It was when he got off the interstate in Holbrook that the Trucker first began to notice how the wind was picking up. While it was true that winter driving in the Arizona desert didn’t have the same dangers as, say, the Midwest, it was still cold—and now the wind was building.
An even colder front was moving in, and the straight-line winds were expected to be intense for the next twelve hours. He was headed for a little place in the national forest south of Zeniff—a small consignment load—but he didn’t need to be there till tomorrow evening. Might be a good idea to pull over and let the front pass through.
And anyway, he was overdue for a kill.
The urge had been building in him again; he was almost surprised how quickly it’d come back. But the need to beat a faggot to a pulp and drain his balls into its quivering meat was almost overwhelming. Maybe he’d find a playtoy at the next stop.
If there was a next stop. The empty desert receded into the darkness on all sides surrounding the Trucker’s rig; as the wind increased, though visibility decreased as dust began to billow across the two-lane state highway. Suddenly, the Trucker noticed a hazy glow in the distance.
It turned out to be an intersection in what was literally a one-traffic-light town. A county road crossed the highway; to the south was a small cluster of ramshackle frame houses. To the north, nothing was visible in the immediate area. All four corners of the intersection were occupied.
To the Trucker’s immediate left was a truck stop—a small one, not part of a chain. It’d give him a place to park, but it didn’t appear to have many amenities. Two trucks were already in the lot, one hauling a Walmart trailer, the other a refrigerated unit. On the other side of the county road was an ancient motor court motel, complete with neon sign. Most of the neon was out, but enough remained for the Trucker to make out the name “Ranch Hand’s Rest”.
Continuing counter-clockwise, across the highway a dollar store, now closed for the night but with its parking lot still brightly lit. The remaining corner was occupied by a fast-food joint, also closed for the evening.
The Trucker eased his rig into the lot and circled in the back, pulling around so that it was facing back out. No sense in wasting valuable time later on trying to turn the thing around. Once he was satisfied with his parking job, he killed the engine and climbed out.
He paused for a moment to zip his black leather aviator jacket up against the cold wind; underneath, he was wearing nothing but a thin cotton t-shirt. His muscled legs, wrapped in tight, faded jeans, powered him swiftly across the parking lot towards the truck stop. The heavy tread of his black Chippewa logger boots was almost muffled by the ragged gusts of icy air.
The air inside the truck stop wasn’t icy, but it was far less pleasant, heavily laden as it was with grease and the scorched scent of food that had been sitting under a heat lamp for too long. The cashier, it appeared, also had to maintain a small “deli” with offerings of hard, dry chicken tenders, rubbery breakfast tacos and pizzas pooled with red grease. There were a couple of booths between the counter and the racks of merchandise, but the entire place seemed empty.
“Men’s room?” the Trucker barked at the half-asleep cashier.
“In the back on the left,” she said with a jerk of her head to indicate the direction, then became instantly engrossed in her phone again.
The doorway to the rear hall was between two wall coolers. The hallway was short, starkly lit, paved with tile, had two doors for two restrooms—and a boy.
He was leaning against the far wall, near the door to the men’s room, and he was eyeing the Trucker pretty openly. He looked young—late teens at most, way too young to be whoring himself out. And he was dressed like a typical teenager in a white fleece hoodie, skin-tight skinny jeans and white canvas Vann SK8-HIs.
But the way he leaned against the wall, one leg thrust out and bent back at the knee so the sole of his sneaker was on the wall—and the deep glittering light of lust in his large brown eyes…
The Trucker headed into the men’s room. No sense rushing anything. He’d let the kid make the first move; if the little fuck was looking for some dick, well, the Trucker would be happy to oblige. He had plenty of dick to offer, and a lot more to go with it.
He was still standing at the urinal, grinning and pounding out piss, when he heard the door open behind him. He didn’t even need to look to know it was the boy.
“How much to suck my cock, boy?” he asked evenly.
There was a faint gulp behind him, then the kid’s voice stammered forth, “Tw-twenty bucks. Up-up front.”
“Not in here. You got a place?”
“Uh, yeah—over in the motel.”
Without responding, the Trucker shook off his massive hog, shoved it back into his jeans, and stepped to the sink to wash his hands. In the mirror, he could see the boy waiting anxiously behind him. Even in the reflection, the thick bulge in the kid’s crotch was visible, and the way the boy kept rubbing his hand over it didn’t make it any less obvious.
