Adam In Control

Adam was pissed, and it was getting his dick hard.

 

The kid was openly leering at him, and that was infuriating enough; Adam hated being stared at by fags, feeling their eyes running over his hard, muscular body—it always kindled his lust/rage.  But there was something about this particular boy…

 

He was lean and tall, not quite Adam’s height, but close.  He was leaning back against the wall, one knee out with the foot on the wall behind him, watching the people entering and leaving the gym; it was almost as if he was cruising for a fuck.

 

Forget the “almost”, Adam thought, the little whore wants dick; lookit the way he’s dressed.

 

The boy’s black Adidas Chile 62 tracksuit had an eye-catching shininess similar to leather; the way it clung to the slut’s lithe young body was the first thing Adam had noticed. The jacket was open; under it was a white t-shirt with an Adidas logo just barely visible.  The little punk hadn’t been brand-loyal all the way down to his feet, though, Adam noticed—he was sporting a pair of black and white Nike Vapormax 97’s.

 

It was the faggot’s face that aroused Adam’s ire the most—handsome, arrogant, topped with a wavy mass of hair almost identical to Adam’s own shade of copper.  It drew the sexual sadist’s attention.  He had no idea what a homo dressed like a scally punk was doing here coming on to him, but he wanted to see that face, terrified and suffering, as it died.

 

So he swallowed his anger, the bitter taste somehow making his cock swell, and approached the homo scum with a smile on his own strikingly masculine face.

 

“Hey there,” the kid said once Adam was closer.  “I been scopin’ ya out for a coupla days.”

 

“Yeah?” Adam replied nonchalantly.

 

“Yeah,” the boy said, “And I think you’d be perfect.”

 

“For what?”

 

“A little breath control play.”

 

Adam paused for a moment.  “Yeah?  Sounds like faggot shit to me.  That what ya into, boy?”

 

The punk grinned, giving Adam what was supposed to be a come-hither look; it made the youth look somewhat moronic.  “I like a little danger—and Master’s away, so the pup will play…”  He leered hard at the muscle-bound stud.

 

Adam was intrigued and enraged.  Fuckin’ cunt was such a homo he needed a master.  “That explain yer getup?” he asked, giving the slut’s Chile 62 tracksuit a once-over.

 

“Hell yeah,” the kid said proudly, “Sir’s a skinhead; he likes to see me in this.  Likes to use me and abuse me while I’m wearing it.  Think you can do that to me too?”

 

Again, Adam paused.  He was used to hunting down and snuffing his own fuckmeat; even the stupid cunts who came onto him didn’t want more than an assfuck.  The psycho killer hadn’t had anyone begging to be hurt—this could be downright fun.

 

Or would be if it didn’t involve a cocksuckin’ fag pervert.  Little motherfucker wanted abuse?  It deserved it and Adam was more than willing to comply.  He hadn’t been trolling for meat, but he wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to rid the world of another useless queer.  Especially one asking to be abused.

 

Still, he needed to be careful.  “Why me?” he asked.

 

“Cause you look like you’d enjoy it,” the kid said.  “See, Sir’s good—fuck, when he makes me lick his boots, I wanna cum—but that don’t mean I don’t wanna play sometimes…”

 

“So you want someone new to get ya off,” Adam finished the sentence.  “How long you been watchin’ me?”

 

“Since the beginnin’ of the week—once I found out Sir was gonna leave town today.”

 

“Didn’t waste any time, didja, ya horny little fuck?  Didja tell anyone about me, about yer plans?

 

The kid writhed happily.  “Nossir,” he said breathily, ginning wildly in pleasure.  He’d picked the right dude, no question.  Just the verbal abuse was getting him off; the bulge in his trackies was obvious to anyone within fifteen feet.

 

This might work.  Adam was suspicious of a situation which he hadn’t set up himself, but this looked legit—the punk fuck was seriously coming on to him.  “You got someplace to go?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” the kid said, “We can go back to our place.”

 

“Whaddaya mean, ‘our’ place?”

 

“Well, Sir’s place.  But I live there too.”

 

Not for long you won’t, Adam thought.  “And what’ll happen if ‘Sir’ finds out you been playin’?”

 

“Aw, he’ll probably beat the fuck outta me.  But he ain’t gonna find out.  I’ll clean up good after.”

 

Adam had his own opinions on that as well, but he kept them to himself.

 

“Ok, cunt.  You wanna get treated like fuckin’ garbage, I can damn sure do that.”

 

“Fuckin’-A, dude!  C’mon, follow me.  I’m parked next you; I know which car is yours.”

 

“Lead the way, little boy,” Adam said contemptuously; the kid picked up on the tone.  Despite his desire for abuse, there was something in the alpha’s cold voice that momentarily disconcerted him.

 

“Connor,” he said decisively, “My name is Connor.  And I may be a pup, but I ain’t no kid—I’m twenty.”

 

“Yeah?” Adam said flatly, emotionlessly staring directly at him.  “So what?”

 

Connor’s dark hazel-green eyes widened slightly, but his cock twitched so hard it rustled the shiny polyester tent over his crotch.  Adam grinned and the kid relaxed somewhat.  “I’ll pull out first—the car, I mean, heh, heh—and you can follow me.”

 

Adam followed him back to where he’d parked.  He noticed the silver 2017 Mercedes E400 parked next to his car; it certainly hadn’t been there when he pulled in—he wouldn’t have parked next to it.  His doors and its were too long to be side-by-side in the gym’s narrow parking spaces.

 

He let Connor pull out of his space before getting into his own car, then got into his own and followed.  Once out of the parking lot, the kid headed east; it took about twenty minutes to reach his destination, a loft condo in a refurbished warehouse near the train tracks.

 

There was an open parking lot in the back of the building; Adam went to the far end to park.  He approached the building slowly, carefully scanning the entryway and the façade to confirm there weren’t any cameras.  There was surprisingly little security, although the door could only be opened by a chip card; it had to be used to activate the elevator, too.

 

Adam took note. That piece of info would come in handy later.

 

The condo was on the fourth floor—and it seemed to be one of only two on the entire floor that was occupied.  Inside, the place was very Urban Modern—brick walls, concrete floor, exposed piping and ductwork—and very new.

 

“You haven’t been here long,” Adam said; a statement, not a question.  Connor answered anyway.

 

“No—Sir’s, uh, not from here.  He’s got a job to do, then he’s goin’ home.  And he’s takin’ me with him.”

 

Adam knew better.  Connor had been turning on a lamp as he spoke; when the dim light flashed across the open space, the smile on Adam’s face was barely visible.  The kid was simply too far away to see the wicked glint in the killer’s cold blue eyes.

 

What he could see, even in the semi-darkened living room, was Adam’s phenomenal physique.  If Connor’s shiny Adidas tracksuit had been eye-catching, Adam’s own workout gear was not far behind.  He sported a white Lycra V-neck tank top that appeared to be painted onto his broad chest.  The deeply-cut neck allowed his abundant red-gold chest hair to spill out, while his powerfully muscled arms were admirably displayed.

 

Below the waist, Adam had on a pair of black polyester gym shorts that hung to just above the knee; Connor couldn’t see the stud’s thighs, but the thick slabs of muscles in his calves were obvious enough.  On his feet were a pair of Nike Air Max2 kicks in a bright, almost neon, yellow.

 

It wasn’t that Connor hadn’t noticed how Adam had been dressed earlier; he’d just been too wrought up by the anxiety of approaching the stud in person to take in the details.

 

Adam, in the meantime, glanced around the room.  He’d already assimilated what he needed to know about Connor—just another fuckin’ homo perv that thought it was worthy of his cock.  All he needed now was the right place to teach it its lesson.  A place where they could have…a little alone time.

 

“This y’all’s shit?” he asked abruptly.  Startled, Connor jerked.  “Uh, uh—no, not the furniture or the…well, the personal stuff is ours.  Sir ain’t gonna be here long.  This is one of the model units, I think…”

 

“So where’s the bedroom, faggot?”

 

Connor flushed, but his expression made it clear that it was with pleasure.  “This way,” he chirped happily, leading his killer to the place where he was going to die.

 

The bedroom—there was only one, it seemed—was partitioned off from the main living space by a series of pseudo-Japanese sliding screens.  Made of flimsy black plastic inset with squares of glossy translucent polyester and running on a track, they managed to connote an aura of cheapness while providing no privacy whatsoever.  Adam started to realize why so few units were occupied…

 

But that didn’t matter.  The room itself was surprisingly small, with a double bed against the far wall.  The right wall was solid glass, looking out onto the train tracks and the river beyond, sluggish, shallow, and stinking with algae in the summer heat.  The sun, finally setting after a sweltering day, glinted greenly off the thick organic stew.

 

To the left was a dresser; next to it was a closet with mirrored sliding doors.  In the far corner was a small desk with an empty laptop docking station and an adjustable high-backed desk chair on casters.

 

Connor had flicked on the lights when he came in.  There was a small lamp on the single nightstand, another one on the dresser, and the overhead lights in the ceiling fan.  The bulbs were evidently fluorescent; everything was dim at first but gradually became brighter.

 

The punk fucker took the initiative, his presumption stoking Adam’s psychotic rage.  Connor had already snagged something surreptitiously from a drawer in the nightstand; the dumbass cunt thought that Adam hadn’t seen it, but the clinking of metal alone was enough to tell the experienced sadist that the kid had brought out a pair of handcuffs.  Now, he grabbed the chair from the desk and wheeled it to the only open space in the small room, between the bed and the closet, which were separated by about six feet.

 

Sitting in the chair, Connor extended his right hand, the cuffs dangling from his index finger.  “You c’n put these on me if ya want…” he led off.  Adam waited, savoring his rage; he knew there was more to come.  The pansy was gonna suffer for this, big time.

 

“…but I gotta see whatcha got first.  Pull off those shorts, big boy; I’d bet my life yer commando under there.”

 

If he’d been less of a horny cockpig, Connor might have noticed the somehow chilling look of satisfaction that crossed Adam’s face.  He lifted his Lycra shirt just enough to grasp the waistband of his shorts and, jerking them down, kicked them to one side.

 

Underneath, he still wore the lining, also Lycra, in black and yellow—the same shade of yellow as his Nikes.  As Connor stared in awe at the massive shaft of manmeat so clearly outlined in every detail in Adam’s crotch, the sex killer grinned.

 

“You lose yer bet, asswipe,” he chuckled.  Approaching the eager slut, he grabbed the handcuffs and secured the homo’s arms behind the back of the chair.  Slowly turning the chair to face the mirrored closet door, Adam stood behind it and grinned at their reflection.

 

“Wait, wait!” Connor cried out, “I almost forgot—over there, top desk drawer…”

 

Adam wasn’t one to give into requests, but since this piece of meat was damn near snuffing itself, his curiosity was aroused.  Opening the desk drawer, he found a pair of leather gloves, thin, tight and smooth.

 

“Put ‘em on!”  Connor’s tone was more a plea than a command.  Smirking maliciously, Adam complied, slipping the tight, supple gloves onto his powerful hands.  Turning around, he stalked ominously back to the helpless kid.

 

The faggot was staring at Adam’s crotch again, his large dark eyes sliding up and down the length of the Lyrca-covered shaft and lingering over the well-defined cock head.  The hardbodied psycho felt the familiar bloodlust welling up within him, the desire to put this little fuck down, hard, and then own its corpse by filling it with cum.

 

But of course, before that happened, it needed to be made worthy to receive his cock.  All the faggotry had to be purged from the meat’s soul, and the soul could only be purged by suffering.

 

“Damn, dude, I can’t wait to service that dick,” Connor gasped breathily, “Sure hope a little breath control play will make you as hard as it does me!”

 

That was it; that was all that was needed to flip Adam’s switch.

 

“You wanna earn my dick, cunt?” he jeered.  “You ain’t worth it, ya fuckin’ faggot.”

 

“Nossir!” Connor chirped happily; he loved this kinda abuse.

 

Taking his place behind the chair again, Adam used the mirror to maintain eye contact with the fuckmeat.  “Ya wanna know what ya gotta do to earn it, bitch?”

 

“Yessir!  Please, sir!”  Connor squealed.

 

“You gotta die,” Adam said flatly, and slapped one of his big, strong hands over Connor’s face, closing off the boy’s nose and mouth simultaneously, the smooth leather making an air-tight seal.

 

It took no great effort to stand there and hold the kid’s head; the punk didn’t even start to struggle until near the one-minute mark.  His dick responded long before that, though; almost instantly, it was throbbing visibly beneath the shiny trackies.  After about two minutes, though, Connor’s muffled grunting increased and he began to jerk his head about.  Adam let go.

 

The meat wasn’t suffering; it was enjoying itself.

 

“Le-lemme go a s-sec,” Connor gasped out as he recovered his breath, “Th-that was so fuck-fuckin’ hot…”

 

“I’m gettin’ tired of you orderin’ me around,” Adam growled in a deep bass tone, but he unlocked one of the cuffs, leaving the set to dangle off the boy’s left wrist.  Connor wriggled with pleasure at the rough rumble of the top’s voice.  Swiftly pulling his hands around to his lap, he whipped out his long, pulsing boycock and began stroking his shaft.

 

“Call me ‘Ghost’,” he moaned, “That’s what Sir calls me…”

 

“You goddam piece a’ faggot shit,” Adam said coldly.  He reached down and grabbed Connor’s right wrist and jerked it violently upward, then back towards himself, bringing up his knee at the same time to use as a lever.  The sadistic alpha felt his own cock swell as he broke Connor’s arm; it happened so fast that the punk heard the wet splintering sound of his radius and ulna snapping before the pain hit him.

 

The kid’s pale face went even whiter as the shock hit him; he opened his mouth and automatically inhaled—but before he could scream, Adam punched him twice in quick succession.  This first blow landed in his soft flat gut and drove all the air out of his lungs with a loud squeak.  The second punch popped him in the face, splitting his bottom lip and bruising his cheek.

 

As the meat slumped back in the chair, moaning and stunned, Adam reached down and grabbed the collar of the kid’s t-shirt.  Twisting it tightly, he used it to single-handedly hoist Connor of out the chair.  Holding the dazed youth up to his face, his Vapormax kicks dangling in mid-air, the killer stared directly into the boy’s wide, scared eyes.

 

“Ghost, huh?  That’s about right, fuckmeat.  That’s exactly what the fuck you are—a ghost.  Yer fuckin’ dead, man—that’s what it takes to get my dick.  I gotta torture the faggotry outta ya before I can fuck yer meat, see?  So, yeah—yer gonna get ghosted.  ‘Ghost’ is fuckin’ great!”  He laughed, a deep, hearty sound.

 

Connor found it chilling, but he was in too much pain to know why.  He didn’t even know what the fuck had happened, but this fucker had broken his arm oh my god it hurts so goddam bad—

 

There was a shearing, ripping sound and Connor’s Adidas t-shirt gave way, the thin cotton unable to support the youth’s weight any longer.  As it tore open, the kid tumbled to the ground at Adam’s feet, still in his track jacket but now bare-chested under it.  The muscle-bound killer tossed the shredded piece of fabric aside.  Straddling the prone youth, he bent down, clamped a hand around his neck, and lifted the punk back up.

 

Connor screamed as his broken arm flopped about.  “Shaddap!” Adam snarled, backhanding the kid brutally, blackening his left eye.  “You need this, asswipe.  Pain’s good for the soul, remember?  An’ by the time I’m done with ya, yer soul is gonna be so pure it’ll even be worthy to receive my seed.”

 

He jammed the boy back down into the chair.  Stepping behind it, he again faced the reflection of the two of them in the mirror.  This time, he used both hands to seal off the punk’s nose and mouth.  Connor’s frantic eyes could just barely be seen over the top of his gloved hands.

 

This time, the kid’s reaction was much more immediate—as Adam expected; after all, this time the meat knew it wasn’t a game.  Connor twisted and writhed in the chair, trying to slip out of Adam’s crushing grip on his skull, but it was useless.  His legs kicked and drummed on the floor, the heels of his Nikes leaving scuff marks on the wood.

 

“Hey, fuckwad,” Adam whispered in the boy’s ear, “See how yer cock is twitchin’?  Means there’s still too much faggot left in ya, so we gotta keep going.”

 

Connor was long familiar with the erotic sensations of oxygen deprivation; he knew that as the crushing pain in his lungs and the pounding pressure in his head intensified, his dick would only get harder and harder.  This motherfucker was seriously gonna kill him—

 

Adam smiled as he heard the faint muffled squeaks that were the only outward signs of Connor’s screams.  “What’s that—ya wanna safe word?” he chuckled maliciously, “Ok, cocksucker—yer safe word is ‘die’.  Once ya do that, I’ll let go.”

 

The fuckmeat still hadn’t its proper position as Adam’s cumrag.  The room was filled with a loud jangling sound as Connor’s left hand, with the handcuffs still attached, clawed helplessly at his face, his scrambling fingers not finding any purchase on the smooth surface of the black leather gloves.  In panicked desperation, he slung his hand around to the right side of his face, where Adam was bent by his ear.  Adam was too far away for Connor’s hand to reach, but the handcuffs, swinging out with momentum, managed to clip the alpha on the chin.

 

The impact wasn’t severe; it didn’t even break the skin, but it startled, then enraged the psychotic killer.  Releasing Connor’s head, he stood up.  As the boy coughed and heaved, sucking in lungfuls of air, Adam grabbed his left hand and bent his index finger all the way back, snapping it at the first joint.

 

“WHA TH’ FUCK?!?” Connor screeched, lack of oxygen making his voice high and reedy.  Adam calmly popped him in the face, a single sucker-punch right from the shoulder into Connor’s nose, breaking it with a loud crunch.  Turning his attention back to the unlucky youth’s hand, he grabbed the middle finger and wrenched it brutally backwards.

 

Connor screamed again—no words this time, just a loud, inarticulate wail of agony.  “Ya still likin’ it, faggot?” he hissed, his cold eyes slitted in anger, “Does the thought of bein’ close to death still get ya off?  Cause you’re close, ya worthless human cumdump, you’re so close to death I betcha can taste it, cantcha?”

 

The boy opened his eyes and turned his strained face, gray with shock, towards his tormentor.  This wasn’t what he’d wanted at all; he just wanted a little play…Sir wouldn’t have actually hurt him…

 

“P-ple-please…” was all he could get out.

 

“Please what, homo?” Adam sneered.  “Already toldja, the meat don’t call the shots.  Looks like you ain’t as ready to be honored by my load as I’d thought.  You got faggotry rooted deep down in yer soul, motherfucker, an’ I’m gonna make damn sure I get it all out.”

 

He paused for a moment, then smiled grimly.  “This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me, son.”

 

He took hold of Connor’s left arm in the same way he had his right, except this time, he placed his knee right on the kid’s elbow joint and bent the arm backwards from there.  There was a gristly snapping sound, like tearing a chicken leg form a carcass, and the arm hung limp at an awkward angle while Connor’s shriek spiraled into the upper registers, making his voice crack and leaving him to wheeze and gasp almost soundlessly.

 

Adam stepped in front of the chair, crossed his arms, and contemplated the meat.  Connor writhed impotently in the chair, utterly defenseless with two broken arms.  The meat’s slim, smooth torso glistened with sweat; the air was rank with testosterone and manscent.  As Adam watched the kid’s slick, flat abdomen heave with pain, he noticed a tattoo on the kid’s belly.  It looked like a robot, or maybe a cactus with a face.

 

Whatever, Adam thought dismissively; maybe it’d help ID the corpse later.  His own cock was pulsating on a regular basis, and that meant that it was time for the final act of purification.  He smiled broadly, a pleasant and friendly expression on his face.

 

“Hey, Ghost?  Ya still with me, man?” he asked kindly, stepping forward and patting the boy on the cheek.  Connor had stopped writhing and remained slumped in the chair, moaning quietly, his head hanging forward.  His bright copper hair was now dark with sweat—but so was Adam’s, so they still matched.  “Almost there, fucker.  But not yet.  Still too much of a fag, Ghost; my cock tells me so.  We ain’t done yet, asswipe.  Lessee—yer into gettin’ choked, huh?  Ok, motherfucker, lemme see if I can choke the homo right outta ya.”

 

Locked in a vise of physical pain, the lean pup in the trackies could only shudder and sob as the hulking alpha stud searched the room for something appropriate.  Connor tried to get up, but without his arms to brace himself, he inevitably began to roll off balance as he moved—and as he started to roll to one side or the other, the arm on that side began to flex at the break, grinding bones together.  It just hurt too much.

 

In the meantime, Adam had opened the closet and rummaged around in it.  It didn’t take him long to find something that suited his needs; when he returned, he was holding two items.  One was a straightstick baton, about eleven inches long.  The other was a belt of webbed nylon.

 

“Ya ready?” he asked as he approached the traumatized youth, “Ready to live up to yer name and get ghosted?”

 

Connor’s battered and swollen face was barely recognizable; the arrogantly handsome punk had been beaten to hamburger.  It hurt even to speak, but frantic self-preservation drove the cunt on in a vain attempt to plead for his useless life.

 

“O-oh god, p-please, n-n-no…j-us-just lemme go…wo-wo-won’t say noth-nothin’…te-tell S-Sir I got-got mu-mu-mugged…”

 

“Y’know,” Adam said reflectively as he stepped behind the chair and wrapped the belt around Connor’s neck, “Sir is probably gonna be the one who finds your corpse after I’ve given it the honor of bein’ my personal cumrag.  Wonder what he’s gonna think; don’t you?”

 

Laughing, he slipped the baton under the belt and began twisting.  It took a few seconds for him to twist it enough to tighten the belt around Connor’s neck, but once he had, it made a perfect garrote.

 

“Ok, ya worthless asswipe, only one way to get ya free of yer disgustin’ faggot lusts.  Only one way to make your dead fuckmeat clean enough to be my cumdump.  It’s buried deep in yer DNA, faggot—I gotta squeeze the spunk outta ya so I can replace it with my own manseed.”

 

As the tightly-webbed black nylon sank into Connor’s tender neck flesh, Adam leaned forward and hissed “Time to die, Ghost.  It’s gonna hurt, you worthless piece a’ shit; it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.  I promise, cunt.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

The boy whimpered in fear.  He’d always loved being controlled by someone else, the hot erotic danger of having another man bring him to the point of death was what made him cum.  But he’d always known in the back of his mind that it wasn’t the real thing—no matter who it was, his Master or a casual hookup, he’d always known he wasn’t really gonna die.  Until now.

 

The glassy, white-hot pain of broken bones made it obvious that playtime was over.  Connor was young, healthy, and full of cum.  He didn’t want to die; as bad as the pain was, he still couldn’t quite believe it—until he heard Adam’s words.

