Alpha Male Eddie

Eddie was pissed, but that was nothing new.  It was what had got him kicked out of the Corps after three years; he still seethed with rage at the memory of the Marine shrink’s diagnosis: fragmented personality with psychotic breaks trigged by latent homosexuality.  That motherfucker.

 

Eddie was ALL man, and he damn sure knew how to show it.  Every facet of his image, from his chiseled, rock-hard body to his military gear and clothing, to his jacked-up matte-black Dodge Ram picked, was specifically designed to show that was a true Alpha Male.  Nothing—nothing—would ever disprove that.

 

But every now and then, something slipped.  And when that happened, things got—

 

Well, for example, there was JJ.

 


 

It started one summer evening just as the glaring sullen heat of the day was fading into a swift dusk.  Eddie just happened to be driving by the Hudson Street Skate Park when he saw the boy.  He didn’t know why he pulled over, but he did.

 

The boy was heading out, walking away from the park with his skateboard under his arm.  He seemed to be headed for the bus stop at the corner—that was when Eddie decided to make his move.  He quickly pulled to the curb and asked if the kid needed a lift.

 

“Sure, man,” the kid grinned, adolescent hormones giving the teen’s voice just enough depth to prove that he was sexually mature.  “Name’s Jeremy,” he said, opening the door and climbing up into the cab, “But my friends call me JJ.”

 

JJ was in fact seventeen—and was sexually mature.  Two years ago he’d managed to get Amy Schneider from down the block to give him a handjob and just lately he’d talked her into blowjobs.  He wasn’t going steady with her or anything, but none of the other girls he went with would suck his dick yet.  He was supposed to see Amy tonight and was anxious to get home.

 

For a brief moment, the two males sat and scoped each other out.  JJ’s face was smooth, with just a hint of youthful fullness; his hair was short and dark, but it was mostly hidden under a black ball cap—with, Eddie noted with interest, a Marine Corps logo.  Maybe the boy’s daddy was enlisted on the base.

 

The teen’s gear was nothing special—a gray t-shirt and black mid-thigh shorts covered his lean, lithe body but showed his smooth, firm legs to advantage.  A pair of black Converse Play hightops with a red heart logo completed the skatepunk look.

 

For his part, JJ was almost mesmerized by Eddie; he’d never seen such a perfect male form.  And Eddie wasn’t dressed to be ignored.  His military affinity was clear from the way he kept his dark blond hair buzzcut and his facial hair trimmer in a razor-straight line.  His khaki utility pants, bloused into a pair of black leather combat boots, wrapped tightly around his thickly muscled legs.  The pair of dogtags dangling against his skintight olive-drab t-shirt drew attention to his huge sculpted pecs and his almost-perfectly ripped abs.  But there was something both compelling and repellant about his face—JJ couldn’t say what.  Maybe it was the cold hard lines of his cheeks, or the grim set of his mouth…or maybe the unnerving glare of those piercing green eyes, icy and fiery at the same time…

 

It was Eddie who broke the silence.  “So, where ya goin’, man?” he asked, the friendly, open tone of his voice making the teen relax visibly.

 

“Aw, I’m headin’ out to Jupiter Road—over where it crosses Adams, y’know?  Gotta meet my girlfriend…”

 

Eddie chuckled and JJ blushed boyishly.  “Well, she ain’t my girlfriend…I mean… well, she kinda—”  He lapsed into a confused silence as Eddie continued to grin.

 

“Yeah?  What, she letcha dip yer wick, huh?” the older man laughed coarsely, making the teenager blush even harder.  Finally, Eddie decided to relent.

 

“Yeah, I gotta head out that way for business—ya mind if we stop at my place on the way?  Need to pick up something.”

 

“Naw,” JJ said, “And lissen, about Amy—”

 

“Don’t worry about it, kid,” Eddie said tersely.

 

“No, but seriously, man, I get to thinkin’—see, maybe I could get a real girlfriend—one a’ them hot senior bitches that won’t even look at a junior like me—if I had a hard body.  Like yours.  Man, how do I do that?  Whadda I gotta do to look like you?”

 

Eddie glanced at the teen covertly, noticing the boy’s wide-eyed, innocent look.  The little fuck wanted to pretend to be an Alpha Male?

 

“Ya wanna get swole?  C’mon, boy and I’ll show ya some of my routine if ya want.”

 

Of course JJ wanted.  Eddie shut off the loud rumble of the truck’s huge engine; from his vantage point in the jacked-up cab, he could see that there was no one about.

 

“You c’n leave yer board here,” he said and jumped from the truck, his combat boots crunching loudly in the gravel lot.  JJ followed, but his lean teen body made far less noise when he hit the ground; he watched the well-built older man enviously as he trailed him into the apartment.

 

Half of Eddie’s bedroom was devoted to weights; in the center was the standard inclined bench, now laid flat, with a rack of barbell weights on the left and one of dumbbells on the right.  All the weights, including the hex dumbbells, were metal—the set looked old, but was obviously still functional.

 

The other half of the room also caught JJ’s notice—not so much the twin bed and the inexpensive dresser as the posters on the wall.  For a moment, the kid thought they were movie stills—then he realized he was looking at blown-up photos from war correspondents across many wars.

 

They were almost all photos of corpses.

 

On the far wall was a large flag with a grinning skull superimposed over a pair of crossed daggers.  Chains of roses frames the image; a motto, split to appear above and below, read “Die, Motherfucker, Die”.

 

Eddie noticed JJ looking at it.  “I’m gonna get that tattooed,” he said proudly, “Right here, on my right bicep.  Already got the money for it, too.  But the guy I wanna do it is in prison; I gotta wait till next year for him to get out.”

 

JJ took all this in with the silent reverence of a teen who feels he’s in the presence of a serious badass.  His admiration for the red-blooded male in front of him overpowered any sense of unease the gruesome photos had generated—after all, the dude was in the military, just like his dad.  Mighta even had to kill someone.  If he got to know him better, he’d ask, JJ decided.

 

“So anyway, I’m up to pressing three hundred and twenty-five right now, but I like to start down at two seventy-five for a few reps before adding the final fifty,” Eddie explained.

 

JJ looked at him questioningly.  “You don’t use a spotter?” he asked.

 

“Fuck,” Eddie sneered, “Spotters are for pussies.  Real men don’t need no help to lift.  Watch.”  And with that, he pulled his shirt off in one smooth sweep, letting the dogtags fall jingling back to the center of his broad chest.

 

And even though neither of them realized it, the sight of Eddie’s smooth hubcap pecs and erect, jutting nipples got JJ hard.  Eddie wasn’t in a position to notice it and JJ was used to the spontaneous erections of adolescence without thinking about what caused them—although he did find it odd how his breath caught was he eyed the older stud’s six-, or fuck, eight-pack abs, so taut and ripped.  As Eddie stood before him, booted, in tight pants and with that amazingly sculpted torso, JJ realized he’d never seen a more perfect male form.  He was overwhelmed with desire, but in his mind, it was desire to be Eddie.

 

If he’d come right out and said that, it might have prevented what happened next.  But probably not.

 

“Ya gotta get yerself positioned right,” Eddie was saying as he settled back on the bench, sliding under the already-loaded barbell, “Yer gonna fuck up yer back if ya don’t…” he trailed off, his face going blank.  He was looking at JJ, but his gaze seemed to be miles away.

 

Only seemed.  His head was right at the level of the kid’s crotch.  Eddie had suddenly realized the little punk was hard.  He’d gotten hard while looking at Eddie.

 

The kid was a faggot.  A little fuckin’ faggot tryin’ to act like a real man.  A little fuckin’ faggot who’d wormed its way in, wantin’ to make him a homo too.

 

The break was swift and silent.  Eddie blinked, smiled, and sat up.  “But for you, dude, I’d suggest building up those arms first.  Try some daily reps with a five-pound dumbbell, like one of these.”  He picked one of the hex weights up off its rack and strolled over to the skatepunk.  “In fact, these are good for lotsa things.  Like puttin’ fags’ lights out.”

 

“Huh?” JJ asked, his youthful face full of innocent confusion as Eddie smashed it with the dumbbell, knocking the teen senseless to the floor.

 


 

JJ was climbing.  He didn’t know to where, but it was a long and painful climb, and the higher he went, the more painful it got.  It had started as a general agony but seemed to be devolving to a specific ache.  Just as he regained consciousness, he located it in his jaw.

 

The pain ballooned in severity as he blinked and groaned.  His eyesight was blurry, and he was utterly unable to comprehend the change of circumstances he’d undergone since his last memory.  He vaguely recalled the buff shirtless dude who was standing over him with a look that could be either a hate-filled snarl or a vicious grin.  And the teen couldn’t place the significance of the blood-smeared dumbbell the guy was holding.

 

“Www…wwh…whaa—” he tried to speak, but there were hard lumps in his mouth.  He spit them out and saw two of his teeth tumble down his own chest, leaving faint bloody streaks on his smooth skin.

 

That was when he realized he was nude.  Well, he still had his Converse kicks on; he could feel them, but otherwise he’d been stripped nude.  And he was—he was on the military dude’s workout bench, evidently.  It had been raised from a flat to an inclined position, and he was on it on his back, completely nude.

 

He didn’t try to move; it was useless.  he could see hid hands–hinging above his head, they’d been handcuffed separately to the barbell, one on each side of the bench.

 

As he looked at the barbell in confusion, Eddie spoke.  “G’wan and try it, cumsucker.  I got four hundred pounds on that thing.  Yer fag ass ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  His voice was filled with a cold glee that sent chills down the teen’s back.

 

“Ay…ain’t no fag…” JJ managed to mutter, rolling his head to the side and spitting out blood.

 

“Course ya ain’t, you fuckin’ lyin’-ass fairy.  I saw yer boydick get all stiff when ya saw a real Alpha Male.  That’s why ya came here, yeah?”

 

JJ couldn’t think.  His head hurt.  In a way, it was why he was here, but not that way—but he couldn’t think.

 

“Fuckin’ luring me in from the side of the road—betcha could barely keep from grabbin’ my cock right there in fuckin’ public, huh, ya goddam homo?  Ya wanna see what Alpha Male meat looks like?  Here ya go, asswipe.”

 

His eyes blazing with psychotic fury, Eddie jerked his zipper down and dug inside his tight utility pants.  And as dazed and bewildered as JJ was, he couldn’t help but be in awe of the massive tool the buff young stud pulled out.  Over eight inches long, nearly two in diameter, wreathed in pulsating veins and with a huge purple head—it was as terrifying to the trapped teen punk as any deadly weapon would have been.

 

And in its own way, that was exactly what it was.

 

The captive youth gaped at the erect member that dangled directly over his face.  With terrifying speed, the malicious grin on Eddie’s face was replaced with an enraged snarl.  “You fuckin’ pervert!!” he screamed, and before JJ could even flinch, the hardbodied ex-Marine began pounding him in the face with the blunt metal dumbbell.

 

The sounds in the next few minutes were unbelievable—the wet squelching sound of flesh beaten until it splits, the crying and bleating of the teenager as he was forced to submit to the brutal violence of the older, more powerful man, the rattling of handcuffs and jingling of dogtags, the crunching and snapping of facial bones…

 

When Eddie finally stood up and tossed the bloody dumbbell aside, his massive, well-defined torso glistened with a film of sweat.  He paused to catch his breath and admire his progress.

 

The faggot was still conscious, but not coherent.  It gurgled and coughed up some blood and a few more teeth before lying back, gasping—it couldn’t breathe through its crushed nose.  The eyes were dark and swollen shut, the lips were split, the jaw was fractured and both cheekbones were broken.

 

It wasn’t enough.  The faggot hadn’t suffered enough.  Eddie still needed to show what an Alpha Male did to impudent skatefags who tried to sneak in for gaysex.

 

He needed to fuck it, to plant his potent manseed deep inside the boymeat.  That’d show the fucker, all right.  Show it just what the fuck was up.

 

As he wandered in and out of dark clouds of pain, some small part of JJ’s mind that wasn’t cowering in a corner wondered exactly what the hell had happened.  This major stud had offered him a lift, had offered to show him how to get swole, and then just—

 

The kid’s thoughts were interrupted by a sensation of movement.  He could feel the Marine dude grab his ankles and yank; with a supreme effort, the youth managed to pry open his swollen eyes—to watch in horror as the buff psycho placed JJ’s Converse hightops on his shoulders.  Even then, his terrified psyche wouldn’t let him go all the way—he could see the huge pulsing shaft that was pointed right between his legs, but he refused to acknowledge what it meant.

 

But reality could be denied only so long.  Even with his eyes closed again, he could feel the pressure starting to build against his anus as the huge thick spongy head of Eddie’s dick probed the tiny opening.   Suddenly Eddie muttered, “Ya know what a real Alpha Male is? He’s a man who can make anyone submit to his cock.”  JJ braced—but it wasn’t enough.

 

This pain wasn’t like the pain of the brutal beatdown his captor had administered.  It was much, much worse.  His adolescent sphincter could only stretch so wide; it was a virgin hole utterly unused to external penetration and lacked the flexibility to handle the older man’s enormous tackle.

 

Eddie literally tore the teenager a new fuckhole.  JJ’s cry of outraged discomfort spiraled into a shriek of terrified agony as his ass muscle split open and Eddie’s gigantic throbbing member pounded its way relentlessly up his ass, tearing at his rectal lining as it went.  Nothing in the young skatepunk’s life had prepared him for this—this nightmarish pain of impalement, of being torn open from the inside—

 

To Eddie, he was just a tight fuck.  And a noisy one.  “Aw, shaddap and take it like a fag, ya cunt!!” he roared, spitting in JJ’s face.  He then drove his point home by driving his fist into the kid’s face, cutting his scream off abruptly.  As the skatepunk lolled listlessly on the narrow bench, the buff ex-Marine took a savage joy in using the virgin boymeat as his own personal fuck toy.

 

Drifting in and out of consciousness, JJ was still aware that his ass was being pounded with relentless fury; he couldn’t help but be aware of it. The thick pulsing veins that sheathed Eddie’s massive tool rode roughshod over his prostate, massaging the hormone-filled adolescent until his own boycock rose up stiffly, as if in defiance of the vicious assrape.

 

He could only moan in bewildered agony, but it was enough for Eddie to hear.  It was enough to trigger another break.

 

“Ya like that, ya fuckin’ piece a’ shit fairy?  Moanin’ like a goddam whore with a dick in ya—cocksuckin’ pansies like you need to fuckin’ die!”

 

Leaning over JJ, Eddie wrapped his hands around the boy’s throat and began squeezing.

 

Nothing in the teen’s short, useless life had prepared him for this level of trauma and abuse; the entire attack had left him stunned and defenseless—not just physically, but in a profoundly psychological sense as well.  Despite the pain, he still simply couldn’t believe that what was happening was real.

 

That all changed now, instantly, with the cessation of breath.  Whatever his failings, whatever he’d suffered, JJ still had the lithe, lean body of a fit and active teenager.  That body sprang into action, instinctively, in a frantic attempt at self-preservation.

 

For his part, Eddie was taken by surprise.  He’d been heavily trained in the art of the hand-to-hand kill, but he’d never actually killed anyone before.  He didn’t expect such a violent reaction—but his training enabled him to retain control of the situation.

 

As JJ thrashed and kicked, Eddie leaned forward, pressing down on the boy and pinning him under the weight of his muscles.  He could feel the teen’s smooth, firm belly and strong pecs flexing valiantly under him, sliding against his own massive chest on a film of sweat.  His dogtags dropped onto the punk’s swollen, blackening face, then slid to the side.

 

The muscle-bound stud endured the aimless frenetic buffetings of the boy’s hands; he’d already wrapped his powerful arms around the kid’s legs as a grip to fuck him, so all the gagging youth could do with his legs was squeeze at Eddie’s waist.

 

“That’s it,” he hissed psychotically into JJ’s pain-twisted face, “Yer dyin’, homo.  Does it hurt?  I hope so, ya sick fuck.  Goddam piece a’ shit—yer dick is hard!  You deserve to die, ya disgustin’ pansy.  Fuck you, ya fuckin’ faggot!!”  And having worked himself into a frothing anger, he spit in JJ’s dark, congested face and dug his thumbs into the teen’s larynx.

 

JJ had been going on for nearly a minute with no oxygen; he should have been starting to black out, but some perverse physiological anomaly was enabling him to remain conscious.  It wasn’t a benefit.  He could hear and comprehend everything being said to him.  He didn’t understand why he was being called a faggot, but he knew his dick was hard and he knew he was dying.

 

And he knew when Eddie crushed his larynx.  He could feel the older stud’s thumbs slowly gouge the thick mass of cartilage out of place; he could hear as well as feel the gristly crunch as his voicebox was pulped.  Again, it was pain of a kind he hadn’t realized could exist and his physical reaction was innate, and instant.

 

Eddie had never experienced anything like it—the way the teen’s virgin rectum clenched up on his swollen member, squeezing it vigorously, almost desperately, as if it knew that making him ejaculate was the only way to stop the agony.  The boy’s thrashing ceased; he gripped his murderer tightly, sensually—an instinctive response to minimize movement and hence pain.   But to the homicidal ex-Marine, it seemed to be a drawn-out moment of intimacy—of him finally proving, and the worthless faggot finally understanding, exactly how Alpha Male Eddie truly was.

 

Now that Eddie had asserted himself as Alpha, he still needed to mark the meat as his.  He still needed to pump it full of his potent manseed, to neutralize its faggotry.  It needed it.  The faggot needed his cum.

 

And it hadn’t suffered enough.  It was still alive.

 

“Ain’t dead yet, faggot,” he grunted, pounding his shaft into the twink’s ruined fuckhole, “Ain’t dead yet.”  The hardman tightened his hands remorselessly around JJ’s neck, feeling the erotic sensation of the rubbery esophagus being crimped shut by the sheer force of his powerful hands.

 

JJ could feel it too, in a way.  The pounding in his head was worse than the pounding in his ass; the pressure that had built up in his skull felt like it was shoving his eyes out of their sockets.  In spite of the way they bulged grotesquely, he still couldn’t see much—but the great black explosions in his field of view weren’t just blood vessels rupturing in his eyes.  The oxygen deprivation was catching up to him.

 

He’d been a healthy little punk, and it betrayed him physically.  He’d managed to stay conscious long enough to still be awake as brain damage set in.  So he was unlucky enough to be able to feel his windpipe being crushed but was totally unaware that a long stream of drool was oozing out past his protruding tongue and was trickling down his left cheek.

 

Reason and meaning ebbed from the dying teen but sensation and pain remained.  The thrashing boymeat could still feel its own erection.  Eddie could feel it, too.

 

“Still hard, ya fuckin’ pervert?” he snarled, “Fuck you, faggot—fuck you!!”

 

Jamming his thumbs under the angle of JJ’s jaw, on each side, the ex-Marine, his phenomenal strength amped up by psychotic rage, squeezed his hands with all the power he could muster while simultaneously wrenching them in opposite directions.  In a fraction of a second, Eddie totally destroyed the major anatomic structures of JJ’s neck.

 

The collapse of the trachea yielded the same viscerally satisfying crunch that had accompanied the mangling of the unlucky youth’s larynx.  This was enhanced by a loud snapping sound that came from a deeper location—by the placement of his thumbs and pressure applied to the right way on the back of the neck, he’d managed to pop the kid’s skull right off his spine, shattering the first cervical vertebra and sending bone shards slicing into JJ’s spinal cord.

 

Whatever the punk’s screaming terrified adolescent brain wanted to do after that was moot; the electrical signals coming from the cerebellum shorted out.  The adolescent body responded to its damaged nervous system in the way it was most primed to: it went into instant convulsive orgasms.

 

It was the convulsions that got to Eddie, too; the way the smooth, lithe teen body suddenly clutched him tightly and shuddered beneath him—it was almost as if it was deliberately milking his swollen, pulsating rod.  He felt the hot splash of the boy’s cum on his chest and realized that the faggot was spewing a steady stream of boymilk all over him; it was being smeared across his chest as their bodies pressed together in a frenetic coupling of semen and death.

 

“Aw, fuckin’ faggot!” he screamed, pounding his right fist into the dead boy’s already-ruined face, and felt his balls draw up beneath him.  Then he had to hold on tight as his own ejaculation rendered him powerless, clutching the trembling corpse as he spunked, again and again, pumping what felt like quarts of searing hot manseed into the worthless homo cumrag.

 

Eddie lay on top of the teenager’s dead body for nearly ten minutes, feeling the corpse quivering beneath him until it finally lay still.  When he disengaged himself, he had to peel his chest from the twink’s; the boy’s cum had already started to dry.  His thick shaft, still engorged and leaking, came out of the kid’s ass with an audible pop.

 

Eddie left the room and took a shower.

 


 

When he returned, he paused in the doorway to admire his work.  He was proud of himself; he’d taken a worthless faggot out of the world, and he’d shown it he was full Alpha Male as he did it.

 

It had fallen off the bench while he’d showered, but it was still handcuffed to the barbell, so it hung by its arms, resting on its left hip.  The smooth chest was covered by a crusty glaze.  One of the Converse sneakers still twitched every few seconds, but otherwise it was still.  The face couldn’t be seen; with its neck broken, the dead kid’s head was slumped forward.  Only the boy’s sweat-matted black hair was showing.  And its softening cock, pearls of semen dripping from the tumescent head.

 

Eddie had put his pants and boots back on after the shower; now he slipped the t-shirt back on as well.  Then he stepped up to the weight bench and unlocked the cuffs that held up JJ’s corpse, letting it slump to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.  Stowing the cuffs in his nightstand drawer, he paused and considered for a moment; then, picking up the teen’s clothes and cap, he left the apartment.

 

At his truck, he opened the bed.  He used an old section of carpeting as a bedliner, cut to fit; he rolled it back and tossed the clothes into the bed.  Retrieving the skateboard from the cab, he placed it in the bed, too.  Then looking around to make sure no one was observing him, he darted back into the apartment.

 

When he came back out, he was carrying the meat.  He placed it in bed of the truck, then rolled the carpet back over it—not perfect camouflage, but good enough in the dark.  Hopping in the cab, he started the huge beast up and headed out.

 

The front part of the skate park was still brightly lit and in active use; most of the punks out now were older, probably late teens or early twenties, but there were a few who looked younger—some much younger.  Eddie ignored them; if they weren’t faggots after his dick, he had nothing against them.  But now he knew that fags hung out at this park, and he intended to send a message.

 

The rear part of the skate park backed up to the interstate and wasn’t used after dark; this was enforced not so much by chains or fences as by the simple expedient of keeping the place unlit and as dark as possible.  The few daredevils who regarded it as a challenge had already injured themselves enough to serve as a warning.  One boy had died; another had suffered massive brain damage and was still on a respirator.

 

The back end of the park was left alone at night.  Tonight, though, it wouldn’t be.

 

All Eddie could see was a pit; he couldn’t tell its shape or form, and he didn’t need to know.  He tossed the reamed-out boymeat, nude except for its sneakers, into the darkness and heard it hit the concrete below with a boneless thud.  It was followed momentarily but its clothes, hat, and board, the latter of which clattered noisily down into the pit before evidently landing on its wheels and rolling some distance away.

 

An unexpected breeze picked up, ruffling Eddie’s buzzcut hair.  He glanced over at the lighted part of the park, his steely gazing sighting on the heedless youths darting about.  Yeah, this place was infested with faggots.  He’d have to keep his eyes peeled.

The Return of Leather Dave

The building was located off Randolph Street, some three blocks from the river.  On a side street facing the massive rail yard of a huge train station, the hotel didn’t give a view of anything worth looking at—not that you could tell by the prices.

 

Dave supposed it was the décor.  The place had been refurbished from a turn-of-the-century theater into a bijou hotel; the theater itself too small for modern stage productions but, once the balcony was redone as a mezzanine floor, perfect for smaller conventions.  Like the Chicago S&M Leather Club’s SpikeCon.

 

Dave wasn’t staying at the hotel himself; he knew better than that.  He was hunting.  He wasn’t into the hard-core masochists that he knew would be attending, but these kinda events drew curious little cunts looking to be dominated and willing to go farther than most before realizing they’d gone too far.

 

Stupid fuckers, Dave thought with a grin and at least two dudes looking in his direction feel in love with his handsome, porn-star features.  His long-lashed green eyes sparkled in the oddly dim “unconventual” lighting, and the dark hair on his head gleamed.

 

But Dave was used to that, especially decked out in all leather.  He’d gone high-gloss black leather on everything, from the vest that hinted at the stud’s broad chest while showing off the thick wiry black fur that covered his torso to the skin-tight jeans that left neither his taut, firm ass or the enormous bulge in his groin to the imagination.  He’d topped it off with black Wesco harness boots and smooth, tight leather gloves.

 

He looked every inch a man, and judging from the leather-wrapped ridge running down his leg, that extended a number of inches.  As a matter of course, he drew stares of raw, naked lust as he moved silently through the leather-clad crowd.

 

The time was near midnight and the convention hall was packed.  Behavior wasn’t quite as licentious as it would have been in a gay nightclub—and, in fact, a number of attendees had already left for a tour of the local clubs—but the throng was rowdy and horny.

 

No one would notice anything unusual about him picking up a fuckbuddy and heading out.  He just needed to find the lucky stiff.

 

And that was when Dave spotted him, about ten yards away, at a cash bar by a side door.  The slut had noticed him, too, and they kept eye contact as Dave approached across the crowded floor.

 

The kid was young—at least twenty-one, since he’d bought a beer and the bartender was carding, but surely no older.  What little of his hair could be seen under his backwards leather ball cap inclined more to strawberry than to blond, and his smooth, youthful face was sprinkled with a band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his upturned nose.

 

The punk was wearing a white tank top that showed off his smooth arms.  He wasn’t anywhere near as well-built as Dave, but he wasn’t scrawny.  The boy looked like he could hold his own, and that made Dave happy.  The sadistic killer wanted a good workout and had been hoping to find a sparring partner that could last for a little while.

 

The kid’s concession to leather included combat boots tightly laced to nearly mid-calf and a pair of short shorts that ended inches down the thigh and didn’t quite conceal the florid head of the cunt’s dick.  But it was the thick leather dog collar the fag was sporting around his neck, with its triple row of jet-black steel spikes, that caught Dave’s eye, and set his imagination working.

 

“Hey,” he said smoothly, his baritone voice resonating deeply as he glided up to the boy.

 

“Uh—hi,” the kid replied nervously, grinning and blushing boyishly.

 

“I wanna fuck you,” Dave said bluntly.

 

The slut’s gentle shyness evaporated instantly and his muddy brown eyes lit up with expectant lust.  “Oh fuck yeah, dude,” he said with breathless excitement, “I gotta room here—you, uh, ya wanna go?”

 

“We gonna be alone?”

 

“Yeah,” the punk replied, “Buncha us got a suite but the others all went out clubbin’.  They won’t be back for at least three hours, if they come back at all, the fuckin’ whores.”

 

“Let’s go,” Dave said and followed the kid out.

 

The boy was so eager, if he’d been a dog, he’d have been wagging his tail.  On the way up to the third floor, he told Dave his name was Harold, “but everybody calls me Buddy.”  He rattled on about his personal life—how he’d come to the convention with a group of gay friends all into leather, how his father, some high-ranking judge, had no idea why his son had taken a week off his classes to visit Chicago.

 

“He thinks it’s to tour the Art Institute,” Buddy finished up smugly as the elevator reached the third floor and opened.  The suite was to the left, last door on the right.  The mellow lighting, tasteful carpet and ambient music went some way towards explaining the hotel’s ludicrous pricing.

 

So did the interior of the suite.  There was a bathroom to the left and a kitchenette off to the right of the entry; Dave had a brief impression of stylish cabinets of dark wood and glass and steel appliances and fixtures, but he had little interest in those rooms beyond ascertaining that they were empty.  Past the entry was a small living area minimally furnished with a loveseat, coffee table, floor lamp, and a huge TV on a stand.

 

“I’ma go grab us a drink,” Buddy chirped, heading for the fridge.  Dave grunted absently in agreement and checked out the bedroom.  It was a sight worth seeing.

 

Most of the room was taken up by an almost grotesquely huge bed; it seemed too big to be a king.  The bedding mostly crumpled on the floor; in fact, the whole room looked like the set for an orgy scene in a porno.  Clothes, sneakers, boots and random pieces of leather gear were scattered around.  Dave found himself admiring the Red Wing harness boots propped on the recliner in the corner, along with the harness draped over them.

 

A large window was opposite the door; it looked down onto the street and the railyard.  There was a dresser next to it and a desk opposite the bed; both were covered with sex toys, popper bottles and wads of tissue.  On the desk was an enormous black dildo, reflected in the large mirror above.

 

Dave smirked and turned back to the other room.  Buddy emerged from the kitchen with a couple of tumblers.  “Here,” he said, somewhat unsteadily, “It’s Frieball.  I mean, Fireball.  Good shit.”

 

Dave took a sip of the whiskey.  “So how many of ya are here?” he asked.

 

Even though Buddy was seriously buzzed and horny as fuck, he still knew what the leather stud meant.  “Ya saw the bedroom?  Yeah, there’s three of us all in there.  Man, Lee wanted to fuck me so bad last night, but I been waitin’ to get plowed—hopin’ I’d find someone like you—” he here broke off and blushed charmingly again.  “So, anyway, I gave ‘im a BJ instead an’ helped ‘im use the dildo on Todd.  Todd’s such a fuckin’ whore…”

 

The punk trailed off as Dave slowly stood up and slipped his leather vest off, tossing it down onto the coffee table.  It knocked both drinks onto the floor, adding the heady scent of whiskey to an atmosphere already redolent of testosterone and mansex.  Buddy didn’t notice; his attention was riveted to the older man’s huge hairy hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.

 

Buddy rose too, not gracefully as Dave had, but popping so eagerly his leather cap came off, revealing his light wavy hair.  The kid almost lunged at Dave, fastening onto the muscular killer’s chest, his tongue lapping at the large nips while he ran his fingers through the black wiry fur.  He paused a moment to lift a finger and run it around Dave’s goatee, outlining the stud’s mouth before bringing it back to his own and sucking on it.

 

Suddenly the boy broke off.  “I want you in me,” he muttered breathlessly, then pulled off his shirt, revealing his smooth, firm, wiry torso.  Grabbing Dave by the hand, Buddy led the way to the bedroom, wriggling out of his tight leather shorts as he did.  By the time they reached the bed, the only things Buddy wore besides his gleaming leather boots and his spiked collar were an eager grin and a raging hard boycock.

 

Dave didn’t bother to pull his dick out; he didn’t need to.  Buddy did it for him, hands trembling with excitement as he worked the older stud’s zipper.  Dave could feel the boy’s fingers around his massive, throbbing member as Buddy excitedly began to extract the enormous manshaft from its leather confines.

 

“Goddam,” the punk whispered in awe, “It just keeps comin’…”

 

“Wait’ll it’s fuckin’ in ya, whore,” Dave growled and Buddy squirmed in submissive glee.  “Now get over here.  I wanna fuck you right here in front of the window.  Show all those cunts down there what a fuckin’ slut you are.  C’mon, fucker!”

 

The ginger-blond fag obediently assumed the position, bent forwards with his hands placed on the huge plate-glass window and his ass posed and ready for receiving.  He had a great view of the street—and in the backlit bedroom, the conventioneers milling about on the street below had a great view of him.  Whistling and catcalling, faint but still audible, could be heard from below as the leather-gear crowd began to realize they were being given a free show.

 

Dave stayed far enough behind that he couldn’t be seen from the street.  They knew he was there, though, from Buddy’s reaction as the muscle-bound older man began to shove his huge, vein-wrapped mantube up the boy’s fuckhole.

 

The kid rose up on his toes, flexing his feet inside his tightly-laced boots and bending his waist in a vain attempt to find a position that would be more accommodating to the enormous rod being relentlessly thrust into his colon.  He was into pain, sure, and he knew he could take the dude’s cock, if only he’d used lube…

 

The youth beat on the window in sexual pain, groaning loudly and erotically as his eyes rolled back in his head.  “Aw yeah—fuck, brah, yer killin’ me…” he moaned to the faint cheering from below as his own thick, dangling boycock slapped against the glass.

 

“Not yet, cunt,” Dave muttered and started pounding the boyhole remorselessly.

 

Fuck YEAH!!!” Buddy cried out, his smooth young body already slick with sweat.  For a moment, Dave was surprised the little fucker could take it, before realizing what a serious whore the kid truly was.

 

The problem with major asssluts is that even if they start out tight, they always go loose.  Dave smiled, already anticipating the enjoyment he’d take in making sure he got the fuckmeat properly re-tightened.

 

Buddy had no idea what Dave was thinking about; it was sheer coincidence that made him speak.  “Hurt me, dude,” he moaned, “C’mon, show me yer a man—hit me…”

 

“Ya like that, cunt?” Dave sneered.  “Ya like gettin’ hurt when yer gettin’ fucked?  Cause I’m about to put a serious fuckin’ beatdown on yer twink ass!”

 

Sexually supercharged by the banter, Buddy never considered the possibility that Dave was speaking literally.  “Oh hell yeah bro, make me feel it,” he grunted in erotic abandon.

 

“Ya got it, motherfucker,” Dave chuckled, and grabbed Buddy’s dog collar at the buckle, where there were no spikes.  It wasn’t tight–in fact, it was loose enough around the kid’s neck that he could easily slid his hand under it and jerk it back like a horse’s rein.  At the same time, his swung his balled-up leather-wrapped fist like a wrecking ball, giving the punk a brutal donkey-punch to the back of the head.

 

The impact was hard enough to bounce Buddy’s head off the thick window glass.  “Ahh!” the kid cried out, “What the fuck, man?!?”

 

“You said ya wanted to be hurt,” the muscle stud chuckled, not missing a beat as he pumped his tool up into the twink’s ass with a driving tempo, “Why—want more?”

 

“Not like that!” Buddy shouted indignantly, but it was too late.  Dave was swinging again.  This one was a roundhouse blow from the shoulder that swept wide and caught the youth on the side of the face.  As such, it was visible to the horny dudes watching the sex show from the street, and it was roundly applauded—well, it was an S&M convention.

 

Buddy was much less appreciative.  He squalled and yelled, jerking himself forward and managing, somehow, to get himself off the huge spear of manflesh.  He whirled around and faced Dave.  From outside, the crowd realized the show was over and several loud and distinctive boos came wafting up to express their displeasure.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the kid whispered, wide-eyed with a fear that came far too late to be useful.  He reached behind his neck and unfastened the dog collar; determined that it wouldn’t be used to snare him again, he tossed it onto the bed.

 

“You fuckin’ pussy,” Dave growled, “You wanted to be hurt?  I ain’t even started on ya, you stupid cunt.  Those were just love taps.  By the time I’m done workin’ over yer worthless fuckmeat, you’ll be in so fuckin’ much pain you’ll cum in agony.”

 

Cold terror flushed through the lithe boyslut, causing his smooth skin to pale.  He began edging towards the corner of the room as Dave started closing the distance between them.  “You—you fuckin’ stay away from me, you psycho—NO!!”

 

Buddy scrambled onto the bed.  Dave lunged at him, but the limber youth somehow managed to tuck into a somersault and roll off the bed; the move was spontaneous and amateurish and he ended up sprawled on the floor, but it bought him a precious few seconds. As Dave floundered his way off the huge bed, the terrified cunt bolted out of the bedroom, heading for the hall door.

 

Gaining the door, Buddy fumbled frantically with the deadbolt.  His fingers finally caught it and he gave a sigh of relief as the lock clicked open.  Then Dave’s hand clenched in his hair, jerking backwards and tossing him to the floor.

 

The hairy, hardbodied stud re-locked the door and turned to his victim.  From the floor, Buddy looked up at the older man, still in clad in tight black leather from his boots to his waist; only his gigantic cock was free, pulsating as it swung, erect, in the air.  Above, the boy’s eyes followed the vast, furry expanse of Dave’s broad chest and huge hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.  Above that, the handsome face, that charming, cheerful grin framed by the virile black goatee…

 

…Buddy had fallen back in lust with Dave so hard and fast that he forgot what he was doing.  Dave didn’t.

 

He bent down and clamped one hand around the punk’s throat, his black-gloved fingers digging in excruciatingly as he lifted the kid into the air.  Buddy’s reverie came to an abrupt halt as his windpipe was closed off and he was hoisted agonizingly by his neck.  The young whoreboy clawed at Dave’s wrist and arm while his combat boots flailed uselessly four inches off the ground.  His bulging eyes stared directly into those of his torturer, without the latter showing the least concern—or the slightest bit of exertion, despite single-handedly dead-lifting the kid off the floor.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, ya little asswipe?” Dave asked him, the deadly gleam in his eye belying the almost conversational tone of the question.  “You said ya wanted to be hurt.  I came all the way the fuck up to this room to hurt ya, so you goddam sure better enjoy it, motherfucker!”

 

With that, he hurled the kid into the loveseat.  Buddy hit it on his back hard enough to bounce off, falling forward onto the coffee table, which promptly broke under his weight.  The kid ended up on his hands and knees in a mess of broken wood and leather—his cap and Dave’s vest—coughing and gagging, but essentially unhurt.  For the moment.

 

Staggering to his feet, the fair-haired boy glared at Dave, sullen and defiant.  “What are ya, some kinda sicko?  Lookit this shit—you gonna pay for that table?  You better get the fuck outta here or I’m gonna call—UHH!!”

 

Dave, tired of the chattering, popped the kid right in his gaping maw, knocking out a canine and shutting him up.  Buddy stared at him wide-eyed, one hand clamped over his injured mouth.

 

“Like I said, I ain’t even got started on hurtin’ ya, son.  I’m gonna hurt you so good, ya perverted little cocksucker, you ain’t ever gonna need anyone else to hurt ya again.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  No?  You will.  Trust me, faggot, ya damn sure will.”  Almost casually, he reached out and gripped Buddy by the upper arm; before the youth even realized he’d been grabbed, Dave had spun around and flung him into the TV.

 

This one didn’t leave the punk unscathed.  The flat screen TV was totaled and a large dent left in the drywall behind it.  Buddy landed badly, wrenching his right arm.  He lay on the floor wheezing, trying to breathe, but the only thing his hazy eyes seemed to focus on were the gleaming toes of Dave’s Wesco harness boots as they came closer…

 

“On yer feet, motherfucker.  Or do ya want me to carry ya into the bedroom?”

 

The threat worked; still gasping, Buddy clambered to his feet and dove into the bedroom with an abortive plan to try and lock Dave out.  Dave was already in the room when the boy turned back—and Dave locked the door behind him.

 

“No more interruptions,” he said with a sinister grin, “And no more fuckin’ foreplay, bitch.”

 

Buddy hadn’t noticed Dave was wearing a belt; the wide leather strap with the chrome buckle had more or less blended in with the rest of his leather gear.  It wasn’t until he unbuckled it and started sliding it off that Buddy even realized it existed.  And even then, he still didn’t understand what was going on; at least, not until Dave wrapped the end without the buckle around his hand a couple of times.

 

With a screech, the young slut tried to dodge out of Dave’s reach, but the experienced killer was able to swing his makeshift lash wide.  Buddy howled in pain as the strap whipped across the smooth, soft flesh of his back, the thick buckle leaving a vicious purple welt.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah,” the buff older man crowed, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”  With a wide grin, he slashed the belt at Buddy twice.  The first blow went across the whore’s back again; with an agonized yelp, the kid spun around just in time to receive the second squarely across his firm, flat belly, the loud slap instantly echoed by another cry of pain.

 

“You son of a motherfuckin’ bitch, I’m gonna—AAAHHH!!!”

 

Dave had swung the belt with the precision of an animal tamer’s whip, landing the buckle in Buddy’s face with enough force to break his right cheekbone—and shut him up.

 

“Close yer cocksuckin’ cumhole, faggot,” the cruel leatherman sneered, “You’re mine now.  Got that?  Ain’t no one gonna come save you.  You’re here so I can do what the fuck I want to with ya—and when I’m done, you’re done.  Understand me?  When I’m done with ya, ain’t no one else gonna have any use for ya either.  So shut up and take it, cunt, no matter how bad it gets—cause I promise you, I can always make it worse.”

 

Buddy clutched his swelling face, whimpering and cowering.  He didn’t reply.  He was still trying to figure out what had happened—how a chance meeting with a smokin’ hot stud had somehow become a nightmare of pain and fear.  That was when Dave, annoyed with losing his fucktoy’s attention, gut-punched him, sinking his gloved fist deep into the boy’s tender abdomen.

 

Buddy knelt on the floor, trying to breathe, when Dave yanked his head back by the hair.  “You pay attention when I’m talkin’ to ya, you scum-suckin’ piece a’ shit, you hear me?  Say ‘yes sir’!”

 

“Y-yessir…” Buddy managed to gasp out painfully.

 

“That’s right, asshole,” Dave growled and gave the cowering punk a swift kick with his steel-toed boot.  Buddy gave a breathless yip, then started sniveling.  The sound enraged the older man; he glared down at the huddled mass of sobbing boymeat.  “Fuck, I’m gonna be doin’ the world a favor by takin’ a worthless piece of crap like you outta it,” he muttered in disgust, “Shut the fuck up!”

 

Lost in his little world of fear and pain, Buddy never heard him.  The lithe youth with the red-gold hair continued to sob on his knees until the muscled older man, fed up with the irritating mewling noise, began to beat him with the belt again.  At the first blow—across his upper arm—Buddy came out of his despairing reverie, squalling.