The hulking sadist saw his own smile grow more pointed. The little faggot wanted it bad. And bad was exactly what he was gonna get.
“Okay,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, “Get out. Wait for me outside.”
The kid blinked and paused for a moment. “Uh—okay. I’ll be out on the curb. Name’s, uh, name’s Quinn…”
The Trucker ignored him. There was another pause, then the kid left.
After washing up, the Trucker casually strolled back into the store and bought a cup of black coffee. Figuring enough time had gone by to disassociate him from the boy, he headed back outside, sipping at his cup.
The coffee tasted like diesel fuel, but the fuckmeat was exactly where he was supposed to be. The kid seemed eager, almost bouncing on the toes of his hightops. “C’mon, this way,” he called out as the Trucker approached him. The boy began to cross the street. “I’ve got the one on the end, right here. See? Real close. Got an arrangement with the manager; I get the same one every weekend. Not like there’s enough business to hafta worry about it bein’ booked…”
The Trucker let the punk babble away, focusing his attention on the way the kid’s tight jeans cradled the firm mounds of his asscheeks and anticipating what it’d feel like to force the swollen purple head of his cock between them.
“…and man, if my folks found out what I was doin’, I’d be in such deep shit. I mean, fuck, dude, I got my big bro’s car while he’s off at school—he’d beat the shit outta me if he knew. And my dad…”
The boy kept on, the silent footfalls of his Vanns drowned out by the heavy tread of the Trucker’s Chippewas, as he led the way back to his room—and to his doom.
As he’d said, it was the room on the end, marked with a small plastic plaque inscribed “17”. Directly in front of the door sat a black 2010 Mustang convertible—the car the little fuck wasn’t supposed to be driving. It was one of three cars in the lot—and one of those, parked way over by the office, was evidently the night clerk’s.
Inside, the quality of the motel matched its occupancy rate. As the Trucker leaned back against the door on surreptitiously engaged both the deadbolt and the chain lock, he glanced around to take a quick survey of the room.
The room was unpleasantly dim, with cheap worn carpeting in a shade of dark green not popular since the seventies—from which decade the dark, splintery plywood paneling seemed to come as well. There was a bed, covered by a scratchy polyester comforter with a gaudy floral pattern, with a nightstand that held a phone, a digital alarm clock and metal lamp with a dented shade.
There was a desk/dresser combo unit, cigarette burns scattered over its surface like chicken pox. The mirror over the desk section was intact but badly warped; just looking at the skewed reflection made the Trucker dizzy. A small flat screen TV stood on the dresser, pointed at the bed, next to it was a cable box.
Just past the dresser was the opening into the restroom. Even from the entrance, the Trucker could see the cracks in the grout between the ancient white tiles. And it didn’t take a drug-sniffing dog to determine the bathroom was the source of the overpowering scent of cheap antiseptic that almost—but not quite—drowned out the reek of stale cigarette smoke. Not that the AC unit was helping the air quality. Located under the front window, it rattled and clanked like a rollercoaster as it exuded fetid puffs of dry, scorching air into the already-overheated room.
While the Trucker scoped out the room, Quinn pulled off his hoodie, showing that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The skin on his slim, boyish torso was firm and clear. There was a faint down of hair on his flat belly, but otherwise his chest was smooth but for his large pink nipples.
“I get paid first, dude. Sorry, but it’s a house rule. Gotta have the cash up front,” he said casually as he sat on the bed and kicked off his sneakers—they were loosely laced and left untied for easy on/off action, it seemed.
The Trucker, in the middle of sliding off his leather jacket, grinned. “Sure,” he said nonchalantly as he folded the jacket over the back of the chair by the desk. He dug into his back pocket and fished out his wallet, taking a twenty out and replacing the wallet. The kid wasn’t paying attention; he was too busy trying to peel his skin-tight jeans off. The Trucker palmed the bill and pulled his own t-shirt off, laying it over his jacket.
Finally out of his clothes—he’d been freeballing under the jeans—Quinn slipped his kicks back on and stood up. “Hey, I gotta hit the restroom real quick; you wanna—”
He broke off at his first glimpse of the Trucker half-dressed, wearing only his jeans and laced workboots. The twink’s greedy little eyes went straight to the glittering point of light in the middle of the hunk’s muscular, fur-covered chest—the Trucker’s dogtags, nestled in the dark mass of wiry fur between the huge mounds of his pecs.
