Trucker 17–Trucker vs Small Town Slut

Autumnal thunderstorms were moving across the Midwest and even where it wasn’t actively raining, the roads were still dangerous.  Traffic was slow on the highway, forcing the Trucker to downshift, quietly cursing to himself.  He peered ahead through the driving rain; his exit was coming up.

 

He’d headed north on I-49 out of Joplin, Missouri two hours earlier.  It shouldn’t have taken him so long to reach the town of Nevada; it was only about fifty miles north of Joplin, but the weather and the traffic had conspired against him. But he’d finally made it.  He eased his rig off the interstate and turned left onto the state highway that ran through town.

 

He was running empty; he needed to be in Kansas City tomorrow afternoon to pick up a load, but while on the way, dispatch had alerted him to the chance of earning a little extra by what should have been a quick side jaunt over to Fort Scott, Kansas to pick up a couple of pallets of return items from a dollar store to drop at the freight yard in Kansas City.  Hence his exit from the interstate.

 

The night was thick with a heavy mist, almost a fog, that seemed to mingle with the lowering clouds so that everything was shrouded in moisture.  He slowed his rig considerably; the two-lane state highway had intersections for farms and small towns scattered along it at random.  He slowed even more as he passed through the town of Deerfield, so he was only about five miles past it when he got the alert from dispatch that the Fort Scott job was cancelled, with no explanation.

 

“Goddamit,” the Trucker muttered, his face grim as he tried to figure out the best way to get to Kansas City from here—he wasn’t sure if heading back to the interstate would be faster than continuing to Highway 69, given the weather.  That’s when he saw the truck stop sign. And decided to pull over.

 

He could use some food while he figured out what to do.  And he could use a moment to relax—poor weather on poor roads made him tense.

 

The truck stop was at an intersection that had a street light on the highway.  The road it was on headed north, but nothing was visible beyond the intersection.  On the left side, the “truck stop”—an old gas station with some oversized canopies installed to accommodate big rigs—sat at the corner.  Across the street there was a small paved lot evidently intended for overnight parking; there was a single darkened cab there now.  The Trucker pulled in, circling the lot so he could head straight out without backing when he needed to.

 

The rain, which had tapered off, began pattering on the roof of his cab again.  Before he opened the door, he grabbed his rain coat—a black hooded Carhartt Shoreline jacket—and zipped it up over the white cotton undershirt, all he’d been wearing in the warm, humid evening.  Ensuring his wallet was in the rear pocket of his tight, worn jeans, he shut off the rig’s rumbling engine and climbed out.  The thick soles of his black leather engineer boots splashed in a puddle when he hit the ground; the concrete lot was awash.

 

The tall, powerful figure strode across the empty street towards the truck stop, but headed around it.  Behind it was a small diner with a lighted sign that read, simply, “24HR”.  He wanted food.  As he got past the tall, floodlit canopies, he saw that there was more. To the right of the diner, there was a low building with another sign, this one reading “Office”.  It was the end unit of a small motel built in an L-shape, that enclosed the back end of the property.  The far end of the L was behind the diner and abutted up onto the state highway.

 

Two of the units had cars parked in front.  There was a dim glow in the shaded windows of the office, but not much activity.  The diner, on the other hand, had several vehicles pulled up around it and gave more promising signs of satisfying his immediate needs.

 

And as to satisfying his other needs, well, he wasn’t expecting much, but if the opportunity arose, he wouldn’t turn it down.  And the comparative bustle of the diner seemed to offer more chance of that, too, he put the quiet, almost-empty motel out of his mind and opened the restaurant door, heading into the thick miasma that was equal parts grease and burnt coffee.

 

There were several people at the counter—a family of three, with disgruntled looks on their faces, a couple of single guys who had the shopworn look of traveling salesmen, a brassy, big-tittied woman at the far end, engaged in a loud but incomprehensible conversation on her phone.  Across a narrow isle from the counter, a row of dimly-lit booths lined the window; the Trucker chose one at random on the right and sat down.

 

He hadn’t been there for more than three minutes when a gum-chewing waitress materialized at his side.  “What’ll it be, hon?” she drawled.

 

The Trucker had barely glanced at the plastic-covered menu, but he’d seen enough.  “Gimme a bowl of the beef stew and a cup of coffee, black.”

 

“Nothin’ else?  You get a side if you want it.  C’n add a salad for two bucks, too.”

 

“No,” the Trucker said, taking the time to scope out the place, “Just the stew.”

 

“Comin’ up.  Save some room for the pecan pie, hon, it’s to die for.”  With that, she vanished as abruptly as she’d arrived.  Within a matter of seconds, she was back with a white ceramic cup and a metal pot full of bitter, burnt coffee.  As the Trucker tried to drink it without grimacing, she popped back up with a large bowl full of a dark, viscous stew.  “Anythin’ else, hon?” she asked mechanically.  He shook his head and she left.

 

The Trucker wasn’t alone for long, though.  The boy had been sitting in a booth to the left of the door when the older man had come in and turned right, which was why he didn’t see the kid until he’d already started approaching.  Before the Trucker could react, the youth slid into the opposite side of his booth.

 

“Hey, dude,” the kid grinned, “Name’s Brandon, what’s yours?”

 

The boy was young, a small-town punk with shoulder-length sandy blond hair and large puppy-like brown eyes.  The eyes were glowing with a natural lust that the kid was too young and inexperienced to suppress; his teenaged horniness was so obvious, he might as well have been wearing a sign.

 

“Yeah?” the Trucker said off-handedly, “Whaddaya want?”

 

The boy—Brandon—was staring at the Trucker’s torso, his gaze fixated on the way the older man’s huge nipples jutted up through the thin cotton mesh of his t-shirt.  He was too engrossed to notice that his question hadn’t been answered.  “You, man,” the boy said with a quick, nervous grin.  “You pulled over at the service station, right?  Well, I’m here to service truck drivers.  Been doin’ it for years, ever since Ma bought the motel.”

 

The Trucker looked the kid over again, evenly but curiously.  “Kinda bold, aintcha?  Do ya offer yerself to every dude who walks in here?”

 

“Not every dude, just the ones who look like they want it—and can afford it.  Ya gotta hustle if ya wanna make a buck, as Ma says.”

 

The strapping sex killer grinned and Brandon, seeing acceptance in the Trucker’s expression, smiled.  The adolescent slut wasn’t anywhere near as good at reading people as he thought, although he wouldn’t be aware of his deficit until it was too late to profit by the knowledge.

 

The Trucker pushed aside the bowl of salty stew and looked Brandon dead in the face.  “So, how much?  And for what?”

 

Knowing he had a good one hooked, the kid’s smile grew wider; he was utterly unaware that he was the one who was hooked.  “Aw, man, for a hot stud like you—shit, dude, you c’n stick it up my ass for twenty bucks.”

 

The grin on the Trucker’s face grew broader too.  He’d hoped to have a little fun; he hadn’t expected to run across a cheap little boywhore so horny it damn near climbed into his lap.  As the kid spoke, the powerful killer felt his balls start to ache.  They needed to be drained, bad—and he’d just found the perfect piece of fagmeat to use as a cumrag.

 

“Twenty?  Yeah, I can do that.  You gotta place?”

 

Brandon young, smooth face lit up as he broke into an infuriating smirk.  “Fuck yeah, man, I got my own place.  I toldja Ma owns the motel here, right?  I got the end room over there all my own.  Told Ma that once I hit eighteen, I was a man, and a man need his own space, an’ she agreed, so she lemme have that room.  Course,” here his face fell momentarily, “that was three months ago and she says I gotta be out by the time I hit nineteen—but hey, maybe some hot trucker will come along an’ take me away from all this, yeah?”

 

His sexualized eagerness was so obvious it made him pathetic.  The Trucker figured he’d be doing the community a favor by offing the worthless whore.  “Yeah, boy,” he drawled, “I bet yer gonna meet someone who’ll take you away real soon.”  He tossed a ten and a five onto the table and slid out of the booth.

 

Brandon followed suit.  The Trucker had the chance to fully appraise the boy once he stood up.  The kid stood a couple of inches shorter than six feet; the Trucker towered over him.  Brandon wasn’t scrawny; he’d been on the local high school wrestling team (where he hadn’t been popular, his erections too obvious in his Lycra wrestling gear).  He had a dark gray fleece hoodie that zipped up the front, wearing it unzipped, with the hood thrown back.  Below the waist, his muscled legs were encased in nearly skin-tight Levi’s.  The cuffs of the boot-cut jeans were incongruously stuffed into the tops of a pair of Adidas NMD XR1 PK kicks, white with black and gray stripes.

 

Brandon led the way out.  Once outside the diner, the Trucker zipped up his jacket and Brandon drew his hoodie up over his head; the rain had started falling harder.  The kid headed across the cracked and pitted asphalt; the older man could see he was going for the end room, out by the state highway.  As Brandon weaved circuitously, avoiding getting his kicks wet and the Trucker’s boots splashed heavily through the puddles, two semis roared past, mere yards from the room.  Ma wasn’t stupid; she’d given the boy the shittiest room she had.

 

As the kid unlocked the rear door, the Trucker glanced back towards the office.  Despite the neon glow of the word “open”, the office seemed dark and quiet.  The only two cars in the lot were in front of doors in the other wing.  This room was completely isolated.  With a malicious smile, the serial killer followed the teen rentboy into the room and locked the door.

 

If he’d wait a few seconds longer—and looked towards the highway—he might have seen the shadow of a human figure slip around the corner and crouch down at the front window, as if it was peering through a space between the curtains.

 

Once inside the room, Brandon flipped the switch just inside the door, turning on the single overhead bulb in the ceiling fan; the latter came on as well, revolving in slow, lazy circles that wouldn’t disturb a fly.  The kid continued on to the bed and, sitting on it, switched on the lamp on the nightstand.  He was already kicking his sneakers off when the Trucker entered.

 

“Hey, lock the door, wouldja?” the punk said, slipping out of his hoodie.  “Don’t want my Ma or Manny, that spic she hired, to come bargin’ in here in the mornin’, huh?  He’s even worse than she is about gettin’ all up in my business.  I think he wants to bang me but I don’t fuck with no wetbacks, ya know?”

 

The boy seemed nervous, running off at the mouth.  The Trucker kept quiet and let the kid run on; he knew he’d be able to shut the meat up when the time came.  He unzipped his Carhartt jacket and tossed it onto a chair.

 

Brandon, in the meantime, pulled off his t-shirt, giving the Trucker what he hoped what a seductive glimpse of his hard, smooth, muscled torso.  The Trucker smirked and peeled his own t-shirt off.  The homo teen gaped as the older man’s fur-covered, muscle-bound chest was revealed, a vast landscape of masculine power with a visual focus of a pair of dogtags gleaming dead center between his massive pecs.  The kid’s hormone-ridden form shuddered.

 

“Goddam, you’re…you’re…”  he couldn’t finish his sentence.  He stood up and slid out of jeans.  They clung to his legs and as he tried to free his feet, he stumbled and fell against the table, nearly knocking the ancient-looking desk phone off.  He dove for it and recovered it, setting it back onto the table with a relieved sigh.

 

The Trucker had fished out his Marlboros and fired one up as he watched Brandon peel off his clothes.  The boy turned to him sheepishly.  “That coulda been bad—there’s a button on the phone that goes directly to the phone at Ma’s bedside so she can handle guest emergencies.  Fuck, if I’d woken her up—she don’t know what I get up to, y’know…”

 

The kid was still sporting a pair of white briefs and white ankle socks.  His thick teenaged cock and sperm-filled balls were visible through the thin cotton—and anyway, the briefs couldn’t contain his swelling dick for long.  He stood up and glanced around the room.

 

“I, uh, I need to go to the bathroom,” he faltered, then paced quickly around the bed to the bathroom door on the far side of the room.

 

The moment the bathroom door closed, the Trucker sprang across the room and bent down behind the nightstand.  He quickly unplugged the phone from the wall jack and had just made it back to the ashtray to take another drag off his smoke when the bathroom door opened.  Brandon came out, looking like he was tweaking badly.

 

Then a certain familiar scent hit the Trucker’s nose and he realized that’s exactly what was happening.  Brandon had gone into the bathroom to smoke meth.

 

In the meantime, the punk had come back around the bed and was slipping his Adidas NMDs back on.  “It’s, uh, wet in there…um, I mean…the floor is wet and I don’t like wet socks on my feet, yeah?” Brandon said with a sickly grin.  He headed back towards the bathroom.  “I won’t be long.  Oh…uh, by the way, I, uh, I’m gonna need more than twenty.  Like, um, fifty.  Yeah, fifty would be good.”

 

“You want me to pay you more money?” the Trucker asked quietly and evenly.

 

Brandon, encouraged by the lack of obvious outrage at the request—it wasn’t the first time the little junkie had upped his prices once he’d gotten a john into his room—smiled and ran his hand through his long sandy hair.  His smooth body was already covered with a glistening patina of sweat forced from him by the drug.

 

“Yeah, man—you into it?  C’mon, a hot stud like you, out on the road for hours at a time—you take a hit now and then, dontcha?”

 

The Trucker smiled and stood up.  He reached down and slowly inched his zipper down, staring straight into Brandon’s eyes as he did.  The faggot didn’t bother to keep up eye contact, he was too busy gazing with eager anticipation at the Trucker’s crotch.  When the zipper was finally down, the buff alpha reached in and began extracting his enormous shaft like he was pulling a rope up out of a well.

 

“You wanna know what I wanna hit, motherfucker?” he hissed at the gaping teen, “You.”

 

“Huh?” Brandon asked confusedly, reluctantly dragging his gaze up from the Trucker’s cock to his face.

 

It never got there.  It caught a flash of motion and the Trucker’s fist slammed into the kid’s face like a sledgehammer.

 

The blow hit Brandon with the force of a swung baseball bat; the boy was knocked sideways into the bathroom, sprawling on the cold tile floor.  His right hand, which he’d kept balled into a fist, came open and a glass ball with a tube coming out of it—his meth pipe—went skittering across the floor and shattered against the base of the toilet.

 

“I ain’t payin’ you shit, faggot,” the Trucker snarled as he stormed into the tiny room, grabbed the stunned adolescent by his long hair, and dragged him, squalling, back out into the bedroom.

 

Brandon hadn’t been popular on the wrestling team—at least on the floor; he’d been very popular in the locker room and showers—but he’d been good.  No one had treated him like this, and he was pissed.  This motherfucker had gotten the drop on him and was gonna try to stiff him after promising to pay.

 

Over my dead body, Brandon thought as he lay on the floor, rubbing his sore jaw.  He didn’t have the slightest hint how right he was.

 

Slowly rising to his feet, he squared his broad—for a teenager—shoulders and stared at the Trucker, showing his assailant that he wasn’t intimidated.  “You hit me, asswipe, an’ ya broke my pipe.  Yer gonna have to pay for that.”

 

The Trucker smirked and stared back.  “Make me, you useless cocksucker.”

 

Brandon had maneuvered himself around to the foot of the bed, which was a better position to make a break for the door.  The Trucker was standing between him and the bedside lamp, and the alpha’s massive, over-developed silhouette was painfully obvious to the kid.  He suddenly realized he was challenging someone who could easily overpower him and literally mop the fucking floor with him.

 

This was bad.  This was really bad.  The teen panicked, spun around, and lunged for the door.

 

“No ya don’t, faggot,” the Trucker growled and, coiling his bulging muscled form, pounced at the terrified kid.

 

Brandon had just reached the door when the Trucker caught him by the hair again, jerking him violently backwards.  “NO!!” the boy screamed—just as the entire room rattled with the noise of a semi going by on the highway.

 

“Yeah, man,” the Trucker said as he hoisted Brandon aloft by his hair.  The kid squealed in pain, his hands grasping the Trucker’s wrist as he lifted his body up to prevent his scalp from taking his entire weight.  “What the fuck make you think yer worth even twenty bucks, you fucking piece a’ shit?” he sneered while Brandon’s Adidas’ kicked and flailed several inches above the thin cheap carpet.

 

“Lemme go or I’m gonna fuck you up so fuckin’ bad—” the punk gasped out as he continued to hang from the Trucker’s outstretched and powerful arm.

 

“Ok, cunt, time to teach ya yer place,” the Trucker said evenly, then whirled and flung the teen bodily across the room into the nightstand.

 

It hurt.  Brandon knew he was gonna be hurt; he’d just been able to process enough of the sensation of violent motion to realize it was gonna hurt, but nothing more than that.

 

He hit the table with his back, slamming against the wall and snapping three of its legs off.  The lamp shattered loudly against the wall; pieces of it sliced his shoulder—not deeply, but enough to draw blood.  The back of his head hit the drywall hard enough to put a large dent in it, while the phone smacked the wall and bounced off, its bell banging inside.

 

Without the bedside lamp, the only illumination was the overhead bulb.  It shed its lurid rays over the scene of masculine domination below.  The Trucker, strong, sweating, muscular, loomed ominously over the pain-twisted form of the buff but overpowered teenager lying in the shattered remains of the nightstand.

 

Brandon was stunned, barely aware of what was happening, but he knew he was in trouble.  He knew that he needed help—and the closest help was Ma.  He opened his eyes—there, directly ahead of him, was the phone, lying on its side on the floor, the handset a foot away.

 

He reached out his hand.  He could see it; his vision was blurred with tears of pain, but he could make out his splayed fingers reaching out to the phone—and suddenly, there was a pair of boots, gleaming black leather engineer boots between him and the phone.  And as he watched, one of those boots was lifted and planted on the back of his outstretched hand…and then it pressed down…hard, its thick-treaded sole grinding his hand agonizingly…

 

“I unplugged the phone anyway, you dumbass motherfucker,” came the deep bass voice in a sneering tone, and Brandon lost hope.  He lost even more a minute later when he was screaming in pain as the Trucker ground his boot down, shattered all five metacarpals, rendering the punk’s right hand useless.  The sadistic killer grinned as he saw the boy reaching out for the phone with his left hand.  Stupid little fuck hadn’t wanted to believe the truth…so let ‘im try the phone.

 

Tears rolled down Brandon’s pained face as he dragged the phone towards him by the cord, holding his crushed, lamed hand to his chest.  He knew that the Trucker was standing next to him; without even looking, he could feel the hypermasculine presence just inches from him, looming over him.  He shoved the thought as far into the back of his mind as possible and began pawing at the pushbuttons on the phone.

 

The Trucker looked down in amused contempt and, unbuckling his belt, slowly began sliding it out from around his waist.

 

Finding he couldn’t get a dial tone, Brandon uttered a despairing bleat as he realized the Trucker had indeed unplugged the phone—which meant he had something planned from the beginning.  The teen faggot desperately tried to avoid thinking about what that something was.

 

“Hey, cunt,” he heard softly above and automatically turned to look up.

 

The hard-bodied alpha stood over him, his huge cock erect and hanging over the boy’s head.  Above, the older man had one arm raised; for a brief moment, Brandon felt himself attracted to the power shown in the developed musculature of the upraised arm—then he noticed that the hand was clutching a doubled-over belt.

 

The kid had just enough time to raise his arm in a feeble attempt to ward off the blow when the Trucker slashed downward, the inch-thick raw leather striking Brandon’s arm and shoulder, taking an inch-wide swath of skin off the former.  The stunned adolescent screamed, as much in shock as in pain.

 

“Toldja you ain’t callin’ for help, dumbass,” the Trucker sneered and backhanded Brandon across the face with the belt.

 

“Stop!” the boy cried, clutching at the welt on his cheek.

 

“FUCK YOU!!” the Trucker roared in rage; as Brandon curled into a fetal position under the sudden onslaught, the sick alpha let his anger punctuate his speech, “You don’t (sounds of vicious crack of belt on flesh and pitiful crying) tell me (crack, sobbing) when to stop (crack, loud cry); I ain’t stoppin’ (crack, blubbering), till I’m fuckin’ good (crack, whimper) and ready (crack, “no…please…”), ya feel me, faggot (crack, loud howl of agony)?”

 

The older man paused for a moment, his heaving torso slick with sweat.  The homo punk was turning out to be a pretty good workout; he was enjoying himself.  He left the kid a shuddering pile of welt-covered flesh, moaning and sobbing on the floor and crossed back to the dresser, where he noted with annoyance that his smoke had burned down.  He pulled another out of the pack and lit it, tossing the belt aside as he turned to contemplate the scene.

 

The nightstand and most everything that had been on it was in pieces and the wall behind it was dented.  Brandon, still in a fetal position, had wrapped his hands around his knees and was rocking himself, his eyes wide open.  The teen cocksucker hadn’t run into anything like this in high school wrestling—he was going into mental shock, literally unable to process what had happened to him.

 

That was fine.  The Trucker knew how to snap him out of it.  Teenaged meat was all the same; the body needed some tenderizing but the brain was usually so soaked with hormones, it went into vapor lock.  Best way to break that was physical stimuli.

 

The more painful, the better.

 

He crossed back to Brandon and looked contemptuously down at the naked young slut.  Then, without a word, he ground his cigarette out on the teen’s back.

 

The Trucker had been right about pain; it worked like a charm to free Brandon from his shock.  The searing pain of the burn sliced through the fog in the punk’s mind—Brandon suddenly had one powerful crystal-clear thought in his head:  he needed to get out.  Now.

 

It was a move he’d learned in wrestling; rolling to one side, the strong adolescent tucked in his legs, planted his Adidas kicks firmly on the floor, and lunged for the door.

 

He flung himself forward, under the reach of the Trucker’s grasping arm.  The latter realized what was happening just in time.   He wasn’t quite fast enough to snag the cunt when made his first move, but didn’t need to be.  As the boy pawed frantically at the door’s lock, the Trucker simply reached out, grabbed a thick hank of the kid’s hair, and jerked.  Hard.

 

Howling, Brandon found himself jerked backwards by his scalp.  It hurt like fuck and as he raised his hands and tried to disentangle the sadist’s fingers from his long hair, he failed to notice how the Trucker was now holding him face to face.

 

Then he glanced up and caught the look on the serial killer’s face.

 

“You fuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the Trucker said evenly and plowed his fist into Brandon’s jaw, stunning the youth so badly he never felt it when the older man reached down and, with a single strong jerk, tore his briefs off.  The elastic waistband dug painfully into his skin before it parted, but Brandon was too busy simply trying to maintain consciousness to notice.

 

The boy’s long cock flopped out, not fully erect—but close.  It sprouted from the dark lush tangle of his adolescent pubic hair, above his dangling sperm-laden balls, and continued to stiffen even as the Trucker part-shoved and part-threw him onto the bed.  Brandon moaned groggily as he twisted his smooth, lithe teenaged body on the cheap polyester bedspread.

 

The buff older man strode to the remains of the nightstand.  After rooting through the debris for a few seconds, he stood up with the phone in his hands.  He turned to the bed and looked down at Brandon just as the kid was coming to.  The punk’s large eyes, blank and bewildered, returned the Trucker’s icy glare.

 

The slut touched his jaw tenderly, feeling the swollen knot that was forming and the split in his lip.  Sheer luck had prevented him from getting his jaw broken or even a tooth knocked out—but the night wasn’t over.

 

“Wha…wha happen…” he slurred.

 

“I decked you, faggot,” the Trucker said without any inflection in his voice.  He continued to stare coldly down on his prey.  “You ain’t gettin’ outta here.”

 

The memory of the last few minutes finally came crawling back into Brandon’s shaken brain, and fear began first to bubble up through the pain and then to boil over.

 

“Wh-why?” he asked plaintively.

 

“Cause I need to drain my balls, asswipe.  I’m gonna drain ‘em into you.”

 

The look of confusion on the boy’s face became more marked.  As the hardbodied alpha unplugged the phone from the cord, Brandon’s eyes darted towards his hands, still not comprehending.

 

“Y-you c’n d-do that w-w-without havin’ t’ hurt me, mister,” the teen quavered, “H-honest, you-you don’t hafta pay or anythin’.  I-I was just kiddin’ about the money, mister!  Please!”

 

The Trucker’s masculine, scruff-darkened face, which had been expressionless up to this point, contorted into a malicious grin.  The gleam in the eyes of the muscled serial killer, lit by equal intensities of rage and lust, was much more terrifying to the prone and defenseless youth than his cold composure had been.

 

“You stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker sneered, “I ain’t gonna fuck you—I’m gonna snuff you and let your dyin’, thrashin’ boymeat milk the load outta my shaft.”

 

“Wh—I—wha—” Brandon sputtered, blank terror written across his boyish face.

 

“Ya see this?” the Trucker held up the phone cord.  At the same time, he tossed the phone aside; it hit the floor a few feet away with the same loud banging/ringing sound as before.  It didn’t distract Brandon, though, his eyes remained focused sharply on the older man as he slowly raised the cord.  The kid’s eyes moved from waist level, where the powerful killer’s huge rod jutted stiffly, intimidatingly, up along the ripped, furry six-pack of the Trucker’s abs to his massive chest, covered with dark wiry hair.

 

The movement stopped just as Brandon’s gaze was reaching nipple height—right at the point where the dogtags hung.  The glitter of reflected light they gave, nestled between the older man’s broad pecs, had an almost hypnotic effect on the punk.

 

“I’m gonna wrap this around yer neck and choke the life right outta ya.  Fuckin’ hot, yeah, faggot?  Let’s get it on.”

 

Brandon was still blinking his eyes and trying to process the words he’d heard when the alpha sprang onto the bed and roughly parted the kid’s legs.  He didn’t even have time to cry out before he felt horrible unremitting pressure against his asshole.  He’d been fucked many times—but nothing this large had ever been forced inside him.  He didn’t think he could take that much cock without getting literally ripped open.

 

He was right.

 

The Trucker plowed his way in, remorselessly, relentlessly, giving a grunt of pleasure as he felt the boy’s sphincter resist momentarily, then give way as the flesh tore.  Brandon screamed in agony; it was a horrible slashing pain, like he was getting assfucked with a razor blade.

 

“Shaddup, fuckmeat,” the Trucker snarled and popped him in the face again, crushing the teen’s nose with wet, pulpy sound.  The kid’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp, blood leaking from both nostrils.

 

“Lame-ass fuck,” the alpha muttered as he doubled the cord around Brandon’s throat, leaving the ends dangling loose for the moment.  He wanted the punk awake for what was gonna happen next.

 

Little piece of faggot shit needed to know he was dying.

 

As Brandon began to groan and shudder, slowly climbing his way back into an agonized consciousness, the Trucker fucked him brutally, plunging his huge manshaft deep into the helpless teen.  The slapping sound of the alpha’s spunk-filled balls slapping against the rentboy’s taint filled the air, already thick with the musk of sweat and mansex.

 

The terrible pain of the older man’s dick impaling his guts forced Brandon awake; he blinked rapidly, his eyes already filling with tears.  His face ached so bad, his nose was squashed like a rotten tomato and his ass—oh fuck, his ass was being torn open from inside, he was full, he was so fuckin’ full of the Trucker.  The hardbodied stud, pinning him down, grunting with the pleasure of dominance, seemed to be swelling in his colon.  The kid could feel every ridged vein of the alpha’s cock as it plugged his rectum and thrust remorselessly against his prostate.

 

And that was when the ass-raped youth suddenly realized his own dick was hard.  It was so hard it hurt.  Erect and glistening, the kid’s shaft pressed against the Trucker’s belly as the two male bodies entwined in violent forced sex.  The swollen purple head of Brandon’s cock was being shoved through the wiry fur that covered the top’s washboard abs; with every thrust of the Trucker’s tool up the boy’s ass the pressure caused Brandon’s dick to fell like it was being scrubbed with steel wool.

 

The pain was intense and, stunned as Brandon was, he was still horrified to find that the agony was making his dick ooze.  As his long, turgid rod plowed through the fur forest, it left a slimy, glistening trail of precum.

 

The Trucker felt the hot trickle on his belly and knew exactly what was happening.  He’d offed enough of these little homos to know how their adolescent bodies reacted to a good fuck.

 

“Ya like that, you sick little fuck?” he sneered, grinning down at his helpless victim with contempt.  “That whatcha been lookin’ for, faggot?  A real man to fuck ya and punish ya like you deserve?  You need a real man to put ya outta yer misery, asswipe; you’re a lousy fuck.  Had to split your asshole to get my hog in and you still ain’t tight enough to make me cum.”

 

Brandon opened his mouth as if to speak, but only croaked.

 

The grim humor left the Trucker’s handsome face, leaving behind the intense gleam of bloodlust.  “Time to die, motherfucker.”

 

Reaching down, he picked up the ends of the cord and lifted them.  Brandon could only watch in terror as the muscle-bound killer wrapped the cord around each hand a couple of times.  He couldn’t miss it—the Trucker’s hands were only inches from his face.

 

“I’m gonna strangle yer pansy ass to death,” the cruel sadist said evenly.  “It’s gonna take you a while to die.  You’re gonna suffer, faggot.  It’s a slow, painful way to get snuffed and you’re gonna fight it until your brain starts to die and you go into excruciating convulsions.”

 

Here the older man bent down, his demonically masculine face coming closer and closer until the stiff bristles on his face painfully scraped the smooth skin of the boy’s cheek.  “And that’s why I’m doin’ this, cunt,” he whispered breathily, erotically, into the terrified punk’s ear.  “As you kick and die, yer ass is gonna work my cock so good.  Worthless fag like you ain’t gonna be able to make me cum, so I’m gonna snuff you slow and let yer death throes milk my load out.”

 

Brandon, his adolescent face taut with pain and terror, opened his mouth to speak—to beg, to plead, to bargain.  He never got the chance.  With a sudden, swift jerk of his thickly-muscled arms, the Trucker yanked the cord tight.  It instantly sank into the boy’s flesh, creating a deep groove in his throat.

 

“Gurk!” the punk spat out, a wordless sound forced past his tongue as his esophagus was suddenly cinched off at a point just above his larynx.  The slut’s eyes, already wide in fear, took on the proportions of dinner plates as he tried desperately to inhale with no result.

 

The Trucker expected the burst of panic and the frenetic clawing and scrambling that accompanied it.  Most meat went through the process, especially teen meat with little discipline or self-control.  Not, of course, that those attributes would help it survive, but they’d prevent it from burning up the oxygen remaining in its bloodstream with useless flailing.

 

The kid dug at his neck, clawing and scraping at his own flesh in a useless attempt to grab the cord, his struggling body flexing and jerking.  “Fuck yeah,” the brutal older man grunted as Brandon’s ass pumped itself along his huge—and now fully and massively engorged—cock.  Despite the mind-numbing terror that clouded his mind, the youth heard the erotic tone of sexual pleasure in the alpha’s voice.

 

That made it worse.  This guy was a fuckin’ psycho and killing him, Brandon realized (more accurately, finally let himself realize) was literally getting the dude off.  This was really happening.  It wasn’t a nightmare or a joke or even a scary abusive john—he’d had those before.   He was trapped and dying, and even though he wasn’t bound, he was utterly helpless.  The hardbodied, horse-dicked stud was raping him and strangling him and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.

 

The Trucker knew this frenzied response to panic was coming, too.  “Saddle up, motherfucker; gonna ride ya like a bronco,” he muttered as he pulled the phone cord tighter around the teen’s neck.  He knew Brandon was past hearing him; he was right.

 

For the next forty-five seconds, until oxygen deprivation set in, the adolescent rentboy became a feral animal.  The deep, penetrating realization of impending death triggered an instinctive attempt at frantic self-preservation.

 

The Trucker held on, his cock planted firmly in the boy’s ass, as the latter thrashed on the bed.  Brandon flung his arms out, smacking them against the top’s hard hubcap pecs with the same impact as if he was beating a marble statue.  While the Trucker moaned and grimaced in sexual gratification, Brandon, utterly unconscious of his specific physical motions, wrapped his legs around the Trucker and squeezed, his smooth, strong teen thighs pressed firmly against his killer’s waist and his Adidas NMD kicks shuddering in midair.

 

His hands curled into fists, Brandon beat ineffectually at the Trucker’s chest, making the sadist’s dogtags jump around, providing a jingling accompaniment to the punk’s death.  Slowly at first, then gradually more perceptibly, the kid’s frenzy began to slow as portions of his brain started dying of oxygen deprivation.

 

He stopped beating on the Trucker and relaxed his hands slightly, uncurling his fists.  Although he was still theoretically trying to fend off his assailant, he was actually caressing the older man’s chest at this point, his quivering fingers dragging over the large thick protrusions of flesh that were the Trucker’s nipples before becoming lodged in the wiry chest.  Brandon clutched at the alpha’s fur as if he was a drowning man clutching a rope.

 

“Yer dyin’, faggot,” the muscular alpha growled, “How’s that feel, huh?”

 

The gagging, choking teenager wasn’t able to answer—but he didn’t need to.  The way his long hard dick throbbed as it slapped roughly against the Trucker’s furry washboard abs said everything that needed to be said.  As his dangling dogtags bounced and danced on the kid’s heaving chest, the cruel, hardbodied killer grinned.

 

The handsome adolescent that had hit on him in the diner was gone.  In his place was a thrashing piece of teen meat that was slowly and agonizing succumbing to the cold commanding hand of death.  Brandon’s Ma wouldn’t have recognized her boy now—his face, terrifyingly swollen, was so dark and congested it was nearly black.  His full lips, puffy and purple, had been parted by his thick tongue.  As he gagged, spittle was flung from his mouth and a white stream of foamy drool ran down his chin.

 

The pain had taken him.  It was everything; it was all.  It was in his head and his lungs, in the frantically increasing tempo of his pounding pulse, in his ass and his guts—and in his dick.  His sperm-filled balls and his hard, straining rod ached and pulsated so badly that what little consciousness he had left was still able to feel it.

 

Brandon was almost dead, but he could still suffer.  And the Trucker knew it.

 

“Not yet, homo,” he muttered, “I ain’t hurt you bad enough to cum yet.”

 

The look in the teen punk’s bulging, petechiae-stained eyes let the Trucker know he’d scored a hit.  Somehow the little fuck had managed to hear him and understand him.  And that was exactly what the vicious serial killer wanted to see.

 

“Fuck you, faggot,” he barked cruelly, spitting into the youth’s blackened face, “Die, motherfucker.”

 

His masculine face twisted into a snarl, the Trucker grunted and jerked his powerful arms.  As his thick biceps bulged with the strain, the phone cord sank deeply into Brandon’s throat.  A split-second later, a loud, satisfying crunch reverberated in the air.  The teenager’s windpipe had collapsed, crushed into a useless mass of bloody gristle.

 

For once, the experienced killer was taken by surprise.  Brandon’s convulsions were violent—and immediate.  The Trucker just had time to grab onto the meat before the lithe firm teen body beneath him began to buck and flail frenziedly.  The older man shuddered with pleasure as the boy’s silky-smooth skin slid over his flesh on a film of cold death sweat that had been squeezed out of the dying punk.

 

But it was in the pelvic area that Brandon’s convulsions had the greatest impact.  The brain-dead kid’s colon seemed to collapse around the Trucker’s cock.  It felt like it was sucking on his shaft, as if a vacuum had been generated, as the smooth, velvety rectal lining fluttered over the swollen purple head of the older man’s dick.

 

“Fuck,” the Trucker muttered, “Gonna shoot.  Gonna fuckin’ blow.  Gonna—”

 

Brandon beat him to it.  The smooth meat spasmed violently—the legs squeezed painfully tight around the Trucker’s waist, the black and white Adidas sneakers quivering in the air, the fingers curled in the alpha’s chest hair, yanking at it—and then the dead cunt’s dick pulsed so strongly that the Trucker could feel it as it was pressed against his belly.  Instantly a solid jet of boyjizz shot through the air.

 

Brandon’s death load landed in his own face.  As his eyes glazed and faded into their final thousand-yard stare, he suffered the indignity of having them covered over by a pool of his own spunk.

 

The dead kid kept unloading.  It added something extra to the ass action; the Trucker couldn’t hold it in any longer.  He erupted into loud inarticulate cries as he flooded the fuckboy’s guts with sperm.  For at least twenty seconds, the two male bodies, one just dead and the other very much alive, continued to spew semen as they remained entwined in a sick, erotic embrace of death.

 

At last the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his body still flushed and tingling with the intense satisfaction of a powerful orgasm.  Beneath him, the adolescent corpse continued to tremble in its death throes.  With a sense of regret, the alpha slowly extracted his huge shaft of manmeat from the kid’s guts; it had felt so snug, wedged deep into the dead boy.  It slid out of the meat’s ass with a faint but audible “pop”, along with a heavy trickle of pearly cum.

 

The Trucker crossed the room weak-kneed and almost unsteady.  Grabbing his Marlboros, he lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply as he leaned against the wall to recover and to take stock of the scene.

 

The strangled teenager lay splayed on his back, his shuddering legs spread wide.  He’d managed to keep both of his Adidas kicks; they scraped and shuffled against the disarranged polyester bedspread.  The fucker’s cock as still hard; the erection was slowly fading—but very, very slowly.  There was a solid glistening trail of boyspunk up the center of the meat’s flat belly and smooth chest.  It led up to and over Brandon’s face, paling to cyan as the blood drained out of it.  The dead punk’s long hair, dark and moist with sweat, was fanned out above his head.

 

The serial killer smiled in satisfaction.  This one had been good.  The fagmeat had ended up draining his scrote the way he wanted it—the way he needed it—drained.  He finished his smoke and flicked it contemptuously onto the corpse where it hissed out in a pool of cum.

 

Heading to the bathroom, the older man swiftly wiped off his chest and abs with a moist towel, tossing it into the toilet when he was done.  Having cleaned the faggot’s jizz out of his wiry fur, the Trucker bent down and grabbed his shirt, but didn’t bother putting it on.  Instead, he wadded one corner of the thin cotton shirt and stuffed it into his back pocket, letting the rest of the shirt hang out.  As he did, his hand brushed his wallet, and he was reminded of something.

 

He located Brandon’s jeans and found the dead kid’s wallet.  The homo had twenty-five bucks; the Trucker slipped it out and into his pocket.  It’d help—barely—pay some expenses.   And it wasn’t like the boywhore needed it anyway.

 

Smiling grimly, the buff stud slipped his Carhartt jacket on over his bare torso.  He could tell by the sound that it was raining harder than ever, so he raised the hood as he opened the door.  Sure enough, it was pouring.  Hunching over, he dashed from the room without bothering to turn out the light.  The thick soles of his boot splashed in the puddles as he bolted back to his rug, never looking back.

 

If he had, he might have noticed that the door to Brandon’s death pit hadn’t closed completely.  And even before he crossed the street, a short, stocky figure had slipped into the room.  By the time the Trucker had reached the cab of his semi, the door had truly been closed.

 


 

Manny was exhilarated, and horny as fuck.  He didn’t know who the powerful stud who’d just left was, but he wanted to go to him for a number of reasons, none of them healthy.

 

Manny was twenty-one.  He was only five and a half feet tall, but he was broad and muscular.  His hard was blue-black, and curly and his skin was dark brown.  He was born in the US, but his parents hadn’t been.

 

Not that that hadn’t stopped Brandon from calling him wetback all the time.  And the old woman wasn’t any better, paying him less than minimum wage and threatening to call ICE anytime he complained.  No one was hiring in this bumfuck little town and he had no money to leave.  His job as maintenance man for the motel was all he had. So he put up with it.

 

But he hated them both.  And now here was the little gingo cocksucker, fucked and dead.  Manny couldn’t have been more pleased.  Or hornier.

 

He’d always wanted his chance at that smooth white body, but he knew the spoiled teen faggot would not only reject him but use any approach as something else to hold over his head.  He’d never made any move in that direction.

 

But now Brandon was helpless, vulnerable, and laid out for Manny’s pleasure.  It was almost as if it had been done deliberately, and in the swelling rush of lust and hate, the young, strong Latino had no hesitation at the thought of sexually abusing the corpse of a teenager.

 

When he’d first found to body, he’d been stunned—and wary.  Brandon had been beaten badly, and between that and the swelling caused by strangulation, his face was not easily recognizable.  Even though it was Brandon’s room, Manny wasn’t sure that it was Brandon, at least not until he got a closer look at the long, circumcised cock.  Yeah, that was the white boy’s dick.

 

And from the looks of the room, the handyman could tell someone had finally given the little pansy exactly what he’d been asking for, for years–the someone being that truck driver who’d just left.  That was someone Manny wanted to know.  That kinda power—that was something he wanted to feel.  But first, he had this stupid cunt lying dead in front of him, and the thought of giving him the D was too much to bear.

 

The buff, swarthy Latino peeled his wet t-shirt off, his rain-slicked chest glistening under the overhead light.  His tight work jeans were tucked into his work boots, a pair of Red Wing Heritage Mocs.  Usually, he wore them loose, but he’d laced them up tightly this time, all eight inches—he’d been standing in four inches of water, making sure that the roof was draining properly.  That bitch in the office would be all over his ass if he hadn’t fixed it right…

 

At any rate, he had no intention of unlacing them.  He just unzipped his fly and hauled out his thick uncut fireplug of a cock, stiff and throbbing, before approaching the bed.

 

“Hey, niño,” he hissed, stroking his rod as he approached the head of the bed, “Guess what this cholo’s gonna do with ya?”

 

He reached out and grabbed a handful of the dead teen’s hair, jerked the head toward the edge of the bed.  Brandon’s still-limber corpse bent sideways at the waist; Manny was easily able to position the torso so that the head hung back off the side of the bed, the mouth gaping and the tongue protruding.

 

“Gonna take some wetback cock in yer mouth, jefe, before I go wake yer ma an’ tell ‘er ya got yerself fucked to death,” Manny sneered down at the cum-covered face.  He grinned as he grabbed his dick in one hand and the back of Brandon’s head in the other, and shoved.

 

There was pressure, as if he was fucking someone in the ass.  Manny preferred being on the receiving end, but he could dominate when he wanted—and right now, he wanted.  His face tensed as he inserted his engorged, near-black tool into the dead teen’s mouth.  It plowed its way down the corpse’s throat, roughly squeezing Brandon’s swollen tongue out of the way.

 

Manny sighed with pleasure as his cock slid all the way down; just as his balls nestled down onto Brandon’s broken nose, the oozing head of his dick touched against the compacted mass of cartilage that blocked off the punk’s esophagus.  “Fuck yeah, ya dumbass puta!”

 

He rose up on his toes, flexing his brown leather boots, as he rammed his pulsating shaft down the dead kid’s blocked-off throat.  “Goddam maricón blanco, take my carajo!” he growled as he hunched his hard, stocky body over the adolescent’s corpse and skullfucked it.

 

Bent over Brandon’s inverted body, Manny could feel his wad seething and churning in his balls.  He looked down at the punk’s sperm-glazed belly and flaccid but still impressive dick, and felt himself lose control.  A searing heat boiled over in his puckered sack and suddenly, with a loud, convulsive cry, his spunk exploded into the narrow, confined space of Brandon’s crushed windpipe.

 

It was too much for the space to hold.  Manny felt the warmth of his own load flow back up the outside of his rod; as he withdrew his sticky, cum-covered shaft, he could see the overflow leaking out of the dead boy’s nostrils and gaping mouth.  “There ya go, maricon, ya like the taste of wetback cum?”  He spit contemptuously in the corpse’s face.  “Fuckin’ puta!”

 

The hardbodied handyman entered the bathroom.  Plucking a hand towel off the rack, he wetted it at the sink and scrubbed his dick off.  Turning, he noticed a bath towel already in the toilet.  He tossed his own in—and flushed.  Within seconds, the bowl backed up and overflowed.

 

Manny grinned.  Fuck it—it was gonna be the next guy’s problem.  He was getting out tonight.

 

Tucking his dick back into his jeans, the buff young Latino headed back into the bedroom, collected his wet t-shirt, and strolled out into the slowly fading rain.  The thick rubber soles of his work boots splattered the large puddles as he crossed the parking lot to the office.  Brandon’s Ma was about to have a rude awakening.

 


 

Two hours later, he was done.  He’d remained outside the room the entire time, keeping his eye on the parking lot across the street.  The rig with the dark blue cab hadn’t moved the entire time.

 

He’d spent most of the time answering the county deputy’s questions, then the sheriff’s questions—generally the same ones, over and over again—before they told him they were done with him for the moment.  As far as he was concerned, they were done with him for good.  With the mortified wailing of Brandon’s Ma ringing in his ears, Manny headed across the street.

 

He paused at the side of the cab.  A cold front had come through with the rain.  He was still shirtless, his large dark nipples erect in the chill pre-dawn air, with his wallet as his sole possession.  It didn’t matter.  All his cash was in his wallet and he could buy anything he needed.  And what was in his head was more valuable anyway.

 

He knew who Brandon’s killer was, and that was his ticket outta here.  He climbed up onto the cab and knocked boldly at the door.

 

The front section of the cab was empty.  As Manny watched, the privacy curtain that separated the sleeper section was drawn aside and the huge muscled stud he’d seen earlier came out.  Fuck, he was big—and so goddam hot.  The young Latino felt his cock stiffen again.

 

The Trucker opened the window.  “Whaddaya want?” he asked, his gruff voice low and wary.

 

“Your load, jefe.  And a ride outta here.”

 

The older man’s expression combined caution and hostility.  Manny spoke quickly.

 

“I know what ya did to the maricon.  Takes a real man to fuck a faggot up that bad, vato, an’ I been lookin’ for a real man fer a long time.  Now that I found ya, yer gonna get me outta this fuckin’ barrio.”

 

The Trucker looked down at the stocky hardbodied Latino.  “Or what?” he asked.

 

“The five-oh is still peelin’ yer playtoy off the bed back there,” Manny replied cockily.  “All I gotta do is stop back by over there.”

 

The Trucker was silent for a moment, obviously considering the alternatives, the he opened the door of the cab.  “Ok, c’mon in,” he said, moving back and letting the buff young man in.

 

Once inside, Manny glanced around.  “Aw, this is sweet!” he said in an admiring tone, as he rubbed his hands across the rock-hard tabs of his nipples and luxuriated in the warmth of the cab.  “You gotta nice setup in here.”

 

“Thanks,” the Trucker muttered, eyeing the punk cautiously.

 

“An’ I see ya got room for two,” the dark-haired youth added.  The Trucker merely growled.

 

Manny turned to face the alpha.  After the kill, the Trucker had come back, stripped, and climbed into his bunk, wanting to make sure he had enough rest to finish his haul in the morning.  He stood in front of Manny in nothing but a pair of briefs, his powerful, fur-covered mass of muscles on display for the Latino cocksucker to worship.

 

And that’s exactly what Manny proceeded to do.  Before the Trucker could comment, the short but well-built handyman had dropped to his knees and jerked the waistband of the Trucker’s briefs down, exposing the killer’s massive dangling tackle.

 

“Aw fuck, jefe, it’s even bigger than I’d hoped,” Manny moaned, opening his mouth and licking the thick purple head of the older man’s cock.

 

The muscle-bound sadist looked down in bemused contempt as the Hispanic faggot, clad in nothing but jeans and tightly-laced boots, tried to gobble down his dick.  Manny was having some obvious trouble going down on the enormous shaft; the Trucker chuckled as the youth gagged on the cue-ball-sized head.

 

“Well?” the killer sneered, a dangerous glint in his eye, “I thought you were gonna blow me in exchange for a ride outta town.”

 

Manny gagged again, lifted his head up, and wiped tears out of his eyes.  “Hang on a sec, man…damn, yer big…”  Still using one hand to guide the older man’s rod into his mouth, the kneeling homo slipped one hand down to his groin.  Unzipping his fly, he pulled out his own thick uncut tool, still sticky with cum, and began to flog it.

 

“Suck my fuckin’ cock, faggot,” the older man snarled.

 

Manny tried.  If he couldn’t get the hulking stud’s huge shaft of manmeat down his throat, it wasn’t for lack of desire.  The Trucker noticed this, grinned, and decided to show the cocksucker some pity.

 

“You want it bad, dontcha, faggot?” he jeered.  “Then it’s yer lucky day, motherfucker, cause I’m gonna help ya.”

 

Towering over Manny, his nude body emanating masculine physical power, the Trucker clamped his hands on the back of the Latino’s neck with the force of a bear trap and shoved his engorged tool down Manny’s esophagus.

 

“There ya go, ya spic fuck.  You wanted my cock?  Ya got it!”

 

Manny got it all right; the older man’s horsedick had plugged his windpipe completely.  The Hispanic punk couldn’t even cough; his throat was too blocked for him to make more than faint but increasingly frantic grunting noises.  He let go of his own hard, oozing cock and placed his hands against the Trucker’s massive thigh muscles, shoving and pushing in a desperate attempt to move his head away from the killer’s groin.

 

“See, I don’t leave no witnesses alive, you dumbass wetback,” the Trucker taunted the choking punk.  “But sure, I’ll get ya outta town—I’ll dump your rotting, cum-filled corpse so far outta town ain’t no one gonna find it.”

 

Twisting his handsome face into a grimace of hate, the Trucker forced his rod even further into the panicking handyman.  Manny tried to move, scraping his Red Wing boots on the sleeper’s floorboards, but the Trucker managed to pin him down so he couldn’t rise.  His swelling face, swarthy to begin with, was swiftly turning a livid black as drool that had been denied egress from his mouth began to leak in a stream from his nose.  The taut skin of Manny’s cheeks, now swollen and horribly sensitive, were being ground and abraded by the older man’s wiry pubic hair.

 

“Jesus, are all you spics such lousy cocksuckers?” the Trucker scoffed as he loomed over his silently suffering victim.  He grinned, feeling his huge tool pulse with power as the dying homo beat his hands helplessly against the older man’s legs.  The Trucker looked down, his gaze meeting that of Manny, who’d managed to turn his eyes upwards.

 

As he choked silently, the young buff Hispanic cast his gaze up along the Trucker’s furry washboard abs, up his chest past the dangling dogtags to see the gleaming light of psychosis shining in the alpha’s eyes.  Manny realized that blackmailing a serial killer was a really, really bad idea.

 

It was shame he wouldn’t live to profit by the knowledge.

 

The boy was fading fast on his dick, the Tucker realized.  He’d rammed his shaft down the faggot’s airway some two and a half minutes ago; already the motherfucker was becoming more docile, more accepting of approaching death.  Within seconds, he’d be pas the point of no return—brain death would set in.

 

Well, he hadn’t asked to drain his morning wood, but as long as he had a piece of dying fagmeat convulsing on his cock, why not?