 

He bolted to the door, by now so panicked that he didn’t even try working the locked knob; he beat and clawed at the door, yelling frantic gibberish.  Dave let him go at it for a moment or two, to let the meat wear itself out, then casually strode over, yanked the boy back, and gutpunched him.  Hard.

 

Buddy went limp and would have fallen to his knees again, but by now Dave’s dick was raging hard and he was out of patience.  He literally picked the boy up and threw him bodily onto the bed.

 

Buddy gave a cry of pain as he landed on the spiked collar.  He managed to twist himself sideways and get off it, but he wasn’t able to get off the bed itself before Dave was on it as well.  As the young boycunt tried to wriggle away, Dave leaned over, drew back his gloved fist, and pounded Buddy in the face.  Three roundhouse blows with the force of an industrial piston put paid to the twink’s escape attempt.

 

The faggot was still moaning in semiconscious agony when Dave parted the boy’s smooth, firm legs, climbing between them and propping the fucker’s boots on his shoulders.  With a perfect view of the kid’s puckered asshole, the hardbodied leatherstud aligned his enormous manshaft with cunt’s fuckhole and plunged straight in, going balls-deep on the first thrust.

 

Even for a reamed-out whore like Buddy, it was too much.  The window fuck hadn’t been too bad, but Dave had taken the time to ease himself in.  There was no easing this time; this was brutal dead-on rape, and Dave wanted it to hurt.

 

It did.  Once again, Buddy found himself dragged out of a dazed state by a new burst of physical pain.

 

“Fuck!  Oh fucking God, stop it!” he screamed, doubling his fists and beating on Dave’s powerful hairy pecs like a small child having a tantrum, “Stop!  PLEASE DEAR GOD FUCKING STO—”

 

Dave backhanded him across the face, then swung his arm back, slapping him.  Whimpering, the abused boycunt continued to writhe and struggle.

 

“Ain’t nothing worse than a bad fuck—except a mouthy one.  You’re both, ya worthless piece a’ faggot shit,” Dave growled angrily.  Keeping his huge rigid cock buried deeply in the boy’s guts, he reached out one hand and began to feel around on the bed.  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.

 

“Good thing I know a way to fix both,” he said menacingly, and held up the dog collar, making sure that Buddy got the chance to focus on it and see clearly what it was.  The hulking leatherman leaned forward and began to put it around the punk’s neck—then stopped and leaned back again.

 

“Know what?” he said musingly, “I put down some dumbass twinks in my time, but yer the stupidest one yet.  Gonna need more control for a dumb motherfucker like you.  Here, it’s big enough—I’m gonna try it this way.”

 

Both of Buddy’s eyes were blackened and swollen, but he was still able to watching in incomprehensive fear as Dave flipped the collar over.  It was only when the older man leaned forward again that the kid realized he was putting the collar on inside out—with the spikes on the inside.

 

For a few moments, Buddy went wild in sheer panic but the weight and pressure of Dave on him (and in him) kept the youth, strong as he was, from moving an inch.  The sadistic killer just kept still, enjoying the way the punk’s thrashing was working his dick.  When the meat finally wore itself out, he calmly passed the collar around its neck.  There was just enough room to loop it back through the buckle with the spikes deeply indenting the tender flesh of the throat without piercing the skin.

 

“So ya like to be dominated?  Ya like to be hurt?” he sneered down at the trembling, terrified slut, “I’m gonna show ya what real control is like, you disgusting pansy.  I’m gonna show ya what it’s like to get used by a real man, faggot.  That means no matter how bad it gets, we ain’t done till I say we’re done.  I don’t give a shit how much it hurts you, ya motherfucking cunt; you’re only here so I have something to cum into.  Grin an’ bear it, asswipe, cause my dick is hard, my balls are full and it’s time to rock n’ roll!”

 

Dave placed one hand flat on Buddy’s chest—the twink could feel the leather-clad expanse of the older man’s palm across his pecs—grabbed the loose end of the dog collar with the other, and began pounding the kid’s ass like he was literally trying to fuck him in half.  As he did, he began slowly pulling the collar tight.

 

He did it so slowly that Buddy didn’t realize it at first; he could only feel the brutal, relentless way the older stud was reaming his captive ass, the way the huge engorged head tore at his rectal lining as it plunged into his colon, battering his prostate remorselessly on its way up his intestines.  And somehow, some way, his own dick was responding, his long thin boycock, slapping between his own flat abs and the hairy, ripped ones of his rapist, was getting harder by the moment…

 

…then the spikes began to break the flesh and the true nightmare of Buddy’s last few minutes on earth began to reveal itself.  Awash in agony and terror, the boy almost didn’t realize it at first; it was all part of the pain.  But as he continued to struggle, the spikes sank deeper into his flesh—incrementally, but remorselessly, the excruciating torment grew to overwhelming proportions.  There was nothing he could do to escape it, but he damn sure tried all the nothing he could.

 

Dave knew that the punk would panic and at some point he’d be having to rein in a thrashing piece of boymeat, so he was prepared when Buddy’s reaction set in.  The fucker went ballistic, flailing like a landed seabass, trying his best to fight Dave off, or, failing that, to wriggle his way out from under the horrific torture.

 

The lean, sweaty twink clawed frenetically at the hardbodied leather stud pinning him to the bed; his fingers, curled into talons, tried in vain to scratch at Dave’s face, but the serial killer was too experienced to let that happen.  As the spikes tore their way into his esophagus and his windpipe began to constrict, Buddy’s mindless terror only increased.  Unable to damage Dave’s face, the punk began scraping and digging at his chest, his fingers snagging in the thick wiry manfur covering Dave’s strong, broad pecs.

 

Undaunted, Dave planted his free hand on Buddy’s forehead, pinning the fuckmeat securely to the bed.  The hulking sadist could feel his spunk seething in his huge hairy scrote and knew it was time to shift into high gear.

 

“I’m gonna cum, motherfucker,” he hissed at the frenzied youth.  Something about it—his words, or maybe just his tone of voice—seemed to break through to Buddy.  Even though the meat wasn’t able to regain enough control to stop its involuntary flailing, Dave could tell it was hearing him.  “I’m about to coat yer guts with hot potent manseed.  Ya want it, dontcha, ya fuckin’ faggot?  Yeah, all you little homos want my load.  Earn it, asswipe.  Make your corpse a worthy receptacle for my semen.  Work my dick, fucker, milk my wad outta me!”

 

If Buddy heard him, he didn’t do anything new to indicate it.  In point of fact, Buddy did hear him, but was still in too much pain and panic to fully understand what was being said.  It didn’t matter.  What happened next would have happened in any case; it was what Dave had wanted from the moment he’d set eyes on the ginger-blond freckle-faced leather twink.

 

With one gloved hand on Buddy’s fist, Dave stopped pulling the collar back through its buckle with a slow, even force with the other.  Instead, with a single powerful jerk, he yanked the collar as tight as he fuckin’ could.  Instantly, the circumference of the leather strap decreased by more than thirty percent.  It was now so tight around Buddy’s neck that the queerboy was being strangled by the leather strap.

 

And, of course, for that to happen, the spikes had to be fully embedded in the youth’s throat.

 

It was…there weren’t words.  Buddy had never imagined such agony could exist.  The spikes were three quarters of an inch long and nearly a half-inch wide at their widest point—which wasn’t at the base, but just above it.

 

The steel spikes in the back of his neck had sunk in until they reached the cervical vertebrae.  It might have been merciful had they pierced the spinal cord; instead, they buried themselves in the bone and anchored the improvised garrote at the rear, giving Dave more leverage to choke the cunt to death.

 

In the front, it was different.  The metal points punctured first the jugular veins, then the carotid arteries on both sides.  If Dave removed the collar now, Buddy would bleed to death.

 

Dave wasn’t removing the collar now.  Increased pressure on the spikes merely drove them deeper into the blood vessels without allowing the blood to leak out.

 

As the twink endured the first sufferings of strangulation—the rise of pounding pressure to intolerable levels inside his head—he fought even harder.  There was no lucid thought involved; some instinct drove Buddy to concentrate on Dave’s arms, to try and yank them away in a fruitless effort to ease the throttling agony.  The boy clamped his hands around Dave biceps and pulled, but it was like trying to bend marble.  Deep inside, the choking faggot felt the sheer awesome power of the muscles being used to choke out his useless boywhore life, and despaired.

 

Dave bent forward, the stiff wiry hair of his goatee brushing Buddy’s cheek as the older man whispered in his ear.  “Die, motherfucker.  I’m gonna pump my load up yer guts and leave yer reamed-out corpse spread across the bed, so fuckin’ die, you homo shit.”

 

He gave another cruel, vicious jerk to the dog collar.  When the steel spikes tore through Buddy’s Adam’s apple, he could not only feel the way the sharp points ripped into his larynx, he could hear the crunching of the cartilage.

 

By now, Buddy wanted to die.  The pain, the terror was all too much.  Somewhere in the back of his fagslut brain, he was still aware of his own erection—he couldn’t ignore it; he was so hard it hurt.  He didn’t know it was an involuntary reaction to asphyxia; he could only feel his achingly rigid shaft pinned between the flat, firm bellies of two males locked in a fatal embrace.

 

As the young punk’s struggles began to fade, his faced showed the hideous effects of a drawn-out strangulation.  Already badly battered and swollen, the boy’s innocent, freckled-marked face was blackening grotesquely—long past purple, it was darkening to true black.  His eyes, bugling horribly, were streaked with red where blood vessels were bursting; Buddy could only see great black bursts of nothingness blooming in his field of vision like fireworks of eternity.  The bloody froth oozing from his choked-off throat found an outlet beside his purple protruding tongue, the pinkish foam trickling down the kid’s smooth cheek.

 

The dying boycunt was going under.  Its weak little faggot brain was suffering more and more damage; unable to hold out for much longer, it was no longer fighting its killer.  Dave grunted with exertion and pleasure—he knew that once his warm sweaty fucktoy stopped fighting and started caressing him, it was close to death.

 

“That’s it, faggot, time to die,” he whispered huskily, know the slut was too far gone to hear him.  By now, Buddy was a vegetable.  A tiny spark of his personality remained screaming in terror and pain, trapped in some small corner of a dying brain, but it could only suffer.

 

Even if the boy had been magically bestowed immediate medical care, his only use would have been as an organ donor.  Not that Dave planned on any medical care.  This was what he’d wanted.  From the moment he’d noticed Buddy, he’d planned to have the young man’s brain-damaged convulsions milking his hard shaft to orgasm—and the stupid little homo cunt had played along every step of the way.

 

What little coordinated motion the near-dead whoreboy had been able to command slipped away.  The hands that had been slowly caressing Dave face and trailing in his chest fur fluttered aimlessly for a moment, then rose to his shoulders.  At the same time, the meat’s legs wrapped around Dave’s tight waist; he could feel the firm, smooth flesh of the kid’s inner thighs pressed against his sweat-slick flanks and he knew that the final act had arrived.  He waited tensely for the signal, no longer thrusting himself into the dying fuck’s asshole.  He didn’t need to any longer, once he felt—there, that tight trembling in the rigid boymeat as the progressive damage reached a tipping point in the fuckwad’s dying brain—

 

Buddy’s death load was intense.  The violence even caught Dave by surprise; evidently, for all his whining and squealing, the little cunt had been a major pain pig deep down inside.

 

As the fuckmeat thrashed, it clutched Dave to itself with phenomenal strength, its fingers digging into his shoulders as its legs kicked and flailed with such convulsive violence that it managed to pry one of its combat boots loose, causing it to slide halfway off.

 

While this was going on, its internal muscles were convulsing as well—its colon gripping and releasing Dave’s engorged, throbbing shaft like it was deliberately trying to jack him off.  “Aw, fuckin’-A!” the brawny leather-clad muscleman grunted.  Then he felt it—the sensation, almost like an electric shock, that told him he couldn’t hold off anymore; his balls were unloading.

 

With a single brutal tug, he gave Buddy’s collar one last powerful jerk.  A loud gristly cracking sound filled the room as the young punk’s trachea collapsed, steel spikes deeply embedded in the bloody mass of crushed tissue.

 

There was just enough of Buddy left to feel the burn, and for it to trigger the disgusting little pain pig’s orgasm.

 

For Dave, this was it.  This was his reason for being—young smooth nubile boymeat thrashing beneath him in its death agony, squirting jet after jet of hot creamy spunk across his hard, furry chest, to be smeared between them as they intertwined in an agonizing, erotic orgasm.  The hardbodied older man was aware of his own inarticulate, animalistic grunts as he hunched over the dead boy’s corpse, spewing what felt like a steady stream of searing manseed into it.  As he shot his wad, over and over, Dave continued to pin the flailing corpse to the bed and beat it, driving his gloved fist into Buddy’s vacant face repeatedly.

 

By the time he pulled his dick out of the corpse and rolled, gasping, onto his back next to it, Buddy had been thrashed to hamburger.  The fresh-faced twink was utterly unrecognizable.

 

Unwillingly, the sweaty, satisfied serial killer rolled off the bed, his thick-soled boots hitting the carpet with a loud thump.  He bent down and retrieved his belt from the floor, looping it back around his waist as he went out into the living area of the suite.  Rooting about in the wreckage of the coffee table, he recovered his vest—and Buddy’s leather cap.  Dave held it for a moment, considering, then walked back to the bedroom to try it on in front of the mirror.

 

Well, fuck it—wasn’t like Buddy had any further use for it.

 

He like the look, especially worn with the brim backwards.  He hadn’t wanted to damage the expensive lining of his vest by wearing it over his sweaty, cum-covered chest, so he’d simple looped it through his belt, leaving it to dangle—and himself shirtless.  As he admired his furry ripped abs, matted with the dead boy’s sperm in the mirror, he realized he could see Buddy in the reflection—the splayed, twitching corpse on the bed behind him, cum pooling and already congealing on its flat chest, one combat boot still kicking at the twisted sheet while the other was half off.  Even now, the corpse’s face had faded from jet black to a vivid fuchsia as the blood started to drain away from the front of the head.

 

It was a fuckin’ hot scene and Dave was proud of his work.  As he watched the faggot’s limp cock continue to ooze semen after death, the buff sadist fondled his nipples, feeling them get rock-hard.  He grinned at his own reflection in the mirror, then realized his own dick was stiffening again.  He massaged it for a moment as well, still admiring his own hairy muscular body in the foreground and the twink’s mauled, fucked-out corpse in the background—then put his tackle away.  Playtime was over; he needed to put a little distance between himself and his playmate.

 

Dave locked the suite door on his way out, but otherwise left all the interior doors open and lights on; he wanted his handiwork to be viewed under the best possible circumstances.

 

Out on the street, there was still a large crowd of conventioneers still milling about; more than before, in fact, since most of the bars and nightclubs had closed and so most were heading back to their rooms.  Directly outside the hotel door, Dave bumped into a pair of twinks.

 

One, a slender homo with long blond hair, looked up at him, awestruck.  “Hey, sweetie,” it cooed with a feminine voice, “My name’s Lee.  Wanna blowjob?”

 

Dave looked at it with a sneer of contempt.  “No thanks, faggot; just got one.  Still drippin’.”  He strode of down the street, his leather-clad physique drawing appreciative stares.

 

“Just my luck,” Lee sighed sadly, “Best hunk I’ve seen all week, and I get turned down.  I can’t win for losin’.  Hey, Todd, wait up—let’s go see if Buddy got laid!”

 

 


 

 

“So, Kracznik, whadda we got?” the Sarge barked out.  “I ain’t got time for details; just gimme the basics.”

 

“Easy enough,” the beat cop responded.  “Seems those two faggots out there—” he nodded indicating where Lee and Todd were sobbing in the outer room, “—got back a few hours ago and found this faggot here—” here he nodded at the battered remains of Buddy sprawled across the bed, ‘—a little bit ago.”

 

“Jesus, what is this—another homo convention?  Fuck, just write it up and move on.  There’s one or two of these killings every time one of these conventions happens and they don’t ever get solved.  Too many suspects, most from outta town.  And it ain’t like anyone gives a shit about faggots anyway.”

 

“So ya want me to call the crime scene folks?  I already contacted the coroner…”

 

“Yeah, Kracznik, go ahead.  But tell ‘em to get here fast, I can’t wait around all day.  And you need to get down to Wabash and Wacker, remember?  There’s that big protest in front of the Trump Tower and it’s all hands on deck.

 

Swearing, the beat cop left the bedroom, telling his partner in the living area to finish up taking the statements.  The Sarge looked around, shaking his head.  It was clear from the state of the suite that there had been an explosion of almost unimaginable sexual violence.  No forced entry—the little cocksucker had let his killer in voluntarily.

 

The Sarge snorted in disgust.  Faggot probably enjoyed it, at least up to a point.  Well, he damn sure wasn’t gonna worry about it; cocksuckers got what they deserved.

 

He took a closer look at the corpse, prying at the thick leather collar wrapped tightly around the corpse’s neck.  As he tugged at it, he noticed the spikes.

 

Jesus, this one really died ugly.  Bad way to die, not that the Sarge cared.  The boy had been pounded into meat, too, but it wasn’t anything the seasoned cop hadn’t seen before.  Happened to homos all the time.  He managed to build up a good head of indignation at the pansy for getting itself killed on his watch when the ME finally showed up.

 

He already knew he wasn’t gonna be reading Kracznik’s report; it was destined to be round-filed.  But that didn’t absolve him from filling out his own paperwork.  Turning over the crime scene to the ME, he headed out to the living area and confronted Lee and Todd with an expression of extreme disgust.  “C’mon, I want you two nancy-boys down at the station to sign yer statements.  Get moving; I ain’t got time to waste on dead pansies.”

 

Behind him, the fucked-out, cum-covered corpse of the son of a Republican state supreme court judge was dumped unceremoniously into a plastic body bag.

Meat Chronicles 20–Transformation of a Twink

He says his name’s Derek and he can’t be any older than eighteen.  He’s got glossy black hair and a brownish skin tone that makes me think he’s Latino, but there’s no trace of an accent.  And with that name; well, maybe he’s just really tanned.

 

Whatever.  He’s also completely fucked; he just doesn’t know it yet.

 

I spot him on the side of the road beside an ancient, beat-up Ford Probe.  He’s leaning back against the car, surreptitiously trying to toke on a joint as he eyes the passing cars.  His firm, lithe young body is more than adequately displayed in a navy-blue muscle shirt that shows his smooth bulging biceps.  His long, thick legs are highlighted by a pair of worn and pale jeans, skintight, that he’s tucked into his kicks—an expensively tacky pair of Nike Air Force 1 boots, bright red.

 

Of course I have to pull over.

 

He stubs out the joint shiftily and approaches the passenger side of my van.  I roll down the window.  “Need some help?” I ask, keeping my face open and friendly.

 

He brushes some stray hairs out of his face and grins up at me, his dark eyes bloodshot.  The punk is high as a fuckin’ kite.

 

“Yeah, dude, th’ POS fuckin’ died,” he replies dreamily.  “Was gonna call up some homies to come get me but m’ phone is dead too.”

 

“That’s a lotta shit to die at once,” I riposte with a wicked grin, “Get in and I’ll give ya a lift.  You can re-fire that jay, if ya want.”

 

And that’s all it takes to lure the stoned fuckmeat into my van.

 

He tells me his name and where he’s going—something about picking up booze for a party with his bros, but I’m not listening to the details.  I’m busy maneuvering through traffic towards a certain abandoned warehouse I know of, where I can find the necessary privacy.  Luckily, the teen is too fucked up to notice where we are until I actually pull into the warehouse lot and head for a secluded loading bay.

 

“Hey, man,” Derek says with a cough as he exhales a thick haze of blue smoke, “Where are we?  I was gonna have ya go by Bart’s Liquor over on Adams, it’s kinda my favorite—”

 

“Shut up, motherfucker,” I bark.  He starts, his eyes opening wide.  Then he laughs; a boyish sound, almost endearingly goofy.

 

I pull out my blackjack.  Actually, it’s just a pair of socks, one inside the other, filled with marbles.  He stops laughing and focuses blearily on it.

 

“What-what’s that for?” he asks hesitantly.

 

“It’s to put yer lights out, asswipe.  An’ once I do that, I’m gonna rape yer ass and kill ya.  Yer about to die, cocksucker.”

 

I love this part.  There’s something so erotic about the look of stunned confusion in a teen’s face as he realizes what I’m about to do to him.  And this one is no different—in fact, he’s better.  He’s so stoned it takes him some time to process my words.  I can watch him working it out, his smooth features twisting with the unaccustomed effort of thinking.

 

He’s a stupid little fuckwad.  My dick is so fuckin’ hard at the thought of putting him in pain…

 

He’s finally caught on.  “Wha—wha—wait, wha’d you say?”

 

“Time to die, twinkie.”

 

The blackjack makes a deep, solid “thunk” sound as it connects with his right temple.  Kid’s too fucked up to even flinch.  He goes limp in the seat.

 

I get out of the driver’s seat and slip into the rear to check my gear.  I don’t need much, just a box cutter for access and a pair of thick industrial zip ties.  Then I unbuckle his seatbelt and drag him into the rear—and at that point the transformation is complete.

 

Derek no longer exists.  There’s no more “he”; there’s only an “it” that exists for my pleasure.  And I’m gonna make goddam sure it pleasures me.

 

I could simply pull the clothes off but I like cutting them off.  Well, not fully cutting—I just nick the collar of the fucker’s shirt, then rip it off its smooth torso, rubbing my hands over its pecs, pinching and twisting the large dark nipples…

 

…it starts moaning.  I decide to leave the jeans and boots on.  Quickly rolling the semi-conscious boymeat over, I slice its jeans open—a straight slash down the crack of the ass that I pull wide to reveal two golden globes, covered with a faint peach fuzz and no underwear at all.

 

Having cut myself access to the teen’s fuckhole, I flip it back over.  Just as its eyelids start to flutter, I unzip its fly and pull out the punk’s long tube of dickmeat.  Motherfucker has an impressive cock—nowhere near as thick or long as mine, as it’s about to find out, but not bad.

 

I like a nice stiff piece of meat as much as the next dude.  I place one of the zip ties around the meat’s rod and scrote, tightening it past the pain of pleasure—well into the tissue damage zone.  Instantly, the teen’s shaft begins to turn purple and go rigid.

 

I don’t need any help for my own dick.  I pull off my t-shirt, and whip out my hog—but like the meat, I keep my jeans and boots on.  The treaded soles of my combat boots help me to maintain traction on the floor of the van as I raise the fuckmeat’s legs and expose its ass.

 

It’s just waking up as I plow my swollen, engorged rod into its tight teenage asshole.

 

It starts squealing and squeaking; the meat always does.  Stupid little punks are getting the best fuck of their lives, and they never appreciate it.  At least, not this early on; they need encouragement.  Time to give this kid some.

 

“Shaddap, ya worthless sack a’ fuckmeat,” I snarl and pop it in the face, hard.

 

The impact knocks the breath out of it momentarily; it can only moan and gasp, looking at me with eyes wide with fear and pain.  Well, one eye—the other is already swelling…

 

I plunge my erect cock into the kid’s colon again, the huge purple head probing deep into the fucker’s tender guts.  The virgin asshole feels so goddam good around my hard, unyielding manshaft; I can feel my tool tearing remorselessly at the boy’s fragile innards.

 

The meat shudders and sobs; it’s in fucking agony.  Good.

 

“Ya think that hurts, ya fuckin’ cocksucker?  You ain’t felt nothing yet; by the time I’m done, you’ll be in so much pain you’ll be begging to die!”

 

I lean down closer, letting my rough stubble scrape the fucker’s cheek while I whisper in its ear, “Only, ya won’t have to beg.  See, I’m gonna keep hurtin’ ya till I cum, and the only thing that’s gonna make me cum is watchin’ ya die.  Got it, fuckwad?  Then let’s get goin’; I gotta a huge wad to unload today.”

 

It starts beating at my chest.  It’s so cute, the way the twink’s fists thump helplessly against my massive pecs; it’s almost as if my fucktoy is giving me a nice chest massage.  I laugh in its tear-stained face.

 

Deep inside the red Nike boots propped on my shoulders, I can feel the little cunt’s toes curl in sexual agony as my huge, vein-wreathed manshaft reams its fuckhole like I’m snaking a drain.  The fucker’s shrieks and screams rise in pitch with every deep thrust of my powerful hips; the sound is grating on my nerves.

 

“Why is it every motherfucker I bang ends up bein’ a screamer?” I ask the meat conversationally, then punch it in the face again.  I plowed into the teen’s jaw mid-squeal, slamming its trap shut and causing it to bite its lip.  Its eyes rolled back momentarily in its head; blood trickled down its chin as it moaned groggily.

 

“Fuck, I can feel that shit all the way down on my dick,” I tell the stunned teen, “Goddam, cunt, your fuckhole gets nice an’ tight each time. Ya like that, dontcha, ya sick motherfucker?  Yeah?  Ya like a real man beatin’ yer teen face to a fuckin’ pulp?  Well, why didntcha just say so, asswipe?”

 

Like a coiled spring, my strong bicep flexes three times in quick succession, bashing the adolescent punk viciously in the mouth and nose.  The latter breaks with a wet squelch; the meat coughs up its left incisor and gurgles incoherently.

 

“Ok, cunt,” I tell the heaving teen fuck, “Enough foreplay.  I wanna shoot my load; I got other shit to do today.  Time to die, asshole.”

 

Before it can make another sound, I loop the remaining zip tie around its neck and cinch it tight.  I have to place one hand on the cuntboy’s throat and pull hard—real hard—with the other to get those last few notches through the clasp.

 

When I’m done, it’s so deep, it can’t be seen.

 

I’m kinda surprised; the teen meat reacts right away.  I thought I’d beat it down enough to accept its death and milk me with some nice convulsions, but it begins to struggle with renewed vigor.  The eyes open wide and almost immediately begin to bulge, even the blackened one.  After a few seconds, though, it becomes difficult to tell which eye had been blackened—the entire face is darkening to the same shade.

 

I hadn’t bound its hands; I like feeling my prey struggle.  At the moment, the punk’s clawing uselessly at its throat; even as the cute adolescent visage begins to distort in agony, I can still see the abject terror in the meat’s eyes.  Its smooth chest is slick with an ice-cold sweat squeezed from the pores as the nervous system begins to malfunction.

 

“Yer dyin’, motherfucker,” I jeer, staring hard into the huge dark panicked eyes and watching blood vessels burst into starburst shapes in the straining whites, “Does it hurt?  Didja expect this ta happen today when ya slipped on them expensive kicks and tight jeans—that ya’d be gettin’ fucked and snuffed while wearin’ ’em?  Fuck, dude, I knew I was gonna use yer corpse like a cumrag the moment I laid eyes on ya!”

 

My voice seems to cut through the meat’s mortal torpor.  It seems to focus on me—and then the hands come up, spastic, frantic, desperate.

 

My head bobs and weaves as I dodge the clawing fingers.  Goddamit, I thought I’d busted this fuckin’ bronco, but it keeps tryin’ to throw me.  Looks like it needs re-breaking.

 

Let’s start with the jaw.

 

Now that I’m pissed, my blows land with the force of a sledgehammer.  My build is enough to lure in any fags I wanna snuff, and the dumb cunts never stop and think about how easy it is for me to overcome them and waste their pansy asses.  Now this one is learning that lesson the hard way.  The first slug only knocks two teeth out; it’s the second that gives me that nice satisfying snap that I only get by breaking a bone.

 

It works, at least to an extent; the boymeat clutches my shoulder, wallowing in excruciating pain, a thick, choking, gurgling sound seeping from its misshapen mouth.  Without a clenched jaw to hold it in place, the punk’s swollen, purple tongue, lubed by a froth of drool, begins to protrude from between the twisted blue lips.

 

The motherfucker’s tongue isn’t the only swollen, purple appendage generating its own lube.  The twink’s long dick is not only oozing precum, it’s pulsing visibly and rapidly—it seems to be in sync with the cunt’s pulse, which is speeding as it hurtles towards asphyxia.  It’s hot, too; the kid’s dick feels like a bar of heated iron as it smacks against my ripped abs with each brutal thrust of my cock.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, bro,” I tell the meat reassuringly, “Ya know it now, dontcha?  Ya know the only thing yer worthless fag ass is good fer is milking out my hot thick potent manseed as you kick and die, yeah?  An’ it’s gettin’ ya hard as a rock.  Stupid faggot teenagers, yer all alike—I gotta beat some sense into ya before you accept the inevitable.  But then, ya like gettin’ beat, right, assfuck?”

 

I’m fairly certain it can still understand me.  It’s taking it a long time to die, and it feels so fucking good on my throbbing shaft—the boymeat is writhing, almost undulating, as it rides me.  The hands are still on my shoulders but the grip is loosening.  The cunt is drooling heavily now; irreversible brain damage is setting in.  It gives me one last despairing look.

 

I punch it in the face again and that’s all the fucker is waiting for.  The convulsion is violent; the orgasm even more so.

 

At some point the teen’s feet had slipped off my shoulders and were now around my waist.  I’d thought nothing about it at the time but now the firm adolescent thighs tighten around my waist in a vise grip.  The arms, with a sudden jerk, encircle my neck, and before I know it the fuckmeat has me in the mindless, intense embrace of violent muscle spasm.

 

Fuck yeah, man, this is it.  This is what I was waiting for–dead smooth young boymeat milking my rod.  As it shudders, clutching me tight, I can feel its thick rigid pole suddenly pulse and spurt; an intense liquid warmth spreading over my belly oh fuck yeah dude fuck yeah FUCK FUCK FUCK

 

I cum again and again, vaguely aware that I’m raining blows on the dead kid’s face with each wad I blow up its ass.  It seems to go on forever. I cum so hard it hurts.

 

Damn, this one was good.  And it feels good to be back on the hunt again.

 

I use the meat’s shirt to wipe all the cum off me, then open the back doors of the van and toss the shirt out.  Tucking my dick back in and putting my own shirt back on, I roll the shuddering fagmeat out of the van, letting it hit the ground like a sack of garbage.  After all, no one saw me pick the cunt up, and the face is damn near unrecognizable anyway.  And I really do have things to do this afternoon.

 

One of the teen’s Nike AF boots is still twitching as I close the doors and drive off, leaving the dead adolescent sprawled on the hot, cracked asphalt under the baking sun.

 

Anyone know how long that bank over on Fifth is open on Wednesdays?  I wanna ask about financing for a new van…

 

Cuttin’ Down Ebony Woods, Part One

It was Frankie who bagged the first nigger.

 

It helped that his military-issue combat boots had rubber soles; the coon never heard him coming.  And after Frankie got there, the coon never heard anything, ever.  Period.

 

They’d met at two-fifteen on a Sunday morning in a back alley.  Sordid, filthy and dimly lit, it was filled with garbage bins and piles of trash, like most of the alleys on their turf—except this one wasn’t on their turf.

 

It didn’t matter.  A message had to be sent.  The two-story building that they met behind was filled with niggers and faggots who needed to learn the meaning of white power.

 

Jack had been responsible for collecting the guns; he had sources for untraceable small arms.  He handed Frankie, Mike and Hank nine-millimeter pistols and half a dozen extra clips each, keeping the same for himself.  Ed was the only one he didn’t provide a gun for—he had his own favorite Colt .45 and kept his pockets filled with extra shells.

 

Mike handed out zip ties, twenty-five to each Nazi—lotta apes to corral inside.  They grinned at each other and waited for their chance.

 

“We’re gonna go in quiet,” Jack had said.  “I wanna get in there and get control of the situation so we don’t have no howler monkeys screamin’ down the street.  All the shit stays inside—we can get as loud as we want in there, got me?”

 

They got him.  They all waited in patiently in the darkness of the alley—five muscle-bound skinheads, filled with rage and lust and racial hatred that was about to violently boil over.  They didn’t have to wait long.

 

The nigger bouncer was in its early twenties.  It had an expensive fade, a gold grill in its teeth and a black t-shirt with the word “security” printed across its broad, muscular chest.  It was checking the alley for the last time to make sure the bar back could empty the trash.  It wasn’t expecting trouble, and it damn sure wasn’t expecting Frankie’s bat or the powerhouse swing that connected it to its head with a loud crunch.

 

The hardbodied coon fell to the pavement and thrashed violently in a puddle of stagnant rainwater, the massive dent in its thick skull revealing the extent of brain damage it had suffered.  Quickly, Jack jumped forward and put his green twenty-hole Doc Martens to work, stomping the dying nigger’s head, kicking the open wound in in the skull with his steel-toed boots.  Soon the big ape was lying still, dead coonmeat stretched out on the pavement.

 

“One down, too many to go,” Jack growled and the thugs made their way in through back door.

 

Just inside the back door was a storeroom—and inside the storeroom were two faggots, one nigger, one white.  The boys burst into the room just as the nigger was shoving its thick black cock up the white twink’s ass.  For a moment, it was hard to determine which party was the most surprised.

 

With the guns, it wasn’t hard to determine which party was in charge.  The white punk stood up, pulling off the darkie’s thick rod with an audible pop.  They were both young—late teens, both of them.  The nigger sported back and red DC skate shoes while the white fag had gray Etnies, but were otherwise nude.

 

“Fuckin’ hell, lookit this shit,” Jack said, his face contorted with disgust, “A fuckin’ faggot gettin’ banged by a fuckin’ ape.  Almost as bad as an actual human gettin’ fucked by one.  Whaddaya say, boys?

 

“I say we off ‘em now,” Hank said, his muscles rippling under his white t-shirt as he brandished a claw hammer.

 

“Hang on,” Jack said, grinning.  “We need to do this quiet, remember?”

 

That was all the white homo needed to hear.  It opened its mouth wide and inhaled, but Jack was even faster.  He decked the cocksucker in the jaw, putting its lights out.  The nigger flinched and cowered in fear, trembling.

 

“P-please,” it begged, “Pl-please d-d-don’t hur-hurt me—”

 

Frankie noticed it had a goatee.  “Hey, look,” he jeered, pointing at the dark, curly hair outlining the jigaboo’s mouth, “It’s got pubes on its fuckin’ face!”

 

“That’s its face pussy,” Ed laughed.

 

Hank grabbed a bottle out of a nearby box; a single sniff after removing the cap showed it to be nearly pure grain alcohol.  “Ya like shovin’ things in yer coon pussyface?” he snarled at the terrified fag, “Here, shove this in!”

 

He forced the bottle into the monkey’s mouth.  Mike, standing next to him, stepped up and wrapped a muscular arm around the cunt’s head, locking it into place, while Frankie, simply but effectively, pinched its nose shut.  Within a space of fifteen seconds, Hank managed to pour almost a quart of 190-proof alcohol down the teenaged nigger’s throat.  They all held on for a full count of three minutes—just as if they were strangling it—then let go.

 

The young niglet had been carded on entry and hadn’t been drinking that night.  The booze hit it like a semi.  The coon cocksucker was still scared out of its mind, but was too fucked up to resist.  It staggered for a moment, then fell back on the pile of garbage bags that had been stacked to be taken outside.

 

“There ya go, Hank,” Jack said.  “Frankie got one outside, this one’s yours.  After all, y’all missed the fun last time…”

 

Hank grinned sadistically and grabbed another bottle.  The baby ape focused blearily on the Nazi’s black DM’s as he approached, then looked up.  “N’more…” it muttered.

 

“Aw, c’mon,” Hank chuckled, “Just one more itty-bitty drinkie-poo.”  He forced the bottle between the nigger’s thick lips and before the faggot realized that this bottle was plastic, not glass, Hank had poured three pints of commercial-grade drain cleaner down its throat.

 

The reaction was instant and explosive, but silent.  It rose up, flailing, eyes so wide the whites looked like dinner plates.  A torrent of rancid foam spilled from between its thick lips as it stared in horror and desperation into Hank’s hard, sneering face.  “Ya just swallowed a mouthload of white-fuckin’-power, ya piece a’ monkey shit.  How’s that taste, huh?”

 

The agonized coon felt the warm trickle of Hank’s spit on its face and tried to cry out but the caustic chemicals had already eaten at its vocal cords and peeled off the lining of its esophagus.  It could only foam and drool and piss itself, clutching its belly in nightmarish pain, and try to stagger away.

 

“Hey, Frankie,” Hank called out casually, “I taught the fuckin’ thing to play dead—why’ncha teach it how to stay?”

 

Laughing, Frankie stepped up, swinging his bat, low and hard.  There was the hard, wet cracking sound of a green, healthy tree limb being snapped and the nigger fag collapsed to the floor, its broken tibia and fibula folding up under it.

 

“What about that one?” Ed asked as a faint moan from the corner told them the niggerlover was regaining consciousness.

 

“Let’s save it for the party.  Mike, zip it.”

 

As Mike bound its hands behind it with zip ties, Jack and Ed dragged the stunned twink homo through a pair of swinging doors and out into an area near the back of the bar.  Behind them, the cocksucking niglet shuddered impotently on the floor.  Even had it gotten immediate medical attention, the chemicals were too strong; the young ape was being eaten away from the inside.

 

But there was no medical attention.  The teen coon could hear everything that happened in the next room.  It had the satisfaction of living longer than most of those around it, even if those extra moments were spent writhing in nightmarish agony on the cold concrete floor, alone in the dark.


The bar itself stretched off to the right.  Two buff young bucks were working there.  Both were shirtless, their smooth ebony skin glistening under the flashing lights from the dance floor.  Out on the floor were three couples—all of them nigger fags, kissing and slobbering on each other.

 

Jack was sick at the sight.  “Ok, fuckers, time to rock n’ roll.  We got us some jungle bunnies to round up.  Ed, you, Frankie and Hank get the ones out there.  Mike and I’ll grab these two.  Ready to make some noise?”

 

The boys nodded eagerly, hate and sexual excitement reflected in their masculine faces.  “White power, motherfuckers!”

 

The cry rang out among them all, echoing over the dance floor, drowning out the nigger gangsta rap.

 

“White power, motherfuckers!  White power!  White power!”

 

Jack and Ed fired their guns, aiming at the ceiling.  Even if the dry-humping nigs on the dance floor hadn’t heard the shouts, they damn sure heard the gunfire.  So did everyone else in the building, and they did exactly what they’d been told to do in live shooter situations: shelter in place.

 

They froze, waiting to be hunted down like the animals they were.

 

The boys leered at each other and the Ebony Woods Coon Slaughter got started.

 

“Awright, get over here, ya fuckin’ apes!” Jack snarled at the bartenders.  The young coons looked at each other, then approached hesitantly, trembling with fear.  One was tall and muscular, with an expensive fade and a thick gold chain around its neck, the other was slightly shorter and not a heavily built but well developed.  Both wore skin-tight satin pants that clearly showed the outlines of their thick black cocks, like male strippers, and both sported black go-go boots.

 

“What the fuck do we got here?” the vicious Nazi thug sneered.  “On yer knees, jigaboos.”

 

Behind him, Frankie and Hank had rounded up the six Sambos on the dance floor and with Mike’s help, was getting them to pull each other’s clothing off.  As each coon was stripped down to its glistening chocolate skin, its hands were securely bound behind its back with zip ties.

 

The black bartenders knelt in front of Jack, looking up at the muscled skinhead in his Gold’s Gym shirt and his Doc Martens, an overwhelming presence of hate and testosterone.  The taller one began to cry.

 

Jack pointed his Glock 17 at the nig’s face.  “Aw, is de wittle jungle bunny scared?  Eat shit, ya fuckin’ nigger!”  There was a loud pop and a hole appeared in the darkie’s forehead while its brains were blasted out a hole in the back of its skull.  It fell forward, dead, but not still, its legs thrashing in its death throes.  The white thug popped another cap into it, pithing the brainstem and quieting the monkey.

 

The other coon bartender, its face splattered with its coworker’s blood, gasped and began to wail, a high, atonal keening sound.

 

“Aw, shaddap,” Jack snapped, shooting it point-blank in the mouth.  The hardbodied black buck swayed on its knees for a moment, blinking, piss running down its leg, with its teeth blown out through the back of its neck, then it fell forward, a sack of dead monkey meat.

 

The herd of coons on the dance floor were paralyzed with terror, the white niggerlover among them.  Mike stepped over to Hank and, after a quick discussion, borrowed the claw hammer from him.

 

“Awright, Hank,” Jack ordered, his voice steely with purpose, “You an’ Frankie stay here and guard this lot.  I got somethin’ special planned for these nignogs.  Fuckin’ pansy-ass coons think they can flaunt their faggot nigger asses in our part of town?  We’re gonna show the whole fuckin’ city how white power handles this bullshit.”

 

Standing up straight and squaring his shoulders, Jack adjusted the thick, straining bulge in his crotch.  Grinning at each other, the rest of the boys did the same, shifting their straining denim-sheathed cocks to more comfortable positions.  The evening was just getting started.

 

“Ok, you fuckers, it’s search and destroy time.  Mike, Ed, you’re with me.  We’re gonna through this fuckin’ monkey hut room by room and hunt down any nigger we can find.  No fuckin’ mercy, ya got that?”

 

They got it.  They didn’t need to be told.  They weren’t looking to dispense mercy, they were looking to dispense terror and torture—and testosterone.  These were gonna be sick kills; just the thought of the horrific death about to rain down on the isolated groups of trapped coon faggots made their hard white manshafts drip with anticipation.