Quinn’s dick, already hard, began to visibly pulsate. Smirking, the Trucker held out the twenty. The boy gulped and reached out for it unsteadily, still focused on the stud’s amazing physique. “I, uh…thanks…” he mumbled, turning and laying on the nightstand. As he turned, he heard the unmistakable sound of the Trucker unzipping his fly.
He was right. When he turned back around, the hardbodied killer had managed to extract the full length of his enormous, vein-wrapped horsedick.
Despite Quinn’s obvious desire to get to the bathroom, the Trucker’s cock hypnotized him like a snake hypnotizing its prey. And though Quinn had no way of knowing it yet, its venom was just as deadly.
The slow, steady of movement of the Trucker removing his belt broke the trance. The clank of the large brushed-silver buckle and the stealthy sound of the inch-and-a-half wide strap of black leather sliding among the denim loops stirred something in Quinn.
“I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back…” he said hesitantly, then darted into the bathroom and locked the door. Behind him, the Trucker laid the belt over his shirt and jacket. He could afford to be patient.
Quinn wasn’t as quiet in the bathroom as he thought he was; even through the closed door, the Trucker could hear the click of a lighter and the hissing, bubbling sound of the kid inhaling some kind of drug. In a small town like this, that probably meant meth.
Well, that was fine. Little fuck should be off his guard when he came out.
The Trucker was right. Thirty seconds later and high as fuck, Quinn stepped out of the bathroom with a big grin on his face and a big erection between his legs. “Hey, man, yer gonna hafta take it easy with that big dick you—”
The Trucker sucker-punched the teen in the jaw. Stunned, Quinn slammed back into the bathroom door, then slumped to the floor—not unconscious, but too dazed to be functional. He was aware that the buff older man had hit him, and had then moved away.
“Wh-wh-wh…” he tried to start, but speaking hurt. A lot.
Then he heard a harsh slapping sound—a single slap, actually, repeated slowly and menacingly. Painfully turning his head, Quinn tried to see what was happening.
He was at ground level, looking across. The first thing he could see were the untied laces of the Trucker’s dirty, well-worn Chippewas. Raising his eyes up the thick, denim-clad legs, he was again confronted by the sadist’s frighteningly huge cock. But the source of the sound was above that. Quinn looked up to see the cruel serial killer standing over him with the doubled-over belt in one hand, ginning and slapping the palm of his other hand with it.
“Wh-whath’fuck?” the young faggot managed to mutter.
“Just gonna have a little fun, dude,” the Trucker chuckled, his deep bass voice vibrating the root of Quinn’s cock, still somehow semi-hard even after the assault. “Just gonna beat the fuck outta ya, rape yer worthless homo ass, and snuff ya—don’t that sound like fun?”
Quin glanced up in disbelief just in time to see the Trucker’s powerful arm snap downward. Cringing, the lean teenager threw his left arm up to block the blow. It turned out to be an excruciating maneuver. Even doubled over, the thick leather strap hit the boy’s arm with such force, it wrapped itself around it momentarily. With sadistically perfect timing, the Trucker viciously jerked the belt back towards himself.
The snapping of the bones in Quinn’s forearm breaking was less noticeable than the shearing sound as an inch-and-a-half wide strip of the outer layer of skin completely circling his arm was flayed off.
For a moment, the amateur boywhore sat wide-eyed, staring in horror at his raw, dangling forearm—then the pain hit and he screamed. Briefly.
“Shaddap,” the Trucker snarled and lashed him across the face.
That got a quick, loud shriek, then the boy collapsed to the floor. The Trucker stood over him for a moment, looking down, gloating, and fondling his stiff manhood. Then he dug into the pockets of his folded jacket, pulled out his pack of Marlboros and leaned back to burn one as the punk queerboy sobbed sloppily on the floor.
“You lucky-ass motherfucker,” he jeered, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the already stale air of the motel room, “You get to take my load. I was lookin’ for some hot boymeat for a beatdown and a good pump an’ dump—an’ there you were. Course, a dumbass teen fag like you takes a lotta beatin’ ‘fore its ready for my dick.” He paused for effect, taking another drag. The fuckmeat was still sniveling, but it was listening.
Good. It needed to know what to expect. It needed to be prepared to receive his shaft, and that meant a good manual tenderizing.
