A cold front was coming through.  The rains had been intense during the day but as the night came on, they tapered off.

The wind hadn’t, though.  It ruffled the Trucker’s jet-black hair and tugged at the short scruff on the alpha’s face.  He’d gotten into town earlier during the day, dropped off his cargo, then headed back to the large truck stop on the highway. There, he could park his rig and get some sleep to the sound of the rain drumming on the metal roof.

That was then.  Now he was awake—and on the hunt.  He needed fresh meat.

Even in his black lambskin leather bomber jacket, the stiff east wind left a sting.  The Trucker shrugged it off.  He was used to physical extremes; this barely registered in his consciousness.  After all, under the jacket was nothing more than a white cotton t-shirt that was two sizes two small; it clung to his massive, muscled chest so tightly that the dark areolae surrounding his jutting nipples were clearly visible.

Beneath this, his jeans, as tight as if they’d been painted on, were worn to the point of having faded to such a pale shade that they seemed almost sky-blue.  Beyond the jacket, his one concession to the weather—and it really wasn’t intended as such—was the pair of black leather 10-inch Carolina loggers into which he’d tucked his jeans.  They were useful for dealing with puddles.

And faggots.  Tonight some very unlucky homo cunt was gonna learn that.

The place he was headed for was called The Troff.  The Tucker had learned about it online; it was evidently full of cockpigs.  He had no doubt he’d be able to snag some prey without anyone noticing—or caring.  He could see it just ahead, up the street.  Already the usual types were clustered near the entrance—a young, scrawny whore, shivering in a tank top that was inadequate for the weather who was being sneered at by a fag in its late twenties.  The latter, still desperately—and obviously—clinging to the fading bloom of adolescent beauty, was ogling a dude encased in leather head to foot, including a Muir cap.

The last one amused him the most.  Nothing wrong with leather, of course, but that tough-guy persona…fucker would shit itself if he had any idea what he Trucker had planned for the evening.  Not that it’d ever have the chance know; that wasn’t what the buff, sadistic killer was looking for tonight.  He pushed his way past and entered the bar.

Inside was even more of the same old, same old.  Utterly cacophonic, with seizure-inducing strobes flashing through a thick haze generated by cigarettes and the obligatory fog machine.  It was the perfect hunting ground, so cluttered with distractions that no one more than three feet away would ever get a good look at him. 

Peering through the murk yielded no worthwhile results, so the hardbodied killer approached the bar and ordered a shot of rye. He threw it back, then ordered a double scotch and soda.  With this in hand, he left the bar and began to saunter around the club, peering into the unlit nooks and crannies in his search to find the right slut.

He found it leaning against an exit door not far from the bathroom, smoking a cigarette.  It might be more accurate to say that it found him.  Even though his back was turned, he could feel its eyes crawling all over him.  Nonchalantly, he turned to face it.

It was young, possibly in its early twenties.  But the paleness of its skin and the dark rings under its large, pale blue eyes indicated a hard life and likely drug addiction, so it might have been younger.  It reeked of alcohol, but the Trucker hadn’t seen anyone checking IDs at the entrance, to that was no way to be sure how young the whore was.

And it was a whore.  There was no question about that; it was begging to get laid.  Around its slim waist was a black nylon belt supporting a pair of black Diesel skinny jeans, the cuffs of which had been snagged on the high tops of its Adidas red suede kicks.  Above the waist, its lithe torso was wrapped in a tight tank top the same shade of red as the hightops.  Over this was a thin dark nylon jacket; the cunt must have been chilly on its way here, although it was already slick and glistening with the heat inside.

The Trucker grinned at it, knowing that however sharp that chill may have been, it wasn’t anything close to the icy embrace of death that would enfold the useless slut and take it under tonight.

It lit up when the buff older dude with the four-day scruff on his cheeks locked his eyes on it, its dead, soulless eyes momentarily showing a feeble spark of life.  The hair was blond and styled into what looked like waves.  The hair was obviously dyed, given the dark brown color of the eyebrows underneath and the faint haze that was beginning to sprout on the pouty upper lip.

It smiled at the Trucker, almost too eagerly.  The alpha gave no response beyond that of a mocking sneer.  The boy wasn’t put off by that, though, and the reason soon became apparent.

“Hey, dude,” the kid said, a slight nervous quaver in its voice belying the confident grin on its face, “You, uh, looking for some fun?  I’m good—really good—and I don’t charge too much.”

“How old are you, whore?” the Trucker demanded.

Instantly, the punk lost its feigned cockiness, becoming disconcerted and defensive.  “I’m twenty-one!  I, uh, just don’t have my ID with me right now—”

“Never mind,” the Trucker broke in.  So it was underage, and in the bar illegally.  Well, it was going to learn that there were consequences for breaking the law.  And in this case, one of them was the death penalty.

“How much?” he snapped.

Again, the rentboy lost its bearings; the Trucker’s tactic of switching tracks getting it confused.  “I, uh…it’s, uh, fifty bucks a half hour.”

“You gotta place?”

It became eager again now that the prospect of making money was back on the table.  “Yeah!  You bet!  It’s just a couple of blocks over—we can walk.”

“Ok,” the Trucker replied, “Wait for me out front.  I’m gonna take a leak and pay my tab.”

The kid hesitated, worried that his john would get away.  But aside from the alarmed emergency exits, there was only one way out of the bar for patrons—through the main entrance.  So he went.  The Trucker strolled over to the bar, returned the empty glass in his hand, and ordered another shot of rye.  He hadn’t run a tab; he’d paid for each drink at the time. 

He tossed the rye back and left the bar, certain that no one would associate his exit with that of the whore.

The wind was still as strong as it had been when he’d arrived, but the temperature had dropped quite a bit, a brief respite before a heat wave moved in the following week.  It didn’t bother the Trucker, but the slut was clearly shivering in its thin jacket.

The serial killer grinned sadistically.  Stupid little bitch was gonna be a lot colder before the night was over.

The kid was right, though; he really did live only two blocks away, just down the road.  The place had been built about sixty years ago as a hotel, something along the lines of a Holiday Inn.  Somewhere in its long descent into seediness, it had been acquired by a company that had converted it into single-room all-bills-paid apartments.

The slut headed toward the outside staircase, leading his john up to the second floor.  The light footfalls of the boy’s Adidas kicks were almost silent, appropriate for a soon-to-be ghost, while the Trucker’s boots struck the concrete steps with the heavy tread of a true Man.

It turned out the cunt’s room was at the top of the stairs, number 201.  The lights in most of other rooms were off, not that it meant much—it was a weekend night, after all.  Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check.

“This place looks empty,” he said with a slightly contemptuous tone designed to provoke the whore.  It worked.

“Well, they ain’t rentin’ no more rooms out!” it barked bitterly.  Evidently the Trucker had touched a nerve.  “Most of the damn rooms are empty!  Once someone moves out, the room don’t get rented again.  I hear they’re about to sell the building.  I dunno what I’ll do then.  Probably live on the street.

Poor little whoreboy.  Well, the Trucker would ensure it would never have to suffer that fate.

It got the door open and entered, flicking on the light and holding the door opened for the Trucker.  He walked in and whirled around to face the punk as it closed the door.

“Lock it,” he commanded, “Both locks.  I don’t want anyone…disturbing us.”

The buff alpha surveyed what was about to become his killing pit.  In the middle of the left wall was a queen-sized bed stripped bare but for its yellowing and evidently cum-stained fitted sheet.  There were two nightstands with lamps of a kind that the Trucker vaguely remembered his grandmother having.  On one nightstand was a cheap alarm clock.

Beyond the bed, along the back wall, was the entrance to the bathroom and next to it was the closet.  Continuing around to the right wall was a small dresser with what looked like a refurbished 24-inch TV. On one side of it was hung a full-length mirror, on the other, a mini fridge with a microwave on top.  Making the turn back to the front wall, a small round table with two rickety chairs was placed in front of the window to the left of the door, with just enough space to separate it from the bed.  The window was covered with thick, smoke-stained brownish curtains.  All the furniture matched but was old and battered; likely purchased at auction.

It took the Trucker far less time to scope out the room than it takes to tell it. By the time the fuckmeat had locked the door and turned back, the Trucker was already slipping off his leather jacket.  The boy’s jaw dropped as he got a better view of the stud’s broad, muscled chest and thrusting nipples.  The Trucker’s hands lowered to the hem of his t-shirt.

“Yeah, fucker?” he said, leering into the punk’s face.  Wide-eyed, it nodded furiously.

Slowly, sensually, he peeled the shirt up and over his head, gradually revealing his sculpted abs, his firm, furry belly, and finally his massive pectorals, covered with black wiry hair on which lay, suspended from his neck, a pair of dog tags—a souvenir from one of his very first kills.

The slut could only gape.  It took a few moments to recover its voice.

“You—holy fuck…bro, you can fuck me for free…” it moaned.

“I was anyway, you faggot piece of shit,” the Trucker responded casually, his face utterly expressionless. 

It took a few moments for the words to make their way to make their way through the blond cocksucker’s drug-addled brain and finally penetrate its almost blind lust.  It couldn’t make sense of them, but before it could respond, the Trucker spoke again.

“Strip, fag,” he ordered, his deep gruff voice ringing with steely alpha dominance.  The boywhore’s inner cockpig soul responded so instinctively to the commands of a real Man that it found itself seated on the bed, slipping its kicks back on, completely nude with its shirt and jeans lying next to it. 

It hadn’t remembered getting undressed, or why it put its hightops back on, but it didn’t matter.  It stood back up and faced the Trucker, its seven-inch boycock already swelling and rising.

Moments later, it was steadily oozing precum after watching in awe as the Trucker extracted his enormous and downright frightening tackle from the tight confines of his jeans.  He slowly approached the kid, his intimidating rod jutting out in front of him like a lance.

Hesitantly, the teen homo reached its hands out and ran them through the Trucker’s dark chest hair, as wiry as steel wool.  Worshipfully, they ran up and out, clutching at the huge pecs, as hard as those of a marble statue, before reaching the thick, erect nubs of the Trucker’s nipples. Then it lowered its hands, sensuously fondling the hard six-pack of the abdomen before reaching the muscled stud’s leather belt, still buckled at the waist.  It drew back to clutch the Trucker’s shaft—but he abruptly knocked them aside.

“How long you been on the streets, punk?” he suddenly demanded.  Again, thrown off kilter, the whore could only stutter confusedly.

The sadist grunted condescendingly.  “Aw, never mind,” he sneered, “You been getting plowed by dudes since you were old enough to cum.  And ya just loved it, didntcha?  But tell me this, boy—ever run into any real trouble?  Betcha some of yer little whore buttbuddies have, yeah?  You know, went out to make a little money and never made it back?”

He placed his palm flat on the kid’s chest and shoved, forcing it back onto a sitting position on the bed.  He leaned over his powerful form looming intimidatingly over the adolescent slut.  “Aintcha ever scared of how…dangerous…this shit is?”

In that moment, the cockpig was gone.  All that was left was Devin—and he was scared.  He knew some, all right.  Rick had lived two doors down.  Left one night last July to meet a john for a quick fifty buck blowjob and wasn’t seen again for more than three months when he was fished out of the local landfill and had to be ID’d by his teeth.  And there was Jamie—that one still gave him nightmares; it was said he’d been eviscerated alive…

And then Devin noticed something else—the Trucker had bent over and picked the jeans up off the bed.  He was now slowly removing Devin’s nylon mesh belt from the waistband. 

As he was doing so, they caught each other’s eyes.  The serial killer smiled with what was unmistakable anticipation.  “You know what happens next, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question, said with a warm, gentle tone more sinister than any snarl would have been.  “You know what this is for.”

Devin did know—and he was utterly panicked.  He still couldn’t believe that he was in truly mortal danger—not him, that just couldn’t possibly happen—but he knew some serious fucking shit was about to go down and he needed to get the fuck out.  NOW.

The Trucker was still towering in front of him, slightly bent forward, his hard, hairy body so close that Devin could inhale the erotic tang of mansweat, adrenaline, and alpha testosterone.  He could feel his cock swelling in spite of his fear, but he didn’t let the involuntary erection get to his head.

He let terror do it instead.

He might have been able to figure out a plan; after all, he’d whoring himself out on the streets since he was thirteen, nearly ten years ago–long enough to have developed the survival skills of an alley cat.  Not, of course, that his plan could possibly have succeeded against an overpowering serial sex killer like the Trucker, but he might have staved off his incipient foretaste of hell for a few moments longer.  Instead, he chose to bolt for the door.

He never had a chance.  With the Trucker directly in front of him, his only option was to swivel to one side and push off on that leg, but he slammed directly into the left side of the Trucker’s furry chest, bouncing off his granite-hard pec and slamming back onto the nightstand.  The lamp fell back onto the bed and Devin rolled off to land on his hands and knees.

The Trucker had been expecting something, but not a lateral impact.  He was knocked off balance and stumbled several feet to the side.  As he recovered, Devin got to his feet.

For a moment—it could only have a couple of seconds, at the very most, but it seemed to last for eternity—they faced each other, the fallen lamp casting an eerie off-kilter light across the scene.

For that fraction of a second, it looked like an image of an extremely unequal gladiator show.  The scene was the archetype and epitome of the Alpha exerting its rightful and complete dominance—sexual and beyond—by marking weaker males as its own property. The ultimate gestalt of male dominance.

After that, the only thing left was to make sure it stayed his property.  Forever.

But again, the moment was nothing more than a tableau vividly illuminated by a flash of lightning before the storm broke.  Each of them lunged to the right, Devin towards the door and the Trucker towards the bed.  The Trucker reached his goal first, but he then had to get from the bed to the door—by which time Devin had managed to unclasp the chain lock.  His fingers were fumbling with knob and had just managed to turn the tab when the Trucker threw the nylon belt around his throat and dragged him away.

“You fucking cunt!!” the Trucker hissed and slung him into the wall beside the door with enough force to put his face through the drywall.  Then, flinging the teen whore violently onto the bed, he turned his back and relocked the door.  It was time for the slut to learn its highest and best use—as nothing more than a cumdump made of fuckmeat.

He strode back over to lithe, limp form prostrate on the bed.  It was little more than semi-conscious, its left cheek already swelling and darkening and blood trickling from its mouth.  The Trucker yanked it upright by the belt around its neck.  “Wakey, wakey, ya little shit,” he chortled as he jerked and jostled it around.

Devin fought against consciousness, even as it came crawling back.  Even before he could piece everything together, he could remember that something horrific was awaiting him, and he didn’t want to face it.  But awakening was inevitable—and when it happened, he learned that the situation had deteriorated considerably since he’d checked out.