 

Grinning, the buff alpha held on and felt Manny choke to death on his dick.

 

The point of death in a slow suffocation is hard to determine, but the Trucker knew the meat was close when the violent convulsions started.  Even as he remained upright on his knees, Manny’s body jerked and shuddered.  As it did, it somehow managed to create an incredible suction in the lungs.

 

The Trucker grunted and sweated, trying not to blow his wad as the dying spic’s esophagus collapsed around his cock like a vacuum seal.  He curled his fingers in the cocksucker’s hair, looking down over Manny shoulder to see how the meat was obviously—and obliviously—curling its toes inside its tight boots.

 

Suddenly there was a scalding splash on the alpha’s thighs; Manny, his hands still pressed against the Trucker’s legs, had blown his death load hands-free.  It was what the Trucker had been waiting for; with a loud “FUCK! FUCK!” he spewed a huge geyser of thick creamy spunk down Manny’s throat, flooding the dead fuck’s lungs.

 

The hardbodied alpha didn’t remember much about the next few minutes beyond the electrically explosive sensation of orgasm.  When he was done, he let go of Manny.  The corpse fell to the floor in a heap, a creamy trickle of cum leaking from the dead spic’s lips.

 

Steeping back, the Trucker felt completely drained.  He knew there was no sense remaining in town, and while he needed a good shower, this wasn’t the time or the place.  He wiped himself down as best he could, then shoved Manny’s warm, quivering body onto the floorboards of the passenger seat.

 

Dressing quickly in his worn jeans, a gray t-shirt and his black harness boots, the Trucker started his rig.  He wanted to be on the road before anyone come looking for the spic who’d been the one to find the dead fag’s body.  As he pulled onto the road, though, before he could get out onto the state highway, he saw the deputy from the motel come running towards him, flagging him down.

 

The Trucker shifted into idle and lowered his window.  “Can I help you, officer?”

 

“Hey, you hear anything about what happened over here last night?”

 

“Me?” the Tucker asked innocently, “Naw, I was sleepin’ all night.  What happened?”

 

“Kid got murdered.  Knew the little faggot was gonna get whacked sometime, but his ma’s carryin’ on like it was the Kennedy assassination or somethin’.  Anyway, hang on here for a sec.  I gotta do a routine check.”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said nonchalantly, but he raised the window and kept his eye on the cop.  The latter crossed back to the motel and in a moment reappeared, leading a plump, gray-haired woman whose eyes were swollen with crying.  It was obviously Brandon’s ma.

 

As they approached, there was a faint scraping noise form the passenger side of the cab and Manny’s corpse suddenly flopped back and began convulsing violently.  As the dead spic’s firm muscles contracted involuntarily and his eight-inch boots kicked at the floorboards, the deputy and the old woman crossed in front of the truck.

 

The Trucker didn’t have a moment to think; the reaction was instant, that of a hardened killer.  He reached out his right leg and planted the thick sole of his black leather harness boot against Manny’s jaw.  With a single powerful flex of his calf, he stomped on Manny’s head.  The cocksucker’s skull was sheared off the top of its spinal column as the loud wet splintering sound of shattered vertebrae filled the cab.  With one last kick of its boots and one last spurt of seed from its cock, the muscled Hispanic corpse lay still on the floor.

 

Turning, the Trucker lowered the window again.

 

“There,” the deputy told the old woman, pointing up at him.

 

“No,” she replied, dabbing at her eyes with a soiled handkerchief, “No, ain’t seen him before.”

 

“Ok,” the cop told the Trucker, “Thanks.  You can go.”

 

The Trucker did so, before the cop had the bright idea of asking the waitress in the diner to ID him.

 


 

More than twenty miles west of town, the state highway crossed a series of deep, narrow gullies by means of several bridges.  The Trucker pulled over on the shoulder just short of one.  Checking to make sure there was no other traffic—the road was deserted—he got out.

 

He strode to the edge of the gully and looked down.  Yeah, it’d do.  It appeared to be dry for most of the time, but after the recent torrential rains, there was a decent stream of water at the bottom—not deep or swift, but turbid and filthy and unlikely to inspire closer inspection.  It was perfect.

 

Opening the passenger door, the powerful serial killer reached in and grabbed Manny’s corpse under the arms.  The buff young homo was still warm to the touch, his firm muscles now flaccid and useless.  His last load, the wad forced from his cock when his neck was broken, was congealing on his smooth flat belly.

 

The alpha dragged Manny like a side of beef, the dead spic’s boot’s cutting a furrow in the roadside dirt that led to the edge of the ravine.  “Here ya go, ya fuckin’ piece a’ garbage, this far enough outta town for ya?” he jeered, and tossed the dead youth over the side.

 

Manny’s limp corpse tumbled ass over elbow down the gully into the slimy trickle of water, landing on it back with a wet splat.  As the Trucker watched, it sank in some, the water rising up over the blackened face and the dull, half-lidded eyes.

 

Smiling with the satisfaction of a job well done, the older man headed back to his rig.  As he climbed in, a chill gust of wind from out of the west swept across him; he was gonna have to break out his leather jacket if this weather kept up.  And judging by the dark thunderheads building up to the west, it looked like it was going to keep up.  As he sifted into gear and pulled back out onto the highway, the Trucker wondered if more rain would wash the (literally, now) wetback’s body away—and where it would end up.

 

Not that he cared.  He had a haul to see about—and then maybe it’d be time to have his dick serviced again.

Trucker 16–Trucker vs Fratboi

The Trucker stood in the convention center parking lot, looking north.  He’d spent the last hour overseeing the delivery of his load at the center’s service entrance; by noon the next day, he was scheduled to pick up a trailer loaded with sugar at a refinery south of the city.

 

Tonight, he was free.  Since he was only in town overnight, he decided to leave his rig at the convention center; he could come back and sleep in it if no better option came along.

 

Despite the fact that it was the Trucker’s first time in New Orleans, he was sure that some better option would come along.  All he had to do was hunt it down.

 

He decided to head someplace he knew would be teeming with anonymous fags no one would miss.  Picking up the train at Julia Street across from the Port of New Orleans, he headed north towards the French Quarter.

 

It was a warm and sultry evening, the humidity a palpable presence that enveloped one like sopping wool blanket; windows everywhere were fogged with condensation.  In spite of his position in a corner of the train car (to avoid attracting attention), the glittering beads of sweat on the hardbodied alpha drew a couple of envious—and lust-filled—glances.  But given the way he was dressed, he knew to expect a certain degree of faggot focus anyway.

 

In deference to the warmth of the evening, he wore a dark gray short-sleeve mechanic’s shirt, unbuttoned.  It hung wide, exposing his broad, fur-covered chest and hairy ripped abdomen for all to see.  Those who did see, and kept watching, were occasionally rewarded as a sudden movement or gust of air flapped the shirt open even wider, exposing one of the stud’s thick, dark, rock-hard nipples.  For those who had allowed their attention to wander, the faint, flickering reflection of the dogtags nestled in the thick body fur between the huge mounds of his pecs was sufficient to make them look again.

 

The thick forest of fur that carpeted the Trucker’s hard flat belly lead down to—and past—the waistband of a pair of clean but very well-used jeans, the denim worn in places to the softness of velvet.  An inch-thick belt of black leather emphasized the tightness of the Trucker’s waist.  The jeans were also so tight that the softness ensured that every pulsing vein in the well-hung stud’s package was visible if one looked closely enough.

 

More than one were looking closely enough as the train began to accelerate out of the Toulouse station, rounding the curve past the Natchez’s dock.  The Trucker was on the left side, looking out the window on the side away from the river.  He saw the bulk of the Jax Brewery building go past and, drawing the brim of his camouflage-patterned trucker’s cap down low over his icy blue eyes, began to think it was time to explore a little.

 

Once he saw Jackson Square go by, he’d decided to get off; as the train came to a stop at the Dumaine station, he got out and soon the sidewalk of Decatur Street was thudding with the reverberations of his big black leather engineer boots as he walked north, looking around him.

 

Damn, there was so much meat scampering about.  So many vermin to be put down…

 

The bulge in his groin became even more pronounced.

 

He’d walked past Latrobe Park before turning east—well, northeast, actually—on Ursulines, heading away from the Mississippi and deeper into the French Quarter.  The further he went, the more faggots he saw.

 

The Trucker had heard of Southern Decadence; at some point, one of the homos he’d put down had bleated something about it.  Out of curiosity, he’d looked it up, but hadn’t thought much about it.  He had no idea that it was in full swing and that on this hot and humid September evening, he’d find the Quarter packed with faggot twinks.

 

It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.

 

He turned right on Chartres, passing that fortress of supposed chastity, the Ursuline Convent—darkened and locked, as was proper for that hour, but now it was because it was a museum, and past closing time.  Making a left on Governor Nicholls Street—again, just to wander and see what was on offer—the muscled stud ambled up to Royal Street.  On the way, a couple of fey twinks in short shorts and thick-soled sandals ogled him and giggled as he passed under a streetlight.  He sneered at them in disgust, his rage against the worthless little queers mounting within him.  Then he reached the corner of Governor Nicholls and Royal, and stopped cold in front of the Lalaurie house.

 

Delphine Lalaurie was yet another part of New Orleans lore of which the Trucker was already aware.  Not that there’d ever been much of a racial component in the sex killer’s general contempt for humanity—it was just that he’d admired some of ol’ Delphine’s methods.

 

He kept heading up Royal to the next intersection, which was Bourbon Street.  Figuring that he was pretty much in the heart of the Quarter—which he was—the Trucker decided that it was as good a time as any to begin the hunt in earnest.  He turned left, back towards Canal Street, and refocused his attention on the environment with the eyes of a predator stalking for a kill.

 

There was rainbow bunting strung across the street; rainbow flags hung from streetlights and from private balconies.  At St. Phillip Street, the next intersection, a preacher with bright red flag stood on a box, loudly denouncing the rampant sin around him to a few earnest acolytes in white short-sleeve shirts and dark ties; everyone else ignored him completely with the exception of a pair of large furry bears who laughed out loud at him, then embraced and kissed passionately in front of him and his disciples, all of whom blushed violently.

 

The Trucker grinned.  Stupid fuckers; that wasn’t how you handled faggots.

 

There was a small, low building to his right, covered in what looked like dingy white stucco; there was a sign—“Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar”—and it was packed with homos.  The Trucker had to stop for a moment to catch his breath; the sense of anticipation, of the soon-to-come pleasure of release was almost overwhelming.

 

Then he stepped inside.

 

It was a fucking smorgasbord of fuckmeat.  The inside was dark and packed with writhing male bodies.  The moment the Trucker planted his boots on the sunken brick floor, he realized the ancient building, with its forge still in place, was too overcrowded to offer much hope for successful hunting.  Immediately adjacent, though, was a small walled courtyard that opened onto the street.  The courtyard was far less crowded and had a few small metal bistro tables scattered about; most were occupied.

 

At the back of the yard was a small covered bar where business was surprisingly slow; aside from a couple of fairies whispering and sniggering as they sucked ghastly purple frozen drinks up through straws, there were no other customers at the moment.

 

“Gimme a Jack on the rocks,” the Trucker told the bartender.  “Make it a double.”  He flipped the dude some cash when he got his drink and leaned back against the bar, looking out at the crowd.

 

Dudes of all shapes and sized wandered past the arched doorway to the street, but inside the dimly-lit courtyard, the faces all clustered together around the candles on each table, faces lit from below and blurring together in their vacuous lust.  The Trucker felt rage and disgust rising in him again, the pressure forcing its way to his cock, making it pulse and ache…

 

And that was when he saw him.  The boy who was sitting by himself at a table to the right of the doorway—it wasn’t just that he was the only other person alone in the courtyard.  It wasn’t even that he was openly staring at the Trucker.

 

It was the naked hunger in the twink’s eyes; an almost imperious desire that somehow brought a look of vulnerability to the otherwise unpleasantly arrogant cast of the punk’s face.  This was the one, the Trucker decided on the spot.  This little cocksucker was gonna die on his dick tonight.

 

He walked slowly towards the table at which the kid sat; a faint stirring of the humid air flared his shirt out behind him like a cape.  The boy at the table had a perfect view of the alpha stud’s broad, hairy chest, as hard and as perfectly formed as if carved from marble, with a glint of metal in the middle from his dogtags.

 

There was a cold, metallic glint above, too, above the strong, scruffy jaw—glints that came from eyes hidden deep in the shadow cast by the brim of the trucker’s cap.   And that huge package, so tantalizingly displayed right out in front…

 

The kid was still sitting when the Trucker reached the table, his jaw literally hanging open.  His brown hair was cut short on the sides and back, but left long in front and combed back over his head.  His nose was long and straight, dividing a pair of murky hazel eyes and terminating just above a pair full lips that formed a natural pout when closed.

 

Not that they were closed at the moment.  “You, uh, y-you wanna sit?” the kid asked almost timorously, then immediately regained some composure.  “I mean, I ain’t expectin’ no one or anything.”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said evenly and lowered his massive form onto the tiny metal chair.  The delicate wrought iron of the bistro set only enhanced his aura of well-built power.

 

“I-I’m Trent,” the kid said suddenly, holding out his hand.  The Trucker looked at it silently.  Trent flushed and let it fall back to the table.

 

After an awkward pause, the Trucker looked at the boy, giving Trent the impact of his cold blue eyes for the first time.  “How old are ya, kid?” he asked flatly.

 

“I’m nineteen,” Trent replied, raising his chin almost defensively.

 

The Trucker, sipping from his glass, glanced significantly at the glass that was sitting in front of the boy; it was another one of those purple concoctions.  Trent flushed again.

 

“Well, ya know, they ain’t cardin’ nobody tonight,” he replied in a low voice. “You ain’t gonna narc on me, are ya, bro?”

 

“Naw,” the Trucker drawled, his lips curled into a sardonic grin, “I ain’t gonna rat ya out to the cops, dude.  You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that.”

 

 

Trent grinned and took a mouthful of the frozen drink.  “It’s called a Zombie,” he said, “Want some?”

 

“No thanks,” the Trucker said dryly and took another slug of his whiskey.  “Look, dude, I ain’t interested in bein’ yer friend.  I’m lookin’ for someone to fuck.  I’m lookin’ for a cumdump.  You gotta room?”

 

Once again, Trent sat and stared at the hulking stud with his mouth open.  It wasn’t that he was upset; it was just that the blunt nature of the demand startled him.  He had to clear his throat and chug another mouthful of the purple swill before he could stammer out a reply.

 

“Uh, y-yeah man, I, uh, I gotta place—AirBnB, y’know—whol-whole damn apartment.  Got the whole second floor looking down into a private courtyard—hot, huh?  Daddy’s payin’ for it, but he don’t know.  Told ‘im I needed to get away for the weekend cause my frat bros—I’ma Phi Alpha Gamma, y’know—told ‘im they made to much noise and I had an exam comin’ up.  Daddy’s a partner in a big law firm up in Baton Rouge, lotsa political pull, y’know, so he let me put it on his office credit card.  And ain’t no one gonna know I’m usin’ the place to get fucked—smart, huh, bro?”

 

Trent stopped gushing and looked at the Trucker, realizing he was drunk and had let his enthusiasm get out from under him.  The older man had polished off his drink and was looking around the courtyard in a bored manner.

 

“—Anyway,” the kid finished up lamely, “I gotta nice room.  Wanna go?  I got some Johnnie Walker, too.”

 

The Trucker finally turned his attention back to the fuckmeat.  “Sure,” he drawled, “Long as you gotta place I can plow yer ass, that’s all I need.  Let’s go, boy.”

 

They stood up.  Trent turned towards the arched doorway, then paused and turned back to the Trucker, a barely-discernable look of concern on his face.  “Trent,” he said, “My name is Trent.”

 

“Whatever,” the Trucker replied flatly, “Let’s go.”

 

Without another word, Trent wheeled around and led the way out onto the street, turning right.  Even in his alcohol-induced buzz, there was a slight misgiving at the back of his hormone-wracked mind…but the swelling in his groin was much less possible to ignore.

 

And glancing at the blue-collar muscle stud walking beside him, Trent knew damn good and well that he didn’t want to ignore it.  This hardbodied god was gonna bang him tonight; that was all that mattered.

 

Fuck the consequences.

 

At some point, Trent moved ahead; he had to—he was the one who knew where they were going.  They turned right at the first street and the Trucker drifted back a couple of steps so that it wasn’t obvious that he was following the kid.  Not that there was much chance of being noticed; despite the crowd on Bourbon Street, not too many dudes had ventured this far northeast.  There wasn’t much reason to; most of the buildings faced back onto Bourbon Street or forward into the next block.  The street was mainly lined with brick walls.

 

It was dim, but between the occasional streetlight and the orange glow cast off by and reflected back down to the city from the low-hanging clouds, there was enough light for the Trucker to scope out the boy’s ass.

 

The teen slut had dressed—or, rather, undressed—for the humid night air.  His chest, slimly muscular, was already streaked with sweat; perspiration outlined the kid’s pecs on the thin ribbed cotton of his gray wifebeater.  Just barely visible beneath the hem of the shirt was a pair of the shortest gym shorts the Trucker had ever seen, barely four inches from waistband to hem.  Trent’s smooth thighs and firm calves flexed with every step the teen took, his retro black and white Nike Jordan 10s stumbling occasionally on the pavement at the buzzed punk staggered from time to time.  But he kept heading forward purposely.

 

Finally, Trent turned left onto Burgundy Street.  “Jus’ a lil way longer,” he chirped happily, managing to sound even more drunk than he was.  Luckily, the Trucker was in the shadows at the moment or Trent couldn’t have failed to miss the look of contempt the alpha threw at him.

 

As it turned out, Trent’s rental was several blocks down Burgundy, which was better lit than the street they’d left, if just as empty—there were fewer businesses, and most had already closed.  When they finally reached the building, it was an old two-story townhouse.  The ground floor had been converted to a restaurant; it was closed—apparently not for the evening, but for good.  Above it was an apartment that the Trucker presumed wasn’t Trent’s—there was a huge party going on full blast; it was the only noise in the otherwise quiet street.  The place had three pairs of French doors opening out onto the cast-iron balcony; all were open and lit up.  There was crowd of kids of both sexes talking, drinking and dancing, both inside and on the balcony, their yammering nearly blotting out the blaring music.

 

Even intoxicated, Trent had enough presence of mind to duck back into the shadows—just in case any of his frat brothers was at the party.  The Trucker noticed the maneuver, following directly in the faggot’s footsteps as the kid pulled out a key and moved towards a metal gate blocking an arched passage on the right side of the façade.

 

Letting the kid lead the way down the passage, the Trucker closed the gate softly behind him, then headed into the courtyard.

 

The building was L-shaped, with the base of the L being the front, facing the street, and the upright of the letter running back from the street.  The rest of the space was a courtyard that seemed to be laid out as an arbor or pleasure garden.  In the dim light cast by a couple of muted lampposts near the back of the garden, the Trucker thought he could make out a gazebo.  The sides of the yard not surrounded by the building were blocked by high, blank brick walls; none of the neighbors had a window overlooking the yard.

 

Another cast-iron balcony ran around the second floor here, too.  Trent was already climbing a set of stairs immediately to the left of the arched entry.  The Trucker followed him up, the clanging of his big black boots on the iron steps almost inaudible over the sounds of the party.  They had to cross in front of the windows to the party suite in order to turn the corner and get to Trent’s place in the rear.  Looking across, the Trucker could see three darkened French doors, much like the ones on the front of the building; this was where the teen punk was leading him.  The party suite didn’t have doors to this balcony, just windows overlooking it, and shades had been pulled over them.  There was enough light to see their footing—and to make out occasion shapes silhouetted against the shades—but no one was looking out.

 

The Trucker was able to follow the twink into his place without being observed.  Even better, the noise and music from the next unit was so loud, no one could possibly hear anything going on anywhere else.

 

That was good.  That meant the Trucker could make the homo twink squeal a little before putting him down.

 

Inside, Trent turned on the lights as the Trucker closed a set of plantation shutters over the door, just to make sure they couldn’t be seen.  Looking around, the hardbodied alpha was somewhat surprised to see that the entire space had been converted into a single large room.  The center of the room was a living area, with a fireplace against the far wall.  To the left, an open area had been converted to a kitchen, to the right was the sleeping area.  In the far corner was a walled-off area that was evidently a bathroom.  The entire place was furnished with period antiques, giving the room the somewhat schizophrenic feel of a French Colonial loft apartment.  Even the walls had been taken down to the original brick.

 

“Hey, ya wanna drink?” Trent said.

 

“Sure,” the Trucker replied, “On the rocks.  It’s a hot night.”

 

As Trent headed to the kitchen, thinking that it was indeed a hot night, the Trucker pulled his cap off and tossed it onto the butler’s tray table that was in front of the antique settee.  Digging his pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, the older man lit one, then slipped out of his shirt and tossed it onto the table as well.

 

When Trent turned back around with two glasses of scotch in his hands, the Trucker was standing in the center of the room, wearing nothing but his skin-tight jeans and his black leather engineer boots.  The teen fratboi gasped and almost dropped the drinks; seeing the Trucker clearly under good lighting for the first time, he was almost frightened.

 

He’d certainly been able to see enough up till now to know that the older dude was a major stud, but he hadn’t perceived how truly huge the guy was.  Those huge pecs, bigger than any hubcaps he’d ever seen, that dark wiry fur covering his chest and his ripped abs, those thick jutting nipples…

 

He looked like he could literally fuck Trent in half—and that thought both scared and aroused the horny teen slut.

 

“H-here,” he stammered, shakily handing the Trucker a glass.  “Damn, y-you’re—I, uh, I…um, hang on, I’ll be ri-right back…”  Taking a hefty slug from his own glass, Trent crossed to a bedside table; a rather large piece of furniture meant to match the high four-poster bed.  After digging in a drawer for a moment, Trent came back with a lit joint.  Taking a deep hit, he proffered the jay to the Trucker.  “Want some?” he gasped breathlessly to avoid exhaling.

 

The Trucker shook his head silently and took another drag from his smoke.  Sipping his scotch, he stared at Trent for another few moments before speaking.

 

“Get outta those clothes, bitch,” he ordered.  Suddenly, Trent found himself obeying the iron tone of command in the alpha’s voice.  He peeled the wifebeater off over his head, revealing his smooth, lithe twink torso, slim but firm and strong.  With a quick shuck and shuffle, Trent had wriggled his way out of the shorts—they fell to his ankles and he stepped easily out of them, leaving himself nude except for his retro Jordans and no-show ped socks.

 

His thick twink cock swung free between his legs; while it was nowhere near as huge as the Trucker’s, it was still an impressive piece of meat for a teenaged faggot.  More than six inches long, it sprang semi-erect from a bushy mound of dark-brown pubes between Trent’s smooth, firm thighs.

 

The Trucker took another drag from his cigarette.  “Horny little fucker, aintcha?” he jeered, leaning back and slowly unzipping his fly.  The vicious alpha’s eyes never left the kid’s face; he watched as the boy’s eyes lit up with lust, the young punk panting as the Trucker’s zipper slipped further down his crotch.

 

Finally the Trucker decided the time had come to let the little homo see exactly what he was gonna be dealing with.  The older man had to reach into his jeans with both hands to extract the enormous tube of manflesh that he intended to ram into the twink’s asshole.

 

First, though, he had other plans.

 

“Get over here and suck my cock, you fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled.  Trent blinked; he’d known the dude would take over and turn dominant—he expected that.  But he also expected some kinda warning.  This sudden onslaught caught him by surprise.

 

“W-what?” he stammered, “I, uh, I—”

 

“Shut the fuck up and wrap yer faggot lips around my dick, asswipe!” the Trucker barked.  Again, the tone of command lashed Trent like a whip.  Before he was even conscious of his actions, the teen slut found himself on his knees, trying to take the biggest cock he’d ever seen down his throat without gagging.  It was a losing battle, and he knew it.

 

The Trucker grunted with pleasure as he felt the twink whore choke on his dick.  “Yeah, that’s it, ya fucking homo,” he said as he grasped Trent’s head with both hands and forced it violently into his crotch, “That’s what a real man’s cock tastes like.  Ya like it, faggot?  Yeah?  Choke on it, cunt, gag on a man’s dick, you fuckin’ pansy-ass queerboy!”

 

Trent would have protested the vile homophobic names he was being called—he was a bottom, but he had limits.  Unfortunately for him, he was too busy being a pansy-ass queerboy to call a halt to the proceedings.  And even as the massive rod of manmeat pinned his epiglottis closed, sealing off his windpipe as it plunged halfway to his diaphragm, his own tool was swelling and pulsing.

 

But as much as Trent reveled in choking down the hot blue-collar stud’s cock, he still couldn’t breathe.  And as horny as he was, at some point the need to inhale became imperative—and suddenly, just as he started to squirm, the teenaged cocksucker felt the older man’s denim-wrapped thighs press against the side of his head.

 

As Trent began—slowly at first, but with increasing desperation—to pull his head up off the hardbodied top’s dick, the pressure on the sides of his head increased painfully.  The Trucker wasn’t actually trying to use his incredibly powerful thighs to crack Trent’s skull like a walnut, but if the panicking fag thought that, so much the better.

 

The teen’s face began to darken.  Tears streaming involuntarily from his wide, bulging eyes, Trent looked desperately up at the Trucker’s face, his eyes pleading silently for air.  The sense of control, of power over the teenaged faggot was almost too much for the Trucker…

 

…he had to let the kid go.  He hadn’t suffered anywhere near as much as he needed to.

 

Relaxing his legs, he let Trent jerk himself backward out of the older man’s groin and fall backwards onto the floor.  As the lean, lithe punk lay gasping and gagging on the floor, the Trucker stood up and polished off his drink.  He took a final drag off his smoke and tapped the ash onto the prone youth before stubbing the butt out in an ashtray.

 

“Awright, bitch, enough foreplay.  Get yer ass on the bed.  I’m gonna show ya how faggot cunts like you need to be fucked.  Ya hear me, asswipe?  Get yer goddam homo ass up, clear them pansy sheets off the bed, and get yer legs in the air, ya hear me?”

 

Still coughing, Trent rose shakily to his feet, then turned and grabbed his drink off the coffee table.  He took a big slug of the booze, snatched his still-smoldering joint from the ashtray and took a deep, lung-busting hit.

 

“What the fuck are ya waitin’ for, cocksucker?” the Trucker snarled, “Get over there an’ clear that goddam bed off!”

 

This time, Trent obeyed, snuffing his jay in the ashtray, unaware of how soon his own life would be so easily snuffed.  Shoving the pillows off the far side of the bed, he grabbed the comforter, blanket and flat sheets in a single handful and jerked the bedding down to the foot of the bed.  All three pieces were tucked in deeply at the foot; Trent gave up trying to pull them off and left them draped over the footboard and dragging on the floor.

 

The Trucker watched the lithe teen’s muscles flex and bulge under his smooth skin.  A rather large one bulged in front—the little faggot punk evidently liked being verbally abused.  His dick was swollen and erect, a purple staff that bobbed and weaved in the air with Trent’s every motion.

 

Then the kid climbed up onto the bed, rolled onto his back, and raised his Nike Jordans in the air.  His cock rose straight up from his groin, curving slightly up towards his smooth flat belly.  Trent nestled himself into position, then reached around and grabbed his own asscheeks, spreading the fuzz-covered peachlike globes and exposing his pink puckered asshole.

 

Almost before Trent realized it, the Trucker was on the bed with him, still in his jeans and boots.  The stud had his cock in both hands, rubbing the huge engorged head of his tool against the boy’s fuckhole, the alpha’s precum smearing over the orifice—it was the only lube the hapless bitch was gonna get.

 

To Trent, it felt more like the business end of a Louisville slugger.  As the Trucker hovered over him, the teen looked up at the older man.  He felt something touch him directly between his pecs and heard a faint clinking sound—they were close enough for the stud’s dogtags to settle onto his chest.  All sense of caution and self-preservation evaporated as the bottom boy drank in the view of hairy muscled manflesh about to pump his ass.  His bleary pot-reddened eyes sought out the Trucker’s icy blue glare.

 

“I know it’s gonna hurt like fuck,” Trent said softly, nearly in a whisper.  “I’ll probably scream.  Don’t stop.”

 

The Trucker’s lips twisted into a knowing leer.  “Don’t worry ‘bout that, faggot,” he chuckled, “I ain’t gonna stop no matter how much ya scream.”  Without another word, he shoved his massive rod into Trent’s ass, not waiting for the teen’s sphincter to relax.

 

Trent was right.  He screamed.

 

The Trucker stiffened with pleasure as he felt the youth’s colon clench in resistance to the searing pain, tightening up on his cock.  “Fuck yeah, that’s it,” he grunted, “Keep fightin’ it, faggot, keep workin’ my shaft.”

 

Trent liked getting fucked, and he liked it to hurt—but now a whole new dimension of agony was opening up in front of him.  He’d never been so full of cock before. It wasn’t just the pain of split skin and torn muscles in his rectum; he could feel the Trucker’s enormous, club-like rod prodding deep into his viscera and his head filled with images of horrific internal injuries.

 

The punk was howling with pain, but his own cock was not only hard, it was slapping against the alpha, spattering clear viscous drops of precum over the latter’s firm hairy belly.  Trying to endure the brutal assfuck, Trent clutched the Trucker with desperate strength, his fingers digging into the stud’s biceps and his smooth thighs wrapped tightly around the alpha’s waist.

 

Trent’s Nikes kicked in the air as his toes curled involuntarily with every thrust of the Trucker’s hips.  The kid’s swollen shaft pulsated at the same tempo as the top’s massive, vein-sheathed rod ground its way relentlessly over his prostate.  Already overloaded with teen hormones, the boy didn’t need much stimulation—no matter how much pain he was in, he was gonna stay hard.  It wasn’t something he could control.

 

Suddenly the music coming from the party suite stopped; the cacophonic rumble of overlapping human voices continued, but the volume level dropped dramatically.  Problem was, Trent was still squealing—and now it might be heard.

 

The Trucker put a stop to that real quick.  “Shaddup, cunt,” he barked, and popped Trent in the face.

 

The force of the blow slammed the kid’s jaws together, making him bite his tongue painfully.  The alpha hadn’t even needed to slow the tempo of his fucking; he’d simply pulled one powerful arm back and plowed it into the teen’s face while still supporting himself with his other arm.

 

It worked.  Trent shut up, his bloodshot eyes, large and vulnerable, looking accusingly up at the Trucker before they started to fill with tears.

 

“Aww, whatsa matter?” the Trucker sneered.  “Is de wittle faggot gonna cry?  Man up, ya little motherfucker—you said ya wanted it to hurt, remember?  Cause I sure the fuck remember.  You ain’t even started to hurt yet, asswipe.  I’m gonna use yer homo ass up, you piece of fag garbage.  By the time I’m done with ya, you ain’t ever gonna need to get fucked again—ever.”

 

As the Trucker reared himself up on his knees, looming over the lithe young boy, he maintained control over the situation physically, keeping the kid pinned to the bed with his dick.  Trent watched—as best he could; despite his best efforts, he was crying—with a growing sense of surreal horror as the older man unbuckled his thick black leather belt and slipped out from around his waist.

 

The Trucker doubled the belt and held it in his right hand and suddenly, somehow, Trent’s vision cleared.  He looked up at the older man’s powerful chest, his broad hubcap pecs carpeted with a mass of dark wiry hair, his thick nipples jutting proudly at the crest of each mound.  And above that, the dark, scruff-covered face, so masculine and so cold, with that icy heat in those blue eyes…

 

And while Trent was almost hypnotized with lust for the man who was hurting him so badly, the Trucker swept his arm down, slashing Trent across the face with the doubled end of the belt.

 

It didn’t break anything or even draw blood, but it left a terrible welt across the kid’s soft fuzz-covered cheek.  Trent shrieked.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” the Trucker roared and hit him with the belt again.  This time it was a backhand blow, and this time it was harder.

 

The teen sobbed openly but managed enough self-control to avoid screaming aloud.  He was in considerable pain and utterly bewildered by what was happening.  All he knew for a fact was that he was still getting violently fucked—and he was still hard…

 

“Wh-why?” he gasped out between sobs, “Hit-hit m-me—wh-why?”

 

“Because it feels good, you worthless piece of fuckmeat,” the Trucker grinned.  “Every time I hurt you, your horny little faggot teen body gets all nice and tight on my dick.  Hurting you gets me off—you feel me, cumdump?  Yer gonna feel me, I fuckin’ promise.  The more pain you’re in, the better you work my cock.  Here, I’ll show ya!”

 

Trent lay back on the bed with the older man’s shaft still buried deep in his guts.  His fragile young psyche was starting to disintegrate in the face of sheer terror; it was as if what was happening to him was part of a movie he was watching.  He wondered if it was past midnight yet; he really did have an exam on Monday—Bio 101 and he was gonna flunk but who gives a shit, he didn’t need Bio to get into Daddy’s law firm and make it big—

 

And then there was one single moment of lucidity, like a flash of lightning illuminating an unknown landscape for a fraction of a second—just enough time for Trent to see that the Trucker had looped the belt through its buckle, forming a simple noose.  The hairy musclestud was holding it up and showing it to the boy, his face twisted with malevolent glee.

 

Trent was shallow and unintelligent, but even he understood what was gonna happen.  He snapped back to reality instantly.

 

“N-no—” he begged, “For G-god’s sake, no—please, oh dear God, please d-don’t—”

 

The young kid broke down sobbing.  The Trucker looked down at him and laughed aloud, coldly and cruelly.

 

“The meat always begs,” he said with an amused tone in his voice, almost as if he was speaking solely to himself.  “Like it has any worth until it’s full of my seed.  You need to learn that the only reason you exist is to be my cumrag, faggot.  Once I pump my load into ya, you’re done.  You’ve served your purpose on this planet.  All that’ll be left is a pile of boymeat.”

 

Trent’s eyes, wide with stunned horror flashed up at his killer.  The teen still wasn’t able to think of the Trucker in that way yet, but his desperate denial was crumbling.

 

“Y-you’re kiddin’—ha!  A’course, that’s it—it’s a joke, right?  Huh?  Cause I asked for it rough, huh?  Right?”  Fear drove the boy’s pitch higher with each work; the final question was a squeak.

 

“Time to die, cocksucker,” the Trucker said complacently as he reached out and lowered the belt around Trent’s head.  The lithe young fratboi tried to fight the older man off, but the alpha knocked the kid’s flailing hands away like so many annoying mosquitos and, taking advantage of an unguarded moment when Trent lifted his head up off the bed, managed to get the belt around the punk’s neck with minimal effort.

 

“There,” the buff killer said in a self-satisfied tone, “Now we’re ready for business.”  He shifted himself, keeping his huge rod embedded in the teen’s ass as he dug the thick soles of his engineer boots into the mattress.  He was gonna need a lotta leverage to make the meat milk his shaft right.

 

“Oh fuck no please don—urk!” Trent cried out, his final useless plea cut off as the hardbodied psycho tightened the belt and cinched the kid’s windpipe off with a single jerk.  From then on, the only sounds the fratboi could make out loud were thick gagging noises as he was slowly choked to death.

 

Inside, though, he was screaming.  The inability to breathe had refocused the worthless little punk; now he had a purpose—to keep alive as long as possible, to stave off death to the last of his strength.

 

And that was exactly what the Trucker wanted, too—to feel the young faggot struggle and die on his cock.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered seductively to the panicking teen, “Keep fightin’ it, fuckmeat.  Fuck yeah, boy, just like that.  Work my dick, you sack a’ shit, fuckin’ milk my shaft as you go under.”

 

Trent fought it, all right; he fought and thrashed like a landed fish.  His hands, curved into claws, came flying at the Trucker, digging and scratching for any vulnerable spot—anything to relieve the crushing agony in his throat.

 

It had taken long enough for the shallow young homo to understand that this was really happening to him, that he’d used his smooth young body to lure in something much more dangerous than a hot anonymous fuck.  Even now, as his guts were getting reamed and his pulse pounded swiftly and deafeningly inside his skull, he refused to accept the fact that death was imminent.  His fear at the moment was getting hurt so bad his father had to be called; what the fuck would he do then?

 

“Am I losin’ ya, asswipe?  You findin’ something more entertain’ than my cock to think about?  Ok, cunt, I’ll make yer sorry goddam ass pay attention to what matters most in yer useless life—working the spunk outta my dick.  Here, this’ll help ya focus—”

 

The Trucker wrapped the loose end of the belt around his thick, hairy wrist, grabbing the end of it in his right hand.  Placing his left hand on Trent’s chest, he began to pull backwards with his right.  He started off slowly, almost gently, but kept increasing the power.  Within a matter of seconds, his right bicep was bulging, a visible manifestation of the sheer strength the older man was using to snuff the teenaged faggot.

 

Trent clawed frantically at the Trucker’s chest, clutching and releasing handfuls of wiry hair like steel wool.  As his esophagus began to deform under the crushing pressure and his face started to swell excruciatingly from lack of oxygen, it finally began to dawn on the fratboi that he wasn’t going to survive this encounter.

 

That was what it took to trip the trigger.  Panic set in, ensuring that Trent’s actions were no longer aimed at a rational attempt to free himself—he was thrashing and flailing in blind terror, his desperate attempts to free himself punctuated by the jangling music of the alpha’s dancing dogtags.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted in ecstasy.  “Goddam, I love how twink meat kicks as it dies!”

 

The shuddering, sweating pile of teen boymeat was no longer a lucid human being.  Trent had relapsed to the state of a terrified animal caught in a trap. He clawed and dug at the thick leather strap that was wrapped so tightly around his throat that it had sunk in; his fingernails shredded the flesh of his neck as he tried vainly to get them up under the belt.

 

The Trucker felt the teen’s smooth skin sliding against his, lubed with an oily film of panicked deathsweat that was literally being squeezed out of the kid’s body.  He looked down with sick lust at Trent’s grotesque, blackened face, swollen and distorted out of recognition.  The fratboi’s tongue, huge and purple, had pushed its way past the thick blue lips and was protruding amidst a steady stream of white, foamy drool that leaked down Trent’s peach-fuzz-covered cheeks.

 

“I’m gettin’ close, fuckwad,” the Trucker hissed hoarsely, “Ya want my load?  Ya want to end it, to stop the pain?  Die, faggot, die on my cock.  Fuckin’ kick and die an’ jack me off.  C’mon, you worthless little pansy, make yer fuckin’ faggot life mean somethin’.  Drain my balls an’ I’ll let ya rot with my hot manseed in yer guts.  Die, you piece of shit, so I can use you as a cumrag.”

 

The pounding in Trent’s head was overwhelming; it drowned out everything else.  It drowned out the razor-sharp agony of the brutal buttfuck; in fact, Trent was almost desensitized to that pain by now.  It also drowned out the horrific pain of his collapsing trachea and the fiery sense of intense pressure radiating from his oxygen-starved lungs…

 

…but it didn’t drown out the burning sensation that ran the length of his swollen, aching cock.  Even as his sense faded and he began to slip convulsively into progressive brain damage, the teen slut could still feel his own painfully erect and throbbing cock pressed against the Trucker’s belly–and was somehow till sensitive enough to feel the older man’s muscled form hunched over him, working and pumping, using his body as a sex toy, to be tossed aside after orgasm.

 

And as his brain shut down, Trent began to want it.  He began to accept death, to accept that his best, his only purpose in life was to receive this stud’s semen, to accept his sperm in a mighty gush.  That was all he was, a receptacle for hot mancum, and if he had to suffer like this to achieve it, it was ok…

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, huh, bro?” the Trucker whispered, “Now ya like it, yeah?  Now ya want it, right?  Fuck you, ya goddam worthless faggot!”

 

Pulling up violently on the belt, the Trucker took his left hand off Trent’s chest and drove it as hard as he could into the dying teen’s face.

 

Several things happened at once.  Trent was too far gone to hear the words, but he certainly felt the Trucker jerking the belt—it would have been difficult for him to miss, since his trachea was crushed into a bloody mass of cartilage, his larynx reduced to a mangled wad of tissue.

 

That sudden blast of nightmarish pain proved to be too much for the near-dead punk; his traumatized nervous system went into overload and he began to spunk uncontrollably.  The dying fratboi shot an interminable, high-pressure jet of semen onto the Trucker’s body, splashing up his chest and splattering on his dangling dogtags.

 

Less than half a second later, the Trucker’s blow drove Trent’s nose into his face, shattering the bridge like glass and sending bone shards flying into what little part of the teen’s brain was still alive.  It also ruptured the kid’s cervical vertebrae, tearing open the spinal column and mangling the spinal cord itself.

 

As the kid went rigid with massive nerve trauma beneath him, the Trucker felt his seething balls erupt in an explosion of pure manseed.  In his final death agony, Trent clung tightly to his killer, his firm smooth thighs tightly wrapped around the Trucker’s waist and his retro Nike Jordans kicking and flailing mindlessly in the air behind the Trucker’s back.  His arms had shifted as well; now he held his killer in a tighter embrace than any lover ever dared.

 

The Trucker cried out, a long inarticulate cry of orgasm and male dominance.  He spewed load after load uncontrollably into the human cumrag he’d snuffed, letting the corpse’s convulsions milk the last drop of spunk from his aching, overfilled scrotum.  At some point, he realized he was pounding his fist again and again into Trent’s defenseless face.

 

The teen was long past caring.  He was dead.  His body hadn’t quite realized the fact, though; the smooth young fratboi was still quivering and spunking, jet after jet of cum shooting from his convulsing corpse.  It took more than a minute for both Trent and the Trucker to stop unloading.

 

Finally, the Trucker shuddered to a stop.  He paused for a moment, gasping and sweating, his leaking cock still buried deep in the corpse.  Almost from outside himself came the awareness that the music from the part suite had started again; he suddenly realized that he’d shot his entire wad to the background music of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” by Activator.  Well, at least it was appropriate.

 

Slowly and regretfully, he pulled his tool out of the dead kid.  His boots hit the wood floor with a loud thump as he crossed to the bathroom to clean up; wiping the boyspunk out of his wiry chest hair took some effort.  When he was done, he tossed the wet towel into the bathtub and walked back out.

 

It was a shame to let a nice room like this go to waste, he thought, but he had to get going.  After all, that sugar waiting for him tomorrow wasn’t going to deliver itself.  Still, there was a romantic appeal to the scene that presented itself to him—the old brick walls, the antique French provincial furniture, the tight, hot teen corpse lying spread-eagled on the bed with damn near a pint of creamy mancum leaking out of its ass and what looked like a quart of teen boyspunk congealing on its chest and a thick black leather belt embedded in its neck, its black and white Jordan 10s still twitching against thecum-soaked mattress…

 

 

The Trucker smirked.  Well, someone was gonna have some fun finding it.

 

Tucking his shirt into his back pocket so that some of it hung out, swinging against his taut ass like a hankie, he left the same way he came in.  Once past the party suite windows and down in the courtyard, the Trucker took a deep breath of fresh air, inhaling the heady scent of jasmine from somewhere nearby.  Yeah, he thought, he could come to like the Big Easy…

 

The sound of his boots on the pavement echoed through the French Quarter as he headed back to the train.

 


 

“Mr. Boudreaux?  I gotta call for you…”

 

“Dammit, Marcie, can’t you see I’m busy?  I’m about to start this conference call with the governor and Senator Boileau about gettin’ this Religious Freedom bill passed; can’t it wait?

 

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s the New Orleans police.  It’s your son.  They say—they…oh, sir, you really need to take this call!”

 

“Oh gawd, what’s the little bastard done now?  Another one of those stupid fraternity pranks?  I swear to God, if he wasn’t mixin’ with the right types down there, I wouldn’t be payin’ his dues.  Oh well, as long as it ain’t too serious.  But he better not be costin’ me any more money.  Go ahead an’ put ‘em though, Marcie.”

 

Ten minutes later, Trent Boudreaux, senior, had fled his office for the parking garage.  By the time he was on the road for New Orleans, his conference call was forgotten, not to be recalled to mind until he learned every last nightmarish detail of his son’s murder—after what was obviously consensual gay sex.

 

The funeral was private; family shame prevented any public announcement.  His frat brothers struck his name from the roll and never admitted they had allowed a faggot in their midst.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trucker 15–Trucker vs the Lucky One

The Trucker was a cunning and intelligent predator.  The senses and skills associated with hunting were highly developed in him; he was excellent not only at killing but at avoiding danger.  Some of this was innate, but some of it was forced on him by his lifestyle; running freight, as he did, he occasionally found himself re-running routes and stopping repeatedly in the same place over a period of time.

 

So when he got back to the town where his last kill had taken place, he was on high alert.  He’d been gone several weeks—more than enough time for whatever kind of trouble the snuff of a methhead whoreboy stirred up to settle back down—but there was no sense being careless.

 

As he pulled into the oversized parking lot at the one truck stop in town, the Trucker decided he’d go out on the prowl.  Who knows?  Maybe it’d turn out to be safe.

 

And after all, he was hungry for meat.

 

It was a cold night.  The buff killer was wearing a black Nike compression t-shirt with long sleeves.  Tucked into the narrow waist of his clean but worn jeans, it clung tightly to his massive, heavily-muscled torso.  Along with the black leather harness boots he sported, it was a warm enough outfit in the heated cab of his truck, but there was an icy wind blowing outside that would necessitate a little more protection.  Reaching into the sleeper compartment, the Trucker drew out an aviator jacket in distressed black leather and slipped it on.

 

As he leaped down from the cab, his thick-soled boots hit the ground with a loud thump.  Striding quickly across the cement lot, his wide-legged stance testifying to the massive package between his legs, he was the image of masculinity.  When he reached the street, he turned left, heading in the direction of the gay bar he’d hit up last time.  He’d poke around a little, make sure nothing suspicious was going on—then he’d be ready to hunt down some fagmeat and drain his hairy sack into it.

 

It was only a few blocks to the bar.  Once he reached it, the Trucker found that there was a line at the door; a large poster announcing the presence of a locally famous DJ explained the crowd.  The hardbodied killer paused—he had no intention of waiting in a line; too many potential witnesses would be given too much time to observe his appearance.  He’d have to try elsewhere—

 

As he turned, he noticed a couple of boys standing at the far end of the building’s façade, near the unattended exit door.  Despite the wind, they seemed in no hurry to join the line and escape into the warmth of the bar’s interior.  Before he could take a step in their direction, a man exiting the bar paused and engaged the two boys in conversation.  The Trucker was too far away to hear what was being said, but it was obvious that some kinda bargain was being struck.  As if to prove his point, the older bar patron began walking swiftly away, the taller youth following in his trail.

 

So, then.  A couple of boywhores who had decided to skip paying a cover charge and just pounce on random dudes as they were leaving the bar.  One of them had managed to pick up a john, leaving the other for the Trucker.  The grinning serial killer sauntered over to check out the lucky motherfucker.

 

When he got closer, the shock of recognition tingled through his muscular frame.  The kid was short, his slim, firm, wiry body obvious in his tight black skinny jeans and dark blue Nike Air Jordans.  It was impossible to tell what kind of shirt he was wearing under his gray fleece hoodie, but under the pointed hood his face was easily seen.  Long curly hair so jet-black it almost gleamed blue was counterpointed by the deep liquid pools of his long-lashed, gazelle-like eyes, also deep black.  The clear skin on the boy’s broad, youthful face had a dark, almost olive tone to it.

 

He was the kid who’d played pool with the Trucker last time he was here.  The one the alpha had set his sights one, before the little punk had been saved by a group of rentboy friends who’d carried him off to drink elsewhere.

 

Well, well, well.  Seems like luck only goes so far.  As the Trucker ambled up to the kid, he idly wondered where his little pack of pansy friends were.  Looked like they’d be too late to save him tonight…

 

The kid recognized the Trucker as well; his face lit up.  “Hey, dude,” he called out, “I was hopin’ I’d see you again!”

 

The kid was telling the truth.  He’d been entranced by the Trucker’s rugged and utterly unfeigned masculinity the moment he’d laid eyes on the alpha in the poolroom a couple of weeks ago.  But Jimmy and Don had come up, and they’d scored some ice, and that had meant more at the moment.

 

That was then and this was now.  And now he was broke and needed a john bad, one with a lot of money.  Not that he wouldn’t let this stud fuck him for free if he could, but money was the primary focus.

 

“Hey,” the Trucker drawled, casually leaning back against the wall.  “You, uh—available?”

 

The kid grinned.  Now that he was closer, the Trucker could see that the boywhore was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt under the hoodie.  That wasn’t all he could see; a line of thick dark fur was peeking above the collar of the t-shirt—the little fuck must be as hairy as he was, the Trucker realized; maybe more.  It certainly didn’t show on his smooth young face.

 

“Yeah, I’m free,” the boy replied with a cocky grin, “But I ain’t exactly free, if ya get my drift.”

 

The Trucker got it, all right.

 

“How much for the whole night?” he asked.

 

The kid scrunched up his face in pretended thought, unconsciously giving himself a boyish, elfin expression by biting his bottom lip.  “Five hundred,” he said, well aware it was too much but willing to take a shot and bargain if he had to.

 

The Trucker bit his bottom lip as well—to stop an overwhelming impulse to bray laughter in the faggot’s face.  Five hundred for a night with this reamed-out fuckmeat?

 

“Five? No,” the Trucker said firmly but seriously, pretending to think himself.  “How about three?”

 

The Trucker watched the whore’s eyes almost literally light up with dollar signs.

 

“I—uh, yeah, ok—” the rentboy faltered, stunned at his good luck.  He’d have settled for fifty.  “C’mon an’ follow me, I gotta place, a room.  We can get busy an’ ain’t no one gonna disturb us…”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said laconically, “Lead the way, boy.”

 

“Name’s Kristos,” the kid replied and this time the Trucker wasn’t able to contain his snort of amusement.  The boy took it in stride; he wasn’t gonna let anything distract him from the possibility of earning three hundred bucks just for letting the hottest dude he’d ever seen fuck him.

 

“Naw, man, seriously,” Kristos said.  “I’m half Greek.  My mama is second-generation Greek.  She insisted; it’s her the name of her favorite uncle.”

 

The Trucker’s ears picked up at the mention of the fuckmeat’s mother.  “How old are ya, boy?” he asked casually.

