Mark was livid.
The psychopathic homosexual serial killer he was tracking had at least a twenty-four hour lead on him. And it wasn’t as if Mark could discern a pattern anyway; despite being one of the best profilers employed by the FBI, he still couldn’t determine exactly why the dude had offed two low-level hustlers—one a paid dancer at a club—in the same night.
And the state in which he’d left them, especially that kid in the motel room…
Dan was still incommunicado on assignment and Mark was getting increasingly frustrated. He needed to find this motherfucker, and fast. This was gonna hit the news soon, even if it wasn’t linked across state lines to that dead trooper. The stripper knocked off in his apartment coulda been kept under wraps, but the room maid who found the dead drug slut in the motel went full mental and half the town knew something had happened by the time Mark had arrived.
Where the fuck was this guy?
————————————————————————–
The guy in question was in the last place Mark expected him to be. It was a cliché—and a true one—that criminals returned to the scene of their crimes, but even an experienced profiler wouldn’t have expected to find the Trucker in room 115 of the Waters Motel.
He’d planned to ask for the room when he checked in, but it turned out to be the one the aged clerk gave him anyway. He’d checked in using cash and a false name (like everyone else who used the place), leaving his rig back at the truck stop, as he’d done on his earlier visit. The only difference was that he was carrying an overnight bag on his walk to the motel.
This time, the room didn’t reek of crack and mansex, just a slight musty smell that the aggressively citrus-scented cleaner couldn’t quite overcome. The furniture was intact, but the mirror didn’t match the dresser. The TV and bedside lamps were new and very, very cheap.
The drywall had been replaced, but the paint was half a shade off, just barely noticeable. Most of the occupants of the room were doubtlessly too intent on other things to notice these details—much less guess at the savage beating, rape and murder that had caused them.
The Trucker dropped his bag on the floor. For a brief moment it all came back to him—the white-hot rage that burned within him when he discovered the whore stealing, the pleasure he got out of throwing the worthless cunt across the room before beating the fuck out of him, the fag suffering an agonizing, drawn-out death while riding his cock…
The powerful sadist grinned, his dick hard at the memory. Then he shook his head brusquely, clearing his mind. He was here for a specific purpose. Well, he always had a specific purpose—but now he had a specific target.
He glanced at his watch in the dim, depressing glow of the overhead light. Past ten p.m.—he needed to get ready. Retrieving his bag from the floor, he tossed it on the bed and began to strip.
Slipping off his loosely-laced work boots, he took off his jeans, peeling the thin denim from his bulging thighs and thick calves. Taking off his trucker’s cap, he ran his hands through his thick, fine hair, tousling the black strands before peeling off the thin white cotton t-shirt that clung to his hubcap pecs like a second skin, his large nipples proudly protruding from his broad chest.
Except for the white tube socks clinging to his muscled calves, the Trucker stood nude in the center of the room, facing the mirror.
He took a moment to admire his own body—an erotic, powerful killing machine. His broad chest, slightly glistening with sweat in the warm room, rose and fell with his even breaths. The faint motion was just enough for a dim shimmer of light to reflect from the dogtags nestled snugly in his wiry chest hair.
In the mirror, the Trucker’s eyes followed the line of fur down his firm, rippled abs. The happy trail became denser as it approached his waist, finally bursting out in a bush of curly black pubes. From the center of this dark nest, the alpha’s enormous cock jutted proudly. The memory of the last time he’d been here, the justice he’d meted out to the thieving boywhore, had gotten him hard.
As he watched the mirror, he could see his dick throb; the pulsations were visible from halfway across the room. And soon so was the faint twinkle refracting from a transparent drop of precum.
Not yet, he thought. He needed to get ready; he had a plan to put into motion.
And he knew he’d have an opportunity to drain his shaft later on.
Padding back to the bed, his feet still clad in the tight white cotton socks, he opened his bag and began extracting clothing. He removed a tan shirt and pair of slacks first. Underneath them was a pair of glossy brown leather boots, nearly knee-high. When they were out, all that was left, rattling in the bottom of the bag, was a pair of hardened steel handcuffs. Well, that and a bottle of Jack Daniels that quickly went into the nightstand drawer.
It was the Trooper’s uniform—well, most of it. The Trucker was planning on walking a fine line between enticement and intimidation tonight. Not that that was particularly unusual for him, but tonight his sense of purpose added something extra—perhaps a touch of anticipation, of eagerness, to tease his jaded appetite.
He dressed carefully. The Trooper had been slightly smaller than him, so the clothes were tight. The Trucker didn’t realize quite how tight until he tried to pull the smooth khaki trousers up over his thick, strong thighs. The tan-colored chinos clung to the alpha’s firm legs, stretching the seams to their limits.
Leaving the pants undone, he slipped on a clean white t-shirt, followed by the Trooper’s tan button-down shirt. The Trucker left the top two buttons unfastened, allowing a glimpse of his curly chest hair over the collar of the t-shirt.
After tucking the shirttail into the waist of the pants, the muscled stud picked up the jeans he’d tossed on the bed and unthreaded the thick belt from the loops. The belt, nearly two inches of black leather, was soon cinched tightly around his waist.
It wasn’t the Trooper’s original belt. He hadn’t kept the badge, and he’d gotten rid of the gun too. Guns weren’t his style to begin with—he liked to linger over his kills—but he had another reason as well.
After all, the local fags would clam up around a real cop. But a dude in a cop uniform would be an irresistible lure for some of the cockpigs, whether or not they were into roleplay.
The Trucker sat on the bed and pulled the knee-high glossy boots on before standing and facing the mirror again. His smile became colder and more evil as he assessed his appearance.
In front of him stood a tall, intimidating man whose body was rippled with muscles. The khaki uniform seemed to be painted onto his powerful physique; even the brown leather boots were bulging with his hard, thick calves. The black belt didn’t quite match, and there was no badge—no way he could be legitimately accused of impersonating an officer.
The cuffs he jammed into his hip pocket were the real deal, though. And as smoothly as the tan chinos clung to his firm, rounded buttocks, the cuffs were obvious.
Again, there were cockpigs who would find that irresistible. And the Trucker had a strong suspicion that his target would be one. Now, he just needed to wait. Quickly placing his original clothing into the bag, along with the work boots, he laid the bag smoothly into the top drawer of the dresser.
Turning out the light, the Trucker opened the blinds in the window. And waited.
He had a decent view across the parking lot and the street to the main entrance of the gay bar. As it turned out, he had to wait just over an hour before he saw the cunt he was stalking saunter down the street. The punk paused under the electric glare of the bar’s sign to check his wallet before pushing open the blacked-out door and vanishing inside.
The Trucker stood up straight, feeling his throbbing dick tentpoling the tight khaki chinos. The angry sensation of heat in his scrotum told him it was time to get the show on the road—he was done waiting. He strode out the door, ensuring the room was ready for his return with a quick backwards glance.
The Trooper’s boots thumped loudly on the parking lot blacktop, a forceful, masculine sound. The brown leather uppers gripped his legs snugly, bulging slightly as his thick calf muscles flexed with each step.
He crossed the street quickly. As it happened, there was no one out front when he approached the place. He slipped inside the door, noting the appraising leer of the bouncer—who was rubbing his groin.
The entryway was small and garishly lit. Once past it, though, the Trucker found himself in a Stygian blackness, broken by random strobe lights that induced instant disorientation by virtue of being out of synch with the pounding music. The cold, experienced killer grinned happily.
It was perfect. So much chaos—no one would be able to describe him with any accuracy.
Another benefit of the flashing, psychedelic atmosphere was that it gave him a brief moment of anonymity to reconnoiter. Once he stepped out of the shadows, he’d be the center of attention. He knew it. It wasn’t arrogance—it was simple fact. In the skin-tight cop uniform, he would be irresistible to all the cumpigs in the bar.
He was only after one. But he already knew that one was interested in him. The cunt wouldn’t recognize him in this getup—but would be flattered to be singled out.
After all, the Trucker was a well-built, powerful man, and he was dressed to highlight his physique. And the testosterone he was pumping out with his pheromones drew fags to him like moths to a candle. Or flies to a flytrap.
Either way, the insects died horribly.
