Carlos and Nick 4: Tommy’s Lucky Break

The day after Carlos snuffed the punk handyman, Nick got back from LA.  He’d found a video editing software package he liked, and he was eager to try it out.  By the time Carlos dropped by the office, Nick had already installed it on the system in the back room and was working on something on the laptop in the reception area.

 

“We’re gonna shoot a new vid,” he said, looking up from the monitor as Carlos strode in the door.  “Hey, you changed your look—I like it.”

 

Carlos had been leaving his face scruffy and unshaven for some time now; overnight, he’d trimmed it down until he had a dark, well-defined goatee outlining his mouth and emphasizing his strong chin.  More noticeable, though, was the fact that he’d shaved his head clean.  He’d always kept his hair short, so his scalp was already bronzed by the bright Vegas sun.  It gave the tattooed ex-con a distinct rough trade appeal; he could easily be mistaken for a Mexican gangster thug.

 

“Yeah,” he replied, “I figured this’d draw faggots in like flies.  So we’re doin’ a new snuff?  How much is the commission?”

 

“There ain’t one,” Nick said, grinning.  “We’re doin’ this one on spec.  I just wanna see what kinda performance I can get outta this new software.  Once I put it online, we’ll make plenty of dough anyway.”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “I ain’t worried about the money; there’s lotsa horny fuckers out there who’ll pay a shitload to watch us take out a homo the hard way.  I was just wonderin’ if we had to do another scene with costumes…”

 

“What, you didn’t like that?” Nick grinned.  “That was fuckin’ great.  But no, this is gonna be just a straight snuff—ha!  ‘Straight snuff’—I like that.  I’m puttin’ an ad up now.  Here, take a look.”  He turned the monitor so Carlos could read what he’d typed.

 

“Two top men, fit, muscular, ages 28 & 32, seeking younger sub male 18-22 for video of intimate encounter.  Previous video experience not necessary.  Send photo.”  This was followed by an email address for an anonymous drop box where Nick could retrieve the replies untraceably.

 

That evening Nick dropped by the condo.  Carlos was in the kitchen when Nick walked in and dropped a manila folder on the condo.  “Got one,” he said.  “I printed off the info; take a look and tell me what ya think.”

 

Carlos opened the folder to find himself staring at the face of a young man with stunning electric-blue eyes, a beautiful boyish face and silky black hair.  He wasn’t quite model quality, but a few touch-ups here and there would elevate him to that status.  “Damn,” Carlos replied, “Pretty little faggot—bet he’s already been reamed out, though.  Face like that, though, gotta be kinda dangerous—someone might recognize him.  He’s done other shit, yeah?”

 

“Naw,” Nick grinned.  “It’s perfect.  Kid’s from some Mormon town over the state line, St. George or someplace like that where they don’t like homos.  Only been in town three months.  Here, lookit his bio—he’s only done a coupla softcore shoots, and one of them was straight.  Ain’t no one gonna miss him, but damn, can you imagine what dudes’ll pay to watch us off the pansy?”

 

“And he wants to do this shoot with us?”

 

“You saw the ad, man, he thinks it’s still gonna be kinda softcore.  But I sounded him out—he really wants to do hardcore fag shit, so I told ‘im to come by the warehouse tomorrow afternoon and we’ll see what happens.”

 

From where he was standing, Nick could see the bulge in Carlos’s groin start to swell.  “Yeah,” the inked killer chuckled, “Yeah, we can do ‘im.  How you gonna set it up?”

 

Nick paused for a moment before speaking.  “You know how to work the hand-held, right?  Cause I wanna fuck this one.  It’s been a long time, bro, I wanna feel this kid squirm and die with my cock up his ass.”

 

Carlos broke into a broad grin.  “Go for it, man—as long as I get the chance to beat the fuck outta the fairy.  That prettyboy face is just beggin’ for my fist.”

 

“Dude,” Nick said with a matching grin, “By the time we’re done with him, his own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between him and a pile of ground beef.”

 


 

It was near sunset on the following day when Carlos pulled into the parking lot of the warehouse that Nick used for some of his video shoots; he’d already converted a portioned-off area into a set of sorts, filling it with cheap bedroom furniture—the bed was fully made, covered with an incredibly ugly comforter crocheted from yellow wool; Nick had found it at a yard sale.  He was busy arranging the lights to get the best angles—it was clearly something he’d had prior experience doing, especially in this kinda setting.

 

Carlos never asked, but he was always curious about how many fags Nick had snuffed before they met.

 

“Is he here yet?” he asked as he walked in.

 

Nick was adjusting a tripod with a video camera mounted on top.  “No, but he called twenty minutes ago and said he’d gotten off late and would be over as soon as he showered.”

 

“Don’t bother me none if he don’t shower,” Carlos said.

 

“Yeah, well, he works at a cheap-ass burger joint over on Paradise while waitin’ for his ‘big break’—probably better if he washes the grease off first.”

 

Carlos noticed the dossier with the kid’s info, lying on a table near the door—Nick had brought it along.  He picked it up and idly started leafing through it.  Suddenly he stopped and snorted in laughter.  “Tommy LeBone?  Really?  That’s the name the stupid little shit wants to go by?”

 

“Yeah,” Nick said with a smirk.  “From what I can gather, Tommy is his real name, but he picked the last name because he wanted something to really ‘pop’ in the credits, as he put it.”

 

They both had a good laugh over that, knowing good and well that there weren’t gonna be any credits on the video they were shooting—and the only things about Tommy that were gonna pop were his bones.

 

As they were laughing, the electric chime went off, indicating someone entering the main entrance.  Nick left the room as Carlos returned the papers to the folder.  Knowing what was coming, he peeled the white cotton t-shirt, sticky with sweat, from his furry, muscle-bound torso.  For a moment the collar snagged on the catch of the gold chain around his thick neck, but it soon came free.  Within two minutes, Nick was back, followed by Tommy.

 

It was easy to recognize him from his photo, although it had evidently been taken some time earlier.  His glossy black hair was shorter now, and the bangs were spiked.  He was trying to grow a mustache, but all he’d achieved so far was the effect of a dead caterpillar on his upper lip.  A pair of “diamond” stud earrings glinted on his earlobes; the stones were much too large to be real.

 

The kid was slight but not slim; he was about five-foot-seven or so.  He was wearing a white t-shirt silkscreened with the image of Che Guevara in black.  Below, he sported a pair of sky-blue polyester satin shorts edged in white that hung down past his knees. Further down, his firm calves, dusted with a dark haze of hair, descended into a pair of red and white Nike Air Jordans.

 

“Tommy, this is Carlos. Carlos, Tommy,” Nick said, getting the introductions out of the way and letting Tommy look around.

 

The boy did, and liked what he saw.  He didn’t have much—or, really, any—experience with hardcore video and the setup looked professional to him.  There were two cameras on tripods, and even in his inexperience, Tommy could see that one was for wide-angled shots, while the other could be lifted off its stand and carried about.

 

The two dudes he was gonna be in the sack with were both hotter than fuck, too.  The one guy with the shaved head—he looked downright dangerous, with his bare broad hairy chest, the gold chain with thick links around his neck, his tight jeans and his black harness boots.  He looked kinda mean, too, but for some reason, Tommy found that no less enticing.

 

The other guy, Nick, had short sandy brown hair with a slight curl in it; there was a faint shadow of scruff on his firm cheeks and filling in the dimple on his strong chin.  He wore a black sleeveless t-shirt with the collar torn open about halfway down the chest, revealing a thick mass of body fur in the same sandy-brown shade as his hair.  A pair of khaki cargo shorts was secured at his waist with a thick canvas strap serving as a belt; it had no buckle but was kept taut by being looped through a pair of steel rings.  A pair of yellow leather construction boots, loose and untied, formed the perfect base for his thick, muscled legs.

 

Nick didn’t look as mean as Carlos, but he was incredibly well-built and radiated an air of hyper-masculine power.  Tommy wanted to service Nick badly, but there was something equally alluring in knowing the older man had the physique to snap him like a twig any time he felt like it, and Tommy wouldn’t be able to prevent it.

 

The boywhore was vaguely surprised by the way that this subtle air of sex and danger intensified his own lust, but he was young, horny and shallow, and not into introspection.  He was twenty-two, and although no longer an adolescent, his hormones were still stimulating his balls into seething sperm factories.

 

“So, uh, so whaddaya want me to do?” he asked.

 

“Strip, boy,” Nick commanded, grinning.  He kicked off his boots and peeled off his shirt, letting Tommy get a look as his massive chest and his broad pecs, glistening with sweat, his dark nipples jutting into the air.  The kid was practically drooling with excitement as he yanked off his t-shirt and dropped his shorts, stepping out of them easily with his kicks still on.  Under the shorts, his thick cock and loaded balls were packed into a black and red jockstrap.

 

“Keep that on,” Nick said as Tommy reached down to remove the jockstrap.  “It’ll turn our viewers on to watch ya die—uh, cum with that on…”

 

Tommy didn’t hear Nick’s slip of the tongue.  Carlos had unzipped his fly, pulling his massive, glistening dick out of his jeans.  The boy stood staring, entranced, by the huge tube of manflesh.  “Fuuuck…” he whispered—he wanted it in him so bad.

 

A sound behind him made him turn to see that Nick had shucked off his shorts.  He stood nude in front of Tommy, his hairy, bulked-out body lubed with sweat and glittering under the overhead spotlights.  The randy homo took one look and found himself literally gasping with sexual excitement and anticipation; a dark moist spot formed on the bulge of his jock and grew as the killers watched.

 

They exchanged a quick grin; it was lost on the fag.  They knew he was hooked.  He was theirs to play with and torture and fuck.  He wasn’t getting out of the room alive—and long before death claimed him, he’d be begging for it.

 

“Okay, bitch, get on the bed,” Nick demanded.  “Up on yer knees, boy; I’m gonna fuck ya like a dog.”

 

His dripping dick tenting the elastic pouch of the jockstrap, Tommy hastened to obey.  As Carlos powered up the camera and focused it, the smooth young faggot posed on his hands and knees in the middle of the bed, the delirious smile on his face showing his happiness at finally getting fucked by two real men—and in a porno, no less!

 

Just out of the camera’s view, Nick was at a control panel adjusting the lighting.  He plunged the room into darkness except for a single overhead spot shining directly down onto the bed, illuminating it—and it alone—brightly.

 

“Yeah, that’s gonna look hot,” he muttered to himself before raising his voice.  “You ready to get reamed, boy?”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Tommy moaned ecstatically.  “I want ya both in me!”

 

“Good, cause that’s how we’re startin’,” Nick responded with a smirk.  “After that—well, things might get a lil’…rough.”

 

“Oh yeah,” the boy moaned, wriggling his body like a dog wagging its tail.  Nick approached the bed, his bare feet padding silently across the concrete floor to the section of carpeting laid down for the bedroom set.

 

“So rough, in fact, that Carlos here is gonna have to hold the camera.  I’m gonna want him to get a good close-up when it starts.  Don’t worry, though, he’ll still have plenty of chances to let you feel the power of his muscles—especially those big biceps of his.  You see ‘em?  See those tattoos?  Wanna know where he got ‘em?”

 

With this speech, Nick was almost at the foot of the bed.  Carlos had already started the camera, watching the image carefully.

 

It was perfectly centered on the bed and the bed was hard to lit—harshly spot-lit, with nothing else visible in the surrounding darkness.  On the bed, a slim, smooth dark-haired figure on his and knees, his dick stretching out the mesh of his jockstrap pouch, looked behind him nervously; he was startled by something.

 

He hadn’t realized Nick was as close as he was.

 

From off-screen, the top’s voice spoke in a bass rumble, “He got that ink in prison, boy.  He killed a man.  More than one, in fact.  That do anything for ya?”

 

Nick appeared from the darkness, the dramatic lighting cutting his powerful form into bright glints reflecting from sweat-slick muscles and deep dark shadows, some lined with body fur.  Gold highlights sparkled in his sandy hair.

 

Tommy’s eyes grew wide, but his dick throbbed so intensely it was visible on camera.  He started to rise up on his knees, but Nick was already climbing onto the bed.  “That get ya off, boy?  Ya like ‘em dangerous?”

 

Tommy gulped ominous and spoke with a nervous quaver in his voice.  “That’s, uh, yeah, that’s hot man…and y’all can get rough if ya want, but, uh, just don’t do anything to really hurt me, y’know?”

 

By now Nick was pressed up behind him, his brawny, furry chest against the young homo’s smooth back.  Placing one hand on Tommy’s shoulder and forcing the kid back down to the bed with minimal effort, the strong alpha used his other hand to guide the oozing, purple head of his engorged shaft between the punk’s asscheek directly to his pink, pucker fuckhole.  With malicious glee, he bent down and whispered into Tommy’s ear.  “’Fraid I can’t make that promise, boy.  You’re gonna suffer.  You’re gonna get hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

 

The lithe young pansy blinked his gorgeous blue eyes in confusion.  “What?” he asked incredulously, “What was tha—AAAIIIIEEE!!!”

 

Nick had answered the question by jamming his rod up Tommy’s ass raw, with no lube.  The camera picked up the huge grin on his face. The way the slut’s sphincter had resisted his tool, and then finally gave way, letting him slide all the way in, grinding his wiry pubes against the boy’s round, firm asscheeks, scraping the smooth skin like steel wool—it felt fantastic.  “Fuck yeah,” Nick said, looking directly into the camera (and speaking loudly to be heard over the fag’s wailing), “It’s been too goddam long since I made a faggot into fuckmeat.  Bitch is squallin’ too much, though—Carlos, get over here and shove yer dick down its throat, make it shut the fuck up.”

 

The wide-angle camera was aimed perfectly at the spot-lit tableau on the bed, the boy hunched over on his face, sobbing loudly, the muscular alpha mounting him from behind, thrusting his cock deep in the kid’s ass, then pulling back—but never withdrawing completely—before ramming his rod back in as far as he could.

 

Suddenly, Carlos emerged from the darkness on the left side of the frame, walking towards the bed with his back to the camera.  The warehouse’s metal roof had been baking in the sun all day and the old AC system hadn’t been able to keep pace—beads of sweat were visible, running down the ex-con’s back.   It was impossible to ignore the way his tight jeans cradled his ass or the strong masculine tread of his harness boots on the concrete floor.  As he got to the head of the bed, he turned his profile to the lens so that his enormous, erect dick was obvious.  Reaching down and grabbing a handful of Tommy’s hair, he yanked the kid’s head up off the bed.

 

The youth’s face was streaked with tears and twisted into a grimace of pain.  “P-please,” he begged, stuttering as he tried to make himself understood without crying out in agony, “Pl-please sto-stop…”  He drew another shuddering breath before trying again.  “Th-this…not-not what I wa-wanted…it h-hurts, please, it-it hurts so b-bad…”

 

Carlos reached up under Tommy’s chin, placing his thumb on one side of the punk’s face at the joint where the jaw connected to the skull and his fingers in the same place on the other side.  A brutal clenching of his powerful hand forced the slut’s jaw to pop open involuntarily.

 

“Shaddup, ya fuckin’ perverted faggot,” Carlos jeered and drove his massive dick down the kid’s throat.  Using one hand to keep the meat’s mouth pried open, the killer stud clapped his other on the back of Tommy’s head.  Carlos wasn’t throatfucking Tommy, he was jacking off with his skull.

 

“Whaddaya think?” Nick asked, smirking at the camera.

 

“Whadda I think?” Carlos replied.  “I think this fuckin’ piece a’ faggot shit needs to learn how we handle dumbass homos around here.”

 

“Fuckin’-A, dude,” Nick laughed.  “Only thing better’n a dead fag is one that took a nice long time to get that way.  This piece of meat might live another forty minutes or so—plenty of time for it to die like pathetic garbage.”

 

“I wanna hurt it,” Carlos growled, his rage and suppressed lust vibrating deeply in his voice, “I wanna hurt it so fuckin’ bad, man…”

 

“Aw hell, bro, there’s plenty of meat to go around,” Nick responded.  “By the time we’re done with it, all that’ll be left is a bleeding sack of human meat.  Hey, back off a bit, dude—don’t wanna choke it out this quick.”

 

Tommy had heard the beginning of the conversation with horror, but his attention was soon drawn to the fact that with Carlos’s huge rod plugging his esophagus, he was utterly unable to breathe.  He tried to jerk his head away from Carlos’s hands, but the sadistic killer was so powerful, he didn’t even notice the slutboy’s attempts to break free.  The last thing Tommy consciously heard was the remark about living another forty minutes—death from asphyxiation seemed so imminent that he slipped into panic mode.  It was his frantic thrashing that had called Nick’s attention to his plight.

 

Carlos withdrew his shaft from the cunt’s windpipe, leaving his pulsing, oozing head in the fucker’s mouth.  Tommy coughed and slobbered all over it, weeping desperately as he tried to catch his breath.

 

“Oh god,” the kid gasped, “No…don’t…”

 

Carlos snatched a handful of Tommy’s hair and yanked his head up, staring coldly into the boy’s snot- and drool-smeared face.  “I told ya to shaddup,” he said calmly, then slammed his fist into the youth’s face like a piledriver, hard enough to knock the slut’s head out of his grasp.  “UH!” Tommy grunted as the blow drove his head to one side; as he brought it back up, he spit out a canine tooth in a dazed fashion.

 

“Hell yeah, show the fuckwad who’s boss,” Nick chuckled.  “Hey, dude, go get the camera.  I wanna get a close-up of this.”

 

Carlos turned and approached the camera, his massive hog jutting out in front of him from his unzipped fly.  Nick pulled his cock out of Tommy’s ass, leaving just the swollen head in the cunt’s rectum.  The terrified homo felt the slight abatement in his violent rape, and in a semi-instinctive move, made a break for it.

 

Scrambling like a scaled cat, Tommy dug his Air Jordans into the bedspread and lunged forward, pulling himself off Nick’s tool and off the bed at the same time.  Unfortunately for the panicked queerboy, he hit the ground headfirst with his arms out in front of him; he managed to regain his feet and bolt for the door, but he managed to take no more than two steps before Carlos brutally impeded his progress by decking him in the jaw.

 

Nick had gotten off the bed and was standing beside it, his buff, toned body glistening with sweat under the spotlight; with his enormous raging erection, he was a perfect image of raw masculinity.  He was still aware of the camera, but he wasn’t sure if Carlos remembered it—he didn’t want the ex-con to waste the faggot then and there out of rage.

 

“Send ‘im over here, bro,” he called to the shirtless, booted fagkiller, winking at the camera as he did.  Carlos, his arm pulled back, sweaty, tattooed bicep bulging as he prepared to smash Tommy’s face in—literally—held back the blow.  “Huh?” he asked, looking up at Nick.

 

The hardbodied stud nodded briefly at the camera and Carlos caught on, a wicked grin spreading slowly across his goateed face.  “Sure, man,” he drawled, “Here ya go.”  He gave the slim pansy a hard shove, sending him flying into Nick’s arms.  The latter grabbed the punk with his left hand, drawing his right arm up to his left shoulder and giving the unlucky youth a vicious backhand that split his lips.

 

Grunting in abrupt pain, Tommy wheeled and collapsed halfway onto the bed, but before he could slide limply to the floor, Nick snatched him up again.  “Back atcha, bro!” he called, aiming the kid at Carlos.  He planted his foot on Tommy’s ass and with a swift kick sent him stumbling back to Carlos, who caught the little fuck in the face with his elbow, dropping him to the ground with a black eye.

 

The hairy, well-built convict stooped and grabbed the inert form by the wrist, dragging it forcibly to an upright position.  Tommy, too stunned to defend himself, or even whimper, found himself flung back at Nick, who dropped his arms and let the flying slut slam into his furry chest face-first.

 

The slender fairy bounced off his rapist’s firm, massive pecs like he’d hit a brick wall, falling back to the floor—luckily for him, on the carpeted area—where he lay on his back, writhing in pain and moaning feebly.  Unable to open his bruised eyes to more than just slits, he tried to focus them on the hulking muscled god towering over him.  He could see the thick, firm legs and the frighteningly huge penis that was dripping hot clear drops of precum, but beyond that, Tommy’s vision went blurry.

 

He could hear footsteps, but there was something wrong with his hearing, the sounds seemed to be fading in and out.  There was raucous laughter that at times seemed very far away, but the well-pounded slutboy was very aware of a second pair of legs near him, encased in tight denim and terminating in black leather boots.  Like the other pair of legs, Tommy was unable to see any higher than a fat, dripping cock—although with this one, there was a very faint glint of gold somewhere high up in the distance…

 

In the camera frame, Tommy was laying on the floor, shuddering in agony.  Nick, knowing a good pose when it became possible, drew Carlos to his side and put his right arm around Carlos’s shoulders.  Carlos, already able to figure out what was coming, did likewise with his left arm around Nick’s shoulders.  He placed one boot on Tommy’s flat, heaving belly and with his index finger, little finger and thumb extended, flashed his right hand at the lens, sticking his tongue out and wagging it.  Nick grinned delightedly and placed his bare foot on the mesh pouch of Tommy’s jockstrap, pressing down and making the punk mewl and squirm.

 

“Dude,” he said, “My balls are startin’ to ache somethin’ fierce.  I gotta drain ‘em real soon here, bro—think it’s about time to make us some meat.  Do me a favor and get this subhuman cumdumpster up on the bed, wouldja?

 

Leering, Carlos bent down and grabbed Tommy by the throat, then lifted him single-handedly into the air in a show of brute strength.  Once again, the little slut found himself unable to breathe.  Carlos turned slightly to one side so the camera could get a clear view of the kid.

 

Tommy was flailing, his Nikes thrashing in midair.  The look of bewildered horror on the young homo’s face spoke volumes; it was obvious that the whoreboy couldn’t understand how a hot twofer fuck had become a nightmare of agonizing torture.  Gasping helplessly for air, Tommy’s arms clawed desperately at anything within reach.  One of his hands clutched Carlos’s right wrist in a panic-fueled grip, the other pawed at the buff ex-con, snatching at the thick links of his gold chain before sliding down the sweat-slick expanse of his chest to curl in his chest hair.

 

Then Tommy made a serious mistake—he yanked, tearing free some of the sadist’s body fur.

 

“You goddam motherfucker!” Carlos roared and threw Tommy bodily into the wall, ten feet away.  The kid hit the paneled cinderblock with a wet, meaty thump before bouncing back into the room—and into Carlos’s arms.  Grabbing his throat again, the enraged killer, his intense anger making his face glow, lifted the dazed, struggling faggot into the air and slammed him down hard on the bed.  Wild-eyed, Carlos quickly glanced around and caught sight of a boom—an extendable metal rod for holding a microphone—out of the corner of his eye.  He darted for it, snatching it up and brandishing it; Nick had just enough time to catch him and restrain him before he beat the queerboy to death.

 

“Naw, man,” Nick hissed.  “Chill.  That’s too fast.  The asswipe needs to suffer more, yeah?”

 

Carlos blinked and took a deep breath.  “Yeah, man you’re right.  But fuck, this one needs to learn the real meanin’ of pain, dude.  It’s gotta beg to be put down in mercy before we’re done.”

 

Nick flashed him—and the camera—a shark-like grin.  “Well fuck yeah, bro, that’s the whole fuckin’ point.  By the time we’re done with it, its own mama ain’t gonna be able to tell the difference between it and a pile of ground chuck.  C’mon.”

 

They walked back to the bed.  As they approached, Tommy managed to pry his eyes open.  He was still gagging for air, his body shuddering in pain.  He looked up, vainly hoping for some trace of pity in the faces of his assailants.  Instead, two hairy, muscular killers loomed terrifyingly over him.  The overhead spotlight was blinding; their disgust- and contempt-filled faces were lost in the blur of light—all he could see were thick, bulging muscles, dark patches of wiry body fur and two enormous cocks, each wreathed with pulsing veins and oozing out heavy, viscous drops of transparent precum.  What little air he could draw into his lungs was tainted with mansweat, heavily laden with pheromones and the acrid tang of adrenaline-fueled testosterone.

 

It began to dawn on the helpless little fag that he was in the power of a pair of incredibly strong men.  Real men, who thought he was a worthless piece of shit.  They weren’t going to make love to him; they were gonna use his body however they wanted to in order to empty their cum-filled balls, and it didn’t matter what he himself thought about it.

 

And they were gonna kill him—but no, that couldn’t be happening.  He was only twenty-two; he couldn’t die yet.  They were just trying to scare him.  They were gonna beat him and rape him, but despite everything he’d heard already, he simply refused to believe that he was looking death in the face.

 

Then death bent down and spit on him.  “Hold the meat down while I stick my dick in it,” the big sandy-haired brute said.  “If it squeals, pound the fuck outta it.”

 

The buff, tattooed skinhead with the face like Satan grabbed a handful of Tommy’s hair again and drew back his right fist.  “G’wan and cry, cunt,” he grinned, “Gimme a reason to beat yer faggot face into hamburger.”

 

Within ten seconds, Tommy knew he was getting beaten into hamburger.  It couldn’t be possible, but it felt like the big man’s cock had doubled in size since he put it in last time.  This nightmarish, glassy agony that was slashing at the tender, nerve-rich lining of his rectum, it was like nothing he’d felt yet—he’d only been fucked a couple of times before, but it had felt so good.  This, this was horrific, unbearable, he couldn’t…he tried, but there was no way…

 

Tommy screamed and Carlos, with a single pop to the face, broke his nose.  The punk wailed in agony, his shrill screams underscored by the low rumble of his killers’ cruel laughter.  “This is what happens to stupid little faggots like you,” Carlos jeered.  “You wanted to get fucked, you cumsuckin’ cunt?  Guess what—you are so fucked right now, dude.”

 

“Yeah,” Nick grunted, his powerful, sweaty body heaving as he pumped Tommy’s strained, torn asshole.  “You were just beggin’ for this, you dumbass motherfucker.  The thought of gettin’ double-teamed by two hot studs got yer little fag cock all hard an’ oozin’, huh?  Is it everthin’ ya dreamed it’d be?  Yeah?  Answer me, you fuckin’ piece of faggot garbage!”

 

Tommy’s eyes were blurred by tears and pain; he couldn’t focus clearly on Nick’s face, just inches away from his own, but he could make out the insane mix of hate and lust in his voice, his and the other one…he couldn’t make out the other one…

 

Carlos had gone to get the handheld camera.  He knew it was time for a close-up, even without prompting from Nick—who was enjoying the brutal fuck with such malevolent glee that he wasn’t giving his attention to camera angles at the moment.  The muscular, inked convict made sure he got a good shot of the meat writhing and struggling helplessly under the weight of Nick’s buff, toned body.  He let the frame linger on Tommy’s smooth, firm, slender legs wrapped tightly around Nick’s waist, the whore’s red and black Jordans kicking uselessly in the air.

 

Nick was pinning the kid to the bed, his hands grasping the boy’s upper arms.  With his hulking body pressing the slut down, Tommy was not only trapped, he was almost completely immobilized, able only to twist his smooth body, from side to side, his firm chest and flat belly scraping against those of Nick.  Despite being lubed by a thin film of panicked sweat, the whoreboy’s soft, silky skin was scratched and abraded by Nick’s coarse, wiry chest hair.

 

It hurt.  It hurt so fuckin’ bad—but it wasn’t unbearable anymore.  His sphincter had already been torn, his rectum was starting to relax and accept the enormous tube of flesh buried deep inside it, and although his face was swollen and bruised and he couldn’t breathe out of his crushed, flattened nose, the skinhead wasn’t beating him anymore.  Maybe—just maybe—they’d be satisfied with a violent rape and let him go after…

 

Nick glanced up as Carlos approached with the camera.  “Hell yeah, bro, good thinkin’.  Get a good shot of his face as I wring his fuckin’ neck.”  Turning to look down at Tommy, he spit a wad of phlegm into the tear-stained, horror-filled face.  “Hear that?  Time to fulfill yer purpose.  Time for me to use ya for the only thing yer good for—a meatsack to hold my cum.  I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out on camera and dump yer sperm-filled corpse in a trash bin so you can be hauled off to rot like the rest of the stinkin’, maggot-infested garbage.  Ya like that, meat?  That get ya off?  No?  Then why’s yer little homo dick all hard and throbbin’, huh, fuckwad?  Looky here, guys, the faggot’s gotten its dick outta its jock without even usin’ its hands—fuckin’ perv!” Nick said, rolling to one side so Carlos could focus the lens on Tommy’s thick, pulsing cock—obviously oozing precum; the guilty evidence was matted in Nick’s body fur. The jockstrap’s pouch had clearly been pulled to the side in the struggle. “This one wants it.  It’s gonna squeal and cry like a little pussy faggot, but it knows its place and it’s gettin’ off at the thought of bein’ put down with extreme prejudice by a couple of hardbodies.”

 

Tommy shook his head; it wasn’t a conscious reaction—his mind was blank with panic.  They weren’t gonna let him go.  He wasn’t gonna get out of here alive.  His dreams, his hopes, his plans were all gone; even he didn’t remember them in his cold, soul-searing terror.  His entire world, his entire life, was focused with pinpoint clarity on the next few minutes.  He was a vain, shallow fairy who’d wanted little more than dick and cash in the immediate future, but even he was able to figure out that what he’d already endured was going to seem like a lover’s caresses compared to the suffering about to come.

 

For the first time that evening, Tommy was right.

 

He started shuddering, a scream building behind his lips.  “Aw, man, ya better start soon,” Carlos said.  “If it starts bleatin’ again, I’m gonna break its jaw.”

 

Nick guffawed.  “Dude, you can break its jaw anytime ya want.  Beat it to a fuckin’ pulp as it dies.  Stupid fuck needs to take a long painful ride to Hell.  Long as it lives long enough for me to empty my balls in it, I don’t care how bad ya fuck it up.  But make sure the camera stays on the face.  That’s what the viewers want; they’ll jack off over and over watchin’ it die.”

 

As Carlos shoved the camera into the cunt’s face, chuckling in a cold, merciless tone, Nick let go of Tommy’s arms—and grabbed his neck.  He smiled gently down at Tommy.

 

For one single lucid moment, the hate was gone from Nick’s face and Tommy could see the beautiful face of the sexy, dominant lover he’d always dreamed of.  Then Nick started squeezing.

 

It was like a bear trap had closed on his throat.  He hadn’t been prepared; he hadn’t had time to inhale, to fill his lungs with air, and he never would again.  Nick’s big, strong hands had instantly compacted the unfortunate youth’s esophagus, the cartilage painfully deforming out of shape.  The mindless panic came back; it was a kind of white fog that clouded Tommy’s vision and dulled his senses; he never knew how violently he thrashed about, struggling vainly against death.

 

His frantic, clawing hands first went to those of Nick’s, but finding the latter clamped around his neck with the relentless strength of iron bands, Tommy reached out, clutching desperately at whatever was within reach.  One hand beat against Nick’s huge hairy pecs with as much effect as if he was beating against an oak tree; the other slapping at Carlos’s chest and grabbing at his gold chain.

 

“No ya don’t, motherfucker,” Carlos growled.  Transferring the camera to his left hand, he drove a roundhouse punch straight from his shoulder into the side of Tommy’s face, both feeling and hearing the satisfying crunch of bone as the unlucky fuck’s cheekbone splintered under the force of the impact.  “Quit tryin’ ta fight it, fuckhead, yer only makin’ it worse.”

 

If Tommy had been capable of rational thought, he might have wondered how it could have been worse.  Even though he was still being impaled by an enormous rod of manflesh that tore at his guts and ground roughly at his prostate with every agonizing thrust, it seemed to be the least painful part of his suffering—his power-bottom soul was starting to accept the dick and revel in the rough, painful rape.  Everything else, not so much.

 

There was a huge ball of fire in his chest, a kind of burning vacuum that ached vainly for oxygen.  The slim, smooth homo writhed and twisted involuntarily, instinctively seeking some way to allow air into his burning lungs.  Everything from his neck up was a solid mass of excruciating pain, from his slowly-collapsing throat to his pulped and pounded face to his throbbing brain, swelling with oxygen deprivation.

 

The wide-angle camera had a perfect view; two sweaty males, locked together in violent, thrusting intimacy, the older, more powerful, more dominant man obviously enforcing his sadistic sexual will on the thrashing, shuddering youth.  It also caught Carlos’s hulking, half-dressed form as he leaned in with the other camera.

 

The handheld’s frame was filled with Tommy’s face.  It lingered lovingly on the physical effects of the strangulation on the terrified young homo.  The kid’s skin was already so battered and bruised that it was hard to tell when his face began to darken, but the swelling soon turned his split lips and broken nose into a grotesque parody of himself.  His thin black mustache, already moist with blood that had trickled from his left nostril, all but disappeared as his face distorted from asphyxia.

 

As the boywhore whipped his head from side to side in panicked denial, the stones in his stud earrings caught the light and created a twinkling effect on his ears that remained a constant as everything above his neck began to blacken.

 

“Yeah, brah, now ya got ‘im,” Carlos encouraged Nick.  “Lookit the little fuckwad.  It’s learnin’ how real men treat worthless pansy cocksuckers.”

 

“You ready to die, boy?” Nick hissed.  “It hurt bad enough yet?  Ya wantin’ it all to go away?”  He paused as Tommy’s head came to a stop, the dying slut looking up at him with an almost insane gleam of hope in his eyes.

 

Nick chuckled cruelly. “Tough shit.  I ain’t ready to cum yet, so you’re gonna hafta keep sufferin’ till I say yer hurt bad enough.  Hey, dude, he ain’t fucked up enough yet.”  This last was to Carlos, as Nick drew his legs up under himself, repositioning so he could ram his huge erect cock even faster and deeper into the punk’s ass.

 

As Carlos laughed and repeatedly slammed his fist into the boy’s face, Tommy learned that things could indeed be worse.  The wide-angled camera captured several minutes of footage of two muscular men beating and raping a slim, helpless youth, whose body kicked and jerked with every brutal thrust and blow.

 

After a while, things began to fade in Tommy’s mind; a gray fog descended, filled with a loud, fast banging.  Some part of him knew that the banging noise was his pulse, but as his brain began to die, that rational part grew dimmer.  Perversely, as the rational grew dimmer, the sensory grew sharper; as brain death progressed, Tommy’s nerve endings became more sensitive.