 

Just outside the bar was the entry and the bouncer’s nook.  There was a door to one side to a restroom; on the other side were the stairs to the second level.  Most of the second floor consisted of catwalks over the dance floor, but there was a sign next to the staircase that showed there was a smoking lounge and another restroom as well.

 

“Ok, I got this one,” Jack said nodding towards the downstairs restroom.  “You head on up.  We’ll meet back in twenty minutes.”

 

“They’re gonna get bored,” Ed said, indicating Hank and Frankie back on the dance floor.

 

“Don’t worry,” Jack said, “What I got planned will make up for it.  And anyway, they’re gonna be busy going through the wallets and stripping the bling.  Fuckin’ nigger apes think they can own property—they fuckin’ are property, goddamit!”

 

Ed grinned and Mike felt his dick throb.  They turned to head up the stairs—and at that moment, a figure moved out of the entryway.

 

It was the Hispanic bar back.  Dressed in a tight, stained t-shirt and jeans tucked into pull on work boots, he was young and swarthy with shoulder-length blue-black hair.  He was carrying a mop, but dropped it, stunned, as soon as he saw the trio of white power skinheads.  Jack drew to plug the fucker, but Mike got there first with the hammer.

 

The first blow of the steel head shattered the spic’s jaw; its hands fumbled at its face in shock and horror as Mike wielded the heavy tool again, this time impacting the beaner’s skull hard enough to shatter it.  The brown-skinned wetback fell to the floor in a coma, its boots jerking on the tiles as its damaged brain, peppered with skull fragments, short-circuited.

 

Jack gave Mike a thumbs-up as Ed slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Fuck yeah, bro. Righteous.”

 

The three hardbodied, big-dicked Aryans turned back to their cold-blooded coon hunt.

 

Jack entered the restroom with his gun drawn and his dick hard.  The room was silent, except for the buzzing of the fluorescent lights.  To his left were three sinks, with mirrors over them.  On the right were three stalls with the doors closed and at the far end was a long metal piss trough.

 

The thick soles of his twenty-holed boots echoed eerily on the tiled floor as he slowly paced down the room.  The buff young thug paused in front of the first mirror and admired himself for a moment, the way his t-shirt was stretched tightly across his huge pecs, the way his long thick shaft of pure white manhood was standing to attention during his righteous purge of the niggers.

 

Whirling, he pressed the barrel of his gun against the door of the first stall and slowly opened it, the sound of metal scraping on metal loud in the silence.  As the door inched open, it revealed two coons huddled together in each other’s arms, their white eyes huge with terror.

 

Jack grinned and grabbed his scrote, adjusting his huge, cum-filled balls as he took stock of the situation.    “Well, well, looky here, a coupla jigaboo fags hangin’ out in the toilet.  Feel at home in there, ya pieces a’ shit?  Get the fuck out here.  Now.”

 

The two boys, trembling in terror, shuffled their way out of the stall.  In their early twenties, both were in skinny jeans and button-down shirt—one light blue, the other a blue and purple plaid.  The one in blue was wearing brown suede Chelsea boots; the one in plaid had a pair of Air Jordan 4 “Tattoos”.  Young, hip, slightly upscale urban fags, they were unused to violence and petrified at the sight of Jack’s weapon.

 

“Over there,” the menacing Aryan snarled waving the quivering monkeys to the far end of the restroom, next to the trough.  He opened the door to the middle stall with his gun, only to find it empty.  Shrugging, he turned to the last stall.

 

It was locked.

 

With a broad smirk on his chiseled face, Jack raised his booted foot and kicked the door in.

 

This one had gonna full gangsta thug, with a Lakers jersey that showed off its smooth, muscled arms and a pair of low-hanging jeans that looked like they’d been belted around its legs below its ass, showing off a pair of skin-tight black briefs underneath.  It had on a yellow Lakers cap, with the brim turned back at an angle, thick braided chains around its throat and a pair of untied Timberlands.

 

And the coon was so frightened, it’d lost control of its bladder.

 

Jack laughed triumphantly at this proof of his power.  He’d scared the piss outta the fuckin’ ape without even seeing it.

 

“More fuckin’ vermin,” he growled, “Goddam building’s infested.”  He reached in and manhandled the gibbering, terrified darkie out of the stall and shoved it towards the others.

 

“Here,” he snarled, handing a pair of zip ties to the nigger in plaid, “Bind their hands.  No, not in front, ya stupid fuckin’ monkey, in back.  And do it tight or I’ll bust a cap in yer worthless ape skull, ya hear me, boy?”

 

Its hands trembling, the jigaboo obeyed, cinching its faggot boyfriend’s wrists closely, then moved on to the cowering gangsta bitch.

 

“Nice, obedient coon,” Jack jeered, “Woulda fetched a good price back in the good ol’ days.”

 

Once it was done, Jack felt safe enough to set down the gun and secure its hands itself.  Then he lined all three niggers up, facing the piss trough.

 

“On your knees, you cunts,” he barked.  “Fuckin’ niggers should always be on their knees in the presence of a white man, but you faggots are so uppity I’m gonna hafta show y’all what real white power is.”

 

He’d been digging something out his pocket; it was a folding tactical knife.  The blade was only four inches long, but the forged steel was razor-sharp and serrated.  The hardbodied skinhead grabbed the nappy poll of the coon in the blue shirt and forced its head down over the lip of the trough.

 

“Time to die, ya nigger sack a’ shit,” Jack spat and, reaching up under the Sambo’s chin with his knife, began slicing its throat open.

 

“No!!!” it screamed, “O god no don’t please god no no nonono–AAAIIIIEEEAgghghg—”

 

As its shrill animal shriek of mortal agony echoed off the tile walls of the small, harshly lit room, Jack pressed his crotch against the nigger’s head so it could feel his hard cock as it gagged and choked on its own blood.  The coppery scent of righteous bloodletting began to overtake the acrid tang of nigger piss.  After a minute or so, the jigaboo stopped twitching, its brown Chelsea boots finally growing still on the stained white tiles.

 

Jack left it slumped over the trough and moved to the next nig in line, executing the homo coons with the efficiency of an industrial slaughterhouse.

 


 

Upstairs, Ed had turned right and headed into the smoking lounge while Mike went directly forward into the upstairs restroom.  The smoking lounge was hazy and dimly lit, with sofas and chaise lounges scattered about.  There was a TV showing music videos on one wall, muted, and a smaller bar, closed up, at the far end of the room.

 

There were also four jungle bunnies hiding behind the various pieces of furniture.  It took Ed a couple of minutes to round them all up and get them to bind each other with the zip ties.  Soon they were all kneeling on the floor, looking up at him in abject terror.

 

Ed was an intimidating sight.  Tall and well-muscled, his white wifebeater didn’t hide a single detail of his powerful, heavily inked arms.  His close-shaven head with its broken nose and expression of merciless hate filled the niggers with cold despair.

 

He approached the first coon on the far right—an older one, mid-twenties, well-built, with a simple black leather moto jacket, a white t-shirt, and tight jeans of black leather over white Adidas hightops.

 

“Ya good with yer mouth, faggot?” Ed demanded as the leather-clad jigaboo flinched, “Fuckin’ nigger cocksuckers oughtta get put right the fuck down if they can’t work their tongues right.  Lessee if yer worth the air yer breathin’, ya piece a’ homo shit.  Lick my boots clean.”

 

As the other Sambos huddled together, quivering with fear, the nigger hesitantly bent its head down towards Ed’s red Doc Marten boot.  “Goddam it, ya useless coon faggot, lick it!” Ed snarled, cracking the jigaboo on the back of its head with the gun.  It cried out, a hopeless bleat of despair, but it obeyed, loudly slurping the oxblood leather.

 

Ed watched for about thirty seconds, then hocked up a wad of phlegm and spit on the kneeling nigger.  Reaching down, he unzipped the fly of his tight faded jeans and pulled his huge, pulsing manshaft out, sighing loudly with relief as the massive tube of flesh was allowed room to expand.

 

Then he suddenly and swiftly drew back his foot and kicked the nigger in the face, his steel-toed boot knocking out three of the cunt’s teeth.  As it whined on the floor, its hands clasped over its mouth, Ed brandished the pistol.

 

“You suck, ya fuckin’ porch monkey, an’ not in a good way.  Get up here and wrap yer thick niggery lips ‘round the barrel of my .45.”

 

The coon looked up, bewildered and horrified.

 

“C’mon, nig boy, pretend it’s yer master’s cock and start suckin’.  Let’s see if yer good enough to suck anythin’ outta this long hard shaft.”

 

The nigger, tears streaming down its glistening ebony face, closed its eyes, opened its mouth and took in the gun.

 

“Yeah, that’s it, ya punk-ass bitch,” Ed jeered, “Suck it like a white man’s cock an’ maybe I’ll let ya feel the pure power of a white load.”

 

Then he pulled the trigger.

 

There was a loud click as the hammer came down on an empty chamber.  The nigger jumped and squealed, pissing inside its leather pants in terror and collapsing to the floor as Ed guffawed loudly and massaged his erect cock.

 

“Guess what?” he chortled.  “We’re gonna play a game.  I know you jigaboos prob’ly ain’t even able to read, but even yer dumbass ape brains should be able to figure this one out—it’s real simple.  You darkie dicksuckers are gonna take turns gobblin’ my gun like it’s a cock.  An’ if yer lucky, you get the prize of sucking a big blast of white power from my hot, hard barrel.  Sound like fun?  Fuck yeah!”

 

Grinning viciously, he turned to the next nigger in line.  “Open wide, faggot,” he smirked.

 


 

Mike had already slipped on his brass knuckles by the time he entered the upstairs restroom.  This one was smaller, with two stalls, two urinals and one sink.  The stalls had no doors—but that didn’t stop the coons from trying to hide there anyway.  Mike found two crouched in the doorway and silently motioned them out with the gun.

 

From the next stall came a series of beeps someone activating a cell phone.  Mike flung himself into the stall to find a jig in a blue satin jersey, baggy jeans and Nike Air Precision kicks on its knees, desperately trying to dial 911 through its streaming tears.

 

Without needing to think, Mike punched the nigger in the mouth, shattering its jaw.  It crumpled to the floor, whimpering as Mike ground the big black heel of his engineer boot onto the phone, crushing it before the call could be completed.  The other two Sambos hadn’t moved—they were frozen with fear—so getting them zip-tied was quick and easy.

 

The buff young Aryan pulled his thick, vein-wreathed cock out of his jeans, stroked to for a moment, then strolled into the toilet stall and beat the semi-conscious nigger to death.

 

He crouched over the coon, grinning, then rolled it onto its back.  “Fuckin’ niggerboy thinks it’s gettin’ away?  Looks like I’m gonna hafta mark it.  Ain’t gotta brandin’ iron, but these here brass knuckles will do just fine.”  Then he started swinging.

 

Each powerful impact of the hardbodied, rage-filled youth’s fist resulted in a wet pulpy crunch as the Nazi rained agony down onto the thrashing, helpless nigger.  “Hell yeah, ya fuckin’ jigaboo, ya tastin’ yer own blood?” he jeered as he punched the coon’s teeth down its throat, “That’s what white-fuckin’-power tastes like!  Have some more, boy!  Tastes just like fried chicken an’ watermelon, don’t it!”

 

As the yard ape’s face caved in, Mikes repeated blows splattered the walls of the stall with blood.  By the time the skinhead came shudderingly to a stop, the coon was still twitching, its Nikes scraping on the floor tiles, but its face was an unrecognizable ruin and it had suffered catastrophic brain damage.  As Mike exited the stall to turn his attention to his remaining targets, the bleeding inside the nigger’s shattered skull was slowly but surely becoming fatal.

 

“Ok,” he said with a demonic grin on his blood-spattered face as he pulled the claw hammer out of his belt, “Who’s next?  Don’t both y’all volunteer at once, now!”

 


 

“Oh fuck, no, please, sir, don’t—”

 

Jack laughed cruelly.  “Yeah, bitch, ya better fuckin’ call me sir!” he jeered as he forced the coon’s head down over the trough, feeling its tight wooly curls under the iron grip of his hand.  This time, Jack had taken the time to haul his enormous throbbing mancock out; it was resting on the jigaboo’s shoulder as the Nazi stud brought his knife around to its throat.  He started slicing and the coon started screaming.

 

“Ohgoddon’tnonoMOMMAMOMMAMOMMaagghurrghh…” There was a high-pitched hiss as Jack sawed his way into the trachea, then the nigger gargled its own blood for a couple of minutes as its lithe, jean-clad legs flailed and its Nike Jordan Tattoos kicked in the pools of nigger blood and piss on the floor.  Then it lay still for a moment, blood splashing into the piss trough and its hands randomly clenching as it died.  Suddenly, with a final convulsive spasm, it flipped back out of the trough.

 

Jack left the dead monkey to bleed out on the restroom floor.  He turned his attention to the remaining jungle bunny—and the fuckin’ nig bolted, sprinting for the door.

 


 

The next nigger fag in line had on a bright red t-shirt a size too small, tight black jeans, and gray Ugg Hannen boots.  Ed smirked as he slowly and deliberately thrust his gun between its lips.

 

“C’mon, cocksucker,” he chuckled, “Lessee ya get a load outta this.  Work it, you nigger fuck, suck it like it’s yer master’s dick.”

 

Closing his eyes tightly, the jigaboo worked the gun barrel with its tongue.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ed sneered, “Now deep-throat it, you cunt.”

 

The dark-skinned ape did as it was told.  It took as much of the gun barrel into its mouth as it could.  Ed pulled the trigger and the back of the jigaboo’s head vanished in a spray of red mist.  A Jackson Pollock splatter of blood, brain tissue and bone shards spread over the wall behind it.

 

Ed jerked the gun out of its mouth.  It remained upright on its knees for about another five seconds, its dead eyes wide, smoke drifting from its open mouth and the crater in the back of its head, then it collapsed into a pile of jigmeat.

 

“Oops,” the sadistic Aryan muscleman chortled, “Guess I need to reload.”  He replaced the spent casing with a live round and turned to the next darkie homo in line.  “Your turn, motherfucker.  Suck it.  Suck it hard, faggot.”

 

This one was wearing a St Louis cap backwards, a white wifebeater identical to Ed’s, showing off its large sweaty ape-like muscles and a pair of Diesel jeans with untied Timberlands.  And this one didn’t want to play the game.  It turned its head and kept its mouth shut.

 

“Aw fuck yeah,” Ed barked out happily, “I was hopin’ I’d have an excuse to do this.”

 

He grabbed the nigger, jerking it up out of its kneeling position and threw it face down over the arm of one of the sofas.  Before it could recover, he’d yanked its jeans down past its knees.  The faggot was freeballing, of course.  Ed just smiled viciously.

 

“Man, I been wantin’ to do this shit to a nigger for a long time,” he chuckled gleefully, “I been wonderin’ how bad this’d fuck up a jungle bunny.  Stupid fuckin’ piece a’ shit!”

 

On the last word he violently shoved the barrel of his .45 up the coon’s ass and pulled the trigger three times.  The first chamber was empty—but the second one wasn’t.  Nor the third.

 

The first bullet traveled up through the street ape’s innards at a slightly upwards trajectory.  It pierced the intestines multiple times, holed the spleen, liver, and left lung, then tore its way upwards, smashing a rib and tearing an exit hole out of the coon’s back, near its left shoulder blade.

 

The second bullet moved in a straight line up the center of the body mass, ripping open the pancreas and stomach, missing the nigger’s heart but puncturing the esophagus and lodging in the cervical vertebrae, instantly paralyzing the rebellious Sambo.

 

As is lay face-down on the sofa, blood tricking from its nostrils and piss tricking into its Timberlands, slowly, agonizingly suffocating as it lost the ability to inhale, Ed turned back to the two remaining coons.

 

“Anyone else wanna get a good hard white power fuck?” he snarled, brandishing the pistol and reloading it.  His question was met with silence.  “Yeah, I thought not,” he sneered, “Worthless faggot cowards.  Get over here, you fuckin’ nigger waste, and lick yer boyfriend’s shit outta my gun!”

 


 

The two nigs flattened themselves against the far wall as Mike approached with the hammer in his hand.  One of them, a young ape in a Raiders cap, white t-shirt, black jersey gym shorts and a pair of Puma Ferrari hightops, kept darting its wide eyes about in panic.  It was sporting lots of bling around its neck, multiple thick gold chains which it kept fingering.  The other coon was older, a lean, muscular buck with a black do-rag on its head and a dark goatee.  It was in obvious fear as well but seemed to have better self-control.

 

As expected, the darkie in the Oakland cap suddenly feinted right, signaling an obvious move to the left.  Mike shifted his weight to one side, letting it begin its sprint for the door, then swung the hammer, neatly striking the coon on the side of its head, sending it into a boneless, unconscious sprawl on the floor.  The young skinhead turned to the other nigger.

 

This one, seeing the score, chose not to run.  It was a buff young thug, its black muscle shirt revealing its smooth, dark skin, glistening with nigger sweat.  It swung its arms up in a defensive posture, revealing a nice pair of biceps; its feet, in a pair of LL Bean duck boots, shuffled over the floor tiles as it tried to move into an advantageous position.

 

“C’mon, ya white-ass motherfucker!” it shouted.

 

“That’s about right, boy,” Mike sneered, “This white man’s gonna fuck yer momma right into the ground, and yer daddy too.  But let’s start with you, ya fuckin’ jigaboo.”

 

The nigger roared and lunged at Mike in a fog of fear-crazed rage.  Again, the young Aryan was able to dodge his attacker and swing the hammer—this coon got it in the face.  There was a faint pop as its cheekbone shattered, then it squealed, holding its hand up to its face as its left eye began to blacken and swell shut.

 

“Goddam,” it moaned, “Oh, fuck…”

 

It glanced up just in time to see Mike looming over it, his “These Boots Were Made for Stomping” t-shirt pulled tautly across his huge, muscled chest and his long thick manshaft drooling precum, and his powerful arm raised over his head.

 

And in his hand, the hammer had been reversed.  The head was pointed to the rear, with the claw forward.

 

“Oh fuck no—” the coon had time to gasp before the snarling Nazi swung the hammer like a pickaxe, smashing the thick steel claws through its skull and sinking them deep into its brain.  As the yard ape shuddered violently with massive cerebral trauma, Mike cranked the hammer down as if he was yanking out a nail, and peeled back the top of the nigger’s cranium, exposing the mangled gray matter.

 

“Only way to get somethin’ into a nigger’s head is by rammin’ it through its thick monkey skull,” Mike chuckled, jerking his hammer back out of the dead coon’s brain and letting the convulsive sack of jigaboo meat slump to the floor and shit itself.  Then he turned his attention to the moaning nig he’d knocked out, just now starting to stir.

 

The Aryan killer strode over to the prostrate jungle bunny.  “Hey, fuckwad,” he hissed as the spade began to blink and open its eyes, “Wakey, wakey.  I got somethin’ for yer pansy nigger ass.  Look up here, coon.  See it?  It’s my boot.”

 

As soon as the nigger focused its eyes on the upraised engineer boot hanging over its face, Mike stomped it.  Hard.

 

His erect cock pulsed with the electric sense of white power as he felt the jigaboo’s face cave under his boot and heard the crunching and squelching noises of brutal facial trauma.  It felt so good, he did it again.  And again.  And again, ramming his boot into the cunt’s face, kicking out its teeth, dislocating, then shattering its jaw, splintering the orbits of the eyes…

 

And all the time blood was flying from the Sambo’s face and precum was flying from Mike’s hard cock.

 

By the time he’d regained control of himself, the young, hardbodied skinhead had managed to avoid orgasm, but the nigger hadn’t avoided death.  There was still a faint gurgling from the ruined crater that had been its face, but that was post-mortem.  The coon was meat.

 

Having heard the popping of Ed’s gun from the smoking lounge, Mike decided to saunter in that direction to see what we going on.  Behind him, piles of ape flesh twitched randomly on the bathroom floor.

 


 

The last coon in Ed’s batch was very young—just a niglet.  It didn’t look old enough to be in the club, but it was clearly a fag.  Hair in an expensive fade, each ear pierced multiple times with diamond studs inserted, a retro denim jacket over a green t-shirt with the words “Ride Me Cowboy” in yellow, skin-tight skinny jeans faded to the same shade as the jacket and a pair of white Converse trainers.

 

It was also sobbing uncontrollably, so terrified it didn’t hear Ed’s words.  It had already pissed itself and its jeans had dark streaks down each leg that originated at the crotch.  It made no resistance as Ed forced the gun into its mouth and pulled the trigger.

 

There was a loud click.  The nigger flinched and sobbed louder, but had no other reaction.  Ed pulled the gun out and turned back to the first nig.

 

“Looks like it’s back to you, boy.  Suck my rod, you fuckin’ faggot.”

 

The nigger shuddered inside its leather gear, closed its eyes and opened its mouth with no protest—having been beaten, its spirit had been shattered.  It was ready to obey.

 

It didn’t have to obey long.  There was a muffled pop inside its mouth and a sudden jet of blood and bone out the top of its head.  The older coon in the moto jacket fell dead to the floor with the grace of a sack of dirty laundry, and Ed was alone with the baby fag.

 

“Man, yer cryin’ is annoyin’,” he snarled as he pointed the gun at it and pulled the trigger repeatedly.  Two shots were fired, aimed randomly, and hit the coon in the torso, one a through-and-through shot that pierced the spleen, stomach and liver and one that shattered a rib, punctured a lung and lodged in the spinal column.  Suddenly paralyzed from the chest down, the teenaged niglet fell forward.

 

“Comin’ in,” Mike called from outside as a heads-up, then entered the room.  Each Nazi grinned fraternally at the sight of the other’s hard, oozing cock.

 

“Check this one out,” Ed said, indicating the baby homo, “C’mere an’ watch it die.”

 

The teen coon was looking at the muscle-bound skinheads in horror as it slowly suffocated, blood pooling in its non-functioning lungs.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid ape?” Mike jeered as he stroked his dick, “Hope it hurts like fuck, dumbass.”

 

Its eyes bulged and drool leaked over its thick lips as it spent its last moments on earth listening to the taunts of its sadistic, sexually aroused killers.

 

“Yer dyin’, ya sack a’ nigger shit,” Ed smirked, “Gettin’ a start on wipin’ all you fuckin’ useless jigaboos off the planet.  Burn in hell, nigger.”

 

The teen coon died, Ed’s voice ringing in its ears.

 

“Let’s go see if Jack’s offed all of his yet,” Mike suggested.  “I ain’t wasted near enough coons yet.”  They headed for the stairs.

 


 

“You fuckin’ cunt,” Jack growled, his deep bass voice vibrating with rage and suppressed lust as he stood over the sprawled nigger, “You fucked up so fuckin’ bad…”

 

The coon moaned and rubbed its head; the Lakers cap had fallen off when the monkey went down.  It looked up to find itself staring down the barrel of Jack’s Glock.  The Nazi motioned the nig into the toilet stall.

 

“In there, faggot.  You like gettin’ cocks shoved down ye throat?  You like drinkin’ piss, you fuckin perverted jigaboo?  You make me sick, you sack of shit.  Lick that toilet, nigger.  Get down on yer cocksuckin’ knees and run yer fuckin’ tongue all over it, you disgustin’ homo!”

 

The spade shuddered and closed its eyes but it had no choice; it knew that it’d end up with a slug in its brain if it didn’t obey.

 

What it didn’t know was how much more merciful as slug would have been.

 

After several minutes of loud slurping, Jack suddenly spoke up: “Bite it.”

 

The coon paused, confused.  Jack bent down and whispered.  The terrified jungle bunny could feel the skinhead’s goatee brush its face and his hot breath on its ear.  “Open yer fuckin’ nigger mouth and put yer fuckin’ nigger teeth on the edge of the lip like yer gonna bite a chunk out.”

 

The thug wanna-be tried to control its sobs, but it did as it was told.

 

Behind it, Jack stood up.  He raised his knee-high green Doc Marten boot and with no warning, power-stomped the back of the cunt’s head with such force he drove the nigger’s face through the bowl, shattering the porcelain.  Coon teeth scattered across the floor like a handful of dropped coins as the toilet was flowed out over the stunned nigger’s torn and mangled face.

 

Without a paused, Jack bent down, grabbed a handful of woolly hair and dragged the jigaboo out of the stall and over to the piss trough.  He bent it roughly over the edge; there was a loud snap and the faggot went limp in his arms—he’d broken its neck.

 

But it wasn’t dead.  And it could still sense things—like the nightmarish agony of Jack’s serrated knife slowly slicing its neck open like roast beef.

 

Satisfied, Jack pocketed his knife again and left the restroom.  Behind him, the last nigger still hadn’t been luck enough to die.  The angle of its head down in the trough and the fact that the carotid artery hadn’t been pierced meant that blood didn’t reach the wound until after it had reached the spade’s brain.  It hung in the piss trough, helpless, paralyzed, blood tricking down its face and its own piss pooling in its Timberlands.

 

Jack met Ed and Mike just as they were coming down the stairs. All three Aryan grinned at the sight of each other, manfully erect and spatter with nigger blood.

 

“Off to a good start?” Ed asked

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Jack grinned and gave the boys fist bumps.

 

There was a sudden scraping noise off to the side but a quick look reassured them that it was just the brain-damaged spic bar back having a seizure.  Its eyes were rolled back in its head, blood trickled from its nose and ears and its boots scuffled on the floor.  Nothing to worry about; the wetback had been neutralized.

 

“C’mon, let’s get back to the others,” Jack said, “Time to get the real fun started.”

 

“Yeah, what’s up?” Ed asked, “You never did say what you got planned.”

 

Jack grinned and slapped both Mike and Ed on the shoulder.  “Boys,” he said, smiling, “We’re gonna have us an ol’-fashioned nigger auction.”

 

—End of Part One

Trucker 18–Trucker vs Teen Fuckmeat

It was when he got off the interstate in Holbrook that the Trucker first began to notice how the wind was picking up.  While it was true that winter driving in the Arizona desert didn’t have the same dangers as, say, the Midwest, it was still cold—and now the wind was building.

 

An even colder front was moving in, and the straight-line winds were expected to be intense for the next twelve hours.  He was headed for a little place in the national forest south of Zeniff—a small consignment load—but he didn’t need to be there till tomorrow evening.  Might be a good idea to pull over and let the front pass through.

 

And anyway, he was overdue for a kill.

 

The urge had been building in him again; he was almost surprised how quickly it’d come back.  But the need to beat a faggot to a pulp and drain his balls into its quivering meat was almost overwhelming.  Maybe he’d find a playtoy at the next stop.

 

If there was a next stop.  The empty desert receded into the darkness on all sides surrounding the Trucker’s rig; as the wind increased, though visibility decreased as dust began to billow across the two-lane state highway.  Suddenly, the Trucker noticed a hazy glow in the distance.

 

It turned out to be an intersection in what was literally a one-traffic-light town.  A county road crossed the highway; to the south was a small cluster of ramshackle frame houses.  To the north, nothing was visible in the immediate area.  All four corners of the intersection were occupied.

 

To the Trucker’s immediate left was a truck stop—a small one, not part of a chain.  It’d give him a place to park, but it didn’t appear to have many amenities.  Two trucks were already in the lot, one hauling a Walmart trailer, the other a refrigerated unit.  On the other side of the county road was an ancient motor court motel, complete with neon sign.  Most of the neon was out, but enough remained for the Trucker to make out the name “Ranch Hand’s Rest”.

 

Continuing counter-clockwise, across the highway a dollar store, now closed for the night but with its parking lot still brightly lit.  The remaining corner was occupied by a fast-food joint, also closed for the evening.

 

The Trucker eased his rig into the lot and circled in the back, pulling around so that it was facing back out.  No sense in wasting valuable time later on trying to turn the thing around.  Once he was satisfied with his parking job, he killed the engine and climbed out.

 

He paused for a moment to zip his black leather aviator jacket up against the cold wind; underneath, he was wearing nothing but a thin cotton t-shirt.  His muscled legs, wrapped in tight, faded jeans, powered him swiftly across the parking lot towards the truck stop.  The heavy tread of his black Chippewa logger boots was almost muffled by the ragged gusts of icy air.

 

The air inside the truck stop wasn’t icy, but it was far less pleasant, heavily laden as it was with grease and the scorched scent of food that had been sitting under a heat lamp for too long.  The cashier, it appeared, also had to maintain a small “deli” with offerings of hard, dry chicken tenders, rubbery breakfast tacos and pizzas pooled with red grease.  There were a couple of booths between the counter and the racks of merchandise, but the entire place seemed empty.

 

“Men’s room?” the Trucker barked at the half-asleep cashier.

 

“In the back on the left,” she said with a jerk of her head to indicate the direction, then became instantly engrossed in her phone again.

 

The doorway to the rear hall was between two wall coolers.  The hallway was short, starkly lit, paved with tile, had two doors for two restrooms—and a boy.

 

He was leaning against the far wall, near the door to the men’s room, and he was eyeing the Trucker pretty openly.  He looked young—late teens at most, way too young to be whoring himself out.  And he was dressed like a typical teenager in a white fleece hoodie, skin-tight skinny jeans and white canvas Vann SK8-HIs.

 

But the way he leaned against the wall, one leg thrust out and bent back at the knee so the sole of his sneaker was on the wall—and the deep glittering light of lust in his large brown eyes…

 

The Trucker headed into the men’s room.  No sense rushing anything.  He’d let the kid make the first move; if the little fuck was looking for some dick, well, the Trucker would be happy to oblige.  He had plenty of dick to offer, and a lot more to go with it.

 

He was still standing at the urinal, grinning and pounding out piss, when he heard the door open behind him.  He didn’t even need to look to know it was the boy.

 

“How much to suck my cock, boy?” he asked evenly.

 

There was a faint gulp behind him, then the kid’s voice stammered forth, “Tw-twenty bucks.  Up-up front.”

 

“Not in here.  You got a place?”

 

“Uh, yeah—over in the motel.”

 

Without responding, the Trucker shook off his massive hog, shoved it back into his jeans, and stepped to the sink to wash his hands.  In the mirror, he could see the boy waiting anxiously behind him.  Even in the reflection, the thick bulge in the kid’s crotch was visible, and the way the boy kept rubbing his hand over it didn’t make it any less obvious.

 

The hulking sadist saw his own smile grow more pointed.  The little faggot wanted it bad.  And bad was exactly what he was gonna get.

 

“Okay,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, “Get out.  Wait for me outside.”

 

The kid blinked and paused for a moment.  “Uh—okay.  I’ll be out on the curb.  Name’s, uh, name’s Quinn…”

 

The Trucker ignored him.  There was another pause, then the kid left.

 

After washing up, the Trucker casually strolled back into the store and bought a cup of black coffee.  Figuring enough time had gone by to disassociate him from the boy, he headed back outside, sipping at his cup.

 

The coffee tasted like diesel fuel, but the fuckmeat was exactly where he was supposed to be.  The kid seemed eager, almost bouncing on the toes of his hightops.  “C’mon, this way,” he called out as the Trucker approached him.  The boy began to cross the street.  “I’ve got the one on the end, right here.  See?  Real close.  Got an arrangement with the manager; I get the same one every weekend.  Not like there’s enough business to hafta worry about it bein’ booked…”

 

The Trucker let the punk babble away, focusing his attention on the way the kid’s tight jeans cradled the firm mounds of his asscheeks and anticipating what it’d feel like to force the swollen purple head of his cock between them.

 

“…and man, if my folks found out what I was doin’, I’d be in such deep shit.  I mean, fuck, dude, I got my big bro’s car while he’s off at school—he’d beat the shit outta me if he knew.  And my dad…”

 

The boy kept on, the silent footfalls of his Vanns drowned out by the heavy tread of the Trucker’s Chippewas, as he led the way back to his room—and to his doom.

 

As he’d said, it was the room on the end, marked with a small plastic plaque inscribed “17”.  Directly in front of the door sat a black 2010 Mustang convertible—the car the little fuck wasn’t supposed to be driving.  It was one of three cars in the lot—and one of those, parked way over by the office, was evidently the night clerk’s.

 

Inside, the quality of the motel matched its occupancy rate.  As the Trucker leaned back against the door on surreptitiously engaged both the deadbolt and the chain lock, he glanced around to take a quick survey of the room.

 

The room was unpleasantly dim, with cheap worn carpeting in a shade of dark green not popular since the seventies—from which decade the dark, splintery plywood paneling seemed to come as well.  There was a bed, covered by a scratchy polyester comforter with a gaudy floral pattern, with a nightstand that held a phone, a digital alarm clock and metal lamp with a dented shade.

 

There was a desk/dresser combo unit, cigarette burns scattered over its surface like chicken pox.  The mirror over the desk section was intact but badly warped; just looking at the skewed reflection made the Trucker dizzy.  A small flat screen TV stood on the dresser, pointed at the bed, next to it was a cable box.

 

Just past the dresser was the opening into the restroom.  Even from the entrance, the Trucker could see the cracks in the grout between the ancient white tiles.  And it didn’t take a drug-sniffing dog to determine the bathroom was the source of the overpowering scent of cheap antiseptic that almost—but not quite—drowned out the reek of stale cigarette smoke.  Not that the AC unit was helping the air quality.  Located under the front window, it rattled and clanked like a rollercoaster as it exuded fetid puffs of dry, scorching air into the already-overheated room.

 

While the Trucker scoped out the room, Quinn pulled off his hoodie, showing that he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.  The skin on his slim, boyish torso was firm and clear.  There was a faint down of hair on his flat belly, but otherwise his chest was smooth but for his large pink nipples.

 

“I get paid first, dude.  Sorry, but it’s a house rule.  Gotta have the cash up front,” he said casually as he sat on the bed and kicked off his sneakers—they were loosely laced and left untied for easy on/off action, it seemed.

 

The Trucker, in the middle of sliding off his leather jacket, grinned.  “Sure,” he said nonchalantly as he folded the jacket over the back of the chair by the desk.  He dug into his back pocket and fished out his wallet, taking a twenty out and replacing the wallet.  The kid wasn’t paying attention; he was too busy trying to peel his skin-tight jeans off.  The Trucker palmed the bill and pulled his own t-shirt off, laying it over his jacket.

 

Finally out of his clothes—he’d been freeballing under the jeans—Quinn slipped his kicks back on and stood up.  “Hey, I gotta hit the restroom real quick; you wanna—”

 

He broke off at his first glimpse of the Trucker half-dressed, wearing only his jeans and laced workboots.  The twink’s greedy little eyes went straight to the glittering point of light in the middle of the hunk’s muscular, fur-covered chest—the Trucker’s dogtags, nestled in the dark mass of wiry fur between the huge mounds of his pecs.

 

Quinn’s dick, already hard, began to visibly pulsate.  Smirking, the Trucker held out the twenty.  The boy gulped and reached out for it unsteadily, still focused on the stud’s amazing physique.  “I, uh…thanks…” he mumbled, turning and laying on the nightstand.  As he turned, he heard the unmistakable sound of the Trucker unzipping his fly.

 

He was right.  When he turned back around, the hardbodied killer had managed to extract the full length of his enormous, vein-wrapped horsedick.

 

Despite Quinn’s obvious desire to get to the bathroom, the Trucker’s cock hypnotized him like a snake hypnotizing its prey.  And though Quinn had no way of knowing it yet, its venom was just as deadly.

 

The slow, steady of movement of the Trucker removing his belt broke the trance.  The clank of the large brushed-silver buckle and the stealthy sound of the inch-and-a-half wide strap of black leather sliding among the denim loops stirred something in Quinn.

 

“I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back…” he said hesitantly, then darted into the bathroom and locked the door.  Behind him, the Trucker laid the belt over his shirt and jacket.  He could afford to be patient.

 

Quinn wasn’t as quiet in the bathroom as he thought he was; even through the closed door, the Trucker could hear the click of a lighter and the hissing, bubbling sound of the kid inhaling some kind of drug.  In a small town like this, that probably meant meth.

 

Well, that was fine.  Little fuck should be off his guard when he came out.

 

The Trucker was right.  Thirty seconds later and high as fuck, Quinn stepped out of the bathroom with a big grin on his face and a big erection between his legs.  “Hey, man, yer gonna hafta take it easy with that big dick you—”

 

The Trucker sucker-punched the teen in the jaw.  Stunned, Quinn slammed back into the bathroom door, then slumped to the floor—not unconscious, but too dazed to be functional.  He was aware that the buff older man had hit him, and had then moved away.

 

“Wh-wh-wh…” he tried to start, but speaking hurt.  A lot.

 

Then he heard a harsh slapping sound—a single slap, actually, repeated slowly and menacingly.  Painfully turning his head, Quinn tried to see what was happening.

 

He was at ground level, looking across.  The first thing he could see were the untied laces of the Trucker’s dirty, well-worn Chippewas.  Raising his eyes up the thick, denim-clad legs, he was again confronted by the sadist’s frighteningly huge cock.  But the source of the sound was above that.  Quinn looked up to see the cruel serial killer standing over him with the doubled-over belt in one hand, ginning and slapping the palm of his other hand with it.

 

“Wh-whath’fuck?” the young faggot managed to mutter.

 

“Just gonna have a little fun, dude,” the Trucker chuckled, his deep bass voice vibrating the root of Quinn’s cock, still somehow semi-hard even after the assault.  “Just gonna beat the fuck outta ya, rape yer worthless homo ass, and snuff ya—don’t that sound like fun?”

 

Quin glanced up in disbelief just in time to see the Trucker’s powerful arm snap downward.  Cringing, the lean teenager threw his left arm up to block the blow.  It turned out to be an excruciating maneuver.  Even doubled over, the thick leather strap hit the boy’s arm with such force, it wrapped itself around it momentarily.  With sadistically perfect timing, the Trucker viciously jerked the belt back towards himself.

 

The snapping of the bones in Quinn’s forearm breaking was less noticeable than the shearing sound as an inch-and-a-half wide strip of the outer layer of skin completely circling his arm was flayed off.

 

For a moment, the amateur boywhore sat wide-eyed, staring in horror at his raw, dangling forearm—then the pain hit and he screamed.  Briefly.

 

“Shaddap,” the Trucker snarled and lashed him across the face.

 

That got a quick, loud shriek, then the boy collapsed to the floor.  The Trucker stood over him for a moment, looking down, gloating, and fondling his stiff manhood.  Then he dug into the pockets of his folded jacket, pulled out his pack of Marlboros and leaned back to burn one as the punk queerboy sobbed sloppily on the floor.

 

“You lucky-ass motherfucker,” he jeered, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the already stale air of the motel room, “You get to take my load.  I was lookin’ for some hot boymeat for a beatdown and a good pump an’ dump—an’ there you were.  Course, a dumbass teen fag like you takes a lotta beatin’ ‘fore its ready for my dick.”  He paused for effect, taking another drag.  The fuckmeat was still sniveling, but it was listening.

 

Good.  It needed to know what to expect.  It needed to be prepared to receive his shaft, and that meant a good manual tenderizing.

 

He stubbed out his smoke.  “Ready, motherfucker?  I’m gonna beat ya like a bitch, just cause it gets my dick hard to hurt teenaged faggots before I dick ‘em down.  Got it?  Then let’s get started.”  Standing over the prone youth, he brandished the belt again, wielding it like a whip and brought it down on smooth, silky flesh of Quinn’s back with a sound like a pistol shot.

 

This time Quinn didn’t squeal or shriek; he flat-out screamed.  The intense, slashing pain across his tender adolescent flesh was too much to endure.  He scrabbled wildly on the floor on all fours like an animal, then, regaining his feet as if by magic, bolted right past the Trucker, heading for the door.

 

The Trucker lunged after him, more out of rage that the faggot was trying to avoid what was coming to it than out of any concern it would get free.  His experience with snuffing homos in motel rooms served him well; Quinn managed to get the deadbolt unlocked with the hand on his working arm, but maddened by pain and terror, fumbled uselessly with the chain.  The twink slut’s escape attempt was as useless as everything else in his wasted life.

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then was whirled around and pinned up against the door, slamming it shut again.  Then, before the young cunt could say anything, plead for its life, anything—the Trucker’s right hand shot out and clamped around its throat like a vise.  Quinn gagged involuntarily, his eye wide as his air was cut off and he was literally deadlifted straight off the floor.

 

As his hightops drummed against the door, Quinn could see the massive bicep of the Trucker’s arm bulging with seemingly effortless power while holding him off the ground.  The buff older man tossed the belt over his shoulder, then reached out with his left hand, over Quinn’s shoulder—and re-locked the deadbolt.

 

“Where ya think yer goin’ motherfucker?” the Trucker asked Quinn with a cold, hard grin on his hyper-masculine face, “This party ain’t even got started yet, you cunt.  I gotta work off a little stress before I can settle down and choke yer faggot life out with my dick up yer ass.  I toldja that already, but you small-town homos gotta have everything beaten into ya, right, dumbass?”

 

Quinn, his face purple and swelling, was in no position to answer back.  His legs and his good arm scrambled frantically as he dangled and choked in the sadistic serial killer’s powerful grip.  He pawed frenetically at the Trucker’s broad chest.  The stud’s pecs, hard as marble, suffered no visible damage from the twink’s one-handed onslaught, but once Quinn curled his fingers in the older man’s wiry chest hair and began pulling, the dying punk became a nuisance.  And when he caught the Trucker’s dogtags inadvertently and nearly yanked them off, the buff psycho had had enough.  He spun around and flung Quinn through the air with the ease of a rag doll.