 

And then the belt tightened further around his throat, the nylon digging deeply into his skin, and his windpipe was squeezed closed.  That tripped the trigger; as often as Connor had experienced the sensation before, this was different.  This time, it wasn’t coming off.  He panicked.

 

The lean youth attempted to lunge forward, his firm legs tensing in the glossy track pants as he tried to find leverage, in vain.  His hands flopped limply, utterly useless except for increasing the amount of agony the punk was experiencing.  He could hear Adam talking behind him; worse, he could see the sexy, gleeful face of his killer leering over his shoulder in the mirror.

 

And worst of all, he could see his face, already purple and swollen with the beating he’d endured, starting to go black.  He knew the stages, he knew what to expect.  And he’d see it all in the mirror; he was gonna watch himself die.

 

It was too much for the lithe young pup.  A dark haze of terror swept over him and somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a moist warmth spread over him as well—or at least down his legs.  He wasn’t able to register the fact that he’d lost control of his bladder and that warm boypiss was trickling down inside his trackies and pooling in his Nike kicks.

 

As Connor struggled and thrashed, lubed by his own urine, he slid lower in the chair.  “No ya fuckin’ don’t,” Adam muttered.  Flexing his powerful biceps, he lifted the kid by the garrote and resettled him in the chair.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, fuckmeat.  Yer gonna watch the whole show, all the way to the end.”

 

Sweat trickled down Connor’s face and his ginger locks, rank with perspiration, plastered his forehead.  The slightest movement brought on nightmarish agony, but sheer asphyxia-induced panic was starting to overwhelm the young faggot; he grimly clung to rational thought—not in a brave attempt to figure a way out of his situation, but almost by mere instinct, as if he as subconsciously aware that he was doomed the moment he lost control.

 

Lucidity was a double-edged sword, though; it would take effort to avoid recognizing that he was doomed in any case—but Connor’ efforts were devoted to the most intense struggle in his life.  It was also the last.

 

The times Sir had bagged him had been nothing like this.  The tight, erotic feel of the rope or the cuffs, sometimes in his track suit, sometimes in footy gear and boots—the way he’d been left alone on occasions, Sir just watching and grinning, sometimes until he pissed himself, sometimes until the raging thumping of his pulse in his skull was overtaken by the swift pulsing of his thick boycock, pumping out gobs of cum—

 

—oh dear fuckin’ god no, this was nothing like that, so why the fuck was his dick so hard—

 

Adam gave the baton a half-turn; the belt sank in a little deeper.  Not much, but it didn’t need to be; even though his trachea had been compressed to the point that air could no longer pass through it, it was by no means incapable of being compacted further.

 

And it damn sure wasn’t numb.  In another of those moments of lucidity, Connor felt a dull surprise that he could feel the pain of the taut nylon digging into his throat and deforming his esophagus; he was in a bottomless pool of agony, but it didn’t merge, he could feel it all separately his neck his face his fingers his arms oh fuck my arms how’m I gonna get out oh shit oh fuck—

 

And with the realization of how seriously he’d been injured, terror swept back over him in a dark wave, leaving him to thrash and flail about in the desk chair, his piss-soaked legs kicking wildly.  Panic had flooded his body with adrenaline, overriding the pain impulses—for the moment, he was numb.  His legs kicked and flailed; he managed to scape one of his Nikes off, flinging it across the room, as his foot flexed and his toes curled in agony, still encased in a pair of piss-sodden no-show ped socks.

 

Again, Adam jerked the meat upwards and resettled it, holding in place until its struggles began to weaken.  He kept a careful eye on it, wanting to make sure that there was still enough of the fag left to understand his words.  The buff psycho caught a faint spark of light in the dying cockpig’s bulging, bloodshot eyes.  It was just barely there, but it was enough.

 

“Watch yerself die, faggot,” Adam hissed with vindictive glee, “Watch yerself choke and drool—an’ remember how much you need this, ya fuckin’ pansy.  You know it.  You want it.  You fuckin’ asked for it, cunt, so enjoy the pain, ya worthless pile of meat.”

 

Connor could barely see; his eyes were bulging horribly from his head, huge black explosions forming in his field of vision as blood vessels hemorrhaged, turning the whites of his eyes red.  The frantic pounding of his pulse in his ears nearly drowned out all other sounds.  But “barely” and “nearly” didn’t mean completely.

 

There was still enough of Connor left to recognized his own form in the mirror, jerking uncontrollably.  A long streamer of foamy drool had oozed from his mouth, past his bulging black tongue, and trickled down his chin, where a long strand had trailed down to his smooth, flat belly.  His face was congested and swollen, a thick puffy caricature of his arrogantly handsome countenance, with grotesquely protruding eyes.

 

And even though his vision was rapidly fading, the homo cunt could still see the trickle of precum oozing from the purple, pulsing head of his achingly erect cock.

 

And he could see the buff alpha as well; some little corner of his faggot brain still lusted over that muscle-bound torso wrapped in white Lycra so tight his large hard nipples cast shadows over his broad pecs.  Wiry strawberry-blond hair spilled over the deeply-cut neck, but Connor’s eyes were drawn to the thick biceps, glistening with sweat and bulging with the effort of ending his life…

 

He knew he was dying and Adam knew he knew it.  “I hope it hurts, Ghost,” the fully-erect, hardbodied killer hissed, “Hope it hurts a lot.  You thought you deserved my dick, ya perverted piece a’ shit?  This is what cocksuckin’ pansies like you deserve!”  With that, he gave his improvised garrote a swift, vicious full 180-degree turn.

 

Connor was young and healthy; his lean and lithe body could endure a great deal of trauma, but there is a point beyond which human tissue can’t be stressed without enduring permanent damage.  Up to now, the boy’s windpipe had been squeezed shut.  Now, it collapsed completely, crushed beyond repair.

 

There was a loud wet crunch.  “Fuck yeah!” Adam crowed triumphantly as the punk slut shuddered in nightmarish agony, his slim body wracked with excruciating pain.  The searing pain of having his trachea and larynx crushed into a bleeding mass of mangled cartilage was too much; it would have shattered whatever was left of the pup’s mind—but nothing was left.  He’d been without air too long; the brain damage was too severe.

 

This was the point Adam had been waiting for.  He wanted to try something.  He’d always like his meat fresh…

 

The hulking alpha quickly spun the baton in the opposite direction, loosening the garrote.  He had to grab a hank of the kid’s slick coppery hair with one hand so he could jerk the embedded belt out of his neck with the other hand.   Ghost—there was no Connor left anymore—convulsed rhythmically, his limbs flopping limply as his muscles responded to the erratic signals of a dying brain.

 

Adam tossed both the belt and the body to the floor.  He looked down at the shuddering fuckmeat, considering it calmly, despite the way his huge manshaft throbbed visibly beneath the Lycra shorts.  He bent down, picked the meat up, and dragged it to the bed.  Tossing its torso face-down across the mattress so that its knees were on the floor and it was bent forward at the waist, Adam reached out and pulled the track pants down, exposing the smooth golden globes of the corpse’s ass.  As he watched, the meat continued to shudder and tremble, the convulsions twitching and puckering Ghost’s pink fuckhole.

 

Now the meat was acceptable.  The faggot was dead.  Whatever happened, Connor wasn’t coming back—but Ghost was worthy of receiving Adam’s manhood.

 

He didn’t even bother to take the black and yellow Lycra shorts off.  Adam just reached down and whipped out his cock and balls, stuffing the latter into the dead punk’s quivering asshole.  He felt some resistance at first, a pressure on the engorged, precum-slick head of his cock, but his enormous shaft tore open the dead boy’s sphincter with minimal effort and was soon buried deep in Ghost’s warm and still-convulsing rectum.

 

His fluorescent yellow Nike Air Max 2’s tensed on the laminate wood floor, one on each side of Ghost’s feet, keeping the homo punk’s from slipping and spreading.

 

The hyper-masculine sex killer fucked his prey deeply and brutally, synching the timing of his thrusts to the rhythm of the slowly-dying meat’s convulsions, letting the pup’s death throes milk the hot sperm out of his pulsating tool.  As he felt his seed starting to seethe in his puckered balls, Adam began increasing the tempo of his pumping until he knew he was within seconds of unloading; he’d saved this next move for the very end.

 

Placing one hand on the meat’s shoulder, he reached down and grabbed the chin with the other.  Without missing a single perfectly-timed thrust of his hips, Adam jerked Ghost’s chin around backward until he was staring directly into the dead punk’s black, swollen face.

 

There was a loud popping sound as the first five cervical vertebrae in Ghost’s spine shattered like glass under the inexorable strength of Adam’s muscles.  The abrupt trauma inflicted on the youth’s spinal column as razor-sharp shards of bone sheared through it at random sent a massive electrochemical shock throughout his entire nervous system.

 

It all happened at once. Ghost’s body went rigid as its muscles locked in a violent convulsive spasm.  The torn sphincter was still able to tighten around Adam’s pulsating rod; in fact, the muscles in Ghost’s lower rectum collapsed in a cascading rhythm, rippling along the thick, cum-filled channel that ran up under the thick swollen shaft to the velvet-soft head.  At the same time, the ginger fag’s own cock began to spasm uncontrollably as the penile muscles convulsed.

 

They both spewed simultaneously; Ghost, unconscious, unknowing, literally brain-dead, pumping his faggot boycum uselessly into the thick duvet cover as the overpowering alpha hosed him down internally with scalding manspunk.  Adam could feel the meat’s involuntary orgasm as the muscular spasms rippled though the body and tightened the sphincter around his cock again.  The sudden tightness triggered him.  “FUCK!” he screamed, “Goddam fuckin’ CUNT!!”

 

As his huge scrotum clenched and his massive shaft spasmed, gushing out his manload in a solid spurt of cum, Adam drove his fist into the corpse’s face twice in quick succession, rendering the once-handsome boymeat even less recognizable.  He felt himself pumping and cumming and cursing and pounding the meat over and over again, caught in the depths of a violent sexual release.

 

Once he shuddered to a pleasurable release, he slumped, shuddering and sighing, onto the meat’s still-trembling back, taking a moment to catch his breath as the last few pearly drops of cum oozed from his receding cock.  When he finally disengaged from the pile of quivering boymeat, he felt relaxed and refreshed; finding his way to the bathroom, he moistened an ornamental handtowel at the sink and wiped down his dick.  Tossing it into the toilet, he grabbed the matching towel off the rack and used it to swab out his reeking pits before reuniting the pair in the commode.

 

Adam stepped back into the bedroom and observed the scene with the satisfaction of an artist.  Ghost was on his knees, bent over the bed.  One foot was still tightly laced into its Nike Vapormax 97; the other seemed kind of exposed in its thin, piss-soaked knit ped sock—even now, the toes were still twitching, helplessly and vulnerably.

 

It didn’t matter.  The thick wads of spunk leaking out of Ghost’s ravaged asshole told the story—and if they didn’t, the look of horror on his gruesomely twisted face certainly did.  Adam shoved his enormous tackle back into the Lycra shorts and slipped the polyester gym shorts back over them.

 

As he left the room, the plastic sliding door jammed on its track.  Adam kicked it out, snapping it off and shoving it to the side.  The last thing he did on his way out of the condo was retrieve the magnetic card that operated the elevator and the front door.  He kept the card in his hand as he got into his car and drove off, heading in a different direction that he’d arrived, just in case.  His route took him over the river; as he crossed the bridge, he tossed the card out the window and had the satisfaction of seeing it wafted in his wake over the railing and into the murky depths below.

 


 

Sir arrived back much earlier than expected; the deal had fallen though and he’d seen no need to stay on.  He made good time; given what he’d paid for his Ducati Panigale V4, he’d expected to. The constant vibration in his crotch had him stirred up, though; he had a lot of energy to work out on his pup when he got back.  Ghost better be up for some play…

 

He parked in an empty space not far from the Benz; that was a good thing—it meant the kid was home.  He strode across the lot, his hard, firm body tightly encased in a one-piece black leather motorcycle suit that fastened directly to his black leather AMU long riding boots, and a black helmet with a dark visor over his head.

 

He crossed the lobby and accessed the elevator; there were no issues with his key card.  The fourth floor was quiet—as was usual—and when he opened the door, there seemed to be nothing out of place, at first.  It was only the silence in the unit that seemed odd.

 

“Ghost?  You here?  You better get yer gear out; yer ass is mine tonight, cunt!”

 

His voice seemed to echo in the dim flat.  That was when he noticed the broken sliding panel lying on the floor.  Darting into the bedroom, he was brought up short by the sight of Connor’s corpse.

 

Part of him had always expected this; the immature punk hadn’t known how set the proper limits to his play, and his Master had felt that one day the cunt would take it too far on his own—but this wasn’t on his own.  Even from here, Sir could see that the Ghost had been strangled and raped, probably in that order.

 

And the only way in was with a card.  There were no signs of forced entry.  The stupid motherfucker had gone out to play and brought home a killer.

 

The thing that pissed Sir off the most was that someone else had fucked his property.  It was obvious that the worthless little fuck had suffered for his wandering lust, but that still didn’t erase the fact that Sir’s property had been violated.

 

He needed to take it back.

 

Without removing his helmet, he reached up under it to the zipper at the collar and pulled it down—all the way down to his crotch.  Reaching in, he pulled out his thick purple manshaft and with no hesitation at all, started fucking Ghost’s corpse.  His leather-clad body bent over the dead boy, heaving and pumping, as his thick-soled motorcycle boots gave him the necessary traction.

 

As Sir grunted and thrust, his face, inscrutable behind the darkened helmet visor, stared directly into Ghost’s.  Even though the dark purple lividity had drained, leaving the kid’s face a pale violet color, the sheer agony and suffering of the kid’s death were still clearly marked in his face.

 

“Ya fuckin’ deserved it, didn’tcha,” Sir grunted, knowing what a slut the boycunt was, “But yer mine, ya worthless fuck, mine, ya hear me?  I’m the one who gets to use ya up and throw ya out like fuckin’ garbage!”

 

His taut, muscled body jerked and shuddered inside his leather biker gear as he unloaded again and again, marking the dead boy as his property.

 

Walking into the bathroom to clean himself up afterward, he noted with disgust the towels in the toilet.  He got a clean one from the linen closet to wipe himself down before returning to the bedroom.

 

After a moment of contemplation, the hardbodied biker skinhead dragged Ghost off the bed and wrapped his corpse in the duvet cover.  After all, it wasn’t like it was his property anyway.  Lifting it in his arms, he carried it out of the condo and managed to make it down to the lobby and out to the Benz without being seen.

 

His first idea had been to drive over the bridge and drop the corpse in the river, even though he recognized that its sluggish flow left it less than ideal for body disposal.  But the same bridge also crossed the train tracks, and that inspired him.

 

Pulling over to the side, Sir hoisted Ghost’s corpse out of the trunk and lifted it over the parapet.  He let it go, keeping hold of the duvet cover as it unrolled and left the trackie-clad corpse to drop unceremoniously into an uncovered coal car.  In the dark, it was almost invisible.

 

Sir headed over the bridge, but he did stop one more to toss the stained duvet cover into the scum-covered river before turning back and heading to the condo.  He needed a good night’s sleep.

 

The next day, he changed his flight so that he’d be out of the country by evening.  It wasn’t difficult.  He’d only ever purchased one ticket anyway.

Carlos and Nick 5: Teen Angst

The outside temperature was hovering somewhere around 110 degrees when Carlos strolled into the office area of Nick warehouse film studio.  He was dressed for the heat; forsaking his usual jeans and boots, he was sporting a black and white pair of Adidas Varial IIs and a pair of bright red workout shorts.  The shorts were a cut in a football style, with a lace-up crotch—the contrast of the black lace on the red shorts was extremely eye-catching, as were Carlos’s thick, muscled legs, revealed from mid-thigh down to where they vanished into the ped socks in his kicks.

 

Nick, sitting at the computer, lifted his head and glanced admiringly at the hulking ex-con.  “That’s a good look for you,” he said, raising his eyes from the white cotton tank-top, so wet with perspiration that it was no more than a transparent screen over the stud’s hairy, inked chest, up to the killer’s hard, masculine face, his shaved head shaded from the intense sun by a black satin do-rag.  “Gotta remember that outfit someday; it’d look great on camera.”

 

Carlos stood in the doorway, looking his snuff flick partner.  “Ya said ya had somethin’ lined up?” It was a statement, but he ended it on a questioning note.

 

Nick grinned, giving his handsome face a boyish look.  “Fuck yeah, bro, look here.  Just got another commission in by email.  Remember that dude who paid us a big wad of cash for the father/son snuff?  He’s back.”

 

Carlos settled into one of the black leather chairs in front of Nick’s desk.  “Yeah?” he asked, a slight hint of eagerness in his voice belying his assumed nonchalance.  “What’s he want this time?”

 

“Someone young,” Nick replied.  “According to this, no older than eighteen.  And—you’ll like this—he wants to see the kid suffer.”

 

Carlos perked up, throwing off his air of indifference.  “Cáspita!  I been wantin’ to carve up some fagmeat.  Been too damn long!”

 

Nick leaned back, smiling thoughtfully, his long dark hair gleaming in a reflected ray of sunlight.  He knew exactly how long it had been; the cameras he’d hidden in the condo had caught every detail of the night Carlos had slaughtered the blackjack dealer.  In fact, it was likely that the video of that brutal snuff that he’d edited and posted that had drawn them this commission.  Not that Carlos needed to know about that.

 

He just needed to keep ruthlessly snuffing homo scum, and their fortunes were assured.

 

Standing up, the older and slightly more muscular filmmaker headed to the studio space in the rear.  Pausing at the door, he turned back to the buff Latino stud.  “You got anyone in particular you wanna work over, or should I put out an ad?”

 

He was slightly taken aback to see Carlos flush, a look of outrage crossing his face.  “Hell no, I ain’t got nobody!” he barked.  “I ain’t looking at no other dudes—I ain’t no fag!”

 

“Chill out, man, I didn’t say ya were,” Nick replied.  “I just wanted to know if ya had anyone ya specifically wanted to snuff.  I’ll put out an ad; it ain’t a problem.”

 

Heading back into the open area of the warehouse, Nick was smiling as the thick heels of his ropers thudded on the concrete floor.  Carlos’s anger hadn’t scared him; in fact, it had thrilled him.  He’d always know the psychological motives behind the ex-con’s extreme hatred towards faggots, and he did his conscious best to stoke it.  After all, it was the extreme masculine brutality that rage unleashed in Carlos that was the main selling point of the videos.

 

As a director, Nick felt is was his duty to coax the best performance possible form his actors.

 


 

It was another three days before Carlos got another message to come to the warehouse; Nick had found him some meat to tenderize.  Since there was no word on if this was an initial meet-and-greet or the actual snuff shot, the hardbodied Hispanic stud dressed for an on-screen appearance.

 

He knew what Nick wanted: skin-tight jeans, preferably well-worn but clean, and a pair of big black boots.  Carlos had gotten a new pair recently and was anxious to try them out.  It had taken some specialized searching to find what he was looking for, but when they arrived, he was perfectly satisfied.

 

They were a pair of vintage lace-up lineman’s boots, seventeen inches tall, and—what had been Carlos’s main interest—had a knife sheath hidden in the right boot.  Today, he slipped on the jeans and eagerly laced up the boots, his blade in place.

 

It was a thirteen-inch Bowie hunting knife, with a black rubber handgrip and a nine-inch carbon-steel blade with grooves down each side to channel blood away from the wielder’s grasp.  Secured inside the boot, he only had to slip his fingers into his boot and the whole thing slid out smoothly and easily.  Carlos was happy with it; the thought of reaming that long, hard blade into some helpless faggot’s vulnerable flesh made him hard…

 

He slipped on a leather vest but was otherwise bare-chested.  By the time he got to the studio, his muscle-bound torso was glistening under a faint sheen of sweat.  The moment he hit the chill air in the lobby, though, his body reacted, his nipples instantly hardening into large knots of flesh.

 

He strode straight into the warehouse, where Nick and a teen boy were waiting.  Nick was working on his camera but stopped and looked up as the hot Latino ex-con walked in, his new boots thumping loudly on the concrete floor.  “’Bout time ya showed up,” he told Carlos with a mischievous grin and a hot glint of bloodlust in his eyes, “This is Jeff—he likes to be tied down.  Once I finished this, I was gonna start it myself, but now that you’re here…”

 

Jeff was young, almost achingly so.  He was eighteen but there was an innocent arrogance about him—the arrogance of someone who hasn’t yet learned that life doesn’t owe him a living—that, added to his smooth, soft skin, gave him the appearance of being at least two years younger, if not more.

 

And he traded on it. He’d only been in Vegas for about a year, but it was totally different from his life before.  Waco had offered him sex, sure, but he’d felt an intense compulsion to leave the emotionally claustrophobic confines of his hometown.  As much fun as it had been, getting banged by half his high school football team had gotten dull, and in such a heavily Baptist town, he had little chance to brag and get the recognition he felt his exploits deserved.

 

Plus, he couldn’t make decent money whoring himself out in Waco.

 

And so, at seventeen, Jeff headed west, hitchhiking and “working” his way across the country.  His initial destination had been California, but a stopover in Vegas had convinced him that he was in the right place to make good money.  And he’d been right, to an extent; he certainly found richer johns willing to pay more here than Waco—but he just couldn’t seem to get into anywhere that had clientele with the kind of wealth he was looking for.

 

Part of the reason was his appearance—his very youthfulness, the way he had of brushing the silken bangs of his sandy blond hair up out of his eyes, the full, red lips continually parted in an almost petulant pout—all combined to keep him out of the casinos and bars.  He’d gotten a fake ID but was continually challenged on it.  And since he wasn’t actually twenty-one, he had to back down.

 

And that was when he’d seen the online ad, and he knew—knew—that things were gonna change for him.  An adult film, something that would get him noticed—and he was exactly what the ad said was needed!  Young, discreet, into rough role play and bondage…well, for that matter, Jeff would do damn near anything if the money was right, but this was shit he liked.

 

Once he responded to the ad, he was even more eager.  This dude Nick was gonna give him five fucking grand to get fucked by some hot stud—and a percentage of the residuals!

 

This was it.  This was the big time.  And now here he was, and kinda surprised at the set.

 

This guy Nick, though—he was a serious hunk.  That shoulder-length black hair and that huge, well-built body…and the dude wasn’t shy about showing it off, either, not in those tight black Nike running shorts or that black compression t-shirt.  Even the dude’s Chuck Taylor Converse hightops in black leather turned the kid on; as he shook Nick’s hand, he found himself hoping the hot stud was more than just the director—and said as much.

 

“Well, I may step in and lend a hand, so to speak,” Nick replied with a knowing leer, “But the real star is gonna be Carlos—speak of the devil, here he is now.”

 

Jeff had whirled and found himself staring at an overpowering, almost scary-looking Latino who’d just come through the door.  He and Carlos spent a brief moment sizing each other up.