He stubbed out his smoke. “Ready, motherfucker? I’m gonna beat ya like a bitch, just cause it gets my dick hard to hurt teenaged faggots before I dick ‘em down. Got it? Then let’s get started.” Standing over the prone youth, he brandished the belt again, wielding it like a whip and brought it down on smooth, silky flesh of Quinn’s back with a sound like a pistol shot.
This time Quinn didn’t squeal or shriek; he flat-out screamed. The intense, slashing pain across his tender adolescent flesh was too much to endure. He scrabbled wildly on the floor on all fours like an animal, then, regaining his feet as if by magic, bolted right past the Trucker, heading for the door.
The Trucker lunged after him, more out of rage that the faggot was trying to avoid what was coming to it than out of any concern it would get free. His experience with snuffing homos in motel rooms served him well; Quinn managed to get the deadbolt unlocked with the hand on his working arm, but maddened by pain and terror, fumbled uselessly with the chain. The twink slut’s escape attempt was as useless as everything else in his wasted life.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, then was whirled around and pinned up against the door, slamming it shut again. Then, before the young cunt could say anything, plead for its life, anything—the Trucker’s right hand shot out and clamped around its throat like a vise. Quinn gagged involuntarily, his eye wide as his air was cut off and he was literally deadlifted straight off the floor.
As his hightops drummed against the door, Quinn could see the massive bicep of the Trucker’s arm bulging with seemingly effortless power while holding him off the ground. The buff older man tossed the belt over his shoulder, then reached out with his left hand, over Quinn’s shoulder—and re-locked the deadbolt.
“Where ya think yer goin’ motherfucker?” the Trucker asked Quinn with a cold, hard grin on his hyper-masculine face, “This party ain’t even got started yet, you cunt. I gotta work off a little stress before I can settle down and choke yer faggot life out with my dick up yer ass. I toldja that already, but you small-town homos gotta have everything beaten into ya, right, dumbass?”
Quinn, his face purple and swelling, was in no position to answer back. His legs and his good arm scrambled frantically as he dangled and choked in the sadistic serial killer’s powerful grip. He pawed frenetically at the Trucker’s broad chest. The stud’s pecs, hard as marble, suffered no visible damage from the twink’s one-handed onslaught, but once Quinn curled his fingers in the older man’s wiry chest hair and began pulling, the dying punk became a nuisance. And when he caught the Trucker’s dogtags inadvertently and nearly yanked them off, the buff psycho had had enough. He spun around and flung Quinn through the air with the ease of a rag doll.
Violent motion, an even more violent impact, then a hazy darkness filled with pain were what Quinn experienced next. He didn’t know he’d been thrown into the dresser and that his smooth young teen body had broken the mirror and smashed the television before it fell back limp to the floor. What he did know, when he became aware of his surroundings, was that he was in agony—and he could hear that slapping sound again.
The guy was coming back. The hot, sexy guy, the one he’d wanted so bad…the one who was hurting him so bad…
Quinn forced his eyes open. Again, he was at ground level. Again, those dirty Chippewa boots were approaching…but this time, he knew what it meant. But he’d let his mind wander. He was only vaguely aware of the sudden movement of his assailant, and didn’t even have time to flinch as the Trucker swung the belt at him again.
Except this time, it wasn’t a single swing.
As Quinn cowered and squealed like a pig under the repeated lashes of the heavy belt, the muscle-bound sadist felt his huge, stallion-like shaft begin to pulse and ooze with bloodlust. Every loud slap of leather on skin, every bleat of agony from the crouching, helpless teen slut, propelled another drop of hot precum out of the thick purple head of his dick.
Then, for a moment, it stopped. The Trucker stepped away, fired up another smoke, and observed his prey for a moment.
The youth’s back was no longer the smooth expanse of pale silky skin it had been before. The Trucker’s foreplay had left the slut covered in red, angry welts. On at least two occasions, the violent lashing had broken the boy’s skin, and a thin trickle of blood was creeping down the whimpering kid’s flank.
The Trucker took another drag, walked back to the prone, shuddering punk and knelt down by his head. He exhaled the smoke into the cunt’s face. “Ya ready, motherfucker?” the buff killer asked jovially. “Ready to die on my cock like a worthless fag?”
Quinn was swimming in a sea of pain, but he was aware enough to understand what was being said to him.