 

Violent motion, an even more violent impact, then a hazy darkness filled with pain were what Quinn experienced next.  He didn’t know he’d been thrown into the dresser and that his smooth young teen body had broken the mirror and smashed the television before it fell back limp to the floor.  What he did know, when he became aware of his surroundings, was that he was in agony—and he could hear that slapping sound again.

 

The guy was coming back.  The hot, sexy guy, the one he’d wanted so bad…the one who was hurting him so bad…

 

Quinn forced his eyes open.  Again, he was at ground level.  Again, those dirty Chippewa boots were approaching…but this time, he knew what it meant.  But he’d let his mind wander.  He was only vaguely aware of the sudden movement of his assailant, and didn’t even have time to flinch as the Trucker swung the belt at him again.

 

Except this time, it wasn’t a single swing.

 

As Quinn cowered and squealed like a pig under the repeated lashes of the heavy belt, the muscle-bound sadist felt his huge, stallion-like shaft begin to pulse and ooze with bloodlust.  Every loud slap of leather on skin, every bleat of agony from the crouching, helpless teen slut, propelled another drop of hot precum out of the thick purple head of his dick.

 

Then, for a moment, it stopped.  The Trucker stepped away, fired up another smoke, and observed his prey for a moment.

 

The youth’s back was no longer the smooth expanse of pale silky skin it had been before.  The Trucker’s foreplay had left the slut covered in red, angry welts.  On at least two occasions, the violent lashing had broken the boy’s skin, and a thin trickle of blood was creeping down the whimpering kid’s flank.

 

The Trucker took another drag, walked back to the prone, shuddering punk and knelt down by his head.  He exhaled the smoke into the cunt’s face.  “Ya ready, motherfucker?” the buff killer asked jovially.  “Ready to die on my cock like a worthless fag?”

 

Quinn was swimming in a sea of pain, but he was aware enough to understand what was being said to him.

 

“N-no…” he gasped, turning his huge, tear-filled eyes up to his tormentor in desperation, “Pl-please…no-no…”

 

“You ain’t ready?” the Trucker taunted in mock surprise, “Ok, I guess I need to kick some sense into ya, huh?”

 

And without another work, he drew back his foot and kicked Quinn in the side with his steel-toed work boot, hard enough to break two of the little fuck’s ribs in several places.  The writhing cunt’s shrieks of pain began to annoy the brutal sadist; his next kick was directly to Quinn’s face, silencing the faggot by breaking his jaw.  The boy continued to sob and moan as the Trucker kicked him twice more in the flank, breaking more ribs and further shattering the ones he’d already broken.

 

By the time the Trucker stopped kicking Quinn and, shoving the toe of a boot under him, flipped him over onto his back, the teen homo was bleeding internally from half a dozen wounds to his guts caused by bone shards.  As he lay on his back, gasping, his sweet young face a bloody wreck, the Trucker leaned over him, spit in his face, then stomped him twice, leaving the imprint of the deep tread of his boots imprinted on the boy’s flat belly.  Then he bent down and ground out the glowing butt of his smoke on the whore’s smooth, tender flesh.  It sizzled for a moment before the sadistic alpha reached out for the boymeat again.

 

Quinn’s entire universe had shrunk to a tiny bubble of agony; trapped inside it, the kid wasn’t able to realize that the hardbodied psycho had picked him up by the throat again—the young cunt couldn’t breathe anyway.  And he was barely able to register the sense of flight as he was flung like garbage across the room again.

 

He damn sure felt it when he hit the wall and crushed a hole in the drywall, though.  He felt it even more when he fell back and smashed the nightstand, sending everything on it crashing to the floor.  And even as he bounced back, to lay stretched and trembling across the bed, he could hear a jangling noise that made him look up.

 

The Trucker had looped the belt around his own neck at some point—the noise was the silver buckle striking the dogtags as the powerful sadist closed in.  As Quinn watched, the older man slowly drew the belt from his neck.  Grinning with evil lust, he held the looped leather strap out as he approached the trapped, defenseless teenager.

 

And Quinn realized that the moment that strap got around his neck, he was dead.  Even if he hadn’t been injured, he was in no way strong enough to fend off the hairy, muscled serial killer he’d willingly invited in.

 

The Trucker tossed the belt down onto the bed next to Quinn’s head; the boy would have grabbed for it but for his broken arm—and the fact that he was paralyzed by terror.  The sinewy, hulking killer loomed over him, grinning with obviously sadistic intent, the slowly turned and paced to the end of the bed, letting Quinn get a look at the way his lat muscles tensed and flowed and the tight bunching of his glutes as he walked.  The man literally exuded power in his pheromones and his physique managed to inspire Quinn with both lust and despair—the latter because the more he saw of the Trucker, the more futile he felt any escape attempt to be.

 

The hardbodied stud stopped at the foot of the bed, grabbed the teen’s legs, and parted them effortlessly, despite Quinn’s best attempts to keep them closed.  It didn’t matter.  Nothing he did mattered.  And then there was a sudden pressure against his sphincter—

 

“Keep fightin’ it, faggot, I love when th’ meat squirms on my thick fuckin’ manshaft,” the Trucker sneered, and shoved.

 

Quinn screamed.  Loud and shrill, it was torn from the depths of his slim teenaged body as the older man’s huge cock plowed through his rectum like a runaway train, ripping his asshole mercilessly as it pounded his prostate and plunged into his intestines.  In the nightmarish waves of searing pain that pummeled his lithe, smooth form with each brutal thrust of the Trucker’s hips, the young homo wasn’t aware that his own tube of boymeat was stiffly slapping his rapist’s ripped abs—and was already smearing the Trucker’s belly fur with teen precum.  He just kept screaming.

 

Not for long, though.  “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ bitch,” the Trucker grunted and punched Quinn in the face, rocking his head back.  The kid moaned and peered blearily up at his assailant through his right eye—the left one was already swelling and turning black.

 

“Fuck yeah, ya dumbass cunt,” the sick stud growled as he placed the punk’s legs on his shoulders and dug his work boots into the sheets for better traction, “Now yer feelin’ me, yeah?  Huh?  Lemme know if you can feel this!”  He began to ride the teenaged slut like a bronco, pounding his shaft so hard and so fast into Quinn’s colon that his huge scrote slapped the boy’s hormone-filled balls like billiards, striking with such force that it damn near bruised the kid’s sack.

 

Instinctively, Quinn closed his eyes and tried to struggle, but the heavy mass of the muscled stud pinned him down prostrate on the bed.  He could hear a jingling somewhere but didn’t connect it to the Trucker’s dogtags until he felt the cold metal on his chest.  He opened his eyes—to the extent he could open the left—and found the older man’s hard, unshaven face next to his.

 

“It’s been fun, fuckmeat, but I gotta get some rest.  Time to blow a load and go catch some Z’s.  Time to die.”

 

He held up the belt, giving the terrified cocksucker a gentle smile that he couldn’t hold.  It broadened into a shark-like grin almost immediately.

 

“Ready to get yer pitiful life choked out, faggot?”

 

The lithe young teen was in more pain and more fear than he could have believed possible, but the thought of being released from his torment into the dark freedom of death filled him with cold terror.  “No, please,” he whimpered, “Please, don’t—”

 

The Trucker looped the belt back through its buckle, making a simple noose.  Quinn kept babbling.

 

“Oh fuck no, please, please, oh god, please, for fuck’s sake don’t do this—”

 

The Trucker grinned again.  With his enormous rod still planted firmly in the boy’s ass, he slowly lowered the leather noose over the kid’s head.

 

“Oh god no please no fuck oh shit oh fuck don’t nonoNONO—GACK!!”

 

His pleas were choked off as the Trucker jerked the thick strap tight, sealing off Quinn’s windpipe and silencing the faggot forever.

 

The young homo fought with the strength left in him; consciously, he knew it was hopeless, but the animal midbrain in his adolescent mind continued to try to claw its way to air.  Sadly for the teen slut, the fact that he was flailing both arms in panic didn’t prevent him from feeling every last agonizing grind of bone on bone as his broken arm thrashed impotently.

 

His right arm and hand worked perfectly well, though.  The Trucker watched the cunt dig vainly at the leather belt sunk deep into its throat flesh.  As the lean teen body shuddered beneath him, his wiry body hair scraped the smooth young flesh.

 

Suddenly, Quinn changed his focus.  His hand came up, fingers hooked into talons, and he began to gouge at the older man’s face. The Trucker was still pumping steadily, feeling the sperm start to seethe in his overloaded, aching balls—he had no intention of taking any shit from a goddam sack of fuckmeat that was only still alive because he hadn’t cum yet.

 

He plowed his fist into its face three times in a row; fast, jackhammer blows that squashed the bitch’s nose like a rotten tomato, with a nice satisfying squelching sound, blackened its other eye and knocked out three teeth.

 

The last impact, the one that knocked out the teeth, was to the lower jaw.  But the dying meat had been without air long enough for its tongue to start swelling, protruding from between the blue lips with a gush of foamy drool.  The hardbodied stud’s sucker-punch snapped the jaw closed; the cunt bit through its tongue, damn near severing the tip.

 

“Fuckin’ take it,” the rutting alpha snarled, spitting in the fuckmeat’s face, his spittle flowing into the pink foam trickling down the punk’s face, “Take my fuckin’ dick and die, ya piece a’ shit!”

 

As their bellies slapped together in the throes of violently forced mansex, the Trucker could feel the teen’s hard, oozing cock being pressed against his furry ripped abs.  The little fuck was nearly brain-dead, but asphyxia and the vigorous prostate massage provided by brutal assrape kept its tool stiff and leaking.

 

The Trucker was almost there.  He could feel his seed starting to boil over, the electric tingling deep at the root of his gigantic rod that let him know he was about to spew his thick potent alpha load.  The meat needed to die.  Now.

 

It was almost there anyway.  Quinn was gone; all that was left was a convulsing sack of teen boymeat.  The swollen face, bruised and black, was unrecognizable.  The entire thrashing body was covered in cold death sweat, literally squeezed out of it along with its worthless life.  The cunt’s left arm was convulsing just as powerfully as the right, the broken limb flopping grotesquely about.

 

And still the boymeat drooled and gurgled.  The Trucker had to feel it die, had to feel that final clenching of its colon as it suffered its final agony.  It was easy enough to do.

 

He jerked the belt forward, roughly, swiftly, with one hand while swinging with the other fist, deep, piston-like punches that drove the fag’s skull savagely backwards.  As the thick strap around the spine went in one direction and the cranium on top of it went another, there was a loud crackling noise—the erotic sound of the teen fuckmeat’s top two cervical vertebrae shattering and slashing through its spinal column.

 

That was what the Trucker had been waiting for—that final intense overload of the central nervous system.  Oh fuck, the way the boycunt’s rectum seemed to collapse on his tool, almost sucking his scalding semen out—

 

“Fuck!” he cried out, “Fuck! Fuck! OH FUCK!!!”

 

He hunched over, his massive, muscle-bound body shuddering and convulsing itself as he pressed the still-thrashing corpse of the teenager beneath him, cursing and beating its face in.  Despite the intensity of his release, the alpha was dimly aware of a splash of warmth against his abs and up into his thick chest fur as the meat unloaded involuntarily during its death throes.  It didn’t matter.

 

The Trucker had so much cum to drain out of his balls he spent the next five minutes hosing the dead slut’s innards with his hot manseed.  After his scrote emptied, he spent another couple of minutes relaxing and catching his breath with his cock still jammed up the dead kid’s ass.  Finally, reluctantly, he took a deep breath, pulled his hog out of the corpse, and headed to the bathroom to wash up.

 

He wasn’t in any hurry.  He wasn’t in a position to know that the boycunt had spent the entire weekend whoring itself out, but he’d figured out enough to know that the little fuck was getting banged here on a regular basis.  And he’d made damn sure no one had seen them together, or had seen him enter this room.  Or even approach the motel, for that matter.

 

It took a few minutes to scrub the thick ropy strands of boyspunk out of his chest and belly fur, but he had enough experience to know that teen boys are cum bombs, full of semen, waiting to go off at any moment.  He was an expert at setting them off, and didn’t mind cleaning up some of the mess afterwards.

 

Only some of it, though.  As he re-entered the bedroom and slipped his shirt back on, he lit up a traditional after-sex cigarette and leaned back against the door, proudly surveying his handiwork.

 

The body was sprawled face-up on the bed, legs and arms both spread wide, with the left arm bent at an unnatural angle.  He’d left the belt where it was; it was sunk so deeply into the fucker’s neck, it’d probably have to be cut off.

 

Above the collapsed section of the esophagus, there was little recognizable of the boywhore once known as Quinn.  Even the hair was matted and dark with sweat.  The face was a grotesque swollen purple mask.  The body, aside from the left arm and some heavy bruising on the torso, was relatively unmarked, but the torso was completely smeared with cum.

 

The corpse’s feet still shuddered and kicked as random signals shot down its ruined nervous system.  One of the cunt’s Vann hightops had come off and was on the floor beside the bed; the Trucker could see the toes curling in death agony inside the ankle-high ped sock.  The other hightop sneaker scraped and jerked randomly over the cheap thin sheet.

 

The room itself was mute testimony to the violence of the Trucker’s need to cum.  The TV and mirror were in pieces on the floor, the wall over the head of the bed was damaged and the nightstand and its contents destroyed.

 

The hardbodied alpha grinned and finished his smoke.  Just looking at the scene made his cock throb again, but he needed sleep.  He slipped on his leather jacket and quickly left the room, setting the lock in the doorknob to engage as he left.  Whoever entered the room next would need a key.

 

It was past two in the morning as his Chippewa boots echoed on the pavement as he crossed back to his cab.  No one was out to see him.  He gave the truck stop itself a wide berth to avoid being spotted by anyone at the counter and made it back to his rig unobserved.  He slept for five hours and was back on the road again by half-past seven.  There was no sign of any disturbance as he left; the motel across the street, at that time of the morning, was dead as a doornail and silent as a tomb.

 


 

The call had come in at ten in the morning, and it damn sure wasn’t how the sheriff wanted to start his week.  A fuckin’ murder.  He hadn’t had to deal with a homicide in this place…ever.

 

And then that scene.  His deputy had come outta the room puking, and the sheriff couldn’t blame him.  That teenaged boy with his legs spread and a thick flow of dried glazed cum that had leaked from his asshole, the sheer cruelty and viciousness of the attack…

 

And the parents.  He’d traced them through the car.  They didn’t know he’d taken it.  And when they found out what had happened to their eighteen-year-old son, what he’d spent the past year doing in that little motel…

 

And the gossip.  He’d stomped on the local paper—there was only one little weekly—and made sure that the story didn’t get spread.  But everyone knew.  A fag murder, right in their town.  Even the homo’s parent suffered.  The car was towed to be processed for evidence; when they came to town from Zeniff to pick it up, three days later, their house was vandalized.

 

Goddam faggots, the sheriff mused.  Should all be killed.  Nothin’ but trouble.

 

 

Hangin’ Round the Wrong Places

Ed grinned and ran a hand through his buzz-cut pale blond hair.  His inked and muscled right arm made a sudden dart downwards as he checked—yes, the length of chain was still there, dangling from his belt.  He had the feeling he’d need it in a moment; he’d just seen something Jack and Mike would wanna know about, too.

 

For the moment, it was the three of them.  Hank and Frankie had been picked up on assault charges; it might be a while before they were back.  So it had fallen on the remaining three to patrol their turf and keep the neighborhood white and upright.

 

Tonight, the white pride warriors were circling around behind a strip of gay bars on the edge of their territory.  It was a good hunting ground; they could usually bag a faggot or two in the parking lot or out on the street.  Not a real workout, of course, just a good beatdown or a hot stomping.  Lately, the area had been bringing in a lot of drug traffic, though, so sometimes the prey could vary.  It was rarely anything major, however.

 

This was different, though.  Way different.  Ed had found the hunter’s equivalent of a fourteen-point buck.

 

“Jack, Mike,” he hissed, “Over here, quick.”

 

The three assembled men looked like trouble.  Ed was the tallest.  His white cotton wifebeater displayed the tattooed sleeves on both of his strong arms, and his skin-tight Levi’s were rolled up at the cuffs to show off his oxblood eight-hole Doc Martens.

 

Jack wasn’t as tall, but he was larger, more powerfully built, and the intense expression in his hard, handsome face indicated he was the driving force among the gang.  A too-small black Gold’s Gym t-shirt was stretched tightly across his broad pecs, the thin cotton taut enough to expose his thick, erect nips.  That wasn’t all that was erect; his worn acid-washed jeans were tight enough to outline the massive tube of flesh running down his thigh.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of green twenty-hole Doc Martens.

 

Mike was the youngest of the three.  He wasn’t as developed as Ed or Jack, but that was only relative; his hard, muscled body was all in black, from the t-shirt with the “These Boots Were Made for Stomping” print to his jeans and steel-toed leather engineer boots.

 

All three were young, strong, and driven by a desire to prove their own superiority.  Now Ed was giving them a perfect chance.  “There’s a nigger and a spic down there,” he said, grinning and pointing down an alleyway.  “Thought they were bein’ smart, hidin’ behind a dumpster, but I caught sight of ‘em.”

 

“Hell yeah,” Jack grunted with a feral gleam in his eye.  His hands tightened up on the baseball bat he was carrying.  “You got yer knuckles, Mike?  C’mon, let’s go fuck these cocksuckers up, fuck yeah!”

 

“Wait, wait—you ain’t heard the best part,” Ed broke out gleefully.  “The spic is suckin’ the fuckin’ nigger off!”

 

Jack went rigid.  Worst kinda nigger was a nigger fag and one who fucked around with a fuckin’ wetback—hell, there wasn’t no such thing as a straight Mexican; all them spics loved cock…

 

Beside him, Mike balled up his fist, letting the dull gleam of his brass knuckles flash in the light.  “C’mon,” he said, breathing heavily, “Time to fuckin’ pulp these assholes.”

 

The three strode cockily down the alleyway, their wide-legged, big-dicked stance demonstrating their ownership of the turf.

 

Further down, in the rank darkness, Byron was enjoying his blowjob too much to hear the heavy footfalls of booted feet.  The Mexican rentboy who’d offered to suck him off for twenty bucks sure knew his shit, and since Byron was drunk and had struck out at the bar, he was willing to let some spic slurp his shaft in an alley.  He had no reason to suspect any danger—until it was right on top of him.

 

“Lookit this shit!” came the harsh, jeering voice out of the darkness.  “A coon an’ a wetback, playin’ with each other’s dicks!”

 

The Mexican jumped up and whirled around.  He’d had his dick out, too and had been stroking himself.  He and Byron both went limp, though, as the three muscle-bound skinheads emerged from the shadows.

 

“Por favor, señor…I no underst—” he started.

 

“Shut the fuck up!!” Jack barked.  The spic did as he was told while Jack sized up the catch.

 

The nigger was young—late teens, it looked like.  It’d gone full gangsta mode with a pair of wide-legged saggy jeans, a red basketball jersey, and a pair of white K-Swiss VN Classic hightops.  There was a black, shiny do-rag on its head and a thick chain of braided gold links around its neck.

 

The spic was older—early twenties, maybe, with short dark hair and swarthy skin.  Its slim chest was wrapped in a pale blue t-shirt and it sported tight boot-cut jeans and ropers.  It just looked confused; the nigger looked fearful.

 

Jack grinned.  “Well, boys,” he chuckled, turning back to Mike and Ed, “Whaddaya say we show these muthafuckas how real men, white men, handle worthless wetback and jigaboo pansies?”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Mike crowed, simultaneously with Ed’s “Goddam right!”  At the same time, all three hardbodied Aryans got rock-hard at the thought of dominating the fuck out of the two helpless homos in front of them.

 

Turning back to the cowering fags, Jack stepped forward, brandishing the bat.  “Looks like you two fuckwads are ‘bout to get a personal demonstration of ‘White Power’, yeah?”

 

“Oo-rah!” Ed roared, his pumped masculinity resonant in his deep bass voice.

 

“You,” Jack said, indicating the Mexican with his bat, “Get over here.”

 

Flinching, the Latino youth crept forward like a beaten dog.  “See, I don’t need to tell ya what the ‘white’ part means,” Jack continued in a jeering tone.  “We’re white and you’re not, which means you ain’t worthy to live.  Fuckin’ plain an’ simple, right, boys?” he said.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Mike replied eagerly.  Ed just grinned and shifted the thick, snakelike bulge in his groin.

 

“But as for power…” here he turned to the side, away from the spic cocksucker.  He paused for a moment, then swung the bat up, away from the beaner, as if he was swinging a golf club.  Before his victim could move, Jack completed the golf maneuver, using the momentum of the downswing to slam the bat into the spic’s balls hard enough to rupture both testicles.

 

“Now that’s white-fuckin’-power!” he crowed as the Latino homo screamed in a high, reedy voice and writhed on the filthy pavement, fetally curled in pain.

 

“Hey, Mikey,” Jack called complacently, “Shut it the fuck up.”

 

Grinning gleefully, Mike stepped up and gave the spic fag a quick kick to the face, rolling it onto its back.  He looked down at the Mexican’s large, dark eyes, welling with tears, and felt his own cock swell with the sense of power of his ability to inflict suffering on this worthless waste of human flesh.

 

The homo was still screaming, but it didn’t for long.  Mike pounded it three times in the mouth with his brass knuckles, breaking teeth and knocking some out with each blow, before it shut up.

 

Not that Mike stopped beating when the spic went quiet.

 

Jack and Ed, in the meantime, rounded on Byron.  The look on Jack’s face was terrifying—withering contempt, triumphant rage and something the trapped homo could swear was lust.  Massaging the bulge in his crotch, the handsome Nazi punk stepped forward, grinning wickedly.

 

“I fuckin’ hate niggers,” he said evenly, staring Byron dead in the face.  “Goddam monkeys tryin’ to act like they’re human—all a’ y’all need t’ be put back in yer place, servin’ th’ white man.  But the worst kinda coon is a faggot coon, ain’t that right, Ed?”

 

Ed chuckled maliciously behind him.  “Damn right.  Don’t deserve to fuckin’ live.”

 

“Hear ‘im, ya fucking cocksucker?  He’s right—yer a stain that needs cleanin’ up, and we’re here to keep this turf whiter n’ white.”

 

Ed laughed raucously at this witticism as Byron shrank back against the brick wall, his wide eyes darting from side to side in a vain attempt to find a clear path out of this nightmare.  Mike joined them.  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

 

“Nothin’,” Jack replied, “Just ‘bout to start poundin’ us some monkey meat.  Up for a good ol’-fashioned nigger stomp?”

 

Mike didn’t have to rub his crotch; his thick bulge swelled visibly on its own.  “Oh fuck yeah,” he said excitedly.

 

At that point, Ed turned his head and noticed that the Latino street whore was slowly crawling away, leaving a trail of blood that was trickling from its ruined face.  “Hey, Mikey,” he razzed his buddy, “Didja give this one a kiss before ya let it go?”

 

Mike’s face flushed.  Jack chuckled.  “Bring it back here, Ed,” he said, “An’ you can show this street ape what real fuckin’ white men do to wetback pansies.”

 

Ed brightened up.  Picking up the spic by the nape of its t-shirt, he dragged the sobbing, brutalized youth back down the alley.  The heels of the greaser’s boots carved channels in the trail of its own blood as it was manhandled back to the scene of violence it’d tried to escape.

 

Tossing it face-down onto the pavement, Ed planted one of his big red Doc Martens on each side of the prone spic.  He pulled the chain loose from his belt and doubled it over.  Holding both ends in his right hand, it was still almost eighteen inches long.  He raised his right arm and held it for a moment; for a split second, his thick bicep swelled, the ink on his arm moving perceptibly, then his arm swung downward in a powerful arc as he beat the Mexican with the chain.

 

Even with its mouth destroyed, the pain was too much.  The Latino hustler squealed like a pig in agony.

 

Haw!” Jack brayed, turning to his captive prey, the triumph and bloodlust glittering insanely in his cold blue eyes, “You watchin’, ya fuckin’ coon cunt?  Ya takin’ notes, huh?  Ya better be, boy, cause there’s gonna be a quiz afterwards!”

 

Behind him, the spic’s squealing was becoming hoarse and desperate as the meaty thump of the chain on flesh continued.  The hustler rolled onto its side in an attempt to evade the devastating blows, but that only exposed its ribs.  The next swing of Ed’s was rewarded with a loud snapping sound like the breaking of twigs; two of the beaner’s ribs had shattered, peppering its innards with shards of bone.

 

The sound was too much for Mike; his cock demanded its freedom.  He reached down and unzipped his fly, letting it spring out, jutting proudly, throbbing and dripping.

 

Byron, his white eyes wide with panic, made a sudden darting movement to his left and that was all it took to divert Jack’s attention.  His bat swung low and hard, like his dick, and smashed the nigger’s right kneecap.  The coon shrieked in pain and collapsed.

 

“Right on!” Mike yelled, hyped on aggression and adrenaline, and fist-bumped Jack.  The latter strode over to the writhing coon and squatted near its head.  “So c’mon, jungle bunny,” he jeered, “Let’s see ya fuckin’ hop!”

 

With that he jerked his prey up to its feet.  In a flash, Mike had appeared at the nig’s other side; without a word passing between them, the two Nazis began to drag the darky over to the spic.

 

Ed was still wailing away at the shuddering, crying Mexican, the thick links of his chain chewing through the cocksucker’s shirt and denim jeans—and then through its flesh.  By the time Jack and Mike got near, the spic’s back—it was still face-down—was damn near pulped.

 

“Hey, Ed, quit fuckin’ around and show this fuckin’ monkey what real white power looks like,” Jack demanded in a harsh voice.  Ed was only too happy to comply—so happy, he had to open his fly and extract his thick fireplug dick.  It had been getting too stiff to be comfortable inside his tight jeans.  Squatting down and placing one knee on the greaser’s back, he pulled its head up and looped the chain down underneath.  With it now circling the Mexican’s neck, Ed leaned back, jerking up on the chain while pressing down with his knee.

 

“Watch this shit, jigaboo,” Jack hissed, “An’ remember—compared to goddam coon animals, we fuckin’ like beaners.”

 

There was a loud crackling, crunching sound, like a fresh, green tree limb snapping, as Ed’s thick, inked biceps swelled and he popped the spic’s head off its spine, shattering the first two cervical vertebrae and ending the unfortunate immigrant’s life in a nightmarish burst of agony.

 

The corpse thrashed violently for a few seconds, its boots kicking and splashing in a puddle of greasy water.

 

“That’s how ya fuckin’ do it, brother!” Mike cheered.

 

Grinning with camaraderie, Ed sneered, “Yeah, that’s one fuckin’ wetback that ain’t gettin’ another chance to swim back over again.”

 

“All right, dude, that was fuckin’ righteous,” Jack said enthusiastically, then turned back to the monkey.  “That’s gonna seem like a kiss from yo’ thick-lipped mammy compared to what we’re gonna do to yer baboon ass.  You gettin’ the idea, or are ya too stupid, ya big dumb ape?”  He turned to the others, his erotically savage face breaking into a cruel grin.  “Whaddaya think, my brothers?  Big ol’ buck like this is prime field hand material, but they’re always dumb as fuck, too.  An’ this one’s a perverted-ass faggot, too.  Any ideas?”  The question was accompanied by a laugh of ice-cold contempt.

 

“String it up,” Ed said immediately.  Mike’s “Fuckin’ string it up,” was nearly simultaneous.

 

“Fuck yeah, string it up,” Jack repeated and let go of the coon.  Mike, sensing the movement, did the same, letting it fall to the pavement in a pile of well-built black flesh, wailing in pain and babbling in terror.  “Goddam,” Jack snarled, “Fuckin’ yard ape is so fuckin’ stupid, it can’t even speak English.  Hell, they could teach a gorilla sign language—this sack a’ shit prob’ly can’t do more’n grunt!”

 

Raising his green twenty-hole Doc Martens, Jack stomped the nigger twice, hard.  The second one got a nice sexy snap as he broke both the radius and ulna of the left arm.  When the coon screamed, its right arm extended and helpless on the cold concrete pavement, Jack calmly stepped over and carefully positioned his left bootheel on the unlucky faggot’s right hand.

 

“Man,” he said conversationally, “I can’t tell ya how much I fuckin’ hate niggers.”  Hocking up a thick wad of phlegm, he spat it in the cunt’s face, then, pressing all his weight onto his left leg, proceeded to grind the coon’s hand to hamburger.  The ongoing crunching sound of shattering metacarpals and phalanges was reminiscent of popping popcorn.

 

Ignoring the steady bleat of pain from the yard ape under his boot, Jack glanced at the others.  “Anyone see anything to string it up with?”

 

“Yeah, I did,” Mike replied.  There was a particularly sadistic gleam in his young dark eyes.  “There’s a construction site down this way–I saw a spool of wire I think might work.”

 

Jack had actually meant something along the lines of rope—but then it hit him, and he had to release his cock from the confines of his tight jeans, too.  The idea of stringing up the monkey on a wire noose was too fuckin’…powerful not to get him instantly hard.

 

“Get it,” he said, his huge manshaft jutting out hard and strong over his prone victim, “We’re gonna dangle us a coon on a wire.”  He bent down and tore the gold chain from around its neck.  The others said nothing; the loot was always shared equally among them all.

 

Mike and Ed headed back down the alley to the construction site.  In three minutes they were back, carrying a four-foot length of steel rebar with a spool of 10-gauge steel wire hanging on it.  Whatever was being built was large; the rebar was three inches in diameter with the flanges adding another inch.

 

“Ed, you still got that multi-tool?  Hand it here,” Jack said as they dropped their load.  The buff older Nazi dug into the pocket of his tight jeans and passed the tool over.  Immediately, Jack opened up the cutting edge and began slicing the nigger’s clothes off.  “Goddam coon came into this world a squealin’ naked ape, and it’s gonna go outta it the same fuckin’ way.”

 

The unlucky black faggot hadn’t been unconscious, but it was in such pain from its broken bones and mangled hand that it wasn’t capable of putting up any resistance.  Now that its clothes were being cut away, though, it found some inner strength—unfortunately for it.  It tried to struggle, to squirm away from impending death, and that was enough to trigger Jack.

 

He’d already managed to cut the saggy jeans and the baller jersey off the fucker, revealing a big, healthy buck with large firm muscles.  As it began to inch away, Jack lashed out with his steel-toed Doc Martens and caught the coon right in its mouth, dislocating its jaw.  As it rolled over and writhed in agony, Jack tossed the multi-tool back to Ed.

 

“Cut some wire,” he said as he planted on booted foot on the wailing nigger’s back, letting the hot drops of precum oozing from his dick splash on the sweaty chocolate flesh, “Two lengths.  One to tie its hands and one to lynch the fuckin’ spade.”

 

Ed snipped off a short length of wire and handed to Mike.  As the young Aryan wrapped the wire so tightly around the street ape’s wrists that it sank into the skin, Ed and Jack calculated how much they’d need.

 

“We can hang it there,” Ed said, pointing to the rusted structure of the fire escape on a derelict building nearby.  It was about eight feet off the ground.

 

“That’ll work,” Jack agreed.  “The jigaboo’s about, what, six feet?  Fuckin’ big-ass gorilla.  Yeah, that’ll be enough.  So about ten feet of wire, yeah?  Tie it off to that standpipe there?”

 

Ed cut a ten-foot length of wire as Jack strolled casually back to his trapped monkey meat.  Mike had finished and rolled the fucker over onto its back, where it lay quivering, its already thick lips swelling grotesquely and its white eyes so comically huge, Jack roared with laughter.

 

“See, back in the good old days before the white race lost its balls, you’d ‘a just been tied to a post an’ whipped like any other animal,” he jeered at the cowering nigger, “But nowadays we gotta find new ways to remind you worthless fucks of yer proper place—an’ we got a good one.  I hear you nigs like to dance, huh?  Fuck yeah, ya sweaty, stinkin’ ape, yer gonna dance for us, like a good little coon.  Yer gonna be dancin’ on fuckin’ air!”

 

Having swiftly looped one end of the wire back on itself and secured it by twisting it into an improvised slipknot, Ed tied the other end to the standpipe and tossed the noose over the iron fire escape bracket.  “Yo, it’s ready,” he called out, “Let’s jack this jungle bunny up.”

 

Jack and Mike each grabbed one of the nigger’s arms and dragged it over to the noose.  Forcing the terrified spade upright, they lowered the wire over its head and cinched it around the neck.  That was when Byron’s last rational thought fled and he lost control of his bladder, piss flowing from his thick nigger dick down his muscled legs and spattering on his K-Swiss hightops—the only clothing he had left.

 

“Aw, goddam!” Ed muttered in disgust.

 

“Y’can take the ape outta the jungle, but y’can’t take the jungle outta the ape,” Mike chuckled, but Jack was silent until he stepped up to the coon and looked it straight in the eyes.

 

“You can housetrain a dog.  I’ve even heard you can housetrain a fuckin’ pig.  But a worthless subhuman piece a’ animal shit like you can’t be taught not to piss all over itself.  You goddam fuckin’ monkeys—fuck all a’ y’all, ya hear me?  You all need to fuckin’ die, and startin’ with you is makin’ my dick stiff.”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Mike shouted behind him, high-fiving Ed.  Both grinning muscled skinheads were just as erect as Jack.  “Dude, get out yer phone,” Ed said, “We gotta record this for Hank and Frankie—they’re gonna be so fuckin’ pissed when they see what they missed.”

 

“I know yer too fuckin’ stupid to understand me, nigger, so I’ll make it easy for yer dumb monkey brain—I got a hard-on for wastin’ ya, and the more I see yer jigaboo suffer, the harder I get.  You understand that?  No?”  He hawked up a huge wad of phlegm and spat it into the black fag’s face.  “FUCK YOU!!!”

 

Turning back to his bros, he said “Ok, boys, time to make it understand.”

 

It was easy enough for Jack and Ed to hoist the kicking, struggling coon, using discarded cloths from the construction site to handle the wire.  They only needed to lift it a few inches off the ground, while Mike found a chunk of concrete of sufficient weight and placed on the wire, holding its new position.  All in all, it was a crude construction—but it worked.  The coon’s hightops kicked uselessly inches above the cold pavement.

 

Mike propped his phone up on a stack of crates off to one side, setting it to record video.  He quickly checked to ensure it had a good view of the scene, then went back to the party.

 

It had already started.  Jack had his baseball bat and Ed his chain.  As the nigger flailed in agony, the weight of its body making the wire noose sink in and break the skin, the Nazi thugs taunted it.

 

“Hey, ya fuckin’ street ape, ya wanna know what white power is?” Jack crowed, his deep voice vibrating with a sadistic mix of lust and hate.  He swung the bat hard, like the bases were loaded, and hit the coon’s firm six-pack abs hard enough to rupture the intestines.  “Ya feel that?  That’s fuckin’ white power, right there. Go’wan, Ed, show it again—you know how stupid these fucking spearchuckers are.”

 

Grinning wildly, his thick fireplug cock visibly throbbing, Ed stepped up and began lashing the jerking spook with his chain.  His first two strokes were measured and intense, tearing open the nigger’s back.  As its blood began to trickle down, flung off in spatters as the buff young buck choked and thrashed, Ed’s blows started to come faster and faster.

 

“What’s it fuckin’ feelin’, boys?”

 

“White power!”  Ed and Mike cried in unison as Ed continued to thrash the dangling monkey meat and Mike, grabbing hold of the section of rebar he’d used to carry the wire, swung it like Jack’s back, the thick metal bar striking sweaty glistening coon flesh with a meaty thump.  Jack damn sure wasn’t sitting this one out.  He stepped in swinging, and sudden the nigger became a meat piñata.

 

“Fuck yeah!” he shouted, his huge cock oozing precum as his racial hatred made his hormones seethe and boil, “Feel the fuckin’ power, jigaboo!”

 

“White power, bitch!” Mike snarled, spitting in the dying Sambo’s black, swollen lips as he beat the dying homo mercilessly.  He took pleasure aiming for the thrashing, helpless legs; every time he scored a hit direct enough to break a bone, precum flew from the Aryan’s engorged rod.

 

“Hold up a sec,” Ed said, suddenly, his bloodlust diminishing for a moment, to be replaced with increased sadism.  “We gotta do this right.  Remember, boys—it ain’t just a fuckin’ ape—it’s a faggot.  It ain’t even natural; it’s a goddam perverted nigger an’ I think it needs to be shown the error of its ways.”

 

Jack was quick to catch on.  “Uh-uh.  This bat is brand new an’ I’ve just baptized it in monkey blood.”

 

“Not your bat,” Ed said with an evil smirk, pointing, “That.”

 

They both looked at the rebar in Mike’s hands.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Jack said, laughing, “Ed, you da man!”

 

By this point Mike had caught on, too.  “That’s fuckin’ sick, dude,” he said, the broad smile on his face adding emphasis to the compliment.  “Here, you two pull the legs apart.”

 

Byron’s thrashing and flailing had slowed under the bone-breaking beating he’d endured and he’d been deprived of oxygen long enough for irreversible brain damage to occur.  There wasn’t enough left of the young homo buck to understand the words his killers were saying—but there was enough left to sense physical pain, and suffer.

 

And that suffering was swept off the scale as Mike shoved the rebar—with four-inch diameter flanges—up the coon’s ass.

 

It took some work; all three thugs had to coordinate—Mike pushing the rod up as Ed and Jack pulled the spade’s legs down.  The slightly rusted steel tore the nigger’s sphincter open, then slammed upward, shredding the colon as it traveled up into the ape’s guts.

 

Along the way, the jagged metal edge of a flange scraped over the coon’s prostate.  The sudden brutal stimulus tripped a trigger in its central nervous system and suddenly the dangling, convulsing sack of drooling monkey meat began to spew cum like a geyser.  The last act of the homo jigaboo’s life was to shoot its wad like a punk bitch when it was offed.

 

“Fuckin’ white power!” Jack yelled, his own hot load splashing over the corpse’s quivering legs as nigger spunk rained down.  “Aw, yeah!” Mike grunted, hosing the dead coon with his sperm, “White power!”

 

“Goddam!  Fuck!  FUCK!!!” Ed cried out as his short thick plug of a cock spat his searing manload all over the dead nigger cunt, “Feel my white power, ya fuckin’ nigga-ass bitch!”

 

For a moment, they all stood around gasping, catching their breath, regaining control.  Then each looked at the other, cheerful and grinning.  “Yeah, boys,” Jack beamed, “That’s how ya put a fuckin’ darky in its place.”

 

Mike darted off and shut off the camera on the phone; when he returned, he’d brought more discarded cloths so they could wipe the cum off themselves.  It didn’t bother them that they were covered in nigger cum any more than if they’d gotten its blood splashed on them; they’d known it was gonna spunk when it died—and they liked it.  It was confirmation of the kill when choking to death; the victim almost always blew a load as it died.

 

It made them feel more like proud white men when the lynched coon squirted cum all over them.

 

After wiping themselves down, the proceeded to rob their victim, digging through the pockets of the cast-aside jeans.  There was fifty dollars in the wallet, but nothing else besides.  They were smart enough to leave the Sambo’s phone where it was so it wouldn’t be tracked to them.

 

They were just about to leave when Ed, tossing the wallet aside, noticed a small card that had fallen out and fluttered to the ground.  He bent down and picked it up out of sheer idle curiosity, but when he read it, his eyes widened.

 

“Hey, guys, lookit this shit,” he said, with something approaching awe in his voice.

 

The printing on the card was in black, in a simple font; it said:

 

“Ebony Woods: The fly new club for hot black men and their male admirers.  Who’s yo daddy?  Find him here!”

 

There followed a phone number, web address and street address.  It was just outside of their turf.

 

Jack stared at the card silently for a while.  “Ok, we gotta take ‘em down.  All of ‘em.”

 

“Well duh,” Ed replied sarcastically, “But how?  There’s just three of us till Hank and Frankie get out.  Unless yer plannin’ on stormin’ the place with machine guns…”

 

“Fuck you,” Jack said evenly, hoisting his bat, still encrusted with baptismal blood, “Let’s get back.  We got some thinkin’ to do.”

 

The alleyway echoed with the fading tread of their heavy boots as they left, then settled back into a silence that the swaying, twitching nigger corpse, rebar still sticking out its ass, didn’t disturb.

Sludge by Petr-Johan

  • SLUDGE

I knelt down, dipped my hand in the usually crystal clear stream and…watched it disappear before it even got to my wrist. “Yep, certainly is. Sludge.”

Jack and I stood there looking stupid in chest high waders, carrying our fishing tackle, a cooler that floated and was attached to a strap holding up his wader, poles, bait buckets….everything for a first class day of fly fishing in gin clear, cold, fast rushing water. Not Sludge.

“That shit would rot anything, fuck knows what’s in it…you better find a wet wipe and clean your hand before that accidentally becomes the only trophy we fish out of the river” and tried to laugh but it didn’t work.

 

It was the ten day long, plus travel time, yearly, two guys fishing/fucking trip. As sacrosanct a date on the Calendar as the Fourth of July or Christmas and just as unmovable, this was the time, we’d been building to it, tying flies to take, trying out every bit of equipment we had, buying new, all the gadgets, tents, water purifiers……All the crap stowed in it, Jack’s new Pick Up looked more like it was off to save a trapped group of settlers crossing the mountains than it did two guys going fishing. But not this year. “Well, fuck.” We stared at each other the question, “What now?” loomed in the air but with no apparent answer so it stayed unasked.

