in, his booze- and meth-addled head reeling in the kaleidoscopic effect the spectacular view provided.  “Goddam,” he muttered.  His bleary eyes lit up; Carlos could almost see dollar signs in them like a cartoon character’s.  The muscle-bound sadist chuckled.  Wheeling around the kid, he locked the bedroom door behind him.  Kris was still too stunned by his surroundings to notice.

 

The boywhore was attuned enough to hear the stealthy sound of a zipper, though.  He turned and directed his entire attention on Carlos’s crotch as the tattooed stud extracted the full length of his horse-like dick from the confines of his tight leather jeans.  The glistening tube of meat fell out and slapped against the alpha’s thigh, throbbing and swelling as it bobbed in the air.

 

Kris gasped.  The whore had seen lots of cocks, but had never come across one quite this large.  Even as he watched beads of precum well up on the pulsing purple tip, he could feel his own boyjuice start to trickle from his straining, aching shaft.  Instinctively, he reached down and grabbed the bulge in his groin.  He gave his tight waist a quick jerk and his denim shorts slid to the floor.  Stepping out of them, Kris grabbed his cock and stood fondling it in nothing but his shiny black Adidas hightops.

 

“Get yer hands off yer dick, faggot!” Carlos barked.  “I bought you for the night, cunt, remember?  You’re here to serve me, got it, ya fuckin’ whore?  Now get over here; I wanna skullfuck ya!”

 

Kris staggered across the room towards Carlos.  He liked being used, and he was high enough to let anyone use him, but the combination of lust for this dominant hunk and chemical confusion led him to ignore any red flags—like the tattoos.  Despite his age—he was a couple of months shy of his twenty-first birthday, not even old enough yet to buy beer legally—he was no stranger to crime or convicts.  He knew the meaning of some of Carlos’s inks—and recognized the amateurish nature of others that indicated a prison origin.

 

It didn’t matter.  The dude had the body of a god.  And he was gonna pay him enough to stay high for three days straight, maybe more.  Maybe, if he played his cards right, this guy could become a regular customer—fuck, lookit this place, he must be fuckin’ loaded

 

“Suck my cock, faggot!” Carlos snapped, cutting through Kris’s reverie.  Before he could respond appropriately, Kris found that he couldn’t respond at all—Carlos had literally taken matters into his own hands by grabbing thick fistfuls of Kris’s hair and jerking the rentboy’s head forward until it was forced down onto the ex-con’s dick.

 

The well-used whore found his eyes watering as the massive flesh tube was thrust inexorably past his tonsils, the thick mushroom tip slipping into his esophagus on a lube of spit and precum.  The young homo was an experienced cocksucker; he knew how to control his breathing while sucking a pulsing, vein-wrapped hog down his throat—but this was manmeat of a different magnitude.

 

And Kris realized it once Carlos’s tool slid over his epiglottis and sealed of his airway.  Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all.

 

“Fuck, dude, is that all of me you can take?” Carlos sneered, “Whadda lousy cocksucker!  Shit, whore, ya gotta do a lot better than that if ya wanna get paid—now swallow my fuckin’ dick, you worthless homo slut!”

 

Kris’s hand’s reached out in from of him, looking for support, something to brace himself, as Carlos’s grip intensified and he plunged his iron-hard shaft further down the boy’s throat.  The hard-bodied alpha began to throatfuck the punk, but never drew his shaft out far enough for Kris to take a breath.

 

The helpless rentboy was too drunk and too high to fully understand what was happening; he just knew he couldn’t breathe.  His hands had finally made contact with the smooth, pumping firmness of Carlos’s leather-clad thighs, but no matter how hard he pushed back, all he seemed likely to do was tear open his scalp where the vicious sociopath still held a tight grip.

 

As the young faggot whore jerked and writhed under him, Carlos closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure.  “Choke on it, cocksucker, choke on my cock, you worthless motherfucker! That’s it, work my load out, bitch—take this one and if yer lucky, I’ll give ya another!”

 

Kris heard him.  His response was divided; his logical mind ignored the words and kept beating against those strong, thrusting thighs, wrapped in black leather, while his unconscious absorbed the full meaning, causing the slim but well-built young pansy’s own cock to swell painfully.

 

The kneeling slut could hear his pulse pounding in his head; the rapid, frenetic tempo seemed to match the speed at which the cruel, leering top was facefucking him.  His chest seemed to balloon up, swelling in agony as froth spilled from both nostrils.  Kris could feel his eyes bulge; his sight went dim and his panicked struggles slowed and became more rhythmic.

 

Just as Kris’s consciousness started to fade, the powerful convict, still holding him in an inescapable grip, began to shudder and grunt uncontrollably.  Even on the verge of asphyxia, the experience cumsucker knew an incipient orgasm; if he could only hold on a little longer…there!

 

The young faggot felt the thick, wide base of the alpha’s cock pulse as it pumped a solid stream of cum down his throat.  Kris had no choice but to swallow; he was literally just trying to stay conscious as the muscled stud unloaded a massive amount of spunk, jets of hot creamy sperm shooting into his belly as the huge shaft of manmeat continued to throb and pump.

 

Kris felt like he was drowning in cum.  His burning, heaving lungs seemed to be filling up with manseed as the brutally aggressive top emptied his massive, puckered balls.  Suddenly, the hot dude let go and Kris fell back into a huddled heap on the floor.  He gasped, choked, and coughed up an enormous wad of cum.  It dribbled down his chin as he panted and drooled, trying to regain his breath.

 

Finally, the shaken and cowed boywhore turned his paradoxically innocent face up to that of his assailant, his dark eyes wide with shock.  The well-endowed ex-con towered over him, his monstrous cock jutting out from the black leather darkness of his crotch.  Above, even in the semi-darkness, Kris could trace the amateur tattoos inked on the killer’s rippled abs and broad, sculpted chest, even under the latter’s body fur and leather vest.

 

The faint glitter of the gold chain was visible around the thick, bull-like neck.  And above that, the handsome, chiseled face—despite the trauma he’d just endured, Kris could feel his own shaft stiffen as he gazed on the john’s wiry black goatee and stared into those blue eyes, flinty with a cold rage.  The incredible stud wore a do-rag on his head; it seems to be shiny black satin.  In the back of his head, Kris wondered if this hot, scary-ass fucker was shaved like a skinhead…

 

Then the hard, cruel face broke into an open sneer.  “Don’t get comfortable, faggot,” Carlos snarled, “There’s a fuck of a lot more where that came from.  I got another load already churnin’ in my scrote, bitch.”

 

The words snapped the slut out of his reverie.  The meth he’d smoked and the Colt 45’s he’d drunk had dimmed his sense of danger, but not his sense of business.  Sadly for him, it led him to miscalculate and make a bad business decision.  He decided that there was enough demand to inflate his price.

 

“D-dude,” he coughed, still choking on Carlos’s spunk, “If yer gonna do that kinda shit—get all rough and shit—you gotta pay more.  At least four or five big ones, man.”

 

“You worthless piece of shit,” Carlos returned in an even, toneless voice.  “We had an agreement.”

 

“Yeah, and now I’m uppin’ the price, man.  I can take gettin’ used, dawg, but you gotta pay extra for that freaky chokin’ shit, see?”

 

Even in his drugged state, Kris could feel the tension in the room thicken like glue.  He half-expected the stud to explode in rage; he was somewhat disconcerted when the guy gave him a cold, shark-like grin instead.  “Sure,” the alpha replied, “I’ll go to five if ya want.”

 

There was something about his malicious chuckle that raised Kris’s hackles.  He suspected he was gonna get ripped off.  “Show me,” he said suspiciously, still sitting on the floor with his firm, buff legs curled under him.  “I wanna see yer cash, dude.  Course, if ya ain’t got it, I’ll take meth, or coke.  I mean look at this set-up—ya gotta have one of the three around here.”

 

The boywhore knew the value of his body and was trying to use it to get what he wanted.  What he got was something he feared—something he’d heard about often enough, since it was an occupational hazard.  He just never thought it’d happen to him.

 

His first clue was the flash in the older stud’s eyes; it was literally as if a light had shone momentarily.  Unfortunately for Kris, he didn’t see the glare of rage for what it was.  “So what’s it gonna be, dawg?  Cash or dope, dude, ya gotta pay up—”

 

And that was when Carlos said, again in his calm, toneless voice, “Naw, ya faggot cunt, yer the one who’s gotta pay.”  The second he finished speaking, he drove his foot forward, sinking the steel toe of his leather engineer boot deeply into the yielding, unprepared flesh of Kris’s belly.

 

“HOOOGH!!!” the boycunt cried as the swift, vicious kick forced all the air from his lungs; grabbing his midsection, the youth doubled over in agony, his sweet, innocent face twisted in pain.

 

“Fuck yeah, now yer talkin’” Carlos crowed as he stood over the shuddering, gasping youth.  “Ya like that, ya faggot cunt?  Huh?  That feel good, cocksucker?  Cause just like my load, there’s plenty more where that come from!”

 

Fighting against the physical trauma, Kris managed to inhale deeply enough to regain control of himself.  He knew now, beyond any drugged doubt, that he’d picked up a bad john.  He knew he’d let his defenses down and that his survival depended on his getting away from this psycho motherfucker as soon as possible.

 

So he bolted for the door.

 

He was already low to the ground so he lunged forward, below the grasp of the killer alpha—he hoped.  Scooting past Carlos, he grabbed the doorknobs for the double bedroom doors. He didn’t stop to notice that the hulking stud wasn’t coming after him.

 

He did notice that he couldn’t open the doors.

 

Kris jerked frantically on the doorknobs as he became aware that Carlos had finally turned and was moving towards him.  Whimpering in horror, the blond whore stopped trying to open the doors and beat on them mindlessly as death approached slowly and deliberately.

 

A strong hand gripped his shoulder and despite his hard dick, Kris was vaguely aware that he was pissing himself in terror.  The yellow fluid spurted from his erect shaft again when he felt the grip on his other shoulder.  When Carlos whispered, “Big mistake, asswipe,” a flood of urine splashed from Kris’s cock, splattering his black hightops, but before he knew what he was doing, he was flipped in the air up over Carlos’s shoulder and slammed back down flat on the floor face-down with rib-shattering violence.

 

Kris’s breath was driven from his muscled frame with a loud, agonized grunt.  As he moaned and writhed on the floor, the killer’s big black boots stepped into view.  Suddenly, Carlos squatted down.  Grabbing a fistful of long blond hair, he pulled the kid’s head back, twisting it to the side so he could look into the slut’s pale, terrified face.

 

“You wanna see how yer gonna get paid, you sack of shit?” the powerful convict hissed, his eyes narrowed into rage-filled slits.  “This is how—pain.  Yer getting paid in pain, bitch, and ya just asked for double, right?  Yeah?   Don’t worry, ya stupid homo fuck, yer gonna get paid real good.  It’s yer lucky night, cunt; I’m feelin’ generous!”

 

Carlos let go of Kris’s hair and stood back up, then, with a swift kick, slammed his boot into the weeping punk’s face and snapped a cheekbone.  The handsome blond whore squealed, grabbing at his injured face and groveling on the floor.  “Shaddup, ya worthless cockpig,” the hypersexual alpha snarled, his thick tool still erect and dripping as he bent down and jerked Kris by the hair yet again.

 

This time, he forced the trembling youth upright and up against the wall in the corner of the bedroom.  Finding himself trapped with the well-built powerful body of the vicious killer in front of him, Kris began babbling.  Tears streaked down his bruised, swelling face as he begged for his life.

 

“P-please, man, d-d-don’t do th-this,” the young, drugged whore pleaded, “Don-don’t hurt me, d-dude, oh please, oh fuck, don’t kill me I’ll do any—URK!”

 

His shrill pleas were suddenly cut off when a hand encased in a tight black leather glove closed around his throat.  Kris opened his eyes wide, just in time to see the other gloved hand, balled into a fist, drawn back then rocketing towards him with blinding speed.

 

The blow landed on Kris’s nose, smashing it with a wet, squelching sound.  The hot young slut jerked, his howl of pain managing to escape Carlos’s grip on his neck.  The vicious stud cut the cry off with another swift punch; this one caught the bitch on his jaw, snapping his mouth shut so fast and so hard that the boy bit through his bottom lip.  After that, the succession of belts and bashes to the face were brutally regular.

 

Kris was stunned, his head rocking back under the hail of blows that were slamming against it.  As blood flowed from his split lip and bruises bloomed on his young, smooth face, the whimpering cunt could just barely make out the words his assailant was hissing with malevolent glee.

 

“Enjoyin’ the pain, motherfucker?  Ya must be, ya worthless pig bottom bitch, lookit the way yer dick’s throbbin’ an’ oozin’ every time I pop ya one!  Fucking sick-ass pansy piece a’ shit, yer just lovin’ this, aintcha?  Yeah?  Ya like gettin’ put in yer place, faggot?  Ya like gettin’ shown what a useless cocksuckin’ pervert like you deserves, huh?”

 

Carlos paused, his large, muscled body heaving and slick with sweat.  Kris focused his blackened, swollen eyes on the powerfully-built alpha.  It was drawn first to the thick gold chain around the convict’s neck, glinting and highlighting the buff killer’s neck tats.  But then he shifted to Carlos’s balled fist, drawn back to shoulder level and waiting, ready to spring into action in the blink of an eye, inflicting even more agony and more damage.

 

During the tension-laden pause in the violence, Kris had time to notice that the skin-tight glove looked wet.  His already drugged and now brutalized brain didn’t have time to realize that his own blood was too dark to show on the black leather.  Then his attention was drawn back to the cold, hard masculine countenance of his killer.

 

“You wanted money,” Carlos whispered, his eyes narrowing with a piercing, ice-cold rage.  The expression would have made Kris piss himself again if anything had been left in his flaccid bladder.  “How much was it, cunt?  How much didja want me to pay?”

 

Kris blinked dazedly and moaned.  With unbelievable speed, the sadistic alpha drove his bulging, inked arm into the rentboy’s face with the force of a jackhammer; after an intense, bright-red explosion of agony, the hard-bodied young whore shuddered and coughed up a bicuspid.

 

“Answer me, you cumsucking cunt, or I’m gonna knock out yer teeth one by one, ya hear?  How much?  How much didja want, faggot?”

 

“T-t-two h-hundr-dr-dred…” Kris muttered, barely afloat in a sea of pain.  There was a slight whistling sound caused by the gap in his teeth.

 

Carlos’s face twisted in anger.  “Lyin’ homo bitch!” he snarled, slamming another right hook into the youth’s jaw.  “It was two-fifty, yeah?  That’s what ya think yer worth, you piece of shit?  You stupid cumsuckin’ motherfucker, didja really think I was so desperate to fuck your worn-out asshole that I’d spend that much for ya?”

 

He punctuated his contempt with another blow.  Kris could sense this one coming and tried to turn away but the hand of the buff sadist was gripping his neck too tightly for him to move.

 

Not that it mattered.  Carlos went low this time, delivering a devastating and excruciating gutpunch.  His gloved fist smacked into Kris smooth, flat belly; despite the kid’s firm abs, the jab sank in deeply.  The whore’s throat wasn’t closed off and the gutbash drove the air out of him in a loud, deep grunt.

 

“And now you want more, you fucking pervert?  Ya want more money cause you ain’t enough of a faggot to take my cock?  Fuck, bitch, if I’m gonna pay that much, I wanna free trial.  Ha!  Yeah, cunt, I think I’m gonna try before I buy—you gonna guarantee my satisfaction, huh?  Fuck no you ain’t, you reamed-out pansy-ass whore; ain’t no way a little queer pain pig like you gonna satisfy a real man!”