Now that the Trucker had his prey awake, it was time to start the lesson.  And any good master knows that the first rule of teaching is to establish expectations.  The stupid little fuck needed to learn to obey.

Up to—and, if the Trucker wanted, past—the point of death.

To that extent, the Trucker smacked the punk in the face, his huge, bear-like hand imparting jaw-rattling force.  The backhand was just as brutal and the sequence repeated as a tactile form of driving his words through the homo’s thick skull. 

“Don’t” [SMACK!] “fuckin” [SMACK!] “fight” [SMACK!] “me” [SMACK!] “you” [SMACK!] “worthless” [SMACK!] “piece” [SMACK!] “of” [SMACK!] “faggot” [SMACK!] “shit!!!” [SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!]

By the time the Trucker felt that he had expressed himself thoroughly, the cheap rentboy was lolling flaccidly in his nylon mesh noose.  The only expression it made was to suddenly cough up an incisor, but then it fell limp.  The Trucker dropped it back on the bed in contempt.

This one was a sad, weak excuse of a fag.  If this was how it reacted to a minor—and indeed, by the Trucker’s standards, slight—admonishment, then it was going to be long evening.  But the Trucker was prepared for that.  The important thing was that it needed to be awake.  It needed not just to know, but to feel exactly what was happening to it.

The mindfuck was sometimes the best part, and he was only just getting started.

The meat issued a long, low groan—it was waking up.  The Trucker rolled it off the bed; it hit the floor like a sack of potatoes and lay moaning in a huddled mass.  As it began to awaken, the cruel stud strolled over to the chair where he’d draped his leather jacket.  Reaching inside it, he pulled out his light and a pack of Marlboro Reds.  He lit one up and put the pack back into his jacket.

The boywhore was fighting consciousness valiantly.  It took a while for it to resurface from the darkness.  The entire time, the Trucker stood over it, smirking, tapping his ash out on it, and prodding it with his boot—although some of the prods were akin to vicious kicks.

Devin’s awakening was as inevitable as it was unwanted.  Under the circumstances, consciousness was much less preferable than unconsciousness but there was nothing the adolescent slut could do to stave it off.  It was only with the greatest of reluctance that he now found himself facing reality.

And the reality was that he was lying on the thin carpet of his shitty apartment, looking up at the hardbodied, booted stud towering over him, his enormous shaft jutting out and oozing drops of hot transparent precum onto Devin’s unprotected flesh.  Above his huge, hairy pecs with gleaming dogtags nestled in the fur, the sadistic alpha was sneering down at him with a look of utter bloodlust.

Devin had never seen that look before.  He’d been in plenty of bad scenes before—he ended up hospitalized on an average of twice a year by violent johns—but he’d never, ever seen that look before.

He hadn’t doubted the Trucker’s earlier words, but there was something about that hate-filled glare that almost broke Devin’s instinct for self-preservation.  Almost.

With the stunning agility borne out of panic, Devin scrambled on all fours until he reached the table, then climbed to his feet.  He skittled sideways and pressed his back against the right wall, next to the fridge and microwave, facing the Trucker, his eyes wide with terror in his battered, swelling face.

The Trucker hadn’t moved.  He didn’t need to.  But now he bent down and picked up the whore’s belt before turning back to face it.

“Where ya gonna go, fuckmeat?” he jeered mockingly.  The punk didn’t answer.  The Trucker took a step towards it and it sidled in front of the fridge and began to inch its way down the far side, in front of the dresser and TV.

The Trucker took another step and it bolted for the rear wall, launching itself into the bathroom and locking the door.  The Trucker guffawed long and loud at the utter futility of the faggot’s escape attempt.

He was still laughing as he slammed his thick-soled logging boot against the door, splintering the lock out of the jamb on the first blow, sending the door ricocheting off the wall.  He found the worthless piece of shit sniveling and cowering in the bathtub.

The rentboy was now little more than blubbering, panic-stricken fuckmeat.  “Why?” it wailed up at the leering, muscular sadist towering over it, “Why are you doing this?  You don’t have to hurt me…”

“No”, the Trucker replied in tone of cold satisfaction, “I don’t have to hurt you—I have to kill you.  I want to hurt you.  I want you to die in terror and agony.  The more your worthless little homo ass suffers, the harder I get off.”

And before the stunned teen punk had time to respond, the Trucker looped its own nylon mesh belt around its neck and dragged it forcibly out of the bathtub.

It fought.  It fought violently.  It knew that it was being dragged back towards the bed and that once back on it, it would never leave again.  At least, not under its own power—and in that it was absolutely correct. 

Its mistake was in thinking that if it struggled hard enough, it could escape the inevitable fate that faggot whores so richly deserve.  And its struggles only made the nightmarish pain and terror worse.

Its smooth, firm legs kicked against the cracked tiles of the bathroom floor as its hands fumbled about, seeking anything on which they could get a grasp.  Finally, in their frenetic scrabbling, they managed to clutch onto the door frame, where the meat was able to maintain a tenacious, if tenuous, momentary hold.

For the Trucker, it was a minor inconvenience.  The hardbodied alpha gave the belt a swift, vicious jerk.  The punk gagged as its windpipe was squeezed shut and it lost its grip on the door frame—the attention of its clawing fingers now being directed to the excruciating stricture around its throat.  Its kicking became more intense at this point.  At one point, it dislodged the sneaker on its left foot, sending the hightop suede Adidas tumbling back into the bathroom, where it landed upright just inside the doorway.

After that, there was nothing it could do.  The was nothing to grab, nothing to hold on to—no way to stop being painfully, remorselessly being drawn to its deathbed.  There was nothing but terror…

…too much terror to realize that it had a raging erection, much less even wonder why.

The Trucker knew why.  It was getting exactly what it needed, what it desired.  And somewhere within, somewhere deep inside its twisted little cockpig subconscious, it knew that and was responding in the most appropriate way.

They all did.  Faggots always did.  It was one of the ways the Trucker justified what he was doing.  Fuckmeat needed this—and knew it.  No matter how much it cried and begged and fought, this was how it was supposed to be. 

Of course, sometimes stupid fagmeat need prodding to realize how badly it needed this.  The Trucker paused for a moment and released the belt.  The whoreboy felt a momentary sense of—well, relief wouldn’t be the right word.  But it could breathe again.

Not for long.  The Trucker had decided to put his 10” leather loggers to good use.  Before the cunt could realize what was happening to it—much less being able to defend itself, however rudimentarily—the Trucker began stomping it.

As the sole of the huge, heavy boot began raining down with merciless, crushing force, leaving the imprint of its sole deeply and horrifically pounded into the tender flesh of its chest and smooth, flat belly, the teen slut could only squeal like the cockpig it was.  The squealing soon thereafter ceased as the Trucker transferred his tender attentions to the boy’s face.  By the time he’d crushed its nose and stomped its incisors down its throat, the Trucker was done.  Somehow, the meat was hard and leaking—and by now, so was the Trucker.

And with that, he dragged the kicking teenaged whore up onto its deathbed.  Still using the belt to drag it around and reposition it, he only loosened is grip once he himself was on the bed, and by that point in time, it was barely conscious.  It made no attempt to resist as the hulking killer, his broad shoulders and furry chest glistening with sweat, pulled its legs apart and then up over his shoulders as he hunched forward and prepared to thrust his massive tackle into the kid’s asshole like a harpoon.

For the meat, it was too much.  Enough of Devin was still sensate—enough to feel his rectum impaled by an enormous throbbing cock, many times larger than any shaft that had ever penetrated it before.  Bue he couldn’t fight it off.  And from that point on, Devin became the flailing, convulsing adolescent fuckmeat he’d always been destined to be.

The Trucker knew it.  It was a shame the faggot whore wasn’t as quick to catch on.  It still had to learn that it was dead.  Right now, it was still trying to straight-arm death—but Death was stronger, and the Trucker knew and ensured it.

The boy was beating on his chest.  The sound of the impacts of its fists on the Trucker’s stone-hard pecs was muffled by ample body fur, resulting in meaty but barely audible slaps.  The vicious killer grinned at the cunt, vaguely amused by its utter fruitless attempts at resistance.

But then Devin did something stupid.  In his defense, even his well-worn asshole couldn’t take the immense girth and length of the sadist’s enormous horsecock.  When he realized that beating on his assailant’s chest was as effective as slamming his fists into a cinderblock wall, he turned his frenetic attentions to the alpha’s face.  The Trucker instantly ceased being amused.

“Goddam it, faggot!” he bellowed, “You fuckin’ take what you got comin’ to ya!”

And the next time the homo reached up at him, the Trucker caught the kid’s right wrist.  Even with his left arm, the Trucker was able to dislocate the slut’s shoulder with ease, wrenching it around as if he was trying to pull a drumstick off a chicken.  The Trucker found the snapping and popping sounds to be incredibly erotic.  Naturally enough, the meat didn’t have quite the same reaction.

Devin screamed, loudly and long.  Agony pulsed through his lithe teen body, slick and glistening with a cold sweat forced out by sheer physical pain.  He wasn’t aware—wasn’t capable of being aware right now—that his hard boycock was leaving a trail of ooze each time it slapped against the Trucker’s hairy, ripped abs.  Nor was he aware that his own mangled, torn rectum had tightened around the brutal stranger’s huge tackle, although he did know that the destruction of his right shoulder had not only not paused the tempo of the violent rape, but it also seemed to have sped it up.

But by now, the Trucker had had enough.  The teenaged whore was giving him what he needed, but as much as its shrieks of pain were turning him on, he knew that he couldn’t let it go on longer.  Sooner or later, someone would hear it.

“Ok, whore, time to turn ya into meat,” he drawled with a leer.  Then, again without missing a beat as he vigorously rutted with the whoreboy, he reached over and picked up its nylon mesh belt.  “Hush now,” he said with a gleefully malicious tenderness, “I know, I know, it hurts.  But it ain’t gonna for long.  I fuckin’ promise you that, cunt!”

Devin barely registered when the belt was looped about his neck, but he suddenly realized it was there when the cruel alpha decided to test his grip by giving it a brief squeeze.  That was the first and only warning of his imminent death that Devin actually believed.

He inhaled to scream, to cry out, to beg for his life, to say something, but it was too late.  The webbed belt tightened so swiftly and powerfully that it instantly sank below the surface of the skin.  Devins last gasp had filled his lungs with his final supply of oxygen, contaminated with an acrid musk of mansweat—both his own and that of his killer—enhanced by male sex pheromones, testosterone, and adrenaline.  He had no way of knowing it, but his adolescent homo body was primed to die.

And to cum. So was the Trucker.

The sex killer placed his huge left paw palm down over the kid’s face, covering it up.  He could feel the tip of the dying whore’s protruding tongue and the slimy white foam that was welling up between its swollen purple lips and trickling down its chin.

With the fuckmeat’s head locked into position, the sadistic alpha looped the nylon belt once more around his right fist and gave it a swift, vicious jerk.  With its head pressed firmly down and its neck jerked brutally upwards, Devon’s death would have surprised him if his brain hadn’t been too damaged to realize what was happening.  He hadn’t been strangled to death after all.

Not that it mattered.  Death wasn’t instantaneous; there was still profound suffering at the end.  And cum.  Lots and lots of cum.

As bone shards pierced the adolescent’s spinal cord, it began to convulse violently, arching and flailing.  Still riding it out like it was a bull in a rodeo, the Trucker was rewarded with its intensely desperate final spasm as the teen clutched him tightly, its smooth body abraded by its killer’s wiry body fur, and desperately spewed out its DNA in a final attempt at genetic self-preservation.

The moment the Trucker felt the hot spurt of boycum on his hard, ripped abs, it triggered his own load.  Thrusting his mammoth rod so far up the dying teen’s asshole that his head was buried in the lower part of the intestine, he began hosing the meat’s guts with a continuous stream of searing manseed.

He didn’t remember how long he spent lying on the shuddering corpse, spewing its innards with spunk.  He vaguely remembered that the dead kid still managed to unload a couple more wads before subsiding into the shudders and convulsions associated with a trashed nervous system.

Eventually, though, he extracted his massive cock from the corpse like he was removing the drill head from an oil rig.  He stood for a moment and retrieved his cigarette pack, then sat back on the bed to relax for a moment while having a smoke.  After all, he wasn’t getting any younger and he’d been ridding the world of useless faggot for a good two decades.

He hadn’t seemed to make a dent in the number of them.  In fact, they seemed to increase, like locusts. 

With profoundly sneering contempt, he extinguished the butt of his cigarette on the cunt’s right nipple, enjoying the sensory inputs of watching the skin blacken, hearing the sizzle of burning human flesh, and inhaling the somehow appetite-inducing aroma akin to cooking bacon.  Afterwards he got up but didn’t bother to go to the bathroom.  He just grabbed the boy’s Diesel jeans, wiped the cum off his dick and his chest, and tossed them aside.  Before slipping on his shirt and jacket, he turned to take on last look at his kill.

The slaughtered adolescent whoreboy lay on its back with its own nylon mesh belt still deeply embedded in its throat.  The only feature recognizable in its blacked, crushed face, was the eyes—they were rolled back into the head with only the blood-straked whites appearing.  White foam was still visible on the chin.  Even from a distance, there was clearly something wrong with the angle of the neck.

The entire torso was purple and black, the crazed maze of boot tread welts already starting to appear.  They were even staring to become visible under the quickly-congealing cum that had pooled on the teenager’s belly.

The legs were splayed wide apart and the Tucker’s cum was still oozing out of the shredded, useless sphincter.  Both socks had stayed on, as well as the remaining right Addias hightop.   Even the slightest glance would show that the teen slut had been the victim of a violent—and well-deserved—sex killing.

Grinning with satisfaction, the Trucker donned his t-shirt and jacket and head out.  This time, he didn’t even bother to close the doors.  It was too cold for flies, but surely there was something around that would gladly dispose of rotting meat.

As he descended the stairs from the killing pit, the cruel alpha idly wondered where he’d be when the body was discovered.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Not the he knew—or even actually cared—the answer to the Trucker’s question was that he was fifty miles north of town and heading for the state border.

It was actually the property manager who saw the open door and investigated.  He was still waiting outside when the police arrived.  “I seen them crime shows,” he proudly announced to the responding officers, “Once I saw what that faggot got hisself into, I stayed outta the room.”

Within moments, detectives White and Ahmad had arrived on the scene, and things were wrapped up very quickly.  There was a brief disagreement about the wisdom of pursuing a suspect.