 

The pain of impending death started to blur with the overstimulation of his brain’s pleasure center.  His cock, forced erect by the pressure on his prostate, was pressed against Nick’s belly; the killer’s wiry body hair scraped against it rapidly with each pump of his pelvis.  To Tommy’s inflamed nerves, it felt like someone was taking a belt sander to the tender underside of his prick.

 

The pain was phenomenal.  It felt like the flesh of his dick was being shredded.  It felt like…it felt like he wanted to cum.

 

Nick noticed the change.  “Meat’s startin’ to go,” he grinned up at Carlos—and right at the handheld camera.  “Lookit the little faggot—fuckin’ perv still wants dick even as it’s gettin’ whacked.”

 

“Well fuck, man, that’s all they ever want,” Carlos sneered.  “Stupid cunts are so cum-hungry they’ll walk right into a death trap if they think they can get some manseed.”  He spit in Tommy’s face, then spoke directly to him.  “What, didja think gettin’ our loads would turn ya into a real man, ya fuckin’ pile of fagmeat?”

 

Even if there was enough left of Tommy to formulate a reply, he wouldn’t have been able to say it.  His mouth was plugged with his tongue, so thick and swollen that it forced his jaws apart and protruded, a mound of purple-black muscle, from between his cracked blue lips.  Thick streamers of drool bubbled from the boy’s mouth, oozing down his cheeks in a thick white froth that gave the appearance that the faggot had just given a wet, sloppy blowjob.

 

The light was fading from Tommy’s eyes; they were fixed and bulging, the whites turning bloodshot as millions of tiny blood vessels ruptured within.  His hands had stopped flailing randomly; the wide-angle camera clearly captured how one was clenched tightly around Nick’s sweaty, bulging bicep while the other was spread flat on Carlo’s belly as if fondling the ex-con’s ripped abs.  His legs were still kicking, but not as violently; they drew up at the knee, then straightened again, the heels of his Nikes carving furrows in the ugly crocheted comforter.

 

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Nick whispered spitefully, “Die.  Die with my dick in yer guts, you fuckin’ sack of shit.  Yer gonna rot with yer innards fulla my cum, ya cumsuckin’ pig.  Yer gonna end up—fuck!  Goddam! FUCK!”

 

Nick hunched and shuddered as he felt his seed boiling up from his overloaded balls, then he went rigid in explosive orgasm.  As his powerful hands clenched involuntarily, he crushed Tommy’s throat, the cartilage cracking and snapping like dry kindling as the esophagus collapsed into a mangled mass of useless bloody tissue.

 

Rational Tommy was dead but sensory Tommy was still dangling in a nightmarish world of tactile torture that was unable to distinguish pleasure and pain.  The horrific agony of his crushed windpipe and larynx and his snapped hyoid bone trigged an intense release in his swollen, tortured scrotum.  Tommy’s first death load squirted up between him and Nick, smearing as their chests rubbed together in his agonized throes.

 

“Aw hell yeah!” Carlos cried, pulling the zoom out to capture Nick’s look of rage as he shot his load and Tommy’s blank, shuddering face as he spent his last few moments on earth ejaculating uncontrollably.  Without warning, the convulsing punk twisted violently to the side; as he did, another geyser of sperm erupted from his spasming cock.  This one jetted into the air, splattering not just over Carlos’s sweaty, hairy chest, but over his face and the camera lens as well, smearing both with milky cum.

 

With a loud grunt, Carlos returned the favor, a thick, ropy strand of semen spewing in an uninterrupted flow from his erect shaft.  The muscled convict hadn’t so much as touched his dick; he’d shot his wad hands-free the moment Tommy’s spunk had splashed on his chest.  His own jizz spattered on the boy’s black, swollen face, blending in with the drool.

 

“Fuck!” Nick cried again, releasing Tommy’s neck.

 

In a blinding rage, Carlos tossed the handheld down and leaned forward.  Grabbing the back of Tommy’s head in one hand and his chin in another, the muscle-bound killer gave the head a swift, brutal twist, rotating it up and back a hundred and eighty degrees.  Tommy’s neck snapped, the vertebrae shattering like shrapnel, tearing the spinal cord to shreds.  The corpse went rigid as the massive trauma to the nervous system forced one last spurt of cum from the dead kid’s dick; this flew out with just enough force to clear the bed and spatter on the toes of Carlos’s black harness boots.

 

“Fuckin’ faggot, fuckin’ cummin’ on me,” the ex-con whispered in barely contained rage.

 

For a moment, Nick paused, looking down no longer at Tommy’s black, strangulated face, but at the back of his head.  Then he slowly withdrew his cock from the corpse.  Even in death, the faggot somehow maintained suction in his fuckhole; Nick’s rod came out with an audible sucking sound.  Getting off the bed, he stood beside Carlos, looking down at the dead boy.  In a shot from the wide-angle camera that Nick edited into the footage, they both remained standing for a minute, admiring their work.  The slim young homo’s cum-drenched corpse was still twitching, his black-and-red Air Jordans scuffling nervelessly on the comforter.  Both studs were still heaving with exertion as the overheat spot glinted on their sweat-soaked backs; thick pearly beads of jizz still dripped from their cocks—and the meat’s as well.

 

“Goddam, I needed that,” Nick muttered.

 

“So did he, stupid little faggot,” Carlos sneered.  He leaned forward as if he was going to attack the corpse again.

 

“Hey, man,” Nick said, “I wanna get rid of the meat here soon.  Go splash some water on yourself and cool off; I’m gonna need a hand gettin’ rid of it and its car.”

 

Carlos paused.  “Yeah, dude, you’re right.  Hang on.”  He headed to the bathroom.  After a few minutes, he returned, his body glistening with moisture.  In the meantime, Nick had redressed, pulling on his shorts and slipping back into his construction boots.  He’d slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on but the deep tear at the neck revealed that his chest hair was still crusty and matted with the dead boy’s cum.

 

“Grab the clothes and see if you can find any keys,” Nick said.  “I’m gonna take the trash out.”  He grabbed the corpse by one quivering ankle, just above the Nike sneaker, and dragged the body off the bed.  Tommy’s head had remained twisted around backwards; his face his the floor with a splat.  Heading out the door, Nick dragged the body along the floor behind him, not minding the faint trail of blood from the kid’s brutalized face; there’d be time to clean it up later.  He was excited; he wanted to clear out the meat and get to working on the video.

 

As Nick dumped the corpse into the bed of his pickup, Carlos gathered Tommy’s t-shirt and shorts.  From the latter, he retrieved both keys and a wallet with forty bucks inside.  Carlos pocketed the cash; the young faggot certainly didn’t need it anymore.  Following Nick out, he headed towards a ten-year-old Ford Focus with a taped-up taillight.  Sure enough, the key he’d found fit—it wasn’t hard to figure out; the only other vehicles in the lot were Nick’s truck and his own Mercedes.

 

Tossing the clothes in the back, he put the car in gear and followed Nick’s green truck out to the highway, where they headed south towards downtown.  Traffic was bad, as it always was at this time of day, and the AC in the cunt’s car was barely functional.  Carlos soon found himself sweating again.  To keep himself calm, the psycho killer imagined the homo piece of shit already starting to rot under the blue tarp Nick had wrapped around it.

 

After several road-rage-inducing merges, Nick finally took the Las Vegas Boulevard exit, heading south into downtown.  Turning west on Bridger Avenue, he made a sudden right into an alley between Third and Fourth Streets, pulling up next to a large industrial dumpster.  Carlos parked behind him and got out.

 

It took less than thirty seconds to hoist the corpse over the edge of the dumpster and roll it out of the tarp.  Within three minutes, they were heading south on Las Vegas Boulevard again and within twenty, pulling into the parking lot of a casino located well to the south of the airport.  The left the Focus at the far end of the lot, Carlos climbing into Nick’s truck for the ride back to the warehouse.

 


 

Some twenty-four hours later, an unmarked car pulled up in an alley between Third and Fourth.  It wasn’t able to get very far down the alley thanks to the two patrol cars and the ambulance already in place, surrounding a dumpster.  A fat middle-aged man with a shaggy moustache opened the driver’s door while a taller, thinner man of about the same age emerged from the passenger side.

 

“Hey, Patterson, what’s up?” the fat one asked the first uniformed cop he came across.

 

“Hey, Nuñez—whatcha doin’ here?  Didn’t think this was yer beat.” Patterson replied.

 

“Me an’ Schweitz was just comin’ back from lunch when we heard the call, figured we’d check it out,” Nuñez said.  “Whatcha got?”

 

“Just another stiff,” Patterson yawned.  “You can check it out if ya wanna.”

 

Nuñez headed for the corpse, already out of the dumpster and lying bagged on a gurney.  Schweitz headed after him, but paused when he saw the fat detective open the body bag, recoil violently, and zip it back up.  He waited as Nuñez returned quickly to the car.

 

“So?” he asked laconically.

 

“Not worth it.  Another faggot.  Damn, you could smell the cum three feet away once I got that fuckin’ bag open.  Goddam corpse was covered in the shit.”

 

Schweitz snorted with disgust.  “Who the fuck bothered to call it in?” he asked.

 

“I dunno,” Nuñez replied, “But I wish they’d kept their traps shut.  We got real people out here gettin’ robbed and killed, and some asshole calls in a dead fag.  Like I give a shit who snuffed some fuckin’ homo—they guy should get an award, if ya ask me.”

 

“Yeah,” Schweitz agreed, garrulous as ever.

 

“C’mon, let’s get back.  Central can handle this; they’re good at ‘misplacing’ this kinda file.  And anyway, I gotta get caught up on some paperwork.  Goddam bureaucrats, always comin’ up with a new way to keep a man from doin’ his job, y’know?”

 

Still bitching, the fat cop backed out of the alley and drove off, wiping the image of the raped and murdered youth from his mind as if the boy had never existed.

 

 


 

Forty-eight hours after that, Carlos got a text from Nick: “Told u that software was the bomb got a great commission meet me @ office ASAP u won’t believe this shit”

Meat Chronicles 18–Boy Toy Destroyed

I almost missed him.  I was heading west on Roman Boulevard and he popped out of one of the side streets on his skateboard; I had a split-second glimpse of him, then I was past.  That glimpse was enough to make me turn around, though.

 

It’s been a while since I’ve been out hunting.  I never got back to my last meat; the used van I’d bought threw a rod the next morning.  Took me a couple of days to get a new ride—by the time I got back out to the abandoned warehouse, there was a chain-link fence around the entire property and a large sign that announced a new construction project.

 

I turned around and left; the meat woulda been too overripe to hold my dick anyway.  Wonder what they’ll do when they start tearing the place down and find what’s left of him.  In this summer heat, I bet it there won’t be much left to find—just his bones and his kicks.

 

At any rate, I gotta load that needs release.  I need to find a punk to dump my seed in, and it looks like I just spotted one.  I ease into the left lane and pull a U in my van—it’s a nondescript gray Chevy Astrovan—heading back towards the boy I’d seen.

 

He’s ahead on the left, about half a block up from a shopping center and heading towards it.  I speed up, overtaking the kid and turning into the strip mall’s parking lot.  Pulling into a spot facing the street, well away from the stores, I wait for the kid to approach.  Soon enough, he glides into view.

 

Young—no more than eighteen or nineteen, at most.  Long sandy-blond hair, almost shoulder length.  His lean, firm chest is wrapped in a black Nirvana t-shirt, and he’s sporting skinny jeans so tight it’s impressive the little shit can move at all.   His feet, in a pair of gray and white Adidas Top Ten Hi’s, cling tenaciously to his board as he rounds the corner into the parking lot, leaning into the turn.  He passes within ten feet of me, allowing me to see the large bulge in his crotch in greater detail.

 

Yeah, this one would work.  This meat would be acceptable to soak up my cum.  Now I just need a lure.

 

I watch him for a while; I got plenty of time.  He navigates the parking lot in decreasing circles that centers on the convenience store to my left.  After about fifteen minutes, he slows to stop about thirty feet away from me.  Bending down and flashing his bubble butt at me, he snags his board and heads into the gas station’s store.

 

Ten minutes later he comes back out with a pack of cigarettes and an agitated expression on his face.  He walks to the end of the store closest to me and lights a smoke, looking around for a minute of two.  Suddenly he moved towards a dude who’d just exited the store carrying a twelve-pack of beer.  The kid approached and had a conversation with the guy, at one point pulling out his wallet and offering money.  The other dude shook his head in clear refusal, then got in his car and left.

 

The long-haired kid looked dejected and continued to suck on his smoke.  Five minutes later, he was approaching someone else leaving the store—a Mexican laborer with a six-pack of Modelo.  Again, a brief conversation, an offer of money, and the kid gets shot down.

 

Took me a minute to get it, but once I did, I knew I had my lure.  The little fucker was trying to get someone to sell him beer; he was too young to buy it himself.

 

I waited till he left the store’s lot, morosely heading back in my direction on his board.  I let him get about ten feet away, starting his turn back out onto the boulevard, before I rolled down the window and called out to him.

 

“Yo!  Brah!  Hey, I ain’t from ‘round here—you know where there’s a liquor store?  I wanna get some decent booze, none of this gas station crap.”

 

His hair fanned out behind him briefly as he whipped his head in my direction.  His face was smooth, with full lips, a large nose.  He had huge puppy-dog-brown eyes ringed with lashes so long they were almost effeminate; they lit up at the word “liquor”, as I knew they would.

 

These little suburban kids; they’re so stupid, so predictable—and so much fun to play with.

 

“Sure, I know a great place,” he said, somewhat unsure of himself.  They got all kinda stuff.  But ya gotta do somethin’ for me if I take ya there.”

 

“Like what?”  I ask, as if I don’t already know.

 

“Buy me some beer.  I’ll pay for it; I mean just go in and actually buy it.  They won’t sell it to me—” he broke off and blushed embarrassedly.

 

“How old are ya, dude?” I ask.

 

His blush deepens.  “I turned eighteen two months ago,” he admits shame-facedly.  Suddenly he recovers himself, though, shaking his head so that his long hair spun out.  He looks up and grins; his face is youthful and eager and I want to slam my fist into it so badly I can barely control myself.

 

“Hop in, dude.  I’ll get ya fucked up—don’t worry about it.”

 

With a cheerful smile, the punk makes the worst mistake in his life and opens the door to my van.  Tossing his board to the floor of the passenger seat, he speaks as he climbs in.  “Hey, man, I’m Timothy.  Well, no, only my mom calls me that.  You can call me T-Money.”

 

What a tool.  I snort derisively and the kid gives me a suspicious side-eye.  Then, noticing my physical presence for the first time, he gives me a longer look-ever.

 

I’m dressed for the hunt.  It was hot enough outside that I had no qualms about dispensing with a shirt altogether, but I didn’t want to have my skin up against the cloth seat of the used van, so I’d slipped on a thin leather vest, leaving it unbutton to show off my massive pecs and flat ripped abs.  My jeans were tight, but they were old, with a number of tears, and faded to a pale sky-blue.  Halfway down my claves, they were tucked into a pair of worn black combat boots that I’d laced but left untied.

 

As he looked at me, I could see his dick start to get stiff; his jeans were so tight it was kinda hard to miss.  I eyed it rather pointedly and grinned at the boy; he flushed beet-red and turned away.  Interesting reaction.

 

“Ya see anything ya like?”  I asked in a low voice.

 

The punk turned back to me, more embarrassed that ever.  “I, um, I—wh-what’re ya talkin’ ‘bout, brah?” he mumbled, not looking me in the face.

 

I pulled over into the parking lot of a church.  In the middle of a weekday afternoon, the lot was empty.  I turned to face the kid.  “My dick.  You want it,” I said matter-of-factly.

 

What?” he cried.  “Dude, I ain’t gay.”

 

“The fuck you ain’t,” I snapped, “Yer cock is hard right now.  You want me to fuck you good and hard.  You know it and I know it, so stop pretendin’.”

 

The kid unbuckled his seat belt and inched toward the door.  “Man, I done told ya I ain’t no fruit.  Ain’t no way yer gonna fuck me, ya psycho.”

 

“The fuck I ain’t, cunt,” I hiss with an expression to match his last word.  His eyes wide with sudden fear, the punk snatches at the door handle but in his haste is unable to grasp it properly.  Not that it would’ve mattered; I’d’ve caught him before he exited the van.

 

Shit!” he yells in desperation just as I grab a hank of his long dirty-blond hair and slam his face brutally into the dashboard.  With his hair as a handle, I jerk his head back up again swiftly.  “Uhhh…” the boy moans dazedly as I ram his head forward, smashing his face a second time.  This time, when I pull his head back up, he’s silent.  I let go and he slumps limply into the seat, unconscious.

 

I head out of the church lot.  I know a place to go; I’ve been there before.  It’s not that far from the last place I dumped meat.  It’s been a couple of years since I was on the property; at that time, there had been an operating business in the building, so I’d gone there at night.  Now, it was abandoned like much of the rest of the neighborhood.

 

I could park in the back and shove the meat out into the drainage ditch behind the property in broad daylight.  And it won’t matter that it hasn’t rained in weeks; no one goes back there.  By the time anyone finds him, there won’t be anything left beyond a bloated, unrecognizable corpse.

 

A car whips out of nowhere as I start to pull out of the lot, forcing me to slam on my brakes.  The kid slides off the seat and slumps on the floorboards like a pile of dirty laundry.  Good place for him; I leave him there as I head to the east side.

 

I cruise slowly through the industrial neighborhood, tracing my way back to the kill site.  Most of the buildings around here are empty if not downright abandoned; there’s no traffic and the parking lots are empty.  I’ll have plenty of privacy while I play with my meat—at least urban blight is good for something.

 

Finally, I turn onto a side street.  Just past the next intersection is the long, low one-story building that has the strip of parking in the rear, up against the drainage canal.  It takes less than three minutes to whip around the building and back into a parking space up against the canal’s low guardrail.

 

One of the reasons I chose this van was because it had been a utility or cargo van at one point; the rear section was sealed off from the cab.  Nice and private; the only windows were the polarized ones on the rear doors.  Of course, it’s a pain to have to drag the meat out of the passenger seat, but it’s worth the effort.

 

I exit the cab and walk around to the passenger side.  Opening the sliding door to the back first, I then reach for the passenger door.   I reach down and jerk the kid up off the floorboards.  He isn’t very big; only about five-eight.  And while he’s not scrawny—I can feel some firm muscles under his smooth skin—he can’t weigh more than a hundred twenty.  I’m pretty built myself; I can lift him like a sack of potatoes and easily toss him into the back of the van.

 

Like the last one I had, I’ve made my own improvements to create a mobile killing pit.  The floor is covered with Astroturf, and the walls are bare metal.  I can hose the whole thing out with ease—and that’s a good thing.  This one is gonna get a little…messy.  The one touch I’ve added is a mirror, about two feet square, propped against the front barrier that blocks off the cab.

 

I’m gonna do this kid doggie style, but I still wanna watch his face as he dies.

 

I close the door behind me; the interior is dim but not dark.  It’s hot, though, and my chest is already slick with sweat; I slip out of my leather vest and lay it carefully by the rear doors.  As I do, I hear a loud groan behind me—the little shit is starting to wake up.  I stand up—not fully, I have to slouch some to avoid hitting my head against the roof—and dig in my pocket for the zip tie I’d brought with me.  My jeans are tight enough that it takes me a moment to retrieve it.

 

He’s still groaning as I approach him, his long eyelashes fluttering as he starts to awaken.  I flip him over onto his belly and secure his hands tightly with the zip tie.  He starts trembling.  “Whu—” he mutters thickly, “Wh-whas happen…”

 

“Shh,” I whisper, patting him gently on the back of the head.  “I got somethin’ that’ll explain everything.  Lemme go grab it.”

 

What I have is located in the large lower compartment of the center console in the front of the van.  Now that the whoreboy is bound, I can retrieve it.  I open the side door again and go into the cab. I’m gone no more than fifteen seconds, but it’s enough for the kid to be fully awake and trying to roll over when I get back.

 

Time to put the stupid little punk in the picture.  Sliding the door closed behind me, I smile sweetly at him.  “I got somethin’ for ya, darling’,” I drawl.  “I got somethin’ long and hard, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ sexy when I stick it in ya.”

 

He looks up, and I notice a crusty trail of dried blood extending from his left nostril.  He’s still in some discomfort from having his face slammed into the dashboard, but it’s nowhere near overwhelming enough to cause him serious distress.  His face is flushed again—but not with embarrassment; this time he’s angry.

 

“I told ya I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot!” he yells.  “Keep yer fuckin’ dick away from me, ya pervert!”

 

I allow my smile to grow broad.  “Oh, I wasn’t talkin’ about my cock.  I mean, yeah, I’m gonna fuck ya in the ass, but that wasn’t what I was talking about.”  I’d kept one hand behind my back the entire time’ now I brought it around to show the cunt what I was holding.  “I was talking about this.”

 

The moment T-Money sees my knife, the color drains from his face and his eyes open so wide they look like they’re in danger of falling out.  It’s an eleven-and-a-half inch long hunting knife with a seven inch serrated steel blade and a wood grip.  Ideal for gutting, flaying, and general mayhem on all kinda fuckmeat.

 

The kid gulps in fear like a cartoon character; I laugh aloud at his fear.  “Aw, this is gonna be all kinds of fun,” I grin, “Especially if you fight my cock.  Cause if ya do, I’m gonna start usin’ this on ya nice and slow.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  You better be down with my D, dawg, or I’m gonna jack ya up.”

 

The boy whimpers and seems to shrink into himself, cowering.  His arms are jerking frenetically, but there’s no way the teenaged dickwad is gonna break free of that zip tie; all he’s doing is digging deep, painful furrows into his wrists.

 

He blinks and looks up at me but the moment his puppy-dog eyes meet mine, he looks away and gives another comic gulp.  “You, uh, you don’t need the knife, man.  You—you can p-put yer dick in me.  Just put away the blade, dude, please…put it away and you can do what you want to me…”

 

I can do what I want to him anyway, and will, but I go ahead and play along with it.  After all, it’s his suffering that gets me off, and if I can mindfuck him and assrape him at the same time, that just makes it so much hotter.  “Sure, bitch,” I chuckle, “But I gotta cut myself some access first.”

 

“Hey, man, wait!” he cries out as I come nearer, but I’m not going to hurt him yet.  I kick him back over onto his belly, then bend down and slip the knife under his t-shirt and start cutting.  The thin cotton parts at the slightest touch of my sharpened steel blade.  A couple of well-aims slashes and the punk’s Nirvana shirt slides off him, a mass of black shreds.  Over the kid’s protests, I cut open his jeans too.  The denim is tougher than the shirt hard been, but it’s still no match for my knife; I’m even able to saw through his leather belt in less than seven seconds.

 

I’m pleased.  I’ve honed this blade to a razor sharpness; my work is about to pay off.

 

Within about a minute, the kid is lying nude—of course the little fucker is commando; despite his denials, he’s been lookin’ for dick—on the Astroturf, only his Adidas hightops left to him.  “That shirt cost me thirty-five bucks!” the teen wails.

 

I squat beside him, fondling the silky-smooth skin of his back and his thighs.  This boy is small but strong; I can feel the muscles moving under his flesh as he squirms and kicks and tries to evade my touch.  “Get yer hands off me, ya fuckin’ sicko!” he yells as squeeze the firm, tender mounds of his asscheeks.

 

“Ok,” I say, pulling my hands back, “After all, puttin’ my hands on you ain’t anywhere near as much fun as what I’m gonna be puttin’ in ya.”

 

He goes quiet for a moment as I place the tip of the blade against the back of his neck and slide it, slowly and sensually, down the center of his back, following his spine down to the crack of his ass.  My touch is light; there’s not enough pressure to break the skin—just enough to remind the fuckboy why he’s in this position.

 

After a moment, he speaks with a sob.  “You—oh god, go slow, please—you-you’ll be the first, just d-don’t hurt me.  Okay?  Please?”

 

There’s a crack in his voice as he pleads that makes my cock throb.  I stand up and grin.  He rolls on his side to look up at me with hope and fear in his eyes.  I reach down, unbutton and unzip my jeans and let my hog flop out.

 

Once T-Money sees my dick, his demeanor changes.  The latent little faggot had been willing to get fucked in theory, as long as he could convince himself that he was forced into and didn’t really want it.  Once he sees the size of my tackle, though, he knows that this is gonna hurt—bad.  Real bad.  I don’t like to boast, but I’m hung like a stallion.  When I fuck a bitch, he stays fucked.

 

For good.

 

“Shit, dude, I can’t take that,” the helpless teen whispers, his wide eyes focused on my pulsating rod.  I step behind him, planting my combat boots on each side of his legs and lowering my jeans to my knees.  Kneeling, I slap the huge purple head of my schlong against the boy’s ass, spattering it with hot precum.

 

“No,” he begs, “For fuck’s sake, get some lube, man, yer gonna make me bleed!”

 

“Fuck yeah I am, you stupid cunt,” I whisper, mounting him like an animal and inserting my shaft into his ass.  I shove as hard as I can, encountering such stiff resistance from the kid’s clenched sphincter that for a moment I’m almost worried that I’m gonna bend my dick.  Then I can feel the flesh tear in his rectum and my cock slams home, penetrating the full length of his colon and sinking the head of my tool deep into his intestines.  I chuckle when I feel my wiry pubes grinding against those smooth buttcheeks of his.

 

“Guess you were right about one thing,” I jeer, “Damn sure made ya bleed.”

 

The teen is unable to enjoy my taunt; he’s screaming in pain—loud shrieks that end in sobs.  I laugh at his pain.  “G’wan, scream like a little girl, ya fuckin’ pussy.  Ain’t no one around for miles.  Every time ya scream, yer ass tickles my dick, so keep it up, cunt—it feels fuckin’ great!”

 

I know he heard that one, because he tries to stop.  He can’t be completely quiet; he’s in far too much pain, but he does manage to subdue his outburst to low sobbing moans.  “Aw, you spoilsport,” I whisper, “Here, lessee if ya like this, then.”

 

All I’d done so far was to merely mount and penetrate the teen.  Now I started fucking him, reaming my thick, vein-wrapped shaft in and out of his asshole.  Each brutal pump of my hips tore his sphincter fractionally more; as he bled internally, I could feel the warm liquid flow on my cock.

 

This fresh new source of pain drew an immediate reaction.  “Fuck, no!” he screeched, “Get outta me!  Oh God, no, yer tearin’ me open!  Get the fuck outta me!”

 

I reach one hand down under him, jamming it up under his flat belly and working my way down to his dick.  It ain’t huge, but it’s respectable—and it’s hard.  I knew it would be; my rod is grinding against his prostate like it’s drillin’ for oil, so the motherfucker can’t help his erection.  I grab hold of it and start jacking.

 

“Shaddup, ya dumbass little homo,” I hiss in his ear.  “You fuckin’ love it, dontcha?  You worthless teenage faggot—so full of hormones and sperm; all you needed was a real man to come along and drain it all outta ya, right?  You young pups are all the same—you just need a genuine alpha to load you up with manseed and put you in your place.”

 

“Uhhh…” the punk moans, still sobbing.  His legs are thrashing, his Adidas kicks scrabbling against the Astroturf, seeking purchase, but he can’t get any traction.  I’m lying on top of him, my chest against his back, and I can feel the fingers of his bound hands clenching and clawing at the coarse, dark hair on my abs.

 

I pump the slut’s ass like a steam piston.  He’s starting to accommodate himself to my rod; that’s a shame.  I want it to hurt him.  It doesn’t feel as good if he’s not in pain, and the more pain he’s in, the better it feels.  Then I remember—in all the swiftness of the rape, the kid hasn’t noticed the mirror.

 

“Hey boy,” I whisper, “Look up.”

 

Moaning and crying, the fucker ignores me—so I grab a handful of his hair and jerk his head back.  “I said look up, asswipe.”

 

His head bent back, he opens his eyes and finds he’s looking himself in the tear-stained, snot-streaked face.  Looking up a little higher, he meets my eyes and I grin cheerfully at him.  “Hey there, cunt,” I smirk, “Ya feelin’ me yet?”

 

I squeeze his dick hard, feeling the thick, erect shaft of flesh pulse moistly in my hand.  He moans loudly, a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain, and I know he’s starting to submit.  He’s starting to relax, accepting my cock and letting it plunge deep into his guts with less resistance.  He’s starting to enjoy getting fucked.

 

And I’m starting not to enjoy fucking him.  The resistance it what feels good.  I like it when the meat’s ass clenches in agony on my tool.  Once the little pansy starts accepting my cock, it means I’ve reamed him out and I need to find a way to re-tighten his fuckhole.

 

“Oh…oh…oh, yeah…” the adolescent faggot is moaning as I plow his hole.  In the mirror, I can see that his face is still taut and pale with pain, but there’s a hint of a smile in his expression.

 

“Goddam, I knew you were a cumguzzlin’ queer-ass fairy,” I sneer at the kid; he opens his eyes wide and stares at me in the mirror, bewilderment written on his face.  “I’m the real man who’s gonna give you exactly what you deserve—and what you deserve is a nice long dirt nap.  I’m gonna put you in yer place, and yer place is dead and rottin’ in a ditch.  Now don’t that sound fuckin’ hot as hell?”

 

“Wha—what?” he asks, his huge brown eyes focused on mine with sudden laser intensity.  “What’re ya sayin’?  Wh-what’s goin’ on?”

 

“It ain’t what’s goin’ on,” I reply, “It’s what’s goin’ in.  You’re getting loose, asshole.  Yer fuckhole’s wearin’ out.  How many cocks you had up there, you fuckin’ whore?  What—didja bang the whole football team at yer school?  Only one way to tighten up a reamed-out fag hole, ya sperm-suckin’ homo, and that’s with pain.  I’m gonna hurt you, asswipe.  I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad yer gonna pray for death—but you ain’t gonna die till ya milked the load outta my shaft.  Remember that, boy.  You can end it any time ya want, but ya gotta make me cum to do it.”

 

And without another word—or any warning whatsoever—I stick the knife into the punk’s back.

 

I know what I’m doing; I’ve done this before.  I can have a lot of fun with my meat and a sharp implement as long as I avoid the vital areas.  And there’s a surprisingly large number of excruciatingly sensitive non-vital areas on the human body—I’ve kept meat alive for over an hour, screaming itself hoarse.

 

In this case, I’ve inserted the knife just below the ribcage and angled it upwards.  If my aim is correct—and it is—the razor-sharp steel slices through the kid’s right kidney and impales his liver.

 

The reaction is exactly what I’d hoped.  The meat screams, his voice rising to a pitch he’d not yet achieved, as his body goes rigid with trauma and shock, gripping my engorged dick life a tight velvet fist.  “Oh fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” I grunt with a satisfied sigh as the teen faggot shrieks in agony.  He buries his face in the floor as his entire body shudders rigidly—but I still have one hand on his cock, and I felt it pulse as I stuck him.  Little fuck can say he don’t like it, but we both know the truth.

 

It doesn’t matter how much he screams and cries and begs, he wants this.  And I’m the man to give it to him.

 

I leave the knife embedded in his back as I pump my erect shaft into his torn and bleeding rectum.  The punk howls in pain, thrashing under my weight.  It’s hot in here and I’m sweating—so is the kid, but his is a cold rank sweat forced out of his smooth young body by suffering.  But I only get about a half-dozen good deep thrusts before his ass starts to go loose again.

 

“Jeez, you’re a worthless assfuck, you bitch,” I sneer, drowning out the boy’s wailing.  “Yer ass muscle goes as limp as a flat tire in five minutes.  Guess I gotta keep tighten’ you manually, huh?  That what it’s gonna take to keep you workin’ my shaft right?  Goddam, yer one sick-ass painpig, aintcha?”

 

I jerk my blade out of his back and, transferring it to my left hand, slip it into his flank, as smooth as a hot knife into butter.  The vicious serrated barbs rip their way through the boywhore’s pancreas and into his spleen and again, he stiffens instinctively with massive internal organ trauma.

 

“Does that feel good, ya sack a’ shit?” I whisper erotically into his ear as he shudders and gasps, too far gone in shock to scream.  “Yer a lucky faggot, y’know?  You get to have two long hard shafts stuck in ya today, hah!”  I rub my free hand down his smooth, slick back; there’s very little blood from the wound I’ve made there—most of the bleeding is internal.  His lithe teenage body writhes and kicks and I can feel each shudder as it resonates in his colon and down my thick, engorged cock.

 

“No…” he moans shakily, his voice thick and slow with agony, “P-please…no…stop…”

 

“Stop?” I guffaw.  “I’m just gettin’ started.  Dude, I’m gonna jack up yer ass so fuckin’ bad they’re gonna have to use DNA to ID yer rottin’ meat.”   I look into his eyes but the little fuck lowers his head and sobs; I can’t see his face.

 

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, you dumbass motherfucker,” I snarl and twist the knife in the wound, gouging out huge chunks of his pancreas.  It gives me the reaction I want; the meat raises his head and squeals like a stuck pig—which is exactly what he is.

 

“Learnin’ yer lesson yet, boy?” I growl.

 

“F-fu-fuck you,” he moans between teeth gritted in agony.

 

“Wrong answer,” I say.  And it is.  I show him just how wrong by jerking the knife out of his side with a flourish that spatters blood on the side wall of the van.  Switching the wickedly sharp blade between one hand and the other, I poke his back with the tip—just enough to break the skin and elicit a tense yelp from the cunt, but doing no real damage.  Yet.

 

“Where’s it gonna go, boy?  What part of ya is gonna be lucky enough to feel the cold sharp bite of my blade?  What area of yer flesh do ya want ripped open by my serrated steel blade, you teenage fuckwad?”  I make damn sure that as I’m poking him with the knife, his boyhole is getting all the attention it deserves from my dick.  “Make up yer mind quick, you cumsuckin’ shit, cause yer ass is gettin’ loose again.  Where do ya want me to stick ya and make ya tight again?”

 

The kid is groaning sluggishly; he’s bleeding internally, but not badly enough to be in imminent danger of dying.  On the other hand, shock is setting in.  That makes it hard to keep his attention.  He needs more pain, and I need to make it drastic.