“N-no…” he gasped, turning his huge, tear-filled eyes up to his tormentor in desperation, “Pl-please…no-no…”
“You ain’t ready?” the Trucker taunted in mock surprise, “Ok, I guess I need to kick some sense into ya, huh?”
And without another work, he drew back his foot and kicked Quinn in the side with his steel-toed work boot, hard enough to break two of the little fuck’s ribs in several places. The writhing cunt’s shrieks of pain began to annoy the brutal sadist; his next kick was directly to Quinn’s face, silencing the faggot by breaking his jaw. The boy continued to sob and moan as the Trucker kicked him twice more in the flank, breaking more ribs and further shattering the ones he’d already broken.
By the time the Trucker stopped kicking Quinn and, shoving the toe of a boot under him, flipped him over onto his back, the teen homo was bleeding internally from half a dozen wounds to his guts caused by bone shards. As he lay on his back, gasping, his sweet young face a bloody wreck, the Trucker leaned over him, spit in his face, then stomped him twice, leaving the imprint of the deep tread of his boots imprinted on the boy’s flat belly. Then he bent down and ground out the glowing butt of his smoke on the whore’s smooth, tender flesh. It sizzled for a moment before the sadistic alpha reached out for the boymeat again.
Quinn’s entire universe had shrunk to a tiny bubble of agony; trapped inside it, the kid wasn’t able to realize that the hardbodied psycho had picked him up by the throat again—the young cunt couldn’t breathe anyway. And he was barely able to register the sense of flight as he was flung like garbage across the room again.
He damn sure felt it when he hit the wall and crushed a hole in the drywall, though. He felt it even more when he fell back and smashed the nightstand, sending everything on it crashing to the floor. And even as he bounced back, to lay stretched and trembling across the bed, he could hear a jangling noise that made him look up.
The Trucker had looped the belt around his own neck at some point—the noise was the silver buckle striking the dogtags as the powerful sadist closed in. As Quinn watched, the older man slowly drew the belt from his neck. Grinning with evil lust, he held the looped leather strap out as he approached the trapped, defenseless teenager.
And Quinn realized that the moment that strap got around his neck, he was dead. Even if he hadn’t been injured, he was in no way strong enough to fend off the hairy, muscled serial killer he’d willingly invited in.
The Trucker tossed the belt down onto the bed next to Quinn’s head; the boy would have grabbed for it but for his broken arm—and the fact that he was paralyzed by terror. The sinewy, hulking killer loomed over him, grinning with obviously sadistic intent, the slowly turned and paced to the end of the bed, letting Quinn get a look at the way his lat muscles tensed and flowed and the tight bunching of his glutes as he walked. The man literally exuded power in his pheromones and his physique managed to inspire Quinn with both lust and despair—the latter because the more he saw of the Trucker, the more futile he felt any escape attempt to be.
The hardbodied stud stopped at the foot of the bed, grabbed the teen’s legs, and parted them effortlessly, despite Quinn’s best attempts to keep them closed. It didn’t matter. Nothing he did mattered. And then there was a sudden pressure against his sphincter—
“Keep fightin’ it, faggot, I love when th’ meat squirms on my thick fuckin’ manshaft,” the Trucker sneered, and shoved.
Quinn screamed. Loud and shrill, it was torn from the depths of his slim teenaged body as the older man’s huge cock plowed through his rectum like a runaway train, ripping his asshole mercilessly as it pounded his prostate and plunged into his intestines. In the nightmarish waves of searing pain that pummeled his lithe, smooth form with each brutal thrust of the Trucker’s hips, the young homo wasn’t aware that his own tube of boymeat was stiffly slapping his rapist’s ripped abs—and was already smearing the Trucker’s belly fur with teen precum. He just kept screaming.
Not for long, though. “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ bitch,” the Trucker grunted and punched Quinn in the face, rocking his head back. The kid moaned and peered blearily up at his assailant through his right eye—the left one was already swelling and turning black.
“Fuck yeah, ya dumbass cunt,” the sick stud growled as he placed the punk’s legs on his shoulders and dug his work boots into the sheets for better traction, “Now yer feelin’ me, yeah? Huh? Lemme know if you can feel this!” He began to ride the teenaged slut like a bronco, pounding his shaft so hard and so fast into Quinn’s colon that his huge scrote slapped the boy’s hormone-filled balls like billiards, striking with such force that it damn near bruised the kid’s sack.