“We have semen, man,” Ahmad stated, “We can at least do a DNA test.”  He’d only been promoted to detective ten months ago and spoke with all the enthusiasm of someone anxious to prove themselves in a new position.

White sighed.  “Yeah, we can,” he responded in the patient but weary tone so often used while teaching someone the ropes, “But there’s zero chance there’ll be a match.  And if there is, what do you plan to do about it?  There’s still that robbery and murder at the liquor store on Apache that we’re getting chewed up about, to say nothing about the barbershop shooting on Fifth.”

“But—but I thought—” Ahmad stammered.

“Look, Ahmad, yer a good kid, but a little to gung-ho.  You think anyone’s gonna care what happens to this faggot?  And don’t ask me how I know; look at them dildos on the dresser.  You go talk to the manager; sounds like the MEs office is here.  I’ll make sure their camera man gets set up.

If anything, Ahmad found the manger even more callous.

“No, I didn’t see who the homo was with, and I don’t give a shit.  Just get the body out.  I’ll be in the office if ya need me.”  He started down the stairs.

“So you’re not worried that a murder in one of your units will scare tenants or prospective tenants?”  Ahmad asked in one last attempt to elicit some kind of emotional response to the brutal sex murder.

The manager stopped and barked a loud, incredulous guffaw.  “Worried? Fuck, no!  I been trying to get rid of all these fags.  Owners are gonna tear the building down and sell the place.  The sooner I get ‘em all out, the larger a bonus I get.  Cocksucker did me a huge favor getting itself offed.”

Sighing dejectedly, Ahmad descended the stairs, trailing the manager.  At the bottom, they both paused and stepped aside for the ME and the photographer.  An orderly with a gurney with a body bag on it waited at the bottom of the stairs as well.  After the ME’s men had gone up, Ahmad headed towards his car, leaving the orderly and the manager at the bottom of the stairs.  To the manager’s surprise, the orderly initiated a somewhat odd conversation.

“Hi,” he said, s slim man with russet hair in a white lab coat, “My name is Harris.  Tell me, do you know is the deceased had any sneakers?”

The Trucker was angry.  He needed a piece of fagmeat on which he could vent his frustrations—and he’d just found it.

He was in a homo bar in the seedier outskirts of a large metropolitan area; he’d had a delivery not too far away.  Normally, he tried to make such deliveries late at night to avoid city rush-hour traffic.  This warehouse, though, shut down operations at eight in the evening.  As a result, the Trucker had spent hours on the highway at a crawl, burning off expensive fuel.  He was an independent contractor; that came out of his pocket.

By the time he was done with the job, he was done.  He parked his rig at the end of the dead-end road on which the warehouse had been located in a rather desolate area of light industry.  This area, however, what located next to a neighborhood of old run-down houses and sixty-year-old apartment complexes.  The faggots were moving in and slowly trying to gentrify the locale, however; hence the gay bar.

It had popped up while he was trolling for a victim online, and it was perfect—about a mile away, close enough to walk.  Grab a couple of shots of whiskey, a piece of smooth young fagmeat to beat, rape, and snuff, and he’d soon be back to grab a few hours of sleep in his cab. 

The streetlights in this part of town were intermittent and neither they nor the streets themselves were maintained well.  The concrete slabs of the sidewalk were uneven and tilted; nevertheless, the buff, vicious sadist planted his black leather harness boots on the pavement with heavy, confident steps.  He strode unconcernedly through an area through which even the police went with caution and trepidation.

He knew he could handle himself—after all, he got off on killing, and he had the experience to do it well.  And his appearance didn’t hurt, nearly six-and-a-half-foot frame tightly encased in a pair of jeans so worn they were soft and faded to pale blue.  It was a chilly night—the temperature was forty degrees and still dropping—but that didn’t bother him.  In deference to the chill, however, he had donned a black leather aviator’s jacket over his white cotton t-shirt, so small it was straining across his broad, muscular chest. 

He looked like a badass, and he knew it.  But then again, he was a badass.

He’d gotten stared at the moment he entered the bar.  It wasn’t quite successful or trendy enough to be an actual club, but it was certainly trying.  Loud, rhythmic dance music was being played by a somewhat lackluster deejay in one corner.  The dance floor itself was large and rather crowed and the bar was packed.

The Trucker approached it.  The young pansies at the bar practically squealed with delight as he roughly shouldered through them and got the bartender’s attention.  “Double shot of Jack,” he barked. When it came, he paid.  He downed it as easily as if it been water as he got his change, then turned around, leaning back against the bar and surveilling the crowd.

It was full of so many cocksucking boywhores that the Trucker could hardly restrain himself, but one caught his eye early on.  It was young—in fact, it looked too young to be in the bar legally, not that the Trucker gave a shit.  What did matter was that it was so obviously desperate to be used.

That was it.  That was the one.  That was the homicidal faghunter’s version of a twelve-point buck.  It might say it didn’t want to suffer, but it did.  It might say it didn’t want to die, but it did.  They all did.  They said they didn’t, they screamed and fought to the last moment of their utterly worthless lives, but they did.

At least, they all shot thick, uncontrollable wads of cum when he killed them, which amounted to the same thing as far the Trucker was concerned.

At the same time, the boy caught sight of the Trucker and froze, slack-jawed in awe.  He was slim and wiry but by no means scrawny; in fact, his sleeveless black t-shirt revealed pecs and biceps of almost perfect form.  His jet-black hair was very straight and cut into something that the Trucker equated with an emo look; it was likely dyed.  Not that that bothered the Trucker.  Undoubtedly the coroner would be able to determine the true color.  The lashes around the large dark eyes were so long and thick as to make the Trucker suspect mascara.

He’d soon find out; no mascara would be able to withstand the tsunami of tears that would be rolling down the kid’s face before the Trucker was done with him.

Below the waist, he continued the theme, his skin-tight smooth leather jeans highlighting thick, firm thighs and shapely calves; the cuffs were tucked into a pair of hightops so spotlessly white as to appear new.

The Trucker allowed just the faintest sardonic smirk to cross his face, but it was enough.  Slowly, as entranced as a moth by a flame, the kid approached him, his smooth, youthful face a mixture of hope, lust, and uncertainty.  Of these, the greatest was lust.

“H-hey,” he said as he reached the unimaginably hot older man, “I, uh, I’m Kevin…”

The Trucker grunted and slowly scanned the slut from head to foot, then back, contempt oozing from his gaze to such an extent that it had an almost physical impact.  At any rate, it certainly had the impact the Trucker had wanted.

“Yeah, boy, you’ll do,” he said laconically.

Kevin was galvanized.  “I, um, I’ve got an apartment not too far from here. It’s—well, it’s kinda dirty right now, but—”

“Just tell me, faggot, can I fuck ya there?”

Kevin lit up like the top of the Chrysler Building under the verbal abuse.  “Yes, sir!” he babbled, literally wriggling with excitement, “I mean, it’s small, but fuck yeah!”

“Wait outside for me, bitch,” the Trucker commanded, “You need to prepare yerself.  I’m gonna have another drink and then I’m gonna destroy you and your homo asshole.”

He turned his back on the boy without waiting for a response and ordered another double Jack shot.  As Kevin obediently waited outside, freezing his twink ass off—he hadn’t brought any kind of jacket, not that it mattered; raging lust kept him at a fever pitch.  In the meantime, the Trucker had polished off his second double, then a third. 

By the time he headed outside, safe in the knowledge that no one in the club would be able to tie his exit to the meat’s, whatever possible restraints or inhibition he might have had, had been erased by the alcohol.

By the time he rejoined the fagmeat outside, the Trucker’s enormous cock was ragingly hard.  He wasn’t going to unload world of hurt on the twink fuckboy—he was going to unload a whole fucking universe of nightmarish agony.

He was going to sear the true meaning of suffering into its very soul.  By the time he was finished, death wouldn’t be a release; it would be such a profound pleasure the cunt would spunk uncontrollably.

And it would love it.  Deep in his own soul, the Trucker knew that the meat recognized its inferiority.  It needed and wanted this, and he needed and wanted to give it to it.

“Let’s go,” he grunted abruptly.  Like an eager puppy, Kevin headed across the parking lot and turned left.  The heavy thumps of the Trucker’s boots on the sidewalk told the whore that his john was following him.

He’d hit him up for the money once they got back to his place.  After all, he hadn’t been turned down yet once he’d stripped and shown off his smooth, firm body.

And so the stage was set for a perfect vortex of hatefucking, horrific beatings, and excruciating death.

The apartment building to which the kid was leading the Trucker turned out to be a squat two-story structure faced with brick of a dingy, indeterminate hue.  The asphalt on the thin strip of parking space in front of it was about twenty years past its useful life, judging by the huge holes and massive ripples that made a lunar landscape of its surface.  Not that it mattered; there were only three cars in evidence, none of them in good condition. 

For that matter, the building looked mostly vacant—something the slut verified the next time it spoke up.  Pausing on the bottom riser of the rusty metal stairs, he turned back to the Trucker.  Even with this addition to his height, he still had to look up into the towering stud’s face.  The whoreboy’s own eyes glittered with a truly reckless lust.

“Place is almost empty,” he said with an impish grin, “They’re runnin’ our leases out, then they’re gonna tear the place down.  Only four of us left, and I’m next to last to go—I got three months to go.  The units around me are empty, so—” here he faltered for a moment before plunging in “—so we can make all the noise we want.”  

The fagmeat was too horny to notice how ice-cold the Trucker’s grin and reply were.  “Good,” he said, firmly but quietly, “trust me, boy, you’re going to be making a lot of noise.”  It was a clear warning, an obvious red flag, but the twenty-year old cocksucker was too drunk to care.

In Kevin’s opinion, he’d let this hard, masculine Adonis fuck him all night long without charging him a dime—not that that would stop him from asking, of course.  He just wanted him.  He wanted to feel his massive cock probing deep into his intestines.  Hell, he deserved this guy.

The stupid little homo had no idea how right it was as it made its way to the second floor, the almost soundless footfalls of its hightops easily overwhelmed by the more solid sound of the Trucker’s boots. 

The sadistic killer’s grin remained cold and steady on the reflection of how even his footwear was already eradicating evidence of this disgusting little pervert’s existence.  It was a stain, he was gonna clean it up, and he was gonna enjoy the living fuck outta doing it.

Once inside, the boy flicked a light switch as the Trucker soundly and surreptitiously locked both the latch and the deadbolt on the front door.  Instantly the room was flooded by the stark light of a bright white bulb in a milk globe ceiling fixture.  The meat hadn’t been lying when it said the place was dirty; what it hadn’t said was that it was cramped and claustrophobic, with a single window in the front, overlooking the outside walkway.

To the left was the smallest kitchen the Trucker had ever seen—both the stove and the refrigerator were ancient, but their miniscule dimensions must have made replacement expensively prohibitive, if not downright impossible.  A couple of pan handles jutted from the sink and the door to the single upper cabinet was ajar, revealing some cans of beans and a half-full jar of peanut butter.  The lower shelf had disposable plates, cutlery, and cups.

The rest was the living room, consisting of a sofa, coffee table, armchair, and an entertainment center, all mismatched, and all dating from no later than the 80’s.  The TV was a generic 32” flat screen; it just barely fit into the space allotted in the entertainment center.  The coffee table had three beer cans, evidently empty, a bottle of tequila, obviously empty, and a bottle of Jim Beam, half full.  There was also a bong and an overflowing ashtray piled with cigarette butts and the roach ends of joints.

Speaking of roaches, the Trucker had seen enough of them, especially in the kitchen, to add downright revulsion to his sneer of contempt.  The whole fucking world was gonna be better off without this vermin-ridden faggot in it.  Whatever he was feeling, he needed to erase this subhuman mistake with his dick.  Time to peel off another layer of inhibitions.

Without saying a word, the hardbodied serial killer stepped forward and grabbed the bottle of bourbon off the coffee table.  He unscrewed it with one hand, dropped the cap on the floor, and polished what was left in three huge gulps.  Tossing the now empty bottle on the sofa, he turned to the punk, his eyes now slightly red and glowing with white-hot rage and lust.

Kevin could—or would—only see the latter.

“You ready to get dicked down, asswipe?” the Trucker leered.  He was loose but focused; he still had complete control over himself.  All the alcohol had done was help him achieve a deeper level of hatred than otherwise.  This was going to be phenomenally brutal and sadistically cruel. 

But the fuckmeat wanted it.  It needed it.  The fighting, the kicking, the struggling—that was all biology.  Yeah, there was shrieking agony and mindless terror for a while, but in the end, it always finally accepted how important it was to be treated like the worthless perverted piece of shit that it was.  After all, it always surrendered its useless existence with an explosive orgasm.

QED.

Luckily for Kevin, he actually was too drunk to pick up on any of the nuances of the Trucker’s words or body language.  “C’mon,” he panted, “Bedroom’s in here.”  He headed through a doorway leading to the rear room—bathroom, closet, single window to match the front room.  There was a twin bed with a battered, tarnished brass headboard, a single nightstand with a cheap porcelain lamp with a yellow shade; after switching on the overhead light, dim and yellow, the meat went to the nightstand, turned on the lamp and plugged in its phone.

The other items of furniture in the room were a dresser with an array of things scattered across its surface and a splintering armless wood dining chair with clothes piled on it; in fact several piles of dirty laundry were scattered around the room.

At the far end of the room was a vanity with a sink and a large mirror; the actual bathroom was off this and consisted of a tub and a toilet.  One whole wall was taken up sliding closet doors with fake wood paneling.  One of the doors was open, exposing yet more dirty laundry and a somewhat expensive selection of sneakers, boots, and leather items.

“You can just toss your stuff anywhere,” the cheap whoreboy said as it turned its back on the Trucker and peeled it t-shirt off, uncovering its smooth back and developed lats.  Unlacing its hightops, it wriggled out of its tight leather jeans, revealing a firm bubble butt.  From behind, its boycock could be seen dangling between its legs, already dipping in excitement.

As it turned back to the Trucker, it spoke.  “I like to get fucked in my kicks—” it began, before freezing in a cross between awe and arousal.

The awe was for the Trucker’s chest, now exposed in all its powerful, furry glory, the thick, firm nipples rising above the forest of chest hair covering the broad swell of the pecs.  The excitement was from what the Trucker was holding in his hand.

The older man had doubted that his jacket would remain on the chair—there were too many clothes piled on it already, and they were dirty anyway—and he damn sure wasn’t going to place it on the floor, so he tossed it on the dresser and did the same with his t-shirt.  As he did so, he noticed a pair of handcuffs with the key still in the still in the lock. 