 

Jeff noted that Carlos was slightly more compact than Nick, and perhaps a little younger, but there was something about him—his shaved head, his black goatee, the sleeve of ink that writhed over his muscle-bound arm—that made him seem inherently dangerous.  Jeff could see Carlos’s broad, furry chest under the leather vest he wore—he couldn’t help it; the gleam of the thick gold chain half-buried like treasure in the dude’s body fur drew his attraction as it would any good whore.   The Hispanic alpha’s jeans were tight enough for Jeff to be somewhat intimidated by the massive bulge in his crotch.  But he was fascinated with the dude’s high lace-up boots.

 

And above all else, Jeff was hard.  His red knee-length Under Armour gym shorts weren’t terribly tight, but his seven-inch boycock was still able to prominently tent the crotch.  He shuffled his long, smooth legs nervously, his Nike Jordan Son of Mars kicks—in the same shade of red as his shorts—scuffling on the concrete.  His lean, firm torso was well-wrapped in a white cotton tank top that left a lot of his pale, smooth skin exposed.

 

Jeff wasn’t quite dressed to whore himself out, but then again, he didn’t need to be.  He’d already agreed to the act; he had no need to sell himself again.

 

“Jeff, this is Carlos,” Nick said by way of introduction.  Jeff held his hand out.  Carlos stood and stared at it for a moment—lengthened just to the point of discomfort—before reaching out and taking it.  He didn’t shake Jeff’s hand so much as crush it in his huge muscled paw.

 

“So, uh, so how’s this gonna work?” Jeff asked as he massaged his aching hand, his uncertainty making his voice rise in pitch.

 

“Yer here to get fucked, aintcha?” Carlos asked.  “So get on the bed, faggot.”

 

Nick looked sharply at his partner; Carlos was still in a bad mood.  That’d make for a great scene—but not if he scared the meat off before they started filming it.  “Anytime you’re ready,” he followed up in a soothing tone, “You can lay your clothes over there on that table, if you want.”

 

Jeff approached the table and wriggled out of his shorts, letting them drop to the floor and stepping out of them without bothering to remove his Nike Jordans.  As he did, he glanced at the set—nothing but a bed up on a platform, with several small video cameras on tripods surrounding it.  The bed was bare except for what looked like some kind of weird fitted sheet; the headboard, consisting of vertical brass bars, seemed unusually ornate compared to the stripped-down feel of the rest of the set.

 

As he peeled off his t-shirt, Jeff noticed that Carlos approached the bed, unbuttoning and casually slipping off his leather vest.  The Hispanic stud tossed it so that it draped over the headboard of the bed, then turned back to face Jeff, letting the latter see the full glory of his hairy, massively muscled and tattooed chest.

 

Jeff had been commando under his shorts; at the sight of Carlos’s bare torso, the kid’s dick began to drip.  He caught his breath, swallowed, and approached the platform.

 

This was it, he thought again, this is the big time…and nude except for his Nikes, he climbed up onto the bed.

 

“How—um, how do you want me, uh, positioned?” he asked hesitantly.

 

“Hold it a sec,” Nick demanded, and crossed the room to the light switches.  There were a couple of clicks and suddenly everything vanished and Jeff found himself sitting on the bed, swathed in a circle of brilliant overhead light while the rest of the vast warehouse space remained in darkness.

 

From the darkness, there were footsteps—the heavy, measured tread of a man in thick boots.  Carlos loomed suddenly out of the black, stepping into the light.  “On yer back, boy,” he commanded.  “Nick’s payin’ ya good, right?  So yer prepared for it to get rough, right?”

 

“Uh, yeah…” Jeff replied tremulously.  He was prepared to take a fuck of a lot if he could get fucked by this stud on camera—fuckin’ hell, it’d make his career, to have this in his portfolio—but there was still something so menacing about the tatted Latino that he felt needling pangs of fear.  But the game was worth the candle, as they say—Jeff didn’t know why; candles were useless unless you’d lost your dildo—so he stifled his unease and lay on his back.

 

He was instantly uncomfortable.  “What is this, a plastic sheet?” he squawked.

 

“Yeah,” Nick’s voice came laconically out of the darkness, “Film a lotta shit in here.  Some dudes are into watersports.  Don’t worry; it’s sanitized after each use.”

 

“C’mon, boy, raise yer arms over yer head,” Carlos said.  For the first time, Jeff noticed a glint of metal in the alpha’s left hand.  As he raised his arms in almost instinctual obedience to the alpha’s command, Carlos reached over and Jeff realized the metal items were handcuffs.  Before he could react, Carlos had cuffed his right hand to the brass headboard.

 

“Hey, man, whatcha doin’?” the kid demanded.

 

“Whassa matter, punk, ya ‘fraid of a little bondage?  Thought a whoreboy like you was up for anythin’,” Carlos jeered and Jeff shut up and lay back, again disregarding the obvious red flags in favor of a rosy view of his financial future.

 

Carlos, who knew the Jeff’s future was more likely to have a blood-red view, smirked as he cuffed the boy’s left hand as well, making sure the kid wasn’t going anywhere.

 

“Hey Nick,” he called, “Think we’re ready.  Lemme know when ya wanna start.”

 

“Gimme a sec; I’m preppin’ the hand-held now,” came Nick’s deep, masculine voice from the outer darkness.  A moment later, he too stepped into the circle of light, holding the video camera.  He’d also prepped himself for the filming.

 

Just like Jeff, the hardbodied older man was nude except for his leather Converse sneakers.  His towering form, his wide, furry abdomen, ripped abs and narrow waist were all slightly better developed than Carlos’s, but somehow seemed to exude less danger—or at least so Jeff felt.  Nick’s cock was terrifying, though; it was at least eight inches long and an inch and a half thick.  In a way, Jeff was relieved; the thought of how bad that enormous shaft would hurt made him shudder.  The man was a freak; surely Carlos wasn’t hung like that.

 

Then a slow scratching sound reached Jeff ears; looking towards the source, he saw that Carlos was unzipping his fly.  The ex-con grinned maliciously at Jeff—as if he knew what the boy was thinking—as he reached into his crotch with both hands and slowly began extracting his shaft.

 

It just kept coming and coming.  Jeff’s eyes widened with disbelief as the Hispanic alpha pulled nearly ten inches of manmeat out of his jeans—and then it began to stiffen.  Consciously, Jeff began to think five grand might not be enough for what he might have to endure tonight.  Unconsciously, he began jerking at the handcuffs.

 

Both Carlos and Nick noticed and exchanged grins.  “Time to saddle up,” Nick said.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Carlos replied, “I been needin’ to wreck a fag bigtime.”

 

Jeff watched in silent fascination as Carlos mounted the bed and straddled him, knees by Jeff’s sides and his legs behind him.  In this position, his enormous cock was dangling directly over Jeff’s face.  From here, the teen whore had an extreme close-up of every vein that wrapped around the huge throbbing tube of manmeat.

 

Carlos was determined that he was gonna get an even better view.  “Open yer mouth, cunt,” he snarled.

 

“I, uh, I don’t thin—AACK!  GURK!”

 

Jeff learned that opening his mouth to protest meant opening his mouth.  Carlos wasn’t waiting for an invitation—he rammed his tool in at the first opportunity.  Before Jeff knew what had happened, he had a three-inch-thick cock wedged nearly half a foot down his trachea.  Carlos had leaned forward and grabbed the headboard for a better angle to throatfuck the helpless punk.

 

Suddenly, all the red flags Jeff had ignored flashed back to his notice; he couldn’t breathe, and he hadn’t been prepared for that, physically or emotionally.  He began to struggle, but he couldn’t do a damn thing.  His hands jerked frantically, the cuffs jangling loudly against the brass bars of the headboard as his Nikes kicked and scuffed on the slick cold plastic sheet.

 

“Damn, yer a terrible fuckin’ cocksucker,” Carlos jeered and leaned back, pulling his tool out of Jeff’s throat.  It bobbed in midair between them, glistening with the kid’s spit halfway back form the tip.  “Can’t even take a real man’s dick, can ya, you little assmunch?”

 

Jeff was too busy coughing and gagging to take in much of what Carlos was saying and his eyes were blurred by tears.  He knew something was wrong, though, something besides the fact that he’d just damn near been suffocated.  This was taking a dark turn—and then Carlos got off him.  As the scared teen tried desperately to blink his eyes clear, he could hear the hardbodied Latino walk around the bed to where Nick was standing.

 

“Dude, I don’t feel like fuckin’ round with this meat.  This piece a’ shit needs to be tenderized now—ya get me?” Carlos growled loudly.

 

“Dude, you can go to town on it; you can stick it like a fuckin’ pig, as long as I get it on camera.  Make the meat suffer bad—hell, it’s what we’re gettin’ paid for, right?” Nick replied jauntily.

 

By now Jeff’s eyes were clear.  He had an impressive view of Carlos as the latter approached him with a grin that glittered as coldly as the gold chain around his thick neck.  “Hey, dude,” the ex-con said quietly, almost seductively, “Time to get down to business, yeah?  Time to give yer worthless faggot existence some purpose, huh?”

 

“Wh-what?” Jeff blinked, looking deeply into the Hispanic’s large dark eyes but seeing nothing more than his own confused face reflected back.

 

“See, yer only here for one reason, right?  I mean, you know that.  Yer here to die, right?”

 

Jeff pulled himself backwards by his arms, trying to sit up but failing, his red kicks scrambling uselessly failing to find traction on the slick plastic sheet.  He wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard Carlos correctly but somehow, he knew he had.  “Wait—wait, what?  No!  I’m here—no!

 

“Sure ya are, ya useless pansy.  Ain’t no one gonna care if we snuff some fuckin’ cock-gobblin’ homo pervert, now are they?  But there are dudes who’ll pay us for doin’ it, as long as they get to see it—and as long as it’s long.  Ya feelin’ me, fuckwad?”

 

Jeff was panting, almost hyperventilating.  His smooth, lithe body was suddenly slick with sweat as fear overstimulated his adrenal glands, pumping his system full of adrenaline.  Combined with the overabundant adolescent testosterone already flooding him, the chemical stew kept his thick shaft still jutting stubbornly from the tangled nest of his pale pubes despite his terror.

 

“Y-you—he—he was g-gonna pay me…” Jeff turned his head desperately from one side to the other, seeking out Nick, but the director had faded into the darkness beyond the circle of light.

 

It was just Jeff and Carlos for the moment.

 

“Wanna know what’s gonna happen, dude?  Wanna know what I’m gonna do to ya?  Huh?”

 

The powerful ex-con stood next to the head of the bed, looming over him.  Suddenly, the inked stud lifted his right leg and planted his boot on the bed, right next to Jeff’s head.

 

The young boywhore looked up. From the corner of his eye his peripheral vision was filled with the tight lacing of Carlos’s lineman’s boot; it seemed to go up and up forever—but above that, bending over him he could see the top’s grinning face.

 

“I’m gonna stick somethin’ in ya, faggot, somethin’ long and hard—yer gonna like that, aintcha, ya disgustin’ piece a’ homo meat?  Fuck, lookitya squirm at the thought a’ gettin’ reamed out by my dick.  Well guess what, queerboy?  Yer gonna be massagin’ my cock all right, but I wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout that.”

 

Carlos kicked Jeff in the face.  It happened in a flash; the older man lashed out and the thick sole of his boot impacted Jeff’s face hard enough to snap his cheekbone.  The boot was back in place as if nothing had happened before Jeff had the chance to cry out.

 

“You payin’ attention, boy?” he jeered, and spit in Jeff’s face.

 

“Wh-wh-why—wha…” the youth sobbed.

 

“Yeah, I thought so.  Here, fag, here’s somethin’ to catch yer eye.  This is what I meant when I said I had somethin’ long and hard to stick into yer punk-ass body…”

 

Carlos slipped his fingers into the boot and whipped out the knife so effortlessly it seemed like a magic trick.  He held it in front of Jeff’s wide, terrified eyes.  “Look at it, you stupid sack of fagmeat,” he hissed maliciously.  “That’s nine solid inches of carbon still.  Sexy as hell, huh?  Whaddaya think it’s gonna feel like when I pump it into ya?”

 

The sadistic convict had certainly been right—the blade had attracted Jeff’s notice; in fact, the teen slut seemed fixated on it, whimpering and unable to look away.  Nick had come back in closer now, using the handheld to zoom in on the boy’s face.  “Fuck, this is good shit,” he whispered to Carlos, “This is gonna make a fuckin’ fortune.   Keep it up, dude, keep mindfucking the meat.”

 

“Look at it, cunt,” Carlos snarled, “Look at the blade—see how sharp it is?  What’s that gonna feel like when it splits your tender flesh and sinks deep into yer fagmeat body, huh?  Fuck, man, I can’t fuckin’ wait to find out.  Ya see these grooves on each side of the blade?  They’re there to channel blood away from my hand.  Your blood, bitch.  I can carve yer worthless ass up without losin’ my grip; ain’t that cool?”

 

Jeff moaned, almost delirious with terror.  This couldn’t be happening—it wasn’t happening; he’d been drugged, he was having a bad trip, something, but shit like this didn’t happen to him.  This happen to street whore and needle junkies not cute white boys like him.  Whatever he was on needed to wear off fast, though, cause this was gettin’ hairy, man, real hairy—

 

—and then the tears cleared momentarily from his eyes and he could see Carlos standing at the foot of the bed, his muscular, inked torso glistening with perspiration from the heat inside the metal warehouse building. Jeff watched, fascinated, as a bead of sweat trickled down the Latino’s neck, to be buried in the thick forest of chest fur.  Deep within that fur was a sparkling glint—light reflecting off the stud’s thick gold chain.

 

For a moment, Jeff had been so caught up in admiring the top’s physique that he’d almost entirely forgotten about the imminent danger, but a flash of reflected light that didn’t come from Carlos’s necklace drew his attention—it was the knife.

 

Fuck, this was for real.  His face, which had lit up with lust again, fell into despair—but this time, Nick was on hand to record it, zooming in on the teen’s anguished expression as the hardbodied director chuckled.

 

“Whaddaya think, asswipe?” Nick jeered.  “This is gonna make us a fuck-ton of money.  Course, you won’t see a fuckin’ dime.  You’re gonna end up a pile of dead boymeat left to rot in the desert, but Carlos and I, we’re gonna make a fortune.”

 

“No…” Jeff whispered, staring directly into the camera, “P-please let m-me go, I won-won’t tell anyone…”  His voice trailed off and he broke down into sobs.  Nick was delighted—the shot of the teen punk’s horrified pleading was perfect; he couldn’t have directed it better himself.

 

“Yeah, keep begging, ya piece of shit,” Nick chuckled and turned the camera to Carlos, zooming in on his hard, well-developed body.  The camera ran over the ex-con’s tattooed chest, then closed in on the blade before panning back out to catch the action as Carlos mounted the bed.

 

Suddenly, Jeff’s legs were parted forcibly and his ankles were propped on Carlos’s shoulders.  There was a sudden pressure against his sphincter and Jeff had a brief lucid moment in which to wonder how he could possible have forgotten the Latino’s monstrous rod before it tore into his rectum with the force and violence of a pneumatic jackhammer.

 

The teen’s screams echoed back off the warehouse walls but the entire district was otherwise deserted at this time of night.  There was no response to his frantic shrieks of agony other than an intensity of tempo as Carlos plowed his shaft deeply and brutally into the teenager’s guts.  Jeff thrashed his head from side to side, but when he turned to the left, there was something lying on the bed next to his head.

 

He wasn’t trying to see what it was—he didn’t want to see anything; he just wanted to escape from this living hell—but he couldn’t help it.  It was right there—the knife.  The razor-sharp blade, so brutal, so inexorable, was inches from his face.  No, he couldn’t think about that—

 

—then a deep thrust from Carlos, much more penetrating than any before it, gave Jeff a new source of agony to focus on, and for the moment he forgot about the knife.  He was getting ripped open on the inside; he’d never been fucked so relentlessly, so painfully before.  It was like getting raped by some sort of beast; Carlos’s cock, so long, so thick and so powerful, was tearing at his guts; disemboweling him from the inside out.

 

Jeff didn’t know if it was possible to be fucked to death but if it was, it was happening to him now.

 

“O-oh g-g-god, stop!” he cried out, his lean young body jerking violently each time Carlos plowed his unhuman shaft into the boy’s torn rectum, “St-stop!  You-yer fuck-fuck-fuckin’ killin’ me!”

 

Carlos turned and grinned at the camera, his handsome face with its trimmed goatee twisted into an evil malevolent leer.  “Hey, Nick, ya hear that?  The fuckin’ meat thinks it’s dyin’!”

 

They both laughed at that, a cold cruel sound that forced its way into Jeff’s panicked mind and wrapped icy tendrils around his pounding, overwrought heart.  God, this dude was so hot, he thought–but his dick was too much even for the well-used boywhore, who could only sob jerk his arms, straining painfully and uselessly against the unyielding steel that circled his wrists.  His red Nikes, propped on the stud’s shoulders, thrashed uselessly in the air.

 

Nick, in the meantime, had circled the platform with the camera.  He’d paused for a moment and zoomed in on a shot of Carlos’s taut, well-rounded ass pumping as the stud raped the living fuck outta the teenaged rentboy.  He lingered long over the way Carlos’s jeans were glued to his strong, firm buttcheeks like they’d been painted on.  The large dimples that formed on his ass as he thrust his tool ever-deeper into Jeff’s guts were clearly visible to the camera lens.

 

Once on the other side of the bed, Nick panned out for a moment to take in the full scene of the hulking, hardbodied Latino stud mercilessly whaled on the cunt’s fuckhole, taking time to zoom in occasionally on Jeff’s own thick cock, kept involuntarily erect by the unremitting grinding pressure Carlos’s dick was putting on his prostate.  Despite his pain and terror, there was already a glittering hint of moisture oozing from the kid’s piss slit on the kid’s rod.

 

Nick swung the camera back onto Jeff’s strained, tear-streaked face.  This time, he stood right next to the bed and pointed the camera straight down; his own semi-erect shaft appeared in the shot, more than eight inches of manmeat hanging out over the punk’s head, in between his face and Carlos’s.

 

“Hey, dude,” he drawled laconically, “I don’t think this piece of faggot shit is sufferin’ enough—in fact, I think the sick fuck is enjoyin’ it.”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos sneered.  He looked at the camera and winked, then spit in Jeff’s face.  “Figures; fuckin’ whore’s gone loose on me.  Ya hear me, ya worthless homo garbage?  You ain’t even a good fuck, ya goddam punk-ass bitch!”

 

Jeff was overwhelmed by confusion, terror, and pain; that might have been some sort of excuse for his actions, but when he thrashed violently before jerking suddenly to the left in a feeble and utterly hopeless attempt to both get out from under the heavily-muscled stud and off his Louisville Slugger of a dick, he made a serious mistake.  Up to this point, Carlos had been more or less playing along with the idea of being recorded again—he had no idea how many times Nick’s hidden camera had allowed his solo activities to be broadcast to thousands—and had been mugging for the camera.

 

That ended now.  Jeff had pissed him off.

 

Carlos drew his arm back and the young homo had just enough time to notice how the Hispanic top’s bicep swelled with power under its ink sleeve before Carlos’s fist was driven into his face so hard his head rocked back into the mattress.  Jeff let out a loud grunt, then blinked and shook his head, dazed by the impact to his already-injured face.

 

“Wha…wha…” he moaned, looking up at the ex-con’s hard face, so twisted Jeff couldn’t tell if he was grinning or snarling.  Then Carlos held up the rubber-handled Bowie knife.

 

“This is how I get fucked-out faggots like you to tighten back up on my dick.  Ya feel me, cunt?  No?  How ‘bout now, motherfucker?”  He rammed the knife into Jeff’s left flank.  The razor-sharp tip pierced the teen’s smooth flesh like it was butter, the blade slicing deep into the tangled mass of the boy’s small intestine without meeting the slightest resistance.

 

Jeff’s face went gray and his eyes widened with shock.  As Carlos had anticipated, the sudden trauma made the youth’s lean, firm body go rigid, his muscles momentarily locked in an unrelenting stiffness.  That included his sphincter; it tightened around the base of Carlos’s engorged dick like a cockring. “Fuck yeah, pussyboy, that’s it,” he had time to grunt before Jeff’s piercing scream filled the air.

 

The shrill sound echoed off the metal walls; the effect on the recording was something like reverb.  Nick chuckled gleefully, pointing the camera down the front of his own incredibly-built body so that the lens got a full view of his erect shaft dripping translucent beads of precum onto Jeff’s strained, agonized face.  “Keep on screamin’, cocksucker,” Nick jeered, “Ain’t no one gonna hear ya—and it’s makin’ my dick drip.  Fuck, dude,” he turned to Carlos, “That was hot—ya gotta make ‘im scream some more!”

 

“Don’t worry,” the muscle-bound sadist said with a grim smile, “Now that I got my blade into the fag, it ain’t nothing but a meat puppet.  Watch me make it dance.”

 

Jeff’s smooth, flat abdomen was already heaving as the Latino alpha pounded his ass; now, excruciating pain was making him sweat.  Each time their bodies slapped together in the throes of violent assrape, there was a loud smacking sound.  Without any warning, Carlos twisted the knife in the wound, shearing the blade around inside the teen’s guts and slicing open his transverse colon.  The rhythmic slapping sound of flesh on flesh suddenly became erratic as Jeff thrashed in agony and squealed like a stuck pig—which was exactly what he was.

 

Carlos was very good at what he did; it was what Nick admired about him.  Despite his nightmarish suffering, the kid’s internal wounds weren’t quite severe enough to let him bleed out to a quick, merciful death.  And Carlos felt the need to share the info.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid fuck?  Yeah?  Feels fuckin’ great on my dick, asswipe!  That’s what it’s gonna take to make ya work my dick the way a real man’s dick deserves, huh?  Then ya better saddle up, bitch, cause I can make ya hurt like that for a long, long time.  Yer gonna be fuckin’ beggin’ and pleadin’ to die long before I’ve make yer worthless sack a’ whoremeat milk the spunk outta my balls–and the longer you squirm an’ scream, the better it’s gonna feel on my cock.”

 

Still rigidly avoiding any movement that might cause the knife to hurt him any further, Jeff lay back on the bed, his legs pinned on Carlos’s shoulders so that even now he could see his red Nikes kicking in the air.  In a surreal way, he noticed that the laces of the left shoe had come untied; he’d have to remember to fix that or he might trip and hurt himself…

 

Then Carlos yanked all nine inches of sharpened steel out of his guts with a single violent jerk.  On the outside, all that could be seen was an inch-an-a-half slit with a slight trickle of blood.  On the inside, Jeff could feel still feel the glassy pain deep in his guts; it was like the blade was still there.