“Maybe, if we wait a day or two….”

“Or until after winter and the snow melt cleans all this muck out. Or two seasons until the fish no longer know it’s a great place to die of suffocation in their own element or….”

You have heard about being up a creek?…With a partner?

 

I started to unhitch my waders which, when not surrounded by chilled water were hot, difficult to move in and, just now, pointless as a Halloween costume at an Easter Egg Roll. He joined me and shortly, looking just as stupid, we were standing there in our thermal underwear, heavy socks and the sneakers we wore inside the waders.

“Lets get drunk.”

And so we did.

So drunk we couldn’t even fuck each other which was the other main reason for the fishing trip; As any man knows-well, any man who fucks men-fucking in the great out of doors, filled with the scent of pines, fresh air and, eventually, sperm, is terrific. On more than one occasion to combine the two adventures, we’d fucked each other using a just caught fish. (The wiggle in your ass is unlike the gyrations of a cock plus there’s the chill factor.)

 

The next morning each of our hangovers was of such epic proportions that dunking our heads in the sludge didn’t seem an altogether bad idea, hell, there might have been something curative in it, who knew? Jack’s hands shook as he fired up the propane stove on which coffee could be made and, from past sins, we also each had a warm beer, drunk straight down, that helped. A little. But that still left us with most of eight days to kill; We’d never planned on anything except fishing, more fishing, cleaning the fish, cooking the fish, catching more; Then we’d fuck each other as preparation for a night of the sort of sex we’d found we enjoyed which was rough, fun, without rancor and ended happily with everyone getting what they wanted from the other. Following which we’d take a plunge in the cold water, run back to the over sized tent, dry down and snuggle into our two man sleeping bag. A good time was had by all. But, make no mistake, fishing was the nexus that held all the ancillary activities together and, looking at “our creek”, fishing for anything wasn’t an option. Although, from the day before, there had been some slight though perceptible changes; It now looked less a tormented black and brown but had what seemed to be bearing pustules of exploding gas that seemed to sigh as it oozed its way past our great campsite by the beautiful mountains with the bright sun shining down.

 

“You bring anything to read?”

“Sure, ‘Huckleberry Finn’..are you nuts? ‘Course not. You?”

“Uh, no, just asked.” I tied the stems of two dandelions and tried to remember how to make a kazoo from weeds.

Jack got up, headed for the tent to sleep off what was left of his hangover. “Wake me if the Pope drops by to bless the fishing fleet….” and disappeared.

 

Boredom, if you let it, can swamp you with the sort of ennui that prevents action of any sort, you know there’s nothing to do so you give in to doing nothing, save complain about the boredom and there’s the leitmotif for what might be days. I’m a restless soul who falls to stall walking in a slow elevator and the usual instigator of things to do borne from my fear of being bored. Not infrequently this has led to friends and family saying things such as, “For God’s sake Bill, we don’t want to play charades, go on a snipe hunt, look for four leaf clovers, play strip anything or go on a walking tour of our own city block. Shut up, sit down or go away and play with yourself.” They meant it kindly if not literally although having been encouraged to “play with myself”, I retreated to someplace private and did so; At least it killed time pleasantly and I wasn’t bored.

 

Knowing the keys were in the truck, I got in, turned it on, did a U turn then headed back down the road we’d used coming in; It was the same one we always used, to the same camp we always made. One of the ranchers was kind enough to lease about two hundred yards of stream to us, both sides, which gave us privacy and a good shot at what ever might swim by.

 

Nothing is more depressing to a fisherman than to be taken to a “secret place” that only your “good buddy’s friend knows about” to find everyone’s good buddy’s friend seems to know about it and, for some dumb reason, there are three hundred guys in a patch of water only somewhat larger than a suburban back yard each trying to “catch a fish”. Need I tell you what they usually caught, and painfully, was each other? I thought not. The rancher did us no favors in terms of price but he did guarantee exclusivity 365, 24/7, even posted it with our initials and some grim wording about what might happen to you if you were found on that piece of property but were not us. The sign was even illustrated with a picture, with remarkable detail, of a man hung from a line which also had fish on it. Also illustrated were the genitals of said person, marked for removal and…whatever happened next. If you didn’t get the idea from the words, the picture should have sealed your decision to turn back; Some things can be seen as ‘gags’, humor, the sort of sign one might by as an amusing gift for anglers; This was in no way one of those.

 

My thought was to drive up to the ranch house, say “Howdy” and pick the owner’s mind for suggestions. Or anyone who was there and had an idea. Somewhere in the back of my mind my too fertile imagination suddenly focused on a day or two horseback ride to…somewhere, maybe somewhere with fish and no sludge. Given the down pours that had caused the fouling of our creek, and all other running water for miles around, that didn’t seem likely but, ever the budding tour director, it was worth asking. ‘Sides, a few days camping, horses, maybe find a pond that didn’t look like Hershey’s syrup….worked for me. Jack…would probably just want to see if it was true about butt fucking a horse……

 

Poker Flatz was a retired radio cowboy who, when radio went away, so did he. The name, really Bud Venville, was forgotten but Poker Flatz stuck as a good, memorable handle. As opposed to many “cowboy” stars he came by his country roots honestly and, while he was yodeling for cash, he was buying property, someone slipped him the name “Haloid” now better known as Xerox. Must have been pushing 80, or more, but was still spry, interested and interesting so my visits to him were anticipated by both of us although Jack saw him as a doddering old fool who remembered the past constantly and didn’t know where they were biting, his only interest. He was only too happy to have me go off to visit while he unsnarled leader, made adjustments with a ball peen hammer to a spoon or retied a fly. In his mind, if you were going fishing, you went fishing or did things that related to fishing; end of story. Oh, and of course, fucking me and getting drunk were also a part of “fishing”, sometimes, when “they” weren’t biting, a big part.

 

Poker, happy as always to see me, invited me in, offered coffee, food, a comfortable chair-he liked to have someone to talk to and as listening audiences go, I was the deluxe model. He looked at me sternly, went to the fridge and got a beer which he opened and handed to me.

“Does it show that badly?”

“Nah, only us old sinners could spot it. Bet you didn’t even get fucked, didcha?”

I peeked out from behind the bottle, signaled that another one would be good, and nodded “no”.

 

“Sorry about the crick, son, I thought on callin’ you but thought, well, shee-it, theys a gonna come on and tellin’ em they ain’t nothing to catch, well, just didn’t seem right. Course, it didn’t seem right not tellin’ you either….You know, a damned if you do, damned if you don’t sitchiation….Hey, that’s some rig you drove up in, mind if I take a look….been thinkin’ about tradin’ in that rickety ol piece a shit I been drivin’ forever…..”

 

In other words, he’s looked forward to a visit and knew he could talk about cars to me as I knew absolutely nothing about them but found his way of describing them endearing which made what he had to say important to hear.

 

His was a classic 1946 Chevrolet six cylinder pickup that was in cherry condition. Collectors everywhere wanted it, Jay Leno had come all the way just to look at it with an eye to purchase. No sale. Poker’s ranch hands had to laugh; He went to bed early and didn’t know or care who Leno was just said he thought he needed a chop job on his nose and chin. Nice guy, wondered why he came all this way?

 

What Leno thought isn’t known. What was known was that the truck would be sold only after he was dead and maybe not then cuz he’d said, a few times, he was, “thinkin’ on bein’ buried in it”. Some might have laughed at that idea but I did not; For all his breezy sometimes foolish seeming ways, he was a country gentleman who did keep his word, was a good guy and did more than most to “hep the other feller out”; Just now I was the other ‘feller’ and I needed ‘hep’.

 

Perhaps this is a good moment to put in a word for older men and what they supposedly can’t do, fucking being one of them. Poker was nicely equipped and, best of all, I have never known a man who could get it that hard and keep in that way for as long as he could. Not only was he a world class fucker but he never shut up while he took you, just changed the dialogue from whatever was being discussed to his own version of ‘talkin’ dirty to ya”. And it was. Somewhere in him must have been a latent sadistic streak for once he had you down, and I gave in with no fight, his cock turned from a prime piece of man meat to a well honed stiletto with which he fully intended to carve up ‘yer innards an’ have ‘em fer my breakfast”. If you survived, you could have ‘a mess’ of yours, too. Laying under Poker, if that’s how he chose to take you, you forgot this was an old man but rather that you’d wandered into the field where the bull was kept and were now paying the price for not running faster; He was that good and that hung.

 

As most people in the country are he was something of a snoop, a fact we’d found out one visit when, on arrival, ten feet out from the bank, there was a large, red hollow bobber apparently attached to the bed of the stream; In it were condoms, lube and a hand written note saying he wished he was a bit younger….there were some parts of show business he did miss. Made it easier for us. If we wanted to lay around naked, screw outside naked, toast our nuts in the campfire naked, we didn’t feel we were bothering anyone and, based on a rather professional looking telescope I’d seen on his terrace, might just be providing some voyeuristic entertainment-was there a video camera-with a telephoto lens attached? My having not seen it did not mean it didn’t exist.

\

Jack never knew it but…a couple of times I’d slipped just enough away to not be heard and called Poker on my cell phone. Nothing important, just a suggestion, if he happened to be outside, he might like to check and make sure the lenses were clean….

 

Poker was fascinated by the ever increasing gadgets that were applied to cars and trucks, he lingered curiously over things he considered to be pointless laughed at the electronic “gimcrackery” and, when we got to the bed, almost bent double at the custom made, drop in metal and paint protector. “Sheeeit. Beds is made to get roughed up, fucked in, hop up, I’ll show ya, thas why they’re there. Look at my ol heap, those boards in the back been changed I don’t know how many times….thing still runs don’t it?” He leaned over the top of the bed, arms folded on the edge and looked straight at me;

“Time to change a lot a things ain’t it? He don’t love you, least ways that’s how it looks when he comes up here with some dude in a convertible and that dude ain’t you.”

 

“No. No, I guess it isn’t..” stumbled into trying to laugh, didn’t work,… “…nice to know Andy puts the top down, never thought he did….Ginger haired? Almost flaming red?”

Poker just nodded his head. “Yeah, well, that’s who it would be.” I turned my back and leaned against the quarter panel.

“You hear me son? It’s time to get rid a him before he plum kills you with heart ache. I got someone fer ye but ya gotta get rid a that cheatin’ sonofabitch. Hear Me?” I nodded, too dumb struck to say anything do, maybe tears were coming. Poker rounded the truck and stood in front of me. “I need to talk to ya but git that ass up on that fancy shit lining bed and see if’n it resists fuckin’”.

I did as asked and wondered if the bed liner was stronger than Poker’s semen?

 

Of course, taking me was just a time out, he had something on his mind and I was going to hear it.

 

“No, son, you didn’t hear me, I said, get rid of him, not let him turn you in on a newer model, you’re too fine a stallion for that.” I looked at him and tried to catch what he was throwing…but…it wasn’t quite there. I had all the words but the meaning….”You got to dispose of him, kill him, thas what I mean when I say git rid a him. Permanent, so’s you won’t run into him every damn time you turn a corner. Come on back in the house, Ol Poker has a story to tell you…bout a time years ago when we wasn’t just broke, we was poorly broke. Stumps had more’n we did and my brother and I used to play like we’s a sittin’ down to a big meal, all the good things, like double Christmas but weren’t nothin but the wind, the dust and one almost dried up farm pond that was only good if you was fishin fer mud.” We went in the house, he pushed me down and told me a story.

 

Four hours later driving back to our camp I HAD learned a lot, had a lot to think about and not too much time to get done what Poker told me to do. At one point during the story he was telling me he’d noticed that I’d drifted away and, to prove I wasn’t listening or paying attention, got up slapped me, hard, open hand, across my face. “Thas what I’m a tellin you, fergit him, now….” Stung but realizing he was telling me the truth I concentrated and, before long, was cheered up quite a bit. Poker did have a story and it was one with contemporary application.

 

Jack was sitting on a cooler in his boxers drinking a beer and, based on the empties, it wasn’t is second or, for that, his sixth. (We brought it by the case and, with the water to chill it, always had a cold one available. The code for wanting a fresh one was to holler out, “Hey, fucker, go an catch me one of those brown eyed label holders.” This time putting the bottles in the water wasn’t a good idea so, for several hours, Jack had been making do with what was still cold and in the cooler. Knowing that I’d got some ice from Poker, the sight of which cheered him. A little. The up side was that Jack wasn’t in what I might call a resistant mood to my suggestions. Without his realizing it, although he was the structured one, I more than contributed by thinking of things to do when we weren’t fishing, fucking or sleeping. As much as we enjoyed it, standing in the cold water all day, getting a good sun burn could become, for that day, more than you wanted to do. He even seemed glad to have me back and had assumed where I’d gone.

 

“Well, how is the old fart? Dead yet? You get the story of his life from ages three and a half to four and three quarters, Jesus, he’s so full of shit, I don’t know how you can stand him….”

“Ah, he’s a nice old guy, and he had an idea I think we can use. Seems he and some of the other ranchers own a lake about twenty miles from here that’s sheltered from any crap in it ’cause it’s fed by a spring and, this is what I think is neat, there’s a kinda notch where there’s a hot spring, can’t get too close but you can slide in and relax plus they stock the lake. Like Poker, most of ’em are old guys so they don’t go up much…he reckons there must be some in there, ten, twelve pounds…”

“Of what?…”

“Fish.”

“What kind of fish? I doubt if we’re going to waste our time going up to this place looking for Flipper or the Loch Ness Monster. Shit head, what sort of fish do they stock it with?”

“Trout”, I blurted out…

“Okay, that’s a start, what kind of trout? Cut throat? Rainbow? Brown…..?”

“How the hell would I know, Poker said Trout and I didn’t ask him for the menu. Jeez…Anyway, he’s sending up one of his hands to make sure it’s clear, no one using it and he said tomorrow, unless we heard otherwise, just go on up. He’s gonna have a stake with a flag driven in the road so we’ll know where to turn off the road to find the hot spring…”

“Off the road? The truck isn’t even paid for and you want me to rip it up so you can go dip your nuts in a hot tub? You can do that at home.”

“He also let me borrow wet suits so we can swim out in the lake and do some skin diving with spear guns…”

He looked at me as if I’d lost it.

“Wet suits? In a lake to go snorkeling? What’s really in that pond, Jaws?”

I was already mad but this torqued me. “Look, we can’t fish here, we can go there and try it. So have some more beer, shut up about it and try and enjoy what was meant to please by an old man doing a favor, Okay?’ And slammed into the tent, regretting there was no door for impact, with every intention of taking a nap.

From the outside. “Okay…but if this doesn’t pan out….”

“Go fuck yourself”.

 

It was not a happy evening. Since we’d planned on a primarily fish diet, the other edibles we’d brought were side dishes or vegetables. Dinner was baked potatoes, corn, some sort of ready to cook corn bread plus plastic wrapped snacks for desert that looked almost less appetizing than the stream.

 

We slept back to back.

 

The stream almost made moving mandatory; Around four we both woke up on the verge of retching from the stench. A quick look with the flash lights revealed a dead skunk, the loser in a battle with some larger animal, on the other side but in it’s death throes had shot every bit of defensive spray it had which was now lingering over our campsite. Without even discussing it and by common consent we pulled on some clothes and started packing up. Given Jacks love of “stuff” this took some little while so that by the time we could seal ourselves in the truck and allow twenty first century air conditioning filtering to salve our lungs, the sun was well up.

 

As Poker had said, it was about a twenty mile drive, entirely scenic but, for once, I abandoned my jolly tour guide mode and kept my thoughts to myself. Jack was hungover-again-or, maybe, still so I drove. Normally he liked to be the Captain of his own ship but in his precarious condition he yielded the helm to his second in command, indulged Commander’s privilege by undoing his pants, took his dick in hand and indulged in another of his favorite off road activities, the long, slow, jack off. I’d known him to go to sleep mid stroke which was what happened this morning. Helpful as a Christmas Elf, I’d made masks for us but pointed out he could drink beer through the fabric which would cut the smell of the skunk which he’d done.

 

The road was decent enough better than one might expect but to spare Jack’s sacred truck, I turned on the cruise control to as low as it would go allowing me time to think and steer without much effort. My visit with Poker had been an eye opening experience on many levels. Beyond just finding I was now the former boyfriend, his insistence that the insult required no less than the death penalty seemed a bit too much until I thought it over. Why not shoot the sonofabitch? In fifteen years he’d not been much to me and, increasingly, apart from some sport fucking, not even part of my life. I saw him infrequnetly, we had our big deal fishing trip, we fucked even less and beyond that….nothing. The word “love” had never crept in and, now, wasn’t likely to. I said I supposed I wasn’t bright enough to guess there was another man but Poker had another view on that.

 

“Yer too good a man, you’d a know’d . Fuck, even after he’d dumped you he’d probably still call to ask you to do errands for him, he’s a user and it’s time he got used.” There was a pause while he diddled something into his cell phone. “Hey, Pepper? We got any of that sausage left? Whomp up a mess a sausage gravy and biscuits for our young friend here.” He turned back to me. “Can’t have puny looking murderers can we, cause that’s what you’re going to do; Murder him.”

 

Oddly this was arousing and I was a bit embarrassed to let Poker see how turned on by the idea I was. He liked that I was getting off on it. “Take it out, shuck it down, hell, let ol Poker suck it off, an after I git done, Pepper’ll be next, taught that boy about suckin’ myself. I knew you had it in ya to do this. And when you get ‘er done, you’ll be a new man, I promise.” With that, he took out his dentures and gave me an A number one suck job. A man with no teeth but soft gums and an artful tongue should be a national treasure. When he finished I was so completely relaxed, I just crumpled against the pillows on the couch. With a smile that couldn’t come off. Poker just gave me a shit eating grin and said, “Good thing we’re on the same side, that’s a high powered flavor you shot, makes me a wonder what the rest of you might be like….” I wondered if he’d run quality control and make Pepper give him a taste of what, if anything, he could pull from me. Oh, yeah, Pepper….followed orders perfectly; It was like being edged but by two people. Even after the last shot, I lay there wondering if I could drive back to our camp? Getting that quality of blow jobs took it out of a man. Two different ways.

 

I guess the guy who showed up was again, Pepper as he had a steaming plate covered with biscuits and sausage gravy. It was the sort of smell that had so much power it reached up to you, insinuated itself into your nose, you knew it would be the best you ever had. And it was. The food was such that I wondered if Pepper was up for round three? Dump some gravy on my cock and eat that.

 

With gravy dripping down my chin I finally could stop long enough to ask where he’d got the sausage and was told it was made right here on the ranch. There was a pause while a strange smile came across his face. “You really like it, huh?” I nodded as much as I could without having gravy drip from my mouth to the floor. “Well that’s good ’cause in a day or maybe two, that’s what yer buddy is going to be, sausage.”

I didn’t even put down my spoon-using a fork would have allowed gravy to drip through the tines. “No shit? Wow, best he will have ever tasted. I wasn’t quite putting two and two together. Where’d you get the meat?”
He paused, thoughtful, “Hey, Pepper, where’d that batch a sausage come from? I fergit.”

Pepper, an affable young man with a good rangy cowboy build, happy blue eyes and an attractive selection of deep dimples, thought a bit himself. “Seems like that was the poacher we caught about a week ago? That sound about right? Yeah, cuz, that jerk that came to see about clear cutting a swathe was before him-member? We did him in a pine bough smoker?”

I looked up. “This sausage is made from a man? I’m eating a man?” With three quarters of the plate empty, I hadn’t thrown up and…it tasted great.

“Right. So you like man meat? Enough to harvest your own?”

“You mean if it’s Jack?”

“Yeah, him first and then ole Poker will teach you how to fend for yourself, should always have a man around that needs cooking and, as you look around, yer gonna find theys a lot of them. All the boys up here with me, well, we wouldn’t touch a beef steak anymore, man meat or nothing. Right Pepper?” Pepper had a beatific smile that agreed with more than words.

 

We then, the three of us had a conversation that was generally about catching and cooking men and specifically about cooking Jack; Poker and Pepper considered him pretty much caught. From there it was details, working out a schedule, picking up the equipment and some other arrangements. I would have stayed longer but I knew eventually Jack would want his truck back-I was just an accessory-so we finished up knowing who would be where and when.

 

On my way out the door I promised to have my teeth pulled and come back to show my appreciation. For everything. Poker almost bent double laughing.

 

Driving back, apart from some flavorful burbs, I laughed all the way. Apart from what Poker lined out, visions of Jack being strung up, on the rack, burned at the stake, meeting the guillotine….But mainly, even though I had been a chump, emancipation was at hand and I was about to gain a new title, “Premeditated Murderer”. Laughed so hard I almost took Jack’s truck….well the truck that belonged to the soon to be late Jack into a ditch.

 

 

Jack actually liked the look of the lake, the little cove with the tongue of the lake that came in and was steaming in one spot. After the sludge of the past few days, this was more inviting than something in a travel agency pamphlet, so much so that I stripped off my clothes and ran in…right up to my nuts.

 

Ever notice that the water doesn’t really get cold until it hits your balls? Well, at first contact I reversed course and headed for the hot spring being careful to stay away from the steaming, hissing part. Jesus did it feel good. The water in it actually felt soft, as if you were wrapped in swaddling clothes, I yelled for Jack to come on and give it a try. Which he didn’t. He had his laugh watching me zoom out of the lake and now was on to the serious business of checking to make sure his truck hadn’t been damaged while I was driving it. Also, he felt only he could properly set up camp so I let him. Comfortable, warm, full of ideas, I lay there with just my head out of the water and, taking a suggestion from Poker, wore my sun glasses so I could watch what Jack was doing and where he put things. The only glitch in the plan was a large bag of diving stuff I’d collected and which was to stay under my control. That had been explained to Jack and since it was of no interest to him, he didn’t even look in it.

 

You can get too warm so I hauled myself out, had another quick dip in the deep freeze, dried off and got into my thermal underwear, my waders, picked up a pole, a hat with tied flies on it and waded in to about my waist. No doubt about it, this was fresh, cold water. I could feel my nuts pull up in my body along with my dick but at last I was fishing. First cast out, a good long one, must have gone thirty yards, I saw something flash out of the water and just missed the fly. Jack, standing on the bank, saw it too and ran to suit up; Now we were really fishing. However before he could get too involved in that, I got back out and suggested he try the wet suit over his thermals. According to Poker the really big ones were almost impossible to catch by line and bait, you needed to be in the water with them, your spear gun and some of them could and would fight. That was right up his alley. We got him in, thermals and all, booties, fins, and a spear gun and he shoved off from the bank. Not five minutes later I heard him calling, “Holy shit, I just saw a walleye the size of a sixty pound cat, this is going to be great.” I found I could but agree.

 

Back at the campsite I looked around the trees where I’d been told to go and found a grill on legs about a foot tall. It came in sections to accommodate the length of the thing to be grilled. Pepper and his partner Rusty had made a camp a several hundred yards from ours near the helicopter and the parking area-neither of which I’d mentioned, to my fishing buddy. They had other supplies for me and, to avoid being seen-although by now Jack was deeply engrossed in Water World and wouldn’t have noticed if I’d put up a Ferris Wheel-we were a bit cautious; Jack had a suspicious streak along with his other lacks of character. Just to be on the safe side, Rusty gave me his gun and said if anything went wrong and they couldn’t get there quick enough, shoot to kill. I was pretty much set up now all that I had to do was start the game so that I could also finish it-I hoped I could be as good a winner as Jack was going to be a good loser.

 

Jack came in a time or two to show me what he’d caught and I suggested that, as it was getting late, he pick one to cook and throw the others back, they’d be there tomorrow.

 

Worked for him and off he went to get…whatever. I started the fire under the grill, got a pot of coffee going, started baking potatoes in the embers, had some succotash Pepper brought, garlic toast, all that lacked was the main event which arrived on schedule. Great seven pound brown trout. I congratulated my fisher friend, suggested he get out of his wet suit and thermals, take a plunge in the hot spring and I’d get dinner ready.

 

I’m a whizz at scaling, gutting and deboning fish so within twenty minutes I had it on the grill over a slow fire ready to be pushed toward the hotter spots when Jack was ready to eat. He, too, found the hot spot to be a great place and, when he got out to come and eat, suggested we go back there after dinner just to relax…..

 

It was actually a good dinner. Food was all fresh, plenty of it, the light from the embers merged with the late dusk, the moon came up and was reflected in the almost still surface of the lake. Every so often a fish would jump and Jack would almost jump with it. “Jesus, did you see that? Must have been a twenty pounder…”He was finally happy, in his element, seduced by what he wanted to do, unwary, willing to do what came along. We finally turned in and, as he mounted me-he was really hard- he even thanked me for finding this place. I dozed off before he even came.

After his workout in the lake plus the energy he expended screwing me, he was almost immediately asleep when I slid out of the tent and met Pepper and Rusty for a few more “touches” and refining what we were going to do. There was only one thing that was slightly left to chance but, knowing Jack and his aggressive competitiveness, I didn’t think we had much to worry about. Apparently I was part of their group now as it was made clear that I’d move up to the bunk house with the other hands after we got the business here taken care of-After all, however much a good idea this seemed, I still ended up a murderer and murderers, too, need a place to lay their head. And get laid. (Poker was of the Code-of-the-West theory that bumping off Jack wasn’t murder, just a chore that needed doing. He did, however, feel that after the deed was done, my presence in polite society was better if it didn’t exist.)

 

Remembering an event of a day or so past, I suggested to Rusty that Pepper and I recreate a scene from our recent past, fuck me, while Rusty did an old fashioned edging. I almost suggested that, as asleep as he was, we all slip in and fuck my soon to be cooked partner….well, it seemed a good idea and, besides, this might be his last outing. Whether he knew it or not. ar

Pepper even said that I looked like I might taste real good….I took it as a compliment. Started to think of myself, as did the other guys around Poker, as fresh meat to be used if ever needed; Part of the deal of living there was that in a pinch you were the pot roast…. It was implicit that in the eventuality that there was no meat in the cupboard, we’d all draw straws and short straw got to be ‘it’.

 

Back in the tent I finally dropped off and got a excellent night’s sleep during which I could see Jack, all in one piece, in a butcher’s display case, offered up as so fresh it still had the ‘oink’. Can you laugh in your sleep? Apparently I did as Pepper mentioned he thought he heard me during the night…..

 

It was all I could do to keep Jack out of the lake before the sun rose. He didn’t even want a beer, just, as quick as I could get it done, some coffee, oatmeal, whatever, he just wanted protein in him when he swam out to take on in him whatever he was going to take on in the lake. I managed to slow his departure by series of annoying events that only depth charged his early morning plans. Such as I boiled the coffee pot and then found I’d failed to add the coffee. Start over. He had several sets of thermals-we’d learned from hard experience that they didn’t dry overnight and really needed sun to get the job done.

 

Off he went, leaving me to clean up, start the grill- and to meet Pepper and Rusty to help them set up the cameras. Poker always had some sort of something to photograph his prizes and now I’d have mine. In color and live action, my first kill; It was like memorializing your first fuck, something you’ll always remember.

 

I let him fool around in the lake for an hour until he came toward me and I threw an apple at him, calling for him to bob for it! He did, enjoyed the game, threw it back to me and I tossed it out again. After the next round he pretended to be a seal catching a fish and put it in his mouth, brought it to the shore and dropped it at my feet, pretending to slap his flippers and go “Arf”. This time I patted his head said “Good Boy, Go Fetch! And gave it a real heave. Just like a water Spaniel he reeled about and headed for it.

 

One more time and I had a suggestion….how about if I were the fisherman and he were the fish. I’d cast out with a piece of wood, something that would sink and he’d go after it. It was an instant hit. For the next two hours using ever larger things and heavier line I cast out and he’d dive down, grab it and, eventually, began to act more the fish and fight with me as I tried to reel him in. Loved it, he said, great sport. But….he wanted to make it more real. I hadn’t planned on that but it was great from my standpoint so I looked the suit over and said…what if we taped your biceps to your sides? He’d have those gigantic swim fins, was a strong swimmer himself….I could see him think it over. As he pointed out, fish had pectoral fins and if his arms were marginally tied down….easy. We’d just tape them down at the elbow and.. how would he feel about having his legs taped at his knees? That seemed okay and the last swim of the day had him newly restrained, figuring out how to make it work.

 

After all his exertion I gave him a beer, told him to go sit in the thermal pool and, lacking a fish, I’d come up with something for dinner. An hour later I proudly served him sausage gravy and biscuits, telling him Poker had given me that gravy and I’d forgot I’d put it in the lake to chill and keep the meat fresh. He slurped down two big platefuls and I could see was contemplating a third but held off saying he hoped there was enough for breakfast….Another beer, we spent an hour in the warm water, I jacked him off and he kissed my forehead in thanks. Pleading exhaustion, he left me behind and entered the tent. Within moments he was snoring which was the cue for Pepper and Rusty to join me. Quietly laughing, they said they couldn’t wait for me to see the tape of him leaping like a seal in the water catching things and bringing them to me. Rusty said it would only get funnier tomorrow; I thought I agreed with them.

 

Jack slept in. During the night he’d barely moved, I don’t think he realized what a strenuous workout I’d put him through and particularly at the end where he’d had to use more muscle to produce less effect. Just for the hell of it, I fucked him, he never noticed.

 

Morning and, again, he begged to be almost restrained; He was into this game and, I realized, he was beginning to see this as real contest between me, the fisherman, and him, as the fish; Suddenly it was serious for him, typical, Jack could never just play, it always turned to competition. On about his second trip in he suggested I tie something to a line with a sinker and then cast it out. Fine, just what I had in mind. We tried several things none of which gave his teeth the purchase to fight with me when “hooked”. We tried an apple but he ate half of it. Chain, I told him, could damage his teeth but…what if the chain was attached to a rubber ball? It would sink, pulled down by the chain, he could get his mouth around it and the fight would be on. Worked just like a charm with him never wondering where I got a rubber ball. All morning I cast further and further out and he, gaining ability with his restrictions, got more ambitious at how deep he’d dive and how far out he’d swim.

 

Short lunch, long nap. I insisted he strip, get in the hot pool, then rest if not nap. Of course he was asleep immediately and stayed that way for two hours. His only comment when he finally made an appearance was to ask why the grill was so long to which I pointed out that, fun as the game was, if he didn’t catch something dinner was going to be noticeably bland. Also, I wanted to smoke some of the catch. He walked on. To get him rigged up took a good thirty minutes and he laughingly said that sausage must be putting the pounds on him as the suit felt tight. Then down to the edge, the fisherman and his catch to be. The red ball with the weight dangling and he was after it. I had on my waders and, what he didn’t see, was that Pepper hot footed it out from the tree line, attached a solid rope to me so that I couldn’t be pulled in. Or, if things went wrong, Rusty was in a tree with a high powered rifle and a scope; He’d float until we could get to him and haul him to shore, one of the advantages of the wet suit was it had some buoyancy, even if Rusty didn’t get a kill shot, he’d float and we could haul him in. In some ways, that wasn’t what I wanted, what we planned….was far more interesting and far more instructive to my soon to be grilled former boy friend.

 

The third cast was made with a new pole, heavy line and a new red ball with the chain weights. For maximum distance in casting I swung from the side and back handed; The line must have gone, following the weight, almost two hundred feet and sank fast. He was after it. He dove for it and I felt in the line he had it in his mouth. All it took was one good, strong tug and the triple bladed Marlin hook that I’d sank in the new rubber ball stuck in his jaw. This time there was a fight and it was for the life of the fish. With every pull back I set the hook deeper forcing him up to breath before trying to hide under the water. Why? Why does any fish try to run after being hooked?

 

He knew not to get too near me and yet…he still thought this might be a game, maybe some sort of accident. The hook must have hurt like thunder and wouldn’t allow him to close his mouth. On the bank every time I gave it another strong yank, it tore into his gums then impaled itself in his jaw bone more sharply. Rattled by pain and confusion he tried to reach the offending implement with his hands but in this suit-we’d switched while he was sleeping-the arms were sewn down and then to conceal that, covered with the tape we’d previously used. Just as in a real contest with a real fish, he fought, but was coming closer; for every three feet he ran away, I pulled him in four and finally he was ten feet out, the fight gone all that was left to do was wade out, gaff him in his suit, pull him to shore and begin his conversion from man to man meat.

 

He tried to struggle, the blood from his mouth was oozing and, because of the spikes he couldn’t speak, just stare at me. Wondering. Pepper and Rusty came out of the bushes and helped me cut away the suit, strip him, get him cuffed and then, just for the look of it, we slung him from a pole and marched him to the grill where he was temporarily hung between two stakes. He continued to stare at me, wanting to know, wondering if this was still a game. When I took pliers and further pulled the Marlin hook into his jaw and mouth he figured it out. As with any good fish, preparation means scaling which is what I did next which also removed all of the hair from his body-the stink of burning hair adds nothing to any occasion, even a murder. He could see the smoke and the white hot embers waiting under the long grill. I hadn’t lied to him, I was going to smoke and grill my catch of the day, him.

 

Without going all the way in, I started an incision from his sternum to the top of his pubic bone but only going less than a half inch in. In a fish, I would have flipped him on his side, made a deep cut along the bottom, pulled out the guts, opened to filet it, pull the bones and either put it in a press for smoking or prepared to pan fry it. But Jack presented some larger problems. Committed as I was to killing him, butchering him and enjoying him, I wanted just a bit more from him, more pain, more realization from him of what was happening. I’d decided on an initial smoking and to better infuse the flesh, I took a flensing knife and made a series of close cuts the length of the body to allow the smoke and its flavor to get in. Wasn’t necessary to put him in a wire press as he could be turned and secured onto a grill set well above a smokey fire and, to help that, we were going to tent the area. Rusty had constructed an Indian smoking frame with adjustments for a man. It was a stick figure with the arms and legs wide out so that all portions of him were accessible to the heat and the smoke. As they bound him to that, I kept dragging my knife up and down his body, over his face, his lips, his feet, hands, all of him. Blood seeped but when that hit the low fire the iron in it would produce a form of nitrous oxide gas that would further eat into his tissues while making him happy. The guys had brought up a tent they used for smoking fish which was put over Jack, the glowing embers, the smoke….

 

One last thing, I stood by his head and casually said that I’d called Andy, cell phones distort voices so he believed I was Jack, and he was coming up day after tomorrow and I’d penciled him in to be roasted and served Saturday night. Then I stepped away, dropped the edge of the tent, grabbed a beer and thanked the guys for their help. Four hours later we opened it up to find there was some slight pulse but he was unconscious. The guys flipped him on his side, I stuck in my knife and pulled it the length of his torso letting the guts fall out. Just to make sure, I reached in and pulled out his heart. Then we lowered the grill to the frame, resumed the smoking and, some hours later took our smoked meat up to Poker and the rest of the gang.

 

His butcher did the honors, cutting of the head, the feet, hands…his cock and balls, offered to me-I declined them saying I’d already had them too many times already. Thirty minutes later he was on the center of the table surrounded by condiments his skin so crisp you could just pull it off to get to the flesh. Bottles of rough red Italian wine were on the table as well as bowls of Cole slaw, corn on the cob and a humongous chocolate cake for desert. Wasn’t enough left of Jack to bother to save so his bones and bits and pieces of meat were taken a few miles away and put where a pack of wolves could enjoy the remnants of him; They were particularly fond of breaking the bones to get the marrow.

 

“Well, son, when you fixin’ to get yer teeth yanked? I believe you made me a promise. And remember I got something for you sort of a surprise.”

I called Pepper over and whispered something in his ear. He gave me that, “Jesus…” He stared at me. “Are you fucking serious?” look to which I said, “… as a heart attack”

A few minutes later he was back with a set of pliers and two guys to hold me down. Just before they started yanking I looked Poker and said, “Man eaters need sharper teeth.” They started to pull.

 

 

After my gums finally became just lines of soft tissue, I found a dentist two hundred miles away who made several pair of dentures for me. As I’d said to Poker, man eaters do need sharper teeth so one of the pairs could rip through flesh, living or dead. Also, on the last trip when my various sets were put in and adjusted, I’d had Pepper follow me; The idea being I’d leave Jack’s truck in the long term lot at the airport. I hadn’t seen one, but knew there had been posters asking for information about both of us, finding the truck wouldn’t help, particularly when they found a semen sample-atypical of a crime scene-along with blood spatter, in the cab. Clearly we’d been in it, something had happened there but now….? Every thing was dried, months since either of the supposed victims had been in it and…Jesus, I wanted to see the deputy who figured out what the semen was, wonder what the fuck….?

 

As to his boyfriend, too dumb not to come when called, I had a special fate for him. Almost too easy to catch, I’d personally escorted him to the place where we tossed leftover meat and bones for our pack of friendly Wolves that lived in the area. Didn’t even bother to slice him, just made sure he was cuffed then one leg staked to a steel spike we kept for just such purposes; One last touch, I made some slashes that weren’t deep, wouldn’t kill a man but would bleed and attract carnivores…Never saw it but heard tell that sometimes the vultures got into with the wolves as to which group got what first….Poker was determined to get a film of that some way.

 

That night, as I blew Poker with my soft gums, the howling was particularly loud; We guessed they didn’t get live game very often. Only sorry we couldn’t hear the screams….before they got his throat.

 

I settled into the routine of Poker’s place. He had things he liked his men to be, sorta hairy for one and tan for another, said it made us look more like animals. When the sun was out, part of each day was spent on the look-out porch, naked, working out, deciding on when we needed to go to the ‘market’ again. It was into Fall and Poker wanted a full freezer; The weather could and did seal us in with snow for several weeks occasionally so beyond non perishables, kerosene, lots of chopped wood there was the larger issue of meat. (We had an old fashioned root cellar in which we kept things like potatoes, corn, parsnips, the vegetables we grew that, once picked, kept a long time in a place with a lowered temperature.) We weren’t lazy, now and again two or three would go off and pick off something that would last a few days-one time we had a stroke of luck, six hippies came round, real polite, asked if they could camp down the way a bit for one of their rituals, the one where, in their bizarre culture, the men were wholly circumcised then staked out so ‘Father Sun’ could welcome their man head into….whatever.

 

Poker, feigning interest in a culture that wasn’t his, asked if a couple of his men might attend, not as participants but as respectful observers, even agreed to be sort of helpers, stripped, body painted….As it worked out, they waited until the three who were to be staked out were down then cut the throats of the three ‘Celebrants’. Guess the guys on the ground thought this was some part of the ceremony they didn’t know about. Just to play it one step further, our guys already stripped and covered in completely made up symbols, slathered ashes on their bodies then, still with the ceremony, crawled to each of those staked out, cut off their nuts, a treat for Poker….about then they figured it out. With six men in the freezer, we could lean back for a while, get ready for hard winter, fuck each other more….in fact, sex became our main activity every day. Making a snow angel and getting plowed at the same time….may be the only angel mark with a cock and balls.

 

I had became Poker’s favorite, seemed to like his old man hard cock and was ready for it whenever. Right here, whatever you think of old men and sex, you could be wrong. You could have used his meat as an anvil, it was that hard plus tipped so when it went in you, you were effectively staked out until he decided to let you up. Almost like a dog, he could knot his pecker inside you which locked him in-that was the moment he liked me to carefully turn 180 and let him almost eat my cock. He said, and I believed him, that only his affection for me and his other men kept him from eating their cocks and balls…seems somewhere he’d developed a taste for them. Occasionally some of the guys found some temporary work on a ranch doing the branding and gelding, part of round up . Got a bucket full of calf nuts after a steering session on a local ranch and while we gobbled them up, he said they had to come from a man or he wasn’t interested.

 

 

Being Poker’s favorite seemed to cause no problems with the other guys. His constant mantra to me was that….someday he had a surprise for me, something I would like. Okay, but I was happy with or without whatever he had in mind. One thing. I felt now that we were at the first edge of Winter, I wanted to organize my own shopping trip, bring in a good haul that would supplement what we had….would prove my appropriateness to stay there, to seem to become….something I didn’t fully understand but knew it existed.

 

Months had passed. My lover of fifteen years was now part of me; I’d eaten him. I’d become part of a group of men who relished the taste of male flesh and had banded together to guarantee their continuing supply of slaughter house quality men. Back then, seems so long ago, I was a guy with a so/so job, a less than satisfactory boyfriend and a certain sense of aimlessness that wasn’t bad but was the proverbial treadmill. And then we went fishing.

 

I don’t even remember Jack ‘cept he’d tasted good, Poker was right, killing him got him off my mind permanently. One of the guys, as a joke, cut off his cock and balls, had ’em stuffed and I used them as a key ring for a while, the sort biker wear, hanging outside your pants on a chain. That gets looks you better believe. Had it ended in a slightly different way, I might have had his cock made into a dildo but under the circumstances, no. Eventually, since no keys were necessary, I added them to a group of ‘souvenirs’ of ‘guests’ who had stayed to be dinner. A couple of our meals had interesting tattoos which someone suggested we skin and make into whatever. That was just too close to Ilse Koch and the Third Reich so the idea was abandoned.