 

“Twenty-one,” Kristos promptly lied; his birthday was still over two weeks away.  But he was used to lying about his age; he’d been doing it ever since he ran away from home and started whoring himself out four years ago.

 

“Uh-huh,” the Trucker replied absently.  He was sure the punk was lying, but it didn’t matter.  However old the kid was, he wasn’t gonna get any older.  “So where’s this room ya got?”

 

“This way,” Kristos said, heading towards the street and turning left.  The steady beat of his boots on the pavement assured the kid that the Trucker was following him, but at some little distance behind.  Dude was being cautious, he reflected—nothing wrong with that.  Probably had a wife somewhere and was just out on the prowl for boys on the DL.

 

A right and another left brought them onto a pitted, run-down little street that ran parallel to the highway frontage road, one block behind it.  The Trucker realized they were going to one of the sleazy little motels that lined this section of the highway.  Infested with whores and drugs, City Hall was still determining how to deal with this two-block section that was considered a blight on the town.  In the meantime, business flourished.

 

Kristos, already on the other side of the street, crossed the rear parking lot of a sordid little place called the Lady Luck Motel.  The Trucker lounged behind, not wanting to be seen entering the same room as the fuckmeat.  Ambling around a corner, he saw the boy disappear into an open door—room 27.  With a grin, he noticed that the door had been left open a crack.  After a quick glance around confirmed no one was watching, the huge, hardbodied killer slipped silently into the room.  He closed and locked the door behind him, slipping the chain on as well.

 

The room itself was as cheap and sleazy as it had promised to be.  A remodel sometime in the sixties had left the wall swathed in cheap faux-wood paneling, now loose and splintered and almost visibly oozing formaldehyde vapor.  The furniture dated from a later era, probably the eighties—light wood veneer with brass accents and large panels painted dark green.  The furniture was a decrepit as the paneling, pocked with cigarette—and undoubtedly crack pipe and meth pipe—burns and large white rings where drinks had stood.

 

There was a queen-size bed against the far wall, stripped down to the fitted sheet; the bedding piled on the floor next to the left side of the bed.  On the left wall was a desk/dresser combo unit with a no-name brand flat TV standing on it; beyond it was the door to the bathroom.  To the right of the door was a small round table with two chairs, not really big enough to serve as a dining table for two people.  The whole place reeked of old musty smoke, detergent whose lemon additive didn’t completely mask the astringent scent of the powerful cleaning chemicals—and the unmistakable musk of mansex.

 

Kristos had already pulled off his hoodie and his t-shirt, revealing a slim, firm torso darkened with fur.  His body hair was everywhere, on his chest, down his belly, even marching down his upper arms.  It was long and dark and silky, much like the long jetty ringlets on his head.

 

The Trucker slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing over a chair as he watched the rentboy.  The kid sat on the bed and kicked off his Air Jordans before standing back up.  Smiling contemptuously, the older man peeled his Nike compression t-shirt off.  The youth grinned eagerly as the alpha’s broad, hairy chest was exposed, the massive rise of his pecs emphasized by the gleaming dogtags nestled in the dark, fur-lined depression between.

 

“C’mon, man,” Kristos said, “Pull it out; lemme see what ya got.”

 

“You first,” the Trucker demanded.

 

The Greek boy’s eyes narrowed slightly; he made it a rule to make sure he was got at least some cash down before getting completely nude—but fuck, this dude was hot, and he wanted to see what kinda tackle the guy had swingin’ between his legs.  He wriggled out of the tight black jeans; naturally, he’d gone commando for easy access.

 

Kristos’s legs were a hairy as the rest of him, long dark fur on his thighs and calves and a positive bush of black pubic curls.  Luckily, his already-erect dick was six and half inches, easily visible despite the mass of fur from which it sprouted.  His balls, on the other hand, were hard to discern; the punk was so aroused his scrotum was already starting to pucker.  He wanted the Trucker bad—and it was obvious.

 

The hard-bodied alpha returned the kid’s cocky grin and unzipped his fly.  Extracting his enormous manhood hand-over-hand from the depths of his groin took a moment; for each inch of manmeat that appeared, Kristos’s breathing became swifter and more intense.  Goddam, he thought, lookit the size of that thing…

 

He wondered if he could really take it.  If not, he’d have to give the guy his money back.  Speaking of which—

 

“Ok, I’m gonna need to get some money before we go any farther,” the hairy youth said evenly.

 

“Uh-uh,” the Trucker replied, “You don’t get paid until I’m done.”

 

“That ain’t the way I work, man,” Kristos responded.  “Don’t have to pay the whole thing—call it a deposit.”  He looked the Trucker in the eye; he’d be willing to cut an alpha stud like this a discount afterwards if the fuck was a good as it looked like it’d be—but there was no way he’d be doing anything for free.  It didn’t matter how hot the dude was; it was against what he called his principles.  But he knew the vibes of a deadbeat by now and this guy wasn’t giving them off.  He wasn’t quite sure what kinda vibes he was picking up on, but they definitely weren’t those of a broke-ass scumbag…

 

If Kristos had been more in tune with the vibes the Trucker was giving off, he’d have pissed himself.  As it was, he got no warning at all.

 

“You want me to pay something now?” the muscled alpha growled.  A brief twinge flashed in Kristos’s hormone-sodden brain, the first hint of a danger signal.  “Fuck that.  And fuck you, faggot!”

 

The power contained in the Trucker’s massive right bicep was unleashed in a sudden, explosive blow like a bolt of lightning; the impact of his bunched-up fist in the kid’s face was just as swift and unexpected.  Kristos experienced a powerful blast of pain and fell to the bed; three more blows in rapid, relentless procession smashed against his face, breaking his cheekbone and knocking out two teeth before the boywhore even realized he’d been punched.

 

Stunned, the boywhore coughed up two upper left molars, tasting blood in his mouth.  His face was throbbing and swelling; he could feel the puffiness when he spoke.

 

“W-what the fuck…” he moaned softly, the effort of moving his lips and tongue almost being too much for him.  But the words were meaningless anyway; he knew what the fuck.  What the fuck was that this motherfucker had decked him.

 

Kristos had been robbed before; during his years as a teen street whore, he’d been beaten several times and raped more than once.  He was pissed at himself for not recognizing a psycho sooner.  But he was also pissed at the Trucker.  He wasn’t gonna deal with this shit again; this time, he’d fight back.

 

It was an unwise decision.

 

“Motherfucker!” yelled the slim, hairy youth, ignoring the pain in his face.  “Whaddaya want, asshole?  Money?  Free sex?  You ain’t gettin’ it, bitch; I’ll claw yer fuckin’ eyes out and scream loud enough to alert every cop from here to the highway!”

 

With that, he launched himself off the bed, straight at the Trucker.

 

With the honed instincts of an experienced killer, the hulking alpha had known that an attack would follow the outburst.  Seeing the muscles in the boy’s legs coil, he pivoted back, planting his right harness boot firmly on the floor behind him, ready to take his weight.  When the kid sprang, the Trucker was in perfect position to grab him by the nape of his neck and, whirling on the foot he’d planted behind him, propel the punk headfirst into the dresser/desk unit.

 

Kristos barely had time to realize something had gone wrong before his lights were put out.

 

If fate had been kind to the rentboy, he’d never have woken up again.  As it was, he wasn’t out for very long.  When he woke—his consciousness creeping back slowly and painfully—he was crumpled on the thin, threadbare carpet.  Directly in his line of sight were a pair of black leather boots.  Helpless, his eyes focused on the thick straps and metal rings on the boots; it seemed to be an instinctive maneuver to draw his attention away from the horrible pain in his head—to say nothing of the fear.

 

From above the boots, the came a voice, a deep, rugged growl.  “You stupid fuckin’ pansy,” the Trucker sneered.  “Didja really think you had a chance against a real man, faggot?  Huh?”

 

The muscle-bound alpha, his upper lip curled with contempt, kicked Kristos, hard.  There was a loud snap, making the boy cry out in pain and clutch as his broken rib.

 

“I was just gonna snuff ya tonight,” the killer said reflectively, “Just fuck ya and put ya down nice and easy.  But you fucked it all up, son.  You pissed me off.  Now, you gotta die hard.  Now, it’s gotta hurt.”

 

As the dark-haired boywhore turned his tear-streaked eyes up to his tormenter, the Trucker crouched down to give Kristos a better look.  Despite the agony, despite the sheer terror, the furry young slut felt his cock stiffen as he looked into the ice-blue eyes of the handsome, hyper-masculine stud.

 

The Trucker saw it too.  Instantly, his face was filled with a terrifying mix of rage and lust.  He spit into Kristos’s face.  “You disgustin’ sack of homo shit, you like this, yeah?  The idea of me takin’ you out gets ya off?  You like gettin’ hurt?  Fuck yeah, cunt, why didn’t ya just say so?  I’ll fuck you up so bad yer own mamma won’t recognize you.  I’ll fuckin’ squeeze the cum outta yer dyin’ boymeat, asswipe.  Goddam, I’ll hurt you so fuckin’ bad you’ll scream for joy!”

 

The muscle-bound psycho reached down and grabbed Kristos by the throat, then hoisted him into the air, instantly and effortlessly, as if the kid was no more substantial than a pillow.  The rentboy choked and slobbered.  His eyes rolled back in his swollen, purple face; his nose had been broken on impact with the dresser, streaking his face with trickles of blood.

 

Pivoting abruptly, the Trucker slammed the punk whore violently up against the outside door.  Still clutching the kid single-handedly by the throat, the hardbodied killer leaned in, his face—both erotically hot and emotionally cold—filling Kristos’s field of vision.  “It’s yer lucky day, ya fuckin’ painpig,” he hissed sneeringly.

 

The choking, semi-conscious youth caught at the word ‘lucky’; he’d certainly felt lucky when he’d brought this muscular stud back to fuck him…

 

…but now he couldn’t breathe.  Holy fuck, it was horrible; his head was swelling, his face was swelling and the trauma he’d already suffered to those areas was intensifying his pain to excruciating levels.  In an almost mindless surge of panic, Kristos began beating his fists against the Trucker’s huge pecs.  His effort had virtually no effect besides hurting his hands; it was like beating a stone wall.  Even the sound was muffled by the thick layer of wiry fur covering the older man’s chest.

 

As dark explosions burst before the kid’s eyes, his hands faltered and fell away.  He was reduced to scratching at the door behind him, his clawing fingers seeking out the doorknob—mindlessly; he had no plan of action.  As he gagged and drooled, his legs began jerking, his heels drumming loudly against the hollow-core door.  It was a little too loud; it may have saved—or at least lengthened—Kristos’s life.

 

The Trucker spit in his face again before pulling him away from the door and tossing him limply onto the bed.

 

Gasping for air, unable to breathe through his blood-clogged nose, Kristos rolled onto his back.  He moved slowly; the slightest effort to turn his body shoved the broken ends of his rib together.  The internal grinding sensation was so painful, it literally took his breath away again.

 

By the time he got onto his back, the Trucker had crossed the room and was standing next to the bed, looming over him.  The alpha’s gigantic erect cock jutted out in front, the thick purple head oozing hot drops of precum onto the slut’s flat, furry belly.  Kristos’s eyes lifted above the Trucker’s intimidating shaft, past his ripped abs and up to his massive pecs with large dark nipples standing out above the dark wiry chest hair.  The dogtags no longer caught the light, but an occasional glint marked their position, dangling in the middle of the stud’s muscled chest.

 

And above that, the face.  The cold, masculine face in which Kristos could see his own death.  The whoreboy quickly looked away, refusing to acknowledge what he had seen there.

 

“L-le-lemme g-go,” he muttered, his voice thick with tears and pain.  “W-on’t tell an-anybody…”

 

“I know you won’t tell anybody,” the Trucker replied calmly.  “You’ll be fuckin’ dead.”

 

Kristos couldn’t ignore it any longer.  He burst into open sobs, desperately trying to understand how a simple trick with a hot stud could have gone so nightmarishly wrong.

 

As if he could read the kid’s mind—and he damn near could; none of the meat he offed seemed to have the intelligence to come up with an original thought—the Trucker jeered at the battered and terrified youth.  “You deserve this, ya fuckin’ cunt.  Ya know that, dontcha?  You know it and want it; yer faggot dick don’t lie.  This is what you been looking for for years.  You wanted a real man to come along and finally give yer worthless fairy ass some meaning by usin’ you as his personal cumdump and then wipin’ you off the planet like a stain.  Lay back and enjoy it, bitch, I’m gonna use you up till yer dead, then leave your rottin’ corpse for the maid to throw out like a cumrag.  Think the police are gonna care if I snuff a worthless faggot like you?  Fuck, they’d probably give me a medal; they hate cumsuckin’ homos like you.”

 

In spite of himself, as the cruel verbal abuse washed over him, Kristos could feel his own cock get harder and harder, until it ached horribly.  He was almost numb with fear and his sense of bewildered terror was somehow amplified when he felt searing drops of precum land in his groin that didn’t come from the Trucker.  The fact that he was aroused while at the mercy of a murderous psycho only emphasized the nightmarish and surreal situation.

 

Slowly, Kristos tried to turn away, doing his best to ignore the stabbing pain in his abdomen as the jagged edge of a broken rib tore at the fragile, gossamer-thin tissue of his lung.  Smirking, the Trucker reached over and grabbed the cunt’s thighs, rolling Kristos back onto his back and forcing his legs apart.

 

The kid emitted a pathetic bleat of pain as the alpha positioned himself between the boy’s firm, furry legs.  Kristos was too distracted to notice how the older man was lining up his enormous cock with the kid’s fuckhole—the rib had punctured his lung, and the boy was having trouble breathing.

 

He had no trouble letting out a loud screech of agony as the Trucker abruptly penetrated him, the alpha’s huge shaft of throbbing manmeat plunging full-length into the kid’s tender, unprepared guts.  The massive swollen head, lubed by nothing but its own precum, tore viciously at Kristos’s velvety rectal lining and ground relentlessly over the punk’s prostate.  The boy could feel his own rod swelling and pulsing uncontrollably, even as he wailed in pain.

 

“Shaddup, motherfucker,” the Trucker growled and popped him in the face again—a single blow, the muscle-bound top’s bicep pumping with the force of a mule kick.  Kristos took it full in the jaw, which was hit hard enough to be dislocated.

 

“Yeah, that’s more like it,” the cruel alpha said, roughly sliding his dick in and out of Kristos’s innards as the kid lay back on the bed, trembling and mewling softly.  The boy was literally overwhelmed by the violence and trauma he’d suffered; he sobbed quietly, every motion of his mouth causing terrible pain to shoot through his jaw.

 

“Take my cock, faggot,” the Trucker murmured, looking down at the youth’s slim body, the olive skin covered by a mass of black fur, matted with sweat.  The Trucker was sweating himself; the room was charged with the acrid scent of adrenaline, the musky smell of mansweat, the heady pheromones being pumped out by two males bodies entwined in violent contact.  With every thrust of the older man’s dick, their bodies slapped together, rubbing over each other.  It was hot as fuck.

 

It wasn’t enough.  The Trucker needed more and he decided it was time to go for it.

 

“You just ain’t doin’ it for me, cunt.  What a sorry-ass homo—can’t even milk a load outta me.  Guess I’m gonna hafta do it manually, huh?  You gonna make me jack off?  Okay, asswipe, I’m gonna use you to jack off.”

 

Propping Kristos’s ankles on his shoulders, the Trucker leaned forward, pinning the youth in a fetal position with his dick up the kid’s ass.  Wrapping his huge powerful hands around the boy’s throat, he grinned down at his helpless prey, his face lit with lunatic glee.  “Are ya ready, fucker?  Wanna die?  No?  Yer cock sez ya do, asswipe.  Yer cock is tellin’ me that yer just another worthless faggot that gets off by gettin’ offed.  I’ve wasted dozens of you little cocksuckers and you’re all just the same—squeeze ya a little bit and ya blow yer death load all over the place.  At least you’ll kick and jerk nice and hard as I choke ya to death.  You ain’t got no idea how good it feels when a fuckwad like you dies on my cock.”

 

Kristos didn’t understand the words, but he understood when the massive hand around his throat tightened as cruelly and relentlessly as a bear trap.  The complete inability to breathe forced the boywhore to surface from a dark pit of mental and physical shock into a sharply-edged nightmare.  Instantly, his hands went to the Trucker’s wrists—clawing, prying, any desperate move he could think of to break the older man’s grip, or at least lessen it.

 

It was utterly futile; nothing he could do, exerting all his remaining strength, so much as budged the alpha’s hands by a fraction of an inch.  They merely squeezed tighter.

 

The horrible crushing pain in his throat was slowly starting to seem like less of a concern, though, compared to pressure inside his skull.  There was a feeling of swelling, both in his skin and on the inside—in his brain.  It throbbed swiftly, the pressure hammering at the interior of his cranium…

 

…but even that pain was fading before the conviction that something horrific was being done to his guts.  As dark spots burst in his field of vision, Kristos had the sensation that the huge, cue-ball-sized head of the Trucker’s massive cock was ripping and tearing at his rectum, tearing away his intestines, disemboweling him internally.  He’d never had a dick that big inside him; the Trucker had literally split him open on the first thrust.  Now, as his nervous system was starting to short out from oxygen deprivation, the torn nerve endings in his ravaged colon became hyperactive, as did those in his crushed, battered prostate.

 

Kristos was becoming hypersensitive; every jolt to his nervous system was amplified dozens of times in his dying brain.

 

The Trucker sneered and spit into the punk’s dark, swelling face.  “Die, ya fuckin’ asswipe.  C’mon, motherfucker, let go and jack me off.  Only way it’s gonna stop hurtin’ is if you give up and die, faggot; the longer you fight against it, the more yer gonna suffer.”

 

Kristos’s hand drummed on the Trucker’s broad, muscled chest with no other result than to make the dogtags jump around.  The kid’s face, already purple and swollen with bruises, was now unrecognizable.  His tongue, black and obscene, protruded from blue, bloated lips over which a stream of bloody foam dribbled.  The drool leaked down the boy’s cheeks and over his chin.  The dark, liquid eyes were bulging horrifically, the whites red with hemorrhages.

 

 

The slut’s struggles became more spasmodic; the Trucker had reached his arms around the kid’s legs to keep them in place on his shoulders, now he had to tighten his arms as they jerked randomly and violently.  It was obvious that Kristos had only seconds more to live.

 

“Lights out, faggot,” the sadistic alpha grunted and clenched his hands as hard as he could.

 

It felt—and sounded—like he was crushing Styrofoam as he squeezed Kristos’s esophagus into a bloody pulp.  The same slight resistance before giving way, the same loud crackling sound…

 

For Kristos, it felt like what it was—death.  His brain was nearly dead already in any case; there was just enough left of the homo slut to feel the terrible pain of his crushed windpipe…and then another pain took over.  The young boywhore died in searing, screaming agony as he shot his death load.  He’d never imagined that an orgasm could be that intense—or hurt so bad.

 

As his lithe, furry body clenched the Tucker in its death agony, the violent rhythmic convulsion milking the alpha’s cock perfectly, the older man felt a hot splash on his chest.  Glancing down, the dying punk’s dick rose up and shot a solid stream of jizz directly into the Trucker’s face, some of it splashing into his left eye.

 

“Goddammit!” he yelled in rage.  Instantly grabbing the boy’s chin in one hand and the back of his head in the other, the Trucker twisted Kristos’s skull in a full one-eighty, the vertebrae snapping like popcorn.

 

With one last sudden convulsion, the dead boy’s asshole sucked on the Trucker’s cock, triggering a huge explosion of manseed.  “Fuck!  Goddam!  Fuck!” the alpha yelled, his muscular body bucking and thrusting, hunched over the trembling corpse of the smaller kid as the top hosed its guts with semen.

 

The Trucker didn’t know how many times he’d unloaded inside the dead kid when it was all over.  He spent a few moments catching his breath, lying on top of the corpse, warm, furry cum-covered belly to quivering furry cum-covered belly.

 

After a couple of minutes, he withdrew his enormous shaft from the rentboy’s ass.  As soon as his harness boots hit the floor, he walked to the bathroom.  Soaking a towel in the sink, he proceeded to wipe the slut’s spunk off his chest and to clean his own dick before stuffing it back into his jeans.

 

Walking back into the room, he looped his compression t-shirt through his belt; he didn’t want to put it on while his torso was still wet.  Picking up his jacket, he turned and admired the corpse displayed on the stripped-down bed.  The lean, lithe body was still shuddering, the large pools of semen that had puddled on the chest were just starting to coagulate and mat the dark body hair.

 

Slipping on the leather jacket, leaving it open open just enough for his large dark nipples to stiffen in the chilly air, the Trucker unlocked the door and slipped out.  After a quick glance around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, the alpha moved quickly.  At first he was quiet, but after a block, he broke out whistling, a broad grin covering his face as he headed for his rig.  Running into that little motherfucker again—he’d been really lucky.


 

“Aw, Jesus, not another one,” Ayers whined.

 

Donato eyed him curiously.  “What’s yer problem?  Not like ya gotta do anything more than a little paperwork.  No one’s gonna give a shit if we blow this one off.”

 

“I know,” Ayers replied, “But I’m just sick of havin’ to see this crap.  I mean, lookit this one.  Sweet Jesus in a chicken basket, his head’s backwards.”

 

“Yeah?  So?  Some dude really hates fags.  I know the feelin’.”

 

“And lookit this—there are fingernail marks on the door.  Poor kid musta seen what was comin’ and tried to get away.  Musta been horrible.”

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ayers?  You suddenly feel like cryin’ cause some worthless fuckin’ homo got wasted?”

 

“Aw, chill, Donato, I ain’t goin’ queer.  It’s just that—well, it musta been bad, y’know?  Real bad.”

 

“Little fag cunt probably deserved it,” the younger cop said callously.  “C’mon, let’s get this finished up.  I’m hungry.  You want ribs?  The waitress over at the barbecue place was makin’ eyes at me the other day.  Let’s go and see if she’s on shift.”

Trucker 14–Trucker vs Bar Bitch

It was almost midnight and Wes was ready to rock out.  He was higher than fuck and horny as hell.  He’d need money soon if he wanted to wanted to keep the high going, but there were ways of getting it—even ways of combining the two.

 

And combining the two was something Wes was good at.  Just two months past his twenty-second birthday, he was slim and lean, with a perfect twink body that managed to attract a lot of dudes.  The ugly ones, the ones who were fat or old, were usually willing to pay, and Wes would whore himself out if he needed—but he preferred to play a different game.  After all, why bargain when you can steal?

 

It was the ice, of course—whether he smoked it, snorted it or shot it up, it got him too amped up to be controlled.  Aside from the rampant horniness, it made him crave danger.   Things could get ugly if the guy bangin’ him caught him in the act, but that didn’t happen often.  And anyway, he was getting a lot better a rifling through wallets whenever his fuckbuddies’ backs were turned.

 

He was just under six feet tall with a broad face darkened with the faintest hint of facial hair under his turned-up nose and across his cheeks.  His smooth, clear skin was not yet tainted from the meth use, although the dilation of his large dark eyes hinted at it.  His brown hair was cut short on the sides of his head, but left longer—about three or four inches—on the top, carefully arranged to look casually tousled.

 

He was looking to take a dick up his ass and had dressed to make sure he got it.  He wore a gray long-sleeve t-shirt that clung tightly to his lean, boyish chest.  His black skinny jeans, even though they were tight enough to highlight the muscles in his long legs and the drug-enhanced bulge in his groin—and were held up by a thick leather belt clasped shut by a buckle with a black-on-black Superman logo—still sagged enough to show a couple of inches of the colorful boxers underneath.

 

His feet padded quietly in a pair of Under Armour Jet Express hightops; the kicks were a bright shade of blue that contrasted nicely with the black jeans.  Since the jeans rode so low on Wes’s hips, the hems caught in the uppers of the sneakers, making it look like he’d deliberately tucked them in.

 

In short, Wes looked exactly like what he was, a hot little twink on the lookout for cock.  The fact that he was also on the lookout for cash was probably a bit more obvious than he’d have liked. But it was Friday night and the gay bar was packed and raucous; the noisy crowd even managed to explain away some of the noticeable signs of Wes’s meth use, like his sweating and jitteriness.

 

The bar was only part of the large nightclub; it was teeming and dark, but it opened out onto a huge dance floor that dazzled the eyes with strobes, mirror balls, and smoke machines.  The dance floor occupied at least half the building, while the bar only took up about a quarter.  The other quarter was taken up by offices, bathrooms, and a game room with some arcade games and a couple of pool tables.  Tonight, all the rooms were filled to capacity.

 

Wes had already cadged a drink of an old fat guy with a long beard and was leaning back against a wall and surveying the crowd for a likely mark when his eyes were drawn to a dude who’d just entered the bar from the game room.  The guy was huge, at least six and a half feet, with black hair and stubble on his face; the hair was mostly hidden under a red trucker’s cap.  He sported a white cotton wifebeater, too small and tight to leave any details of the stud’s muscle-bound and fur-covered chest to the imagination.  The dude’s powerful build was obvious in every movement he made; the way his biceps and deltoids flexed as he turned and set his pool cue into a rack by the door made Wes drool with lust.

 

The stoned-out hustler moved away from the wall and approached the hot stud.  As he got closer, he could see the guy’s tight jeans, faded to sky-blue and worn to the point of softness, with a tear on the inside of the left leg that teasingly revealed a firm, hairy inner thigh.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of brown Justin Wyoming pull-on workboots.

 

The closer he got to the hulking stud, the more certain Wes was that this was the guy he was looking for.  This guy was capable of feeding him dick the way he wanted, the way he so desperately needed tonight.  And someone this hot had to have cash; the moment the stud looked away, Wes would pocket his dough.

 

Wes had no way of knowing it—and would have been too high and horny to pay attention if he had had a way—but he was very unlikely to catch this stud with his guard down.  There was little the Trucker missed, especially when he was dealing with fagboy fuckmeat.

 

It’d been a couple of weeks since the Trucker left his last fucktoy dead in a ditch; he was back on the hunt and looking for a kill.  He was familiar with this place; he’d stopped off here on his last haul through this town.  On that occasion, he hadn’t found anything worth sticking his dick into; he’d ended up offing a street punk in an alley, but it had left him feeling unsatisfied.

 

Of course, that had been on a weeknight.  This was Friday night—almost Saturday morning—and the place was full.  The Trucker was sure he’d find someone tonight; in fact, he’d though he already had.  The boy had been small and dark, hairy with olive skin.  The Trucker had followed him into the game room and picked up a game of pool with him, but within minutes, the kid’s friends had shown up.  The Trucker finished the game, but deep inside, he was raging with frustrated desire.  The little punk never knew how lucky he was that his friends showed up.

 

Wes wasn’t lucky, and he didn’t have any friends.  He approached the Trucker head-on, brazenly grinning up at the well-built hunk.  “Hey, man, wanna buy me a drink?”

 

The Trucker glanced down incuriously at the boy, as he would at an insect crawling on the pavement.

 

“I’ll make it worth yer while,” the boyslut said.

 

“Yeah?” the Trucker inquired impassively.  “How?”

 

Wes was too high for subtlety.  “In the sack.  I’m a great fuck.”

 

The Trucker sneered.  “Yeah, heard that before.”

 

The DJ on the dance floor changed the music; the new shit was loud and cacophonous.  Wes didn’t even try to make his voice heard over it; he just reached out and grabbed the massive ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran down the older man’s thigh.  He didn’t expect it to be real; it was way too big.  And he was used to guys padding out their groins; it’d get a lot of looks in the bars, even if it did lead to eventual disappointment.

 

With this type of fake enhancement in mind, Wes openly slipped his hand into the tear in the Trucker’s jeans.  His fingers slid across the firm, thick thigh—and then stopped as they came into contact with an enormous shaft of semi-soft throbbing manmeat.

 

He looked up into the Trucker’s face, his eyes wide with amazement.  He couldn’t believe the dude’s cock was really that big.  “Forget the drink,” he said with an audible gulp during a lull in the music, “My apartment is three blocks from here.  Put it in me, bro.”

 

The Trucker smirked.  “Sure, faggot.  I could use a good workout.  Lessee if you can go the distance.”

 

This was what he’d been waiting for—meat that provided its own death pit.  The Trucker was tired of cleaning out his cab after every fresh kill.

 

For his part, Wes was thrilled.  He was stunned by how easy it was to lure his mark; the thought that he was the mark being lured never crossed his mind.  What did flash across his mind was that if this dude was so eager, even if he did notice Wes had gone through his wallet he probably wouldn’t mind.

 

Ice had made Wes make bad decisions and jump to wrong conclusions before, but this was far and away the worst.

 

“C’mon, man, just follow me,” he said and started making his way through the crowd.

 

The Trucker was tall enough that he didn’t have to follow on the punk’s heels to see which way he was headed, and that suited him just fine.  He left a little space between himself and the meat so that later on, nobody would associate the two of them together.  Not that it was likely they’d be noticed in the randy, gyrating crowd anyway, but there was no sense in the Trucker taking chances.

 

After all, the meat was taking enough chances for them both.

 

Wes made it outside first.  The Trucker ambled along, not worried about losing the kid; he knew he had this faggot already hooked.  He took his time to cross the dance floor and walk nonchalantly out of the building in front of the bouncer—obviously alone.  Nothing to connect him with the stupid little fuck who stood waiting under a streetlight halfway down the block and across the street.

 

The Trucker could see him the moment he exited the door.  He walked towards him but kept to the opposite side of the street.  The footsteps of his thick-soled workboots echoed off the nearby walls, but otherwise the side street was relatively quiet.  Nobody hung out in front of the bar; most of the action was in the back, where there was parking and a patio with an outside bar.  There was no one about to see him quickly cross the street and join the kid.

 

Wes was tweaking and impatient.  He was afraid the hot musclestud had changed his mind until he saw the dude come out of the bar.  He relaxed as much as the meth would let him, watching the tall, masculine figure stroll towards him, his legs swinging wide to accommodate the massive tackle that hung between them.

 

Without the noise and commotion of the bar to distract him, Wes was able to notice a few details that had escaped his attention before, like the jingly bits of metal that bounced on the dude’s broad chest and dangled from a chain around his neck; as the Trucker got closer, the slut realized they were dog tags.  He also got a better look at the stud’s face.

 

He was aroused not only by the strong jaw and cheeks covered with just enough jet-black stubble to cast a shadow, but by the cold, hard expression on the handsome face and the icy glint in the pale blue eyes that he glimpsed momentarily under the brim of the cap.  The last two were obvious danger signals; if Wes was less fucked-up, he might have heeded them.  As it was, they just fed into his horniness, his craving for sexual danger.

 

“C’mon, man,” he grinned happily, “Right down here.  We’ll go down the alley, it’s faster.”

 

The Trucker followed silently, his heavy footfalls the only sign he was keeping up.  Wes’s Under Armour kicks made no sound on the gritty, cracked pavement as he dodged litter and reeking puddles in the alleyway, helped by an occasional overhead light.  They crossed a couple of side streets, sticking to the alley, and suddenly came to a residential block.

 

“Over here,” Wes said and headed to the left towards a small two-story brick apartment building.  The place was old and run-down; the windows were tiny and some of the ones upstairs had AC units precariously dangling from the sills, droning into the warm night.  There were cracks in the brick from settling; none had been repaired and some of them were old and alarming large.

 

There was an oil-stained patch of asphalt in the rear that served as a parking lot; at the moment, it was mostly empty—no surprise, on a Friday night—with just a couple of broken-down pickups and a huge late-80’s Chrysler that belonged in a museum.  Down the side of the building was regular pattern of a doorway followed by two windows; it looked like there were about four apartments down this one side.

 

Wes and the Trucker crossed the cracked, weed-choked asphalt to the rear-most door on the side.  It was thin and painted a dingy, weathered white; it took Wes a moment to get it unlocked since the rusted light fixture above the door had no bulb and probably wouldn’t have worked if it had.

 

Once inside, Wes flipped on the light switch, revealing a tiny, barely-furnished efficiency apartment, a single room with a kitchen nook jutting off to the rear and a small bathroom.  The barren, sterile light of a single overhead bulb was enough to illuminate the small space.  The harsh overhead light shed no softening shadows on Wes’s bed—a mattress and box spring set sitting on the floor with no frame.  The fitted sheet—once white, now with a sickly yellow tinge—still clung tenaciously to the mattress, but the flat sheet and the pillows were in a tangled mass halfway on the floor.

 

There was a large flat-screen TV against one wall (far and away the most expensive thing in the entire apartment), but no other furniture at all.  The kitchen sink was piled with dishes and glasses; the only reason they didn’t litter the counter as well was that Wes didn’t have any more.  Not to say that the counter was bare; on the contrary, it was cluttered with lots of empty booze bottles—most of them the cheap plastic kind.

 

The Trucker took it all in as he silently locked the door behind him.  Wes never noticed.  “Here, lemme open a window,” he said evidently embarrassed by the almost visible funk of cigarettes, meth, weed and boyspunk.  And the room was stifling—Wes had hocked his AC months ago.

 

“Naw, boy, leave ‘em closed,” the Trucker drawled, “I like to sweat.  And I wanna make you sweat.”

 

The boy turned to the towering stud, the bulge in his crotch pulsing visibly.  For the first time, he got a good look at the Trucker’s chest—the muscled hunk was already perspiring enough to make his thin cotton wifebeater transparent.  Wes could see details that had been invisible before, the thick, wiry chest fur, the large erect nipples surrounded by dark circles of flesh…

 

With a deep, shuddering inhale, Wes gasped, “Fuck, brah, stick it in me.  Fuck me, man, cum in my ass.  I want yer fuckin’ load.”

 

The Trucker leered, a cold, shark-like grin spreading across his handsome face.  “Gonna hafta see if you deserve my wad, boy.  Yer gonna hafta work for it—and if you ain’t workin’ hard enough, I got way to make ya.  Think you can handle that?”

 

In response, Wes peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his smooth, lean, boyish chest, already glistening with sweat himself.  “Dude, I can handle whatever you got,” he boasted.

 

The Trucker’s grin got even wider.  He was gonna have so much fun proving the stupid little faggot wrong.

 

Digging into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros, he lit one up before reaching up and taking off the red trucker’s cap and tossing it on the floor.  His hair was short but not shaved, a pure black that gleamed in the overhead light like silk.  Wes, noticing the lit smoke, pulled back a small pile of dirty clothes near the mattress to reveal an ashtray on the bare wood floor; next to it were a phone charger and a small metal lamp, both plugged into the wall and within easy reach of the bed.  The boywhore fished his own cigarettes out of his pocket, but didn’t get the chance to burn one.

 

“Get over here,” the Trucker commanded.  “You want my dick?  Work for it.  Pull my shirt off.”

 

Eager as a puppy, Wes dropped his pack of generic smokes and darted across the room.  He instantly ran his hands over the rippled muscles on the Trucker’s hard, furry abs, feeling them through the thin fabric of the wifebeater.  He stuck his hand down inside the Trucker’s jeans, reaching for the hem, but he made the mistake—or perhaps it was deliberate—of going in front and center, like he was reaching for the alpha’s dick.

 

The Trucker knocked his hand away.  “Uh-uh,” he said, “You ain’t earned the right to feel my cock yet.”  The stud grabbed the shirt and pulled it up out of his waistband before he let Wes continue.

 

Wes paused for a moment, unsure of himself.  The Trucker took a deep drag off his cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of bluish smoke into the punk’s face.  “Whatcha waitin’ for, boy?” he growled, “I toldja to pull my shirt off!”

 

Responding instinctively to the hard edge of command in the Trucker’s voice, Wes grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up.  The hard-bodied alpha raised his arms to let the shirt come off over them; he knew damn well that the whore wasn’t tall enough to pull the shirt up over his head, but he kept the pretense up.

 

Wes has risen up on the toes of his electric-blue hightops in his attempt to raise his arms high enough when the Trucker suddenly planted his big hand on the back of the kid’s head and rammed Wes’s face into his hairy, reeking armpit.  The kid gasped as the alpha ground his face into the warm, wiry pit hairs.

 

Before he could react, Wes’s face was pulled back, then forcibly rubbed against the Trucker’s chest.  The powerful top was clutching a handful of the cunt’s hair, using it like a handle to maneuver Wes’s head.  The boy could feel the alpha chest fur, moist with sweat, scratching at his face, when suddenly there was an erect mound of flesh in his mouth.

 

“Work my nipple, faggot,” the older man hissed roughly.  Wes obey, slurping eagerly at the large knot.  For a moment, he dug his teeth in and leaned back, stretching the dark flesh out, then the Trucker cuffed him in the head.

 

“That’s enough, cunt,” he snapped, pulling his shirt off himself and tossing it on the floor.  “I gotta take a leak.”  Walking to the bathroom, he bent down momentarily and tapped his ash into the ashtray beside the bed.  It wasn’t a characteristic move for him.  Usually, he just let the ash fall on the floor—after all, with the hour, the meat would be long past caring if the floor was dirty—but he had a gut feeling this time.

 

He was right.  From the corner of his eye, the Trucker caught the whoreboy’s eyes glued to his ass.  While that in itself wasn’t unusual—faggots always stared at the way denim cradled his firm, round asscheeks—there was something odd about the way the homo kept his eyes on one spot like a laser.  The experienced mankiller knew exactly what was going on—the kid was fixated on his wallet.

 

The alpha turned back and retrieved his shirt.  He removed the wallet form his hip pocket, rather ostentatiously, wrapped the shirt around it, and tossed it back down into his upturned cap lying on the floor.  Satisfied, he headed to the bathroom.

 

It was a trap, of course.  As he stood at the toilet, pounding out his piss, his blood boiled at the thought of the cheap hustler trying to steal from him.  At the same time, the thought of what he’d do to the punk if he actually did try anything was starting to get him stiff.  He let the stream of piss slow to a stop and listened, but heard nothing.

 

The kid was waiting.  The Trucker could play that game, too.  He kept still and silent for a good five minutes before he heard a faint rustle form the bedroom.  When he threw the door open, he was already prepared for what he found.

 

Wes had already stripped.  His gear was tossed onto the pile of dirty clothes; the belt with the black Superman logo was coiled on top.  The slim youth was crouched, nude but for his ped socks, over the Trucker’s cap on the floor.  He’d already managed to unwrap the shirt from the wallet and had just opened it up when the bathroom door opened and the Trucker emerged.

 

The room was so small the large, muscled killer was standing over Wes before the thieving fagboy even knew he was there.  His pulse pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, Wes slowly turned to look at the Trucker’s brown, scuffed workboots next to him, then raised his eyes.

 

The homo punk’s gaze crawled up the Trucker’s thick legs, noticing almost for the first time how the tight denim barely contained the firm calf muscles, how the tear on the left thigh revealed the power of the thick thigh behind it.  Then he raised his eyes further to the groin and gasped involuntarily in shock.

 

Wes, despite his youth, had taken a lot of dick in his life, but this…this was as intimidating as fuck.  The Trucker’s erect member, huge and swollen, jutted from the unzipped fly out over the kid’s head; as he watched, a large transparent bead of precum welled out and fell on him—Wes could feel the moist potent heat of the drop on his scalp.

 

The thick veins writhing across the surface of the enormous cock expanded as the dark shaft pulsated.  Wes was transfixed, both horrified and attracted by the massive rod of manmeat—it was too big, it would literally tear him a new asshole, but it was such hot fucking proof of manhood that the young power bottom couldn’t help getting hard himself, despite the inherent danger of the situation.  The meth still circulating in his system went some ways towards explaining this—but not all the way.  Stone cold sober, Wes still craved cock to the extent that he’d have walked into a bear trap to get this hot hardbodied stud’s tool.

 

It was hard to tear his gaze away from that mesmerizing rod of glistening, pulsating manmeat, but Wes’s eyes were drawn upwards, along the dude’s ripped, hairy abs to the dark forest of body hair covering the alpha’s broad, bulked-out chest.  The glint of metal indicated the presence of the top’s dogtags, nestled in the dark, furry valley between the twin peaks of his thick hubcap pecs from which the large dark nipples protruded.

 

Again, the instant impression was of overwhelming masculine power.  There was something about the alpha’s muscle-bound torso that suddenly reminded the lust-distracted faggot that he’d just been caught stealing.  In his sudden fear, he raised his eyes to the Trucker’s face.

 

He took one look at the expression of unholy rage and triumph on the Trucker’s face and went pale in fear.

 

“No, man,” he started, “It ain’t what ya think—”

 

The Trucker bent down and slammed his fist into Wes’s temple.  The blow to the head didn’t completely knock the whore out, but it sent him sprawling dazed onto the floor.

 

The muscled killer had tossed his first butt into the john.  He pulled his pack out and lit another as he walked around the stunned, moaning youth.  “So ya thought it was smart to go for my wallet, huh?” he sneered.  “Guess I’m gonna hafta teach ya what a bad fuckin’ idea that was.”

 

Wes groaned tried to rise, placing his right hand flat on the floor to brace himself.  Before he could move, the Trucker was there, grinding his bootheel onto the back of Wes’s hand.

 

“AHH!  Wha—wha—” Wes cried out as the Trucker crouched down, keeping the cunt’s hand pinned to the wood floor.

 

“Ya see,” the Trucker said in an almost conversational tone, “I was just gonna fuck ya and snuff ya, but now I’m gonna hafta make ya suffer.  You were gonna die tonight anyway, faggot, but now yer gonna die in agony.  I gotta teach you a lesson that you’ll remember for the rest of your worthless life—which I’m guessing is gonna be about another half hour at most.”  He paused and took a long, searching look at Wes’s lithe, lean body.  “You’re young; you might make it to forty minutes.  It don’t matter, as long as you learn what a huge fuckin’ mistake you made.”

 

Wes was about to reply that he already knew he’d made a mistake bringing this huge sexy psycho home when the Trucker reached down, grabbed one of the boy’s splayed fingers—the index finger—and jerked it up, violently.  The snapping of bone wasn’t very loud but it echoed in the small room.

 

Wes’s scream was even louder.

 

“Good thing all yer low-life neighbors are out partyin’,” the Trucker chuckled.  “Ain’t no one around to hear ya scream, asswipe.  Not like they’d bother to help a worthless cumguzzlin’ fag like you anyway.”

 

The middle finger was next.  It was larger, so the snapping sound was louder.  “Are ya learnin’ to keep yer homo hands off my shit?” the sweat-slicked muscular killer asked, flicking the ash from his smoke into the cunt’s hair.  Wes couldn’t answer; he could only moan and sob.  “No?” the Trucker grinned.  “Fuck, yer a stupid sack of shit.  Guess I gotta keep learnin’ ya, huh?”

 

When the Trucker broke Wes’s ring finger, the cheap rentboy reacted, beating on the Trucker’s leg with his left hand and drawing his knees up under himself, trying to unbalance the sadist kneeling on his hand.  The sadistic alpha laughed cruelly and leaned forward to put his entire body weight onto the bootheel that was crushing Wes’s hand.

 

“See, that’s the problem with you dumbass faggots,” he jeered, “Ya don’t even appreciate a good education.  Gotta make ya learn the hard way, no matter how long it takes.”  Wes’s howls of pain as his pinkie finger was shattered made the cracking of the bone almost inaudible, but they were nothing to the noise the cunt made when the Trucker went to work on his thumb.  The muscle-bound killer didn’t break it; he wrenched it out of its socket, dislocating it, and wrung it around in huge circles, tearing the ligaments and tendons until it was useless.

 

Abruptly, the Trucker stood up and stretched.  He stepped away from Wes and headed towards the kitchen.  “Might as well make myself comfortable while I’m educatin’ ya, boy.  Got anything decent to drink in this place?”  He opened the cabinets and fridge.  “Shit, all ya got is a coupla Buds?  Figures.  Worthless asshole.”  There being no other alternative, he grabbed one anyway.

 

Wes had curled into a fetal position, cradling his broken and useless right hand.  “You—you—” he sobbed, “You fuck—fuckin’ psycho…”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” the Trucker drawled as he opened the beer and took a swig.  He walked over to the bed and placed the can on the floor next to the mattress, then returned to Wes.  The whoreboy was just rising to his knees when the Trucker approached, grabbed a handful of the kid’s brown hair and dragged him, kicking and squalling, over to the bed.

 

Seating himself on the mattress at what would be considered the foot of the bed, the Trucker pulled Wes’s head into his crotch, and with his dick running across the wailing homo’s face, wrapped his leg around the kid’s neck to hold him in place.  The well-built sadist then bent down and, grabbing the youth’s left arm, brought his hand up and continued the lesson.

 

This time he started with the little finger, a quiet snap that added no more to the agonized bleating that the pansy bitch was already making.  “See, the best way to learn somethin’,” the Trucker said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling into Wes’s face before taking another swig of beer, “Is to make sure it’s associated with somethin’ you ain’t gonna forget.”  He went for the index finger this time, slowly bending it backwards until it cracked like a green twig.  “Like pain.  Ya feelin’ me, faggot?”

 

Wes screeched, his right arm flailing against the Trucker’s restraining leg, his mangled fingers slapping uselessly against the tight faded denim.

 

The cold, sadistic killer chuckled and knocked the ash from his smoke into Wes’s tear-streaked face before settling it back between his lips and causally breaking the ring finger on his left hand.  The frantic fagboy jerked and kicked, his legs scrambling vainly on the wood floor, unable to find a purchase.  “Stop!  Help! Stop!” he screamed suddenly as he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this by himself—and that this was turning out far worse than he’d ever thought possible.

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker snapped and punched him in the face.

 

Wes grunted, stunned by the impact that was so hard, it had broken the thin bone behind his left eye, which instantly began to swell and darken.  His head lolled as the Trucker bent his index finger past the breaking point, the loud snap heard easily over Wes’s semi-conscious moans.

 

The Trucker chugged the rest of the beer, then jammed the smoldering butt of his smoke into the can and tossed it aside.  Standing up, he let Wes slump to the ground, wallowing in pain.  “Fuck,” the alpha grunted, “Got yer fuckin’ horse piss beer on my hands.”  He headed to the bathroom and ran them under the sink.

 

It had taken him less than sixty seconds, but when he came back out, the Trucker found that Wes had managed to regain his feet and was trying to escape.  Even though there was no possibility of that, the Trucker growled malignantly as he watched the panicked whoreboy’s futile attempts to work the doorknob of his own front door with all his fingers and one thumb broken and useless.

 

“Get back here, you stupid sack of faggot shit,” he snarled crossing instantly to him, “I ain’t done with you yet, asswipe. You still gotta lot to learn before you take yer dirt nap, cunt.”

 

Wes looked up at him, his youthful, once-arrogant face gray with shock and despair, and had a sudden realization of the nightmare he was about to endure.  Blubbering mindlessly, he lost control of his bladder, his piss running down his legs and soaking his socks—and spattering on the Trucker’s boots.

 

Incandescent with rage, the sadistic powerhouse grabbed the desperate punk with both hands—one hand clamped around his throat and the other hand snapped shut on his scrotum like a steel trap, shutting off the flow of urine—and hoisted him in the air.

 

“Piss on me, will ya, you goddam faggot scum?” the Trucker roared and flung Wes headlong into the kitchen.  Flying across the counter and stove, Wes barely had time to fling his arms over his head before he slammed excruciatingly into the far wall and fell to the floor with a clatter of pans and dishes.

 

The dazed, semi-conscious found himself flailing helplessly on the kitchen floor as the heavy, ominous tread of the Trucker’s boots came closer.  Aside from the horrible pain wracking his lean, firm body, his sensations were vague.  He knew that those approaching footsteps meant unrelenting suffering and torment, and that it had something to do with some imagined idea of hot intense sex he’d hoped for, but everything else was confused and distorted.  He wasn’t even entirely sure where he was; this kinda pain couldn’t be happening in his own room…

 

The Trucker stood over the mewling boycunt writhing on the floor and kicked him in the gut, his steel-toed workboot sinking deeply into Wes’s smooth, soft, flat belly.  “HOOG!” the faggot grunted as the impact knocked the air out of him.  Wes looked up at the Trucker, his face soundlessly expressing his horror as he tried desperately to inhale.

 

The hardbodied alpha knelt down by Wes’s head.  He grabbed the fuckboy’s carefully sculpted hair—now a tousled mass—and jerked his head up.  Staring into the kid’s eyes, he spit into Wes’s face, the frothy spittle splattering on the punk’s forehead and trickling down into the boy’s left eye, which had turned black and swollen shut by now.  The older man radiated violence and cruel power in the same way his slick mansweat filled the air with an acrid mix of testosterone and adrenalin, and some dim part of the whore’s mind was aware of his own traitorous, involuntary erection—

 

“Ya know I’m gonna kill ya, right?” the Trucker leered.  “Ya know I’m gonna use you as a cumdump and snuff yer sorry faggot ass, huh?  No, ya don’t.  I can see it in your dead soulless eyes, you worthless homo; you don’t think yer gonna die.  I’m gonna hafta teach it to ya.  I’m gonna hafta hurt you so bad you’ll finally appreciate what a huge fuckin’ favor I’m doin’ ya by wastin’ ya.”

 

Wes heard the words but couldn’t process them.  Out of his good right eye, he could see the Trucker’s handsome, scruff-covered face just inches from his—such a hot fucking dude couldn’t be trying to kill him, this was some kinda nightmare or he’d gotten hold of some bad ice and was freaking out—

 

The Trucker stood, pulling Wes up with him, one hand still clutching a hank of the boy’s hair and the other locked around his throat.  This time, the alpha held the kicking pansy aloft for a moment, letting the boy choke and gag as his own body weight crushed his throat.  Then he flung the slut across the room as hard as he could.

 

Wes hit the wall next to the window, collapsing the drywall and leaving a massive dent as he fell limply back to the floor with a thump like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground.  He was still trying to catch his breath when the Trucker was on him again, hoisting him up by the throat.  “You still want my cock, fag?  Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m still gonna stick it in ya.  You’ll get my load, cocksucker.  ‘Course, you may have too much brain damage by then to enjoy it—but I’ll fuckin’ enjoy it enough for both of us.  Sounds like a fair deal, huh, motherfucker?”

 

The frantic youth instinctively tried to claw at the Trucker’s arm.  Every single contact of his hands on the brutal stud’s bicep and tricep was agony as his broken fingers twisted excruciatingly with the impact.  But the crushing pain in his throat was swiftly overtaking his notice—his entire body weight was collapsing his esophagus in the Trucker’s vise-like grip.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Panic bubbled up in his fear-frozen pansy brain; lack of air had triggered a subconscious terror of asphyxiation.