Now, as he stood shirtless in front of the entranced fagboy, he dangled the cuffs—minus the key—from the index finger of one hand while slowly and seductively lowering the zipper of his jeans with the other hand.  Even then, his mammoth tool was so long that he had to reach in and pull it up and out of its tight denim confines before it could bob and sway.

Kevin had never seen anything like it.  At the age of twenty, no one had inspected his fake ID too closely, but then again no one had for several years.  By now, his virginity had been so erased, even its ghost had been exorcised.  And of course, what had started out as the tight sphincter of a tender young fuckhole had long been stretched beyond recognition.  Even so, the monstrous shaft now projected towards him like a throbbing, oozing lance, was bigger than anything he’d ever encountered.

It was intimidating, and Kevin felt a slight pang of fear.  In the brief amount of time left to him, he might, at some later point, have regretted ignoring it.

He never did, naturally; when the time came, he was too busy thinking of other things.

Now he just gulped and gave the Trucker an almost sheepish grin.  “I, uh, I like it kinda rough.  Only kinda, but you can use those if you want.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned back, slipping his left hightop back on over his ankle sock and lacing it tightly, then did the same with the right.  While starting to lace up the latter, he spoke up, unable to resist his mercenary urges.

“By the way,” he said nonchalantly, “I usually charge three hundred buck an hour to get fucked, and I’m worth it, but for three hundred, you get me for the whole night, bro.”  Behind him, there was a pause, followed by a thump.  Just as Kevin finished the knot and stood up straight, his back still to the Trucker, there was a sudden profound pain in his head.  Then there wasn’t anything.

The Trucker, finally triggered by the faggot’s demand for cash, had dumped the clothes off the chair and bashed it over the slut’s head so hard it disintegrated, spindles and legs raining to the floor.  The fuckmeat slumped unconscious to the floor like a sack of potatoes; it took the hard-bodied serial killer almost no effort at all to hoist its limp form and toss it onto the bed on its back. The only things on the bed besides the cum-stained fitted sheet was a wadded blanket and a couple of pillows.  The Trucker knocked it all off to one side and promptly yanked the cunt’s arms up over its head and cuffed it to the bedpost.

The mise en place was set, the meat was ready to be tenderized, and the Trucker was ready to get his dick milked.  All that remained was for it to wake up.

He wanted to look it in the eyes as it died on his cock, slowly and excruciatingly.

The blow hadn’t been that hard.  The wait was less than five minutes, then the Trucker noticed the unfortunate youth’s long, silky lashes begin to flutter.  Smiling coldly, the cruel sex killer bent over the smooth, firm, helpless form of the meat and slapped it in the face.

“Wakey, wakey, motherfucker,” he cooed, “Don’t wanna sleep through yer whole murder, do ya?”

Kevin heard the words, but they sounded thick and slow, as if coming to him through something denser than air.  He was right, of course; his alcohol- and weed-fogged little faggot pig brain was much denser than air. As a result, he wasn’t able to make sense of what he was hearing.

Opening his eyes didn’t help.  The concussion he’d received, though minor (and from this point forward, the very least of his worries), had scrambled his limited perceptions.  The light hitting his retinas was a painful burst of bright scintillations that took a moment to sort out.   

When he did sort them out, he was confronted by the image of the hairy, muscled stud looming over him, leering and brandishing his monstrously huge cock like a sword.  Despite the icy shard of terror that had lodged itself in his heart, Kevin still felt his own swelling shaft pulse with lust. 

The sensation felt degrading—but the meat had other things to think about at that moment.  It knew it its hands had been cuffed to the headboard; it had experienced that many times before.  And yeah, it hadn’t spent several years as a boywhore without having been exposed to violence and danger; it had been hospitalized twice by brutal johns.  But this was—different, somehow.

The words the Trucker had spoken while the punk was recovering consciousness were finally beginning to percolate into its awareness.  It suddenly realized what the difference was; it came down to a single word.

And that word was murder.  The others had only wanted to hurt him.  This one wanted much, much more than that—and the young slut was utterly unable to stop him. 

The Trucker recognized the desperation; the way the boy’s wide eyes dulled with fear and shock would have been obvious to any observer.  This was the signal he’d been waiting for; the sign that it was finally awake enough to be fully aware of what was happening to it.  As he’d said, he hadn’t wanted it to miss out on the fun.  And he didn’t give a shit that in this matter, its idea of fun was widely divergent from his own.

He knelt on the bed, the tight denim of his jeans stretched tautly around his powerful rounded glutes as he grabbed the cunt’s ankles just above its sneakers and yanked its legs apart as if he was trying to snap a wishbone.  The kid cried out, more in fear than in pain; its smooth, firm thighs strained visibly but vainly in an attempt to resist what was coming.

And Kevin did indeed know what was coming; he was going to get raped.  His sick little cockpig soul actually thrilled at the thought of being raped—and had gloried in it when it had happened in the past—but, again, this time was different.  Aside from the threats, the violence, and everything else, there was the matter of size.  That huge horsedick zeroing in on him was going to ream his well-used fuckhole out like a plumber’s snake. 

This wasn’t gonna feel good.  This was gonna be sheer agony, and he knew it.

And he was right.  

As the fuckboy squirmed beneath him on the rough, stained sheet, the Trucker rammed his gigantic rod balls-deep into its intestines, instantly stretching its sphincter like an over-tightened rubber band. The highly sensitive muscle shredded in the blink of an eye as the head of the Trucker’s tool, as large as a billiard ball, tore its way along the rectal lining.  Before the nightmarish pain had the chance to reach the slut’s brain, its prostate has already been scraped raw, causing the meat’s erection to further swell and ache abominably.

The agony snowballed its way up the boy’s nervous system and hit all at once with the intensity of a bolt of lightning.  Its shriek took a moment to build; the Trucker knew it was coming by the way the taut, firm fucktoy tensed under him and involuntarily clenched is ass on his pulsing member.

The sadistic alpha leaned forward and clapped his hand over the bitch’s mouth, pressing down so hard its lips were mashed painfully into its teeth.  “Shaddup and take what’s comin’ to ya, faggot!” he snarled.  He didn’t mind making the fuckmeat scream, but he had enough experience as a fagkiller to know the value of discretion.  He didn’t mind if the meat died in silence, as long as it was riding his cock when it did.

But that was when Kevin made one of the greatest—and last—mistakes of his short, useless life.  Even though the Trucker hadn’t closed off his nose, the pressure the murderous stud was exerting on his face had the effect of severely restricting his nasal passages.  With agonized panicked snot clogging his sinuses, his ability to breathe was reduced by some ninety percent—not quite enough to suffocate him, but more than enough to induce blind terror. 

Kevin’s error was to give in to that terror and yield to his instinct.  He bit the Trucker’s hand.

“YOU GODDAM ASSWIPE!!” the buff killer barked out, snatching his injured palm away from the boy’s mouth.  The homo’s pent-up screams rolled out, massive breakers of suffering echoing off the thin walls.  But the terrified whoreboy couldn’t stop.

So the Trucker made it stop.  He punctuated his verbal abuse with physical persuasion.

“Shut [WHAM!] your [WHAM!] fuckin’ [WHAM!] cock-gobbling [WHAM!] faghole, you [WHAM!] worthless [WHAM!] homo [WHAM!] cumpig!!! [WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!]”

By the time he was done driving his fist into the kid’s face with all the force of his semi moving at top speed, the meat’s visage had been pulped into hamburger.  And while the Trucker hadn’t completely removed its ability to make noise, it was quieter now, only emitting a faint blubbering, sobbing sound as its ass got merciless plowed.

It was also going loose, its mangled rectum exerting less pressure on the Trucker’s giant hog.  That was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected; the firm, young bodies of the fags he offed were able to take a lot of punishment before their lingering deaths, but they had weak psyches.  Their tiny little minds collapsed into shock long before their smooth, lithe forms had milked the potent manseed from the huge tool grinding relentlessly into their guts.

It was ok, though.  The Trucker knew how to fix that.  Shock could be offset by shock.

Rearing up on his knees, he reached over and snatched the lamp off the bedside table.  An obvious thrift store find, it was old and ugly without having any true value whatsoever; the dingy white porcelain on the base had a poorly-executed floral design, and the shade was battered and dingy.

But it wasn’t the lamp itself the Trucker wanted.  He smashed it roughly against the metal headboard of the bed.  The meat flinched as shards or porcelain rained down on its face, but otherwise, it maintained its vacant stare.  Even as the Trucker ripped the sturdy cord from the mangled metal base and tossed it over his shoulder into the middle of the squalid room, the punk fuck didn’t move.

It wasn’t until the cruel sex killer dangled the cord in front of the meat and slapped it twice in the face—hard—that it began to come out of its trance.

And the Trucker knew it.  It was time to prep the fagshit for what was in store for it.

The hardbodied, powerful murderer looped the thick cord—double copper strands covered in thick rubber—into a simple granny knot and dangled it in front of the helpless slut’s face.  “You know what this is for, yeah?  You know what’s gonna happen now,” he said, calmly, and in an even, measured tone that was somehow even more terrifying that his rage, given his complete control and dominance over the fag’s life at this point.  “You deserve this, motherfucker.  Goddam, you need it—you want it; don’t fucking act like you don’t, ‘cause you little worthless cumpigs always do.  I’ve snuffed enough of your disgusting perverted asses to know the truth.  Enjoy dying on my huge fuckin’ shaft, asswipe—it’s the best thing to happen to you in yer meaningless existence.  Enjoy yer death, cunt!”

And with that, he roughly grabbed a hank of the whore’s hair and jerked it up off the bed, simultaneously slipping the looped cord over its head.  Letting the head flop back onto the bed, he proceeded to pull the cord so tight around its neck that it instantly sank into the tender flesh of its throat.

After that, Kevin’s brief and miserable experience on this planet got much, much worse than the pansy had ever imagined possible.  It wasn’t that it didn’t know that such things were possible; it had just always thought that it was smart enough to avoid it.  And now that it knew how wrong it was, it was far too late to do anything about it.

The instant cessation of air into its lungs triggered an immediate panic response, but with its arms bound and its voice silenced, the only way it could react was with its firm, hard body—and this was what the Trucker wanted.  As its smooth thighs tightened around his waist and its lithe, lean body tensed beneath him and clenched his rigid cock like a vise, the sadistic serial killer grinned in pleasure as he rammed his massive tool even deeper into its suffering form, relishing the way its agony profoundly intensified the pleasure he felt.

This was the only way to handle faggot whores.  It wasn’t enough to expunge their useless presence from existence; it needed to happen while they rode his dick into their graves.

“Aw, yeah!” he grunted, “Fuckin’ die, you goddam cumpig!  Die on my cock like you deserve!!”

Inside his thrashing body and swollen, blackening face, Kevin was still awake and aware—unluckily for him.  The unimaginable pain of having his ass reamed out relentlessly would have been more than enough suffering to leave him mentally traumatized for the rest of his life, but the merciless beating he’d endured, and the vicious taunts of his masculine killer had been enough to send him into shock.  It took the cord around his neck to bring him back.

He could still feel the other sources of pain—especially in his bleeding fuckhole—but strangulation added a dimension of unbearable agony that clenched his boyish form in an iron grip, almost literally crushing him. In fact, it was literally crushing him—or, at least, his esophagus. 

And the effects were snowballing.  As a raging inferno blazed in his oxygen-deprived lungs, his asphyxiation and terror made his pulse pound inside his head like a jackhammer.  He wasn’t lucid or intelligent enough to realize some of the details of what was going on, but he was aware of the effects.  He didn’t know that his eyes were already bulging, pinpricks of petechial hemorrhages breaking out in the whites like measles; he only knew that as the huge bursts of blackness began to fill his field of vision, what little he could see was becoming increasingly distorted.  In the same way, he could feel that his mouth was full of something, but had no idea it was his purple distended tongue, literally being squeezed out of his mouth by the overwhelming pressure on his trachea.

He could feel something else, too—something he unquestionably recognized.  His dick was so rigidly erect that it felt like it would burst.  But there was nothing he could do about that.  There was nothing he could do about any of it, except drool out thick foamy saliva and flail pathetically.

“Like that, dontcha, fag?  All you homo sacks of shit want this, yeah?” The Trucker sneered, his powerful body shimmering with a slight sheen of sweat from the exertion of rough sex.  “You know this is what you’ve always needed; it’s the only reason you exist.  You’re gonna spill your pathetic pansy cum when you die.  Just to let ya know.  You ain’t gonna feel it; you’ll be a vegetable by then, milking my hog with yer convulsions.”

The meat’s body was also covered in sweat, not the warm male sweat of sex but a cold lubrication of deathsweat, forced out of its pores by mortal pain.  In fact, then only part of its twisting, shuddering body that wasn’t oiled by perspiration was its cock—another unlucky break for the stupid little slut.  Its painfully swollen member was pressed against the Trucker’s rock-hard washboard abs, every swift, violent thrust of the killer’s hips abrading the fucker’s thick cock against the alpha’s wiry body fur.  From the point of view of the dying whore—not that it had many points left, and practically no view—it felt as if it was being forced to fuck a sex toy that had been filled with steel wool.

Suddenly, the fuckmeat jerked violently, pressing its smooth flat belly hard against the Trucker’s as its back arced up off the bed.  At the same time, its legs, wrapped around the hardman’s waist, folded at the knee, its heels drumming against its rapist’s hard, flexing ass.  But the serial sex murderer ignored it; his glutes were so strong and firm that the meat was unable to cause the slightest damage. With his jeans still on, he could barely feel it.

“Aw, fuck!” the rutting killer grunted as his huge scrotum puckered, his balls on the verge of boiling over with his powerful manseed, “I’m about to give you whatcha want, asswipe!  Gonna mark ya permanently with my hot spunk, cocksucker!  Ya want it?  You gotta die for it, ya worthless garbage!!”

Laying the full weight of his body on top of the thrashing punkfuck, he looked it straight in the face.  Even though he knew it was likely too brain-dead at this point to understand—or even hear—him, he couldn’t resist talking to it.

“You ready, bitch?  Ya ready for it?  Here it comes, faggot!!”

And with that, he jerked the cord so tight that he compressed the whore’s neck to a diameter of an inch and a half—including its spine.

He’d been wrong about one thing—the meat wasn’t too brain-dead to understand him.  It was close, but not there yet.  The words weren’t even the last thing it heard in its short, useless existence before its brain shut down.

The last thing it heard was the gruesome sound of the cartilage in its trachea cracking and crunching as it was crushed into a tiny wad of bloody gristle.