 

However, each of us had ink of some variety. Just depended on your taste and how far you were willing to go. One thing, Poker drew a line at tats that were vulgar, tasteless, without some meaning to the owner. I had the physics symbol meaning ‘forever’ on my chest looped around my breasts. Poker had my nipples pierced, both up and down as well as back and forth. One difference, the inner most bar had a hole in it for a chain that connected each side and, when he wanted, a longer one that led from me to a place where I was hung by my wrists while he flogged me. Said it built character. Only Pepper also was treated to this and only Pepper had pierced nipples, but only one way…

 

For his own reasons he wanted his men to look like his idea of grizzled saddle tramps. Kept us outdoors, naked, even in winter when the sun was bright cutting into the cold. We cut each others hair which….looked like something an old saddle tramp might have done. None of us looked like we did when we arrived….never asked but it was assumed some of the guys were on the run from some form of crime or another. One thing, and Poker knew who’d done what, he preferred men who’d murdered or, like me, killed a partner who, in is mind, deserved to be killed. Never got talked about but….it built a strange camaraderie plus it sure as hell made it easier to change our catches to table meat. Once, and only once, had supplies really run low so without saying anything, straws were drawn and short one….Guess they made his departure easy on him.

 

I knew Poker had good intentions for me, he proved it every day and I was one of the few men there he fucked because I wanted him to. Old man cock is still hard and he knew how to ride my pony all night long. Sometimes he’d put a soft bit in my mouth with a bridle while he held the reins. He’d kneel behind me his big cock well oiled and in me. talkin’ to me…”Yes, sir, yer a good’n and I got something for you, just learn a few more things and then Old Pokers gonna make you a gift. Member the night you had Pepper get the pliers and yank out some of your teeth? Greatest gift a man ever gave me, not just because you kept your word but cuz I knew you really wanted to be able to suck my dick just like I sucked yours, and that meant no teeth. When I look at your new choppers, specially the ones made to tear through raw meat, I think …. there’s my man. I could mount you a thousand times a day and you’d be happy to have me…means somethin’…take a couple of deep shots…oh yeah, clench that ass,..grab my old man stick…I’m the last man you’ll every let fuck you unless you really want to let some one but yer gonna be a sweetheart of a fucker and you got meanness now, just like you should have. Doesn’t mean yer a bad man, just got hardened up a bit. I watched you jerk off that last time when Jack was being smoked on the grill, I almos’ fell down when you blew that load and shoved it up his nose, probably that’s what killed him but I member that, what a great idea, cum stuffin’ their nose. You gotta good strong back need ta do some more weights cuz when you bring in those two hundred pounders, a man don’t want a bad back…you knew I’m fixin’ to brand you I spect….”

“No, didn’t.. When….?”

“Oh when there’s a good time, you’ll know it, I betcha right now if I called for Pepper to start the forge and git out the brandin’ irons you’d go for it wouldn’t chee?”

“ Fuck me deep for a minute and I’ll tell you….Oh, yeah, bash in this man’s g spot, feels sooo good.” I could feel his cock stiffen at the idea of branding me which moved the action along; Kinda turned me on too. It was almost quiet ‘cept for his deep, throaty moans and my chorus egging him on, forcing him to get his seed in me….I wanted it… Got whipped out and fast as I could I pivoted around and licked him clean….Then rolled back.

“Old man, you have your brand on me in every way. Each time I feel your seed I’m your man and I’m gonna be proud to carry your mark wherever you put it. When ever you want to. Make that iron hot cuz I wanta sizzle like steak when you run it on me….”

 

He got up, sat on the edge of the bed, rolled a cigarette and looked at me. “Member I told you I had a gift for you? Well, I still do and it’s about time to let you have it. Tell Pepper to get the irons hot for tomorrow just after breakfast, all the guys need to see this.” Also, tonight, you, Pepper, Rusty, Jakey, Sancho…. you’re all sleeping in my bed, paid enough for that big fucker, might as well use it. I’ll explain why tonight. Now scat, wash my cum that’s leaking out of my man’s faucet. Have Pepper take you to the horse tank, give you a cowboy tubbing…..”

 

He was right, those baths in the troughs were a treat. They looked just like ordinary horse troughs but they had hot and cold running water, jets that shot water up your ass, massage jets, a person could sit in there for hours. Some days, if we were cooking a man outside, you could watch the meat on the spit turning, getting a crisp shell on the outside to keep it juicy on the inside. Always good when we’d stuck him still living and you could see the pain in his eyes as he went around. Moments like that made a jet of water up your ass feel real good. Some one would come out and baste the meat, dampen the fire to produce more smoke, check the degree of done-ness and go back in the kitchen. Just the smell of roasting man meat wafting over you got you hard, said there’s good eating tonight. Wondered who it was but it didn’t matter.

 

Took a nap, Poker could always ride me hard and put me up wet, even after the bath and almost missed the bell for chow.

 

Dinner was always informal, beer, meat, maybe corn-Poker said show him a man who didn’t like corn and he’d show you a man you couldn’t trust-maybe dessert but mainly we just sat around, slopped down food and planned where to get our next load of meat and if anyone had any suggestions. Maybe watch one of the cooking channels for ideas but mainly they weren’t much help. Nice people probably but damn, they never cooked anything that weighed over three pounds. One guy, an oriental on something called “Iron Chef” looked like he’d make good Sushi but we weren’t much into that. Tartare on occasion but Sushi? I’ll take a pass.

 

Just as we were breaking up going off to do whatever we did Poker said that tonight we all were to sleep in with him-great shouts of approval- and then tomorrow morning….he looked all around the room, I was gonna get branded. Great respect to me. Every man shook my hand, said they knew it, that it’d be me but it was just fuckin’ great. And they’d shore be there. Sancho handed me a beer and told me to come to him after it was done to have some salted cream on it that would make it heal in raised letters, knew I’d want that.

 

The evening passed, watched television, played cards, read, then Poker appeared and said it was lights out and the guys damn near stripped on their way to his big room. Poker had evolved the idea of a pack of men rather than just a bunch of guys hanging out. When we hunted we did so as a pack, took the kill as a pack with the Alpha Man, Poker, having first rights to rip into the kill with his special teeth, like mine, made for ripping and tearing flesh. ‘Course he never did cause it was to be shared out with all of us but it was the respect of the thing. In bed we played like cubs, rolling, slobbering, just enjoying each other. Jakey had his dick sewed to his abdomen, just like a dog or a wolf-to piss, he had to go outside and lift his leg at a tree- and he’d fuck guys that way or whatever; Only doggy style for him . There was no pecking order in our fucking or whatever we were doing with each other, just a sense of pleasure you were getting and giving. Finally Poker’d had enough and he’d take up a dog quirt he had and swipe it around, catching everyone on the butt and we’d make noises like pups hurt then shut up. Just like very young animals everywhere, we slept in a pile fighting to be closest to the warmth or the bottom or wherever you wanted. That night, late, Poker, extracted me from the group and quietly leaned into my ear.

 

“You took this ril good, an’ I’m proud. Not one man here has anythin’ but the most respect for you an’ that includes me. I want one last fuck before I take your stud cherry with my brands-there are two of ’em-so roll on over and do what you know you can do; He leaned over, kissed my ass then moved in to mount me.

 

This time he said nothing, just his hard cock in my tight hole without fighting for dominance, it was a partnership. Easy in, out, in out, I was sweating and laying there fearing that the sun might start up and he’d finish me off but, in the end, he silently slid out, pulled around and, holding his hard old man’s cock up like a fountain let me take his juice and when I finished, mouthed him, showed the Alpha I respected him, then lay on my back while he came again on my belly and licked it up.

 

Like all puppies, we woke up slowly, yarring, stretching, boxing at each other but finally, one at a time, drifted across the floor grabbing clothes, just whose it didn’t really matter. Some one started the range, made coffee, got out the bottles of juice-no glasses, we just drank straight from the container and breakfast was under way. The idea wasn’t to eat and run but sorta hang around until everybody was there. Drink coffee, talk about nothing, eat, get up fix your own eggs or have a bowl of cereal…could take two hours but by the end of the meal everyone knew what the day would bring, one or two of the highlights and what they were supposed to do.

 

This morning Pepper quietly came up behind me and asked that I have a moment with him, private like. Okay, no problem. He took me out on the terrace where there was an iron pot hot with coals and two sticks coming out and a saw horse, one with straps at the wrists and ankles and a board that extended down at an angle from the horse that didn’t touch the ground.

 

He gave me a sympathetic look. “Bill, I need you to strip and bend over the horse so I can strap you down and then go get the guys. Two minutes later I was ass in the air, legs and arms wide spread and attached to the legs of the horse and, I assumed, ready to get branded. He quietly slipped a thick piece of balsa wood in my gums to conceal most of my screaming, rubbed my butt and left.

 

Everyone assembled, naked, this was a ceremony so to mark it, special attentions had been taken. The guys, my pack, stood in a row to one side so they could see the brands going in and coming away leaving an angry, permanent mark. What it would be….no one knew. Poker had made the brands and, even after they were in the fire getting almost blue hot, still never said.

 

Standing there Poker said the words that everyone expected and yet…didn’t. First up, I was the new Alpha Male, he’d still be one as well but the old must give way to the young and here, as opposed to a pack out there, we didn’t kill the old, we just put up with their stories. Everyone laughed. He’s going to be the same Bill we’ve come to love but now he leads. Anyone doesn’t like that, thinks he’s been shorted, leave-if he thought he could without the rest of us keeping him as food. That done, he asked Pepper to hand him the largest one.

 

“See that letter, that there’s an A like in the Greek alphabet, like in Alpha Male and it goes here” he swung slightly to his right, and sunk it into my cheek just below the eye. I may have passed out, don’t know.

 

“Now, before we can do the other one, gotta do some work.” From the floor where he’d had them laid he picked up two nails and a hammer. Reaching down, he grabbed my ball sack, pulled it down over the piece of wood that extended from the horse but didn’t make contact with the ground. He stretched me as far as he could, then taking a nail to the furthest point pulled away, he pounded it in. Second nail, same way. “This here little brand says to anyone that he is from our tribe, he is the seed of our tribe, the Alpha and, here, the Omega”. I only thought the brand on my face hurt. I could smell the sizzle of hair and flesh and feel it, oh my God, could I feel it. He made a point of making sure it went right on top of my left ball….I wondered if I was now half castrated? Could heat cook a nut?

 

Some one threw a buck of cold water on me, pulled the nails, hurried hands untied me, lifted me up, all the guys looked at me with new respect. As promised, Sancho put his arm around my shoulder and took me off for another date with pain when he put the salt cream in. But, as he said, “Man, those are the proudest marks any man could have. I half expected you to scream, fuckin’ hell, but you just stayed where you were….”

I gave him as much of a smile as I could find. “Don’t think it didn’t hurt cuz it sure as fuck did.”

“Get back in, the other guys will want to be with you, nuzzle you, their new Alpha, we’d all worried….” and then didn’t finish the sentence.

“Can I get some clothes, or do we stay….?”

“Hell, no, buddy, grab some of mine, shorts, shirt, you know how it is with our clothes out here.” And I did. Better to stay naked, to exhibit my new Alpha State, it’s what would be expected-couldn’t see the mark on my balls through shorts…

 

Back in the main room I found everyone else some partially clad, some nude and watching Poker as he crossed the branding irons and tried to find a place on the wall to display them. “Next Person to use ’em will be Bill when he finds the next Alpha. Well, don’t just stand there staring at your new pack leader, get him a beer, hug him, show you accept him as your Alpha…”

 

I was immediately surrounded by my pack, happy, showing me, some licked me, some just pressed against me, some kissed my cock-no one touched my ball sack they knew how that would hurt. But Poker, maybe knowing that the tide hadn’t completely shifted, took one more liberty. “Bills a good name, no denying but..an Alpha Man needs something a bit better and here it is: Bullet. From now on, Bill was then an’ Bullet is now.”

 

I liked the name for no reason. Didn’t really suit me, I didn’t shoot much but the concept of being the bullet, the thing that will kill when other things won’t, yeah, I liked it a lot. Poker was through with public announcements and so meandered through the crowd finally ending up by my side. He touched the still smarting place on my cheek. “Damn fine, son, damn fine. Looks good on you. Not going to ask you how you feel just yet but come some days we’ll sit down and palaver about everything. Oh, I’m moving your room next to mine so you might run down there and see if it’s in good condition, apart from some drunks once in a while, hasn’t been anyone reglar in that room in twenty years. Git…you need some rest. That’s gonna sting for a bit and the one on your nuts will hurt every time you walk but that’ll go away-in time.”

 

I headed for the room by Poker’s trying to remember if I’d ever been in it. The door was open and Pepper was making some passes at trying to clean up, make it ready for occupancy..

“Hey, just making sure everything you need….uh, Bullet? Member how Poker said he had somethin’ for you?”

I nodded in an absent sort of way, had wondered but Poker had his ways of doing things and I assumed, when he got to the right time, he’d tell me.

“Well, I’m your gift….”

 

Pepper? I focused on him. The brown curls on his forehead, the downcast eyes, the dimple, the freckles… “See, Poker knows that you need someone, kind of a partner, you’re not used to bein’ alone like he is an’, anyway, an Alpha always has his bitch so he thought, since I liked you an all…”

I took him in my arms, kissed him and made him get down on all fours. He knew what to do instinctively and only using one paw got my cock out and quickly drained it. When he was finished cleaning me I got him back into my arms and just held him.

 

“Like yer surprize I see.” Poker was standing in the open door. “Pepper came to me about a year ago, when we first saw that red head an’ he was in tears, sayin’ Bill was too good a guy for that to happen to him. Offered to go shoot what’s his name right then but I told him to hold his horses, I had somethin’ in mind. Which I did. I’m an old man, can’t last forever and I needed to know the Alpha who took my place was the man I wanted him to be and that’s you, Bullet. An’ every Alpha male needs his right hand man, to be his man an’ I been trainin’ ole Pepper here just for you. If you liked me fucking you, well, Pepper’s been trained to be a stud but only for you. He’s the only one that can mount you an’ you don’t let another man touch him cuz he’s yers. Now I want to see the two of you get up on that bed and Bullet, sink it into him. Deep like you know how to do. Show him you been taught good.”

 

“One day I’ll take him out to where I do my iron work, get a collar for him, seal it shut…..”. Pepper dropped his head, then looked at me… “Bullet I’m your man….I asked Poker for the collar….it’ll mean a lot to me…specially if you’re there while it’s welded on….”. I held him again whispering in his ear that I would be proud to own him…..he just needed to say one word to make him completely mine. He looked right into my eyes, didn’t blink, said four, “ Bullet, I’m your Slave.” I held him, kissed him….Poker stood by us while I finished off the first part….took my knife and carved my sign, a bullet, in his breast. Later, I’d get some cream from Sancho to make sure they stayed prominent and permanent. Never had a slave but….truth was, I genuinely prized Pepper , he was a good, kind man so only in his mind was he my slave. However, Poker would have approved this, any man make a move on him and they’d be sausage-whether they were one of the guys here or a stranger, no difference, Pepper was private property, marked and soon to be steel collared as such.

We had a few men come up, try figure our what was going on, got Pepper, tried to fuck him…. and they learned their fate….after they hung in the smoke house for several days following which I shot off their nuts one at a time with a shot gun…..Alphas don’t fuck around.

 

Wasn’t much to do but follow his orders. Pepper was smooth fleshed, only a little hair over his dick and on his head, his ass hole hairless, tanned, inviting. He knew how to work it and I could tell we’d never lack for something to do. Poker watched as he licked me up to an erection then laid me back and impaled himself on my cock. I had to do nothing, just lay there and let his ass eat me, massage me, pull me up into him. He was strong and reached behind him to first massage and then pull my nipples as he began to sweat. It was slow and deep and good, just right for morning. I flicked his ass with my finger and he knew that meant finish which he accomplished by turning around and stroking himself off as I shot in him.

“Feed me.” He took his finger and ladled his sperm into my mouth until there was none. Ole Poker just smiled, turned away and closed the door. Pepper crawled up beside me, his lean, hard body warm and moist and yielding to me. I took him in my arms, rolled him so his head was on my chest and let him rest while I licked the sweat and new blood from his chest. He relaxed, we slept.

 

In the darkness of sleep I planned my first kill…

 

When I could walk without smarting and when my cheek was settling down, or, rather, up, thanks to Sancho and his constantly peeling the scab, salting the wound and making it stand up, the larder was getting low; It was time for a me to plan what we’d do. Poker hung back letting me take the lead, make the decision, estimate how much meat we’d need for how long. It was coming up mid fall and winters could be hard, needed extra protein for a man to stay in shape. In my mind, I was thinking about hunting, well, hunting season and how the forests were already filled with hunters who, lacking any real knowledge, shot everything that moved from signs swaying in the wind to each other. This last was a dynamic I could and would use to my advantage.

 

One evening we dragged out our boxes of ‘hunting gear’ or what would make us look like legitimate hunters come up from wherever to…hunt. I’m not really a fan of “style” so the vogue for camouflage everything had missed my attention but that oversight was corrected as they dumped the box of clothing on the floor. Just to make it quicker, we divided everything into six piles, one for each of us with no thought as to what might be in them, the primary sort could fix that. As we went through it, I grew more and more mystified as to why anyone with a lick of sense felt that….camouflage socks-with epaulets-contributed to hunting. Ditto the many kinds of underwear, from jocks to boxers, similarly covered were of much use but some manufacturer must have thought they could sell them and, obviously, they were right.

 

Apart from the curiosities in the bunches, we each had several outfits that were appropriate for actual hunting, well made, warm, had the look of authenticity. Garbed in that and carrying a shotgun or a rifle or a bow and arrow or a spear gun or a cross bow-you never knew….and you were welcomed into the brotherhood of the amateur assassin. Well, others were, we were just some good guys out doing the grocery shopping and happened to be wearing cast offs from everybody from the Army and the Marines to L.L.Bean; We looked like what they bought all that expensive shit to look like, real hunters of game. We just switched the game so they were the hunted.

 

In a sense, our hunts were short and to the point, we weren’t stalking a deer with any points, but rather the man who was stalking it. Or whatever they were trying to kill to, I guess, bring home to surprise their families with the expense spared them of shopping for meat. Of course, that didn’t factor in the costs of all the shit they’d bought to dress down, be one of the guys, get dirty, greasy, etc. And it’s hard to know how grateful families might be to find a passel of song birds, vultures, rodents-imagine a housewife charged with “cleaning” a porcupine-and then the finale when they attempted to cook whatever they’d shot. In the back of my mind I’m reasonably certain that the American Palate does not immediately accept bear or skunk or falcon or … you see my point. Our palate, however, was all set to accept the hunter as a meal and so, before dawn broke some days later, Jakey and I wandered into the forest to go “hunting”.

 

I liked doing things with Jakey, beyond his cock sewed to his abdomen like a dog or a wolf, he’d kept the foreskin so when his prick came out, looked just like an animal. Never used the indoor plumbing, peed on a tree or squatted to take a shit, carefully burying it to prevent predators from finding it. If you didn’t know that, he looked just like a slightly suburban dad hunting for meat for his family, nice guy, trust him, clearly a good man. His animal instincts somehow made it easier and quicker for us to find the lure we would need; a kill to show the hunters/prey we were after and leaving a treat for our Wolf buddies, all hung and bled out. Sometime I was afraid he might decided to stay and join the pack which could only end one way but….giving himself to his pseudo pals in the woods was the best way he could imagine. We talked about it…while it gave me the shivers, as Alpha, if that’s what he wanted…and was ever really serious, come to me and I had an idea that he might just like. Something that would guarantee his finding the pack that normally was near our home.

 

We drove an old pickup-left for us by a previous meal- along a road at some distance from our place until we began to notice signs of other hunters; Cars and trucks by the side of the road, signs of brush disturbed as they stomped in trying to keep quiet and we slowed down when we saw a brand new fifty thousand dollar pick up with Rhode Island tags, too new to yet have Trump stickers and we knew we were on to our game. I jumped out to give it the once over while Jakey pulled on down the road and let our heap sorta slide into the brush, not hidden but not obvious. He’d find me and we would wander off into the woods, each of us carrying a gun and a large back pack.

 

We looked grizzled, un shaved, the prototypical local hunter and, from the sounds of a running creek nearby, I knew lunch, dinner and breakfast were about to be served. I looked at Jakey and he made an obscene gesture with his tongue that said, yep, this was the place. Based on what I’d seen, I knew there were two men; the truck had things on both sides of the console, there was even a note in the window saying in case of emergency…and then listed their names and who to call in the event of a problem.

 

I almost laughed. There was about to be a “problem” but no one would call the carefully listed numbers to report their demise. Ever.

 

Anyway, we set up our camp, found theirs, noticed it looked more like a photograph from “Field and Stream” than a real camp but, so what, it made them happy and also very findable. Back at our place we stripped, took a swim in the cold water, built a fire, warmed beside it, fucked Jakey-watched him lift his sewn on cock to take a piss (I’d watched him fuck guys with that, redefined doggy style)-then decided what way would be the most fun for us. That they were dead meat in our minds was a given, it was just a matter of assisting them to their mortality.

 

When you have a pair to be taken down it’s only marginally harder and the hard part can be that you might have to physically haul your kill out. We’d done it but…today there was a better plan, a ploy, one we called “wounded bird”. As afternoon came on, Jakey went out and took down a deer which he brought back for us to hang, bleed and be our lure. Next, taking a twelve pack, we ambled down the creek until, Surprise! (well, to them) there were our fellow campers.

 

We looked the part, talked the part and were accepted as accomplished hunters. Plus, thanks to technology, we had a picture of our kill hanging back at our camp. Just up the creek a piece and, well, sure, we’d be happy for them to come on up and have a look, Jakey offered to show them, since they said they were new at this, how to gut and speed butcher in the field but…it was still bleeding out so why not have a beer, or three, and then we could all go up and they could see what lay ahead.

 

What is it in people that makes them believe that a man dressed like a hunter in the forest with beer and a fresh kill is any less dangerous than a Muslim terrorist trying to blow up the Supreme Court Building in Washington? Of course the simple answer is that this is one sort of brotherhood, we looked non-threatening, probably from a down and out suburb who really needed the meat. We were good guys, wide eyed at their magnificent spread, eager to show them what we had that they had not: A kill. They were not used to the strenuous days of activity and made more tired by five or six beers, we headed back to our camp. I went ahead to make sure the fire was lit, the few artificial lights we had were on while Jakey stayed with them, guiding them to…the snare.

 

In sight of the hung deer, one of them hit a carefully constructed trap that looked like an ordinary piece of wood over which a man could fall and injure himself. Which is just what happened. We could hear the bone snap and the guy scream in pain and watch his buddy stop and wonder what to do. But he needn’t have bothered; Seasoned men of the forest, we knew what to do and did it. No time to get back to their camp, we needed to get out while there was some lingering twilight and get the wounded gentleman up to our place where we could make him comfortable and call for more assistance. The presence of a helicopter was mentioned which, given their other concerns just then, they took as normal. The leg was easily if painfully splinted and he was held up by his buddy with Jakey and I taking turns assisting. We’d made our camp so we were closer to our truck than theirs but offered to get it and one of us could drive it while the other took point and led us to our place.

 

What great guys we were, even to having a bottle of Bourbon that wouldn’t kill the pain but wouldn’t make it hurt more. We found our truck, managed to get their truck and formed our party to drive back. My suggestion was that both of them ride in the bed of their truck where one could lay out flat not having to try and bend the leg. We insisted that each of them have a sort of improvised seat belt, especially the guy laying down, and roped them to the sidewalls so they wouldn’t bounce out-and also couldn’t get out if they tried.. Jakey and I got up in the truck bed with rope they apparently didn’t realize they had and, while securing them so they wouldn’t fall out, bashed them in the skull and they were down for the count.

 

Life was easier then. No noise, no wearying questions about what the fuck was going on, just two hunters returning from a successful day leaving only a run down campsite with a deer that, by morning, would be pretty much eaten up, appreciatively, by the local wildlife. As to the campsite of our guests? Eventually someone would find it and then the usual would commence. Of course, no one would miss them for several days and by then, well, their fate would have taken a turn for the table.

 

 

While the guys off loaded our cargo, Poker and I stood beside the truck and he cast his usual distrustful glances at it. “Shit, spend that kinda money on this? Whattaya reckon this piece of painted tin set them back? Forty, fifty thousand?”
“At least, maybe more. You’d hate the doodads in the cabin, Jakey pushed one just to see what it did and got a dial tone. Turn that off fast.” He looked at me. “ I checked, no tracking devices, just the direction finder that failed to tell them they were driving into trouble.” I sneered a bit as did Poker.

 

We walked into the kitchen where the meat was having their clothes stripped and were about to be tied down, the one with a bad leg out flat, the other hung by his wrist, tied together, over a pair of hooks, spreader bar between his ankles which had a tie down on the bottom that just fit the hook on the floor-good thing he wasn’t taller, wouldn’t have been so convenient. We all got a beer then settled down waiting for them to wake up so the fun could begin; Half an hour later we doused them with cold water and that turned the trick. Sputtering, confused, one of them in pain, they came around making the usual demands, once they’d noticed they were naked, not free to go, while we just sat and watched them.

 

This was the part where they changed into meat not only in our minds but, with some coaching, theirs as well. The guy with the broken leg was in almost too much pain to worry about anything else-without his pants it proved to be a nasty green stick fracture. We let him holler for a bit and then Poker went over, got his attention and allowed as how that must hurt like fuck. The guy on the table just mumbled something which Poker took to mean, “uhuh”.

 

“Well, that’s the shits ain’t it. A fine big man like you hobbled up with a bum leg, all that pain. Gotta take care of that.” I took the Alpha position. “Looks real bad, don’t it, Bullet, you need to do somethin’ about that leg, looks mean…”

That’s when I swung the axe I was holding and cut it off neatly, right at the hip joint. No point in having it tied down, not in the condition it was in, so I picked it up and tossed it to Sancho who ran the foot through a hook in the ceiling by the other guy and let the blood come out. We knew the guy on the table was going to be in shock so what we did, as we explained, to his buddy, was just a sort of show and tell for his benefit. He was encouraged to watch closely to see if he could remember the order in which things were done.

 

As quickly as possible the femoral artery was clamped off, if that hadn’t been done he’d have died from blood loss, even laying down, in two, maybe three minutes. Poker leaned against the wall as a sort of tour guide for the meat still alive and hanging there.

 

Waited a few minutes and then revived the guy on the table who was so disoriented I’m not sure he remembered his leg had just been chopped off; If anything he was actually in less pain which was or was not to his benefit.

 

Depended.

 

Poker started his tutorial. “See, if he was upright, hanging, we’d a just cut his feet off and let him bleed out but seein’s how he’s lying down, we’d just get it in spurts, go everywhere, as the heart pumps. You know, pump out spurt, pump in, no spurt and that’s a turrible mess, even on these floor that were made to be cleaned with a fire hose. By the way, name’s Poker, Poker Flatz and this here, the kindly gentleman holding the ax is my man, Bullet. He’s fixin to decide what to do with your buddy or, more likely, trying to think whether he’d be better as a roast, smoke him, grill him or butcher him for the freezer. He’s pret near two hundred pounds an I spect we could git, uh, maybe hundred pounds of good eatin off him. Whaddaya think?” He gave the meat by him a friendly pinch that was more in the way of a palpating his flesh, checking for resiliency, possible fat levels, lean muscle, all the things that determine the best thing to be done with meat.

 

“Hey, Bullet, this one’s prime fer shure. You thinking what I’m thinkin?”

I looked over as Poker ran his hand over the gut: Sausage, smoked sausage. I could see on the faces of the other guys they had that in mind, too. A big sausage feed where you ate till you threw up and then laid around the rest of the day. On a cold day by a roaring fire, later you could cook hot dogs for dinner if anyone had the courage to eat. Beer, sleep and wake up to more of it only this time it stayed down.

“So…for this one…?”

“Get him out of the way, everyone take a saw or whatever and speed butcher him as is. The parts can be hung before they’re wrapped and the intestines washed and then soaked in brine. Okay, Go.”

 

As the Alpha, I always got to take first cut and, while he was still living and could understand what was happening, I had someone hold up his head while I first castrated him and then cut off his cock. Our usual was to stuff them in his mouth as the head would be thrown out and, I felt, it gave him the final sense of no longer being a man and really being meat. I held them, they were nothing to brag about, over his head, pulled down his jaw and shoved them in. I’d barely stepped back when his body turned into a carcass and then into butchered parts in about five minutes. Before we broke to rest a spell, have a beer, maybe a Bourbon, he was hung up in parts all around his partner to bleed out leaving only the genital stuffed head on the board turned to face the remaining meat, something for him to ponder while we went elsewhere.

 

“Overnight? It’s still early so we could have some fun with him, get him in the smokehouse and, tomorrow, finish him off, ready to roast or maybe…there’s just something about him that pisses me off so that means….”

“Holy Shit, you’re gonna spit roast him alive, ain’t ya?”

 

I smiled my quiet smile for which I was getting famous, it made my eyes become furtive, conspiratorial….”yeah, spit him, live. Least until he quits screaming unless he really gets to me and I whack off his tongue. Agreed?” I could tell by the looks on their faces that they were planning what we did on these occasions. First, we’d take him to the roasting pit, secure him to a tree while we got the coals going, tested the rotisserie, added some more coals, then, two of us to an end, pulled him out straight, arms tied to his sides but crooked a bit to let the heat get to his side ribs, pry open his mouth…but that was a tease. He’d seen the spit so guessed what was coming only he missed a formality: Getting his ass opened to accept the rounded end of the spit. We each fucked him then when he was still crying in humiliation, the spit would slowly be run through him being careful to do as little damage to the organs as possible. I liked it to come out just above his sternum, leaving his throat open to breath, then up thru his lower jaw and out his mouth. But that was for tomorrow. Then, when his skin was beginning to crackle and blister open allowing fat to drip into the fires, we’d all hang out, roll smokes, have a beer, play with each other, just watching him until that got boring and we went away leaving him to turn and cook. I liked a good cowboy tubbing right about then, the smell of the meat, Pepper behind me washing my back, it was a good comforting way. That’s what I though about tomorrow then rolled over, found Pepper, ruffled his hair and kissed him good night. Sleep.

 

But later that night in bed I wakened, put my head back leaning on my hands while I thought. There was something more here, I didn’t quite have it but…there was an answer to be found. Problem was, there wasn’t a question. Pepper was sleeping peacefully and I hated to wake him but…

“What’s the problem, someone in the house?”

“No, but…I need to do something.”

“What?”
“Don’t know just get up and get dressed, remember it’s cold out so dress warm, we may be outside a bit….” Faithful as a bird dog, he not only got himself dressed but handed me clothes to put on that, in his opinion, would keep me warm. “Do you know where we’re going? Should I grab the keys to something….?”

And then I knew.

 

“Yeah, find the keys to the pickup we brought home today, we’re going on a treasure hunt of sorts.” He looked puzzled so I gave him a Dutch rub, swatted his butt, smiled at him. On the way out I grabbed a large canvas bag and some shears for no reason but one never knew when something would need to be cut and it had been my experience not infrequently, shears were easier to use than a knife.

 

The pick up was the very popular silver color and in the moonlight looked like the ghost of GMC. Working methodically, I opened all the doors, which turned on the cab lights and just stared at it. And then I saw what I knew would be there and had a use; Behind the front seats were two brief cases just as I knew there would be. Our guests were not the sort to really let go, relax, not bring business with them and so they hadn’t. Because the truck was so new there was virtually nothing else in it that was of interest but I had my trophy and knew what I’d do with it.

 

Back in the house, Pepper and I went through the contents finding about what I’d expected. Clearly what was missing was in another room with their clothes but my find, the thing I’d hoped for, was there; A camera. It was a matter of just looking back at the pictures they’d already taken to assure me I could get away with my nasty little idea. I leaned back and almost laughed. Pepper looked nonplussed as he couldn’t see anything. Suddenly I was horny as hell knowing what I was going to do so I pulled out my fattening dick, told Pepper to shuck off his britches and we’d play horsey, he could ride me home to the stable. A quick swipe with his tongue and a little spit to harden me up and he was over his target about to intercept it and flow down the hard spike until he was sitting on my lap facing me. We got naked from the waist down then made out until I shot. It was a good beginning to a great day. (No man was ever given a better present than Pepper. Even shined his steel collar and wanted a pair of matching cuffs..with attachments. I thought about something similar in a large cock ring but decided to wait until I had him pierced and inked the way I wanted him.)

 

Spit roasting is all well and good but it requires more physical effort than just taking a roast from the freezer, thawing it, marinating it, searing it, putting it in a pan and then to the oven. I suppose there are homes with fire places large enough to handle meat the size we had on a spit but ours wasn’t one of them. Pepper and I rolled into the room where the meat was still hanging, his hands probably dead from lack of blood and his shoulders beyond pain from being hung for that many hours. Still, he was alert which is what I wanted. Also, this morning marked the conclusion of his hunting trip which could be seen at some point in the future.

 

Clearly his hands were useless and had been so secured blood, if any had got through, wouldn’t be enough. Sancho showed up, scratching and holding the coffee pot in one hand and several mugs in the other. We all sat on the edge of the table by the head of his former hunting partner and sipped to get warm, to get our hearts started, to get launched into the day.

 

“Guys, what I want is…for him to be cut down and retied only in an X shape. Also, get the whole body off the floor so if you have to use a hook in his back to keep in up, that’s what I want. Then we’ll begin our photography session.” They looked surprised. I could hear Poker laughing, old man knew what I was going to and he already thought it was funny.

 

Our meat wasn’t very cooperative although a lot of the fight had been hung out of him. Not wanting him dehydrated a tube was shoved down his throat and a pint or water was put in him and then…we were about ready. I’d brought his camera in and explained that he’d already captured his trip up and their first day on it and we were going to show the rest of the trip, right up to the end frame by frame. So I took a picture of him in his X posture, showed the hook put in his back and that being attached to a point on the wall. Since this was only a still camera we had to lead the viewer through the activities so they’d fully understand what was going on. Next was a shot of his chest after it was shaved and then another showing his full body denuded. The multiple enemas to clean him out had to be demonstrated I two shots, one of the tube up his ass and the next of the outflow of clear water followed by a third which was the stuffing mixed with beer being forced into him through another tube. Couple of frames of him being coated in marinade, one or two close ups of an apple being put in his mouth and, just before we moved him outside, another medium shot of his body with his genitals followed by one after he’d been castrated and had his cock cut off. To fill in I took a picture of his buddy’s head with them already stuck in to suggest what would happen to him. To avoid being in the pictures with him there were some pauses during which things happened that the viewer didn’t see. Next up was of a pit with a low fire, a shot of him, tied up but with a spit beside him, one of him stretched out, another of the spit going in his ass and, of course, coming out his mouth. One or two of him clearly living and turning. Got some real good ones as his guts spilled out and he was bled and, finally, another of him with his chest cavity split open, still turning on the rotisserie with the fire crackling under him. Later when we took him off the spit, I’d take one last of his head after it had been cut off and then put the camera back in the brief case and the case in the truck. I knew, eventually, someone would find it. I wondered who would see it first, probably some sheriff’s deputy or similar and they’d have to tell the families that these pictures existed but….they didn’t think they’d want to see them. However, not knowing good advice, they would insist saying something dumb like “How bad can they be?”….

 

The day went on, after thoroughly cleaning every thing we’d touched, Pepper and I returned the vehicle to about where we’d found it, making sure it was enough off the road so you couldn’t immediately see it but clearly not concealed. And, of course, we made certain the notices they’d written out as to whom to call if there was a problem were prominently displayed then we high tailed it back. Dinner was coming up and we didn’t want to miss that. Jakey had let him cool a bit when they took him down-made easier by the spit, he could just be brought in the house on that and plunked on the butchering table. Waited a while to pull out the spit-if we took it out too fast some of the internal tissue stuck to it and that made a mess. But even just laid out before Jakey cut him up, the aroma could have drawn bees it was so sweet. Those who wanted to risk a burned finger could push on the crisp skin and find that underneath was firm, juicy flesh-I’m not ashamed to say we were all drooling about then, the smell of man meat making us hungry and horny; Looking around at the guys, wasn’t one that wasn’t sporting a tent pole in their britches.

 

Dinner was delicious. He was a good sized piece of meat and all we had was a rump roast and two thighs and that filled everyone. Leaning back, with some of my men, Jakey and I told them some of the details of the hunt and a couple of them said maybe tomorrow or the day after they’d go after some hunters themselves; While they were out there was the best time to cull the herd and bring ’em in for the winter. No point in running low. Once, Poker told me, they’d been reduced to waylaying the UPS truck but…that was done in desperation and, besides, the UPS guys were generally a bit tough from running to and from doors all day. It was kind of the same with joggers; If they were miles from town you knew they were hard core, were all stringy muscle, no meat on their tail, better ground up as bone meal for the spring garden. In short, we were contented, well fed, food to snack on if you felt like it and a whole butchered meat in the freezer for whenever we wanted. I hoped someone had the ambition to make sausage tonight as I had my taste buds set on sausage gravy and biscuits next morning.

 

 

Winter came easily but up here it was cold. The ground froze, baths in the horse troughs were still great but you had to fight your way through the steam to get to them. Hunting was going well, Sancho and Rich had a run of luck when the found an SUV upside down with four guys all unconscious but none of ’em under 200 pounds. Simple matter to pull them out, tie them down and bring ’em home. There were the usual screams, the yells when they came to and found themselves in what was suddenly a production line butchery but it provided meat for a good long time. We could all lay back, enjoy life, enjoy the difference between the warm fire inside and the cold outside.

 

At night I lay by Pepper and thought about the future, what mine was, how to care for the pups, how to get one or two new ones. Then I took to stall walking, one problem to resolve and one night I did. I’d missed something and went to get it.

 

Poker was sitting up in his huge bed, alone as he often was anymore, didn’t even look up when I came in.

 

“I been expectin’ you. What took you so long? I guess I know what you want…”

“Yeah, bout so and I’m not happy for a lot a reasons. But that’s the nature of the beasts, you know that…”

“Yeup, cain’t never have two stallions in the same box, they’d kill each other.” He paused. “You got it figgered out? Spect you do.”

“Yeah, all worked out in my mind but there’s something else…” I looked at him in the dim light. “…only you can do it for me”.

He laughed his sneaky old man laugh, tossed back the covers and jerked his head meaning for me to get over there. He was still smiling broadly when I crawled in and went straight for his cock, wanted to get it good and hard.

“You want it the hard way I spect?”

I just nodded. He fooled around under the bed, pulled out the box with cuffs, manacles, hooks, chain.

“On your knees Bullet.”

 

In the end he had me chained to the bed post, a gag in my mouth, my eyes covered, hooks in my nipples that were attached to a chain that he was going to use as reins. Made me take out my teeth and a hard bit with points on it went in and he held the controls to that as well. Ankles both manacled and chained…then he came at me first with the whip and then with his cock. I could feel the blood drip down from the slashes that would mark me and never go away fall on the tops of my calves, felt the tip of the whip crack on my biceps and his nails pulled into my breasts as he fucked me harder than ever. I knew he was finished when he fell away, worn out. Finally had to give up, all his seed in me, nothing left. He let me hang by my nipples and nuts until he could rouse himself and then softly took me down, let me fall on his bloodied bed and rest.

 

An hour went by. I could get up, move and, both of us naked, we went down the hall, through the room with just the embers of fire and onto the cold porch.

“Here?”

“Yeah, here. Wanted you to see the whole thing.”

“Over the saw horse?”

“No, man to man, face to face.” And then he knew.

“Holy Jesus, I never ate a man raw but…that’s the best way for this isn’t it. Just…let me linger to watch you do it. Ain’t much meat so watch where you bite…”

 

I had in my teeth that were made to tear and chew raw meat. He was ready, always had been, this was the ultimate end for a former Alpha, to be eaten alive and raw by his successor. To honor his wishes, I started in on places that wouldn’t cause too much blood but finally there weren’t any other places. He was staggering and his blood was beginning to flow freely. I leaned down, tore off his ball sac and put it in his mouth. He choked and was almost at the end. Holding him, with blood running down both of us. “Old man, I did it out here so when I tear of your cock, it’ll freeze and tomorrow I’ll have it made into a dildo. I think he tried to laugh but the blood in his throat choked him. Looking straight at him, I reached down and tore off his cock then pulled him down so I could continue to feed. Even after he’d been dead for an hour I was still pulling bits of meat off…kept warm by my own ferocity.

 

Later that morning when the guys were moving they found the carcass, almost completely torn apart in my Alpha rage to protect my type and nothing was said. Each of them wondered who would come along to take me down and would they have the balls to eat me alive? They knew it would not be one of them, no Alpha ever really comes from the pack but is someone the pack completely accepts.

 

Pepper brought me coffee in bed and tried to wash my back but I refused. That was my final gift from Poker, my whipping marks, proud of them, too because of the man who laid them on me and partly because it secured my position, I was Alpha, no question.

 

Some days later I shoved his cock, now mounted and harder than it had been in life up my ass and smiled at all the memories. I licked my lips and remembered him most of all. Hoped I’d taste as good to the next Alpha but….that was a long time away.

 

 

Meat Chronicles 19–Halfpipe in the Park, Full Pipe Up the Ass

I first see them leaving the skate park and almost give them a pass; after all, if they were leaving the park, they were probably on their way home, right?  And they look like typical teenaged wigger punks; home is probably a nice suburban neighborhood with lots of security cameras.

 

Fuckin’ cameras ruin a good hunt.

 

But these boys…there’s something about them, something about the cocky arrogance of their young faces and the lustful wantonness of their hormone-filled bodies.  I turn around and pull over, giving them plenty of headway; they’re riding their boards and I don’t want to overtake them until I can figure out their destination.

