Carlos Solo–Lenny Gets Laid Out

It was going to be a chilly night.  Everyone thought of Las Vegas as being warm, but that wasn’t always the case—as Lenny had cause to know.  He also knew that his denim jacket wouldn’t be much help, not over a thin black cotton t-shirt.  His jeans, tucked into a pair of Polo Ralph Lauren ranger boots, were faded and worn.  There really wasn’t much to keep the chill out.

Lenny needed to find a place to stay for the night.  He needed to find a trick.

Tall and lean, with a shock of unruly jet-black hair, the boy was just barely eighteen—he thought.  Lenny had been on the streets for more than three years, fleeing from the mental abuse of a viciously religious upbringing.  He’d started selling his body right away; the heavy drug use followed soon thereafter.  By now, the kid’s higher mental functions were shot—he was little more than an animal, with the narrow focus of cunning street smarts that enabled him to survive, and to acquire what he needed.  His expensive boots, for example—they’d been stolen off a john.

Which brought Lenny back to tonight.  What day was it—Saturday?  But he’d been with that fat fuck on Wednesday night.  Lenny craved cock as much as the next faggot, but the asshole tourist had been middle-aged and hung like a minnow.  Enraged, the violent street punk had punched his lights out and cleaned out his wallet, netting more than three hundred bucks.  What had happened to it since then?

Oh yeah—Angel.  Bleary at best, Lenny’s memory still managed to churn up a vague recollection of running into the dealer in a bar on Paradise sometime Thursday afternoon.  Lenny had already owed him money for fronting an eightball.  Lenny had paid him back—he didn’t have much of a choice; Angel was armed—and things got hazy after that.  The boywhore had no idea where he’d spent the last two nights, but he had a dim idea that by the time it was all done, he owed Angel even more than he had on Wednesday.

Well, he’d worry about that later.  In the meantime, he needed to find a mark for the night—someone to take him in and provide for his needs, either willingly or unwillingly.  Lenny wasn’t intelligent, but he knew how to get what he needed.

He’d been on the west side of I-15—he couldn’t remember why—and was heading east on Flamingo, back towards the strip.  Lots of cum-thirsty fag tourists on the strip; he was sure he could find a nice, soft, rich trick there.  Once he crossed the highway, though, and was passing alongside the Bellagio, he felt—he knew—he was being watched.  He possessed the senses of a feral cat, and they weren’t leading him astray.  A quick glance around, and he found the source.

The man was standing on the other side of the Flamingo, in the VIP valet lot for Caesar’s Palace.  Latino, with a shaved head and a goatee, he was wearing a leather biker jacket.  Something about the man screamed pure erotic machismo; Lenny’s dick was instantly hard.

Something else about the man screamed pure, unmitigated danger, and screamed it louder.  But the dude was sliding into a cherry-red convertible Mercedes two-seater.  Lenny’s survival instincts were finely-tuned—but they could easily be overridden by greed.  And when the stud took advantage of an almost unheard-of gap in the traffic at the intersection at this time of the day and pulled across Flamingo to where he was standing on the far side, Lenny jammed those instincts as far down as he possibly could.

“You look like fun,” the older man drawled laconically, “Wanna party?”

“Aw, fuck yeah, man,” Lenny replied with a huge grin.

“Jump in, dude,” the man said, “I got two fifths of Johnnie Walker and an ounce of primo weed back at my place.  Guess that’s enough to start with, yeah?”

Lenny leaped into the passenger seat with alacrity.  He couldn’t believe his luck.  He glanced over at the stud who was wearing a white t-shirt under his leather jacket and skin-tight jeans tucked into a pair of Caterpillar Revolver steel-toed work boots.  “What’s your name?” he asked.

Carlos looked at him evenly.  “Mark.  Call me Mark.”

“Hey—I’m Lenny.”

Carlos turned away.  He didn’t need to know the faggot’s name.  And in a little while, it wouldn’t need a name anyway.

Lenny could sense that the dude didn’t want to talk, so he kept his mouth shut.  It took some effort, though, once he saw the condo building and entered the private elevator for tenants in the parking garage.  Aside from one or two of the ritzier hotels, this was far and away the nicest place he’d seen in Vegas.

Carlos opened the door to the unit and strode into the bedroom with the wide-legged gait of a man with a massive set of tackle between his legs.  “Strip, boy,” he called out, “I’m gettin’ a drink.”

Lenny complied, kicking off his boots, but he was still uncertain.  “Dontcha wanna know my—um, what it’s gonna cost?”

Carlos strolled back in, a tumbler of Scotch in his hand.  He’d already taken off his jacket and shirt revealing his heavily muscled and inked torso.  “It don’t matter,” he replied tersely.

Lenny was too busy gaping at the older man’s chest to notice that he hadn’t been given a drink himself—or to take in the full import of Carlos’s words.  “That’s ok,” he said faintly, “If you’re as good as I think yer gonna be, we can probably work out some kinda discount.”

He figured the deal was set when he saw the smirk on Carlos’s face; he utterly failed to notice the smoldering hatred in the muscle-bound stud’s eyes.  Later on, he’d see it much more clearly—when it was too late to do any good.  In the meantime, he peeled off his shirt and wriggled out of his jeans.  Underneath, he was commando; he was standing in Carlos’s living room, nude but for his socks.

He was also sporting a boyish grin and a rapidly swelling erection.  His member was nothing to be ashamed of, either; it jutted out in front of him, the pink, spongy head pulsing visibly.

“Well,” he asked, his grin growing cocky, “How ya wanna play?  You want this up yer ass?”

“Get in the bedroom,” Carlos hissed.  Lenny saw his face go beet-red—and managed to misinterpret the buff killer’s intense rage as sexual excitement.

“Sure, dude, whatever ya want,” he replied, strolling causally past the larger, more muscular man into the bedroom.  “Damn, that’s a nice view!”  He approached the huge window the looked out over the strip.

Carlos came up behind him.  Just as he did, Lenny wheeled around.  “Hey, where’s that weed you said you had?  I wanna get fucked up.”

“Don’t worry,” Carlos replied, his grin becoming obviously malicious, “You will, motherfucker.  Yer gonna get more fucked up than you thought possible.”

A tinge of concern pressed into Lenny’s fuzzy mind like a pebble in his shoe; that didn’t sound quite right.  “Wha—”

Carlos punched him hard, twice.  The first blow landed on his jaw, the second on his hard flat belly, driving the air from his lungs.  The punk sank to the floor, gasping and stunned.

He looked up at Carlos in disbelief.  This wasn’t the first time a john had turned violent on him before—hell, one had put him in the hospital last year—but he’d always known it was coming.  His street sense had triggered an alert before he’d been attacked.  Not this time.  He hadn’t seen any warnings.

Not that he was cowed.  Lenny knew how to fight, and he’d been in some rough scraps.  He could give as good as he got.  “You sonofabitch,” he snarled up at Carlos, his emerald eyes glittering like a feral cat’s, “You’re the one who’s gonna get fucked up, asswipe!”

The boywhore sprang off the floor, launching himself at the older man.  But Carlos was much more experienced with violence that the rentboy was; he could read the fag’s every thought almost before it had entered Lenny’s mind.  He merely twisted to one side and stuck his foot out, tripping the adolescent and sending him sprawling across the floor.

The carpet was thick and soft; Lenny was more angry than hurt.  And when he heard Carlos’s soft chuckle behind him, he became enraged.  No fucking trick was gonna get the better of him!

Of course, if his street smarts had been honed a little better, it’s possible that he might have recognized the danger hidden in that faint laugh—he might have heard the voice of a vicious sadist kicking into overdrive.  But even if he had, it would have been too late.

Lenny didn’t know it—yet—but he was locked in with a serial killer.

Even as he began getting up, Carlos strode forward and kicked him in the flank, hard.  “HOOG!” the teenaged rentboy spat out in pain.  Rolling over and clutching his bruised ribs, he heard the soft chuckle again.

“You like that, faggot?” Carlos sneered.  “You better, cause there’s plenty more of that shit comin’ for ya.  I’m gonna fuck you up so bad yer momma won’t be able to recognize ya.  And then I’m gonna stick my dick in ya.  You want that, right?  All you fuckin’ homos wanna ride my cock.  Don’t worry—yer gonna ride it right into yer grave.”

Still trying to catch his breath, Lenny turned and looked up.  Carlos loomed over him, his massive, erect cock throbbing, large dark nipples jutting out from his hairy, inked chest.  The look on the boy’s face spoke of his confusion.

“Yeah, bitch, you heard me,” Carlos smirked.  “I’m gonna hurt ya, and I’m gonna waste ya.  It’s what you deserve—what all you fags deserve.  I’m gonna use yer worthless ass as a cumdump and leave ya in the desert to rot.  And ya know what?  Ain’t no one gonna care!  One less faggot whore in the world—hell, I’m doin’ this town a favor.  Now get up.  Get the fuck up, dickhead.  You got to earn yer death.  You got to earn it through pain.”

By now, Lenny had figured out that the situation was serious.  Despite getting punched out, he hadn’t grasped the fact that the dude wanted to kill him, but between Carlos’s words and the look of maniacal glee on his face, Lenny knew that that was exactly what was gonna happen if he didn’t get out of this place. 

“Ok,” the teen said, playing for time, “Ok, I’ll get up—just don’t hit me again.”

“I don’t have to hit you to hurt you, cunt,” Carlos muttered.  Standing next to the bed, he turned and opened a drawer on the nightstand.  Reaching in, he extracted a four-foot length of straight link machine chain.  As the three-quarter inch links clinked in his powerful hands, Lenny took advantage of his preoccupation and bolted for the door.

His socks made virtually no sound on the carpeted floor, but Carlos had noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye.  His big black boots did make a sound, the heavy thudding of his footfalls telling Lenny that he was being pursued. The rentboy wasn’t in complete panic yet, but he was scared as hell—he knew that this was likely his only chance to escape.

If he didn’t make it—but his mind shut that line of thought down.  He’d make it.  The alternative was literally unthinkable.

And then there was a searing, slashing pain across his back, so bad it made him scream.  He was so close to the front door, but the pain made him falter.  And then it came again.

Lenny stumbled and fell, sobbing by now.  He looked behind him and understood everything.  Carlos was standing there, swinging the chain—he’d been wielding it like a whip.  As he swayed on his knees, the teen whore could feel blood trickling down his back from the wounds where the chain had flayed his flesh.

“Big mistake,” Carlos hissed menacingly, his eyes gleaming with a terrifying mix of hate and lust, “I’m gonna make you beg for death, faggot.”

He lashed out with the chain again, striking the cowering youth across the chest.  As the metal links tore open Lenny’s skin, the boy squealed like a piglet, making Carlos leer in sadistic pleasure.

“Now yer gettin’ it, fuckwad,” he jeered.  “That’s just the beginnin’.”  As the muscled ex-con approached, Lenny’s hands came up involuntarily in a supplicating gesture.  Carlos knocked them aside and wrapped the chain around the boy’s throat, then gave it a twist over his own hand.  Having thus fashioned a workable handle, he was easily able to deadlift the adolescent fag off the ground.

The metal links sank into the flesh of Lenny’s throat; the boy kicked and clawed frenziedly, trying to get free of the agonizing stranglehold.  Carlos just smirked.

“C’mon, motherfucker,” he said quietly, “Let’s take this back to the bedroom.  I’m gonna tie you down so I can take my time with you, asswipe.  I’m gonna destroy yer fag ass, and I’m gonna take my time doin’ it.  Yer gonna love this, ya sick faggot pervert.  You’re gonna love the pain so much you’ll cum.”

He lifted Lenny up even higher to look him in the eyes; the boy’s socked feet flailed in the air almost a foot above the floor.  “They always do.  Remember that, fucker.  Every fag I’ve ever offed blew a wad before it died.  You ain’t gonna be no different.”

And with that, he bodily carried the dangling, struggling teenager back to the bedroom.  The metal links sank into Lenny’s skin; the pain was excruciating.  Thrashing and twisting in a vain attempt to free himself, the boy got a brief glimpse out the window.

It was dusk and the lights on the Strip were just coming on.  To the adolescent’s swelling, bulging eyes they appeared as kaleidoscopic bursts of rainbow colors.  It was indescribably beautiful, and he had been in the middle of it only minutes ago—what was happening?  How had it happened?  He swung again, face to face with his assailant, but what his eyes locked onto wasn’t Carlos’s steely glare, but the thick gold chain around his neck.

And for a brief moment, the fagwhore’s true nature kicked in.  How had he missed that?  If he could just get free, that’d be the first thing he’d steal.  All he needed was a chance.  He just had to get a chance.

What he got was utter darkness.  Carlos punched his lights out.  The teen cunt never even saw it coming.

Lenny’s first tentative forays into regaining consciousness did not bode well.  He could breathe again, true, but there was the pain—so much pain.  And there was a stiffness, a tightness; he couldn’t move…

He opened his eyes and realized that he was face down on the bed with Calos tying his leg to the footboard of the bed by looping what appeared to be nylon rope around the ankle.  He could see it easily; the headboard of the bed was open metalwork with a mirror behind it—he could see himself; he could see the muscle-bound stud at the foot of the bed. 

His other leg had already been bound by the same method, and both hands at the wrists.  And it was tight, painfully tight.  His right hand was already losing sensation.

Icy terror clutched at the rentboy’s heart, filling his mouth with an acrid tang.  He’d been in dangerous positions before—any boywhore in this town was bound to run into trouble at some point—but nothing like this.  He’d voluntarily placed himself in the power of someone who was going to take profound pleasure in torturing and killing him, and he was utterly helpless to prevent it.

“P-please—please, sir?” he quavered.  “Sir, you-you don’t have to hurt me.  I’ll d-do anything you want, sir.”  It was all he had left.  If he couldn’t talk his way out of this, he was dead.

“Yeah, you will, bitch,” Carlos growled. “And I do have to hurt you.  You need to be hurt.  All you faggots do.  How else are ya gonna learn what useless sacks a’ shit you are?  Get yer reamed-out homo fuckhole ready, cause I’m goin’ in dry.”

By staring straight ahead, Lenny had a perfectly framed view of Carlos climbing on the bed, his enormous cock jutting out from his open fly like a crane from a construction site.  He could see that the hypermasculine ex-con was still wearing his black boots; he could even see fine details of the stud’s prison tats—although the rentboy was barely literate enough to have spelled out the words “Die motherfucker die” even had they not been reversed by the mirror.

And he could also clearly see Carlos mount his ass raw.  The teenaged slut knew it was coming and tensed himself.  It was a bad move.  Carlos’s massive, throbbing member was an irresistible force, punching through Lenny’s sphincter like a rock through a window.  The metaphor was apt—Lenny’s jagged shrieks of agony were shrill enough to shatter glass.

“Shaddup and take it, ya piece a’ fag shit,” Carlos snarled.  Pulling both ends of the chain with one hand, he jerked the boy’s head up and punched him in the side of the face.  The fuckmeat grunted but kept on screaming, so he hit it a few more times.  He didn’t count how many, but by the time he was done, the screaming had subsided to an anguished moaning. 

“Yeah, ya cocksucker, Carlos crowed, “You likin’ this?  ‘Course ya are—you’re a faggot; you just love shit bein’ shoved up yer ass, right?”

“St-stop,” Lenny managed to bleat out through his snotty tears, “Please-please stop…”

“What kinda lame homo are ya?” the serial killer jeered, “I’ve gone to all this fuckin’ trouble—I ain’t stoppin’ till I full yer fuckhole with cum.”  Carlos then lay full length on the boy, grabbing a handful of his hair and jerking his head back.  Once again, Lenny had a full view of the muscled stud, now lying on top of him and grinding his enormous member into his ass.  Carlos bent his head down, his thick goatee scraping the teenager’s cheek as he whispered.