He’d entered at one corner of a large open space. At the other was a huge TV screen, playing music videos that were utterly unrelated to the music actually playing. Two-thirds of the open area was dance floor; the remainder was a collection of rickety tables and chairs, sparsely occupied. The bar stretched along three of the four walls, with stools pulled up. Most of the clientele was either at the bar or on the dance floor.
Pausing in the shadows, the Trucker surveyed the crowd. It was just about midnight and the club was in full swing. Even though it was a small town in the middle of nowhere, it was the only gay bar in the county, so it tended to be pretty popular. And the proximity of the truck stop didn’t hurt.
The clientele was a mix—some twinks, some fat old trolls, and an assortment of muscular farm boy/manual labor types. That made it easier to sight his prey. He was after a twink; there weren’t enough to allow the punk to blend in.
The buff alpha spotted the boy—he was halfway down the bar on the left-hand side of the room. As the Trucker sized up his victim, he noticed that the kid was facing away from him, slowly nursing a Bud Light. In a room full of men in blue jeans and work boots or cowboy boots, the boy stood out—not so much as to draw a lot of attention, but enough to make him easy to track.
His shoulder-length black hair gleamed in the light, pulled back in a ponytail. The Trucker smirked in contempt—at least it was clean this time. Last time he’d seen the fucker, it had been greasy. It had also been loose and spread out over the ears, which was why the brawny killer hadn’t noticed the multiple silver studs piercing the kid’s ears.
The boy was about five foot ten, with a tight, lean swimmer’s build that was amply displayed by his too-small t-shirt, thin cotton in bright red that clung to his smooth torso and slim waist like a second skin. Beneath, the punk’s black skinny jeans gripped his taut asscheeks tightly and revealed every muscle in the youth’s legs.
His shoes were what stood out the most; a pair of Nike Kobe X Elites in black and red. Taller than most sneakers, they came several inches above his ankle. The cuffs of his jeans had gotten tucked inside; it gave him the appearance of wearing black cloth lace-up boots.
Time to make his move. The Trucker crossed to the bar, heading for the stool next to the kid. As he reached it, he made sure to jostle his prey while ordering a shot of Jack. Naturally enough, the boy turned and eyed the Trucker.
The cold, calculating killer ignored him, at least for the moment. But out of the corner of his eye, he could see the way the boy was checking him out. In fact, he could almost literally feel the punk’s hot, lascivious gaze sliding up and down his powerful body.
The kid was taking the bait.
The Trucker finally turned and acknowledged the boy, letting his glance flicker over the kid’s slim, firm body. The boy blinked, looked up into the Trucker’s face and gulped. “H-hey, man, wh-wh-what’s up?” he stammered, trying to give a show of insouciance and failing miserably.
The older man gave the youth a friendly smile. The little piece of shit was hooked. Time to play with his catch a little before reeling him in.
“Hey,” he rumbled casually in his deep bass voice. “Just checkin’ things out. What’s up with you?”
The punk’s lips must have gone dry; he literally licked them before replying. “Just looking for some fun,” he said, recovering a slight measure of nonchalance. “Name’s Zach…”
Here he broke off and peered up at the Trucker closely. “You look familiar,” he said questioningly. “Are you a model? You do porn?”
The well-built alpha chuckled pleasantly. “Naw, man, I ain’t done no porn—“ He broke off, remembering the video of him snuffing the stripper. “Well, nothin’ you seen, boy.”
As he expected, this aroused the kid even more.
“So you done something?” Zach asked eagerly. “What’d you do—play a cop? That outfit is so fuckin’ hot…”
The Trucker laughed. “No, I didn’t play a cop. But I can. Why—you want one?”
Here Zach hesitated, embarrassed. He blushed, then muttered, “No, not a cop…” The punk turned his reddened face away for a moment. He seemed to consider for a moment before shrugging his discomfort off and turned back to the Trucker.
“Naw, I don’t want a cop. I wanna jail guard. I spent three months in juvie—it don’t matter why—and there was this one guard who’d let me suck him off. He was so damn hot, I’da let him do anything he wanted, but that was all he’d do to me.”
Grinning bashfully, he shook his head, flicking his black ponytail. “You’re even hotter than he was. Can ya be a guard with a prisoner at your mercy?”
The effort to control himself forced the Trucker to dig his fingernails into the surface of the wooden bar. “Yeah,” he said evenly, “yeah, I think I can do that.”
He turned to fully face the boy, standing in such a way that the enormous erection tenting the chinos in his crotch was instantly obvious to Zach. The young slut again lost his cool, gasping aloud as he gazed on the evidence of the older dude’s ability to give him everything he wanted. Forcing his eyes away, the kid found them drawn to a glint of light at the stud’s waist. Peering closer, he could see the rounded metal arcs of handcuffs peeking out of the stud’s pocket.
That was it. That was all that was needed. The Trucker had landed his catch.
Time to take the fish back and clean it.
The Trucker could see that the fucker was still nursing his beer. “Ya might wanna get somethin’ stronger than that horse piss before I go Attica on yer ass, boy,” he chuckled.
Zach’s face, pockmarked with adolescent acne, flushed red again. “I-I can’t, dude. I’m only eighteen. The bartender slips me a Bud or two cause I suck him off sometimes, but they won’t serve me here.”
“Well, damn, bitch, yer gonna need something stronger for sure. I gotta fresh bottle of JD back in my hotel room. Let’s have ya hit it, then I’ll hit you—ha!”
The kid lit up at the suggestion. “Fuck yeah, dude, let’s go!” he chirped giddily, slamming the remainder of his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
Zach followed the Trucker out of the bar and across to the motel as eagerly as a puppy; if the young cunt had had a tail, he’d have been wagging it. His tall Nike hightops padded quietly on the pavement, the sound completely covered by the older man’s heavy footfalls—not that there was anyone to hear.
It was past midnight in a small country town; most of the action was already inside the bar (or one of several straight bars in town). They were able to reach the room without being seen by anyone, not that Zach paid attention. But the Trucker did.
The Trucker opened the door and went in, flicking on the lights as he entered. He stepped to the side to allow the boy to enter, then closed the door behind him, making certain that the self-locking latch had connected properly. Again, Zach paid no attention, seating himself on the bed and looking around.
The alpha crossed to the bathroom and grabbed a couple of disposable plastic cups. He handed them to Zach. “Here,” he said, “get that wrap off them while I get the bottle.” He allowed a slight gruffness into his tone, noting how the boy seemed to shudder at the ring of command in his voice.
The little cocksucker liked to be dominated. He liked to be forced to obey.
So it was time to give him something to obey. He grabbed the cups from the kid. “Now strip the bed, boy. Next time I look at it, I don’t wanna see nothin’ but the bottom sheet, ya hear me?”
The Trucker turned away from him to get the whiskey bottle out of the nightstand, which was probably a good thing; the sadistic killer was unable to completely hide the look of malevolent glee that crossed his face.
He opened the bottle and filled the cups, each about half full. They were eight-ounce cups; each had the equivalent of four shots. Turning around, he was pleased to see his order had been obeyed; everything had been swept off the bed into a pile on the far side of the room; the kid was sitting on the edge of the bed, his tight black jeans highlighted by the dingy, off-white fitted sheet.
The Trucker handed one of the cups to Zach.
“Here’s to yer jail rape, dude,” he grinned, “here’s to a fuck so long and hard you’ll remember it for the rest of yer life—no matter how long that is.” He bumped the rims of the plastic cups together before tossing back the entire cupful. He steeled himself as the smoky amber liquid coursed down his throat, setting his blood aflame. He cleared his throat twice, shook his head, and set the cup down, staring expectantly at Zach.
He knew damn well Zach hadn’t had much in the way of hard booze before, not if he was already known at the bar. He didn’t seem to know what a large amount he’d been handed, and he didn’t want the hot cop dude to think he couldn’t take it. Without hesitation, he shot back all four ounces as well.
Well, not as well. Not well at all, in fact; it took a moment for it to hit him, then he fell to his knees with his hands at his searing throat, coughing and crying. His face was bright red and he was gasping like he’d drunk acid—but he didn’t puke. He kept the booze down.