 

The well-built ex-con let go of the young rentboy’s neck; reaching up, he grabbed the punk’s mouth, the tight leather glove sealing off Kris’s mouth as Carlos’s hand clenched his jaw painfully.  “You do know what happens, dontcha, fuckwad?  You know how this is gonna end.  I’m gonna fuck ya now, and I’m gonna make it hurt—ya like that, huh, dontcha?  Fuck yeah, yer cock is all hard an’ drippin’—ha!  Holy shit—you really want this, huh?  You wanna go all the way?  Saddle up, cumslut, I’m about to make your deepest painpig desires come true!”

 

What happened next happened so quickly that Kris wasn’t even aware that it happened at all.  With one hand around Kris’s jaw, Carlos bent down and, reaching under the whoreboy’s oozing cock, grabbed his ass.  Standing back up, the muscled convict pivoted and tossed the youth onto the bed.  He was standing near the foot of the bed so that Kris landed on his left side, head toward the headboard.

 

Rolling onto his back, Kris gurgled and gasped, still trying to recover his breath.  His bruised and swollen eyes were difficult to open but when they did, he had a blurred view of the hulking form of Carlos towering over him at the foot of the bed, his amazingly sculpted torso glistening with sweat in the reflected light that also glittered on the gold chain at his throat.

 

With exaggerated slowness, the aggressive sadist slipped off his leather vest.  His massive cock dangled over Kris’s fit and nubile body, hot precum dripping onto the kid’s flesh and burning it like melted wax.  The panicked whore tried to beg, to plead for forgiveness or mercy or something—it didn’t matter—but was so terrified that nothing emerged from his trembling lips beyond a shuddering moan.

 

Stooping down, Carlos grabbed Kris’s legs and pulled them up as he climbed onto the bed so that the boy’s shiny Adidas kicks were resting on his shoulders.  Bending the rentboy double, he slapped the swollen purple head of his cock against the slut’s puckered fuckhole.

 

Then all the pain Kris had experienced faded to the intensity of love taps compared to what he had to endure—it was as if someone had suddenly and unexpectedly shoved a baseball bat up his ass without warning and without lube.  If the hot young boywhore had been able to breathe, he might have screamed; as it was, all he could do was flap his jaw and gasp like a dying fish.

 

The pain was so mind-shattering that Carlos had pumped his enormous shaft up Kris’s ass half a dozen times before the latter realized he was getting buttfucked.  While his rectum was being brutally shredded, the well-built rentboy writhed on the smooth satin bedspread and tried desperately to inhale.  He succeeded—but not for long.

 

His mistake was screaming.  Deep in his pig soul, Kris knew that it was a mistake, but he was in too much agony to control himself, and he was too terrified to try.  The whore was well aware that he was trapped, pinned helplessly under his muscle-bound rapist.

 

He was also aware of the stories that circulated among the hustler crowd—horror stories of boys who’d gone off with the wrong trick, only to be found tortured, raped and murdered when they were found at all.  He’d always listened to the tales with a sort of amused contempt, not fully believing them, and certain that he was far too smart to be caught in such a situation should it occur.

 

But tonight he’d been drunk and high and horny.  He’d mixed business and pleasure and had been too fucked up to recognize any red flags.  It was his own fault but if he could just survive this night—

 

—and then the panic bubbled over and the welling scream finally burst from Kris’s swollen, bleeding lips.

 

“Goddam, ya stupid sack a’ shit, shut the fuck up!” Carlos bark, his face twisted in rage.  He rested more of his heavy, buff body on the flailing punk, pinning the cunt to the bed with his cock.  Kris’s own swollen, throbbing cock was pressed between their two flat, firm bellies; his hightops jerked and kicked on his rapist’s shoulders  As Carlos leaned in, his hard, handsome, cruel face filling Kris’s field of vision, the boy inhaled the deep masculine scents of pheromones and mansweat.

 

“I’m sick of yer squealin’, pig,” Carlos hissed, “And it’s time for you to die anyway.  Beatin’ the fuck outta yer fag ass got me all kinda hard, bitch, huh?  Yeah, ya like that idea?  Ya like gettin’ worked over by a real man, faggot?  Fuckin-A, I think I’m blow a load here soon—ya know what that means, dontcha, ya homo cumdump?  It means I’m gonna put ya down like a fuckin’ dog—fuck, I hope this hurts.  I hope ya die in horrible fuckin’ agony, dude—it’s so goddam hot!”

 

With a quick shift of his arms, Carlos wrapped one leather-gloved hand around Kris’s neck and clamped the other over the whore’s face, sealing off his mouth and nose.  Just before his air was cut off, Kris got whiff of musky leather scent from the black glove.

 

Then he realized he was suffocating.

 

Carlos hunched down over the helpless youth, their torsos pressed together in hot sweaty mansex, fur scraping over skin on a lube of testosterone-spiked perspiration.  Kris’s battered, blackened eyes bulged in terror as the convict sneered and spit in his face.  The whore closed his eyes but couldn’t turn his head—Carlos was putting a lot of his weight on his arms; his hand was literally crushing the cunt’s nose and lips.

 

Some part of his mind, walled off from the agony of the brutal assrape, was able to discern a faint jingling sound amid the grunting of the rutting top and the noise of violent sex.  Feeling the killer’s spittle slide down his cheek, Kris opened his eyes again, catching sight of Carlos’s gold chain.  The boy knew what the jingling sound had been.  The thick chain seem to be dancing in the air with malicious glee, coming to life with each of its owner’s deep, repeated thrusts.

 

Each penetrating plunge of his killer’s cock brought searing agony to Kris’s rectum, but every part of his body was flooded with pain.  Beyond the shiny dark do-rag covering Carlos’s head, Kris could see his own hightops kicking feebly in the air; he had no idea that the slashing pain across his midsection was from being doubled-over.  Carlos’s ferocious gutpunch had torn the slut’s liver; this position was tearing it even more.  Left untreated, the injury was large enough to cause Kris to bleed to death internally with about forty-five minutes…

 

But there was other pain.  His once-adorable face had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp out of which his large brown eyes now protruded grotesquely, tiny hemorrhages popping up in the whites.  His long blond hair, dark and matted with sweat, was spread in tangles across the gold satin comforter.  And the excruciating pressure that the muscled and tattooed convict was now exerting on his already-broken nose and torn lips made him claw frantically at the killer’s hands—only to find the leather gloves so smooth and tight he was unable to catch a grip.

 

And then the pain got really bad.  It got bad because Kris had been without oxygen for almost a minute; reflexively, his body fought for survival by dumping a shitload of adrenaline into the dying rentboy’s bloodstream.  When it hit his brain, it triggered a tsunami of panic.

 

Kris was suddenly very, very aware that he was dying.

 

He jerked and kicked desperately, his hands flailing against Carlos’s rock-hard body.  One hand reached up to the sadist’s grinning face, scraping at the rough stubble on his face; the other hand, grabbing at Carlos’s chest, managed to snatch the gold chain and yank it, but the thick metal links didn’t give way.  The kid let go, reaching around to beat fruitlessly against the stud’s steel-like bicep.

 

Carlos stopped thrusting, giving his powerful thighs a break.  He didn’t need to pump any more anyway; the meat was doing the work for him now.  It was something he’d learned from Nick—at a certain point, the fuckmeat loses its shit and starts bucking like a bronco.

 

“All ya gotta do then,” Nick had said, “Is pretend like yer breakin’ a horse, ya know?  Ya gotta stay in the saddle and ride it till it tires out.  If ya work it right, you can hold the fag in that position and make it milk your cock until it’s down for good and you can let those fuckin’ hot-ass anal convulsions jack ya off…”

 

That was exactly what Carlos was doing now.  His huge, powerful arms were clamped onto Kris’s face and neck and locked like iron bars.  His monstrously engorged shaft was buried deep in the youth’s guts.  His leather-clad legs were spread wide, his engineer boots secure on the floor, giving his hunched-over posture the stability to keep the struggling rentboy pinned into place.

 

“That’s it,” he murmured quietly, barely above a whisper, “That’s it, bitch, fight it.  Keep fightin’ you useless faggot whore, keep fightin’ for yer worthless life—it ain’t gonna do you no good, but it’s doin’ me plenty good right now, cunt!  Fuck yeah, keep it up, motherfucker, yer working my tool so fuckin’ good right now—aw, fuck, dude, is that yer tongue?  I can feel it through the glove, cocksucker, yer tongue is stickin’ out!  Ya know what that means?  It means yer dyin’, asswipe, yer gonna die here and now with my hog up yer guts—ain’t that so fuckin’ hot, ya cumsuckin’ fag?”

 

Trembling on the verge of brain death, Kris heard the words and understood them but wasn’t able to process them fully through the roaring, pulsing silence that was darkening his pain-wracked existence.  Pressure was building in too many places—his head, his ass, his chest, his scrotum—that he couldn’t focus on anything.

 

His frenetic clawing had stopped; his hands were now gripping Carlos’s upper arms tightly in what could have been mistaken for the acquiescent clutch of an eager, willing bottom.  His wild thrashing slowed to a more rhythmic movement.  As silent explosions burst in his head and dimmed his vision, Kris was still aware of his painfully-erect dick.  It had been—and still was being—massaged between his flat, smooth, sweat-slick belly and Carlos’s hard, ripped, furry abs and had not stopped throbbing and oozing throughout Kris’s ordeal.

 

Carlos had noticed it too.  “You fuckin’ disgustin’ faggot pig,” he sneered, hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it into the whore’s tear-streaked face.  “You deserve this, you piece of queer shit, dontcha?  Ya know it, too, cocksucker—that’s why yer dick is hard, innit?  Fuckin’ homosexual scumbag pervert, ya know ya need to get put down like a cock-worshippin’ pig!  This is what ya needed, huh—a real man to take ya out?  You were just waiting for the right dude to come along, weren’t ya—someone man enough to treat ya like the worthless piece of garbage ya are?”

 

The sadistic killer’s cruel words faded to a ringing echo in Kris’s mind as more and more of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation.  His hands slid up Carlos’s arms and over his shoulders, past his own sporadically quivering black Adidas hightops.   As death approached swiftly, Kris’s hands clutched Carlos’s muscular back.  Jerking his arms involuntarily in his final few moments, the young boywhore held his murderer in an embrace tighter than any lover’s.

 

As a result, their faces were close together at the end.  Kris was being crushed in the grip of an icy, all-consuming darkness, but he could still feel parts of his body—and he could hear.

 

“Ok, faggot, I’m gettin’ bored with yer ass—you done worn out yer welcome, bitch.  I got shit to do; I ain’t got all night waitin’ for you to get me off.  I’m a busy man, dude, time for me to drain my load and move on.  Yer a suck-ass whore, by the way—hope ya got cash in yer wallet, cunt; you owe me for the time I’m takin’ to waste yer useless ass.  So ya ready to get this done?  I sure the fuck am, scumbag.  Die, you worthless motherfucker!”

 

It was a single swift movement that was utterly spontaneous; in the blink of an eye, Carlos had let go of Kris’s mouth, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of as much of the kid’s hair as he could.  Wrapping it around his right hand, he yanked that arm back with a might jerk that made his inked bicep bulge even more; at the same time, he threw himself down with all his weight on his left arm.

 

Kris’s head snapped forward and, with the splintering sound of shattering vertebrae, popped off the top of his spinal column.

 

The whore’s last experience in his pathetic, wasted existence, was an electrical shock that ran through his entire body, holding him momentarily in an agonized paralysis as his balls exploded and released a raging flood of semen through his rigid shaft.  His boiling deathload spewed in a solid stream of cum that lasted for a good fifteen seconds, hosing the dead slut’s belly and splattering up along Carlos’s chest.

 

Instinctively, Carlos bent his head back as a final wad shot between them, splashing against the picture window and smearing the view.  Carlos’s reaction was instinctive because he was cumming so hard himself that his eyes rolled back in his head.  His massive, well-built body bent back, rigid with extreme stress as the hulking alpha injected the dying boycunt with his load, pumping what felt like a dull quart of manseed into the dead kid’s convulsing fuckhole.

 

Carlos’s huge puckered scrote wasn’t empty, though—bending forward to send his second jet of spunk into the youth’s guts, the sadist was so lost in his bloodlust that he leaned too far forward over his victim.  His boots had good deep tread, but they could only go so far.

 

Carlos fell forward, full-length on his victim’s trembling corpse.  He ended up spewing his final wad into the dead boy with his face in the mattress, cheek-to-cheek with that of the corpse, now doubled over into a position that would be impossible for a living person.

 

And there they stayed for at least three minutes while Carlos regained control of himself.  Heaving and panting, he finally straightened up, withdrawing his still-throbbing purple cock from his victim’s ruined anus. Heading for the bathroom, he kept one hand wrapped around the head of his shaft to avoid having any cum drip onto the carpet.

 

After all, he already had enough of a problem figuring out how to clean the bedspread and take out the garbage before Nick got back; he wasn’t afraid of Nick, but he wasn’t sure how the dude who paid the bills would react to something like this, so he wanted to keep it on the DL…

 


 

Carlos didn’t watch the videos Nick made of him; his interest was in the doing, not the viewing, for which Nick was grateful.  The experienced snuff producer had known that the cameras he’d hidden in the condo—more than twenty in the bedroom itself—would come in handy with Carlos around.

 

He’d seen the video within an hour of returning from Tahoe; it was edited and posted online at a very high premium by that evening; it had returned a record profit by morning.

 

No, Nick was not angry about Carlos’s solo adventure.  Not at all.

Carlos and Nick 2: Lawyering Up

The broad expanse of the Strip, baking under an unrelenting sun, was crowded despite the heat.  Carlos had been in Vegas long enough by now not to be surprised; the Strip was always crammed full of people, day or night.  He’d asked Nick if he’d ever seen it empty; the massive stud thought for a moment.  “Once,” he’d replied.  “It was four-thirty on a Wednesday morning in February.”

 

Well, Carlos was out on it now, making his way through the masses of humanity.  He was dressed for attention, as usual—this time, in the interests of drumming up business.  He wore a tight white wifebeater that left little of his hard, inked body to the imagination.  And even that little was decreasing as sweat oiled Carlos’s sculpted torso, rendering the thin white cotton nearly transparent.

 

Below, a pair of cargo shorts covered with a camo pattern reached to just above his knees.  His calves, thick with muscles, descended into a pair of yellow workboots with thick soles and black leather at the ankles; they were loosely laced and untied.  The entire outfit displayed his overwhelmingly well-developed form to perfection and he got lots of admiring glances among the throngs of people—from both sexes.

 

Carlos had just turned the corner off Desert Inn Road, walking south.  He was on the east side of the strip, so he passed the Encore tower of the Wynn casino before he reached the main tower.  He was well aware of the sidelong glances his hard, glistening body drew.  Good—if he could lure a target, he might be able to get Nick to do another film.

 

He was living well in the condo Nick had lent him—it was a little ways back, on Paradise, with the master bedroom facing southwest towards the Strip, illuminated by the bright lights and neon that blazed all night long.  But he still needed money—the drain on his cash reserve had slowed, but it was still there—so he was out here in the heat.

 

Hunting for a fag to fuck and snuff.  Surely among all these half-dressed, perspiring males, there was someone—

 

That was when Carlos, lost in thought, bounced off someone walking the other way.