 

I reach around, down and behind, and place the tip of the blade against the punk’s taint, just behind his scrotum.  I can feel his puckered balls—pulsating sacks of sperm, shifted into overdrive by relentless adolescent hormones.  There’s a lot of things going on in a very small space in this part of the body; I had to do a bit of research to get this move down right.  I wanna see how this will work on live meat.

 

I did practice, once, on some fuckmeat that was already dead.  But that’s a story for another time.  At any rate, I’m fairly certain I know what I’m doing here.  With a loud grunt and a powerful flex of my large bicep, I shove the blade up into the scumbag’s body, behind his balls.

 

The angle of the blade is the most important thing.  It slides up between the prostate and the pubic symphysis, a mass of cartilage in the front of the groin.  The serrated steel slashes the kid’s vas deferens, separating his seminal vesicles from his penis but leaving the testicles intact.  When I yank the blade out, tearing the wound even wider, there’s a gush of warm yellow fluid—the tip of the knife had punctured the little shit’s bladder.  The muscles at the base of his cock, clenched tight due to the crushing pressure my monster hog was exerting on his prostate, had blocked the flow of his urethra at that point.

 

Now I’d cut an alternate path through his taint.  The teen was pissing himself though the knife wound.

 

This is a pain that he’d never imagined existed.  Soft suburban meat, learning the true meaning of suffering.  His head is up, his eyes meet mine in the mirror, but he’s not looking at me.  He’s looking at Hell.  I know he can see it burning in my eyes; the expression on his face tells me so.  Goddam, it’s so fuckin’ hot—he’s so cute and he’s suffering so horribly, so erotically, I just wish I could keep torturing him for eternity.

 

His mouth is open; he’s screaming, but no sound is coming out.  The pain is too great to be released that way.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I moan in his ear, “Now you’re gettin’ it, faggot.  Now you’re working my cock right.  All I had to do was hurt ya in the right way to make ya nice and tight.  That’s it, ya worthless homo cunt, milk my shaft.”

 

His body is trembling uncontrollably; his white kicks knocking against my combat boots and his bound hands still clutching uselessly at my belly fur.  He’s making gasping and grunting noises as the flow of bloody piss from his mangled taint slows to a drip.  Suddenly, he inhales in a great shuddering breath.

 

“K-kill me…” he gasps, his tormented face white and taut in the mirror.  “P-please, n-no more, man…just-just kill me, dear God, just end it…”  He looks at me, a silent plea for mercy—those puppy-dog eyes are begging for euthanasia.

 

“You worthless faggot,” I sneer, riding his thrashing ass like a bucking bronco, “You wanna die?  Ok, cunt, I’ll waste yer useless as, but first I’m gonna make it my own personal cum dumpster.  Get up, bitch—on yer knees!”

 

I lean back and pull myself up onto my knees; grabbing a hank of the kid’s long hard, now darkened and slick with sweat, I drag him up too, keeping my thick engorged tool buried in his guts as I change position.  When we’re both on our knees in front of the mirror, I keep one hand in his hair, pulling his head back with his chin slightly raised.  The other hand still has the knife.  I hold it up in front of him.  This is the first time he’s seen it up close.

 

“Look at it, you piece of shit,” I whisper to the shuddering, sobbing teen.  “That’s your blood dripping off of it.  See those shreds of flesh caught in the serrations?  That’s part of yer guts, brah; ain’t that hot?  Sure ya wanna end the fun now?  I mean, lookit how hard yer cock is, faggot.”

 

His brown eyes, ringed with great black circles of shock, look up at mine with an almost insane intensity.  His dick was slapping rapidly against his belly in time to his frantic, pain-maddened pulse.  The little shit must be bleeding heavily inside by now, but my huge dick plugging his ass kept his cock rock-hard and throbbing.

 

Suddenly I can feel the electric tingling in my balls, and I know I’m about to shoot my wad.  “Ok motherfucker,” I growl at the dying kid, “Here’s what’s gonna happen.  I’m gonna take this long sharp blade and I’m gonna cut your throat.  I’m gonna slice open the tender flesh of your neck, but when I get to your trachea—that’s the windpipe, you stupid little fuck—well, that’s made out of gristle, and I’m gonna have to saw it open.  Think I’ll cut ya so I have to saw open your larynx, too—that’ll take some time, so you’ll get to enjoy it longer.  Sound like fun?  Fuck yeah, bitch, let’s get rockin’ and rollin’!”

 

Now that he’s been told what’s gonna happen to him and he can see the weapon that’s gonna be used, he changes his tune.  I’ve been expecting it; even in nightmarish agony, the young ones hesitate when push comes to shove.

 

“Oh my fuckin’ God, no…” he whispers, a catch in his strained, pain-filled voice as he begs.  “Please don’t, just make it end, I don’t wanna hurt no more, please, just make it stop…”

 

“Even when it stops, I’m still gonna be fuckin’ yer ass,” I jeer.  “Now shaddup and die, you worthless shit.”  Yanking his head back, I place the blade up against his throat and start slicing.

 

His flesh parts swiftly, almost eagerly, as it seems to open up at the merest touch of the knife.  Blood flows from the wound—a small trickle at first but soon becoming a hot, coppery gush.  The kid’s taut, lean body is rigid, tightly clenched in mortal pain.

 

“Oh hell yeah, cunt, milk my shaft as ya die,” I grunt, my physical pleasure ringing in my voice— he knows as his life blood jets from his throat in time to his panicked pulse that his pain and death are bringing me to orgasm.  The little asswipe should appreciate the honor.

 

As I’d told him, I had to slow down once I hit the esophagus; it’s a stiff and rubbery piece of tissue.  He starts shrieking as I begin to cut in.  “Oh God no Jesus Christ help me fuckin’ stoAAAGGHHH—”

 

At the last second, his scream spirals up an octave as I pierce his windpipe, allowing his breath to whistle out of the hole I’ve cut in his throat.  The thrashing teen can’t scream anymore; all he can do is make thick gargling sounds as he coughs up his own blood.

 

His body is still so stiff and hard it’s quivering; his ass has my dick in a deathgrip, squeezing it and jerking it like it’s deliberately trying to make me cum. His fingers are clutching at my hard flat abs in agony, unable to get a purchase on my skin, slick with sweat.  All he can do is grasp at my wiry body fur.  His smooth, firm legs are kicking and shuddering, the Adidas Top Tens knocking against my black combat boots.

 

I’ve got a teenaged boy dying in horrible pain in my arms and on my cock and it feels fuckin’ fantastic.

 

I toss the knife down; I don’t need it any more.  He’s bleeding heavily from his throat but I’ve managed to do no more than nick either the jugular vein or the carotid artery—which means he’s gonna remain conscious for maybe another forty-five seconds before his heart starts going into arrhythmia from overwhelming blood loss.

 

I’m still gripping a handful of his hair, more to keep him upright than anything else.  I put my free hand to good use—reaching around his sweaty, heaving torso, I grab his thick cock, still amazingly erect, and start jacking him.

 

“C’mon, motherfucker, just fuckin’ die,” I whisper in his ear as he trembles and gargles his blood.  “You want this.  Deep inside, you needed a man to fuck you and put you down like the piece of shit you are.  I’m about to blow, cunt.  Last thing yer gonna feel in your useless faggot life is my hot manseed hosin’ down yer guts—”

 

He doesn’t give me a chance to finish.  His body jerks violently in my arms and I can feel a powerful throbbing spasm in his dick. It erupts in a geyser of teen boycum, sending a jet of sperm up almost to the roof of the van before falling back to spatter viscously on the mirror.

 

I can’t control it anymore; the pressure in my balls is too intense.  Howling and cursing, I pump my spunk up the meat’s ass.  I’m still holding the kid’s dick; I jerk it and crank it mercilessly.  As powerful as my ejaculations are, I’m still able to notice something in the mirror—a puddle of milky fluid under the meat’s scrote.

 

It takes me a minute to realize that I’d severed the kid’s vas deferens when I jammed my blade into his taint; the seminal vesicles were behind the cut, and they produce the fluid in semen.

 

The kid wasn’t just cumming outta his dick, he was cumming outta the hole I’d sliced in him.

 

The meat is gone.  His eyes have rolled back into his head and his body jerks as he strains to breathe, air wheezing sickeningly through the gash in his windpipe.  Pearly beads of cum are oozing from his hard cock as I let him go, the rank sweaty boymeat slumping lifelessly to the floor.  One of his legs twitches randomly, his hightop sneaker scuffling momentarily on the Astroturf, then he’s still.

 

T-Money is cashed out.

 

I pull out and roll over on my back.  Fuck, that was so fuckin’ good.  I just need a little nap…

 


 

It’s still warm in the van when I wake up, and the sun is still up, so I haven’t been asleep for long.  I grab the shredded remains of the punk’s Nirvana shirt and use it to brush off the dried smears of blood on my chest from the boy’s back wounds.  He’s still laying on the AstroTurf, hunched over with his ass in the air, his legs spread with his kicks splayed out, forming a perfect V leading to his fuckhole.  His face is buried in the floor; his long sandy blond hair fanned out around his head.

 

From the rear, I can see that the dead kid’s taint is completely crusted with dried cum—some of his that leaked from the hole I’d cut and the rest is mine, leaked from his torn asshole.

 

Goddam, I’m hard again.

 

I’ve already reamed out the meat’s ass; I need a new hole to fuck.  I give the corpse a good hard kick, my boot making contact with its belly and flip it over onto its back.  From here I can see the pale face and blue lips, the gruesome slash that opened the throat, exposing the severed trachea—

 

—a nice firm hole just waiting for my shaft.  Fuck yeah.

 

I squat over the dead boy’s head, facing his feet, and feed my erect tool into the mangled esophagus.  The flesh is still warm and pliant, almost moist, and it seems to cling to my thick, throbbing rod.  I sit on the corpse’s face and throatfuck it for another seven or eight minutes, my hands fondling the smooth limp body.  The dead punk jerks with every pump of my hog, his Adidas kicks scraping as his legs twitch.

 

This time, I have no warning.  Suddenly, I find myself hunched over in orgasmic spasm, shooting a load down the kid’s windpipe and into his lungs.  I remain straddling the corpse for another couple of minutes, regaining my breath, before I pull my dick back out of the cut throat.  Standing up, I pull up my jeans and tuck my shaft back into ‘em.

 

Time to dump the meat.  I open the rear doors, flooding the interior with the bright golden light of late-afternoon summer.  The drainage ditch is only a yard away, beyond the foot-high guardrail.  The ditch is deep, too; it’s a good fifteen feet to the bottom.

 

The kid is laying splayed on his back, his hands still bound behind him, naked but for his kicks.  I’m still not satisfied.  I owned this little motherfucker, and I want everyone to know it. And then an idea comes to me.

 

I grab the knife in one hand and the meat’s scrotum in the other and start cutting.  It takes less than sixty seconds to completely remove the dead fag’s cock and balls.  I bend over the corpse and grin.  “Stupid little homo, all ya wanted was some beer.  Hope it was worth it.”

 

Then I shove the severed genitalia into the throat wound, tucking the kid’s cock into his trachea, where it slid in smoothly on a lube of my cum.  If they find him before he rots, they’ll find him choking on his own dick.

 

I drag the meat out and over the guardrail, dropping it unceremoniously and watching it tumble down the embankment into the trickle of muddy water at the bottom.  I return to the van and gather up the remains of the clothing, then toss them over the rail as well.  I notice that one of the slut’s Adidas sneakers had evidently caught on the rail and been jerked off; it was sitting upright at the edge of the concrete.

 

I left it there and climbed into the van.  Fifteen minutes later, I was merging onto the highway, heading for a DIY car wash over on Third that I’d used before; I still needed to hoes out the back of the van.  Just as I entered the highway, I heard a rattling sound from the floorboards on the passenger side.  I shot a quick glimpse over there and realized I still had the fuckmeat’s skateboard.

 

It was probably dangerous to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunge across the cab, keeping one hand on the wheel, but I managed to snag the board without any major repercussions.  Just as I reached my exit, I rolled down the window and tossed the skateboard out onto the highway.  I kept an eye on it in my rearview mirror as I headed down the exit ramp; it bounced across two lanes before being run over by a semi.  It was destroyed, crushed to pieces.

 

It makes me feel even better.  I’m still tingling with afterglow as go to wash out my killing pit.

M4M4S&M

The best ads are clear, concise and direct; they get their point across with ease.  This was a very good ad.

 

“22, white, 5’ 10”, 125 lbs looking 4 older.  Need a daddy to punish me.  R U rough enough?  Send pic; will contact if you’re worth it.”

 

The words were appended to the photo of a young man’s torso—lean and smooth, with some muscles but not overly buff or developed.  Dark areolae surrounded the nipples, two hard plugs of pale flesh.  It was a body that would appeal to a lot of dudes.

 

It certainly appealed to Joe.

 

He’d been skimming through a hookup app on a phone belonging to one of his prior kills—he couldn’t remember which one; after a while, the meat tends to blur—when he came across the pic.  He knew the moment he read the words that this little motherfucker was gonna be his bitch tonight.

 

He responded to the ad with nothing but a photo of his own torso.  No words were needed; his massive, fur-covered pecs and ripped hairy abs spoke for themselves.  And given how fast the horny little cunt replied, they didn’t just speak, they commanded.

 

“Hell yeah dude u got the power to stick it in me and make it hurt?  Want ya to hurt me”

 

For a moment, Joe started blankly at the small screen, unable to believe his luck.  When he finally responded, it was with a broad, shark-like grin and an erection so hard it hurt.  “Yeah boy I’ll hurt u good I promise”

 

He’d be as good as his word—it was a promise he’d keep with pleasure.

 

The reply was swift.  “Cool cum now”

 

Along with it was a map location file.  Joe opened it and noted with interest the neighborhood; most of the houses in that area were million-dollar-plus mansions.  This should be interesting, he decided; clearly this kid was living with his parents or other relatives.  At least it wasn’t a gated community, and it wasn’t too far away—only about twenty minutes if he took the freeway.

 

Joe didn’t need any time to prepare.  The image reflected in his bedroom mirror was adequate for the purpose; it showed a dark-haired, muscular stud in black clothing—a t-shirt that was two sizes too small, so skin-tight that his large nipples were clearly defined on his broad chest.  Below the waist (circled by a thick leather belt with a large buckle of dull, burnished metal), his jeans were equally revealing.  His crotch bulged and a thick ridge was traceable halfway down his thigh.  The mirror didn’t reach down far enough to reflect his slightly worn harness boots.

 

Pulling up the app, he texted “OMW” and headed out the door.  Outside, the summer night was hot and unusually humid.  Even on the highway, with the T-top of his Camaro open, a slight gleam of perspiration burnished Joe’s bulging biceps and hairy forearms.  He stepped on the gas and headed into the dark night.

 

The address wasn’t in a gated community, but the house he was headed to had gates—luckily, they were open.  A long drive led up to massive, rambling house, its exterior done in a half-timbered, faux-Tudor style that owed nothing to historical accuracy.  He followed the driveway past the courtyard that contained multiple garages, around to the main entrance, where he parked and exited the car.  No lights showed anywhere in the façade of the house.

 

The double front door sat in darkness under a deep porch, but the darkness wasn’t so intense that Joe failed to spot a security camera aimed directly at him.  He paused on the doorstep, considering his options.  The idea of being caught on camera was disturbing—but on the other hand, he’d probably been on video since he’d driven onto the property.

 

If that was true, he needed to get inside in any case and see if he could find the recording; he wasn’t about to leave that kind of evidence behind.  He knocked at the door and was surprised to find it open immediately.

 

The figure in the doorway was lit from behind by a dim lamp in the rear of the foyer.  It took Joe a moment to focus on the lithe, lean form which soon resolved into a youth with tousled blonde hair.  The boy was shorter than Joe, with a snub nose and freckles across his cheeks.  His smooth, slim abdomen was bare; the only clothing he wore was a pair of lounge pants—the striped flannel looked like pajama bottoms.  His feet, in white ped socks, seemed to slide on the polished parquet flooring of the vestibule.

 

“Come in,” the kid said abruptly, glancing out the door before shutting it hurriedly, “Quick, before anyone sees ya.”

 

Since the nearest neighbor was at least a heavily-landscaped half-mile away, Joe grinned at the boy’s paranoia.  The youth noticed the look of contemptuous amusement and blushed.

 

“Yeah, I know,” he muttered shamefacedly, “But seriously, dude, I gotta keep this on the DL.  My folks’ll freak if they find out; they don’t even know I like dick.  I mean, they’re on vacation, but I gotta be careful, y’know?  I even shut off the security cameras so nothin’ will be recorded.”

 

That was what Joe needed to know.  He could let the beast out tonight, and let it rage unchained.

 

“This way,” the kid said, heading up the stairs.  “I’m Bart, by the way.”

 

Joe grunted his reply and followed, the thump of his boots echoing in the cavernous stairwell.  Like the rest of the house, the upper hall was shrouded in in darkness.  Bart led the way towards an open double door from which an orange light flickered.

 

Once inside the doors, Joe looked around and realized he was in the largest bedroom he’d ever seen.  On the far right, in a large window-filled bay, was a huge TV with a pair of recliners in front of it.  To the immediate right was a California king waterbed sheathed in plush mauve velour.

 

Just opposite the door was a large gas fireplace, already lit.  The kid was standing in front of it, on what appeared to be a bear-skin rug; the rug was surrounded by a divan and a couple of chairs, all upholstered in thick mohair.  On the left was a large cheval mirror that appeared to be an antique.  Its handsome appearance was somewhat jarring, given the off-putting décor of the rest of the room.

 

“It’s my parents’ bedroom,” Bart admitted; Joe had already figured that.

 

The older man approached the boy, who was standing with his back to the fireplace.  As he got closer, he could almost feel the heat from the lust in the kid’s eyes was they slid over his well-defined form.

 

“Strip, boy,” Joe said.  “Let’s see what ya got.”

 

As Bart reached for the drawstring at the waist of his flannel pants, he turned his large blue-gray eyes up to Joe and grinned.  “Goddam, dude—I wanna see what you got, too.  Bet a big fucker like you’s got the tackle to tear my ass up good.”  He dropped the pants as he spoke, revealing his legs, his firm thighs smooth while his calves were shaded with a faint golden fuzz.  Six inches of thick but semi-soft boycock dangled from a tangled mass of dirty blond pubes.

 

Smirking, Joe peeled off his shirt, revealing his powerful, V-shaped torso, wide across his broad, hubcap pecs and narrowing to his tight, firm waist.  The fur on his sculpted abs darkened and thickened as it descended his flat belly in a black treasure trail that vanished behind the dull burnished steel of his belt buckle.  Above the dark forest on his pecs, the firm twin mounds of his large nipples protruded, hard in the open air.

 

At the sight, Bart’s dick stiffened and enlarged.  His eyes followed Joe’s hand as it descended to his crotch below the belt buckle and grasped the zipper.  Slowly and longingly, the youth’s eyes lowered with the zipper itself, achingly tracing its path until the fly was wide enough for Joe to reach in and extract his enormous shaft.

 

“Oh fuck,” Bart moaned sluttishly, “That’s gonna tear me the fuck open.  Shit, bro, I need to be hurt—and you’re the dude to do it.  Use me, man, make me your whore.”

 

Joe grinned, moving forward slowly.  “So ya wanna get hurt, do ya, boy?  How bad ya wanna get hurt?”  His cock pulsed rhythmically with each step.  Bart noticed.

 

“I—uh, I want ya to hit me.  Slap me around while you’re fuckin’ me.  Spit on me, treat me like shit.”

 

Joe laughed out loud.  “Treat ya like shit?  You are shit, faggot.  And I’m gonna make damn sure you know it.”

 

The blond youth wriggled like a bitch in heat.  “Yeah,” he squealed, “Oh fuck yeah…”

 

Joe had reached the bearskin rug; turning so that the orange glare of the gas fireplace was out of his eyes, he was able to note a few more details about the room—the faint tiger-stripe pattern on the velour bedspread, the utter incongruousness of the saccharine Thomas Kinkade print on the far wall…

 

…and the useless and unused set of elaborate cast-iron fire tools set to one side of the fireplace.  Turning his back to the kid, he went to the set and pulled out the poker, holding it up and examining the brass-handled shaft of iron.

 

“Don’t worry, cunt,” he said quietly, “I’ll hurt ya.  I’ll hurt ya good…”

 

Whirling back to the boy with a broad smile on his face, he realized that his control was slipping.   There wasn’t gonna be any foreplay with this little fucker.  “Ya ready, fag?” he asked and without waiting for a response, swung the poker like he was aiming for the fences.

 

It connected with Bart’s left flank with a loud thump, knocking the kid to his knees.  The boy screeched in pain and clutched his side.  He looked up a Joe, his expression a confused mix of pain and angry bewilderment; his large blue-gray eyes full of tears.

 

“Hey,” he gasped in ragged breaths, “Whatdja do that for?”

 

“You needed to be punished, right, bitch?  Your own words.  So I’m gonna make damn sure you get punished real good—ya get me, cocksucker?”

 

“Wh-what’re ya talkin’ about?”  Bart whimpered.  “I ju-just wanted to get slapped around a little, dude, y’know?  I didn’t mean I actually wanted ya to hurt me!”

 

Joe grinned again.  For the first time, Bart noticed the disturbing, shark-like quality.  “Gee, that’s too fuckin’ bad,” the older man chuckled, “Cause I’m planning on beatin’ the shit outta you, faggot.  Oh, don’t worry—I’m still gonna fuck ya.  But first I’m gonna fuck ya up.”

 

“Wha—no—no, dude, no—” In sudden fear, Bart was scooting backwards, slowly and unconsciously crawling off the bearskin rug on his ass.  “No, this ain’t what I—AAAHHH!”

 

With no warning, Joe had swung the poker again, this time up over his shoulder and straight down onto the kid’s right leg, the iron tip making contact with the kneecap with a loud crunch.

 

“JESUS FUCKIN’ CHRIST!!!” the agonized youth shrieked as his kneecap shattered.  He sobbed in pain as Joe laughed mockingly.

 

“Whadda fuckin’ pussy,” Joe sneered, “Man up, homo, we’re just gettin’ started!  I ain’t even completely hard yet, cunt—it’s gonna be a long night.”

 

Panic gripped Bart’s hormone-drenched mind as he writhed in searing pain; despite this nightmarish turn of events, his dick was somehow still hard.  His rich suburban white-boy psyche hadn’t been able to fully assimilate the onslaught of violence; some part of him still seemed to be expecting hot raunchy mansex.  At least, his hot throbbing cock seemed to expect it.

 

Joe was still planning on hot raunchy mansex as well—he just wanted to tenderize the meat a little first.

 

Bart rolled over and climbed awkwardly to his feet, whimpering and blubbering and unable to bend his right knee.  “No,” the young blond faggot sobbed, “No, not this—I just wanted your dick, dude, please…”

 

“You ain’t gettin’ my manmeat till I’m done workin’ ya over, bitch.  Now shaddup and take what you deserve, you worthless little fuck!”  Joe began to slowly pace toward the kid.

 

The lean, smooth youth, his tear-streaked face ashen with shock, tried to move backwards in a clumsy hopping motion.  Surprisingly, he managed to remain vertical even as Joe approached.  The alpha tossed the poker down onto one of the sofas as he passed by—both hands were free when he reached out and grabbed hold of the unfortunate punk.

 

Joe held Bart by the upper arms, lifting him straight into the air until the kid’s white ped socks dangled a good four inches above the floor.  He brought the little pansy’s face up to his, and for the first time, Bart got a really good look at the seething rage boiling in the eyes of the stud—the sexy stud he’d thought would make this a perfect evening.

 

The fact that the rage was obviously entwined with a smoldering lust somehow only seemed to make the situation more terrifying.  And worst of all—his own dick was still so pulsatingly erect it ached as precum trickled from his enlarged piss slit.

 

“You wanted me to spit on ya?  You wanted me to treat ya like shit?  You got it, ya cumguzzlin’ motherfucker; I’ll treat ya like the piece of shit you are.  Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m gonna make damn sure you not only know exactly what a worthless faggot you are—you’ll feel it.”

 

Bart shook his head numbly, hearing the words but refusing to understand them.  He couldn’t refuse to listen to the pain, though—the throbbing in his left side, up under the ribs, the horrific pain in his right knee, the increasing ache in his shoulders as they were forced to support his entire body weight…none of it could be ignored.  The kid moaned incoherently as he kicked vainly in midair.

 

“No…no…not this…not here…not me…” he mumbled in stupefied shock.

 

“You, here and now—and this,” Joe snarled.  Bart experienced a violent sensation of movement that lasted only a split second before a sudden shattering impact that left him dazed and shuddering in agony on the floor.  It took more than a sixty seconds for the realization that he’d been thrown into—and through—the cheval mirror.  Groaning loudly, the slim, smooth youth was rolling on top of small shards of mirror glass, grinding them into his back.

 

“Ya like that one, cunt?” Joe chuckled, strolling in Bart’s direction.  “I sure did.  Teachin’ little fucks like you their place always gets me hard.  You gotta a lot of learnin’ to do in the next hour, you faggot slut.  You like pain, ya disgusting little perv?  Then suffer, scumbag!”

 

Reaching Bart as he spoke, Joe raised his foot and placed it on Bart’s crotch.   Without the slightest hesitation, the sadistic alpha applied pressure, grinding the horny, hormone-riddled youth’s cum-filled ballsack under his bootheel.  The boyslut’s moaning spiraled up into the piercing squeal of a terrified pig.

 

“Aw, yeah, that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Joe chortled.  “Ya feelin’ me, boy?”  He pressed down, crushing Bart’s thick boycock under the sole of his boot.  The oozing ridge of flesh remained erect despite the intense pain—Bart screamed in agony until his voice cracked, but was still aware of his unaccountably rigid tool.

 

“You disgusting little painpig,” the muscled older man sneered at the crying, cowering youth, “Lookit how hard yer cock is, dicksucker—you just lovin’ this shit, aintcha?  How ‘bout I give ya a little more”—here he leaned forward, letting the weight of his hulking, powerful body rest on his bootheel—“just enough to pop yer balls and grind yer homo nutsack to meat paste?”

 

The brutal stud ground down on the shrieking punk’s scrotum; for a few terrifying seconds, Bart’s testicles were in such excruciating pain that he thought they really would burst.  Then suddenly the inexorable pressure was gone.  It was such a relief that the boy almost passed out; the pain in his knee was practically forgotten.  It didn’t last long.

 

Joe struck out with his strong, muscled leg, his steel-toed boot catching the prone slut on the hip.  It was a swift, vicious kick, with enough force to flip the writhing whoreboy over onto his stomach, revealing the multiple lacerations from mirror shards on his back.  “Fuckin’ cunt,” the cruel alpha muttered.

 

Bart was in deep fear.  This hadn’t worked out like he’d planned at all.  He was just gonna find a hot stud and get some dick tonight before his folks got back tomorrow; instead, he was on the floor in nightmarish pain and his parents’ bedroom had morphed from a passion pit to a scene of brutal violence.  He didn’t—wouldn’t—follow the scenario to its logical conclusion, but he knew he had to get out before things got any worse.  Unsteadily, he rose to his hands and knees.  Well, one knee.  He still couldn’t get the right one to bend right; it hurt too much to try.  He made a motion towards the door in a wobbly crawl—and then he heard Joe’s quietly mocking voice behind him.

 

“Tryin’ to fly, little bird?  Maybe it’s time to clip a wing.”

 

Bart turned his head and looked up as the buff sadist walked up to him.  Despite the way tears had blurred his vision, he could see the tall man looming over him with desperate clarity.  The dude’s enormous hog was dangling over him, dripping hot beads of precum into the kids’ blond hair.  Beyond the huge hairy expanse of muscled chest, the hard, handsome face looked down on him, glowing with a bizarre mixture of lust and incandescent contempt.

 

It was terrifying and erotic; he’d have pissed himself if his dick wasn’t so hard.

 

Then Joe stepped kicked at the queerboy’s left leg, making him fall flat to the floor.  Stepping up to where Bart’s arms were stretched out on the floor above his head, the sick stud placed his big black boot in the middle of the boy’s right forearm, halfway between the hand and the elbow.

 

Smiling cheerfully, but without saying a word, the powerful alpha bent down, grabbed the boy’s right wrist.  His biceps bulging, the muscled sadist pulled upwards with a mighty jerk.  There was a loud double snapping sound, like tree branches breaking, as Joe bent the fucker’s arm to ninety degrees, shattering the radius and ulna almost simultaneously.

 

Bart tried to scream; the cold, glassy pain of fractured bone tore through his lean, tortured frame.  He opened his mouth, instinctively taking a lungful of air, but before the pent-up shriek could escape, there was a flash, a violent impact, and the young slut slumped to the floor—not completely unconscious, but lost in a dark haze, shot through with flashes of agony like bolts of lightning.

 

Joe chuckled; the kick he’d aimed at the faggot’s head had connected perfectly with the asswipe’s jaw.  “That oughtta keep ya quiet for a bit, dickwad,” the older man smirked as he walked away, heading for the huge waterbed.

 

When he reached the bed, Joe sat on the velour bedspread; crossing his legs, he slowly pulled his left boot off, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thump.  Across the room, the kid flinched at the sound.  Joe, stripping the white, calf-high tube sock from his leg, kept his eye on the punk as the latter began slowly and painfully wriggling his way towards the door.  No need to rush; there was no way the badly abused meat was gonna be able to reach the door before Joe was done gettin’ naked.

 

And if he did, were was the little shit gonna go?  The brutal alpha had made sure his fucktoy was too badly fucked up to make it down the stairs.

 

Bart was unable to think that logically; he was driven by a reflexive drive to flee imminent danger.  But it hurt to move, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…  How did this happen?  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  He hadn’t meant it about the pain, please, dear God, he hadn’t really meant—please, no, no more pain…

 

He’d managed to squirm some four feet across the room before he heard the unmistakable thud of the dude’s other boot hitting the floor.  Moaning in terror, the lean, smooth boy tried to increase his speed but only managed to intensify his pain.  He inched along on his belly, his long hard cock scraping uncomfortably across the wood floor.  Every movement of his limbs sent jagged shockwaves of suffering through his slim firm body as his shattered kneecap was pressed against the boards under him.  Even worse was the searing torture as the splintered ends of broken bones ground together in his arm.

 

Behind him, Joe stood up, peeling his tight jeans off his thick, muscles legs.  Folding the faded denim neatly, he placed them on the bed, next to his leather belt.  The belt, though, he picked back up before heading toward the shuddering, crawling mass of battered flesh.

 

Without his boots, Bart couldn’t hear Joe coming closer, but he could feel the powerful tremors of the bulked-out stud’s footfalls.  They were coming closer, oh holy fuck, this crazy motherfucker is getting nearer—

 

And then he was there.  Joe bent down and looped the belt around Bart’s throat before the kid realized what happened.  The towering killer whirled, jerking the helpless punk around and dragging him back towards the fireplace.  Bart’s airway wasn’t completely constricted but it was cinched off enough that it cut off the agonized scream building in his chest.

 

“Didja think I was done with ya, you stupid motherfucker?” Joe asked sardonically.  “You wanted pain, faggot, you wanted a real man to make ya submit, yeah?  Well ya fuckin’ got one, bitch, and you ain’t done submittin’ till I say yer done, understand?”

 

Joe bent down and picked up the poker again as he passed the sofa on the way back to the fireplace; Bart, being dragged along on the floor behind him, saw the action but was suffering too badly to assign any significance to it.

 

Once he reached the bearskin rug, Joe spun around, flinging the lean, limp boyslut onto the center of the rug and whipped the belt from around his throat.  As the raw leather on the inside of the belt was torn away, it took the top layer of skin with it, leaving an angry red welt of raw flesh around Bart’s neck.

 

Joe tossed the belt aside—it landed on the sofa in the same spot the poker had been—and stood over the smooth young boy.  Bart was writhing in excruciating pain; he’d been dragged and thrown around like a sack of potatoes—not like a human being with internal injuries and multiple broken bones.  Even the wood floor bore witness to Bart’s torment; it was streaked with blood that trickled from the lacerations on his back.

 

On his back, groaning fitfully, the dazed homo opened his eyes, focusing blearily on the alpha stud towering over him.  Joe was nude, his cock magnificently erect and jutting out a good eight inches in front of him, hot transparent drops of precum seeping from the engorged head.  Beyond the huge hard shaft, the killer’s torso widen from the tight waist up to the dark forest of fur clinging to the broad and powerfully muscled chest.  And above that, the merciless glare of hate, contempt—and somehow, lust…

 

“No…”  Bart whispered in a croak as Joe lowered himself, grinning.

 

“Yeah,” Joe said.  “Time to take it in the ass, cunt.”

 

On his knees, Joe grabbed Bart’s legs and forced them apart.  Without a pause—and without even so much as spitting on it—he rammed his enormous tool into the kid’s quivering fuckhole.  The thick, vein-wrapped dick tore open the boy’s clenched sphincter like tissue paper before ripping its way through his colon and lodging deep in his guts.

 

After all he’d endured, Bart had thought he’d gotten jaded to the pain.  He was wrong.  Holy fuckin’ shit, was he wrong.  For a brief, insane moment, the slut thought someone had jammed a steel umbrella up his ass and opened it.  He shrieked so intensely that his voice cracked again; his mouth was open, but only a croaking, gasping noise emerged.

 

“Can ya feel me, boy?” Joe jeered.  “I’m balls-deep in yer ass, slut.  Jeez, cunt, you musta had a buncha tiny-dicked fairies bang ya, huh?  Don’t it feel good havin’ a real man tear you a new fuckhole?  Feels hot as fuck to me!”

 

Still unable to control his breathing or his voice, Bart could only stare up at Joe, his mouth and his blue-gray eyes open wide in shock and horror—and his innards full of mancock.  He was finally getting fucked by the hot stud, just the way he wanted, but he no longer wanted it.

 

Joe knew it.  It just made him hornier and more vicious.  “This what you were lookin’ fer, cunt?” he said with malicious glee.  “This what ya wanted when you asked for someone to hurt ya?  Gotta tell ya, fag, the moment I saw yer add I knew I was gonna be makin’ you into fuckmeat tonight.”