And then, Kevin finally achieved his true purpose in the scheme of things, giving up his life for the momentary sexual pleasure of a true alpha male.

As the smooth boycorpse convulsed vigorously, it kicked its legs so violently that it managed to fling off one of its hightops, despite the fact that it was still tightly laced.  It also unloaded explosively, its thick deathload jetting out irrepressibly and covering the Trucker’s belly and chest in quarts of hormone-laden semen.

The buff killer wasn’t far behind himself. As his body hunched over his youthful victim, hosing its innards with his searing seed, he found himself still beating the shuddering body of the whore, the air filled with the sound of flesh striking fleas, punctuated by the sadist’s orgasmic grunts of pleasure.

After that, it took a few minutes for things to settle down.  When the Trucker finally ceased gasping and shuddering, he immediately extricated his gigantic tool from the dead kid’s ass, leaving the corpse still kicking and quivering on the bed, the toes in the ped sock of the shoeless foot curling and flexing visibly.

He spat in the face of the dead cumdump before heading to the bathroom to clean himself of the vile fag spooge matting his fur.  Even then, he didn’t feel clean; the towels and washcloths were all filthy.  The single small face towel that seemed in acceptable condition wasn’t quite enough to clean the huge deathwad from his torso.  As a result, when he got his enormous weapon re-holstered inside his jeans and re-entered the bedroom, he picked up his shirt and stuffed it into his back pocket, leaving it trailing out like a bandanna, and slipped his leather jacket on, letting it hang open to reveal his hairy, cum-glazed chest.

As he’d planned, he got back to his rig and was on his way out of town before the morning rush hour arrived.  Grinning as he headed down the interstate, he reflected back with pride on his last glimpse of the dead faggot slut.  Spread on its back with its hands still cuffed to the headboard, there was nothing recognizable about it above the point of its grotesquely constricted throat.  The spread legs, one still in a hightop, were still quivering slightly as cum leaked out of its slack asshole—and out of its own shriveling cock.

It was a matter of pride in performing a valuable service to humanity by ridding it of yet more subhuman shit.  It was equally important to him that it would be obvious to anyone who found the body that another useless homo had been expunged via a truly vicious rape and murder.

And it was obvious, if not in way the Trucker expected.  Kevin was never missed; no one gave enough of a shit about him to even notice he was missing.  He wasn’t found until nearly a month later, when a rep from the property management company came by to post an eviction notice for non-payment of rent.  Company policy dictated that a copy be left inside the apartment unit.  Once the door was opened, that cat—as well as a hideous stench—was let out of the bag.

By the time the coroner arrived, the only things discernable about the corpse was that it was that of a young male who had been bound and strangled.  The nature of personal items in the room, as well as some long-dried bodily fluids on the sheet, clearly indicated that it had been raped, too.  But the decomp was too advanced to yield any genetic material from the killer; in fact, from the medical point of view, it wasn’t clear if the boy had been strangled before or after rape.  For that matter, it wasn’t clear if the rape had proceeded or followed the murder.

Even the identity of the corpse remained a mystery.  Kevin’s dental records and DNA weren’t on file anywhere in the city, and no one had reported him missing.  In the end, what was left of him was cremated, dumped into a small cardboard box, and buried discreetly in a corner of potter’s field, with the other indigents and lost souls.

It was like he’d never existed at all. 

The Trucker knew he needed to pull over soon.  Dusk was coming to the hills of west Texas and the winds had picked up with the approaching darkness.  A strong cold front was coming through and he’d already seen other rigs pulled over to the shoulder of the state highway on which he was travelling.  The practice was technically illegal, but the state troopers tended to look the other way, especially on these lonely roads with few truck stops or rest areas.

Still, he kept going, keeping his heavy, steel-toed harness boot firmly on the gas pedal.  He couldn’t rest yet, not with the way his huge cock was raging.  Trapped within the skin-tight confines of his worn jeans, the damn thing seemed to have a mind of its own, and he knew it wouldn’t let him sleep unless he could so exhaust himself that he passed out.  After all, it wasn’t likely that he was gonna find any fuckmeat to assuage this angry member, not all the way out here in—

—and then he found some.  In fact, it was flagging him down.

 The Trucker could see what had happened; the scene spoke for itself.  On the far side of the road sat a small, late-model foreign car.  It had gone off both the road and the shoulder and was sitting at a somewhat precarious angle, its nose pointing down a slight decline.  Tread marks and chunks of rubber on the pavement told the story; clearly the driver had suffered a blowout and had almost lost control of the car, veering into and past the other lane of traffic.

The driver himself was young, late teens or early twenties, with a curly mop of unruly strawberry-blond hair and blue-gray eyes.  A sprinkling of freckles was dashed across the bridge of his snub nose.  He was dressed almost identically to the Trucker, in a white cotton t-shirt, and tight jeans faded to a pale blue.  His boots were different; the jeans had been tucked into a pair of dark gray Justin ropers.  And there was one other difference—the kid had evidently been taken by surprise by the oncoming cold front.  He was shivering in the chilly breeze.  The Trucker’s leather jacket was lying in the passenger seat next to him; he’d known about the change in weather.

He slowed down and pulled over.  He hadn’t been going very fast, but it took a bit to bring the big rig to a stop; he ended up going nearly a quarter mile past the boy.  He didn’t mind the walk, though; it gave him time to compose himself.

After all, there was no sense in scaring the meat with his massive throbbing cock—yet.

The boy came to meet him, the faint thumping of his boots on the road surface nearly drowned out by the Trucker’s heavier tread.  “Hey, man, thanks for pullin’ over—can you give me a lift?”

“Can’t get your car out?” the Trucker asked.

The kid gave a wry smile.  “Wouldn’t do any good if I did.  Ain’t got a spare.  I’d call my dad to come help, but there’s no cell signal out here.  But McCormick is the next town down the road, and I can reach him once we get to the outskirts.  It’s about fifteen miles—do ya mind?”

The Trucker did his damnedest not to let his grin get too shark-like.  “Sure, hop in.”

Once they reached the cab, the boy scrambled into the passenger seat while the Trucker shrugged off his jacket and tossed it into the sleeping area in the back.  “Figures this would happen.  First semester in college, first trip back home.  Dad’s gonna be pissed—he didn’t wanna buy the car in the first place, y’know.  ‘I’m forkin’ out a big chunka change for this POS rice-burner, Todd, you better not wreck it,’ he said.  And now look what happens.”

“Could be worse,” the trucker replied with a barely visible smirk, “You coulda ended up dead.”

“I ain’t that lucky,” the teen said with a resigned sigh, “Probably gonna wish I was dead by the time tonight’s over.”

The kid was too engrossed in his own troubles to interpret the trucker’s loud guffaw as anything more than amused agreement with his remark—which it was.  “Don’t worry,” the older man said, “Probably won’t be too bad.  And the rougher it is, the faster it’s over.”

“Oh, I’ll be ok,” Todd said and turned to the Trucker with a sudden and surprising leer.  “And I like it rough.”

Yeah, the fucker was a homo, all right—not that it mattered to the Trucker.  It was still gonna die like a dog with his huge shaft up its ass.

“Yeah?” The Trucker asked, shifting his weight slightly as he reached down between the seats.  “That’s good.  This looks kinda rough, don’t it?”  He held up an object.

Todd looked at it quizzically.  In the darkened cab of the rig, it took a faint glint of light from the dashboard for him to realize it was metallic.  Peering more closely, he could just make out it was a large crescent wrench.  “What—” he began, when the wrench vanished.  A fraction of a second later, in a blast of intense pain, everything else vanished, too.

The Trucker had clocked him in the skull with the wrench, putting his lights out.  Five minutes later, the semi was on the shoulder of the highway and the boy was lying on the floor of the sleeper compartment, the Trucker looming over him with a well-honed utility knife.  The serial killer grinned; he liked the feel of the weapon in is hand.  Not that he was going to use it on the meat, of course—he wanted to feel it die in his hands.  Squatting down, his well-muscled hams taut and stretched, he started cutting the slut’s clothes off.

When Todd climbed back to consciousness—a laborious and painful climb—he doubted that he was truly awake.  What he saw around him made no sense.  He was lying in some kind of bunk in a tiny room that reminded him of a documentary he’d seen on capsule hotels in Japan.  Looming over him was the stud who’d picked him up, a sinister (if not downright frightening) grin stretched broadly across his handsome goateed face.  He could feel that he himself was nude—no, not quite.  All his clothing was gone except for his tube socks and his Roper boots.

The boy tried to speak but his aching head prevented him from sputtering out more than a broken groan.  It didn’t matter.  The Trucker knew what he was trying to say.  The meat always asked questions at this point; the stupid faggots were invariably slow on the uptake.

“Wanna know what’s going on, huh?” the older man jeered.  “Yeah, I bet ya do.  Ok, asswipe, here’s how this is gonna go down—I’m gonna fuck ya.  And while I’m fucking you, I’m gonna hurt ya.  Why?  Because it’s what gets me off.  The more I make worthless faggot cunts like you suffer, the harder I cum.  You get it, slut?”

Todd gasped, unable to even begin to voice his confusion, not that it was necessary.  His bewilderment was writ large across his young, innocent face.  The Trucker smirked.  Dumbass piece of shit.  Maybe if he found one that wasn’t so profoundly imbecilic, he’d let it live. 

That was a lie, of course, but one he could tell himself with impunity.  After all, the chances of him finding one that wasn’t a fucking moronic waste of human life was absolutely zero.

“Still don’t get it, do ya, motherfucker?  Ok, let’s see if some visuals help.”

To make sure he had the homo’s attention, the Trucker peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his hairy, thickly muscled torso.  While the punk’s eyes were fixed on the older man’s hubcap pecs and the large, hard tabs of his nipples, the Trucker unzipped his jeans and hauled out the massive slab of tubesteak that was confined within.  Already semi-erect, it sprang out with an almost conscious eagerness for its task of damage and dominance.  And the moment it was free, Todd’s eyes were riveted on it.

“See this?” the Trucker demanded, brandishing his tackle like a Louisville slugger, “I’m gonna stick this in you.  And when I do it, I’m gonna be beatin’ the fuck outta ya.  Like this.”

Todd never saw it coming—the Trucker’s lightning-fast gutpunch that he looped up, then drove straight down into the teen’s flat, smooth, and utterly unprotected belly.

“HURG!!” the boy grunted inarticulately as he popped up into a sitting position like a jack-in-the-box, clutched his injured abdomen, and curled into a fetal position.  As he tired frantically to breathe, he made faint repetitive noises that sounded like hiccups.

“Now you’re feelin’ me, dickhead,” the Trucker sneered.  “Love that shit, dontcha?  ‘Course ya do, all fags love bein’ treated like the scumshits they are.  See?  Yer dick is gettin’ hard already, and all I had to do was put a little hurtin’ on ya!”

He leaned in over the gasping, writhing youth and whispered, the evenness and gentleness of his voice making is words even more terrifying.  “Good thing yer such a pain pig, bitch, ‘cause there’s a fuckload more of that shit comin’ down the pipe for ya.  Hell, if ya like it so much, ya might even blow your faggot wad before I waste ya!”

Todd heard his words but couldn’t process them.  He was too busy trying to deal with his current—and almost unmanageable—level of pain.  And again, the Trucker had anticipated the fucker’s reaction. 

Cocksuckers always needed to have reality pounded into them.  The time, his fist fell with wrecking-ball force on the cumslurper’s face.

This time, Todd reacted.  Impelled by a combination of pain and fear, he labored to rise to his feet, totally unaware that he’d spit out one of his canines.   For a moment, the loudest sounds in the cab of the truck were the grunts of effort the came from the two men, their bare, sweaty torsos rubbing against each other as they struggled.

Even as he fought for his life, Todd’s face was red with humiliation at the way his long thick cock was stiffening. There was a bruise spreading over his chest, his lip was split, blood was trickling from his earlier head wound—and here he was, hard as a brick from the sensation of his assailant’s body being pressed against his.

And he was being pressed.  The was very little room in the sleeping section, and the older man was much more powerful than Todd.  The teen slut had never stood a chance; the urge to attempt escape was primal and involuntary—and doomed.  Todd felt the furry muscled stud slowly overpower him, his own muscles quivering with the futile effort to break off the Trucker’s grip, but the adolescent refused to acknowledge that he was losing ground.  He didn’t have the mental strength to voluntarily admit to himself what such a loss would mean, but the look of untrammeled fury in the icy blue eyes of the buff serial killer painted a clear picture of what the teen could expect upon defeat.

And then it happened.  Exactly what happened wasn’t clear to Todd, but suddenly, he was on the floor of the cab, with the Trucker looming over him.  “You stupid fucking sack of shit,” the big-dicked psycho hissed in an incandescent rage, “Yer gonna pay for that.  You gotta learn yer place, faggot.  And yer place is takin’ my cock and all the pain I wanna give ya until I decide it’s time to snuff yer punk ass, hear me?  Here, ya dumb-ass cunt, maybe this’ll make the lesson stick in yer empty skull!”

He placed his big black harness boot on Todd’s right forearm, centering it in the middle.  Kneeling down, he grabbed the boy’s wrist.  With his other hand, he grabbed a hank of the meat’s strawberry blond hear and jerked its head back, staring into its eyes with a maniacal glee.

“You’re gonna love this shit, homo,” he chortled in a low tone.  “It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad—try not to blow yer perverted pain-pig load, yeah?”

With a grunt, he jerked his other hand up, swiftly and brutally.  There was a loud, moist snapping sound as the radius shattered, part of the bone shearing up and tearing through the skin.  The second cracking noise as the ulna broke a fraction of a second later was almost completely drowned out by Todd’s shrill, girlish scream of profound agony.

“Let it all out, fuckmeat!” the Trucker roared.  “Ain’t no one around for miles—and fuck, yer screamin’ gets me hot!  Ain’t nothin’ sexier than makin’ a cockpig suffer!”

Todd knew that his cries of pain were only spurring the sex killer on to even greater cruelty, but there was nothing he could do to stop them.  He was too much in the moment with the pain, too focused on his mangled forearm, to even notice that the Trucker was raising his arm, belt looped in his hand.

The faggot cunt saw it a moment later, though.  It was just a blur out of the corner of his eye—Todd didn’t even have enough lead time to flinch before the belt came lashing down, striking him across the shoulder.

“Oh fuck!” the teen screamed in misery as a massive red welt began to form, marking with utter clarity where the belt had hit.  But there was no time to deal with that now; the Trucker’s up was upraised again, the hardbodied older man grinning with maniacal glee.