 

Wes had never spent a moment of his shallow, drug-addled life speculating on what would be the worst way to die; now he knew, without any thought being involved.  He didn’t want to choke to death.

 

The nude queerboy tried to plead wordlessly with the Trucker.  A less experienced killer wouldn’t have been able to read the desperate expression on the swelling, blackening face, or understand the depths of sheer horror behind the tears leaking from the one eye not already swollen shut—but the Trucker did.  He laughed aloud, a hard, cruel sound that drowned out the thick grunting noises coming from Wes’s closed-off throat.

 

“Don’t worry, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” he chuckled.  “Trust me, motherfucker, you’ll know when I’m offin’ ya—I’ll make goddam sure of that.”  Then he gut-punched Wes twice in swift succession, his rock-hard fist first sinking into the kid’s belly as before.  The second blow landed squarely on the solar plexus and Wes forgot all about the pain in his fingers and almost forgot the pain in his throat.

 

The Trucker laughed again as he watched the suffering faggot shudder limply in his grip.  “Looks like yer about to go to sleep, boy,” he drawled.  “Am I borin’ you, fuckmeat?  Here, you stupid piece of fag shit, maybe this’ll teach ya to pay attention!”

 

He slammed the kid headfirst into the TV, holding him by the neck and throwing him like a dart.  Wes’s head cracked the screen; his chest hit the TV stand.  The stand was cheap particle board, but the boywhore hit it hard enough and at just the right angle to break two ribs on his left side.

 

The punk hit the floor and didn’t move.  The Trucker lit up a smoke and sat back down on the bed, keeping an eye on the heaving, gasping pile of boymeat.  He knew he needed to pace himself or he’d whack the motherfucker before he’d had a chance to fuck ‘im.  And as much as he wanted to make the kid die, he particularly wanted to make the kid die while riding his cock.

 

Wes was lying inert, wrapped in a tight, throbbing blanket of pain.  It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe; it even hurt to think.  Especially if he thought about what the Trucker had said to him—so he didn’t think, at least not for a while.  But he could still hear the breath of his sadistic assailant, long inhales and exhales as the alpha calmly smoked his cigarette and watched Wes suffer.

 

After a while, a cloudy sense of self-preservation began to stir in the craven twink’s mind.  He was in a dangerous situation—he wouldn’t let himself recognize the true extent of the peril—and he needed to find a way out.  There was no way he could physically escape; maybe he could talk to the guy, work something out with him.  The fact that his thought process shied away from the real reason behind his inability to escape—the hot stud had casually and cheerfully broken his fingers, one by one—showed his distorted his thinking was.

 

There wasn’t anything to work out with the Trucker except how slowly and how painfully Wes was gonna die.

 

The Trucker wasn’t a mind reader, but he had enough experience offing worthless rentboys to have an accurate, if general, idea of the flow of the whore’s thoughts.  The kid just couldn’t fit the idea of his own death into his shallow brain.  The intensely cruel alpha smiled grimly and stood up.

 

“Recess is over, dickhead,” he growled.  “Time to start learnin’ again.”

 

Wes had rolled over, about to try reasoning with the Trucker, but the tone in the muscle-bound stud’s voice stopped him cold.  It took about four steps for the Trucker to reach him from the bed.  As the helpless punk stared up at the hulking figure towering over him, his words dried up on his cracked lips.

 

That amazing furry body, muscles glistening with sweat in the dim light, the enormous hog—thick, purple, pulsing in vein-wreathed lust—it was everything he wanted in a top, but this was too much, the dude was too aggressive…

 

…and then Trucker bent down to grab him again.  “Wanna play, little boy?” he whispered with an evil grin, and Wes lost it.

 

“Oh please no,” he gasped, amazed at how painful it was to speak; every breath he took shifted the sharp, jagged ends of his broken ribs inside his abdomen.  “Do…do what ya wa-want, but pl-please don’t hurt me anymore, oh please sir, dear god don’t hurt me no more…I’ll, I’ll do whatever you want, please, sir, I’m so sorry, take anything ya want, just, just…just no more pain…”

 

His entreaties became more frantic as the older man reached out to grab him again.  “No!  Fuck, please, no!  Oh god, oh god, please fuck please no don’t fuck no—”

 

Again, the Trucker grabbed him in two places—by the throat and by the scrote.  This time, though, there was no dangling.  The hardbodied killer whirled around, flinging Wes on the bed at full speed.  The homo slut hit the mattress and bounced up off it, smacking into the wall at the head of the bed and falling back, toppling the bedside lamp and knocking the ashtray across the room, leaving a trail of sooty ashes in its wake.

 

Before Wes could recover—it was taking him longer and longer to come back with each new bout of abuse—the Trucker had laid him flat on his back on the bed and had climbed between his legs, propping the kid’s socked feet on his shoulders.  The sick top waited until Wes seemed to be conscious enough for comprehension.

 

“Know what, faggot?” he jeered at the dazed, agonized youth, “All this exercise is gettin’ me horny as fuck.  Think it’s time to drain my load.  Time to say yer prayers, motherfucker, cause once I use you as a cumrag, I’m gonna be done with ya.  The hot squirt of my manseed deep in yer guts is gonna be the last thing yer fag ass feels before I put you down, ya piece a’ shit.”

 

And before Wes could even blink, the Trucker slammed his gigantic shaft balls-deep into the twink’s raw, unprepared fuckhole.

 

If he had been capable of rational thought, Wes would have felt betrayed by the way his young, form body refused to let him lapse into blessed unconsciousness under this new onslaught of excruciating pain.  The searing agony of a ripped sphincter and a torn colon shot through his lithe form, forcing him into involuntary rigidity that only increased his suffering—his body no longer flexed to accommodate the huge thick rod of manflesh spearing his innards.

 

And greatest betrayal of all—in spite of his fear and pain, his own seven-inch cock went rigid itself with a painful stiffness as the Trucker’s cock ground its way over Wes’s prostate.  He could feel it, over all the other stimuli.  The badly-beaten punk was still struggling to breathe—he couldn’t scream, but a high-pitched squeal was forced out of him by sheer agony.

 

“Shaddup, meat, no one fuckin’ cares,” the Trucker barked and sucker-punched Wes in the face.  There was a thick wet crunch as the whoreboy’s nose was crushed, and the Trucker achieved his purpose.  It damn sure got Wes to stop squealing; the stunned youth’s wide eyes, circled with gray rings of shock stared at the alpha in abject horror as blood trickled from both nostrils.

 

The Trucker bent over, his massive hog plugging the kid’s ass.  The dogtags around his neck hit Wes’s smooth chest with a clink and slid to one side as the muscled top lowered himself until their faces were inches apart.  “Worthless fuckin’ faggot, can’t even take a real man’s cock,” the alpha growled, his expression a terrifying mix of rage and demonic glee.  “You’re about to ride that cock right into your grave, fucker, and if you don’t stop squealin’ like a pig, I’ll break yer fuckin’ jaw.”

 

He gave his hips a sudden, single pump, ripping his swollen rod out of the kid’s ass—not completely; he left the billiard-ball-sized head inside the rectum—and driving it all the way back in.  Wes’s entire face went gray with agony as the gigantic horsedick reamed out his colon; he strained until sweat coursed down his face but was unable to suppress a loud, bleating whimper.

 

The Trucker was as good as his word.  He leaned forward, putting his left hand around Wes’s throat to support his weight and driving three hard, swift blows into the fag’s jaw, wielding his right fist like a sledgehammer.  The punches were delivered with the force of a steam piston and by the time they were done, the boy’s jaw was broken and he’d had three teeth knocked out.

 

Best of all, the whore’s body had jumped and jerked with each impact; the Trucker had felt each blow reverberate in the whore’s asshole, making it squeeze his dick.  The kid was gonna be a nice, responsive fuck.

 

Wes wallowed in pain; his face, his ass, his hands…there was a loud humming in his head that seemed to distort things.  Was he on a bad trip?  There was an incredibly hot stud fucking him; he could feel the top’s broad, muscular chest pressing against his own, the wiry body fur scraping painfully across his smooth, soft skin…too much pain, something was wrong.  Maybe more ice would fix it…

 

“I need a hit,” Wes mumbled, not fully aware that he was speaking aloud, his broken jaw barely moving, his speech slurred.  “Comin’ down—gimme another hit…”

 

“What, another one?” the Trucker jeered, knowing damn well what the boywhore meant.  “All you fuckin’ faggots are pain pigs.  Sure, asswipe, here ya go!”

 

Another three blows in rapid fire, striking the cunt’s torso.  The Trucker had aimed with frightening precision at the spot where the kid’s ribs had broken.  Wes screeched, ignoring the agony caused by the sudden, violent motion in his snapped jaw, as the jagged ends of the ribs were driven inwards, puncturing his left lung in two places.

 

The Trucker grinned and began fucking the suffering fuckmeat brutally.

 

Wes was beaten, in more ways than one.  He could only lie on his back, arms and legs outspread, and try to breathe while the muscle-bound alpha hunched over him and raped him viciously.  His left lung was collapsing; every breath of air was a desperate, agonizing struggle that taxed the diaphragm and tore the lung open even further.  The weight of the older man’s heavy, hulking form pressing down on him only made it worse.

 

All in all, it was a blessing for Wes—the frantic attempt to breathe, to merely draw air into his one working lung drew his focus from his pain.

 

But pain was what made Wes work the Trucker’s dick.  The Trucker was not happy.  The meat was supposed to spend the last few minutes of its life pleasuring him; it needed to be reminded of its duty.  He looked around and noticed the small bedside lamp lying on the floor right next to him.  He reached out his left arm and grabbed it, then rose up on his knees.

 

The sudden lifting of the pressure on his chest gave Wes a chance to inhale enough oxygen to regain full awareness.  Even as the tide of nightmarish suffering rose up around him, he looked up at the Trucker looming over him, holding the lamp.

 

As he watched, the powerful hardbodied older man held the lamp in one hand, wrapped the power cord around the other hand and pulled them apart.  There was a quick bugling of his biceps and the cord came away with deceptive ease—it had taken a lot of strength to pull it out.

 

The alpha threw the lamp over his shoulder; it clattered off on the far side of the room.  He held the cord up in front of Wes’s face and grinned.  Nothing needed to be said; the boy knew what it meant and tears welled from his blackened eyes.

 

A glittering light, refracted from the surface of the Trucker’s dangling dogtags, danced hypnotically in front of Wes’s eyes; the panicked whoreboy his focus to be drawn from the cord to the light, steadfastly denying the obvious implications of the former until the Trucker bent forward.  The icy glint in the alpha’s cold steely blue eyes broke the trance; his hot breath on the boy’s face brought Wes back to his excruciating, terrifying reality.

 

“Are you scared, little boy?” the Trucker mocked, “You should be.  Yer gonna die now.  It’s gonna take a little while and it’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna be worth it cause yer gonna jack me off as you kick and struggle.  Your death throes are gonna milk the cum right outta my cock.  That’s why ya gotta die, homo—so I can shoot my wad.  Stupid motherfuckin’ faggot; all yer good for is catchin’ my load in yer dead asshole.”

 

The lamp cord was long.  The Trucker was able not only to wrap it around both hands to ensure his grip, he was able to loop it twice around Wes’s neck, lifting the cunt’s head up by the hair.  The slut was past begging or pleading by this point; pain and terror had paralyzed his ability for positive action of any kind.  All Wes could do was submit as his mind spun in a benumbed circle—he’d just wanted a good hard fuck, he’d found the perfect stud, what the fuck had happened?  He’d totally forgotten his attempt at theft; he was the helpless and innocent victim of…of…

 

In the course of wrapping the cord around Wes’s neck, the Trucker had shifted to one side slightly.  As Wes peered up at the alpha, now silhouetted in front of the overhead light, the battered fuckmeat’s swollen and tear-filled eyes could only perceive a looming, hulking outline of pure masculinity, the quintessential maleness of the muscular top emphasized by the adrenaline and testosterone escaping from the alpha’s sweat and overwhelming the small room with the atmosphere of mansex.

 

This was what Wes had wanted, what he’d craved and had been driven to seek night after night in seedy bars and back alley.  Now he had it—and it was torturing him and killing him.

 

The Trucker tightened the cord, grinning sadistically as it sank into the tender flesh of Wes’s throat.  He could see that the meat was sinking into mental shock; nothing like a little breath control to stop that shit.  The cruel stud wanted his fucktoy in the here and now as it died.  And, of course, the experienced killer was right.

 

The moment his air was cut off, Wes was brought back to reality, abruptly and involuntarily.  He had a cold, clear moment of lucidity and remembered the instinctive, gut-wrenching horror he’d felt when his powerful tormentor had held him aloft by the throat and choked him.

 

Oh fuck.  Oh fuck no.  Not this.  He couldn’t die like this, no, no, no no no nononono…

 

Panic descended on the helpless sack of fuckmeat in a black mist that clouded his eyes; the Trucker recognized the glazed look of terror.  It always happened somewhere around this stage of the game; despite everything it was told, the fagmeat was usually too stupid to fully comprehend its impending death until it was actually in the process of dying.

 

Which, of course, was exactly why it had to die—it needed to be brought to this level of emotional intensity to properly work the Trucker’s cock.  The muscled alpha tightened the cord further and braced himself for the first spasm of panicked struggle.

 

And even though Wes’s life expectancy was approximately five minutes, he did manage to learn some things in the last few nightmarish moments of his short, useless life.

 

He learned that panic only briefly numbed the pain, and that there was a terrible price to pay for his mindless flailings in terms of sheer agony.  He kicked wildly, his heels drumming on the Trucker’s back with as much impact as if they were pillows; as his feet flailed, one of his ped socks slipped off and feel to the floor.

 

He slapped his hands repeatedly against the Trucker’s wrists in an instinctive and utterly futile attempt to wrest the killer’s implacable, relentless hold on his throat, his snapped fingers splaying and flopping limply.  The excruciating pain of the jagged ends of the broken bones grinding into tissue and each other wasn’t alleviated, merely delayed.  When it hit, Wes went rigid, shuddering with neural overload.

 

The fingers weren’t the only thing contributing to the punk’s mental short circuit.  The complete collapse of his left lung was kinda moot at this point, but the way his broken ribs tore into the deflated organ with every twist of Wes’s lean, smooth torso was another, much more painful matter.

 

And then there was his cock—never truly unheeded even during his darkest moments, it had remained hard involuntarily throughout his sufferings merely by the grinding, remorseless pressure exerted on his prostate by the phenomenal girth of the Trucker’s massive rod.  Now, though, it was actively swelling and throbbing in tempo with his racing, terrified pulse.  And every single individual throb seemed like an electrical shock running the length of his shaft and churning in his balls…

 

The Trucker paced himself, holding still, letting the meat massage his dick as it thrashed in terror, wrapping its smooth strong legs around his waist and squeezing tight.  Once it settled down into neural shock, the cruel alpha began speaking again, knowing the meat was still conscious and able to hear him.

 

“Are ya grateful to me, faggot?  Do ya appreciate what I’m givin’ ya?  Yer gonna get the honor of bein’ my cumdump.  All ya gotta do is convulse nice and hard as I choke ya to death, an’ I’ll hose yer guts with my spunk.”

 

The Trucker found the expression of absolute despair on Wes’s swelling, blackening face incredibly erotic; jerking the cord even tighter, he spit on the trembling cunt pinned helplessly under his powerfully-muscled body.  “That’s it, motherfucker,” he hissed, “Die on my dick.”

 

Thick black blossoms were popping open in Wes’s field of vision as blood vessels ruptured in his eyes.  His entire body was awash in pain; the pressure in his mangled chest cavity was unendurable.  His hypersensitive cock was rubbing against the Trucker’s firm, flat belly, the alpha’s body fur scraping the long, cum-filled ridge on the underside of the dick like a power sander.

 

And above the nightmarish agony of death, the beaten and raped whoremeat could still feel drops of precum oozing from the head of its own dick—it felt hot, like magma…

 

The Trucker realized that the meat was very close to death.  His seed began to boil, his balls began to contract, forcing his white-hot cum on its journey up his huge, erect shaft.  “You ready for my load, cunt?” he whispered into Wes’s dark face.

 

Foamy drool trickled down the whore’s face and his bulging eyes had rolled back in his head, leaving only the blood-streaked whites visible, but there was still a tiny fragment of Wes’s personality left, desperately straight-arming death in sheer terror.  It was sinking under the relentless torrent of pain and brain damage, but it was still there—and it knew what the Trucker’s question meant.

 

The Trucker bunched his biceps and with a loud grunt, gave the cord a powerful jerk.  At the same time, the thrusting of his hips increased, plunging his enormous shaft faster and deeper into the dying boy’s guts.

 

A loud wet crack echoed in the small room as Wes’s esophagus was crushed into a mangled wad of cartilage.  Simultaneously, the Trucker cried out, “Fuck—FUCK!!” and pumped a huge load of hot sticky cum deep inside the meat.

 

The little part that was still Wes felt the sharp, knife-like pain of its collapsed windpipe and the searing, boiling wetness filling it from the inside out.  There was time for one last fleeting thought—what happened dude I just wanted to get fucked—and then there was one last pain, the greatest and most intense pain, and it came from his dick.  In his last moment of life, Wes knew he was blowing his death load and it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was cumming molten glass—

 

—and then all that was left was convulsing meat, thrashing and ejaculating mindlessly, impaled on the Trucker’s still-shooting rod.  White ropy jets of semen erupted from the dead kid’s dick, splattering across the alpha’s broad, hairy chest and smearing his dogtags.  The corpse, its prostate still being forcibly massaged by the Trucker’s pumping shaft, remained erect and spewing boycum that spattered itself, pooling in the eyes and covering their grotesque, bulging blank whiteness.

 

After a while—he didn’t know how long—the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his huge scrotum drained.  He’d pumped a full load into the meat; so much, some trickled from the dead kid’s ass when the older man pulled out.  Once he got his boots back on the ground, the sweat-slick muscled stud headed to the bathroom.  A few minutes with a wet towel was enough to wipe the boypig cum off his body and out of his fur.

 

Returning to the bedroom, the Trucker retrieved his cap, shirt and wallet.  Replacing the red trucking cap on his head, covering his dark hair, he tucked his wallet in one rear pocket and his white wifebeater in the other, where it dangled out behind.  Fishing out his pack of smokes, he decided to burn one while surveying the scene.

 

The sadistic alpha felt a sense of satisfaction; he’d done a very thorough job.  The meat was on its back, blank cum-filled eyes pointed at the ceiling.  The arms were above the head and the legs were spread, showing the glaze of semen leaking from the torn asshole.  The semi-soft cock was still extended its full length and likely to remain so; it was glued to the flat belly by a thick crust of boyspunk.

 

Halfway up, the neck was puckered and drawn in so deeply it was difficult to make out the cord that was sunk into it.  Above that, the faggot was unrecognizable, the face black, swollen and covered with drool from between the dead kid’s purple, foamy lips.

 

The corpse still twitched randomly, the toes on the bare sockless foot curling, but as the Trucker finished his cigarette, the stupid homo’s brain finally figured out it was dead and the body became still.  The hardbodied alpha grinned and tossed his butt on the floor.  Grinding it out with his boot, he headed for his truck, leaving the apartment door cracked open.

 


 

Figures, Donato thought, Sarge has gotta walk in and catch me in the middle of a yawn…

 

“You bored, Donato?” the Sarge barked.

 

“No, sergeant,” Donato replied.

 

“Awright, what’s goin’ on here?  Jesus, what a fuckin’ mess.  Looks like someone got terminated with extreme prejudice, as they say in the movies.”

 

“We got a call about a dead body, Sarge.  Me and Ayers, we responded.  Ayers is out talkin’ to the neighbors now.”

 

The Sarge ambled over to the bed and took a good look at the body.  “ME on the way?”

 

“Yeah,” Donato replied, “Med examiner’s got the meatwagon comin’.”

 

“Well tell ‘im not to waste too much time over this one.  Some faggot got fucked to death.  And by th’ looks of this place, someone really wanted this one dead.  I seen a lot of these, but this is the first one where it looks like our killer tried to put the vic through the wall.  Oh, Ayers, there ya are.  What’d ya find out about the dead meat?”

 

“Well, like you was just sayin’, Sarge, some fag who got fucked to death.  Lady next door knows him as Wes—office ain’t open yet, so I ain’t gotta last name.  Anyways, she sez he’s out at the bars almost every night, always bringin’ dudes home—she can hear everythin’ through wall.  Even sez there’s been some yellin’ an’ fightin’ at times.  Seems like the little cocksucker liked to rip off his fuckbuddies.”

 

“Hey, Sarge?” Donato interrupted, “Dunno if yer interested, but I found a meth pipe in a drawer in the kitchen.  Some baggies with residue, too—ya want I should test ‘em?

 

“What, are you nuts?” the Sarge barked.  “You wanna go spend the taxpayer’s money for that kinda shit?  When the ME gets here, tell him to haul this pile of meat outta here.  And if he can’t tell me anything more than this little fuck got the shit beat outta him by some real strong guy, he can spare me the autopsy report.  I can see for myself the faggot was raped and strangled.  Serves the thievin’ piece a’ shit right.  Just wrap this shit up and forget it; y’all have real work to do.”

Trucker 13–Trucker vs Teen Runaway

Erik’s eyes watered as he gulped and slurped on the thick cock that was stuffed down his throat.  The teenaged boy was already well-experienced in giving blow jobs; he’d managed to get two-thirds of the way across the country by trading sex for rides with men he’d met at rest stop and gas stations.

 

Suddenly there was a grunt and a violent shudder and Erik felt a hot wet spurt on the back of his throat.  His mouth filled with smoky manseed; he swallowed greedily, working his tongue along the sensitive ridge of flesh running along the underside of the engorged dick in a successful effort to milk every drop of cum out of the dude.

 

“Fuck,” the stranger moaned, “Damn, you’re good.  Shame yer headin’ west up here at the interstate—I’d love to have ya suck my dick all the way back to Gallup.”

 

“Naw, man,” Erik drawled, “Gotta get out to LA.  I’m gonna make it big out there.  Hey, looks like there’s a rest stop coming up—you can drop me there.”

 

The driver sighed, nodded, and pulled off into the rest stop.  The place was well-lit, a state installation with restroom, an info center—closed at this late hour—and an array of vending machines; it also had separate lots for cars and commercial vehicles.

 

The car pulled up to the curb.  Erik opened the door and the interior dome light illuminated the driver—an older, pudgy man.  Erik had barely gotten a glimpse of him when he’d gotten in the car; he definitely wasn’t the kid’s type.  Good thing he’d had nice, thick—if short—dick, or the ride woulda been a long, dull slog.

 

As the older man headed back onto the highway, the boy turned headed for the bathroom.  He needed to piss, and he wanted somewhere air-conditioned to wait for another lift.  The car lot was completely empty, and the commercial lot there was but a single semi, shrouded in darkness at the far end of the lot.

 

It was past two in the morning; it might be a while before the right guy came along.  And it was hot.  Even at this late hour, the dry desert heat lingered unusually late—wasn’t it supposed to get cooler at night?

 

Within seconds, the boy was standing at a urinal, his long shaft pounding out a steady stream of piss. It took a while to empty his bladder; once he finished, he washed up at a sink, contemplating his appearance in the mirror.

 

Erik—whose darkest secret was that his real name was Louis; he still blushed at the memory of his mother’s raucous cries of “Louie, get in here!”—was seventeen and certainly looked no older than that.  He’d been sexually active for more than four years, and had already learned the power his lean, youthful body had over the desires of others.  He had no concerns at all over trading his body to get what he wanted.

 

The problem was that he’d been born in a small town in North Carolina.  The supply of men who were in a position to help him was small; he had to find a place where he could whore himself out on a grand scale.  Los Angeles seemed ideal; three days after his seventeenth birthday, he’d taken the cash he’d received as gifts, a small bag of clothes, and climbed out of his bedroom window without looking back.

 

That was four days ago.  Now he was here, somewhere east of Flagstaff, Arizona, almost within reach of his goal.  Excited and happy, he stood at the sink and washed the glaze of dried cum from his lips.

 

He’d included gel and mousse in his bag; his short black hair stood up from his scalp, but his careful sculpting was tousled after his last BJ; it actually somehow emphasized a quality of artless youth.  His thick black eyebrows added to the arrogant cast of face; his large blue eyes were those of a spoiled punk used to achieving his every whim with a minimum of effort.

 

His lithe, boyish body was barely clad in a wifebeater that displayed his trim youthful arms to perfection.   The white cotton was so thin that the dampness of Erik’s sweat made it transparent; the dark circles surrounding his erect nipples were visible from across the room.  Below the waist, the kid sported a pair of cheap running shorts; the bright blue nylon was short enough to display a long length of Erik’s smooth, firm thighs.

 

One thing he hadn’t packed enough of—and hadn’t yet stopped to get—was socks.  There was nothing between his bare feet and his dark gray Nike Air Ring Leader sneakers.

 

Bending over the sink, Erik splashed water into his face.  He’d spent days servicing fat old men for rides without any release.  He desperately hoped the next dude he met would be hot; he was horny as all fuck.

 

Then the restroom door opened and Erik was confronted with the sexiest man he’d ever seen.

 

The newcomer was tall, well over six feet.  He wore a short-sleeve flannel work shirt in red plaid; it was unbuttoned and spread wide, displaying a hairy, burly torso.  Small, oblong pieces of metal were nestled in the dark wiry chest fur; even from a distance, Erik recognized them as dog tags.  The stranger’s dark hair was mostly obscured by a khaki green trucker’s cap; his hard, masculine face and strong cleft chin covered with a short black scruff.  The muscle-bound stud’s footsteps echoed as the thick soles of his black harness boots thumped across the tiled floor; above them, the stud’s worn, slightly oil-smudged jeans strained against his powerful legs with every movement.  Around his narrow waist snaked a thick brown leather belt with a large, elaborate buckle.

 

Erik could tell at a glance that he was looking at a semi driver.  And the same glance took in the enormous bulge in the dude’s crotch, an extended ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran frighteningly far down the older man’s right thigh.

 

Fuck, Erik thought, please let him gimme a lift.  He doesn’t even have to be heading west; I’ll go wherever he wants…

 

The Trucker only needed one glance himself; he knew fuckmeat the moment he laid eyes on it.  This one was young, still in his teen.  The experience killer smiled; he could almost smell the abundance of hormones from here.  Full of testosterone and cum—even from across the room, the Trucker could see the hard-on tenting the punk’s shorts.

 

He knew the kid would ask for something—money, a ride, drugs, something to get the ball rolling.  He already knew he’d play along; it’d been a while since he’d had a chance drain the rage and sperm that was boiling up the need for explosive release.

 

But the first thing that needed explosive release was his bladder.  Ignoring the boy, he walked straight back to the urinal.  Unzipping his fly, he made sure to turn slightly back to the door, standing just far enough back from the urinal that the kid could watch as he slowly extracted the full length of his thick shaft from its tight denim confines.  Turning back to piss, he smirked, having seen the slut’s jaw drop at the sight of his tool.  Kid was hooked.

 

He was right, in more than one way.  As the buff truck driver stuffed his enormous hog back into his jeans, Erik worked up the courage to approach him.

 

“H-hey, man,” the teen quavered, hating the lack of confidence in his voice, but unable to control it in the presence of such a hyper-masculine stud, “You, uh, you drivin’?  I’m—I’m lookin’ for a ride…”

 

The Trucker turned and looked directly at the kid for the first time, his ice-blue eyes sliding over the young slut like a butcher appraising a side of beef.  Erik was used to the look—but somehow, this was different.  This dude seemed to be much more intense about it.  And Erik himself was much more responsive.  A dark moist circle sprouted at the highest point of the peak in his shorts.

 

The Trucker saw that, too.  He grinned salaciously at the boy.  “Yeah?  Ya wanna ride, huh?  And whatcha gonna do to earn yer way?  You got gas money?  Takes a lot to fill the tank, boy.”

 

Erik swallowed the lump he felt in his throat with an audible gulping sound.  Just hearing it made the Trucker’s cock throb; his jeans were so tight that the pulsing of the massive tube of manflesh was as obvious to the kid as his own sexual arousal was to the Trucker.

 

“Yeah,” Erik gasped breathlessly, “I can do that.  Fuck yeah, man I can do that as long as ya want.”  What it was he could do didn’t need to be stated in any more detail at the moment.

 

“I’m headed west,” the Tucker said gruffly.  Actually, he was headed north, but he’d seen enough of these worthless little road sluts to know they were usually headed out to LA in the hopes of whoring their way into riches and fame.

 

For a brief moment, he idly wondered how many ended up dead in a ditch. He was personally responsible for at least five that he could recall; they kinda blurred together after a while.

 

And at any rate, it didn’t matter which way the punk was going.  The only way he was gonna go was down, permanently.

 

For his part, Erik would have gone whatever direction the Trucker was just for a chance to ride his cock; the fact that he was going west only added to his pleasure.  “Aw, bro, that’s perfect!”

 

Abruptly, the Trucker headed for the door, jerking his head.  Erik took the hint.  In a moment, they were out of the building, the teen’s Nikes padding across the asphalt as he eagerly followed the Trucker’s thick, thumping bootsteps back into the darkness at the far end of the commercial lot.

 

Trailing like a puppy, Erik’s eyes were glued to the older man’s ass, covered in tight denim like a second skin.  He felt as if he’d hit the jackpot—he felt as if, for the first time since running away from home, he was getting a glimpse of what his life held in store.  For a moment, he was held entranced by the image of continuous sex with a string of hot buff studs—

 

—only to walk right into the back of the hot buff stud he was with.  The latter had stopped at the cab of his truck.  He turned and glared momentarily at Erik, making the boyslut blush with embarrassment.

 

The Trucker was briefly annoyed, but he smiled grimly at the thought of the punishment he’d soon be meting out to the cunt.  Unlocking the door, he swung his large, muscle-bound frame up into the cab.  “C’mon,” he said as he headed to the sleeper compartment in the rear.  He didn’t bother to look back and see if the boy was following; he already knew.  Stupid little faggot was walking into a killing pit with his eyes wide open.

 

Erik climbed into the semi’s cab.  He glanced around the space in the back, marveling at the almost cozy compactness of the rear compartment as the Trucker closed off the front with a privacy curtain.  The bunk on the rear wall wasn’t big, but it was big enough to get fucked on, and that was all he was interested in.

 

Hearing a faint thump behind him, Erik turned around and saw that the older man had slipped off his shirt and let it fall to the floor.  The Trucker stood with his magnificent, bulked-out chest bare, with nothing but the dogtags to accent the furry cleft between his bulging hubcap pecs. It was warm in the cab—the Trucker had turned up the temp on AC, not wanting to run the battery low—and beads of sweat glistening deep in the forest of his body hair.

 

“Strip,” he commanded, looking levelly at Erik.

 

The kid complied, hurriedly pulling the white wifebeater up over his head and revealing his smooth, flat belly and broad chest, the low-rising pecs surmounted by large dark nipples.  Erik then reached down to his slim waist and slipped the running shorts down, wriggling his firm legs to make them drop to the floor.  He had to reach inside briefly when they got hung up on his jutting cock; once free of the silky blue nylon, his erect rod bobbed about, dripping clear spatters of precum on his Nike Air Rings.

 

The Trucker moved his hand down to his groin.  Without breaking his cold, hypnotic eye contact with Erik, he slowly—very slowly—slid the zipper down.

 

Despite his cocky expression, Erik’s voice was hesitant and uncertain.  “I-I’m, um, Erik—with a K,” he said haltingly, wanting to see what the older man was doing in his crotch but unable to look away from those captivating, ice-cold eyes.  It took a physical effort to drag his eyes away; when he did, they landed on a half-empty pack of Marlboros on a small shelf to one side.  The boy’s attention was momentarily diverted.  “Hey, can I bum a smoke?

 

“Not yet, boy,” the Trucker snapped.  “Get over here. I got somethin’ else for ya to stick in yer mouth first.”

 

Erik took the hint and kneeled in front of the alpha, looking along the man’s rippled, fur-covered belly.  “Uh-uh, face down here,” the Trucker growled, grabbing the punk’s head in his strong hand and physically reorienting it towards his open fly; as he did, he felt the cunt’s hair gel crunch under his fingers.

 

At eye-level with the open zipper, the teen could see that the massive tube was still semi-soft, bent downwards so the dick was stuffed down the stud’s left thigh.  “Haul it out, you little slut,” the Trucker demanded.

 

Reaching in, Erik felt the throbbing in the thick cock in his hands.  He tugged it mightily, slowly extracting the pulsating manmeat.  Once he had the full length of the shaft out, it began rapidly stiffening in his grasp.

 

It was also oozing precum in a steady stream.  “Put it in yer mouth, kid,” the Trucker demanded roughly.   “I wanna feel you choke on it.  I wanna feel my big cum-filled balls slapping against yer chin.”

 

Erik’s dick swelled painfully at the words, but before he could obey, the Trucker took matters—and the boy’s head—into his own hands.  Digging his fingers into the slut’s stiff hair, he jerked forward, ramming his cock into the kid’s gaping mouth.  Erik gagged, his eyes watering, as the thick rod, already slick with precum, slammed into the back of his throat; the shaft of manflesh was so large it forced his jaw open.

 

With his mouth crammed full of cock, the teen slut was in fag heaven.  As he let his tongue lovingly explore every thick, pulsing vein wrapped around the enormous tool, he reached up, almost unconsciously, and ran his hands over the alpha’s tight, ripped abs, his fingers catching in the heavy, dark fur in the stud’s treasure trail.

 

“C’mon, boy,” the Trucker snarled, “Open up yer fag throat and take it, cocksucker.  Quit actin’ like you ain’t lotsa dick in your mouth, ya little bitch.”

 

Closing his eyes in erotic pleasure and fondling the older man’s rock-hard abdomen, Erik opened his jaw as wide as he could and did his best to deep-throat the huge, throbbing shaft.  It wasn’t enough.  Clutching Erik’s head in an iron grip, the Trucker shoved his swollen manhood far down the punk’s esophagus, completely plugging the airway.

 

Erik began to choke.  It was hot as fuck—for about forty-five seconds.  Then he pressed his hands flat against the top’s firm, powerful thighs and pushed, trying to pull back from the alpha’s overwhelming throatfuck.  He couldn’t.

 

The kid started gagging.  He slapped his hands on the Trucker’s legs, trying to signal him to back off; instead, with a sinister chuckle, the stud gripped the boy’s head tightly and drove his shaft even further into the slut’s trachea.

 

For a brief moment, as his eyes started to water, Erik began to panic.  Then, with no warning at all, the Trucker pulled his tool out, shoving the kid away.  Erik fell back on the floor, coughing.

 

“Get up here and work my nips, cunt,” the alpha commanded.

 

With the back of his hand, Erik wiped drool from his chin.  He looked up at the leering top in disbelief.  “Uh, c-can I have a cigarette now?  Please?” he asked plaintively, his cockiness skullfucked out of him.

 

The Trucker paused for a moment, considering, then spoke.  “Sure, cocksucker,” he grinned, “Grab the pack and the lighter and bring them here.”

 

Erik obeyed, scrambling quickly for the pack of Marlboros.  Clutching them eagerly, he approached the Trucker.  “Light one and gimme,” the alpha demanded.  Again, the boy did what he was told, lighting the cigarette, then handing it to the older man before lighting one for himself.

 

Erik took a deep drag off his smoke but before he got the chance to exhale, the powerful top reached out and grabbed his head again, jerking it forward until the punk’s face was being ground into the stud’s chest hair.  “I toldja to work my nips, asswipe,” the Trucker barked.

 

Suddenly the teen slut found a hard plug of flesh shoved into his mouth.  He worked it with his tongue as he breathed out the cigarette smoke, feeling the nipple grow even firmer under the ministrations of his mouth and the hot smoke.

 

The moment the pressure on his head relaxed, Erik pulled back and took another drag.  The Trucker wasn’t happy.  “You only done one of ‘em, bitch,” he growled, but the effect wasn’t what he expected; the boyslut’s cockiness seemed to flood back into him with each fresh inhalation of nicotine.

 

“Naw, man,” Erik drawled, leaning back on the bunk and sucking on the butt with his eyes closed.  “I want you in me.  I wanna feel that big cock in my ass.  It’s gonna hurt like fuck, but I’ll bet I’m gonna remember this one.”

 

The Trucker’s eyes narrowed as his rage at the arrogant young fag bubbled up.  “Remember it?  You’ll remember my cock for the rest of yer pathetic little life, cocksucker.”

 

Erik blew out a huge cloud of smoke and lolled his head languidly, trying desperately to maintain his nonchalance, but his dick told the real story.  The dribble of precum from his swollen purple head had increased dramatically; the slit in the tip had widened to allow a steady trickle of transparent fluid to flow.

 

“Oh yeah,” the horny teen said in a tight voice, shuddering with eager lust.  Stubbing his butt out in a half-filled ashtray on a shelf, Erik turned around.  Facing the rear of the cab, he bent over, placing his palms flat on the bunk, presenting his smooth bubble butt to the Trucker. Overwhelmed by the hormones flooding his lean, lithe adolescent body, Erik reached back with both hands and spread his rounded asscheeks.  “Put it in me, dude,” he moaned, “Use me, dude, fuck me like there ain’t no tomorrow!”

 

A quiet voice came from behind, shot through with cold humor.  “I can do that.”  Then Erik felt pressure against his sphincter.

 

The Trucker grinned as he pushed the head of his dick—nearly the size of a standard cue ball—into the kid’s ass.  Reaching over to the ashtray he ground his own smoke out, then grasped the punk’s waist with both hands and started to shove, feeling his enormous tool start to force its way into the youth’s tight fuckhole.

 

Erik grunted, first with pleasure, then—as the pressure on his ass continued to increase—with surprise.  This was followed by a deeper grunt of effort as he struggled to adjust himself to the massive flesh tube penetrating his rectum.

 

It didn’t take long for the grunt to escalate into a cry of pain.

 

“Wait!” the boy cried out, “Fuck, it hurts—stop!”

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker growled, shoving harder.

 

Erik squealed in pain as his sphincter was stretched further than it ever had been before.  The sound stoked the alpha’s anger; he dug his fingers into the boy’s tender skin, holding the struggling youth tightly.

 

“You wanted my dick, motherfucker, now take it!” the older man snarled.

 

“No!” the teen screamed, “Lemme up!  Goddam it, lemme up, it hurts too much—lemme go!”

 

Grabbing at the bunk, Erik managed to bring one knee up onto the edge of the sleeping surface.  He lunged forward, trying to escape the pain of having his asshole torn open.  He succeeded in slipping off the Trucker’s massive rod, but then his attempt backfired miserably.

 

It happened so fast he had no time to react.  A powerful arm reached under his and then he was flipped in the air, landing on the bunk on his back, hard enough to knock the air out of him.

 

He looked up at the Trucker.  “Stupid fuckin’ faggot,” the alpha sneered and dealt the punk a quick pair of rabbit punches right to the face.  Bright pain exploded in Erik’s face and his head rocked back under the violent blows.  Stunned, the youth was unable to protest as the muscle-bound sadist thrust his giant throbbing shaft between the kid’s parted legs.

 

The moment he rammed it home, though, Erik found his voice in spite of the sudden assault.  The agony in his ass was like nothing he’d imagined could ever existed; the Trucker’s cock was so big it literally split the teen’s sphincter, ripping it open in two separate tears.  Searing, glassy pain shot through the youth as his colon was stretched out of shape by the thick manmeat that plugged it full.

 

Erik screamed.  He shrieked until his voice cracked as it echoed off the metal walls of the cab.  “Yeah, that’s it,” the Trucker grinned, “That’s how a fag like you needs to get fucked, yeah?  Take a real man’s dick, you worthless little sack a’ homo shit!”

 

Wallowing in nightmarish pain, Erik still heard and understood the buff killer’s words.  They had no effect on his screaming; the veins wrapping the cruel top’s cock scraped his tender, sensitive rectal lining like barbed wire—his high-pitched shrieks were merely the involuntary result.

 

The punk’s deafening clamor only emphasized his desperate isolation.  The teen fag’s lithe, lean body writhed helplessly, pinned to the bunk by the weight of his powerful assailant’s muscles, impaled on the alpha’s cock.

 

Outside, Erik’s screams were swept away on the hot night wind, becoming inaudible mere yards from the darkened cab.  There was no one around for miles.  There were just the two males, alone together, entwined in a painful, erotic embrace of violence and lust.

 

Inside, the kid’s ragged shrieking reverberated in the small space.  “Shut yer goddam mouth,” the Trucker barked, “You’re givin’ me a headache, ya worthless piece of fuckmeat.  Shaddup or I’ll shut ya up myself.”

 

Again, Erik heard the words, but they seemed to come from some other world, some place beyond the glassy bubble of pain he was inhabiting.  They had no bearing on his reality, which—like his ass—was full of cock.  Enormous, agonizing cock, plumbing the furthest depths of his guts.  Part of his mind that managed to remain insulated from the pain and fear of the brutal rape held a mental image of him at the moment as nothing more than a human sheath, wrapped around a gigantic dick.

 

He couldn’t understand why his own shaft was fully erect; pain had always made him go limp.  He had no way of knowing that he was being stimulated internally by the intense pressure of the Trucker’s tool against his prostate.  All the unfortunate runaway knew was that his own dick was traitorously stiff, bobbing in the air as he was being brutally assraped.  And it hurt so fucking bad.  And it was probably gonna hurt worse if he couldn’t stop screaming…

 

…but he couldn’t stop screaming.

 

 

The Trucker leaned forward, his handsome, erotically masculine face lit from within by an unholy, frightening rage.  There was a faint clinking sound as the top’s dogtags danced on the boy’s heaving chest.  Erik could feel the older man’s breath hot on his face.

 

“I said shut the fuck up,” the Trucker hissed between clenched teeth; despite his intense anger, he never mistimed a single thrust of his hips as he continued to drive his shaft mercilessly up the punk’s ass.

 

“No!  Get outta me!  Fuckin’ hell, get it out, it hurts fuck AAAHHHH!” Erik screeched.  His balled fists drummed uselessly against the Trucker’s broad, rock-hard chest.  Suddenly the Trucker twisted away; keeping the kid impaled on his erect rod, he managed to bend down and snatch something up off the floor of the cab.  He made sure to hold it up in front of Erik’s face.

 

It was Erik’s white cotton wifebeater.  At first, the shrieking teen didn’t understand.

 

“I toldja I’d shut you up, faggot,” the Trucker snarled.  He started twisting the shirt into a three-foot length of fabric, and Erik understood.  He stopped screaming, but it was too late.

 

“Was gonna off yer worthless ass anyway, punk,” the Trucker sneered, breaking the sudden silence, “But yer screamin’ like a fuckin’ pansy and it’s gettin’ on my nerves.  So ya get to die a few minutes early.”

 

Erik shook his head, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide with fear.  He didn’t want to acknowledge the purpose of the twisted shirt in the alpha’s hands, but he wasn’t permitted the luxury of denial.  The Trucker lunged; Erik tried to block but the alpha knocked his arms away as easily as swatting a fly.  Before he could prevent it, the scared teen realized the cotton band had been wrapped around his throat—and pulled tight.

 

The fabric was still damp and rank with hormone-laden boysweat.  Just before his air was cut off, Erik inhaled a deep, heady musk; the mix of his own sweat and that of the powerful alpha filled his lungs with pheromones before they were permanently sealed.

 

“There ya go,” the Trucker jeered, “Now shaddup and die, fuckmeat.”

 

It was worth it, the alpha thought as he jerked the wifebeater brutally tight, it was worth it, just to see the look of panic in the young faggot’s eyes, just to feel the teen’s fuckhole clench his dick in involuntary spasms.

 

Terror welled up in Erik.  This stud, this muscle-bound god—this wasn’t supposed to be happening.  He hadn’t hit the jackpot, he was being hurt, being raped…being murdered.  Frantically, he jammed his hands up under the Trucker’s jaw, trying futilely to push the alpha away.

 

The powerful sadist easily shrugged the kid’s flailing hands away.  “Die on my dick, you cumsuckin’ pervert,” he sneered, then hocked a wad of phlegm into the boy’s panic-stricken face.  “It feels so fuckin’ good when little homo fucks like you kick and die with my cock inside ya.”

 

Erik kicked and writhed in horrific agony; the tensile strength of the damp cotton band allowed it to sink deeply into the kid’s smooth, soft neck flesh without stretching or tearing.  The frantic youth clawed desperately at the shirt, but once it sank in, he could no longer get his fingers around it—and he turned his panic on his assailant.

 

The Trucker had snuffed at least two dozen faggots—he didn’t keep count—and by now knew the stages of terror, submission and death better than the meat experiencing them did.  He recognized the impending explosion of fear and braced himself as the cunt lashed out like a feral cat.

 

 

The slim young teen scrambled with a frenetic strength that would have surprised anyone not experienced with the true fear of death; the meat was awash in cold terror and stuck blindly at the Trucker’s muscled mass.  His hands, crabbed like claws, clutched at the older man’s bulging biceps before slipping off the sweat-slick skin.

 

Still mindlessly seeking some way of stopping the choking pain, the clutching, grabbing hands soon landed on the Trucker’s broad chest—and dug in.  The kid’s fingers curled in the wiry, almost steel wool-like chest hair and yanked painfully.

 

Then, inadvertently, Erik opened the door to a whole new universe of pain.  He raked his fingernails over the Trucker’s chest, scraping off fur and drawing blood.

 

Only one person had made the Trucker bleed before, and that wasn’t a good memory.  It triggered a heightened rage response.

 

“Goddam fuckin’ piece of fag shit!” he roared, twisting the cotton shirt so he could maintain the excruciating tautness with a single hand.  The other hand he drew back into a fist, then used it to punctuate his speech with the emphasis of a wrecking ball.

 

“Worthless [BAM] little [BAM] motherfucker [BAM], you still don’t fuckin’ get it [BAM], do ya [BAM]?  Only thing yer good for is milkin’ my shaft [BAM] and soakin’ up my load [BAM].  Looks like I’m gonna hafta beat it into ya [BAM], huh, cunt [BAM]?  Know what I’m gonna do [BAM] with yer used-up boymeat [BAM] when I’m done with ya [BAM]?  Huh?  I’m gonna throw ya out [BAM] like a used cumrag [BAM]—yer gonna end up rottin’ in a ditch like garbage, hah [BAM]!”

 

The third blow was accompanied by a snapping sound as Erik’s cheekbone broke, the fifth with the squelching sound of split lips.  On the seventh or eighth—neither predator nor prey was keeping an accurate count—the boy’s nose broke, the cartilage collapsing with a loud crunching noise.  And on the thirteenth impact, the orbit of the teen’s left eye fractured into multiple pieces, causing the white of the swelling, bulging orb to hemorrhage blood-red.

 

Unfortunately for Erik, his youth worked against him; his adolescent body, fueled by raging hormones, was unable to succumb to unconsciousness.  He was awake and aware of every blow, and every word.  He knew exactly what was happening to him; he just couldn’t understand why.

 

Even the sex had gone bad; it felt like a massive ingot of white-hot steel had been shoved up his ass, searing his guts out as it reamed his fuckhole.  The intense pressure against his prostate was reflected in the intense pressure in his cock; it felt so achingly hard and swollen that it seemed about to burst.  And the pressure of the ligature around his throat was reflected by the pressure in his chest, which felt like it had already burst in a fiery explosion that still raged within him.

 

It was his head that hurt the worst, though; his smashed face was flaming agony, but on the inside…oh my fuckin’ god my head is swelling my tongue I can’t close my mouth I can’t close my eyes…

 

Taking the shirt back in both hands and tightening it further, the Trucker lowered himself down until he was lying full-length on top of the kid.  The lean, smooth teen body writhed and jerked under the weight of the muscled hardman, skin sliding against furry skin on a lube of deathsweat that was being squeezed out of the boy.

 

The older man bent his head down to whisper in the punk’s ear; as he did so, the stiff black stubble on his cheek grazed the kid’s face, scraping painfully against the boy’s bruised, swelling skin.

 

“Ya feelin’ me now, boy?  Ya findin’ out what it feels like to die, aintcha?  Fuck yeah, cunt, I’m gonna cum so hard when you die.  Been too long since I wasted a fag—you came along just in time, asswipe.  Stupid young fuckmeat, ready and waiting to suffer and die on my dick.  Just needed a little tenderizin’ to learn how to accept death from the hands of a real man.”

 

Erik hadn’t learned to accept his own death yet, but at the moment the terror was overwhelmed with sheer physical pain; as his nervous system slowly began to die of oxygen deprivation, the nerve endings underwent a common paradoxical reaction—they became more sensitive.  The slighted touch against Erik’s skin was magnified to the intensity of agony.

 

Without even breaking the skin, the sharp edges of the Trucker’s dogtags, pressed as they were into the boy’s chest by the heavier man’s weight, felt like knives piercing his flesh.  His thick purple cock, already painfully erect, was also pressed between the entwined male forms; as the underside rasped up and down on the Trucker’s large metal belt buckle, Erik felt unimaginable pain that he pictured mentally as the skin being flayed off his dick.

 

“Does it hurt?” the Trucker asked, grinning.  “Good.  Yer gonna die in fuckin’ agony, just like you deserve, ya cockpig sack a’ shit.”

 

Beneath him, the once-arrogant teen was unrecognizable in the battered, blackened mass of swollen flesh above the cotton band—the latter sunk so deep in the kid’s throat it was almost invisible.  Erik’s face was dark and congested, the eyes—both now blood-red with hemorrhages—bulging grotesquely from their sockets, the left one off-center from the shattered orbit.  They were swollen to the point he was unable to close them; he was forced to watch his own Nike Air Ring Leaders, just past the Trucker’s shoulders, as they kicked and flailed helplessly in the air.

 

The boy’s split, purple lips had parted, letting the monstrously swollen tongue to emerge in mass of thick white foam that drooled down the youth’s smooth cheeks.  His black hair, stiff in gelled disarray, was wet with the same cold deathsweat that soaked his pits and lubed his smooth young body.