 

Bart was shaking his head in denial—not of Joe’s words; he wasn’t in an adequate condition to comprehend or process the sense of what was being said to him.  It was a denial of reality, of the horrific universe of pain in which he found himself.  But the agony was too intense to be denied, and that was the reality that was etched in tense lines across the youth’s taut, tortured face.

 

As he relentlessly pounded Bart’s ass, the brutal alpha knew shock was setting in; the boy wasn’t listening anymore.  And he didn’t want that.  The little fucker wasn’t meat yet; there was still plenty of time for a good mindfuck.  All he needed to do was grab the homo’s attention.

 

“Am I hurtin’ ya enough, cocksucker?  No?  What, ya want more?  Fuck, yer one greedy-ass painpig aintcha?  Ok, motherfucker, here ya fuckin’ go!”  Drawing his powerful arm back, he slammed his huge fist straight into Bart’s tear-stained face.

 

The loud smack of flesh on flesh merged seamlessly with the punk’s grunt of pain as his lips were split under the impact of Joe’s blow.  His head rocked back and stuck the floor violently but the bearskin rug cruelly provided enough padding to prevent Bart being knocked out. As his head rebounded, it was met with another line-drive blow straight from Joe’s shoulder; this one was rewarded with a loud crunch as the boywhore’s nose was crushed.

 

The kid’s lean body, bathed in sweat wrung from his physical torment, jerked rhythmically as Joe continued to force his massive hog up Bart’s torn, bleeding rectum.  The young pansy was dazed from the sadist’s powerful punches; he was stunned and limp in an excruciating aura of suffering.

 

But he was still awake enough to hear Joe’s cruel taunts.  “Fuck yeah, motherfucker, now we’re talkin’!  That got yer motor runnin’, didn’t it, ya pain-lovin’ pervert?  Yer sportin’ some serious wood, assfuck; the harder I hit ya, the harder yer dick gets.”

 

The muscular alpha leaned down and whispered into Bart’s ear.  He was close enough that despite his flattened, bloody nose, the kid could still smell his rank, powerful mansweat, laden with testosterone.  Bart brought up his left arm—his right was lying uselessly by his side, bent into an impossible shape—and tried to brace himself, placing his palm flat on Joe’s chest.  It was a futile gesture of protest; it had no impact on his assailant.

 

Bart could only curl his fingers in his torturer’s chest hair and hang on as the top raped his ass and fucked his mind.  “If ya liked that, you sick fuck, yer gonna cream when ya find out what I got planned for ya.  I’m gonna snuff you, faggot.  I’m gonna kill you.  You’re gonna die here, tonight, with my cock buried in your guts.  Don’t that sound fuckin’ hot?  Hell yeah, cunt, time to die!”

 

Bart moaned faintly.  The pain of the beating radiated through his lean, fit body, but the searing agony of the huge tube of manflesh, barbed with thick veins, that impaled his guts was what he was suffering from the most.  This pain was alive and sentient, it tore its way through his tender innards, mercilessly keeping pressure on his prostate—and keeping him achingly erect.

 

“Yer dick is oozin’” Joe guffawed.  “That gets ya off, huh?  Yer just lovin’ the thought of gettin’ offed by a real man—ha!  Fuckin’ piece a’ shit faggot—all you cocksuckers deserve to be killed, an’ all y’all know it, too.  Every homo I snuff cums as it dies.  You ain’t gonna be no different, motherfucker.  I’m gonna put you down and yer gonna blow your fuckin’ load, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my dick.”

 

With his cock still buried balls-deep in the battered and broken boy, Joe rose up on his knees, turned, and picked up the poker.  Straitening himself, he held it up horizontally in front of Bart, then slowly lowered it until it touched his neck—a bar of iron running across the trembling boy’s throat.

 

Bart could feel the cold metal pressing against the skin.  He knew what was coming but refused to consciously acknowledge it.  That didn’t stop the fear that was building with him, though; Joe could see the terror in the boy’s eyes.  The buff killer grinned and applied pressure.

 

The poker sank into Bart’s throat like a garrote, just above the larynx.  As it pressed deeper into his flesh, it deformed his esophagus more and more, stressing the cartilage and closing off the airway.  Bart’s crushed nose had already been interfering with his ability to breathe; now, with each passing second, it was becoming more impossible for him to draw breath.  Fear turned to panic.

 

Joe recognized the symptoms and braced himself.  He’d already done a good job of hobbling the fuckmeat while he was tenderizing it; the cunt only had one good arm and one good leg.  Even so, there is a strength in frenzied desperation that can momentarily compensate for the most intense agony.

 

Joe leaned back and held on; both his hands were on the poker as he forced it into the punk’s neck, one on each side of the head.  While he could have let go with one hand and still kept some pressure on the metal shaft, it wouldn’t have been as evenly applied and he didn’t want to give the meat an inadvertent chance to draw air.  Besides, it wasn’t like the little shit could actually hurt him, even in the depths of panic.  Nor could he squirm away—he was pinned to the bearskin rug by Joe’s huge engorged cock.

 

The muscled alpha jerked his head up and back, out of the range of the kid’s left hand which had come up, clawing and fluttering around his face like a startled bird.  Curling his toes, the hulking sadist flexed his powerful thighs and ram-rodded his swollen tool deep into the meat’s fuckhole.  The veins on the thick tube of flesh rode over the helpless youth’s prostate like the ridges on a ribbed condom.  The boy responded with a dramatic increase in precum; the steady stream that emerged from the purple tip left a smeared trail in the body fur as the homo’s dick slapped and slid against his rapist’s flat, firm belly.

 

As the last remaining space in his windpipe was closed off, Bart’s labored breathing became a shrill squeal, then stopped for good.  His strained face, already bruised enough to make recognition difficult, began to darken and swell.  Now his panic reached a point near dementia—now, even searing agony wasn’t enough to penetrate the vortex of asphyxiation-driven terror.

 

Bart turned into a writhing animal, flailing in blind panic.  He beat against Joe, his left hand balled into a fist, his useless right hand flopping as the right arm thrashed; the excruciating agony of the broken bone ends grinding together having no effect in Bart’s mindless fear.  Both of the meat’s legs were wrapped around Joe’s tight waist, kicking in the air— and despite the sheer torture of the slut’s shattered right kneecap, the right leg was flung with such force that the ped sock flew off, a white ball of cotton that landed on one of the chairs.

 

Bart was finally getting what he wanted—the fuck of a lifetime by someone who was willing to hurt him the way he needed to be hurt.  It was a shame it hurt so much more than he’d anticipated that he was only vaguely aware he was being fucked at all—but it was what he deserved.

 

And his hard cock proved it, straining, glistening, erect, and as purple as Bart’s face.

 

“Ya know what happens when ya die?” Joe whispered to the shuddering meat in a low, erotic tone, as the poker sank even deeper into his neck.  “Your asshole starts to spasm.  As your brain begins to die, your body will shudder and convulse.  It’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ good on my cock.  Ain’t that cool?  Yer gonna suffer the way all you little fuckin’ faggots need to, and you’ll give your worthless life meaning by milking out my load as you die.  Just lay back and lemme snuff yer homo ass, bitch.”

 

Bart stared at Joe, his eyes bulging with hypoxia and shock.  The cute, snub-nosed blond was almost unrecognizable.  The meat’s face was swollen and black, the tongue protruding horribly, surrounded by foamy drool.  The whites of the eyes were turning red as tiny blood vessels started to rupture within.

 

The dying boy heard Joe’s words; his brain was starting to shut down, but there was still enough of him left to understand what had been said to him.  Images flickered through his fading mind; the romantic shadows that the gas fireplace cast on the bearskin rug, the shattered remains of the cheval mirror—how was he gonna explain that to his folks?—the online photo he’d received of a hairy, muscular, V-shaped torso that has inspired such lust in him.  It was the torso of the man who was murdering him.

 

And it hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad.  Dying didn’t feel good; it wasn’t gentle or peaceful—it hurt like fucking hell.  Even the pain of bruised flesh and broken bones faded into the background as the suffering youth felt his lungs strain to function, a fiery pressure like nothing he’d had to endure before.  But after a few seconds, it was surpassed by the pressure in his head.

 

Bart knew his face was swollen; he knew his eyes were bulging and his tongue was sticking out—he could feel it.  All of it.  Every agonizing second of it.  His head was swelling; the pressure within was phenomenal.  He didn’t understand why his skull didn’t just burst; the pain was beyond human endurance, and that pounding—that sledgehammer pounding in hear ears and inside his cranium, getting faster and faster…

 

But somehow, even in the depths of his nightmarish suffering, the slender young cockpig remained aware of the massive dick in his ass, and of his own hard tool, pressed between his sweat-slick, slender body and the hard, muscled form of his killer.  As he lost control of his limbs, as the overwhelming pounding of his pulse in his ears reached an insane tempo, he still knew he was being banged like a cheap whore.

 

White foam trickled down the cunt’s black, puffy cheeks.  His left hand no longer grabbed at Joe’s face; it was stroking the side of the alpha’s head in an almost loving caress as Bart’s desperate fight for life faded into a feeble, nearly gentle touch.

 

“You’re dyin’, motherfucker,” Joe whispered.  “Yer lights are goin’ out.  Mommy and daddy are gonna come home and find yer worthless, fucked-out ass right here in the middle of their bedroom.  They’re gonna see you got beaten and used like the homo cunt ya are.”

 

Bart nodded, but he wasn’t replying to Joe.  He’d reached a tipping point; enough of his brain had died off that he wasn’t coming back—he was starting to convulse.  Even if Joe removed the poker, Bart would still end up a vegetable, a brain-dead sack of meat.  Sadly for the boy, though, there a piece of him still left aware, a tiny piece of trapped sentience doomed to witness his own death.

 

Joe could feel the change coming over the meat; he was too experienced in boysnuff not to know what was coming.  “Oh hell yeah,” he muttered in sexual anticipation, “Now yer startin’ to work my tool.  C’mon, faggot, lessee if we can make ya kick real good—the more you suffer, the harder I cum!”

 

His face twisted into a hate-filled snarl, Joe shoved forward, his thick biceps bulging and glistening with sweat as he forced the iron rod deep into the queerboy’s neck.  Bart hacked and choked, a huge bubble of drool erupting past his swollen tongue, as the poker crushed his esophagus with a wet crackling sound, like someone tearing apart gristle.    His protruding, blood-red eyes stared into Joe’s with one last look of horror and despair before rolling back into his head, leaving nothing but a sliver of white showing under the fluttering lashes.

 

And then the convulsion began.  The small corner of awareness inside Bart had no memory capability; it couldn’t recall Joe’s promise that he would suffer horrific pain during his death throes.  It was still capable of suffering the pain, though and it did.  The unlucky boyslut’s last few seconds on earth were nightmarish.

 

The meat arched its back, squeezing its hard cock against Joe’s abdomen and the left hand clutched Joe’s right shoulder in an iron grip.  The left leg wrapped tightly around Joe’s waist and he could feel the smooth right thigh pressing against his hip—the right calf bent outward grotesquely at the ruined knee.  Similarly, the right arm slapped against Joe’s left arm but the hand itself dangled, limp and useless, to the side, jerking randomly as the slim but strong body convulsed violently.

 

“Shit, you worthless punk,” Joe moaned between gritted teeth, “Keep that shit up, yer gonna get my load.”  As the youth convulsed and shuddered under him, the rippling spasms that traveled along the inside of the rectum had a suctioning effect on Joe’s huge shaft; he’d plugged the kid’s colon so completely that the rectum itself was stretched and taut around the massive member, like a condom.  Every dying quiver of rectal musculature stroked the sadist’s hog.  It felt kinda like getting a handjob and a blowjob simultaneously—and the fact that he had to snuff a fag to feel it only made it more erotic.

 

As the sperm in his hot, puckered balls began to seethe, Joe grunted.  He was losing control himself; in a moment, he’d be shuddering violently himself in orgasm.  Not yet, though—the motherfucker was still alive—the meat still needed to know that it was dead—

 

—then, with a loud, inarticulate cry, Joe jerked and bucked powerfully, driving the poker so forcefully into Bart’s throat that the punk’s head popped forward with the sickening sound of shattering vertebrae.  For Bart, it was a bolt of lightning; there was an undefinable sensation of great heat and great pain.  For Joe, it was an electric shock that raced through his body and trigged an intense orgasm.

 

Jets of cum erupted from the killer alpha’s engorged cock, splashing hot manseed deep inside the meat.  The meat responded; in the last moments of life, the hot wet geyser in the meat’s ass, the incessant pressure on its prostate and the devastating blow to the nervous system all combined to force a savagely powerful explosion of spunk from the corpse.

 

The last nerve signals that were transmitted to Bart’s brain were those of his orgasm—but the spinal cord was torn and damaged, so the signals were corrupt.   The unfortunate youth could only interpret them as searing pain, as if molten metal or liquid magma was being forced along his urethra; he was too brain dead to know he was cumming longer, harder, and more intensely than he ever had in his short, wasted life.

 

Joe knew it, though, and could feel its heat and intensity as a solid stream of boycum splattered up his belly and onto his chest, the pearly seed matting his dark chest hair.  Load after load of steaming semen splashed across his pecs as both killer and meat continued to jerk and grind against each other’s sweat-and cum-sticky bodies.

 

After a few minutes, Joe was able to get better control of himself; the magnitude of his orgasm kept him shuddering for a bit longer as he strained to empty his balls.  At the same time, the convulsions of the corpse in which his cock was still buried began slow and lessen in ferocity; in another minute, the body was reduced to a twitching pile of meat and Joe was able to pull out without too much trouble.  Sometimes, the meat can knot up on yer tool…

 

Stretching himself and sighing contentedly, the buff, hardbodied alpha ambled off to find the bathroom.

 

When he did, he noted the palatial appointments—the sunken marble tub, the matching marble vanity tops, the multi-jet rainfall shower—there was even a bidet, for fuck’s sake.  Smiling with amused contempt, he grabbed the thickest, most decorative-looking guest towel he could find and, soaking it in the sink, used it to clean the dead boy’s cum off his chest and belly, as well as wiping down his dick.

 

Then, with a malicious grin, he took the towel over to the tub and wedged a corner of it down into the drain as tightly as he could, before turning the hot water on full blast.  As he left the bathroom, he idly wondered how long it would take the tub to overflow.  After all, he wasn’t quote done here.

 

Back in the bedroom, he retrieved his t-shirt and jeans, quickly slipping the shirt on.  Tucking the shirt into his pants, he zipped the fly and threaded the belt back around his narrow waist.  Then he sat on the bed, pulling his sock and boots back on, eyeing  the evening’s work critically as he did.

 

His experience told him the composition was unfinished.  The dead kid was splayed out on his back with both the right arm and right leg bent at impossible angles and a single sock on his left foot.  The head was bent forward around the poker as if his was trying to look down his chest.  The meat’s face was starting to fade from black back to a cyan blue; it was still swollen and streaked with drool.  The eyes no longer protruded quite so grotesquely, but the tongue still did.  The smooth chest and belly were smeared with a white crust—the fag’s own cum, some of which was still leaking from his deflating cock.

 

Something was still needed, something to drive home the contempt Joe felt for the meat—and for the parents who raised it.  Something that would—oh, yes.  That would work.

 

Smiling broadly, Joe strode across to the corpse, the loud thumping of his boots fading once he stepped on the bearskin rug.  Placing one hand flat on the cunt’s forehead, he shoved it back while grabbing the poker with his other hand.  He turned, shifted slightly, and knelt between the meat’s spread legs.  With a loud grunt and a single powerful thrust of his arm, Joe rammed the poker up the corpse’s ass, tearing and mutilating the dead flesh until it had gone a good two feet into the meat’s intestines.  Only the brass handle and few inches of black iron stuck out of the kid’s ass; the head of the instrument, deep inside the corpse, had been smeared with Joe’s cum as it punched its way through the boy’s innards.

 

Joe stood up and took a step back for another critical glance.  There.  That was perfect.

 

He wasn’t the type to whistle, but if he was, he would have been whistling as he headed for the door; he’d gotten his dick milked and he’d put another fag down good and hard; all in all, a good night’s work.  As he got to the bedroom door, something caught his eye—a cellphone on an otherwise bare dresser.  Probably the meat’s.  That could be handy; he needed to dump the one he’d used to respond to the ad—he’d used it too many times.  Didn’t need to be traced.

 

Powering up the phone, he saw it had a touch lock.  Well, that damn sure wasn’t a problem.  He strolled back to the corpse and used the stiffening index finger to unlock the phone.  Once it was open, he reset the lock to his own finger.  Then, in a burst of inspiration, he took some photos of the corpse, from different angles and varying degrees of closeness.

 

Once he finished recording the brutality he’d visited upon the meat, he turned and left the room.  The echo of his big black boots on the staircase lingered for a moment after he’d gone, but soon the big house was quiet, the flickering of the still-lit gas fireplace providing the only hint of heat or motion in the darkness.

 


 

Elaine unlocked the front door and stepped into the entryway in a brusque manner indicative of her anger and impatience.  The flight had been late and that stupid shuttle bus driver was so slow—and Larry had actually tipped him instead of telling the useless towelhead to go back to driving a camel in whatever fly-ridden country he was from…

 

Huffing and grunting under the weight of the luggage in the doorway behind her, Larry was no less in a foul mood; his face was red in the overheated way some men get in their mid-forties when they get stressed.  “There, I think that’s everything,” he said, dumping the bags on the floor.  “Are you sure the maids come back tomorrow?  Some of this stuff’s gotta be—”

 

“Shh!” Elaine cut him off.  “What’s that sound?”

 

Now the she’d drawn his attention to it, he could hear it too.  It sounded like a waterfall—or at least, water falling from a height.  “It’s coming from the dining room,” he said.

 

He headed in that direction with his wife following him.  In the dining room, their worst fears—for the moment—were confirmed; water was pouring from the ceiling, running down the wires and the chain for the chandelier and splattering all over the antique damask-and-lace tablecloth.

 

“Oh my God,” Elaine squeaked, “Where’s that coming from?”

 

“Our bathroom is upstairs,” Larry replied in a dazed voice.

 

“Oh no, what has Bartholomew been doing?”

 

At this suggestion, Larry’s face went puce.  “By God,” he growled, “If that brat’s responsible for this, I’m gonna take it outta his fuckin’ hide!”

 

He dashed for the stair, bawling, “You’re dead meat when I get a hold of ya, boy!”

 

Elaine trailed after him, wailing.  “Don’t you hurt him, Larry!  It must be an accident!”

 

Larry raced up the stairs, rounding the turn at the top and propelling himself into the open bedroom door—and there he paused, trying to make some sense of the bizarre scene in front of him.  The splashing form the bathroom, the water running across the floor, the broken mirror—and Bart lying naked on the floor.  He didn’t look right.  Was he drunk?  Had he gotten wasted, broken the mirror, left the tub or shower running and passed out in front of the fireplace?  If that was the case, Larry was gonna kick his ass so hard.  He walked towards the prone youth.

 

Elaine burst into the room just as Larry realized that Bart had indeed gotten wasted last night, but not in the sense that Larry had originally intended.  Looking down at the beaten and strangled corpse of his son, the older man swayed on his feet.  Dear God in heaven, what the hell was that sticking out of his ass?

 

He was in no condition divert his wife from the nauseating sight.

 

“What the fuck is going on in here?” she demanded as she entered.  “Did Bartholomew do all this?  Where is he?”  She drew level with her husband, took one look down, shrieked at the top of her lungs and fell into a dead faint.

 

It was all over the local evening news.  It didn’t make state news until photos of the corpse began appearing anonymously on social media sites.  The first ones targeted were ones to which Larry or Elaine subscribed…

Trucker 13–Trucker vs Teen Runaway

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker growled, shoving harder.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

…but he couldn’t stop screaming.

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

No, no he wasn’t enjoying it, but his cock was so hard it hurt and he didn’t know why, the pressure and the pounding in his head in his cockhead and behind his eyes, that frantic percussion—was that his pulse?—his head was gonna explode and his dick was gonna explode the pressure was too intense—

 

“Goddam, boy, I ain’t had no one’s ass grab my shaft like this—yer really gettin’ into this, cunt!  Fuckin’-A—gonna ride yer ass till ya die, faggot!”

 

The enormous cock that had roused such lust and desire in the oversexed teenager was now being wielded as an instrument of nightmarish torture, tearing him open on the inside.  With the heightened sensitivity of his dying nervous system, Erik was suffering the pain of impalement in an almost medieval sense as the alpha’s inhumanly massive shaft pounded its way through his torn, inflamed colon and repeatedly embedded itself deep into his tender guts.

 

The Trucker held on to the twisted wifebeater with both hands, feeling the teen dying on his engorged cock.  Tracing the progression of the kid’s brain death was relatively easy for the proficient serial killer; he knew the symptoms from long experience.  The meat was nearly gone, but the way the little fuck was gagging and slobbering meant that there was still a spark of human mentality left—

 

—and the Trucker was so fucking turned on at the thought of abusing and tormenting that spark until it finally flickered out.

 

“Does it hurt to die?” he hissed, “Good.  You earned this, you faggot slut.  Only thing you’re fuckin’ good for is catchin’ my spunk, and you’re good for that once—maybe twice. And after I’m done usin’ ya, all that’ll be left it rottin’ meat that I’m gonna dump on the side of the road.  Not like anyone’s gonna miss ya, right, fuckwad?”

 

The boy heard the words, at least the start, but had lost the ability to react.  Lack of oxygen had inflicted massive trauma to his central nervous system; he no longer had control over his physical movements.  As the Trucker spoke, the kid began to convulse, slowly at first but with a swiftly-increasing intensity.

 

The sick, sadistic top grinned and grunted with pleasure; this was the best part, the way the meat stroked and milked his shaft as it writhed in its death throes.  And this boy seemed to last forever; the slick, lithe, smooth body wriggling and shuddering beneath his hairy weight, the kid’s thick, pulsating dick pressed between two flat, firm bellies.  The youth’s arms had stopped flailing; now, they clutched rigidly at his killer’s shoulders.  The Trucker could feel the heels of the punk’s kicks digging into his denim-wrapped ass as the boy’s legs tightened involuntarily around his waist.

 

Erik was gone and what little was left of Louis was encased in a hard red ball of agony—the fiery pain that seared his chest and head, his throat and his ass and especially his dick, had somehow managed to merge into a solid mass of suffering as his body twisted and contorted itself convulsively.

 

“Oh fuck, fuck yeah,” the Trucker grunted, his face grimacing as he tried to hold back the explosive orgasm boiling up in his tight scrotum.  Deep in his boots, his toes curled in an instinctive attempt to brace his hard, powerful body. His arms jerked back almost involuntarily, veins popping out on his thick, swollen biceps; the white cotton ligature sank into the kid’s neck to a grotesque depth.

 

Suddenly, there was a loud wet cracking sound; the boymeat’s throat had been crushed into a wad of blood, phlegm and mangled cartilage.  It was a special kind of pain and it merged seamlessly with the last sensation that the unfortunate youth had to endure—the razor-sharp agony of his own ejaculation.

 

As the teen spewed a massive deathload over the Trucker’s chest and belly, the boycum matting the older man’s fur, the Trucker gave one last, deep grunt and let go, his hot potent manspunk hosing the boy’s guts and filling his rectum.

 

The hot wind still swept out of the night, whipping around the silent cab where a man remained locked in a tight, trembling, orgasmic embrace with the corpse of a seventeen-year-old boy.

 

A few minutes later, when the Trucker was sure he’d drained every drop of sperm out of his huge balls, he disengaged himself from the dead punk.  Taking a moment to stuff his still-oozing dick back into his jeans, the sweaty, cum-covered alpha looked down with contempt at the corpse.

 

There was little left that was recognizable of the cocky teenager.  The smooth young face was now a puffy blue mask with a thick purple tongue protruding from the middle of it.  The nose was bent and broken with blood trials from both nostrils and the eyes were nothing but slits of white streaked with red under swollen lids.

 

The dark gray Nikes were quivering as the fag’s nervous system continued to fire random nerve signals; the Trucker knew from past experience that the meat would twitch and kick for an hour or so longer.  The little fucker’s dick was going soft, expelling the semen that had remained in the shaft at death.

 

 

 

The Trucker sneered at the dead boy.  “Fuckin’ faggot,” he muttered, “Shoulda hurt ya more.”

 

Grabbing a washcloth from a small set of drawers on the left, the heaving, sweat-slick alpha slipped past the privacy curtain and exited the cab.  Walking quickly across the empty parking lot, he headed into the rest room.  Under the glaring fluorescent light, he soaked the washcloth and used it to give his torso a brief sponge bath, wiping the teen’s crusty jizz out of his body fur.

 

Even though his boots thumped just as loudly on the pavement on his way back to the truck as on the way in, the Trucker’s steps were lighter.  He felt a warm glow of satisfaction at the workout he’d gotten snuff the young homo.  Even his dogtags jingled cheerfully on his chest.

 

The young ones could take a good, hard beating and still let him work out some while bangin’ and offin’ them—he’d remember that.  Oh fuck yeah, he’d remember that.

 

He was on the highway within fifteen minutes, cruising along with the window down, letting the warm night air dry the dark curly hair on his chest.  As the miles flew by, his mind kept turning back to the incredibly erotic way the adolescent slut had died on his cock.  The way the motherfucker’s asshole clutched his throbbing shaft, milking it desperately, convulsively as life was choked out of the little punk…

 

The Trucker found that he had to reach into his crotch and shift his stiffening rod.

 

He began eyeing the side of the road, wanting to dump the meat before sunup.  He was near the center of one of the most godforsaken sections of highway in the state—in the entire country for that matter—but there was no sense taking chances.

 

He’d seen no other vehicles for an hour when he pulled off the two-lane road onto a wide, level section of shoulder.  Beyond the shoulder, the land dipped down into a deep, narrow gully, shadowed with the dry, brown remains of whatever dank vegetation managed to grow when there was water present.

 

It’d be a long time before anyone found anything tossed down there.

 

Taking one last look in the rearview mirror to ensure he was alone, the Trucker made his way past the privacy curtain into the sleeper section of the cab.  Somewhere in the past hundred miles, the dead boy had rolled off the bunk; the corpse was splayed out face down on the floor.

 

Standing over it, the Trucker admired the smooth, lean meat, the tender, rounded ass that seemed designed for fucking, the firm, lithe legs spread invitingly apart, with the grey Nikes still on the feet.  His cock was straining painfully in his jeans.  The feelings were conflicting; he didn’t fuck corpses, but this little fuck still seemed to be asking for it.

 

“Fuck it,” the Trucker muttered, “Why not?”

 

Bending down, he grabbed the dead teen and tossed the corpse onto the bunk, still face down.  He positioned it crossways with the legs hanging off, as if the boy was kneeling at the bunk and bent down over it.  In that position, the ass was perfectly set up for penetration.

 

As usual, it took the hulking alpha a moment or two to extract his gigantic shaft from its tight denim confines.  When it was finally free, it was as engorged and oozing as if he hadn’t just emptied his sack a little over an hour earlier.

 

Lowering himself down, he inserted his throbbing member into the cadaver and was pleasantly surprised.  The meat was cool, but not cold, and rigor mortis had set in just enough to make the mangled dead asshole comfortably firm enough to grip the Trucker’s cock just right.

 

With a sigh of pleasure, the sick killer inserted his manhood into the boy’s fuckhole until he was balls-deep in the dead teenager.  The sigh was soon replaced by deep lusty grunts at the older man plowed his cock into the depths of the cooling carcass.  The meat was still limp enough for the dead youth’s limbs to jerk and shift in response to each and every thrust of the Trucker’s huge, pulsating shaft.

 

It had been years since the Trucker had violated the corpse of one of his kills; he’d forgotten the sweet, easy sensation of a victim unable to resist—and this one, such young smooth flesh, so supple, even in death…

 

It was too much.  The Trucker shuddered violently as he pumped another massive load into the dead boy’s guts, giving the cold meat one last burst of warmth with his scalding geyser of semen.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  Goddam faggot!  Dead piece a’ shit!” he cried in a gruff, constricted voice that echoed of the metal walls of the tiny sleeper compartment.  Involuntarily, he grabbed the punk’s jaw and twisted it, his arms jerking roughly in orgasmic intensity and snapping the meat’s neck with a gruesomely loud shattering sound.

 

The only other noises to accompany the perverted desecration of the teenager’s corpse were the joyous jangling of the Trucker’s dogtags and the desolate whistling of the pre-dawn breeze.

 

For the second time, the Trucker disengaged himself from the dead kid; this time, he used the boy’s shorts as a rather unsatisfactory cumrag to wipe off his dripping cock.  As he tucked his fully-drained member back into his jeans, he pulled back the privacy curtain and looked outside the cab—there was still obviously no one within miles.

 

So there was no one to see him yank the dead teenager out of the cab by his arms; there was no one to see the channels carved in the dirt by the corpse’s Nikes as it was dragged across the shoulder to the gully.  There was certainly no one to notice when the muscular hardman, in tight jeans and boots, but shirtless, dumped the dead meat into the ditch; in fact, it was three months before the skeletal remains were found.

 

It was finally ID’d by dental records.  The kid’s mama had made sure her Louie had good teeth.

 

There was someone to notice that one of the fucker’s Nikes had come off as he was being dragged—the Trucker.  When he drove off, he made sure one of his rig’s wheel passed right over the sneaker, grinding it into the gravel on the side of the road.

Joe and Skyler Take a Captive by Den

He awoke in the trunk of the car as the chloroform wore off, terrified and confused. But as he heard the voices coming from the vehicle cab he realized it was the two men he had engaged briefly in the bar. His dick swelled in his pants despite the cramped and bumpy ride. They had made a reference to no-limits trips in their banter, and a playroom for special bottom men outside of town. “You’ll never have sex that good again in your life” they said. They had left way before him expressing the hope that their paths crossed again, he echoed the hope and said he’d love to see that playroom. He remembered now that he had seen the two men sitting in a parked car, and nodded to them as he passed. Not looking back, he hoped they would follow him and headed for an empty stretch of road through a small park, images of his desires rising from his imagination on a tide of adrenaline. Apparently they had followed him and taken the opportunity given.

Now bruised and battered he watched as all evidence of his identity went up in smoke at their rural compound. Excitement, anticipation, fear, and a strange sense of freedom all passed through him, and again his dick rose. The two tall, hard looking men watched from a distance and knew they had chosen well. They prodded the fire with sticks until the last vestiges of clothing and ID had been reduced to ash.

In the light of sunrise he got a better look at the two men he had been speaking to in the bar. Taller than he, lean and muscular and with lightly hairy bodies, they were not handsome, but were incredibly sexy with strong angular features. They both stretched and he could see the thick bush under their arms as well as the outline of large endowments under their pants. He was at full attention now, and they saw it. Even naked on the cold ground, hands tied, he wanted them, and what he knew they were offering.  As if to tease him, one of the men pulled out his dick to piss on the ashes of his identity. “Please!” He called out to them. They knew what he wanted, and both men came over to soak his head in their hot piss, letting him drink when he opened his mouth for them.

Good boy!” One said when they were through, before kicking him hard in the balls. He groaned but spread his legs wider and leaned back to show he needed precisely that. And how much he needed it was a surprise even to him…fantasy finally about to be real. The man caressed his captive’s scrotum with the toe of his logger boots before settling the weight of his heel on the man’s balls. Captor and captive stared into each other’s eyes as the heel slowly crushed the tied man’s balls. His hard on did not go away and precum rolled out of the tip of his dick as the pain in his nuts grew. Both topmen smiled at this and the heel was withdrawn. “We’ll save those for later, but they are going to be ruined and taken”. “I’m Joe, and this is Skyler. You don’t have a name anymore.” They could have been brothers, they were certainly lovers, and one had his hand around the other’s shoulder, patting his stomach when he said his name.

“Do you know what we have in store for you?” Joe asked smiling broadly. “You’re going to torture and kill me.” They noticed how his balls rose and fell as he said that, additional indication of his arousal at the thought.

“Yes,” said Skyler, “fuck up that pretty body, ruin those big balls and cut them off, and live-gut you.” As he said live-gut he ran his own hand up and down his beautiful abdomen. The captive sucked in breath but said nothing. Skyler kicked him in the balls again and said “What do you think? Do you like the way that sounds?”  The captive let out a yelp, but when he had gotten his breath back simply said. “Yes. Yes sir.”

Joe and Skyler pulled their genitals out from their jeans and each in his turn fucked the captive’s face coming deeply down his throat as he gagged and fought for breath. Sperm dripped down his chin and they wiped it on their fingers. They did not have to force him to lick the fingers clean. They untied him from the stake and when he made no attempt to run or fight, untied his hands. Again he made no effort to escape. They had seen seeming consent turn to fear and regret in other men, even men who thought they wanted this kind of thrill.  Those men had been kept bound as they tortured and killed them: and killed them with great pleasure as they always did. To be on the safe side though, they gave their captive a locked collar and chain, and when not in use kept him locked up.

Taking him to the barn they hosed him down, hosed him out and then each one fucked him. He was surprised they could get hard again so soon after the blow job and eagerly milked their sperm out with his hole. Afterwards Joe used his fist to push the mingled sperm as far into his captive as he could, punching his balls with his free hand. They then hung him by his collar, hauling him up with the chain, until his hard dick shot and he passed out, and then they lowered and revived him, massaging his neck as he came to. They each kissed him hard on the lips relishing the taste of their mingled sperm in the captive’s mouth. Despite his having been hung, his dick rose again. Each took a long thick sewing needle of the kind that might be used to mend canvas or perhaps leather. Skyler pushed his through the captives left nipple while Joe simultaneously pierced his right. The captive moaned through gritted teeth as he was pierced and again, clear fluid dripped from his dick. They locked his chain to a pole near an old cot with a canteen of water and told the captive he was not to remove the needles under any circumstances. They had no idea how excited their captive was. Even after hours alone in the hot barn the pain in his nipples and ache in his balls kept him company and kept him aroused. There was no place to relieve himself, so when he needed to he pissed on his own naked body and that helped keep him excited as well.

It occurred to him with not a little surprise that with all this going on he had not had a moment of extreme fear since the terms of his captivity became clear. He felt certain that as the time of his gutting approached, there would have to be intense fear. But now all he felt was that odd freedom, a crazy pleasure in the pain his body was registering and the excitement of what he hoped was the sexual ultimate.