 

He paused, looking at the other dude, who was apologizing sheepishly.  The guy was no older than twenty-five, fit but not buff.  He had moderately long blond hair, a large Roman nose and deep brown eyes.  He was dressed in business casual in a long-sleeve button-down shirt with thin vertical stripes of white and blue.  The dude also wore a pair of beige slacks that weren’t extremely tight but still managed to emphasize his bubble butt.  Brown leather loafers completed the look.

 

“Sorry, man,” he was saying, a distinctive Texas drawl in his voice, “I didn’t see ya there.  No offense.  Was kinda focused on finding some fun; guess I got a little distracted.”

 

Drawing himself up to show off his ripped body, Carlos grinned sociably.  “Not a problem,” he drawled, “What kinda fun ya lookin’ for?”

 

The blond dude paused and gulped nervously.  “Well—“ he started, then paused, embarrassed.  “Well, actually, I’m lookin’ for a stud like you.”

 

Carlos’s smile broadened brilliantly.  “Yeah?  For what?”  As he spoke, he fondled the bulge growing impressively in his groin.

 

The other guy noticed.  The sight seemed to relieve him and excite him simultaneously.  “For that,” he grinned, nodding towards Carlos’s crotch.

 

Carlos’s smile deepened as his hand worked his groin, pressing down the fabric and revealing the full extent of his massive dong.  “I gotta place around the corner if you’re interested…”

 

The blond’s boyish face reddened in embarrassment.  “I-I can’t right now.  I’m here for a convention and I gotta go to a couple of seminars this afternoon.”

 

“What about later?”

 

The kid thought for a moment.  “Well, I got dinner at Gordon Ramsay over in Paris at seven with Les—he’s one of the partners and I can’t ditch on that.  But I should be done by ten.”

 

“Partners?” Carlos asked, “What do you do?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” the kid replied, as if he’d just remembered something.  “Name’s Luke—I’m an attorney.  The Civil Law Association has the Convention Center for the whole week, so the firm is payin’ for the trip.  The partners are all at the Bellagio, but us associates are all at Bally’s.”

 

“You’re a lawyer?” Carlos asked incredulously; the punk standing in front of him had a certain professional bearing, to be sure, but he looked like he was sixteen.  Even though Carlos knew he was older, he still couldn’t imagine this boy standing up in front of a judge.

 

“Yeah,” Luke responded shyly.  “Well, like I said, just an associate.  But hey, one day I could make partner.”

 

Carlos pondered for a moment—actually, a very swift moment; Luke never noticed the pause.  “You’ll be free after ten?” he asked.

 

“Yeah—well, yeah, I guess Les can blather on for a while.  Say eleven at the latest.”

 

“I can work with that,” Carlos said slowly.  “I know—I’ll come pick you up.  Outside the main entrance to Bally’s at, oh, eleven-fifteen or –twenty?”

 

Luke’s, broad, naïve face lit up with pleasure.  “Sure, dude, sure!  That works great!  Er—if you’re gonna pick me up, what car should I be looking for?”

 

The light of lust in the blond homo lawyer’s eyes brightened like a star going nova at the mention of a red Mercedes convertible.  Seeing it had a couple of different effects on Carlos.  First, he knew that he’d picked the right fairy to take the brunt of his terrible rage.  And secondly, he knew—knew for a certainty—that Nick would want to film this.

 

Only thing wrong with the setup was that he wasn’t able go full meat-grinder mode on the faggot lawyer leech right away…

 

The hate-filled ex-con took a deep breath.  Self-control, he reminded himself.  He could still have his fun, but if he did it on camera, he got paid.  A lot.  He’d learned a lot about discipline lately; he’d learned that channeling his boiling rage into icy-sharp cruelty was much more satisfying.

 

But this all passed in a fraction of a second.

 

“So how does that sound?” he asked Luke.  “Eleven-fifteen to eleven-thirty outside the main entrance?”

 

“Fuckin’-A, stud,” Luke panted, nearly drooling with lust. Carlos noticed a respectable tent pole in the punk’s khakis; little cumsucker had an impressive set of tackle himself. “But don’t park under the portico; it’s always full of cabs.  Pull over out front on Flamingo; if you got a convertible Benz with the top down, I can find you.”

 

They sized each other up for a long, long moment before parting ways.  Luke was drinking in the full splendor of dominant masculinity he’d engaged for the evening.  Carlos was appraising fresh meat.

 

Then they headed in different directions, Luke towards his seminar and Carlos to make a phone call.

 

 


 

 

At exactly a quarter past eleven, Carlos parked on Flamingo Road.  He’d driven past the portico, as requested, and managed to find a space at the curb halfway down the block.  Above him towered the bulk of the original 26-story tower, now striped horizontally in white and blue.  The building was idiosyncratic enough in that it didn’t directly face the Strip.  Considered monstrously huge when it opened in 1973, it was now dwarfed by the massive resorts surrounding it.

 

It was also famous as the site of one of the deadliest high-rise fires in history.  Of course, it wasn’t Bally’s back in late November, 1980; it was still the MGM Grand at the time.  There were still ghost stories circulating about the eighty-five people who died, but Carlos wasn’t superstitious.

 

After all, he wasted enough fags to know no one came back after they were made into meat.

 

He waited with the top down, the heat of the day still radiating from the concrete valley of Flamingo Road.  He’d showered and changed; the idea that he was getting ready for a gay date was anathema to his virulently homophobic mind—but that’s exactly what he’d done.  Going with the typical sex addict colors of black and white, he’d exchanged the sweat-soaked wifebeater for a new one.

 

He’d jammed his thickly-muscled legs into a pair of skin-tight black jeans, which were tucked into pair of heavy, thick-soled black engineer boots.  Frankly, it was a little warm for the gear—but Nick had insisted.  He’d even specified the belt, thick black leather with a row of paired grommets, designed to accept the double posts of the buckle.  Since the paired holes ran the length of the leather strap, the belt could theoretically be bucked with a circumference of about two inches.

 

Nick had been excited as fuck at the suggestion, but he had something else going on and couldn’t be at the condo until midnight at the earliest.  He’d told Carlos exactly what to wear, and given him advice on keeping the action consensual until he showed up.

 

Then, they could have some fun.

 

According to the dash clock, it was more than half-past eleven when he heard the steady tread of a pair of boots pounding on the pavement to the rear, coming closer.

 

When Luke came into view, the Texan in him came out more than just in his voice.  His figure was somewhat vague until he stepped into the bright circle of illumination cast by a street light.

 

The lean, lithe young professional had gone full cowboy; from the straw hat with the curled brim to the polished gray roper boots on his feet, he’d shown his country soul.  He sported a short-sleeve shirt in Western plaid, blue and white (oddly like the death-laden tower looming above him), with pearl-covered snaps running down the front and fastening both breast pockets.

 

He’d been meeting with a partner; he was late—the obvious explanation was that he’d changed.  However much he felt comfortable in the presence of his employer, Carlos couldn’t imagine that Luke had shown up to dinner in that pair of thin, skin-tight black leather jeans.  They screamed “faggot slut” louder than an air horn.

 

Seeing him, Carlos laughed aloud.  Oh fuck, wasting this cocksucker on video was gonna be so worth it…

 

Luke wasn’t stupid—he did have a legal degree, after all—but he was young and naïve.  Worse, he was young, naïve and horny, a state which tended to impair critical judgement in males.  His lean, lithe body pulsed with hormones that revved him to extreme physical arousal that needed immediate gratification.

 

If he’d been a little more aware of his surroundings, he’d have heard the harsh ring in Carlos’s laugh.  It held a simmering, barely-suppressed rage that found vent in a kind of ferocious glee.

 

All this was lost on the randy youth.  He could only see the sculpted, rock-hard body of the stud in the open convertible Benz.  Without any hesitation, he hopped into the passenger seat next to Carlos, making the worst—if not quite yet the last—mistake of his short life.

 

“Where we headin’?” Luke drawled.  This close, Carlos realized this kid had had a drink or two.  He wasn’t plastered, but his Texas twang was starting to get out from under him.

 

“My place,” Carlos replied, his cold grin glittering like steel.  All Luke could see was the glittering of a gold chain, the thick, heavy links in looped twice around the buff dude’s neck.

 

“Where’s that?” he asked.

 

“We’ll be there in five minutes,” Carlos responded tersely as he sped away from the curb, heading west.  When he turned left at the light, the wind whipped the straw cowboy hat right off Luke’s head; the kid’s only response was to laugh giddily.

 

Owing to a slight delay at the elevator in the condo parking garage, it took closer to seven minutes to get back.  Luke didn’t care; awash in erotic anticipation, he didn’t notice much beyond Carlos’s hard, sculpted body until they were actually inside the unit.    The living room was nice and seemed to be professionally decorated; the window faced southeast down Paradise.  There seemed to be a bedroom on the east side but the master was in the southwest corner.

 

It was the master bedroom that made Luke inquire about Carlos’s occupation; the large window opened onto the full neon panorama of the Las Vegas Strip.  “Dude,” he muttered in awe, “This view musta cost a fortune…”

 

In fact, the view had lowered the selling price; most people wanted to see the Strip from their living room and preferred to do without the garish lighting flooding the bedroom while they slept.  But Nick hadn’t been “most people”—and neither was Carlos.

 

Carlos silenced the slim blond’s questions by peeling his wifebeater off, the motion accompanied by faint jingling as the doubled gold chain was momentarily caught in the thin fabric.  Luke was transfixed, staring gape-jawed at the older man’s furred hubcap pecs.  The alpha noticed with faintly amused contempt that the youth’s tight leather jeans revealed his straining cock in more detail than the slut had likely anticipated.  Carlos could see every vein wreathing the disgusting faggot’s seven-inch shaft.

 

“C’mon, boy,” the hulking tattooed-covered hardman chuckled genially, “Lessee what ya got to work with.”

 

Luke’s hands fumbled at the snaps of his shirt; he was so excited he had to pause and take a deep breath before he could regain his coordination.  Once he did, though, a single vigorous jerk separated all the snaps at once with a ripping sound.  Luke shrugged the plaid shirt off, revealing his firm, smooth chest.

 

Nowhere near as well-developed as Carlos, Luke had the slim, boyish body of a swimmer—not thin or scrawny, but not bulging with muscles.  His torso looked smooth and silky but across his flat belly appeared a faint golden haze that darkened as it descended beneath the waist of his leather jeans.

 

For a brief moment, they stood facing each other, several feet apart; two bare-chested men in jeans and boots, one slightly older and obviously much stronger than the other.  It was the latter who broke the silence.  “Aw, c’mon, son,” Carlos drawled with a cocky grin, “Ya gotta do better than that.  Get it all off.”

 

Luke flushed with excitement, his pale skin turning red.  Sitting on the bed, he crossed his legs and slipped the gray ropers off, one after the other.  He unbuttoned his jeans—the leather clung to him so tightly he hadn’t needed a belt—and slowly slid the zipper down.  He kept his eyes on Carlos the entire time, though, as if afraid the buff stud would vanish if he looked away.

 

Luke was no virgin; his cute little bubble butt had been plowed before, but he’d stayed within his own race and body type, playing around with other twinks.  He’d always wanted to get used by a real man, though—and this tan, tatted, rough-trade alpha was nothing if not a real man.

 

Standing back up, he sinuously peeled his lower half out of the skin-tight black leather, slowly uncovering his firm smooth thighs and his long dick.  He wasn’t hung quite as well as Carlos, but seven inches was disproportionately large on his strong but lean frame.  The boy looked like he was hung like a horse.

 

And he was hard; the moment it was freed from its leather confinement, the shaft popped up erect, flinging a faint liquid spray.

 

Carlos smirked.  Little homo was oozing already.

 

As Luke sat back down on the bed to finish pulling off the leather jeans, Carlos lost some of his complacency.  He was gonna have to string this worthless sack of shit on for at least another fifteen minutes before Nick showed up.  He hoped he’d have the self-restraint not to beat the pansy cocksucker into submission before then.  There was something about the lithe blond youth with his large dark eyes and easy grin that made Carlos want to hurt him badly.

 

Well, he was gonna do that, one way or the other—but he wanted to do it now.

 

Gritting his teeth and swallowing his rage for the moment, despite its bitter taste, he undid the double-post buckle of his belt and, sliding it out of its loops, tossed it onto the dresser.  Leaving the waistband of his black jeans buttoned, he unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, it took both hands to extract his enormous tackle, still semi-soft and pliable.

 

Luke had finished undressing.  Completely nude, he stood before Carlos, once again agape in awe at the stud’s formidable physique.  Even though it wasn’t completely hard, the hulking ex-con’s cock was still larger than the blond twink’s.  That was something he hadn’t dealt with before; Luke had always been hung better than any of his little playmates.

 

The thought the he’d entered into a bout well beyond his weight class was just starting to sink in for the horny young lawyer.  But all that meant so far was erotic excitement—Luke figured he’d finally found the dude who could fuck him like he needed to be fucked and the thought had him blind with lust.

 

How completely and utterly correct he was would be driven painfully home in a very short period of time—but Carlos’s eagerness to start the driving made it seem like forever to the killer alpha.

 

“Get over here, boy,” he said evenly, “C’mere and work my nips.”

 

Luke hastened to obey.

 

Nuzzling his broad, innocent face into Carlos’s scratchy, curly chest hair, Luke found himself tracing his tongue along the lines of one of the hardman’s tattoos until it got near the right nipple, at which point he transferred his attention to the large knot of flesh, already hard.

 

As he slurped, nearly gnawing on the alpha’s hard chest, Luke’s hands reached downwards, groping blindly until they encountered Carlos’s slowly stiffening shaft.  Grasping the monstrous tube of manmeat, the eager twink began to milk it, slowly and lovingly.

 

The homophobic muscle stud grunted unconsciously in pleasure.  His mind was seething with rage against the faggot who was worshipping his body so assiduously, but his body itself was responding inevitably to the physical manipulation.  He looked at the clock on the nightstand.  Eleven fifty-three.  Goddam, Nick better get here soon…

 

Carlos balled his hands into fists, so focused on maintaining his control that he didn’t realize that the slut wasn’t getting down on his nipple anymore.  Luke was working his way down Carlos’s broad, rock-hard chest, dragging his face through the top’s rough, wiry body fur.

 

The alpha lost patience.  Luke suddenly found his head in a vise-like grip as Carlos forced the punk down on his rigid shaft, fully erect by now.  The golden-haired youth, his gullet completely plugged with cock, gagged and choked; the powerful ex-con could feel the kid’s tongue struggling along the underside of his swollen tool.

 

He wanted to hold the little shit there till he choked to death on cock.  He glanced at the clock; it was less than five minutes to midnight.  Where the fuck was Nick?

 

Again he found the strength to master his rage and, unconsciously, the lust that drove it.  It wasn’t just that he wanted to get paid—he damn sure wanted to paid—but he also liked the idea of snuffing faggots on camera.  He liked the feeling.

 

As a result of his association with Nick, the murderous muscle stud was learning self-control and discipline.  He was honing his skills as a predator, slowly but steadily becoming ever more dangerous.

 

He let go of Luke’s head.  The slim young lawyer fell back, coughing and drooling, as Carlos sat on the bed.  The alpha gave the cocksucker a count of five to recover, then spoke.

 

“Get over here, boy, and pull my boots off.”