“And you know what it’s gonna take to get my load, dontcha?  You gotta die.  When I see yer eyes glaze over and feel you convulse on my cock, I’ll hose yer guts with sperm.  That’s whatcha want, ain’t it?  That’s what every cumguzzlin’ pansy wants—to get offed by a Real Man, to feel the power of his spunk as they die.  Not like yer ever gonna get a better fuck anyway, so I might as well put you outta yer misery, right?”

Terror pierced Lenny’s chest like an icy shaft of steel.  He wasn’t gonna die—he couldn’t.  Not him.  His mind would not, could not accept the fact.  He tried desperately to break free of his bonds, but his struggles only drew the slipknots tighter around his wrists and ankles.

Carlos grunted in animalistic pleasure as he felt the teen squirming under him.  “Fuck yeah, bitch, work my dick.  Fuckin’ faggot whore, show me how ya earn yer money!”

Lenny glanced up, only to see the hardbodied ex-con sweating and penetrating him, relentlessly using his ass as a sex toy.  The heavily tattooed older man was so fucking hot; the gold chain swinging back and forth with each brutal, powerful thrust—for a brief moment, the cockpig at the core of Lenny’s innermost soul was able to forget that his lifespan could be measured in a handful of minutes.

For a brief moment, Lenny got off on his own rape.  It didn’t last long.

“You’re enjoyin’ this too much, cunt,” the sadistic killer snarled.  “Only way dumbass fags like you learn what inferior pieces a’ shit you are is to suffer—time to start yer lesson, motherfucker!”  Without missing a beat of the vicious assfuck, Carlos grabbed the chain, making sure it was still wrapped around the boy’s neck.  Then he rose up on his knees, jerking the chain up like reins until Lenny’s back bent in an excruciating upwards arc.

That was when the real nightmare began.  That was when Lenny first began to understand that the psycho might have been telling the truth about something—that he’d be begging for death before it was all over.

The pain was beyond anything he’d believed possible.  He could feel the individual links of the chain as they sank into the tender flesh of his throat, the skin welling up agonizingly in the center of each link.  The pain was so intense that it almost distracted him from the fact that he couldn’t breathe—almost.  The teen’s hands clenched into helpless fists as he instinctively struggled to get his arms free.  His biceps swelled with effort as he jerked and thrashed, the nylon rope abrading and flaying the skin on his wrists and ankles.

An inadvertent glance in the mirror showed that he hardbodied convict who was strangling him had biceps even larger and more powerful, though.  It also showed something else—Lenny saw his own face, swelling and blackening grotesquely….

No.  No, this wasn’t happening—it couldn’t be.  It was a bad dream.  He wouldn’t look at the nightmare; he’d wake up soon and could forget all about this.

But Carlos had seen him looking.  He pulled the adolescent’s head back and up until Lenny could see nothing but the mirror.

“Look,” the experience killer hissed, “This is what a faggot looks like when it dies.  It chokes and drools like a dog.  It’s slow and it’s painful and yer gonna want it to be over long before I put you outta yer misery, asswipe.  Keep watching and remember how much scumshits like you deserve this shit.  Watch yerself die, cunt and remember—this is your fault.  I’m doin’ the world a favor by puttin’ you down.”

Lenny tried to speak.  Even now, as his head pounded, every throb seeming to cause it to swell to the bursting point, he wanted to speak, to refute the insults, to plead for his life.  He wanted to beg for the sake of his family—but things were becoming faint.  He couldn’t remember them clearly.  He couldn’t remember much of anything clearly—there was only the present.  And the present was a tiny universe full of searing agony.

He saw himself in the mirror.  He had to; his eyes were swollen, bulging from their orbits so far that he was unable to close his lids.  The facility of thinking clearly was swiftly fading from his oxygen-starved brain, but even so, he knew that what he was seeing couldn’t be him.  That black, puffy, congested face, those huge eyes, red with pinprick hemorrhages, that protruding tongue, sticking out between the thick blue lips over which flowed streams of white, foamy drool—no, that was a caricature.  That wasn’t him.

He wasn’t that.  He was…he was—he was pain.  The crushing agony of his throat, where the chain had sunk in so deeply that was no longer visible, that was him.  The unassuageable flaming agony in his lungs, that was him.  The nightmarish sensation of being ripped apart by anal impalement, that was him.

The excruciating, eager, and deeply humiliating ache in his own seething scrotum and pulsing, oozing cock—yes, yes, that was him…

And that was when the teenaged whore realized that the brutal alpha had been right all along.  This was exactly what he needed, what he deserved.  He was willing to accept death, and all it had taken was slowly being throttled to the point of irreversible brain damage.

As the fuckmeat’s mental processes began to shut down, Carlos could literally feel the changes via its ass.  “Yer ready, aintcha, fuckwad?” he jeered, “Ready to have my thick wad of spunk hose yer homo guts?  Here it comes, faggot—lessee if ya live long enough to enjoy it!”

Twisting the chains so that he could maintain his stranglehold single-handedly, Carlos drew back his other fist, his inked bicep swollen with implicit power.  The fuckmeat could barely see the poised blow through the black death-blossoms that were exploding in front of its eyes.  It didn’t matter anyway.  It had already lost the capacity for wonder or fear—or rational thought, for that matter.

As Carlos had predicted, it was nothing but agonized fagmeat desperately needing to be put out of its misery.  And the psycho ex-con was so eager to oblige, his gigantic horsecock was on the verge of exploding.  

“Die, motherfucker,” he growled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back his orgasm, Die!!”

The last thing the young faggot felt in its life was the brutal donkey punch Carlos delivered to the back of its head.

A donkey punch is meant to contract the victim’s muscles, making the top’s orgasm more intense.  This certainly accomplished that—by knocking the whore’s head so far forward its spine was severed, vertebrae shattering like dry twigs.  The punk spewed nearly two pints of semen in a steady stream ionto the sheet beneath it, but its shredded spinal cord prevented it from feeling that. 

But it was a blessing, too, in a way.  With an inarticulate cry of rage, lust, and release, Carlos’s round, rock-hard asscheeks went concave as he jammed his gigantic horsecock deeper into the homo’s intestines that he ever had before.  The cunt was at least spared the sensation of its rectal lining being torn like the wrapping paper on a toddler’s gift as its guts were hosed by searing potent manseed.

Carlos continued to slam his fist into the dead whore as it convulsed and milked his shaft.  Fuck, it always felt so good at this point—even dead, a real faggot kept trying to get his prime alpha load.  That’s how he knew he’d offed a true homo.

After several minutes, it was over.  The corpse was still quivering, but the motions weren’t intense enough to have any impact on Carlos.  Besides, the convict’s balls were empty; he’d need a few minutes at least to recharge.  Not that there was time—he needed to meet Nick in couple of hours.

The sun had set.  It was time to take out the trash.

An hour later, Carlos was cruising a state highway.  It was a warm night, and he had the top down.  Behind him, in the trunk, the body of the dead rentboy was wrapped in a sheet, along with its clothes—Carlos has used its t-shirt to clean the cum off the end of his cock.  It was on its back, its boots lying on its cum-matted belly.  The muscled sadist had considered keeping them for himself, but when he tried them on, they were too small.

He’d headed south out of town on Highway 15, then west towards Spring Mountain Ranch State Park.  Just outside of the park, obscure roads twisted over the arid hills towards a couple of gypsum mines.  Turning down one of these, the ex-con soon found a deep, narrow gully.  Easing to a stop—there was no shoulder to pull over on—he shut off the engine and got out of the car.  Retrieving the still-trembling bundle from the trunk he unceremoniously dumped it into the ravine.

As far as hiding places went, it wasn’t all that hard to spot, and the white sheet didn’t help—but it didn’t matter.  Carlos knew no one would care.  After all, it was just another faggot cumdump.  They were a dime a dozen, and he was helping out the police by culling the herd.

As he swung the car around and headed back towards, the highway, Carlos had managed to work himself into a state approaching indignation.  Hell, the way he was taking out homo cunts, the city shoulda given him a fuckin’ medal…

“So whatcha got, Schweitz?” Nuñez asked as he got out of the car.

“It’s down there,” Schweitz replied, pointing down into the gully.  “Driver with a load of ore noticed something white flapping in the wind.  Young male, late teens or early twenties—”

“Let me guess,” Nuñez interrupted.  “Our favorite fagkiller.”

“Yeah,” Schweitz said.  “This one was ugly.  There’s a length of chain still embedded in its neck.  Fucker must’ve really suffered.”

“Well, there’s a potential clue.”

“Nah,” Schweitz responded with a sigh.  “Seen that type and gauge in dozens of home repair shops in the area.  Not worth my time to follow up on it.”

“Yeah, I’m kinda in two minds about this guy,” Nuñez remarked.  “I mean, part of me wants to shake his hand—the more fag whores he clears off the street the better, right?  But I wish he’d he stop dumping them out in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’m with ya.  Fuck, far I care, he can leave ‘em in the middle of Boulder Highway.  I ain’t huntin’ him down.  I hate havin’ to drag my ass all the way out here just to make it like LVPD gives a shit about some dead homo scum, though—oh, the ME’s boys got it.”

Two men had laboriously climbed the slope from the bottom of the ravine, a stretcher between them.  There was a gurney awaiting them at the top, next to the Medical Examiner’s van.  The corpse was still wrapped in the white sheet in which it had been discarded.

Nuñez walked over to it and pulled back the sheet.  He looked at the dead boy for a moment, then expressionlessly pulled the sheet back over its face before returning to Schweitz.

“Aw, what’dja want to do that for?  Don’t need to look at it to fill out a couple of forms.”

“Curiosity, I guess,” Nuñez said.  “Wondered if I’d seen it be before.”

“Well?  And?”

“Sure enough.  That one was getting booked on a charge of soliciting and indecent exposure at the same time as I brought Rodriguez in.  Don’t remember its name, though.”

“Well, it’ll be in the records.  C’mon, let’s get back to town.  No reason to hang around here, and I found this coffee place I wanna show ya.”

The detectives got back in the car.  Schweitz turned the ignition and put it in gear, then paused for a moment and pondered.

“Ya know, I wonder…”

“What?” Nuñez asked dispassionately; he know his partner had these quasi-philosophical moments.

“Why do the parents even bother to name them?  They way they turn out, most of these fags might just as well be called meatbag…”

Nuñez rolled his eyes.  “Let’s go.  I need that coffee.”

Carlos and Nick 7–Rubbin’ One Out

Carlos was trolling for a slut.


It wasn’t something the homophobic sex killer did much anymore; these days, the meat just seemed drawn to him.  Even Bryan had approached him—although his ex-prison “buddy” hadn’t been the usual prey.


Tonight, though, the Latino stud had a mission.  He and Nick had gotten a consignment but somehow hadn’t found the right victim yet.  He’d roped in a cunt he’d found on Fremont Street, but the bitch hadn’t shown up.  Then Nick came back with one too fey and fem for Carlos to touch—it was wearing makeup, for fuck’s sake.  And now the deadline was running out; if footage wasn’t shot tonight, Nick wouldn’t have time to process it and get it to the client.  Hence Carlos’s late-night jaunt.


He was cruising nice and slow down Boulder Highway, heading east away from downtown.  Despite the chill in the air, he kept the top on the Benz down; since he was shirtless under his leather biker jacket, his large thick nips were rigid in the cool breeze.  His skintight jeans were tucked into a pair of tall black harness boots.  The streetlights glinted off his smooth-shaven head and illuminated the sharp angles of his black goatee.


He spotted the kid off to the left.  Under the brightly lit canopy of a gas station, a boy in his late teens or early twenties seemed to be asking a woman for something; as Carlos watched, she shook her head emphatically and climbed into an SUV.  She pulled away so fast the kid had to jump back; he started after her for a while, crestfallen, then turned and headed off into the darkness.


He was going north up a side street.  Carlos had to wait for a red light to make a U-turn; by the time he got back to the gas station and turned up same street, he was worried that he might’ve missed the punk.


He hadn’t.  Halfway down the street, the buff ex-con could see the boy under a streetlight, walking away from him.  The kid wore skintight jeans; Carlos could see the boy’s rounded asscheeks flexing forward with each step.


He knew he was gonna be slamming his thick raging cock into that tight ass within an hour; he just needed to bait the dumb fag the right way and the homo would be his to destroy—on film.


In the cool of the desert evening, the boy sported a denim jacket.  On his feet, he wore a pair of genuine shitkickers—square-toed cowboy boots that thumped heavily each time they hit the pavement.


The boy paused at the next street corner, looking thoughtfully down the cross street in both directions, as if deciding where to go next.  Carlos solved the problem by pulling up next to him.


“Need a lift?” the sadistic serial killer asked, his masculine face beaming as he smiled broadly.  The punk turned to look at him, and Carlos caught sight of his face under the light for the first time.


The kid was no more than twenty or twenty-one.  His hair was dark and short on the sides, slightly longer and wavy in the front and on top.  Under long dark lashes, his eyes were a beautiful shade of aqua blue.  There was a haze of short dark scruff along his cheeks and chin, and, as he turned to face Carlos, the latter could see that under his denim jacket, the boy was wearing a ribbed cotton wifebeater with a low scooped neck that showed off the tops of the cunt’s pecs, lightly dusted with a faint covering of dark fur.  It also showed that he was wearing a necklace—handmade, beads stung in a regular pattern on a string.


There was an eagerness in those deep blue eyes that told Carlos he’d made a good choice.  “Well, I, uh…actually, uh, I need money more than a ride,” the punk said, grinning.


“Yeah?” Carlos asked, his own grin taking on a salacious slant.  “Whatcha willin’ do to for it?”


For his part, the boy was almost leering now.  “Well, if the price is right, I’ll do almost anything.”


“Like gettin’ fucked?  On camera?”


The boy’s grin fell, and a worried look crossed his face.  “I, um, I been in some threeways and got my dick sucked—but no one’s been up my ass before.”  Despite his protestation, Carlos could see that the young faggot had a massive woody.  His jeans were too tight to be tented, but the outline of the long rigid shaft of boydick was obvious.


“One scene, and it pays a grand,” Carlos said encouragingly, knowing the fucker would be past caring about money by the time he was done.


“Oh fuck yeah!” the boy said and, darting into the street, grabbed the door handle of the red Mercedes, his greed so intense that it startled even Carlos, who hadn’t had time to unlock the door.  He popped the button and the boy jumped in hurriedly.


“It’s cash, right?  And I get it tonight?  Name’s Caleb, by the way.”


“Just call me Sam,” Carlos replied with a subtle smile, “And yeah, you’ll get it tonight.”


As Caleb buckled the seatbelt, Carlos called Nick quickly.  Caleb could only hear one end of the conversation.


“Hey, it’s me—Sam.  Yeah, that’s right, I got one.  Promised him standard rate—one grand for one scene.”  Here he turned and, smiling, winked at Caleb.  “Uh-huh, right.  Yeah, heading there now.  About twenty minutes, I’d say.  Make sure it’s all set up, I think this one’s ready to rock ‘n roll the moment we get there.”


He was right in his estimate of timing, but it seemed longer.  The homo was a talker, and even though Carlos habitually tuned his fagmeat’s words out, some of them always seeped in.  He managed to avoid the details of the pansy’s Midwestern upbringing or his bi-curious sexual fumblings, but he did pick up some random comments about coming to Vegas looking for work, not finding any, and being reduced to begging and turning tricks.  He admitted to sucking cock and giving handies but still claimed his ass was virgin.


The only thing that really caught Carlos’s attention in whoreboy’s monologue was that he’d left the Salvation Army four days ago.  He’d spent three nights in a homeless camp and last night in a motel room with a trick, where he was able to shower.  He was on his last set of clean clothes, but with what he got paid tonight, he chirped, he’d throw it all out and buy new gear.


—from all of which, Carlos learned that no one was gonna come looking for the fagmeat when it went missing.  Dumb babbling motherfucker was just digging its own grave.