Later in the day Joe and Skyler returned, again bare chested and with their genitals exposed through their jeans. These were impressive men, absolute alphas in every way and clearly lovers of snuff. They were cruel but appreciative of their subject and how he took what they were dishing out. They let him clean their armpits with his tongue, and then their balls and holes and he was in heaven. They put additional needles through his nipples and around his pecs and gave him poppers for which he was very grateful. He moaned uncontrollably from the sensation of it and screamed loudly as they inserted pins into his abs and armpits. They loved the screaming, and pulled on the needles and squeezed his nipples until blood ran down his chest. They tied his scrotum tightly so his balls were tight within the sac’s skin and inserted brads into his balls, pushing the heads through the skin of the scrotum so they could not be removed. When his balls were full of them Joe gently cradled them in one hand and punched them with the other until they were soaked in blood and the blood dripped from Joe’s hand.

Through it all the captive moaned and thrashed, but he fought hard not to recoil from the pain. He had longed for precisely this it and still was amazed by his acceptance and lack of fear. His dick was hard and dripped constantly with precum. On two occasions he begged the two torturers to stop because he did not want to come. They had never had a man like this; a man who even knowing he was going to be killed relished the pleasure hidden in the torture they were giving him. They were surprised how much they liked it, usually relishing the change in their playmates as the end point of the play became real to them. They both fucked him again at this point, using his own blood as lube, and he pushed his ass up against them as they came, whimpering from the intense sensations in his body. They washed the congealing blood from his body with their piss and then hung him again until he came and passed out. He whispered “thank you” as they revived.

 

They left him alone again, chain locked to a post. He had not eaten in what may well have been 24 hours, he was not sure.  But he was not hungry. He was hungry for these men: hungry to give them what they wanted and to please them in giving it. His body was a mass of pain, but the reality of his condition was so congruent with his years of fantasy that he knew he had chosen properly by allowing them to take him.

He must have slept, because when he opened his eyes it was sunrise again, and he was woken by them pissing on his face. He opened his mouth and drank as much of the fluid as he could and they were very demonstrative with their praise “GOOD boy!!” Skyler said, “Good Snuff-boy”.

They were wide awake and clearly very excited, this time naked, so he figured it could not be long now before the final play. They dragged him off of the cot and hosed him down with a cold hard stream of water. This accentuated the sting in his nipples and balls, still pierced with metal and by now very swollen. The sting got his dick hard in no time and he was ready to go, ready for the final act. They bent him over a table and again fucked him, each one pissing up his ass has they finished. They then laid him on his back and each one fisted him. Joe worked the sperm and piss as deeply as he could into the captive’s intestines. Skyler got in deep and worked the captive’s hole as hard as he could. He could feel the captive’s body open to him and see both the need and pain in his eyes. He whispered in the captive’s ear “I’m going to open my fist, puncture your guts and let that sperm and piss out into your abdomen. Get ready boy.” For a second his blood ran cold and then his desire exploded. “Please” he croaked through a dry throat. They gave him poppers and Skyler went to town ramming into the captive’s hole and destroying his intestines.  The captive’s eyes went wide with the pain and his dick briefly shrunk, but quickly rose again and he could not look away from the arm tearing up his body. When Skyler’s arm came out it was covered in blood, and the captive had felt things he could not believe. He moaned loud and deep as Skyler went in again, his flat hand like a blade in the captive’s body. “Yeah boy, that’s it” said Skyler as he fucked his open hand in to the captive’s hole as hard as he could. “Take it fucker!” The captive arched his back to give Skyler access while Joe skull fucked him. The captive was delirious with desire for the taste of Joe’s sperm and he marveled at the pain that washed over him and coursed through his insides. There was no turning back at all. Even if they stopped, he’d be dead from infection within 24 hours and the realization thrilled and scared the shit out of him at the same time.

When they saw the captive was close they withdrew, and Skyler’s arm dripped with blood and intestinal mucous. There was no way that the captive could live, but the two men were not planning to let him anyway, and the captive was lost in the experience, barely able to think straight. Pain, pleasure, years of fantasy suddenly made real had him in another world. They laid him out flat and Joe finally pulled all the needles out of his nipples and pecs. He gave the captive a hit of poppers again and with pliers worked his nips until they were unrecognizable. The captive moaned and thrashed but kept his hands at his sides and watched, even as Skyler finally took a scalpel and cut the mutilated pieces of meat off his chest. They then turned their attention to the captives balls, still filled with metal, swollen and purple. Skyler tied them off tightly and hammered them until there was clearly no solid meat inside the scrotum. All three took a hit of poppers before Joe used his hunting knife to cut the scrotum off, the captive screaming hard and stiffening from the pain. He watched eyes wide, breathing hard and fast and did not hesitate to lick at his own balls as Skyler held them in front of his mouth and demanded it. Through it all his dick remained hard and dripped seminal fluid.

He was a little shocked at how weak he was when Joe and Skyler dragged him to his feet, but he felt exactly as he had thought he would if he ever reached this point. His intuition and imagination had lead him correctly to this place. He understood he was being killed, but the sexual excitement and feelings in his body were somehow right, somehow what he was meant to feel. His knees buckled under him from his body’s state and Joe and Skyler struggled briefly to keep him upright as they lead him to another part of the barn. “Easy boy, just a little longer and the fun reaches a peak”.

They help him to a rectangular frame and shackle his arms and legs, spread out with access to both front and rear. He is wild eyed but knows exactly what is going on. They shoot him up with speed and caverject to keep him conscious and hard to the very end and he manages to get a moan of pure pleasure out as the drugs take hold. He is excited and ready for what he has dreamed of for so long, and with the drugs giving him strength, braces himself as they both begin to whip him. Skyler at the front and Joe at the back, they whip him till his body is raw and pink and streaks of blood begin to appear. They put the whips down and piss on his wounds, Skyler mounting a ladder to piss in the captive’s eagerly opened mouth. They bring out the gutting tool and the captive seeing this moans in anticipation, and if it is even possible his dick gets harder still. With one hand Joe works the captive’s dick as the other gently pushes the first blade into the captive’s abdomen just where his pubic hair ends. Blood begins to flow lazily, flowing over the captive’s dick and Joe’s hand before dripping to the floor. Joe works the dick carefully, not wanting to bring the man to orgasm too soon. He loves this part, loves the killing. When he has pierced the membrane below the muscle he gets the hooked blade in as the captive watches, unable to look away from his own butchering. Then he works quickly bringing the blade up to the sternum as the captive gasps from the feeling. The captive leans forward as best he can, straining to watch and in so doing opens the incision allowing his entrails to tumble out onto his dick and Joe’s hand. “Oh FUCK, oh Jesus!!!” he screams as his death orgasm erupts. All three of them look in each other’s eyes, bound together by the intensity and of this act and one after the other they come. The captive’s entrails sag to the ground and Skyler reaches into the body cavity to caress him from the inside. The Captive moans uncontrollably as he feels the hand inside him and is lost in a roiling mass of sensation that he never could have imagined. Time stands still as the last of his semen is squeezed out of his prostate by the intensity of the orgasm. Joe shoves the barrel of a gun into the captive’s mouth and blows his brains out just as he figures the man’s orgasm is fading. Another huge string of sperm erupts as the body slumps. Joe and Skyler fall into each other’s arms and fuck like the animals, as a fine mist of blood and brains falls on their sweaty bodies.

Mac Solo: The Interrogation

The guard glanced down, carefully placing the rugged soles of his combat boots so that he avoided making a sound.  The tightly-laced leather footgear fit him snugly, especially the right one—he kept a blade hidden there.

 

He was young, but he was trained and confident, an efficient killer.  His hard lean body vibrated with violence and testosterone; it oozed out in his sweat and soaked into his tight-fitting clothing.

 

The boy’s cold dark eyes glittered as he squinted and scanned the underbrush around him.  Black tactical gloves tightly gripped his modified AK-47, ready to spring to action at the slightest alert and spit swift burning death.

 

He was prepared to do it.  He was paid to guard, not to question what he was guarding or why.  He was there to kill anyone he saw.  It was a job he was good at—a job he enjoyed.

 

He was twenty-three and just under six feet tall.  He kept his russet hair short for strategic purposes; long hair gives opponents a grip during hand-to-hand combat.  He flexed his muscular legs, encased in black military-grade cargo pants; above, a skin-tight black compression t-shirt camouflaged his broad chest

 

The young merc was very familiar with hand-to-hand combat—he’d already had the experience of killing a man and watching him die, kicking, in his arms.  He enjoyed it—it got him hard.  He knew he’d found his place in life.  He loved killing, and he loved getting paid to do it.

 

So here he was, peering into the woods for intruders—and desperately hoping to find some.  He didn’t know what behind him was so important or who was supposed to be coming to jeopardize it; it didn’t really matter.  He was getting paid good money and he had the chance to take a life.

 

Cold and arrogant, the hard young merc’s cruel eyes glinted as they attempted to pierce the shadows.  Half-hard at the thought of killing, he really wanted someone to be there.

 

Someone was there, but not the someone the guard wanted.

 

Mac was so close to the young hardman he didn’t need the night vision goggles anymore; in fact, he could almost reach out and touch the punk.  The gun was that only reason he didn’t—at the moment, it directly (if unknowingly) at Mac, crouched deep in the underbrush a yard away.  So he paused.  This kid was young, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

 

Slipping his hand down his own thick, muscled leg, Mac gripped the hilt of the Ka-bar combat knife hidden in his boot sheath.  He silently withdrew seven inches of razor-sharp carbon steel, darkened so it wouldn’t reflect any surrounding light, not that that was a problem in this situation.  Mac could see his target, but just barely.  It was enough, though—enough for him to see the kid turn slightly to the side.

 

Mac’s body, taut and hard with well-trained muscle, was a killing machine; it sprang onto action as if a switch had been flipped.  In the blink of an eye, death came to the young mercenary—swift, brutal agonizing death, but not so swift that the hardman wasn’t aware of what was happening.

 

He heard Mac first, of course, as the professional killer launched himself from the underbrush, and pivoted to face the attack.  He wasn’t fast enough—a sudden blow from behind knocked the gun out his hands; at the same moment a gloved hand was clamped across his mouth, the fingers digging in mercilessly as the powerful hand clench tightly.

 

The merc was stunned by the lighting attack; the overconfident punk had thought himself equal to anyone.  He needed to shift his weight, if he could grab this fucker’s arms and tuck under just right, he could throw the dude…

 

Then Mac yanked his head back and pressed the blade against the boy’s throat.  The hardman, young, but experienced, had just enough time to realize what he was feeling when the older, stronger—better—killer began cutting his throat.

 

Even with a sharp blade, it took Mac a few second to saw through the punk’s windpipe.  The flesh itself parted easily, but the trachea was tough and rubbery; Mac was forced to tighten his grip on the unfortunate merc’s face to vise-like intensity.  He cut through the thick tube of cartilage as the youthful hardman’s muffled squeals increased in pitch and intensity before subsiding into a desperate, wheezing gurgle as the esophagus was penetrated.

 

Mac kept up the agonizing, inexorable pressure, his fingers brutally clutching the dying kid’s face, until he’d slashed the boy’s throat open practically to the spine.  Then the ruthless killer planted the thick sole of his utility boot on the kid’s ass and shoved him forward.  As the dying merc stumbled forward and fell to his knees, the silent specter of death slipped back into the darkness.

 

The guard’s hands flailed desperately at his torn-out throat, fingers clawing at the horrific wound.  Things were going gray and cold; the vicious punk had done this to enough men to know what was happening—he was bleeding out.  Some dark corner of his mind, as it faded to black, wondered if his assailant had had a hardon…

 

As the thought crossed his panicked mind, the young merc lost control of his bladder.  As hot piss flowed down his legs into his boots, he voided his bowels helplessly, the earthy stench of bodily waste mixing with the hot coppery smell of blood on the cool night air.

 

Then the icy nothingness stole in and the kid flopped forward.  He died alone in the dark, spending his last few seconds on earth drowning agonizingly in his own blood, his face planted in the mud.

 


 

Frank wondered what Joey was doing.  He wasn’t worried about the boy; the kid was a professional and could take care of himself.  He’d known that from the moment he’d seen the kid’s cold, soulless eyes.

 

Frank’s face was colder and more soulless.  He was thirty-eight and had been a hired mercenary since he’d left the Marines fifteen years ago.  He knew that Joey could handle himself because he was good judge of men—how hard they were and how tough they’d be to kill.  Joey had reminded Frank of himself at that age—young, hard, and full of hormones that drove a bloodlust.  Joey got off on killing, Frank had realized, just as much as Frank did himself.

 

The experienced hardman had smirked at Joey’s tactical gear, though—it was the mark of an amateur.  Frank himself had dressed his strong, sinewy body in more casual clothing—tight jeans tucked into a pair of plain black leather combat boots.  A dark t-shirt under a brown leather jacket completed the ensemble, along with a gray knit cap over his short brown hair.

 

He was armed as well, holding his AK-47 up and at the ready.  From a thick black leather belt around his waist hung a twelve-inch scabbard containing a massive hunting knife.  Peering into the underbrush, Frank was caught up for a moment in a gliding beam of moonlight that glinted from his cold green eyes and darkened the shadows on his lean, hard face.  His grim, tight-lipped visage was an archetype for a hardened killer.

 

And he had no idea that within five minutes, he’d be nothing but mangled, quivering meat, cooling on the forest floor.

 

The attack was swift, silent, and brutal.  Mac had approached within five feet of the guard, letting the man pass by him before springing out from behind.

 

Frank was taken by surprise, in more ways than one.  He’d been sure enough of his own skill that he’d neglected some basic precautions—a final lucid moment of regret for is arrogance that flashed across his mind as a powerful arm wrapped around his throat and yanked him backwards, off-balance.

 

Frank knew the move; he knew what to expect—he just wasn’t fast enough to stop it.  The muscles in the small of his back tightened—a useless move.  His fall was broken, as he expected it would be, by the razor-sharp tip of a blade that pierced his leather jacket like it was wet paper.

 

Before Frank could react, nine inches of sharp icy steel had penetrated his back just below the ribcage, the serrated edge of the blade slashing effortlessly through the merc’s flesh, muscles and organs with only the slightest change of resistance to indicate the type of tissue it was cutting through.

 

Not that anyone needed to be told.  Mac knew he was slicing through the hardman’s kidney and spleen because that was where he was aiming.

 

And Frank knew, because he could feel every inch of it.  Just to be sure, though—and to keep his target immobilized by shock—Mac twisted the blade viciously, reaming the sharp cutting edge and cruelly honed serrations deep inside the merc’s shuddering body.

 

Adrenaline flooded Frank’s system in an uncontrollable wave as he rose up, his feet curling in agony involuntarily inside his boots.  When Mac jerked the knife back out, he slashed it wide, almost literally cutting his way out; only the shock prevented Frank from screaming in horrific pain.

 

Then, before the shock subsided, Mac put an end to Frank’s ability to make any sound at all.  Whipping his arm around in front, the dominant killer rammed his blade down with a swift, powerful motion.  In a split second, the long wicked steel shaft pierced Frank’s chest, slicing between his ribs and puncturing his heart like a balloon full of blood.  The dying hardman gave a loud grunt as the impact to his chest drove the air out of his lungs—then was unable to inhale again.

 

All Frank found he was able to do was shudder and suffer silently in the crushing iron grip of the rock-hard warrior who was neutralizing him so efficiently.  He trembled for a few seconds of mind-bending pain as his quivering heart sliced itself into lunchmeat on the blade impaled in his chest.

 

Then the jerking sack of meat that had moment before been a talented killer slid to the ground.  As Mac rolled the corpse onto its back and withdrew his knife, the dead man’s boots combat carved furrows in the dirt as the body kicked mindlessly in its death throes.  Mac had vanished back into the woods long before the cooling pile of meat stopped shuddering.

 


 

There was one guard left, Mac knew—and he knew he needed to interrogate him.  Mac had been assigned to retrieve a certain item located in a structure ahead.  This last guard would know where the item was inside.  Based on the intel he’d received, Mac knew that last dude knew more than the others—and was more dangerous.

 

The last guard was in his early thirties.  He’d dressed completely in black, much like Mac had, to become almost invisible in the shadows under the trees—excellent camouflage for a hunter.

 

A tight black jumpsuit emphasized the hardman’s tight, muscular body; around his slim waist a webbed utility belt was wrapped.  Two knives, a pistol, a baton, and several less identifiable weapons dangled from it; the merc was prepared to inflict swift, brutal death one anyone he targeted.  His combat boots were black waterproof fabric with rubber soles that allowed him to move quietly.

 

He was good, but he wasn’t too good.  Above his hard, handsome chiseled face, a few golden curls had escaped from under his black knit cap.  They glinted in the moonlight—just enough to catch Mac’s eye.

 

He shifted slightly to the right, centering himself on the guard, who was still unaware of his presence.  He wasn’t unaware for long, though.

 

The hardman heard a faint stirring to his left and whirled to meet the threat, only to find that he was half a second too slow.  A swift shadow split from the surrounding darkness and slammed him up against the tree behind him.  A large powerful hand in a leather glove clamped over his mouth.  The tips of the fingers were free; they dug painfully into the guard’s cheeks as his lips were sealed.  At the same time, the guard felt the icy touch of a blade at his throat; the knife was still razor-sharp despite being stained with the blood of two men.

 

“Awright, motherfucker,” Mac growled in a gruff whisper.  “I’m gonna ask some questions and yer gonna answer.  Gimme a bad answer or no answer and you’ll be gargling yer own blood.  Ya feel me?”  He lifted his hand from the man’s mouth.

 

“Fuck you,” the guard sneered, “I dunno nothin’ and wouldn’t tell ya if I did.”

 

“That was a bad answer,” Mac said quietly and, clamping the dude’s mouth closed again, stuck the knife into his flank.  It was a controlled thrust, only about an inch and a half deep—just enough to pierce the jumpsuit and the guy’s flesh and puncture the oblique muscles.  The merc gave a loud grunt, his face grimacing in pain—that part of it not covered by Mac’s glove, at any rate.

 

“I can do that a hundred times with killin’ ya,” Mac said.  “Start talkin’.  You know what I’m here for—where is it?”

 

“Toldja I don’t know nothin’.  Besides, yer just gonna kill me anyway.”

 

“I might let ya live—if you’re helpful enough.  If not, you’re gonna die slow and hard, asswipe.”  Mac pressed the blade against the hardman’s throat again, this time with more pressure.  A thin line of slowly-trickling red appeared.  “All I have to do is press a little harder and you’ll be bleeding out like a fuckin’ stuck pig.  Now talk, damn you!”

 

The guard knew death was staring him in the face, and acquiesced.  “There’s a cabin two clicks to the east,” he said sullenly.  “It’s in there.”

 

“How many men between here and there?”

 

“None, man, we’re it.  No one’s s’possed to know it’s here.  How the fuck did you find out?”

 

“Shut the fuck up, asshole, I’m askin’ the questions.  Now tell me ‘bout it, bitch.”

 

The merc glared up at Mac, then sighed, knowing his life depended on cooperation.  “It’s in a case on a table.  No traps, no alarms.  Someone’s s’possed to come by for it in the mornin’.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” Mac growled, cutting the dude’s neck—not enough to be dangerous, but enough that the guard felt it.

 

“I swear,” the man moaned, fear overcoming his bravado, “I’m tellin’ the truth, man swear to God—don’t hurt me.”

 

“Good,” the older, more experienced killer murmured thoughtfully, “Good.”

 

“So—so I did what ya wanted, right?” the guard asked anxiously.  “Y-ya ain’t gonna kill me, right?”

 

“Wrong,” Mac said evenly and buried his blade to the hilt in the merc’s belly, all seven inches of cold steel piercing the hardman’s firm flat abs and sinking into his belly.

 

The guard gave a deep, despairing moan, his hands clutching at Mac’s wrists in a vain attempt to pull the knife back out of his guts.  His eyes, wide with shock, turned to those of his killer’s.  “I-I cooperated,” he gasped in frantic confusion, “I did wh-what ya wanted…”

 

“Stupid sack of shit—only reason I kept ya alive was to get info,” Mac sneered.  “I don’t need you anymore.  Ya told me everything ya know; now you’re useless.  Time to die, fuckwad.”

 

Gripping the merc’s shoulder tightly, Mac used his other hand to rip the knife upwards, slashing open the dude’s torso.  It took a few seconds of nightmarish agony for him to saw his way through the well-built guard’s abdominal muscles, but Mac was powerful enough to hold the man down and gut him like a deer.

 

Stepping back, Mac held his knife up.  The hardman stared in horror at the blood-streaked blade, curls of flesh dangling from the serrations.  His hands had been clenched to his belly in pain—for some reason, he reached out to Mac at this point, his hands outspread in a futile supplicating gesture.

 

It was his last mistake.  As soon as he let go of his torso, there was a loud slurping thump—and the dude’s intestines slid out of his sliced-open abdomen, landing in a stinking, quivering pile of tangled meat on the dude’s own boots.

 

His back still to the tree, the guard slid down to a sitting position, his lap full of his own guts.  He looked back up at Mac as the latter approached, but the dying man was too far gone in shock to speak.  He could only look up as the stronger, more expert warrior spoke.

 

“Stupid fuck,” Mac muttered, “All alike, you young punks.  Think yer hot shit, but ya fold like a pussy the minute things get tough.”  And with that, he unzipped his fly and drew out his dick.  As the merc started to fade out, he could see his killer was holding the blade in one hand and his semi-hard cock in the other; both were seven inches long.

 

Things went gray for a moment, but suddenly warm liquid was splashing in the hardman’s face.  With a great effort, he opened his eyes for the last time—to see that the man who had successfully interrogated and wasted him was expressing his final contempt by pissing all over him as he died.

 

“Ain’t worth takin’ time for a piss break,” Mac jeered.  Then the guard’s eyes dilated.  He shuddered violently under his golden shower for a few seconds, then slumped over onto the ground, his own piss flowing out to mingle with that of his killer’s.

 

Mac stuffing his dick back into his jumpsuit, Mac turned to the east.  He still hadn’t decided if he’d wait in the cabin till morning; part of him wanted to give whoever showed up a vigorous, violent welcome.

Trucker 12–Trucker vs Wetback

As the narrow black ribbon of roadway veered sharply to the right, the Trucker gripped the large wheel of his rig and maneuvered the semi carefully around the sharp curve.   A few more yards ahead was another bend to the left, completing the S-curve that the black and yellow caution sign had warned about.

 

Even though he like to hunt along the lesser-traveled roadways, he wouldn’t normally have been on this treacherous stretch of state highway in west Texas if the interstate hadn’t been torn up for repairs.  Everyone had been exiting at Big Springs, so the Trucker had too, heading north.  His plan was to cut across a corner of New Mexico near Carlsbad before turning back south to El Paso, all on state highways.

 

At some point, most everyone else had turned off to head back to the interstate, trying to skirt around the construction.  The Trucker was content to slowly wend his way along the back roads.

 

After all, he was horny.  Who knew what kinda prey was waiting for him out there?

 

That question was answered much sooner than the sadistic predator thought it would be.  Skirting the Guadalupe Mountains National Park to the south, the Trucker noticed a lone figure on the side of the road, near the turnoff for a county road heading due south towards a ranch.  On getting closer, the figure resolved itself into a young Mexican kid, hitching west.

 

There was no one in sight and hadn’t been for miles.  The Trucker pulled over and watching in the side mirror as the punk ran towards the cab.

 

Young—early twenties at most.  His brown skin was highlighted by his almost shoulder-length hair, so black it was almost blue.  The boy had the hard, muscled body of a manual laborer, a fact not hidden by his slightly dirt-stained wifebeater, the thin cotton plastered to his well-built torso by sweat.  The spic’s firmly-muscled legs and bulging crotch were equally well displayed by his tight jeans, so well-worn that they were tantalizingly threadbare in strategic spots.  They were tucked into an old pair of pull-on workboots that had probably risen halfway up the kid’s calf when they were new—now they slouched and looked worn and soft as suede.

 

Soon enough, the door popped open and spic kid climbed in, in a swirl of hot air filled with tang of boysweat.  “Gracias, señor,” he said, rubbing his hand vigorously through his long hair to dislodge the dust.

 

“Where ya headed?” drawled the Trucker.

 

“West, señor.  Las Cruces.  I have job there, si?”

 

“Uh-huh,” the Trucker muttered noncommittally.  He already knew the little spic fuck wasn’t gonna make it to Las Cruces.  “Headed to El Paso myself.  I can get ya closer—maybe.”

 

The boy had been eyeing the Trucker the entire time; the buff alpha wasn’t surprised.  After all, he was dressed to attract attention from any horny little cockpig he came across.  His large muscled form was barely encased in a gray t-shirt so tight, his large erect nipples were clearly defined.  His huge, hubcap pecs were highlighted by the glint of metal from the dogtags dangling between them.

 

The older man’s tight jeans weren’t as worn as the hitcher’s, but the impossibly large bulge in his crotch was difficult to miss, as was the way his powerful legs were wrapped tightly in the denim all the way down to where they were tucked into his well-used but still intact black leather combat boots, worn loosely-laced and untied.  Above, his dark blue trucker’s cap was pulled low, shielding his eyes so that all that was visible of his face was his cheeks and his strong jaw, covered with a blue shadow of rough, wiry stubble.

 

The Trucker shifted into gear and started the rig moving forward, slowly merging back onto the empty two-lane blacktop.  As he did, he noticed in his peripheral vision the searching sidelong glances his passenger was giving him.  The boy was interested in him.  As he shifted the engine into a higher gear and the massive semi began to pick up speed, the Trucker leaned back in the driver’s seat.  He’d wait for the kid to make his move.

 

It didn’t take long.  About five miles further west, the Mexican spoke up. “S-say, señor, I can do un pequeño para ti, no?  A lil’ favor so you take me to Las Cruces?”

 

A broad grin crossed the Trucker’s face, but he didn’t look at the little punk.  “Yeah?  What kinda favor?  You got dinero?”

 

“N-no, señor, no dinero—but maybe I can do somethin’ else…”

 

With that, the spic reached out and placed his hand on the Trucker’s firm thigh, letting it slide over the denim towards the older man’s crotch.  The older man laughed out loud.

 

“Yeah, boy?” he chuckled, “Ya want me to fuck ya?”

 

The kid snatched his hand back.  His face flushed with anger.  “I ain’t no maricón!” he snapped.  “And I ain’t your niño—me llamo Jorge!” 

 

“So what the fuck are ya offerin’, then—boy?” the Trucker said, drawling out the last word in emphasis.

 

Still flushed—perhaps now in embarrassment—the Mexican punk was silent for a few seconds.  “I-I put it en mi boca, no en mi culo, compendre?   My mouth…”

 

The kid was offering a BJ but didn’t want it up the ass.  The Trucker had no doubt he’d be able to overcome the cunt’s objection to a good buttfuck.  Still, he might as well let the fucker suck on it a bit…

 

Taking one hand off the wheel, the hulking alpha reached into his groin and unzipped his fly.  Since he was doing it one-handed, it took him a couple of minutes to extract the full length of his massive cock.  Semi-soft, it slapped down loudly on his denim-wrapped thigh, pulsing and slowly swelling.

 

The Mexican youth stared down at the enormous tube of manmeat and gulped nervously.  Gingerly, he reached out for it.

 

“G’wan,” the Trucker snapped.  “You said you’d suck it, cerdo, now put it in yer mouth.”

 

“B-but you still drive, señor…” Jorge said hesitantly.

 

“Yer bitch ass ain’t enough to distract me while I’m drivin’, puta.  Suck my fuckin’ cock!  Ahora, perra!”

 

The labor-hardened slut had worked his way across country by hitching rides and doing whatever work he could pick up.  He’d picked tobacco in North Carolina, worked with a landscaping crew in Memphis and had done construction work in Dallas.  Every time he’d moved on, he’d ended up managing to trade blowjobs for rides and sometimes a bit more.  And if they weren’t grateful enough for his services, he’d steal whatever wasn’t nailed down.  There was a long, rough road behind him, but he’d never met anyone he couldn’t handle.

 

Until now.

 

And now he was scared.  This guy could hurt him; this guy could fuck him up bad.  He needed to have him pull over, say “Gracias, pero no gracias,” and wait for the next dude.

 

But he didn’t.  He kept moving toward that thick, throbbing shaft.  He wasn’t gay—no way was he a maricón—but he wasn’t able to pull away.  He didn’t know why; he wasn’t deep enough to analyze his own homosexual lust.  He just knew that he should get out, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and that was scaring him.

 

But then his hand wrapped around the huge flesh tube, and he knew he had to have it in his mouth.  Leaning awkwardly across the space between the seats, he tried to suck the Trucker’s cock.  It was so big he damn near dislocated his jaw trying to stuff it all in.  Gagging on the salty, musky head, the buff youth attempted to deep-throat the Trucker.

 

The potholes didn’t make it any easier.  Every time the cab jerked, the vein-bound tool slipped further down the punk’s throat, making him choke and cough.  The Trucker chuckled malignantly.

 

“You suck at suckin’,” he laughed.  “Gotta do better than that, boy—that won’t get ya five miles on this road!”

 

By this point, the experienced killer had spotted a wide spot on the shoulder ahead, an unmarked area to pull over momentarily.  He headed for it, keeping one hand on the wheel and the other entangled in the spic’s long black hair.  As he coasted to a stop, he grabbed the back of the kid’s head and shoved, hard.

 

Just as Jorge felt the cab decelerate, his windpipe was plugged with thick, throbbing manmeat.  He placed both hands on the alpha stud’s thigh and pushed as hard as he could, trying to raise his head up off the Trucker’s dick, but the older man was easily able to hold him down with one arm.

 

The hardbodied slut felt his fist bolt of outright fear—he couldn’t breathe and he literally couldn’t break free.  As his eyes watered uncontrollably, he curled his hands into fists and began to beat against the Trucker’s leg.  He could feel the large muscles flex in the top’s leg as he braked to a stop—and then the implacable force on the back of his head was gone.  The Trucker needed both hand to completely brake the rig.

 

Jorge instantly popped up, gasping for air.  “Mierda!  No mas!” he coughed out, drool running down his chin.

 

The Trucker parked the semi, cutting the ignition.  Grabbing a hank of the kid’s hair again, he pulled Jorge’s head up and spit in his congested, tear-stained face.  “Shaddup, ya stupid spic faggot,” he sneered and slammed the punk’s head into the dash with sudden, devastating force.

 

Jorge was literally stunned; it was like a bright red explosion of pain in his skull.  His eyes, wide with surprise, stared into the Trucker’s, with no comprehension of the hot flame of erotic rage that illuminated their otherwise cold blue depths.  The bewildered slut had barely taken in the Trucker’s words.

 

“P-pero…pero p-pensé…” he whispered.

 

“I don’t give a fuck what ya thought, fuckmeat,” the Trucker growled and rammed the boy headfirst into the dash again.  This time the kid went limp, sliding onto the floorboard like a sack of dirty laundry.

 

It took surprisingly little time for the Trucker to drag the Mexican to the sleeper section of the cab and close it off.  He had no qualms about being disturbed; he hadn’t seen another car for over an hour.  Tossing his cap to one side, he pulled off his t-shirt and left it on the floor.  Still in his jeans and boots, he squatted over the unconscious form of his passenger.  Gripping the low-slung collar of the spic’s wifebeater with both hands, he gave a short, strong yank and the thin cotton parted like wet tissue paper, revealing the homo punk’s muscled chest, the brown skin smooth and taut over his firm pecs and flat belly.

 

 

It was warm in the cab; the Trucker hadn’t wanted to switch on the AC and run the battery down.  Beads of sweat glittered like shards of glass scattered across the limp boywhore’s smooth, buff torso.  The hardbodied killer had no difficulty pulling off the punk’s worn and well-used workboots but his hands slipped momentarily on the kid’s sweat-slicked belly when he unfastened the button on the waistband of the victim’s jeans.  After that, though, it went smoothly.  One quick jerk and the young spic was lying nude on the floor except for a pair of white tube socks clinging to his calves—and displaying a thick, dark, uncut cock standing to attention from a curly nest of black pubes.  The Trucker smirked; little fag had been goin’ commando—and he said he didn’t like it up the ass.  Yeah, right.

 

And tough shit if he was telling the truth.

 

Bending down, the Trucker grabbed the unconscious youth under the arms and lifted him bodily up onto the bunk.  As he did, the kid started to moan.  Once the alpha had the boy laid out on the bed on his back, he could see the bruises on the kid’s face more clearly; the impact with the dash looked like it had split the fucker’s bottom lip.  The long eyelashes began to flutter, then suddenly large dark eyes were looking up into the Trucker’s own.

 

“M-madre d-d-de Di-dios…” Jorge muttered, his head pounding with pain.  Just regaining awareness, he wasn’t able to recall what exactly had happened—he’d been scared, and it hurt—

 

—then his eyes focused on the powerfully-built man towering over him, a man with a handsome, stubbled face and an evil grin and the biggest carajo he’d ever seen, purple and oozing…and he remembered.

 

“No—no—lemme ‘lone—” he blurted out as the Trucker let out a quiet chuckle.

 

Without a word, the older man climbed into the bunk and parted the boy’s legs.  Dazed as he was, Jorge could see what was about to happen.  Predictably, he became frantic.

 

“No! No en mi culo, no!” he protested loudly, doubling his fists and beating them against the Trucker’s chest with loud meaty smacks, as if he was hitting a side of beef—and with just as much of an impact.

 

“Shaddup and take my cock, ya dumbass spic fag,” the Trucker growled and punched Jorge straight in the face, his rocklike fist smashing the kid’s nose, breaking the cartilage with a loud crunch.  The Mexican youth squealed in agony and clutched his wounded face—leaving the Trucker undisturbed to position the pulsing, leaking head of his engorged tool up against Jorge’s pink, trembling fuckhole.

 

The sadistic top rubbed his precum over the clenched sphincter; it was all the lube the poor slut was gonna get.  Then he popped just the head in.