 

Luke wiped the spittle off his chin with the back of his hand, then advanced eagerly on his hands and knees to Carlos’s feet.  The sculpted stud extended his leg, watching coldly as the lean, boyish lawyer crawled up and began caressing his harness boots.

 

Sliding his hands up the glossy black leather, Luke pulled the cuffs of Carlos’s jeans up.  Gripping each boot with one hand on the heel and one hand on the shaft (breathlessly savoring the memory of that other shaft in his mouth), the kneeling blond punk removed them, one at a time.  Setting them, almost reverently, off to one side, Luke turned back and pulled off the alpha’s calf-high white tube socks.

 

Pushing the boy back roughly, Carlos stood up.  Reaching down to his waist, just above his jutting dick, he undid the button in the jeans waistband.  “Up here, boy,” he barked, “my jeans—strip ‘em off me.”

 

Luke stood up, his long thin dong swaying and dripping.  The youth’s large brown eyes, glittering with lust, looked up into those of the buff, toned ex-con.  Misreading the cold light reflected from the killer’s icy blue eyes, he placed his hands first on Carlos’s hard washboard abs, fondling the rippled muscles, before finally grapping the jeans at the waist.

 

Sinking slowly to his knees, Luke peeled the skin-tight denim from the hulking stud, revealing a pair of thick, sinewy thighs and powerful calves.  As the jeans dropped below his knees, Carlos sat on the bed once again, moving his bare feet forward so the thick wad of blue denim could be completely removed.

 

Standing up yet again, Carlos towered over Luke.  The young attorney, who less than an hour earlier had been dining with a multimillionaire partner in his law firm, was on his knees at the feet of a nude, heavily-muscled dude who’d been convicted of killing a man.  As Luke stared yearningly at the enormous throbbing hog dangling over him, oozing precum, some part of him wondered what his co-workers and employers would think if they could see him now.  Good thing they would never know about this, he thought.

 

Suddenly, there was a rapping sound.  Luke was so sunk in his sexual reverie that Carlos had already turned and was on his way out of the room before the young blond realized what he was hearing.

 

Someone was knocking at the condo’s front door.

 

That was bad.  What was worse was that the alpha stud seemed to actually be opening it.  What the fuck was going on?

 

There was a brief murmur of voices beyond the bedroom, then the buff inked dude reappeared—and he was not alone.

 

For a moment, Luke’s heart froze—not in fear, but in desire.  The rough trade alpha was strong and sculpted, but the dude who followed him in was even larger and even more well-built.

 

He had long black hair, almost shoulder-length, with a broad, handsome face and a strong jaw; much like Carlos, the lower half of his face was covered with short dark scruffy fur.  His massive pectoral muscles, broader than hubcaps and each crowned with a nipple like tire valve, were displayed to perfection by the vest he wore; distressed patches of black leather, stitched together.  It clung tightly to his back but fell open in front, revealing his cut, toned torso.

 

Under that, the hot stranger wore jeans—not black, like Carlos’s had been, but blue; a very worn and faded blue, they had softened and worn to such a point of soft fragility that it seemed impossible that they could still cling so tightly to the stud’s strong, piston-like legs.  Under them, he sported a pair of black harness boots, the three leather straps connected by a steel ring.  He seemed to be the oldest of all three of them, but no older than in his very early thirties.

 

“Hey, man,” the tatted alpha said cheerily, “wassyername, Luke?  Luke, this is my bud Nick.  Yer gonna like Nick.”

 

Luke couldn’t help but notice the video camera in Nick’s hand.  He was horny as fuck, but he had a career to think of; he damn sure wasn’t doing anything on video.

 

“H-hey,” the blond youth stammered, “Nicetameetcha, but the camera’s gotta go—I-I can’t, man, I just can’t.”

 

Nick responded with a blinding grin as he entered the bedroom, “No problem, dude, I’ll set it down over here.”  And with that, he placed it on the dresser.

 

Luke never noticed that it was placed with the lens towards the bed.  Or that the “record” light was still on.

 

“I told my bud Nick here that I’d met a dude who wanted a real man,” Carlos drawled.  “He said he might stop by—now ya got two real men.  Think you can handle it, boy?”

 

Luke had never risen; still on the floor on his knees, he licked his lips, his eyes darting nervously between the two men.  Deep inside, he had a sense of something not being right—but then he glanced up at Nick, rubbing his hand over the huge bulge in his crotch that seemed to go halfway down his thigh, and at Carlos, sneering down at him as his engorged cock leaked precum.  He shoved the nagging suspicion away and stood up, his strong but lean body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.

 

“Yeah, man,” the young blond lawyer said cockily, “I can take whatever y’all can give.  Come at me, bro!”

 

Nick’s grin widened to shark-like proportions; he slipped out of his leather vest, letting it drop to the floor as Carlos, glowering with lustful fury, approached the punk.  His swollen shaft, already an angry shade of red, seemed to darken as his rage deepened.  He reached out and grabbed Luke by the chin and then straight-armed him back into the wall.

 

But the ex-con was using the restraint he’d learned; he was gonna trust Nick to see that he’d get the chance to show the little faggot exactly what he thought of him.  Luke hit the wall kinda hard, but nowhere near as hard as Carlos was tempted.

 

Luke’s breath was knocked out of him; the muscled stud forced his head roughly to the side so that his left cheek was pressed against the wall.  When Carlos asked Nick where he wanted to start with the bitch, the first response was from Luke; a long, shuddering moan of pleasure.

 

On the few occasions he’d actually appeared in court, Luke had come across as relatively calm and confident; few people who’d seen him in that environment would recognize the cum-hungry fuckpig locked in the powerful arms of an ex-con and greedy for more.

 

“Does he suck dick good?” Nick asked.

 

“Naw,” Carlos smirked, “Little homo could barely take my meat.”

 

“Toss him up here on the bed,” Nick replied, “I’ll ream out his windpipe.  Go ahead and plug his boycunt, see how loose the whore is.”

 

Another red flag for Luke; part of him wanted to protest, to deny he was a whore—he really wasn’t—but the warning was submerged in lust when Carlos whispered into his ear.  “Ya hear that, boy?  Ya ready to get stuffed fulla manmeat?  You better be, faggot, yer about to get more dick than even a worthless homo like you can handle!”

 

And that should have been a third signal that things weren’t right, but Luke was too sunk in an erotic haze as Carlos manhandled him onto the queen-sized bed to take notice.  He liked aggressive tops, but the homophobic verbal abuse was new and uncomfortable to him.

 

But he never had time to process the thought; suddenly, he was tossed onto the bed, landing on his hands and knees.  Before he had the chance to orient himself, he felt Carlos’s large, strong hands grab at his hips, pull him to one side—

 

—And then his ass was full of cock, more cock than he’d ever had before, more cock that he’d ever thought possible—

 

—And opening his mouth to scream in startled, searing pain, he felt his head jerked to one side by another hand, this one tightly clutching a hank of his long blond hair, and his shriek was muffled by the enormous, throbbing shaft that plugged his throat completely.

 

For the first time, Luke felt true fear.  He hurt, he hurt like fuck, and not only did these dudes not care—he had no way out.  Not that that didn’t stop him from trying.

 

He had no idea it was all being recorded.

 

The frame wasn’t quite centered on the action; the three intertwined male bodies were slightly to the right of the screen.  A pair of muscled hardmen were sexually assaulting a slim blond youth.  One of the buff studs, the one with long black hair, still sported his jeans; he was gripping the kid’s hair and skullfucking him.  The head of the other was so close-shaven he looked like a skinhead; he was balls-deep in the blond’s ass.

 

“Hey, Carlos,” the alpha in jeans said, “Where’d ya find this cocksucker?”

 

“Right out on the Strip, man,” Carlos grinned back.  “Sez his name is Luke and he’s a lawyer-ha!  Gotta hand it to ya, Nick, you were right—it’s a great place to troll for fags.  Looks like we got a hot one—hey, stop fightin’ my dick, you stupid cunt!”

 

This last was directed at the unfortunate Luke who seemed to be doing his best to resist.  He wasn’t quite on his hands and knees; Carlos’s tight grip on his hips held him in place, but his spread legs, Carlos planted between them, were kicking out behind him at random.  As the well-built ex-con plowed his fuckhole, the punk’s feet were the closest thing to the camera.  It managed to capture the way the blond boy’s toes curled with each deep thrust of the top’s massive shaft.

 

At the other end, it was clear that the one called Nick was inflicting even more trauma; while probably less physically painful than the brutal assrape he was enduring, it was clear that Luke’s more immediate concern was the hulking alpha’s gigantic cock in his mouth.  It was also clear by the blond’s darkening face that he was literally choking on it.

 

He was fighting it, though.  Luke’s slim but tightly-muscled arms flailed, his hands slapping against Nick’s rock-hard abs and thighs with all the futility of beating on marble.  The fear in his frantic, bulging eyes, streaming with tears, was obvious even at this distance from the camera.

 

Nick laughed aloud, a harsh, raucous sound.  “Fuck, Carlos, I thought ya’d found a good cocksucker.  This piece a’ shit can barely take my hog.  Whaddaya think—let him breathe or keep chokin’ the bitch?”

 

“Let him breathe, man,” Carlos said in a cold tone.  “I ain’t done with the fucker yet.”

 

And with that, Nick released his handful of long blond hair pulled his huge dick up out of Luke’s esophagus.  The firm, slender fuckboy collapsed, kinda, his ass still held in the air by Carlos’s brute force—and still getting penetrated by the buff ex-con.  Mewling in pain, he coughed and gagged, heaving up wads of foamy spittle before he managed to recover himself.

 

When he did recover, he made a move that surprised his rapists and ensured that the evening would end badly for him.  Well, it would have anyway—but he managed to make it worse.

 

Grabbing double fistfuls of the blankets and sheets at the foot of the bed, Luke jerked mightily—perhaps with more force than he’d ever used in his short life—and shot forward, pulling himself  straight off Carlos’s cock.

 

Luke propelled himself out of the left side of the camera frame, towards the bedroom door. Instantly, both Carlos and Nick lunged after their escaping prey.

 

Luke didn’t stand a chance; he never even made it to the door.

 

It didn’t happen on camera; the audience never saw Nick reach out and snag Luke by the hair again, swinging him around and hurling him directly at Carlos.  The blond punk smacked into the muscled ex-con with the force of running into a brick wall, his face smashing into the alpha’s hard pecs and stunning him.  The only effect on Carlos was to jingle his gold chain slightly.

 

The effect on Luke’s smooth nude body was obvious—and unexpected; despite his fear and confusion, his cock was erect.  It slapped against the angry top’s sculpted thigh, splattering it with inexplicable precum of which the young fucktoy was utterly unaware.

 

The ricochet bounced the dazed young attorney back into Nick; again his face impacted the firm, furry, unyielding chest of his assailant with more force than was obvious.  The fact that he was in the grip of two powerful and sadistic alpha was driven home in a rather literal manner but before he could take stock of the realization, he felt Nick’s large strong hands wrap around his upper arms…and then he was flying through the air.

 

This time, the camera captured most of the action.  Luke flashed across the frame like lightning; the impact with the headboard couldn’t be seen but it could sure be heard—a loud bang, the high, breathless squeal that comes from sudden chest compression, and then Luke flopped back into the frame.  He landed on the bed flat on his back, smooth firm legs spread wide, gasping for air—and his rod still erect and throbbing; he was dimly aware that he’d somehow seemed to lose control of it…

 

“No,” he begged weakly, “I-I can’t…don’t, please…don’t do this…”

 

“What, you led us on?” Carlos sneered.   “Yer a faggot cocktease, huh?  Get scared and run when ya see a real man?  Too fuckin’ bad, cunt, you ain’t gettin’ outta here till we’re done with ya.”

 

Luke was dazed with the surreal turn his reality had taken.  He’d just wanted a quick hard fuck with this hot alpha stud—no more than an hour of fun.  Unable to accept what was happening, he not only heard Carlos’s words but watched Nick stride to the dresser and get the camera before approaching the bed, all with a sense of disorientation.

 

Closing it all out, he focused on the first solid fact that entered his fear-locked mind—he had a symposium on contract law at half-past eight the next morning.  Summoning his best courtroom manner, he tried to become assertive.

 

Opening his clenched eyes, he spoke.  “Look, fellas, you’re both sexy as hell but I gotta—“

 

And he froze.  Both men were looming over him.  Two heavily-muscled dudes, their furry chests trickling with sweat, their physiques deepening Luke’s sense of danger; two swollen, vein-entwined dicks, oozing hot transparent precum, dripped onto his flat belly as they towered over him.  And one thing he hadn’t noticed earlier—Nick hadn’t just retrieved the camera; he’d also picked up the thick leather belt.

 

As the slim blond twink watched wide-eyed, Nick handed the belt to Carlos while he focused the camera.  “Here,” he said, the cold glee in his voice slashing through the warm air, “Do what ya do, Carlos.  Show ‘im what happens to stupid fags who try to run.”

 

Luke looked up into Carlos’s chiseled face, cheeks dark with scruff and moaned in terror; he registered a moist sensation in his crotch but didn’t realized that he’d managed to piss himself despite his hard, throbbing shaft.

 

When the buff, tatted ex-con spoke, his tone was low and erotic, almost breathless with anticipation.  “How bad can I fuck him up?” he asked.  “How much can I hurt him?”

 

Nick chuckled richly.  “Dude, ya gotta leave something to fuck.  This is just…making the homo cunt learn its place, yeah?  But I think this one’s really, really stupid—it’s gonna take a lot to teach it.  Go for it, man, fuckin-A!”

 

And with that, Carlos doubled the belt, gripping the buckle and the tip together in his right hand.  Raising his arm high, he looked down on Luke, cowering on the bed.  “Y’know, man,” he said to Nick (while staring Luke straight in the eyes), “I think yer right.  This fag’s a lawyer; it’s gonna take a lot of beatin’ to make it learn how worthless it is.”

 

The camera centered on the youth’s face.  His nearly shoulder-length blond hair was fanned out behind his head on the blanket; his face was wan and gray with shock as he stared up at the hulking alpha dangling the wide, grommeted belt over him.  Then the cruel stud leered and lunged.

 

Carlos’s rage broke like a storm.  His blow was as swift and severe as a blast of lightning; the sound echoed like a deafening clap up thunder.  Luke’s shriek of pain rose above it all.  The camera closed in on the red welt, darkening by the second that rose on the boy’s smooth pale flesh.

 

The grommet-ringed holes had done their damage; blisters were rising in neat, orderly pairs across the wailing punk’s writhing belly.

 

“What ya think of that, fag?” Nick sneered.  “Ya wanted a real man to treat ya like a slut, yeah? Then ya must be lovin’ this, you cocksucker, cause that’s exactly what yer fuckin’ gettin’!”

 

Another blow, another squeal of agony, another angry red stripe darkening the squirming youth’s skin—this one across his heaving chest.  His eyes, wide with frantic despair, flashed a signal the experienced killers could easily read.

 

Little fuck was gonna try to bolt again.  They glanced at each other, and grinned.  Piece of shit wasn’t even gonna make it off the bed this time.

 

Of course, they were right.  In the blink of an eye, the cowering, sobbing homo became a whirling mass of panic and flailing limbs; pushed to the edge of reason by the brutal whipping, he clawed at the blanket.  Managing to make it to his knees, Luke had a brief moment of hope.