“That’s it, boy,” the Trucker chuckled. “Don’t puke. Ya know what happens if ya puke in jail, dontcha, bitch? Ya gotta lick it up!”
Even as Zach tried to control his choking, he could feel his cock stiffening in his groin, painfully restrained by his tight jeans. This was it; this was the real deal. This hard motherfucker was gonna treat him like the pig he was. He couldn’t fuckin’ wait.
And that was when the alcohol hit. The Trucker had been right; Zach wasn’t used to that amount of liquor—certainly not at once. The boy tried unsteadily to rise off his knees. He put his hand out to the nightstand for support but kept missing it, his hand grabbing at air.
“C’mon, bitch, stand up,” the muscled strongman snapped, stepping forward and jerking the boy upright by his arm. Once on his feet again, Zach grinned up at the Trucker. The pockmarked teen was only attractive in his youth, his smooth slim body. His face was slightly rounded, with a weak chin and large, bloodshot brown eyes. His nose was crooked and slightly snub, and his long black hair was coarse and stringy.
Ain’t no one gonna miss this one, the Trucker thought. And after all, he was at the height of his attraction now; really, it was a mercy to waste him.
Of course, the Trucker’s method wasn’t going to be merciful, but that was beside the point. The worthless little faggot needed to be taught a lesson and the powerful alpha was gonna make sure the cunt learned it if was the last thing the boy learned on earth—which it would be.
But for now, he was willing to take his time, to play a little. And he was curious to see just how far he could go before the cumpig realized that his fantasy was becoming a snuff.
“C’mon, punk, get outta that shirt,” he barked, “ya know the drill; I gotta search ya, make sure you ain’t got no weapons.” Zach complied right away, pulling the tight red t-shirt up over his head and shaking his ponytail free. He stood facing the Trucker, swaying drunkenly, his soft, smooth skin glistening faintly with a thin sheen of sweat as his chest heaved in excitement. The long, swollen ridge in his groin, wrapped tightly in black denim, pulsed visibly as the teen gasped raggedly in lust.
“Up against the wall, boy, NOW!” the older man shouted suddenly, “assume the position!” Startled, the kid jumped, but instantly did as he was told, wheeling around and placing his palms flat on the wall. Then the Trucker approached.
The muscle-bound alpha pressed himself against Zach’s back, leaning in to whisper. “Gonna frisk ya, bitch—and if I find anything, I’m gonna do a cavity search.” With that, he placed his large, strong hands on the teen and began to fondle him. He wrapped one arm around the boy’s chest, holding him in place like an iron bar while he shoved the other hand down the front of the kid’s jeans.
The Trucker grabbed hold of Zach’s long, throbbing cock and began to twist it and squeeze it, slowly increasing the force until the youth was whimpering in pain. Floundering in a haze of lust and alcohol, Zach found himself unable to break free; with each brutal wrench of his scrotum, he could feel his tormentor’s huge pecs bulging in effort, pressed against his back.
The young cockpig loved it.
“F-fuckin’-A,” he slurred, moaning ecstatically, “yeah, dude, I’ll be yer fuckin’ prison bitsh. Use me, you fucker…” He broke off in a breathy gasp, shuddering with pleasure.
Without saying a word, the Trucker let go of the boy’s dick and withdrew his hands. With a sudden, practiced movement, he jerked Zach’s hands around behind his back and had them cuffed before the boy even realized what had happened. Even when he did realize, he was too incapacitated by the booze to do much.
He stood and swayed, staring blearily at the Trucker as the latter slowly unbuttoned the cop’s tan dress shirt and tossed it on the floor. Next, the older stud unbuckled his thick leather belt and unsnaked it from his tight waist, hanging it over the headboard of the bed. Only after all this was complete did his pull off the thin white cotton t-shirt.
If Zach had been less drunk, he might have recognized that amazing chest, broad and muscled with dark wiry hair; it had certainly drawn his attention the last time he’d seen it. Unluckily for him, the alcohol was interfering with his sense of danger to such an extent that even the sight of the dogtags nestled between the alpha’s hubcap-like pecs didn’t send up a red flag.
“C’mere, faggot,” the Trucker snarled. “C’mere and work my chest, you jailyard cumslut.”
Zach approached the brawny sadist slowly, almost hesitant to touch the Trucker for fear that his fantasy would pop like a bubble. The Trucker grunted with impatience. He reached out and snagged the teen by one of his ear studs and brutally yanked him closer, making Zach cry out in pain. But before he could yelp again, his face was being ground into the alpha’s chest; the older man’s fur scraping at his skin like steel wool.
“Work it, cunt, get yer tongue out and work it!” came a vicious hiss. Zach did as he was told, running his tongue along the dude’s skin, slurping up a heady salty mix of mansweat and pheromones. The teen’s adolescent body, already in a ferment of hormones, went into overdrive. He felt the hard metallic edges of the dogtags slicing against his face—painful, but too dull to break the skin.
As Zach knelt to run his tongue down the length of the Trucker’s rippled abs, his own young, slim body was flooded with testosterone and adrenaline. When the buff alpha pulled the boy back up to his feet and forced the kid’s face into his pits, the youth was pressed against him and he could feel the hot rigid shaft in the punk’s crotch. “C’mon, ya fuckin’ jailbait, work my pits good,” he growled, “show me how ya keep yer cellie clean.”
The Trucker abruptly stood up straight and, grabbing Zach by the upper arms, threw him down onto the bed on his back. The boy drew a sharp, surprised intake of breath. His eyes opened wide as the Trucker loomed ominously over him and, bending down, grabbed the fly of Zach’s jeans. A single rough, swift jerk undid the button; the loose zipper came down immediately.
Another couple of jerks and the Trucker had peeled the jeans off the kid completely, turning them inside out as he shucked the boy like corn. There was a slight ripping sound as the cuffs were forced over the heels of Zach’s Kobe X’s, but a little extra tightening of his bicep was enough to power through the resistance.
Zach didn’t protest the damage to his pants; he was both too drunk and too horny to care. Despite the former, he was able to demonstrate the latter with no doubt; his own dick had bobbed up ecstatically the moment it was free from the confining denim, slapping against his flat belly and spattering precum like a fine rain, the drops of which were caught on the soft brown fur surrounding his navel.
“Fuck, man,” the horny young punk moaned, “you got me in cuffs, you can lock me up and do what the fuck you wanna do to me…”
Nude but for the Nike hightops laced above his ankles, Zach’s smooth skin gleamed with the slight film of sweat worked up by his sexual ecstasy. He writhed in erotic helplessness as the heavily-muscled stranger towered over him.
“Do me,” the teen gasped, almost involuntarily. “Stick it in me…” It was obvious that his rational mind was shut down, overpowered by the hormones rampaging through his slender but firm body. The adolescent faggot wanted dick. He wanted it rough, and he wanted it now.
The Trucker was only too happy to provide. But not yet. He’d left a pack of Marlboro Reds on the dresser. Wheeling abruptly on the heel of his boot, he walked across the room and took a moment to light one up, completely ignoring the desperately randy youth shuddering on the bed.
Turning back, he could see that the little fuck had raised his head. Whimpering faintly, the kid was gazing at him with a look of raw sexual hunger. Zach was actually right—the Trucker could do whatever he wanted to the teenager. No one could stop him.
His grin deepened, giving him a predatory, carnivorous look.
The Trucker approached the bed again slowly, his incredible body rippling with menace. He exhaled a cloud of smoke over the boy before placing the cigarette, still lit, on the nightstand. Reaching down to his groin, he lowered his own zipper. His massive dong was too large to fall out of the trooper’s tight beige chinos on its own; the Trucker had to reach in with both hands to extract the thick, pulsing tube of meat.
Drunk and horny as he was, Zach blanched when he saw the monster cock emerge, throbbing and dripping. Things were long past the point of him having the power to object, though, even if he hadn’t been swamped in teenage horniness. But when the older man bent down over him, the youth lost whatever trepidation had penetrated his whiskey-fumed haze.
His large dark eyes greedily drank in the alpha’s broad hairy pecs as they got closer. For a moment, he was distracted by the jingling dogtags before looking up to the stud’s scruffy face, hard and handsome, with icy blue eyes…
The punk’s reverie was shattered as the Trucker grabbed him by the arms and yanked him roughly, positioning him so that his head was at the head of the bed. Instantly, the sadistic strongman was on the bed on his knees, his large callused hands pressed against the boy’s smooth, firm thighs and forcing them apart, then lifting them.