 

Jorge screamed; it had a high nasal pitch since his sinuses were blocked with blood.  Again he was pressing against the Trucker’s broad chest in a vain attempt to push his rapist off.  The searing pain in his boycunt was unimaginable…it was like someone had shoved a baseball up his ass…

 

The Trucker grinned and spat in the whore’s twisted face, streaked with trickles of tears and blood.  “That’s it,” he sneered, “Squeal like the cockpig ya are, boy.  Love it, dontcha?  Yeah, all you worthless spic fags fuckin’ love takin’ a white man’s rod, huh?  Fuck yeah, it’s yer lucky day, vato—you’re gonna get to spend a nice long time ridin’ my shaft.  Enjoy it, maricón!”

 

Jorge screeched as the Trucker inserted another two inches—and held that depth.  For the next few minutes, he fucked the kid swiftly but shallowly, letting him become accustomed to his ass muscle being stretched to its fullest extent.

 

And after a bit, Jorge began to relax.  His sphincter slackened and his colon accepted another couple of inches of the Trucker’s cock.  His cries had subsided to groans that slowly evolved into moans of pleasure.

 

Despite the fear and pain of the earlier assault—and his initial denials—the brown-skinned homo was getting his rocks off getting fucked.  His cock was fully extended, a good six inches of oozing, uncut manflesh.  His eyes were focused on the mesmerizing flickers of light that glinted on the dogtags dangling from the Trucker’s neck, twirling in the air as the alpha indulged in a controlled and (for him) gentle fuck.

 

And then it happened.  Jorge submitted to his pleasure in bottoming, wallowing in getting filled with mancock.  “Oh, si, si…mas, si, mas…” he moaned, wrapping his arms and legs as far as he could the top’s well-developed torso.  “Por favor, mas…”

 

“Yeah, I thought so—fuckin’ cumsuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the Tucker muttered and rammed the rest of his dick into Jorge’s ass.

 

He’d only been about halfway in before—and not the thickest half.  The whoreboy’s sphincter had been at its limit before; to penetrate the kid completely, the alpha had to tear him open.

 

Something had entered Jorge’s universe; he’d had no idea that pain like this was even possible.  He shrieked at the top of his lungs, so loudly that his voice cracked, turning his agonized cry into a croak.

 

“Oh fuck yeah,” he heard the Trucker say, “Take it all, spic.  Feel me, cocksucker, feel my dick buried in yer worthless guts…”

 

And he could.  This strong handsome gringo had filled him before, filled his ass and that aching void inside him…but now he was being not only filled by the older man, the dude was piledriving into his asshole, overflowing him, the huge mushroom tip catching and tearing at his innards as the vein-wrapped tube of flesh rode roughly over his prostate with every thrust.  The labor-hardened Mexican had thought he’d be able to handle any situation; now he was squealing in horrible pain as another dude held him down and wrecked his fuckhole.

 

And yet, the constant rough prostate massage left the helpless youth fully erect, precum leaking in an almost steady stream from the half-covered head of his dick.

 

“Lookit yer fuckin’ cock, cholo,” the Trucker jeered, “Hard as a fuckin’ brick, aintcha, yeah?  You like gettin’ hurt, dontcha, boy?  You ain’t nothing but a worthless dirty spic who gets off bein’ treated like the piece of homo shit you are, yeah?”

 

Jorge’s wide dark eyes were ringed with gray circles of shock as he looked into the scruffy, seductive face of madness hanging above him.  “Por-por f-favor, no!  N-no, señ-señor, Dios m-mío, no!”

 

He beat against the Trucker’s furry chest and sweaty, heaving flanks with as much impact as if he had been beating an oak tree.  He tried to get his feet into a position when he could obtain some leverage against his overpowering assailant, but all he managed to do was kick his legs in the air, his smooth firm thighs clenched around the buff older man’s waist.

 

Nothing he did had the slightest effect on the Trucker; the sadistic stud continued to pound his rod deep into the Mexican kid, tearing his way violently through the punk’s rectum.  Each thrust was like the slash of a razor within his colon; every time the muscled alpha grunted and pumped, the boy endured a new blast of agony…

 

…and was getting off on it.

 

That was the worst for Jorge; he couldn’t understand why his own uncut meat was achingly stiff when he was suffering some of the worst pain he’d ever encountered.  His body was betraying him—it was siding with his attacker.

 

Realizing his struggles were useless, the smooth, hardbodied fag stopped fighting and held the Trucker tight, a vague idea in his head that it might hurt less if he just held on.  The Trucker noticed.

 

He didn’t like it.

 

“You ain’t movin’ on my dick enough, ya worthless fairy wetback,” he barked angrily.  “What’s wrong, cunt—too much cock for ya?  You better get to work milking my rod, or I’ll make ya milk it—and I’ll make it hurt.  Think yer in pain now?  You ain’t felt nothin’, bitch.  This is gonna feel like mommy’s kisses by the time I’m done jackin’ up yer useless homo ass!”

 

Jorge realized he’d made a mistake, but he was too terrified to move.  The buff gringo had utterly overpowered him; he knew there was no escape.  In his migrations he’d met plenty of guys who’d introduced violence into the situation, but he’d never encountered anyone he couldn’t take.  This was different.  His only hope was to give the cruel, muscle-bound rapist what he wanted and hope the dude would let him go after he’d shot his load—after all, he was in the country illegally; he wasn’t gonna go to the cops…

 

…and deep in his pig soul, some part of him wanted it to continue.  In a dark corner of his psyche that he’d never consciously acknowledge, he was lusting after the viciously abusive alpha.  He wanted the older man’s hot wad in his ass, but the desire was being smothered by outright terror.

 

Especially when the Trucker leaned in so close his dogtags bounced on the kid’s broad, smooth chest and whispered, “Time to die, ya piece of garbage.  Tiempo a morir, niño.  I’m gettin’ bored fuckin’ ya, an’ I gotta schedule to keep.  Ready to cum an’ go, cunt?  Don’t worry, you’ll get a nice long dirt nap in a ditch when I’m done with ya.”

 

Leaning back, the hardbodied alpha sneered down at the boy writhing on his dick and spit into the kid’s pain-twisted, tear-streaked face.  He was pissed; fuckin’ spic didn’t comprehend enough English to take the full force of his mindfuck.

 

Ok, then, he’d make the meat understand manually.  Leaning forward again, the dogtags jangling loudly, he wrapped his huge hands around Jorge’s throat and started squeezing.

 

Jorge knew enough English to understand what the Trucker had said; he had simply just refused to let them sink in.  What sank in were the Trucker’s large, powerful hands, clamping down on his windpipe and sealing it off.  El gringo loco was really gonna kill him.

 

No, this wasn’t happening.  No.  He was young and strong; he could fight his way out.

 

And that was when he finally realized he wasn’t strong enough.

 

In the overheated, pheromone-laden atmosphere of the cab’s sleeper section, the two male bodies intertwined.  As Jorge tried desperately to pry the Trucker’s hands from his neck, his own hands slipped on the older man’s bulging muscles, slick with mansweat.  The Trucker squeezed even harder.

 

The Mexican punk started to panic.  There was a fiery pressure in his chest and a deafening pounding in his head; it made it hard to think.  He had to get away; it wasn’t a rational thought, it was a physical imperative.  In frantic blindness, the boy reached out, clawing at whatever was within his grasp.  In a flash, he’d managed to clench a fistful of the Trucker’s dark, wiry chest hair and jerked as hard as he could.

 

He never understood what a huge mistake he’d made; he was just aware that his involuntary reaction triggered an explosion of violence.

 

The Trucker’s cruelly handsome face darkened with terrifying anger.  “You goddam motherfucker,” he hissed, incandescent with rage, “You stupid spic cocksucker, I’m gonna jack yer worthless ass up so fuckin’ bad!”

 

Shifting his weight, he managed to take one hand from Jorge’s throat and still keep the buff slut’s airway closed.  He balled the free hand into a fist and pummeled the kid’s face, using the blows to punctuate his verbal abuse.

 

“Fuckin’ suffer, you useless sack a’ shit! (WHAM) Think yer gettin’ away? (WHAM)  Only place you’re goin’ is infierno, ya cumguzzlin’ queer wetback! (WHAM)  I’m gonna choke ya out while ya ride my dick all the way to hell, cunt! (WHAM)  Ya feel me, bitch? (WHAM)  No? (WHAM)  How ‘bout that one? (WHAM)  Ya feel that one, faggot? (WHAM)”

 

The second blow snapped Jorge’s left cheekbone; the third split both lips.  The fifth blow broke his nose with a loud crunch—and the last one dislocated his jaw.  As the Trucker had demanded, the well-built immigrant laborer suffered; he suffered bad.  The beating seemed to go on forever with all the force of a jackhammer.

 

And the unfortunate youth endured the torment while being raped and strangled.  No matter how badly he was beaten, his stunned mind was still agonizingly aware that he was choking to death, that an enormous shaft of manmeat was destroying his rectum—

 

—that his own cock was still painfully straining, erect and oozing.

 

And the end of the beating brought no relief.  The Trucker reapplied both hands to Jorge’s throat, clamping down even harder.  Now he was using enough force to deform the esophagus.

 

It hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad.  The Latino whore could feel his windpipe slowly constricting under the pressure being applied.  The soft tissues in his neck were already compressed together, sealing off the airway; this was the cartilage itself collapsing.

 

The Trucker could feel pressure building as well—in his case, it was in his nutsack.  His huge hairy balls had drawn up, a sure sign that he’d be spewing his seed very soon.  As his muscular ass flexed and pumped, reaming his hard cock into the helpless spic’s fuckhole, testosterone oozed from his body in his sweat, matting his dark, wiry body fur and filling the semi’s cab with manmusk.

 

Beneath him, the fuckmeat was turning black, the boy’s face darkening and swelling from lack of air.  The youth’s dark eyes were streaked with blood where tiny vessels had ruptured under the strain; the hemorrhages were present around the bulging eyes as well, in the taut, purple skin.

 

Jorge was wasting what precious little oxygen was left in his bloodstream by flailing wildly.  The Trucker held on, grunting with pleasure, as the dying punk worked his dick, massaging the engorged shaft as he kicked and thrashed.

 

 

The boy kept wrapping his legs around the Trucker’s waist and locking his feet together, as if he was trying to hold his killer tightly to him, but, despite panic adding to the strength of his lean, hard body, the violence of the Trucker’s thrusts repeatedly broke Jorge’s leg holds.  On one occasion, the slut’s right sock came off, leaving his toes free to curl in agony as he died.

 

And it was agony.  As the Trucker increased the pressure on his neck, more of the unlucky cunt’s tongue was forced out from between his dusky blue lips.  Jorge’s face contorted as he choked to death; the motions caused his drool to bubble up into white foam that slid down his cheeks.  It was accompanied by a thick, grotesque gagging sound, the last useless croak of meat near death.

 

It was also accompanied by an increase of precum leaking from the meat’s tool; the Trucker could physically feel the difference as the punk’s swollen mushroom tip smeared across his ripped abs.

 

“That’s it,” the heaving, sweating alpha whispered, matching his thrusts to the increasingly rhythmic jerking of Jorge as his brain began to die, “That’s it, faggot.  Fuckin’ die, you piece of dick-suckin’ shit.  Die with my cock jammed up your queer ass, motherfucker.  Yeah, work my shaft as you die—oh fuck yeah, boy, that’s it, milk my cock—goddam, ya worthless spic cumrag, fucking die and soak up my spunk…gonna leave your cum-filled body to rot in a fuckin’ ditch…”

 

Technically Jorge was still alive, but there wasn’t enough left of the hard young wetback to be aware that his killer was talking, much less understand the words.  His world had contracted to a dark cold cloud of pain and pounding—pain and pounding in his head as his racing heart desperately tried to push non-existent oxygen through his shuddering body, and pain and pounding in his ass as the Trucker continued to ream his fuckhole.

 

And in that little back corner of his mind where his unacknowledged cockpig soul was still clinging tenaciously to life, he was aware of the burning, frothing sensation in his balls.  His brain was too far gone to understand what it meant; there was little left but sensation, the sensations of cold and pain…and a need for release.

 

And that’s when it happened.  With a final seismic grunt, the Trucker tightened his fingers one last time and was rewarded with a loud cracking sound and the feeling of Jorge’s esophagus collapsing into a mangled mass of cartilage under his hands.

 

The Mexican meat felt the injury more than it was able to hear it, although an echo of the intense crunch did manage to worm its way into that last single spark of awareness.  And with that, Jorge’s entire existence fused into a single bright moment when pleasure and pain fused together and became indistinguishable.  It was a solid electric shock that finally let him release; he was too far gone to know what was releasing, he only knew that it was draining from him.

 

Too close to death to realize that his semen was jetting from him in a solid stream, splattering across the Trucker’s sweaty, heaving chest and matting heavily in the fur, the fuckmeat convulsed violently, his torn, spasming sphincter clutching at the alpha’s huge dick like a drowning man clutching a log.

 

The muscled older man gave a loud, strangled cry as his cock swelled and spat out a near-endless geyser of cum, filling the corpse’s guts with massive amounts of searing manspunk.  The last sensation of Jorge’s wasted life was that as his life drained out through his dick and the chill of death seized him, there was one last spark of warmth filling his ass and his intestines—

 

—and then the useless spic whore found that death wasn’t peace, it was an icy howling vortex of blackness—

 

Shuddering and breathing heavily, the Trucker held onto the convulsing meat for a couple more minutes before standing up, inhaling deeply and pulling his thick dong out of the dead body.  Jorge, his handsome face swollen and unrecognizable and his throat visibly crushed, was still convulsing violently.  As the Trucker slipped past the privacy curtain and started the ignition on the rig, the trembling corpse managed to flop itself out of the bunk, landing in a huddled mass of flesh on the floor.

 

Turning up the AC, the buff top went back to the sleeper area and gathered up Jorge’s clothing, jamming the single loose sock down into one of the meat’s boots.  Bundling the boots with the jeans and shirt, the Trucker drew the curtain and carefully examined the landscape, using his outside mirrors as well.  No one had been by on the road while he’d been entertaining himself, but he still wanted to check.

 

Satisfied, he opened the door, then went back and grabbing the meat by its bare foot, dragging the corpse the corpse through the cab.  The sadistic alpha jumped from the rig, his loosely-laced combat boots hitting the asphalt with a loud thump.  The dead spic tumbled out behind him, hitting the ground like a sack of dirty laundry.  Glancing around quickly, the Trucker strode quickly across the two-lane blacktop, one hand clutching the cunt’s clothing, the other hand gripping the dead punk’s ankle—the foot was still twitching, the toes curling in final death throes.

 

On the other side of the road was a deep drainage ditch; it had been visible on the side of the road for miles, but since the land sloped away to the west at this point, it wasn’t visible here unless one was standing right at the edge of the shoulder.  No one would see anything here unless they were actively looking for it.

 

It was perfect.  The Trucker tossed the clothing in first, then held Jorge’s quivering corpse up one-handedly, he dangled it over the drop and let go.  The meat fell into the ditch—about five feet below—with a muffled thud.

 

Quickly crossing back to the semi, the Trucker climbed into the driver’s seat, slipped his cap back on and slowly edged his way back onto the road.  It was still warm in the cab; he was heading out with his shirt off and a dead kid’s cum drying to a glaze on his chest pinning his dogtags to his  fur.  He’d stop off at a rest area ahead somewhere and clean off.  In the meantime, he wanted to get across the state line.

 

Checking the side mirror, he caught a glimpse of movement—in the sky.  A small black shape, moving in lazy circles.  In a moment it was joined by another, then a third.  The Trucker understood.  With an evil grin on his face, he accelerated into the west and left Jorge to the buzzards.

M4M4Rent

It had been too long, and there was too little online.  Joe was frustrated and horny.  He was also uneasy; there were things going on…

 

Specifically, there had been a couple of fags snuffed recently that he’d had nothing to do with.  That bar back from Mack’s, that had the air of an amateur—twink was probably offed by a jealous boyfriend, or something.  The other one, though—that construction dude in the old Androy Hotel—that was something else.  That was someone who knew what he was doing.

 

So Joe had been worried, and he’d laid low a bit.  Turned out, he wasn’t the only one; when his hormones built up and he felt the need to drain the semen from his aching, overfilled balls, he found little to choose from while trolling on the hookup apps.

 

That was when he spotted the ad.

 

“19yo looking for gen daddy who can top me  5’10”, 145.  work out daily so you gotta be tough and buff enough to handle me  can’t host  cash only”

 

If the pickings had been better, he might have ignored it—he damn sure wasn’t gonna pay for the privilege of fucking the slut, and things could get tricky if the cash was asked for up front—but Joe was feeling the need to unload badly, so he responded to it anyway.

 

After all, wasn’t like the whore was gonna be able to spend a dime by the time Joe was done with him.  But he’d need to get a room somewhere; he wasn’t gonna waste meat in his own home.  You don’t shit where you eat.

 

“Powerful daddy, 32, 6’5”, 185.  I can bang ya all night long.  Can’t host either, know a place we can go?”  The message was accompanied by a body shot; the pic only showed Joe’s ripped, hairy abs and bulging pecs.

 

It was enough.  The reply was immediate.

 

“cum get me and we’ll work it out.  U no curley’s bar on olive st?  meet me @ back door in alley 20 mins ok?”  This one had the boy’s pic.

 

He certainly looked no older than nineteen, if that.  The photo was a nude, from the head to the knees; it showed a dark-haired youth with a slim but muscled body.  His smooth, creamy skin was unblemished.  His broad, almost innocent face had large blue eyes and a dark smudge on the upper lip that appeared to be an attempt at a mustache.

 

Below the waist, a long, glistening cock jutted proudly from a black tangle of pubic hair.  Kid had no qualms about putting it out there, that was for certain.  He knew how to market himself.

 

Tonight, he’d done it perhaps a bit too well.

 

Joe knew Curley’s; it was a gay piano bar, somewhat run-down these days, which catered to old queens with pretensions to money and culture.  It should have been a happy hunting ground for someone like this little slut; he musta struck out tonight for some reason.

 

Joe smiled.  Given the chance, he was gonna make sure the kid was struck out for good.  But he still needed a kill pit.  He wasn’t coming back here, and he didn’t wanna blow any cash on a motel room.  Well, as the whore said, it’d get worked out.

 

Joe slid his thick, muscled legs into a pair of tight black jeans before slipping on his eight-inch tall Timberland Classic boots, leaving them untied and loosely laced.  Pulling a khaki-green compression t-shirt over his head, he stood in front of the mirror and admired the way it highlighted his huge chest and washboard abs.  He made sure his own shoulder-length black hair was in place before heading out the door.

 

Within five minutes, he was in the driver’s seat of his classic Camaro, heading south towards Olive Street with the T-tops open.  It was a pleasant evening, and Joe was up for some fun.

 

There was still some traffic on Olive Street, but the side street was empty and the alley behind the bar was absolutely deserted—except for a lone figure, standing in the garish orange glow of a streetlight, smoking a cigarette.  Joe recognized the dark-haired youth from his face pic.  The kid was wearing a day-glo yellow t-shirt that clung to his well-built torso like a glove; the shirt was advertising some bodybuilding organization.

 

The little slut was clearly on the make—his low-slung skinny jeans in faded denim barely cleared his waist, letting skin flash between the bottom of the t-shirt and the beltline of the jeans.  This let the boywhore show off the tramp stamp tattoo on the small of his back just above his firm, well-rounded asscheeks.  The belt itself was thick black leather, pierced with dozens of flat, square studs.

 

On his feet, the kid sported what appeared to be a pair of black and white hightops with red laces—they were actually a pair of Asics JB Elite wrestling shoes.  Like the rest of his outfit, they were worn with the idea of attracting attention to his body, and they did the trick well.

 

Joe pulled the car up to him.  The kid approached and leaned into the window.  “You the dude from the app?” he asked, his voice slightly slurred.  Alcohol wafted on his breath.  Joe nodded, hoping the boy wasn’t too drunk to enjoy the ride.

 

“Cool,” the kid said, “Name’s Connor.”  Walking around the car, he opened the passenger door and hopped in.  “So, you gotta place we can go?”

 

“No,” Joe said evenly.  “Can’t go back to my place; the ol’ lady got home early.”

 

“Goddam!  Well, fuck…” Connor spat out.  “Shit, ya got money for a motel room?”

 

“Depends on how much you want for yourself,” Joe replied.

 

The whore paused to think, his large blue eyes narrowing, giving his face an almost feral look as he glanced at Joe, obviously considering how much he could get away with asking for.

 

“Dude, I get a hundred an hour,” he said at last, watching Joe carefully for a hint as to how his outrageous demand had been received.

 

The alpha killer smiled calmly; he’d been expecting something similar.  Little fucker was delusional—but Joe could work with that.  “Ok,” he said.  “Two hours.  But for that, no, I don’t got cash for a room.”

 

Connor’s face lit up, then fell a bit.  “Ok, I’ll take ya back to my place.  But it’s a shithole.  Don’t judge me by it, ok?  I got plans, bro—big plans.  You watch; yer gonna see me on the news some day.”

 

“Fine,” Joe said, shifting the Camaro into drive, “Now, which way?”

 

“Right onto Ransom Street and back out to the highway.  I’m in a place over on Willow Falls.”

 

Joe knew the area—cheap, run-down apartments and by–the-week motels.  Connor’s place turned out to be the former.

 

The apartment complex called itself “The Lakes” by virtue of a trash-filled ditch that functioned as runoff for a nearby creek.  It had rained yesterday, so the ditch was full—Joe couldn’t help but notice as Connor led him towards a building in the rear that faced the ditch.

 

It was a low, two-story building, about fifty years old.  All doors opened out onto the front; those on the second floor accessible by a balcony reached by an iron staircase at each end.  Connor’s was on the ground floor, third from the end.  Joe noticed how few lights were on in the building as a whole.

 

“Toldja it was a shithole,” Connor muttered.  “They ain’t renewing anyone’s leases—think I was the last person to sign a new one.  Plan on tearin’ the place down, I hear…”

 

With that, he unlocked the door and led the way inside, where it was even more of a shithole than outside.  A two-room apartment with a tiny kitchenette at one end of the front room and a bathroom at one of the back room.

 

The front room was furnished with a cheap futon; the mat was torn and leaking stuffing.  There was a warped particle board side table with a lamp and a cigarette-burn-scarred coffee table on which a Nintendo game console sat.  Facing it was a large flat-screen TV, easily the most expensive item in the apartment.

 

That assessment didn’t change when Joe saw the back room.  Under the pitiless, barren glare of a solitary overhead lightbulb, a single mattress was on the floor, completely bare.  There did seem to be a set of sheets, though, in a pile of apparently dirty laundry spilling out of the closet.  On the floor next to the bed was another lamp, a mate to the one in the living room.  The shade and bulb were missing.  By the lamp was an overflowing ashtray.

 

A tiny doorless room in the corner held the toilet and bathtub; the rest of the end of the room was taken up with the sink vanity with the mirror above—it reflected most of the smallish room.

 

Joe looked around in disgust.  The air reeked of stale cigarette smoke and boysweat.  Connor caught the look.  “It’s hard to get to the laundromat, an’ I don’t have a car.  Can’t use the laundry room here, man, the spics an’ niggers will steal all my threads.”

 

“Yeah?  Well lessee what ya look like outta yer threads, boy,” Joe replied, reaching down to the hem of his compression tee and pulling it up over his head.  Connor stiffened; even though he’d seen Joe’s fantastic physique in the body pic he’d gotten, the sight of that furry, muscular torso, already glistening with sweat in the warm bedroom, in real life was intensely erotic.  As the rentboy slipped off his own shirt, revealing his smooth firm chest, well-built but not bulked out like Joe’s, he already knew he wanted the older stud’s cock, bad.   But first, he wanted his money.  He whipped out his hard, throbbing cock.

 

“Cash up front, dude, or ya don’t get to touch the goods.  Ya gotta pay ta play, bro,” Connor said.  He’d always asked for payment in this manner, casual and cocky.  He twerked his hips briefly, letting his long dick bob about in the open air, as an enticement.

 

He had no idea of the nightmarish violence his usual request was about to unleash.  As usual, it started with an incredibly stupid move on the part of the slut.

 

Joe had turned around, seeking a clean spot to toss his compression t-shirt.  It took a sec; there weren’t many options.  Finally spotting a clear area on the floor, he bent over and let the shirt drop—and felt a simultaneous tug on his back pocket.  The one he kept his wallet in.

 

The buff, hulking alpha immediately stood up straight and turned around.  The slim but well-built boywhore had slipped Joe’s wallet out of his pocket and was rifling through it.  Spotting a wad of cash in the bill compartment, he yanked them out and pocketed them before turning back and glancing at the ID.

 

Connor’s eyes widened.  “Holy shit,” he said, “Is your name really—”

 

He never completed the sentence.  Joe’s rage was instant and overwhelming; he rabbit-punched the rentboy in the jaw, splitting his lip and sending him reeling.

 

Connor staggered back, dropping the wallet and clutching his face, his blue eyes wide with shock—he’d had no idea the blow was coming.  Tears running down his face, he looked up at Joe.  “Wha—what the fuck, dude?!?”

 

Joe’s eyes glittered with a dangerous, angry light.  “You tryin’ to steal from me, faggot?  You got no idea how big a fuckin’ mistake you just made.  You will, though.  By the time with you, you’ll know exactly how bad you just fucked up.”

 

Connor’s reaction was different than most of Joe’s prey.  Perhaps his physique inspired him; he was more toned and much more muscular than most of his johns—he was used to getting his way.

 

He got angry.  It was like putting out a fire with gasoline.

 

“You owe me, you sonovabitch!” he shouted petulantly.  “You want this body, asshole?  Then pay for it—now!”

 

The cold killer noted with amusement that despite getting punched in the face, the homo whore was willing to continue, as long as he got paid.

 

“I don’t pay,” Joe said calmly, stepping forward and wrapping his huge hands around Connor’s biceps.  “You, though—yer gonna pay, faggot.  Yer gonna pay hard, you thieving little sack of shit.”

 

In one single, swift moment of brutal violence, the powerful sadist lifted the unsuspecting cocksucker in the air by his arms, and turning on his heel, flung the punk across the room into the vanity.

 

It happened so fast, Connor didn’t realize what was going on.  He screamed in pain as he impacted the mirror and shattered it, before falling onto the vanity.  The tap on the sink tore into his flat, smooth belly before he rolled off and landed breathless on the floor.

 

He didn’t have time to catch his breath before Joe was on him again.  “Worthless pansy scum,” the alpha hissed before snatching the moaning rentboy by the arms and hurling him through the air again, into the bathroom.

 

This time, the impact was more intense.  Snagging the shower curtain and tearing the rod from the wall, Connor slammed into the tiled wall and fell into the hard, unforgiving fiberglass bathtub.  There was a momentary blast of agony, and the boywhore was knocked out.

 

He was only unconscious for a few moments.  It wasn’t long enough for Joe’s anger to subside.  He was dragging the limp boymeat out of the bathroom when it began to shudder and moan, as consciousness slowly and painfully flowed back in.  The enraged sadist dropped Connor to the floor and stood, towering over him.

 

Sure, he’d been planning on snuffing the faggot, but that woulda been a nice slow strangle.  This fucker—he had to pay.  Presumptuous little cocksucker had swiped his wallet and seen his ID.

 

No one had done that before.  A lesson needed to be taught here—not of course, that the pupil would benefit by his knowledge.  As soon as he learned what he needed to, he’d die.

 

The boy’s large blue eyes blinked open.  A large bruise was rising on his cheek where he’d hit the tile in the bathroom.  Another, caused by the vanity faucet, discolored his abdomen.  He closed his eyes again, groaned loudly, and then looked dazedly up at his assailant.

 

There was still some fight in him.  “Du-dude…” he uttered painfully, “Wh-when I g-g-get back onna my feet, I’m gon-gonna fuck ya up so b-bad…”

 

“No you’re not, ya piece of cumsucking shit,” Joe snarled.  “Wanna know what yer gonna do?  Yer gonna beg for your wasted life as I put the beatdown on ya, rape yer sorry ass and waste ya.”

 

Stooping down, he wrapped his huge hands around the teen’s throat and lifted him into the air.

 

Connor found himself dangling, hanging from his neck.  He instantly grabbed at Joe’s hands, trying to pry himself free of their choking, crushing grip.  Young and strong as he was, he was no match for the experienced killer—even with all his strength, he couldn’t move so much as a single one of the alpha’s fingers.  Worse, his air was cut off.  He’d been too groggy to process Joe’s words when they were uttered, but now the full import hit him like a ton of bricks.

 

He was gonna be murdered.

 

Connor panicked.  He’d always been the strongest and most fit of the small clique of rentboys he hung with; he always been far and away stronger and more fit that his johns.  This was the first guy he’d come across who could take him—and suddenly, he was taking him out.

 

The slut went feral.  He reached out, clawing, towards Joe’s face; too short to reach, he ended up clutching helplessly at the killer’s bulging biceps and triceps.  As his legs jerked and flailed, his bladder voided involuntarily, piss splattering on his jerking wrestling kicks.  Joe chuckled, then spat into the boy’s swelling, darkening face.  “Oh no you don’t, whore,” he jeered, “No nice easy choke-out for you.  I gotta beat some sense into ya, motherfucker.”

 

Connor had brief sensation of violent motion.  The hulking alpha had let go of his throat, but just as the cunt tried to draw a needed lungful of air, he was hit with a shattering blast of pain.

 

Joe had rammed Connor straight through the closet door, snapping the kid’s left humerus, the bone in the upper arm.  The battered, bleeding faggot found himself huddled on a pile of clothes, semi-conscious and moaning.  It was dark, except for the light coming through the large, Connor-sized hole in the cheap, hollow-core door.

 

Suddenly, a shadow fell across him.  Protectively holding his arm, mewling from the sharp agony of a broken bone, the boywhore turned his large, tear-filled blue eyes up and caught sight of Joe’s eyes staring right back at him through the mangled door.  The eyes of the buff killer were also blue, but they glittered with a cold sadistic light.  Even though Connor was in shock and in full mental retreat from the nightmare that his current reality had become, he still recognized the gleam of homicidal lust.

 

When Connor lost his shit this time, he pissed all over his dirty laundry.  This time, he drained himself; when he was done, the pile of clothes reeked of more than just sweat.  He scrambled off the sodden pile, cowering and gibbering in the corner of the closet as Joe tore the remainder of the door form its hinge and paced inexorably towards him.

 

As much as he consciously blocked the thought, Connor knew the approach of death when he saw it.  He was young and strong, but this towering slab of solid, hairy man-muscle was much more powerful than he was, and he knew it.  “No…” he whimpered as Joe approached slowly, menacingly.  “Please, no…don’t, bro, don’t do this…I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry, just please don’t hurt me no more…”

 

Joe was grim and silent as he bent down and grabbed a handful of the whoreboy’s hair.  Yanking viciously on it, he dragged Connor, moaning and crying, to his feet and led him out of the closet like a dog on a leash.  The buff young slut staggered out and fell to his knees again.

 

“Please—” he started.  He had time enough to get just the one word out before Joe hoisted him into the air by his throat again.  This time Joe held the thrashing punk up at his eye level—with a single hand.  The muscles of his upper arm, already glistening with sweat, bulged with the strain of keeping the kid aloft.

 

“Lookitya, ya stupid faggot,” the cruel killer hissed, his face suddenly lit with a brutal, unholy glee.  “Y’know what?  You’re gonna die tonight.   And it’s gonna hurt, you worthless sack a’ shit.”

 

To emphasize his point, Joe drove a roundhouse punch directly into Connor’s face, as hard as he could.  There was a loud squelching sound as the rentboy’s nose was smashed into a pulp of crushed cartilage.   The powerful sadist drew his arm back again; the next blow was rewarded with a loud crunch as the teen’s cheekbone snapped.

 

With his esophagus closed off, Connor had no way to protest; using his good right arm—his broken left dangled uselessly—he could only claw at Joe’s thick, fur-covered arm as huge gray circles of shock formed around his wide, frantic eyes.  His face, already swelling and darkening with lack of oxygen, was now a mass of fiery pain.  A surge of panic shot through his smooth, muscled body, and he managed to catch hold of some of the skin on Joe’s arm.  Jerking quickly, the kid managed to scratch his assailant, drawing blood.

 

It was a bad move.

 

“You motherfucker!” Joe snarled.  Lifting Connor even higher, he rammed the boy down onto the floor, as hard as he could.

 

And then before Connor could catch his breath, he was introduced to Joe’s Timberland Classic boots—the hard way.

 

It was like the older man was trying to kick a field goal.  Joe relished the sounds of ribs snapping like twigs and Connor’s shriek of pain as fragments of broken bones tore through his guts like shrapnel.  “Now you’re feelin’ me, ya cumsuckin’ faggot,” he muttered with a twisted grin on his cruel, handsome face.

 

Then he placed his foot on Connor’s flat, heaving belly and put his weight on it, grinding the tread pattern of the boot sole into the boy’s soft, smooth flesh.  The punk screamed in pain as the hulking, hardbodied killer stomped down with all his force, putting his weight into it.

 

“Shaddup, ya stupid fuckin’ faggot,” Joe snarled, “You love this shit.  Lookitya, you goddam cocksucker, yer dick is hard as fuck.  You love gettin’ treated like the sack of fuckin’ garbage you are, ain’t that right?”

 

Connor’s turned his once-smug face, now a purple mass of bruised flesh, up to his attacker.  His eyes were so swollen he could barely open them; when he did, tears flowed uninterruptedly.  “Wh-why?” he gasped as he clutched at the rough brown leather of the muscled alpha’s work boot, his fingers tangling in the loose laces.  “Why, du-dude? Sorry…p-please, so…s-so sorry—”

 

Despite his blurred vision, Connor could see well enough to see the dangerous flash of rage in Joe’s eyes.  He gasped in terror, knowing he was looking death in the face  He was even able to realize that there was something else behind the rage…something like glee—or could that be lust…

 

He didn’t notice the flash of motion until the last second.  “No!” he screamed—it was the last coherent word he ever spoke.