 

The cruel alpha grinned viciously at the dying boy.  “Still fightin’ it, cocksucker?    Keep tryin’, ya stupid fuckwad.  Fuck yeah, the younger the fag the longer it takes ‘em to die—and the longer I get my hog worked.  Gotta remember that, huh?  Next time I wanna get my dick milked real good, I gotta find me a dumbass piece of teenage homo meat!”

 

Erik heard the words—barely, and understood them—barely, but they no longer carried an immediacy about them.  His brain was dying, cerebral cells going dark by the millions as his body shudder helplessly in the grip of a death that was swiftly approaching—but not swiftly enough.

 

The teen slut was ready to die.  The pain was too much; he just wanted it to end, but the Trucker was right—his youth worked against him; his healthy system had been full of oxygen when his air supply had been cut off.

 

He could feel—oh fuck, he could still feel everything.  This wasn’t supposed to be happening; he’d just wanted a lift and some dick.  Now—Jesus fuckin’ Christ, his throat, he could feel is collapsing—

 

“Ya likin’ that, fuckpig?  I can feel yer dick leakin’ all over my belly, queerboy.  Fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?”

 

No, no he wasn’t enjoying it, but his cock was so hard it hurt and he didn’t know why, the pressure and the pounding in his head in his cockhead and behind his eyes, that frantic percussion—was that his pulse?—his head was gonna explode and his dick was gonna explode the pressure was too intense—

 

“Goddam, boy, I ain’t had no one’s ass grab my shaft like this—yer really gettin’ into this, cunt!  Fuckin’-A—gonna ride yer ass till ya die, faggot!”

 

The enormous cock that had roused such lust and desire in the oversexed teenager was now being wielded as an instrument of nightmarish torture, tearing him open on the inside.  With the heightened sensitivity of his dying nervous system, Erik was suffering the pain of impalement in an almost medieval sense as the alpha’s inhumanly massive shaft pounded its way through his torn, inflamed colon and repeatedly embedded itself deep into his tender guts.

 

The Trucker held on to the twisted wifebeater with both hands, feeling the teen dying on his engorged cock.  Tracing the progression of the kid’s brain death was relatively easy for the proficient serial killer; he knew the symptoms from long experience.  The meat was nearly gone, but the way the little fuck was gagging and slobbering meant that there was still a spark of human mentality left—

 

—and the Trucker was so fucking turned on at the thought of abusing and tormenting that spark until it finally flickered out.

 

“Does it hurt to die?” he hissed, “Good.  You earned this, you faggot slut.  Only thing you’re fuckin’ good for is catchin’ my spunk, and you’re good for that once—maybe twice. And after I’m done usin’ ya, all that’ll be left it rottin’ meat that I’m gonna dump on the side of the road.  Not like anyone’s gonna miss ya, right, fuckwad?”

 

The boy heard the words, at least the start, but had lost the ability to react.  Lack of oxygen had inflicted massive trauma to his central nervous system; he no longer had control over his physical movements.  As the Trucker spoke, the kid began to convulse, slowly at first but with a swiftly-increasing intensity.

 

The sick, sadistic top grinned and grunted with pleasure; this was the best part, the way the meat stroked and milked his shaft as it writhed in its death throes.  And this boy seemed to last forever; the slick, lithe, smooth body wriggling and shuddering beneath his hairy weight, the kid’s thick, pulsating dick pressed between two flat, firm bellies.  The youth’s arms had stopped flailing; now, they clutched rigidly at his killer’s shoulders.  The Trucker could feel the heels of the punk’s kicks digging into his denim-wrapped ass as the boy’s legs tightened involuntarily around his waist.

 

Erik was gone and what little was left of Louis was encased in a hard red ball of agony—the fiery pain that seared his chest and head, his throat and his ass and especially his dick, had somehow managed to merge into a solid mass of suffering as his body twisted and contorted itself convulsively.

 

“Oh fuck, fuck yeah,” the Trucker grunted, his face grimacing as he tried to hold back the explosive orgasm boiling up in his tight scrotum.  Deep in his boots, his toes curled in an instinctive attempt to brace his hard, powerful body. His arms jerked back almost involuntarily, veins popping out on his thick, swollen biceps; the white cotton ligature sank into the kid’s neck to a grotesque depth.

 

Suddenly, there was a loud wet cracking sound; the boymeat’s throat had been crushed into a wad of blood, phlegm and mangled cartilage.  It was a special kind of pain and it merged seamlessly with the last sensation that the unfortunate youth had to endure—the razor-sharp agony of his own ejaculation.

 

As the teen spewed a massive deathload over the Trucker’s chest and belly, the boycum matting the older man’s fur, the Trucker gave one last, deep grunt and let go, his hot potent manspunk hosing the boy’s guts and filling his rectum.

 

The hot wind still swept out of the night, whipping around the silent cab where a man remained locked in a tight, trembling, orgasmic embrace with the corpse of a seventeen-year-old boy.

 

A few minutes later, when the Trucker was sure he’d drained every drop of sperm out of his huge balls, he disengaged himself from the dead punk.  Taking a moment to stuff his still-oozing dick back into his jeans, the sweaty, cum-covered alpha looked down with contempt at the corpse.

 

There was little left that was recognizable of the cocky teenager.  The smooth young face was now a puffy blue mask with a thick purple tongue protruding from the middle of it.  The nose was bent and broken with blood trials from both nostrils and the eyes were nothing but slits of white streaked with red under swollen lids.

 

The dark gray Nikes were quivering as the fag’s nervous system continued to fire random nerve signals; the Trucker knew from past experience that the meat would twitch and kick for an hour or so longer.  The little fucker’s dick was going soft, expelling the semen that had remained in the shaft at death.

 

 

 

The Trucker sneered at the dead boy.  “Fuckin’ faggot,” he muttered, “Shoulda hurt ya more.”

 

Grabbing a washcloth from a small set of drawers on the left, the heaving, sweat-slick alpha slipped past the privacy curtain and exited the cab.  Walking quickly across the empty parking lot, he headed into the rest room.  Under the glaring fluorescent light, he soaked the washcloth and used it to give his torso a brief sponge bath, wiping the teen’s crusty jizz out of his body fur.

 

Even though his boots thumped just as loudly on the pavement on his way back to the truck as on the way in, the Trucker’s steps were lighter.  He felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the workout he’d gotten snuff the young homo.  Even his dogtags jingled cheerfully on his chest.

 

The young ones could take a good, hard beating and still let him work out some while bangin’ and offin’ them—he’d remember that.  Oh fuck yeah, he’d remember that.

 

He was on the highway within fifteen minutes, cruising along with the window down, letting the warm night air dry the dark curly hair on his chest.  As the miles flew by, his mind kept turning back to the incredibly erotic way the adolescent slut had died on his cock.  The way the motherfucker’s asshole clutched his throbbing shaft, milking it desperately, convulsively as life was choked out of the little punk…

 

The Trucker found that he had to reach into his crotch and shift his stiffening rod.

 

He began eyeing the side of the road, wanting to dump the meat before sunup.  He was near the center of one of the most godforsaken sections of highway in the state—in the entire country for that matter—but there was no sense taking chances.

 

He’d seen no other vehicles for an hour when he pulled off the two-lane road onto a wide, level section of shoulder.  Beyond the shoulder, the land dipped down into a deep, narrow gully, shadowed with the dry, brown remains of whatever dank vegetation managed to grow when there was water present.

 

It’d be a long time before anyone found anything tossed down there.

 

Taking one last look in the rearview mirror to ensure he was alone, the Trucker made his way past the privacy curtain into the sleeper section of the cab.  Somewhere in the past hundred miles, the dead boy had rolled off the bunk; the corpse was splayed out face down on the floor.

 

Standing over it, the Trucker admired the smooth, lean meat, the tender, rounded ass that seemed designed for fucking, the firm, lithe legs spread invitingly apart, with the grey Nikes still on the feet.  His cock was straining painfully in his jeans.  The feelings were conflicting; he didn’t fuck corpses, but this little fuck still seemed to be asking for it.

 

“Fuck it,” the Trucker muttered, “Why not?”

 

Bending down, he grabbed the dead teen and tossed the corpse onto the bunk, still face down.  He positioned it crossways with the legs hanging off, as if the boy was kneeling at the bunk and bent down over it.  In that position, the ass was perfectly set up for penetration.

 

As usual, it took the hulking alpha a moment or two to extract his gigantic shaft from its tight denim confines.  When it was finally free, it was as engorged and oozing as if he hadn’t just emptied his sack a little over an hour earlier.

 

Lowering himself down, he inserted his throbbing member into the cadaver and was pleasantly surprised.  The meat was cool, but not cold, and rigor mortis had set in just enough to make the mangled dead asshole comfortably firm enough to grip the Trucker’s cock just right.

 

With a sigh of pleasure, the sick killer inserted his manhood into the boy’s fuckhole until he was balls-deep in the dead teenager.  The sigh was soon replaced by deep lusty grunts at the older man plowed his cock into the depths of the cooling carcass.  The meat was still limp enough for the dead youth’s limbs to jerk and shift in response to each and every thrust of the Trucker’s huge, pulsating shaft.

 

It had been years since the Trucker had violated the corpse of one of his kills; he’d forgotten the sweet, easy sensation of a victim unable to resist—and this one, such young smooth flesh, so supple, even in death…

 

It was too much.  The Trucker shuddered violently as he pumped another massive load into the dead boy’s guts, giving the cold meat one last burst of warmth with his scalding geyser of semen.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  Goddam faggot!  Dead piece a’ shit!” he cried in a gruff, constricted voice that echoed of the metal walls of the tiny sleeper compartment.  Involuntarily, he grabbed the punk’s jaw and twisted it, his arms jerking roughly in orgasmic intensity and snapping the meat’s neck with a gruesomely loud shattering sound.

 

The only other noises to accompany the perverted desecration of the teenager’s corpse were the joyous jangling of the Trucker’s dogtags and the desolate whistling of the pre-dawn breeze.

 

For the second time, the Trucker disengaged himself from the dead kid; this time, he used the boy’s shorts as a rather unsatisfactory cumrag to wipe off his dripping cock.  As he tucked his fully-drained member back into his jeans, he pulled back the privacy curtain and looked outside the cab—there was still obviously no one within miles.

 

So there was no one to see him yank the dead teenager out of the cab by his arms; there was no one to see the channels carved in the dirt by the corpse’s Nikes as it was dragged across the shoulder to the gully.  There was certainly no one to notice when the muscular hardman, in tight jeans and boots, but shirtless, dumped the dead meat into the ditch; in fact, it was three months before the skeletal remains were found.

 

It was finally ID’d by dental records.  The kid’s mama had made sure her Louie had good teeth.

 

There was someone to notice that one of the fucker’s Nikes had come off as he was being dragged—the Trucker.  When he drove off, he made sure one of his rig’s wheel passed right over the sneaker, grinding it into the gravel on the side of the road.

Trucker 12–Trucker vs Wetback

As the narrow black ribbon of roadway veered sharply to the right, the Trucker gripped the large wheel of his rig and maneuvered the semi carefully around the sharp curve.   A few more yards ahead was another bend to the left, completing the S-curve that the black and yellow caution sign had warned about.

 

Even though he like to hunt along the lesser-traveled roadways, he wouldn’t normally have been on this treacherous stretch of state highway in west Texas if the interstate hadn’t been torn up for repairs.  Everyone had been exiting at Big Springs, so the Trucker had too, heading north.  His plan was to cut across a corner of New Mexico near Carlsbad before turning back south to El Paso, all on state highways.

 

At some point, most everyone else had turned off to head back to the interstate, trying to skirt around the construction.  The Trucker was content to slowly wend his way along the back roads.

 

After all, he was horny.  Who knew what kinda prey was waiting for him out there?

 

That question was answered much sooner than the sadistic predator thought it would be.  Skirting the Guadalupe Mountains National Park to the south, the Trucker noticed a lone figure on the side of the road, near the turnoff for a county road heading due south towards a ranch.  On getting closer, the figure resolved itself into a young Mexican kid, hitching west.

 

There was no one in sight and hadn’t been for miles.  The Trucker pulled over and watching in the side mirror as the punk ran towards the cab.

 

Young—early twenties at most.  His brown skin was highlighted by his almost shoulder-length hair, so black it was almost blue.  The boy had the hard, muscled body of a manual laborer, a fact not hidden by his slightly dirt-stained wifebeater, the thin cotton plastered to his well-built torso by sweat.  The spic’s firmly-muscled legs and bulging crotch were equally well displayed by his tight jeans, so well-worn that they were tantalizingly threadbare in strategic spots.  They were tucked into an old pair of pull-on workboots that had probably risen halfway up the kid’s calf when they were new—now they slouched and looked worn and soft as suede.

 

Soon enough, the door popped open and spic kid climbed in, in a swirl of hot air filled with tang of boysweat.  “Gracias, señor,” he said, rubbing his hand vigorously through his long hair to dislodge the dust.

 

“Where ya headed?” drawled the Trucker.

 

“West, señor.  Las Cruces.  I have job there, si?”

 

“Uh-huh,” the Trucker muttered noncommittally.  He already knew the little spic fuck wasn’t gonna make it to Las Cruces.  “Headed to El Paso myself.  I can get ya closer—maybe.”

 

The boy had been eyeing the Trucker the entire time; the buff alpha wasn’t surprised.  After all, he was dressed to attract attention from any horny little cockpig he came across.  His large muscled form was barely encased in a gray t-shirt so tight, his large erect nipples were clearly defined.  His huge, hubcap pecs were highlighted by the glint of metal from the dogtags dangling between them.

 

The older man’s tight jeans weren’t as worn as the hitcher’s, but the impossibly large bulge in his crotch was difficult to miss, as was the way his powerful legs were wrapped tightly in the denim all the way down to where they were tucked into his well-used but still intact black leather combat boots, worn loosely-laced and untied.  Above, his dark blue trucker’s cap was pulled low, shielding his eyes so that all that was visible of his face was his cheeks and his strong jaw, covered with a blue shadow of rough, wiry stubble.

 

The Trucker shifted into gear and started the rig moving forward, slowly merging back onto the empty two-lane blacktop.  As he did, he noticed in his peripheral vision the searching sidelong glances his passenger was giving him.  The boy was interested in him.  As he shifted the engine into a higher gear and the massive semi began to pick up speed, the Trucker leaned back in the driver’s seat.  He’d wait for the kid to make his move.

 

It didn’t take long.  About five miles further west, the Mexican spoke up. “S-say, señor, I can do un pequeño para ti, no?  A lil’ favor so you take me to Las Cruces?”

 

A broad grin crossed the Trucker’s face, but he didn’t look at the little punk.  “Yeah?  What kinda favor?  You got dinero?”

 

“N-no, señor, no dinero—but maybe I can do somethin’ else…”

 

With that, the spic reached out and placed his hand on the Trucker’s firm thigh, letting it slide over the denim towards the older man’s crotch.  The older man laughed out loud.

 

“Yeah, boy?” he chuckled, “Ya want me to fuck ya?”

 

The kid snatched his hand back.  His face flushed with anger.  “I ain’t no maricón!” he snapped.  “And I ain’t your niño—me llamo Jorge!” 

 

“So what the fuck are ya offerin’, then—boy?” the Trucker said, drawling out the last word in emphasis.

 

Still flushed—perhaps now in embarrassment—the Mexican punk was silent for a few seconds.  “I-I put it en mi boca, no en mi culo, compendre?   My mouth…”

 

The kid was offering a BJ but didn’t want it up the ass.  The Trucker had no doubt he’d be able to overcome the cunt’s objection to a good buttfuck.  Still, he might as well let the fucker suck on it a bit…

 

Taking one hand off the wheel, the hulking alpha reached into his groin and unzipped his fly.  Since he was doing it one-handed, it took him a couple of minutes to extract the full length of his massive cock.  Semi-soft, it slapped down loudly on his denim-wrapped thigh, pulsing and slowly swelling.

 

The Mexican youth stared down at the enormous tube of manmeat and gulped nervously.  Gingerly, he reached out for it.

 

“G’wan,” the Trucker snapped.  “You said you’d suck it, cerdo, now put it in yer mouth.”

 

“B-but you still drive, señor…” Jorge said hesitantly.

 

“Yer bitch ass ain’t enough to distract me while I’m drivin’, puta.  Suck my fuckin’ cock!  Ahora, perra!”

 

The labor-hardened slut had worked his way across country by hitching rides and doing whatever work he could pick up.  He’d picked tobacco in North Carolina, worked with a landscaping crew in Memphis and had done construction work in Dallas.  Every time he’d moved on, he’d ended up managing to trade blowjobs for rides and sometimes a bit more.  And if they weren’t grateful enough for his services, he’d steal whatever wasn’t nailed down.  There was a long, rough road behind him, but he’d never met anyone he couldn’t handle.

 

Until now.

 

And now he was scared.  This guy could hurt him; this guy could fuck him up bad.  He needed to have him pull over, say “Gracias, pero no gracias,” and wait for the next dude.

 

But he didn’t.  He kept moving toward that thick, throbbing shaft.  He wasn’t gay—no way was he a maricón—but he wasn’t able to pull away.  He didn’t know why; he wasn’t deep enough to analyze his own homosexual lust.  He just knew that he should get out, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and that was scaring him.

 

But then his hand wrapped around the huge flesh tube, and he knew he had to have it in his mouth.  Leaning awkwardly across the space between the seats, he tried to suck the Trucker’s cock.  It was so big he damn near dislocated his jaw trying to stuff it all in.  Gagging on the salty, musky head, the buff youth attempted to deep-throat the Trucker.

 

The potholes didn’t make it any easier.  Every time the cab jerked, the vein-bound tool slipped further down the punk’s throat, making him choke and cough.  The Trucker chuckled malignantly.

 

“You suck at suckin’,” he laughed.  “Gotta do better than that, boy—that won’t get ya five miles on this road!”

 

By this point, the experienced killer had spotted a wide spot on the shoulder ahead, an unmarked area to pull over momentarily.  He headed for it, keeping one hand on the wheel and the other entangled in the spic’s long black hair.  As he coasted to a stop, he grabbed the back of the kid’s head and shoved, hard.

 

Just as Jorge felt the cab decelerate, his windpipe was plugged with thick, throbbing manmeat.  He placed both hands on the alpha stud’s thigh and pushed as hard as he could, trying to raise his head up off the Trucker’s dick, but the older man was easily able to hold him down with one arm.

 

The hardbodied slut felt his fist bolt of outright fear—he couldn’t breathe and he literally couldn’t break free.  As his eyes watered uncontrollably, he curled his hands into fists and began to beat against the Trucker’s leg.  He could feel the large muscles flex in the top’s leg as he braked to a stop—and then the implacable force on the back of his head was gone.  The Trucker needed both hand to completely brake the rig.

 

Jorge instantly popped up, gasping for air.  “Mierda!  No mas!” he coughed out, drool running down his chin.

 

The Trucker parked the semi, cutting the ignition.  Grabbing a hank of the kid’s hair again, he pulled Jorge’s head up and spit in his congested, tear-stained face.  “Shaddup, ya stupid spic faggot,” he sneered and slammed the punk’s head into the dash with sudden, devastating force.

 

Jorge was literally stunned; it was like a bright red explosion of pain in his skull.  His eyes, wide with surprise, stared into the Trucker’s, with no comprehension of the hot flame of erotic rage that illuminated their otherwise cold blue depths.  The bewildered slut had barely taken in the Trucker’s words.

 

“P-pero…pero p-pensé…” he whispered.

 

“I don’t give a fuck what ya thought, fuckmeat,” the Trucker growled and rammed the boy headfirst into the dash again.  This time the kid went limp, sliding onto the floorboard like a sack of dirty laundry.

 

It took surprisingly little time for the Trucker to drag the Mexican to the sleeper section of the cab and close it off.  He had no qualms about being disturbed; he hadn’t seen another car for over an hour.  Tossing his cap to one side, he pulled off his t-shirt and left it on the floor.  Still in his jeans and boots, he squatted over the unconscious form of his passenger.  Gripping the low-slung collar of the spic’s wifebeater with both hands, he gave a short, strong yank and the thin cotton parted like wet tissue paper, revealing the homo punk’s muscled chest, the brown skin smooth and taut over his firm pecs and flat belly.

 

 

It was warm in the cab; the Trucker hadn’t wanted to switch on the AC and run the battery down.  Beads of sweat glittered like shards of glass scattered across the limp boywhore’s smooth, buff torso.  The hardbodied killer had no difficulty pulling off the punk’s worn and well-used workboots but his hands slipped momentarily on the kid’s sweat-slicked belly when he unfastened the button on the waistband of the victim’s jeans.  After that, though, it went smoothly.  One quick jerk and the young spic was lying nude on the floor except for a pair of white tube socks clinging to his calves—and displaying a thick, dark, uncut cock standing to attention from a curly nest of black pubes.  The Trucker smirked; little fag had been goin’ commando—and he said he didn’t like it up the ass.  Yeah, right.

 

And tough shit if he was telling the truth.

 

Bending down, the Trucker grabbed the unconscious youth under the arms and lifted him bodily up onto the bunk.  As he did, the kid started to moan.  Once the alpha had the boy laid out on the bed on his back, he could see the bruises on the kid’s face more clearly; the impact with the dash looked like it had split the fucker’s bottom lip.  The long eyelashes began to flutter, then suddenly large dark eyes were looking up into the Trucker’s own.

 

“M-madre d-d-de Di-dios…” Jorge muttered, his head pounding with pain.  Just regaining awareness, he wasn’t able to recall what exactly had happened—he’d been scared, and it hurt—

 

—then his eyes focused on the powerfully-built man towering over him, a man with a handsome, stubbled face and an evil grin and the biggest carajo he’d ever seen, purple and oozing…and he remembered.

 

“No—no—lemme ‘lone—” he blurted out as the Trucker let out a quiet chuckle.

 

Without a word, the older man climbed into the bunk and parted the boy’s legs.  Dazed as he was, Jorge could see what was about to happen.  Predictably, he became frantic.

 

“No! No en mi culo, no!” he protested loudly, doubling his fists and beating them against the Trucker’s chest with loud meaty smacks, as if he was hitting a side of beef—and with just as much of an impact.

 

“Shaddup and take my cock, ya dumbass spic fag,” the Trucker growled and punched Jorge straight in the face, his rocklike fist smashing the kid’s nose, breaking the cartilage with a loud crunch.  The Mexican youth squealed in agony and clutched his wounded face—leaving the Trucker undisturbed to position the pulsing, leaking head of his engorged tool up against Jorge’s pink, trembling fuckhole.

 

The sadistic top rubbed his precum over the clenched sphincter; it was all the lube the poor slut was gonna get.  Then he popped just the head in.

 

Jorge screamed; it had a high nasal pitch since his sinuses were blocked with blood.  Again he was pressing against the Trucker’s broad chest in a vain attempt to push his rapist off.  The searing pain in his boycunt was unimaginable…it was like someone had shoved a baseball up his ass…

 

The Trucker grinned and spat in the whore’s twisted face, streaked with trickles of tears and blood.  “That’s it,” he sneered, “Squeal like the cockpig ya are, boy.  Love it, dontcha?  Yeah, all you worthless spic fags fuckin’ love takin’ a white man’s rod, huh?  Fuck yeah, it’s yer lucky day, vato—you’re gonna get to spend a nice long time ridin’ my shaft.  Enjoy it, maricón!”

 

Jorge screeched as the Trucker inserted another two inches—and held that depth.  For the next few minutes, he fucked the kid swiftly but shallowly, letting him become accustomed to his ass muscle being stretched to its fullest extent.

 

And after a bit, Jorge began to relax.  His sphincter slackened and his colon accepted another couple of inches of the Trucker’s cock.  His cries had subsided to groans that slowly evolved into moans of pleasure.

 

Despite the fear and pain of the earlier assault—and his initial denials—the brown-skinned homo was getting his rocks off getting fucked.  His cock was fully extended, a good six inches of oozing, uncut manflesh.  His eyes were focused on the mesmerizing flickers of light that glinted on the dogtags dangling from the Trucker’s neck, twirling in the air as the alpha indulged in a controlled and (for him) gentle fuck.

 

And then it happened.  Jorge submitted to his pleasure in bottoming, wallowing in getting filled with mancock.  “Oh, si, si…mas, si, mas…” he moaned, wrapping his arms and legs as far as he could the top’s well-developed torso.  “Por favor, mas…”

 

“Yeah, I thought so—fuckin’ cumsuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the Tucker muttered and rammed the rest of his dick into Jorge’s ass.

 

He’d only been about halfway in before—and not the thickest half.  The whoreboy’s sphincter had been at its limit before; to penetrate the kid completely, the alpha had to tear him open.

 

Something had entered Jorge’s universe; he’d had no idea that pain like this was even possible.  He shrieked at the top of his lungs, so loudly that his voice cracked, turning his agonized cry into a croak.

 

“Oh fuck yeah,” he heard the Trucker say, “Take it all, spic.  Feel me, cocksucker, feel my dick buried in yer worthless guts…”

 

And he could.  This strong handsome gringo had filled him before, filled his ass and that aching void inside him…but now he was being not only filled by the older man, the dude was piledriving into his asshole, overflowing him, the huge mushroom tip catching and tearing at his innards as the vein-wrapped tube of flesh rode roughly over his prostate with every thrust.  The labor-hardened Mexican had thought he’d be able to handle any situation; now he was squealing in horrible pain as another dude held him down and wrecked his fuckhole.

 

And yet, the constant rough prostate massage left the helpless youth fully erect, precum leaking in an almost steady stream from the half-covered head of his dick.

 

“Lookit yer fuckin’ cock, cholo,” the Trucker jeered, “Hard as a fuckin’ brick, aintcha, yeah?  You like gettin’ hurt, dontcha, boy?  You ain’t nothing but a worthless dirty spic who gets off bein’ treated like the piece of homo shit you are, yeah?”

 

Jorge’s wide dark eyes were ringed with gray circles of shock as he looked into the scruffy, seductive face of madness hanging above him.  “Por-por f-favor, no!  N-no, señ-señor, Dios m-mío, no!”

 

He beat against the Trucker’s furry chest and sweaty, heaving flanks with as much impact as if he had been beating an oak tree.  He tried to get his feet into a position when he could obtain some leverage against his overpowering assailant, but all he managed to do was kick his legs in the air, his smooth firm thighs clenched around the buff older man’s waist.

 

Nothing he did had the slightest effect on the Trucker; the sadistic stud continued to pound his rod deep into the Mexican kid, tearing his way violently through the punk’s rectum.  Each thrust was like the slash of a razor within his colon; every time the muscled alpha grunted and pumped, the boy endured a new blast of agony…

 

…and was getting off on it.

 

That was the worst for Jorge; he couldn’t understand why his own uncut meat was achingly stiff when he was suffering some of the worst pain he’d ever encountered.  His body was betraying him—it was siding with his attacker.

 

Realizing his struggles were useless, the smooth, hardbodied fag stopped fighting and held the Trucker tight, a vague idea in his head that it might hurt less if he just held on.  The Trucker noticed.

 

He didn’t like it.

 

“You ain’t movin’ on my dick enough, ya worthless fairy wetback,” he barked angrily.  “What’s wrong, cunt—too much cock for ya?  You better get to work milking my rod, or I’ll make ya milk it—and I’ll make it hurt.  Think yer in pain now?  You ain’t felt nothin’, bitch.  This is gonna feel like mommy’s kisses by the time I’m done jackin’ up yer useless homo ass!”

 

Jorge realized he’d made a mistake, but he was too terrified to move.  The buff gringo had utterly overpowered him; he knew there was no escape.  In his migrations he’d met plenty of guys who’d introduced violence into the situation, but he’d never encountered anyone he couldn’t take.  This was different.  His only hope was to give the cruel, muscle-bound rapist what he wanted and hope the dude would let him go after he’d shot his load—after all, he was in the country illegally; he wasn’t gonna go to the cops…

 

…and deep in his pig soul, some part of him wanted it to continue.  In a dark corner of his psyche that he’d never consciously acknowledge, he was lusting after the viciously abusive alpha.  He wanted the older man’s hot wad in his ass, but the desire was being smothered by outright terror.

 

Especially when the Trucker leaned in so close his dogtags bounced on the kid’s broad, smooth chest and whispered, “Time to die, ya piece of garbage.  Tiempo a morir, niño.  I’m gettin’ bored fuckin’ ya, an’ I gotta schedule to keep.  Ready to cum an’ go, cunt?  Don’t worry, you’ll get a nice long dirt nap in a ditch when I’m done with ya.”

 

Leaning back, the hardbodied alpha sneered down at the boy writhing on his dick and spit into the kid’s pain-twisted, tear-streaked face.  He was pissed; fuckin’ spic didn’t comprehend enough English to take the full force of his mindfuck.

 

Ok, then, he’d make the meat understand manually.  Leaning forward again, the dogtags jangling loudly, he wrapped his huge hands around Jorge’s throat and started squeezing.

 

Jorge knew enough English to understand what the Trucker had said; he had simply just refused to let them sink in.  What sank in were the Trucker’s large, powerful hands, clamping down on his windpipe and sealing it off.  El gringo loco was really gonna kill him.

 

No, this wasn’t happening.  No.  He was young and strong; he could fight his way out.

 

And that was when he finally realized he wasn’t strong enough.

 

In the overheated, pheromone-laden atmosphere of the cab’s sleeper section, the two male bodies intertwined.  As Jorge tried desperately to pry the Trucker’s hands from his neck, his own hands slipped on the older man’s bulging muscles, slick with mansweat.  The Trucker squeezed even harder.

 

The Mexican punk started to panic.  There was a fiery pressure in his chest and a deafening pounding in his head; it made it hard to think.  He had to get away; it wasn’t a rational thought, it was a physical imperative.  In frantic blindness, the boy reached out, clawing at whatever was within his grasp.  In a flash, he’d managed to clench a fistful of the Trucker’s dark, wiry chest hair and jerked as hard as he could.

 

He never understood what a huge mistake he’d made; he was just aware that his involuntary reaction triggered an explosion of violence.

 

The Trucker’s cruelly handsome face darkened with terrifying anger.  “You goddam motherfucker,” he hissed, incandescent with rage, “You stupid spic cocksucker, I’m gonna jack yer worthless ass up so fuckin’ bad!”

 

Shifting his weight, he managed to take one hand from Jorge’s throat and still keep the buff slut’s airway closed.  He balled the free hand into a fist and pummeled the kid’s face, using the blows to punctuate his verbal abuse.

 

“Fuckin’ suffer, you useless sack a’ shit! (WHAM) Think yer gettin’ away? (WHAM)  Only place you’re goin’ is infierno, ya cumguzzlin’ queer wetback! (WHAM)  I’m gonna choke ya out while ya ride my dick all the way to hell, cunt! (WHAM)  Ya feel me, bitch? (WHAM)  No? (WHAM)  How ‘bout that one? (WHAM)  Ya feel that one, faggot? (WHAM)”

 

The second blow snapped Jorge’s left cheekbone; the third split both lips.  The fifth blow broke his nose with a loud crunch—and the last one dislocated his jaw.  As the Trucker had demanded, the well-built immigrant laborer suffered; he suffered bad.  The beating seemed to go on forever with all the force of a jackhammer.

 

And the unfortunate youth endured the torment while being raped and strangled.  No matter how badly he was beaten, his stunned mind was still agonizingly aware that he was choking to death, that an enormous shaft of manmeat was destroying his rectum—

 

—that his own cock was still painfully straining, erect and oozing.

 

And the end of the beating brought no relief.  The Trucker reapplied both hands to Jorge’s throat, clamping down even harder.  Now he was using enough force to deform the esophagus.

 

It hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad.  The Latino whore could feel his windpipe slowly constricting under the pressure being applied.  The soft tissues in his neck were already compressed together, sealing off the airway; this was the cartilage itself collapsing.

 

The Trucker could feel pressure building as well—in his case, it was in his nutsack.  His huge hairy balls had drawn up, a sure sign that he’d be spewing his seed very soon.  As his muscular ass flexed and pumped, reaming his hard cock into the helpless spic’s fuckhole, testosterone oozed from his body in his sweat, matting his dark, wiry body fur and filling the semi’s cab with manmusk.

 

Beneath him, the fuckmeat was turning black, the boy’s face darkening and swelling from lack of air.  The youth’s dark eyes were streaked with blood where tiny vessels had ruptured under the strain; the hemorrhages were present around the bulging eyes as well, in the taut, purple skin.

 

Jorge was wasting what precious little oxygen was left in his bloodstream by flailing wildly.  The Trucker held on, grunting with pleasure, as the dying punk worked his dick, massaging the engorged shaft as he kicked and thrashed.

 

 

The boy kept wrapping his legs around the Trucker’s waist and locking his feet together, as if he was trying to hold his killer tightly to him, but, despite panic adding to the strength of his lean, hard body, the violence of the Trucker’s thrusts repeatedly broke Jorge’s leg holds.  On one occasion, the slut’s right sock came off, leaving his toes free to curl in agony as he died.

 

And it was agony.  As the Trucker increased the pressure on his neck, more of the unlucky cunt’s tongue was forced out from between his dusky blue lips.  Jorge’s face contorted as he choked to death; the motions caused his drool to bubble up into white foam that slid down his cheeks.  It was accompanied by a thick, grotesque gagging sound, the last useless croak of meat near death.

 

It was also accompanied by an increase of precum leaking from the meat’s tool; the Trucker could physically feel the difference as the punk’s swollen mushroom tip smeared across his ripped abs.

 

“That’s it,” the heaving, sweating alpha whispered, matching his thrusts to the increasingly rhythmic jerking of Jorge as his brain began to die, “That’s it, faggot.  Fuckin’ die, you piece of dick-suckin’ shit.  Die with my cock jammed up your queer ass, motherfucker.  Yeah, work my shaft as you die—oh fuck yeah, boy, that’s it, milk my cock—goddam, ya worthless spic cumrag, fucking die and soak up my spunk…gonna leave your cum-filled body to rot in a fuckin’ ditch…”

 

Technically Jorge was still alive, but there wasn’t enough left of the hard young wetback to be aware that his killer was talking, much less understand the words.  His world had contracted to a dark cold cloud of pain and pounding—pain and pounding in his head as his racing heart desperately tried to push non-existent oxygen through his shuddering body, and pain and pounding in his ass as the Trucker continued to ream his fuckhole.

 

And in that little back corner of his mind where his unacknowledged cockpig soul was still clinging tenaciously to life, he was aware of the burning, frothing sensation in his balls.  His brain was too far gone to understand what it meant; there was little left but sensation, the sensations of cold and pain…and a need for release.

 

And that’s when it happened.  With a final seismic grunt, the Trucker tightened his fingers one last time and was rewarded with a loud cracking sound and the feeling of Jorge’s esophagus collapsing into a mangled mass of cartilage under his hands.

 

The Mexican meat felt the injury more than it was able to hear it, although an echo of the intense crunch did manage to worm its way into that last single spark of awareness.  And with that, Jorge’s entire existence fused into a single bright moment when pleasure and pain fused together and became indistinguishable.  It was a solid electric shock that finally let him release; he was too far gone to know what was releasing, he only knew that it was draining from him.

 

Too close to death to realize that his semen was jetting from him in a solid stream, splattering across the Trucker’s sweaty, heaving chest and matting heavily in the fur, the fuckmeat convulsed violently, his torn, spasming sphincter clutching at the alpha’s huge dick like a drowning man clutching a log.

 

The muscled older man gave a loud, strangled cry as his cock swelled and spat out a near-endless geyser of cum, filling the corpse’s guts with massive amounts of searing manspunk.  The last sensation of Jorge’s wasted life was that as his life drained out through his dick and the chill of death seized him, there was one last spark of warmth filling his ass and his intestines—

 

—and then the useless spic whore found that death wasn’t peace, it was an icy howling vortex of blackness—

 

Shuddering and breathing heavily, the Trucker held onto the convulsing meat for a couple more minutes before standing up, inhaling deeply and pulling his thick dong out of the dead body.  Jorge, his handsome face swollen and unrecognizable and his throat visibly crushed, was still convulsing violently.  As the Trucker slipped past the privacy curtain and started the ignition on the rig, the trembling corpse managed to flop itself out of the bunk, landing in a huddled mass of flesh on the floor.

 

Turning up the AC, the buff top went back to the sleeper area and gathered up Jorge’s clothing, jamming the single loose sock down into one of the meat’s boots.  Bundling the boots with the jeans and shirt, the Trucker drew the curtain and carefully examined the landscape, using his outside mirrors as well.  No one had been by on the road while he’d been entertaining himself, but he still wanted to check.

 

Satisfied, he opened the door, then went back and grabbing the meat by its bare foot, dragging the corpse the corpse through the cab.  The sadistic alpha jumped from the rig, his loosely-laced combat boots hitting the asphalt with a loud thump.  The dead spic tumbled out behind him, hitting the ground like a sack of dirty laundry.  Glancing around quickly, the Trucker strode quickly across the two-lane blacktop, one hand clutching the cunt’s clothing, the other hand gripping the dead punk’s ankle—the foot was still twitching, the toes curling in final death throes.

 

On the other side of the road was a deep drainage ditch; it had been visible on the side of the road for miles, but since the land sloped away to the west at this point, it wasn’t visible here unless one was standing right at the edge of the shoulder.  No one would see anything here unless they were actively looking for it.

 

It was perfect.  The Trucker tossed the clothing in first, then held Jorge’s quivering corpse up one-handedly, he dangled it over the drop and let go.  The meat fell into the ditch—about five feet below—with a muffled thud.

 

Quickly crossing back to the semi, the Trucker climbed into the driver’s seat, slipped his cap back on and slowly edged his way back onto the road.  It was still warm in the cab; he was heading out with his shirt off and a dead kid’s cum drying to a glaze on his chest pinning his dogtags to his  fur.  He’d stop off at a rest area ahead somewhere and clean off.  In the meantime, he wanted to get across the state line.

 

Checking the side mirror, he caught a glimpse of movement—in the sky.  A small black shape, moving in lazy circles.  In a moment it was joined by another, then a third.  The Trucker understood.  With an evil grin on his face, he accelerated into the west and left Jorge to the buzzards.

Trucker 11–Trucker vs Construction Boy

The bar wasn’t just dark and smoky; it was also small and fairly crowded.  The last attribute, at least was good.  It expanded the range of prey.

 

The Trucker was on the hunt.  He had a week and a half’s worth of seed swelling his already-enormous ballsack; he needed to unload so badly it fucking hurt.

 

And, of course, the only way to do that was to make someone else hurt even worse.

 

It had been a long, hard slog—a combination of tight delivery schedules and nasty weather across the country; the Trucker had plowed through snow, sleet, torrential rains, and, worst of all, ice.  He was far enough south at the moment not to worry about ice, though, and the weather was nice.  It was time for a release; it was time for someone to gag, choke and die on his cock.

 

The highway had been cut through an older part of town; the truck stop was adjacent to what appeared to be a low-rent and potentially rough neighborhood.  Parking at the far end of the small lot, the Trucker found his cab was less than a hundred feet from the closest rig; not ideal in case he needed a little privacy later on.  Using an app he’d put on his phone for the purpose, he located the closest gay bar.

 

Surprisingly, it was only three blocks east of his location.  It was called Mack’s.

 

Once there, he’d been disappointed by how small the place was—and how nasty; it really was a dive bar—but liked the selection of meat on display.  He was also disappointed by the service.  It seemed to take fifteen minutes just to get a beer.  “What’s the problem here?” he gruffly asked the bartender, once his brew finally arrived.  The latter, a broad, hairy-chested young man sporting nothing but a leather vest above the waist, started and flushed at the commanding tone of the handsome stranger across from him.  He was beautiful, but for some reason, the Trucker wasn’t into him.

 

Even after getting lucky with a cute boy at closing, he had no idea how truly lucky he got that night.

 

“S-sorry, sir,” he stammered, grinning lopsidedly, feeling his dick swell unaccountably.  “We’re short-handed tonight.”  Leaning forward, he whispered confidentially, “Bitch’s name was Robbie—he was our barback.   Little twink whore who used to take it up the ass back here where he though no one’d see him.  Fucker met the wrong dude after he left here; got himself raped and strangled on the way home.”

 

The Trucker snorted contemptuously.  As he turned away from the bar to survey the fuckmeat on offer, the bartender muttered vindictively under his breath, “Selfish cunt, leavin’ us in the lurch.  Hope it hurt like fuck…”

 

It was helpful to know that someone else had successfully tracked down and slaughtered meat from here; it told the Trucker two things.  First that this place was evidently a good hunting ground—and second, that he needed to be more cautious than usual.  After all, if some cunt got offed leaving this place, it could be staked out.  Glancing around, the Trucker kinda doubted that the cops would bother looking too hard for the killer of some low-life faggot hanging out in this dive; still, he’d take no extraordinary chances tonight.

 

The serial killer squinted his cold eyes as he tried to peer into the murky depths—such as they were—of the bar.  There was a lot of fuckmeat available, but none of it seemed to be worth the effort.  At least a third of the crowd were hustlers; the Trucker had no objections at all to banging and wasting a whore, but these cunts were so strung-out and skanky, the alpha almost wished he had a ten-foot pole with which not to touch them.

 

That was when he heard a voice behind him; he’d been facing the back of the building, not the entrance, so he didn’t realize someone had entered and approached the bar next to him.  “Just-just a Bud, man,” it said tentatively, the youthful, shy voice instantly intriguing the Trucker.  He turned casually and took in the view.

 

The guy next to him couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but the red cadet cap on his head, the brow pulled low over his eyes made his specific age hard to determine.  That was a clue, right there—the kid was on the down-low.  He was ashamed to be in here; he didn’t want to be recognized.  That was good.  Made him harder to ID afterwards.

 

What part of the face was visible below the cap revealed a large nose with a swelling on the bridge, a souvenir of a past break.  The full, vulnerable lips were surrounded by a patchy golden fuzz spread across the boy’s cheeks.  His hard, muscled torso would have been intimidating had the Trucker not been obviously better-built and more powerful.  It was displayed very well by a navy-blue t-shirt that looked sprayed on; tight as it was, his jeans looked even tighter.  The latter were a slightly lighter shade of blue—relatively new, but well worn, slightly stained, and torn across the left thigh, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of smooth flesh.

 

On his feet, the youth sported a pair of genuine shitkickers; pointy-toed boots of raw leather, worn to the texture of suede, the heels and soles replaced at least once.  They seemed to go with the large oval belt buckle clasping closed the thick dark leather strap circling the boy’s narrow waist.

 

At that moment, the boy noticed the Trucker.  While his cap made his age difficult to figure out, the expression on his face made his emotion easy as hell to figure out.  The hard-bodied youth was in a state of awed lust.

 

The Trucker was an alpha stud and dressed to show it; his outfit was similar to the kid’s, but gave greater emphasis to the killer’s muscle-bound physique.  He wore his trucker’s cap, its brim, like the boy’s was pulled down.  Under a bomber jacket of distressed brown leather, he was wrapped in a far-too-tight white t-shirt.  The thin cotton was stretched to such an extreme that the V of wiry fur on his chest was clearly visible from its widest expanse across the sadist’s broad pecs down to where it narrowed into a dark treasure trail that vanished below the waistband of the soft, frayed jeans that clung so closely to his bulging thighs that they looked sprayed on.  The cuffs of the jeans were tucked into a pair of Ariat Workhog boots, basic brown leather pull-ons with a thick rubber tread.

 

The boy gaped at the Trucker open-mouthed and took an instinctive step backward, where he made contact with a post.  Jerking forward, he bumped into the Trucker; startled, he looked up at the erotic killer’s cold, handsome face, shadowed by a dark stubble.  Eyes a startling shade of emerald glanced up as the youth’s gold-stubbled cheeks flushed with embarrassment.  “S-sorry, man, I-I just…it was an accident…” he trailed off shamefacedly.

 

Whatever humiliation or shyness he may have felt, though, it did nothing to dispel his lust.  “I-I’m Derek.  What ya looking for tonight?”

 

The Trucker stared down at the punk without speaking, letting the silence draw out uncomfortably.  The kid—Derek—cleared his throat and had started blushing again before the hulking alpha spoke.

 

“I’m looking for boymeat to stick my dick into,” the Trucker said even in a deep baritone growl that made Derek shudder in sexual anticipation.

 

The punk’s desire was obvious; a dark circle the size of a quarter was slowly expanding six inches down his right thigh where the thick ridge in his jeans indicated his dick ended.  The homo was already oozing form his cock, just from looking at the Trucker in the dim chaos that happens in gay bars an hour before closing.  The Trucker smirked, his lips twisting cruelly on his handsome, masterful face.

 

Derek noticed.  The wet spot on his leg grew visibly.  “I-I, uh…” he stammered.

 

“You’ll do,” the Trucker said dismissively, “Gotta place I can fuck ya?”

 

Derek gulp so violently it looked like he was trying to swallow a golf ball.  “Y-yeah man,” he gasped, somewhat breathlessly, “I gotta place in an SRO around the corner.  Company I work for rented it; see, I’m from outta town and they—”

 

“Ok, where is it?” the Trucker asked curtly, cutting the excited kid off.

 

“Uh—around the corner to the right, a coupla blocks down…”

 

“Ok, bitch, go wait for me at the corner.  Gotta go drain my hog.”

 

With that, the Trucker turned abruptly away, heading to the bathroom.  Still blinking and gulping with lust, Derek headed for the door, still stunned at his luck.  Holy fucking shit, that stud was gonna cum in his ass tonight; he could scarcely believe his luck.

 

Once outside, he was hit by a sudden breeze, making him regret he’d left his jacket in his room; first glancing down at his phone, Derek saw that it was a quarter past one on Saturday morning, then, looking up, saw that the overcast sky had cleared—a cold front had come through.

 

Things were gonna be cooling off overnight, he thought, heading towards the appointed corner for the rendezvous—never realizing that one of those things was gonna be his corpse.

 

Derek’s thick bootheels echoed loudly on the empty pavement; as full as the bar was, there was no one out here.  Literally no one—he couldn’t even see anyone at the corner.  Fearing that the huge, muscle-bound stud had found someone better and bailed on him, the young man hurried his steps.

 

Rounding the corner, he saw the hot alpha standing about halfway down the block; Derek’s relief was so great that he found himself babbling as he approached the dude.  “Hey, man,” he called out, “I’m in the fourth building down on the right.  Not my real place, a’course; I’m in town on a construction job.  Company I work for put us up in this shitty fleabag…”

 

The Trucker maintained an icy silence on the way to the run-down building, letting the boymeat pour out his story.  It didn’t matter; what mattered what getting the motherfucker’s ass to grip the Trucker’s enormous tool, and that meant torturing and killing this young man.

 

Kid was well-built, though.  Looked tough—not jacked, but strong and sinewy.  Cunt was gonna take some killin’…

 

The building turned out to be a seven-story walkup; the kid’s room was on the sixth floor.  The climb sapped some of Derek’s enthusiasm—well, at any rate, it shut him up until they actually reached the right floor.

 

The landing was halfway down a single corridor running the length of the building; it was lined with doors on each side.  At the far left end, a flickering exit sign over a window hinted at the presence of a fire escape beyond.  Derek indicated the battered door at the far right end. “That’s the bathroom, dude, if ya need to go—like I said, it’s SRO.  Don’t even have a private bathroom.”

 

Derek’s room was to the left, away from the bathroom; in fact, it was the next-to-last on the end, to the right, overlooking the rear of the building.  Room 602.

 

The room was tiny, no more than two hundred square feet, if that.  To the right was a double bed, frame and mattress only.  The fitted sheet was still in place but the flat sheet and a thin microfiber blanket were tangled on top, with a single pillow tossed in.

 

To the immediate left of the door was a small closet; its door was closed, but just beyond it was an armchair with a pair of stained jeans draped over it.  On top of the jeans sat a neon-yellow hardhat.  Under the chair was what looked like a wadded-up t-shirt, nest to another pair of workboots—lace-up and very soiled.  Beyond the chair, in the far corner, was a white porcelain pedestal sink, badly chipped, with rust stains trailing from the tap.  Above the sink, a plastic medicine cabinet with a mirrored door—also chipped—had been tacked unsteadily to the wall.  The far wall, to the left of the bed, had a decent sized window with a three-drawer dresser under it.

 

The window seemed to be painted shut, which was unfortunate—the room was stiflingly hot.  A tiny steam radiator next to the sink was giving off visible waves of heat.

 

“Wow,” Derek said as they entered the room, “Fuck.  Sorry about the temperature, man, I don’t control the heat and I can’t open the fucking window.  Oh, and the clothes—haven’t made it to the laundry yet, heh.”  So saying, the buff young man opened the closet door.  Tossing his cap onto the chair, he peeled his blue t-shirt off of his smooth, lithe torso, balled up it and threw it in.

 

Closing the door, he turned back to the Trucker, revealing strawberry-blond hair, wide blue eyes, a long straight nose and full, almost pouting lips.  Below the nose, a dirty blond mustache, barely more than peach fuzz, covered his upper lip. His chest was broad and his pectorals large; even though the Trucker was taller and much more powerful, Derek had the muscled body of a construction worker.

 

Standing in front of the towering alpha he’d brought home, the kid was well aware that he was still physically outclassed by the anonymous stud.  How badly outclassed he truly was did not become clear to him until later.

 

Slipping off his jacket, the Trucker handed it to Derek.  “Here, boy, hang it up,” he demanded, “And treat it right or I’ll take the damage outta yer hide.”  The punk shuddered with pleasure at the deep tone of command in the Trucker’s voice; it made his cock throb.  The wet spot on his jeans continued to grow.

 

The Trucker noticed and grinned.  This pig was already primed.  As the boy searched for an appropriate hanger for the leather bomber jacket, the older man quickly removed his own cap and t-shirt, placing them on the small dresser.  He’d already retrieved his cigarettes and lit one up by the time Derek came out and closed the closet door.

 

The room was warm and steamy; the smoke hung heavily in the air.  “Hey!” Derek squawked, “They don’t allow smoking in—”

 

“Strip, faggot!” the Trucker barked menacingly.  “Get it all off—now!”

 

The boy flinched as if he’d been struck; his jaw fell open with shock.  “I-I just—”

 

“NOW, goddammit!  Or I’ll fuckin’ rip those jeans off with my bare hands!”