Before Zach knew it, he was staring fuzzily at his Nike Kobe Xs, kicking the empty air over the Trucker’s shoulders.
“Yeah, cunt, ya liked gettin’ fucked in juvie, huh?” the Trucker sneered, gripping his dick in one hand like a club and slapping it into the palm of the other, spattering as much precum on Zach as the randy teen had himself. “Ya liked bein’ backed into a corner and gettin’ raped? Hell yeah, boy, I’m gonna shag ya like a prison bitch, you fuckin’ sack of shit!” Zach laid his head back on the bed, shuddering in bottom pig pleasure. He never saw it coming; he didn’t see the Trucker aiming his gigantic cock right at the kid’s tender pink fuckhole.
He damn sure felt it.
The adolescent felt pressure against his sphincter—a pressure that swelled to excruciating pain in the blink of an eye. It happened so fast that Zach couldn’t breathe. The slim youth looked up at the Trucker with tormented, watering eyes as he gasped like a dying fish, unable to catch his breath from sheer agony.
The searing, white-hot pain of ripped flesh and torn muscles slashed through the mist of alcohol in his brain. His desperate hyperventilation seemed to go on forever; he was forcing his air out with a high-pitched panicked whine that didn’t give his lungs enough time to absorb oxygen. As darkness mercifully closed in on the nightmarish physical shock he was experiencing, Zach seemed to see, without quite registering it, a cold, cruel light of lust illuminating the alpha’s eyes without thawing their cold steel-blue tint.
The Trucker spent the next couple of minute raping the kid’s motionless ass. Unconsciousness caused the boy’s muscles to relax; his sphincter, torn and bleeding, gave way at last, allowing the Trucker to penetrate deep into the punk’s colon.
Zach came to slowly, moaning and blinking. The horrible spearing pain in his ass was still there, but now he could feel the pulsing immenseness of the muscled stud’s rod plugging his rectum. The powerful man was bearing down on him with each vicious thrust of his hips; the handcuffs binding the slut’s hands painfully crushed between his back and the stripped bed.
“Dude—“ Zach managed to wheeze out. “Y-yer hurtin’ me…please stop, man, lemme just…just…”
“Shut up,” the Trucker snarled, “ya wanted to get fucked like a prison bitch? You got it, cunt. I’m gonna use you like fresh meat and the more ya squeal, the more I’m gonna ream out yer hole like the jailyard pig you are. Trust me, you worthless piece of shit, I know how to make you hurt.”
Tightly gripping the youth’s slim hips, the sadistic killer held him down on the bed and drilled the kid’s mangled fuckhole, his powerful thigh muscles flexing and bulging with each excruciatingly deep pump of his shaft. Zach tried to protest but the violence and pain of the assault left him unable to speak; he could only stare beseechingly into the cold, contemptuous face of his tormentor.
The cruel alpha smirked at the pain-wracked adolescent writhing on his dick. “Guess what, faggot?” he hissed malevolently. “You’re locked in with a killer—just like prison, huh? Ya got what ya want; is that fuckin’ hot or what?”
Zach was still trying to figure out how his greatest fantasy had morphed into an excruciating nightmare. The actual meaning of the Trucker’s words took some time to sink in. When they did, they hit a brick wall of deliberate incomprehension.
“No…you c-can’t…you haven’t…” the teen squeaked in a high, terrified pitch.
The Trucker leaned down and rested his body full length on top of the boy, sweat-streaked skin to skin, full length. The punk’s legs twisted painfully to the side as the weight of the older man’s well-built body crushed him; the dogtags digging into the kid’s heaving chest.
From this position, the Trucker’s hard-edged, masculine face, twisted with rage and sick lust, filled Zach’s field of view. “Yes I can,” the sadist whispered icily. “And I have. Right here. Look around ya, boy—you ain’t gonna be the first homo cunt I wasted in this room.”
Again, Zach’s face was blank; the teenager was either too frightened or simply too stupid to understand the allusion. Not that it bothered the Trucker—he was looking forward to enlightening the cunt.
“I knew you were a worthless pansy slut the first time I laid eyes on ya,” the brawny, powerful sadist growled. “Or the first time you laid eyes on me. Just another disgusting faggot who wanted my body. And since ya couldn’t keep yer homo trap shut, you’re gonna get my body—all up in your guts.”
A dim light of recognition glinted in Zach’s shocked, terrified eyes. That face, that broad hairy chest—he had seen them before; in fact, he’d gone home that night and jerked off until he was sore over the memory of them.
This was the hot guy from the truck stop; the one who’d asked about the bar. He’d come back in a couple of hours later, bare-chested, sweaty, hot as all fuck…
…and that was the night that cheap-ass rent boy got the shit beat out of him. Kid was raped and strangled, in this motel…
The Trucker watched the horrifying realization dawn on the boy. The panic in his victim’s face made his dick, sunk deep into the teen’s rectum, pulse and swell. He knew exactly what thoughts were running through the punk’s head.
“This room, dude,” the Trucker whispered with malicious cruelty as one hand crept towards the head of the bed. “That spot on the wall where I frisked ya? They fixed it good—I threw that cunt into it so hard he went through the sheetrock. Slammed the motherfucker through the TV, too. Thieving queer-ass cocksucker tried to steal my wallet, so I fucked him to death.”
He drew back his hand, now clutching the belt he’d left over the headboard, without once allowing Zach’s wide, shock-rimmed eyes to escape from his own terrifyingly hypnotic gaze, at once white-hot with lust and ice-cold with killing rage.
“It took him a long time to die. And it hurt—I made sure of that. When he finally died, he was grateful to escape the agony.” The Trucker lowered his face down to Zach’s, so close that his dark scruff scraped against the boy’s cheek as the alpha whispered into his ear. “And all he did was to try to steal my wallet. You squealed about me to the cop.”
He pulled back and raised himself up so that he was kneeling over Zack, his enormous shaft still jammed up inside the frightened teen’s smooth body. He held the belt now in both hands, letting the import of both his words and the leather strap sink in.
“The cop, yeah? You remember him? I raped and tortured him to death, too. I took my time with him and left his baton jammed up his ass. You’re the last loose end—and the one with the biggest lesson to learn.”
Zach understood. He knew what was about to happen, and why. He also knew that there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to evade the brutal violence he was about to endure, but this didn’t resign him to his fate.
In a moment, the teenager went into full reflex mode, his lean but muscled body thrashing and flailing in blind panic. He wrapped his legs around the Trucker’s firm, hard flanks and squeezed; the alpha responded by slipping his arms under the teen’s legs and hoisting them back onto his shoulder, where the punk’s Nike kicks flailed uselessly in the air.
Zach was in too much fear to be able to cry for help or even scream effectively; he gibbered and squealed like a stuck pig, spittle flecking his thick lips. As his sweat-streaked body writhed on the bed, his terror was so strong that a stream of piss was shot out of his long cock, even though it was still semi-erect from the adolescent hormonal overload.
The Trucker glared down at the helpless, fear-maddened teenager. “Stop squealin’, you stupid motherfucker,” he barked in anger. “You don’t even deserve to die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit; I shoulda just offed ya. But I wanna drain my balls, and since I gotta snuff ya anyway, I might as well dump my load in yer ass as I take ya out.”
Zach’s first panic had faded, simply because he didn’t have the energy to sustain his frenzied thrashing. “No…no…you…no…” he moaned quietly.
“Shut the fuck up, cunt,” the Trucker said evenly as he drove his fist into Zach’s jaw. The boy gave a deep, instinctive grunt of pain as his mouth slammed shut and he bit through his tongue. The vicious alpha spit into the face of the suffering youth, the phlegm sliding down the kid’s smooth cheeks and mingling with the blood leaking out of his mouth.
Stunned, awash in agony and sheer terror, Zach inhaled deeply. He’d found his voice again; even though no conscious thought was involved, his animal midbrain realized that the only way to survive the next hour was to get help by alerting others. He didn’t know he needed to scream; it was going to happen anyway.