 

The reinforced toe of Joe’s boot made impact with the boywhore’s chin with high velocity as he delivered a brutally swift kick.  The blow was devastating; Connor’s jaw shattered into three separate pieces.  The inarticulate screech that escaped his mangled mouth had an animalistic quality to it.  The “fight or flight” instinct kicked in involuntarily; the boy was clearly unable to fight his way out of the situation so, taking advantage of the fact that Joe’s boot was no longer pinning him down, he rolled over and began to scramble awkwardly with one arm towards the doorway.

 

As the fuckmeat twisted away, Joe noticed that the fucker’s cock was not only hard, it was glistening at the tip.

 

Watching the rentboy’s bubble butt flexing in the tight jeans, his tramp stamp gleaming under a sheen of sweat, Joe realized how badly his puckered, aching scrotum needed release.  His balls were overfilled with manseed and needed draining immediately.

 

Time to mount the meat.

 

Striding forward Joe reached out to grab Connor by the waistband of his jeans.   The badly beaten rentboy heard the thumping of Joe’s boots approaching from behind and threw himself forward; all Joe managed to grab was the thick studded belt.  Since it was already unbuckled, one end slipped free and Joe was left with nothing in his hands.

 

Connor reached the doorway and, grasping at the jamb, tried to regain his feet.  Despite the agony as the jagged ends of broken ribs slashed at his innards, the dazed teen whore hoped he’d be able to make the front door—it was only a few feet beyond…

 

That was when Joe caught him by the waistband and jerked him back from the doorway.  Pinning the struggling meat to the floor face-first, the horny alpha yanked the youth’s jeans down to his knees.

 

Then, crouching over the shrieking boywhore, Joe placed his thick, throbbing, ooze-smeared dickhead against the pink, fluttering sphincter and drove the pulsating shaft deep into Connor’s guts, penetrating the punk until his thick, wiry pubes were scratching the kid’s smooth asscheeks.

 

In spite of the agony of his battered body, broken arm, and pulverized face, this new ripping, slashing sensation in his rectum took precedence in Connor’s universe of pain.  It wasn’t as if he’d never been fucked before; he did that for a living.  But he’d never been so viciously impaled on such a huge rod of manflesh; no one who’d fucked him before had ever been this big—or this brutal about it.

 

The well-built teen punk screamed, the movement of his shattered jaw increasing his torment.  As he pawed helplessly at the thin, stained carpet covering his bedroom floor, his stunned mind was trying to comprehend how what started as a simple trick had ended in such horror, but he wasn’t really capable of sustained rational thought.  His thrashing, useless attempts to escape were purely involuntary.

 

The whoreboy’s hightop Asics wrestling kicks managed to grab a purchase on the carpet, but it did no good; Joe was pinning the meat to the floor.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere but to fuckin’ hell,” Joe growled in Connor’s ear.  “You ain’t gettin’ offa my dick till you’re dead, cunt.  Does it hurt?  Good.  You better enjoy the pain, boy, cause when it stops, you’re dead.  Hear me, ya worthless homo?  As long as yer still in pain, yer still alive.”

 

As he rammed his massive shaft, writhing with veins like a log wrapped with barbed wire, into the critically injured teen rentboy, the buff alpha lowered himself to lay full length on the flailing kid.  Bending his head down so that his dark scruffy cheek scraped against Connor’s, Joe whispered into the squealing cumsucker’s ear.  “Ain’t gonna be long now, cockpig.  It’ll be over soon.  Gonna hurt ya one last time, then you’ll get to take a nice long dirt nap, pumped fulla my cum.  Fuck yeah, that’s whatcha want, ain’t it, faggot?  Yer dick’s still hard, you queer sack a’ shit, cause you know yer gonna die fulla my spunk.  Yer gonna get dumped like trash to rot with my sperm all up in yer guts…”

 

Connor heard the words, but physical shock had finally kicked in.  He could process the meaning, but his young, hard body, already full of testosterone and adolescent hormones, was suddenly flooded with adrenaline.  He shuddered violently, as much in chemical overload as in fear.  The older man was pumping harder and faster; his breath was becoming ragged—

 

Connor knew what was coming but had no way to brace himself against the onslaught of semen and pain he was going to be forced to endure; he could only wail aloud as a shriek of terror tore silently through his frantic mind.  He was gonna die.  It was gonna happen now.  No, it couldn’t, this couldn’t happen, he was just gonna meet a john to get banged real quick, he was gonna go hang with Stevie and Paulie later tonight…

 

Joe pulled himself back up on his knees, jerking Connor up with him, pulling the teen up onto his knees as well.  Connor’s right hand clawed aimlessly at the air, for just a moment.  Joe was panting, his rock-hard, sweat-soaked body smacking brutally and wetly against the abused teen.  His balls were aching so bad, he had to let go, it had to happen now…

 

It did.  As the first searing gush of manspunk hosed Connor’s guts, Joe reached around and grabbed the young faggot’s chin with one hand, placing his other hand on the back of the kid’s head and grabbing a hank of his black hair.  Then, with a single swift yank, the buff killer rotated the whoreboy’s head through a full one hundred and eighty degrees.

 

A loud sound like popcorn popping echoed in the room as five of Connor’s vertebrae shattered simultaneously, bone fragments slashing through his spinal cord.  The unfortunate youth could both hear and feel it; despite the damage to his nervous system, the cord was not completely severed.  Because of the powerful sadist’s straddling position, the slut’s wrestling shoes beat randomly against Joe’s Timberland boots.  An agonizing bolt like a lightning strike tore through the teen’s muscular body; an electrochemical blast that flipped a switch somewhere in cockpig’s balls.

 

As his neck was broken, Connor shot a huge deathload, a hot geyser of boyseed that jetted into the air to splatter back on both killer and victim.  Conner wasn’t dead yet, but he had no idea he’d shot the hottest, hardest, most intense load of his short, wasted life.  What he did have an idea of, though, was how much sexual pleasure the killer john had gotten from snuffing him.  To his utter horror, Connor most of his last few seconds on earth staring directly into the eyes of the man who’d killed him—as the dude was still cumming in his ass.

 

Joe held the twitching, mortally damaged teenager close, leering in orgasmic ecstasy into the wide, stunned blue eyes of the fuckmeat.  “Die, faggot,” Joe moaned gutturally, “Suffer and die…”

 

But Connor wasn’t dead.  As the last wad of jizz blasted out of his swollen shaft, he applied more pressure to the meat’s chin and twisted his head a further ninety degrees.  One last snapping sound, one last violent convulsion to milk the last drop of cum from Joe’s cock, and all Connor was aware of was loud white buzzing that appeared at the edges of his vision as the lights became too bright and I cant see oh dear god whats happening to me no wait—

 

The meat was still quivering as Joe withdrew his erect, still-oozing tool.  He walked to the vanity, admiring his body in the shattered remains of the mirror, the way the fur on his torso was swirled and sweat-matted.  He needed to clean it up, of course—there was a large hand towel that had fallen to the floor.  He picked it up, soaked it with hot (well, warm—and kinda brown) water from the sink, and wiped his entire body down.

 

Stuffing his enormous cock, still semi-hard, back into his jeans, Joe grabbed his compression t-shirt and slipped it back on, then stood over the quivering corpse, trying to make up his mind.

 

It wasn’t like Joe gave a shit about what happened with the meat when he was done with it, but lately there had been a lot of weird shit going on.  It was almost as if someone had been following him.  At any rate, he decided, there was nothing wrong with taking some precautions.

 

He looked around the room.  Hell, it looked abandoned as it was.  And the fagmeat had said they were only waiting for it to leave before tearing this place down.  Well, maybe Joe could do the owners a favor.

 

Turing off the light, Joe reached down and grabbed the twitching sack of dead flesh by the right wrist.  Striding towards the front door, he dragged Connor’s body behind him out of the apartment.  After all, it wasn’t like anyone was gonna miss the worthless cockpig.  When he got to the front door, he cracked it open and glanced out carefully.  He didn’t expect to see anyone, and he didn’t.

 

It was only fifteen steps to the ditch.  Joe lugged the still-jerking boymeat across a small patch of ground that was mostly dirt with sparse outcrops of crabgrass.  Connor’s Asics shoes—which he’d tightly laced on several hours ago, horny at the thought of getting fucked while wearing them—now carved trails in the bare soil as his corpse was dragged through the dirt to be dumped in a ditch.

 

Joe tossed the body, watching it hit the bank and roll limply down into the trickling stream of polluted water that seeped through the drainage ditch.  He stood for a moment, spit into the ditch, then turned and headed back to his car.

 

Once he was back on the highway, he was feeling the post-kill euphoria, when a bright flash in his rearview mirror caught his attention—and made him laugh aloud.  The flash had come from the sky, and the resounding crash of thunder practically rattled the car.  Pulling up the weather app on his phone, Joe was surprised at the size of the storm moving in—this one would produce hail.  The important thing, though, was the heavy rain that was approaching.

 

Who knew how far downstream the meat would be washed by morning?

Fantasy Scenario 18

 

The kid’s in his late teens, I think.  He’s walking away from me, so it’s kinda hard to tell.  I’d spotted him instantly; the guilty way he’d looked around before stepping into the dark alley was much more obvious than the little shit thought it had been.  He wasn’t in there long—it was empty.  I knew that because I’d already scouted it myself.

 

I was out on the hunt again.  It’s been a while; I had to clean house after my last kill.  That’s too cumbersome—I got a different place now for a killing pit.  For transport, I got another van.  I didn’t bother to carper the back; I laid down Astroturf.

 

I can take it out and hose it down.

 

I’ve been trolling the street for meat; there’s not much out.  It was a rainy day, but the clouds cleared at sunset.  For some reason, the rentboys stayed inside, so I decided I need to look elsewhere.

 

Which led me here—lotta drug traffic on this block, at times, but not tonight.  There’d been a raid here two days ago; it had been on the news.  It was a chance, but it paid off.  Some stupid white kid in from the suburbs, looking to get high.  Poor little fucker, he’s gonna get in trouble wandering around this neighborhood this time of night…

 

Maybe I can help him.

 

He’s wearing skinny jeans that cradle his firm ass and cling to his legs all the way down to his red and white Air Jordans.  Above the waist, he’s got on a red hoodie and—oddly enough—a red ball cap.  His hair is russet brown; I can tell by the sideburns that slope down to a thin line of facial hair that runs along the jaw line and that the punk evidently thinks is a beard.

 

Little boy pretending to be a man.  The aching stiffness in my groin makes me shift in my seat; my feet, tightly laced into black combat boots, shuffle eagerly on the floor.   I’m parked near the corner; starting the van, I swiftly pull up to him.  He turns to me, startled, his youthful face openly suspicious in a way that seemed to emphasize his true innocence.

 

After all, if he knew what I had planned for him, he wouldn’t be suspicious; he’d be terrified.

 

“You, uh, lookin’?” I ask him with a knowing leer.  “Whatcha want?”

 

Again, the kid glances furtively up and down the street before giving me the hairy eyeball.

 

“You a cop?” he asks.

 

“No, I ain’t a cop,” I replied.

 

“Cause I heard if you’re a cop and you get asked, you can’t lie,” he came back.

 

“Fuck, dude, I ain’t a cop,” I snapped.  “Ya want anything or not?”

 

Suddenly, he blushed and grinned.  “Sorry, man, I just—well, anyway, yeah.  I, uh, I was just hopin’ to score some weed and some coke.  Say, a half and a couple of eightballs?”

 

I grin at him.  “I got ya covered, dude.  Climb in.”  He hesitates, of course; he’s a stupid little fuck but he does have basic survival skills.  Let’s see how basic.

 

 

“C’mon, man, I ain’t got all night.  You don’t think I’m ridin’ dirty, do ya?  I don’t do my business out in the street.  I gotta place around the corner where you can get a little sample.”

 

The kid is clearly a newbie at this.  He actually falls for it; I’d expected a bit more of an argument.  When he opens the door, I can see by the dome light that his eyes are a dark hazel brown.  His smooth cheeks are lightly sprinkled with freckles and despite the thin line of fur on his jawline, I can see the dimple in his chin.

 

He climbs into the passenger seat and closes the door.  “We, uh, we gotta go far?” he asks, fastening the seatbelt.

 

“It’s just around the corner,” I reply, “No more than five minutes.  There’s a jay in the ashtray if ya wanna hit; it’s the same shit I’m sellin’.”

 

The boy snatched it up, digging a lighter out of his pocket.  His jeans are so tight, I can recognize the oblong shape of a pack of cigarettes still there.  He lit it and inhaled deeply, leaning back in the seat.

 

“You haven’t asked my prices,” I commented dryly.

 

The punk exhaled, filling the air with sweet smoke; I cracked the windows.  “As long as it’s reasonable, man.  Name’s Toby.  My bro Ernie’s gettin’ married this weekend—poor dickwad knocked that cunt Amy up, so he’s gotta marry her.  Asshole—he’s only a coupla months younger than me and now his life is all fucked up at age eighteen.  Anyway, we’re gonna give him one fuckuva sendoff with a kick-ass bachelor party.”

 

“So you’re in charge of gettin’ party supplies?” I ask, like I give a shit.  I’m gearing up to make a move I’ve been practicing for a while.

 

Toby takes another lung-busting hit off the joint.  This time, he at least has the presence of mind to exhale out the window; I don’t want the cab of my van reeking of weed.  “Some of ‘em,” he says slowly.  He turns languidly to me, his eyes red.  He’s stoned as fuck and I didn’t even lace this one.  “See, Chuck’s over 21, so he’s gettin’ th’ booze, an’ Dan’s gettin’ th’ pussy an’ Arnie’s lettin’ us use his basement—”

 

A line drive blow straight out from the left shoulder isn’t an easy move to perfect, and I don’t claim to have done so, especially given the results.  I put out the kid’s lights with a hefty, satisfying smack to the jaw; but in the end I should have pulled the punch a little.  Motherfucker went into the passenger window so hard he broke it.

 

I put the still-smoldering joint out in the ashtray and headed west.

 


 

 

I’d found this place some time ago, but I had to scope it out a while to make sure it was as isolated as it seemed.  A large warehouse property, it was the abandoned distribution center of a grocery chain that had withdrawn from the region over a decade before.  Technically for sale, the site was full of loading bays and storage areas that had become the hangouts of local gangs and the homeless.

 

One end of the massive building was left utterly deserted, though, and by its very nature could be sealed off and made soundproof.  It was a complex of industrial freezers at the north end of the structure; it was deserted to the point that it even lacked graffiti tags.

 

I switched off the lights as I pulled onto the property, driving around the back to the small loading bay on the north end.  It was little used as well and was a perfect place to conceal the van.  I only had to drag the unconscious meat a few dozen yards into the small freezer space I’d located and “decorated”.

 

It was no more than two hundred square feet; I have no idea what the original purpose was.  I strung up some lights, with a battery generator.  It’s an emergency power backup device, but it’ll work for my purposes.  Except for the ceiling, every surface of the room is covered with painter’s plastic—makes for easy clean-up.  Down the center of the ceiling runs a line of meat hooks.

 

In one corner is a folded, oversized TV tray, next to a small tool chest; as the name implies, I use the latter for my tools.  Dumping the boymeat on the metal-lined floor, I open the chest and retrieve a zip-tie.    Returning to the limp sack of boyflesh, I swiftly pull his hoodie—and the t-shirt he had on under—off over his head.  Leaving his jeans on, I bind the cunt’s hands in front of him.

 

Then I lift him up, slipping the plastic tie over the meat hook.  It’s perfect.  He dangles from his arms, the toes of his b-ball kicks swaying four inches above the metal floor.

 

And his ass is right at the level of my crotch.

 

His hat had fallen off in the van when he broke the window with his punk-ass head—stupid motherfucker.  His red-brown hair is short and wavy, somewhat matted with blood on the right side—the impact had broken the skin, but not badly.  He’s gonna suffer a lot more damage than that over the next hour.

 

Suddenly, he twitches and gives an almost inaudible moan.  His long eyelashes flutter; he’s starting to wake up.  I need to get into position.

 

I’d already removed my jacket and t-shirt outside the freezer.  My skin-tight jeans are tucked into my combat boots; I don’t wanna take them off.  And it doesn’t matter; this pair is old and stained with paint and grease, the denim worn thin in places.  They’re garbage.  Doesn’t matter if they get a few more stains.

 

I stand in front of the hanging fucktoy, my boots spread wide.  Reaching down and unzipping my fly, I hauled out my thick, pulsing hog, letting it dangle, semi-hard, between my legs.  I wait with my arms crossed across my hairy, muscled chest; I’ll be the first thing the little fuckwad sees when he wakes—which he does, almost immediately.

 

He groans loudly and my cock stiffens slightly.  His eyes open, but they’re rolled back.  He gurgles and chokes on his tongue momentarily, then jerks violently—and regains consciousness.

 

He looks at me, his eyes wide.  He’s confused and in pain.  “Wha…wha…”

 

I grin and fondle my cock.  He looks at me, then glances down at my groin.  His eyes widen.  “Dude, wh-what the fuck?” he quavers.  His eyes are bloodshot; he’s still high.  That’s ok; I’ll sober him up soon enough.

 

Silently, I step forward and begin fondling him.  He grunts and kicks wildly as I reach out and grab the crotch of his jeans, massaging the thick tube of flesh that even now seems to be getting a little hard.   “Get the fuck offa me, man; I ain’t no faggot!” he yells in angry denial.  Ignoring him, I run my hands up his smooth, firm chest.  His pecs and trapezius muscles were painfully elongated, causing his small dark nipples to thrust upwards.

 

He shudders under my hands.  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I got snatched by a fuckin’ pervert,” he snarls as I run my fingers through the wiry hair in his pits.  He’s already starting to sweat, not just from anxiety, but from the sheer physical stress of hanging by his arms.  “Lemme down!” he squawks.

 

I let go and step back, still grinning, still silent, before turning back to the tool chest.  “Ya hear me, motherfucker?!” the cunt shouts.  “Get back here, asswipe!  Get me down from here!”

 

Having retrieved what I want, I wheel back to him.  “That’s it, buddy,” he calls, “now get over here and—”

 

That was when he glanced down and saw that I was holding a knife.  He shut up quick.  Suddenly, he seemed to have a lot less desire to have me approach him.  Not that his desires matter; it’s mine that are gonna get satisfied tonight.  I need to let him know that—but first, I want him nude.  Walking behind him, I reach down and grab the Air Jordan shoe on his left foot.    I grip it tightly, expecting him to kick, but he doesn’t—he’s too intimidated.

 

“What ya doin’, man?” he whispers hoarsely, his voice tight with fear.

 

Again, I don’t say a word.  I insert the tip of the knife blade under the cuff of his jeans, above the left shoe, and slice upward, slitting the fabric cleanly up the back of his leg.  I keep going up to the waistband and cut through it, rapidly sawing through his belt.  It’s a Ka-Bar Bowie with a nine-inch serrated blade; it went through the inch of thin leather like it was paper.  Another slice up the other leg and the slut hung there, nude but for his kicks.

 

I walk back around to the front.  His large hazel eyes watch me anxiously.  I’m actually kinda impressed; he’s clearly a lower-middle-class teenaged punk—I’d’ve thought he’d already be crying and pleading to be let go.  Well, I can change that soon enough.

 

I need a staging area—I grab the TV tray and, setting it up, lay the knife on it.  Then I return to the tool chest.  The tray is positioned so that the boycunt can see it clearly, but just enough out of reach if he starts to kick.

 

I think he’s gonna kick.  Especially once I turn back with the item out I got out of the chest.

 

I hold it up to him; it glints in the light.  He looks at it, his long-lased eyes blinking slowly, like a cow’s.  He doesn’t get it—so I help him get it.

 

“It’s a staple gun,” I say.  It’s the first thing I’ve said since he’s regained consciousness; his eyes immediately snap to mine.  “I’m gonna hurt you with it.”

 

His face pales, making his freckles stand out.  He’s more confused than ever, so I help him out.  I step forward and, placing the staple gun against his firm, flat belly.  “Like this,” I say helpfully, and squeeze the handle.

 

With a loud “chunk”, the device slams an inch-long roofing staple through the kid’s smooth skin.  I was right about making the bitch kick; he squeals in pain and flails his legs.  The only sign of exterior damage, though, is the barely-visible glint of metal on the fucker’s heaving belly, from the ends of which two tiny trickles of blood leaked.

 

“Ya see, boy, I’m gonna rape yer ass,” I drawl casually.  The hanging boyfuck stops whimpering and gasps, but I keep on going.  “But a worthless little sack of shit like you—yer ass ain’t gonna get me off, bitch.  And I need to get off, bad.”

 

I leer cruelly at him; his brown eyes are huge as he stares at me in disbelief.  “Ya know what will get me off?  Making you hurt.  Before I fuck you and as I fuck you, I’m gonna hurt you.  I’m gonna fuck you up so goddam bad.  But ya know what the best part of all this is?”

 

He’s breathing deeply, but he flinches as I lean in close to his youthful, innocent face.  I want him to hear me as I whisper, “The best part is that yer gonna get off too.  I’m gonna put you in so much agony that yer gonna cum—and if ya don’t think I can do that, then ya better buckle up, cause I’m gonna prove it to ya, startin’ now!”

 

Balling up my fist, I slam it into the teen’s abs, a swift and powerful gutpunch directly on top of the staple.

 

The meat’s eyes and mouth both open wide, the latter a perfect O of shock and pain.  The breath rushes out of his lungs with a loud gurgling grunt as his lean form twists and kicks vainly in the air.  His red Air Jordans flail uselessly several inches above the ground as his long, thick hog slaps audibly against his smooth thighs.  I reach out and grab his cock, nimbly avoiding his jerking legs.  I stroke the teen’s meat as I swing the staple gun up and drive a pair of sharp metal prongs into his having flank.

 

He thrashes and squeals again—but there’s a reaction in his dick, too.  It was faint, but I could feel the punk’s semi-soft trouser snake throb slightly as he twisted in pain.

 

I knew it.  Moment I laid eyes on him, I knew the little fuck was into pain.  They all are, really, even the stupid little shits like this one who try to pretend they’re straight.  They’re just waiting for a real man to come along and dominate them.  And after all, what’s the ultimate show of power?  Making the victim suffer and die.  That’s what they want, what they crave in their sick souls—they wanna suffer and die.

 

I’m more than happy to oblige, of course.  I let the meat know.

 

“Ya like that shit, dontcha, faggot?” I sneer.  “Toldja so—yer dick is gettin’ hard in my hand.  Fuck, cunt, yer gonna love what I’m gonna do to ya—it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ night!”  Raising the staple gun to his chest, I slam one into the center of his stretched-out pecs.  Each time the thin metal points pierce his skin, he yelps in pain.

 

I step back for a moment to consider my next target.  That’s when he finally starts pleading.  “Stop it, man, please,” he sobs, his voice cracking with fear and distress, “Please, please, I’ll do anything ya want, just stop hurting me…”

 

“Will you?” I ask, grinning.  “Really?  Anything I want?”  Bending down, I pop a staple into the silky-smooth flesh of his inner thigh.  He shrieks.  “And what if I just wanna keep hurting you?  What if I just want you to keep hanging there like a good piece of fuckmeat while I torture you to death?”

 

Tears are streaming down his young, freckled-filled face; they dampen and darken the narrow line of fuzz that the punk pretends is a beard.  His long-lashed eyes are closed, though; he can’t bring himself to look me in the face.  “Y-you can fuck me…” he whispers so reluctantly it’s almost inaudible.  “I-I swear, ma-man, I won’t tell no one, if you’ll j-just lemme go…”

 

As I return to the tool box and get another toy, he breaks down and starts sobbing.  “P-please don’t k-kill me,” he gasps out between tears, “I prom-promise I w-won’t tell any-anyone about this—”

 

 

The sight of me and my toy cuts him off violently—it’s a set of brass knuckles.  I start with a line drive straight form my shoulder to right side of his chest; I can feel that the impact of my fist, amplified by heavy metal, is strong enough to shatter a couple of ribs, expelling a violent grunt of pain from the kid.

 

The meat stops crying and stares at me, his face darkening as he struggles to breathe.  I’ve knocked the air outta him and with those broken ribs, it’s gotta hurt to inhale.  He will eventually, of course; he has to.  As he struggles painfully in mid-air I stand and grin at him, holding up the brass knuckles for him to admire.

 

“Yeah, meat, bet that one got ya all horny, huh?  Hell fuckin’ yeah, boy, there’s a lot more where that came from.  And this is just foreplay, bitch; you ain’t suffered near enough to even get my dick hard yet, let alone to make me cum once I’m buried balls-deep in yer ass.  If yer a religious type, ya need to be thankin’ Jeebus for thowin’ you in my path, cause I’m gonna purge you with pain and fuck you into eternity on a violent, agonizing sea of cum!”

 

He loses it; shrieking and kicking, he thrashes like a wild man.  I knew this point would come—this is why (and where) they need tenderizing.  Managing to keep away from his flailing legs, I rain blow after blow on his lithe, nude, twisting body.  I’m punching him hard enough to do internal damage; even as he screams in panic, he has to grunt in pain as the physical pain overrides the mental terror while I pound his smooth, wiry abdomen.  I snap another rib on his right side; I’m amazed that I haven’t punctured his lung yet.

 

He’s young and strong; his panic is powerful.  Body blows aren’t getting his attention.  I focus on his face.

 

The first blow snaps a cheekbone; the second crushed his nose.  I can feel the cartilage crunch under my fist.  It works; he quiets down and simply dangles there, whimpering and sobbing softly.  I still want to smash his beautiful young face to hamburger and have to restrain myself from shattering his jaw.  But I’m still a long ways form being done with him, and I still wanna hear him bleat and squeal.

 

“That’s it,” I tell him, “Now you’re startin’ to get it.  You’re just gonna hang there and accept whatever I do to you.  You’re nothing but fuckmeat, strung up in a meat locker and ready for butcherin’.  Ya feel me, boy?  Ya get what I’m sayin?  Here and now, I own yer ass and I’m gonna do what I wanna with you.  As of now, your only purpose on this planet is to make me cum—and the only way you’re gonna do that is to suffer.  How long you live depends on how much you can endure, but know this—the rest of your short, worthless life is gonna be nothing but horrific, nightmarish pain—and my cock.  These will be the only two things in your universe for the rest of your life.”

 

I reset the tray within easy reach as I step behind the kid.  At the height he’s hanging, his ass is perfectly lined up at my groin; I don’t need to adjust anything at all.  My cock is full erect by now; the swollen purple head is glistening with precum.  It’s all the lube the boycunt is gonna get.

 

I probe his fuckhole with my shaft, feeling the tight resistance of his sphincter against my firm mushroom tip.  Oh fuck yeah, this meat’s deep in the closet; no one’s been up here yet.

 

“Savin’ yerself for me, huh?” I whisper in his ear as I reach around his slim, slick torso and pull him close.  I can smell his rank, fear-laden boysweat, thick with adolescent pheromones as I press my muscled chest to his back and slowly tear apart his straining ass muscle, penetrating the sobbing youth remorselessly.  “Ain’t gonna help ya, bitch; it’s only gonna make this hurt so much worse.  But I fuckin’ love rippin’ virgin boycunts open, faggot; this is gonna be yer first, last and best assfuck ever.”

 

He screams as I give a sudden violent thrust; my shaft scrapes against his rectal lining, causing an excruciating internal tear, before my long, vein-wrapped rod plows into his prostate.

 

Slipping my other hand around to the punk’s crotch, I find that the prostate impact has had its usual result; the fuckmeat’s cock is hard as a rock.  It’s an almost involuntary reaction to a nice internal prostate massage.  The head of my dick keeps traveling deep into the boy’s velvety guts, but as long as the throbbing length of my shaft presses against that gland, I can keep the meat erect, no matter what I do to him.

 

He still doesn’t like it, though. He hasn’t accepted his rightful place on my cock; he squeals like a pig and clenches his arms.  His biceps and triceps aren’t huge, but I can see them bulge as the teen punk tries desperately to raise himself up off the impaling shaft of my dick.

 

“Aw, no, cunt,” I bark, “Where ya tryin’ to run to?  Ain’t no way you’re gettin’ off my cock, ya stupid sack a’ shit—this is where yer gonna die.  Get used to ridin’ my rod, motherfucker, yer gonna be doin’ it for the rest of yer suck-ass life!”

 

He snaps.  The terror and the agony are too much for him.  “No!” he screams.  “Lemme down! Get offa me!  Get the fuck outta me, asshole!  Get the—URK!”

 

As he yelled, I reached down, snatched the Ka-Bar, and rammed it into his flank on the right-hand side.  He chokes on his shout as the pain overwhelms him, but I’ve been kind. I didn’t sink all nine inches of the blade into his lean, lithe abdomen; I only sank the carbon-steel knife in to a depth of five inches.

 

All I did was slash open his intestines and maybe pierce his spleen.  Theoretically survivable, if he gets help in time.

 

He won’t get help in time.

 

But he’s still a long way from death.  The teenaged punk is alive and kicking—and responding to the pain.  “Oh yeah, that’s it, fuckmeat,” I whisper in his ear, letting him know what a real man’s beard feels like, scratching his cheek as I lean forward to taunt him.  “Yer guts tighten up around my cock so fuckin’ good when I stick ya.  Fuckin’ deathpig—all you hot little twinks, huh?  Just waitin’ for the right man to come along, stuff ya fulla dick and put ya down like the garbage ya are, huh?  You’re such a lucky cumdump—tonight yer gonna get it, ya hear?”  I jerk the blade back out, quickly, and hold it up in front of his face as he shrieks and his taut, lean body shudders in my arms.  “Lucky little deathpig is gonna get pumped fulla long lard manshaft and long hard manshank—I wonder which one is gonna make you cum hardest, huh?”

 

He gasps and kicks, the heels of his b-ball kick drumming into my shins; it’s annoying as fuck.  “Calm down, meat,” I hiss and flip the blade around, driving it deep into his belly.  “HOOG!” he yells, adding to his repertoire of inarticulate cries.  Again, I don’t shove it in up to the hilt—this time, more outta self-preservation.  If I’d stuck it all the way in, it’d have come out his back and stuck me.

 

Which isn’t to say it won’t get shoved into the tender young boyflesh up to the hilt at some point; just not yet.  After all, I haven’t hit anything vital yet.  I can still play with the teen meat for a while yet.

 

And besides, it feel so good on my engorged tubesteak.  His warm, satin-smooth colon wraps around my cock and squeezes like a hand every time I stick the blade in…

 

…it’s almost like his ass is responding to him getting fucked by the blade.

 

Oh, this really is a sick little pervert.  Teenaged deathpig out lookin’ for party supplies—ha!  He’s havin’ the party of his fuckin’ life now.  Bet the faggot ain’t high no more.

 

Well, maybe he’s high on life—what little he’s got left.

 

I yank the blade back up, again holding it upright in front of his face. “Look at it, meat,” I whisper, nuzzling his shuddering head again.  “See those pink bits dangling from the serrations on the blade?  That’s your guts, bitch.  That’s what yer insides look like.”

 

He moans breathily, then, unexpectedly, speaks.  “Toby,” he moans, “My name…Toby…”

 

Little piece of shit is trying to establish an emotional connection by telling me his name.  “Meat doesn’t have a name, asswipe,” I remind him.  To drive the point home, I stick him again, this time on the left side.

 

He bleats like a dying lamb.  Helplessly impaled on my cock, he thrashes vainly as I twist the knife in the wound, grinding a massive hole in his liver.  Not enough to make him bleed out, but enough to make the cunt go rigid with shock from major organ trauma.

 

“What’s yer name, meat?” I hiss, reaming the blade in his side as he rides my cock.  “What’s yer fuckin’ name, huh?”

 

He gasps and grunts, but doesn’t answer.

 

“Yeah, I thought so,” I jeer.  “You’re nothing but a sack of boymeat.  You’re only here to suffer so I can cum.  You’re gonna drain my cock and die, you worthless fucker.  I’m gonna use you as my personal cumrag and throw you out after like the garbage you are, you got it?  Yeah?  You got yer place in the general scheme of things now, deathpig?”

 

The boy trembles and sobs, a low whimpering sound, as I run my hands down his chest.  I’ve left the blade in the wound; it bobs back and forth as I continue to pound the punk’s asshole.  I hold him to me, his back pressed against my chest, the slick boysweat forced from his young body matting the fur on my thick, broad pecs.  My nipples get hard as he writhes against me, his smooth skin slipping over them as if lubed.

 

And all the time, he’s working my cock.

 

Poor boy, he’s in so much agony.  He leans his head back as I fuck him mercilessly so I can see his pain-wracked face, taut and gray with shock.  His thin line of facial fur tangles in my scruff and he inadvertently nuzzles my cheek as he begs.

 

“P-please…” he moans weakly, “S-stop…no-no more…fuck, g-god, no more…any-anythin’, du-dude, just…just please fuckin’ stop…”

 

“You ain’t made me cum yet, cunt,” I murmur in his ear.  “You don’t stop sufferin’ until I’ve emptied my load in yer guts—ya feel me, cumdump?”  I prod him in the back with the blade—not badly; I only sink the blade in a couple of inches.  He stiffens and gasps.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” I tell him, “That’s what I’m looking for.  See what I mean, bitch?  Every time I stick ya, yer ass gets all nice and tight.  So I gotta keep pokin’ ya till I blow my load.  If ya live long enough, I’ll make you cum too.  It’ll hurt like all fuck, bro, but I promise you—you’ll never shoot a bigger wad in yer life!”

 

He keeps struggling, his slender body thrashing against mine as his Air Jordan hightop kick futilely at my shins.  He’s jerking his arms, his delts and triceps bulging pitifully as he desperately tries to pull himself up off my thick, throbbing shaft.

 

“Where ya think yer goin, motherfucker?” I jeer.  “Still think yer gonna run away my cock, huh?  Only escape from my pulsing manmeat is death. Get it, fag?  You ain’t gettin’ off my dick till you’re dead.  Take it, you stupid sack of shit, just accept my cock and make me cum.  Once my hot seed fills yer guts, I promise the pain will stop.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

The tortured, abused teen moans in despair.  His lithe, lean body slips and slides along mine as he still vainly tries to release himself from the horrible impaling pain of his virgin buttfuck.  Fuckin’ idiot, he still doesn’t get it—but he reacts so well to pain.