 

But he was facing away from Carlos.  His hope vanished instantly in a shriek of agony when the muscular alpha slashed the thick leather strap across his smooth, vulnerable back.  At the same time, Nick’s massive paw reached out and grabbed a fistful of Luke’s long golden hair, using it as a handle to force the boy’s head back down to the bed, face down.

 

Nick leaned forward, half-kneeling on the bed.  Well, on the head.  One strong, sinewy leg, still wrapped in skin-tight denim, was planted firmly on the floor, the black engineer boot digging into the carpet.  The other was bent, the knee on Luke’s head, pinning it firmly to the mattress.

 

“Goddam,” the massive stud jeered, “You really are a stupid sack of shit, aintcha?”  He paused to frame his shot again.  He pointed the camera straight down at the shuddering youth, making sure to capture his own thick, throbbing cock.  “Think ya can get outta here without learnin’ yer lesson?”

 

Luke response was muffled in the sheet, but it was shrill and vigorous.  It became more so as Carlos resumed the beating.

 

With each blow of the belt, Luke’s tender flesh was battered and bruised, blisters rising across his back.  And with each blow, the young yuppie professional reverted to an animal, a pig squealing in pain.  Thrashing and flailing wildly, he managed to dislodge the sheets; they twisted and billowed around him, hampering his movements.

 

The fact that he broke free yet again was not only miraculous, it was unintentional.

 

Nick had shifted his weight; going slightly off balance, he let his fistful of hair go to brace his hand against the headboard.  At that moment, Luke happened to jerk backwards, an instinctive flinching from the inevitable next blow from his tormentor—and ended up slipping to the floor, dragging the wadded sheets with him.

 

As Carlos backed up, his sculpted, buff body slick with sweat, Nick popped up off the bed.  They both glared down at the twisted boy on the floor.  Carlos glanced up at Nick—and paused.  Then he spoke to Luke, awe and reverence obvious in his voice.  “Dude, you fucked up.  He toldja to take what ya got comin’—fuckin’-A, man, I think ya got more comin’ now!”

 

He’d seen the light of sexual rage in Nick’s eyes and recognized it for what it was; he acknowledged the driving force of will behind it—and determined to be worthy of it when he was on camera.

 

Nick, for his part, focused both his lens and his fury on the soft lean blond boy beneath him.  Normally cool and in control, there was something about the handsome young lawyer that triggered a rage response in the Herculean stud.  “Motherfucker,” he hissed, “Motherfuckin’ faggot cunt, yer gonna regret that…”

 

The icy tone of the threat slashed through the red haze of pain and terror clouding Luke’s mind.  He looked up at the huge alpha towering over him.  Nick’s red, swollen cock was dangling over his belly, oozing hot transparent drops.  Even in his pain and fear, the brutalized white-collar pansy was attracted to the engorged shaft of his assailant.  And while the blond boy’s stunned brain was unable to make the link between lust and violence, it was obvious that his erect tool had made it and responded enthusiastically.

 

Still clutching the camera, Nick raised his boot, hanging it over Luke’s face; the kid had just enough time to realize what was gonna happen.  “No!” he squealed, “Fuck, no, please!”

 

He wasn’t fast enough to get his arms up to block the blow.  Nick drove his foot down, his hard thigh muscles pumping like a piston as the thick black sole slammed into Luke’s face.  The camera centered on the boot, grinding into the kid’s face.  Luke wailed and writhed, his arms slapping aimlessly at Nick’s legs and his kicking feet making occasional contact with Carlos’s.

 

Holding the camera with remarkable steadiness, the hugely-developed sadist filmed himself stomping the young lawyer’s face into an unrecognizable pulp. The sound of the occasional crunch of bone as his nose or a cheekbone was broken was accompanied by a shrill shriek, but otherwise Luke was unable to either protest or plead.

 

After venting his anger on the helpless blond twink, Nick stepped back, muscular flanks heaving with exertion.  His furry chest was slick with sweat, much as Carlos’s was, after the energetic beating he’d delivered.  The scent of mansweat filled the room; acrid with testosterone and adrenaline.

 

All it needed was the aroma of mansex, and Nick knew it.  “Ok, man,” he said to Carlos, “Time to get the money shot.  Ya ready to waste this worthless piece of meat?”

 

Carlos broke out into a broad, eager grin.  “Fuck yeah, man—whaddaya want?  I’ll do ‘im however ya want!”

 

His desire was clear to Nick—and the camera.  He focused the lens on Carlos’s face before replying.  “Fuckin’ fag’s gotta die gettin’ plowed like a real man—I mean, all he’s been fucked by is other fags, huh?  So he’s gotta learn what a real man feels like as he dies.  Strangle him with yer belt, dude, choke ‘im out so he dies on yer dick!”

 

Carlos had no idea that he shuddered with pleasure at the suggestion; he simply bent down and grabbed Luke by an arm and a legs and threw him back onto the bed like a bag of garbage.  The moaning, mewling cunt landed on his back crossways on the now-bare mattress so that his ass was just on the edge at the side of the bed.  Carlos approached the bed slowly, holding the wide leather belt in one hand and his enormous, throbbing cock in the other.

 

Mustering just enough of his feeble strength, Luke raised his head.  Opening his swollen, bruised eyes, he could dimly see the muscle-bound killer approaching him—his eyes naturally attracted to the sparkle of gold from the chain around Carlos’s neck.  Despite the blurriness of his vision, the terrified faggot could see the powerful alpha with his weapons in his hands—one to fuck, and one to kill.

 

And for the first time—in spite of all the evidence, in spite of everything he’d heard; hell, in spite of everything he’d suffered—Luke finally realized that he was about to die.  He didn’t know why, but he knew how.  He didn’t know when—but he knew it would be soon.

 

But first, he was gonna get fucked.

 

Nick bent down as Carlos forced Luke’s legs apart, zooming in as the ex-con’s long, thick, pulsing cock impaled the blond twink’s ass.  The moment the huge purple mushroom tip penetrated Luke’s fuckhole, splitting the sphincter, the kid started screaming again.  The high-pitched shrieks torn from the writhing slut echoed from the wall; Carlos looked worriedly at Nick.  “Hey, man, do we need to shut him up?” he asked.

 

“No rush,” Nick drawled, “This place is pretty soundproof.”  He chuckled darkly.  “Trust me on that, dude—the meat can scream his worthless life out and ain’t no one gonna hear ‘im in here.”

 

Luke heard every word.  His response wasn’t flight or fight; he froze in terror, his screaming dulled to a deep, visceral, gasping moan.  As he lay on his back, being beaten and raped by a pair of powerful sadists, he glanced up at the ceiling and had a brief moment of clarity.

 

The ceiling, like the walls, was painted white, but Luke was seeing a rainbow of color parade across his vision.  He wasn’t delusional, he wasn’t hallucinating—not yet, at any rate; he was seeing lights reflected off the Strip.  That was when lucidity kicked in.

 

He was in Las Vegas.  He was here for a legal convention, he had an expense account, everyone had told him how much fun—and sex—he would have in Sin City…

 

That had been his reality until about forty minutes ago; now, there was no way to reconcile that to the universe of torture he currently inhabited.  The excruciating agony, the sheer cold horror he’d suffered in that time had damaged him mentally as well as physically.

 

Not that it mattered.  The terrified twink fairy had heard the words, but hadn’t experienced the reality of death; his self-centered core would deny the very possibility of his own death until it happened.

 

And both Carlos and Nick knew it.  It was time Luke knew it too.

 

“Go for it, buddy,” Nick said, shuddering with excitement, “G’wan and fuck the fag to death.  Choke ‘im out as he chokes yer chicken, man.  Show ‘im how a real man handles worthless faggot cockpigs!”

 

Carlos needed little encouraging; still convinced of his own heterosexual superiority, his shark-like grin grew as he bent down.  Grabbing a handful of long blond hair, he lifted Luke’s head and slipped the belt under his neck, then looped it over and around the front of the throat.  The punk’s eyes widened even more; his hands instinctively came up to clutch at the thick leather strap.

 

“Leave it alone, motherfucker,” Carlos snarled as he slipped back off the bed and placed himself between the kid’s legs, “or I’ll break your fingers, or arms.  Or both.”  With a shuddering gasp, Luke’s arms fell limply to his sides.

 

Not that it mattered—Carlos gave the shocked queerboy something else to occupy his mind—and his ass.  With no warning, the buff, inked ex-con lunged, ramming his thick, glistening pole in full-length in a single, powerful, agonizing thrust.  He didn’t stop feeding his vein-wrapped shaft into the shrieking pansy’s boycunt until his wiry pubes were digging at Luke’s smooth, flexing asscheeks.

 

Pulling back out just far enough to keep his massive, spear-shaped head still planted firmly in Luke’s colon, he drove home another thrust, more powerful than the last had been.  Nick recognized what was happening and backed away, panning the lens out to allow a wider view, from which it was easy to see the Carlos was literally fucking Luke further onto the bed.

 

Once he’d gotten his fuckmeat into the right position, Carlos picked up the loose ends of the belt; Luke had been too busy flailing his hands against the alpha’s rock-hard chest in a vain attempt to stop the rape to try to remove the strap.

 

Now, it was too late.  By this point, the torture, both mental and physical, had reduced Luke to a nearly catatonic state—but even so, there was still enough pig lust in him to feel his own cock, bizarrely erect throughout the entire ordeal, throb a little harder as Carlos swam into view through tear-streaked eyes.  The hulking alpha with his tatted, well-defined chest was so close, Luke could smell his mansweat, thick with hormones.  Cutting through his mental haze, the cold metallic glitter of Carlos’s gold chain and cold eyes caught Luke’s fragmented attention.

 

And then he wasn’t able to breathe anymore.

 

It wasn’t just that, though, it was the excruciating, crushing pain of a two-inch-wide leather strap compressing his neck with nightmarish force.

 

The camera captured the twink’s panic as his ruined face began to swell and darken.  As the homo punk choked, his fingers scrambled frenetically at the belt wrapped around his throat; his nails dug into the black leather—and into his own flesh.

 

Luke wasn’t aware that he was clawing his skin open; in comparison to everything else, that pain was negligible.  As bad as it had been before, this assrape was even more violent; Carlos had stopped with the long, drawn-up thrusts.  The powerful alpha, his muscled flanks and thighs slick with mansex sweat, was using the belt as a handle to hold the fuckmeat down while his strong hips pumped with the rapid speed and inexorable force of a jackhammer.  Over and above the horrible pain of strangulation, the unlucky twink had the sensation of a steam piston being driven into his rectum, churning and tearing at his tender guts as he died.

 

And his killers made sure he knew what was happening.

 

“Fuckin-A, Carlos, waste that fuckin’ faggot,” Nick said gleefully as he knelt on the bed to let the camera get a better view of Luke’s suffering.  “Make it hurt, man, make sure the worthless sack of shit knows he’s dyin’!”

 

“You heard the man, cocksucker,” Carlos sneered down into the kid’s swollen face.  “Shit, ya useless motherfucker, yer halfway there—yer eyes are buggin’ out, dude, an’ I can see blood vessels poppin’ in ‘em.  Fuck, that’s gotta hurt, huh?  Does it?  Hope yer likin’ the pain, asswipe, cause it only gets worse from here.”

 

By now the belt was sunk so far below the surface of Luke’s neck that he could no longer grasp at it; instead, the dying youth began to flail at his assailants.  As his slim, smooth legs kicked vainly at Carlos, his hands went towards Nick.  The camera caught a quick view of the pleading, imploring look on the blond’s once-handsome face before his thrashing arms forced Nick back.

 

“Goddam, you stupid motherfucker, ya just ruined a great shot!” Nick barked in anger.  Speaking to Carlos—but still looking directly into Luke’s congested face—he said, “Think the fag needs another beatdown, yeah?  Needs to be tenderized some more; it’s still too stupid to take what’s comin’ to it.”

 

Carlos chuckled.  “Here, man,” he replied, “Grab the end of the belt—here, the one in my right hand.”  Nick did so, not allowing any slack in the thick, choking strap that he and Carlos were now both pulling taut around Luke’s throat. With his right arm now free, Carlos began punching Luke in the face, driving blow after roundhouse blow into the shuddering twink’s face.  As his fist crushed the boy’s nose and knocked out another tooth (Nick’s boot had taken care of a couple already), the tempo of his pumping pelvis never slowed; while Luke was getting his face beaten in, his ass was subjected to vicious repeated penetration.

 

And he was still conscious enough to feel it.  All of it.

 

He couldn’t see very well; his eyesight was dim and occluded, but he could still make out Carlos’s looking shape.  The light glinting off the thick links of his gold chain helped define his form for the fading young lawyer; some part of him knew that Nick was off to the side with the camera, but he was visible only as an ominous dark shape.

 

With his windpipe slowly being crushed, Luke wasn’t able to smell the acrid scent of mansex flooding the room, a musky, heady scent of sweat and pheromones, adrenaline and testosterone.  He could hear, though.  He could hear his torturers’ taunts clearly, he could hear their deep breathing, ragged with rage and sexual excitement—and he could hear something else, too.  It was a wet, meaty, smacking sound that seemed to be coming from two separate sources.

 

His brain was too traumatized to realize that the sound of a hard, driving buttfuck sounded almost identical to that of a hard, driving, fag-bashing.  He was hearing every thrust of Carlos’s cock up his ass and every blow of Carlos’s fist in his face.

 

But there was a limit.  Luke was young, healthy, and despite his slim build, very strong.  That had worked against him tonight; it had lengthened the time of his suffering.  Eventually, though, he reached a point where his conscious mind could take no more; the battered, abused punk actively craved death as the most immediate way out of his torment.

 

Some part of his fading awareness was still trying to process what had happened; just a little while ago—not even an hour and a half ago—he’d been a successful young lawyer in Vegas for a convention, having dinner with a partner of the firm, networking with coworkers over drinks…

 

And now he was being raped, beaten, and strangled…all he’d wanted was a good time, a little hot mansex—what the fuck had happened?

 

It was the despairing bleat of a mind dying alone in fear and pain, far from any form of hope or comfort.

 

The camera caught it all.  Nick crept closer, his muscled body glistening in the reflected neon as a trickle of sweat ran down between his hubcap pecs into his dark, curly chest fur.

 

“Here, man, lemme get that back,” Carlos said as he finally stopped pummeling Luke’s now-unrecognizable face.  Taking the end of the belt from Nick, he continued, “Yer gonna need both hands to get this part recorded right—and anyway, I wanna off this scumshit faggot myself.”

 

As Nick relinquished the killing strap back to Carlos, he reoriented himself on the bed for the best view.  At the same time, the hulking ex-con spit into Luke’s swollen black face.  “Ya hear that, ya homo cumdump?” he snarled at Luke.  “Time to die, fuckpig.  Time to fill ya fulla cum an’ toss ya out to rot like the garbage ya are.  I’m doin’ ya an honor, you disgusting fairy; no way a queer-ass pansy like you deserves to hold my manload, but I guess it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ day, huh?  Yeah?  So die, motherfuckin’ faggot, die on my cock!”

 

He jerked the belt with all the force that his massive, bulging biceps could apply—and that was a lot.  As the thick black leather strap sank deeper and deeper into the blond cunt’s throat, it was accompanied by a series of cracking, crunching sounds.

 

As the sounds grew louder, Luke’s face grew darker.  He arched his back up instinctively as his throat was crushed; his smooth body, lubed by the film of deathsweat that was literally being squeezed out of him, pressed up against the steel-hard, unyielding firmness of Carlos’s torso, bearing down on him.