As Carlos negotiated his way through the industrial warehouses that surrounded the “studio”, the whore started to turn amorous, stroking Carlos’s thick muscular leg next to him.  He was acting like he was on a date, and every time he laid his faggot hand on Carlos, the vicious ex-con felt the bitter taste of anger and hatred rising in his throat.


This little homo needed to be put down, hard and brutally.  The thought of ending its life in a nightmarish blast of pain and terror made the murderous sadist grin; his dick throbbed at the thought.  He could hold his anger back until they reached the studio—but after that, no guarantees.  The kid was dead meat, no matter what happened.


For Caleb, it seemed to be a blur.  A grand wouldn’t go far in Vegas, but it was so long since he’d had any amount that he was ecstatic at the thought of getting some cash.  And if he was gonna give up his hole, it might as well be to this stud.  The dude was so masculine that the deepest cockpig corners of Caleb’s soul came to life, responding to the rampant testosterone wafting off Carlos.


There were a number of red flags about the whole situation, but the boy was so horny and desperate for cash that he ignored the very few he noticed.  One big one showed up when they pulled into the parking lot and Carlos killed the engine.  In an area full of workers and a cacophony of noise during the business day, it was utterly deserted and silent at night.


Caleb was too busy watching Carlos’s ass, encased in tight blue denim, to notice.  He followed his killer into the building like a puppy.


The anteroom was dark as the crossed it, the only light being shed by the computer monitor as it played a screensaver.  Beyond, the bare, concrete-floored hallway was dark as well, but light spilled into it from an open doorway some little distance down, and that was obviously where they were heading.


Carlos quickly stepped aside and revealed a huge, bodybuilder of a man with long dark hair.  A bright red t-shirt was stretched to capacity across the man’s broad, hubcap-like pecs, to tight his nipples jutted up like fire hydrants.  The dude had on a pair of cargo shorts; some of the pockets were in use for various items, although the only one Caleb could immediately recognize was a light meter.  The man’s powerful, hairy calves were bare but vanished quickly, as he sported a pair of Ariat ten-inch Linesman boots.


“I’m Caleb,” the boy said, stepping forward and holding out his hand.  Nick looked at it momentarily.


“Go ahead and strip,” he said curtly, “Over there.”  He pointed into the darkness, and Caleb finally noticed his surroundings—a very large dark space with a concrete floor and metal walls and roof.  The near corner had been finished off to resemble part of a bedroom with several intensely bright lights that hung from the ceiling trained on it.  It was on a dais that was carpeted but nothing else was.  To the immediate right of the bed, a couple of long folding tables had been set up; these were covered with computers and video equipment, along with a couple of small tabletop lamps.


The place Nick had pointed was beyond that.  No lights, no furniture.  Discomfited, Caleb walked into the far corner and pulled his boots off, leaving Nick and Carlos to converse privately.


“Whaddaya think?” Carlos asked.


“It’s a good one,” Nick agreed, “But we’re down to the wire.  Gotta keep this one short and sweet.  Beat it, bang it, break it, yeah?”


Carlos nodded.  Nick didn’t need to hear a verbal response, the look of anticipatory bloodlust in the Hispanic killer’s cold sneer said more than words would have.


Caleb had peeled off every item he had on except his and his socks.  Even with the latter still on, though, he thought the concrete was cold.  When he walked back into the light, holding his clothes, he’d slipped his brown leather western boots back on.  His long, tapered boycock dangled thickly between his legs.


“Where can I put these?” he asked, his jacket, shirt and jeans in his arms.


“I’ll take them,” Nick said, grabbing them from him.  “You need to get on the bed.”


Again, Nick’s abruptness unsettled Caleb; he didn’t even know the dude’s name yet, but he was obviously the cameraman.  Still, he followed Carlos over to the set, pausing while the ex-con took off his leather jacket and laid it over the back of a chair in front of the worktable.


The punk didn’t even realized Carlos had unzipped his jeans until they reached the set platform and the stud turned around.  Caleb’s eyes widened at the sight of the shaft he’d agreed to take up his fuckhole.


“Um, I don’t—I don’t know…” he began hesitantly.


“You don’t know what, motherfucker?” Nick demanded, tossing the boy’s carefully-folded clothing onto the floor.


“Hey!” Caleb barked indignantly, “What the fuck, dude?”


“I’ll tell ya what the fuck, bro,” Carlos said, stepping closer.  The bright lights gleamed off the ex-con’s thickly-muscled torso and suddenly Caleb’s spell was broken and the full aura of menace the serial killer exuded hit the boy like a gravel truck.  The prison ink—the skull, the cross, the word “revenge” on his neck—it all spooked the whore.  Even the bright sparkle of the stud’s gold chain seemed sinister.  “Yer gonna die, that’s what the fuck.  See, I’m gonna beat the fuck outta ya, then rape yer virgin hole and snuff ya.  Nick here’s gonna film it all, cause lotsa guys will pay good money to watch a useless faggot like you get taken out.”


The young man’s face was beautiful when he grinned.  Even when that grin faltered, it was still beautiful, but now filled with uncertainty.  Caleb heard the words, but he refused to accept them literally.


“I, uh…dude, if this is a joke—HOOG!!”


Without the slightest warning, Carlos gutpunched Caleb, his huge, doubled-up fist slamming into the boy’s flat firm belly, sinking deeply into his guts.  The sudden intense pressure on his diaphragm forcibly expelled the air from the whore’s lungs.


With a gasping, terrifying sense of suffocation, Caleb sank to his knees and bent forward, his forehead touching the concrete.  Just for the moment, he wasn’t scared; he wasn’t even surprised.  He didn’t have the luxury to indulge in those emotions; everything had become subordinate to his need to breathe.


“Got the camera ready?” Caleb could hear Carlos ask.  “I really wanna fuck this one up before I waste it.”  Turning his head up, the kid saw with horror that the ex-con’s huge, rigid tool was oozing from the tip as he spoke.  The dude was sexually pumped at the thought of inflicting pain on him.


Gasping and wheezing, the slim, firm-bodied youth managed to force enough oxygen into his lungs to function.  The next reaction was instinctive and immediate—the imperative of air had been instantly replaced with the imperative of escape.  Rising unexpectedly to his feet, Caleb bolted for the door.


It took both Carlos and Nick by surprise.  It took just a moment for Carlos to respond, springing forward in angry pursuit, but by that time, Caleb had cleared the door and the frantic pounding of his bootheels echoed down the hallway as he fled for the exit.


He burst through the anteroom with Carlos right behind him, then veered right and plunged through the front door into the parking lot.  Except for his boots, he was still nude, his long rod slapping against his smooth thighs as he ran.


Carlos hadn’t had time to put his weapon away, either.  He emerged into the lot with his raging manshaft still dripping as he chased down his prey.


“Help!” Caleb cried, “HELP!  For fuck’s sake, someone help me—”


Then Carlos had him.


Grabbing the kid by the arm, he whirled him about and sucker-punched him in the jaw, hard.  Caleb was aware of a violent, painful sensation, but it happened too fast to sort out the details.  He wasn’t out, but he was badly stunned.  Agony bloomed in his mouth; his bottom lip was split, and he’d bitten through his tongue.


The nude boy spat blood onto the asphalt as Carlos caught him under his arms and dragged him back to his death.


Nick was at the door, grinning.  He held it open as the grunting, sweaty convict hauled the meat inside.  As a producer, he appreciated it when the fags fought back; it always made Carlos angrier and more violent.  Those videos generated the highest profits.


And Carlos was pissed now.  He dumped the moaning kid onto the bare cement floor, not even bothering to get him to the set.  Nick barely had enough time to pick up the camera and focus before the livid serial killer began literally putting the boot in, kicking Caleb brutally and repeatedly in the gut.  The kid gagged and cried out as the steel toes of the ex-con’s harness boots sank deep into his belly, damaging his spleen and liver.


Carlos paused for a moment, his hairy, muscled torso heaving with exertion and glistening with sweat under the bright overhead lights.  At his feet, Caleb was curled into a fetal position, sobbing and moaning.  Nick knelt down and zoomed in on the boy’s anguished face.


“How’s that feel, motherfucker?” he asked, “Hope yer likin’ it, cause he’s just gettin’ started on yer worthless ass.  By the time he’s done, yer own mama ain’t gonna recognize ya.”


Having caught his breath, Carlos raised his boot and used it to nudge the cunt over onto its back.  It didn’t resist, but it kept its hands crossed over its belly, protecting the area that hurt the worst.


Carlos merely aimed elsewhere.  Caleb opened his eyes to see the heavily-muscled Latino towering over him.  Looking up from floor level, the prettyboy slut got a menacing perspective, up the ex-con’s powerful legs to the enormous jutting cock, now dangling directly over him and dripping hot clear beads of precum.   Carlos leaned forward and spat on him; as he did, Caleb could see the broad furry expanse of his ripped abs and huge pecs.  The killer’s nipples were large and as hard as his cock and between them, the thick gold necklace twinkled—


—then Carlos raised his foot.  Caleb got a brief glimpse of the harness boot’s deep tread before it slammed down on his chest.  There was a cracking sound, like twigs breaking, as three of Caleb’s ribs caved in on the right side of his chest.  Carlos ground the boot into the flesh; he was deliberately trying to leave deep bruise showing the tread pattern.


Caleb couldn’t speak.  His abdomen was in excruciating pain and the broken ribs made it difficult to breathe.  He could see both Carlos and Nick bending over him, the two muscle studs grinning and savoring his pain.  He’d shoved aside his bewilderment over the how and why and was focused on stopping the pain.  He looked into the faces of his tormentors, his large soft eyes pleading for mercy.


They were met with cold contemptuous eyes, eyes filled with hate, with lust, with sadistic glee.


“Is it ready for your cock yet?” Nick asked with a smirk.


“Naw,” Carlos drawled, “Dumbass homo still don’t get it.  I still gotta beat some sense into it, make understand how fuckin’ worthless it is.”  And with that, he bent down, grabbed a hank of Caleb’s wavy brown hair, and lifted.


Despite the agony of movement, the slender whoreboy had to shift and scramble up onto his knees to avoid having his scalp torn.  Every time he bent his torso, the jagged ends of the broken ribs ground against each other and poked at his lungs, forcing a high-pitched squeal out of his tortured body.


“Fuckin’ pig,” Carlos snarled.  Holding Caleb upright on his knees with one hand, be began to beat the cunt in the face with the other. He made sure the pansy knew why it was happening, using the blows to emphasize his point.


“You goddam faggots need to die [SMACK, knocking out three teeth], and it needs to hurt bad [SMACK, blackening the left eye] so ya know just how much I fuckin’ hate [SMACK, breaking the right cheekbone] yer disgustin’ pervert asses. [SMACK, knocking out another tooth and splitting the upper lip] Hear me, cocksucker? [SMACK, blackening the right eye] Think yer a man? [SMACK, fracturing the jaw] Yer gonna die with a real man’s dick up yer ass, cunt! [WHAM, a roundhouse blow to the center of the boy’s face, smashing his nose with a wet crunch]”


Nick kept the entire scene in a tight frame.  It was perfect; he managed to capture the kneeling young faggot, on its knees in helpless submission as the booted, hard-dicked muscle stud beat its face in.  Every time Carlos’s fist plowed into the homo’s head, Nick’s camera caught the violence of the impact, the sound of flesh on flesh, the spatter of blood and mucus.


Finally, the ex-con let go of Caleb’s hair.  The pulped boywhore slumped to the floor in a state of semi-consciousness.  Carlos stood over it, shaking out his hand.  “Fucker’s got a hard head,” he joked to the camera, grinning.


Turning back, he shook his huge throbbing shaft over the huddled pile of moaning boymeat, letting hot clear drops of precum splatter on the kid’s heaving, sweat-slick skin.  “Ok, I think he’s ready now,” he told Nick.


The hulking cameraman didn’t know if the pronoun referred to the whore or to Carlos’s dick, and it didn’t matter.  “Help me with something first.  I got an idea for staging.  Here, pull that cart over by the bed.  That one, there, with the TV on it.”


Carlos, still wanting a chance to cool down after tenderizing his meat, grabbed the cart and positioned it while Nick readied his latest expensive camera.  “What’s this for?” he asked.


“I’ll show ya.  Drag the meat around the other side and toss it face down bent over the bed.  Let its legs dangle onto the floor.”


As Carlos manhandled Caleb’s limp body onto the stripped bed, Nick was fixing a webcam to the top of the TV that was now facing Carlos.


“See,” Nick explained, “Yer gonna bang the fucker from behind.  I gotta have something here that you can choke the bitch with—here, this’ll do—and you not only get to watch it die on the monitor, you can force the dumb cunt to watch itself die.”  His leer got more malignant as he spoke; when he finished, he reached down and unzipped his shorts, letting his own enormous throbbing tool out for some air.


Carlos, meanwhile, looked down at what Nick had tossed him.  “What is this—old-school stereo wire?  Aw hell yeah, fuckmeat,” he chuckled, nudging Caleb’s writhing form, “It’s fuckin’ on.  Hear me, faggot?  Yer gonna fuckin’ die and it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.”


Caleb had heard him.  Caleb, in fact, had heard every word they’d said as they staged his rape and murder.  He was already having difficulty breathing, and the slightest movement sent jagged shock waves of pain through his firm body.  As Carlos continued to position his body, the young whore knew that the hardbodied sadist was lying; death wouldn’t hurt.


Caleb wanted death.  With the same single-mindedness with which he’d once focused on the now-forgotten thousand dollars, he now sought an end to his suffering, and death was the only answer he could see.  No matter what they did, as long as it killed him, he’d be out of pain.  He wouldn’t resist.


Then Carlos impaled the slut’s virgin fuckhole with his freakish huge cock, slamming home in a single, brutal thrust that stretched Caleb’s asshole wider than it was meant to go.  For a fraction of a second, there was a ring of pressure around the massive engorged head of Carlos’s shaft as the punk’s sphincter reached the end of its elasticity.  The ex-con applied a little more—a lot more—pressure himself and felt a momentary spurting sensation as the youth’s asshole tore open.  Lubed with its victim’s blood, Carlos’s hog plunged remorselessly into the kid’s guts.  It ground roughly over Caleb’s prostate before lodging deep in his intestines, adding to the boy’s misery by stimulating an intense, if involuntary erection.


The fagwhore tried not to move.  It all hurt if he moved.  The vicious convict had filled him with cock, more than he could take, but he wasn’t moving.  As long as he didn’t move, maybe he could accept it.  Maybe he could handle the agony.  But even breathing caused him pain.  Maybe he should stop breathing—


—and then he did stop breathing, as the sex killer wrapped the strong copper wire around his throat and tightened it.


“Yeah, that’s it,” Carlos said, looking at the camera, “Gotta good one here.  Clenched up its fuckhole nice and tight when I cut off the air.”


“Nothin’ better than a deathpig that knows its place,” Nick chuckled in reply.  “Hey, cunt,” he called out, shoving his camera in Caleb’s panicked face, “Does it hurt good?  Ya likin’ it?  Look up here, meat, yer face it already turnin’ purple—what’s left of it, anyway, haw!”


Caleb was losing himself; a vast tide of sheer terror was sweeping him away.  He clutched at the bed momentarily, feeling the cheap fitted sheet scratching against the nascent chest hair on his firm, bruised chest, then the clawing began.


“Yeah, cunt, fight it,” Carlos grunted and finally started fucking him.  Despite the sudden terrifying inability to breath, the sudden introduction of this unimaginable agony temporarily distracted Caleb.  The hardbodied ex-con was plowing his ass with jackhammer-like intensity, his insanely thick, vein-wrapped shaft reaming out the boy’s colon like a plumbing snake, shredding the nerve-rich rectal lining.