“You deserve this,” he chortled, “Ya know that, dontcha?  That’s why yer faggot dick is so fuckin’ hard right now.  You’re in so much fuckin’ pain—but ya know you need and deserve it.  I seen it happen dozens of times, fag.  Worthless homos like you always unload yer pansy spunk when ya finally get treated like the cunt you are.”

Tears streaming down his adolescent face, Todd stared up at the Trucker in horror.  This was some kinda nightmare; it couldn’t possibly be happening.  After all it’d been only a few minutes since he’d been negotiating the curves of the lonely state highway in his own car—how could have things have altered so drastically, so quickly?

And yet…yes, he was in unimaginable agony, but some how his cock was so hard it hurt—

Todd banished that line of thought.  That way led madness.

And besides, he had more immediate concerns.

“Get back up on that bunk, motherfucker,” the hardbodied killer snarled, “Time to die like a dog on my cock, asswipe.”

Involuntarily, Todd shook his head—not indicating his refusal (though he naturally would have refused the command) so much as his utter rejection of the concept, the entire gist of the Trucker’s words.

The Trucker has expected this.  Meat could never grasp the idea of its own imminent death.  And the younger the meat was, the harder a time it had with the concept.  But that, of course, was where the pain came in.  Put the faggot into enough agony and it would finally understand, on a deep inner lever, how profound a gift the Trucker’s offer of death truly was.

And so, he began beating the bitch.  After all, all meat was better for having been tenderized.  It squealed like a kicked dog, cowering and futilely attempting to dodge the vicious blows of the belt that slammed into its face and across its back.

At one point, Todd managed to slip past his muscle-bound assailant and reach the front of the cab. The view out the windshield brought a burst of hope to his terrorized psyche.  He couldn’t believe his luck—a state trooper had pulled over!  Help was at hand!

But the cop was walking away.  He’d evidently given the rig a quick visual once-over, but there was nothing to distinguish from among the dozens of others that had pulled over due to the gale.  And Todd’s pathetic whimpers hadn’t been loud enough to be heard outside, not over the high winds.

The horn.  If he could reach the air horn, some frantic blasts would surely be enough to bring him back.  His face already so swollen he could barely see, Todd pawed at the driver’s seat in a desperate attempt to find some way of signaling the cop.

The Trucker got him first, of course.  It was inevitable.  The powerful killer looped the belt over his head and around his throat, dragging him back into the sleeper section.  Tightening the belt into a noose, he dead-lifted the teenager straight up with one arm.

As the boy’s boots kicked helplessly in mid-air, the Trucker held him close, his handsomely vicious face filling the fag’s field of view.  “You know what happens next, dontcha?” he hissed.  “It’s what you been wantin’ all yer worthless life, cocksucker.  You been cravin’ a real Alpha man to come along and put you outta yer faggot misery, yeah?  Well, it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ day, asswipe.  I’m gonna use you as a cumdump, and it’s gonna hurt more than yer stupid homo brain is capable of understandin’.  Yer gonna be beggin’ for death before I hose your guts with real manseed, and I’ll be more than happy to give it to ya.  And when I’ve finally used you like a bitch and offed yer useless ass, I’m gonna toss ya into a ditch like the garbage you are and let the vultures and jackals feast on yer rottin’ meat.  Hot as hell, right?  Fuck yeah!  Let’s get it on, meat—time to suffer and die!”   

And with that, he flung the helpless teenager into the sleeper bunk with such force that the entire cab rock with the punk’s impact.  The belt remained around Todd’s neck, but loosened enough for him to inhale—which he did, deeply, prior to screaming in agony.  It wasn’t just that being basically thrown into a wall had traumatized his already-injured body; he’d managed to land directly on his shattered forearm.  The way the jagged edges of the bones ground together was excruciating; the pain was fucking surreal.

And it was about to get much, much worse.

His eyes drawn into tight slits by pain and blurred over by a film of tears, the young punk could just barely make out the Trucker looming over him, but there was no mistaking the was the older man was aggressively brandishing his massive shaft.  “Ready or not, here I come,” the psycho chuckled, and Todd’s blood ran cold.  Suddenly, it didn’t matter how hot the stud was, Todd didn’t want to ride his dick.  Not now, not under these circumstances. 

“No…” he said, his speech barely above a whisper, “No, no you ain’t…”  He was getting loud, his adolescent voice cracking in fear and pain.  “No! NO! NO!!”

“Aw, shaddup, ya useless faggot,” the Trucker snarled and punched him in the face.

Before the meat could recover, the Trucker was on it and in it.  His huge cock sank into the kid’s asshole as easily as a dipstick into a crankcase, shredding the fucker’s sphincter like wet paper.  The meat’s eyes opened wide, its face gray with shock—it clearly hadn’t been prepared for the horrific agony of getting its fuckhole ripped wide open.  It began shrieking at the top of its lungs, long, shrill screams that irritated the fuck out of the Trucker—and he made sure the meat knew it.

“I said, shut [WHAM] the [WHAM] fuck [WHAM] up!!!”

Punctuating his words with his fist, the Trucker managed to get the fuckmeat quiet enough to cinch the belt tightly back around its throat, then lowered his muscled heft down on top of the teen and leered at it as it gagged and choked.

“That’s it, motherfucker.  Make me cum.  Milk my cock as you suffer and die, cunt.  Does it hurt?  Fuck yeah!  Fight it, bitch, fight off death as long and as hard as ya can—the harder you struggle, the better you work my rod.  Do it right and the very last thing you’ll feel in yer sorry, worthless life will be the hot, potent seed of a Real Man in yer guts, yeah?”

Even though his pulse was pounding so powerfully inside his head that it seemed as if his cranium would crack, Todd heard every word the Trucker spoke.  He hadn’t believed the sicko before, when he’d said that Todd would be begging for death—and on a conscious level, he still didn’t; in fact, he still had a conviction that he’d somehow manage to survive this encounter.  But on a deeper level, some hidden corner of his faggot painpig soul was responding to the hardbodied serial killer’s abuse.  And even that perverted corner wasn’t seeking death so much as utter submission to true alpha dominance.

But that was why the more the Trucker tightened his belt around the fuckpig’s neck, the harder the homo’s thick boycock got.

But that was the meat’s psyche.  Physically, it was a different matter.  Its body was in mortal agony, slowly asphyxiating to death—which, while it intensified the teen’s erection, also had other results.  After a certain point, blind panic set in, which led to an involuntary struggle against the overpowering suffocation.

Todd wasn’t even aware he was beating against the Trucker.  Again, some small part of him noted the wiry feel of the older man’s chest hair as the teen clawed at it, offset by the sublime agony caused by the useless thrashing of his other arm.  He certainly wasn’t aware that he’d wrapped his legs around his killer’s waist, clenching them tightly in what could have passed as a lover’s embrace, with the heels of his ropers kicking in the air.

He was aware of a number of other things, though, like how swollen and flushed his face felt.  He couldn’t see that it had turned black, of course, nor could he see the hemorrhages rupturing in the white of his eyes like bloody popcorn, but he could feel how the eyes themselves were bulging excruciatingly from their sockets, their shape so distorted it wasn’t possible for him to see clearly.   He couldn’t see how grotesquely purple his tongue was as it relentlessly pushed its way past his blue lips, but he could feel how it had swollen to the point that it seemed to overflow his oral cavity, and he could feel the streams of thick white drool that foamed out of his mouth and trickled down his cheeks.

“You’re dyin’, asshole,” the Trucker hissed with malignant, lustful glee, “I hope it hurts.  I hope it hurts like all fuck, ya worthless sack of shit.  You deserve it.  You deserve all the pain and suffering I can give ya, and you know it—that’s why yer dick is so hard.”

And Todd could feel that, too.  Above all else, above the fiery, pounding pain of death, above the glassy, ripping impalement of brutal assrape, Todd could feel the burning ache of his own inexplicably erect member.  Trapped between his own flat, smooth belly and his killer’s furry abs, it had been made so hypersensitive by imminent death that each rough thrust of the alpha’s hips that bought it into contact with the top’s body hair felt like it was being scraped by steel wool.

As Todd trembled on the brink of profound, irreversible brain damage, he could feel every single blow, every bit of abuse to which his lithe teenaged body had been subjected.  And despite it all, his dick wasn’t just hard—it was oozing precum.

 “Unhh,” the Trucker grunted his muscled body thrusting rapidly, plowing his gigantic tool into the punk’s rectum, “So fuckin’ close, meat.  You want it, yeah?  You want this hot thick load?  Then prove it.  Die, you faggot piece of shit, die on my fuckin’ cock!”

The hairy, hardbodied sadist jerked the belt, pulling the upper half of the teen cunt’s body off the bunk by the neck.  His bicep bulging with fatal power potential, he drew his other arm back.  As he did so, he could feel his balls draw up, aching to release a vast load of hot, seething sperm.

“Here it comes, bitch,” he whispered, “Remember, you deserve this.  You were born to die as my cumdump.”  He released the built-up energy potential in his bicep, driving his fist into the fuckmeat’s face with deadly force.

At that point, a lot happened at once.  For Todd, it was like being hit by lightning.  The belt around his throat held his neck steady, while the Trucker’s fist slammed his skull violently backwards.  The powerful shear forces resulting from the impact simultaneously collapsed his esophagus and tore his cranium from the top of his spine, ripping the spinal cord from the base of his brain with the ease of unplugging a power cord.

The thick, gagging sound the adolescent youth made would have been a final scream of despair and mortal agony, if his mouth hadn’t already been overfilled by his swollen tongue.

The physiological response was immediate.  The teenaged meat clutched its killer, electrochemical shock causing it to hold the Trucker in vice-like embrace that made the most affectionate bearhug pale in comparison.  Every muscle in the dying fag’s body was utterly rigid in mortal agony; its legs clenched around its killer’s waist; boots crossed at the ankle.  And its sphincter cinched itself around the hairy root of the Trucker’s dick like a cock ring, tightening to an unbelievable extent despite having been torn open not a half hour earlier.

The was what the Trucker had been waiting for—the moment when the faggot surrendered itself and became nothing more than meat.  He howled, an unearthly cry of rage, lust, and alpha dominance, and instantly starting to hose the cumguzzling fag, spraying his semen into his guts to mark it as his property, his cumdump—his kill.  He had done this.  He.  He had asserted his mastery over yet another stupid homo sack of shit and made damn sure it never had the time to forget how he’d taught it its true place on this cold and brutal planet.

And then the convulsions started.  Oh yeah—oh fuck yeah, there was nothing so good as hot young dead fagmeat milking out the last drop of your wad like the fucking greedy cumwhore it had always been.  Even in death, it couldn’t get enough spunk to satisfy its perverted cravings…

The Trucker was still vaguely aware that he was beating the corpse’s face into hamburger as he spewed what felt like a solid quart of manseed up its ass—in much the same way that he was aware that the hot moist splash he felt against his own flat, furry abs was the meat’s deathload. It was too brain dead to feel its last and most intense orgasm, but the involuntary tribute of its ultimate surrender to his overpowering masculine superiority stimulated the Trucker to beat it even harder.

By the time he came to a shuddering, sweating stop, gasping and spent, the older man had pummeled the teen so badly, its face looked like it had been in some kind of horrific accident.

Extracting his tackle from the dead boy with all the subtlety of oil riggers pulling a drill bit out of the ground, the Trucker sat on the edge of the bunk to catch his breath for a moment.  He could feel the adolescent’s corpse shuddering next to him.  Suddenly he grinned and slapped its quivering, cum-oozing ass.

“Fuck, dude, that was good—shame I can’t waste yer worthless ass every night, huh?  Hey, there’s an idea…” the Trucker mused.  “Heh.  Me torturing you for eternity.  My heaven and your hell, huh?”

But the Trucker wasn’t the type for philosophical or metaphysical inclinations; he was a man of brute force and action.  And action was called for now.  He’d seen the state trooper earlier and knew his license plate had been noted.  He needed to move, and he needed to dispose of the meat.

There was a sink in the sleeper section; it was small and the water tank that held its supply wasn’t huge, but it was sufficient to allow him to approximate a sponge bath.  He used the faggot’s shirt to sponge the semen off his chest first, then cleaned the sweat off his glistening muscles with a washrag. 

That done, he redressed and got back into the driver’s seat.  The front had already moved through—the winds were dying down and the cold was settling in.  He got the rig started and slowly eased off the shoulder back onto the highway.  Almost immediately, he could see headlights in his rearview mirror—it was another semi, probably one of the ones he’d passed, also taking advantage of the abatement of the winds.

Well.  That might complicate his plans for garbage disposal.  He’s just have to keep driving and see what opportunities presented themselves.

Luckily the other rig pulled over a few minutes later, once they reached then next town down the highway—McCormick, it was called; the Trucker remembered the meat saying something about it.  He kept going.

He was more than ten miles past the town, in one of the most desolate areas of the southwest he’d ever come across, when he found the dump site he’d been looking for.  The highway crossed a narrow gully via a bridge that was no more than ten yards long.  Pulling off to the shoulder after crossing it, the buff sex killer jumped out of his cab and headed back to take a look.  The only sounds were a faint whistling of the much-lessened wind under the bridge and the crunch of gravel under the Trucker’s harness boots.  He reached the parapet and peered over.

The gorge was narrow and deep.  The clouds were clearing, and the half-moon directly overhead glinted on a small rivulet running at the bottom, sixty feet below.  Pieces of tree trunks wedged among the boulders scattered along the path of the water bore evidence of an occasional virulent flash flood.

It was perfect.

The sleeper cab could be accessed directly by an exterior door; the Trucker used it now.  He first gathered up the extraneous evidence—the cunt’s cum-smeared shirt and slashed jeans and carried them to the bridge.  He tossed the shirt over and was about to do the same with the jeans when an idea occurred to him.  He fished the meat’s wallet out and opened it.

Stupid fucker only has thirty bucks.  Well, it wouldn’t need money anymore.  He pocketed the cash and pitched the pants and wallet over, then returned for the meat itself.

Even now, it was still trembling and leaking cum from its asshole and cock.  He grabbed it by its wrists and dragged it out of the cab, but its legs got caught at the lip of sleeper compartment door.  The Trucker jerked hard and freed it, but one of its boots came off.   Leaving the corpse on the ground, the Trucker went to retrieve the boot.  When he stooped to pick it up, though, he noticed a couple of things.

The first was that there was something inside.  Reaching in, the muscular sadist was surprised to find a money clip with over three hundred dollars in it.  He chuckled.  Stupid fucking faggot wasn’t all that stupid—not that that had saved its worthless life.