 

The young attorney would no longer have been recognized in his office; his youthful face a ruined mass of flesh.  The lower half, smeared with blood and drool, was disfigured by the thick purple tongue protruding from his split, swollen lips.  More drool bubbled out around it, creating white, foamy strands that oozed down Luke’s face.  Above, the boy’s eyes bulged grotesquely, rolled back so that only blood-streaked whites were visible.

 

His panicked flailing and thrashing had slowed as brain death began to set in; from violent random clawing, his struggles had diminished to the point that his hands seemed to be bestowing gentle caresses on his killers—one hand was stroking Carlos’s firm, strong arm while the other was rubbing the soft smooth denim on the thigh of the jeans Nick was still wearing.

 

But as his voluntary nervous system started to die off, the involuntary system kicked in.  Luke still had some vague, dim awareness left in him as his body began to tremble and shudder, signaling the onset of violent, uncontrollable convulsions.

 

Luke didn’t know this, of course, but from experience, both Nick and Carlos did.  “Oh hell yeah, this cunt’s about to blow!” Nick chortled evilly as he crouched over the two sweaty men, locked together in a primal brutal embrace of sex and death, his own erect, throbbing shaft dangling over Luke’s head and dripping precum onto the bitch’s mangled black face.

 

Luke wasn’t the only one about to blow; Carlos could feel the sperm near the boiling point in his huge, puckered scrote.  “Fuck!” he grunted, “Fuckin’ faggot whore!”  As his face pulled back into a rictus of rage, Nick realized the “straight” ex-con was on the verge of cumming; he adjusted the camera angle to get the best view.

 

The buff, inked sadist wrapped the belt around his own hands for a firmer grasp.  As he felt the explosion of spunk building at the root of his cock, he jerked back on the thick black strap was hard as he could.  And then Carlos shot his wad.

 

It was incredibly brutal.  The crunching sounds that had come from Luke’s neck before were nothing compared to the intense cracking noise as the kid’s larynx was crushed into splinters of cartilage.  There was still enough of a spark of life in the used-up faggot to respond, both to the pain of a mangled esophagus and to the sensation of boiling hot seed pumped into his guts.

 

Luke began to cum.  His thin but long dick had remained erect the entire time—by now, both Nick and Carlos were so used to this phenomenon that they didn’t pay attention to it.  After all, every one of these cumlicking deathpigs had gotten hard and shot a load as they died; why would this one be any different?

 

What was left of a (possibly) once-brilliant legal mind was dissolving into a sputtering electrochemical stew.  Nothing was left of Luke, the Texas lawyer; all that remained was an ass and a cock—an opening for seed to be pumped in and an opening for seed to be pumped out.

 

And pump out he did.  As Carlos leaned back, Nick’s camera centered on Luke’s dark, swollen shaft.  It began to pulse visibly, swiftly accelerating until the long tube of manmeat seemed to be convulsing on its own.  Suddenly, a spasm of incredible violence rocked Luke’s long, lean, helpless body.  The mangled sphincter clenched around the base of Carlos’s rod like a cockring, triggering and explosive orgasm that was matched—if not exceeded—by the fuckmeat’s own cumshots.

 

The very first load shot straight up out of the shaft, falling back to splatter over all three men on the bed; the second went to the side, spewing Nick’s chest hair with pearly sperm that also managed to smear the far right side of the camera lens—it created a blurring effect that didn’t impact the focus.

 

Carlos, grunting violently as he continued to unload his aching balls into the almost-dead meat, leaned forward to brace himself.  As he bent over his victim, another powerful jet of semen erupted from Luke’s uncontrolled shaft.  Searingly hot spunk was splattered up Carlos’s hard torso, from his ripped abs, up through his sweat-matted chest hair, all the way up to the underside of his chin, some of the pearly DNA caught in the links of his chain.

 

The fading spark of physical awareness trapped within Luke’s cold, dying brain was able to feel a new warm wetness; hot thick fluid was spurting into his face with intense pressure.  The spasming homo was too far gone to realize that Nick was shooting huge wads of cum in his black, twisted face; he could only process the physical sensation.

 

And the last sensation the slim blond twink faggot was able process was an abundance of spunk.  If he’d been able to think anymore, he might have appreciated his death, submerged in a sea of jizz.  Instead, he got one final violent convulsion that wracked his body in unimaginable agony, wringing a solid stream of boyspunk out of his shaft.  Luke, unlucky to the last, didn’t get to enjoy his complete death load; he died mid-spurt, his muscles continuing to empty his balls in mindless spasms.

 

Carlos continued to pump his shaft into the corpse for another minute or so as his huge hot load drained into the dead homo’s ass.  With a deep grunt, he pulled out and stood up.  At the same time, Nick got off the bed, too, and centered the frame on Carlos.  Taking the message, the tattooed stud posed, arms up, proudly showing his massive flexed biceps.  Grinning at the lens, he swayed his hips.  His still-hard dick swayed, the head—still oozing large pearls of jizz—dripping fluid across the floor.

 

Panning to the side, the frame focused on Luke’s corpse, used up and splayed across the bed.  The meat’s smooth, firm chest and flat belly were smeared with sweat and spunk.  His face was also a blank, congealing pool of sperm, but his swollen, livid tongue was gruesomely obvious.  His spread legs kicked randomly and his semi-hard dick throbbed feebly, but his hands were frozen, clenched in agony.

 

“Hey, dude,” Nick called out, “Your belt…”

 

“Oh yeah, thanks,” the buff alpha responded, “That cost me more’n fifty bucks; I wanna get it back.”

 

Nick got some great footage of Carlos manhandling Luke’s limp corpse.  The belt was so deeply embedded into the meat’s neck that Carlos had to hold the head down.  Suddenly, a mischievous grin crossed his face.  He was still nude, his amazingly developed body completely bare; instead of using a hand, he braced the dead faggot’s head with his foot, smashing his sole into the meat’s face and freeing up both hands to pry his belt free.

 

After, Nick shut off the camera and set it back on the dresser as Carlos went into the bathroom to clean up.  Once he came out, Nick went in, telling Carlos to get dressed—they needed to figure out what to do with the body.

 

It didn’t take Carlos any longer to slip on his jeans and engineer boots than it too Nick to wash off his cock.  And when Nick came out, Carlos had a proposition.

 


 

Somewhere near half-past two in the morning, two pairs of headlights snaked north out of Vegas, heading up I-15 towards the Valley of Fire.  Just south of the Moapa reservation, they exited, crossing over to the Great Basin highway and taking a more directly northern route into the vast desert wasteland.

 

They traveled for some time, until they pulled off the road to the east, well north of Coyote Springs, at which point it became obvious that one of the vehicles was at a distinct disadvantage going cross-country.  The vehicle in question was a convertible Mustang, top down, with Carlos at the wheel.

 

They’d secured the coordinates via GPS, which he was following as best he could.  Behind him, Nick’s heavy-duty Ford F250 had four-wheel drive and fared better.  But, of course, the ‘Stang wasn’t coming back from this trip.

 

It had been Carlos’s idea.  Luke’s nude body was on the floor of the back seat, his clothes in a wad next to him.  In the trunk were five five-gallon plastic containers full of gas.  After all, he had a car he needed to get rid of and they both had a corpse to dispose of…

 

They turned left into a dry gully, the ground on each side rising sharply as the Mustang bucketed over the narrow wash, littered with rocks as small as softballs and as large as—well, bigger than the Mustang, at any rate.  About a mile up the gully, a half-submerged boulder took out the oil pan and Carlos brought the shuddering wreck to halt.

 

Getting out, he waited till Nick, moving carefully a half-mile behind, caught up.  He’d had the hard job; his truck needed to get back out.  They’d both known the Mustang wasn’t coming back, any more than Luke was.

 

One Nick arrived, he shut off the pickup but left the headlights on, starkly illuminating the rear of the red convertible.  “This is perfect,” he said as he got out.  “So far out in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere ain’t no one gonna see the flames.  G’wan and pop the trunk; let’s get this bonfire on!”

 

The two men stood together in the warm desert air, each dressed in nothing more than jeans and big black boots, they poured twenty-four gallons of gasoline over Luke’s slim, lithe body, now battered beyond recognition and stiffening into rigor mortis while curled in a fetal positon on the rear floorboards of the ruined car.  The last gallon was used to leave a flammable trail back to a safe distance; once they’d done so, Carlos produced a lighter—he’d cut back on cigarettes, but he hadn’t quit—and applied it the gasoline-soaked dirt.

 

The flame, low and blue, streaked towards the Mustang.  There was a drawn-out, pregnant pause—and then a roar.  Not an explosion, not a big Hollywood bang to illuminate the night sky, but the deep, guttural roar of fire taking hold after finding plenty of fuel.  Luke’s funeral pyre wasn’t showy, but it burned fiercely.

 

As Nick carefully navigated his truck back to the paved road, something occurred to Carlos.  “Hey, man, you seemed to be kinda into it tonight—you sure you got enough good stuff recorded?  No offense, dude, but I got a financial stake in it too, now.”

 

Nick chuckled deeply as he hit pavement and headed back to town.  “Don’t worry, Carlos.  I got plenty of good footage; our viewers will be happy.  Trust me.”

 

And he did have the footage.  Carlos was utterly unaware of the hidden cameras Nick had planted throughout the condo, and Nick planned to keep it that way.  He’d have shots of tonight’s snuff from multiple angles; more than enough to make an underground online hit.

 


 

Later on, they were proved right about the location of the body dump.  By the time a state employee found the vehicle, what was left of Luke was a rotting chunk of carbonized meat fused to the car chassis; he was finally ID’d by his dental records some three weeks after he was reported missing.  The autopsy noted the missing teeth and broken bones of the face and concluded he’d died from extreme homicidal force, but could determine little else.

 

The VIN on the vehicle was traced to male whore who’d been raped and murdered on the east coast a couple of months earlier.  Local cops wondered about a serial killer but could make no connection between a dead rentboy on one side of the continent and a dead upstanding lawyer on the other side.

 

Like a stiffening corpse, the case soon went cold.

Convict Finale/Carlos and Nick 1

The ad was short and simple; it just said that a local film company wanted well-built actors for male-on-male videos, some wrestling involved.  It damn sure didn’t take a genius to read between the lines; at the very least, it would be soft-core porn.

 

Carlos considered it carefully.  He wasn’t out of money yet, but he was running low.  He needed some steady source of income.  He’d loved the Mustang, but the car was probably way too hot to keep; he had to buy another car.

 

And he damn sure wasn’t gonna stint himself.  He ended up spending more than half of the ten grand he’d managed to acquire on his new ride, but it was worth it.  And he’d made a potential contact.  The salesman, a friendly young man with a shaggy mop of sandy-blonde had hit on him repeatedly.  At the end of the sale, Carlos drove off with the kid’s business card in his wallet.  He was well aware that the boy had written his personal cell number on the back.

 

Maybe later.  A little time would need to pass; most of the staff had noticed him that day.  After all, he’d bought a burgundy Mercedes SL 300 convertible.  Yeah, it was a 1990 model, but it looked great.

 

He’d spent a little more money renting a 10 X 15 storage space not far from his apartment—and hidden the Mustang there.  He didn’t own it, so he couldn’t sell it, and he was worried that it was too full of evidence to abandon.  He’d deal with it later.

 

The apartment he’d rented was in North Las Vegas, an ancient two-story fourplex, built of cinderblock covered in cracked babyshit-yellow stucco.  The neighborhood made the area where he’d offed that last whore look like fuckin’ Candyland, but Carlos could take care of himself.  It was a cheap, furnished, bills paid shithole that the muscular serial killer planned to escape as soon as he could get a guaranteed source of income.

 

Which brought him back to this ad.  It’d be a start.  His “Sin City High” had evaporated in the brutal Vegas heat; there was no way he could rob and steal his way into lifestyle he wanted.  As an ex-con, convicted of felony manslaughter, his options were limited—but there were things he could do.

 

And whatever he did, nothing was gonna stop him from having fun putting down fags.  Maybe this ad was a way to do both.  Yeah, it was unlikely—but what the hell, why not?

 

The address was unfamiliar; Carlos had to look it up.  It turned out to be north of town, off I-15 near the Craig Road exit.  “Walk-in auditions today, 2-6pm.”—great.  It was almost five thirty now.  He just barely had time to make it…

 

With a vague idea of what he was in for, Carlos dressed for the part.  First on was a pair of electric blue Under Armour compression shorts that reached to mid-thigh.  They clung to Carlos’s groin so tightly that his huge package was outlined in vivid, intimidating detail.  His thick, muscled calves descended into a pair of red Air Jordans, the laces the same shade of blue as the shorts.  Above the waist, his powerful, sculpted abdomen was wrapped in a red compression t-shirt with white piping on the seams; it highlighted his well-developed chest.  The tattoos writhing on his bulging biceps could be seen below the shirt cuff; similarly, the tight neck of the shirt did not obscure the inked designs on his throat.

 

Admiring himself in the mirror, the buff killer decided he looked both menacing—and powerful enough to carry through on the menace.

 

Turned out to be a good thing, too.  The moment he stepped out his front door, he could see his car.  Parked in the paved-over yard between the house and the street; open to the sidewalk, it had evidently attracted some attention.  It was surrounded by a crowd of rowdy young cholos who were staring at it in envy and murmuring among themselves, probably about the best way to part it out.  Suddenly, one of them reached out to the driver’s door handle.

 

“Hey, vato, keep yer fuckin’ hand off my ride if ya wanna keep yer fuckin’ hand!” Carlos snapped.

 

The greaser kid took one look at Carlos’s imposing form and jumped back.  “No daño, señor, no daño!” he cried in a panicked voice as the others took the hint and rapidly backed from the car.

 

“Better not be any harm, you worthless punk, or I’ll make you pay,” the hulking psycho growled, “Now get the fuck outta my way.”

 

They scattered like startled deer.  Carlos jumped in the car and headed towards the highway.  Damn, he was gonna have to find something soon.  The Benz was a target in that hood and he couldn’t watch it all the time.  It’d be nice if this worked out…

 

The neighborhood in which he found himself after he exited the highway was an industrial park, full of large buildings of cinderblock or corrugated steel.  At least a third had large wooden billboards plastered with the words “for lease” visible somewhere on the property.   He finally found the right address, a long, low warehouse building with a small lobby section.

 

There were three vehicles in the lot; one a dark green ford F250 pickup.  Just as Carlos pulled in, a pale, freckled twink wearing nothing but shorts and a pair of skate shoes came out.  He was thin and had a couple of bruises; his expression was one of discouragement and exhaustion.  He got into a beat-up old Nissan and left.

 

Stepping out of the oven-like heat, Carlos felt the refrigerated air of the lobby wrap around his slightly sweat-soaked body.  The room was empty except for an easel with a placard reading “Auditions this way”; there was an arrow pointing to a hallway on the right.  The hallway itself was dark and lined with doors, all closed—except the fourth on the left, from which flowed a rectangle of light.

 

Carlos approached slowly and warily.  Peering around the corner, he found himself looking into a large room, possibly a conference or meeting room at one time, brightly lit by overhead fluorescents.  In the far left corner, a wrestling ring had been set up.

 

It was a basic setup, a sixteen-by-sixteen foot square ring with skirting and a canvas mat.  The turnbuckle covers were of canvas, the same color as the ropes.  On one side was a small platform for mounting and accessing the ring.