 

But it wasn’t.  Because now it was somewhere else.  Carlos had shifted the knife to his other hand and stuck Jeff higher up on his right side, the blade slipping easily in between the boy’s ribs.  The grooved steel shaft speared the punk’s liver.  Angled slightly toward the back, it sliced his gall bladder neatly in half, to end up embedded deep in his pancreas.

 

Again, massive organ trauma triggered electrochemical shock as Jeff’s adolescent body, already pumped full of testosterone, was flooded with adrenaline.  His face, already swelling from Carlos’s kick and the blow of his fist, was clenched in a rictus of agony as the older man took ruthless advantage of the boy’s horrific pain to pound his constricted asshole.

 

Nick stepped back for a moment to show how Carlos had stretched himself out, almost as if he was doing push-ups.  The toes of his tightly-laced lineman’s boots were dug into the mattress to give him the traction he needed to rape the fuck out of the dying teen. Then, by crouching down near the head of the platform and zooming in, Nick got a great shot of Jeff’s thick boycock, still helplessly and involuntarily erect, smacking against Carlos’s hairy ripped abs, keeping time to the assault.

 

“Hell yeah—now that’s how ya fuck a faggot!” Nick said, cheering Carlos on for the camera.  “Tighten it up, use it up, fill it up and toss it the fuck out!”

 

Jeff hadn’t known, hadn’t ever considered that such pain could exist.  The slashing pain of his torn rectum was long forgotten, a minor discomfort compared to the nine-inch shaft of solid steel that had impaled his torso, right to left.  He couldn’t breathe without his diaphragm and chest muscles contracting around the sharp edge and slicing themselves open even more.

 

He literally couldn’t breathe; it hurt too much.  Carlos smiled beatifically down at the boy’s soft, smooth face, so young and so almost innocent as it gaped, the mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a dying fish.  “You ready, cunt?  Ya want it to be over?  Ready to take my load and die?”

 

Jeff didn’t want to die; he still had delusions of somehow surviving this experience—but he knew he had to do something, he had to breathe for fuck’s sake, he needed that thing out of him for fuck’s sake GET IT OUT

 

Carlos obliged, withdrawing the blade slowly, lovingly, letting Jeff savor the icy sensation of the knife as it cut a new path through his organs on the way back out.  It hurt so bad the teen punk nearly passed out; his body trembled and convulsed for a moment as his eyes rolled back in his head.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Nick said, reaching down and backhanding the tortured youth across the face.  Illogically, the blow actually seemed to have some effect—Jeff inhaled deeply and opened his eyes.

 

“P-p-pl—” he sputtered, “Ple-please—”

 

“Please what?” Carlos sneered, “Please kill ya?  Hell no; you ain’t endured enough to make me cum yet.  And besides, we gotta give the audience a show, right?  There’s gonna be dudes payin’ to watch a worthless faggot suffer long and hard, the way it deserves.  And anyway, I just wanna hurt ya; I fuckin’ love doin’ it, cunt.”

 

He swung his right arm up, holding the knife with the tip pointing straight down.  Even though he was nearly out of him mind with pain and fear, Jeff was still entranced by the view—Carlos’s broad, hairy chest with large dark nipples protruding above the wiry forest of fur, the thick links of the alpha’s gold necklace hanging free in the air between them, the look of an experienced killer of the Latino skinhead’s face—it was all so masculine, so fuckin’ hot…

 

It wasn’t possible, Jeff decided.  He’d been slipped some bad acid or something; nobody this erotic could be so cold and cruel, could put him in so much pain…

 

…then his eye caught a glint of light reflected from the wickedly sharp tip of the Bowie knife and Jeff felt sick sense of despair that managed to rise over the torment he was already experiencing and he knew nothing could be worse…

 

…then the blade flashed down.

 

It hit the teenaged boy like a bolt of lightning; it was that fast and that traumatic.  Carlos had slammed the knife down in slightly diagonal direction, plunging it into the center of Jeff’s right pectoral muscle, ramming the blade in so deep the hilt pressed against the kid’s chest.  The steel blade punctured the youth’s lung and stuck a rib on the inside, taking out a chip of bone as the knife exited the kid’s back and sank into the mattress beneath him.

 

The boywhore’s face was a mask of pain and shock.  He gasped and whimpered uncontrollably, each movement dragging his muscles and fragile lung tissue against the sharpened steel edge and causing more damage internally.  The punk gave a loud gurgle and, as Nick closed in with camera, a bubble of blood arose in the boy’s open mouth and burst, leaving a crimson trickle down his smooth chin.

 

“Aw, fuckin’-A!” Carlos cried out at the adolescent’s lithe body clenched, the slut’s rectum gripping his killer’s massive rod like a velvet glove.  The vicious sadist pumped the suffering teen violently, the rough denim of his jeans scraping the boy’s smooth asscheeks.

 

Jeff was beyond such trivial annoyances.  Helpless under the weight of the heavily muscled psycho who was torturing him, the youthful rentboy was finally accepting the inevitable fact that he wasn’t getting off this bed alive.  Every breath, every single second of existence, was nothing but the most nightmarish agony that needed to end.   Even when the hulking ex-con yanked the knife back out of him, the youth was so traumatized that he was unable to react to the fresh blast of searing pain.

 

“Almost there, dude,” Carlos muttered breathily, his face taut with the strain of his impending orgasm.  He’d spoken to Nick, to make sure the older man used the camera to the best advantage during the money shot, but Jeff had heard him as well.

 

The hardbodied director took the hint and jumped up onto the bed.  He stood with his leather Converse kicks planted on each side of Jeff’s head, pointing the camera down as Carlos leaned slightly back.  Nick knew what was coming and was in the perfect place to record the teenager’s death agonies.

 

“This is gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you goddam faggot cunt,” Carlos hissed and clamped one hand over Jeff’s mouth, clutching it with the excruciating power of a bear trap.  Holding the knife in the other, he pressed the tip against the underside of the kid’s jaw.  “Fuckin’ fagmeat—remember as you scream yer worthless life out, you fuckin’ deserve this, ya sack of shit!”

 

And with that, he shoved the blade upwards.

 

It pierced the teen boy’s lower jaw. The blade sliced up through the tongue, impaling it and pinning it to the roof of the mouth as the sharpened steel shaft cut smoothly up though the soft palate.  The kid had literally been speared through his mouth.

 

Moving inexorably, the blade sheared upwards through the upper sinus cavity.  Trapped beneath his powerful killer, pinned to the bed by the stronger man’s dick in his ass, Jeff could only kick his legs as Carlos continued to drive the knife deeper into his skull.  For a brief moment, the agony reached a point that the punk was awash in nauseating vertigo; he seemed to smell the bloody shaft of steel tearing into him—and then the blade tore through the olfactory bulbs at the top of his sinuses and Jeff never smelled anything ever again.

 

By now, his lean young body was flailing uncontrollably.  The kid’s legs thrashed violently; he no longer needed to worry about tripping over his untied shoelace as he kicked the loose sneaker off, leaving his foot in nothing but a ped sock, his toes curling as he spasmed.

 

“Time to die, meatsack,” Carlos growled, “Fuckin’ faggot, all yer good for is soaking up my fuckin’ manspunk.  You ain’t nothin’ but a cumrag, ya stupid homo; now die like the worthless piece a’ shit you are, cunt!”

 

He shoved the knife home.

 

It punctured the base of Jeff’s cranium with a loud crunch that the dying teen felt as much as he heard.  In a split second, Carlos embedded all nine inches of solid steel in the boy’s head, the sharp tip of the Bowie knife gouging the inside of the top of Jeff’s skull.

 

There are no nerves in the brain; Jeff never felt the final slash of the blade through his cerebellum.  That wasn’t to say that he didn’t experience pain—his cringing cockpig soul slid screaming into dark eternity on a wave of mind-shattering agony.  And he never knew that his own deathload was the source of his pain.

 

Carlos’s gigantic balls had contracted, hosing the punk’s guts full off seething mansperm. The heat of the spunk and the pressure against his prostate had primed Jeff’s tool, but the way Carlos’s knife had lodged in the pleasure center of the teen’s brain and shorted it out was what led to the kid’s explosive orgasm.

 

Nick’s downward view of the snuff captured the geysers of boycum that erupted from Jeff’s cock as he died.  The kid spurted several times, each time sending a thick creamy jet of semen splashing against Carlos’s chest or Nick’s hairy, muscled legs, or his own blank dead face.  Carlos held on, grunting and rutting as he drained his rod.

 

Nick didn’t even have to touch himself; he recorded his own dick pumping huge wads of pearly manseed onto the corpse’s already-loaded face.  The same downward angle showed the dead kid’s cum trickling down Nick’s legs and spattered on his black leather sneakers.

 

Carlos collapsed, his bulked-out form falling heavily on the still-shuddering boymeat.  Nick jumped off the bed,  set the camera down, and crossed to the far wall to turn on the lights.  Carlos had recovered before he got back, separating himself stickily from the teen’s corpse.  He pulled his blade back out of the dead faggot’s skull and stuck it, smeared with blood and gray matter, back into his boot.

 

“You’re a mess,” Nick chuckled.  “Don’t worry, the bathroom’s stocked.  Go clean yourself up; I’m gonna take a finishing shot or two and then do the same myself.”  As the heavy tread of Carlos’s boots faded down the hall, Nick picked his camera back up and got a few quick close-ups of the dead boy’s convulsing body, zooming in on the way his feet, one missing a shoe, kicked and twitched in death.  He stopped once Carlos returned—knife and all cleaned—and went to wash himself up and put on his clothes.  The Latino stud had sponged the dead homo’s cum off his chest and had decided to remain as he was, in nothing but jeans and boots, to let his chest hair dry.

 

Nick was very particular about keeping things looking legit, and Carlos agreed with him completely on this; before anything else was done, they tidied the scene by the simple expedient of pulling the plastic fitted sheet off the bed and wrapping the corpse in it.  Nick looked at the hole in the mattress where Carlos’s blade had completely impaled the meat; there was a small bloodstain around the hole.

 

“Make sure nothing leaks from the hole in the sheet,” he said as he grabbed another plastic sheet from a shelf and re-covered the mattress.  By the time he was done, Carlos had confirmed that nothing had leaked from the slit in what was now Jeff’s burial shroud—or would have been if they intended to bury him.

 

Instead they tossed him into the bed of Nick’s pickup like a sack of garbage and headed towards the desert.

 

On the southwest side of town there was a plot of land that had been laid out for a subdivision ten years ago.  When the economy collapsed, building had ground to a halt, the developer had gone bankrupt, and now the ownership of the land was locked in a maze of impenetrable lawsuits.

 

In short, roads and sewers had been laid out, but no houses built.  No one ever went there—it wasn’t even suitable as a lover’s lane, since it was flat, with no cover at all.  What it did have, aside from crumbling streets and rusting stop signs, was a set of drainage ditches and culverts that weren’t being inspected by either Las Vegas or Clark County officials.

 

Nick had found it several weeks ago while out scouting locations—not for movies; for body dumps just like this one.

 

At the far end of the development, the road took a right-angle turn and crossed over a dry wash; the under the roadbed, three large concrete pipes allowed storm water to drain down the gully.  Nick parked the truck right over the dry wash and tossed the corpse over the side.  It fell into the arroyo with a loud, meaty thump like a side of beef.

 

“I got it,” Carlos said, and scrambled down the side of the gully, his high leather boots digging into the sandy soil.  At the bottom, he saw that the meat’s legs were sticking out of one end of the sheet, the red Son of Mars sneaker and the white ped sock both glaringly obvious against the beige sand.  He bent down, and, grabbing the corpse’s ankles, he dragged it to the culvert.  Shoving the dead teen inside the concrete tunnel was no strain for his powerful muscles; in no time, he was back in the truck beside Nick, heading back to the studio.

 

“That was incredible,” Nick chuckled as he accelerated onto the highway.  “We’re gonna make a shit-ton of money on this one, dude.”

 

And he was right.

 


 

Schweitz was pissed.  Here he was, out in the middle of the fuckin’ desert, sweatin’ his fat ass off, while Nuñez got to lay on his ass for a couple a’ weeks, just cause he got a case of appendicitis.  Bet the lazy Spic ain’t even sick…

 

“Ok, whadda we got?” he said aloud with a weary sigh.

 

“Caller lives in that apartment complex on the other side of the highway—the one that was just built,” the patrol cop said.  “He says he rides his bike over here for exercise—does it every other day.  He’s sure the corpse wasn’t here Monday.”

 

“That don’t mean nothin’; that storm yesterday coulda flushed it out from further up in the hills, for all we know.  What’s the ME say?”

 

“Uh, lessee here,” the cop said.  He was conscientious and organized; he’d taken notes and referred to them now.  “Um, young Caucasian male, late teens at oldest.  Been dead three-four days by the looks of it.  Really fuckin’ nasty, detective; he was stabbed several times but not in a way that was instantly fatal.  Looks like someone wanted ‘im to suffer.  Death blow was in the skull, seriously sick.  Oh, yeah—ME says he’d been violently fucked in the ass.”

 

“Aw, goddamit,” Schweitz exploded.  “You called my ass all the way out here for another faggot?  What, you don’t think we got enough real murders on our hands to worry about some useless cocksucker who’s better off dead?  Jesus Christ!”  He turned and started to head back to his car.

 

“Sorry, detective,” the cop called out, abashed.  “What, uh, whaddaya want me to do with my report?”

 

“Round-file it,” Schweitz snapped over his shoulder.  “Trash it.  Wipe yer ass with it, for all I care.  And remember this, boy, if ya wanna make it in this department: unless they’re rich or famous, don’t no one care about dead fags in this town, ya got me?”

 

“Yessir,” the beat cop said respectfully.  As he watched Schweitz stomp angrily back to his car, he erased the notes he so carefully made.

 

“Anything else ya need?” came a voice behind him.  Startled, the cop whirled, to find the morgue assistant laboriously dragging a collapsible gurney with the corpse zipped into a body bag.

 

“Naw,” the cop said, taking a cue from his superiors, “Get that fuckin’ piece of shit outta here.”

Ride-along with Captain Dan

Pete sat quietly in the front seat of the pickup.  He’d been hired as a deputy by the county less than a month ago and while he’d had a chance to ride along with some of the older, more experienced deputies, tonight was his first pairing with Captain Dan.

 

Pete, like everyone else in the small staff that comprised the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department, idolized Captain Dan.  Tall and broad-shouldered, with buzz-cut blond hair and sky-blue eyes, the muscular and powerful Dan was the epitome of macho law and order.  Everyone wanted to be like him; even Sheriff Waites was intimidated by the man.  But then again, the Sheriff was getting old and fat.  Ever since Major Barrett had passed away three years ago, the county had decided to let the rank of Major lapse, meaning that Dan was the highest-ranking officer under the Sheriff.

 

It wasn’t a good idea to cross him.

 

Pete knew he’d been honored by being chosen for the ride-along.  All new recruits were being trained by Captain Dan, of course, but no one had yet been selected to go out on patrol alone with him this soon after hiring.

 

They’d circled around town a few times, but little had been happening on this chilly Tuesday evening.  Come Friday night, the town would be hopping as all the outlying farm workers came in and got drunk—but now there was nothing.  Dan, wasn’t discouraged, though.

 

“There’s a spot I know,” he said as he aimed the truck out of town, “One of the county roads has an exit on the interstate.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Pete said, “CR 451.  It crosses the county line to the grain mill, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, “But that ain’t the point.  Lotsa drug trafficking along that section of the interstate.  We don’t really have the funds to do much of an interdiction but Taylor County does.  They’re doin’ a roadblock tonight at the Hopewell Street exit—which means if the traffic backs up enough, anyone who’s carrying will turn around at the county line and take the first exit, looking for a way cross-country.  And the first exit heading west from the county line—”

 

“—is CR 451,” Pete finished up triumphantly.

 

“Right!” Dan replied.  “I dunno if we’re gonna be lucky enough to take down one of them fuckers, but I’d damn sure like to give it a try.  You on board?”

 

Pete glanced over at the Captain.  There was something so powerfully masculine about the muscle-bound figure in tight khaki chinos, glossy knee-high boots and a khaki shirt so tight, the buttons strained to keep it closed across the broad chest—Pete would be on board with anything the older man wanted.

 

It wasn’t just the cop’s overwhelming physique—Dan trained relentlessly, honing his control skills to the point that he seemed to naturally take command in any situation.  There was never any question—when he gave an order, it was obeyed, almost mindlessly.

 

Pete was only twenty-one, and at exactly six feet tall was still several inches shorter than Dan.  His body may not quite have been in Dan’s class, but he was well-built and strong, with short brown hair and clear dark eyes.  His broad, youthful face, covered with a dark shadow of scruff, was a striking contrast to the Captain’s hard, set face with its high cheekbones.  The deputy was wearing the same khaki outfit as his superior, but his chinos were tucked into a tightly laced pair of Danner 8” Tachyon combat boots.  As much as he admired the tall leather boots that Dan sported, Pete knew there was no way he could keep a pair that glossy.

 

Ten minutes after turning off onto the county road, the Captain pulled off onto a gravel path and reversed the truck.  He’d managed to have enough county funds diverted to allow him to purchase a huge 4X4 pickup—for the department, he said, not that anyone else would be stupid enough to take it out—that had come in handy while he was raiding meth labs and pot fields out in the far-flung sections of the county.  It took a moment to maneuver the truck to his satisfaction, but when he was done, it was pointy out towards the road but was far enough back in the brush to be hidden.

 

Leaving the engine running, he killed the lights.

 

“Now we wait,” he muttered.  “I betcha we pop at least one of these little druggie faggots tonight.”

 

Pete tuned in to the contempt for both criminals and homosexuals that dripped from the Captain’s voice.  It was a good thing to know, to help stay on his superior’s good side.

 

“That’s all they are,” Dan continued.  “You’ll see soon enough, boy.  Ain’t none of the fuckin’ thieves and drug dealers real men.  Fuckin’ cocksuckers, that’s all they are, every last one of ‘em.”

 

“You sound like my uncle Bill,” Pete said.

 

“Bill?  Bill who?”

 

“Bill Traster, my mom’s brother.”

 

“Naw!  Ol’ Bill Traster?  Used to be in homicide in Oklahoma City?”

 

“Yeah, that’s him.  He’s retired now; took a bullet to the hip.”

 

“Well whaddaya know.  I remember Bill from the Academy.  Yeah, he knew a thing or two about handlin’ these fuckin’ pansy scumbags.  One time he told me—”

 

But the reminiscence was cut off as green motorcycle roared past their concealed truck.

 

“That was a Kawasaki Ninja,” Dan said with a fierce grin on his face.  “Now, who do we know in town with a green motorcycle like that?”

 

It was a rhetorical question; they both knew well that there was only one person in town with a green Kawasaki—Robbie Clebbs. Pete wasn’t surprised when the Captain flipped the lights and floored the truck, heading out after the bike; Robbie was notorious.  He was a bit surprised that they had to be chasing the punk at all.

 

“Didn’t you bust Robbie last month?” Pete asked.  “Just before I got hired—I’d heard you got him after that meth lab out on the Ellis place blew up.”

 

The pickup’s cab was only illuminated by the dashboard lights, but they were enough for Pete to see the way the older man’s face drew taut, his lips compressed in a determined line.  “Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice cold as death, “Yeah, I got him—and daddy’s money got him off.  Dunno who got paid where, but it never even came before the grand jury.”

 

Nothing further needed to be said about daddy’s money; even Pete knew that Robert Clebbs, Sr. owned two of the three car dealerships in the county.

 

“Little homo fucker’s been lyin’ low for a few weeks,” Captain Dan went on.  “Haven’t seen him around at all—which means he’s been up to no good.”

 

Dan radioed the stop back to dispatch, reporting it as a speeding vehicle.  Despite the fact that they didn’t have a radar gun with them, Pete said nothing—after all the Captain was the kinda guy who’d be able to tell how fast a vehicle was going just by looking at it.

 

But still, they’d managed to overtake the bike relatively soon after lighting it up…

 

The motorcycle pulled over onto the wide level shoulder at a curve; the pickup crawled in over the gravel behind it.  The high-intensity headlights lit up the kid on the bike clearly.  Pete leaned in for a better look; it had been a few years since he’d seen Robbie.  His kid brother had pointed Robbie out as the one everyone in the county high school went to for drugs.  Eventually, the punk had dropped out and gone to dealing full time.

 

Ol’ man Clebbs was reportedly disgusted with his son’s behavior and didn’t allow Robbie to live at home—but all the kid’s bills got paid somehow, despite the fact that he’d never worked a legitimate job in his short, wasted life.  The bike had been a present for his eighteenth birthday and the fact that he hadn’t trashed it yet was a minor miracle.  Pete had been sure that Robbie’s involvement in the meth lab explosion would have finally earned him some prison time.  Kid wasn’t nineteen yet, but time in the joint would do him some good.

 

Robbie turned back as Captain Dan slowly opened the door.  “Driver, face forward!” he barked.  Pete didn’t get a glimpse of his face, but he could see that the closest the punk had bothered to come to a helmet was a red bandanna tied around his head; under it, long, slightly curly black hair fell nearly to his shoulders.  The boy had twisted his lean, firm torso around far enough for Pete to have noticed that under the kid’s leather biker jacket, his smooth but strong chest was covered by a cheap white t-shirt with a Rolling Stones logo printed on it.

 

A punk-style belt made of gear link chain circled his narrow waist, supporting a tightly-fitting pair of well-worn skinny jeans.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of motorcycle boots—Icon 1000 Elsinore boots, in black leather, the left one up on the bike’s heel rest, the right one on the gravel, steadying bike and rider.

 

As Dan slid out of the truck’s driver seat, he reached down and drew his side-handle baton.  “Hey, Cap!” Pete said softly, but urgently, nodding at the older man’s holster, which was still snapped shut.

 

“Naw,” Dan said, a cold light glittering in his blue eyes like ice crystals, “This little cocksucker ain’t worth the ammo.  C’mon with me, boy, an’ keep yer eyes peeled.  No tellin’ what the strung-out faggot might try.”

 

They marched towards the youth on the motorcycle, the crunch of their boots in the gravel loud in the clear night air of the isolated county road.

 

Holding the baton in one hand, Dan pulled a heavy, oversized flashlight out of a loop in his belt.  He flicked it on just as Robbie turned to face him.  Like Pete, the punk’s youthful face was covered with scruff, but Robbie’s was the result of lack of shaving, where Pete’s was carefully trimmed to an exact appearance.

 

As the bright light shone into to the boy’s red eyes, he blinked blearily and threw his arm up across his face.  “A’right!  Enough!” he called out.  “Whatcha tryin’ to do, blind me?”