And yet even as he choked and gagged and struggle weakly and ineffectually to escape from this ongoing nightmare of agony, the whore was still aware in the depths of its pig soul that it was hard, and its own cock was starting to leak…


And then the pounding began.  In its head, in its chest, its racing heart furnished the tempo for its panicked horror.  It dug frantically at its neck, its nails digging deep and clawing bloody furrows in the flesh.  At some point, it clutched at its own bead necklace, snapping the string and sending the beads pattering over the bed.  The necklace had meant a lot to Caleb; Sarah made him that, and he’d gone longer with her than any other chick.  It was part of what made him Caleb.  But there was no more Caleb, only a feral animal, fighting desperately for its life.


“Now it’s gettin’ good,” Carlos said, again speaking into the camera directly to his fans.  “See, once it starts strugglin’, its fuckhole tightens up on my hawg real good.  Not as good as later, when it’s dyin’, sure, but enough to milk me good.”


The panic won out.  Caleb’s hands left his throat and he grabbed handfuls of the sheet, trying to dig into the mattress, to get some kind of purchase—trying to pull himself off Carlos’s dick.


He was trapped and utterly helpless, unable to move the slightest inch.  His vision was going weird and there was a humming in his ears almost as loud as the pounding—but still he struggled.  And then he felt weight, pressure—Carlos was laying on top of him.  The serial killer still kept the wire tight around his throat, but he was only using one hand.  The other he used to reach around and grab Caleb’s jaw in a viselike grip, grinding the fractured bones together for a new source of suffering.


But more than that was the mindfuck.  Carlos lifted Caleb’s head and forced him to watch the TV screen.


Through his distorted, bulging eyes, the faggot could see a face on the screen that looked like a grotesque caricature of his own.  Swollen, blackened and bleeding, it was a taut mask of suffering and fear from which his tongue protruded sickeningly.  And even though he couldn’t feel it, he could see the drool bubbling out from between his thick purple lips and dangling off his chin in foamy streamers.


It was all being captured by the camera on top of the TV.  Nick had shifted his position for the moment and had gone around to the other side of the bed.  For a few moments, he closed in on their legs—both of them with their boots on the floor, Carlos’s thick, denim-wrapped legs on the outside, his harness boots flexing with each deep thrust of the sadist’s hips.  Caleb’s smooth, firm legs were pinned between, his shitkickers sliding on the floor as he struggled.


“Watch it, bitch,” Carlos hissed, “Watch yerself die.  Lookit how black yer face is gettin’.  You been without air for a coupla minutes, cunt—how much longer can ya hold out?”  As he spoke, Nick pulled back from the boot footage and came around, kneeling on the bed and zooming the camera in on the punk’s face; Caleb was aware that the long-haired hardman’s cock was just inches from his face, but that meant nothing to him now.


Nothing meant anything—nothingness meant everything, if he could achieve it.  The agony he was enduring was soul-shattering; what little was left of his lucid mind had long since retreated, screaming, into the dark recesses of his psyche.  What remained was a panicked meat scrambling uselessly for its life, with no consideration for its next course of action.  It just needed to get away.


“It’s tryin’ to get up off yer dick, bro,” Nick laughed.  He pointed the camera at Caleb’s twisted, tear- and snot-streaked back, “Must think it’s got someplace to go.  Haw—you ain’t even going to yer grave, cocksucker.  You ain’t worth the effort or diggin’ one.  Yer gonna be dead in another two or three minutes, and then we’re gonna dump yer ass in the desert to rot.”


As Nick spoke, a change was coming over Caleb.  Carlos was experienced enough as a sex killer to recognize the signs just by the way meat was gipping his dick inside its rectum.  The boy was reaching a tipping point; in a few more moments, the brain damage would be irreversible.  Actual brain death wouldn’t be far behind.


Time to give his fans their money shot.


Still plowing the shuddering whore relentlessly, Carlos raised himself up off the boy and spoke directly to the camera.  “Yo, dudes, ya wanna see the best part?  Watch this shit.”


He pulled back on the wire, now so deeply embedded in Caleb’s neck that it couldn’t be seen.  The fag’s head was pulled back until it could go no further; then, his inked biceps bulging with the effort, Carlos pulled the fucker up off the bed as well.  Nick was able to get a shot of the kid’s heaving chest, imprinted with the tread of his killer’s boot.  Further down, Caleb’s long boycock stood erect from a mass of brown curly pubes.


“Meat’s good for edgin’, but when yer done, ya only get one chance.  Watch this—I’ll show ya how to use faggots to milk out yer load as they die.  Trust me, dudes, it feels so fuckin’ good.”


He grinned and stuck his tongue out at the camera.  Beneath him, riding his pulsating shaft, Caleb’s tongue was also out—as were his hands, splayed helplessly in front of him and clawing at the air as if trying to reach directly into the camera for help.


“Yeah…that’s it, cunt…work it…almost there, faggot,” the musclebound ex-con muttered as his dick plunged into the dying slut’s asshole, “Fuck yeah…yeah…yeah…fuck yeah!”


Carlos’s face twisted with the intensity of his approaching orgasm.  His whole body seemed to tighten, his muscles swelling with the final effort of the snuff.  “FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCKIN’ DIE, YA PIECE A’ FAGGOT SHIT!!”


With a loud grunt, the powerful killer tightened the wire around Caleb’s neck so deeply it nearly cut the homo’s throat.  With an audible crunch, the fucker’s esophagus collapsed into a thick wad of mangled cartilage.


There was no more Caleb, but the piece of flesh that had been him (and was still technically alive) responded, as much to brain death as to the crushing of its windpipe.  It jerked violently, froze rigidly for a single brief moment, then spewed a single steady stream of cum from its rock-hard rod for more than twenty seconds.


As the dead whore spilled its boycum over the sheets, the camera captured a different shower of spunk.  Nick, who was still kneeling on the bed, spattered the fag’s face with his own load, his huge hard body jerking and heaving as he unloaded.  Thick gobs of semen coated the homo’s protruding tongue and eyes.


Behind him, Carlos got what he’d been aiming for.  When the meat shot its death load, its colon spasmed violently; the punk’s dying convulsions only added to the sensation of hungry velvety suction.  With an inarticulate cry, the buff convict flooded the homo’s guts with his seething hot manseed.


It took nearly a minute for the three of them to pump their balls dry.  They all fell limp on the bed, two of them gasping and all three twitching.  After another minute or so, both Nick and Carlos had recovered enough to get up.  Carlos extracted his massive hog from the corpse as Nick shut the cameras off.


“Think we got ourselves a gold mine with this one,” the long-haired stud said.  Carlos grinned and headed for the door.


“Gonna go wash up,” he said he headed down the hall towards the bathroom.


Nick just used an old cleaning cloth to wipe off his dick before stuffing it back into his shorts; even though it was already semi-soft, it still took some maneuvering to get the massive tube confined again.  He collected the pile of Caleb’s clothes and tossed them on the bed.  Then he walked around to the other side, bent down and grabbed the dead homo’s still-twitching boots, and shoved the corpse into the center of the bed.


When Carlos came back into the room, Nick had just pulled the fitted sheet loose and wrapped everything on the bed up in it, a nice, tidy bundle containing the cum-filled fagmeat and its clothes.  “Help me get this into the bed of my truck real quick,” he told Carlos.


Even as dead weight the fag whore caused the two buff musclemen little difficulty.  They tossed it into the back of the pickup like a sack of dirty laundry.


“You need help dumpin’ the garbage?” Carlos asked.


“Naw, I found a good spot coupla weeks ago,” Nick replied, “As long as I can find my way back out there in the dark, it’ll be easy.”


And it was.  Carlos left, and Nick followed him till they got to the highway.  Then Carlos turned and went south, towards downtown, while Nick headed north, away from town and into the desert.  Thirteen miles north of the city limits, he exited and drove west down a small road that lead to a cement plant.


Half a mile short of the plant, there was a dirt road running north/south; it was a service road for a long line of electrical pylons that ran past the horizon.  Nick had already scouted the area and knew that the road crossed a gully some three miles north, equidistant between two pylons.  His truck had four-wheel drive, so he had no difficulties when he reached gully and turned to the west, off-road.


He only went some two hundred yards from the road.  At this point, the gully deepened from a few feet to more than two dozen.  Nick’s boots crunched in the sandy soil as he jumped out of his cab, and he paused to look up.  Out here, away from the city, the night sky was amazing.  The hardbodied stud gazed upwards, entranced for a few moments, then retrieved the still-quivering corpse from the bed of his truck.


Carrying it to the gully, he tossed it in, hearing the rattling, avalanche-like sounds as it tumbled and slithered its was down into the depths.  Returning to his truck, he to another lingering, longing look at the sky.  “Just beautiful,” he muttered, “Wonder if I have a camera good enough for night shots…”


He climbed back in; his truck roaring its way back out of the desert.  Within fifteen minutes of his departure, the dust had settled.  It was if he’d never been there.


There were to be no sneering cops or sobbing kinfolk for Caleb; his body was dumped too far from regular human activity to be noticed.  That didn’t mean that it went undiscovered, though.  As arid and lifeless as the desert seems, it supports a tremendous diversity of life, much of which turns scavenger from sheer necessity.


Fresh meat is never wasted in the wild.

Mankiller–Finale (?)

Tony leaned back on the bed, his breath ragged with anticipation.

Nick was finally gonna fuck him.

He’d fantasized about this since the first time he’d seen Nick online, his balls drawing up and dick getting hard at the thought of the hard alpha dude fucking him brutally and mercilessly. It was why his videos were so popular; he knew the perfect angles to catch Nick’s angry domination of his victims.

Tony was something of a coward. He wanted to be dominated like the rest of Nick’s victims, but he didn’t want to die. He’d been afraid to let Nick fuck him, afraid that Nick would take it too far.

Now, though, Tony had the control. He was the producer and distributor of the snuff videos; he was Nick’s meal ticket.

Tony felt confident. He could just lay back and enjoy every moment of Nick’s erotic anger, safe in the knowledge that Nick wasn’t stupid enough to derail the gravy train.

Right here, right now. It was finally gonna happen, and it was gonna happen on film. There was no problem there; both of them wanted it recorded. At any rate, Tony had insisted—he’d wanted it for his own private viewing, but Nick had agreed unhesitatingly.

So here Tony was, nude except for his white tube socks and black Nike hightops with red laces. He turned his head and grinned at the camera on the tripod, giving it a big thumbs-up just before Nick walked into the room, also nude, his thick construction boots clumping loudly on the metal floor.

Nick’s huge, well-developed muscles were already shining with sweat; he’d come straight from the gym, without showering once he’d gotten Tony’s text that everything was ready. Looked like he was just as horny as Tony was.

Nick stood by the bed, breathing heavily, looking down at Tony’s slim, smooth body, his thin but long cock standing straight up like a weathervane. Nick caught the gleam of triumph, of arrogance in Tony’s eyes.

He didn’t say anything; there really wasn’t anything to say.

He reached down, his strong, massive paw grasping Tony’s dick firmly. As he began to tug on it, feeling it swell and throb in his hand, Tony reached out and grabbed Nick’s shaft—just as long as his own but considerably thicker; a truly fearsome weapon.

Tony groaned in pleasure and arced his body in response to Nick’s jacking. Closing his eyes, he gripped Nick’s swollen, vein-wreathed penis. “I want it in me,” he moaned, writhing on the bed, “I want your fucking huge tool shoved into my ass, dude!”

Nick smiled down at Tony as he climbed onto the bed and spread the smaller man’s legs, parting the firm, smooth thighs with his muscle-bound arms, pulling them up so that Tony’s new Nike kicks were hanging in the air over his face; Tony’d get to watch them flex as his toes curled while he got fucked…

Tony moaned again as he felt Nick’s weight settle on top of him. Then the pain started.

The pressure against his sphincter, yes, he expected that. But it just kept going. It was bigger than anything Tony’d had shoved up his ass before, and he wasn’t prepared. He began whimpering before the huge, dripping, purple head was completely inserted.

He opened his eyes wide and gasped, Nick was grinning evilly down in him; he’d known that Nick would enjoy hurting him, but he hadn’t realized that just the fuck itself would hurt this bad. “Oh please,” he squealed, “it fucking hurts, slow down, dude, for fuck’s sake slow down, you’re tearing me open, fuck, ya shoulda used some lube!”

Nick chuckled down at Tony, slowly withdrawing his shaft until just the head remained buried within Tony’s quivering asshole. “Ya want some lube? No prob, dude!”

Nick gave a deep snort and spat into his hand. He wiped the spittle on his swollen, ridged dong—then slammed himself back down on top of Tony, shoving it in so far his pubic hairs tangled with Tony’s ass fur.

Tony’s yell of pain vibrated throughout the metal structure and out into the factory basement, echoing off the masonry walls. It also vibrated along his colon, causing the silky smooth rectal lining to flutter over the sensitive head of Nick’s dick.

Nick bent down, laying his hard body, rippled with muscles, over top of Tony’s smaller, smoother form, letting Tony feel the way Nick’s body thrust and contorted as his muscles worked away, pumping his cock up Tony’s stretched-out fuckhole.

This close, Nick’s scent was overpowering; the hot erotic manreek of sweat and testosterone flooded Tony’s nostrils, reinforcing the masculinity of the alpha dude spearing his ass and triggering a deep-seated fuckpig response in Tony’s already willing body.

He bent backwards, thrusting his pelvis forward and up to accommodate even more of Nick’s tool up his ass, feeling his buttcheeks planted firmly against Nick’s straining groin, loving the erotically agonizing pain of having his tender rectum reamed out by Nick’s massive, merciless dick.

As he bent back, he turned to the camera. Remembering that his performance was being recorded, Tony began to writhe and moan, making sure that the camera had a good view of the pleasure reflected in his face.

As his back bent, his cock, already straining, erect, and oozing a thin trickle of transparent precum, began bobbing and pulsing. Nick looked down at it, grinned again, and grasping it firmly, began jacking it again, warmly and wetly pulsating.

“Fuck, dude, I’m gonna cum,” Tony grunted, his face contracting as orgasm approached.

“Oh no, you’re not,” snapped Nick, “I ain’t anywhere near ready to blow my load. You gotta work harder than that to get my spunk, bitch.” And leaning forward, he wrapped one huge, strong hand around Tony’s throat and began to squeeze.

“What—“ Tony managed to gasp before his air was cut off. Clawing frantically, he managed to get both hands wrapped around Nick’s fingers and was able to relieve just enough pressure to be able to speak.

“What—“ gasp, grunt, “What the fuck are ya doin—“ cough, gasp, “Dude, you can’t—“

Then his fingers slipped and the crushing, vise-like grip closed off his windpipe again.

The next few minutes were some of the most terrifying in Tony’s life–and some of the last.

Nick leaned down, smiling tenderly in Tony’s face. He let go of the smaller dude’s dick, bringing his hand up to stroke Tony’s face and smooth his tousled hair. With the same gentle, loving expression, Nick began kissing Tony’s face—delicate touches on his cheeks and his brow, while carefully and caringly stroking Tony’s face.

Tony’s swelling, blackening face.

As Tony’s eyes, already wide with panic and befuddlement, locked onto Nick’s, the alpha top started speaking. “Gotta thank ya, Tony, your films were a serious springboard. I couldn’ta made such a big splash without ‘em. But ya see, I got an offer. Foreign, but lotsa money behind it.”

Nick closed in on Tony. His face filled the punk’s field of vision, his sweat and pheromones filling the atmosphere, emphasizing Tony’s utter helplessness in the situation he’d thought he controlled.

Now he realized, he’d never had control—he’d been under Nick’s complete control from the beginning of the fuck. Nick, however, made certain to drive the point home along with his cock.