 

It turna out to be an improvised skate park in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse some two miles east.  The low buildings of rusted metal are gaunt and desolate in the late afternoon sun.  There isn’t anyone for miles, not even any other skaters.  I pull quietly to the curb and watch the boys practice their moves, away from prying eyes—so they thought.

 

I can’t tell if they’re related.  They took a smoke break a few minutes back, the dark-haired one offering the ginger punk a Camel.  Willing to bet Camel boy is older than eighteen—the legal age for buying cigarettes in this state.  It’s just a guess, though; if he is over eighteen, it isn’t by much.

 

The redhead’s freckled face, squinting in the sunlight, looks younger than that of his companion, but I’m estimating him at seventeen, largely by his outfit.  He’s rigged out in full skater punk gear, from the ped socks and Etnies Fader 2 kicks to the shiny black and blue polyester ball shorts and black tank top with the Adidas logo in white, all kinda generic.  But like a true douchebag, he’s wearing a flat-brimmed ball cap with the sales tag still dangling from it.  It’s dark green with white piping and a white logo; I’m too far away to make out the logo, but I don’t need to.  Those colors are the colors of a high school not far from my home.  And that big squarish glint of gold on his finger is obviously a class ring.

 

So gingerboy is a high school senior and his douchebuddy is probably a recent graduate—jobless punk, just fuckin’ around.

 

Nobody’ll miss him.  Nobody’ll miss either of them.

 

I decide on a tried and true lure.  Quietly starting my van, I circle the block away from them. I light up a joint and quickly take a couple of deep hits, making sure that the cab reeks of weed.  I then whip a corner and come upon them suddenly, as if I didn’t know they were already there.

 

“Yo!  Dude!” I call out.  The older one is closer; he eyes me warily but comes towards me.

 

“Whatcha need, bro?” he asks cautiously.

 

His face is smooth except for a very faint haze of new hair growth on his cheeks and chin, and across his upper lip.  He’s wearing a gray knit cap pulled down over the tips of his ears, but his black hair is long enough to stick out underneath.  I like it.  I’ll let him keep his cap on as he dies.

 

He’s wearing a thin, tight tank top, gray on the front with the words “U Mad Bro?” in black.  Below a pair of faded red chino skater shorts, he’s got on a pair of Osiris NYC 83 hightops in brick red.  Little fuck thinks he’s stylin’…

 

“Hey, man,” I call out, an easy grin on my masculine face.  Nothing wrong here, motherfucker.  “I been drivin’ round for half an hour—where’s the fukkin’ highway?”

 

“It’s, uh, it’s that way,” the kid mutters, pointing to the left.

 

“Yeah, well, what I really wanna know is, where can I get some beer?”

 

Skaterboi becomes a little more enthusiastic about helping a stranger in need.

 

“Well, yeah, there’s this place…it’s kinda hard to find, though…”

 

He’s giving me an opening and I take it.

 

“Wanna show me the way?” I ask.  “I’ll getcha high on the way.”

 

He lights up, his youthful face glowing with pleasure; just looking at him makes my dick hard.  But then his expression clouds over and he looks anxiously back at gingercunt.

 

“Hey, it’s ok,” I grin, “I got enough room—and enough weed for him too.  Here, lemme pull into the lot and open up the back.  We’ll get good an’ fucked up before we pick up some brewskis.”

 

Now the kid’s all kinda cheerful and helpful.  “Hey, Steve!” he calls out, gesticulating at the redheaded punk, “Getcher ass over here!”

 

“Whassup?” Steve the ginger says, popping up his board into his hand and heading over.

 

“We gotta real bro here, man—he’s gonna get us high an’ then I’m gonna show ‘im how to get over to Wegel’s so we can get some brews!”

 

Gingerfuck lights up, too.  Goddam, this is like shootin’ fish in a barrel.  Stupid little asswipes actin’ like they’re big, swinging dicks in the world—lessee how big their dicks are when they’re ridin’ mine.

 

Having pulled into a space in the lot, I shut the engine off.  This neighborhood is as good as any, nice and isolated, but a few random vehicles parked here and there so my van doesn’t stand out.  I get out of the driver seat, my big black leather harness boots hitting the asphalt with a loud thump.  I make sure the huge bulge of my manhood is visible in the crotch of my skintight but worn jeans.  These little cocksuckers are gonna see they’re dealin’ with a real man.

 

They don’t notice at first, as I slide open the door to the rear of the van; that’s ok.  I can wait.  They’ll have plenty of opportunity to notice my cock when it’s buried in their asses.  “C’mon inside, dudes,” I say jovially; both boys show their eagerness by hustling their lithe, smooth bodies with alacrity.  So young, so hot, so stupid—goddam, I can’t wait to off these little fucks.

 

“Hey, uh—” I call out to gingerfuck.

 

“Steve,” he hastens to remind me, “And he’s Jeff.”  Like I give a shit.

 

“Here ya go, Steve,” I say, tossing him a hard Marlboro box.  “Gotta couple of jays already rolled in there.  Y’all help yerselves; I got enough to roll one for me up here.”  And with that, I settle into the driver seat, waiting for the Xanax-laced joints to start taking effect.  While I wait, I quietly slip a pair of handcuffs out of the center console and into my pocket.

 

It doesn’t take more than five minutes before the sounds of muttering and giggling fade out in the back.  I step back into a thick haze of sweet blue smoke to find both boys stoned out of their fucking minds.  They managed to polish off a joint each; Steve it completely blitzed.  He’s laying back against the side of the van.  He’s grinning so hard his eyes are squinted and his tongue is out; his face is so flushed his freckles have nearly vanished.  As I watch, he lolls his head back, knocking off his cap and revealing the short, spiked orange hair on his head.

 

Jeff is on the other side; his face is heavy and vacant, but he’s still conscious and somewhat lucid.  He hasn’t completely finished his joint yet.

 

“Hey, wanna see something really hot?” I leer at him.

 

“Yeah, what?” he asks, grinning dopily.

 

“Here, lemme start with this.”  I whip out the handcuffs.  Before Jeff has a chance to react, I cinch one cuff around his left wrist and the other through a pair of holes drilled in the van’s body ribbing.  Now the punk can’t move more than a few inches from that position.

 

“Wha?” he grunts, looking foggily at the cuffs.

 

“Over here,” I say, snapping my fingers and approaching the other punk.  “I’m gonna take yer buddy here—”

 

“Brotha…” Jeff mutters, “He’s m’half brotha…”

 

“He’s fuckmeat, asshole,” I snap.  “I’m gonna stick my dick in him and unload in his ass as he dies and yer gonna watch.”

 

Jeff stares at me, gape-jawed.  It’s difficult to tell how much of his impassivity is due to shock or fear and how much to being drugged, but it doesn’t matter.  The drugs will have worn off long before I’m done with the first piece of boymeat.  By the time I get to little Jeffie over there, he’ll be plenty awake enough to know what’s going on.

 

And that’s good.  I want him awake and suffering by the time I fuck him.  I want to feel his agonized screams as they reverberate in his strong smooth body and vibrate the root of my cock…

 

First things first, though.  Gingerfuck needs a little lesson on his proper place in the world first, just as a little foreplay.  Something to get Jeff and me both into the right mood, to get the juices flowing, so to speak.

 

And where is red-headed skaterboi Steve’s proper place in the world?  It’s taking a dirt nap with my manseed coating his guts.  Just thinking about it’s already got me hard.  Fuck it, I’m goin’ in—need to get those punk threads cut off the fucker.

 

Time to start the fun.  Crouching in the center of the van—I’m too tall to stand up in here—I unzip my fly and let my huge, throbbing hog flop out.

 

Both pieces of fuckmeat stare groggily at my engorged rod, but only Jeff has retained enough motor control to speak coherently.  Well, kinda.

 

“Wha…” he mumbles, “Why…whyyerfuckin…dickout…” His dark, heavy-lidded eyes focus on my manhood.

 

Little redheaded Stevie just giggles.  I turn and grin at Jeff.  “It’s out cause I’m gonna stick in ya, cunt.  But first, I’m gonna stick it in yer brother.  Oh, and this, too,” I add, holding up a specialty tool I’ve made by grinding down the head of an eight-inch long screwdriver, leaving a pointed tip on a nearly half-inch diameter steel shaft.

 

Jeff is inarticulate; he shakes his head wildly, but is unable to speak.  I note, in passing, that his knit cap stays in place no matter how vigorous his movements.  Wonder if he had an idea he’d die wearing it when he slipped it on today…

 

I turn to Steve.  He’s still lying limply against the far side of the van from his brother, too high to move.  I know he heard my words, and I’m fairly certain he understood them, but it doesn’t matter.  If he didn’t understand them, he soon will.  I bend down and yank of his ball shorts, tugging them down his legs and over his Etnies kicks.

 

Of course the punk-ass faggot is commando, letting his thick teenaged dick swing free between his legs; it lies, limp but long and veined, against the boy’s smooth inner thigh.  His shirt is easier to dispose of; I shove the toe of one boot into an armhole, bend down, and tug.  It takes no more than a moment to rip the thin tank top off and leave the meat lying nude but for his sneakers and socks.

 

“Steve,” Jeff calls out hoarsely, his voice scratchy with effort, “C’mon…gotta wake-wake up…dude’s gon-gonna rape yer ass…”

 

“Yours too, cocksucker,” I grin at him, “Don’t forget.”

 

“No…” the ginger youth moans as I force his firm legs apart and knelt between them, my massive tool fully erect and oozing in anticipation of his taut young fuckhole.  “Whaddaya mean, no?” I jeered, “Fuck yeah is whatcha mean.  Feel this shit, bro.”  Leaning over his slim, muscled frame, helpless on the floor of the van, I pressed the pulsing head of my cock against his quivering sphincter and applied pressure.  Not a lot—just enough to let him know I was there.

 

“Ah—ah—no, p-please…” he whimpered, his cocky face twisted with fear.  So fuckin’ erotic—but not enough.  It needs to be twisted in pain, too.

 

“Fuck you, skatefag,” I whisper and thrust my hips forward, spearing the punk’s colon with my enormous shaft—dry.  I can feel some resistance on the head of my dick, then there’s a parting sensation as something in gingerfuck’s asshole tears open.  The meat squeals like a stuck pig and my rod slides home, buried so far deep into the teen skateboi’s guts that my wiry pubes are grinding his smooth buttcheeks.

 

“Aw, shaddup, cunt!” I snarl and pound my balled-up fist into his face.  My blow lands on his chin; his jaws slam shut, driving his teeth through his tongue.

 

“You goddam asshole!” Jeff sobs, his voice stricken with anguish as he looks on at his brother’s abuse and torment.  “Don’t get jealous,” I tell him, grinning.  “It’ll be yer turn to enjoy my cock soon enough, bro; let the kid here enjoy it first.”  Then I punch Steve again.  Fuck, that feels good—I can feel his entire body stiffen and clench my dick in reaction to the impact.

 

“Goddam, you really are a sick little queerfuck, aintcha?” I jeer into Steve’s swelling, tear-streaked face, “Yer really handlin’ my dick good—yer jest fuckin’ lovin’ it when I hit ya, too, huh?  Ok, ya perverted little piece a’ shit; ya like the pain—I can sure as fuck deliver.  Buckle up, motherfucker, cause I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad, you’ll cum in sheer joy!”

 

It gets kinda loud in the van for a couple of minutes, between Steve’s cries of pain, Jeff’s helpless invective and the meaty sound of flesh striking flesh.  By the time it gets quiet again, gingerfuck is barely conscious and his brother is hanging limply at the side of the van, weeping quietly.  It’s warm in here; I take a moment to slip out of my shirt—there.  Damn, I’ve been sweating enough to mat down my chest hair…

 

I leer down into the dazed teen’s face—so young, so beautiful, so punchable—and run my hands down his firm, lithe torso, feeling his smooth skin slick with a film of cold sweat forced out of him by his suffering.  His dick is semi-soft and getting stiffer by the second; it’s a reaction to the vigorous prostate massage he’s enjoying.

 

Unfortunately, he’s going loose on my shaft.  I need to fix that.  I don’t think he’s going to be enjoying his assrape for much longer—but I’ll give him a chance, first.

 

“Hey, buttfuck,” I smirk, “You’re failin’, dude.  Only reason I’m keepin’ ya around is to get off, an’ here you are, going slack on my hog.  Here, I’ll give ya—” here I set the timer on my watch— “thirty seconds to start workin’ my dick good, or I’m gonna make ya work it.”

 

And I spend the next thirty seconds counting down and plowing his rectum remorselessly.  His ass doesn’t get any tighter—I didn’t expect it to—but the increasing panic in his bewildered face is intoxicating.

 

“…three…two…one!  Ok, fuckwad, now it’s my turn.”  I show him my pointed steel shank.  “See this, bro?  This is gonna tighten yer ass up real good.”

 

I’d been so busy fucking with little Stevie that I’d almost forgotten the second course.  A gasp and moan from the side reminds me that I’ve got more meat to tenderize.  I hold up the screwdriver so Jeff can admire it too.

 

“Hey, dude, yer little faggot bro here likes to get fucked, yeah?  He likes a good skullfuck?  Cool, man—I’m gonna fuck his skull with this.”

 

I don’t think he’s following me.  I know Steve isn’t, but that’s ok.  I’ll manage to get it into his head somehow—heh heh heh.

 

By now the teen fucker I’m rammin’ is panicking.  He knows something bad is about to happen, so he’s pawing at my chest.  I’m laying across him, feeling that young, strong body writhe in terror beneath me—his legs are wrapped around my waist.  His Etnies are drumming on my firm asscheeks; a minor distraction at most.  And for all this activity and exertion, the stupid little sack of shit still can’t tighten his sphincter.

 

“Awright, enough of this shit,” I snarl, “You really are a lousy lay, fuckhead.”

 

I force his head to the side and plant one of my big hands on it, splayed out and taking all my weight, pinning it to the floor.  Then I take the screwdriver and start shoving into Steve’s ear.

 

Gingerfuck’s howls of pain take on a more intense quality as the sharpened steel punctures his eardrum and starts tearing its way through the delicate structures of the middle and inner ear.  Suddenly the skateboi isn’t fighting me any more—he’s clinging to me tightly, desperately, afraid to move, as if remaining completely still will lessen the torture being inflicted on him.

 

It won’t.  Stupid little shit.  He’s holding me like a lover, and I’m about to ream his cockpig brain with a homemade shank.  His head is still twisted to the side, of course, but when I look down, I can see the wide, shocked edges of his eyes as he tries to peer at me.

 

“Shh, shh,” I whisper, grinning, and apply more pressure to the screwdriver, “Enjoy the pain asswipe; you’ll be dead in minutes.”  There’s a faint moist crunching sound as the sharpened steel shiv punches through Steve’s inner ear and begins tunneling into his cerebellum.

 

The punk vomits; I’ve destroyed the mechanism that provides his sense of balance and he’s experiencing profound vertigo. He hasn’t stopped holding me, though; as the screwdriver sinks deeper into his skull, Steve clutches me ever more tightly.

 

I look up at Jeff.  “Hey, man,” I call out softly.  He turns and looks at me unwillingly, his large dark eyes reflecting his horror and despair.  “Watch it, man.  Watch me fuckin’ cum up inside yer bro as he dies on my cock.  Watch me fuck his brain into hamburger, motherfucker—it’s so goddam hot.”  I give him my best shark-like grin.  “But don’t worry, dude—I’ll have plenty of spunk left over to hose down yer corpse, too.”

 

The older skateboi moans softly, like he’s not really paying attention.  That pisses me off.  In a couple of minutes, I’ll make goddam sure the fuckin’ faggot is payin’ attention.  He’ll be hangin’ on my every word like it’s life or fuckin’ death—but all it’s gonna be is fuckin’ death, heh.

 

In the meantime, I’ve got the screwdriver halfway into little Stevie’s head.  I’m amazed the high school punkboy is still functional; he’s gotta be suffering some pretty serious brain trauma by this point, but he’s still squirming deliberately, which means someone’s still home.

 

Time for a fuckin’ eviction.  My toes curl, digging the soles of my big black boots into the floor of the van as I brace myself and shove the steel shank in up to the hilt.

 

There’s no resistance; it’s like poking a knife into a mass of scrambled eggs.  And scrambled is the right word; as massive brain trauma makes the little bitch’s colon wrap around my thick, pounding shaft like fuckin’ velvet, I slowly start to churn the metal shaft inside Steve’s skull.

 

I make sure to catch Jeff’s eyes.  Huge as they are, they’re easy to catch; huge and round with shock.  He stares at the horrific scene unfolding in front of him.  Teenaged fear and despair wash off him in waves, his adolescent pheromones filling the heavy, lust-soaked atmosphere in the back of my van—it’s makin’ my cock throb so fuckin’ bad…

 

“Look at ‘im,” I hiss at Jeff, “I done banged yer little bro so hard I fucked ‘im into a retard, an’ he still ain’t made me cum yet.  Worthless fuckin’ faggot—you better get me off, you sack a’ shit, or the pain I put you in will make this look like an owie for mommy to kiss.”

 

I pull out and stand up, my massive manshaft still glistening with Steve’s ass juices.  The young ginger is lying on the floor of the van, his smooth, sweat-lubes body stiff, rigid and trembling.  His teeth are clenched, his eyes rolled back in his head—and his cock his hard and dripping.  He’s not dead yet; his heart is still beating and he’s still breathing, independently if irregularly.

 

But I’ve left the screwdriver buried in his head, the orange-and-blue plastic handle protruding incongruously from his ear.

 

I cross over to Jeff and uncuff him; the hardbodied skateboi sinks blubbering to his knees.  As he curls up, I bend down and rip off his shirt, then jerk him up and yank off his shorts.  He falls back to the floor as I toss them aside.

 

“Get up, pansy-ass,” I snarl and give the fucker a swift kick.  The impact of my steel-toed boot on his flank elicits a grunt and then—amazingly; I thought the asshole was too scared to speak—a reply.

 

“I—we ain’t no faggots” Jeff manages to gasp between broken sobs, tears accumulating on his long dark eyelashes.  Fuck, that’s so sexy.  He needs to cry more.  He deserves it, the fuckwad.

 

“Yeah?  Sez who, you?” I chuckle.  “Dude, yer gonna be suckin’ yer bro’s dick here in a second.”

 

“Fuck you!” Jeff yells in an access of fury, spitting at me.  A nice sharp backhand gets a yelp from the skatepunk and puts a stop to his pussy little rebellion.  “No, no—fuck you,” I reply calmly, “But first, wrap yer fuckin’ lips around your brother’s dick, cocksucker, or I’ll fuckin’ kill yer ass right now.”

 

There’s a knife I keep stashed in the back, a long, serrated hunting knife that just holding gives me an erection.  It’s one of my favorites, although I’m not using it today.  Jeff doesn’t know that, though, so when I brandish it, he gets quiet and pale.

 

“Down on yer knees, fairyboy,” I command and he does it.  Stupid fuckin’ asswipe.  He’s looking right at his brother’s tool—it’s standing straight up, more than six inches of vein-wreathed cockmeat, pulsing and oozing precum.  Still holding the knife, I circle around and kneel down by Steve’s head.

 

“Now put it in yer mouth, cocksucker,” I demand coldly, “Open wide and gulp it down.  I wanna see you chokin’ on yer brain-dead bro’s dick.”

 

Jeff blanches and gags, then swallows heavily.  “Get that fuckin’ dick down yer throat now!” I yell and the teen punk holds his breath and deepthroats his half-brother.

 

I lean forward and shove Jeff’s head down with one hand.  With the other, I grab the handle of the screwdriver and start churning Steve’s brain matter into pudding again—only this time, I’m aiming for the mass of cells that control the pleasure center of the brain.  It takes seconds to mince that section, shorting out the dying kid’s nervous system and inducing a hyper-extended orgasm that wouldn’t have been physically possible in the course of normal sexual function.

 

The red-haired skateboi literally floods his brother’s mouth with hot teen spunk.  Jeff’s on his knees, between Steve’s smooth, firm, still-twitching thighs, looking right at me as his bro unloads down his throat.  As he pulls his head up, gagging and choking, a thick wad of jizz slipping out of his mouth, the brain-dead meat just keeps spewing into the open air.  Damn, I’ve triggered a geyser.

 

I feel like I wanna do the same myself.  “Time to saddle up, Jeff, my balls need drainin’ too,” I mutter, rising to my feet, knowing the dark-eyed skaterboi with the knit cap can’t hear me—he’s too busy retching up his brother’s semen.  Steve jerks violently as a brief rain of semen falls in the van, then goes quiet–but not quite still.

 

But I have the other cunt to deal with.  Let’s see, what do I wanna use to off this fucker?  Lessee—oh yeah.  This’ll fuckin’ work.

 

As Jeff leans forward and, still gagging, gets on his hands and knees to rise, I jump forward and mount him doggie-style, plugging my big thick tube of manmeat up his tight little boyhole before he has a chance to resist.  I punch past his sphincter like a jackhammer and am buried balls-deep in his ass, my massive jizz-filled sack slapping against his scrote, before it even registers that he’s been violated.

 

When it does, he shrieks, and for a moment I devote myself to pure physical pleasure.  I wrap my hands around Jeff’s torso from behind, fondling his pecs and nipples, feeling his firm, boyish chest heave in anguish and his smooth skin grow slick with cold sweat squeezed from his youthful frame by pain.

 

Then I wrap the bungee cord I picked up around his neck and pull it tight, garroting the skatepunk from behind as I fuck him like a bitch.

 

In his sudden confusion and panic, Jeff collapses.  The sudden cessation of air can cause intense focus as a rational man plots his defense.  Dumbass faggots like Jeff, though, just kick and die.

 

And that’s just what the dumbass faggot is doin’ right now, with my cock wedged up his ass.

 

“That’s it, motherfucker, keep fightin’ it,” I whisper encouragingly into the teen’s ear, “The harder you fight, the better you work my cock.”

 

Jeff struggles beneath me, his strong, wiry body thrashing violently.  It’s more than the usual panic—oh yeah; he’s just realized he’s gettin’ assraped on top of his brother’s corpse.  If the little cunt is dead yet, that is.  Fucker’s still twitchin’.

 

I don’t care why; it just feels good.  “That’s it—ya like that, huh?  Ya like the thought of a real man takin’ yer worthless punk ass out, huh?  Fuck, you goddam sack a’ garbage, keep milkin’ my shaft!”  The elastic cord stretches in my hands, but from the corners of my eyes, I can see how the tats on my bulging biceps seem to swell as I cinch the cord even tighter around the young boy’s neck.  It’s sunk so deep into his flesh it’s barely visible.

 

He’s trying to talk, the motherfucker.  “Gh! Ng! Ng! NG!!” he grunts thickly, clawing at his throat, like that’s gonna do any good.  “You stupid fuck,” I laugh at him, ramming my pulsating shaft into his ravaged colon, “Keep tryin’ to pull it away, dipshit, it’ll keep ya busy as ya die.”

 

He reaches behind himself with one hand, awkwardly trying to reach me; it’s an utter failure, of course.  He’s twisting his head violently from side to side like it’s somehow gonna magically give him air; in the process, he dislodges his knit cap, revealing near shoulder-length russet hair, stringy and matted with desperate sweat.

 

Again, my boots are planted wide for traction.  Between them, skatemeat’s Osiris hightops are drumming frantically at the floor of the van.  He’s not just twisting his head now, he’s thrashing it, flinging foamy streamers of drool as he kicks and flails  and slowly strangles to death.

 

Just like his worthless brother, Jeff’s brain is dying.  I can feel his firm young body become less controlled in its movements at it struggles beneath my hard, muscular form, the teen’s slick, sweat-lubed skin sliding easily against my own furry flesh as the cunt dies with my cock inside him.

 

“Jeez, ya fuckin’ useless piece a’ meat, ya didn’t get me off either,” I mutter, tightening the cord—and then there’s a loud crunch, and the cord gives way as I crush Jeff’s esophagus into a wad of bleeding gristle.

 

The reaction is immediate; Jeff’s ass grabs my dick and begins to jack me off like that was its original design.  Under me, the docile, brain-damaged skaterboi suddenly erupts into a physical frenzy—motherfucker convulses violently, his young, strong body suffering extended death throes.

 

It feels so fuckin’ good, the way his dying, oxygen-deprived brain makes his body jerk and flail, as if the whole point of his death is to earn my load.  And it is, really.  So I give it to him, grunting and beating on his smooth, bare back, as I pump what feels like quart after quart of searing hot manseed into the teenaged faggot’s guts.

 

I spend a few moments on top of the fagmeat pile, my cock still sunk in Jeff’s ass as Jeff’s corpse drools out onto Steve’s still-trembling form.  I need to catch my breath, and it’s warm and moist and cozy up here.

 

After a bit, I get back up, tuck my still-pulsing manshaft back down the leg of my jeans, and slip my shirt back on.  Heading up to the front of the van, I do a quick recon and make sure the coast is clear before dumping the meat.

 

I dunno if these two fuckers built this place or if they had help, but there ain’t no one else around, and that’s perfect.  I open up the back and drag Jeff out.

 

There’s a halfpipe in the center of the park. I seat him on the ground leaning back against it, his head tilted back into the bottom of the pipe.  Then I drag Steve over.

 

It was seeing all that cum of Steve’s glazing Jeff’s face that gave me the idea.  I drape Steve into the pipe facedown and plug his dick in Jeff’s mouth.  Retreating five yards, I examine the tableau for effect.

 

Two teen boys, nude except for their skate shoes—one seated on the ground, legs spread, the other leaning over him into the halfpipe, getting a BJ.  It’s perfect.  You need to get real close to see that they’re dead.  If they are; gingerfuck still seems to be quivering. I thought he’d be goin’ stiff by now.

 

I’ll toss their clothes and boards into that canal I passed.  Think there was enough water and a  fast enough flow to confuse things whenever they’re found.  I gotta go, but I’m gonna be paying close attention to the news.  I love it when they linger on the artistic touches I give to a kill.  I not a butcher, for fuck’s sake; I take pride in my work.

 


 

News item, dated next day:

Two teenaged youths, half-brothers from the same household, found attacked and sexually assaulted on abandoned property used as skate park by local youths.  Jeff Lansing, age nineteen, was reported dead on arrival at Montgomery County Hospital.  Steven Lansing, age eighteen, was reported in grave condition upon arrival.  Sources report the surviving victim has suffered such severe brain damage that he has been placed on full life support and is not expected to recover.

Immediate response from the authorities has been to demolish the unapproved skate park.  A representative from the sheriff’s department told this reporter that…

The Road Best Not Taken

“A shortcut?  Down here?  Naw, I don’t think it’s safe.”  Ben peered down the dark alley that Ethan had indicated.

 

“C’mon, man, what—are ya chicken?” Ethan teased.

 

They were walking home from Club 69, their favorite bar.  Ethan was eighteen and Ben was a little older at almost twenty.  It had been lust at first sight between the two twinks and they were inseparable.  They were walking back to small apartment they shared since Ben was unemployed and couldn’t afford a car—and Ethan had lost his license due to a DUI when he was still living with his parents.

 

In other words, they were typically heedless young faggots, more concerned about style than substance.  They made sure they had decent clothing and enough money to pay the cover fee at the club; after that, they always managed to get other guys to buy them drinks.

 

Ethan was slim and lithe, not scrawny.  His lean body was dressed to attract attention, from his cropped t-shirt that read “Daddy’s Boy” and revealed several inches of his smooth, flat belly above the waistband of his black skinny jeans, to his Steve Madden Riot black and gold hightops.  Even his sculpted, ash-blond hair seemed to draw the eyes.

 

Ben was slightly taller than Ethan and had a more average build.  He had a clear oval face and large dark eyes under a carefully disheveled mass of chestnut curls.  He sported a short-sleeve t-shirt hoodie in a shiny, tight-fitting material over a pair of skinny jogger pants in pale blue denim, with a white stripe down the sides.  On his feet were a pair of Chuck Taylor “Hidden Heart” Converses.

 

With their eye-catching gear and “fuck-me” looks, neither twink had encountered any resistance in getting others to buy them drinks.  By the time the bar closed, neither one was really sober enough to make good decisions.

 

Which was why Ben made the worst—and last—mistake of his life and overrode his objections to Ethan’s short cut.  Not that he didn’t bitch about it, of course.

 

“Man, this place is nasty,” he whined as they picked their way through the alley, “Smells like piss, too.  How d’ya know it’s ok?  You been down here before?”

 

“Sure,” Ethan replied nonchalantly, “Gave a dude a blowjob down this way last year.  They wouldn’t let me into the club–said I was too young, so I hadta wait outside.  So this one dude comes out—”

 

“Where’s this lead to?” Ben broke in nervously.

 

“Well, lessee, we turn this corner here, and there’s another alley for a coupla hundred feet, then another turn an’ yer out on Anderson Avenue. What’s wrong with you, dude?”

 

“There are stories about this neighborhood, man—ain’t you heard ‘em?  Some kinda Nazi gang or some shit like that.  Like gay-bashin’ an’ shit.  I just don’t like it, that’s all.”

 

“Aw, I know what you need,” Ethan grinned and grabbed Ben’s hand.  “C’mere,” he said, dragging Ben around the corner.  This stretch of alley was dimly lit; the view down its length was impeded by dumpsters and trash piles.  The blond twink pushed the dark-haired one up against the wall and kissed him deeply, their soft lips pressed together as their tongues explored each other’s mouths and Ethan’s hands fondled the steadily-stiffening bulge in the crotch of Ben’s jogger pants.

 

“What the fuck do we got here?  Coupla faggots?  On our turf?”

 

The harsh, jeering voice froze the twinks’ blood; it was simultaneous with the blinding beam of a flashlight pointed straight in their eyes.

 

“Hey, Jack, whatcha think?”

 

Jack stepped forward into the circle of light; it took some blinking, but Ethan and Ben were able to focus on him.

 

Jack was older than the boys; it wasn’t clear by how much, but it didn’t matter.  He was buff and athletic, his broad chest stretching out the cotton “Gold’s Gym” t-shirt he wore.  His muscled forearms and massive biceps were covered with tattoos, far too many to take in at once, but Ben noticed several swastikas and his heart sank.

 

Jack’s Levis were tight and torn, showing that he had thick, powerful legs to match his arms.  Below the knee, the jeans vanished into a pair of green 20-hole Doc Martens.  But it was it was Jack’s shaved head that confirmed the image.  Except for the fringe of a dark beard across the hard line of his jaw, the man standing before the twinks was a skinhead.

 

He crossed his arms and sneered at them.  “Oh yeah, they’re faggots, all right.”

 

“Look, man, we were just takin’ a shortcut!” Ethan cried out.

 

“Yeah, dude, we-we don’t want any trouble,” Ben stammered.

 

Jack’s sneer grew broader.  “Wee-wee?  Yer gonna fuckin’ wee-wee when I get done with you.  You two faggots made a big mistake.  We’re takin’ this neighborhood back from worthless fucks like you.”

 

“Aw, man, cut us a break—” Ben started, when, with no warning at all, Ethan whirled and bolted.

 

“Ed!  Frankie!  On ‘im!!” Jack barked and two fit, burly dudes shot out of the dark, grabbing Ethan—one by the arm, the other by the hair—and dragging him back into the light.

 

Ed was the oldest of all of them, with buzz-cut hair the same ash-blond shade as Ethan’s.  His large nose had a noticeable hump showing that it had been broken in the past and was a legacy of the decade the Aryan thug had spent on the semi-pro boxing circuit.  His hard, powerful torso was barely contained in his white cotton wifebeater, but he’d otherwise gone with the traditional skinhead look of rolled-up acid-washed jeans over oxblood Doc Martens.

 

Frankie hadn’t jumped on the Doc Marten bandwagon; he’d kept his military-issue combat boots when he was discharged.  He’d also kept his fondness for camo utility pants, tight khaki t-shirts, and his crewcut hair, his one concession to civilian life a carefully-shaped goatee.

 

Between them, the muscle-bound Nazis held the twink helpless.

 

“Hank, you and Mike set that light down so we can see what’s goin’ on—then grab that other one, got it?”

 

The flashlight was settled somewhere nearby, illuminating a broad swath of filthy alley pavement and graffiti-covered brick wall.  Two buff men, one in a plain white cotton t-shirt, jeans with suspenders and red 8-hole DMs and the other in a black t-shirt with the legend “These Boots Were Made For Stomping”, tight, stained jeans, and black steel-toed engineer boots.

 

All of them had tattoos on both arms.  Neither Ethan nor Ben noticed, but Hank and Mike had a teardrop tattoo by their eyes.  Ed had two.

 

Hank and Mike dragged Ben to one side.  One of them—Ben wasn’t sure which—grabbed a handful of his thick chestnut hair and jerked back, forcing his head up so he had to watch what was happening in front of him.

 

And what was happening was nightmarish.

 

As Jack stood with legs spread and arms folded, Ed and Frankie forced Ethan down onto his knees.  After some swift maneuvering, Frankie was left crouched behind Ethan, holding him down.  Ed stood up and, after some pre-arranged signal with Jack, stepped off to the left, out of the light.

 

“See, you sick fuckin’ perverts are pollutin’ our pure American way of life,” Jack said, his contempt dripping from his words.  “We’re gonna waste all a’ you worthless fucks—niggers, spics, chinks, faggots, libtards—all a’ ya, hear me?  Fuckin’ sick-ass motherfucker!”

 

Ed had returned by now, handing a long, narrow object to Jack.  It took Ben a moment to comprehend what he was looking at: a baseball bat wrapped with rusty barbed wire.

 

Ben almost lost control of his bladder.  Ethan did lose control.

 

“Hey, lookit—the little fag pissed himself!” Jack guffawed; he was joined by all the Aryans.

 

On his knees, Ethan began crying.  “Please,” he sniveled, “please don’t hurt me, man.  I’ll leave, I swear, I’ll go and never come back—” His voice dissolved into broken sobs.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, beg for yer worthless life,” Jack jeered.  Like all the gang, he was straight—but like all the gang, he knew the erotic rage of completely owning a faggot.  They had plans to get some pussy later on—but fuck, here was some fag pussy, theirs for the taking; why not drain a load?

 

He massaged his stiffening dick with one hand as he looked down at the overpowered fairy.  With the other, he hoisted the bat.  “Sick goddam fuck,” he growled, “Don’t fuckin’ deserve to live.”  He swung the bat at Ethan’s side like he was aiming for a triple play.

 

Ethan’s shriek of agony as barbs of rusted steel shredded his smooth silky skin echoed in the close confines of the alley but was lost in the background of general city noise.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” Ed cheered; Frankie’s “Aw right, man!” was followed up by expressions of approval from Mike and Hank.  Ben turned beseechingly to the hardbodied Nazi thugs pinning him down, but there was no trace of mercy.  On the contrary; both men were obviously getting sexually around by their sheer dominance and ability to inflict pain on the faggots.

 

Ethan sobbed and cried, clutching his damaged flank.  The blow had been hard enough to break two ribs; they ached, but the slashes from the barbed wire hurt more.  “Hey, cocksucker, look up here,” Jack called out.  Ethan glanced up just in time to see him swing the bat again.  This time, he made the mistake of holding up his right arm to ward off the blow.

 

The impact of the bat broke Ethan’s arm with a loud snap; the teen queer gasped in shock but before he could react, the barbed wire, slashing across the arm, flayed his skin to the bone.

 

Holding his right arm in his left, looking at his wounds with wide, shocked eyes, Ethan screamed.  Frankie let go and backed away, letting the mauled youth rise shakily to his feet.

 

For a moment, Ben thought he was going insane.  Jack had reached down and unzipped his fly, letting his thick tube of manmeat fall out.  Then the Nazi spoke.  “So ya like dick, do ya, motherfucker?  You only had fag dick, cocksucker.  I’m gonna letcha see what real mandick feels like before you die, asswipe.”

 

As Ethan gaped at him, Jack swung the bat again, catching the eighteen-year-old fagboy directly on his left knee with a crunching sound.  Ethan shrieked in agony again and crumpled to the ground, a heap of bleeding boyflesh.

 

And that was exactly what the gang of predators was looking for.  Gender didn’t matter, what mattered was proving their physical superiority over their victims.  They’d have done the same to, say, a group of Asian schoolgirls.  They were men, they were hard, and they were gonna prove it, literally.

 

“Strip him,” Jack commanded.  Ed and Frankie, both with visibly erect cocks, stepped forward and began jerking Ethan’s clothing off.

 

“Stop it!” Ben cried, finally summoning the strength to overcome his fear.

 

“Shaddup, ya homo sack a’ shit!” Mike snarled and punched Ben in the stomach.  Ben couldn’t see the brass knuckles Mike had managed to slip on, but he damn sure felt them.  Both men tightened their grips on the young pansy as he shuddered in pain.

 

When his vision cleared again, Ben was looking on a scene straight out of Bosch painting.  Ethan, stripped down to his black and gold hightops, was getting stomped repeatedly by three muscle-bound Nazi thugs with big boots.

 

The teenaged faggot thrashed and jerked on the grimy concrete, desperately trying to avoid the continuous pounding of thick boot soles on his tender skin.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” Frankie spat out, his erect cock already oozing with his sense of power, “Ya like rough trade, ya cum-sucking fag, huh?”  He slammed his combat boot into the kid’s solar plexus, making the boy curl up reflexively around his foot.  “That fuckin’ rough enough for ya?”

 

“Naw,” Ed jeered, “But this is.”  With his big thick cock swinging wide, he kicked Ethan in the jaw, breaking it with a loud crack.  The punk was splayed out on his side with the impact, moaning incoherently.

 

“How’s that feel, ya fuckin’ homo pervert?” Jack asked as Ed chuckled and stroked his hard shaft.

 

“Stop!” Ben yelled again, his voice quavering with tears, “You’re gonna kill ‘im!”

 

All five booted thugs laughed derisively.  Hank grabbed Ben’s chin and twisted the boy’s head to face him; the fag could smell the beer that came off the Nazi’s breath in thick, yeasty waves.  “That’s right, motherfucker.  Best way to make sure you stupid faggots don’t ferget yer lesson is to beat it into ya!”

 

As he and Mike laughed, he kneed Ben in the groin.  The kid groaned and tried to collapse but the vicious thugs held him up and continued to force him to watch Ethan’s suffering.

 

By now, the nearly-nude teen homo had rolled onto his belly and was crawling on the pavement, attempting to escape his punishment.  “No you don’t, you little asswipe,” Jack snarled and slammed his boot down on Ethan’s back.  Before Ben realized what was happening, Jack, Ed and Frankie had all surrounded Ethan and were brutally stomping him.  “Fuckin-A!” Frankie barked, grinning and erect with white pride, “Ya worthless piece a’ shit!”  Ed, his fists gripped tight, pounded his red DMs on the boy’s bare back.

 

Ben hadn’t realized he’d lost track of Jack until the latter appeared, rearmed with the baseball bat.  Still unable to catch his breath, the dark-haired cocksucker could only moan his protest as the hardbodied Aryan gripped the handle, took a wide-legged stance, and swung the barbed wire-wrapped bat as hard as he could—which was pretty fuckin’ hard, as Ethan learned to his cost.

 

The bat hit Ethan across the small of the back, instantly slashing the smooth skin.  Ben, some ten yards away, heard the crunching sound as several of the pansy’s vertebrae shattered, instantly paralyzing his legs.  Despite the horrific pain of his broken jaw, Ethan screamed; he couldn’t help it.  The sound was more like a squeal, and it clearly enraged Jack.  He shoved the toe of his boot under Ethan’s left shoulder and rolled the sobbing kid over.

 

“Shut the fuck up, faggot,” he sneered, then bent over and spat in Ethan’s face.  Blinking the phlegm out his eyes, the teen peered up at his assailant, his bewildered eyes seeking some clue to this sudden explosion of terror and agony into his life.

 

All he saw was a tall muscular skinhead looming over him, his cock protruding from his fly, erect and pulsating.  And that tall laced green leather boot he was hoisting; at any other time, Ethan would be aroused, but now, looking at the deep, grime-filled tread of the Doc Marten hanging over him—

 

It happened so fast he didn’t see it coming.  “Suffer, ya fucking cunt!” Jack roared and stomped Ethan’s face, driving his boot into the homo’s mouth.  Then he turned away and tossed the bat to the side, gripping his hard shaft and brandishing it proudly like a club as Ethan thrashed, his hightops drumming on the pavement as he gagged on his own blood and teeth.

 

“These baby fags ain’t never had no real mandick,” he chuckled, looking around at the grinning thugs, who all knew what was running in his mind.  “Whaddaya say, boys—wanna show ‘em what real men feel like ‘fore we show ‘em how real men handle faggots?”

 

Given that every one of them already had their dicks out—and there wasn’t one that wasn’t rock-hard and already oozing—the answer was obvious.

 

“Bring him,” Jack said.  Without another word, Ed and Frankie bent down, each one grabbing one of Ethan’s arms.  Following Jack, they dragged the beaten and bleeding sack of fagmeat down the alley.  Mike and Hank came right behind, jerking Ben along in a painfully tight grip.

 

Fifteen yards down the alley, under a dim security light, was a stack of pallets about three feet tall or so.  The thugs threw Ethan onto it face down, his already-slashed chest and belly scraping along the rough, splinter-strewn wood, his young, smooth asscheeks and pink fuckhole splayed out for easy access.