 

Leaning against the wall, Derek bent one leg and slowly reached down to slip the well-worn boot off, his foot encased in a white tube sock inside.  He never took his eyes off the Trucker, entranced with the alpha’s toned, furry chest, glistening with sweat, with a gleaming pair of dogtags dead center.  The hard, muscled physique, the intimidating, threating manner—it all turned the closeted bottom pig on.  He had to obey; his pulsing dick insisted on it.

 

As the well-built youth unbuttoned the waistband of his jeans, the Trucker took another drag from his Marlboro and exhaled. Letting the smoke hang lazily in the humid, overheated air, his cold eyes appraised Derek’s smooth, strong body.  The kid didn’t need to work out; it was part of his daily job, and it showed.

 

Gearing up his courage, the kid tried another request.  “Man, go gentle with me, willya?  See, none of the dudes I work with know that I—well, that I…”

 

“That yer a cumsuckin’ faggot who want manmeat shoved up his ass?” the Trucker sneered.

 

Derek swallowed and dropped his jeans.  Nude but for the pair of white tube socks that went almost to his knees, the boy stood revealed to the alpha stud, including his thick fat cock—six inches of oozing dick already jutting proudly from a curly nest of sand-colored pubes.

 

Even as the head of his shaft swung free, drizzling precum on the floor, Derek was explaining himself.  “Well, it’s just that…I, I really don’t have much experience…” he cleared his throat nervously, “I—I just don’ wanna make too much noise, y’know?”

 

The Trucker said nothing in reply; he just unzipped his fly and pulled his cock out.  As usual, it took a bit to free the entire rod from its tight denim confines; Derek’s eyes got wider and wider as more dick kept coming out.  He opened his mouth to protest, but couldn’t get anything coherent out.

 

“Quit oinkin’, pigboy—get over here,” the older man snapped.  Derek moved forward, stepping out of the jeans that were on the floor around his ankles.  The sexy young laborer, his smooth skin glittering with beads of sweat, reached out and ran his fingers across the Trucker’s hubcap pecs, feeling the older stud’s chest fur rasp in his hands like steel wool.

 

Annoyed, the Trucker knocked his hands away just as they reached the dogtags.  Instead of taking the hint, the lust-fueled youth placed his hands on the alpha’s biceps and fondled them as the bulged.  He didn’t get long to enjoy them, though.

 

“I didn’t tell ya you could touch me, cunt, did I?” the Trucker growled and backhanded Derek across the face—not hard; just enough to split his lip.

 

Holding his face, the punk fell to the floor, stunned.  He wanted rough sex from a rough top; he didn’t mind getting slapped around some—but how the fuck was he gonna explain this in the morning?  He’d have to tell the rest of the crew he’d gotten mugged…

 

“Lick my boots, ya fuckin’ homo!”  The command slashed through Derek’s hormone-muddled mind; his dick swelled in response—and again, his bottom pig nature took over.  Before he’d followed his idea to its logical excuse of mugging, his tongue was scraping across the raw leather of the dominant hunk’s workboots.

 

Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, he slowly worked his way along the left boot.  Suddenly, his head was clamped in a crushing grip and pulled up.  “Enough, slut; get yer fag face to work on the other!”  This time, though, the Trucker took pleasure in grinding the boy’s face into the rough surface of the upper.  Derek cried out, his hands grasping upwards, reaching around the top’s massive thighs, trying to free himself from the aggressive manhandling.  It felt like he was trying to uproot a thickly-knotted tree trunk, and the result was identical.

 

Then he was jerked backwards so fast he got dizzy.  “Get on my dick, faggot!” the Trucker grunted—and suddenly Derek found his mouth full of manmeat; his already-burning cheeks swelling as the alpha’s enormous, vein-wrapped hog was crammed down his throat, sliding down on a lube of streaming precum.  “Yeah, boy!” the aggressive sadist jeered, “Yer eyes waterin’ yet, huh?  Gag on my fuckin’ cock, ya homo piece of shit!”

 

On his knees with his own erect cock slapping against his belly, Derek clutched frantically at the Trucker’s boots, trying to hold on as the cruel hard-bodied top throatfucked him brutally.  At one point, he reached up and grabbed the Trucker’s wrists in an attempt to pry himself away from the crushing grip on his head.

 

And yes, his eyes were watering, badly.  They were leaking almost as much as his dick; in fact, his whole face was leaking as he gagged and coughed up white foamy drool around the enormous, vein-wrapped shaft that was reaming his esophagus.  He couldn’t breathe right; at the tempo he was being skullfucked, he couldn’t catch his breath.  He was choking—in the dim, buzzing, background, he could hear the alpha’s malign chuckles…

 

Then, suddenly, he was free.  The huge tube of hard, throbbing flesh was withdrawn from his throat and Derek was able to take a deep breath that instantly led to a wracking fit of coughing.  He crouched on the floor, hacking and drooling onto the Trucker’s boots.

 

“Yer a worthless facefuck, cunt,” the dominant sadist snapped viciously.  “What, you been suckin’ off little kids?  Damn sure can’t take a real man’s cock, can ya, ya little fag?”

 

By this point, Derek had recovered enough to speak.  “M-man, I d-don’t do th-this much,” he coughed.  ‘My homies on the crew don’t know I like dick—they’d probably beat the shit outta me if they found out.”

 

The Trucker laughed aloud.  “So the dude sleepin’ next door don’t know yer gettin’ fucked over here, huh?”

 

“I-I ain’t gotten fucked here yet,” Derek muttered.

 

The Trucker’s grin grew even more sharklike.  “Get up on that bed, cocksucker and put yer ass up in the air.  Time to christen your shitty little room, boy.  Get up there, cunt; I’m gonna ream yer ass like I’m drillin’ for oil!”

 

Lust and anxiety flowed through the well-built young construction worker; this stud’s words were making him so hard it hurt—but he knew that that pain was nothing compared to what he’d endure when the alpha shoved that massive hog up his tender ass.  “D-dude, I…I dunno, man—I dunno if I can keep quiet if you stick that thing in me…”

 

“Don’t worry, bitch,” the Trucker said steadily, “I’ll make sure you don’t make too much noise.  I got ways of keepin’ my fucktoys quiet.”  As Derek climbed onto the bed and swept aside the rumpled bedding, the Trucker noticed a power strip on the floor near the head of the bed with a phone charger plugged into it. He noted its location just before the eager young pig shoved the pillows off onto it.

 

Once the bed was clear of everything but the fitted sheet, Derek moved to the center.  Crouching on his hands and knees, he raised his ass in the air, like a cat, presenting himself for mounting.  “Go slow stickin’ it in, dude,” he said hoarsely, wriggling the smooth globes of his bubble butt, letting the dim light from the wall sconce shimmer on the barely-visible peach fuzz.

 

“What the fuck do ya think yer doin’?” the Trucker barked angrily.  “You ain’t earned my dick yet, cunt; get over here and pull my boots off.  Now, you cumsuckin’ faggot!”

 

 

Blushing furiously, the muscled youth quickly scrambled off the bed.  Sitting at the foot of the mattress, the Trucker raised his left leg, shoving his boot at the punk.  Derek grabbed the rough leather upper of the Ariat Workhog boot, still moist with his own saliva, and jerked, hard.

 

With an angry grunt, the Trucker swung up his right foot, kicking the boy, planting his steel toe  in Derek’s ribcage—not hard enough to do any real damage, but more than enough to bruise the kid’s tender flesh and cause him pain.

 

“Treat my boots with respect, cunt, or I’ll use ‘em to grind yer faggot face into hamburger.  Ya hear me, boy?”

 

Derek knelt on the scarred wood floor, head down.  He was terrified that the Trucker’s deep, commanding bass had penetrated the thin walls and woken Angelo in the next room.  Fuck, if Angelo heard this, everyone would know…

 

…after all, the blue collar bottom had already found that the top’s voice had penetrated to the root of his cock.  It was pulsing even faster and oozing even more—especially when the Trucker barked again.

 

“Goddammit, you little slut, do you fuckin’ hear me?  Answer me, you homo asswipe, or I’m gonna break yer fuckin’ jaw!”

 

“Y-yessir,” Derek whispered, trembling with a combination of fear and lust.  The mixture was not unfamiliar to a closeted faggot whose every sexual encounter was tainted with fear of exposure, but never as intense as now.  Gingerly, he reached out and grasped the Trucker’s boot.

 

It took him a couple of minutes to gently remove both of them.  Once he did, the Trucker stood, looming over the working-class stud.  He unfastened the button on the waistband of his jeans before speaking.  “Pull ‘em down, bitch.”

 

Derek obeyed immediately, grasping the rough denim in his hands and jerking down, feeling the fur on the alpha’s legs brushing against sensitive undersides of his forearms.  When they reached the ground and the Trucker stepped out of them, the older man deliberately twisted his waist so that his enormous cock smacked the boy in the face, streaking his handsome, youthful face with precum.

 

“Ok, faggot,” the Trucker sneered, “Get back up there—on yer fuckin’ back, ya stupid bitch.  If ya don’t work my dick right, I may still hafta break yer jaw.”

 

Again, Derek’s compliance was instinctual—as was the sexual thrill that ran through him at the taunts from the incredibly well-built top.  No one had ever abused him like this—not this viciously, at any rate—and he didn’t understand his own physical response.

 

Nor did he try to.  All he consciously knew was that this hulking stud scared the shit outta him—and that he’d never wanted another dude up his ass so bad.  He scurried eagerly onto the bed.

 

Then the boy rolled onto his back and spread his legs in the air, his hands gripping the back of his knees for support.  The Trucker moved to the foot of the bed; from here, he had a perfectly-aligned view of the kid’s pink, pulsating fuckhole.  Directly above was the youth’s large, puckered scrotum, hanging down from a bush of sandy hair.  Rising above all this, Derek’s thick cock stood erect and oozing between his firm, smooth thighs.

 

Nude except for his calf-high white tube socks—just like the kid—the Trucker positioned himself on the bed, just between the boy’s inner thighs.  He pressed the huge, dripping head of his cock against Derek’s trembling sphincter, pushing forward with very slight pressure.  The closeted slut felt it and moan faintly.

 

“Gimme yer phone charger,” the Trucker demanded abruptly.

 

Derek raised his head and blinked in confusion.  “My what?”

 

“Yer charger, ya stupid fag—on the floor beside you.  Reach down and grab it and hand it to me now or I’m gonna fuck you up.”

 

It was an awkward angle for Derek to reach while still lying on his back, but he knew he had to obey the commanding top.  Contorting his hard, buff body, the young stud managed to grasp the cord and yank it free from the power strip.  With a relieved grunt, he straightened and centered himself back on the mattress, tossing the cord at the Trucker, who caught it and laid it to the side, within easy reach.

 

“Dude, what’s that for?  You gonna tie me up?  I ain’t never—”

 

The kid didn’t manage to finish before the Trucker lunged forward and bitchslapped him hard across the face.  Derek gasped as his head rocketed to the side.  “Worthless piece a’ shit!” the Trucker snarled.  “I told ya to hand it to me, cocksucker, not throw it at me!  You don’t know yer place, boy.  Time I taught it to ya.”  With that, he swept his strong arm the other direction, backhanding Derek hard enough to split his lower lip.

 

The once-eager whelp cried out and clutched his face.  Withdrawing one hand, he looked at the blood on it from his lip.  “Fuck, man, what are ya doin’?!  I gotta work in the fuckin’ mornin’, dude, I can’t go lookin’ like I rolled in a goddam alley!  Stop hittin’—”

 

His protest was crushed into a wheezing grunt as the Trucker punched him in the solar plexus.

 

For thirty seconds, Derek thought he was dying.  He couldn’t breathe.  No matter what he did, he couldn’t inhale.  When he finally could, he came up off the bed with a loud frantic gasp, only to be met by another line-drive blow from his assailant.  The Trucker’s fist slammed into the kid’s hard, broad pec on the left side with a loud smacking sound.  The violent impact knocked the flailing punk back down flat on the bed.

 

“Yeah, keep fightin’ me, ya stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker sneered, “That’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my tool.”  Grabbing Derek around his narrow waist, he rammed the cunt’s ass all the way down on his dick like a sex toy.  His shaft ground so deeply into the youth’s colon that their pubic hairs entwined.

 

Derek had been unprepared—not that he could have actually prepared himself for that massive rod, but his entire body had clenched up during the assault, including his sphincter.  The alpha’s cock almost literally tore him a new asshole, splitting the rectal lining excruciatingly on the way in.

 

The Trucker could see it in the bitch’s eyes before it actually happened.  “Keep quiet and take my dick, whore, or I’ll hurt you so fuckin’ bad, ya useless—”

 

Derek squealed like a pig getting its throat cut—as the sadistic alpha had known he would.

 

“I warned ya, meat,” the Trucker chuckled with evil glee, “Gotta learn to obey me, asswipe, so here’s yer first lesson.”  This was accompanied by a roundhouse punch straight from the shoulder.

 

The blow connected with Derek’s jaw, snapping it like a wishbone.  The lesson was well-learned; the boy’s ability to scream was severely hampered by the agonizing pain of trying to open his mouth.  The punk’s large dark eyes were wide and tear filled; the uncomprehending expression on his face show how stunned he was by the sudden, brutal attack.

 

The Trucker laughed aloud as he felt the blow reverberate along the punk’s buff, taut body, right down through his guts to his rectum.  “Fuck, I could feel that one in my cock,” he sneered cruelly, “Ya musta really liked that, huh?  Yeah?  Then yer just gonna fuckin’ love what else I got planned for ya, homo fuckmeat!”

 

Derek snapped into a fight-or-flight mode; between his broken jaw and torn colon, his body issued an instinctive directive to get away.  From stunned paralysis, the hard-bodied construction worker exploded into frenetic flailing, like a trapped animal.

 

The Trucker had expected a burst of feral violence at some point—more than one, most likely—but despite his experience, this one took him by surprise.  The meat’s hands came up scrambling and clawing like a cat; the alpha managed to jerk his head up out of reach, but the boy’s hands raked viciously across his torso, scraping his rough, wiry chest hair, even as his smooth but strong legs drew up, trying to get his up knees under his assailant and push him off.

 

It was a bad move.  Derek had a fantastic build thanks to his employment—one of the reasons he’d never had any real problems in any of his previous anonymous hookups was that he was obviously strong enough to take care of himself—but he was no match for the Trucker.  All he’d succeeded in doing was pissing off the older and much more powerful alpha.

 

“Worthless faggot,” the Trucker grunted, catching the kid’s right arm as it came up against his chest.  In a single, swift motion, the highly-experienced sadist wrapped his left arm around the boy’s right, and jerking violently enough to cause his massive bicep to flex and bulge, the Trucker bent the cunt’s elbow backwards at a forty-five degree angle.  There was a loud cracking, popping sound as the joint was destroyed, accompanied by a high-pitched squealing sound from the agonized fuckpig.

 

Poor Derek still couldn’t open his mouth to scream.  Some normal part of the unfortunate punk was terrified; he wasn’t going to be able to call for help.  Some closeted part of him was glad that no one would hear his shame.

 

And way down deep, some pig part of him reveled in it, and made his dick even harder.

 

The Trucker noticed.

 

“Yeah, I thought so,” he muttered contemptuously as he reached down and picked up the phone charger, leaning back in such a way that his enormous cock probed even further into his victim’s intestines.  Wrapping the cord around his left hand and grabbing the transformer in the right he pulled them apart easily.  He was just about to toss the transformer to the side when Derek’s low, keening moans suddenly escalated in pitch.  The punk was coming out of his semi-conscious state and responding to the pain.

 

“Still haven’t learned to keep yer fuckin’ trap shut, ya stupid little fuck?” the Trucker growled.  “Goddam, guess I gotta beat it into ya, then—only way yer gonna learn, right?”

 

Despite the red fog of agony clouding his mind, Derek heard and understood every word.  He couldn’t understand what had happened; all he’d done was sneak out to the local gay bar to he could get a good buttfuck on the DL.  He was getting it all right, but it came at a terrible and utterly unexpected price.  Even though he understood the threat in the Trucker’s voice, he couldn’t control his reaction to the nightmarish pain.  His screech got louder…

 

…until it was halted by a loud, wet, crunchy smack, the sound of the Trucker smashing his nose to a pulp, the older man’s fist still gripping the transformer from the cord.  Derek, grunting and gurgling, bit through his tongue on impact, as some lucid part of his mind noted the way his own hard dick was slapping moistly against his torturer’s furry, ripped belly.  Opening his swollen eyes, the naïve youth dazed and blurred vision focused on the glittering reflection of dogtags in front of his face, dancing with the alpha’s thrusts.  Somehow, the hypnotic jerking glint, coinciding as it did with the sensation of excruciating impalement, made him sink down and accept the pain as inevitable.

 

“Yer fuckhole’s gettin’ loose, cunt,” the Trucker snarled, seeing Derek’s eyes glaze, “How bad am I gonna hafta hurt ya to tighten yer ass up?”  The boy was so deep in his pain-induced reverie that he didn’t even flinch as the Trucker’s broad fist rocketed towards his face again.

 

This time, his left cheekbone snapped.  The boy coughed up spit, bloody from his bitten tongue, that ran down his faintly-stubbled cheek.  His body thrashed at the impact, but fell back limply afterwards.

 

“Holy fuckin’ shit, you really are a worthless waste of fuckmeat,” the Trucker muttered ominously.  “Hard-bodied little faggot twink like you shouldn’t be worn out this fast.”  Every punch he’d thrown had been with the cord’s transformer adding heft to his already-large fist; he now tossed it aside and instead the cord itself was wrapped around both hands, leaving about eighteen inches between.  “I had plans, asswipe.  I was gonna do things to ya you couldn’t’a dreamed of in yer worst fuckin’ nightmares.  I was gonna put you in pain so bad the thought of escaping it into death alone woulda made ya cum.  Now, I’m just gonna put ya down like a dog.  I’m gonna make those firm thrashing muscles of yers into dead twitchin’ meat, just so yer convulsions jack me off.  Hear me, ya useless cunt?  Time to die.”

 

Leaning forward, he wrapped the cord around Derek’s throat and pulled it tight and hard, sinking it deeply into the punk’s neck.  This was no playful squeeze; the kid’s esophagus was instantly crushed shut, cutting off his air immediately.

 

Derek’s mental retreat from pain had been successful; even as his body responded, his mind had been protected.  The instant cessation of oxygen broke the spell; the sudden wave of agony—still inexplicable mixed with lust—would have put him into shock had not the basic need to survive suddenly become imperative.

 

So he had to endure his pounded, smashed face.  He had to endure the searing, slashing pain from the huge, vein-wrapped cock rammed deep into his guts.  He had to endure the grinding, glassy pain in his elbow that made his right arm useless.  And now, he was having to endure strangulation.  He had to get away.  Somehow, he had to get up off this dude’s dick and out of this room.  It didn’t matter what the guys on the crew thought, they could laugh at him, they could spit at him, they could piss on him, as long as they saved him from this psycho…

 

The Trucker recognized the glint of panicked consciousness in the kid’s eyes.  Grinning, he spat into the slut’s battered and almost unrecognizable face.  “Yeah, that’s it.  Yer gonna die, homo, yeah?  Ya like that?  Yer dick sure does, cocksucker, haw!”

 

Giving the cord another jerk, he managed to compress the meat’s neck by another inch and a half in circumference. The appearance was almost grotesque as the youth’s smooth skin puckered and wrinkled at the point that the cord had sunk in; the cord itself was no longer visible.

 

Beneath the alpha, the buff young construction worker was already starting to writhe and sweat in extreme bodily distress.  The Trucker himself, already exuding heady mansweat from the effort involved in snuffing strong young meat, found his victim’s smooth body sliding around under him as if lubed.  The boy’s cock felt like a long hot iron rod, pressed between the grunting, shuddering male bodies.

 

“Yer startin’ to get it, cunt,” the Trucker jeered, “Ya feelin’ me?  Ya feelin’ my cock, yeah?  Ya feelin’ me choke yer worthless fuckin’ life out, yeah?  Yer crew—they’re gonna find ya fucked and murdered like the fuckin’ faggot cockpig ya are, cunt.  Everyone’s gonna know, bitch—everyone!”

 

Derek was sinking slowly into brain death but wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t process his killer’s taunts.  In despair, he realized that it was true—he was gonna be found raped to death if he didn’t manage to get out of this…

 

A last spark of lust for life flared up in the dick-filled musclemeat.  His firm, smooth legs wrapped around his assailant’s thrusting waist and his left arm batted desperately but ineffectually at the Trucker’s head.  But it was too little, too late, and the face of the dying fuckmeat made it obvious.  The cunt’s tongue, black and swollen, had painfully pushed aside the broken jaw and was protruding with a fount of foamy drool that cascaded down his chin.  The large dark eyes bulged from the sockets, the expression of terror amplified by the petechial hemorrhages that stained the whites red.

 

“Almost there, faggot,” the Trucker muttered as he hunched over and pressed his heavy, hard body down on the thrashing youth.  “Work it out, homo, work the cum outta my shaft.  Here, meat, time to go.  Time to die, faggot.”

 

With a loud grunt, the powerful alpha tightened his arms to the point that veins popped out on his bugling muscles.  He pulled so hard that the cord actually snapped, but before it did, there was a distinct crunching sound as the cumsucker’s esophagus collapsed.  His airway was permanently blocked by a mass of shattered cartilage.

 

The last flicker of Derek’s consciousness heard and felt his throat getting crushed.  Then his eyes rolled back and the death throes started.  All the Trucker had to do was grab hold of the corpse and ride it like a bucking bronco.

 

The dead kid was strong and healthy; his balls were full.  As he died, he emptied them all over his killer, himself and the bed.  For every boiling spurt of seed the Trucker unloaded into the meat’s guts, the meat responded with a thick, ropy jet that splattered into the alpha’s chest fur, or shot between them to splash against the wall, viscous pearly drops raining back down onto the entwined males.

 

It seemed to take several minutes, filling the room with gasping and grunting, the sounds of bodies slapping together, the smell of sweat and seed and lust.  The alpha held onto the meat until his scrotum was empty and he’d filled the dead kid with spunk.

 

With a quick movement, he pulled out of the corpse and got off the bed.  Reaching for his smokes, he lit one up and looked down at the body.  Derek was lying on his back with his legs apart.  At some point in his death struggle, he’d kicked off his left sock; his right one was still on but twisted down to the ankle.   Between the splayed legs a trickle of bloody semen leaked from his mangled ass.  The youth’s hard, smooth body, covered with glistening sweat, trembled violently on the bed, each spasm forcing another bead of cum from the slowly-softening cock.

 

Up to the neck, the body looked like that of a sleeping stud—ignoring the grotesque angle of the right arm—but halfway up, the throat was constricted to a gruesome point.  Above that point, the resemblance to the attractive young construction worker who’d slunk furtively into the bar an hour ago was utter non-existent.  His face was puffy and dark; his head looked—appropriately enough—like a punching bag.

 

Grinning, the Trucker knocked his ash into the sink in the corner, the smoke adding to the steamy haziness, as he gloated over his latest kill.  Stupid little faggot.  Taking another drag, he felt his amused contempt grow—and his cock.  Striding over to the warm, soft shuddering boymeat, the Trucker plunged his still-erect shaft into the meat’s mouth.  The broken jaw helped him shove the swollen tongue aside with his pulsing tube of manflesh, his precum acting as lube as he forced his way into the dead fag’s throat.

 

Taking one last hit off his cigarette, he ground it out on the meat’s forehead, grasping the corpse by its ruined throat as he skullfucked it.  Still keyed up after the snuff, it only took about a dozen strokes of his shaft, probing the mangled windpipe until his swollen purple head fitted snugly into the shattered remains of his larynx, spat another hot thick wad.  The Trucker grunted deeply as a second and third load shot from him, backing up in the enclosed space until it flooded out the youth’s nostrils.  With one last gasp, the powerful alpha let his powerful body collapse onto the dead boy as he came, feeling the youth’s deathload smearing onto his chest.

 

Finally, spent, the older man withdrew from the twitching corpse, now completely filled with his rank manseed.  Feeling the need to clean himself, he looked at the sink with disgust—then sat at the foot of the bed and slipped his boots on, before standing and opening the door.

 

The bathroom, he remembered, was at the far end of the hall.  Some part of him, reckless and still horny, defied caution and made him step out into the hallway.  The tread of his boots echoed loudly on the wood floor as he strode confidently down the hallway, his massive shaft swinging freely and splattering drops of cum over the floor as well as the Trucker’s boot tops.

 

Reaching the bathroom, he looked around at the dingy facilities in disgust, quickly washing off with a stained towel in lukewarm water.  He paced quickly back to the murder room, never noticing that one door on the hall was opened to just a crack—wide enough for a curious eye to peer out.

 

“He was a big dude,” Ray, the occupant of the room, later told detectives.  “No one on the crew, I can tell ya that—we’d love to have someone that strong workin’ for us.  No, I didn’t see his face.  But damn, man, he was built.”  The CSI team found lots of pubic hairs and skin scrapings under the corpse’s nail, but the state of the corpse was a topic of contempt and derision among Derek’s co-workers for months.

 

Ray had actually fallen asleep by the time the Trucker had dressed, so he never say the killer leave.  The killer had gotten a meal, a brief nap, and refill of gas before the corpse was found, and was back on the highway long before cops arrived on the scene.

Trucker 10–Trucker v Birthday Boi

It was a Friday night, so of course the bar was full.  Dylan was thrilled—he knew, naturally, that it wasn’t all for him, but it still made him feel good.  The crowded bar wasn’t the only thing that was making him feel good; he’d already slammed three beers and smoked a joint before he’d left the house.  He was primed for a party.

 

Specifically, his eighteenth birthday party.

 

Legally, he never should have been let in the door, but he’d been selling weed inside the bar for over a year by a simple expedient—going to into the back with Don, the owner, and letting the older man bend him over his desk and fuck his ass.  He’d had a free pass ever since, even being allowed to buy alcohol, as long as Don got to plow his hole on occasion.

 

Tonight, Don was out.  That was fine with Dylan.  Even though he was attracted to older men, Don was a duty fuck.  Tonight, the boy wanted fun.  He wanted a real man.

 

Dylan had plenty of cash—he was also the main (but not the only) pot dealer for the county high school.  And looking around, he could see some of his classmates at the bar and another one on the dance floor.  He knew them; they’d gotten in with fake IDs.  Unless they wanted to buy some smoke, they left him alone and vice versa—they all already knew he wasn’t into twinks, despite being such a beautiful one himself.

 

Dylan was well-built and almost exactly six feet tall.  He had dark brown hair of moderate length.  It was styled in silky waves over his forehead, almost obscuring the long lashes surrounding his large dark brown eyes.

 

Since he wanted to be the center of attention on his birthday, he sported a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, white, with the famous logo across the chest.  It was thin, worn cotton, two sizes too small—it fitted his torso like a second skin, making obvious the twink’s large pecs, flat belly and hard, erect nipples.

 

Under the t-shirt, his legs were displayed in a pair of basic Adidas basketball shorts, black with red strips.  Long, slightly furred calves descended into a pair of ped socks, almost invisible deep inside his red Nike Jordan Horizon hightops.

 

Dylan had always looked younger than his age; even now, based on his appearance, most people thought he was no older than sixteen.  The Asian ideograms tattooed down the inside of his lower left arm (he had no idea what they meant, if anything; he just thought they were cool) and the small solid gold hoops in his pierced ears only added to the confusion regarding his age.

 

He didn’t complain, though—he could get laid anytime he wanted, by any guy he wanted; his model-like looks guaranteed his ability to pick and choose.  Shame he had no better place to bestow his charms than this dive; the highway nearby had a truck stop which lured in a few eligible prospects, but otherwise Dylan knew all the regulars—and wanted nothing to do with them.  He already knew he was too good for them.  But it was a Friday night and the pickings could be good.  He’d just have to see what showed up.

 

He didn’t have to wait long.  He’d already downed three rum and cokes at the bar before crossing back to the dance floor when he noticed the stud who’d just walked in the door—and froze.  It only took a single glance for the teen fag to realize that this dude would be the perfect birthday gift to himself.

 

As tall and well-built as Dylan was, this hot motherfucker was even taller and more buff.  Obviously a dominant alpha, the stud strolled in with a wide-legged stance that bespoke a massive set of tackle between his legs.

 

The older man wore a dark blue sleeveless t-shirt that emphasized not only his incredibly-sculpted chest but also his thick, bulging biceps.  His tight, faded jeans were worn so thin that the head of his huge cock was clearly outlined in his crotch.

 

The jeans were tucked inside a pair of dust-yellow construction boots.  Left laced but untied, the uppers, with a black leather band around the cuff, came halfway up the calves of the undeniably arousing stranger.

 

The stranger’s face seemed to be covered with a dark, wiry scruff, but it was hard to make out under his cap—a black trucker’s cap, mesh in the back with a solid fabric front and the word “Rogue” embroidered on it.

 

He already knew—this was it.  Dylan had decided that he was gonna have this hot fucking alpha inside him before the night was out.  Wasting no time, he struck out across the dance floor, anxious to hit the stud up before anyone else could.

 

For his part, the Trucker had already taken notice of the hot young slut.  Most of the dudes in the bar were in jeans and t-shirts or short sleeve button downs; there were a lot of caps and boots.  A few twinks writhed and undulated on the dance floor in skinny jeans and expensive kicks—but none of them stood out like the teen punk heading towards him.

 

And that was good.  It’d been a couple of weeks since he’d last had the chance to vent his sexual anger; even now, the thought of how the last meat had twitched and quivered as its life was choked out with a wallet chain made him horny.

 

The alpha killer was primed and ready to blow; all he needed was suitable prey—and that difficulty seemed to be surmounted already.  He stared down at the boy as the latter strutted towards him; the kid clearly thought he was hot shit.

 

“Hey, man,” the cocky teen drawled, posing with one hip jutted forward.  “It’s my birthday—I turn eighteen at midnight—and I deserve somethin’ special.  Whaddaya say—I’ll get us a room at that place down the street and you can plow my ass.  Think you can do that?”

 

The Trucker glared down at the arrogant little fucker, a slight smirk on his face—which actually took some control.  Jesus, this stupid twink bitch needed to be put down hard; just the thought of teaching the teenaged faggot his proper place made the cruel stud’s dick pulse and throb.

 

And his jeans were so tight, it was obvious.

 

Dylan saw it and blinked.  Fuck, the dude must be almost literally hung like a horse, the way his trouser snake—trouser python—wriggled in his crotch and down his leg.  And his own cock responded in kind, visibly tenting the groin of his black athletic shorts.  The boy’s lust was obvious, painting a bright gleam in his dark, nearly liquid eyes.

 

“I can do that, bitch,” the Trucker said in a low, cold monotone.

 

Suddenly cowed, Dylan found that he couldn’t look the stud in the face.  His eyes were naturally drawn to glinting reflections on the older man’s massive chest.  Keeping his gaze on them—they appeared to be dog tags—he stuttered, “O-ok, ma-man, let’s g-go.  I’ll, uh, I’ll get us room at the Shamrock Inn next door.”  Gulping deeply, he glanced up at the towering stud’s face, as if seeking approval.

 

The Trucker remained still, not moving a muscle.

 

“Ya-ya w-wanna go?” the punk quavered.

 

The alpha chuckled deeply, a bass note that vibrated along the root of Dylan’s dick.  “Ok, boy, I’ll bang yer boycunt if that’s what ya need.  Go get the room, faggot; I’m gonna grab a brew.”  And with that, the Trucker strode across the dance floor towards the bar, his hulking, powerful form parting the twinks like a bull moving through tall grass.

 

Staring after him, Dylan’s breath hitched with erotic anticipation.  His dick was pulsing in his shorts; he could already feel the precum oozing from the tip.  He headed out of the bar and crossed the gritty acre of asphalt that served both the bar and the motel as a parking lot.

 

Despite his drunkenness, the handsome young slut managed to successfully navigate the litter-strewn expanse.  He entered the dingy office and greeted the wizened old Indian clerk like an old acquaintance, as indeed he was.  “You again?” the old man asked in a clipped British accent.

 

“Hey, Anjit,” Dylan replied, “That one on the end open?  In the back—you know, 130?”

 

“No,” the clerk replied, “But the front wing is completely empty.”

 

“Gimme one in the middle,” the kid said, taking a moment to brush an errant lock of silky hair up out of his eyes.  “I got a live one tonight; want some privacy.”

 

The elderly Indian slid the key across the counter with an air of resigned dignity; he clearly didn’t care what Dylan had planned.

 

The teen turned to leave, but paused once he reached the door.  “Oh—and, Anjit?” he said, turning back, “I’ll probably wanna sleep in after this one.  If the lock works as bad as the one on 130, tell that stupid spic bitch that picks up the used rubbers to leave me alone, huh?  She can clean up once I check out.”

 

The clerk nodded and picked up a pen and pad of paper to note the request.  Once Dylan was out the door; Anjit put the blank, unused pad down and headed back into the rear office, already putting the transaction out of his mind.

 

After all, he’d be doing this for at least a dozen faggots on a Friday night.  He couldn’t keep track of them all and had no intention of trying.

 

The night was unusually warm for the time of year; it was very obvious to Dylan after the overly-chilled motel office.  The room was a couple of doors down on his left; as he waited, unsure of whether he should go to look for his birthday stud (and with a sudden pang of concern that perhaps he’d been dumped—not likely given his looks, he knew, but still…) when suddenly he heard the heavy measured tread of a muscular man in boots.

 

Glancing in the direction of the footsteps, he saw the hunk approaching and felt a thrill run through his groin.  Inadvertently, the Trucker had positioned himself between Dylan and the security lights of a used-car lot across the street; as a result, the hulking alpha’s phenomenal body was illuminated in silhouette, highlighting his powerful and perfectly-developed physique.

 

The well-built teen’s natural adolescent horniness had been enhanced by his chemically-altered mental state; between the bud and the booze, the punk was so ready to get laid that he could barely contain his excitement.  He gulped, then called out.  “Over here—number 103.”

 

 

Hearing the kid’s voice, the Trucker glanced up and ambled in his direction.  The room was in the front of the building, but the entire wing seemed to be virtually empty.  The vicious psycho smirked—it would do.

 

An adequate pit for slaughtering the little homo pig.

 

Dylan had already reached the room and opened the door.  Reaching in, he flicked on the light to reveal a dark and dingy room.  The towering alpha followed the twink in, shooting the deadbolt and setting the chain as the kid moved forward to turn on the bedside lamp.  More light revealed cheap worn furniture.  Cheap-ass particle board with peeling brass accents and papered veneer pocked with cigarette burns.  At least it was a matching set, the Trucker thought, and about thirty years old.

 

In his eagerness, Dylan was already turning down the thin scratchy polyester to reveal the old yellowed sheets underneath, reeking with an industrial bleach smell.  The cunt’s presumption amused the Trucker; hauling out his pack of Marlboros, he lit a smoke and wandered in to check out the bathroom.

 

His boots thumped loudly on the tile floor.  The bathroom was decrepit, with loose shower tiles and dripping taps, but it seemed to be reasonably clean.  Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink, the Trucker lowered the bill of his cap some—just enough to obscure his face, leaving only his strong, stubble-covered chin visible.

 

Walking back into the room, he saw that the bitch had stripped the bed—only the pillows and the fitted sheet remained.  The teen punk stood at the foot of bed, facing the bathroom door, massaging the extremely obvious bulge in his crotch.  The Trucker leaned in the doorway, this time with the deliberate knowledge of the impact his silhouette was having.

 

The muscled stud curled his lip.  “Strip, cunt,” he sneered, taking a drag of his cigarette, “Let’s see if yer faggot ass is worth my dick.”

 

Dylan moaned softly as peeled his Rolling Stones t-shirt off his smooth, strong torso.  His body wasn’t quite beefy enough to qualify for the football team, but it was close.  Not that Dylan was interested in football.  Football players, on the other hand…

 

“Did I stutter, bitch?” the Trucker snapped.  “I said strip.  That mean yer shorts too, boy.”  He grinned, feeling his own thick meat swelling and pulsing.  This kid liked to be dominated—that was good.  The Trucker had no problem with the thought of dominating him; his boiling rage was gonna dominate the little fucker to death.

 

Dylan dropped his shorts, freeing his thick tool to bob about and splatter precum everywhere.  Among other places, transparent drops of hot pre-ejaculate darkened the honeycomb pattern on his red Nike Jordans, all that he was left wearing.  Nude but for his footgear, the teen slut was ready and anxious to get fucked.

 

The meat’s eagerness and anticipation was obvious; the Trucker had no intention of satisfying it quickly.  The twink needed to suffer in all things, including its expectations.

 

As the kid stood trembling in front of him, the Trucker parked his smoldering butt in an ashtray on the dresser and pulled his own sleeveless T off over his head, maneuvering carefully so that his trucker cap remained placed exactly where he wanted it.  Stepping forward, he loomed over the teen by at least a good half-foot.

 

“You want my dick, faggot?” he demanded.

 

Dylan gulped, unable to catch his breath.  The Trucker’s face twisted in anger.

 

“I asked you a question, you stupid motherfucker,” he snapped and backhanded Dylan across the face, smacking the kid’s head sideways.  The young pansy gasped and moaned loudly; at the same time, his huge semi-soft cock got hard, spurting out more precum across the room before sinking back to drizzle the clear fluid on his expensive kicks.

 

The Trucker noticed—and barked out raucous laughter.  “Ya like that, do ya, faggot?  Ya like a good beatdown, you worthless cocksuckin’ fairy?  Fuck yeah, yer just the bitch I been lookin’ fer, fag—you like it rough, yeah?  Huh?  Answer me, ya queer-ass cunt!  Ya want me to ream ya like the whore ya are, right?”

 

“Yes—” Dylan had time to gasp before the Trucker unzipped his fly.  It took a bit for hulking top to excavate the entire length of his enormous, pulsating manmeat, but the teen homo’s attention was focused entirely on the spectacle unfolding in front of him.

 

The Trucker loomed before him, his massive chest darkened with wiry manfur except where the dogtags gleamed between the two huge hubcap pecs.  Below, his almost-frightening horse dick jutted proudly from the groin of the faded jeans that still clung tightly to his strong legs, bulging with muscles.  His open workboots, reaching to mid-calf, were planted wide apart in a domineering, open-legged stance.

 

“Ya want this cock, boy?  Ya think ya deserve it?” he jeered.

 

Dylan nodded blankly; he absently wiped his lips with the back of his hand—an instinctive reaction since he was utterly unaware that he’d been drooling.  His cocky young arrogance reasserted itself.  “Yeah, man, I deserve it.  Toldja it’s my birthday, didn’t I?” he slurred in drunken lust, “I deserve some nice dick on my eighteenth birthday, dude—and after all I paid for the room, yeah?”

 

The Trucker paused for tension-filled moment, picked up his smoke and found it nearly all burned to ash.  Taking a final drag, he ground it out and stepped forward.  The shadow cast by the brim of his cap cast hid the expression in his eyes, but the grim twist to his lips and the firm set of his chiseled jaw clearly showed the contempt he felt—not that Dylan was sober enough to recognize it.

 

“So ya paid for the room,” the Trucker said evenly, “So what?  Ya think ya bought me, boy, huh?  That what ya think, huh?”

 

The booze was flowing full strength through the teen’s bloodstream by this point; the beers he’d drunk before hitting the bar had been superseded by the four rum-and-cokes wannabe admirers had bought him at the bar.  Dylan had been both drinking and smoking pot for more than five years, but he was more tanked tonight than he’d been in a long time.

 

In other words, he felt both invincible and entitled.  And he was too fucked up to realize how dangerous that attitude was in his current situation.

 

“Yeah, dude, that’s what I think,” the handsome teenaged slut replied in a sarcastic tone.  “So c’mon and stick it in me, fucker.  Whaddaya waitin’ for; ya wanna give me my birthday spankings?”

 

And at that moment the Trucker straightened up, his cock suddenly starting to pulse.  Transparent beads of pre-ejaculate started to drip from the thick, mushroom-shaped head.  The cold, cruel mouth visible under the shadow on the alpha’s face curled into a malevolent grin.

 

“Yeah, cunt, that’s what ya want?  I can do that too…”

 

And with that, the Trucker stepped forward again, even closer to Dylan.  The young gay slut inhaled abruptly as the muscular alpha was suddenly within arms’ reach, an intimidating and threatening presence.  As his nostrils filled with the scent of pheromones and mansweat, laced with nicotine, the kid turned his dark eyes, the whites stained with red, up to the older hunk’s inscrutable face.

 

And that was when the Trucker’s powerful arm lashed out, diving his fist into the youth’s face and snapping his left cheekbone.

 

Dylan fell back directly onto the bed in shock.  He knew he’d been hurt badly.  Clutching the side of his face, he gaped at his attacker.  “Wh-wha—” he stuttered, the sharp pain in his cheek making it difficult to form the words.

 

“That was one,” the towering alpha sneered down at the boy cowering on the bed.  “How old didja say ya were gonna be—eighteen?  And look, it’s past midnight.  So ya got seventeen more coming, ya little sack a’ shit.  And unless you want the next one to break yer nose, ya better start gulping down my cock.  Now, faggot!”

 

Reaching out with his large, paw-like hand, the Trucker grabbed a hank of Dylan’s silky brown hair and jerk his head forward viciously.  The teen opened his mouth to cry out in pain only to find it plugged with a thick wad of throbbing flesh, oozing a stream of thick, salty fluid.  Before he knew what was happening, the monstrous tube of manmeat had been shoved past his tonsils and down his esophagus.

 

The pain in Dylan’s cheek became a piercing agony as his face was stretched out of shape; combined with the sudden cessation of oxygen as his air was cut off, the young slut was stunned both literally and metaphorically.  His birthday present was going horribly wrong and he didn’t know why or how—it made no sense, it couldn’t really be happening…

 

The Trucker knew the thoughts racing through the cunt’s sad excuse for a mind.  All these young cockpigs were the same; no concept of their own mortality until it was staring them in the face.  He chuckled deeply as he forced his enormous shaft down the punk’s throat; this evening was turning out better than it had started.

 

He’d left his rig at a truck stop on the other side of the interstate, then walked to the bar on the offhand chance of finding a decent fag on which he could work out his anger issue.  He’d actually been accosted by a hustler in the darkness of the highway underpass, a scrawny, cadaverous addict with missing teeth and a rancid odor.  He aroused nothing but disgust from the Trucker and putting the fucker’s lights out with a blow to the head didn’t provide him the vent he needed; it just served the purpose of shutting the skank up.

 

Now, though, he had this entitled, cocky-ass little fuck in his control.  Several long days in the driver’s seat had left him with a violent need to drain the built-up manseed in his balls.

 

Birthday boi was gonna suffer—bad.

 

And the worthless little fuck seemed to want to suffer.  It might simply have been a twitch in the muscles from having his jaw pried open so wide, but suddenly the Trucker could feel teeth.  And that was bad—for Dylan.

 

Using his handful of hair as a handle, he jerked the kid’s head back off his dick.  The moment his airway was clear, Dylan began gagging and coughing up his drool on the Trucker’s thick tool.    “Big mistake, you stupid motherfucker,” the muscular alpha hissed, “I guess that means you ain’t no good at givin’ head.  That means I gotta buttfuck ya to get off, cunt, huh?  Stand up.  Now, you goddam faggot!”

 

Stunned and shuddering the well-built teen climbed shakily to his feet, standing trembling at the foot of the bed.  His face was still beautiful but with his left cheek swollen and bruised, a little less perfect.  Tears leaked from his eyes and snot from his nose as he glanced up at older top.

 

Fear prevented Dylan from making eye contact with the Trucker; the cowed youth turned his gaze from the massive hog bobbing in the air in front of him, glistening with his own spit, up along the fur-covered ripples of the alpha’s buff abs.  Above that, the body hair widened out into a dark, wiry forest spread across the top’s broad chest.  In the declivity between the hubcap pecs a pair of dogtags caught both the light and Dylan’s eyes.

 

“Think yer due for another birthday bash, faggot?” the Trucker jeered.  “Need a little tenderizin’?”

 

Stunned and shocked, the twink’s attention was focused on the shiny objects; he could hear the words but the ominous meaning failed to penetrate his drug- and fear-clouded mind.  The killer noticed—unfortunately for Dylan, since it aroused his sadistic brutality.

 

“Stupid fuckin’ cunt,” he barked in rage, “Guess this’ll get yer attention!”

 

And with that, he slammed his fist into Dylan’s jaw with all the force of a train wreck, snapping it into three pieces.  The teen slut made an odd sound, a kind of gurgling shriek, and dropped like a sack of potatoes.  With a lightning-swift reflex, the Trucker reached out and snatched at the now-tousled brown hair again.  Grabbing a fistful, he pivoted and tossed the boy across the room.

 

He didn’t toss the slut at random, though. In front of the yellowed drapes covering the window was a round table flanked by armchairs; Dylan smashed into it just at waist level.  His torso smacked down onto the table, which tipped back, struck the AC unit under the window, and bounce back upright.

 

As the Trucker approached, the teenaged homo was bent over the table, chest down, quivering and helpless in agony, his legs hanging down with his red Jordan kicks just barely touching the floor.  His pink, pulsating fuckhole was clearly visible; the cruel alpha smirked as he aimed his huge dripping hog at the puckered hole in the twink’s bubble butt.

 

In a nightmarish haze of excruciating pain, Dylan clutched the edge of the table tightly, blubbering as blood trickled down his ruined chin.  Although he’d miraculously escaped losing a tooth, the slightest movement of his mouth slammed waves of agony into his head. He struggled just to maintain consciousness, barely noticing the sudden pressure on sphincter.

 

Then it wasn’t pressure anymore; it was an engorged, vein-wrapped tube of hard pulsing manflesh—and it was in him.  All the way.

 

The Trucker had thrust his cock deep into the kid’s ass, his thick precum the only lube.  The swollen purple head hadn’t hesitated at the resistance of the youth’s ass muscle; worn out with regular buttsex as it was, it still couldn’t accommodate the muscled alpha’s powerful tool.  With a faint grunt, the brutal rapist rammed his shaft home, tearing Dylan’s sphincter in two places.

 

The tsunami of sharp, glassy pain that tore through the teen’s ravaged fuckhole was too much; he passed out on the Trucker’s dick.  The sweating, heaving top spent the next few minutes pumping his shaft doggy-style into the unconscious punk’s torn and bleeding ass.

 

The hard-bodied boy awakened into the same universe of suffering that he’d left; his first sensation in the darkness of semi-consciousness was the searing pain in his torn colon and he instinctively started crying.  That triggered the second sensation—the agony of broken bone ends grinding together in his jaw.  He was forced to taper off to a faint, high-pitched keening noise.

 

Unluckily for him, the sound annoyed the Trucker.

 

“What the fuck is that, cunt?  Ya must be likin’ it, huh, faggot—yer squealin’ like a goddam pig!  If yer into that, you sick fuck, then yer gonna love this shit—check it, dude, I’m gonna make yer next birthday taps donkey punches, huh?  Bet ya know what that is; yer a stupid piece a’ shit, but yer a fucking sick-ass pansy slut too, right, boy?  You know all the disgusting homo perversions, dontcha?  Then ya know ya better buckle the fuck up, bitch, cause here it comes!”

 

Grabbing a hank of Dylan’s long (and now badly tousled) brown hair—reaching up to snatch a fistful near the forehead in front—he yanked the kid’s head back.  With no warning, he slammed his other fist like a piston into the back of the teen’s skull.

 

The idea behind a donkey punch is that the blow to the head makes the sphincter tighten.  The Trucker hadn’t actually tried it before; much to his surprise, it actually worked.  Ripped and bleeding, Dylan’s ass muscle still managed to cinch around the hairy base of the sadist’s shaft like a cock ring.

 

The stunned teen moaned as his body responded to the punch by clenching up; even his toes curled as his red Nike hightops kicked and scraped at the carpet.  Gripping the table tightly, he tried desperately to pull his head away but the alpha’s grip on his scalp was too firm; despite the horrific agony involved in moving his mouth, he began to sob and beg inarticulately, knowing that he was unable to escape the vicious assault.

 

And he was right.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, that really got yer sick homo ass off, dinnit?” the Trucker laughed cruelly, “Here—have another, birthday boi!”

 

With that, he popped the little shit in the back of head again, this time a little harder so the he was rewarded with even more tightening.  The young fag’s rectum gripped his huge vein-wrapped cock like a velvet glove, squeezing it and caressing it.  Not one to miss an opportunity, the Trucker shifted his muscular, denim-sheathed legs, planting his workboots further apart for better traction, and doubled the speed of his hard, driving buttfuck.

 

By now, Dylan was clinging to the table with his head pulled up, curled painfully backwards.  His pain-wracked face streaked with tears, his head was being violently shaken to the same tempo as his brutal assrape.  His attempts to beg had become random syllables of pain force from his mangled mouth along with a thin stream of drool, pink with blood.

 

“Shit, motherfucker, I’m gonna like puttin’ you down; I can control yer meat real good.  I don’t even need you to be alive for you jack me off, ya worthless faggot, ya hear me?”

 

Dylan heard words but no meaning; things were starting to go grey at the edges and there was a loud buzzing in his head; he welcomed the fuzziness, since it might make the pain go away…

 

The powerful, well-skilled sadist sensed he was losing his audience.  He wasn’t done with this one yet, not by a long shot.  The cruel serial killer still had a lot of rage to vent—and a lot of cum.

 

He pounded one more roundhouse into the fucker’s cranium.  The youth’s reaction was swift; he thrashed out with both arms and legs as he lost consciousness again.  The Trucker pumped the suddenly re-tightened fuckhole furiously, leaning forward, lowering his weight onto his victim’s limp form—

 

—and that was when the table gave way.  Tipping forward, it impacted the AC unit under the window hard enough to bend the metal vents out of shape; with a loud splintering sound, the circular top tore free from the metal base column.  Everything collapsed to the floor with a loud crash—top, base, the chairs on each side, and, of course, Dylan.

 

He went to the ground still impaled on the Trucker’s dick.  The experienced top had understood what was happening.  Even though it was too late to prevent it, he’d managed to turn and extend his arm, catching himself easily and breaking his fall; with his other hand, he’d caught at the boy, pivoted, and slammed him to the ground.