“Ya get it, Tony, ya worthless fuckin’ cunt? I don’t need ya anymore. Yeah, thanks for getting’ me started, but hey—whaddaya done for me lately, know what I mean? Anyway, my new distributor says this snuff will make me even more money through his network. So you’re gonna die on my dick to help make me rich. Hope ya enjoy the ride, bitch—but I could really give a shit, as long as ya die and make me cum…”

Tony couldn’t tell if the tears streaming down his face were from the betrayal or the physical trauma. Nick’s hand was clamped like a bear trap around his esophagus. He couldn’t afford the luxury of wallowing in self-pity; he was dying and needed to fight. But the deep sense of shock undermined his efforts; part of him simply couldn’t believe that he’d die like so many of the useless whores he’d filmed.

And Nick was treating him just like one of them. Tony’s frantic reaction, triggered by the instinctive will to survive, was amplified by his anger—not a whore! Not a whore!

But it didn’t matter. The dominating muscle top had Tony under complete physical control and was working his body as a sex toy, using him to masturbate with.

As Tony sank back into the mattress, trying to retreat as far as possible from the crushing agony in his throat, his groin thrust up. As Nick leaned over him, his grip on Tony’s neck never slacking in the least, the alpha top’s other hand grasped the thrashing boy’s still-erect dick, pulling and tugging it with a grip as strong as that crushing his throat. Even as Tony struggled violently—and futilely—to escape, he was aware of the swollen pleasure of his shaft. Despite the fear and the anger, the pain and the betrayal, Tony could still feel sperm boiling up in his scrotum.

And that was the biggest betrayal of all. He was being murdered, and it was making him cum. His own death was cause for his own orgasm. Somewhere deep inside his cringing pig soul, this was what he’d always wanted. It was why he’d enjoyed filming it; he’d been subconsciously putting himself in the place of the victim.

But he hadn’t known the fear. He hadn’t known the pain. The pain, oh fuck the pain…

It was an all-encompassing sense of pressure, burning inexorable pressure. It centered in his chest and head, different than the grinding pain caused by Nick’s iron grip on his neck. But the pressure was spreading; there was an unaccountable pressure in his balls too—faint, but growing.

But right now, Tony wasn’t thinking about that. He wasn’t thinking at all; his brain was a white-hot flame of panic. This wasn’t happening. If the pain had not been so overwhelming, he’d have done his best to deny it existed at all; the mind is capable of remarkable feats when it finds reality too terrifying to deal with.

Tony had expected this to be the best night of his life, not the last.

His head was full of silent screaming and pitch-black light; a hot, numbing iciness flooded his body, percolating along his tight muscles. Turning to the camera, Tony made one last attempt to cling to life. He reached desperately, pleadingly towards the camera, as if hoping that those who saw the film would somehow be able to help him—but then he remembered being on the other side of the camera.

No one was going to help him. The guys who watched this would see him struggling—and it would make them cum.

No one was going to help him. Everyone wanted to see him die. They’d shoot a wad watching him die. There was no help.

Nick sneered down into Tony’s horror-filled eyes and began whispering. “You know what’s happening, don’t ya? You’ve cum to this kinda scene before, so you know the drill, Tony. You’re dying like a little cunt on my cock. Your face is already black. Fuck, man, I can see the tip of your tongue peekin’ out. Dude, you are totally fucked and it’s totally hot…”

Tony clawed frantically at Nick’s face, his manicured nails digging into the alpha’s cheeks. Without breaking the rhythm of his pumping, the muscled stud let go of his victim’s dick just long enough to deliver a roundhouse blow to the punk’s face. The force of his muscle-bound arms was enormous; Tony’s jaw snapped like a strand of spaghetti.

The boy’s slim, lithe body rocked back on the mattress, his face contorted out of all recognition in his agony. His swollen, bulging eyes, swimming in tears, stared mutely into the face of his assailant, begging for release.

Tony had had his epiphany. The deathpig part of his twisted little soul had finally bubbled to the top under the needed stimulus of pain—as Nick knew it would. Tony was ready. He wouldn’t fight his fate any longer. He was ready to give up his life and his seed so that he could receive the dominant bull male’s spunk.

“Fuck yeah, ‘bout goddam time you realized what a fuckin’ favor I’m doin’ ya, you worthless faggot. Every one of them bitches I wasted I imagined was you. Ya like that, slut? Ya like knowin’ that I been plannin’ to kill ya from the day we met?”

Tony strove to remain conscious, to hear Nick’s words. But he was losing the battle; as his eyes bulged grotesquely from his twisted deathmask of a face, he could no longer see Nick’s hard cold eyes leering down at him. Horrible icy pain wracked his limbs; his nervous system was compromised to the point that he couldn’t feel his legs kicking and jerking involuntarily or his arms thrashing about uselessly one the bed, no longer a threat to Nick.

He couldn’t feel it; he could only feel the pain. And his vision was horribly distorted—but enough remained for him to see a large white circle in front of him—Nick’s face—and two small dark irregular shapes shuddering and bobbing next to the circle.

His new Nike kicks. He was gonna watch his toes curl as he got fucked. Now he was getting to watch them convulse as he died…

He could still feel on the inside, though. Despite the pain and pressure, despite the loud buzzing sound that drowned out all other noise, despite the icy numbness in his extremities, Tony could still feel Nick’s cock relentlessly thrusting deep into his guts. Indeed, his ass seemed to have gotten more sensitive as his body shut down; Nick massive rod seemed to fill Tony’s abdomen and torso. For a brief moment, Tony’s oxygen-starved brain had an image of him hollowed out, nothing more than a receptacle for Nick’s sperm.

He knew that was what he wanted. It was what he was meant to be. He’d never had another purpose. He accepted it, finally letting the excruciating agony of death wash over him, flooding his body and flowing out through his cock.

As Nick bent over Tony’s thrashing, convulsing body, he spit in the slut’s face. He was about to taunt Tony again—arrogant little motherfucker needed to know his place—when he saw the light fade from Tony’s bulging eyes. As foam bubbled up from Tony’s swollen, purple lips, his body went rigid. Feeling the fucker stiffen under him, Nick realized that Tony has sustained too much brain damage to understand his words.

That was ok. While there might not be any Tony left, there was still a hot, firm, thrashing, tight, moist hole working Nick’s dick. And Nick was so close to blowing his wad…

He threw himself into overdrive, his hips thrusting so fast, they almost blurred on camera. As he took advantage of the way brain trauma tightened Tony’s anus, he bent down over the black, spittle-covered face of his victim and, spitting on him one last time, clenched his killing hand as hard as he could.

The crunching sound of Tony’s esophagus collapsing was louder than Nick’s grunting; it reverberated audibly off the metal wall. As it did, Nick felt the body’s sphincter cinch up tightly around the base of his dick, functioning like a cock ring.

Nick gave a loud, strangled cry as he unloaded his genetic material into Tony’s rectum. The others had been fun, but this—this was something else. He’d fucking hated Tony. Bitch had tried to take advantage of him.

“Fucking cunt!” he screamed. “Take it, bitch, take my spunk, you worthless whore!”

Despite all his experience, Nick was wrong about one thing. Tony’s brain was past the point of recovery, but there was still some consciousness left. He heard Nick’s words and responded in the only way he had left.

As Nick’s huge, developed body shuddered in erotic ecstasy on top of the dying youth, he became aware of a hot, sticky, fluid sensation on his abdomen. Looking down at his furry belly, rippled with muscles, Nick could see that it was covered in cum. Tony’s cock was erupting like a geyser, spewing his spunk in solid pearly jets. Nick took one look and came so hard his entire body convulsed. “FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH!”

Nick collapsed on top of Tony. The smaller kid was dead, nothing now but a quivering corpse. Nick lay gasping on top of him, enjoying the feeling of Tony’s smooth body twitching involuntarily.

After a while, Nick gave a deep sigh of satisfaction. He slowly withdrew his cock, still massively erect, from the corpse’s ass. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment to catch his breath before getting up and walking to his gym bag, where he grabbed a towel and wiped himself down.

Tony’s body remained quivering on the bed, spread-eagled, violated, covered in semen, with a gruesome swollen black face streaked with saliva—his own, and that of his killer.

After Nick cleaned himself up and dressed, he approached the video camera. He was already familiar with this model; it was no trouble to remove the memory card.

As he walked out of the metal structure, he slipped the card into the pocket of his tight jeans. He walked up the stairs and out into the light, the sound of his thick-soled construction boots echoing rhythmically above the sound of his whistling.

He had an appointment later today with his new distributor. He had no doubt that his latest feature would improve his bargaining position; it was sure to be popular.

Behind him, Tony’s body continued to twitch as it cooled and stiffened. At some point, the gas for the generator ran out. Tony was left to rot in darkness.

Mankiller–Snuff Movie 2

The percentages had been worked out. The video, carefully and skillfully edited, was a huge hit online and it became obvious that Nick’s cut was going to be considerably more than fifteen hundred per movie.

Nick and Tony were both pleased with the deal. Within days of Ricky’s debut, they met again in the studio. Each was eager to get started on the next video. And each brought something new to the table.

Tony brought a new bitch. “Name’s Joey. I met him a coupla weeks ago; finally got him in here for a photo shoot. Here, lemme pull the slideshow up—tell me what ya think.”

Nick sat in a chair, a large bag from a hardware store by his side. He’d brought it in with him but hadn’t said anything about it yet. And at the moment, he was too busy looking at the pics of Joey to pay much attention to anything else.

Joey was similar to Ricky, Nick’s last victim, in that he had a slender (but not scrawny) swimmer’s build and black hair cut fairly short. The resemblance ended there. Joey was taller, close to six feet—nowhere near as tall a Nick but several inches taller than Ricky had been. His slim, smooth body had a fine dusting of black hair on the calves and forearms—and large black tangles in the pits and groin—but was otherwise smooth and glistening.

The face was what set him apart. Joey was in his early twenties and had the face of a model. Sky-blue eyes framed by long black lashes gleamed seductively out of a perfectly-formed face with a strong, straight nose, a chiseled chin and lush, full lips. His short hair looked like a spill of black silk threads, perfectly sculpted without any obvious product. His skin was clear and smooth, except for what appeared to be the faintest shadow of stubble along the jaw and on the upper lip.

Nick turned to Tony. “Dude, he looks like a model. What’s his deal?”

Tony, whose eyes were drifting over Nick’s muscled body with a dreamy, faraway look, snapped back to himself. “New in town. He wants to get into movies. Sucking dicks back in Podunk wasn’t good enough; he wants to do it on camera.”

Nick turned back to the slideshow. “Fuck, he’s a hot little bitch. He’ll be very popular.”

Tony chuckled. “Yeah, but not in the way he thinks—not after we get him. But we need to move fast. With those looks, someone will grab him quick. I’m already blocking it out in my mind; he thinks it’s normal porn—we’ll use the bedroom. Question is, how are ya gonna off him? I wanna shake it up a little.”

Nick stood up and grinned. “Man, I got it covered. Here, lemme show ya somethin’.”

He bent over, reaching into the large shopping bag. He grinned ever wider to himself as he flexed his thick thighs and muscular ass at Tony. He knew that there was an attraction there. That was a good thing. That was a thing he could use in the future, maybe.

His bicep swelled as he lifted his purchase out of the bag; it apparently weighed several pounds. Tony’s attention slipped from Nick’s body to his hand; he couldn’t identify the device. It looked kinda like a cordless drill, but it was large and had a long, thin metal frame running down at an angle from the “bit” to beneath the grip.

“What the fuck is that?” he asked.

Nick’s grin grew yet even more shark-like. “It’s called a framing nailer. Cordless. Holds up to sixty three-and-a-half inch nails.”

“I don’t get it. What’s that—“ Tony paused, thought, and went pale.

But Nick couldn’t help noticing the bulge in Tony’s crotch.

“Dude,” Tony whispered, “that’s so fucking sick. It’s brilliant. I’ll get the motherfucker over here right away. This is gonna make us so fucking much money…”

================================================== ================================================== ===

The image is too blurry to make anything out; the camera is moving too much. There’s a couple of violent shakes, a “goddammit” muttered off-screen, and the frame steadies down.

It focuses on a young man’s face, classically formed, with bright blue eyes and a shy grin. He glances nervously to one side, then back at the camera. “Ya really think you can get me somethin’ with this? I wanna do more. I heard you can make a grand per movie, maybe more. Dude, that’d be sweet.”

The voice behind the camera comes back, “Joey, I’m givin’ ya that much for just one scene.”

The kid’s grin develops a slightly harder edge. “Yeah, but it’s only once. I wanna fuckin’ contract.”

“We talked about that, too. Let’s see what kinda response we get from this. You have no idea what the future holds. But I promise you one thing—just lie there and let Nick have his way with ya and you’ll be an instant star. You won’t even know what hit ya. I got another line of coke laid out if ya want it before we get started.”

The kid nods and gets up; the image blurs momentarily as the camera is repositioned. Now it’s aimed directly at the bed; the head is to the left and the foot to the right. The sheets are clean—at any rate, they have been cleaned; they’re yellowed and stained but not filthy. Over them is a brown fleece blanket and a couple of flattish pillows.

The punk walks back into the frame and sits on the bed, facing the camera, sniffling and wiping white powder from his nose. His slim, smooth body gleams under the overhead lighting. He’s nude except for his ankle socks and skate shoes. A long tube of flesh dangles between his firm thighs. He’s coked up and twitchy; his blown pupils changing his eyes from sky to midnight blue.

He almost jumps out of his skin when the large, muscular man enters from the right, nude but for his construction boots, his hard body gleaming in the light, his huge dick jutting straight out in front. The man laughs in a deep bass rumble as he reaches out and grabs the boy. “Slow down there, Tiger,” he chuckles, “I ain’t even gotten started yet.”

There’s a laugh—almost a giggle—from behind the camera. “Looks like he’s already anticipatin’ that hard fuckin’ shaft stickin’ in his ass,” the off-screen voice says. “Me too. Look here, Joey—I’m gonna be beatin’ off while I film. If you’re that good a fuck, I should be able to cum just by watching. See? Make me cum, boy, show us you’re worth the money.”

Joey looks wide-eyed at the man towering over him and then dead-on at the camera. He jerks abruptly as if he’s trying to bolt from the bed but the muscled alpha has his upper arm in a vice grip and yanks him back down on to the bed. “C’mon, man,” he hisses at the kid, “if ya wanna be in porn, ya gotta get fucked on film. First time is the hardest, I promise. After this one, it’ll be like doing everything else in your sleep.”

The kid seems to calm a bit, not thinking the words through. “How do ya want me?”

Nick smiled down at him. “Get on your hands and knees, bitch, I’m gonna fuck ya like a dog.”

The punk scrambles to obey, whipping his lithe body into position, his tightly-laced sneakers spread far apart on the sheets, his knees spread just as widely. The alpha top grins at the camera and, flogging his dong in one hand, spreads the boy’s asscheeks while he nods the camera in for a closer view. It closes in on the kid’s fluttering pink fuckhole, already quivering with excitement. “Dude, I can’t wait for you to get your tool inside this bitch,” the voice behind the camera mutters breathlessly.

“Yeah,” comes the basso rumble, “but I wanna fuck ‘im first.”

A thick purple head, oozing clear precum, slides into view. It looks like it’s at least twice the diameter of the slut’s hole. There’s an extreme close-up of the dark spongy mass spearing the writhing sphincter, stretching it unbearably. The sound of the punk’s yelling and bleating, off camera but very loud, attests to the pain he’s in.

“Fuck yeah,” the cameraman moans, “lookit that thick shaft tearing your asshole open. How’s that feelin’, Joey, huh? Looks like it hurts good, dude, looks like it hurts so fuckin’ good.”

The camera pans up the boy’s smooth body, heaving with the alpha’s thrusts. It focuses on the kid’s face. “Joey, man, look up here. Yeah, right at the camera, that’s it. Lemme see, fucker, lemme see in your face how much you love that cock inside ya. Yeah, I know it hurts, but you love gettin’ hurt, dontcha, cocksucker? Aw, dude, you’re gonna love what Nick’s gonna do to ya. You’re gonna cum harder than you ever have in your life, and you’re gonna do it on camera, man!”