The other thing he noticed was that the roper boots were quality leather, almost brand-new—and seemed to be exactly his size.

Two minutes later, as the last electrochemical sparks from its dead brain circulated in Todd’s body, lying shattered on the rocks at the bottom of the gully, its toes curled visibly, clad only in white tube socks.

An hour later, grinning and satisfied, the Trucker crossed the state lines.  The dead faggot’s boots, now his trophy, rested on the floor of the passenger seat.

At the same time, some sixty miles southeast of him, a phone rang in an isolated ranch house.  The man who answered was deeply disturbed to find it was the police, calling to tell him that his son’s car had been found on the side of the road, but the boy himself was missing.

By the time he was found, it was spring.  The body was skeletal and incomplete; it had to be identified by dental records.  And the tooth that really identified it—one with a unique filling—hadn’t been in its mouth.  In fact, the coroner remarked, its position, and that of several other teeth, showed that the kid had been beaten so badly he’d swallowed them.  He’d died with his own teeth in his stomach.

The truck stop sold hot food from a warming counter next to the register.  From its polished metal facing, the Trucker could see a reflection of the boy.

He was no older than his early twenties—probably younger.  He was spinning a rack of packaged snacks, but the hunger in his eyes wasn’t for sunflower seeds or chili-seasoned peanuts.  An emerald-green t-shirt the same shade as his long-lashed eyes encased his lean, taut torso and low-rise jeans just as tight distinctly showed the outline of his thick boycock running down his right thigh.  On his feet, he sported red-and-white retro Air Jordans.

Completing his purchase—a fifth of Fireball and two packs of Marlboros–a sinister smirk crossed the Trucker’s face.  Here he’d expected a boring evening, and suddenly fresh meat had appeared.  And the Trucker needed meat badly.

It’d been too long; he’d been too busy to hunt.  His rage and his sperm were boiling within him.  It needed to be let out.  The urge was sudden and overwhelming; he’d been able to control it when there was no prey available, but now that there was hot boymeat only feet away, the Trucker knew he had to have it, to own it, to utterly destroy it.

He could tell from the kid’s eyes that the cunt was just as interested in him.  His own white t-shirt and worn jeans were just as tight as the kid’s, and displayed his powerful, muscular body perfectly.  The jeans were tucked into a big black pair of steel-toed harness boots; the buff killer noticed with contempt how the punk’s eyes lingered on them as the kid reached down and massaged his dick.

The Trucker paid the cashier and turned to the door.  As he pivoted, he caught the kid’s eyes—no more than a flash, but enough for the boy to see the older man jerk his head.  The kid nodded his agreement.

He left, heading towards his rig.  He was no more than six feet from the truck stop entrance, his heavy boots thudding on the paved parking lot, when he heard the door open behind him.  He didn’t bother to look around; he knew the little boywhore was following him, lured like a moth to a flame.

The punk caught up to him before he reached his truck.  They walked along silently for a moment, but then the meat started talking.  The Trucker expected it; the sluts loved the sounds of their own voices.  Given enough time, they’d start to spill the entire stories of their useless lives, as if anyone cared.

He was Jordan.  He was nineteen, he worked as an order assembler at a local warehouse, and he was desperate to get his hole plowed.  Then he mentioned his apartment and the Trucker’s ears perked up.  The latter hadn’t gotten a motel room; he’d intended to sleep in his rig that night.  And while he certainly wasn’t adverse to wasting a bitch in his sleeper cab—he’d done it before, after all—it didn’t allow him the freedom of movement to truly deal with faggots the way they deserved.

But this one had an apartment.  He grinned and, pulling the bottle of whiskey out, crumpled its bag and tossed it aside; he’d already tucked the smokes in his pocket.  “C’mon, dude,” he said cheerfully, “Let’s go get fucked up.”

Jordan agreed and, wheeling about, led the way to his place.  The teen gabbled away happily with absolutely no clue as to how fucked up he’d be getting that night.  His place was over a mile away, which gave the kid plenty of time to babble—and the Trucker time to decide on the best way to inflict horrific suffering on the stupid little cunt.

The apartment complex to which Jordan had led them was a two-story building built around a narrow courtyard.  Sixty years earlier, it had been the height in comfort and modernity; now, it was a run-down dump, catering to welfare recipients and minimum-wage laborers, only half-occupied at best.

The slut’s unit was at one end, on the second floor.  The unglazed windows of the apartment underneath gaped dark and forlorn, indicating a state of disrepair severe enough to make the unit uninhabitable.  Jordan caught how the Trucker noticed the decrepit space and promptly misinterpreted it.

“Yeah, this place sucks, but I can’t afford anything else—yet.”  He didn’t indicate how he might be able to afford anything better in the future, though, and the Trucker smiled grimly at the thought that he’d be showing the little faggot some mercy by ending its miserable life.  The heavy, repeated beats of his harness boots made the rickety metal staircase shudder as he followed the youth up to the apartment.

It was a two-room flat, with a tiny kitchen at one end of the front room and an equally miniscule bathroom at the end of the rear one.  As the Trucker set the bottle of whiskey on the two-foot length of counter, Jordan grabbed a couple of plastic cups and cracked an ice cube tray, placing them next to the bottle.  Suddenly, he seemed to grow bashful.

“I’ll, uh, I-I’ll be right back,” he said with a shy smile, brushing his long dark bangs out of his eyes.  He headed for the bedroom but paused and turned back.  “Uh, go ahead and…” he nodded towards the cups but left the sentence unfinished.

Smiling contemptuously, the Trucker poured himself some booze while the punk was gone and opened a pack of smokes, discarding the wadded-up wrapping onto the floor.  He was just taking another swig of the sweetish whiskey when the kid re-entered the room, nude except for his sneakers and ankle socks—he’d evidently put them back on after slipping out of his jeans.

Jordan was smooth and lithe, but not scrawny.  The Trucker’s eyes traced a path down from the low rise of his pecs to the flat belly, beneath which a faint down, almost a peach fuzz, appeared.  Faintly brownish in color, it both darkened and became more pronounced as it merged into the thick, curly mass of his pubes.  Between his smooth, taut legs dangled a seven-inch dick, already visibly swelling and rising.

“Here,” the Trucker said, handing the slut a cup full of whiskey, “Drink up.”  Jordan complied, not noticing the malignity in the older man’s grin.  As the boy gulped the alcohol—he seemed to want to empty the cup all in one go—the Trucker deftly peeled off his t-shirt.  The boy nearly choked as the alpha stud’s hairy, heavily-muscled torso was revealed, a pair of dogtags gleaming in the dark forest between his pecs.  The Trucker chuckled as he took another drag from his smoke.

“Finish that drink, cunt, and start working these nipples.  If ya do a good job on ‘em, I’ll let ya suck my cock,” he drawled arrogantly.

Jordan chugged the booze so fast he nearly got sick.  He leapt across and began gnawing on the powerful killer’s jutting nipples like a beaver felling a tree.  The Trucker grunted, grabbed a handful of his hair, and jerked his head backwards.

“Easy, faggot!” he barked, expelling a cloud of smoke into the punk’s face, making Jordan cough.  “I just want ‘em worked on, not pierced, motherfucker!”

Abashed, the eager little cocksucker reapplied his mouth, more gently this time.  As he lapped at the hard nubs of flesh with his tongue he was aware of the Trucker’s movements and heard the sound of his zipper.  He knew what was coming—he wanted that cock so bad; he could feel it slapping against his thigh. Fuck, it reached down to just above his knee—it must be huge…

It was.  When the Trucker finally pried the boy off his nipples and forced him to his knee, Jordan found himself confronted with the biggest shaft of manmeat he’d ever seen.  “Open up, cocksucker,” the alpha growled, “Start swallowing it.”

It was while the Trucker began forcing his enormous tool into Jordan’s mouth that the latter began to see the flaw in his plans for an evening of rampant sex.  The dude’s cock was simply too big.  His jaws were stained to limit to fit it into his mouth—there was no way it’d fit in his ass.  He was gonna hafta break this off.  It completely went against everything in his little faggot whore soul, but he was gonna need to tell the guy no.

And then suddenly the Trucker grabbed the back of his head and thrust his pelvis forward brutally and Jordan not only couldn’t say anything, he couldn’t even breathe.  That massive tackle had been rammed so far down his throat that it plugged his windpipe as efficiently as a cork in a wine bottle. In desperation, the kid clutched at the powerful sadist’s ass, his fingers digging ineffectually at the older man’s rock-hard glutes.

“That’s it, you faggot cunt,” the Trucker grunted in sadistic pleasure, “Choke on it, you whore!”

Jordan couldn’t even gag.  His hands beat on the Trucker’s muscled, denim-covered thighs as uselessly as if he was beating on a tree trunk, his face began to blacken and his eyes and nose streamed.  He reached around the powerful top again, his hands feeling the pure strength in the Trucker’s taut ass as it clenched and thrust.  For a brief moment, the teen whore wasn’t capable of rational thought—he was too busy choking on cock to think. 

Then, with a malignant chuckle, the buff alpha let him go.  Jordan threw himself backwards, feeling the dude’s enormous member sliding up out his throat like a sword being unsheathed.  On his knees, the teen coughed until his face was purple, gagging and wiping the drool from his chin with the back of his hand.  With his massive cock still hanging out and dripping, the Trucker took another drag from his cigarette and smirked at the gasping punk.

“I—I c-can’t…” Jordan wheezed, his voice cracking as he tried to suppress the coughing, “No-no w-way, du-dude…y-yer too b-b-big…”

The Trucker only smiled gently.  “Yer backin’ out?” he drawled, his voice slightly incredulous, “A faggot turnin’ down dick?  You must sick, boy.  Don’t worry; I’ll fix ya up with a huge beef injection, har!”  With another drag from his smoke, he grabbed his swollen tool, wielding it like a weapon over the kneeling, shuddering youth.

The kid looked up at him, his eyes streaming and imploring.  “P-please, no,” he moaned, “Just—just go and leave me alone…”

The Trucker’s smile froze and his upper lip curled into an arrogant sneer.  “Go?  Go??” he snorted, “It don’t work like that, cocksucker.  My shaft wants servicing and I ain’t goin’ till it gets what it wants!”  Jordan stared at him, gaping, but the Trucker’s eyes were fixed on the table behind him—specifically, the lamp on the table.

The lamp was metal, a single steel post, about an inch in diameter on a flat, circular base of wood.  A groove around the top of the base showed where the lamp had held a decorative element—perhaps ceramic or glass had been broken away some time in the past.  Shrouding the single bulb was a too-small shade of folded paper.

The Trucker had just concluded it’d come in handy when the meat made the usual escape attempt, Jordan throwing himself forward, bolting for the door.

It took the muscular stud but a moment to snatch up the lamp and wheel about after the boy.  His swift motion had enough power to both yank the plug from the socket, damaging the tines and to rip the cord from the base of the lamp.  The upper end with the bulb socket and shade instantly fell off.  With a snarl, he tore after Jordan.

Jordan heard and gave an involuntary sob of terror as he approached the door.  He stretched out his right hand, reaching for the door.  It wasn’t the door he got, though—it was impact of the lamp across the back of his hand.

The first blow—there were many to follow—hit hard enough to tear off the wooden base and shatter the metacarpals.  The unfortunate youth leaped back with an agonized yelp, cradling his mangled hand.  He gulped and looked up to the Trucker, his face ashen and his eyes huge.

“That was stupid,” the alpha growled viciously, “But you little fags are all stupid motherfuckers, aintcha?  You’re gonna learn yer place, asswipe, even if I gotta beat it into ya…” 

He strode forward, swinging the steel bar.   “…and yer place, fuckmeat, is dyin’ on my dick.”     

The rancid apartment soon reverberated with the sounds of bleating fuckmeat and the smack of metal on flesh, accompanied by the faint jingling of the Truckers dogtags as his arm rose and fell.  His bicep flexed relentlessly as he beat the punk, but he was holding back his full rage and only bruising the cocksucker.  After all, he didn’t want to damage the meat so badly it couldn’t work his cock.

After a minute, he stopped and tossed the bar over his shoulder.  He’d never dropped his smoke; he knocked the substantial ash onto the boy huddled on the floor between his boots.  Jordan was curled into a fetal position, his sweat-soaked, welt-covered body heaving in pain.  The Trucker smirked and spat on him.

“Get up, meat,” he smirked.  “You ain’t hurt that bad, asswipe; you can move.”  He stubbed his cigarette out on the wall, smirked, and flipped the butt into the boy’s face.  “C’mon, fuckwad, let’s go to bed.  That’s what you wanted, right?  And my dick still needs servicing.”

Dazed and aching, Jordan managed to drag himself up from his knees.  His mind numb from shock, he staggered to the bedroom to the sound of the Trucker’s raucous laughter.  “Whassa matter, cunt?” he jeered, “Yer about to get all the dick your little fag fuckhole can take, homo—you should be hard an’ drippin’, haw!”

“Strip it,” the alpha barked as Jordan approached the bed, “Then get on.  On your back.  Do it!”  The sunned youth jumped as if he’d been slapped.  With a barely perceptible moan, he tore the worn, grayish sheets from the bed and threw them to the floor.  Then he paused, looking down at the bare, stained mattress.

“I don’t want this…” he said, barely above a whisper.

Behind him, the Trucker closed the bedroom door.  The click as he turned the lock was very audible and very obvious.  “You ain’t leavin’ this room, faggot,” he said bluntly and plainly—a statement with no intonation.  He eyed the meat carefully, knowing it was time for a reaction to set in.  Dumbass fagmeat was always so fuckin’ predictable…

The one lamp in the room was behind Jordan, silhouetting his lithe twink body as the boy began to tremble.  A whimper escaped his full, parted lips—and he turned and bolted for the door.

He didn’t make it.

The Trucker’s heavy fist pistoned forward, driven with all the power his thick muscles could provide.  The adolescent ran full-tilt into the sledgehammer punch, the blow knocking his head back so hard his feet went flying out from under him.  The kid flipped up into the air and dropped four feet straight down onto his back.

The Trucker laughed malignantly as Jordan hit the floor hard enough to drive all the air from his lungs, dislodging the three teeth that had been knocked down this throat and were choking him.  His full lips were even larger now, bloody and swollen.  Suddenly, there was a jingling above the fucker’s head, a glittering that his tear-blurred eyes slowly resolved into the Trucker’s dogtags—the sadistic stud was bending over him, the older man’s face radiant with homicidal glee.