Instinctively, Quinn closed his eyes and tried to struggle, but the heavy mass of the muscled stud pinned him down prostrate on the bed. He could hear a jingling somewhere but didn’t connect it to the Trucker’s dogtags until he felt the cold metal on his chest. He opened his eyes—to the extent he could open the left—and found the older man’s hard, unshaven face next to his.
“It’s been fun, fuckmeat, but I gotta get some rest. Time to blow a load and go catch some Z’s. Time to die.”
He held up the belt, giving the terrified cocksucker a gentle smile that he couldn’t hold. It broadened into a shark-like grin almost immediately.
“Ready to get yer pitiful life choked out, faggot?”
The lithe young teen was in more pain and more fear than he could have believed possible, but the thought of being released from his torment into the dark freedom of death filled him with cold terror. “No, please,” he whimpered, “Please, don’t—”
The Trucker looped the belt back through its buckle, making a simple noose. Quinn kept babbling.
“Oh fuck no, please, please, oh god, please, for fuck’s sake don’t do this—”
The Trucker grinned again. With his enormous rod still planted firmly in the boy’s ass, he slowly lowered the leather noose over the kid’s head.
“Oh god no please no fuck oh shit oh fuck don’t nonoNONO—GACK!!”
His pleas were choked off as the Trucker jerked the thick strap tight, sealing off Quinn’s windpipe and silencing the faggot forever.
The young homo fought with the strength left in him; consciously, he knew it was hopeless, but the animal midbrain in his adolescent mind continued to try to claw its way to air. Sadly for the teen slut, the fact that he was flailing both arms in panic didn’t prevent him from feeling every last agonizing grind of bone on bone as his broken arm thrashed impotently.
His right arm and hand worked perfectly well, though. The Trucker watched the cunt dig vainly at the leather belt sunk deep into its throat flesh. As the lean teen body shuddered beneath him, his wiry body hair scraped the smooth young flesh.
Suddenly, Quinn changed his focus. His hand came up, fingers hooked into talons, and he began to gouge at the older man’s face. The Trucker was still pumping steadily, feeling the sperm start to seethe in his overloaded, aching balls—he had no intention of taking any shit from a goddam sack of fuckmeat that was only still alive because he hadn’t cum yet.
He plowed his fist into its face three times in a row; fast, jackhammer blows that squashed the bitch’s nose like a rotten tomato, with a nice satisfying squelching sound, blackened its other eye and knocked out three teeth.
The last impact, the one that knocked out the teeth, was to the lower jaw. But the dying meat had been without air long enough for its tongue to start swelling, protruding from between the blue lips with a gush of foamy drool. The hardbodied stud’s sucker-punch snapped the jaw closed; the cunt bit through its tongue, damn near severing the tip.
“Fuckin’ take it,” the rutting alpha snarled, spitting in the fuckmeat’s face, his spittle flowing into the pink foam trickling down the punk’s face, “Take my fuckin’ dick and die, ya piece a’ shit!”
As their bellies slapped together in the throes of violently forced mansex, the Trucker could feel the teen’s hard, oozing cock being pressed against his furry ripped abs. The little fuck was nearly brain-dead, but asphyxia and the vigorous prostate massage provided by brutal assrape kept its tool stiff and leaking.
The Trucker was almost there. He could feel his seed starting to boil over, the electric tingling deep at the root of his gigantic rod that let him know he was about to spew his thick potent alpha load. The meat needed to die. Now.
It was almost there anyway. Quinn was gone; all that was left was a convulsing sack of teen boymeat. The swollen face, bruised and black, was unrecognizable. The entire thrashing body was covered in cold death sweat, literally squeezed out of it along with its worthless life. The cunt’s left arm was convulsing just as powerfully as the right, the broken limb flopping grotesquely about.
And still the boymeat drooled and gurgled. The Trucker had to feel it die, had to feel that final clenching of its colon as it suffered its final agony. It was easy enough to do.
He jerked the belt forward, roughly, swiftly, with one hand while swinging with the other fist, deep, piston-like punches that drove the fag’s skull savagely backwards. As the thick strap around the spine went in one direction and the cranium on top of it went another, there was a loud crackling noise—the erotic sound of the teen fuckmeat’s top two cervical vertebrae shattering and slashing through its spinal column.