Joey’s face fills the frame, tense and strained with the erotic agony of rough sex. His head is turned to the side, Nick’s thick hairy forearm and big muscled hand are visible, forcing the whore’s head down onto the mattress. As the top grunts and thrusts ever deeper, the kid’s eyes open wide, the pain of the assfuck shining in the huge pools of blue and black bordered with long silky lashes. He looks directly into the camera, lust and love of the pain written all over his grinning, straining countenance.

“Fuuuuuck, yeah…” Joey moans, deeply, breathily. His eyes close as he wallows in the sensation of a massive tube of flesh rammed up his rectum. He emits tiny, high-pitched squeaks in time with Nick’s deep strokes.

The camera pulls back. Both men can be seen in full on the bed.

Joey is huddled on his knees, ass in the air, head forced down onto the bed. Nick has mounted him from behind and is riding him like a bull, busting his ass like a bronco. Nick’s powerful legs, thick like the limbs of a tree, are pumping and sweating; his yellow construction boots with black leather at the ankles providing him traction on the synthetic material of the bed coverings.

The dominant alpha crouches over the slim, smooth boy, holding him down and sinking his dick into the punk’s colon with deliberate and intense brutality. He grunts again, then starts speaking, his voice rumbling in the lower registers.

“You like that cock, you fuckin’ faggot punk? Ya like feelin’ a real man inside a’ ya? C’mon, cunt, tell me ya like it. C’mon you fuckin’ faggot cocksucker, tell me how much ya love my shaft tearin’ yer guts open!”

As he’s speaking, Nick grabs Joey’s hair in his fist, pulling his head up slightly and spitting in his face. Shoving the slut’s head back down, Nick looks at the camera and winks, sticking his tongue out.

His eyes aren’t quite directly on the camera, though; they seem to be more on the cameraman.

The whore moans and groans loudly; Nick’s pace has picked up and the kid’s having trouble keeping up. He’s starting to sweat and jerk; it’s clear that the alpha top has exceeded the punk’s limits. Joey peers up as the camera is shoved obtrusively into his face; his discomfort is obvious in his strained expression.

“Man, Joey, that’s gotta feel hotter ‘n fuck, dude, that thick fuckin’ shaft reamin’ out your asshole. So many guys are gonna cum watching you get fucked, ya know that? Whaddaya think about that, man?”

Still pumping rhythmically, Nick growled, “I bet it turns the little faggot whore on, don’t it, boy?” The camera pulls out a bit to show him crouching over the kid, covering him completely with his hard muscled body, pinning the punk to the bed. Nick is still gripping his hair tightly in one hand, pulling his head to the side and whispering into Joey’s ear.

“Yeah, pretty boy, bet you just love getting’ dicked on camera, don’t ya? Show the world just what a whore you are, letting your faggot cunt get plugged fulla cock, huh? Yeah, motherfucker?”

Joey squirms and moans, looking pleadingly—and lovingly—at the camera. He’s really enjoying being dominated. As his stunning eyes focus on the camera, he licks his lips slowly and moans deeply, breathily.

A cold note creeps into the voice behind the camera. “Hey, Nick, I think Joey’s getting’ tolerant of your rod, man. Looks like he’s imitating Marilyn Monroe or something.”

Nick chuckles. “Yeah, think it’s time to change things up a bit. Set the camera down and get the thing, dude.”

The camera moves quickly, blurring the image for a couple of minutes. There are a few flashes of clarity—a shot of the floor, a brief pan of the bed—and then it stabilizes, evidently on a tripod. Again, it’s got a full-length shot from the side of the bed. Joey is still huddled on the bed, his smooth, firm ass speared by Nick’s huge, glistening shaft. The kid has buried his face in the pillow, biting it, his arms stretched above his head, hands grasping the sheets tightly. On top of him Nick pumps steadily and deeply, looking almost bored.

Tony appears from the right side, holding a large nail gun in both hands. Except for his white tube socks and hightops, Tony is nude. His dick isn’t thick, but it is long and heavily veined, and standing fully to attention. He approaches Nick, who reaches out and grabs the tool—the nail gun, that is—with one huge, strong arm.

He swings it up lightly, seemingly admiring the heft. As strong and well-built as he is, he has no difficulty maneuvering the device. Tony retreats from view again, moving towards and behind the camera. Nick turns to him and the camera closes in on him, just as he bends down over Joey and whispers into the boy’s ear again.

“Listen up, cunt. Time to rock n’ roll, motherfucker. Time to get what ya came here for. Ya wanted to get fucked on camera? You have no idea how fucked you are, cocksucker, but I think it’s time ya found out.”

The boy’s head is turning to the side, his expression one of trepidation—he has no idea what the alpha top is talking about. Before he can twist himself around to see, the muscled arm tightens, bringing the nail gun down onto the kid’s back, under his shoulder blade.

The camera closes in as Nick pulls the trigger. The gun bucks violently as it fires, the loud report echoing in the metal-walled room. It’s immediately drowned out by Joey’s screams. He thrashes wildly in pain, but the dominant strongman overpowers his struggles, holding him down on the bed with an almost nonchalant look on his face.

He moves back a little on the bed, admiring his work, his cock slipping smoothly from the punk’s ravaged fuckhole. Suddenly, he grins up at the camera. “Lookit that, huh? That’s three and a half inches of pointed steel, bitch.” The alpha manhandles the wailing slut, rolling him so that the head of the nail can be seen. The frame zooms in on it—the head of the nail is almost flush with the kid’s smooth, heaving skin. A trickle of blood leaks out from under the small shiny disk.

The stud grabs the whore’s black hair, roughly jerking his head up and back until his ear is at the level of his tormentor’s mouth. “How’s that feelin’, cunt? Told ya you were fucked. Damn, faggot, that must be stuck in your lung, huh? Keep jerkin’ around like that, you stupid fuckin’ whore, you’re just tearing yourself open inside. Now shaddup and lemme see how many things I can stick in ya before ya die.”

He rolls the punk back onto his belly. The camera had swung down briefly to catch a shot of the alpha’s thick purple cock, swaying free after he’d posed the whore for the camera. The frame closes in and slides, slowly and lovingly, along the glistening vein-bound shaft.

The camera quickly snaps back to a wide shot. Nick is poised over the weeping boy, snarling down at him. “Quit cryin’, you fuckin’ pussy assfuck, you ain’t felt anything yet. You’re gonna love this next one, cunt, you’re gettin’ a twofer!”

Nick raises himself up, his hard body gleaming in the light as his muscles tense for the assault. In a flash, he drives his engorged rod deep into Joey’s ass in one swift, brutal thrust. At the same time, he reaches around the punk’s side and fires a nail into the boy’s sweating, heaving flank, the sharp steel shaft shattering a rib on its way in.

The young man’s reaction is instant; he tenses rigidly, almost convulsively. His breath is expelled forcefully from his lungs. The involuntary contraction of his muscles in reaction to the excruciating pain tightens his vocal cords—the escaping air is channeled into a high pitch.

“Fuck yeah, cunt, that’s what I’m talking about!” Nick cries before turning happily to Tony (and coincidentally the camera). “Ya hear that, dude? Motherfucker’s squealin’ like a pig. And damn if his reamed-out fuckhole didn’t tighten up on my dick!”

The camera moves in closer, obviously being held up to Joey’s face. As the lens focuses on the beautiful face, smeared with tears and snot, the voice behind the camera begins to speak. “Fuckin’-A, Joey, you lucky cunt, gettin’ this hot stud’s cock shoved up inside ya—told ya, you were gonna get nailed tonight, didn’t I, ha! Make sure you scream loud now, dude, lotsa guys out there wanna watch you get hurt. Fuck, bro, hundreds of guys are gonna beat their meat and blow their loads watching you shriek and squirm and bleed—don’t it just make ya fuckin’ hard?”

The camera zeros in on the boy’s strained, pleading face. He’s not looking directly into the lens; he’s looking into the cameraman’s face, his expression full of misery, fear and desperation.

The cameraman whispers, “it don’t matter if it ain’t getting’ ya hard, Joey. What you like don’t matter to anyone anymore. Just enjoy the pain, motherfucker. All kinda guys are gonna enjoy it later on, I promise ya.”

The frame suddenly goes blurry. The camera’s being moved quickly. The movement stops momentarily, the lens pointing up towards the ceiling. Tony’s handsome face is visible from below, foreshortened to the point that his dark eyes, furrowed in concentration, can be seen over his cleft chin. The camera shakes again as he mutters, “yeah, I’m repositioning it. Just keep bangin’ him, dude, it’ll just be a sec.”

The camera frame tumbles as he manipulates the tripod; the metallic clicks and clanks are underscored by Joey’s sobbing.

The frame goes black—and then comes back instantly. The caesura was brief—just long enough to remount and refocus the camera.

The boy doesn’t need to be remounted. Or refocused. He’s still locked in place, held down on the bed by the alpha top, Nick’s hand pressing against the back of the punk’s head, forcing his face into the pillow, deep—but not deep enough to suffocate him. His weeping is muffled but still audible.

The porn-star wannabe kicks his smooth taut legs violently, his purple velour skate shoes flailing at Nick’s construction boots which are planted firmly on the rough blanket for traction. His hands clench and release convulsively, in rhythm with the muscle stud’s strokes, his fingers curling tightly as the thick shaft plunges deep into his rectum, splaying out as it’s withdrawn, the massive head scouring the whore’s colon roughly on the way out.

Joey’s arms, however, aren’t moving much. One of the nails in his back has pierced his trapezius muscle, the other the dorsal. Any movement of his arms at the shoulder would clearly be agony; now that the camera is closer, the thin trails of blood oozing out from under the nail heads is much easier to see.

As the two men writhe in an embrace of lust and pain, they’re joined by a third. Tony steps in, his lithe, hard body preceded into the frame by his long thin cock, already oozing from its swollen tip. His handsome face is split by an evil grin.

“Hey, dude,” he chuckles, “he ain’t makin’ enough noise. Hey, Joey, ya wanna be a star, right? You seen how it works in porn—the bottom’s gotta scream and yell so’s the audience knows he’s gettin’ fucked good! You’re too fuckin’ quiet, brah! Here, lemme see if I can help…”

As Nick obligingly leans back, Tony bends over Joey and, grabbing his wrists, wrenches his arms up over his head, then pulls them back down behind his back.

Joey screams, a loud, high-pitched shriek of agony. The twisting alone is almost enough to dislocate his shoulders, but the movement of his muscles can be seen under his slick, sweating skin.

So can the movement of the nails as the muscles contract around them, tearing themselves open on the thin steel shanks.

Joey’s scream trails off into an agonized croak before he draws in another breath with a loud whoop. But at least one of the nails has punctured a lung; his breathing is raspy and labored. He shrieks again, just as loudly but not as long. This one subsides into prolonged sobbing.

In the meantime, Nick hasn’t mistimed a single thrust of his dick. Tony, standing by the kid’s head, is slapping him in the face with his dick as the slut screams and cries. “Ya gotta stick a few more in him,” he tells Nick, “this cunt can take a lot more pain. He ain’t even passed out yet.”

Nick looks up at Tony, then at the camera. A slow smile, dripping with lust, crosses his face. He’d put the nail gun to one side for a moment; now he picks it up; his deltoid bulging as he hefts the seven-pound weapon and swings it around so the camera catches a good view.

Then, without warning, he drops it down and fires a nail into Joey’s elbow, on the outside at the bend.

The screams are ear-splitting as the boy thrashes and flails violently, his arms and legs a blur. The rest of him is motionless, however, held in place by Nick like an iron cage. The hard alpha dom leans back, eyes closed, grinning and snarling in sexual pleasure as the tortured youth kicks and struggles on his cock.

He’s having a great time, and it’s obvious. The poor porn actor manqué is not, and it’s also obvious. Tony has stepped back out of the kid’s reach for the moment. Nick is the true star and he shows it. “Oh fuck yeah, you motherfuckin’ whore,” he growls, “that got ya goin’, huh? Guess what, cunt—I can feel your little faggot dick getting’ hard while I fuck ya. It makes your ass get extra tight. Know what else, you fuckin’ cocksucker? I can feel your ass get tight every time I stick a nail in ya, too. I guess that means your worthless homo cock gets hard every time a real man shows it what pain feels like, huh? You love it, you fuckin’ fairy whore, dontcha? Then this’ll make ya cum, bitch!”

Nick seems to lose it on camera, raping the kid in a frenzy of rage and desire, his hips nearly a blur as he reams the struggling, terrified youth. Simultaneously, he flips a switch on the nail gun—it’s not obvious at first why, but it soon becomes clear. He doesn’t have to squeeze the trigger to fire the gun anymore; he just has to bump it against his victim with enough force to trigger it.

He’s beating the boy with the nail gun. Each blow fires a thin shaft of steel more than three inches into Joey’s smooth, flailing torso. As he screams and moans raggedly, holes are punched into his back and his sides, through his kidneys and liver.

“Roll ‘im on his side!” yells Tony, “do ‘im sidesaddle!”

Nick rolls onto his side, pulling Joey on over, still impaled on his huge tool. Joey looks directly at the camera, his sky-blue eyes bloodshot and ringed with gray by shock. His long lashes flutter, fear adding to the eroticism of the moment, as if he’s flirting with the camera in the moment of his greatest agony. His dick emerges from the dark hairy shadow of his groin, erect and straining despite the boy’s obvious agony.

Except it’s not his moment of greatest agony.

“Make him cum before he dies,” hisses Tony, leaning down and spitting into Joey’s stunned face. “Can ya do that? Motherfucker’s already hard. Can’t blame the little cunt, with your hot cock inside him. Bet he’s ready to shoot. Can ya make ‘im shoot and die?”

“Hell yeah,” chortles Nick, “watch this. First one in the head don’t kill him. Betcha ain’t seen this one before, dude.”

Grabbing a hank of the boy’s hair, Nick pulls Joey’s head backwards. From the camera’s angle, not much more can be seen beyond the thick bulge of Joey’s adam’s apple, bobbing up and down in terror. The frame jerks and blurs; Tony has picked it up momentarily to aim it from a higher angle, since Nick and Joey are on their sides now.

He gets it in focus just in time to catch Nick drive a nail into the back of Joey’s skull, about an inch above the top of the neck—directly into the brain stem.

Tony backs off, showing a full-length image of Joey—who seems to be frozen, not moving at all—and Nick reaching down into Joey’s groin.

The camera is no more than a yard from the bed, so Joey’s swollen purple dick is very clear in the frame. Tony was right; despite the fear and pain, some part of the little whore had gotten off on the pain and the fear. Even now, as he quivers in the throes of massive brain trauma, he’s oozing precum from the tip of his cock.

Nick places the gun up under Joey’s scrotum. As the kid trembles on his dick, Nick applies enough force to trigger the gun, sending a nail up behind the boy’s balls, deep within the root of the unfortunate slut’s rod, impaling the tube of flesh on a shaft of steel and forcing a massive ejaculation.

Joey’s mouth opens and a deep, mindless moan comes out, the sound flowing from his lips as the semen flows from his dick. He doesn’t spunk in spurts; it’s a solid stream of white shooting out like someone stomped on a tube of toothpaste.

“Fuck!” Nick yells, his face contorted in animalistic rage and ecstasy. “Fuckin’ cunt’s so goddam tight—fuck! Gonna shoot, dude, gonna fuckin’ unload in this whore’s fuckhole! Yeah, fuck yeah!”

Tony jacks himself furiously. He licks his lips, staring down at the writhing, traumatized flesh beneath him. “Waste him, dude,” he gasps, “lemme see ya use that hard strong body, dude. Waste the fuckin’ punk, man!”

“Hell fuckin’ yeah,” Nick grunts. He swings the nail gun around and slams it up against Joey’s temple. There’s a loud crunching sound as three inches of galvanized steel punches its way through bone and brain tissue.