The Trucker knew he needed to scream, though, and he wasn’t gonna have it. Zach had stopped inhaling and had opened his mouth wide to shriek, when it all came to sudden halt. Instantly, a thick band of crushing pain circled his throat, and he couldn’t scream. He couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t breathe. Nothing. Nothing he could do. He wrung his hands in the cuffs underneath him, the sudden panic overriding the pain as the case-hardened steel tore cruelly into the tender flesh in the small of his back and bloodily flayed the skin from his wrists. Nothing. That pain around his throat—it was the belt…
Still fucking the boy’s torn asshole, deeply and intently, the Trucker focused his eyes on Zach’s face and watched him start to die. The kid continued to kick and writhe as he fought for his short, wasted life; all that the youth’s frantic struggles accomplished was to give this killer’s cock a nice, vigorous massage. As he twisted and jerked, he burnt though his oxygen even faster.
His face swelled and darkened, turning purple—and so did his dick. The teen could feel his own erection, but the sensation was lost in the horrifying agony of strangulation. As his throat was compressed, Zach’s eyes, wide with terror, started to bulge. He could feel his tongue swelling, too—it seemed to fill his entire mouth.
The worst pain of all was still in his ass, though—that was the truly nightmarish part of Zach’s situation; he wasn’t only forced to suffer the pain and violence of a slow murder, he also had to endure the pain and violence of a vicious rape. It was too much. It was overwhelming. His weak adolescent psyche crumbled under the onslaught of the attack.
The Trucker had no intention of letting him slide into a catatonic haze, though. He wasn’t done with him—not by a long shot. “You stupid motherfucker,” he contemptuously taunted the dying teenager, “this is what happens to dumbass squealin’ cocksuckers. Only reason yer still alive, faggot, is cause you ain’t milked my cum out. Does it hurt, you worthless cunt? Ya want me to stop it? I’ll end your useless homo life the second I fill your guts with sperm.”
He gripped the belt forcefully, straining his biceps as he tightened the strap around the boy’s neck. Bending down, he spit into the kid’s distorted, blackening face as he sneered, “When it hurts bad enough, you’ll wanna die. Make me cum, slut, and I’ll stop the pain and the fear. C’mon, you worthless fag, drain me and die”
The helpless, choking youth could feel the rigid stiffness of his own dick. Even as his lithe, smooth body convulsed and kicked, he was still gruesomely aware of his own throbbing erection. As Zach twitched beneath him, the Trucker could see that the teen was swiftly going under. He kept up the tension in the belt; the room filled with the musk of sex and sweat, forced out of his bulging muscles by the effort.
Suddenly the punk went rigid, his stiff dick bobbing up, its oozing head smacking wetly against the alpha’s rippled abs. His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but blood-streaked whites under fluttering lids.
He was edging—literally. Zach was trembling on the brink of irreparable brain death.
The Trucker grunted in anger. He wasn’t even close to cumming. Worthless little faggot couldn’t even make him shoot as he died.
Ok, so it wasn’t time for him to die. The Trucker slackened the belt; after a couple of convulsive gurgles, Zach began to cough uncontrollably, blood-spotted mucus from his damaged throat splattering his cheeks.
The powerful sadist, his hard, heaving body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, remained looming over the gasping adolescent, his monstrous shaft still jammed deeply into Zach’s guts. He stopped pumping, though, taking a moment to let the boy wake up. The Trucker wanted him conscious again before starting the next round.
And anyway, the fuckmeat was still desperately trying to catch his breath; in his struggles, he was working his killer’s shaft pretty damn good on his own.
The traumatized youth slowly clawed his way back into consciousness; the pain flooded in as he gradually came to. The dark lividness of Zach’s drool-smeared face drained away while his breathing slowed slightly—it was still rapid and ragged, but he was no longer gasping violently in an attempt to stave off brain death.
The kid’s fuckhole was still gripping the Trucker’s thick tool like a fist in a velvet glove, but it was no longer jacking him off. On his shoulders, the hard-bodied top could feel the high fabric tops of Zach’s Nikes, resting now as opposed to flailing in the air, but still trembling perceptibly. With his arms still wrapped around the boy’s legs, the silky-smooth flesh of the latter’s inner thighs was pressed against his rapist’s sweaty, powerful flanks.
Finally, the boycunt recovered his voice—barely. “P-pl-please…” he croaked, “I-I can’t…don’t…”
“You stupid piece of shit,” the cruel, hulking brute sneered in reply. “I ain’t done with ya yet, cunt; you ain’t made me cum yet. Ya know what that means, meat? It means you ain’t learned your lesson yet. You ain’t suffered enough yet.”
The belt was still wrapped around Zach’s neck; no longer crushing his windpipe, it was still sunk into the skin. With a deliberate intent to cause pain, the Trucker viciously jerked it free from the punk’s throat, flaying the skin underneath. Zach was still too weak to do more than shudder and make faint mewling noises, as much in fear as in agony.
The Trucker passed the end of the belt through the buckle, making a loop, and slipped it back over the boy’s head. Now he had a slipknot leash to pull the kid up with one hand.
He did so. The other hand he used to deliver a driving roundhouse punch to Zach’s face; the immediate result was a wet smacking sound, a deep involuntary grunt of pain and the faint crunching sound of the teen’s cheekbone breaking.
“Fuck yeah, you worthless cocksucker, that felt good, dinnit?” the muscle-bound alpha chuckled gleefully at his helpless prey. “Ya musta really liked it, cumpig; yer reamed-out ass worked the head of my shaft great—that what it’s gonna take, huh? You a pain pig, cunt? Damn, fag, ya shoulda said so! Hell, I’ll give ya all ya want!”
Zach was wedged into an excruciating position—his slim, firm torso brutally yanked up by the loop of leather around his neck, his arms twisted agonizingly behind his back while his expensive kicks had slipped from the Trucker’s shoulders but were still caught in the latter’s arms. The only part of the boy still touching the bed was his ass—and the Trucker’s huge, rigid cock was still plugging it.
Zach retreated mentally; the sheer horror that the knowledge of his helplessness, his utter inability to prevent or evade whatever nightmarish torture this sexual psychopath wished to inflict on him, plunged him into a state where he was capable of little more than response to stimuli. His fogged attention, like an animal’s, focused blearily on bright, shiny objects, which was how Zach found himself staring at the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling against the latter’s hard furry chest, as the tortured teen homo wallowed in agony.
The Trucker could see the blank, stunned look in the eighteen-year-old kid’s eyes; it was the look of a youth who had been subjected to an unexpected and shockingly violent assault. The sadist’s powerful body was filled with a strong urge to overwhelm and destroy the boy, to literally fuck him to death.
He braced himself by extending one leg, planting the glossy brown boot on the floor and tensing his thighs, making them bulge visibly in the tight beige chinos he still wore. He channeled his sexual rage into his fist, driving it into the side of the kid’s head with such explosive savagery that he lost his grip on the belt—he’d literally knocked the little fuck right out of his own hand.
Zach’s head whipped to the side, flinging his dark ponytail behind as his skull hit the nightstand with a loud crack. The impact toppled both the lamp, which fell to the floor and broke, and the bottle of Jack, which stayed on the stand. The amber-colored fluid splashed across the flat surface, drenching Zach’s hair and adding a distinct smoky scent to the pheromone-laden air.
“Goddam it,” the Trucker muttered in the deep, guttural growl of a predator, “that shit cost more than you’re worth, you miserable pansy.” He leaned down and whispered into the ear of the semi-conscious teen, so close that even in his deep, pain-wracked haze, he could feel the killer’s wiry scruff as it grazed his cheek. “You owe me, cunt; how ya gonna pay? Huh?”
Then the Trucker paused. At this distance he could see the studs in the kid’s ear much more clearly; there were three—and the top one had a slight sparkle.
“Motherfuck—ya been holdin’ out on me, boy. Bad mistake. If that tiny chip is real diamond, it might cover the cost of my booze. Maybe. Lemme take a look. If it’s real, I’m gonna take the other one too.”
He spread his huge hand out and placed it on the side of Zach’s head; placing all his weight on that arm, he forced the kid’s head down onto the nightstand with such power that the unfortunate youth was already mewling with pain when the Trucker started fondling the top stud. He held the ear between two fingers, one looped about the stud, the other around its back.