 

“Shaddup, punk,” Dan barked, “Get that hand down and look at me.”

 

As ordered, Robbie brought his hand down and squinted up into the light.  Recognizing Captain Dan, he unconsciously groaned aloud.  This asshole had it out for him, and given what he was carrying tonight, things could get seriously unpleasant.  While he wasn’t too worried about the baggie with his personal stash of weed—some of it already rolled into joints—that he had tucked down inside his left boot, the solid gram of fentanyl next to it was worth a fortune, and he still owed that dude back in Dallas for most of it.  If it got confiscated and he couldn’t repay, his life might literally be over…

 

He began to reach for what was tucked inside his right boot—a Marine combat knife, seven inches of serrated carbon steel.  As long as the cops didn’t draw on him, he should be able to take the Captain down.  That dumbass deputy would panic and Robbie’d have the Captain’s gun by then.  But he needed to move fast.

 

Robbie bent swiftly, diving for the knife—but he didn’t move fast enough.

 

Dan whipped around, spinning the baton by its side handle, and clubbed the boy on the side of the head, hard enough to dislodge the bandanna.  Robbie’s eyes rolled back in his head and, already half off his bike, he collapsed face-down into the gravel with loud grunt.

 

As Robbie groaned in semi-consciousness, Dan knelt beside him and began frisking him.  The older man ran his hands along the kid’s body, reaching under his leather jacket and fondling his slim, firm torso inside its t-shirt.  Finding nothing there, Dan moved lower, his questing hands prying through the denim at the long, thick bulge in the boy’s crotch.

 

“Wha’ th’ fuck…” Robbie muttered vaguely in response to the hard, clutching grip on his dick, but Dan had already released it and was now probing Robbie’s tight buttocks.  Pete watched with a strange, tingling excitement as the Captain took his time on the boy’s thick, muscled thighs and calves, coming eventually to the boots.

 

Dan’s expression changed subtly as he patted down the black leather biker boots—a triumphant light came on in his eyes as gripped the left boot and said, “There’s something down here.  C’mere, boy, make sure he’s restrained.”

 

Hurrying eagerly to Dan’s side, Pete pulled the cuffs off his belt.  Kneeling next to Dan, he swiftly cuffed Robbie’s hands behind the still-stunned punk’s back, then turned to watch as the Captain reached down inside the snugly-fitting boot and extracted the long, vicious-looking knife.

 

“Fuck, man,” Pete gasped, “You could do some serious damage with that thing.”

 

“Hell, yeah,” Dan grunted, an odd smile on his face.  He tucked the knife carefully into his belt, trusting the inch of black leather to hold it even without a scabbard.  Turning back to the prone figure, he reached for the right boot.  “Let’s see if this piece a’ shit is carryin’ anything else.”

 

Robbie managed to regain full consciousness just as Dan pulled the elaborately-wrapped package of fentanyl and the baggie of pot out of his other boot.  He began to struggle in the gravel.  “Lemme up, you bastard!” he yelled.

 

Dan knelt on the prone youth instead, placing one booted foot on the middle of his back and one knee on the kid’s ass.  Pocketing the weed, he held up the package and shone the flashlight on it; there were words stenciled on.  “China white,” he read aloud, then stood up.

 

“Fuckin’ police brutality!” Robbie shouted.  “”Y’all had no reason to hit me!  I’m gonna sue!”

 

Dan lashed his foot out suddenly.  Robbie’s awareness that the Captain’s knee-high glossy boots had steel toes was indicated by a loud, painful grunt.

 

Dan looked at Pete.  The younger man saw an intense smoldering heat in the Captain’s glance.  “China white,” he repeated to Pete, ignoring Robbie’s outburst, “You know what this stuff is?”

 

“Naw, Cap—that’s a new one on me.”

 

“We don’t get it much here.  Street name for fentanyl.  It’s an opiate that’s several hundred times more potent that heroin.  People die from this stuff on a daily basis—and this motherfucker wants to bring it in here.  C’mon, help me get the fuckin’ waste up on its feet.”

 

They bent over Robbie, each running an arm under the boy’s armpit and forcibly dragged him up to his feet.

 

“Gonna sue,” Robbie mumbled, “Dad’ll get me off…won’t spend a day in jail…county’s gonna pay out the ass for you two fucks…”

 

“Want me to call for a cruiser to come pick ‘im up?” Pete asked.  With no rear seat, they couldn’t haul him in in the pickup.

 

The Captain didn’t answer.  He was looking at Robbie, his clenched face somehow allowing a wide play of emotions on it—rage, contempt, frustration…and something else.  Pete couldn’t quite make it out.

 

“Cap?” he asked again, “A cruiser?”

 

Dan paused, a half-step ahead and turned to Pete in such a way as to silhouette his profile.  “Naw,” he said.  “I got a better idea.”

 

Highlighted as it was in the clear light, the huge bulge erecting a tent pole in the Captain’s tight chinos was obvious.  And as soon as he saw it, Pete realized what that other emotion had been, the one he couldn’t identify.

 

“This faggot’s got enough drugs to kill everyone in the county.  He’s got—and went for, you saw it—a dangerous weapon.  Now the little pansy is gonna run back to daddy and get away scot free.”

 

Dan stepped ahead and turned to face them both, the headlights of the truck illuminating his massive, muscle-bound form from behind.  “I think it’s time this little homo learned what real men do to strung-out little cocksuckers.  And I think he needs to learn to good and long and hard, so he don’t forget.  Whaddaya think, Pete—you in?”

 

Pete grinned; there was no need for him to answer aloud.  The visible swelling in his crotch spoke for him.

 

Dan saw it and grinned back.  He shoved Robbie brusquely, making him stumble and fall face-down in the gravel.  With his hands still cuffed behind him, the handsome, leather-clad teen was unable to protect his face; he cried out in pain as sharp-edged rocks abraded his face.  “You fuckin’ sonovabitch!” he shouted angrily as he writhed in the gravel, trying to regain his feet, “I’m gonna have yer badge for that!  Daddy’ll make the Sheriff give it to me so I can use it for target practice!”

 

Dan chuckled and glanced at Pete.  “You hear that?  Little queer fuck just threatened us.”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Robbie screeched.

 

Dan’s next words were spoken to Pete in a calm, detached tone, as the older man stared the younger steadily in the eyes.  “C’mon, son, time to step up.  Time to be a man.  Get this piece a’ shit cocksucker into the back of the truck and we’ll show ‘im what happens to pansy-ass little fuckwads in my county.”

 

It hit Pete suddenly—he was being tested.  Dan wanted to make sure the rookie was a well-built mentally as he was physically.  Pete knew they had already gone too far; the kid would clearly accuse them of brutality.  And Dan was right, the punk’s old man would buy the little fuck’s way off the drug charges.  There was really only one way out.

 

Pete nodded at Dan and advanced toward the figure struggling on the ground.  He was totally unaware that his reflections on what was going to happen had caused the bulge in his tight chinos to swell, but the Captain noticed it.

 

“Get up, assfuck,” Pete snarled as he bent down, caught Robbie under the arms, and dragged him to his feet again.

 

“You too!” the enraged teen screamed shrilly.  “Gonna get yer badge too!”

 

Pete lifted the thick sole of his size eleven Danner boot and, planting it on Robbie’s ass, shoved hard.  The boy stumbled five steps towards the back of the pickup, managing to remain on his feet.

 

“Good,” Pete said.  “If you fall, my boot ain’t goin’ upside yer ass; it’s goin’ upside yer head.  You hear me, boy?  Get yer worthless ass to the back of the truck, now!”

 

Somewhat intimidate, Robbie mumbled defiantly, but kept moving.  Pete was right behind him, with Dan following.  At the rear of the truck, Pete opened the tailgate.

 

“Now what, pig?” Robbie sneered.  “Can’t climb up that high without my hands.  You gonna help me up, cop?  Gonna protect and serve me, huh?”

 

Silently, without a word, Dan stepped forward, reached out a huge hand and wrapped it around Robbie’s throat.  With a single jerk of his massive, heavily muscled arm, the Captain lifted the kid straight up.  Gagging as he choked, Robbie flailed his legs aimlessly, his Icon boots kicking in the air a good four inches above the gravel.

 

“You want me to serve you, you cum-guzzlin’ faggot?  Here, have a nice big serving of whoop-ass, dickhead!”

 

As Dan drew his arm back, Pete could see how the bicep and the tricep bulged and the huge deltoid swelled.  When his fist launched forward again, the enormous power packed into his muscles exploded with the force of an industrial piston.

 

He punched the teen straight in the jaw, nearly breaking it.

 

Robbie’s mouth sagged misshapenly open as he passed out, stunned into unconsciousness by the single blow.  Dan flung the lean, limp form into the bed of the truck with a contemptuous flick, as if we was tossing out litter.

 

“C’mon, get in,” the older man said, closing the tailgate.  “I know the perfect place to, uh, dump some garbage after we get done teachin’ this cocksucker the error of his ways.”

 

Pete opened the passenger door, but paused before getting in.  “Uh, Cap—” he began before awkwardly stopping.  The older man looked at him, his sky-blue eyes focused on the rookie with laser precision.  Pete started again.  “Cap, um, how many times you done somthin’ like this before?’

 

The hardbodied blond alpha froze for a moment, then relaxed slightly.  “I haven’t.  But I’ve been planning it out for a long time.  See, this county is bein’ flooded by these deviant punks.  All of ‘em, all the troublemakers and speeders and dope-smokers.  Problem is, their daddies didn’t teach none of ‘em right.  They didn’t teach ‘em that you gotta obey Authority, no matter what.  No matter how much it hurts or how scared you are, if Authority wants to put its dick up yer ass or use your body as a punching bag, you gotta obey.”

 

A broad, almost beatific smile spread across Dan’s face, giving his hard features a masculine charm that somehow unaccountably pulled something deep inside Pete.

 

“So we gotta teach the fuckers ourselves,” the older man continued.  “And since it’s the most important lesson in their useless lives, it’s gotta be driven home, ruthlessly, relentlessly.  Even if it’s the last lesson they learn—so long as they learn it.”

 

Pete knew that much of what he’d just heard didn’t make sense, but he also knew that all of what he’d heard made his dick leak.  “Cool,” he replied, returning the Captain’s smile.  “Just asking.  Let’s get goin’ before the biker boy wakes up.”  He climbed into the passenger seat.

 

“Yeah,” Dan remarked as he settled into the driver’s seat, “That’s a good clue right there.  If ya pull over a dude on a bike, check out his crotch.  More’n likely, his dick’ll be hard.  Faggots love motorcycles; somethin’ about the way it vibrates their assholes or somethin’.”

 

The pickup rumbled into life and Dan pulled off the shoulder.  Darkness had fallen, a hazy, almost glowing darkness as a heavy mist thickened in the chill night air.  It lay like a blanket over the isolated rural countryside, muffling what faint sounds were present.

 

After a couple of miles, they drove out of the mist; several miles further from town, Dan veered the truck to the left.  Pete, who hadn’t noticed the dirt track, winced, but soon found himself bouncing in the cab as the 4X4 jolted down a little-used dirt track.

 

“Never even knew this was here,” he remarked.  “Where’s it go?”

 

“There’s an old quarry back down here,” Dan replied.  “Very isolated—it’s a great dumping ground.”

 

Pete was quiet, letting his imagination soar and his thick cock throb.

 

Eventually they came to the end of the track, a wide, barren circle of dirt beyond which was a low rise of rocks.  When Dan killed the truck, Pete got out and took a look.  Beyond the rocks was a huge gap in the earth, at least a quarter-mile across.  It was deep, too.  Pete shined his flashlight into the depths; the reflection came back to him scattered from a watery surface some three hundred feet below.  It was a perfect place to dump unwanted garbage.

 

Dan, in the meantime, had opened the tailgate and was trying to drag Robbie out.  Torn between fear and outrage, the teen was resisting the Captain valiantly, fighting as if he knew his life was at stake.  He couldn’t do much in the way of damage with his hands still cuffed behind his back, but he was pissing Dan off.

 

“C’mon, boy, I could use some help!” Dan called.  Pete obediently switched off the flashlight, slipped it back into his belt, and headed for the truck.  The young cop helped grab hold of the writhing, squirming youth in the bed of the pickup, feeling the muscles in the kid’s lean, strong body moving underneath his leather jacket.

 

Between them, the two powerful adults had no problem manhandling the punk out of the truck and standing him on his feet.

 

“Now what?” Pete asked.

 

“Now you hop up in the back of the truck yourself,” Dan grinned.  “We gotta lesson plan to stick to.”

 

“You fuckin’ psychos!” Robbie bawled, his voice tremulous with fear.  The little fucker wasn’t very quick on the ball even when he wasn’t higher than a kite, but he knew that these dudes had gone too far, even for these oo-rah hyper-martial types.  They’d gone way past the point of losing their jobs and were into federal pen time now.  He had the feeling that something was happening that even daddy might not be able to fix.

 

Dan spun Robbie around, making him face Pete as the latter scrambled up into the bed of the pickup.  “Here,” Dan said, bending the teen over the opened tailgate, his huge hand splayed over the back of Robbie’s head, forcing his face down into the bed, “Keep ‘im down.  Pin his shoulders.”

 

An electrical thrill, almost sensuous in nature, jolted through Pete’s strong, hardbodied form as he knelt with his knees on the kid’s shoulders.  He brought his legs together, the leather of his Danner boots pressing snugly against Robbie’s temples.  “All right, teach,” he said, smiling happily, “What’s lesson number one?”  He was liking this.

 

Dan stepped up, grabbed Robbie’s chain belt, and with a single jerk, yanked the boy’s jeans down as far as the tops of his boots.  It made for an effective set of shackles; the kid couldn’t spread his legs farther apart than eighteen inches in any direction; there was no way he could run.

 

It also made for an effective display of Robbie’s bare ass.  Too lazy to care about underwear, the punk invariably went commando.  Tonight, it put him at a distinct disadvantage.

 

Dan pulled his baton back out of his utility belt.  “Lesson Number One,” he said, with a wide, sharklike grin, “Is that when Authority says ya gotta take one up the ass, it means you gotta take one up the ass.  At least the little faggot came dressed to learn.”

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” Robbie screeched over their coarse, brutal laughter.  And he wasn’t.  What little part of his wasted life hadn’t been devoted to the pursuit of drugs had been devoted to the pursuit of pussy.  But Robbie was about to experience an entirely new set of sensations, both physically and mentally.

 

“Shaddup and take it, motherfucker,” Dan snarled and shoved the baton into Robbie’s smooth, tight, and utterly vulnerable asshole.

 

The teen’s scream was loud and piercing, with a lingering echo from the other side of the quarry.  The cold, rigid metal shaft tore roughly past his sphincter as it was jammed viciously into his tender colon.  He went stiff with sudden, searing pain, the smooth rounded globes of his buttocks tensing visibly.  He rose up on his toes in an instinctive attempt to climb off the impaling rod in his ass; his boots scuffled in the dirt but it did him no good.

 

Pete felt the lithe young body twist and jerk in pain beneath him.  Bending forward, he put his hands on the punk’s back, feeling the kid squirm beneath the leather jacket.  The well-built cop shuddered with pleasure.

 

“Scream all ya want, cocksucker,” Dan laughed cruelly, “Ain’t no one around to hear ya.  We can do what we wanna with ya out here, you fuckin’ fairy, and no one will ever know.  So keep screamin’, asswipe.”

 

He stopped and bent forward, whispering into Robbie’s ear.  Since Pete was bent over Robbie as well, their large muscular bodies were pressed together and Pete could hear every word.

 

“Keep screamin’, you homo piece a’ shit,” Dan murmured huskily into the wailing kid’s ear.  “I like hearing you scream.  I like it a lot.”

 

Pete suddenly became aware he could feel a hot trickle of precum leaking from the pulsing head of his own cock.

 

Dan shoved the baton in again.  “Get it outta me!” Robbie howled, his lean body shuddering in pain.  “I’ll do whatever ya want me to, I swear, just stop!”

 

The alpha cop pulled the nightstick out of the teen’s ass, then smacked him across the buttcheeks with it.  “Ya hear that?” he asked Pete with malicious glee.  “He’ll do anything we want.  Ain’t that nice?”

 

Bending back down over the punk, Dan said, “What we want is for you to learn yer lesson.  The first lesson was to take it up the ass when Authority tells ya to.”

 

Dan stepped back a couple of paces and unbuttoned his khaki shirt.  He bared his furry chest to the cool night air, his large dark nipples hardening at once in the chill.  As he reached down and unzipped his fly, the moon came out from behind a cloud and illuminated the Captain in three-quarters profile.

 

It was an image Pete would never forget.  The moonlight gave a sliver tint to Dan’s golden flattop hair.  His massive pecs threw dark shadows across his hair-covered chest like mountains shading a forested valley.  The glossy, knee-high boots gleamed brightly, but it was what was dangling in the air above them that caught Pete’s attention.  Dangling—and dripping.

 

Pete had never seen a dick that big before.  He stared at it, then looked up, his wide eyes catching Dan’s bright blue ones.  “G’wan,” the older cop said, grinning, “Pull it out.  You know you wanna.”

 

And he did.  Still kneeling on Robbie’s back, Pete reached down and hauled his own throbbing shaft up out of his chinos.  Like Dan’s, it was erect and oozing, transparent drops of precum splattering on the teen’s leather jacket.

 

“Lesson Number Two,” Dan said calmly, “Is that when Authority tells ya you gotta take it up the ass again, you gotta take it up the ass again.”  Lunging forward, he rammed his huge, engorged tool all the way up into the kid’s asshole, tearing the already-traumatized sphincter on its way in.  Robbie’s piercing shriek reached an octave Pete hadn’t thought possible in a male.

 

“Fuck yeah, faggot,” Dan sneered, “Keep that shit up.  I could feel that scream all the way down to the base of my cock.”  The huge, hulking alpha looked up and Pete was held entranced by his blazing blue eyes.

 

“See, this is how ya gotta get ‘em to learn who’s boss.”  Turning back down to the squealing youth riding his enormous hog, he jeered, “Ain’t that right, boy?  You gonna listen now, huh?”

 

Pinned down by the powerful rookie with the Captain plowing his ass mercilessly, Robbie was being crushed in the twin grip of pain and fear.  Sobbing and whimpering, he wasn’t lucid enough to realize he’d been asked a question and he needed to answer it.  Dan thought he needed to learn that, too.

 

“Hey, Pete, he ain’t answerin’,” the Captain called out as he continued to pump his cock up the kid’s ass without throwing off the tempo of his deep, gut-fucking thrusts.  “Show ‘im what a bad idea it is not to pay attention in class.”

 

Pete scooted backwards off of Robbie.  He reached down and grabbed a hank of the teen’s long black hair and pulled his head up off the bed of the truck, bending his neck back until the terrified punk was looking Pete directly in the eyes.  Robbie’s face was taut and strained, a mask of agony, while his wide eyes darted wildly, fruitlessly seeking any form of succor.

 

“You’d better answer the Captain when he asks you a question, asswipe,” Pete said calmly and, balling up his free hand, smashed it into Robbie’s face.

 

Afterwards, Pete was never able to explain precisely in words the sensations that ran through his sharp warrior brain or his young, muscular form.  There was something about the sensation of breaking the kid’s nose with a single blow, the soft, crackling, crunching sound of the cartilage collapsing under his fist that reverberated through his whole body but seemed to center in his dick.

 

It was his first taste of power over another male, the first time he was able to deliberately use his strong young body to make a young worthless punk suffer, and it was…indescribable.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Dan cried, “Now yer gettin’ it, dude!  Now yer makin’ ‘im learn!”

 

With a wide, goofy, lovable grin and an intoxicating swell of lust, he punched Robbie in the face again.  And again.

 

As the rape continued unabated, Robbie mewled in pain and spit out three teeth.  The effort almost made him scream; both his cheekbones were broken and his face was already bruised and swelling.  But the real agony was in his reamed-out asshole; with every thrust of Dan’s huge dick, the firm, lean youth could feel the thick swollen veins individually as they plunged past his excruciatingly enlarged sphincter.  Worse, the constant battering and grinding his prostate had to endure resulted in an unwanted and entirely involuntary erection.  Robbie’s dick wasn’t as big as either Pete’s or Dan’s, but it wasn’t small, either.  The fact that it was stiff and throbbing as it slapped against his belly—his t-shirt had ridden up during the sexual assault—was clear to all three of them, audibly as well as visibly.

 

Dan, his blond hair dark and his chest fur matted with the sweat of rough physical exertion, looked at Pete with an almost leering grin.  “Lookit the homo’s cock.  Toldja he was a faggot—they all are.  Disgusting fuckpig,”—this last was to Robbie—“yer daddy shoulda shoved his cock up yer ass years ago and showed ya how to obey a real man with Authority.  Maybe ya wouldn’ta ended up a worthless drug-dealin’ cum-drinkin’ sack a’ shit, huh?”

 

As terrified as the traumatized kid was, he was still just barely lucid enough to hear and understand the words of the two muscle-bound cops who were torturing him.  Given how the alpha cop’s tool was plunged deep into his guts, Dan’s next comment, though, blew what little was left of him mind.

 

“Motherfucker’s gettin’ loose,” he said to Pete.  The rookie could see a gleam in the Captain’s cold blue eyes—a gleam of murderous insanity that sent another thrill through Pete’s hard, powerful body.  It was a sensation of both mental and sexual anticipation, the sense of being on the verge of discovering a whole new world of pleasure, the more exciting for its being utterly taboo.  The young cop’s breathing became deep and intense, almost erratic.

 

“Problem is, little cocksucker don’t know how to pay attention,” Dan drawled.  “So that’s Lesson Number Three—payin’ attention.  Lessee now, whadda we got to make a faggot pay attention?  Oh—fuck yeah, I know!”

 

He reached down to his belt and pulled out the combat knife he’d taken off Robbie.  Holding it up, he displayed it to Pete, still wearing his impishly malicious grin.

 

As the moonlight glinted off the razor-sharp blade and the vicious serrations, Pete found himself quickly looking away—his dick was pulsing a little too hard; beneath it, his hairy scrotum was drawing up, preparing to be emptied…he needed to calm down for just a moment; wherever this was heading, he wanted to be in at the end so fucking bad…

 

Robbie hadn’t seen the knife and probably wouldn’t have reacted if he had.  The spoiled teen punk was being brutally violated; he instinctively knew that worse was to come, since there was no other way out—these dudes weren’t just gonna let him go.

 

His response was to shut down completely; aside from the cries of pain forced involuntarily from him, the terrified boy said nothing.  He clenched his eyes closed, forcibly shutting out the image to Pete’s grinning, joyful face, his dark eyes lit from within by a slowly strengthening gleam of sexual sadism.