 

There were two dudes in the room.  On the far left, some folding tables had been set up.  Covered with monitors and video editing equipment, they were being operated by a large dude with long black hair; he was sitting with his back facing the door and hadn’t seen Carlos in the doorway.

 

At the very back of the room, to the right of the ring, was another folding table.  This had what looked like a makeup case, some indefinable personal effects—and a twink dressed in nothing but a pair of briefs and knee-high boots.  The boy was smaller than Carlos but still surprisingly well-built; even from across the room, Carlos could see his thick muscles.

 

The boy was bent over the table, concentrating intently on something.  Carlos approached quietly until he was close enough to hear the sniffing sounds.  Little fucker was snorting coke.  Probably thought he was too high-class for crack or meth.

 

The muscled alpha snorted in contempt.  The kid evidently heard him; visibly startled, he jumped and whirled around.  Carlos got a good look at him.

 

Young—he looked like he was in his mid to late teens.  In fact, he had the build of a high-school wrestler, smooth, fit and muscled without being stocky or over-developed.  He was wearing a pair of bright red briefs which on closer inspection turned out to be Speedos.  They left nothing to the imagination; the kid was hung like a horse—not as well as Carlos, perhaps, but damned impressive in its own right.  Or it would have been had it been hard.  On his feet were a pair traditional knee-high wrestling boots, red with white laces.

 

The kid swiftly wiped the white powder of the end of nose and sniffled, the color of his wide eyes almost impossible to discern through cocaine dilation; his pupils were huge.  His face was innocent and boyish, with a slightly snub nose.    His hair was dark brown and cut short.

 

Grinning, the boy approached, holding out his hand.  This close, Carlos could see the hard lines in his face—kid was older than his teens and had been living hard for a while.  “Heya,” the coked-up punk chirped, “here for the video shoot?  Cool.  Name’s Brody La Roc—ya mighta heard of me.  No?  Most popular escort on the Strip, man.  Hey, when we’re done, take one of my cards.  I’ll make sure ya have a good time—if you can afford it.  Ha!  Hey, Nick, ya got another one!”

 

This last was to the dark-haired dude on the other side of the ring.  The guy had been engrossed with a video monitor, evidently doing some editing.  As soon as he heard his name, he jumped up and crossed to join them.

 

Nick was huge.  He was both taller and better-built than Carlos himself—not by much, but enough for Carlos to notice.  He was simply dressed in faded jeans, well-worn but clean work boots and a dark red sleeveless t-shirt but the clothes clung so tightly to his sculpted body that there was nothing left to the imagination.  The buff Hercules greeted Carlos genially, his broad, handsome face breaking out into a blinding grin.

 

“Hey, man, you just made it!  This is gonna be the last shoot of the day.  So—what’s your name?”

 

After the preliminary introductions, they got down to business.  Nick was doing what he called a film test, but he dropped some random comments that clued Carlos in.  The individual clips would be edited together as a bonus “screen test” feature on another porn flick, probably already shot.  This was a quick-and-dirty shoot for the purpose of padding out a video.  But it paid $150 and probably wouldn’t take an hour.  And Nick held out the possibility of further work.

 

“After all, man,” he said, “I got a wide distribution network.  I do all kinda videos.  Who knows?  I might be able to find something for ya.  Let’s see what you can do.”

 

Gazing over Carlos’s well-built bulk, Nick nodded with critical approval.  “Ok, shuck off that shirt.  The shorts can stay; I like them.”  Carlos obliged, peeling off the red compression shirt and tossing it onto a folding chair off to one side.  “And the shoes.  That’s a real canvas mat; those soles will lose traction.  You wear what—eleven, eleven and a half?  Lessee here, I got some extra gear just in case…”

 

After rummaging through a heap of boxes and bags piled in the corner, Nick returned triumphantly, holding a shoebox.  “Your lucky day, man,” he chuckled, “I got these new and ain’t come across anyone big enough to wear ‘em—you’ll be the first.”

 

It was a pair of Adidas Adizero Varner wrestling kicks, black with white laces.  Carlos slipped them on, tightening the laces until the shoes wrapped around his feet like socks.  He stood up and faced Nick, now clad in nothing more than his skintight blue shorts and the black Adidas shoes.

 

This time, Nick pulled out his hand-held camera and sighted it on Carlos.  “Fuckin’ excellent, stud.  Totally hard-core rough trade; this lighting shows your tats perfectly.  Let’s get y’all in the ring.”

 

The kid—Brody—made his way up the steps to the mounting platform.  Carlos followed, with Nick bringing up the rear, carrying his camera.  Carlos glanced around as Brody bent down and slipped between the ropes.  He noticed small cameras—from a distance, they looked like GoPros—mounted on each of the corner posts, just above the topmost turnbuckles.

 

As Carlos parted the ropes and entered the ring, Brody called out, “Hey, Nick, where ya want me?  Gonna run this one like the last one?”

 

Nick paused, his dark eyes running contemplatively over both Carlos and Brody.  “No,” he said after a pause, “I don’t think you’re gonna be the top here.  Don’t get me wrong, dude, ya know I love ya, but look at this guy.  Ain’t no one gonna believe you can take him down.”

 

Brody nodded and fidgeted but didn’t speak; he was too coked up to be completely still.  Carlos, waiting to see where all this was going, stood quiet and impassive—on the outside.

 

This was a mistake.  He’d made a terrible mistake.

 

Rage had welled up within him at the first sight of the cocky boywhore; Carlos had known from that moment that he would need to maintain the utmost control just to make sure he didn’t go too far.  He wasn’t going to be able to make it; he was gonna end up fucking up this little piece of shit on video.

 

The homophobic sadist was abruptly pulled from his reverie by the sudden awareness that Nick was eyeing him keenly.  Nick spoke first, a shark-like grin flashing across his face.  “I got it—dude, what’s your name?  Carlos?  Ok, Carlos, this is the plot—it’s a battle to be the top.  Got it?  Winner gets to fuck loser, and neither of ya wanna get fucked, so it’s gonna be a real struggle.  And since you’re the first guy we’ve had in today who looks like he could take down this guy”—this with a nod towards Brody—“you’re gonna be the winner.”

 

“What happens when I win?” Carlos asked.

 

“We’ll figured that out when we get there,” Nick replied, “but let’s get some good struggling on camera first.”

 

Getting down on one knee, the buff porn producer squared his subjects on the screen.  “Ok, let’s get y’all into the center, facing each other—great!  Now start with a grapple and let’s see who gets thrown down first.”

 

Chuckling maliciously, Nick zoomed in as Carlos closed in on Brody.  The young punk feinted to the right before breaking left; he was just barely able to dodge Carlos’s lunge.  The buff, inked alpha stumbled, digging the black kicks into the mat to recover his balance.  Enraged, he whirled and faced the sniggering escort.

 

“Gotta be faster than that,” Brody smirked.  “Want some coke?  It’ll get ya movin’, stud.”

 

“Naw, bitch,” Carlos snarled, “I don’t need no help to take ya down.”

 

His massive, muscled chest heaving, the hard-bodied sadist turned away and walked to the corner.  He needed to get control of himself; he was making stupid mistakes.  This wasn’t like him.  There was something about this obnoxious little piece of shit—

 

Or was there?  Was that really what was going on?

 

As his firm, heaving torso, slightly slicked with sweat, slowed in tempo with his breathing, Carlos threw a sidelong glance at Nick and the camera in his hands.  Goddam, the thought of snuffing the fit little faggot on video made him get hard.

 

And given how tight his shorts were, it was obvious.

 

But this other dude, this Nick—there was something about him.  Some kinda vibe he was giving off…

 

As if maybe he was into that too.

 

Carlos regained control.  An evil grin crossed his handsome—a grin he made sure was visible to the camera.  “Ok, you little motherfucker, get ready.  I’m comin’ for ya.”  Slowly and carefully, he moved to the center of the ring, his muscled form crossing the canvas with the lithe grace of a jungle cat.

 

Brody hadn’t been paying much attention to anything until Carlos spoke again.  “Well, it’s about time,” he muttered petulantly as he stomped his way towards his hulking opponent.

 

In the view screen of the camera Nick was holding, it was clear that Brody, buff and fit as he was, was still outclassed by Carlos to what would be a ridiculous extent in a genuine match.  The sculpted ex-con towered over the cocky high-priced rentboy; if the latter hadn’t been high as fuck, he might have had some well-grounded fears.

 

They stood facing each other, silently, for a moment.  Brody, of course, was the first to break.  “Ok, so now fuckin’ wh—“

 

This time, Carlos lunged so fast the Brody never got the chance to finish his sentence.  Clamping his huge hands around the kid’s thick biceps, he pivoted and hurled the punk across the ring with no warning whatsoever.

 

With a loud, inarticulate cry, the boywhore struck the padded ropes and was flung down to the mat, flat on his back.  As he lay there desperately gasping with the wind knocked out of him, he turned his head to the side.  Carlos’s tight black Adidas shoes suddenly swam into his vision; before he was able to catch his breath, he was flying through the air again.

 

He hit the ropes again, but this time it was closer to the corner post where there was less give.  It was a violent impact that left him face down on the canvas, wondering what the fuck had happened.  Before he could figure it out, though, something even worse happened.

 

Stunned by the swiftness of the assault, Brody was unable to protest when Carlos’s powerful arm, knotted with muscles, wrapped around his neck.  Once it tightened up, he tried frantically to protest, but by then it was too late.

 

Nick inched forward into the ring, closing in on the scene.  It was fantastic—Carlos was sitting on the canvas, his thick legs spread out directly in front of him.  Between them, practically sitting on his lap, was Brody, his face darkening as Carlos applied pressure to the sleeper hold he’d locked on the boy’s throat.

 

“Ya like that, ya little faggot?” Carlos jeered in a loud tone.  “What, ya think you can stand up to a real man, you piece a’ shit, huh?”  As he spoke, the aggressive alpha made sure his eyes made direct contact with the camera lens—and then with Nick.

 

Yeah, it was there.  The light of a predator.  This guy wouldn’t care if he wasted this worthless fairy right now.  As for the video—

 

Carlos decided to see how far Nick would go.

 

With a grunt, he jerked his powerful arms, tightening the hold even more.  Brody, with a purple, swollen face and bulging eyes filled with fear, clawed helplessly at the empty air in front of him.

 

His smooth, muscled legs, pinned between Carlos’s, began to kick and thrash, the heels of the red wrestling boots beating a desperate drumbeat that echoed hollowly on the canvas mat.

 

Carlos knew his own cock was stiffening and would be instantly visible one he stood up, but he was interested to see a bulge developing in Nick’s groin as well.  He was even more interested to see how long it took for Nick to break it off—he got a good thirty seconds of chokeout footage before he spoke up.

 

“Ok, man, cut—that’s enough for now,” he said, powering down the camera.  Carlos kept the pressure up.  Nick noticed after a particularly loud gagging sound from Brody.

 

“Hey, hey, hey!” he protested.  “C’mon, dude, time out.”  Carlos relented, letting Brody fall limply to one side, teetering on the edge of consciousness.  The punk gasped and coughed as his assailant climbed to his feet.  With a concerned look on his face, Nick approached the kid.

 

Kneeling down, he gave the boy a bit to stop coughing and gagging before pulling his chin towards him and smiled down into his fear- and tear-streaked face.  “Hey, man, you ok?  Sorry about that, I’ll go have a talk with him.  Go do another coupla lines; you’ll feel better—and I’ll give ya an extra three hundred if we finish this one, ok?  Ya good with that?”

 

Snuffling, the subdued rentboy nodded sulkily and slowly pulled himself up with the ropes, casting a baleful glare back at Carlos.  Nick stood up and strode quickly to the platform.  “C’mere,” he snapped at Carlos, gesturing him to follow as he descended the stairs and walked out the door.  Bemused, the ex-con trailed along, his raging hard-on pointing out the way.

 

They were halfway down the darkened hallway when Nick whirled and faced Carlos.  “What were ya doin’ back there, man?  Were you tryin’ to kill him?”

 

Carlos paused, uncertain how to answer—when he noticed Nick’s hand.  It was rubbing a noticeably growing bulge in the crotch of his tight jeans.  Glancing up into the well-built videographer’s face, the buff ex-con saw a gleam of lust in his cold blue eyes and was not really surprised.

 

Carlos played along.  “Sorry,” he said with grin more wolfish than sheepish, “I get carried away sometimes—but these fags need to be taught their place, y’know?”

 

Nick seemed to consider a moment before he spoke again.  “Ok, then.  You might be exactly what I’ve been looking for, and if it works out, you’ll end up making a lot of money.  But the important thing is—how far are ya willing to go?  On camera?”

 

The hardbodied sadist wasn’t dense, but it took a moment for him to work it out.  “Money?  On camera?  Y-ya mean people will pay to watch?”

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, his boots scuffing the carpet as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other.  “I’ve already done several—I got a great way to make a profit off ’em.  The income is phenomenal but I keep it in an offshore account since a large part of it is in foreign funds.”

 

Carlos laughed aloud.  His enormous dick was now fully erect, and indicated his acceptance of the offer more eloquently than any words could.

 

At any rate, it was clear to Nick.  He said, “Tell ya what, man let’s go back in there and you do what ya want to that worthless little cunt.  And here’s an incentive—I already have the cash to pay him.  So if I don’t have to pay him—well, let’s just say I’m not comfortable walking around with that much cash; I’ll have to give it to someone…”  He abruptly strode back down the hall back to the room, leaving Carlos somewhat stunned at his luck.  He didn’t know how much had been promised to the slut, but the bonus of three hundred was itself twice what he’d been offered for the shoot.

 

Re-entering the room himself, Carlos couldn’t help but notice that Brody was already back in the ring, pacing, jittery, and obviously coked to the gills.  “Hey, dude,” the punk piped up shrilly as soon as he saw his opponent, “If you bruise me up, yer gonna hafta pay!  Ain’t no one gonna hire me if I get marked up—I’ll sue ya for loss of income!”

 

“Calm down, Edgar,” Nick said, “Carlos and I had a talk and he’s gonna treat you right from now on, we promise—right, Carlos?”

 

The buff escort blushed an angry red.  “Brody!” he screamed, enraged.  “Goddamit, my street name is Brody!  You better get it right in the credits!”

 

“Chill, dude,” Nick replied in a somewhat exasperated tone.  “I guarantee that everyone who sees this video will know the name Brody La Roc, ok?  Now get to your mark and lemme get this damn thing finished!”

 

Smirking grimly, Carlos mounted to the ring quickly and quietly.  He scanned the ring to see if there was anything he could use to his advantage, silently taking note that the turnbuckle on the top rope to the left of the far corner post had lost its padding, the threaded metal buckle glinting brightly under the harsh fluorescent light.

 

The impassive look on the alpha’s face was belied by the predatory gleam in his dark eyes, but the obnoxious boywhore was too drugged-out to notice.  It was clear that it wouldn’t be difficult to take the useless cunt out; the kid was obviously too high to put up an adequate defense.

 

This was gonna be fun.

 

As Carlos stepped to the center of the ring, his body bulked over that of his prey.  The shaven-headed alpha with his sculpted, tattooed chest and ripped abs was an intimidating opponent; the skin-tight blue compression shorts obscenely emphasizing his massive, straining cock.  If Brody had been more aware of his surroundings, he might have noticed the large dark spot right at the tip of the protruding shaft; he might have wondered what such an outpouring of precum might portend.