Then, with a single tremendous jerk, he tore the stud out of the teen’s ear.
The sharp agony of ripped flesh snapped the tormented adolescent out of his catatonic state; he tried to scream but could only push out a high, thin shriek that spiraled into a croak. His bloodshot eyes, huge and darkly ringed by shock, were riveted on the Trucker, who was examining the stud under the light on the other nightstand.
The pain in his ear, now throbbing with his pulse as blood flowed from the wound, was so severe that he even managed to forget the gigantic rod that even now was still skewering his torn colon. But what he couldn’t forget was his own erection; his dick was so stiff as to be downright painful. He didn’t know how it could still be so hard after all he’d suffered.
It never occurred to him that he liked it. On some level, he wanted and deserved it, but he could never have admitted it.
And whatever he desired, pain overrode the physical and fear the mental aspects. No matter how hard he got, how close he came to shooting his wad, he was still going to fight death to the very end. He wouldn’t submit, no matter how much he wanted to.
The Trucker didn’t give him the choice.
Repositioning his big cop boot on the thin carpet, he shifted his muscled mass and pulled Zach back upright on the bed by the belt around his neck. Reaching around to the other side of the punk’s head, he ripped the top stud on that side out too.
This time, the response was much stronger. This stud had been torn from the side of the punk’s head that had been drenched in whiskey; the alcohol burned like fire as it trickled into the open wound.
Zach screeched like an ape, twisting and shuddering violently. His black Nikes kicked the air behind the Trucker’s head—until the kid made the mistake of jerking one leg in and kicking the Trucker right in the side of the head.
“Ok, meat, that’s it. Yer done.” Enraged, the powerful alpha yanked the belt in a whip-like motion, unexpectedly snapping Zach’s head down and to the side so that it smashed back onto the nightstand. Except it didn’t—it smashed into the half-empty whiskey bottle and shattered it, shards of glass slicing open the skin at Zach’s temple. A jagged edge left on the base of the bottle left a shallow—but long and painful—slash across his cheek.
Instantly, the teen was jerked back up into position, his rectum rotating on the Trucker’s engorged tool. Scrambling his pricey kicks, Zach drew his legs up and, planting his feet on the older man’s rippled washboard abs, pushed himself off the bed—and off the Trucker’s cock. The smooth young teen, half-insane with fear, threw himself on the thin, cheap carpet, bleating in terror as he tried to wriggle away from his killer.
The Trucker had grunted with surprise at the blow, but otherwise didn’t make a sound. He simply stood up and strode towards Zach, his powerful muscled form looming over the nude youth. Flat on his back with his arms twisted behind him, the kid was still erect despite the pain from his mangled ears, and slashed head, all still bleeding.
But as the Trucker towered above, Zach shot another golden stream of piss involuntarily across his firm, smooth chest, already glittering with sweat. The teenager was lost in a rising tide of doom; turning his head to the side, he could see the shiny finish on the tall cop boots. His eyes traveled up the legs, muscles visibly bulging through the skin-tight sand colored chino trousers…
…and above that, a huge shaft of meat, dark, throbbing and oozing—and streaked with blood. His blood.
The heaving, furry chest above, dogtags lying between the broad, hubcap-like pecs…and above that, the face…that face. That hard face, the cold, cold rage in those eyes that showed there would be no mercy, no remorse, nothing but the desire to inflict as much pain as possible.
In his mind, Zach screamed; what came out of his mouth was a feeble gurgle.
The Trucker trembled with rage as he glared down at the worthless fag who dared to defy him, to try to escape the consequences of his actions. The tall, well-built killer bent over slowly at the waist, extending his hand and reaching out to the helpless boy who cowered and sniveled in terror. The muscle-bound stud grabbed the end of the belt that was still looped around the kid’s neck.
Standing up, the half-nude alpha continued to raise his arm as if he was doing curls with a set of weights. As the bicep on his arm flexed with the strain, the Trucker lifted Zach up off the ground and held the slim young teen dangling in the air.
The boy kicked weakly, his Nike hightops dancing in the air as his own weight tightened the leather strap around his neck and cut off his breath. Struggling uselessly as the incredibly powerful older man literally hanged him by holding him in the air, the sweaty, shuddering punk was nonetheless aware of his own dick slapping wetly against his firm, flat belly as he thrashed and choked.
The red-tinted blackness that filled Zach’s bewildered mind had the effect of focusing his attention on the hard, chiseled face of his assailant. It was somehow getting him even hornier; he could feel it even as he felt consciousness slipping away. That strong, hard jaw, that jet-black goatee surrounded by fainter fuzz—a five o’clock shadow of gunmetal blue that darkened the sadist’s cheeks—and those eyes. Again, those eyes—so blue, bright with a light that curiously combined the heat of lust and rage with the calculating coldness of an experienced killer.
And then Zach was snapped out of it. In fact, he was damn near snapped out of life forever. With the loud, snarling growl of a vicious predator, the Trucker whipped his arm to the side. The belt popped like a whip as the teenage boy flew through the air and slammed into the wall so hard he blacked out for a moment.
But it was just a moment; as he blinked and tried to breathe—the impact hadn’t loosened the leather noose enough for him to inhale—he could feel death approach in the heavy tread of the boots on the floor behind him. He was lying near the far wall of the room, facing it, his back to the room. Turning his bulging eyes up, he could see the huge dent his body had made in the drywall.
As the boots paused, directly behind him, Zach had a brief flash of clarity—and memory. Something this hot, erotic, cruel, brutal psycho…something this dude had said…the other guy. That whore. He’d been killed in this room—but he’d been beaten into hamburger first.
And part of that beating had put him through the wall too.
Once again, despite his huge and painfully throbbing erection, Zach lost control of his bladder to such an extent that the stream of urine that shot out of him hit the wall and splashed the teen with his own piss before he was hoisted into the air again, his slender young body jerking and kicking.
The Trucker sneered contemptuously at the choking boy. The muscles in the powerful alpha’s arm were knotted with the strain of holding the kid up off the ground, but it was worth the effort to watch his expensive Nike kicks flail as they desperately sought some support to relieve the crushing pain in the suffering punk’s throat.
Then, in a lightning-swift motion, the strongman flung his helpless young victim across the room again. In his suffocating haze, Zach felt a brief giddiness but was mostly unaware of his flight. He was aware when it was interrupted, though, the impact of smashing headfirst into the flatscreen TV piercing through his dying fog.
This time, when he landed on the floor on his back, the belt noose loosened. His lungs, full of useless carbon dioxide, emptied immediately with a loud sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt. Much like before, his esophagus had been so badly crushed and traumatized that the expelled breath was accompanied by bloody mucus.
The Trucker approached. He stood over his victim, his cold, stony gaze taking in the sight of the raped and tortured youth. While his prey stared at the ceiling with wide-eyed shock, gasping violently, the vicious sadist took pleasure in letting his enormous cock jut out over the shuddering, sweating teen. Large clear drops of precum welled from the slit in the center of his purple, engorged mushroom tip; they fell at random, sprinkling the writhing adolescent with his killer’s bodily fluids. “Stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker said in his steely bass voice, his cold even tone more frightening than any screaming or ranting could have been.
He bent down. Zach saw him coming. He was completely and utterly unable to prevent whatever was coming; all he could do was gasp and try to inhale as much oxygen as possible in case it was cut off.
It was. Instantly. The Trucker snatched the belt again. This time, there was no admiring, gloating dangle for the meat; the teenager experienced swift motion and terrible, slashing pain, but was too traumatized to realize he’d been thrown into the dresser and had shattered the mirror. The glass slashed at the smooth, soft skin on his back but, like his encounter with the whiskey bottle, the injuries were agonizing but not serious.
When he fell to the floor this time, he landed face down. The majority of Zach’s attention at this point was absorbed in trying to breathe; it was few seconds before the faint crunching sound of boots grinding glass into the carpet seeped into his awareness.