 

I wrap one hand around him, sliding it up his blood-smeared chest to his mouth.  I can feel his lips working against my palm as he continues to beg and plead silently for his worthless life.  “Fuckin’ teenaged meat,” I mutter contemptuously.  “Always has to learn the hard way.”  I ram the blade into his back, this time up to the hilt.  It slashes on a downward angle though his lean, tender flesh like a carving knife through rare roast beef, ripping right through his kidney before it emerges from the lower right quadrant of his abdomen, just above the pelvis.

 

Once again, major organ trauma has a magical effect on the cumpunk’s asshole.  Fuck, if they could control their colons this well voluntarily, I wouldn’t need to snuff them…

 

…well, no.  Worthless painpig cumdump, they all need to die, preferably in horrible agony, with my dick up their asses.  Like this one.

 

“Hey, cunt,” I whisper in his ear as he shudders violently and rigidly, his rectum squeezing my cock to tightly, I need a lot of self-control not to cum right now.  “Yer gettin’ me close, boy.  Think I’m gonna spunk soon.  Gonna anoint yer worthless guts with my potent manseed, yeah?  You ready, fuckmeat?  You ready to feel my sperm ticklin’ yer innards?  It’s almost time to make you into my personal cumrag.  Gonna make you into meat, boy, gonna make you into fuckin’ meat!”

 

I lower my hand from his mouth to his dick.  Of course it’s still hard; with my own enormous tool plugging his colon and pressing on his prostate, he physically can’t go soft.  No matter how much pain and terror he’s experiencing, his seven-inch cock remains involuntarily erect and pulsing.  As I slip my hand over the purple, spongy, engorged head, his precum smears over the palm.

 

I use it as lube while I jack his teen dick.

 

He responds, his body going rigid again, pressing back against me—whether in resistance or pleasure, I can’t tell, but he rides my shaft rhythmically, squeezing his sphincter as it slides along every vein-wrapped inch.

 

I beat his oozing tool, feeling his hard young body trembling in my arm as his ragged breathing speeds up.  Bleeding and in excruciating pain, the meat is still so full of adolescent hormones that he’s leaking a steady stream of precum.

 

This is why I like ‘em young.  Horny little fucker—even in mortal agony, he relaxes into my arms, letting me jack him off.

 

I don’t want him relaxed.  I want him tight on my rod.  He moans and stiffens slightly—not enough.  He’s about to cum, but I ain’t quite there yet.

 

“Die, you worthless piece of faggot shit,” I snarl, and slam the Ka-bar knife horizontally through his throat.

 

It’s what he needs, what he wants.  As the cold steel blade slashes through his larynx, he makes a high-pitched shriek, the death-squeal of a true pain pig.  His body, already traumatized, goes into shock; his strong young muscles snap into a rigid rictus of agony.

 

His ass tightens like a cockring around my pulsating shaft.  I can feel my balls boiling over, the hot strong squirts of my manseed flooding the dying teen’s rectum.  “Aw fuck!” I yell and slice the knife forward, sawing my way out of the cunt’s throat from the inside, “Die, motherfucker, die!”

 

I’m holding the knife in one hand—I’m still beating him off with the other.  As my blade rips open his throat, sending spurts of hot, coppery blood across the room, I can feel a massive spasm in his cock.  He’s blowing his death load so fucking hard, I can see it shooting up like a pearly geyser over his shoulder.  His steaming deathwad splatters back on my face as the teenager’s final convulsions clench my dick and his ass seems to literally suck my scrote dry.

 

I’m kinda out of it for a few minutes as I empty my pent-up load into the shuddering boycorpse still dangling by the hands and impaled on my dick.  The quivering meat is soaked in agonized deathsweat, his russet hair dark and matted, individual beads of perspiration still trickling from his rank pits—just as pink, frothy blood leaks from his slashed throat and translucent beads of jizz are still dripping from his purple head.  Even dead, he’s still leaking his bodily fluids.

 

Sighing deeply, I step back, my still-hard cock popping up as I pull out of the dead kid’s ass, spattering my oozing spunk everywhere.  I use the boy’s t-shirt to wipe my dick off, then replaced all my toys back in the tool chest.  Well, all the ones I’d taken out.

 

Getting myself dressed, I go out to my van—and drove home.  I’m tired, I need sleep…and I want the meat to stop bleeding.  I’ll come back for it tomorrow.  Who know?  I might not be done with it, if it ain’t too ripe when I get back.

 

And besides, I need to get the passenger window fixed.  Stupid piece of fuckin’ meat, I was too easy on him.  I shoulda really hurt ‘im…

Leather Pig Snuff

It started as a chance encounter, a shared elevator ride that lasted no more than forty-five seconds, but it changed the outcome of the evening for the two men involved.

 

The hotel was packed, of course; while the crowd at LFF—LeatherFetishFest—was tiny compared with that of, IML or Southern Decadence, there was still plenty of action to be had over the three-day weekend and the hospitality suites on the top floor were continually busy.

 

That was where David was coming from.  It was the last night of the con and he’d been scoping out the hot manmeat in the party suites.  Now it was after midnight, and even though the rooms were still packed, David was ready to go.  He took a last tour around the rooms, pausing to watch two dudes fuck in the far corner.  One guy with a leather mask over his face was bent over with his jeans down around his knees; he was taking it up the ass from a mohawked stud in solid rubber that adhered to his fit body like paint.  A number of guys among the admiring crowd were recording the action on their phones.

 

It was hot as fuck, and it was making David hard.  That was a bad sign; usually his self-control was stronger.  It had to be; he didn’t play at these events.  It was too public; these days, there were security cameras everywhere.  Every time he entered and left the hotel, it was recorded somewhere.  So he got horned up and inspired, but saved his playtime for when he got home.

 

At home, he knew where to hide the bodies.

 

And it wasn’t as if David was easy to miss.  Tall, broad, furry and very muscular, he’d had attracted attention in any gay gathering—in fact, the fags clustered around him like moths to a flame—but in his gear, he was the hottest dude in the room, no matter what room it was.

 

At the moment, his magnificent physique was well-displayed in a pair of quilted leather jeans.  The diamond-stitched quilting stretched tightly around his powerful legs and his groin, which was kept sealed by a pair of zippers, one on each side of the massive bulge in his crotch; when both were unzipped, the front of the crotch opened like a flap.

 

He’d worn it during playtime at home and had found it handy; he wore it now, imagining the looks on some of the boys in the room, if they knew what he was imagining doing to their tender, defenseless bodies…

 

The leather jeans highlighted David’s thighs; below that, he sported a pair of glossy, knee-high Wesco harness boots.  He used these at home, too; the thick soles were perfect for grinding into homo faces.

 

The only new item of gear he wore was the plain leather vest he wore open over his bare, hairy chest.  He’d bought it specifically for LFF; the front was cut so that it was too wide to close—it hung open so wide that the rigid erectness of David’s large dark nipples were visible to everyone.

 

As he left the hospitality suite, he stopped and checked himself at a large mirror near the door, well aware of the eyes focused on him.  It wasn’t unusual; he’d had many offers to appear in porn—but he didn’t want his face to be that recognizable.  And it would have been; it was striking.  Wavy hair so black it glittered above a wide, open brow and large emerald eyes lined with long lashes, his face alone was enough to cause an erection.  The wiry, jet-black goatee surrounding his full lips and covering his dimpled chin, with a faint but discernible scruff on his cheeks, completed the effect.

 

It was a look to fall in love with—right down to the thin gloves on his hands, encasing them in black leather so tight it looked painted on.  It was a look to die for—as some had found out too late.

 

Catching a glimpse of several lust-struck admirers in the mirror, David sneered at them and left the suite.  Prettyboys, all of them; he coulda had any one of them to fuck however he wanted, but for David, fucking was never enough.  And none of these sluts were worth the trouble of cleaning up afterwards.

 

The hotel was large and pricey; the long corridors were plush with predominant colors of white and gold.   The elevators were around the corner in a bay like a miniature temple, picked out in marble and onyx.  David sauntered leisurely down the hallway, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting.

 

Soundlessly, he turned right at the corner and took an immediate left for the elevators—and that was when he saw The Boy.

 

And The Boy saw him.

 

They stared at each other, silently, for a long, long time, their eyes saying all that needed to be said.

 

The kid looked like he was in his early twenties, about ten years younger than David.  Under spiked brown hair, his face was handsome and haughty, his dark eyes arrogantly aware of his own physical beauty.  His body was perfect, slender and lithe but toned and well-defined.  Standing shirtless—but for an over-the-shoulder strap that part of his leather belt—the skin of his lean, muscled torso was smooth and silky-looking, with small dark nipples.  The belt was around the waist of a pair of skin-tight leather jeans; unlike David’s, the youth’s pair was smooth and not quite glossy, but they clung erotically to his thick, firm thighs and emphasized the massive bulge in the crotch well enough.  The jeans were slightly too long; the hems were bunched into the boy’s laced but untied black and white DC skate shoes.  The ensemble was completed with a two-inch-wide leather wristband on the right arm and silver bracelet inset with turquoise on the left.

 

After a brief, intense struggle, David’s self-control gave up the fight.  He had to have this one.  As if on cue, the kid spoke up.

 

“Damn,” he said with a cocky grin, “Where you been?  I haven’t seen you before; I’d’a remembered a stud like you.”

 

“I been around, boy,” David drawled.

 

“Name’s Kirk,” the kid replied.  “I’d given up hope of gettin’ laid tonight, but damn, dude, you can stick that rod as far inside me as ya want.”  He nodded towards David’s groin, which was swelling visibly.

 

David grinned.  “How old are ya, boy?”

 

“I’m twenty-two.  And I got my own room here.”

 

Exactly ten years younger than David himself.  “Yeah?  This place is expensive as fuck—how’s a kid like you afford it?  You here alone?”

 

It was Kirk’s turn to grin.  “I got a daddy.  He paid for the room; he thinks it’s a seminar to help get me get a better job.  He’ll believe whatever I tell him; he’s kinda stupid that way, so he let me come here alone.”

 

David grunted.  That explained a lot of the cockiness.  Little fuck could get anything he wanted—and with a body like that, anyone.  He’d be willing to bet “daddy” was loaded, and probably expected that his boy was lying but was willing to keep paying and playing just to keep the slut coming back home.

 

“So, anyway, wanna fuck me?” Kirk asked and David burst into a huge smile; he’d made up his mind.  The slut wasn’t coming back home, not this time.

 

“Sure,” he said slowly.  “Where’s your room?”

 

“Third floor, in the front,” Kirk replied, pressing the call button for the elevator.  “Got a great view of the street party from there.  Stood in front of the window and waved my dick at a bunch of boys out there this morning; they loved it.  Man, I’m having the time of my fuckin’ life here.”

 

“Yeah, I bet,” David said, letting a slight hint of contempt slip into his tone, “But I’m gonna fuck ya so hard you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.”

 

“Ooh, you big, tough man,” Kirk jeered teasingly, stepping forward and running his hands over the older man’s biceps, “Lessee if you can live up to that promise.”

 

Just then the elevator arrived, the ping of the signal echoing in the marble lobby.  The doors opened silently and both leather-clad males stepped in. “Oh, I can fucking guarantee it,” David said quietly as the door closed and the descent started.

 

The ride was brief, but long enough for Kirk to reach out and fondle David’s thick shaft through the tight leather.  David smiled beatifically and leaned against the rear of the cab, letting the hot boy run one hand over his groin and another over his chest.  The alpha closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure—he was gonna be able to release tonight; he wasn’t gonna hafta wait to get home to drain his aching balls…

 

The elevator slowed, and Kirk stood up.  When the doors opened, he grabbed David by the hand and steered him around the corner and down the hall.  Even from this angle, the older, larger stud could see the young punk’s cock, straining violently in the confines of his groin.  The boy wanted the older man just as badly as David wanted him.

 

This was gonna be so fuckin’ fun.

 

The boy opened a door on the left side of the hall and turned on the lights.  His lean, shirtless torso glistened with sweat in the warm room; it was reflected in the broad expanse of glass in the wide picture window overlooking the street.  There was a chair and side table in front of the window; Kirk pushed them aside.  “C’m’ere, dude,” he said eagerly, “Lookit this shit.”

 

David strode to the far end of the room, noting the elegant dresser/mirror/TV stand on one side and the huge king-sized bed on the other, the latter with the bedding twisted in a knot and the expensive pale green Egyptian linen fitted sheet stiff with cum.  Reaching the window, he looked down into the huge crowds of men, wrapped in various degrees of leather, still partying out on the street.  It wasn’t even one in the morning; they’d be out there for hours.

 

Without bidding, Kirk reached up and slipped David’s vest off, tossing it onto the bed.  Embracing the older stud, he turned to that their backlit silhouette was clearly visible to the power fags milling on the street below and started sucking on the muscular alpha’s  thick, hard nipples.   David groaned erotically, feeling the boy’s tongue fluttering of the painfully stiff knot of flesh.

 

Lifting his head, Kirk looked David in the eyes, his young face flush and intense with lust.  “Fuck me here, stud.  Fuck me in the window.  I want ‘em to see.  I want ‘em all to watch me gettin’ plowed by a fuckin’ god like you.”

 

David grinned his charming, adorable grin that made Kirk feel faint.  “Ya like guys to watch ya get banged, huh?  Fuck yeah, bitch, I can do that.  I can fuck ya in public.”

 

Immediately, Kirk whirled around and bent over, bracing himself with one hand on the windowsill.  “There’s an opening,” he gasped excitedly.

 

Reaching down, David found it was true. In the deep depression separating the firm leather-covered globes of the kid’s ass, there was a series of snaps securing built-in access to the wearer’s ass.  One swift motion—and a rapid-fire popping of the snaps—and Kirk’s pink, pulsing fuckhole was exposed to open air.  “Stick it in me, fucker!” he cried.

 

“Not yet, faggot,” David barked.  “Ya want my cock?  Then come get it, motherfucker.  Get back here and free my tool.”

 

 

The boy whipped around obediently and grabbed the double zipper in David’s crotch.  He pulled both down simultaneously but the hulking top’s shaft was too long to be released without some help; tenderly, Kirk reached in and grasped the thick, hot, throbbing tube of manmeat, pulling it out from its musky leather confinement.

 

“C’mere, pup,” David commanded.  “Over here in the window.  No!  Stay down, bitch.  On yer knees, punk, get over here on yer knees.”    As Kirk crept the few feet to the window, the older stud glanced out onto the street and smirked.  “Let’s give the boys a show.”

 

As Kirk knelt in front of him, David started dickslapping him, the alpha’s thick, meaty shaft splattering precum across the youth’s model-perfect face.  Kirk blinked as the salty fluid spattered over his eyes and gripped the top’s powerful legs, feeling his thick thigh muscles flex under the tight quilted leather.

 

Brandishing his cock like a club, David grabbed a hank of the kid’s hair, feeling the spiking gel crunch in his hand.  As he beat the boy’s face with his engorged rod, he looked out the window, noticing that a large crowd had gathered around.  Three stories up and lit from behind, David knew that the action was clearly visible from the street without any identifying details being revealed.

 

And the audience seemed to be extremely appreciative of the performance so far.

 

The older leatherstud gave Kirk one more strong smack with his weapon-like dick, this one hard enough to knock the boy’s head sideways and make him grunt.  It did nothing to dampen the horny young punk’s enthusiasm, though.

 

“Suck my cock, faggot,” David demanded and Kirk responded eagerly, running his tongue over the swollen, purple head, greedily lapping up the precum still oozing from the pulsating piss-slit.  David was not pleased and let the disobedient pup know.  “I said suck it, motherfucker, not lick it,” he snapped, slapping Kirk in the face.

 

The boy gasped and pulled back; the blow had been soft, almost gentle, but it was unexpected.  He rose up straight, but remained on his knees.  David looked down at him angrily—and laughed.

 

“Fuck, you little leather pig, I knew ya’d like that—lookit that fuckin’ tentpole yer sportin’!  Pull that bad boy out, slut, or yer gonna tear them hot fuckin’ pants.”

 

Kirk blushed, realizing it was true; his dick was so hard it hurt.  He hurriedly unbuttoned his fly, freeing his aching hog from its constricting leather prison.  Like the alpha, his rod was seeping pre-ejaculate in a steady stream; it splashed out as his cock popped out of his crotch like an erotic jack-in-the-box, leaving large drops of the viscous, transparent fluid smeared across David’s knee-high Wescos.

 

“Get back on my shaft,” David barked.  “You ain’t a pup, you’re a pig.  So choke on my cock like a pig.”

 

Kirk paused as if to object, then, leaning forward and opening his mouth wide, he tried to swallow the older man’s tool.  He could only get the massive tube of throbbing manflesh a few inches into his mouth.  He simply couldn’t open his jaw enough to suck the alpha’s cock and still be able to breathe.

 

David, on the other hand, didn’t have the same priorities.  He ensured they were up against the window and visible to the mass of partying studs on the street below before wrapping his gloved hands around the kid’s head and slowly forced his enormous rod into Kirk’s throat.  At first, the leather-clad punk accepted the thick tubesteak but within a few seconds, things had changed.

 

David’s dick had cut off his air.

 

Kirk heaved and gagged, shaking his head and trying to pull back—only to discover that David’s grip on his head as a firm as a vise.  A sudden sharp fear rose in his breast, and he placed his hands on the power top’s thighs, feeling the quilted leather under his palms as he tried to push himself away.

 

He never noticed how his own cock had started to throb faster—but that was understandable; at that moment, David’s cock was also moving faster.

 

David could feel the boy struggle and gurgle on his shaft; it felt too good to ignore.  The youth’s beautiful face was turned up to him, helpless and distressed, the large, dark, puppy-like eyes watering.  “Fuck yeah, that’s my good little pig,” David grunted and started skullfucking Kirk brutally.

 

He rammed his dick down the kid’s throat with exaggerated thrusts that were obvious on the street outside.  Even on the third floor, the roar of the crowd’s approval was audible to both men—with different effect.  David was spurred to amp up the tempo of the facefuck while Kirk, his fingers scrabbling over the powerful stud’s boots, was still trying to find a way to break free long enough to inhale.

 

Kirk turned his seeking hands upwards, pawing at the top’s firm, furry belly.  His tear-streaked eyes turned up to the alpha’s face.  Looking down, David took pity—so to speak—on the horny but overwhelmed punk and pulled out of his throat.

 

Kirk bent over, coughing and gagging, spitting up foam on the floor between David’s boots.  The buff older man smirked down at the incapacitated boy.  “You ain’t done yet, pig,” he chuckled, “Stand up.  NOW, faggot!”

 

The ringing tone of command in his voice shot through Kirk like a jolt of electricity; he instantly stood upright.  His face was still red and slightly swollen, but the glint of lust was still visible in his eyes.  David recognized it for what it was.  “Turn around and bend over, cunt; I’m gonna fuck ya right here where everyone can see it,” he jeered.  “Ya like that, fuckpig?  Ya like havin’ an audience watchin’ you get plowed in the ass?  Does that make ya hard, slut?  Goddammit, cocksucker, I said bend over!”

 

Kirk’s obedience was immediate.  Facing away from David he bent over and grabbed his knees, the opening in the ass of his leather jeans exposing his pulsating fuckhole.  The muscled, leather-clothed top spit into his palm and lubed his cock with it—it was all the lube the lithe young boy was gonna get.

 

With no warning at all, David buried his shaft so deep in Kirk’s ass that his wiry pubic hair scratched the boy’s smooth asscheeks where the opening in the jeans was wide enough.  The beautiful bottom squealed shrilly, to the accompaniment of a rising cheer from the street below.

 

“Fuck, man, yer killin’ me!” the punk yelled, jerking forward.

 

“Not yet,” David hissed, grabbing at Kirk’s shoulder strap.  “Quit tryin’ to get away, fuckboy, we just got started.  You don’t wanna disappoint yer fans down there, do ya?”

 

Kirk whimpered and moaned as the hard-bodied top ran his hands over the boy’s smooth back, slick with sweat, but the kid never lost his erection. Even from the third floor, Kirk’s thick dick could be seen clearly by the crowd of randy, drunk faggots on the street below, swinging and bobbing with each ramrod thrust up his ass.

 

“Unh-unh-unh,” the punk grunted repeatedly, his toes curling inside his skate shoes as he experienced every inch of David’s enormous, vein-wrapped shaft plunged into the depth of his colon.  It wasn’t that he was inexperienced—he’d been gangbanged in this room the night before—but he’d never had anyone this large inside him before.  Even though his sphincter had finally relaxed to the point that Kirk didn’t feel like he was shitting razor blades every time the alpha drove his rod in, some corner of the kid’s mind was wondering if he’d been damaged and what he’d have to say to Daddy if he ended up needing medical help.

 

But then that corner was flooded with the lust that washed over the rest of Kirk’s body.  It was hard to focus on anything but how full he was of manmeat.  The atmosphere was charged with sex, heavy with the scent of mansweat, testosterone and leather.  The pain was receding and Kirk was slipping into his accustomed bottompig role, grinning with pleasure.

 

“Yeah, you fucker, give it to me!” he moaned ecstatically.  “Ram it in me, man!”

 

“Fuckin’ homo cunt,” David sneered, “Ya like bein’ watched as ya ride my dick, huh?  Shameless little whore, aintcha?  Take it, bitch, take the D.  Lemme hear how much ya want it.”

 

He was pounding the boy so hard Kirk was having trouble maintaining his balance. He tried grabbing the windowsill, but it was nothing more than a strip of metal an inch wide; his hand kept slipping.  David was holding him up with the leather shoulder strap.  The intensity of the fuck was obvious; from outside, both could hear a faint cry arise from the street, “Oh hell yeah, breed that bitch!”

 

They were getting carried away.  David decided it was time for a change of pace.  Keeping his cock buried deep in Kirk’s guts, he stopped pumping and pulled the boy’s torso back so that they were both standing upright, Kirk’s back pressed against David’s heaving, furry chest.  He slid a hand down towards the kid’s groin, and for a moment Kirk thought David might be trying to jack him off—but the muscled alpha unfastened the shoulder strap at the point where it attached to the belt in front.  Immediately afterwards, he’d freed it from the connection in the back, too.

 

Still in his tight leather jeans, Kirk was now nude from the waist up.  He felt David loop it around his throat, letting it hang down his back.  He had no idea what the stud was gonna do next.

 

What David did next was wrap his muscular arms around the boy’s lean torso, holding him in a tight embrace.  Kirk sighed happily, nestling back against the top’s chest.  David began fucking the kid again, starting slowly.  Simultaneously, he bent his head forward, letting his face scruff scrape Kirk’s smooth cheek.  Swamped with lust, the punk moaned shudderingly and reached up, running his hands through David’s hair.

The gathering on the street outside had gotten larger; dozens of dude were straining their eyes for a better view of the third-floor sex scene—and straining the crotches of their pants as well.  Even if no facial details could be discerned, the silhouetted forms framed in the window were perfectly clear.  So was what happened next.

 

Wrapping one arm around Kirk’s waist, David pressed his other hand between the bitchboy’s shoulder blades, bending the kid forward.  Spreading his skate kicks wide, Kirk gripped his own knees for support.  Then he felt the strap around his throat tighten—not unbearably, but enough to establish control.

 

Suddenly, with no warning, David began plowing his massive cock back into Kirk’s ass with mind-numbing speed and force, powerfucking the slim, buff youth mercilessly.  The aggressive alpha was holding the strap in both hands, pulling back on it like reins.  It wasn’t enough to choke the kid, but it was more than enough to dominate him.  His lean, lithe form bent backwards as he barked out short cries in the same tempo as David’s thrusts.

 

“Yeah, faggot,” David jeered, “That’s what it feel like to get banged by a real man.  Ya feelin’ me, cunt?  Ya like ridin’ genuine rock-hard manmeat, dontcha, ya little homo leatherpig?  Fuck, boy, take it—take my fuckin’ cock!”

 

The furry, well-built top was pounding the leatherboy’s ass so hard that his hips seemed to move in a blur.  Kirk cried out inarticulately in both pleasure and pain; his fuckhole had never withstood this amount of abuse before; it hurt so bad—and it hurt so good.  He was afraid he was gonna be injured but his own dick was so hard it hurt; even the gradually-increasing tightness of the strap around his throat was erotic as all fuck…

 

At that point, a chant that had started outside had finally grown loud enough for the heaving, interlocked men to hear: “Money shot!  Money shot!”  Above this, a single voice yelled “Finish ‘im off!”

 

“He’s right,” David chuckled, “It is time to finish you off.  Free show’s over—get on the bed, cunt.”  Quickly reversing the strap so that it hung down the front, the hulking top pulled out, feeling his log-like cock smack against the quilted leather on his thigh.  He shoved Kirk at the bed.

 

The boy scrambled to the center of the king-sized mattress, shoving the wadded, cum-stained bedding to one side.  His soft leather jeans slid smoothly over the expensive, high-thread-count fitted sheet.  He crouched in the center of the bed with his ass point up.

 

“Naw, bitch, on yer back,” David demanded and Kirk eagerly rolled over and spread his legs.  The leather pants swelled as the kid’s thick thighs and well-developed calves bulged under the strain of keeping his legs hefted into the air—but he didn’t use his hands.

 

And it wasn’t as if he needed to keep them up long—David was on him, and in him again, with surprising suddenness.  Kirk wrapped his legs around David’s waist, leather on leather, and embraced the muscled top as the latter once again probed the depths of his guts with his enormous rod.

 

Kirk looked up into David’s handsome, scruffy face, inches from his, and fell in instant love; the alpha seemed to be so happy fucking him.  “Are you rich?” he whispered.  “Daddy’s rich, but he can’t—”

 

David grabbed Kirk’s jaw, the scent of his leather glove wafting into Kirk’s nose as the older man squeezed the punk’s mouth painfully.  “Shaddup and take my dick, fag,” he sneered.  Increasing the pressure of his grip, he forced the youth’s mouth open and spit in it.

 

Despite himself, the young boyslut was turned on by this; David, of course, knew it right away—the naïve little faggot thought he was tough, but his dick had swollen and throbbed. Pressed as it was against David’s hard, ripped belly, the alpha had gotten the message.

 

He responded with a backhand across Kirk’s face.  This one had a little kick to it.

 

Slightly stunned, the boy grabbed his face, turning his dark eyes, wide and hurt, to the older man.  “What—why—”

 

David slapped him hard, again.  The glove seemed to make it sting even worse.

 

“Why?  Ya wanna know why?” David growled down at the bewildered youth, “Cause you’re pain pig, cunt.  See, when I hurt ya like that, it made yer ass muscle clench.  Just a little, though.  You must be one fuck of a slut, boy, yer ass is all worn out.  But see, now I know what it takes to make you milk my shaft.”

 

As a bruise slowly started to darken on Kirk’s left cheek, a blemish that somehow added to his youthful beauty, the kid lifted his head, his confusion obvious.  “Wha—I still—I don’t—”

 

“For fuck’s sake, you stupid sack of shit,” David snarled, “I’m gonna waste yer worthless ass.  Your butthole is gonna spasm as you die, and that’s gonna jack me off.  Got it, you stupid little fuckwad?  Good.  Time to die, cocksucker.”

 

Gathering the ends of the strap in his hands, he crossed them in front of Kirk’s neck, then wrapped them once around his palms to ensure a better grip.  He spit in the youth’s terrified face one more time.  “Dumbass piece of fuckmeat,” he muttered contemptuously, then jerked the strap tight.

 

This time, the strap around his throat was enforcing considerably more control over Kirk.

 

The sudden cessation of air induced instant panic.  Kirk’s mind was aflame; he’d never imagined anything like this happening to him, even within the limited range of his intellect.  Even the consequences were difficult to visualize—but David helped him there.

 

“They’re gonna find you here, ya know,” he taunted.  “Fucked and strangled.  Poor Daddy; havin’ to be told his hard-workin’ boy got himself filled with cum and snuffed at a fetish con.”

 

Despite the deafening pounding of his pulse, Kirk heard and understood the words.  His embrace of his perfect lover had morphed into a frantic struggle with his killer; his hands were clawing desperately at the point where the crossed ends of the strap were digging into his neck—excruciatingly, it was right on his larynx, slowly crushing his voicebox—as the heels of his kicks drummed relentlessly on David’s taut ass; the quilted leather came in handy here.

 

As he felt the dying boy’s colon writhing around his swollen shaft, some cold, detached corner of the killer’s mind wondered about that.  This was the first time he was doing something like this; usually he waited till he got home and offed some cheap rentboy or whatever other fuckmeat he could grab.  It wasn’t as if he planned this—but it had all worked out so right.  The beautiful boyslut with his own cum-splashed room—he was just begging to be snuffed.

 

David was more than happy to help.  In fact, he was overjoyed.  The pressure in Kirk’s head had increased to an agonizing extent; his dark eyes were bulging grotesquely—which meant he was unable to close them, to block out the sight of his killer towering over him, broad-shouldered with dark wiry fur in a triangle that stretched across both broad pecs, narrowing as it followed his torso down to his tapered waist—a triangle of body hair that pointed down to a dark line that led below the waistband of his leather pants to the dark tangled mass of his pubes.

 

And the face, the dark goatee, the rough scruff covering the cheeks, the glittering lash-lined emerald eyes—it was still a look to fall in love with.  It was still a look to die for.  Kirk was coming to accept that the two were not mutually exclusive.

 

The pain, though—that was something else.  In all his pampered existence, Kirk had never known anything like this.  The crushing, grinding pain in his throat, the vacuum-like pressure in his chest, the banging, pounding, screaming pain in his head…

 

…the straining, throbbing, pulsating pain in his cock…

 

“Hell yeah, cunt, now you’re learnin’,” David sneered, feeling the kid’s rectum contract as his swollen face darkened through purple into a frantic, livid black.  Kirk’s lips, thick and blue, were forcibly parted by his dark protruding tongue.

 

Kirk’s dying brain heard the words but was too busy enjoying the fireworks show.  Large areas of the boy’s field of vision were exploding into flares of blackness as blood vessels popped in the whites of his eyes, turning them red.

 

He was coming full circle, the fight for life slowly subsiding to a sensual dying caress of his killer.  Kirk’s desperate flailing had slowed, his hands now gently stroking the sweaty, bulging biceps of the man who was killing him.  The youth’s firm, leather-clad legs were wrapped tightly around the alpha’s waist, squeezing forcefully, as if to match the pressure on his neck.

 

As his ass fluttered and rippled on David’s tool, Kirk’s own rod continued to swell and throb at the tempo of the dying boy’s pulse—and his heart was slamming away its last few functional seconds before spasming into orgasmic arrhythmia.

 

“That’s it,” David whispered, “That’s a good little piggie.  Shh, just let go.  Die, motherfucker, let go and die.  It won’t hurt anymore once you’re dead, cunt.  Oh yeah, stop fuckin’ fightin’ it and die on my dick, fag.”

 

The pounding inside Kirk’s head had reached an overwhelming level; it dominated his entire universe—and then it seemed to falter.  There was a an intense, knife-like pain in his chest—Kirk was unaware of it, but it was the moment his heart failed—and just at that moment of silence, David words made it through the cold haze of impending death.

 

And Kirk knew he still loved him.  He died in convulsive agony on the dick of the greatest love he’d ever experienced.

 

His deathload was ample proof.  Kirk was young, strong, and very physically fit; his death throes were correspondingly violent.  Gripping his killer in an iron embrace, his body went through convulsions so intense, all David could do was hold on and allow his dick to be milked like a cow’s teat.

 

It was worth it.  Snuffing at the con was worth it.  This little fuck’s rectum was like a velvet glove sliding over his engorged, lubed head as it collapsed and spasmed along full length of manmeat buried in it.  Their hard, sweaty bodies, locked together in a haze of pheromones and leatherscent, ground against each other and writhed on the mattress.

 

Kirk gave one last gagging gurgle as foam erupted from his lips and cascaded down his cheeks in messy white strands.   Blood vessel continued to pop in his eyes.  Then, with no warning, he clutched David tightly.  A single last coughing gag sent a copious flow of drool down his face—and a violent spasm along the length of his dick.

 

Kirk shot a solid stream of cum out of his erect cock.

 

At the same time, his sphincter contracted like a cockring around the base of David’s dick.  It was all the latter had been waiting for.  With a loud, inarticulate cry, he unloaded his aching ballsack into the dead kid’s guts.

 

Kirk’s conscious brain was dead; his nervous system could only process physical sensations.  It was still aware enough that when David jerked violently in orgasm, tightening the strap and crushing Kirk’s larynx to a mangled was of gristle, it was interpreted as pain.  It was still enough of a stimulus to prompt a second geyser of semen to erupt from the fuckmeat.

 

Cold death, momentarily held at bay by an injection of boiling, life-giving manseed into his intestines—but it wasn’t enough.  Shuddering, convulsing and cumming, the choked-out cumsack once known as Kirk sank into a painful and well-deserved death.  David held on for a little while longer, though; his balls weren’t completely drained and the hard boycorpse went through an extended period of post-mortem convulsions.

 

Two hard, leather-clad bodies, shuddering together, one clutching the helpless, lifeless other.

 

Over the next fifteen minutes, David shot two more loads.  On the first one, he grunted, stiffened, and shot a long steady stream into the corpse’s guts.  The second one hurt; he cried out as he came, driving his fist into the youth’s grotesquely distorted face.

 

As he headed toward the bathroom, he glanced back.  Kirk’s lithe, firm corpse was still quivering and kicking.  His leather shoulder strap was embedded so deeply in his neck is was almost invisible.

 

Luckily, there were fresh towels in the bathroom; he was able to clean himself adequately afterwards.

 

David’s flight out was at noon, but he didn’t feel the need to sleep.  He simply tucked his cock back into his leather pants, slipped the vest back on and left the room.  Five minutes later, he was out mingling with the boys on the street.  It was inevitable that the subject of the window show would come up at some point, although it took forty-five minutes for David to stumble onto a conversation about it.

 

“Nice boots,” a bear with a thick beard remarked.  “Hey, didja see the shit that happened up there?” He nodded at Kirk’s third-floor window, now just an empty rectangle of light.

 

“I heard about it,” David replied.

 

“Man, that bottom was hot.  Whaddaya think he’s doin’ right now?  Maybe he’s just chillin’…”

 

“Yeah, I imagine he’s chillin’,” David returned, “He might even be downright cold by now.”