 

The mist had caught up to them, a heavy cloud that surrounded the trio at the back of the truck and isolated them even further from reality.  The refracted glare of the headlight made it bright enough for them to see, but it intensified the feeling that Dan and Pete were alone in a universe of their own making, where Robbie was no more than a thing to be used…

 

…because that’s exactly what he was in reality.

 

The pinned, cuffed youth was still in his t-shirt and biker jacket; the thick chill mist didn’t touch his upper body.  It wrapped moist tendrils around his long erect dick, but since he was resolutely ignoring all tactile sensations, he was unaware of either the cold or his cock—that, especially; he wasn’t gay, the was no way he had an erection while getting raped.

 

Dan could feel his huge balls swelling, overloaded with hot manspunk.  Looking at Pete’s face and seeing the sweat trickle down the rookie’s cheeks to be lost in the young cop’s thick dark facial scruff, he knew Pete was feeling the same thing.  This was it.  This was why he’d brought the boy out here.  Fuck, this was why he’d brought both boys out here.

 

Tightening his powerful ass muscles, Dan brought his legs together, his knee-high glossy boots pressed against Robbie’s calf-high biker boots.  Driving forward with extra force, he shoved his cock further up the teen’s ass than ever before.  His thick tool ground mercilessly against the punk’s prostate; the pressure, added to the adrenaline and the sheer raw testosterone flowing in the kid’s lean, randy body, made Robbie’s dick throb—but the boy made no sound other than a faint grunt.

 

“Time for yer final lesson, faggot,” Dan jeered.  “Ya hear me, boy?”

 

In full mental retreat, Robbie said nothing.  He never heard the words.

 

Dan glanced up at Pete.  The rookie was still crouched in the bed of the pickup, holding Robbie’s head up so he could look in the punk fucker’s battered and bruised face.  Below, and pointing right at Robbie, Pete’s enormous shaft was pulsating visibly.

 

“Yer right, the asshole ain’t payin’ attention, Cap,” the younger cop said huskily, with a catch in his breath.

 

Dan grinned.  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I can get the motherfucker’s attention.  Watch this.”

 

Raising his arm, he slammed it back down, driving the into Robbie’s body.  Seven inches of razor-sharp steel pierced the teen’s black leather jacket like it was butter, then the serrated blade punctured the kid’s back and sliced smoothly and cleanly through flesh and muscle into the center of his right kidney.

 

Robbie was a master of denial, but sudden massive organ trauma was too much for the teen to ignore.  His body went rigid in the remorseless grip of instant shock; the muscles in his colon clenched involuntarily, clutching at Dan’s throbbing, cum-filled shaft like a hand in a velvet glove.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” the alpha cop yelled, the thick fog dulling the sound after a few yards.  “Now the faggot’s ready to learn!”  Twisting the knife violently in the wound, he made Robbie scream in pain.

 

Pete, still clutching a fistful of the boy’s hair, looked deeply into the teen’s wide, almost crazed eyes, ringed with dark circles of shock, and yet another thrill.  It was—it was—no, he couldn’t quote place it, but he was almost there…

 

Dan stabbed Robbie in the back again.  This time he angle the knife upward near the previous wound, driving the cold hard shaft up through the kid’s liver and diaphragm into his right lung.

 

The pain was worse than anything Robbie could imagine.  He struggled forward, digging his Icon Elsinore boots in, trying vainly to pull himself off the knife that was lodged deep in his smooth, slim torso.  Breathing irregularly, his eyes wildly sought those of Pete, but without any recognition of who he was looking at—it was merely the instinctive reaction of a human in mortal agony to seek another human face.

 

Not that any of the faces around Robbie had any human pity.

 

“Final lesson, you motherfuckin’ faggot,” Dan snarled, sweat running down his huge furry chest as he pumped himself closer to orgasm, “Is, you pull a weapon on Authority, Authority’s gonna fuck you up.  You got me, you homo garbage?”

 

Dan looked up, with an expression Pete hadn’t seen before.  The alpha cop held up the blood-stained knife.  “Here,” he said, tossing the weapon to the rookie, “Fuck ‘im up.”

 

Agilely snatching the knife out of the air, the young hardbodied cop looked at it, almost wonderingly.  He glanced back up at Dan, his face an open question.

 

“Go on,” the older man said, still thrusting his cock relentlessly up the teen’s ass, “We ain’t got all night.  I know you wanna.  You know you wanna.  Do it, man.”

 

Pete stared back down at the blade, knowing a line was about to be crossed.  Did he want to really cross it?

 

Yeah.  Fuck yeah.  He want to cross it so bad he was about to cum.  He jammed the blade sideways into Robbie’s throat.

 

It went through smoothly at first, until it hit the larynx.  Pete had to apply a little pressure to saw through the vocal cords and the trachea, but his tight grip on Robbie’s hair helped him finally shove the tip of the blade out the other side of the teen’s neck.

 

Then he let go, leaving the knife embedded in the kid’s neck.

 

It was the look that Robbie gave him—the teenager’s pleading, despairing look, the way his tongue protruded, having been forced out by the sawing action of the blade at its base, the gurgling syllables of sheer terror coughed out by the dying punk, “Gah!  Ng!  Guk!”…

 

Pete suddenly understood the sensation he’d been unable to place before.  The hidden thrill was power, not just over the kid’s suffering, but over his life.

 

Well, actually, it was the power to end it that Pete found so fucking hot.

 

As the agonized kid gargled and drowned in his own blood, he was given something to swallow.  Without having to touch it, Pete’s dick suddenly exploded, sending a solid stream of searing hot manseed directly into Robbie’s face.  As the boy shuddered in his last few moments on earth, a jet of thick creamy sperm was shot into his open mouth.

 

Grunting and rutting uncontrollably, Dan found release for the pressure in his scrote, hosing the punk fuck’s innards with his spunk.  Robbie jerked and trembled as he died; every shudder and convulsion seemed to milk more cum out of the alpha’s pulsing shaft.

 

Neither of them noticed that as Robbie’s throat was cut, his dick had spewed his death load all over the rear bumper of the pickup.  Robbie had noticed it though; as he died, the horrific pain in his throat and his back was nothing compared to the way his life seemed to be ripped out of him through his cock.  As his semen shot uncontrollably from his body, it seemed to take him with it.  And his mouth was filled with the taste of blood and cum…

 

His lean, lithe body went limp, spunk still trickling from his dick.

 

Dan had pulled out and stepped back a couple of paces.  His massive, engorged cock was still pulsating, pushing out pearly beads of jizz.  Gasping deeply, he gave Pete an admiring glance.

 

“Passed yer test, son.”

 

Pete was sitting in the bed of the pickup, a somewhat dazed look on his face.  He perked up a little, hearing Cap’s words, and grinned sheepishly.  He reached down into his lap and shoved his still-erect shaft back into his chinos, seeing that the Captain was doing the same thing.

 

“C’mon down an’ help me get rid of this piece of trash,” Dan said amiably, buttoning his khaki shirt back up,  “And we’ll head back to the station to get cleaned up.”

 

Pete scrambled out of the truck as Dan bent over the still-trembling corpse and removed the handcuffs.  Then, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the package of fentanyl and shoved it into the inside breast pocket of Robbie’s leather biker jacket.  “Just in case,” he said to Pete.  He could see that the rookie didn’t get it but was playing along anyway, which was good enough.  He’d learn.

 

The two hulking, muscle-bound men picked up the corpse of the slim young teen like a rag doll.  At Dan’s direction, they carried it the edge of the quarry and tossed it into the mist-filled pit.  There was a thick, wet thump after a few seconds, but not the sound of a splash.

 

“I don’t think it hit the water,” Pete said.

 

“It don’t matter,” Dan replied, “That’s why I put the China White back.  You’ll see.  Trust me.”

 

And Pete did.

 

They climbed into the cab of the truck and within a few minutes were heading back towards the county road.  As they approached it, Dan slowed to a stop and dug something out of his pocket.  In the faint glow of the dashboard lights, Pete could see it was the bag of weed.  Dan fished one of the already-rolled joints out of the baggie and grabbing a lighter out of the cab’s console, fired it up.  After taking a huge hit, he offered it to Pete.

 

Gingerly, the rookie took the joint.  He looked questioningly at Dan as the alpha cop exhaled a thick blue cloud of pungently sweet smoke.  “G’wan, son,” the Cap said in his deep bass voice, “It’s been an intense evenin’ and we deserve to chill out.  After all, there are some benefits to actually bein’ Authority.”

 

As Pete took a huge, lung-busting hit off the joint, Dan laughed aloud.  Putting the truck in gear, he pulled out onto the county round and head back to the station.

 

 


 

It was late the next morning when the Captain got the call; by rights, he should have been off, but his dedication was such that he was known to pull doubles when he felt like it.  No one else in the department complained; it gave them more time off.

 

The body had been found by a couple of teenagers; by the time Dan got out to the quarry, Deputy Rand had already managed to run a couple of lines down and retrieved it; it had landed on a large boulder near the bottom.

 

Dan didn’t like Rand; he hung out with Eddie Phelps, that fat idiot.  Dan had always wondered how Eddie  had gotten hired by the department, but he’d been there longer than Dan, so there was little the latter could do about it.  At any rate, Rand had been on duty and had gotten the call first.

 

Dan approached the other cop, who was crouched over a body bag.  “Whatcha got?” he drawled nonchalantly.

 

“Coupla kids said they were down here to go swimmin’ and saw the body—”

 

“It’s a mite too cold to go swimmin’,” Dan interrupted.  “Might wanna check into that.”

 

“Yeah, maybe,” Rand said dubiously, “But this is really kinda a big fuckin’ deal.  Lookee here,” the deputy said, opening the body bag.  “It’s Robbie Clebbs—and he’s been fucked up bad.  Real bad.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Dan said.  “You got anything to go on?”

 

“Well, his bike was found back on CR 541.  Hard to tell, but looks like there mighta been a fight.  Kid’s been stabbed.  They left the knife stuck in his throat.  It’s his own—I recognize it.  And, well…”

 

“And what?”

 

“And the kid’s been, uh…he’s been sexually assaulted.  This is some seriously sick shit, man.”

 

“Anything else?”

 

“Yeah—he had fentanyl on him.  Big ol’ fuckin’ wad.  Kinda surprised the kid had enough cash to get it.”

 

“Maybe he didn’t,” Dan said, thoughtfully.  “Maybe this is some kinda gang payback for a drug deal gone wrong.”

 

Rand considered the suggestion.  “Yeah, that makes sense.  It’d explain this level of violence–they wanted to make an example of him.   I take you’ll head the investigation?  You know old man Clebbs is gonna raise holy fuckin’ hell about this.”

 

Dan sighed.  “Yeah, make sure I get all the files on it.  I’ll see what I can find out, but I suspect the guys who did this are back in the city by now.”

 

As he headed back to the cruiser, Rand called back out to him.  “Hey, am I crazy, or did I see that new guy Pete at the car wash, hosing out the back of yer 4X4?  I thought you wouldn’t let anyone else touch that thing—are ya fallin’ for the kid?”

 

“Naw,” Dan replied with a boyish grin.  “Got a little dirt on it last night is all.”

 

“Yeah, but I also heard you requested him as a partner.”

 

“I see somethin’ in that kid.  He’s goin’ places, I tell ya.”

Camping with Chris By Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

 

Chris is a real person who reads this site and sent me an email.  It turns out his fantasies are as fucked up as mine, so I wrote a story for him about how it all might turn out.  I had some “happy endings” as I wrote it, and he reported a large one as he finished reading it.  So, mission accomplished.  I hope others have the same reaction.  Let me know your thoughts, and remember that feedback and ideas are always welcome.  (BTW, I’m the character “Matt” in the story, as with many of mine, which is my real first name.  Loki I leave to your imagination.)

 

The Eagle Bar in Pittsburg had changed a lot since Loki purchased it a few years ago, remodeled it, and started hanging out there.  But in many ways, it had returned to its heritage, the days when it was the premier gay S&M bar in Pennsylvania.  There are lots of gay leather bars named “The Eagle,” but Loki had turned this one into something special, something exceptionally kinky and extreme.  It was a commercial success he was proud to own, attracting patrons, both masters and slaves, from all over the Northeast and beyond.

 

Of course, Loki was always proud, and he had a lot to be proud of.  He was especially proud of his pure Nordic heritage, believing it to be the master race.  He was named after the smartest of the Norse gods, and the one who was often evil, and he viewed himself in many ways as the god Loki.  It started with his gorgeous, muscled, Nordic body.  He was 23, recently finished with college, and recipient of a massive inheritance.  Buying and fixing up the bar was a trivial expense to him.  Loki was into extremely dominant gay sex, so the bar was primarily a way to attract other guys he could dominate, torture, and fuck, and to show off his phenomenal blond physique.  He also attracted a group of like-minded masters who shared his lust and joined in the fun. But he only associated with those who were also rich, fit, and good looking.

 

Loki always wore leather, but he was usually shirtless, sometimes with a masters’ leather harness to highlight his dominance.  Unlike other leather bars, nudity and public sex were encouraged, and sometimes he wore nothing but his steel-toed leather boots, especially when he was but-fucking one of the slaves.  That way he could show off how utterly massive his cock was.  The boots were the etiquette at the bar – dominant males wore at least leather boots; submissive fags were barefoot and naked except for a possible slave collar, cock ring, nipple clips, or weights attached to their balls.  There was a fully equipped torture chamber in the back complete with fuck stations, whipping posts, a rack, slings, and lots of other fun equipment with which a submissive could be restrained, tortured, and gang-raped.  There was also no rule against having a slave bend over a bar stool to get its ass pummeled, which happened a lot, often with Loki doing the initial drilling before the rest of the bar joined in.  All this required an “understanding” with the local cops, who got free drinks and admission along with the use of the subs of their choice.  Loki had struck gold in the market and was attracting gay S&M enthusiasts from near and far.  He charged a bundle and had already recovered his investment along with a tidy profit after only a couple of years.  His bar was now well known nationally as the best place for intense gay S&M, with no limits.  Loki wasn’t into limits.  If a patron damaged one of the slaves Loki kept available as waters and sex objects, the patron just had to pay Loki a fine and cover the veterinary bill to get the animal repaired.    The fine was a lot larger if it had to be replaced.  Loki viewed himself as a deity entitled to punish his subjects however it pleased him to do so.  And it pleased him a lot.

 

On this night, Loki was holding forth to some of his favorite fellow leather masters.  He’d been gone for a few days and was describing a camping trip he’d especially enjoyed.  He signaled to a nearby waiter, who knew the signal and quickly brought Loki a large stein of beer.  At a second signal, the “waiter,” who was a sex slave named Matt (one of the ones Loki kept naked and confined to the bar) knelt under the table and unbuttoned the fly on Loki’s leather pants.  The slave used its mouth to gently remove Loki’s hardening cock from his pants and swallow as much as it could of the giant penis.  As soon as Loki felt the slave’s tongue on Loki’s dick, Loki released a load of piss down the slave’s throat, commenting to his buddies, “gotta make room for the next load of beer.”  Everyone laughed, and the slave was soon occupied draining piss and getting beers for Loki’s audience.  As each master finished his load, he kicked the slave in the nuts with his steel-toed boots to signal that the slave should now service another master.  The slave’s balls were swollen from the multiple kicks, but it still maintained the required erection.  Matt liked being kicked in the balls and used as a human urinal.  Later, they’d get around to using Matt sexually, enjoying how utterly appreciative the animal was for the pain and humiliation it received – and deserved.  But for now, they wanted to hear about Loki’s adventure.

 

“So. Master Loki, what were you up to?  We know this was your annual renewal retreat, and we’re all dying to hear your story.  From the way you’re celebrating, I am guessing it’s a good one.  They always are.”  (Loki’s buddies had long ago learned that flattering him helped keep them in his circle of sycophantic favorites.  And, in fact, he was a great storyteller and his S&M activities were extreme and awesome.  They inspired his entourage to some intense public orgasms.)

 

“Well, you’re not dying as much as the guy I just finished with. His name was Curtis, or Carl, or Chris or something like that.  I think it was Chris.  But it doesn’t matter.  He didn’t really deserve a name.  He was a total loser, but an entertaining and eager one.  I’ll go with Chris.  Or cum-slut.  It actually began a couple months ago.”

 

Loki described how he had met Chris at the bar of a hotel in New York City.  Chris was in New York marketing some product or other, and Loki had just closed a deal to buy the hotel.  “The Eagle is really profitable, but I have a lot of money to invest, and renovating medium-quality hotels is a terrific investment.  I’m going to turn that one into the best gay S&M hotel in the world, complete with a no limits bar modeled after this one.  I was in the existing hotel bar having a drink with some fellow investors after we closed the deal, and I noticed this geeky-looking young dweeb staring at me.  I get that a lot from gay guys, given my body and command of the room, so I wasn’t surprised or offended.  I like being admired, and so do my buddies, who are all also major studs.  We deserve it.  The twink looked kind of interesting.  He wasn’t a movie star or anything, but he wasn’t altogether bad looking and those geeky types frankly appeal to me as prospects for torture and sex.  I invited him to join our group, which he did.

 

“I noticed you were staring at me and my buddies.  Are you some sort of fag?”

 

“Sorry., sir.  I didn’t mean to offend you.  I am gay and yes, I think you guys are amazing looking, especially you.  I was fantasizing about you tying me up and fucking me.”

 

That started a conversation Loki especially enjoyed.  He interrogated Chris as to what he liked to do in terms of sex, and learned that the fag was very submissive and, at 28, a bit older than Loki.  But he was not very experienced other than at sucking cock.    Loki unzipped his fly and invited Chris to strip naked in front of everyone at the bar, kneel in front of Loki, and suck his dick.  A bit to Loki’s surprise, Chris did so immediately and quite expertly, fully accepting Loki’s giant cock in his mouth all the way to its base and after a great suck session eagerly swallowing Loki’s gushing load of cum.  It didn’t seem to bother Chris at all to have people staring at him while he degraded himself.  Indeed, Chris quickly achieved a full erection.  (Loki owned the bar, so he didn’t have to worry about rules.  After all, this would soon be the norm for conduct there.)  As Chris used his tongue to clean Loki’s dick and then thanked him for the honor of serving him, Loki asked what sort of limits Chris had. “I don’t think I have any, sir.  For someone like you, I’d let you do whatever you want with me.  I’d be happy to suck off your buddies, or if you prefer I could bend over a table and you could all butt-fuck me.”  Loki was now truly interested, getting a full view of the dweeb’s body.  It really wasn’t bad, and included a very appealing butt.  Chris might be his kind of frag.  He clearly had a promising attitude and sure knew how to suck cock.  Loki ordered Chris a whisky without asking what Chris wanted, and continued the conversation with his naked guest.  He learned that Chris was staying in room 558 in what was now Loki’s hotel, and that he was heading back to central Pennsylvania, near Pittsburg, after making some sales calls the next day.

 

“That’s probably bullshit about no limits, but I’ll give you a test and an offer.  I’m staying in my penthouse, and my buddies and I are going to head there and have an orgy.  We’ll want some slave fags to play with, and it will be very rough.  We’ve arranged for some, but you can join the fun as a slave if you prove yourself obedient enough.  So, stay naked and stay hard, put on this slave collar (Loki handed one to Chris),  and go back to your room.  Pack your shit and leave it in the room.  Walk out with nothing but the collar, not even your room key, and be sure to maintain an erection.  Then go to the elevator by walking completely around the floor so lots of people see you and ride to the penthouse.  If you get arrested or thrown out of the hotel for being naked, that’s your problem.  If someone asks what you’re doing, tell them you’re a worthless slave reporting for punishment and invite them to punish you.  There will be a blindfold on the table by the door to enter the penthouse.  Put that on and ring the doorbell.  You’ll be used by my friends, including some very important people.  I don’t want you able to blackmail them for the awful things I and hey will do to you.  You also won’t know what is about to happen to you as you get tortured and fucked.  I’ll decide what to do with you and your shit after I’m done with you.  Understood?”

 

Chris was shocked, and a little afraid, but he was mostly excited and turned on, so he quickly agreed.  He had lots of extreme fantasies and this fit perfectly with some of them.  He couldn’t hide his reaction anyway, as his cock was now intensely hard, pointing toward the ceiling from all the pressure of his arousal.  One of Loki’s buddies commented and they all laughed at Chris as he put on the slave collar.  That made him blush but turned him on even more.  He returned to his room and did exactly as instructed.  He encountered about two dozen guests during his naked stroll, and was yelled at and threatened by all of them.  He responded as instructed, and several of the guys decided to start the slave punishment early. Two punched him in the nuts, one spat on him, and another kicked him in the butt as he passed, sending Chris sprawling on the floor.  Chris thanked them, offered to let them hit him, kick him, or spit on him again, and continued on his way when they were finished.  (They all accepted a follow-on that involved punishing his exposed genitals.).  To his surprise, none of this made him lose the erection.  The humiliation and pain made it stronger.

 

After he put on the blindfold and rang the doorbell, Chris was dragged into the room and participated in an amazing orgy that lasted through the night.  He had no idea how many guys were in the room, but he was sure each of them raped him at least once.  He did know Loki had been the first, not only from comments being made but from the intense pain in his asshole as Loki brutally rammed him, laughing at the fact Chris was bleeding from his torn flesh as Loki enjoyed raping him.  He was bent over the back of a low chair with his wrists and ankles tied to the chair’s legs to make it more convenient for them to enter his butt-hole and to highlight his vulnerability.  That also made it easy to whip his butt and back, which were severely lacerated by early morning.  He could feel the whip laying on his back between beatings, inviting the next tormentor. He also had lots of cocks inserted in his mouth, some to clean off after he’d been fucked, some to relieve themselves with a load of piss (no point leaving the room to use a toilet when a human urinal was available right there), and many were after a blow job – Chris’s favorite thing to do and his best skill.  He loved sucking cock, especially in public.

 

Chris heard others screaming besides himself, so he knew he was not the only sex slave.  But he also heard Loki encouraging the guests to be especially brutal to Chris.  Chris felt honored.  Late in the evening, one guest, who sounded particularly drunk, asked Loki if it would be OK to drag Chris to the balcony and throw him off so he could watch him fall to his death on the street below.  Loki considered the idea, and acknowledged that would be fun.  But he pointed out the death would be very quick and scum like Chris deserved longer and more painful sessions.  Loki finally decided against the idea because it was too dark to get a clear view of the fall and the broken body on the street, and it might be bad press for the hotel. The conversation was another turn-on for Chris, which Loki noted.

 

After the rapes, Loki thrust a large, electrified dildo up Chris’ torn ass, which sent a stream of electricity through his body.  It was astonishingly painful, and Chris provided very satisfying screams to entertain Loki and his guests.  Loki had a remote control to vary the voltage, but soon grew tired of that and just left it on full power.  They laughed as they watched Chris’s body writhing in pain.