“Fuckin’ hell, homo, whyn’cha say ya wanted it rough?  If you liked that, bitch, I’m gonna hurt you so bad yer gonna cum like a fuckin’ geyser before I waste yer useless faggot ass.  Now get on the bed, motherfucker,” he commanded, brandishing his engorged, oozing tackle, “I’m gonna stick this in yer ass.”

The next thing to fill Jordan’s field of view was the tread of the Trucker’s engineer boot.  Like a beached fish, the boy’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly; his smooth, flat belly heaved with the vain attempt to breathe—it was clear he wasn’t able to process what was happening to him.  He stared dully at the boot hanging over him with no clue he was about to get stomped.

“Jesus, you really are a stupid cunt,” the hardbodied killer muttered.  “You so fuckin’ deserve this, ya worthless sack a’ shit!”  He slammed his foot down, grinding his bootheel into the homo’s face.

Jordan’s face, already damaged under the brutal impact of the Trucker’s fist, was pulped, his nose flattening with a wet squelch.    The boy cried out inarticulately, his huge eyes, already becoming ringed with bruises, looked up at his tormentor with desperation.  The look of pathetic helplessness only spurred the Trucker’s rage and contempt.

“I—I…” the slut burbled through shattered teeth, bloody drool leaking down his chin.

“You what?” the Trucker snarled.  “Ya didn’t think this kinda thing could happen to you?  Fuckin’ moron, this is what happens to all you cocksuckin’ little homos—sooner or later a real man comes along and puts you outta yer faggot misery!  You knew it was gonna happen, asswipe; it always happens to your kind.  No more waitin’, motherfucker, yer lucky fuckin’ day is finally here.  Now get up on that goddam bed, cunt.  It’s time to die.”

As the meat wheezed and gurgled in agony, the Trucker bent down, clamped his hand around its throat and jerked it upright.  He glared into its face, his eyes blazing with a terrifyingly homicidal lust.  “It’s gonna hurt when you die.  I promise you that, motherfucker.  The more pain yer in, the more ya kick.  The more ya kick, the better you work my cock.  It’s that fuckin’ simple, fagmeat.”

He tossed the writhing teen onto the bed with no more effort than throwing a sock puppet around.  The punk bleated in pain as he bounced on the mattress, his smooth body lying sprawled diagonally across the bad as the Trucker approached, grinning.

“Ya ready?” he hissed, his massive, club-like cock already oozing precum.  A couple of drops splattered onto Jordan’s flat, heaving belly; they seemed to burn the boy’s skin like acid.  Despite his intense actual suffering, those two drops seemed to hurt him even worse.  Then again, he now knew what the Trucker’s sexual interest meant.

But just in case he didn’t, the sadistic alpha made sure to remind him.

“Time to rock ‘n roll, motherfucker.  Spread those legs, bitch, Imma ‘bout to run my tackle up inside you like the fuckin’ meat puppet you are.  Yer gonna die ridin’ my rod.”  The older man had climbed onto he bed as he spoke, his cold eyes locked onto the teen’s with the hypnotic power of a snake luring a bird.  Jordan’s will was sapped; he could only lie inert, his adolescent body throbbing in pain, and gaze with a sort of helpless frozen terror as the muscled killer crept closer.

It was Death personified as a buff, furry stud.  Jordan began whimpering again as the Trucker grabbed his thighs and roughly parted the teen’s legs; the movement made the alpha’s dogtags jangle and the sound seemed to snap the kid out of his daze.  He tried to speak but his coherency was impaired by his ruined teeth.

“Shaddup,” the Trucker barked, leaning over the cunt until his tags were touching its chest, his harsh voice cutting off the punk’s mushmouthed babbling.  “You keep yer faggot trap shut when I plow yer fuckhole, you hear?  We don’t need to let the neighbor in on the fun, yeah?  Stay quiet or I’ll hafta keep ya quiet myself.”  The shark-like grin returned.  “You won’t like that.”

In the end, Jordan didn’t have any voluntary control in the matter once the Trucker’s monstrous rod tore open his teen sphincter and buried itself balls-deep in the kid’s guts, having viciously ripped its way through his rectum. 

There was a brief moment of ice-cold glassy shock.  The boy had reflexively inhaled as his asshole was shredded, the deep sucking-in of air that automatically precedes a scream of agony.  In the brief moment that his lungs were full of the heady mix of testosterone, cigarette smoke, and mansweat, the despairing teenaged homo knew he couldn’t keep quiet, knew he was about to experience even more pain—and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.

The Trucker knew it too; meat always lost it at this point.  Before Jordan’s scream could break past his lips, the serial killer’s fist had slammed into his jaw hard enough to fracture it.  Drawing back his arm, he paused.

“Do it, cunt.  Scream.  Scream, fuckwad; I wanna hit you again so goddam bad,” he snarled.

Jordan gasped, trying his best, his bleary eyes focused on the sadist’s gleaming, sweat-speckled bicep, so full of eager power—then the furry muscular globes of his ass, full of that same power, flexed quickly, driving his tool back in.

Again, the scream was automatic.  Again, a blow landed with brutal impact on the kid’s face—this one snapped the cheekbone just under the left eye.

“Ya get it yet?” he jeered triumphantly, “Ya feelin’ me?  You’re gonna die tonight.  You ain’t nothin’ but a cumrag, fit to take my seed and get thrown out like garbage.  Just so you know, faggot—it’s finally your turn.  Happened to some of yer friends, yeah?  It’s your turn.”

Digging the soles of his boots into the mattress, the buff alpha thrust his cock deeply into the homo’s guts, leaning forward at the same time.  Just as Jordan gasped—another involuntary inhale prior to crying out—the Trucker wrapped his left hand around his throat.  The older man’s huge paw easily fit around most of the kid’s neck—it didn’t take too much effort to clamp the windpipe shut.  Deep in the teen’s asshole, the sadist’s cock throbbed with pleasure as he felt the boy’s trachea start to collapse in his hand.

The Trucker had put the meat’s ankles on his shoulders and wrapped his arms around its legs, locking it into prime fucking position.  When he lunged forward, laying his muscled weight across the faggot, its legs had bent back to its belly, its knees now on the alpha’s shoulders and its red-and-black air Jordans kicking frenetically in the air.

Jordan’s eyes bulged in a look of horror; his face, already swollen and bruised, began to turn purple quickly.    His shattered right hand flopped uselessly against the mattress but with his left he clawed at his assailant, his fingers curling like talon in the Trucker’s chest fur.  The killer’s tags jumped and danced across the adolescent’s chest as the meat struggled.

The vicious sadist gave a loud grunt of annoyance at the teen’s instinctive and futile attempts at self-defense.  He drew back his fist—once again, Jordan had a brief, despairing view of a powerful bicep, knotty with tensed muscle—and then popped the bitch in the face with a swift, jackrabbit blow.

The meat’s head snapped back and its legs jerked reflexively.  One of the punk’s kicks came off, tumbling down the Trucker’s sweaty back until it reached his marble-like ass, still vigorously pumping his shaft into the meat.  The return thrust of his pelvis was strong enough to send the sneaker flying across the room.

The suffering chunk of boyflesh that had been Jordan was no longer capable of lucid thought.  It seemed to know things by instinct, the way it knew that more pain had been inflicted on it because it wouldn’t lie still and accept what was happening to it—the same way it knew it couldn’t stop struggling.  It was meat fighting for survival; logic didn’t come into it.

The pain would have wiped out logic in any case.  The adolescent homo had been beaten so badly that it had kinda cancelled out; compared to everything else, the bruises and broken bones had faded into the dull screaming of nerves in the background.  His throat, though, and his chest, and his head…

…and his cock.  Holy fuck, his cock.  Asphyxia had triggered a kind of hypersensitivity in his groin. His erect shaft was pinned between his belly and the Trucker’s ripped, hairy abs; every single strand of the older man’s wiry body fur felt like a strand of steel wool as it scraped agonizingly over his engorged member.  But despite the excruciating pain in his dick, it continued achingly to throb and stiffen.

“Yeah, faggot, yer dyin’” the Trucker whispered with sadistic lust, “I can see it in yer eyes.  Just another piece a’ fagmeat, getting’ what it deserves.  Almost over, motherfucker, almost over.”

Jordan heard the words, and some part of him was alive enough to understand them.  With what was left of his vital force, he made one last massive effort to breathe.  The sole result was a thick, wet grunt that forced its way past his black and swollen tongue, accompanied by a spray of bloody spittle.  Then the fireworks began, great black explosions that started blotting out his field of vision.      

With that, Jordan’s efforts at self-defense melted away.  His hand was no longer clawing at his killer; instead, he was stroking the Trucker’s cheek.  It had the softness of a lover’s caress, but there was no intent behind the meat’s movements—it was even too brain-dead to feel the older man’s dense stubble scratching the palm of its hand.

The Trucker was getting close.  His balls burned and ached with the need for release.  The homo was near death; it was time to push it over the edge. 

Fuck yeah, this was it.  He could feel a tingling in the base of the thick oozing shaft as his hands tightened their vise-like grip around the teenager’s throat. 

“Bye-bye, asshole,” he whispered, despite knowing that the cunt was long past comprehension of spoken words.  But as he squeezed, he could feel it starting to writhe and twist under him—the mindless, rhythmic movements of progressive, irreversible brain damage that milked his rod so perfectly.

He could feel himself unload; a brief moment of clarity as his sperm gushed into the boy’s guts. Then the orgasm hit like tidal wave.

  “FUCK!” he screamed, “DIE, YA FUCKIN’ FAGGOT!!”  His powerful body hunched over as it spewed semen uncontrollably, his powerful glutes flexing as his ass pumped in violent thrusts.  His hands clenched, the reflexive movement rewarded with the loud crackling, crunching sound of Jordan’s windpipe collapsing into an impenetrable wad of mangled cartilage.

Already bulging, the teen’s eyes protruded even further as the gristly squelching noise signaled the definitive end of his life.  His lithe, smooth body went rigid, his torn sphincter locking down on the Trucker’s dick like a strong cockring.  At the same time, the buff killer felt spasming start in the kid’s shaft, sandwiched between their sweat-slick bodies.  In a fraction of a second, the fuckmeat’s entire body gave a powerful jerk and began pumping out its boyspunk as if it knew this was its last chance to preserve its genetic material.

Jordan, though, felt nothing more than one last blast of nightmarish agony before his short, wasted life was torn away and cast into the howling vortex of terror that was death.  The Trucker held the shuddering corpse tightly; he wasn’t done cumming in it yet.

Behind his back, the meat’s toes twitched and curled; the ped sock made it obvious.  The other foot just kicked randomly in its sneaker as the older man continued to fuck the dead teen, pounding his seed home.

After a while, the killer’s thrust slowed and came to a stop.  Letting out a great sigh, the Trucker shook his powerful body and extracted his still-dripping tackle from the dead boy’s asshole.  The meat was still quivering, although the livid blackness was already starting to drain from its swollen and congested face.

The Trucker glanced around the room for something with which to wipe off his dick, settling on one of the punk’s balled-up t-shirts on the floor near him.  After wiping the spooge off his member, he tossed the shirt over his shoulder, re-holstered his enormous manmeat back inside his jeans, and fired up a smoke.

He and the meat had wrestled in the living room, but the bedroom was so dilapidated that it almost seemed like the fight had extended to it.  Clothes were scattered everywhere.  The neatness with which a pair of skate sneakers had been placed against the wall was belied by the single combat boot on its side next to them.  The dresser and nightstand were covered with clothes, cups, and half-empty beer and soda cans.  Pride of place went to the twitching corpse on the stripped bed, though.

As the Trucker dragged deeply and tapped his ash out onto the carpet, he couldn’t help but admire his handiwork.  Even from the other side of the room, the cunt’s crushed neck was visible.  The bruised body, the way its spread legs emphasized its torn and leaking asshole, the large pool of its own semen congealing on its smooth chest—everything made it obvious that it had endured a brutal sex crime in its final moments on earth.  The expression on its puffy battered face showed clearly how horrible its suffering had been as it died.

Fuck, it was making the Trucker hard again.  He could feel his shaft pulse in his groin.  Goddamit, he wished the meat had said something about its schedule—he’d be tempted to have another go at it.  But discretion being the better part of valor, he decided he’d better get going.  Slipping on his own t-shirt, he exited the meat’s apartment but left the door slightly ajar. On his way out, he snatched up the whiskey bottle and ticked it into his hip pocket.

He’d been planning on sleeping in his cab at the truck stop, but after a quick shower and a bite to eat, he was back on the road.  Fifty miles north he knew there was a rest area where he could pull over and get some sleep.  He sighed as he pulled onto the highway.

Yeah, he coulda gone back and fucked the dead faggot—but there was always fresh meat the needed to be snuffed.

It was a neighbor who found Jordan the next morning.  An elderly black lady in the next building; she let her Yorkie out every morning to crap and piss in the courtyard.  Despite appearing as old and decrepit as its owner, it was still faster and spryer.  Having smelled something interesting, the dog had headed up the stairs and headed through the partially-opened door before its owner could catch up to it.

Half an hour later, Jordan was in the position of having a dream come true posthumously.  There were three men in his room, while he lay naked on the bed.  Of course, his dream didn’t involve them being a patrol cop, a detective, and the medical examiner.  Or that the latter would be examining his violated corpse.

“No doubt about it,” the M.E. said.  “Raped and strangled.  Looks like the beating happened first.  Didja see his hand?  Didn’t stand a chance of defending himself after that happened.  Of course, I can’t tell if he was a virgin before all this—there’s way too much damage down there—but I’d guess,” —and here he gave a surreptitious glance at an enormous dildo on the nightstand— “that this wasn’t his first time at this rodeo.”

“Aw, fuck no,” the detective growled, “This fag whore’s been banged more than a screen door in a tornado.  It was overdue for somethin’ like this. Hey, Bob!” he called.  The patrol cop approached.  “How many times you pick that fag up for soliciting?”

Scratching his head, Bob looked down at Jordan’s blue, bloated face.  “At least half a dozen times.  This one hung out at the truck stop and that strip of motels along the highway.  That was Dave’s beat; you should talk to him.  He musta hauled him in dozens of times. Surprised he ain’t turned up like this sooner.”

“Yeah ok,” the detective replied before turning back to the M.E.  “Ok, you can drag ‘im outta here.”

“Fine.  I’ll get you the report as soon as I can.”

“Don’t knock yourself out, doc; no one give a shit what happens to fag whores.  Concentrate on finishing up the Dickinson case; that one involved actual human beings, yeah?”

“Yeah, no problem.  I’ll fill out the form for unclaimed corpses and move on.”

“Good man.  Oh, and tell your wife that Edna still wants that spoonbread recipe…”