That was what the Trucker had been waiting for—that final intense overload of the central nervous system. Oh fuck, the way the boycunt’s rectum seemed to collapse on his tool, almost sucking his scalding semen out—
“Fuck!” he cried out, “Fuck! Fuck! OH FUCK!!!”
He hunched over, his massive, muscle-bound body shuddering and convulsing itself as he pressed the still-thrashing corpse of the teenager beneath him, cursing and beating its face in. Despite the intensity of his release, the alpha was dimly aware of a splash of warmth against his abs and up into his thick chest fur as the meat unloaded involuntarily during its death throes. It didn’t matter.
The Trucker had so much cum to drain out of his balls he spent the next five minutes hosing the dead slut’s innards with his hot manseed. After his scrote emptied, he spent another couple of minutes relaxing and catching his breath with his cock still jammed up the dead kid’s ass. Finally, reluctantly, he took a deep breath, pulled his hog out of the corpse, and headed to the bathroom to wash up.
He wasn’t in any hurry. He wasn’t in a position to know that the boycunt had spent the entire weekend whoring itself out, but he’d figured out enough to know that the little fuck was getting banged here on a regular basis. And he’d made damn sure no one had seen them together, or had seen him enter this room. Or even approach the motel, for that matter.
It took a few minutes to scrub the thick ropy strands of boyspunk out of his chest and belly fur, but he had enough experience to know that teen boys are cum bombs, full of semen, waiting to go off at any moment. He was an expert at setting them off, and didn’t mind cleaning up some of the mess afterwards.
Only some of it, though. As he re-entered the bedroom and slipped his shirt back on, he lit up a traditional after-sex cigarette and leaned back against the door, proudly surveying his handiwork.
The body was sprawled face-up on the bed, legs and arms both spread wide, with the left arm bent at an unnatural angle. He’d left the belt where it was; it was sunk so deeply into the fucker’s neck, it’d probably have to be cut off.
Above the collapsed section of the esophagus, there was little recognizable of the boywhore once known as Quinn. Even the hair was matted and dark with sweat. The face was a grotesque swollen purple mask. The body, aside from the left arm and some heavy bruising on the torso, was relatively unmarked, but the torso was completely smeared with cum.
The corpse’s feet still shuddered and kicked as random signals shot down its ruined nervous system. One of the cunt’s Vann hightops had come off and was on the floor beside the bed; the Trucker could see the toes curling in death agony inside the ankle-high ped sock. The other hightop sneaker scraped and jerked randomly over the cheap thin sheet.
The room itself was mute testimony to the violence of the Trucker’s need to cum. The TV and mirror were in pieces on the floor, the wall over the head of the bed was damaged and the nightstand and its contents destroyed.
The hardbodied alpha grinned and finished his smoke. Just looking at the scene made his cock throb again, but he needed sleep. He slipped on his leather jacket and quickly left the room, setting the lock in the doorknob to engage as he left. Whoever entered the room next would need a key.
It was past two in the morning as his Chippewa boots echoed on the pavement as he crossed back to his cab. No one was out to see him. He gave the truck stop itself a wide berth to avoid being spotted by anyone at the counter and made it back to his rig unobserved. He slept for five hours and was back on the road again by half-past seven. There was no sign of any disturbance as he left; the motel across the street, at that time of the morning, was dead as a doornail and silent as a tomb.
The call had come in at ten in the morning, and it damn sure wasn’t how the sheriff wanted to start his week. A fuckin’ murder. He hadn’t had to deal with a homicide in this place…ever.
And then that scene. His deputy had come outta the room puking, and the sheriff couldn’t blame him. That teenaged boy with his legs spread and a thick flow of dried glazed cum that had leaked from his asshole, the sheer cruelty and viciousness of the attack…
And the parents. He’d traced them through the car. They didn’t know he’d taken it. And when they found out what had happened to their eighteen-year-old son, what he’d spent the past year doing in that little motel…
And the gossip. He’d stomped on the local paper—there was only one little weekly—and made sure that the story didn’t get spread. But everyone knew. A fag murder, right in their town. Even the homo’s parent suffered. The car was towed to be processed for evidence; when they came to town from Zeniff to pick it up, three days later, their house was vandalized.
Goddam faggots, the sheriff mused. Should all be killed. Nothin’ but trouble.