Joey goes rigid instantly, his smooth, hard body covered in a greasy lube of sweat, gleaming under the overhead lights as it shudders and convulses.

As the kid thrashes on his cock, Nick grunts loudly and screams. “Fuck! Fuck! Motherfuckin’ faggot cunt, take my load! Fuck, slut, take my cum, you worthless pig whore! Goddamit, cunt, take another shaft in your useless homo skull!”

Nick drives the gun down onto the top of Joey’s cranium, sending another nail deep into Joey’s cerebrum. Quickly withdrawing the heavy tool, Nick whacks it against the whore’s skull one last time, in the back, before tossing the weapon away.

The alpha stud grabs the flailing boy’s hips and pulls his ass relentlessly up along his hard shaft, grunting uncontrollably in violent orgasm as the unconscious punk jerks bonelessly in his death throes. As his beautiful, lightly stubbled face bobs, tongue protruding and eyes rolled back to expose the whites, Tony cries out and shoots a jet of spunk into Joey’s dying face, cum splashing into his eyes and his open mouth.

There’s one last sound; one last grunt from each male as Tony, Nick and Joey each signal the last spurt of seed from their overwrought cocks. Joey’s grunt is louder—he’s shooting out the last spark of life along with his last drop of spunk. Nick and Tony go very still, looking each other straight in the eyes, each trying to catch their breath after their intense orgasms.

Joey, on the other hand, doesn’t try to catch his breath. And he doesn’t remain still, either. His body kicks, jerks, and convulses harder than before; his smooth sweaty legs flailing as his purple velour skate shoes kick convulsively on the bed…

================================================== ================================================== ===

Tony leaned back against the headboard and fired up a joint. He inhaled deeply before handing it off to Nick. As he held the smoke, Tony looked down at Joey’s corpse. There were at least a dozen nails driven into the youth’s smooth, slim body, not counting the ones stuck in his skull.

Nick took a hit and passed the joint back to Tony. He planted his right foot in its thick construction boot against Joey’s side and shoved the still-quivering body off the bed. It hit the floor with a boneless sound somewhere between a thud and a splat. It was the sound of warm dead flesh hitting the floor.

Nick looked at Tony. Tony returned his gaze, looking deeply into Nick’s eyes.

“You want me to fuck ya, don’t ya?” asked Nick

“Yeah, I do. But I don’t wanna end up like him.” Tony nodded at Joey’s body, still shuddering with the random firing of neurons within his mangled brain, his purple skate shoes scraping mindlessly on the floor.

“Maybe we can work something out,” Nick replied. “Let’s see what happens.”

Mankiller–Snuff Movie 1

Tony sat bolt upright at the wheel of his car, staring directly ahead at the steps leading up to the gym’s back door. A feeling of shock, of the pleasure of the forbidden washed over him, leaving him feeling rubbery in his limbs. A man was coming down the steps into the parking lot; a man Tony recognized. It was as if he’d run into his favorite porn star—and in a way, he had. But there was a bit more to it than that.

This could be the opportunity he was looking for. It was certainly no time to be self-conscious. Brushing away any anxiety he might have, Tony left his car and approached the guy.

This gym had a huge gay clientele; being approached by another man in the parking lot was a common enough occurrence here. Especially here, in fact. The rear parking lot was small and surrounded by the back side of a strip mall. The ground sloped down from the front (where most of the parking was located), hence the need for stairs down from the back door. The lot was secluded and known as a good place for hookups.

And to the casual observer, that’s exactly what it would look like; two hot guys getting together. Tony was just under six feet tall. He had full brown hair, shoulder-length, that fanned out behind him. His face was clean and smooth, with large dark eyes that glittered with secret lust. He wasn’t heavily-muscled but there was strength in his slim build. He’d been on his way into the gym, so he was wearing a bright green t-shirt stretched over his firm chest and a pair of short black shorts that showed off his perfectly-formed legs. He wore blue Nike Airs with green laces that matched his shirt.

The guy he was approaching was much larger and more muscular. He was about six and a half feet tall, with short hair several shades darker than Tony’s. He was wearing an orange t-shirt that strained over the dude’s bulging pecs and constricted his arms, digging into the massive biceps. From beneath his white satin shorts, legs like the trunks of trees, shadowed by a haze of dark curly fur, dropped into yellow construction boots laced up over his ankles.

“I know you,” Tony said as he approached. “I’ve seen some of your stuff online.”

The larger man faced Tony. His short black hair faded into a dark stubble that shadowed his cheeks and covered his strong jaw. His eyes, ice-blue and narrow, fixed on Tony suspiciously. “I done a lot of stuff online,” he growled hesitantly.

“Yeah, I know,” Tony grinned back. “I been a fan for long time. Had no idea you were in this state, much less this city. I loved that last post—the kid with the long blond hair.”

“I fucked lotsa kids with long blond hair,” the muscular dude snapped back.

“You did more than fuck him. He had a belt made of woven metal links. I liked the way you improvised with it.”

The large man paused for a moment, eyeing Tony steadily. He was clearly debating with himself whether or not to trust Tony. “You saw that? You liked it?”

“Dude, you made me cum so hard I could barely walk afterwards. Name’s Tony. I make films—porn mostly, I got a little place set up in an old abandoned warehouse on the south side of town. I do underground films. Mostly gangbangers and hustlers shooting up and fucking each other on camera. I got a real nice distribution network, though. But I wanna do a film with you.”

The stud still didn’t look convinced, but he held out his hand. “I’m Nick. But I ain’t doin’ anything for under a thousand. You hit that point, we can talk.”

Tony gave a slight smile. “Oh, I can do that. C’mon back to my studio—yeah, I really call it that—and I’ll show ya some of my work and we can discuss payment. But yes, it’ll be at least a grand.”

Nick thought for another moment, then agreed. He placed his gym bag into his car, then got into Tony’s for the ride; he’d be brought back afterwards. He was too big and too strong to worry much about getting into cars and going to isolated locations with strange men; he could handle himself.

He’d proved that much online when he’d strangled the blonde kid with his metal mesh belt so hard the pattern of the mesh tore his victim’s skin and left his corpse oozing blood as well as semen.

The drive was long and quiet; things needed to be seen before things could be said. Even Nick, major alpha male that he was, has some misgivings about the neighborhood when they came to a stop. The street was nothing but fences and brick walls with doors in them; it was an alleyway in an old industrial area. About a third of the buildings on the block had collapsed; great piles of brick and cinderblock with weeds sprouting—and, in some cases, attaining a great height, testifying to the age and neglect of the area.

Tony pulled up to an old fence. A shiny new chain and padlock secured the rusted gate; Tony idled the car as he unlocked it and pried the gate open. Once he’d gotten back and moved the car in, he went back and locked up.

Nick looked around. He was in a small loading yard behind the grimy shell of a disused factory. The building was ancient and several stories tall. Most of the windows were gone, leaving rusting wire mesh in the frames, and huge cracks ran down the masonry. But the building still looked relative stable.

Tony unlocked another padlock—this one to a door on the loading dock—and led the way in. The air was full of mold and dry rot. Most of the space near the loading dock had been gutted; the area was filthy and uninhabitable.

Tony noticed Nick’s expression. “Yeah, it’s disgusting. And perfect. Once you see this, you don’t bother looking any further. But most of these rooms are useless. We’re going downstairs.”

If anything, the basement of the building was worse. The smell certainly was; the rancid stench from upstairs was augmented by large green pools of stagnant water. Nick was seriously doubting that anything financially useful could happen here when he saw where Tony was leading.

Somewhere on the south side of the building was a large open space. In the center of this space was a platform or foundation of concrete, three feet thick, with steps leading up. On the platform was what appeared to be a large metal room, square, some thirty feet by thirty feet.

They mounted the steps and walked around the side—there was just enough space to walk single file between the metal wall and edge of the platform—to find a door. Well, not a door so much as a hatch. It even had a wheel in the center of the exterior to lock the door into place, giving the whole thing the appearance of a huge bank vault. Nick could see florescent orange cables snaking out of the open hatch. Leaving Tony for a moment, he followed them around the next corner and saw that they connected with a gas-powered generator.

His curiosity satisfied, he returned and trailed inside behind Tony. His construction boots made a flat thumping sound on the metal floor. He was in what looked like a hallway, with doorways off each side and one at the far end. Poking his head into the nearest, he found a small room with thick metal walls covered with rows of hooks. There was a doorway from it leading into the next room; they all seemed to be interconnected.

“What the fuck is this thing?” he asked.

“Damned if I know,” chucked Tony, “I’m just glad it’s here. Watertight and if I pull the door closed just enough to let the power cables in, it’s also damn near soundproof. You sure can’t hear anything on the street. I got one work room and two set rooms, all at the far end.”

In fact, the metal structure had been a large curing oven used in a proprietary galvanizing process. It was built to contain a hellish environment and was still admirably suited to the purpose.

Tony had managed to fit out the two end rooms on the left side as a living room and bedroom. He’d hung blankets on the walls to hide the bare metal and put large area rugs on the floor, then brought in enough cheap furniture to simulate an apartment setting. Utility lights in shiny aluminum shells were clamped to the steel girders that formed the top of the structure.

Once he’d been shown the set, Nick was led into the chamber at the end of the corridor, where Tony had set up his playback and editing equipment. He had Nick sit in one of the office chairs as he pulled up some of his work on a video monitor.

It was obvious Tony liked it violent. Nick’s cock was standing at attention as he watch clips of extremely rough sex. Off camera, Tony’s voice could be heard exhorting the various tops he was filming. Nick began to realize that Tony actually had both the capability and the desire to make a snuff film.

“I dunno,” he said. “I’ve never actually killed anyone on film before.”

“Bullshit,” snapped Tony, “what about that blond kid? I saw what you did to him with that belt. He couldn’t have survived that.”

“No,” admitted Nick, “but he didn’t die on camera.”

“That’s exactly what I wanna fix,” Tony chuckled quietly.

Nick looked at him carefully, still uncertain. “You said you can make a thou?”

“Fifteen hundred. Cash. I’ll blur anything that can identify you.”

The idea of fucking someone to death on camera was too enticing. Nick knew he wouldn’t refuse, no matter who the victim was, but he wanted to maintain a show of independence. “I get final call on who I waste.”

Tony grinned, his white, even teeth glittering like a shark’s. His large dark eyes lit up with smoldering lust; he knew he’d won. He was eager and excited. “I’ve seen enough of your vids to have an idea of what you like. Young, smaller than you but well-built, race not an issue but you really like hurting whores. I got the perfect bitch.”

Tony opened up a series of jpegs on his laptop, letting Nick flip through the images. They were all of the same boy. “Name’s Ricky. Mexican or something, think it’s short for Ricardo. Claims to be straight but he loves cock. And crack. If we let him smoke a little first, he’ll be totally amped to get banged. Won’t even notice he’s getting offed till it’s too late.”

Nick started the slideshow and watched high-def pics of the nude slut swipe across the screen. He was young, all right. He looked like he was in his mid- to late teens, somewhere between fifteen and eighteen. It wasn’t until Nick found a close-up of his face that he could see the tiny lines of dissolution and self-abuse that radiated from his eyes; in another year or two, he’d start to look his real age—probably around twenty or so—and a couple of years after that, his earning potential as a whore would be finished.

Nick liked what he saw. After all, the slut wouldn’t be worth much for long, so it wasn’t as if wasting him now was cruel or anything. He’d be starving on the streets in a few years. And anyway, he was hot. The pics revealed a young, slim boy with shiny blue-black hair and eyes almost nearly as dark. In the first pic he posed on the sofa in the other room, tight white t-shirt wrapped around his firm, lithe torso. His skin-tight jeans emphasized his slim waist, his strong legs, and the thick, rounded bulge in his crotch. Light brown leather lace-up boots came half-way up his calves.

He grinned impudently at the camera, his dark, smooth skin showing a slight sheen of sweat. The grin remained on his face through most of the remaining pictures, a series taken as he stripped. In the last one, he was standing spread-legged, his smooth swimmer’s build nude but for his unlaced boots, his thick, uncut cock dangling out in front.

It was a done deal. Nick wanted to wipe the grin off the whore’s face with his cock. He could feel precum oozing out as he thought of the spic punk thrashing underneath him—in fear, or lust; it didn’t matter.

“You’ll make sure I can’t be ID’d?” Nick turned back to Tony.

“Dude, I’d be in just as much trouble as you. And I ain’t shot a snuff movie before, but some of these cunts have OD’d just before or after a shoot. I gotta place to dump the body; it’s always worked. So, whaddaya think? A grand and a half, my network, and Ricky here dyin’ on your dick—you in?”

Nick broke out in a broad grin. “Fuck yeah, I’m in. Get the bitch over here.”


The frame is clear, but slightly unsteady. It opens on a sofa. A boy is sitting on it, leaning back, lighting up a glass stem. The click of the lighter and the sizzle of the crack rock are audible.

The boy is nude, except for his boots—shiny, light brown leather, laced halfway up his calves. He’s slim, with smooth creamy olive-colored skin. He sits with his legs spread, the firm smooth path of his thighs pointing the way to the thick, uncut tube of meat that rises up out of his crotch.

A voice off-camera is heard.

“That’s it, dude, take a good hit. You’re amazing; most guys can’t get it up on that shit, but you’re hard as a steel spike. Here, ya need to push the straight? I’ll find something. Get as high as ya want, dude, you’ll need it. Nick’s gonna love fuckin’ the shit outta ya.”

A hand reaches in from behind the camera, handing the boy what appears to be a section of coat hanger. The punk takes it, grins almost shyly at the camera, and uses the wire to push the chunk of scouring pad to the other end of the glass tube, then back again before re-lighting it.

Suddenly there’s a noise and the camera goes all tilty. The voice is back. “Hey Nick, help me move this table outta the way; I wanna get a good view. Nah, don’t worry about the camera, I can edit it out later. By the way, Nick, this is Ricky.”

There’s a loud bang and a curse as the frame shakes out of recognition, then goes black. When it comes back on there’s been a lapse of a minute or two.

“Nah, it’s ok. Dropped it plenty of times before. Nice thick rug protects it when it hits the floor. So, yeah, like I was sayin’, when I saw what Nick can do, I thought of you and knew you’d be perfect for this scene. Dude, he’s gonna fuck you like you ain’t never been fucked. I promise it’s the hardest you’re gonna get fucked—and the hardest you’re gonna cum—in your life. Promise, dude.”

The camera pulls back into focus. The boy is sitting on the sofa, looking with trepidation at the large, heavily muscled stud standing over him, nude but for the thick gold herringbone necklace wrapped around his muscular neck, sporting a huge, glistening erection. The coffee table that had been in front of the sofa has been moved off to the left and is just barely visible in the frame; there’s nothing to block the view of the sofa.

The man reaches down and starts fondling the boy. He sits beside him, running his hands over the kid’s body. The punk grins and gulps nervously, his wide eyes looking like circles of dead black as the crack pinpoints his pupils. A hand reaches in from behind the camera again, this time proffering a small white grain.

“Here, dude, take another hit. He’s got a huge fuckin’ cock, and I want you to enjoy it. And he’s gonna play rough. You like bein’ treated like a slut? Don’t worry, Nick here knows how to choke a bitch. You’re gonna remember this fuck for the rest of your life.”

As the Latino youth coughs out a thick cloud of smoke, he turns his head to the camera and speaks in a heavily accented voice.

“Hey, vato, you’re still payin’ me dos grandes, si? And if this cholo’s gonna choke me, I wanna safe word. I say mariposa and he lets go.”

There’s a dry chuckle from behind the camera. “No problem, little butterfly. You’ll get what you deserve when—uh, after he cums. On camera. And I already showed ya the cash, didn’t I? Just relax. Enjoy getting used like a bitch. Pretend like it’s the last fuck you’re ever gonna get.”