 

Reluctantly, though, the alpha knew he had to pull out; he needed to make a quick security check.  He’d just made a lot more noise than he liked in a public motel.  Withdrawing his long, pulsing shaft, he left Dylan slowly shuddering his way back to tortured awareness and glanced out the window from a chink in the drapes.  Nothing moved in the darkness beyond, but he still wanted to give it a minute, just to make sure everything had settled down.

 

Digging his smokes out of his pocket, he lit one and sat on the foot of the bed.  As he smoked, reassuring himself all was quiet, he could watch the meat slowly regain consciousness.  The cunt trembled and gasped before rolling over so the he now faced the bed, hid eyelids fluttering open to reveal his rolled-back eyes, white streaked with red.

 

As the kid painfully came to, the gray dimness of his vision was first pierced by a pair of bright glints of light; as he became more able to focus, he could see the dogtags buried the muscular stud’s chest fur.  Looking up, the coldly handsome face was still partially shaded by the trucker’s cap.  When he got out of the, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to ID a photo of his rapist.

 

Because he was gonna get out of this, Dylan knew; he was hurt but he wasn’t dead.  His birthday had turned into an unimaginable horror story—some deep pig part of him still wanted this violent, erotic dominant top—but the thought that he wasn’t going to survive this ordeal never seriously crossed his mind.

 

Then the Trucker spoke.

 

“That’s five, boy,” he drawled gleefully.  “It twenty past midnight, so yer, what—eighteen?  Only got thirteen more birthday beatings to go, bitch.”

 

The Trucker hit his cigarette again, exhaling in the kid’s direction as he waited for the words to sink in.  It took a bit for the youth to realize that this powerful psycho was gonna do a lot more of what he’d already done.

 

When he did realize it, the Trucker spoke again.  “Tell ya what, faggot, I’ll give ya a fair chance—you make it through yer birthday taps and I’ll let ya go.  Gotta tell ya, though, yer gonna hafta fight to survive, cause I’m gonna work ya over good—you faggot pigs feel so good when ya squeal and die on my dick.  But, hey, if ya live, ya live, and I don’t ever go back on my word.  Whaddaya say—sound like a deal?”  He ended the question with a deep, throaty chuckle.

 

The teenager’s eyes, already circled with gray rings of shock, widened in horror.  This hot, intensely masculine stud that he’d wanted so bad—the dude was gonna kill him.  He was gonna beat him and kill him.

 

Dylan panicked. Flailing wildly, he shrugged off the waves of pain from his broken jaw and began scrambling across the thin, dirty carpet towards the door on his hand and knees.  He didn’t go more than two feet before the Trucker swung out his foot.  The alpha’s powerful leg kicked forward, slamming the steel-toed workboot into the punk’s flank.

 

The kick was violent enough to flip Dylan into the air.  Smashing into the broken table, he slid to the floor, moaning in agony as the jagged ends of three broken ribs dig into his internal organs, one scraping against—but not puncturing—his lung.

 

Taking another drag from his Marlboro, the depraved killer stood up and walked toward where Dylan lay helpless and mewling on the floor.  As the high, loosely-laced boots filled his ground-level view, the teen winced at a brief singe on his cheek where the alpha had knocked off an ash.

 

“That was six, asswipe.  Wanna go for seven?”

 

The brutalized teen shuddered and wheezed; every breath cause a terrifying stabbing pain in his side.  Blinking blearily up at the grinning alpha towering over him, Dylan’s misshapen jaw moved feebly as he tried to beg for release from the torment.  Nothing comprehensible emerged from his mouth—and it wouldn’t have mattered it anything had.

 

The Trucker stooped and wrapped his large strong hands around the youth’s throat.  With a deep grunt, he heaved the struggling punk into the air with a single swift motion.  Dazed as he was, the injured slut began to flail frantically the moment his air was cut off, his red Nikes kicking vainly for traction a good six inches off the ground.

 

Holding the boy’s darkening face inches from his own, the Trucker sneered and spat.  As his phlegm trickled down to mingle with the cunt’s tears, he chuckled.  “Tell ya what, bitch, I won’t hit ya for number seven, huh?  I won’t even kick ya—how’s that sound?”

 

Deep in the shadows under the brim of his trucker’s cap, a bright glint of malicious glee illuminated his eyes.  “All I’ll do for seven it—this!”

 

He whirled and flung the well-built teen through the air with the ease of a stuffed toy.  Dylan flew across the room, smashing into the desk-dresser combo with his back.  The flimsy unit rocked back against the wall, breaking off the mirror.  As the hard-bodied homo fell face-down on the floor, the mirror crashed down over him, peppering his smooth skin with shards of glass.  Numerous small nicks and slashes were inflicted on his sweat-streaked flesh, but nothing even remotely fatal.

 

Dylan wasn’t getting out that easy.

 

The Trucker strode over and kicked the twisted wooden frame of the mirror aside.  “Tell ya what, ya pansy-ass piece a’ shit, I’ll be gentle with ya—seein’ as how it’s yer birthday an’ all—and I’ll count the mirror as eight.”

 

With a cold, braying laugh, he bent down and snatched bleeding, gasping teen fag—one hand grasping the right ankle and the other a sweaty mass of long brown hair.  From this position, the powerful alpha rose and spun, flinging the well-built meat into the wall above the bed’s headboard.

 

Dylan hit the wall and exhaled a loud, helpless bleat as he caved in the drywall and fell back onto the bed, bouncing onto his back with his legs spread.

 

The Trucker approached the bed slowly, the lower half of his face the only part visible in the dim light.  Above his strong, stubble-darkened jaw, a wicked grin had crossed his face.  “Of course,” he smirked, “Everything after eight’s gotta count for more, ya understand?  I mean, fair’s fair, yeah?”

 

And with that, the hulking alpha climbed onto the bed and grabbed Dylan’s legs by the ankles.  Spreading them back and apart he lowered his hairy, muscled form between them before repositioning the terrified teen’s red kicks up onto his own shoulders.  Then, in a single simultaneous movement, he buried his cock so deep into the slut’s ass that his pubes scraped the boy’s smooth asscheeks—and rammed his fist into the boy’s face with an unexpected violence, breaking the meat’s nose with a thick wet crunching sound.

 

“Nine, cunt,” the powerful sadist chuckled, spitting into the boy’s swelling face as he ran a hand down the punk’s smooth, muscled chest, slick with panicked sweat.  “Fuckin’-A, you really are a nasty pain pig, aintcha, faggot?  Yer dick is hard and drippin’, motherfucker, I can feel it slappin’ against, you sick perv—goddam, this shit is really gettin’ yer rocks off, huh?”

 

Moaning loudly, Dylan started to flail violently.  It was too much; the pain was too much.  His ass was split wide open, his guts were impaled with huge throbbing manmeat, broken ribs ground in his torso with each agonizing breath—and his face, oh fuck, his face hurt so goddam bad, he had to get out, he had to get away—

 

Less a thinking human than a desperate, trapped animal, the well-built teen let his desperation run wild, clawing viciously at his assailant.  His hooked fingers scrabbled at the Trucker’s face, but the skilled killer knew what to expect and was able to avoid the homo’s frantic, questing hands.  After scraping at the alpha’s chin a couple of times, Dylan suddenly threw one arm up and caught the brim of the trucker cap, knocking it off.

 

The Trucker’s reaction was immediate.  He wasn’t havin’ no fag meat fuck with his lid; with terrifying brutality, he slammed his balled-up fist into the boy’s face four times in a row, with the speed of a jackhammer.  Each blow landed with a loud, wet smacking sound—and each one made the little shit’s body jump and jerk like an electrical shock.

 

The Trucker’s grin widened; each powerhouse punch had resonated through the fag’s body and tightened his ass.  Each one had squeezed the sick top’s swollen shaft, massaging the dominant psycho’s pulsating hog.

 

Lowering his head, he hissed at the semi-conscious youth.  “Think yer gonna make it, bitch?  Can ya hold out?  Fight it, cunt, fight for yer worthless life.  Like I said, faggot, if ya survive the beatin’, I’ll let ya live—but I don’t think it’s gonna happen, you weak gay-ass cocksucker.  Yer gonna die here and now on my cock, aintcha?”

 

His face beaten to hamburger, Dylan could only gurgle his protest, his desire to live.  Even in the rising red tide of agony that had become his entire universe, he was still aware of his own straining, oozing dick, inexplicably erect despite the ongoing trauma.  But he was young and he was strong—he had every intention of surviving this horrific nightmare.

 

“Up to thirteen now, boy,” the Trucker grinned as he relentlessly shagged the punk’s bruised and bleeding fuckhole.  “Ya still with me, homo?  Ain’t been fucked to death yet?  Hang on, meat, we ain’t done yet!”  As the hypersexual alpha pumped and grunted, sweat oozed form his broad heaving back, filling the room with pheromones and manscent.

 

Dylan might have actually enjoyed it had his shattered nose not filled his sinuses with blood.

 

The teen’s slick body bent back in distress, his arms now flailing at the thin fitted sheet as he arched his back in agony.  Scrambling blindly, he managed to knock the pillows off the bed; the right one skittered across the night stand and took the clock and phone to the floor with it, accompanied by a loud crash.  The lamp was hit too, but didn’t fall to the ground—instead, it fell on its side, crushing the shade.

 

The top of the bulb threw an unaccustomed glare across the bed, casting lurid shadows of violent mansex onto the far wall.  The image was so crisp that the Trucker’s dogtags were clearly silhouetted as they dangled between the killer and his victim.

 

Deep within the recesses of his traumatized mind, Dylan felt a sense of betrayal at the way his body was responding to the vicious rape and beating; each pounding he took seemed to force more hot precum from his throbbing shaft.  Even now, as the older man lay on him, thrusting and penetrating him for his own pleasure, the teen could feel his thick rod poking into the fur on the alpha’s firm, flat abs, sliding around on a slimy film of sweat and pre-ejaculate.

 

“Shit, ya stupid fuck, yer goin’ loose on me again,” the Trucker snarled.  “Gotta tighten yer worn-out fuckhole, faggot—ya know what that means, dontcha?”

 

Rising up on his knees, the muscle-bound stud drew back his arm, tensed his thick, bulging bicep and drove his fist into Dylan’s smooth flat belly like a piston.

 

“HOOOG!!!” the fucked-up youth cried, expelling all the air in his lungs in one mighty yelp of pain.  He jerked up violently, trying to double over in pain, but the moment his torso rose off the bed the Trucker hit him again, this blow impacting the boy’s broad left pec, immediately knocking him back down onto the mattress.

 

Gasping and struggling, Dylan popped up again—a reflexive reaction caused by the agony that the punch had caused to his snapped ribs—only to be met with another belt in the chest.  Shuddering and whimpering, the brutalized teen fell back.  His face, twisted and covered with tears and snot, darkened as he fought to regain his breath.

 

The Trucker grinned; the last three hits had done as good a job as genuine donkey punches would have in terms of tightening the meat’s anus.  Grunting deeply, he hunched over the suffering teenager and rammed his enormous rod furiously into the boy’s torn and mangled colon.  “Where are we now, cunt?” he hissed at the stunned and traumatized adolescent, “Sixteen?  Gettin’ close, whore, gettin’ fuckin’ close.  It’s time to separate the men from the boymeat, and I’m willin’ to betcha can’t take it all the way, ya cumsuckin’ fag!”

 

As a thin trickle of air managed to painfully work its way back down Dylan’s esophagus, he heard and comprehended—and hoped.  The mauled youngster knew he was badly injured, but not fatally; if he could just get out of this room alive, he’d make it.  He’d survive.

 

But oh fuck, those last two blows…

 

The Trucker could tell what was running through the little cockpig’s head.  Even though his once-gorgeous face had been pummeled into hamburger, it was still easy to see the light of hope gleaming in the kid’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes.  Worthless little sacks of shit, they were all the same—it was so easy to manipulate them; the stupid fucks always walked right into the trap.

 

The sick sadist could also see the fear.  This meat knew it still had some suffering to endure.  As he pumped the oozing, engorged head of his cock deep into the homo’s guts, the Trucker smirked—asswipe had no clue how much suffering was on the way.

 

Maybe it was time to let him know.

 

“Ya like gettin’ hit, dontcha, ya disgusting painpig?” the alpha stud whispered, lowering his face so close to his victim’s that his dogtags rested on the kid’s heaving chest, “Ya sure seem to like my hairy balls slappin’ at yer gay-ass fuckhole, huh?  Well if ya like that, fuckmeat, yer gonna spunk with joy with this one—take it, bitch!”

 

This was a roundhouse punch that circled wide from the shoulder and smashed into Dylan’s face like a bomb blast, snapping facial bones and shattering the already-broken jaw.  The boy went rigid with shock.  “Fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  Goddam, cunt, that got yer meat good and tight—let’s do that again!”

 

The next blow came from the other side; the experienced killer was ambidextrous.  Even had the battered teen been in a positon to expect anything, he couldn’t have foreseen the fist rocketing towards him from the off side.  And after the impact, he didn’t see anything at all; a mountain of glassy pain fell on him, crushing his consciousness out.

 

Pain.  His first and most basic sensation as he came to was pain, overwhelming and all-encompassing.  Every part of his body, even his somehow still-erect cock and straining cock, was flooded with agony.  The second sensation was motion; combined with the searing, slashing pain in his rectum, he knew the hulking alpha was still raping him.

 

Opening his eyes, Dylan could see the Trucker sneering down at him.  One thought kept ringing in his mind: he was alive.  He’d made it through all eighteen.  He was gonna be ok.

 

The Trucker’s dick began to pulse even faster at the sight of hope pooling in those eyes, dark puddles in a ruined face.  This was his favorite part.

 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled malignly, “I forgot one—what is it they call it?  One to grow on?”

 

This blow was a rabbit-punch—swift, brutal, and intensely powerful.  In the blink of an eye, the experienced killer had slammed his knuckles directly into Dylan’s larynx, instantly smashing it back into the esophagus and crushing both with a horrifyingly loud crunching sound.

 

“We’ll call that one to die on,” the well-built psycho whispered with malicious glee, without missing a single thrust of his cock.

 

Dylan’s eyes widened in terror.  Throwing his arms out, he clutched at the bed first, arching his back violently upwards as he tried desperately to breathe.  It was useless.  His trachea had been compressed into a solid mangled mass of splintered cartilage.  There was nothing he could do; his airway was completely crushed.

 

He was suffocating.  He was gonna die.

 

No, that couldn’t be right.  He’d promised; the dude had promised him and he’d fought, oh fuck, he’d fought so hard to live—and his birthday wasn’t supposed to turn out like this; he was supposed to be having fun and getting laid—

 

As blind terror set in, the realization that he actually was getting laid never crossed Dylan’s panicked mind.

 

Again, the well-built, writhing teen pawed at the Trucker’s face, fingers clawing with no specific object in mind, motivated by mindless anguish.  The brutal top held the kid down, riding his ass as he died, feeling the boy’s smooth slick body flail underneath him.

 

Dylan’s flow of oxygen had already been seriously obstructed by earlier sinus damage.  He didn’t have any reserves left in his lung—the onset of brain death didn’t take long.

 

As darkness closed in on the teen faggot, his frantic scrambling became slower and calmer; soon, his hand settled on the Trucker’s shoulders, gripping them tightly just past where his own red Nike kicks rested.  At the same time, the youth’s strong, muscled body began undulating, a kind of rhythmic flow that the well-versed sadist knew to be a precursor to violent convulsions.

 

Now he just needed to hold on and ride the birthday boi into his grave.

 

As he expected, the kid began to shudder and twitch, jerking his head swiftly from side to side as bloody froth erupted from his lopsided, ruined mouth.  Although it was difficult to see at first, under the swollen, bruised flesh, the punk’s face soon darkened to a noticeable point, growing ever more purple as his tongue began to protrude.

 

Holding his killer tightly by the shoulders, his sneakers touching his hands, Dylan convulsively pulled the alpha to him as his hips began to buck uncontrollably.  Over the Trucker’s shoulders, the punk’s Jordan Horizons thrashed helplessly in the air; the left one, which had slowly come untied, suddenly flew off the boy’s foot, spinning into the far corner of the room with a clatter.  The punk’s foot was left to flex, curling his toes in the white ped sock.

 

Knowing what was coming, the hard-bodied stud repositioned his legs, planting his unlaced workboots wide apart for better traction on the slick sheet. Grinning, he felt the little fucker’s ass start to grip his shaft as it slid over the vein-wrapped tube of manmeat with increasing speed.

 

“That’s it, faggot,” the testosterone-laden muscled killer muttered, “Milk my load out as you get offed.  Yeah, die, motherfucker, die so I can blow my wad.  Fuckin’ work the cum outta my cock with yer convulsions, ya homo asswipe.  One less worthless fag in the world after tonight, but at least I get to use yer death to drain the spunk outta my hog, yeah?  Fair trade, huh?  Now die like the perverted subhuman cumpig you are, you fairy cunt!”

 

By the time he finished speaking, there wasn’t enough of Dylan left to hear him.  The gay teenager who had left the bar forty-five minutes ago looking for a good time on his birthday had slid screaming in terror and agony down a dark hole that led straight to death.  Technically his heart was still beating—a wildly irregular pulse—but the human spark had seeped out of the physical tissue.

 

The Trucker was left with a shuddering piece of meat that clutched amazingly at his swollen cock.  With an inarticulate cry, the powerful alpha jerked and sent a solid spray of semen deep into the boy’s guts, hosing down his prostate and flooding his intestines.

 

Whether or not Dylan’s brain was too dead for him to know what had happened, his dick responded as if he did.  He pressed his belly up to the Trucker’s; the latter could feel the kid’s cock suddenly swell and writhe like a garden hose on full flow.  Huge wads of thick oversexed boyseed spewed from Dylan’s pulsing rod, matting the older stud’s chest hair and coating the kid’s already slick, broad chest with another layer of fluid.

 

The Trucker and the teen continued to hold each other tightly, locked in an erotically fatal embrace, as each kept cumming, the Trucker using the kid’s death throes to jack off—the adolescent’s dying corpse made a phenomenal sex toy.  Dylan himself was unloading reflexively, an instinctive reaction to death by suffocation.

 

After what seemed like half an hour—but was likely no more than a tenth of that time—the Trucker pulled himself together, then pulled himself out of the dead, shuddering meat.  Getting back off the bed, he let the meat’s legs flop back off his shoulders, leave the dead fag splayed out on his back, arms and legs spread.

 

Turning away, the alpha fished out another Marlboro, lit it, and grinding shards of glass from the broken mirror into the carpet with the thick soles of his boots, crossed into the bathroom.  He needed to clean up; little homo cocksucker sure had been fulla spunk…

 

After wiping down with a wet towel—which his left under running water in the sink—the cruel stud leaned in the bathroom doorway and, taking another drag of his half-done smoke, surveyed his work.

 

The room was demolished.  There was a small cheap flat-screen TV on a flimsy stand on the far side of the room; it was the only thing not damaged during the rape and murder.  The AC under the window was making an odd noise; from this angle, the Trucker could see that the collapsed table had put a large dent in the front of the unit as well; likely it was impacting the fan blade.

 

The dead fag was the centerpiece, though, without a doubt.  Dramatically highlighted by the overturned lamp, the birthday boi—who could have had a modeling career if he hadn’t been a cumsucking druggie in a small town—was now nothing but a shuddering mass of meat, his once-stunning face reduced to bleeding pulp.

 

The Trucker approached the corpse, still jerking and kicking in the long-drawn-out death throes associated with asphyxiation, and tossed his smoldering cigarette butt at it; the glowing ember sizzled out in the congealing puddle of semen in the center of the meat’s chest.

 

The slut’s right foot, still laced into its Nike hightop, kicked and jerked on the dislodged and twisted fitted sheet.  The meat’s left foot had been kicking and scuffling too; in fact, it had worked the sock off, revealing the teen’s bare toes curling reflexively in death.

 

The condition of both the body and the room made the nightmarish violence of Dylan’s death obvious.  The Trucker felt purged and relaxed.  He slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on, then located his cap, halfway under the bed.  Taking one last glance backwards at the teenaged homo’s still-quivering corpse, spread out and lit like a selection of prime meat on a butcher’s slab, the cruel alpha felt a sense of pride in his work.

 

As he headed back towards his rig, he began to whistle.  Quietly, of course, so as not to attract too much attention—in fact, the thumping of his thick boot soles on the pavement nearly drowned it out—but the note of satisfaction was obvious to anyone who could hear it.

 

M4M4yung

It was the username that caught Joe’s eye—“yungboi4daddytop.”

 

That was all it took for him to pause.  He’d been scrolling through the users on a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior victims.  He’d just gotten done with an assignment that had kept him working for eight days straight, and now he wanted to enjoy himself.

 

Lounging in an easy chair, the muscular stud could feel his cock swelling in the crotch of the faded jeans wrapped around his thick, powerful legs.  It was late—about eleven-thirty in the evening.  He’d eaten and showered after he’d gotten home, now he was relaxing, half-dressed and horny, looking for prey.  Glancing back down at the phone, Joe read the posting.

 

”Btm boi looking for rough Daddytop.  I’ve been bad.  Punish me.  18, slim, smooth, look younger. Prefer muscular, hairy, over 30.”

 

The post was accompanied by a photo; a torso-only shot.  The kid had the slim, lean body of a young teen, with fair skin and large nipples on his smooth chest.  Joe threw his head back and laughed aloud.  He could snap this one like twig, and this kid was making it so easy…

 

Joe sent a response and included a shot of his own hairy, ripped abs.  He didn’t have long to wait for a reply.  “Hey dude ur hot wanna fuck?  I got a place.”

 

“ok when and where” Joe returned.

 

“Now.  U know diamond court motel?  On old smithfield hiway past the trailer park?”

 

“Yeah”

 

“Room 21.  Left side when u pull in ill be there in 15 mins”

 

“k.  omw”

 

Joe knew the place; at least, he’d passed it on occasion.  Another motel that had stopped being a viable concern decades ago when the bypass was built and was now only hanging on because there was zero demand for the property and the taxes were rock-bottom.  It was the kinda place that was known for drugs and prostitution—and occasional police raids—and Joe wondered how this skinny white twink was familiar with it.

 

Well, he’d soon find out.  He walked back to the bedroom and slipped on a black short-sleeve compression t-shirt that emphasized his broad, muscled chest.  Sitting on the bed, he next pulled on a pair of brown lace-up work boots that came halfway up his calves.  Standing up, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and grunted in satisfaction at the image of hard, dangerous masculinity that he saw.

 

The motel was about twenty minutes away.  When he got there, Joe parked his vintage Camaro out of sight behind the building.  The thick soles of his boots thumped loudly on the pavement as he rounded the corner of the building and knocked briefly at the door of room 21.

 

 

The door opened and Joe found himself staring down into the face of a teenager.  The kid had short straw-blond hair and a pug nose.  His almond-shaped eyes were jade green and almost feline.  The boy broke into a broad grin as his eyes roamed over Joe’s well-built physique, and Joe decided the kid had the most punchable mug he’d ever seen, and he had restrain the urge to follow through on it.

 

“Damn, motherfucker, you the dude from the app?” the kid asked, his face twisted into a leer.

 

“Yeah,” Joe replied tersely.

 

“Fuck, you’re hot,” the boy gasped, “c’mon in, man.  Name’s Jon—no ‘h’—by the way.”

 

Joe walked into the room.  It had been remodeled sometime in the sixties and the furnishings would have been considered cool in a retro sense, if they had been in better shape.  As it was, the boxy blonde-wood dresser and nightstands were scarred and pocked with burns; on the other side of the door was a small round table of more recent date, but just as badly worn.  This was set with two armchairs with dark vinyl covering the padding; the vinyl had multiple tears covered with tape that didn’t quite match the shade.

 

In short, it was a cheap shithole.  Joe closed the door behind him, slipping the chain on and turning the lock in the center of the knob when Jon turned to the side and switched on the AC unit built into the wall under the window.  It came on with a grinding thrum that began to move the warm, fetid air.  Glancing up at Joe’s face, Jon seemed to notice the scorn there.

 

“Yeah, it’s nasty, but they don’t ask no questions when I rent a room here.  Other places think I’m too young, but they don’t care here.”

 

It wasn’t illegal to rent a room to an eighteen-year-old, but the kid did indeed look younger.  Of course he could show his ID and get a room anywhere with no problem—but Joe could imagine situations where he wouldn’t want to show an ID.  Like this one.

 

Jon provided more.  “You wouldn’t believe the dudes I met here.  I did a three-way with my swim coach and the assistant principal of my high school here in this room four months ago.”  His smooth, faintly freckled face blushed red.  Joe had finished reconnoitering the room, noting the queen bed opposite the door and the slightly ajar bathroom door on the far left wall.

 

Looking back now at the kid, he noticed that Jon was already completely nude, aside from a thin black strand of rawhide around his throat from which dangled a pentagram in beaten silver.  The boy wasn’t scrawny, but Joe’s thigh was almost as thick as Jon’s waist.  A fine gold peach fuzz covered the boy’s flat belly, thickening as it descended to a mass of golden curly pubes from which projected Jon’s enormous cock.

 

It was, in fact, somewhat smaller than Joe’s shaft, but in proportion to his slender form, Jon looked like he had a horse dick.  And it was already swelling and stiffening as the teen faggot slut reminisced about his adventures.  Shame that Mr. Adams, the assistant principal, had got caught banging that boy on the swim team and killed himself; he’d been an amazing fuck…

 

Joe smiled with cold contempt and began to peel off his shirt.  Tossing it on the floor, he noticed that he’d gotten the punk’s attention.  The kid was staring at Joe’s massive pectorals, his large dark nipples jutting above the dark, wiry fur that clustered tightly over the alpha’s chest and swept down his washboard abs.

 

Jon gave a faint moan as memories of past conquests were wiped from his shallow, lust-centered mind.  This dude was the shit.  He had to have him; he had to have him inside him…

 

“Fuck me,” he gasped, almost inaudibly, his eyes wide, “Fuck, dude, fuck me…”

 

Joe grinned evilly.  It was too easy.  The stupid little faggots always made it too easy.

 

And for that alone, if nothing else, they needed to suffer.

 

“Not yet, boy,” he sneered at the groveling teen homo, “Ya gotta earn this dick.  Get over here and work my nips, bitch.  Now!”

 

Jon stepped up placing his hands on the older man’s rock-hard pecs and running his fingers through the stud’s chest fur—so wiry, it felt like steel wool.  The twink put his mouth on Joe’s right nipple, licking the firm mound of flesh.  At the same time, his hand came up carefully gripped the other nipple between the thumb and forefinger, pinching it and twirling it.

 

As Jon worked Joe’s nips, the alpha stud could feel the kid’s long dick, bobbing about so that the oozing head occasionally slapped his inner thighs.  “Switch sides, cunt,” he snapped, and Jon obeyed, moving over and gently taking the stud’s left nipple between his teeth.

 

As he did so, Joe reached down and unzipped his fly.  He had to flex his knees and shift a bit to get the full, throbbing length of his huge manmeat out its tight denim confinement, but Jon followed him like a good pig, never letting the hard, erect nipple leave his mouth.

 

Jon felt Joe’s massive hog flop out and stood back.  Looking down, he was stunned to silence; fully limp, the dude was more than six inches long.  As he watched in horrified fascination, the enormous shaft began to pulse and swing as it started to get hard.  He could already tell, this was much larger than any cock he’d taken in the past.

 

This was gonna fuckin’ hurt.

 

And he wanted it so fuckin’ bad.

 

Joe could see it all, the way lust glazed the boy’s eyes as the kid stared at his dick, the way he panted excitedly.  He’d hooked his prey.  Whether he reeled it in gently or violently didn’t matter; it was hooked, and it wasn’t getting away.

 

“Suck it,” he commanded.  “Suck my fuckin’ dick, bitch.”

 

Jon hesitated.  “I—you’ll choke me, dude…”

 

Joe’s grin became more shark-like.  “Yeah.  Now get on it, faggot.”

 

Opening his mouth, Jon leaned forward tentatively, but the sadistic alpha wasn’t putting up with it.  The slim blond twink suddenly found his head, clamped in a vise-like grip, jerked roughly forward.  His open mouth was immediately plugged with thick, throbbing cockmeat as the older stud’s mushroom head forced its way into his esophagus.

 

“Swallow it, cunt, take my dick all the way down,” Joe grunted as he applied pressure to the back of the teen’s head.  Jon started to struggle as his air was cut off.  He beat uselessly on Joe’s muscles thighs, still tightly constrained in his faded jeans.  The youth’s eyes started to water as the massive vein-wrapped tube of flesh continued to sink further into his throat.

 

Even in his frantic airlessness, Jon couldn’t help the fuckpig thoughts from bubbling up: my god he’s so deep he’s gonna shoot a load straight into my stomach that’s so goddam hot…

 

But of course, after a while, the physical intervenes.  Jon had been breathing through his nose for as long as he could, but when Joe’s shaft slid over his epiglottis and sealed off his lungs, he literally started to suffocate.

 

“Worthless faggot twink, can’t even take a real man,” Joe sneered as he partially withdrew his rod—just enough to let Jon gasp for air.  Once.  After a deep inhale, the kneeling teen felt his head being forced inexorably back down onto the older dude’s dick.  He wasn’t ready; he hadn’t recovered enough.  “HORK!” he gagged as jets of foamy drool burst out around Joe’s cock and dangled off Jon’s chin in long streams; more foam shot from the boy’s nose and dribbled down his face.

 

“Choke on my hog, you stupid bitch,” Joe snarled, his handsome face twisted in contempt.  “You ain’t shit as a cocksucker, ya know that, cunt?  What kinda pansy twink are that ya can’t even suck a dick right, huh?”

 

Jon was flailing frantically, his mind awash in fear.  He liked a dominant older top, a daddy who would hold him down and fuck him as “punishment,” but this combination of hate-filled abuse and physical ruthlessness was unlike anything he’d ever experienced or anticipated–or hoped for…

 

The kid’s hands, clawing their way down Joe’s legs, hooked into the alpha’s nearly knee-high workboots, snagging on the laces.  The sadist jerked his right leg back and swiftly kicked Jon, the steel toe of the boot driving directly into the teen’s flat belly.  At the same time, he let go of the kid’s head.

 

Jon flung himself backwards with almost explosive force, ending up crouched on the floor at the foot of the bed.  His slim, nubile body was heaving and glistening with sweat as he coughed and gagged, one hand around his throat while he braced himself against the bed with other.

 

“D-dude,” he gasped, then coughed up more foam.  “I-I can’t. No-no m-more, man, y-you’re hot, but—”

 

“But what, ya fucking homo cunt?” Joe barked.  “Ya gonna back out now, bitch?  You stupid sack of shit, it’s way too late for that.  You wanted daddy to punish ya, boy, huh?  Yer gonna get punished, all right.  Yer gonna get exactly what queer-ass cumsucking punk kids like you deserve!”

 

Jon’s eyes rolled wildly, like those of a panicked horse; with a sudden effort, they focused on the door beyond his assailant.  His reaction was reflexive; almost mindless—he bolted.

 

His lithe body, with its lean swimmer’s build, was quick, but Joe—despite being well-built—was not so muscle-bound that he couldn’t reach out and snatch the teen as he sprang forward.  Clamping his hands around the boy’s upper arms, he jerked the slender twink up and held him, literally kicking in mid-air.

 

A familiar feeling of pleasure and power swept of Joe.  The kid was slender but not skinny; there were muscles attached to his slim frame.  His smooth skin stretched tautly over his pecs and delts, his biceps and thighs—and Joe could break him any time he wanted.

 

He was gonna enjoy this.

 

At some point, he realized Jon was begging.  “…please, man, don’t hurt me no more, oh fuck, lemme go, please, please…”

 

“Shut up!” Joe barked and spit in the kid’s face.  Jon gasped in shock; he’d never been treated with such utter contempt.  He’d met so many guys here—classmates, some of his friends’ dads, the Baptist youth pastor—and they had all worshipped his slim teen body.  They’d fucked him, but—but this relentless coldness, this complete disregard of him as a person—this degradation to a sex object—

 

Jon was a shallow hormone-driven faggot slut, but he wasn’t an idiot.  He didn’t know exactly what was about to happen, but he had no doubt it would be bad.

 

Joe was still holding the twink in the air by crushing his arms against his sides; the longer he was held there, the more Jon suffered.  The powerful sadist grinned and drew his prey in closer, peering into Jon’s face.  “You sure you’re eighteen?  Yer ad was right, ya do look younger.”

 

Jon had spent several minutes suspended by his arms; he was forced to lift his entire body weight with each breath.  He could only stare frantically into the icily handsome face of his attacker and gasp like a landed fish.

 

“Well, yer ad said ya were and that’s good enough.  After all, if yer old enough to die for the government, yer old enough to die soaking up my cum.  Ready, boy?”

 

Jon kicked out in blind terror, his bare foot making contact with Joe’s denim-wrapped inner thigh.  It wasn’t as bad as if he’d racked Joe, but it was still a mistake.  Joe was enraged.  He raised the boy up, then slammed him straight back down onto the floor.

 

The cheap, thin carpet provided little padding against the concrete slab underneath.  Jon hit the floor with enough force to stun him and drive the breath from his body.  His lithe, slim form writhed on the scratchy synthetic carpet as he tried instinctively to breathe.  Semi-conscious, his eyes rolled back as he jerked and flopped on the ground.

 

The quivering, moaning punk felt rather than heard the thump of Joe’s big boots on the floor; prying open one eye, he had the impression of the vicious stud standing over him, although all he could see was a ladder of bootlaces up the alpha’s leg.  Then he noticed that one foot was drawing back—

 

The teen faggot didn’t even have time to cower before Joe kicked him brutally in the chest, the steel toe of the work boot impacting Jon’s sweaty, heaving flank and neatly snapping two ribs.  The hulking sadist grinned as the boy squealed.

 

“There ya go, cunt, how’s that?” he sneered malignly.  “Ya like that, ya stupid piece of shit?  No?  Tough shit, ya worthless queer-ass bitch—you gotta learn what happens to whoremeat that tries to back outta the deal.  There’s a penalty, son, and you gotta pay it.”

 

Then he paused and let out a grim chuckle.  “And I don’t think you can pay, boy.  I think yer gonna run short.  And that means I’m gonna hafta take it outta yer hide.”

 

Jon stared up at his assailant.  Joe wasn’t a bodybuilder, but his recent workouts had enlarged his muscles and gave him a powerful, masculine presence that stirred the young slut’s balls despite the pain and overwhelming fear.  The twink shuddered in agony, but could still feel his cock throb treacherously, responding to the undeniable eroticism of the sculpted stud who was inflicting such shattering pain on him…

 

“Ha!” Joe cawed harshly.  “I can see yer fuckin’ cock, homo—goddam, fag, yer already oozin’.”  He bent over, leering into the teen’s pain-twisted face, knowing the kid’s dick was involuntarily erect.  Happened every time.  Little fucks always seemed to be surprised when he put them down; they all wanted it—they just didn’t know it until it actually happened.

 

“No—no…” Jon gasped weakly.  He writhed feebly on the floor as the cheap, thin carpet dug into his back and the silver pentagram danced on his firm chest.   His lithe, smooth body slick was with sweat.    His face, pale with agony, was wide-eyed in bewildered shock; it was obvious that the assault had taken the hot teen slut completely by surprise.

 

He flinched, instinctively and vainly, when Joe reached for him again.  The powerful alpha stooped, one-handedly grabbing the youth by his right arm and jerking him into the air.

 

The kid screamed as his right shoulder was twisted violently out of place, tearing tendons and ligaments.  “Quiet, cunt!” Joe barked, drawing back his free arm and driving a roundhouse punch straight into Jon’s jaw.  The slender blond fag grunted as his head popped back.  His teeth snapped closed violently, biting through his tongue; blood trickled from his swollen, split lips.

 

The sadistic top caught his slightly warped reflection in the mirror above the dresser; the glass was cheap but huge, visible from most of the room—including the bed.  He smirked at the image of his broad, hard body holding the twitching boymeat aloft.  His legs were spread wide, the tight denim jeans highlighting his muscular thighs and his strong calves making his tall laced workboots bulge.

 

Standing straight out from his crotch, his enormous tool was thick and dark.  It throbbed visible in time with his rapid heartbeat; each pulse forced viscous, translucent beads of precum to stand out on the hulking killer’s mushroom tip.  His left bicep was swollen with the strain of holding the kid up, but there was no strain in his hard, darkly-scruffy face.  In fact, the only sign of effort was the faint sheen of sweat on his broad, furry chest.

 

In his grasp, the smooth young boy dangled, his arm visibly twisted out of joint.  The semi-conscious teen was moaning, his eyes rolled back in his head and a thin trickle of blood running down his chin from the corner of his mouth.

 

And even with all that, Joe noted with cold amusement, the little homo cunt’s cock was still hard.

 

Jon groaned loudly.  Joe smiled.  “You back, boy?” he whispered.  “You coming back?”

 

The teen moaned, responding to the gentle intonation.  “Good,” the alpha said, his voice suddenly hard and cold.  “Then you’ll feel this.”

 

Jon was flying through the air before he was aware of anything more than a sudden increase in the searing pain in his shoulder.  He realized that his buff, powerful attacker had hurled him at the bed; it flashed through his mind in the split second before he smashed into the headboard and vanished into a loud, painful darkness…

 

Joe looked down contemptuously at the blond youth’s unconscious body, face-down and twitching limply on the rumpled comforter.  the kid had landed on his right arm, managing to pop it back into its socket–the torn ligaments and stretched muscles severely limiting motion.

 

Joe paced around the bed, admiring the teen’s smooth form; the thought of plunging his huge stiff rod into the helpless boy’s fuckhole made his piss slit dilate to allow an almost steady flow of precum to seep out.

 

As he moved around the bed, Joe grabbed his thick, throbbing dickmeat and slapped against his palm, sprinkling his hot manjuice over the mewling cunt’s body.  Jon was slowly clawing his way back to consciousness.  Once he was sure his prey was awake enough to comprehend, the cruel alpha spoke.

 

“Hey, faggot—back just in time to get this party started!”  The cold lustful glee in his voice stung Jon’s confused, pain-wracked mind like a whip; the punk panicked, wallowing helplessly on the bed.  His right arm  was practically useless, nearly as bad as broken.

 

The terrified teen wasn’t able to actually gain any traction.  His bare feet slipped on the slick polyester comforter while his left arm grabbed at the sheets, yanking them into disarray.  He kicked and flailed uselessly, the icy fear that chilled his heart growing as the brutal sadist neared, slowly and deliberately.

 

Jon sobbed in terror, trying to understand what was happening.  The thin sheets scratched at his face; the feeling was familiar.  A single lucid inappropriate thought slashed through the emotional and physical shock in the teen’s mind—he’d been here, last Saturday.  Here, in this room, on this bed.

 

He’d buried his face deep in the mattress to muffle his own moans as Danny Helms fucked him.  Danny was the star of the high school wrestling team and had been since his freshman year.   He was incredibly butch and usually juggled several girls at once.  He also managed to come across as a serious douchebag as he publicly critiqued the skills of his various bitches.

 

No one knew that handling the writhing, sweaty, struggling bodies of other young men got Danny hard.  He’d been fucking Jon on the DL for a couple of years.  And last Saturday had been most recent—here.  Right here.

 

Somehow, the memory of that incredible fuck with a buff FWB added to the teen fag’s confused disorientation. Whatever was happening, it had to be a dream.  This couldn’t be real, not here, not for him.  If he fought hard enough, he might be able to wake himself out of this nightmare—

 

—then a hand clamped down on his shoulder, a large hand, hard as iron, and he knew he was awake.  Despite his inexplicable and downright painful erection, Jon still found himself pissing in terror.  He gulped and started hyperventilating, unable to speak or cry out as he was jerked roughly down the bed.

 

“C’mon, bitch,” the hard-bodied sadist growled as he manhandled the slim, smooth twink into position, “Time to take my shaft.  You know you want it, cocksucker, so quit actin’ like ya don’t.  You stupid cock pigs always squeal when ya get the dick, but deep in your worthless faggot soul, ya love it, dontcha, boy?  Yeah?  Ya want a real man to show ya exactly how worthless a faggot ya really are?  Fuck, asswipe, it’s yer lucky night, cause that’s what yer gonna get!”

 

Suddenly, before Jon realized what had happened, he found that he been maneuvered so that he was on his knees on the bed, his face down on the sheets and his ass in the air, vulnerable and exposed.

 

And then it wasn’t exposed any more.  At first, Jon had a hallucinatory flash, an image of a billiard ball being shoved up his ass.  But the alpha’s sharp hiss in his ear dispelled that notion.  “Does it hurt, homo?  It shouldn’t, you fucking whore—how many dudes you taken, cunt?  Huh?  How many?  I bet you been gettin’ fucked by all kinda horny teen fucks at school, yeah? How many, faggot?”

 

Joe’s thighs bulged briefly as he flexed his powerful legs and drove his engorged rod all the way in, burying himself balls-deep in the teenager’s torn, penetrated fuckhole.  As his wiry pubic hair abraded Jon’s smooth asscheeks like steel wool, his swollen, purple head probed deep into the kid’s intestines.

 

Jon screamed.  He’d been fucked rough before, but he’d never endured anything like this; no one else had been anywhere this huge—and no one had been this brutal.  They’d eased their way in, tenderly and lovingly; even Danny, while dominating him and pinning him to the bed, had gone in gently.

 

There was nothing tender or gentle about this and there sure as fuck wasn’t any love.  By the same token, the room was almost foggy with male pheromones given off by their slick, sweaty bodies…

 

And the searing pain continued.  He tried to escape; he really did.  His slim but muscled legs kicked back, entangling themselves helplessly in the sheets.  His left arm reached up, clawing at the headboard, but all he managed to do was dislodge the fitted sheet, revealing the stained mattress underneath.

 

Joe pulled out, leaving just the bulbous head of his cock still in the kid’s ass, allowing Jon’s shriek to taper off before he slammed it in again in a single brutal thrust.  The writhing teen punk screeched as the massive shaft tore back up through his colon.

 

“Shut up, cunt!” Joe barked but Jon wasn’t able to comply; the pain was too much.  Joe decided to make him obey.  He grabbed a fistful of the teen’s blonde hair, and using it like a handle, forced the weeping youth’s face down into the mattress, muffling the sounds of the sobs.

 

In addition to the horrible agony of getting his guts reamed out by this psycho alpha’s horsedick, Jon suddenly found himself being suffocated.  Even though the stud was only holding him down by gripping his hair, the dude was so strong, he was able to straight-arm the young fag’s head deep into the rough, lumpy mattress.  He couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t turn his head, even slightly, to either side.

 

Joe knew exactly what he was doing.  He savored the way panic made the boy’s stretched-out sphincter retighten around the base of his dick.  It kept its grip as he pumped his swollen tool into the struggling faggot’s asshole.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” the muscled top grunted.  With one hand still forcing the teen’s face into the bedding, he ran his other hand over Jon’s trembling back, sliding smoothly along the film of sweat wrung excruciatingly from the kid’s body.  “Yeah, that’s what it takes, huh?  That what ya need, ya homo bitch?  Ya like it when ya can’t breathe?”

 

Over the panicked pounding of his pulse, Jon could hear his assailant’s taunts—but he didn’t understand them.  There was so much pain in his violated rectum that he was aware only of what was happening with his sphincter; the words made no sense.  But the lack of logic only made the aggressive rapist’s words even more terrifying.

 

And even though was happened next was even worse, it took Jon a moment to realize it.

 

At first, his only sensation was that of relief—the hulking stud let go of his head, allowing him to raise up and gasp deeply, coughing and groaning.  Simultaneously, the dude pulled out, leaving the teen homo quivering on the bed, feeling like he’d been raped with a baseball bat.   Jon’s abused body went limp like a doll with its stuffing torn out—which was more or less what Jon felt like.

 

Then grip closed on his shoulder again.  This time he was flipped, the brutal alpha spinning his body as easily as if it was a toy.  The teen found his self on his back, dizzy from the violent motion.  He was almost spread-eagled with his right leg sliding off the bed, the sheets still lightly wound about his right foot.

 

Glancing down between his parted legs, the terrified youth found his attention focused on two things.

 

The first was the towering form of the well-built top standing at the foot of the bed.  Jon’s attention would have been dragged to Joe in any case, the latter’s hairy, sculpted torso drawing the young fag’s gaze with a gravitational attraction.  The toned stud’s broad chest was heaving with exertion and slick with sweat; beads of perspiration glittered in his wiry fur.

 

But more than that—the dude’s cock, jutting out in front of him from the open fly of his jeans, seemed to be even larger that Jon remembered—although that could have been the pain talking; the helpless teen was still shuddering in agony from the vicious assrape.  But the threat implicit in that swollen, throbbing shaft, oozing a swiftly-dripping stream of precum, had a hypnotic effect on the slender young homo.

 

Joe’s handsome, chiseled face was lit with lust and cruel glee as he looked at Jon’s crotch.

 

And that was the second thing Jon noticed—his own thick shaft, glistening and slick.  It was softening but was still at least six inches above his flat, smooth belly.  He vaguely wondered why he’d been hard…

 

Jon was right, Joe was looking at his cock.  He knew the answer to Jon’s question—and he knew that Jon would be asking it.

 

“See, ya stupid motherfucker?” he chuckled grimly, “I toldja ya liked gettin’ choked, yeah?  Right?  Fuckin-A, dude, I knew you were a worthless little pansy pig the moment I set eye on your twink ass, bitch.  Can’t even keep it up unless I squeeze ya some, huh?  Yeah?  Ya like that, cunt—my cock up yer ass while I wrap my hands around yer throat and slowly squeeze the life outta ya?  Well goddam, boy, it’s yer lucky fuckin’ night!”

 

Again, Joe grabbed his massive tool and slapped it into his other hand, splattering the fuckmeat’s firm, smooth thighs with a sprinkle of glazed manjuice.  As the kid whimpered, the cruel alpha smirked and glanced at his face.

 

The boy’s green eyes were wide and desperate; his blond hair was matted and several shades darker with sweat.  Each panicked gasp the punk took was labored; his two broken ribs had not punctured a lung but his lean swimmer’s abdomen still shuddered with pain every time his chest moved.

 

And then the alpha was over him.  Not in him, not yet, but on the bed over him.  Jon opened his eyes and saw the huge muscled form poised above him.  The sudden realization of his utter helplessness washed over the teen like an ice-cold tide.  No one would miss him for several hours yet; even then, no one knew where he was.

 

That was plenty of time for this dude to hurt him bad.  And he didn’t know anything about the guy except that he was hot as fuck—and he got off on hurting Jon bad.

 

The blond youth stared up into his tormentor’s face, his green eyes rimmed with tears and wide with desperate appeal.  “P-please, no…” he whispered in horror as Joe’s cold, hypnotic gaze held his focus.  “D-d-don-don’t hurt-hurt me, m-man, please, n-no, fu-fuck no, p-please…”

 

“Yeah,” Joe whispered back, “Beg, you fucking fag.  Beg for your worthless pig life.”  Sneering, he cleared his throat and spat on Jon’s face.  The boy obeyed; he instinctively knew that it was useless to resist.

 

“Please, sir,” Jon gasped, his voice quavering, “don’t hurt me, sir, I-I’ll do whatever you want, dude—anything.  I won’t tell nobody, I been fucked by older dudes before, sir, lots of ‘em—”

 

“Oh holy shit,” Joe grunted impatiently.  He flashed a quick rabbit-punch straight from his shoulder to Jon’s jaw, knocking out the kid’s left canine.  “Shut the fuck up, cunt, I’d rather hear ya scream.”

 

He got what he wanted right away.  As the slender homo twink shuddered in pain and coughed up his tooth, Joe grabbed his legs and pushed them back, all the way over until Jon’s knees were nearly touching his ears.  Lean and limber as he was, Jon cried out as his body was bent double—but it was nothing to the shriek of agony the kid emitted as the alpha plunged his swollen, throbbing tool in full-length.

 

There was no warning.  There was no preparation.  Jon had been too dazed by the blow to his face to realize what having his fuckhole so exposed meant—until it was plugged, stretched beyond capacity by an enormous, pulsating tube of manmeat.

 

Joe grunted and planted his tightly-laced workboots far apart on the bare mattress, making sure he had enough traction for his bulging thighs to support him while he powerfucked the faggot cunt.  The fuckmeat coughed and gagged as its chest was compressed into an unnatural position, but the violent ass-pounding soon forced another loud screech from it.

 

“Shaddup, ya sack a’ shit,” Joe snarled viciously.  “Yer gettin’ too loose to fuck, faggot—and if ya ain’t good fer fuckin’, you ain’t good fer nuthin’, huh, cunt?”

 

He spit into the teen’s swollen face; Jon felt the hot spittle slide down his bruised, aching cheek.  He opened his mouth to scream again; it was reflexive, tied to the pain.  What rational mind the tortured blond youth had left realized that more sound would bring more pain, but could do nothing to intervene.

 

Something did intervene, though.  Suddenly, large, strong hands wrapped around Jon’s neck and tightened relentlessly.  Jon’s large green eyes, already wide with fear, opened to an extent that was almost comical.

 

At least, the smirking sneer on the sadistic alpha’s face indicated he found something amusing in the situation as he slowly crushed the boy’s throat.

 

Jon didn’t—wouldn’t—recognize the glitter in the buff stud’s eye as the gleam of homicidal lust.  He clawed at the vise-like grip at his throat as his firm, smooth body jerked and flailed beneath the muscled mass of Joe’s furry torso.  His bare feet kicked the air over Joe’s shoulders as his air was cut off.

 

He still refused to believe he was dying.  He hurt so bad—oh fuck he hurt so bad, he was being fucking impaled holy Christ it hurt so much—but his craven pig soul still clung to its youthful sense of immortality.  Jon was simple incapable of conceiving of his own death.

 

And Joe knew it.  He grinned in erotic anticipation, and knowing that seeing is believing, gave a sidelong glance at the large mirror.

 

He was gonna be able to show the teenage fuckmeat its own snuff.