 

Eventually Chris was released from the chair and tied to a rack.  The guests took bets on which setting of the rack would result in Chris’s arms being pulled out of the shoulder sockets, and there was lots of cheering when that happened, after very slow increases to make sure Chris felt all the pain.  This also allowed easy access to whip his chest and torture his nipples and genitals.  The electrified dildo up his ass assured there were no breaks in the pain inflicted on the group’s newfound sex toy.  The constant writhing from the dildo and other sources of torture assured everyone had a chance to enjoy his suffering, but they also noticed and some were even impressed with his continued erection.  Loki thoughtfully helped keep in hard by inserting a metal rod down the piss-slit, although he also attached the rod to an electrical source that heated it up and burned the inside of Chris’s cock.  The screaming from that caused Chris to go hoarse.

 

The evening ended for Chris after he was released from the rack and ordered to masturbate for the guests.  That was nearly impossible with his dislocated arms pretty much useless, but he was eager to do so.  As he began his orgasm he felt a massive pain in his balls.  He had been hit hard by Loki, who used a pair of brass knuckles to enhance the effect.  Loki was exceptionally strong as well as exceptionally beautiful, and Chris’ orgasm turned to agony.  He vomited form the pain, which was followed by a succession of beatings that left him unconscious and covered in his own cum and vomit, along with his own piss that was released as he passed out.  The guests cheered Loki and most added their own piss and/or cum to further drench Chris’ body in waste.

 

When Chris awoke later that morning, he was still naked and realized he had been dumped in a trash bin on the street, as had been his luggage.  His arms were still mostly useless form the dislocation, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to climb out.  Worse yet, he realized he had been dumped on top of another naked young male, but this one was dead.  The corpse had been emasculated and was a mess of broken bones and ripped flesh, with a gaping wound in its belly.  Chris was now not only covered with the vomit, cum, and piss from his own torment, but with the blood of his trash-mate.  He further realized that someone had taken a shit on him.

 

Loki had made sure there was a videographer to record the fun of watching Chris deal with his situation, and a cop to arrest Chris for indecent exposure and sleeping on the streets.  Loki later arranged for the photos and video, clearly showing how messed up Chris’ body was, to be sent to Chris’s Facebook friends (there weren’t many) and to his boss.  Loki had had one of his assistants go through Chris’s stuff and get all his personal data.  These included Chris pissing and masturbating.  Chris desperately needed to empty his bladder, but being stuck in the dumpster he wound up mostly pissing on himself.   Chis also needed to release some of the sexual tension he still felt.  The sight and touch of the mutilated naked corpse had done nothing to turn that off.  He correctly concluded that the party had indeed wound up with a fag being dumped over the side of the penthouse balcony, and he found that sexually exciting, if messy.  A part of him wondered why he had not been selected.  It took him a long time to stroke himself to orgasm, given the dislocation, but his cock was super hard and he added fresh cum to the fresh piss, which spewed over his body and added to the dried waste with which he was covered.

 

The cop waited before arresting Chris to enjoy the show and allow for a longer and more embarrassing video.   The photos and video featured the welts on Chris’s body along with the fact he was covered in vomit, cum, shit, blood, and piss.  They also showed his rock-hard cock, which remained hard after he had the orgasm in the trash bin, reflecting his sexual arousal even after all that had happened – or maybe because of it.

 

As Loki had requested, the cop did not let Chris dress before taking him to the police station, although he did use a nearby garden hose to wash Chris off so the cop wouldn’t have to smell him.   Once Chris was out of the dumpster the local garbage service picked it up and hauled it away.  The corpse would never be found, nor its disappearance likely noticed. Who would possibly give a shit about a dead fag?  Chris remained naked through the brief hearing, after which he was put in jail.  There were a dozen or so other guys in the holding cell, who gang-raping him as the cop invited them to do.

 

Chris had a lot of explaining to do when he paid his fine after a night in jail (where he again got gang-raped this time also including the guards) and finally returned home.  Bad as all that that had happened was in so many ways, however, Chris knew he’d make the same choice all over again.  Indeed, his main regret was that he had no idea who Loki was or whether he’d ever see him again.

 

“I enjoyed torturing and fucking Chris, as did my friends.  He was the most submissive fag I’ve seen in a long while – even more pathetic than Matt here.”  Loki had just gotten another refill from his bar slave.  As Matt left the table Loki kicked him in the butt, causing Matt to stumble and drop the tray of empties he was holding.  Loki made it clear to Matt that he’d be severely punished later for being so clumsy.  Matt sincerely apologized and acknowledged he deserved severe punishment. That began immediately as one of the other patrons amused himself by whipping and kicking Matt as he cleaned up the mess.  But that would only be a start.

 

“I left the little shit alone for a month or so, so his cuts and shoulder would heal.  I don’t like using damaged goods.  But I kept track of him and was amused to see his life fall apart.  He lost his job, of course, and his friends all “unfriended” him.  He had about two months’ savings, and I arranged to ruin his credit rating to get his credit card cancelled and keep him from getting loans.  I waited until his money was gone.  I also made sure that any employer he applied to got a copy of the video.  He was totally broke and isolated.  I’d even managed to fuck up his ability to get unemployment payments, so he was down to nothing.  He had to sell his car, and sell the cool electronic gadgets he owned on eBay.  About all he had left was some clothes and his phone, and he was at the point where he had to vacate his apartment in a day or so.  I’d read his medical records and knew he tended to get depressed, which is what I wanted.  Then I texted him an invitation to contact me, telling him the next encounter would be a lot worse for him.  I was pretty sure he would respond right away, and the dumb-shit did.  That’s the encounter I just returned from.”

 

Loki turned philosophical.  “There are lots of submissive scum out there, like this parenthetic bar slave.  I enjoy torturing and fucking them, but the problem is they enjoy it too much.  I’ve provided a wonderful place for Matt at the bar.  He likes being beaten and humiliated in public, and he loves sucking cock and getting butt-fucked.  Piss and cum are his favorite drinks these days, and he gets to drink a lot of each.  Being displayed naked in public is another turn-on, and it’s in my best interest to let him work out a lot so he stays attractive and fit.  I let him eat left-overs from what he serves at the bar, although I piss and shit on it to be sure it’s disgusting.  He even accepts that as his due, eating and drinking from a dog dish.  When I decide to snuff him, he won’t resist at all, knowing it’s my right and he deserves as horrible a death as I can dream up.  I’m starting to plan that, by the way, since he’s not able to hold an erection as long as he could before we all started kicking his nuts.  They are now damaged and the vet says it would cost a lot to repair them.  He also is showing the scars from all the whipping.  And that’s also part of what I provide him.  He has no decisions to make.  He doesn’t have to worry about whether it’s worth it to repair his nuts; I do that for him.  And he doesn’t have to worry about his career, or what to wear (the group laughed as Matt’s naked body came into sight), what to eat, where to sleep, when to piss or shit, or how to make or keep friends – he isn’t permitted any so it’s simple.  And all I ask in return is total obedience and the right to do whatever I want with him while he’s alive, and to snuff him whenever and however it amuses me to do so.  Oh, and I get to fuck his dead body and use it for food or fertilizer, or both.  For a worthless piece of shit like Matt, it’s a great deal.  In fact, sometimes I think I’m too generous to these slaves, but that’s just how I am.

 

“But Matt has a flaw.  He’ll shoot a great final orgasm as he dies, which we’ll all enjoy watching.  But he doesn’t YEARN to be killed.  He has a place and purpose in the world.  It’ll be fun to torture him to death, of course, but it’s more fun when a scum-bag begs for it.  That’s what I saw as a potential with Chris.  He deserved to die a horrible death, he knew it, and he desperately wanted it.  I just pushed him along a little faster to those realizations by destroying everything in his life that might matter to him.  I was doing him a favor.  Like I said, sometimes I’m just too generous.

 

“That’s why I didn’t let my buddies throw him over the edge at my party.  Chris not only had the right potential attitude, but he’d showed some courage in pursuing it.  It’s a rare twink who will strip naked in a public bar, let alone accept the challenge of my invitation.  I liked the look of his body, and he intrigued me.  So, I vetoed throwing him off the edge.  That would have been a waste.  My buddies weren’t too happy about my decision, as we all had a whole lot of blood lust as we kept partying.  By early morning, as it started to get light, I realized the party wouldn’t be a success unless my guests and I got to snuff one of the fags.  So, we played a variation of “Non-Survivor” where the slave fags vote to decide which of them literally gets thrown off the island – that is, the balcony.  They get into it big time, and it’s fun to watch them maneuver to not be selected.  They’re all prostitutes who know each other well, and old grudges surface fast.  And since the alternative is that we’ll throw them all off the balcony, they enthusiastically play along.  It was fairly soon when one of the fats was selected, despite all his begging for mercy.  So, we beat the shit out of the “winner” and then I cut off his cock and balls.  He was still alive, but not by much.  The point was that he was alive and aware enough to scream wonderfully as we carried him to the edge of the balcony and tossed him into thin air. It was light enough to give us a pleasant view of him flaying wildly as he fell 15 stories.  The most fun, though, was the fact he hit the top of the flag pole in front of the hotel, which impaled him right in the belly.  When we remodel I’m going to add some sharp spikes at various points so we can play target practice.  The goal will be to impale the fag in the butt or nuts.  That will be a lot of fun.

 

“Chris responded to my text as I expected, saying he wanted to see me again, no matter what was planned.  He said he was at the end of his rope and he really didn’t care what I did to him.  I found that pretty amusing my plans – and promising.”

 

Loki had texted back, telling Chris about a secluded camp ground 7 miles out of town that Loki owned and enjoyed.  “I am sending an Uber to pick you up.  Once again, you must be naked.  It adds to your humiliation.  The Uber will arrive in 14 minutes.  Be out front.”

 

Chris was thrilled and did as instructed, not even bothering to bring the keys to his apartment.  It wasn’t his anymore, and he sensed he would not be returning.  The Uber driver made fun of him being naked, especially since Chris had developed an erection thinking about Loki and what might be in store for Chris.  Being ridiculed didn’t bother Chris.  He was excited sexually and emotionally.

 

When Chris was dropped off at the designated spot he saw Loki standing at the trail head next to his Lamborghini.  Loki was naked except for his signature steel-toed leather boots, and Chris literally gasped at the sight of him.  Chris was aware Loki had been named to a god, but now realized that Loki was indeed a god.  No mere mortal could have a body that spectacular, or that dominant.  Every aspect of Loki’s blond frame was perfect, from his chiseled Aryan face to his broad, sculpted shoulders, massive chest, exceptional abs, and powerful legs.  But it was Loki’s manhood that generated the gasp.  Chris had realized its size when he sucked Loki off, and felt it when he was raped.  But now he saw it in its full splendor.   He had assumed stories of 12 in cocks were just bragging fiction, but this was a weapon at least that long, and equivalently think.  No wonder Chris’s ass had hurt so much after the orgy and was still bleeding the next day.  Loki’s balls were similarly huge, with a scrotum that hung halfway to his knees.  As Chris recovered from encountering this male deity, he did what seemed natural to him. He knelt in front of Loki and begged him to take and use Chris however Loki wished.

 

Loki said nothing.  He pointed to the hood of his car, and Chris instantly understood what he was to do.  He quickly went and bent over the hood so that his ass would be conveniently available.  The hood was very hot from the recent journey and burned Chris’s chest, but that obviously didn’t matter.  When Loki rammed his hard dick into Chris, Chris was in ecstasy with both pain and pleasure.  He had no doubt his innards were again ripped open, but that was what he wanted.  Anything to please Loki, and the more pain Chris endured the better.  Loki was in no hurry, and the fucking lasted for over 30 minutes before Loki shot a massive load into Chris.  After emptying his load, Loki inserted the electrified dildo into Chris that he’d used during the orgy.  This time Chris did not scream, recognizing that he deserved to be in constant, extreme pain.  Chris was then permitted to again kneel in front of Loki, who used his boot to kick Chris hard in nuts.  Chris was then permitted to use his tongue to clean the dick and his mouth to accept a load of piss.  Chris was struggling not to shoot his own load, but knew he was not permitted even to ask permission to do that.  Loki was in control of all aspects of Chris’s body.  Chris had become the totally dominated animal he always knew he should be.

 

Loki spoke for the first time, pointing to a large backpack on the ground next to the car.  “You are to carry that and follow me.  It cantinas the implements I will use to restrain and torture you, plus what I wish to have for my comfort for the night.”

 

The two men hiked silently for about six miles to a beautiful campsite next to a pristine river.  There was a supply pf wood next to the campsite, among other implements, and Loki pointed to it as where Chris was to put the backpack.  It was late afternoon and Loki took a flint form the backpack and used it to start a fire.  He also instructed Chris to bathe in the river to clean off his sweat and properly prepare is body for Loki’s use.  The water was ice cold, but even that did not dampen Chris’s erection.  After Chris was done, he next fetched water in a pail that Loki then placed over the fire.  In due course, Loki bathed himself with fresh, warm river water.  Both men were refreshed form their hike.

 

Loki next reached into the backpack and pulled out a series of implements, including a rope with a noose tied at one end.  “Put this around your neck and toss the loose end over the branch on that tree.”  Chris did as instruct, and Loki then grabbed the loose end of the rope and pulled on it slowly until Chris’s feet were slightly off the ground.  The noose did not tighten so it did not completely cut off Chris’s breathing, although in time the pressure on his neck would strangle him.  Chris realized this, but also knew it was OK so long as that is what Loki wanted to have happen.  He only hoped Loki would get more use out of him than just a simple hanging.

 

Loki was not ready for Chris to die yet.  “I do not plan for you to die tonight, although I may change my mind.  But I do plan for you to suffer.”  With that Loki picked up a whip and sued his great strength to brutally began lash his victim, starting with the chest and abs so he could enjoy the look of pain on Chris’s face, but proceeding to the back and butt to be sure every part of Chris was in pain.  As the body swayed back and forth under the whip strokes, it had the desired effect of making it even harder for Chris to breath.  Loki was expert at torture, and made sure Chris did not suffocate.  He also monitored the lashing so that he did not break the skin.  He had other uses for this body.

 

Loki noted with satisfaction that Chris remained erect.  Part of that was, of course, the effect of being hanged, but mostly it was Chris’s sexual needs being met. Loki approved, since having the cock stick out like that made it more fun to whip.

 

“What do you have to say for yourself, slave?”

 

“Thank you for using me, Master.”

 

“What do you want me to do with you?”

 

“Whatever you want, Master.  I have no will of my own any more.  I am your property to use and dispose of as you wish.”

 

“And does that include killing you?”

 

“Yes, Master.  Being killed by you would be an honor.  It is more than I deserve.”

 

“That is correct.  I will consider your fate.  But tonight, you must prepare yourself.  As you know, I am Loki, and Loki is a god.  You are but a piece of meat.  But you may achieve the wisdom to fully embrace your fate as the great God Odin once did.  To achieve wisdom, he allowed himself to be tied naked to a tree and endured the elements.   That is your task between now and tomorrow morning, and you are to consider how great the honor would be if I take your life to enhance slightly one of my orgasms during my annual contemplative retreat.  I return to this place each year to reconnect with my heritage and with Odin, and I sacrifice male meat as Odin requires.  You are to beg for that honor, realizing how utterly worthless your life is.  And you are to suggest ways in which I might make use of your body before and after you die.”

 

“But first, you must be labeled for what you are – my property.”  Loki proceeded to the fire, where he had placed a branding iron.  It was now red hot, and he retrieved it and approached the beaten body hanging by its neck.  The lettering was small and the message was simple: “Property of Loki.”  He branded Chris in two places, enjoying the aromatic smell of burning flesh and the inhuman screams of his victim. One was on his right pec just above the nipple, and the other was on his back just below the neck.  Despite the extreme pain, Chris was thrilled and grateful.  “Thank you, Master.  It is generous of you to accept my body as your property.  I know this includes your right to end my life as you wish.”

 

Loki continued to torture Chris for several more hours, enjoying not only whipping him but also using his brass knuckles to once again attack Chris’s balls, which swelled considerably from the blows.    “I want you to remain in pain throughout the night.  Some of that can be achieved through the dildo, which I will leave inside you at full power.  But I want your whole body to suffer.”  With that statement, Loki lowered Chris to the ground and released the noose.  He had observed the youth was starting to lose his ability to breath, and didn’t want Chris to die so easily.  The twink collapsed, choking.

 

“I have worked up a sweat punishing you.  And so, have you.  Once again cleanse yourself in the river, and fetch me some water so I can heat it up and cleanse myself.  Then you may have the honor of sucking my cock and drinking my piss.”  Chris, of course, did exactly as instructed, and greatly enjoyed sucking the massive cock.  He choked on it a few times, of course, and Loki kicked him in the balls for doing so, but he was overall very successful, and the hot cum streaming down his throat was totally satisfying, as was the piss that soon followed it.

 

“Stand by that tree with your back to it.  Then spread out your arms and legs.”  Loki approached Chris with long strands of rope.    He tied both the hands and the feet so that the rope reached around the tree and firmly held each in place.  Chris was now spread-eagled, firmly fastened to the tree.  Loki next attached a rope around Chris’s neck, which was also strung around the tree to further secure his body.  Loki was quite pleased with the arousing site of this young willing victim standing naked, fastened to a tree, branded for what he was, with his cock massively erect.  Loki at times believed himself to actually be one of the Norse gods, and felt this is what his father Odin would want by way of sacrifice.

 

But there was not yet enough pain.  Loki approached Chris and reminded him that he was to spend the night in extreme pain throughout his body.   Chris understood and once again thanked Loki for assuring he suffered adequately.  As he finished, Loki again used his great strength, this time to bend Chris’s right arm so that he completely broke the elbow. Chris screamed, but again expressed his thanks.   He did so again three times, as his left elbow and both knees were also rendered forever useless.  The body was now in total pain as Loki had planned.

 

“It is now time for my dinner, and for you to begin your night of pain and contemplation.  You will contribute here as well.  While I have brought other meat to cook, I wish to start with something entirely fresh.  You have no further need to produce sperm, so I am removing your testicles.  You will watch me eat them.  If I decide to let you have a final orgasm, the sperm you already have in your body will suffice.”

 

Loki cut very slowly into Chris’s scrotum to prolong the pain.  He removed each testicle slowly and had Chris lick it clean.  Then he consumed it in front of its prior owner.  Loki finished by cauterizing the wound so Chris would not bleed to death overnight.  But that was only to keep his victim alive for further tortures.

 

Chris was mostly overcome by pain at first, but as the evening turned into night he recovered enough to contemplate what was happening.  He was now castrated and his limbs were broken.  He had anticipated meeting with Loki would be fatal, but had no idea there would be this much pain.  But he also had no idea it would be this thrilling.  He was fulfilling Loki’s need to dominate, and that was far more important than Chris’s life and a wonderful use for Chris’s body.  He genuinely looked forward to completing his contribution the next morning by dying some sort of horrible death, hoping it would meet Loki’s expectations.  As he watched Loki finish his meal and settle down for a good night’s sleep on a comfortable air mattress under the stars, the sense of gratitude was far greater than the sense of pain.

 

. . . . .

 

Chris was unable to sleep that night due to the combination of pain and excitement, so he had the thrill of watching Loki wake up as the sun rose.  The human deity stretched his beautiful body and stroked his enormous cock.   He rose, pleased to see his human sacrifice still alive but clearly without any rest.  That was how he wanted it.

 

Loki left Chris tied to the tree while he enjoyed a hearty breakfast he retrieved from the backpack and from several coolers that had been placed near the fire pit before the two men had arrived.  Only then did he turn his attention to the broken animal he was enjoying so much.  So far, this piece of meat had greatly exceeded his expectation, and he felt confident it would also do so as it died.

 

“So, meat, what have you to propose for the use of your worthless body?  And are you still anxious to forfeit your pathetic life for my fleeting pleasure?”

 

“I am, Master.  I am just hopeful you will inflict a death that fully pleases you through its length and cruelty.  As for my body, I suggest you consider me as food.  And there is no reason you should not enjoy fucking me after I’m’ dead and before my flesh cools.  Perhaps, by way of an ongoing use, you might find use for my skin as a source of leather for you attire.  But perhaps that is too forward on my part.  I know I do not deserve that level of honor.”

 

Loki was completely pleased.  This was exactly what he wanted to hear, and it was also how he had planned to use the twink.

 

“you finally got something right, slave.  You will have the great honor of me torturing you to death this morning, And I will use your body as you suggest, since that is what I planned.  Indeed, from the time you stepped naked in the bar to get to suck me off, I concluded that your skin would convert nicely to leather.  You will be preserved as my new leather jacket, something vastly more important than your life.  The branding I did yesterday was strategically placed and will survive the leathermaking process, and everyone will know the jacket is mine.”

 

Loki untied Chris from the tree and led, or mostly carried, the body over to the branch where it had been hanged the afternoon before.  He attached a different noose around Chris’s neck, but this time didn’t raise Chris above the ground.  The noose just held him upright, as this was one designed to tighten under the weight of a body, which meant it and that would fatally choke Chris when Chris was lifted by the rope.  Loki needed the youth to breath, at last for a while.  He didn’t bother to tie Chris’s wrists behind his back as is traditional for a hanging.  He knew there would be no resistance.  And even if Chris tried, his arms were no longer functional.

 

Loki began by gutting Chris just above the cock, inserting the knife deeply and slowly cutting upward.  This was a favorite method of torture for Loki as he knew how amazingly painful it was for the victim.  Chris was no exception and Loki especially enjoyed the screams as they took on more of the sound of a n animal than a person.  After all, that’s what Chris always was.

 

“I like to start by opening up the guts and removing some of the innards that aren’t very eatable,” Loki explained as he slowly cut upward toward the base of the rib cage.  He made a sideways cut at the top and then peeled back the skin to reveal the organs inside.  Loki cut out and removed various organs, showing them to Chris as he pulled them out.  But he was careful to tie off the arteries and veins to keep the bleeding to a minimum.  Loki was quite expert at this, having majored in human anatomy in college so he could be a more effective torturer.  He put the organs in one of two coolers. Things that could be prepared for a delicious meal, like the liver, were in one cooler.  Other parts that weren’t suitable went into the other cooler.  “I personally like liver, and I’m confident yours will be delicious,” he explained.  “But I don’t want to be wasteful, and I’ll feed parts like your intestines and stomach to the slaves who work in my bar.  It will be fun to watch, and it’s probably even nutritious.”

 

Loki next turned to skinning Chris alive, which was a skill and task Loki also enjoyed and was very good at doing.  His knife continued to Chris’s chest, but this time not at all keep.  Loki peeled off the young skin he’d admired so much, and in a brief time Chris’s chest and belly were skinless.  His back, legs, and arms soon followed, with Loki carefully assuring the skin came off in large sections to make it easier to prepare the leather.  It was a tribute to Loki’s remarkable skill that Chris remained alive, albeit missing a lot of his insides and all the skin on his body.