The Trucker was stepping on the remains of the mirror as he moved towards writhing prey. Without a word, his huge muscled body moving with startling swiftness, the older man snatched the lithe, trembling teen, not by the belt this time, but by his long black ponytail. For a single horrifying moment, Zach was suspended by his hair and felt his scalp starting to tear before the Trucker threw him on the bed.
Actually, threw him at the bed. Zach smacked face-first into the headboard before rebounding and rolling back; he ended up nearly in the center of the mattress but turned ninety degrees to the orientation of the bed. His long, smooth legs hung over the side, hightops not quite touching the floor.
On his back again now, he could look up and see the hulking form of his torturer towering implacably over him. The powerful stud’s vicious sadism was obvious in his massive, throbbing cock, jutting proudly over the trapped youth and oozing a steady stream of transparent precum. Above that, the psycho’s furred and heavily muscled torso was heaving, a faint sheen of sweat making his hard body glisten. The stony, merciless look of cold masculinity on the handsome face was accented by the icy glitter in the eyes.
Zach looked into those eyes and he knew—no matter what type of personal hell he was gonna endure in the next few minutes, there would be no return from the silent darkness this time. Death was staring him in the face.
But Death was gonna fuck him first.
Hoisting the kid’s legs, the Trucker dropped the punk’s Kobe X Elites on his shoulders and shoved the thick purple head of his shaft against the boy’s torn, quivering sphincter. At the first hint of pressure, Zach moaned in terror and writhed, trying to wriggle away from the huge tool about to penetrate him.
And yet, with all the pain and the fear, the hormone-fueled adolescent still felt the overwhelming physical lure of the hard-bodied older man. The funk of mansex and pheromones that pervaded the room so densely that it nearly coagulated into a visible fog that intensified the young slut’s sexual dilemma. Zach’s own dick was hard and pulsating and he didn’t know why. But as the Trucker lunged at him again, the boy couldn’t spare the time to worry about it.
“P-please…” the battered youth gasped faintly, “I-I’ll do any-anything…use me…hu-humiliate me, I w-won’t tell anyone…” Here the slender kid gave way. Stupid little piece of shit that he was, even he could figure out that tonight was gonna end with him taking a dirt nap. He burst into tears. “D-don’t kill me, man, p-p-please, I won-won’t tell anyone but don’t k-kill me, please, man, oh fuck, oh please—“
The Trucker’s sole response was an evil grin that spread slowly across his sexy masculine features. Zach saw it and understood, instantly breaking into loud, hysterical sobs as he went into panic mode. The older stud decided that the meat needed something else to think about than becoming meat. With a single powerful, brutal thrust, he plunged his monstrous vein-wrapped cock all the way up the teenager’s ass, tearing the sphincter and mangling the colon.
Eyes so wide with pain and shock that they seemed about to pop out of his head, Zach’s sobbing spiraled up into a frenetic shriek of agony. “Shaddup, faggot,” the Trucker barked, popping the unfortunate punk in the jaw one last time before cinching the belt down on his neck. The cunt’s scream was instantly throttled off into a wet gagging sound.
Wrapping the thick leather strap around his hand—so he could control the tightness of the noose while keeping one hand free—the Trucker flopped forward, his heavy, powerful body crushing the slender youth beneath him. Zach’s legs, propped up on his assailant’s shoulders, were compressed back towards his body until his knees were resting on his chest. And the weight of both males on his arms, still cuffed around his back, was excruciating.
The last few minutes of Zach’s short, wasted life were filled with unimaginable pain and terror. He was pinned under the sheer physical bulk of his killer, feeling the alpha’s hard muscles flexing against him on a light lube of sweat as the older man continued to plunge his enormous shaft deep into the boy’s torn, bleeding guts. The alpha’s wiry body fur scraped against the teen’s soft, silky flesh like steel wool.
The Trucker jerked the belt tightly. His dogtags, laying on the meat’s smooth firm chest, were dislodged by the violence of the fucking; they slid up to Zach’s neck and slipped, jingling, into the depression circling his throat, caused by the leather garrote.
At this distance, the twisted sadist could enjoy the effects of the strangulation in detail. As the slim, dying teen writhed beneath him, the cunt’s cock stayed hard as it slid on oily sweat between two flat, firm bellies pressed together in desperate, brutal sex. His confusion was obvious, even on his swelling, darkening face.
“Ya don’t get it, do ya, you stupid cumsuckin’ fag?” the cruel, powerful top sneered. “Yer lovin’ this shit. You fuckin’ bottom pain pig, you love gettin’ plowed, dontcha? Yeah? Ya fuckin’ love gettin’ put down like the cheap cockslut you are—fuck, dude, lookit how hard ya get when yer gettin’ snuffed like a useless homo cunt!”
Zach’s body, slender but strong with youth, was wracked and contorted with pain. The thick leather strap embedded in his neck was a constant source of agony—and the wretched punk, twisted in the nightmarish pain of slow, tortuous death, found the crushing torment in his windpipe less painful than the tearing, rending pain in his colon as his cruel, evil killer fucked him swiftly and brutally.
Zach’s black Nike kicks were twitching in the air behind the Trucker’s head; his current helpless position rendering them impotent as weapons. As his bloodshot eyes bulged grotesquely, forced from their orbits by the pressure building inexorably inside his skull, he could just barely make out the crimson trademarked swoosh jerking and twitching in the distance.
Inches away, the Trucker admired the teen’s black face, swollen and distorted beyond measure. He found the adolescent slut’s suffering erotic and, determined to draw out the torture as long as possible, let a little slack into the leather strap around the young whore’s neck. Zack was allowed a single brief gasp of fresh oxygen to momentarily clear the death fog clouding his mind before his throat was clamped off again.
“You stupid cumsack,” the powerful alpha whispered into the ear of the dying teen, so close that the teenager writhed involuntarily with pleasure at the scrape of his killer’s scruff across his cheek, despite all the pain and horror. The screaming, pounding silence that was filling the empty spaces of his pathetic cumslut soul was not yet loud enough to drown out the cruel taunts of his killer.
“You made me do this,” the psycho strongman hissed at his helpless young victim. “You talked, you pansy-ass cunt. You did this. Does it hurt? Good! I want you to hurt. I want you to die in fuckin’ agony on my cock, you disgusting faggot. You wanted a prison fuck, you punk-ass bitch? Fuck, dude, you got death fuckin’ row! Now die, you fuckin’ homo meat; milk me and suck up my spunk like a sponge. Best thing anyone can do to yer worthless fuckmeat is use ya as a cumrag and throw ya in the dump like the fuckin’ garbage you are, motherfucker!”
With a snarl, he jerked his arm, making the thick leather strap squeeze the queerboy’s throat shut. Zach was sinking back into the stimulus-response phase of imminent death, but this time there would be no recovery. The quivering youth hadn’t been able to take much advantage of the brief respite he’d been given; his contorted position—bent double with his killer’s muscled bulk crushing him into the mattress—had made it difficult for the semi-conscious punk to suck air. He’d gasped and slobbered in panicked asphyxiation, but he hadn’t been able to get enough oxygen to stave off brain damage.
Zach had heard the Trucker and understood him, but just barely; the sadistic stud’s cruel taunts were the last words the brutalized teenager would hear in his life. As his brain died, the universe contracted into a cold darkness. Zach’s last five minutes of life slowed to a crawl. Rational though all but ceased; the suffering boy was sunk in a pit of sensation—of pain.
He was vaguely aware of the powerful alpha pressing down on him; he could still feel the hairy thrusting form on top of him. He could hear—without understanding what he was hearing—the deep, ragged breathing and strained grunts of the dude who was fucking him and killing him. A faint memory of start of the evening flickered like a guttering candle in the dying kid’s mind…the hot cop, the booze—even now, he still reeked of whiskey—the erotic click of the cuffs behind his back…
The last truly conscious emotion to pass through Zach’s mind a fleeting sense of despair, like the plaintive bleat of a slaughtered sheep. Then the physical took over and the teenaged faggot was submerged in a crimson wave of pain.
It hurt. The young punk’s smooth, slim body was wracked with agony, with an excruciating torture that shorted out his nervous system to the point that it was unable to discern pain from pleasure.
From inches away, the Trucker watched the face of the adolescent cumslut swell and darken. Blood still leaked from his mutilated ears and his cheek, but it was sluggish and too thick to flow much. Zach’s battered face was twisted into a grotesque, unrecognizable mask.