 

He clenched his hands, feeling the punk’s esophagus give under the pressure.  The boy grimaced and thrashed, his ruined ass sliding along Joe’s huge, vein-wrapped shaft.  The buff killer didn’t even have to pump…

 

“That’s it, cunt.  Work my dick like a good fag.  An’ all it took to turn ya into a cockpig was gettin’ choked a little, huh?  Guess what, ya worthless piece of homo shit, I’m just gettin’ started.  I’m gonna use you like a cumrag and leave yer corpse like the garbage it is.  Ya like that, boy?  That get ya off?  I guess it does, you sick motherfucker, yer dick is hard as a rock.  Fuck, I’m gonna do the world a favor, puttin’ a pervert like you down—ain’t that right, fuckwad?”

 

Again, Jon heard the words but there was a disconnect from reality.  His guts were being reamed out by a huge throbbing mantool; his colon was being wrecked beyond repair, but it was the grinding, squeezing pressure that circled his throat like an iron band of ever-diminishing diameter that claimed his attention.

 

The teen slut was slender but strong; he kicked and jerked violently in his frantic attempt to break free.  He stopped trying to pry Joe’s hands from around his neck and moved higher, feeling the powerful sadist’s knotted biceps bulge as he literally wrung the kid’s neck.  Jon was nowhere near strong enough to knock Joe’s arms aside; his questing hands scrabbled even further along the stud’s arm.

 

Joe was pumping his rod into the meat’s fuckhole swiftly, grunting with each thrust as he grinned down into the kid’s twisted, agonized face.  “See, I toldja—”  He was abruptly interrupted by the cunt’s fingers, clawing in his face, scratching at the bristles of dark scruff that covered Joe’s cheeks.  Sheer terror had overridden pain enough for Jon to force his maimed right arm up as well, but the searing agony as torn tendons finally split and separated was nightmarish.

 

The dominant alpha grunted; it’d been a while since any fuckmeat had caught him off-guard.  His grip loosened for a moment as the kid’s hands slipped down his hard, sweaty body and grasped at his broad torso, tearing out several strands of wiry chest hair.

 

Jon wasn’t really aware of what he’d done; despite the pain, his clawing had been panicked and unconscious.  He was aware of the results, though—the iron band relaxed; he could breathe.  Exhaling the foul air in his lungs, he inhaled deeply, sucking in lots of fresh oxygen—

 

—then his air was cut off again—swiftly, brutally, painfully.

 

Joe had withdrawn one hand, but had thrown himself forward, straight-arming his other hand directly into the punk’s larynx.  He gripped the fucker’s windpipe and squeezed while resting his entire body weight on that hand.

 

The other hand, clenched into a fist, was pummeling the meat’s face.  Joe provided commentary, accompanied by the smacking sound of flesh on flesh.

 

“You stupid fuck, (SMACK) you must really wanna get hurt, huh (SMACK)?  Gettin’ choked (SMACK) ain’t enough for ya (SMACK), ya worthless cocksuckin’ queerboy (SMACK)?  Ok, you disgusting (SMACK) cum-drinkin’ (SMACK) pansy (SMACK), take what ya got comin’ (SMACK)!”

 

Each blow landed with the force of an industrial piledriver; Jon’s head rocked back onto the mattress, his entire body flinching as his face was beaten mercilessly and his jaw and cheekbones broken.  And at no time did Joe’s pulsing shaft ever ease off Jon’s traumatized asshole; in fact, the meat reacted to each individual blow as if he’d been donkey-punched, his stretched-out sphincter contracting involuntarily—and excruciatingly.

 

When Joe had finally worked off his excess rage, he clamped both hands back around the meat’s neck.  This time, instead of leaning over his prey, he rose up on his knees, still gripping the teen up tightly by the throat.  The light was better like this; Joe could see the thin strand of black rawhide snaking out under his hand and the silver pentagram bouncing on the boy’s sweat-slick chest.

 

More importantly, he could see both of them in the mirror.  As he kept his young victim impaled on his enormous dick, he forced the slut’s head to the side, slowly and inexorably, until the fucker could see his own reflection.

 

And Jon had to.  Even though the lids were bruised and swollen, his eyes were still bulging too much for them to close.  He literally couldn’t close his eyes.

 

The lean, smooth teen was forced to watch himself get raped and strangled.

 

Joe was hunched over the slim, lithe form; Jon’s legs were still wrapped around Joe’s neck and held by his arms.  Pinned on his back by Joe’s muscular weight—and a gigantic shaft of manmeat sunk into his intestines—the young fag was helpless.  Dominated and controlled, he had no choice.  He had to look in the mirror.

 

At first, he didn’t recognize himself; that grotesque, distorted mask couldn’t be him.  But as the pressure built in his chest and the painful buzzing intensified in his dying brain, he could see his eyes swelling, the green irises barely visible as hemorrhages bloomed like red poppies in the whites of his eyes.

 

It wasn’t true; it wasn’t happening.  If he didn’t believe it, it wasn’t happening.  He could fight it off.  He flailed hysterically, his strong smooth arms beating at Joe’s flanks and chest as vainly as if they had been beating marble–at least one was; the other was weakly jerking and twitching in a pathetically futile attempt at self-defense.   And anyway, the alpha stud’s muscled abs were impervious to what feeble force the dying teen could generate.

 

The kid tried to scream; all he succeeded in doing was forcing his bulging, purple tongue further out between his split and bloody lips, accompanied by a thick gagging sound.  But Joe knew the words echoing in the deafening chaos of the youth’s oxygen-deprived brain.

 

“Scream, faggot,” he whispered—not to the struggling pansy choking in his hands, but to the mirror, using the mirror to look Jon in the eyes.  “Pray to yer god, beg for yer mommy—ain’t nothin’ gonna save yer stretched-out fag ass, cunt.  Yer gonna die with my cock buried in yer fuckhole, boy, and you like that, dontcha?  Lookit yer dick, motherfucker, yer homo shaft is hard as steel—ha!” he laughed triumphantly.  “Goddam choke pig, you fuckin’ love this shit!  The harder I squeeze yer neck, the harder yer ass squeezes my hog—fuck, dude, you’re really gettin’ off on dyin’, aintcha?”

 

He turned back to Jon and spit in his face.  The shuddering teen couldn’t feel it, but his fading vision managed to capture the glitter of the saliva as it trickled down his blackening face and mingled with the thick white foam oozing from around his dark protruding tongue.  Even in his final moments of life, his shallow mind was still attracted to bright, shiny things.

 

Joe could tell the kid was almost gone.  The boy’s arms no longer thrashed wildly against him; now, the lean youth was caressing him, the movement of his limbs, even the damaged arm, became more rhythmic as the slut’s brain died.  There was no sense in making the meat watch anymore; it was likely blind by now anyway.  But its sphincter was still responding, and that was the important thing.

 

Joe was close.  He could feel the semen building in his balls; he was gonna blow soon.  The speed of his thrusts increased unconsciously; he could feel the young cunt’s cock slapping moistly against his furry, ripped abs, splattering them with a continuous rain of precum.  The meat was so fucking close itself…

 

Jon was past conscious thought; his body only responding to the random nerve stimuli caused by progressive brain death.  In a final instinctive fight for life, the convulsing youth clawed at his throat again.  This time, his left hand clutched at his silver pentagram unawares, jerking and snapping it free.  A connected chain of electrochemical energy fired in the teenmeat’s failing grey matter; a last flash of Jon’s personality that was somehow aware of pain—crushing pain in the throat, burning pain in the chest, searing pain in the ass—and a straining, frustrating pain in the cock…

 

And then there was a loud crunch that ended everything.  All the teen’s hopes and fears, all his suffering and pleasure, vanished in a moment as his esophagus was crushed in Joe’s powerful hands, his hyoid bone shattering in his throat as his neck collapsed in the sadistic killer’s vise-like grip.

 

Rutting and grunting like a bull in heat, Joe felt the teenaged faggot’s moment of death as the homo kid’s fuckhole tightened frantically at the final moment of brain death, forcing a violent spasm from the dominating alpha.  The sweaty, muscular stud’s skin pumped out pheromones as his thick, pulsating rod pumped out a solid stream of cum with such force it flooded the fairy slutboy’s guts…

 

And Jon’s cock was still erect and throbbing, full of his deathload even after death.  The end had come upon him too quickly for him to enjoy his final orgasm, but the meat still needed release.  Joe obliged.

 

Tightening his grip even more, Joe dug his thumbs into the base of Jon’s jaws and applied pressure.  His biceps swelled and his deltoids bulged as he squeezed and popped Jon’s head off the top of his spine, shattering the young faggot’s neck.

 

There was another loud crunching sound, different in timbre.  It was the shattering of the meat’s topmost vertebra;  as bone shards sliced into the the teen’s spinal column,  there was another clenching of the meat’s ass—and as Joe spewed another hot load of manspunk into the homo punk’s ass, the boy’s dick finally gave way to the convulsions that wracked his entire smooth slender body.  As it bucked like a bronco, the purple, pulsating shaft began to unload long ropy strands of cum that splattered onto Joe’s broad, well-defined chest and matting his fur.  The meat was already dead, long past being able to enjoy his deathload, but the convulsions in his rectum milked several more hot wads out of Joe’s engorged tool…

 

After a while, Joe slowed to a stop and looked over into the mirror.  He saw two bodies, still intertwined—his own, sweating and heaving in exertion, but slowly coming under control, and the meat’s, still impaled on his cock, quivering and trembling spasmodically.  The boymeat’s death throes were slowing almost imperceptibly as Joe withdrew his cum-slathered rod from the homo’s ravaged asshole.

 

The kid ended up flat on his back, spread-eagled, with cum and blood leaking out his ass and a sprinkling of his own cum backsplashed across his smooth chest and flat belly.  His arms were lying slightly out from his sides and his hands were balled into fists; blood leaked from the left on where cadaveric spasm had made him clutch his pentagram pendant so tightly he’d cut his skin.  The cold dead hand still tightly grasped the useless decoration.

 

Standing over the trembling corpse, Joe sneered contemptuously down at the boymeat.  Stupid little sack of shit had gotten what it deserved.  He glanced around for something he could use to wipe off his dripping cock and spied a sky-blue bikini thong lying on the floor next to the bed.

 

What a fucking whore, he thought as he stooped to snatch it up and use it to wipe the oozing cum off his shaft.  Tucking his thick tool back into his jeans, he zipped his fly and collected the compression t-shirt he’d worn on the way in.  The alpha killer could feel the boycum drying to a sticky glaze in his own chest fur.

 

Slipping the shirt on, he took one last backward glance at the still-convulsing corpse, covered in glazed manjuice.    He knew this one was young; he hoped he wouldn’t have too much trouble with it.  When he left, it was nearly a quarter past one in the morning; he made sure he locked the door behind him.

 

The next day, though Joe was cursing himself and deciding to lay low for a bit.  He needed to vet his prey better.  The news was full of the disappearance of the seventeen-year-old son of a Republican state senator…

Trucker 9–Trucker vs Trucker

The Trucker knew he was being followed.  Not literally, of course, no one knew exactly where (or who) he was—but the cops were damn sure gonna be searching.  That meant he needed to take some steps to make sure the trail went cold.

 

That meant getting several states away.  It took self-control to go that length of time without wasting a bitch, but the Trucker had the discipline that comes with experience.  He’d held off, feeling rage and sperm building inside him, but keeping a lid on the simmering angry lust was taking an effort.

 

Now he was crossing northern Oklahoma.  It was late and he was heading east; darkness had closed in some time ago.  As he began to look for a truck stop, a thought occurred to him—there was a boy out there in the night, somewhere not too far away, happy and carefree and probably horny, who had no idea he wasn’t going to live to see dawn.

 

There, ahead in the distance, the colorful sign advertising a major stop shone out brightly from the top of a hundred-foot pylon.  Full bathrooms with showers, all facilities including a truck wash.  Likely busy, but such places had huge lots and most dudes parked as close to the facilities as possibly; the far edges would be less crowded.

 

A cold grin crossed the Trucker’s face.  It was time.  It was finally time.  As he approached the exit he wanted, he downshifted, slowing the rig.  Then he took a moment to shift another shaft—the huge, throbbing shaft in his crotch.

 

As the truck rumbled off the highway onto the frontage road, the Trucker bore to the right into the truck stop, passing the diesel pumps to head towards the back of the huge paved lot.  He didn’t need gas; his tanks were more than half full.

 

What he needed, he decided, was privacy.

 

At the back end of the lot he finally pulled to a halt, up against a chain-link fence that separated the commercial property from what was evidently an empty field.  He was on a state highway, somewhere west of Vinita—but at fifteen miles to the west, it was the closest town.  The truck stop was an island of glowing, buzzing light in a sea of darkness.

 

But it was busy.  The Trucker knew he’d have no problem finding prey; there were always whoreboys at truck stops.  Shutting off his rig’s engine, he opened the door and jumped out of the cab, the thick soles of his work boots thumping loudly on the cracked concrete pavement.

 

It was warm and humid.  The Trucker’s gray sleeveless t-shirt, already stretched tightly across his massive, muscled chest, was starting to become slightly transparent as sweat seeped through.  The black jeans that wrapped around his firm thighs and strong calves were cinched off at the waist by a wide leather belt the same shade of brown as his boots.  His coal-black hair was mostly hidden by the cadet cap he wore, jet black with the brim slightly cured at the ends.

 

Walking quickly across the tarmac, the buff alpha with the jet-black hair and goatee dug into the rear pocket of his jeans.  The denim cradling his taut, firm ass showed the outline of a crumpled box; retrieving it, the Trucker fished out the last his last remaining cigarette.  Tossing the empty pack to the ground, he lit the smoke.

 

The flash of his lighter was followed by a faint flicker of light to the northwest.  Peering into the darkness, the Trucker was unable to make out anything; he kept moving.  He was only about two-thirds done with his cigarette when he reached the main entrance to the truck stop; pausing outside to finish it, he caught another flicker out of the corner of his eye.  Stepping around the side of the building in an attempt to keep as much light out of his eyes as possible, he gazed intently to the northwest and was soon rewarded with another flash.

 

No doubt about it.  Bad weather moving in.  Grinding the glowing butt under the heel of his work boot, the Trucker turned his back on the storm and went inside.

 

The glass doors led into the convenience store.  Restrooms and showers were to the left, a lounge and game room were to the right.  In the back was an all-night diner.  The Trucker headed towards the latter; it’d been hours since he’d last eaten.

 

The diner wasn’t small, but its narrow layout gave it a somewhat cramped appearance even though it was it was only about a quarter full; the muscular alpha caught a glance or two from the men nearby, but it was impossible to see any of the men in the back of the place.  But they would be men.  The only woman in the place seemed to be the middle-aged platinum blond who was writing down orders with a bored expression.  She glanced up as the Trucker made his way down the narrow aisle between the tables.  “Sit anywhere ya like, hon,” she said in a desultory tone, “I’ll be by to getcha in a sec.”

 

There were only a couple of other tables occupied in the rear half of the diner as he settled himself at a small two-top.  About eight feet away, a man sat at a similar table, facing him. He had an open menu up in front of him and the Trucker couldn’t make out too many details.  Impossibly wedged into a booth in the far corner, two older, obese men in caps and coveralls were demolishing a platter filled with ham and eggs.

 

The Trucker picked up a menu himself and opened it.  It was simple grill fare—a limited breakfast menu, some hot and cold sandwiches and burgers, cheap nachos with industrial-grade cheese and, topping out the menu at ten bucks, a “strip steak” that was undoubtedly tougher than the Trucker’s boot leather.  He was still looking at the sandwich selection when the waitress approached.

 

“Ya ready?” she asked. As she leaned over the table, the Trucker saw her plastic name tag; the label marked “Darlene” was already starting to lift up and peel off.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, “Lemme get a ham and swiss on rye.  Lettuce and mustard only.”

 

“And ta drink?” she drawled.

 

The Trucker glanced over the menu. “You got beer?”

 

“Naw, we don’t serve it in here,” the waitress said wearily; it wasn’t the first time she’d been asked.  “Ya can buy it out in the store till two—lessee, it’s only twenty past one now; you got plenty of time after ya eat to get some.”

 

The Trucker pondered for a moment.  “Ok, that works.  Just get me a cup of coffee.  Black.”

 

“Sure thing, hon,” she said lethargically as she shuffled off.  The Trucker replaced the menu in the rack on the table.  He needed to get beer, and another carton of Marlboros, and maybe—would this place carry zip ties?  Some truck stops did and this one was certainly full-service, it was likely…

 

“So that’s a cheeseburger fully loaded, fries and a Coke, right?”  Darlene’s voice broke in on the Trucker’s thoughts.  “Yeah, that’s it,” came the reply in a gruff but youthful male tenor.  The waitress was standing between them, but as she left to turn in the orders, the handsome alpha finally got a glimpse of the dude at the other table.

 

He was young, but there was something hard in his expression; maybe it was his eyes—they looked mean.  His face was smooth except for a fine line of dark scruff that ran along his jawline, carefully trimmed to a razor-sharp edge.  His clothing was well-worn, from his frayed light-blue baseball cap with its brim curled from repeated washings to the short-sleeve button-down shirt in faded plaid, half-open to display his smooth chest.

 

Under the table, the Trucker could see a pair of torn and frayed jeans clinging to the kid’s slender legs.  Under that, he’d jammed on a pair of work boots in such a hurry that the cuffs of jeans had gotten stuffed inside them.  Like the Trucker, his boots were also brown leather, but they were so old that the heels were half-worn and the shafts were soft and slouched to near the ankles, with the jeans bunched just above.

 

The boy glanced up—and froze, his large brown eyes looking directly in the older man’s ice-blue ones.  The youth’s jaw fell open; he appeared to be stunned.  Breaking eye contact, the kid let his gaze roam over the Trucker’s hard, well-displayed form.  He’d twisted his slack-jawed gape into a leer and was about to lick his lips when Darlene, appearing out of nowhere, plunked  a plate with a burger and fries in front of him.

 

“Here ya go, hon,” she said in a tired voice, “Watch the plate, it’s hot.”  And old pro, she handed him his glass of soda from a heavily-laden tray she held in one hand.  Passing straight from him, she approached the Trucker’s table and dropped off his sandwich and coffee.  “Lemme know if ya need a refill,” she muttered before changing course and dropping off the check for the men in corner.

 

The boy had picked up his burger; he wolfed it down greedily but kept his eyes on the Trucker the entire time.  The experienced alpha took his time over his ham on rye, occasionally throwing a side glance and faint smile at the kid.  He knew he’d hooked his fish, but he didn’t want to be seen on camera reeling it in; he needed to play with the line for a while.  In the end, it was a near tie; the kid had eaten more quickly, but he’d had more food too.   But there was just enough of an overlap—when the boy stood up and began walking out, the Trucker had half a cup of coffee left and bill for $5.95.

 

The young man paused at the Trucker’s table, just as the latter expected.  Staring directly into the older man’s face, he rubbed the very visible tentpole in his soft, frayed jeans.  Looking up momentarily into the kid’s eager eyes, the alpha gave an almost imperceptible nod.  Beaming happily, the boy exited the diner.

 

Leisurely finishing his coffee—the slut would wait—the Trucker left eight bucks on the table before edging his large, muscled body down the narrow space between tables.

 

The younger man had been milling around out in the convenience store—it was huge, with all kinda of items, anywhere from CB radios and GPS devices to winter coveralls.  He popped up the moment the Trucker came out.  “Hey, man,” he said in his rough tenor, “Ya got a smoke?”

 

“Naw, man,” the Trucker drawled, “Was gonna get a carton after I ate.  Ya wanna bum one?  Go out to the smoking area, the one around the side to the left.  I’ll be out.”

 

It worked like a charm; the little fucker hightailed it.  As he turned, a swinging glitter of light caught his eye; the boy’s wallet (clearly outlined in his tight jeans) was secured to a belt loop by a surprisingly strong-looking chain.  The buff sadist pondered for a moment, chuckling, before heading to the cashier.

 

The moment he stepped out the door, he became aware that the storm he’d seen in the distance had closed in very quickly.  The faint flickers now took on the aspect of floodlights repeatedly blinking on and off.  Low background rumbles of thunder were more felt than heard, and once he got around the corner, the rising outflow breeze was more heard than felt.  It whistled at the corner but in the shelter of the building, he was able to get a strong enough flame to light up smokes for both of them.

 

The kid took a deep drag.  “Thanks, man.  Name’s Dave.”

 

“No problem,” the Tucker replied.  “So, what’s going on, Dave?”

 

“Aw, y’know, nuthin’—well, that is, y’know how it is when ya been out on the road awhile by yerself, y’know, ya just kinda wanna find someone to hang with…” Dave muttered, an embarrassed grin on his face.  It was clear what he wanted, but he had no idea how to broach the subject.

 

The Trucker removed the stumbling block—not in the name of mercy, but in the name of efficiency.  “Ya wanna come hang out in my cab?  I can go get a six-pack of beer; was gonna get one anyway.”

 

The slim young trucker perked up, grinning ear-to-ear.  “Sure, man, sure.  I—uh, well…” he faltered, then rallied.  “Got-got any poppers?” he asked timidly.

 

The powerful older stud chuckled indulgently.  “Naw, dude, don’t use ‘em myself—but if you wanna, go for it.”

 

Even happier now, Dave replied, “I got some back in my cab.  You got a sleeper?  Lucky fucker, can’t afford one myself.  Where ya parked?”

 

“I’m out at the far end by the fence,” the Trucker said, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder, “That way.”

 

“Fuck, I’m on the other side.  Lemme run while you get the beer.  What’s yer rig like? “

 

“Can’t miss it; it’ll be the big blue sleeper up against the fence—” the buff alpha was interrupted by an especially intense flash of light.  “What the—” Dave cried before the rest of his exclamation was drowned out by a reverberating peal of thunder.

 

“Better run, boy,” the Trucker laughed, “Don’t wanna get wet—yet.  See ya back at my place…”  As Dave took off running in the night, the hollow thudding of his boot heels fading into the distance, the alpha turned back into the store, his recently-purchased carton of Marlboro Reds tucked under his arm.  One entire wall was covered in beer coolers; the selection was truly impressive.

 

Glancing at the clock over the door, the Trucker noticed it was ten to two.  He had to be quick, but not rushed.  Looking over the display, he was pleased to notice a brand of bock lager made in Texas he was familiar with.  He grabbed a six-pack and made it back to the cashier just in time.

 

It never occurred to him to ask Dave what kind of beer he wanted.  It didn’t matter.

 

As he strode quickly back across the concrete parking lot, weaving his way among the various rigs parked in orderly lines, he felt the occasional random splash of a large raindrop on his head, shoulders or arms.  The flickering of the lightning had increased in frequency, as had the volume of the thunder; it was nearly percussive now.

 

Reaching his cab, the Trucker hoped the little faggot made it back before the storm broke—he didn’t want wet meat in his cab.  Not that he’d turn it down, of course, but still, it would piss him off.

 

He shoved the beer in the mini-fridge in the sleeper compartment and, tossing his cap aside and peeling off his t-shirt, settled into the passenger seat to await his fucktoy.  A sudden violent blast of wind rocked the cab and the Trucker began to worry that this one might get away—when the boyish face with the hyper-trimmed beard popped up in the driver’s door window.  The Trucker motioned that it was unlocked; in an instant, Dave was inside.

 

And not a moment too soon; at that moment, the skies broke open and a torrential downpour began to hammer relentlessly on the roof of the cab; the visibility beyond the windshield suddenly something like six inches.

 

“Damn, man, just in time,” the Trucker drawled, “C’mon into the back, if ya want, the fridge with the beer is back there.  We can sit on the bunk; it’s an extra-wide.”

 

In a haze of lust, Dave followed the towering, hardbodied stud into the sleeper area.  “Fuck, dude,” he said, his voice dripping with envy, “This rig is the bomb!  I ain’t even gotta sleeper bunk, man, I can’t afford it…”  His impression of the back of the cab was somewhat fragmentized, though; the Trucker left the light dimmed to a bare minimum.  The primary illumination was the flashing of lightning.

 

The Trucker squatted to get the beers out of the fridge, deliberately giving Dave a good look at his ass, tightly wrapped in black denim.  Taking his cue from the tone of the punk’s voice, he decided to try a little sympathy.

 

Sitting on one side of the bunk, the muscular sadist patted the foam mattress next to him.  “C’mon and have a brew, dude, and tell me about it—young hot boy like you should be makin’ lotsa dough.”

 

The blush on Dave’s face made it clear he’d caught the gay compliment.  He spoke hesitatingly, stumbling over his words. “I-I…well, fact is, I-I got a wife…”  He trailed off, gulped, and then it all came out in a rush.  “Five years ago.  Prom night.  I got drunk as fuck and my buds and me went out with these skanks and, well, anyway, I don’t remember a damn thing but she got knocked up and we had to get married.  Her folks and mine.”

 

In a single swig, he threw back half the bottle of beer before resuming his story.  “Couldn’t say no, y’know?  And then she wouldn’t stop partying and lost the kid.  So now I gotta keep supportin’ the bitch.  And ya wonder why I spend all my time away from home, out on the road lookin’ for dick…”

 

Actually, the Trucker hadn’t wondered at all and was bored with the faggot recital of woes, but as the punk finished the rest of the bottle with another deep gulp, he popped the lid off another cold one and handed it to Dave.  As fast as the cunt was pounding them down, he was gonna be pretty hammered real soon.

 

“So yer lookin’ for some cock,” the Trucker mused, one hand fondling the elongated bulge in his groin.  “Lessee what ya got, first.”

 

The younger trucker grinned and popped up off the bunk.  Taking off his cap, he revealed a head as closely-shaven as his face, only the slightest trace of dark hair kept him from being a complete skinhead.

 

“Can I bum another smoke?” he asked.  The alpha tossed him one, along with the lighter.  Just before lighting, the kid reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of dark brown glass.  Unscrewing the lid, the punk held the bottle to his nose, inhaling the fumes deeply before reclosing it and lighting his smoke.  Once it was lit, Dave left the cigarette dangling in one corner of his mouth, tossing the lighter back before slowly unbuttoning his short-sleeve shirt.  Slipping it off, he revealed his smooth, muscled chest.  The youth was too buff to be described as having a swimmer’s build, but he wasn’t built.  Slender and wiry, but strong with well-defined pecs and biceps.  A flicker of lightning illuminated his right arm; below the shoulder an amateurish tattoo of an eagle with spread wings stood out against the kid’s smooth skin.

 

The Trucker had placed an ashtray between them on the bunk; sitting back down, Dave placed his bottle of poppers next to it and his smoldering cig in it as he bent down and pulled off his soft, well-worn work boots.  He retrieved his glowing butt and, taking one last drag before grinding it out, exhaled a cloud of smoke as he wriggled out of his torn and faded jeans.

 

He stood in front of the Trucker, his firm young body dramatically backlight by bright bursts of lightning.  His long hog jutted eagerly from a tangle of dark brown pubes.  His smooth skin was still slick with rain and sweat; it glistened on his chest, in the dip between his broad pecs, in the strobe-like flashes from outside the cab.

 

Standing up, the Trucker revealed a matching gleam on his own chest and for the first time, Dave noticed the dog tags hanging from the older man’s neck.  Glancing closer, the kid couldn’t quite make out the name, but he could read ‘USMC’ faintly during a particularly bright flash of lightning.

 

“Dude, were you in in the Marines?” he asked loudly, to make himself heard over the seismic blast of thunder.

 

“Naw, man,” the Trucker chuckled as the thunder trailed off, “But I was in a Marine once…”

 

“Musta been a damn good fuck for him to give ya those,” the punk said, panting faintly with excitement.

 

“Damn straight,” the heavily-muscled alpha growled.  “Best the little fucker had in his life.”

 

Dave was completely oblivious to the older man’s use of the past tense.  He was focused on the stud’s huge, furry chest, his deep, gravelly voice, the massive, throbbing bulge in his crotch…

 

That was the point at which the Trucker reached down and unzipped his jeans.  Still buttoned and belted at the waist, he had to reach in and manually pull his enormous cock up out of the jeans like he was hauling in an anchor chain.  The kid’s eyes widened in lust and awe at the sight of the massive tubesteak, only semi-hard but pulsing and swelling visibly.

 

As the wind howled and buffeted the cab with sheets of rain, the scruffy young trucker was felt the energy of the storm; the scent of burned ozone permeated the air, increasing with the quickening intensity of the lightning.  His own swollen shaft was so hard it hurt, but the image of the muscled older man towering over him, lit by the strobe-like flickering, made him start to drip in a steady stream.

 

Dave panted, lust interfering with his breathing.  Snatching up the poppers, he took another hit of chemical vapor; he lay back for a moment, letting the rush flow over his taut, smooth body.  “Damn, dude,” he gasped breathlessly, “I want you in me.”

 

There was a lull in the lightning; in the darkness, the Trucker’s smirk could be heard in his voice more easily than it could be seen.  “Yeah?” he sneered, “Think ya can take me, bitch?  Think you can handle my cock in yer guts, huh?  Yeah?  Then get on the bunk, you faggot, and get yer heels in the air; I’m gonna go balls-deep into yer fuckhole.”

 

For a moment, the iron grip of lust had Dave in such a tight grasp, he was unable to breathe at all.  Not that that stopped him from obeying; a single quick motion, and he’d scooped his jeans off the floor.  Wadding them up, he scrambled eagerly onto the bunk and, lying at an angle so that his ass could be more easily accessed, he shoved the denim bundle under his head as a pillow to support his neck.  Dave’s random placement left a length of the wallet chain running across the back of his head; he reached back, almost unconsciously, and swatted it aside, where it fell back onto the bare foam mattress.

 

Reclining back, the scruffy youth tucked one hand back behind his head.  Grasping his throbbing shaft with the other, he gazed up at the incredibly well-defined torso of the alpha looming imposingly over him.  Despite the crashing thunder and rising wind, there was another pause in the lightning; the Trucker was silhouetted by the faint amber glow of the dimmed interior light.

 

The darkness added an erotic touch of danger to an atmosphere already heavily laden with testosterone and mansweat.  Dave shuddered with ecstasy.  “Fuck, man,” he moaned, “I want ya in me, dude, I want your fuckin’ manmeat up inside me…”

 

In the shadows, the sadistic killer grinned with an icy, malevolent glee.  This was just too fuckin’ perfect.  He moved in.

 

He stood at the edge of the bunk, legs spread, workboots planted widely apart to anchor him—he was gonna need traction; he was goin’ deep.  This little cumsucker was hot and ready.  The Trucker doubted the punk was ready for everything he was gonna get—but, fuck, that was half the fun.

 

Taking another deep hit from the poppers, Dave gasped and gave another moan, this one breathy and intense, as the hulking alpha grabbed the slut’s ankles and propped his feet on his shoulders.  The stud’s hard, handsome face, darkened by his black goatee, hung in the air just inches from his face as the younger trucker felt pressure against his sphincter.  For a moment, Dave wasn’t sure exactly what he was feeling; for a moment, it almost seemed as if someone was trying to shove a doorknob into his ass.

 

Then the Trucker grunted, “Fuck yeah!” and, gripping Dave’s thighs in an iron grip, thrust forward, ramming the full length of his swollen hog into the cunt’s fuckhole.  The doorknob that Dave had imagined became an excruciating reality.

 

There was a blinding flash of lightning; at the same time, the lithe, younger trucker gasped again.  This one was totally different than his earlier, erotic gasps; this was a deep, shocked inhalation that fueled the agonized scream that tore from his struggling body but was utterly drowned out by the seismic crash of thunder.

 

“Does it hurt, faggot?” the rutting alpha chuckled, shoving his engorged tool even further into the boy’s resisting colon.  “Quit squealin’ ya cocksuckin’ pansy, I ain’t even all the way in—what kinda homo are ya, huh, if ya can’t take my cock?”

 

Dave tried to repress his cries, subsiding to a high-pitched whimper.  The strong young punk had grasped the top’s bulging, muscular arms to brace himself; with each inch of cock shoved into his ass, his grip intensified until his fingers were digging into the alpha’s hard, unyielding biceps.

 

The rest of the plunge came without warning; the Trucker lunged forward, bucking his hips abruptly and shoving his gigantic rod all the way in.  There was a brief resistance before he felt his engorged, oozing head slam past Dave’s pulsing prostate and sink deep into the boy’s guts.  “Oh fuck yeah, cunt, that feels so fuckin’ good…” the vicious sadist snarled

 

Thrashing on the bunk, Dave’s experience was considerably less pleasant.  With the help of the poppers, he’d managed to grit his teeth and accept the slow penetration of the Trucker’s inhumanly-proportioned hog, but the sudden thrust had ripped a deafening shriek from the agonized youth as his sphincter was instantly stretched beyond the breaking point and tore open in a blast of excruciating pain.

 

“Oh fuck!” the writhing hard-bodied young trucker screamed, “Oh my fucking god, stop!  Please, oh shit, oh fuck, get it outta me, it hurts too much, get it OUTTA ME!!!”

 

The Trucker bent forward, his frighteningly cold and hard face inches from Dave’s.  “Yer makin’ too much noise, faggot.  Shut the fuck up or I’ll pop ya one.”

 

But Dave was in too much pain to listen.  He screamed uncontrollably, his tear-stained face twisted in unimaginable agony.  “Goddammit, ya stupid cocksuckin’ sack a’ shit,” the brutal alpha grunted as he drew back his powerful right arm and balled up his fist.  Ramming his arm forward with the violent strength of a pile driver, he sucker-punched Dave directly in the face, slamming the fucker’s jaw closed with such abrupt force the fag bit through his own tongue.

 

The Trucker spit in Dave’s stunned, bleeding face.  “Toldja to shut the fuck up, fuckmeat,” he hissed maliciously.  “If ya get loud again, I’ll shut ya up for good, you worthless queer-ass motherfucker.”

 

Dave heard the words, vaguely, but they had no meaning for him; they had no bearing on the nightmarish pain sweeping his body.  And even if he had been capable of understanding them, the physical became imperative.

 

He couldn’t stop screaming.  It just hurt too fucking much. For a moment, the howling wind drowned out the flailing slut’s shrieks, but after blasting another curtain of rain over the darkened rig, it faded down and the youth’s wails became distinct again.

 

For a moment, the storm’s lightshow intensified.  The struggling fag was illuminated brilliantly; his smooth skin glistening in the white, strobe-like flashes, his face twisted in a grimace of pain.  His pleading, tear-stained eyes turned up to his assailant.

 

From Dave’s point of view, the Trucker was silhouetted by the lightning; it was almost impossible to make out any specific features on the hulking mass of male muscle that was holding him down and impaling his young ass brutally. Even though his nose was half-clogged from his sobbing, the closeted homo could still smell the primal scent of mansex as their straining bodies pumped out pheromones—an acrid tang of sweat, testosterone and adrenalin.

 

The near-continuous play of light slowed; it had only lasted a few seconds.  During that time, the Trucker never missed a beat in his deep, powerful thrusts—and each time he planted his swollen head deep inside Dave’s guts, the shuddering cocksucker screamed loudly.  Little fucker was almost hoarse—not that it was gonna be any help to him.

 

“You really are a stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” he snarled as he bent down over the young trucker punk, “I toldja I’d shut yer whinin’ bitch-ass up but ya just can’t keep yer mouth shut, huh?  Goddam, faggot, I wish I had another dick to jam down yer throat—guess I gotta find somethin’ else, huh?  Lessee here, I wonder—”

 

An intensely bright white flash was followed, within a couple of seconds, by a clap of thunder so violent that it shook the cab.  The glare had caused a momentary reflection that caught the Tucker’s eye; peering closer, he saw a loop of the boy’s wallet chain that snaked out of the wad of denim tucked under his head.  Grinning, the sadistic killer grabbed at it; since Dave had no idea what was going on, he didn’t move his head and there was some resistance.

 

The whimpering youth heard fabric tear as the jeans were jerked out from under him.  His tear-blurred eyes had a hard time seeing what the aggressive stud was holding up until an inevitable blast of the storm illuminated the scene in extensive, if brief, detail; the flash burned the image in to Dave’s mind.  The Tucker towered over him, powerful muscles heaving and gleaming with sweat, his handsome but hard face grinning at the wallet chain in one hand.  The stunned bottom bitch could see that the wallet was still attached on one end; on the other was a thin strip of pale blue denim—the belt loop that had been torn off his jeans.

 

The Trucker was kneeling on the bunk at this point with his cock plugging the homo’s fuckhole.  He flexed his powerful thigh muscles and slowly pulled his shaft out, the thick ridge around his huge mushroom tip scraping the inside of Dave’s colon.  He lowered himself down onto the youth, leaving the head of his dick just inside the cunt’s quivering sphincter.  Dangling the wallet in the younger trucker’s face, he opened it and began rifling through the billfold.

 

“Wha-what a-a-are ya d-doin?” Dave quavered in a voice that trembled with fear.

 

“Shaddup, fuckmeat,” the Trucker sneered as he dug the cash out of the wallet.  “Ain’t like yer gonna need this anymore—only forty bucks, you cheap-ass cocksucker?”  Spitting contemptuously on his prey, the alpha jammed the bills into the rear pocket of the tight black jeans he still wore.   “Fuck, I’ll be doin’ you a favor when I waste yer broke ass, huh?”

 

A wave of icy terror broke over the already-frightened youth.  He not only understood what he’d been told, he also realized that he was pinned to the bunk under the heavy mass of the cruel alpha’s body.  “W-ait, man, n-no, p-p-please, no,” he gasped, his eyes bulging in horror, “G-god, no, please don’t, man, please don’t kill me…”

 

“C’mon, boy, that’s it,” the Trucker chuckled as the slut’s torn ass muscle tightened around his pulsing tip like a cockring, “Beg for yer worthless life, yeah, cocksucker, that’s it—beg, ya stupid faggot…”

 

Now panic set in.  “No!” Dave yelped as he thrashed his arms, reaching for something.  “I’ll do anything, dude, oh fuck, don’t kill me—”  His frantic hands came up; in one was the bottle of poppers.  “I’ll make myself take it, I’ll take your dick, sir, please, don’t—I’ll prove it, here, sir, oh shit please—”

 

Dave inhaled deeply, moving the bottle quickly from one nostril to the other.

 

“Too late,” the Trucker grunted.  Before the buff young trucker had a chance to exhale, the brutal alpha had the chain wrapped tightly around his neck.

 

Dave never got the chance to exhale.

 

The move had been swift and brutal; the buff older stud had whipped the chain up under his victim’s head before he’d crossed it in front and bore down, cinching off the windpipe.  The closeted homo found the cold, hard metal links embedded all the way around his taut throat before he’d realized what was happening.    The Trucker lay on top of the choking faggot, his hard, furry chest sliding on a film of sweat over Dave’s writhing torso, wiry chest hair scratching the boy’s firm, silky skin.

 

The hard-bodied young slut was riding high on the rush; the fumes ramped up the tempo of his heart and now panic increased it more.  As the chain dug painfully into the tender flesh of his throat, he thrashed and flailed like a feral cat in a trap.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah, faggot,” the Trucker grunted as the well-muscled punk struggled under him, “Fight it, ya worthless cunt, lemme feel that stretched-out fuckhole work my dick as ya die!”

 

Deep in his pounding chemical high, Dave heard the words.  Combined with the swelling pressure of asphyxiation in his chest and the intense pain of metal links tearing at his throat, they drove home the fact of imminent death in a way that the searing torment of the violent assrape hadn’t.  After all, he’d endured a rough buttfuck or two from strangers he’d picked up on the road—but his only concern on those occasions had been holding on and taking the D; he’d never been in fear of his life.

 

Of course, none of the others had actually strangled him—

 

And his mind dissolved again into a white-hot flame of tortuous agony and blind panic.  His bare heels drummed mindlessly against the Trucker’s firm, pumping ass, but they left few marks under the black denim.  One hand clawed and scraped at the powerful sadist’s rock-hard jaw while the other beat fruitlessly at his killer’s broad, bulging pecs.

 

“Goddamit, you cumsuckin’ motherfucker,” the Trucker snarled, anger streaking coldly through his voice, “Keep yer faggot hands offa me, ya queer-ass piece a’ shit!  Just fuckin’ lay there and take my dick gratefully like the worthless homo garbage ya are or I’ll fuck ya up, hear me, boy?  Ya hear me, fag?”

 

He yanked the chain viciously as he spoke, tightening it so deeply it sank into its blood-oozing groove in Dave’s neck, squeezing a thick, choking gurgle out of the dying boy’s throat.  That wasn’t all he squeezed out; the muscled punk was sliding beneath him on a film of mansweat.  Some of it was his; some of it was deathsweat forced from the kid’s pores as his body went into metabolic shutdown.

 

The younger trucker’s face swelled and blackened; his assailant had also managed to squeeze out the little fucker’s tongue.  Thick, glistening, swollen, purple, it slowly began to force its way up past Dave’s bright blue lips, slipping out on a froth of foamy drool.

 

At the same time, the dying youth’s cock was responding identically; the thick shaft, not quite as long as the Trucker’s, began to swell and darken until it resembled an eggplant, glistening with involuntary precum at the tip.

 

Dave could feel that too, as he died.  And worst of all was the painful reality that the hot, sharp throb of agony in his confusingly erect dick was timed to each thrust of his murder’s relentless powerfuck.

 

As dark explosions began to blot out his vision, the youth felt a faint despair at the loss of his wasted life.  Some tiny corner of his fading mind thought of how he was dying, how his body would be found, what his wife and family and friends would say.

 

That part soon died, screaming in shame and terror.  What was left was open to physical sensation.  The involuntary nervous system was still functioning.

 

As the sweating, hulking alpha pounded his shaft into the kid, he could feel the meat begin its death throes.  It started with the reflexive clamping of the sphincter around the base of the Trucker’s gigantic shaft, tightening again like a cockring.  Even though the muscle had been torn when the top first penetrated his victim, the spasm was so intense that it clenched closed with excruciating force, continuing to tear itself open in the process.

 

Dave felt it all as a blast of pain that hit simultaneously with a blast of lightning. His bulging eyes, red with exploded blood vessels, caught a bright white nightmare illumination of his killer rising up over him, face twisted with inexorable hate, sculpted torso highlighted by the flash reflecting off the dangling dogtags.  Then the Trucker hunched down over his helpless prey again, riding the punk fucker into his grave like he was breaking a wild horse.

 

He’d only wanted a quick fuck from a hot stud.  It wasn’t really a conscious thought; Dave was past thinking rationally, but amid his pain was a confusion of how he’d gotten to this point.  He couldn’t be dying here in this stranger’s cab; this couldn’t possibly be happening.  Someone would help him somehow.  He beat frantically on the sides of the cab; outside, maybe, someone would hear—but the constant shuddering crash of thunder muted his frantic attempts to summon help.

 

As the fit young punk slowly died, his strong body suffered convulsions of increasing violence.  His sturdy frame was wracked with severe spasms, each one causing his colon to collapse around his killer’s hog, clinging to the thick, throbbing, vein-wrapped shaft like soft and velvety vacuum wrap.  “Yeah, shit yeah,” the rutting stud sneered down at his victim.  “Still there, aintcha, ya pansy fucker?  Fuck yeah, bitch, you ain’t dead yet—lookit yer cock, scumbag, yer hard as shit even though I’m wastin’ yer punk ass!  Lovin’ this, aintcha, ya worthless faggot?  Even though I’m snuffin’ ya, my cock up yer ass is still enough to make ya blow yer wad, ya goddam homo sack a’ shit!”

 

The last effects of the poppers still circulated in the electrochemical stew into which Dave’s psyche was dissolving.  The words meant nothing to a personality already dead, but the repeated prostate massage that the Trucker’s tool gave on its way into his guts had set off one last sensation of pain in a penis so erect that it literally hurt.

 

The younger man’s hands stopped beating at the Trucker; they stroked his chest and arms with the fluttering caresses of dying birds.  His legs, on the other hand, seemed to grow rigid; the thrusting alpha could feel the firm, smooth flesh of the cunt’s inner thighs pressing against his heaving flanks, gliding on a lube of dying boysweat.

 

The convulsions the hardbodied young trucker suffered became longer and more drawn-out.  With each passing moment, the buff older stud tightened the chain around the boy’s throat.  He could feel his seed bubbling over in his huge, puckered scrote as it slapped against the useless homo’s taint; he knew he was gonna unload soon—and violently…

 

It all kinda happened at once.  With a deep, vital, irrepressible grunt, the powerful, dominant top felt his massive biceps bulge almost involuntarily.  The chain disappeared into Dave’s neck as a cracking sound permeated the sleeper cab, loud enough to be heard over the drumming sheets of rain.  The cunt’s black face, smeared with foam that caught in the razor-thin edge of facial hair, was totally unrecognizable as the either the hard young trucker from the diner or the eager skinhead faggot from half an hour ago.

 

 

The bolt of agony that accompanied the complete and utterly crushing destruction of his windpipe as the final trigger that Dave’s straining, firm young body needed.    He convulsed in one final spasm of incredible magnitude; his arms and legs both contracting violently, he clasped his killer in an embrace as strong as an iron cage as he died.  At the same time, his rectum milked the Trucker’s huge, pulsating tool as if it was deliberately trying to make the sadist shoot—and if so, it succeeded.

 

The Trucker’s potent, muscle-bound form jerked and bucked involuntarily in orgasm, injecting a steady stream of manseed deep into Dave’s guts; as the boiling spunk splashed over the kid’s prostate, the searing hot pain set off a kindred response in the nearly-dead meat.  The younger trucker, clutching the older in a hard deathgrip, blew his wad.  The Trucker felt the first warm splash over his ripped abs; the second was much longer, spewing sperm up into his chest fur and higher, until the corpse splattered cum across the underside of the cruel killer’s chin.

 

Somewhere between the injection of boiling jizz up his ass and the expulsion of the same from his swollen dick, Dave died as the storm reached a nightmarish crescendo outside, rocking the cab like a ship at sea while deafening rain pounded on the metal roof.  He sank into a cold screaming blackness of pain and fear, experiencing his deathload only as excruciating agony.  The Trucker, on the other hand, grunted deeply and contentedly as he emptied his testicles into the dead boy.

 

Holding on until he knew his balls were drained, the powerful serial killer slowly withdrew his still-pulsing rod from the corpse; the head popped out of the dead kid’s mangled ass in a huge wad of pink, blood-stained spunk.  “Yeah, bitch,” he whispered to the still-twitching corpse, “That’s how I handle faggot cumdumps…”

 

The Trucker stood up, shakily, and lit a cigarette.  Calmer after a couple of drags, he stepped forward and picking up the dead punk’s soft, worn jeans, used them to thoroughly wipe down his cum-dripping dick.  Stepping to the front of the cab, he settled into the driver’s seat and finished his smoke, watching the storm pass.  Looked like the worst was over…

 


 

By half-past two in the morning, the Trucker was on the road again.  Avoiding the interstate in Vinita, he headed north on state highways to Welch, then east towards Miami, looking for a place to dump the body; in doing so, he managed to outrun the storm.  It caused him a few intense moments, keeping the rig under control in high winds, but control was his specialty.

 

After carefully guiding and controlling countless fags to orgasmic death, the storm didn’t scare him.

 

Just west of Miami, the Trucker pulled to the side on a bridge spanning a dry gulch.  The wind was out of the west, the flashes of lightning light the rain-drenched rig as thunder growled ominously.  The storm was strengthening; it might spawn tornadoes and was approaching swiftly.  But the buff killer wasn’t planning on being here when it hit.

 

There was no other traffic out here at this hour.  Still shirtless, the Trucker stepped to the back of the cab and grabbed Dave’s body.  The dead trucker still had his own wallet chain, wallet still attached, wrapped around his throat; it was embedded so deeply, the Trucker has no interest in trying to extract it.  The kill was so fresh, the alpha could feel the corpse still quivering in his arms as he dragged the mindless boymeat out of the rig and over to the rail.  With one last deep grunt, the muscled alpha tossed the fag cumdump over the edge into the darkness.

 

Rain was starting to spatter down as he returned to the cab and gathered the rest of the fucker’s belongings.  He dashed back out and tossed the clothing and boots over the edge of the viaduct before diving back into his truck.  The rain intensified as he got into gear and sped up; by the time he got to the interstate, he’d driven out of the rain.  And by the time he got to the state line, the storm was a memory in his rear-view mirror.

 

As he headed east, the cold, experienced killer cast a though back to the shuddering manmeat he’d thrown into a ditch; part of him wondered if it would be found once the storm passed through.

 


 

As it so happened, it was Dave’s rig that attracted notice first.  Truck stop employees noticed that it hadn’t moved in two days and called the police.  That was how Mark had found out about it.

 

Increasingly frustrated after finding out, too late, that his killer had gone back and offed the only eyewitness available, Mark had requested information on all police reports that involved semi trucks, truckers, and truck stops.  He’d picked up quickly on the abandoned rig in OK, but had no idea if it had any significance in his hunt for a serial killer.  Luckily, he’d been heading that way himself.

 

He reached the area a day after the original call; heading straight to the county sheriff, he presented his ID and requested information on the investigation.  With a smirk, the sheriff handed him off to a deputy who led him to the evidence room.  “Had to force the lock on the cab,” the young cop drawled as he opened the door, “And this is what we found.  Seems yer guy was a gen-u-wine practicin’ homo-sexual.  Lookit all this faggot shit we found in his rig.”

 

The collection of porn, popper bottles and assorted drugs wasn’t as interesting as the huge black dildo.  Mark could feel his own shaft stiffen as he looked over the missing trucker’s trove.  Completing his erotic interest, the deputy casually mentioned, “This ain’t nothin’, man, you should see all the digustin’ homo crap on the laptop—it’s over there.”

 

“I may need to examine that,” Mark said, a slight hitch in his voice.

 

He was still examining it two days later in a motel room in Vinita when word reached him that a body had been found in a dry gulch, right where it emptied into the Neosho River.  A couple of fishermen, noticing a pale flash among the rocks, had discovered the battered and bruised corpse of a young man, among the rocks.  Near the body, a plaid button-down short-sleeved shirt was caught on the branch of a downed tree; in the cleft of the rock which had caught the boy’s body was a single, well-worn work boot.  Otherwise the corpse was nude.

 

Identification, however, was easy.  The victim had been strangled with a wallet chain; the wallet, with a commercial driver’s license still inside, was attached.

 

Mark knew he was getting close.  He got back on the road, heading east, still tracking his quarry.  He was halfway across Missouri when he got the autopsy results.  The victim had been raped and strangled—he was on the right track.  Identity was confirmed; the victim had a tattoo that helped, as did dental records.

 

He wanted this guy.  He wanted him so bad, his dick was hard.