 

Brody himself was still jumpy; his thick, muscled body seemed to quiver with electric shock, but the dilated pupils of his bleary eyes spoke to the true cause of his symptoms.  His taut, smooth body, barely obscured by his knee-high red wrestling boots and matching Speedos, was glistening with a light coat of sweat, also generated by the coke.  And the Speedos gave yet more proof of his drug use.  Brody actually had a long, thick cock, nearly the equal of Carlos’s—but the tight briefs showed it curled limply in his groin.

 

Cocaine kills erections.  Carlos wondered how the kid made a living as an escort if he was doing that shit constantly—then it hit him.  The little motherfucker was a bottom. A complete, utter fag.  The burning rage began to swell in his chest again.

 

Nick could see what was happening simply by observing the way Carlos’s tool began to pulse rhythmically, and the way the dark circle of precum grew rapidly.  It was time to start the show.

 


 

The camera was centered on two buff, muscled men, one of them older and obviously more powerful than the other.  From behind the camera came a voice.  “Well, c’mon you two, whaddaya waitin’ for—an invitation to dance?”

 

The two men lunged towards one another, the larger tripping up the smaller.  “That’s it, Carlos!  Good!”

 

Carlos leaned down and grabbed the firm, half-naked youth.  Twisting the kid’s right arm behind his back, Carlos brought the mewling boy to his feet.  “Fuck!” the kid screamed, “That hurts!  You’re too fuckin’ rough!  Stop!”

 

“Shaddup, Edgar—oh, sorry, Brody,” came the cold, placid voice from off screen.  “You’re supposed to be an actor—fuckin’ act, bitch!”

 

Carlos swiveled his body, forcing Brody around so that the punk’s face was directly in the camera.  The handsome, well-built boywhore was flushed with rage.  Shaking violently, he tried to free himself from Carlos’s hold, his short brown hair fanning out as he struggled.  “What?!?” he screeched.  “Goddamit, I told ya—“

 

But was he told was never revealed.  With brutal swiftness, Carlos spun the cunt into the far corner and slammed him face-first into the exposed turnbuckle.  Gripping his fingers tightly in the slut’s hair, Carlos dragged his head back and smashed it forward again repeatedly, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone as he beat the shrieking, screaming hustler’s face to hamburger against the metal buckle.

 

Finally, he dropped the mewling boy onto the mat with a loud, hollow thud.  As he tried feebly to crawl away, it was clear that Brody was in complete shock from his sudden, violent assault.  The once-beautiful whore, his face beaten and bloody, squirmed across the canvas mat, squealing like a stuck pig.  A deep, guttural gurgling was emitted from the battered face; it seemed to be a plea for mercy but was utterly unintelligible.

 

“Where the fuck ya goin’, faggot?” Carlos jeered as he relentlessly stalked the brutalized fuckmeat.  Brody blubbered in panic, plainly aware of the fact that Carlos intended to inflict more pain on him.   The soft sound of Carlos’s Adidas wrestling shoes padding inexorably across the mat towards him were almost inaudible, but unnecessary in any case; the ruthless, implacable vibrations of Carlos’s tread on the taut canvas told Brody of the approach of death.

 

“What’s that, you worthless homo slut?  I can’t understand a thing you’re sayin’,” Carlos mocked the stunned punk as he loomed over him.  “Hey, I gotta great idea!” he chortled cruelly, driving his foot forward to deliver a strong kick directly into the smooth youth’s heaving ribs.  “I know exactly how to figure out what yer tryin’ to say, ya cocksucker—I’ll beat it outta ya!”

 

This was accompanied by another kick, this one much more powerful.  This kick was rewarded with a loud crack of bone as one of Brody’s ribs shattered.  The writhing hardbodied boy wailed in pain as Carlos shoved his foot under him, then with another kicking motion, rolled Brody onto his back.  Grinning evilly down into his victim’s blood- and tear-stained face, the hulking sadistic psycho said in an even tone, “I know how to find out what yer sayin’, fag—I’ll beat it outta ya!”

 

The camera came in for close-up as Carlos knelt over sobbing, mewling escort and spat into his face.  “Goddam, ya whiney-ass pussy,” the brutal alpha taunted, “Listen to ya squealin’ like a fuckin’ pig.  Here, you cumsucking faggot, here’s something for ya to whine about!”  And with that, Carlos plunged straight down, his arm stiff like a pile driver and his full body weight thrown into the blow that hit Brody dead in the face.   The force was great enough to snap the whore’s cheekbone; the violent rebound bounced his head roughly on the mat.

 

The frame was centered on the boy’s battered face.  Even under the blood and trauma, the expressions on the kid’s face were readable—the pain, the fear, the paralyzing bewilderment generated by an unexpected explosion of violence.  All were captured on the video.

 

It wasn’t the only thing the camera captured—Brody begged for his life.  His bruised and beaten body, taut and sweat-soaked in physical defeat, twisted in agony as the rentboy reached his arms out towards the camera—and the cameraman.  “N-n-ni—“ came from between his swollen, split lips.  “Ni-ni-n-n-ni—“

 

He could get no further than that one syllable.  “Hey, Edgar,” came a grim chuckle from behind the camera, “I’m gonna give him yer bonus after he wastes ya, cunt.  I don’t pay whores.”  The kid’s eyes, already wide and ringed with dark circles of shock, grew huge with panic at the words.  His pupils, though, were no longer dilated; the intensity and brutality of the assault had flushed his system with adrenaline and testosterone, neutralizing the effects of the cocaine.

 

He no longer had any anesthetic.  He was suffering every single moment of the beating.

 

Carlos didn’t let up.  He continued to draw his fist back, then slam it down with all the force that his thick, knotted biceps could deliver.  The wet, smacking sounds of the repeated blows echoed in the empty room as Brody’s sobbing and gurgling began to fade.

 

The whore was on the verge of consciousness; he knew that he was being beaten to death and it was obvious just by looking at him.  The desperate, panicked look haunting his eyes had faded, now replaced with a dull, dim look as the light of life flickered and ebbed within him.  An extreme close-up of his face recorded the resignation that took hold of the high-priced rentboy in the last few moments of his life.

 

Carlos suddenly broke off the beating.  Panting and heaving, his sculpted torso slick with sweat, he turned abruptly to the camera.  “Hey, man, this little homo sack of shit still hasn’t learned what happens to faggots who think they can seed real men.”

 

“Why don’t ya tell us what happens,” the off-screen voice drawled with malicious glee.

 

“They get offed by a real man, that’s what happens.  But first the little cocksuckers gotta get seeded themselves; that’s how they know it’s a real man wastin’ them.”

 

With a wild grin, Carlos flipped Brody back over onto his face and roughly jerked the Speedos off him.  Peeling himself out of his blue compression shorts, Carlos stood with his massive tool fully erect; a camera zoom revealed the full details of the pulsing, vein-wrapped shaft pumping out a steady stream of precum.  “Yeah,” Carlos’s voice come from off-screen as his throbbing cock filled the frame, “Time to show this worthless sack of queer-ass shit exactly what a real man does to homos…”

 

Lunging forward in a nude body slam, the hard-bodied alpha dropped his full weight on the smaller whore, who responded by moaning hoarsely and scrabbling frantically at the canvas mat.  Placing one hand in the small of Brody’s back, Carlos pinned the shuddering youth, angling his massive shaft for deep penetration.

 

“You like cock, you worthless pansy?” the ex-con sneered in a tone of cold rage that was contradicted by the glitter of lust in his eyes—a glitter of which he seemed to be unaware, but which was perfectly captured on camera.  “Then yer gonna love this, cunt, this is what a genuine fag-snuffin’ grade-A male feels like!”

 

And with that, he reamed his entire swollen tool into the whore’s ass, in a single powerful thrust.

 

Brody had taken plenty of cock up his hole in the last six or seven—was it eight?—years since he’d been selling his young, smooth body, but none of them had been quite this big.  And those that had been close had also been slow and well-lubed.

 

Even with his face beaten to a pulp, he could feel every moment of this fresh new torment as he was skewered on a gigantic dick, one that tore his sphincter open without waiting for it to relax and accept.  After that, it all dissolved into a sheet of white-hot agony as the engorged mushroom tip plunged the depths of his colon, scraping and tearing at the rectal lining.

 

And all his horrific pain was recorded in loving detail.  The camera pulled back enough to show Brody, squealing and thrashing, impaled on Carlos’s cock.  The tattooed killer, his muscled back moving rhythmically with his thrusts and covered with a glistening film of mansweat, reached up and grasped the battered rentboy’s chin, clutching it tightly, painfully in one powerful hand.  Brody gave one final high-pitched squeal before Carlos clamped his mouth shut.

 

Looking up with an insanely gleeful grin, Carlos spoke directly to the camera—he was speaking to Nick.  “Whaddaya think, dude?  Time to waste this useless faggot?  Yeah?  Fuck, I’m about to pump his guts fulla hot manspunk, man—goddam, I’m gonna mark this bitch as mine and snuff his worthless ass—fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!”

 

Jerking violently, Carlos began spraying a solid jet of sperm deep into Brody.  As he did, he grabbed a huge handful of Brody’s brown hair.  Feeling the cumdump meat kicking his wrestling boots in fear and pain, the cruel sadist gave a loud grunt, shot a boiling wad of spunk into the cunt’s ass and jerked his arms reflexively in orgasm.  As his bulging biceps tightened he jerked Brody’s head around a full ninety degrees or more.

 

It sounded like popcorn, the noise of shattering vertebrae.  The expression in the boywhore’s bloodied face showed that despite his shredded spinal column, death was not instant.  His entire body was immediately wracked with violent convulsions.  “Fuck yeah,” Carlos moaned, “Milk my cock, fag, drain my cum as ya die…”

 

The camera closed in on Brody’s face, zooming in to capture his eyes as life drained out of them.  The beautiful high-price escort was almost unrecognizable in the twitching pile of damaged and bleeding meat centered in the frame.  The image was held for a few seconds before widening again.

 

Shuddering and gasping, Carlos withdrew his still-engorged member and stood up.  Stepping to the far side of the corpse, he faced the camera, smiled, and ground his foot into the still-quivering face, the sole of the Adidas shoe flattening the already-broken nose.

 

“Yeah, bitch,” Carlos said proudly to the camera, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  That’s what us straight dudes do to worthless faggot fucks!”  There was no trace of irony in his words; as he spoke, large drops of semen were still oozing from his erect cock, splattering onto the dead punk’s smooth, bruised chest.

 

“Ok, that’s a wrap,” said Nick.

 


 

After cleaning himself up and re-dressing in the bathroom down the hall, Carlos came back to the large room and joined Nick.  The latter was sitting at one of the tables along the wall; he was editing video, just as he’d been doing when Carlos first saw—but now it was Carlos himself on the screen.

 

“Sit down, kid,” Nick said evenly.  With a loud metallic clang, his iron-toed work boot kicked an empty chair out as an invitation.  “Ya did really good. Not great, but really good.”

 

Anger rose in Carlos’s well-developed chest.  “Whaddaya mean?  What’d I do wrong?”

 

“Chill out, man,” Nick said with a deep chuckle.  “I been doin’ films like this for a long time.  Both sides of the camera—ya feel me, dude?  I know what I’m talkin’ about here.”  He cued up a section of video.  “See here, where you’re bashing his face into the turnbuckle?  It woulda been a lot more effective if you’d stopped in the middle to taunt him, especially if you’d forced him to face the camera.”

 

The buff filmmaker forwarded the video on the screen before he continued.  “And here, where you kicked him—that was hot, man, but you coulda done more.  You coulda made the slut suffer a lot more—and same thing at the end.  You got too excited and shot your bolt too soon.  But I can’t complain too much; the biggest mistake was my own.  I shoulda told ya to strangle him.  Mighta gotten him hard despite the coke.”

 

And suddenly, the rage-filled convict did chill.  He’d been right, Carlos thought, he had been getting a vibe from this guy.

 

Carlos was in the presence of a master.

 

“So here’s the deal,” Nick continued calmly.  “I like your work, but you’re gonna have to be able to take some direction—and to stick to it in the excitement of the moment.  Do you have that kinda self-control?”

 

It was a good question.  Carlos had to stop and think; he could sense that this was an important moment for him and he wanted to answer honestly.  “Yeah,” he finally responded, “Yeah I think I can.  But that’s on camera.  Sometimes I hafta just go and waste a homo cunt, and if there ain’t a camera around, tough shit.”

 

Now it was Nick’s turn to consider.  “Ok, fine.  You go do your own thing, but you’re available whenever I’m ready to film.  We’ll start ya at a grand per video and see how they gross; if you turn out to be as popular as I think ya will, you’ll soon be earning a lot more.”

 

Carlos could hardly believe his luck—then a question occurred to him.  “A grand per vid?  How often are we shooting?”

 

Nick laughed, a loud braying guffaw.  “Man, there ain’t no regular schedule for this kinda work!  I’m hopin’ for two a month to start; we’ll see how many hits ya get.  But I’ll need to be able to reach you at any time.  Lessee, I got your cell and if something comes up I can send a car if you’re too fucked up to drive—where ya stayin’?”

 

The older, larger stud recoiled in surprise when Carlos gave him the North Las Vegas address.  “Shit, man, you’re in the fuckin’ war zone.  Ya know what—I gotta high-rise condo on Paradise, right off the Strip.   Use it for bedroom sets.  Used to rent it out for all kinda porn shots too, but haven’t had any offers for a while.  Why don’t you stay there till we see what kinda revenue you can generate?”

 

Carlos was overwhelmed.  Nearly everything he’d wanted from Vegas had just been dumped right into his lap.  And as eager as he was to accept, he was suspicious.  “Why are ya doin’ all this for me, jefe?  You ain’t gonna get all fruity on me too, are ya?”

 

Nick laughed again, deeply.  “Carlos—that is your name, right?  Carlos, the reason I’m doing all this is because I can make a shitload of money offa ya—and, incidentally, make you a shitload of money, too.  I told ya, I got a great snuff porn network from my last partner—these dudes will cum all over themselves watching you.  Now c’mon and gimme a hand.  Actors gotta pitch in and lend a hand breaking the set.”

 

“What?” Carlos asked, startled, “You want me to help take down the ring?”

 

“Fuck no,” Nick replied, “I got a crew comin’ in in an hour or so to take it down and haul it out.  Get that tarp over there.  We’re gonna go dump the corpse.”

 

In a hazy sense of excitement, Carlos grabbed the folded tarp and climbed into the ring one last time.  Nick was already kneeling near Brody’s body—now still—and unlacing the knee-high wrestling boots.  “Might be able to return these if the cunt hasn’t damaged them too much.”

 

A couple of sharp tugs and the red boots were flung over the side onto the floor.  Then Nick motioned Carlos to approach.  They unfolded the tarp on the mat next to the body, then rolled the corpse over, wrapping the tarp around it until it was fully encased.  Without being asked, Carlos bent down, picked the limp form up and slung it over his shoulder.  “I got this,” he said, “where do ya want it?”

 

“Thanks, dude,” Nick smiled.  “Worthless cunt pissed on the mat when he died; I gotta get that cleaned.  We’ll go toss that meat in the back of my truck and run it down the street to the factory compactor.”

 

Walking down the hall towards the front door with the dead weight of Brody La Roc resting on his shoulder, Carlos couldn’t help asking one last question.  “Hey—uh, Nick, you said something about a partner in this porn network.  Is he someone I need to worry about?”

 

From the darkness behind him came a grim chuckle.  “Tony?  Naw, man.  I took care of him.  Ain’t no one gotta worry about him anymore…”