Wrapping the belt around his hand for greater control over the meat, the Trucker jerked the strap brutally, causing it to sink deeply into the boy’s neck. The gay bottom boy went rigid, his swollen purple lips parted by his protruding tongue, forced out on a lube of foamy drool that trickled down the teen’s smooth cheeks.
The indefatigable power top continued to plow the dying kid’s ass. Even as he murdered his victim, the timing of his thrusts wasn’t thrown off by a single thrust; his huge horse dick kept plunging deep into the meat’s fuckhole like it was being rammed by a piledriver.
It was getting a good workout, too. The Trucker was vaguely aware of the Nike basketball shoes flailing randomly in the air behind his head as he kept the cunt’s legs propped up on his shoulders, but the little fucker, his body pinned into position by his larger, stronger killer was convulsing violently on the inside.
The Trucker grunted with pleasure; he realized the stupid piece of shit must be suffering nightmarish intestinal cramps for the punk’s guts to polish his knob so vigorously. Zach’s own dick didn’t give the impression of pain; quite the opposite—it slapped, oozing and throbbing, between the two heaving, writhing male bodies, smearing precum over the teen’s flat smooth belly as well as the Trucker’s furry rippled abs.
The dogtags bounced off Zach’s flat, firm chest repeatedly before slipping off to the side where they occasionally added a faint jingle to the quiet, desperate sounds of sex and death.
Zach’s youth worked against him, prolonging his suffering until the oxygen had been completely wrung from his quivering body. In the end, even the physical started to fade. The teenaged faggot no longer felt the pain from his limbs, twisted agonizingly in their sockets. He couldn’t feel his eyes, bulging and rolled back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites showed under his fluttering lashes.
By a cruel neurological twist, though, he could still feel his rectum being savaged. The erratic electrochemical bursts in his dying brain conveyed nothing more than a long thick hard shaft viciously impaling his innards; there was nothing left to process the concept of rape, of a throbbing vein-wrapped cock plunged up his boycunt.
In a way, it was a shame. Zach was getting fucked exactly as he wanted; roughly, by an amazing muscled alpha who bound him and mounted him ruthlessly.
By the time the end came, Zach was past all sense of the irony of the where and how of his murder, past all fear—in a sense, past all pain.
The Trucker had a lot of experience of putting sluts down; he recognized the way the adolescent’s convulsions had lost their rhythmic tempo and slipped into spasms that were more intense but also more erratic.
Fuck, it felt wonderful. The silky flesh of the teen’s guts sliding over his engorged mushroom tip while the motherfucker’s colon gripped his shaft like a fist—the worthless squealing cumpig was finally learning his lesson. He was getting exactly what he deserved, the disgusting piece of homo shit.
The Trucker could feel the sperm boiling in his balls. He was close; he just needed one last thing—he needed to know that the firm, smooth, slender teen had truly died on his cock.
One last brutal yank on the thick leather belt and the sociopathic sadist was rewarded. The young kid’s esophagus collapsed with a loud cracking that was instantly followed by an even more intense and erotic snapping sound, like the splintering of green wood. With a single powerful movement, the Trucker had crushed Zach’s windpipe and broken his neck.
The very last thing Zach experienced in his useless cumslut life before the searing electrical blast of bone shards slicing into his spinal cord sent him into screaming cold eternity was an eruption of searing heat in his groin. In an instant, his existence shrank to the white-hot wire of pain/pleasure that ran along the underside of his cock; almost immediately, a similar agonizingly hot feeling, akin to molten lead, was pumped into his ass and up his guts, a last scorching sensation of heat as he slipped into frigid dark death.
The Trucker spent the next minute shuddering and spunking, filling the dead teen cunt with his sperm. As his hulking muscled body jerked and shuddered in violent orgasm, he was vaguely aware of the teen’s thick, ropy cum splashing across his broad, hairy chest. The hormone-laden adolescent was so full of semen that his corpse spewed a steady stream of pearly jizz for at least thirty seconds straight, catching both shuddering, sweating male bodies in a rain of glistening spooge.
Long after he’d emptied his balls of seed, the Trucker found himself still fucking and cursing at the convulsing sack of boymeat. Regaining a measure of control, he took a deep breath and pulled his still-pulsing cock out of the corpse. Getting quickly off the bed, he let Zach’s legs flop back, spread wide, one landing on the bed. The other leg hung off the side, the Nike hightop just barely touching the floor. As the body twitched, the expensive kick scuffed a ragged furrow in the thin cheap carpeting.
The Trucker felt a little rubbery after his explosive release of anger and semen; he staggered back to the dresser for his smokes, finding the pack undamaged from the earlier violence but surrounded by glass. Lighting up a Red, he turned back and admired the gruesome scene.
Zach was still trembling; erratic spasms rippled the muscles under his smooth, sperm-glazed flesh. Above the splayed legs, the teen’s long dick was still semi-erect, a faint trickle of pearly ooze leaking from the head onto his flat belly. A pool of cum was congealing in the shallow smooth valley between the slight mounds of the youth’s pectorals. The arms, of course, were still twisted behind the corpse’s back.
Taking another drag on his cigarette, the Trucker vaguely wondered if keys to official law enforcement handcuffs were universal across states or agencies or some other way. If not, the coroner was gonna have a fun time; the keys had gone out the cab window somewhere on the other side of the state line.
Above the chest, things got ugly. The thick leather belt was sunk so deeply into the boy’s throat that the Trucker had no intention of trying to retrieve it—something else for the coroner to enjoy. And above that, the face was still swollen and congested with blood; the lividity would slowly drain away but that process had not yet begun. As a result, Zach’s face bore no trace of his usual expression of slack-jawed adolescent lust. Instead, it spoke eloquently of the torture the kid had endured, the agonizing pain and nightmarish terror in which the teenager had died.
The rolled-back eyes gave a blank white stare while the tongue, livid and swollen, still protruded from between blue lips. The punk’s smooth cheeks were streaked with drool, snot and blood, but none of the wounds were bleeding anymore; even his mangled ears had stopped seeping. At least one wasn’t; the other was hidden by the youth’s ponytail coiled beside it.
Even the room attested to the horrific violence of the teen’s murder. The broken lamp and the shattered whiskey bottle—still adding its heady scent to the musky, smoky atmosphere of the room—were just the start of the physical destruction; the Trucker had deliberately targeted his violence towards the parts of the room he’d destroyed on his earlier visit.
After all, that was why he’d placed his clothes in the dresser drawer. This time, they wouldn’t be covered with glass.
The buff older man picked his way across the debris-strewn floor and got the bag containing his clothes. Snatching his pack of smokes as well, he crossed to the bathroom. Soaking a hand towel in warm water, he wiped the dead teen fag’s spunk out of his body fur. Wadding the towel up, he tossed it into the toilet before sitting down, pulling off the knee-high boots and stripping himself from the beige chinos trousers. Just for the fuck of it, he rolled the latter into a ball and dropped it in the toilet as well, first fishing the diamond-chip studs out of the pocket.
It took just a minute to wriggle back into his familiar tight jeans and snug cotton t-shirt; it took even less to slip the trucker cap back onto his tousled black locks, slick with sweat. Since his tube socks had never come off, he simply stepped into his scuffed work boots and left them loosely laced and untied. He pocketed the studs, picked up his bag and the cop’s boots and walked out of the bathroom.
Approaching the bed, he decided to add one bit of artifice to the naturally-posed scene. He left the still-trembling corpse with one boot placed upright on the face and one on the groin. He had no doubt they’d topple and perhaps dislodge before the body was found, but it didn’t matter.
It was dark and still outside. The Trucker moved slowly along the pavement to the edge of the property, where he could walk along the edge of the blacktop. That way, his boots wouldn’t thump with each footfall until he reached the street. Not that there was anyone watching, of course, but avoiding attention immediately after a snuff was innate to the experienced sexual sadist by now; it was how he avoided capture for so long. But loose ends like that little piece of shit needed to get what they deserved—which was sliding down the Trucker’s cock into their graves.
The muscled hardman grinned coldly. He started whistling as he strode back to his rig.
m3mayhem 