 

Frankie went first.  Planting his combat boots wide, he shoved his thick, glistening tool inside Ethan’s still-clenched asshole.  As Frank’s hard, goateed face snarled with physical pleasure, Ed held Ethan down and Jack rained blows on his face.  Frankie’s thrusts up the comatose fag’s ass were timed by the repeated smacking sound of flesh on mangled flesh.

 

Ben wasn’t left out of the fun; as Hank, his broad chest straining his thin cotton wifebeater, held the slim, boyish homo upright, Mike hunched over and delivered a devastating series of punches to his mid-section in sets of three.

 

“Fuckin’ (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) goddam (WHAM, pause to re-adjust brass knuckles) piece (WHAM) a’ (WHAM) shit! (WHAM)”

 

The Nazi emphasized his hate with an impact so hard it tore Ben’s liver.  Hank suddenly let go and the gasping, moaning twink sank to the pavement, clutching his battered abdomen, feeling, but not understanding the mortal ache inside.  Just past the Aryan in the jeans and black leather boots, he could see that Frankie was finishing up with Ethan.  The hulking skinhead gave a loud, inarticulate cry and shuddered violently.  He remained bent over the trembling form of the limp homo, then withdrew his still-leaking shaft.  Stepping quickly to one side, he let Ed in.

 

The older man’s cock wasn’t quite as long as his predecessor’s had been—but it was considerably thick.  He smirked, his masculine face, with its broken nose, betraying a kind of malicious triumph as he spat into his hand and smeared the spit onto the head of his dick.  He kicked at the boy, his steel-toed DM’s leaving dark bruised on the kid’s calves, but there was no response from Ethan.

 

The eighteen-year-old twink had suffered too much head trauma.  The bleeding in his brain was too severe.  Ed sank his fireplug dick into a human vegetable.

 

Ben knew what was happening.  He knew how this was gonna end.  In a way, he envied Ethan—the lucky fucker wasn’t feeling any pain.  Reaching behind him, he clutched at the brick wall and tried to pull himself up.

 

That was when Hank showed back up with the bat.  To Ben it seemed to happen in slow motion, but he couldn’t stop it.  The Nazi strongman swung low, like he was teeing off a golf swing, and took out Ben’s left knee with a sickening crunch.

 

As Ben fell shrieking to the ground, Hank lifted his boot and pounded it down into the kid’s face, hard, twice.  There were a couple more crunching sounds, but Ben stopped screaming.  He was too busy coughing up blood and teeth.

 

As Ed kept grunting and pumping on one side of the alley, Hank and Mike quickly stripped Ben of his jogging pants and peeled off his tight shirt; like Ethan, except for his Converses, he was left nude and bleeding on the other side of the dark, reeking passageway.

 

Unlike Ethan, Ben was still conscious.  He was aware of being dragged over to the stack of pallets and being tossed across it.  Turning his head and opening his eyes—reluctantly—he found he was looking directly into Ethan’s face—upside down.  He’d been placed on the opposite side from his boyfriend.

 

There was nothing left that Ben could recognize; he was looking into bloody pulp.  Even those beautiful eyes were gone, rolled back into the skull so that only blood-streaked white slits showed under the bruised, swollen lids.

 

Then there was a dick inside him.  That sudden, that fast.  No preparation, and especially no lube.  Despite a broken jaw and multiple missing teeth, Ben squealed like a stuck pig.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” he heard Mike grunt behind him, and he knew whose swollen manhood was plugging his colon.  Through tear-streaked eyes, he looked past Ethan’s face and saw that of Jack, who was still pinning the brain-damaged teen down across from him.  “Now yer gettin’ ta see what a real man feels like, motherfucker—you should be fuckin’ thankin’ us!”

 

At that moment, a shudder ran through Ethan’s limp body.  Ed, his hard, muscle-bound body glistening with sweat, cried out, “Fuck!  Gonna cum—FUCK!”  As he snarled and unloaded, there was a sudden acrid scent and a trickling sound.  Ethan had lost control of his bladder, piss spattering his hightops.

 

Ed pulled out, gasping and shaking as Frankie took over from Jack and Jack stepped back to fuck Ethan.  He went last because his dick was the largest.  He was notorious for it; after he banged a chick, she was too reamed out for anyone else.

 

“Hey, man,” Ed warned, “I think that one’s dead.”

 

“So what?” Jack leered, “A hole’s a fuckin’ hole.”  Closing in on the corpse, it took him a moment or two to mount it; despite being slack in death, Ethan’s sphincter was still too tight to handle Jack’s cock.  The skinhead had to apply some pressure; then he felt the dead flesh tear and sighed with pleasure.

 

“Aw fuck yeah,” he grinned, looking Ben directly in the eyes, “Best kinda faggot there is—a dead one, servicin’ my rod.”

 

Behind and inside him, Mike was pumping faster and faster; despite being barely conscious from pain and terror, Ben could feel the constant grinding on his prostate—and how it was slowly forcing an erection on him.  He wasn’t the only one.

 

“Hey, bro, th’ little fuckin’ faggot likes it!” Hank jeered loudly.  “Lookit this shit—he’s fuckin’ hard!  Hey, Mikey, you a fag?  Cause it looks like yer doin’ it right—haw!”

 

With a roar of rage at the taunt of his sexuality, the powerful thug grabbed a handful of Ben’s hair, jerked his head back and slammed it down onto the pallet.  As he did, he suddenly hunched over and spasmed, then filled Ben’s rectum with searing manseed.  Another jerk and another slam, this one rewarded with the squelching sound of Ben’s nose being broken, brought another hot jet of semen coating the homo’s innards—and then Mike pulled out.

 

Even now, Ben was still awake and lucid.  He knew he shouldn’t be, but he was.  And he felt somehow empty inside, without the Aryan strongman brutally raping him.   It was the last submissive act of despair of a bottom faggot trying to stave off death—and he needn’t have worried anyway.  No sooner was Mike out than Hank was in.

 

Compared to Hank, Mike had been loving and gentle.  Mike needed a hole to fuck so he could cum.  For Hank to cum, someone had to suffer.

 

“Gimme yer knuckles, bro,” he said gruffly as he stuffed his massive tool inside the twink’s violated asshole.

 

The pain in his colon had faded into the background by now, but the sudden hail of blows on his back damn sure didn’t.  With every thrust of his powerful hips, Hank hit Ben, cursing him with each blow.  The fleshy impacts echoed in the alley, along with grunts of “Faggot!  Goddam cocksucker!  Take it, you worthless sack a’ shit, fucking take my dick!”

 

“Aw yeah, fuck that faggot,” Jack grunted, the handsome skinhead’s face twisted with demonic lust and rage, as he plowed his shaft into Ethan’s still-convulsing corpse, “Fuck yeah, dude, beat the fuckin’ homo garbage to death and fuckin’ unload in the cunt’s gut’s!”  As he heaved and pumped, his “Gold’s Gym” t-shirt clung tightly to his sweat-slicked chest, highlighting his massive pecs and large, jutting nipples.

 

Some sick little part of Ben’s mind found itself cravenly attracted to Jack, even as Hank raped him and beat him so badly that his kidneys failed—not that Ben lived long enough to suffer much by it.

 

He did manage to live long enough to take the Aryan’s load, though; the smooth, wiry teen was still conscious and suffering as the skinhead shuddered and moaned, hosing Ben’s guts with hot squirts of semen.  At the same time, Ben became aware that he was alone on the pile of pallets.

 

Jack had pulled out of Ethan.  The teen fag’s body, with nothing to support it, slid off the pile and fell into a filthy puddle like a sack of pigshit.

 

“Hey, Jack, this one’s still alive,” Mike said.

 

Jack, his enormous manshaft still swinging wide and free in the air between his powerful legs, said evenly, “Not for fuckin’ long.  Hand me that bat; I gotta idea.”

 

Grinning with malignant hate, Frankie quickly handed Jack the barbed-wire-wrapped bat.  He watched with almost reverent awe; this was gonna be good.  Jack knew how to fuck faggots up good; that’s why he was the leader.

 

And good, in this case, meant real fuckin’ bad.

 

“Get ‘im up on there,” Jack commanded, indicating the pile, “Up on his back with his legs spread.”

 

Ben’s eyes, wide with terror, vainly sought those of Jack as Ed grabbed a handful of the twink’s hair and his left arm, Frankie the right, and Hank and Mike each of his smooth, firm legs.  Even though they’d all—except Jack—cum within the past few minutes, their hard, strong bodies had enough stamina—and sick hateful lust—for them all to start getting hard again.

 

“Ya like takin’ it the ass, do ya, faggot?” Jack jeered at Ben.  The nineteen-year-old prettyboy—no longer so fuckin’ pretty—tried to beg for his life but was able to force no more than a croak from his ruined mouth, at the cost of excruciating pain.  “Then it’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, cunt, cause I got somethin’ to stick up yer ass that you ain’t ever gonna forget!”

 

Ben didn’t see it coming, either literally or figuratively; it wasn’t till Jack started forcing the bat up his ass that he realized what was happening.

 

It took a while, and a lot of effort.  Ed let Frankie take hold of Ben’s hair and went to help Jack shove.  The pain of his mangled mouth was suddenly nothing; Ben’s nightmarish screams echoed down the alley but the only response they brought was to make his assailants harder.

 

“Fuckin’ suffer, you goddam cocksuckin’ piece a’ shit!” Jack barked, “Scream and die, ya worthless faggot fuck, ya motherfuckin’—aw, fuck!  FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCK!

 

As he ground the wire-sheathed bat into Ben’s ass, twisting it deliberately to shred the homo’s rectum, he suddenly shot a thick ropy geyser of spunk over the nude twink’s body, his pearly manseed splattering across the tortured teen’s heaving form.  Then it was as if someone had set off a signal; as Ed and Jack continued to destroy Ben’s ass, the lithe young fuck was showered in cum by the burly hate-filled thugs surrounding him.

 

If he’d been in a position to enjoy it, it would have been a dream come true for Ben.  As it was, the nightmare went on far too long.  The Nazi thugs managed to get the bat eight inches up Ben’s ass before the fag died of shock, trauma and blood loss.

 

Tucking their dicks back inside their jeans, the boys in the gang slapped each other on the back and complimented each other on their prowess.  There was nothing surreptitious or shameful in their actions; they’d done a good deed by offin’ a couple of baby fags who had no right to exist in a White (real) Man’s world.

 

They left the corpses where they were—Ethan’s, barely recognizable, a huddle mass of fagmeat marinating in a puddle of piss and rainwater, and Ben’s, splayed out on the pallets, the bat still jammed up his ass.

 

They didn’t bother to take the bat.  Bats and barbed wire were cheap, and this one had been up inside a faggot.  They could wash their dicks, but ya don’t wash a wood bat.

 

“Hey, Frankie,” Jack said musingly, “Next time, get two bats—and some long-ass nails.”

Carlos and Nick 6–No Thanks for the Memory

Even in Vegas, it can get cold.  A winter front had moved down from the north, its strong winds sweeping across the Strip and blowing candy wrappers and strip club ads along the gutter.  Carlos was glad it was chilly out; for one thing, it was a break from the constant, oppressive heat.  For another, it gave him a good excuse to wear his leather jacket.

 

The jacket was a black biker jacket; he wore it open, with no shirt underneath, his ripped, furry abs and thick inked pecs on display for anyone who wanted to look.  With his skin-tight black jeans tucked into a pair of Corcoran jump boots—laced halfway up but untied, the tongues hanging out—there were a lot who wanted to look.  The buff, well-built skinhead attracted a lot of covert (and some very obvious) glances as he strolled south down Paradise, a block off the Strip.

 

The aggressive sex killer was alone, horny and restless.  Nick was involved out at the warehouse tonight, editing the video from the last faggot Carlos had snuffed. But the hardbodied Latino knew how to fix his problems, though, and the first step of the cure had him out on the street, literally dressed to kill.

 

It was already past dark, but even on the back side of the huge resorts that face Las Vegas Boulevard, there were still plenty of plenty of bright lights.  Certainly bright enough for Carlos’s muscular form to be seen and admired.  But when his lure was finally bitten at, the nibbler turned out to be an unexpected, and unwelcome, source.

 

“Carlos?  Hey, Carlos, that you, bro?” came a smooth tenor voice, “Hey, man, over here.”

 

The dude was standing no more than five feet away from him, but Carlos didn’t recognize him for a moment.  Then the guy stepped forward, into better light, and Carlos locked onto his eyes.

 

That did it.  Carlos would never forget those eyes.

 

They were beautiful, large and bright emerald green, with long, lush eyelashes and a darkening at the ends of lids as if eyeliner had been applied.  But the last time Carlos had seen those eyes, he was in prison.  Eyeliner isn’t impossible to procure in prison, but this dude wasn’t wearing makeup.

 

He was younger than Carlos, but not by much—about twenty-four.  He was only about five-eight in height, but there was no slackness in his firm, fit body.  His hair was dark and cut short—almost a buzz cut—except for a thick clump of hair on the left side, left long, dyed auburn, and combed back over the top of his head.  His ears were pierced and plugged with black discs—not too big, about 2G in gauge.  Those were new, Carlos noticed.  Under a gray hoodie, half-unzipped, he sported a white cotton t-shirt with a large graphic image on it; it appeared to be an elaborate skull, off-kilter.

 

The punk’s firm, muscled legs were highlighted by a pair of tight camo print cargo pants.  Like Carlos’s they were tucked into his boots, but his were Vasque Arrowhead boots, black and orange.  The overall effect was as eye-catching as Carlos’s own outfit was.  But the eyes, the glittering green eyes, were all the Hispanic psycho needed to see.

 

“Bryan?” he asked blankly.  The dude grinned.

 

Oh yes, Carlos remembered Bryan.  Bryan was in prison for manslaughter as well; he’d convinced the jury that he’d killed the other drug dealer in self-defense—then boasted about it in prison, laughing about how he’d wasted the motherfucker for coming onto his turf.  But that wasn’t why Carlos remembered him.

 

Bryan had raped Carlos.  He’d been one of four guys who’d backed the outclassed Latino into a corner and run a train on him.  Bryan had gone last.  As the other men went before him, he held Carlos down and clamped his hand over his victim’s mouth, jeering and goading the others on.

 

Oh yes, Carlos remembered Bryan.  But he’d forgotten that the asshole had said he was from Las Vegas.

 

“Been back for a coupla months,” the younger man said cheerfully.  “Never thought I’d see you again, dude.  But damn, talk about good timing.”

 

“Huh?” Carlos said stupidly, his brain more or less short circuiting as it tried to find the right was to react to the situation.  As it so happened, Bryan himself sliced right through Carlos’s Gordian knot.

 

“You free right now?” the grinning hipster asked.  He went on as Carlos nodded.  “Gotcher own place, too, yeah?  Cool.  Damn, dude, it’s been two days—I gotta lay some pipe…”  He reached down and grabbed his rod, already tenting the taut fabric of his camo pants.

 

“…and I know you take it up the ass.” He finished up with a jeer in his voice and a leer on his face.  He was making it clear that he hadn’t forgotten Carlos either.

 

And that was all it took to clear Carlos’s troubled mind.  “Sure, I gotta place.  Condo, right back there.  C’mon, bro, I’ll treat ya right.”

 

The leer that had twisted one side of Bryan’s boyish face widened to the other side.  “Fuck yeah, man, I knew it.  Don’t matter if yer a chick or a dude, once ya had summa my cock, yer gonna want more—har!  Happens every fuckin’ time.  G’wan, buddy, I’ll be right behind ya—an’ then I’ll be right in yer behind!  Har!

 

Carlos swiveled around and started walking back up Paradise.  He had the sensation of physically feeling Bryan’s eyes focusing intently on his ass as he walked.  The rage induced by his violent denial of his sexuality was at a boiling point already; the thump of the Latino skinhead’s boots on the pavement drowned out the sound of his grinding teeth.

 

The one thing that gave him any comfort was the pressure he could feel inside his right boot—something long and hard and unyielding.  It was his Bowie hunting knife, the nine-inch carbon-steel blade tucked as usual into its hidden boot sheath.  Just knowing that it was there allowed Carlos to respond to Bryan’s erection in kind.  One of them was damn sure gonna get fucked tonight.

 

Neither one of them said a word on the way back to the condo.  Nothing needed to be said.  The sheer volume of pheromones given off by two physically fit, hypersexed young males filled the elevator with an intoxicating musk.  The silence between them wasn’t broken until they got inside the condo, and even then, the first words said weren’t to each other.

 

The moment Carlos opened the door, he knew that Nick was there—the lights were on.  Nick had a key to the place—he paid for it, after all—but he usually let Carlos know he was coming by.  The only times he didn’t was when he had a new project and was too excited to wait.

 

Nick had been sitting on the sofa, checking his phone, when the door opened.  The moment he heard it, he popped up and started speaking.  “There you are, man!  I been waitin’…anyway, I got this new commission—”  He broke off as Bryan entered the room.  “—uh, you got company…”

 

“This yer, uh, partner?” Bryan asked insinuatingly.

 

“Nick, Bryan—Bryan, Nick,” Carlos mumbled inanely, wondering what the fuck was wrong with himself—he needed to get control of this situation before Bryan told Nick about…about…he didn’t even want to imagine it himself.

 

“I, uh, I guess I can come back later…” Nick said, his voice uncertain.

 

“Yeah, maybe ya better,” Bryan quipped, “Unless, ‘acourse, ya wanna stick around and watch me fuck yer boy here.”

 

Nick paused at this and glanced at Carlos.  “Should I—should I get my camera set up?”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “Do that.”

 

“Yeah,” Bryan said, “Do that.  But I wanna copy.”

 

“Ok, I’ll get it set up,” Nick said, heading towards the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, then turned back.  His large, powerful body was framed by the open space behind it, his broad, hairy torso admirably displayed by a bright red cotton tank top with the Champion logo across the chest.  His elastic-cuffed jogger pants did little to hide his thickly-muscled legs.  On his feet were a pair of bright red Nike Air Force 1 Utility sneakers, the same color as his tank top.  “Gimme five minutes.”

 

“So who’s this Nick?” Bryan asked.  “You didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout him.”

 

“Didn’t know he was gonna be here,” Carlos mumbled.

 

“Who is he, yer boyfriend?  He bangin’ ya when you can’t find no other dick?  Lissen up—he can film but I don’t do no three-ways with dudes.  That shit ain’t cool—”

 

His self-rationalization about gay sex was cut short when Nick re-entered the room.

 

“It’s ready,” the older stud said, brushing his long dark hair out of his eyes.  He hadn’t heard the conversation, but he had no trouble reading the searing light of sexual hatred glittering in Carlos’s eyes.  The sadistic skinhead was already having difficulty maintaining his composure, but he headed towards the bedroom.  “Inside,” he said at the door.  Bryan took it as an invitation to follow, but Carlos had been looking directly at Nick when he said it.  The latter realized it was the ex-con’s explanation for how he knew the guy.

 

The obnoxious punk shrugged off his jacket as he passed through the bedroom doorway.  Tossing it onto the floor, he paused and noticed the view from the huge window.  “Damn, dude—nice!” he said, “Must be some good money in filmin’ dudes fuckin’.  You gotta let me in on some a’ that!”

 

Bryan looked over and saw that Carlos was out of his jacket as well, his elaborate tattoos visible on his broad furry chest.  Grinning, he pulled his t-shirt up over his head and dropped it on top of his jacket, showing off his own ink.  The Iron Cross on his left pec was detailed, but the Confederate flag with the motto “Die, Motherfucker, Die” on his right bicep was clearly an amateur job.

 

The punk was muscular—not in Carlos’s class, but well-built.  He wasn’t as hairy as the Latino skinhead; a single line of fur ran down the center of his chest and his flat, firm belly to vanish below the waistband of his camo cargo pants.  He sat on the bed and began loosening the few laces of his Vasque Arrowhead boots.

 

Neither he nor Carlos knew that Nick had already started recording.

 

“Always wanted video of me fuckin’ a dude—the bitches love that shit,” Bryan boasted as he kicked his left boot off, “Gets ‘em all horny when they see I’m such a stud I c’n dick down both chicks and guys.  ‘Course, Carlos here knows all about that, dontcha, dude?”

 

Carlos stiffened.  No matter what it took, there was no way he was gonna let Nick know what Bryan had done to him in prison.  He could barely admit it to himself—the thought that some other male had cum inside him…

 

“See, yer, uh, friend here and I were prison buds,” Bryan said, smirking at Nick as he slid the other boot off and unbuttoned the waistband of his cargo pants.  “An’ there was this one time me an’ these other dudes got holda him an’—GACK!!”

 

Later, Nick had to replay the video in slow motion to see exactly how smoothly Carlos had squatted, retrieved the Bowie knife from his boot sheath, then whirled and sprung forward, thrusting the tip of the blade into Bryan’s throat.  The razor-sharp steel, held vertically, pierced the unlucky punk’s larynx straight through from front to back, the cartilage that formed his vocal process parting like butter under a hot knife.  The tip of the blade lodged in one of Bryan’s cervical vertebrae for a moment, then Carlos jerked the knife back out.

 

He’d managed to avoid all the major blood vessels and most of the major nerves.  The wound wasn’t fatal, but it was excruciating, horrifyingly traumatic—and left the victim permanently unable to speak.

 

“Goddam, man, what the fuck?” Nick asked, shocked, as Bryan, his eyes huge, clutched at his throat and sank back down onto the bed, making thick, desperate gagging sounds.

 

“Aw, his voice was gettin’ on my nerves,” Carlos said, his expression visibly more cheerful than it had been since he’d gotten home.  “Don’t worry,” he continued, making certain that Bryan could hear his words, “He’ll still put on a good show when I fuck ‘im and finally snuff ‘im.  Gonna take my time with this one.  Hear that, ya sick faggot?  You’re gonna die slow, with my cock up yer ass.”

 

By now, Carlos was standing beside the bed, towering over Bryan as the latter pulled his hands from his neck and stared in horror at the blood on them.  Without warning, the muscular Latino backhanded the youth.  “You thought you were gonna fuck me?!?  Naw, motherfucker, I’m gonna fuck you.”

 

Bryan turned his dazed, uncomprehending eyes up to meet Carlos’s icy gaze.  Their beautiful emerald green, ringed by long and lush eyelashes, set something off in the skinhead’s warped psyche.

 

“No one fucks me!  Ever!!”  He punched Bryan three times in the face, repeated jackhammer blows that Nick caught on camera—not the impacts, but the flexing of Carlos’s thick, powerful deltoid and dorsal muscles and the bulging of his trapezius.  He was still clutching the long Bowie knife in his hand as he pounded the punk’s face.

 

Finally, breathing heavily, he stepped back, leaving the bruised fuckmeat sprawled unconscious on the bed, still in its socks and camo pants, its face swelling and air gurgling in its open trachea.  Nick adjusted the camera, re-centering the field of view on the wounded and trembling ex-con.  He loved it; this was hot as fuck.  It’d bring a nice inflow of cash if Carlos continued to abuse the unlucky motherfucker as brutally as he’d started.  “Damn, dude,” he said appreciatively, “What’d he do to you?”

 

“Nothin’,” Carlos said sullenly, “He din’t do nothin’.  Fuckin’ faggot just thought he was gonna be smart, is all.  But this asswipe needs my dick bad.  An’ he needs it to hurt.  Go get yer handheld, cause when this fuck wakes up, he’s gonna know what it feels like to have a real man inside ‘im.  Get a close-up of his face as he cries like a fuckin’ pussy, huh?  Yeah?”

 

Nick’s huge shaft was already tenting his jogger pants; noticing it, Carlos grinned, then bent forward and began cutting Bryan’s pants off with his knife.  The horny little fuckmeat was commando, of course; Carlos was already expecting it.  Piece a’ shit was ready to stick his cock into anything that came along—it was time to see how well he performed on the receiving end of the proposition.

 

And if he needed a little prodding to perform well—the nine inches of razor-sharp steel that jutted from the hilt grasped tightly in Carlos’s hand would ensure he got the point.

 

By the time Nick got back with the hand-held, Bryan’s camo pants lay on the floor, a pile of shredded fabric.  The Latino skinhead already had his massive dick out, its thick, vein-wrapped girth already pulsing and dripping.

 

“Aw hell yeah, man, time to rock ‘n roll,” Nick chuckled enthusiastically.  “This is gonna be a serious money-maker, right here.  C’mon, dude, lemme see ya make this piece of fagmeat scream.”

 

Carlos didn’t need any encouragement.  As Bryan began to moan and squirm, faint trickles of blood still leaking from the hole in his throat, the buff ex-con serial killer climbed up onto the bed.  Planting his thick-soled jump boots to get the best traction, he grinned maliciously and started to force the engorged purple head of his cock into Bryan’s asshole.

 

Bryan liked to fuck other dudes as a show of dominance; much like Carlos, he in no way thought of himself as gay.  Unlike Carlos, though, he’d never been fucked in the ass.  His fuckhole was tight; despite the slick coating of precum acting as lube for the Hispanic stud’s shaft, it was still a struggle for Carlos to mount and fully penetrate his semi-conscious victim.  He had to force it, brutally, and the horrific, searing pain of his sphincter being torn forced Bryan back to full awareness.

 

He screamed.  It was nightmarish; he was being forced down by this muscular dude and couldn’t escape the agonizing sense of being impaled, so he screamed and screamed—but no screams came out.  All Bryan was able to do was croak and gasp as his severed vocal cords fluttered uselessly in his punctured larynx.  A fine mist of blood was aspirated from the wound with each attempt; Carlos noted it with pleasure.

 

“Hey, Nick!  Dude, you gettin’ his neck?  See that?” he asked, then spoke to Bryan directly.  “Hey, ol’ friend, ol’ buddy, you tastin’ yer own blood yet?  Huh?  How’s that taste?”  He thrust his hugely swollen member deep inside the prison rapist’s guts, grinning maniacally as Bryan’s face twisted with excruciating pain.

 

“Hurts, don’t it?” he whispered—not so quietly that Nick couldn’t hear him— “Hurts when you don’t want a fuckin’ dick up yer ass, yeah?  Guess what, bitch, it’s about to hurt a lot fuckin’ more.  You’re gonna die ridin’ my cock, an’ I’m gonna make goddam sure you die hard—and slow.  Yer gonna be praying I cum in yer guts, motherfucker, cause snuffing yer worthless faggot ass is what’s gonna make me blow my load—and death is the only thing that’s gonna end yer sufferin’.  Get it now?  Ready to get fucked to death?”

 

The question was rhetorical; even if Bryan had been physically capable of speaking, his beautiful eyes, wide with blank fear and ringed with gray, showed his state of insensibility.  As Nick zoomed in on the young punk’s face, it was clear that the kid was going into shock.  His struggles slowed; his perfect bubble butt ceased to flex erotically on Carlos’s rod.

 

“No ya don’t,” Carlos snarled, “Stay awake, motherfucker!”

 

Raising his knife up, he drove it straight down like a pile driver, plunging all nine inches of sharpened steel into Bryan’s hard, flat, fuzz-covered belly.  Carlos forced it in up to the hilt, powering through the faint resistance of the punk’s rubbery intestines.  The blade sliced between the floating ribs in the back and completely penetrated the pain-wracked youth, its tip embedded in the mattress beneath him.

 

As Bryan kicked and writhed in agony, Carlos grunted with sexual pleasure.  “Fuck yeah, that’s it—clench that ass and work my fuckin’ dick!”

 

The ex-con hipster screamed silently, his muscled body suddenly going stiff with excruciating pain as the powerful Latino began to withdraw both his knife and his cock.  Tears trickled from Bryan’s eyes as he felt the hot hard dick and the cold hard blade being extracted from inside his body—slowly…oh, so slowly…

 

Carlos waited into just the tip of each remained inside the quivering punk.  “Watch ‘im,” he told Nick, his face lit with sadistic glee, “Get a shot of the fucker’s face here, when I give it to ‘im good.”

 

Bryan heard him speak, but was suffering too badly to understand what they meant.  Some part of his mind was lost in bewilderment, trying to understand how what should have been an easy fuck had turned into this searing nightmare.  He was totally unprepared when Carlos slammed his huge swollen shaft home, burying it balls-deep inside his former rapist.  Simultaneously, he powered the Bowie knife back in, twisting it in the wound, slashing at Bryan’s soft, tender guts.

 

The boy clutched at Carlos, his fingers gripping the Hispanic skinhead’s broad shoulders as his strong, thick legs, already involuntarily wrapped around Carlos’s waist, tightened like a wrestling move—but it was all done unconsciously, in reaction to the phenomenal torture he was enduring.

 

Bryan screamed and screamed, the wheezing, gurgling sound coming from the gash in his throat making a mockery of his efforts.  Nick had positioned himself to the side of the bed and had zoomed in on the dying convict’s face over Carlos’s shoulder while the latter tormented his prey.  “Lookit that—I think he wants t’ stop!  That right, ya little bitch?  Ya don’t wanna get fucked?  All ya gotta do is say no!”

 

Knocking Bryan’s arms away from his shoulders contemptuously, Carlos rose up on his knees so Nick could get a better view.  He left the knife embedded in the kid’s belly, blood leaking from the wound and the hilt bobbing in the air as Bryan’s sweat-slick abdomen heaved in agony.

 

“Well?  I ain’t hearin’ ya say no—guess that means yer enjoyin’ my dick, huh?  Yeah?  Fuckin’ knew it, ya worthless faggot cockwhore!”  The buff, domineering psycho spat in the suffering youth’s face, then punched him again, splitting his lips.

 

“Damn, dude, yer really gettin’ medieval on his ass,” Nick chuckled; he’d seen Carlos lose it with the meat before, but never right away like this.

 

“Wanna see him suffer,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, his inked skin glistening with sweat as he rhythmically pumped the tortured youth’s ass, “Wanna make goddam sure the faggot knows what it feels like when a real man gets hold of his worthless meat.”

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, rubbing the dark moist spot at the top of the huge bulge in his pants, “Dudes are gonna be lovin’ this shit, man—fuck ‘im up man; tear that cunt up!”

 

It was obvious that Bryan, wallowing in terrified agony, was till able to understand Nick’s words.  Seeing the fresh wave of horror sweep over the punk’s bleeding, swelling face, the buff cameraman grinned and winked maliciously at him, then leaned in over Carlos’s shoulder for a close-up.

 

“Naw, man, c’mon round the side and show ‘em how much the fuckin’ sicko’s gettin’ off,” Carlos jeered, “Bitch likes it rough—hah!”

 

Circling around, Nick saw that Carlos was right.  The muscular Latino was up on his knees with the fuckmeat’s thick, firm legs wrapped around his tight waist, steadily pumping his huge tool into the kid’s traumatized asshole.  The hilt of his knife still protruded from Bryan’s taut, flat belly.  In between Carlos and the knife, Bryan was sporting an erection—an impressive one, given his obvious agony and terror.

 

“Watch this shit,” Carlos smirked.  As Nick zoomed in, the hairy, tatted ex-con grasped the hilt and yanked it out of Bryan’s guts.  As he did, he twisted it slightly so that the viciously sharp serrations carved new channels in the suffering punk’s flesh.

 

Bryan stiffened in horrible torment his face contorted with agony, pink foam bubbling from the wound in his throat as he shrieked, inaudibly and futilely—but at the same time, his hard half-foot of vein-wreathed cockmeat pulsed visibly.  Nick made damn sure his viewers missed no detail as the tortured youth’s erect, throbbing penis started oozing precum voluntarily.

 

“Toldja the fucker was a goddam faggot,” Carlos said, looking Bryan straight in the eyes.  “Aintcha, ya piece a’ motherfuckin’ shit?  Ya want this, dontcha?  Fuckin’ love finally havin’ a real man fillin’ yer guts with all kinda long hard shafts, yeah, you sick fuck?”

 

The nightmarish pain in his guts and his ass had pushed Bryan over the edge; even as his former victim pumped his colon full of cock, the strong young punk was beating on Carlos’s chest, his fists uselessly pummeling the Latino’s broad hairy chest.  He was only barely aware that his own dick was hard, hard and bobbing stiffly with every powerful thrust of Carlos’s hips.

 

“Goddam,” Nick moaned, steadying his camera in one hand as he unzipped his fly with the other, “Fuckin’ meat sure looks like it’s workin’ yer tool good.”

 

“Naw it ain’t,” Carlos sneered.  “Worthless cunt can’t even stroke my dick right.  Think it’s time to tighten up its fuckhole the hard way.  Hear that, bitch?  Know what that means?”  Grinning evilly, the buff, inked ex-con brandished the blade to the panicked, pain-crazed youth flailing desperately beneath him.  “Means it’s time to die, fucker.”

 

Suddenly the muscle-bound serial killer threw himself down, the wiry fur on his hard chest scraping Bryan’s smooth skin like steel wool.  The youth felt the weight of the larger man compress his straining cock between their flat, sweat-slick bellies as his legs, still wrapped around Carlos’s waist, squeezed together involuntarily.

 

Carlos grabbed a hank of Bryan’s long, dyed section of hair, holding the boy’s trembling head still.  He bent down so close that his scruffy facial growth scraped Bryan’s smooth, silky cheek—so close that neither Nick nor his camera could pick up the words the skinhead muttered into his prison rapist’s ear.

 

“You fucked up so bad, dude, so fuckin’ bad,” he whispered, managing to fill his low voice with venom, “Think you hurt now?  Yer gonna die in so much pain, fuckwad.  Get ready, cunt, clench up on my thick hog an’ fuckin’ suffer!”  Then he rose up to give Nick view.

 

The cameraman stroked his own cock as he closed in on the tip of Carlos’s knife, now placed under Bryan’s jaw, then opened the camera’s view back out to get the tatted Hispanic’s cocky, malicious grin.  “Watch this shit, dude,” Carlos said, ostensibly to Nick, but looking directly at the camera, “This is what a real man does to a fuckin’ prison faggot.”

 

With that, he began to slowly, incrementally, shove all nine inches of the blade up into Bryan’s head through the underside of his jaw.

 

What Bryan had endured before was nothing compared to this new agony.  His punctured larynx, his stabbed gut and impaled ass were all but forgotten as sharpened steel slid up through his jaw, parting the tissue like butter until it hit the underside of his tongue.  That was muscle; Carlos had to apply a little extra pressure to pierce it.

 

The hardbodied cameraman was as affected by the near-visible haze of sweat and pheromones as the two males locked together in fatal intercourse on the bed.  Nick’s long, pulsing shaft began to ooze as he captured a visual of Carlos’s right bicep bulging as he powered his knife through Bryan’s tongue, inflicting horrific pain on the writhing punk.

 

Bryan went utterly rigid with agony, his hands helplessly clutching Carlos’s broad shoulders and his tight, firm thighs scissoring the ruthless Latino’s waist.  Carlos shifted his powerful body forward, digging his shiny jump boots into the bed for better leverage as he continued to force his knife into Bryan’s skull.

 

All the unfortunate youth could do was hold on and suffer.  His own strong young body was no match for that of the sadistic skinhead; he’d only been able to rape Carlos as part of a group.  In his single-minded lust, he’d put himself at the mercy of his one-time victim solo.

 

Problem was, there was no mercy, only unimaginable pain.

 

It seemed to take forever.  The knife inched its way up through the roof of Bryan’s mouth, spearing the soft palate.  Carlos had to press hard to force the tip of the knife through the palatine bone; with a satisfied grunt of effort, he cradled Bryan’s head in his free arm and shoved.  He was rewarded with a loud crunching sound as the carbon-steel blade penetrated the agonized punk’s cranium and sliced up through his sinuses.

 

Bryan was conscious throughout the whole process.  There was little space for lucid thought within the echoing confines of his mind; there was nothing left but screaming and soul-searing physical suffering.  And during it all, he held his killer tight, pressing his firm, smooth, shuddering body against Carlos’s, the toes on his sock-covered feet curling in the air.

 

“Oh fuck yeah, that’s it,” Carlos moaned, his hard handsome face taut and sweaty with physical pleasure, “that’s how ya make fuckmeat tighten up—milk my fuckin’ cock, faggot.  Die, so I can fill yer worthless corpse with cum!”

 

The frame of Nick’s camera was filled for a moment with Bryan’s face, filled with anguish and smeared with tears, snot, and blood—the latter trickling from his nose and his split lips.  As the pointed tip of Carlos’s knife speared its way up through his skull, it sliced through the boy’s optic nerves; his bulging, bloodshot emerald eyes suddenly rolled back in his head as permanent darkness swept over him.

 

His ears still worked, though.

 

“Hey, Bry,” Carlos whispered huskily, “I’m ‘bout to fuck yer brain with my blade.  Just a little “fuck you” from our days inside.”

 

With a snarl on his face, the muscle-bound skinhead drove his knife up into Bryan’s head until the tip ground into the inside of cranium.  In a split second, the punk’s frontal lobe had been impaled by a thick steel shank.

 

And in that second, Bryan became meat.  Shuddering, sweating, clenching meat that spent its last few living moments on earth using its colon to stroke Carlos’s long, fat dick to orgasm.

 

“Aw, yeah!” the hairy, inked ex-con yelled, “Fuck! Goddam, gonna blow—FUCK!!”  His powerful, glistening body went rigid as hot manseed boiled over in his balls and was pumped in huge spurts deep into the dying meat’s ass.  The image recorded on Nick’s camera turned out pretty well after a little stabilization editing; the buff, leering cameraman shuddered a little as he spewed thick creamy jets of semen directly into Bryan’s slack, gaping face.

 

Between the entwined males, the quivering boymeat began to spunk uncontrollably.  Despite being in the depths of ejaculation, Carlos felt his one-time rapist’s cum splattering into his belly fur—and the memory of the last time he’d felt Bryan’s jizz, it was inside him.

 

It was too much.  Even as he unloaded in his victim’s helpless corpse, it was still too much.

 

Carlos pulled his dick out of the fuckmeat.  Still shooting, he yanked his knife out of Bryan’s head in a single brutal jerk.  Grabbing the dead boy’s package—still spunking as well, an automatic physiological response to the massive brain trauma—the enraged Latino sliced it all off.

 

Even as he held Bryan’s severed dick and balls aloft, the convulsing organ continued to shoot semen.  “Holy fuck!” Nick cried, sending a solid stream of jizz into the air like geyser.  Incredulously, he recorded Carlos jamming Bryan’s still-leaking dick into the kid’s own mouth, balls-first, so that the livid head protruded from his parted lips, letting the spunk still oozing out trickle down the dead punk’s chin.

 

Carlos shot two more jets of thick, ropy manseed over the mutilated remains of his prey, his chest heaving, the gold chain around his neck glinting in the light as he steadied himself over the kicking corpse.  Breathing heavily, Nick allowed the hardbodied ex-con to slide off the bed; recovering his breath, he lowered the camera for a moment.  For a moment, he centered it involuntarily on the cum-spattered tops of his Nike Air Force 1s, then raised it again, letting it linger over Bryan’s smooth, muscular corpse, trembling in its death throes, blood leaking from the gaping wound between the legs.

 

“And…scene!”  Nick cried enthusiastically, shutting the camera off.  “Jesus, dude, that was fuckin’ intense!  What, did he piss you off?  Bad cellie?”

 

Carlos had managed to catch his breath.  Standing at the foot of the bed, he gazed contemptuously down at the mangled, abused body.  “I didn’t bunk with the asswipe,” he said quietly, his rage momentarily dispersed via orgasm.  “Fucker wouldn’ta lived this long if I had.”

 

He turned and headed towards the bathroom, leaving Nick to plan the clean-up.

 


 

The lugubrious grin on Nuñez’s face let Schweitz know this was gonna be a good one—as in, this was gonna be really bad.  He wasn’t disappointed.

 

“It’s another faggot—” Nuñez started.

 

“Aw, jeez, whyd’ja hafta call me out here on this one?  You know we ain’t got time for this bullshit!”

 

“Thought you’d like this one,” Nuñez grinned.  “As a connoisseur, so to speak.”

 

Schweitz rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress an amused smirk.  “Ok, show me whatcha got.”

 

“This way,” the slim Hispanic cop said, leading his sweating, obese partner to a dumpster at the end of the alley; it belonged to a small-time local casino, whose staff had reported the find.  The body had already been removed from the garbage and was on a gurney, bagged, by the time Schweitz got there.

 

“Open it,” Nuñez said.  The tech obeyed, letting Schweitz get a good view of Bryan’s bulging mouthful.

 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” the heavy-set cop muttered.

 

“Ex-con,” Nuñez said, “Hasn’t been in town long.  We found his parole officer’s card in his wallet; he ID’d ‘im from the tattoos.”

 

“Ok,” Schweitz sighed, “That puts you ahead.  I admit it, that one’s fucked up.  But I still think I can find one even worse before the end of the year.  The faggots do some seriously sick shit to each other.  Now sign off on that worthless cocksucker—haw! —and let’s go grab some lunch.  There’s a new Chinese buffet over on Charleston I wanna try.”

 

“Always thinkin’ of yer gut, aintcha?” Nuñez jeered coarsely.  “Naw, I don’t need no ident number for that motherfucker”—this was to the coroner’s tech, referring to the corpse— “Ain’t like anyone give a shit about some faggot jailbird.”

 

As the cops headed back up the alley, the tech re-sealed Bryan’s stiffening corpse.  He banged it around a bit as he got it back to the van, but, after all, he wasn’t paid to care about some faggot’s abused body, either.