The kid takes another hit, then tosses the glass pipe aside. Still holding his breath, he lies back on the sofa and raises his legs in the air. Gripping them behind the knees, he pulls them apart and up to his chest, his tight boots hanging in the air.

The camera begins moving. It closes in on the Mexican kid’s asshole. The high-def image clearly shows the faint black hair ringing the quivering pink sphincter as the boy wriggles in anticipation.

The frame moves out and captures Nick, moving in to mount the whore. His thick, engorged cock is already dripping, transparent beads of precum welling up on his huge mushroom-shaped head. It zooms in again to get a close-up of the dark purple mound of flesh spearing the kid’s fluttering fuckhole before rising to capture the grimace of pain on the slut’s face.

“Fuck yeah,” says the voice behind the camera, “how’s that feel, dude? Looks like it hurts. Looks like it hurts like fuck. Ya likin’ that? Does it hurt good, ya slut?”

The kid opens his eyes and moans directly into the camera. There’s something off about it, something artificial. It’s more than just being anesthetized; he’s acting. It’s clear that he’s done this before. The dude fucking him is huge, and it hurts, but obviously nowhere near as much as his mugging for the camera would make it seem.

“Hey, Nick,” comes the voice behind the camera, “I don’t think we’re getting Ricky’s best work here. Start roughing him up a little; let’s see if that gets the bitch in the mood.”

The larger man turns to the camera and grins. “Sure,” he says, “I been waitin’ to wail on his ass.”

The hardbodied stud places his hands on the whore’s shoulders, pinning them firmly to the cushion as he ramps up the pace of his pumping. He fucks the slut with long, deep strokes, ensuring that the kid feels every last inch of his cock.

And he does. It’s obvious, as the camera closes in on the punk’s strained, clenched face. The kid gives high-pitched whimpers with each thrust, his white-knuckled hands grasping and pulling his knees apart so the heavily-muscled alpha top can lay his firm thick torso between them.

The camera pulls back from the slut’s face and moves down his body. It focuses briefly on the kid’s boots, hanging in the air, thick black soles bobbing with each pump of the muscled dude’s dick. The rhythm is emphasized as the camera pans down to the action, zooming in on the hustler’s fuckhole. Well-used as it obviously is, it’s still completely plugged with the stud’s gleaming purple shaft. He looks like he’s been impaled on a vein-wreathed spear.

As the camera holds the shot, the top goes into overdrive, fucking the kid swiftly and brutally. His massive balls slap repeatedly against the boy’s ass, the slut’s squealing rising in frequency until it becomes that of a pig.

The camera pulls out to show that Nick is still pinning Ricky to the sofa by his shoulders. The whore has stopped squealing and is gasping and whimpering again, his eyes wide with pleasure/pain. The hard dude turns to the camera and grins again before speaking to his bitch.

“Ya like that, ya little cunt? Like bein’ slammed like a fucking whore? Cause you’re getting’ more of it, you spic motherfucker. Take my cock, you cumsucking slut!”

As the kid moans, “Si, si,” the stud spits in his face, then slaps him. The punk gives a deep moan of pleasure that rises into a wail of pain as the top pounds his ass violently. He moves his hands up on top of the bitch’s shoulders, grasping him around the base of his neck, to hold the fucktoy in place while the alpha stud reams out his hole.

The camera closes in on his grip. His large, muscled hands, the outer edges dusted with fine black fur, are gripping the top of the boy’s shoulders tightly. So tightly, in fact, that it’s clear they’re gonna leave bruises.

“Fuck yeah, dude,” comes the voice from behind the camera, “fuck that bitch up good. Hurt ‘im, man, show him you’re fuckin’ boss!”

The muscled stud suddenly draws his right arm back. His bulging biceps bunch up as he slams a piledriver of a punch directly to the punk’s face.

The kid grunts in pain and surprise. The top hasn’t dropped the rhythm of his fucking; the slut has to deal with the assault while his rectum is getting plugged with a huge amount of meat.

He goes out like a light. The top laughs, as does the cameraman. The latter speaks up. “Don’t stop there, man. Long as he wakes up again, you can do what ya want.”

“Aw fuck,” Nick grins at the camera, “I ain’t gonna waste him while he’s out—ain’t no fun in that. Ya want some more bruises first? No prob.”

The stud’s sense of timing is perfect; again, without breaking the rhythm of his thrusting, he manages to rise up on his knees. From that position, he delivers blow after blow to the whore’s chest and belly. The kid jerks with each smack of flesh, eventually starting to wake.

His eyes flutter open. He looks around, lost and scared. It obvious that he’s still higher than fuck and has very little capacity to understand what’s actually happening to him.

He tries to stop it. “No, no me gusto,” he gasps out raggedly. “Mariposa, señor, madre de dios, marip—“

The alpha stud grabs the whore’s throat, moving like lightning. The kid’s voice is cut off in mid-plea.

He’s not getting any air. It’s clear, on camera, that it takes a moment for the fact to register in his drug-addled brain. His expression is one of confusion as thick grunting sounds are forced out of his blocked esophagus.

“Yeah,” whispers the alpha top, leaning over the slut and looking into his face, “I bet you like that too, ya worthless fuckin’ cunt. Ready to go all the way, you cocksuckin’ faggot? Fuckin’ spic whore suckin’ off gangbangers in alleys—yeah, this is what ya been looking for. None of them cholos ever put you in your place. And your place is rotting in a dumpster with your ass fulla my cum. Enjoy it, fuckwad.”

The Latino punk opens his eyes wide, an expression of stunned unfocused disbelief on his handsome dark face—that’s getting darker by the second. He coughs and gags, his hands gripping the stud’s arms and trying to pull them off. He jerks and twists violently, trying to get out from under the top’s heavy muscled body but the dude remains perfectly still, squeezing the boy’s throat. His cock is buried in the kid’s ass, not moving, letting the youth’s struggles pump his hole around the gleaming, swollen tube of flesh.

“Hey, man! Ricky!” the voice behind the camera calls, “look over here, dude! Fuckin-A, man you’re dying! How’s that feel, bro? Gotta tell ya, it’s hot as fuck to watch!”

The brown-skinned boy turns his face directly to the camera. He continues to kick and struggle as he reaches out to the camera in desperation. His eyes, wide and frantic, are starting to protrude slightly; it gives an added air of panic to his expression. The skin of his face darkens like that of a ripening olive.

Suddenly the alpha top starts fucking him again. The camera pans out a bit to get the full-body shot; Nick thrusting himself brutally into the dying whore’s rectum. It’s unclear if the set has AC; both killer and victim are sweating profusely, their entwined bodies glistening as they slide over each other in an agony of sex and an ecstasy of death.

The slut’s brown leather boots kick uselessly at the air for a moment before he contracts his tight smooth legs and drums his heels furiously against the alpha top’s back and ass. The stud grunts and spits in the kid’s swollen purple face.

The camera frame moves. The image shakes and blurs for a brief moment. When it clears, the cameraman has moved to a point near the end of the sofa. From here, there’s a close up on the top’s thick tool spearing the hustler’s straining pink hole. The thick, purple, swollen shaft, shiny and thick with veins, is shown in great detail—then the camera moves again, closing in on the dying boy’s face.

The purpose of the shot is obvious. The kid’s swollen face is the same shade as his killer’s swollen cock.

“Dude, you’re getting fucked good,” the cameraman laughs. “I told ya you’d remember this fuck the rest of your life, which should be about a coupla more minutes. Ain’t it cool, dude, getting fucked to death by this fuckin’ alpha stud? Bet yer lovin’ it, you cumsucking spic whore. Fuck, lookit that shit—I knew you’d like this, you worthless fuckpig!”

As raucous laughter brays from behind the camera, it closes in on the space between the two heaving, sweat-lubed bellies, one rough with hair scraping painfully across the other. Again the image shakes as the cameraman moves closer to the action, but not so badly as to lose the picture.

Ricky’s dick is rigid, pressed against Nick’s belly like a bar of iron. It’s wrapped in the dark “happy trail” line of hair marching down the stud’s ripped abdomen. After a momentary blur, the frame goes in for extreme close-up. As sweat-soaked flesh writhes and presses together, a thick dark mushroom-shaped tip can be seen oozing clear precum. It’s hard to see because of the violence of the motion. The shot isn’t held long.

The camera pulls back some and pans slightly up. The slut is flat on his back, his head bent back into the sofa cushion in a futile attempt to be free of the crushing pain in his throat. His hands clench, claw and scrabble over the alpha’s arms, scratching at his skin but otherwise having the same impact as they would on iron girders; the stud’s grip is implacable.

It’s clear that the spic is overwhelmed in panic; he’s almost literally grasping at straws. What he does grasp at, however, is the muscled dude’s gold necklace. In an instant, the kid snatches it off his neck.

“Goddam it!” roars the top. “You fucking cunt, that cost more than you’re worth, you useless fucking whore—you’re gonna regret that!”

And with that, he lets go of the kid’s neck. The boy gasps deeply, arcing his back up off the sofa to inhale as much air as he can. He lets it out in one huge moan—and then the hard dude is back on him, clamping down on the throat.

“What the–?” comes from behind the camera. But the cameraman apparently catches on right away. As the stud leans down and puts his face up against the boy’s, the camera comes in close enough to pick up the look of rage in the alpha’s face—and his whisper.

“Ya get more air, cunt? Good. You ain’t gonna die that quick. You gotta pay. You pay in pain, fucker. Got it? I’m takin’ the cost of that necklace outta your hide. And believe me, you fucking spic faggot, I’m gonna cash your ass out. Now just sit back and enjoy what ya got comin’, you fucking worthless druggie scum.”

Nick’s face is hard and cold as he leans over Ricky and spits in his face. The youth’s hands are tight around his killer’s wrists, trying desperately to wrest them from his throat.

The attack is stunning in its unexpected brutality. The alpha top clamps his left hand over the whore’s throat. He draws his right hand back and slams his huge knotted fist into the kid’s face. The slut’s body rocks with the blow, his legs kicking out.

“Oh fuckin’ hell, dude,” the cameraman moans, “you gotta hurt ‘im more than that. You hear that, Ricky? You fuckin’ crackhead whore, this stud’s gonna end your worthless life in agony on his cock. And it’s all gonna happen on camera. Dudes you don’t even know are gonna jack off watching you shoot and die with a cock up your ass like a fuckin’ cholo cunt.”

The top draws back and punches the boy again. This time, the blow lands on the youth’s firm, slim chest with a loud thunk.

The camera closes in on his face again. The alpha stud has kept up the pressure on the punk’s throat. As much pain as he’s in from the beating, it’s the strangulation that not only killing him but causing the most pain.

That much is obvious as the frame is filled with the Mexican boy’s face, swollen and distorted nearly out of all recognition. His body may jerk with each vicious blow, but the agony of death is reflected in his puffy blue lips parted by a thick, swollen tongue framed in a froth of drool that streams back along the spic’s blotched cheeks.

His eyes are bloody and bulging; staring into death with the horror of someone totally unprepared. Thick grunting sounds are forced out with the foamy bubbles that leak from his lips.

The camera pulls back, for good reason. The whore is in his death throes. As the alpha stud grunts and pants and pumps his tool up the dying slut’s fuckhole, the boy’s arms flail and his hands scrape and beat with frantic but weakening desperation.

The camera moves down the length of the jerking, interlocked bodies. The boy’s legs close instinctively, his smooth thighs slipping over the stud’s sweaty flanks. His feet no longer kick in protest at his killer’s assault; now his heels drag along the cushion of the sofa, the brown leather of his shuddering boots sliding along the top’s muscled calves.

The frame takes a perspective view from near the feet, capturing everything up to the face in the view. From this angle, the spic’s hands can be seen clawing at the alpha’s arms and shoulders; they flutter like dying birds. The kid is almost dead; he’s been without air for at least four minutes now.

There’s a blur and the camera resumes its wide, side-on view. All of Nick’s glorious body can be seen, pumping, thrusting, shining with sweat like a fierce animal—like a mankiller. Ricky is sweating and gleaming too, but his movements are becoming less coordinated as parts of his brain begin to die.

The camera zooms in for a moment—just like an earlier shot, this one shows the whore’s thick, uncut dick, standing straight up out of a black forest of pubic hair. Each jerk of his dying body, each thrust of his killer’s hips, makes Ricky’s instinctively swollen shaft stab into Nick’s tight hairy abs and smear them with the precum that’s flowing in a nearly steady stream.

The Mexican kid is losing it. There’s still some fight in him though; he makes one last attempt to break free and manages to get his thumb into the stud’s left eye.

This proves to be Ricky’s last mistake.

“Fucking cunt!” screams Nick. Without relaxing his crushing grip around the boy’s throat, the top wraps his left arm around the kid’s right—the one that’s in his face—and with a quick jerk, snaps it, tearing the elbow out of joint and shattering the humerus, the upper arm. The pain must be phenomenal, but the dying whore is already in agony.

The stud goes full bull male alpha in rage. He pulls his huge arm back and, putting his massive muscles to good use, begins piledriving his fist into the young slut’s face while screaming in such anger that foam flies from his lips. “Die, you worthless fucking spic faggot! Think you can hurt me, you stupid fucking crackhead? Take my fucking cock and die like the fucking cumslut piece of shit you are! Fuck yeah, I’m gonna unload in your worn-out fuckhole and it’s gonna be the last thing you feel, vato, comprendre? Stupid motherfucking cocksucking faggot whore, die like the useless pig fuck you are!

Suddenly Nick grabs a handful of Ricky’s short but thick black hair, near the scalp. In a split-second, he throws himself forward, putting the weight of all his muscles onto the hand he’s using to crush Ricky’s throat. At the same time, he jerks his other arm back towards himself, pulling Ricky head violently in the opposite direction from his neck

The camera pulls out just in time to catch the full-body effect. The sound is deep and vital; an erotic snapping and shattering that signals the irrevocable end of life. Ricky reacts as if to an electric shock. His whole body spasms; his arms and legs splaying wide—and then instantly contracting in a convulsion; wrapping tightly around his killer’s hard, slick body as Nick, deep in orgasm, cries out incoherently.

As the whore holds his killer in a dying embrace of severe neurological shock, the camera zooms in again on the faces. They’re next to one another; the killer’s, drawn back in the feral pleasure of filling the young cunt with his seed, the victim’s, in the final surrender to a more powerful man.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” screams Nick. He rises up onto his knees and the camera comes in for Ricky’s last close-up. A long, thick cock moves in from the bottom of the frame, a hand grasping it tightly. As Ricky drools and twitches, his brain completely disconnected from his quivering body, the cameraman beats off into the boy’s face. The frame becomes unsteady for a moment as he shoots, semen spurting into the slut’s black, distorted face and pooling into his bulging, bloodshot eyes.

The camera frame widens for one last time, showing the stud gasping for air, his cock still buried in the twitching fuckhole. He shudders for a moment, evidently draining the last drop of sperm out of his rod, judging by the deep, satisfied sigh he emits. He pulls out of the corpse’s ass, backing himself up on his knees before standing up. He steps up and spits in Ricky’s dead swollen face one last time before the video ends.

************************************************** **************************

Nick sat on the end of the sofa where his feet had been. Tony was sitting in an armchair on the other side of the small room. Both were leaning back, not moving much, semen still leaking out of the heads of their dicks. Ricky’s body had been rolled off the sofa and was lying face down, still twitching, on the rug, a thick slime of cum leaking out of his savagely torn rectum.

“Dude, you really think we can make money doin’ that?” asked Nick.

“Man, we can get rich doing that. I fuckin’ promise,” replied Tony.

“Ok, then, here’s the deal—you cut me in on the profits. We can work out the percentage later. Until we make a profit, you pay me fifteen hundred per video.”

Tony didn’t need to hesitate. “Fuck yeah, it’s a deal, dude. We’re gonna make a killing!”