 

But now it was time for Chris to die.  Loki pulled on the rope so that Chris was now off the ground, with the noose tightening as he continued to writhe in utter agony.  But there was no sudden fall of the body to break the neck as in a traditional execution.  Loki wanted Chris to die as slowly as possible, and this would happen due to being suffocated as the noose tightened around his neck.  While the vivisection and the skinning were enough to prove fatal, Loki enjoyed the look of terror on the face of a victim who was slowly deprived of oxygen.

 

“you’ll be dead pretty soon, and I’ll enjoy watching you suffer until then.  When you die, by the way, you will have an orgasm.  I didn’t let you cum earlier while you were alive not only because I don’t want you to feel pleasure, but because you wouldn’t have had any sperm stored up after I ate your balls.  No one knows if there’s any sexual satisfaction form an orgasm that is triggered by death, as it’s mostly a bodily function of blood flow to the cock.  I hope there isn’t any, as you don’t deserve it, but I am confident the agony and terror of death will be the greater reaction.  I do know it’s a whole lot of fun to watch a young male body cum and go at the same time.

 

The blood loss form being gutted, skinned, and robbed of internal organs meant Chris did not last much longer.  But there was some entertainment as his survival instinct kicked in and his useless arms tried to reach the noose.  Loki hadn’t expected that and laughed out loud.  It was really amusing.  Chris also didn’t disappoint on the orgasm front.  His cock had remained hard, as usually happens with guys getting hanged, and as his body began the final death spasms the cock erupted, squirting out a massive and powerful load of cum.

 

Loki was quite pleased.  He was also thoroughly aroused, and quickly cut down the body for its sexual use.  He entered the asshole for the last time, enjoying the warmth and the pressure generated as the fag completed its final death convulsions.  Fucking guys as they died was Loki’s favorite sex act.  The intensity of his orgasm more than justified the trivial sacrifice of Chris’s young life.

 

. . .  .

 

Loki finished his story to the appreciation of his audience just as dinner was served.  As the group began their meal there were lots of questions.

 

“So how did the jacket turn out?”  Loki reached down and showed off his new attire.  It was expertly done, and he pointed out how well the branding had worked out.  Chris was now clearly “property of Loki.”  And Loki also pointed out a feature he’d added.  “I thoroughly enjoyed watching the meat burst into its final orgasm, so I kept the cock, and used it as the pull for the zipper.”  Everyone admired the preserved cock hanging down from the zipper, the only part of Chris that would generate a memory.

 

“And what about the meat?  Did the slaves enjoy the intestines?  And did the choice parts cook up well?”

 

“We’re going to feature a ‘feast’ of the slaves eating the loser’s innards right after dinner as a start to tonight’s sex and torture fun.  We can add some piss and shit to enhance the flavor.  As for the prime cuts, please let me know.  Personally, I think the meat did indeed turnout to be delicious.”  And with that, Loki cut himself a second large piece of twink breast meat.

Adam Anew

Toby glanced down at Mike’s thick, swollen cock.  Turning his long-lashed, emerald green eyes back to Mike’s face, he grinned happily, then lowered his head and began to suck the oozing shaft.

 

“Fuck,” Mike moaned, running his hands over Toby’s smooth, firm body.  He clutched the cocksucker’s arms, feeling the biceps moving under the sleeve of tattoos decorating both arms.  One of the things that had attracted Mike to Toby when they met at the gym was the latter’s skater punk look.  Not that Toby wasn’t as into working out as Mike; but Mike’s was a more conventional buff fag attractiveness.

 

If it wasn’t love, it had been immediate lust at first sight for both.  Within a month, they’d moved in together; that had been more than nine months ago—and the sex was still as hot as ever.

 

Mike grunted, his sweat-streaked face twisting into a grimace.  “Fuckin’-A, dude, I’m gonna unload in yer mouth,” he panted and Toby, anxious for that hot spurt down his throat, redoubled his efforts.

 

Neither one of them had any idea they were being watched.

 

They’d left the blinds open; no reason they shouldn’t have—the window looked out onto a small yard surrounded by a privacy fence.  Powerful as he was, Adam had been able to vault himself over the fence and land silently on the inside.  Now he crouched outside the window, watching, his muscled body inflamed with desire for the young well-built bodies of the twinks and overwhelming disgust for the pathetic homos having sex in front of him.

 

Mike and Toby still had a daily routine at the gym, but they varied the times they went.  Unluckily for them, two weeks ago, they’d been spotted there by Adam.  He’d had an idea, a desire, a need—but he also needed a couple to help him fulfill it, and he felt like he’d just discovered the perfect pair.

 

The idea of pollution had been building in the back of his warped mind.  He’d already accepted that fucking a living fag would tarnish him as a homo himself; he needed to purify the meat by snuffing it first.

 

Recently, though, he’d worked out his necro philosophy in more detail and decided that there were levels of purity.  The meat that suffered the most was the most pure; suffering purged the faggot taint out of whatever boycunt he fucked.

 

That being said, how could he know how pure the meat was unless he offed it himself?  Restlessly, his mind turned back to all the corpses he’d plowed that he hadn’t killed.  There was no way to know how much they’d suffered—well, except for that last one, the one in the pool locker room; he’d witnessed that snuff and knew he had nothing to fear there.

 

And that was when he’d had the idea.  It rose up in him, a great urge that had to be satisfied if he was going to feel cleansed again.

 

He needed to recreate those kills—but this time, he’d be the killer.  That was the only was he could purge himself of the infection of faggotry.  And this time, he’d make goddam sure the meat suffered.

 

His first necro fuck had been the two dudes in the condo; the day after coming to this conclusion, Adam had been on the hunt for a couple of pansies that he could snuff simultaneously.  And the day after that, while finishing up some squats at the gym, his eyes lighted on Mike and Toby, the former doing some bench presses and the latter spotting him.

 

At one point, Mike had set the barbell back on the rests and, glancing around to see if anyone was looking, reached his hand up the leg of Toby’s shorts and fondled the smaller dude’s cock for a moment.  Despite his careful scoping, Mike never caught sight of Adam’s eagle-eye stare; from then on, he and Toby were marked for death.

 

They appeared to be about the same age—Mike was twenty-three and Toby twenty-one—but Mike was the larger and better-built of the two, by quite bit.  At six-foot-one and a hundred and sixty pounds, he certainly wouldn’t have been Adam’s equal in any physical contest, but he was still muscular enough to turn some heads.  His short strawberry-blond hair capped a broad, good-natured face which lodged a pair of deep, emotive brown eyes, a short straight nose, smooth cheeks and full, red lips.

 

Toby was more of a twink at 5-foot-nine and just over a hundred and forty.  His long brown hair was straight and shoulder-length; beneath his green eyes and slightly humped nose (evidence of a skateboard mishap that had broken it), he sported a soul patch of thick brown fur on his chin.

 

After that, Adam started tracking them, stalking the two fags as his prey.  He managed to catch them in the locker room a couple of times, giving him the chance to get a better look at the meat he wanted to fuck.  The skater punk maintained him image; the writhing patterns and designs of both tattooed arms continuing over his shoulders and down to the tops of his pecs, leaving his small brown nipples free.  There was a very faint brown haze of body hair on his flat belly that vanished under his waistband, but otherwise, his lean, lithe body was smooth.  Despite the elaboration of the tattooed sleeves, Adam was amused to note that a single open star had been rather inexpertly inked on the back of Toby’s right calf.

 

Mike’s muscled body was almost as smooth; his bulging pecs and ripped six-pack glistened with sweat under the gym’s fluorescent lights.  The size of his hog was obvious in the skimpy shorts he chose to wear, as was his near-constant state of semi-erectness.  Again, Toby followed him in this, but the skaterboy’s six inches couldn’t compare with his buff buddy’s long, thick cock.

 

And again, Adam smirked contemptuously.  Neither one of them had a dick as big as his—but then, that was only to be expected from faggots.  Might as well put ‘em outta their misery and put their meatsacks to some good purpose.

 

All of which was why Adam was crouched outside their rented condo.  He wasn’t going in tonight; he’d simply been taking a look at the layout and hadn’t actually expected them to be home—they usually went out on Thursday nights.  And Adam wanted them both together in the bedroom they shared, not down here.  But despite having to watch their vile homo sex, the evening hadn’t been a total washout; the sick necro killer had learned that none of windows looking into the private fenced yard were kept locked.  When he was ready, he wouldn’t have any problems gaining access to the interior of the unit.

 

Two days later, he was ready.

 

Mike and Toby had plans to go clubbing with some friends on Saturday night but the moment they’d paid their cover charge, Tyler had gotten into a bitchfight with his latest trick and it was easier to just split than listen to the squabbling.  Besides, Mike would have preferred to stay home and lay pipe up Toby’s ass all night anyway; it was the latter who’d wanted to go out.

 

At any rate, they were home by about eleven that night.  Half an hour later, both were in the bedroom.  Mike was seated on the unmade bed wearing nothing more than a pair of American Eagle boxer briefs and a pair of Nike Vandal hightops.  Both the kicks and the briefs were gray; the latter had a thick black waistband that stretched tautly around Mike’s narrow waist and black seams down the front that outlined the muscle twink’s huge package.

 

He was leaning back against the headboard, his left leg drawn up with the sneaker on the sheet and his right leg dangling.  With one arm bent back behind his head as a sort of cushion, Mike toked on a freshly-lit joint and ogled Toby, who stood the center of the room.

 

The slim, tatted skaterpunk had slipped out of all his clothing.  Completely nude except for his black Adidas Baseline kicks, he was returning from the attached bathroom, his own dick hard and bobbing in front of him as he approached Mike.

 

Reaching the bed, he stood next to it.  “Here, gimme a hit,” he grinned, reaching out for the joint.  Mike relinquished it but reached out himself, grabbing Toby’s shaft and jacking it as the younger punk inhaled deeply.

 

“That’s it,” Mike said approvingly as Toby exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke, “Get yourself nice and high.  You’re gonna need it before your ass goes off duty for the night.”

 

“Yeah, I bet,” Toby replied with stoned grin, “I know you’re—”

 

With a loud crash, the bedroom door was kicked open, a single, powerful kick that literally broke the door in half.  A hulking masculine figure, dressed in black, strode into the room, raw power obvious in every step he took.

 

Adam had given up his usual gym attire for this one.  He’d wanted to take the pansies by surprise and anyway their condo wasn’t a public place—he’d have no excuse for being seen near the place, so it was best not to be seen at all.

 

To that extent, he’d made sure that his long-sleeve t-shirt and tight-fitting cargo pants were matte black, nearly impossible to see under the cover of night.  His bright copper hair was likewise covered with a close-fitting black knit cap.  And he’d forgone his sneakers.  While he’d been able to clear the fence the other night, his feet had nearly slipped; he wanted better traction.

 

He’d found it in a pair of Magnum Response III tactical boots, custom ordered with steel toes.  He’d bought them for another reason, but thought they’d work perfectly for what he had in mind.  He’d been right.  He planted his big black lace-up boot in the middle of the door and kicked his way into the homos’ bedroom with almost no effort at all.

 

For Mike and Toby, the violence seemed to explode like a bomb.  Their different personalities were obvious by their actions once the “fight or flight” instinct kicked in.  Toby shrank back into a corner in fear as Mike leaped off the bed and came at the intruder.

 

He never stood a chance.  Adam, seeing him coming, drew back his powerful arm and swung wide, driving his balled-up fist into Mike’s face with the force of a semi hitting a brick wall.  The unlucky faggot spun in a half-circle, staggering back and falling, stunned, against the bed.

 

Filled with rage and lust, Adam turned to Toby, who crouched whimpering in the corner of the bedroom.  Seeing that he’d attracted the intruder’s attention, the lean skater punk began babbling.  “No, man,” he whined, holding up his hands, “Whatever you want, dude, just take it—please don’t hurt us, man, please don’t!”

 

Striding towards him with a homicidal gleam in his eye, Adam laughed coldly.  “Yeah, I’m gonna take what I want, you fuckin’ pansy.  I’m gonna take the fag right outta you, cunt.  When I’m done with you, you ain’t ever gonna suck another cock again, cunt.”

 

By now, he was standing in front of Toby, looming over quaking homo.  From behind, he could hear the long, slow groans of Mike regaining consciousness, but he wasn’t particularly worried about him.  He’d handle the stronger fairy when he needed to.

 

Toby looked up at Adam, trying to understand his words.  He was still terrified; this huge, powerful stranger had burst into the room and punched out Mike with a single blow—what the fuck was going on?

 

“Is-is this some kinda hate crime?” the long-haired punk quavered, his eyes starting to tear up.

 

“Hah!” Adam spat out, “Lookit the little queerboy, already startin’ to cry.  You bet it’s a hate crime, you punk-ass bitch.”  And here he reached down, unzipped the fly of his black cargo pants and hauled his enormous, dripping dick out.

 

Toby gasped at the size of Adam’s member; even Mike, big as he was, wasn’t that well-hung—this dude was some kinda freak.  Despite himself, he could feel his own cock respond—limp with fear, it was now stiffening and standing erect.

 

Adam noticed it too.  He laughed coldly.  “Ya want it, dontcha?  You think you deserve this cock?  Fuck you, faggot.  You’re fuckin’ scum.  You want this shaft, this real man meat, you gotta earn it.”

 

Reaching down, Adam clamped one large strong hand around Toby’s throat and lifted him bodily off the ground.  Holding him out at arm’s length, he chuckled as the skaterboy gagged and jerked, his black Adidas kicks swinging helplessly a foot from the ground.

 

Looking directly into Toby’s eyes, Adam smiled—a thin smile, sharp as the edge of a knife—and said, “Only one way to earn my cock, faggot—you gotta suffer.  And you don’t know the meaning of that word yet, but don’t worry—I’ll teach ya.  And yer little fairy boyfriend there too.  You’ll both learn how to suffer real good.”

 

Staring into the cunt’s eyes, Adam caught a flicker of movement.  Slamming Toby into the wall and dropping him like a sack of potatoes, the muscular killer wheeled around and caught Mike full in the face with another powerful punch, just as the buff young homo had regained his feet and launched himself for an attack.

 

With a loud grunt, Mike fell to the floor, bleeding from the corner of his mouth.  Dazed by this second impact, he stared dully up at Adam.  “Stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” Adam sneered.  “Don’t know when to stay down, do ya?  Here, maybe this’ll learn ya.”  Stooping, he punched Mike in the face yet again.  This time he was rewarded with the satisfying crunching sound of the faggot’s nose breaking, the cartilage crushed under the force of his fist.

 

Pausing for a moment, Adam unzipped one of the pockets on the left thigh of his cargo pants and withdrew several long zip ties.  “You win the grand prize, you lucky cocksucker,” he smirked.  “You get to watch.  Pay attention, asswipe, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”

 

The well-built homo was flipped onto his belly; he could feel a thin plastic tie cinch inexorably around his wrists and another around his ankles, but the two powerful blows to his face had rendered him incapable of any physical activity for the moment.  By the time he recovered enough to attempt any resistance, it was too late.  Strong as he was, Mike wasn’t able to stretch the zip ties so much as a quarter of an inch, much less break them.

 

Adam kicked the faggot’s prone body viciously, using enough force to roll him onto his back.  Much like he’d handled Toby, the hulking, muscle-bound killer bent down and grabbed Mike by the throat, lifting him into the air.  Gagging, his Nike Vandals kicking uselessly inches above the carpet, the hardbodied twink was manhandled back to the bed, where Adam tossed him down.  Snatching a handful of hair, the sadist dragged Mike upright, propping him into a seated position where he could take in the entire bedroom in a single glance.

 

Mike was gonna have a perfect view of Adam snuffing Toby.

 

In the meantime the long-haired fairy had crawled back into the corner, his young face etched with bewildered terror.  He’d always expected Mike to defend him if the need arose, but this huge, bulked-out psycho who’d burst in on them so unexpectedly had overpowered Mike like he’d been a little girl.  Now the man was rounding on him, and he was helpless.  Whatever was gonna happen, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

“Oh God, no,” he sniveled, cowering as Adam loomed over him.  Glancing hesitantly up at his attacker, he watched mesmerized as the towering madman unexpectedly gabbed the hem of his own t-shirt and pulled it off over his head in a single, fluid motion, revealing his hard, furry torso that descended in a V-shape from his broad shoulders and firm, rounded pecs to his narrow waist.  The knit cap had come off, tangled in the shirt, and revealed a slightly tangled mass of bright, coppery hair.

 

The dude was a serious stud.  Toby felt himself getting hard.  But that was despite of his terror, not because of it, and even though he could see a large translucent bead of precum oozing from the piss slit of the intruder’s cock, fear was taking more of his attention at the moment than horniness.

 

The fear was well-deserved.  Adam bent down and grabbed a hank of Toby’s long hair.  Wrapping it around his palm he jerked the squalling twink up onto his feet.

 

“C’mon, faggot, let’s get started,” he growled, grabbing Toby by the throat and hoisting him in the air again, “I gotta load to drain and I can already tell it’s gonna take a while to beat the queer outta a pathetic little homo like you.”

 

Toby only kicked in Adam’s grip for a moment before his face and his world exploded in pain.  Adam punched him vicious in the face, then hurled him across the room.  The skater’s lean body slammed into the front of the dresser. The force of the impact rolled him up over the top of it, scattering everything—their cell phones, their wallets, piles of loose change and receipts, all of it went flying as Toby smacked into the wall, then rolled back forward off the dresser and onto the floor.

 

Groaning in pain, the tattooed twink opened his eyes.  To hurt to move, all he could see of his assailant as he approached were his laced-up boots.  They came nearer, then one drew back.  By the time Toby realized what it meant, it was too late to avoid it.  With one single brutal kick from his steel-toed boot, Adam broke Toby’s jaw.

 

The lean, lithe punkboy spent the next minute or so writhing on the floor, gurgling and mewling in agony as Adam watched him with erect, throbbing satisfaction.  The buff killer didn’t get to enjoy the view in peace for long, though—the other faggot began to squawk.

 

“You sonovabitch!” Mike screamed, “I’m gonna fuck you up!  You hurt him, I’m gonna fuck you up bad!”

 

Adam looked around the room and soon saw what he’d expected to find.  Ambling over to a pile of dirty laundry near the closet door, he bent down and picked up a reeking, stained jockstrap, stiff with cum.  Turning back to Mike with a grin, he said, “You’ll get yer chance to squeal like a pig yerself later, cunt, for all the good it’ll do ya.  In the meantime, keep your fuckin’ trap shut and enjoy watchin’ yer bitch suffer.”  Rolling the jock into a ball, he forced it into Mike’s mouth, leaving the muscled top gagging and mute, but still able to see everything that happened.

 

While Adam’s attention was diverted, an instinct for self-preservation kicked in deep inside Toby’s craven soul.  Even though the slightest movement of his head caused him terrible agony, he managed to rise to his hands and knees and crawl.  By the time Adam had silenced Mike and turned back to Toby, the latter was halfway to the door.

 

“Oh no you don’t, asswipe,” Adam growled and headed for him.  Toby could hear him approaching from behind; desperate tears leaked from his eyes as he realized he’d never make the door before the powerful psycho had reached him, but he had to keep going, he had to try…

 

When Adam got to him, he merely stood over the cringing, crawling twink for a moment, chuckling gutturally.  Then he delivered another vicious, lightning-fast kick, this one connecting with Toby’s left elbow.

 

The force behind the steel-toed boot didn’t just dislocate the joint, it snapped the ball end off the humerus, tore the tendons and completely severed the ligaments.  Despite the pain in his jaw, Toby screeched involuntarily as he collapsed and rolled onto his left side.  Adam walked around the sobbing, trembling punk until he was facing him.

 

“Didja really think you were gonna get away, you stupid sack of shit?  Fuck, dude, here I was tryin’ to make ya worth my dick, and now it looks like I’m gonna hafta kick the dumbass outta ya, you worthless faggot bitch.”  Still sobbing incoherently, Toby didn’t even notice Adam raise his foot up.

 

He damn sure noticed when Adam stomped on his chest, the deep tread of his thick-soled boot grinding into Toby’s soft flesh.  The loud snapping sound that accompanied it, like the splintering of a green limb, showed that one of the punkboy’s ribs had caved in under the sudden force—and if it didn’t show it, the sudden, high-pitched squeal forced from between Toby’s split, bleeding lips did.

 

“Fuck yeah!  That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Adam crowed, his huge, stiff cock pulsing visibly while he drank in the image of the tattooed skate punk writhing in nightmarish agony.  He was really getting off on hurting the little homo, seeing the fear and pain in his eyes.  And he still had another fucktoy in reserve—tonight was gonna be so fuckin’ hot…

 

Toby was wrapped in torment like a flaming blanket.  Every part of him was throbbing with pain, from the dull ache of bruised flesh to the glassy torture of broken bones.  He’d stopped trying to think; he could only endure.  An involuntary muscle jerk had pulled his head slightly to the side—from where he lay on the floor, he could clearly see Mike on the bed.  The idea that Mike might rescue him was long gone.  Mike was on the other side of the room, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world.  Toby could see that his boyfriend was crying, but it meant nothing.

 

Pain was the only thing that had meaning for Toby anymore.  And Adam knew it.

 

The relentless sadist sneered at his prey.  “Does it hurt, bitch?  Yeah?  It ain’t enough, you worthless sack of faggot shit; you ain’t hurt anywhere near enough yet to deserve my grade-A manmeat.”  He raised his boot again.  This time, Toby knew what was happening.  As Adam stomped, the fit, lean youth swung his right arm up and knocked the alpha’s foot away with all the force he could muster.

 

“You stupid pansy,” Adam barked and planted his foot in the middle of the kid’s right forearm, his big black boot covering a large section of inked flesh.  With a swift, smooth motion—so casual it almost looked rehearsed—the powerful psycho bent down, grabbed Toby right wrist, and pulled it violently upward.  There was a quick double-snap as both the radius and the ulna splintered; when Adam let go, the kid’s arm flopped uselessly back to the floor.

 

Toby didn’t react to this new source of pain.  Deep in sensory overload, he was starting to go into shock.  Lying on his back with his smooth chest heaving in shallow, irregular gasps, the tortured twink stared the ceiling, his bright green eyes wide and vacant.  His short, thick cock had gone limp, but that didn’t bother Adam.  He knew the punk would get hard again by the time he was done with him.

 

After all, the meat would be even more pure if the worthless fag sperm was drained out of it before Adam fucked it.

 

“Hey, queer-boy,” Adam called out to Mike, “It’s time.  Watch this shit, dude.  Watch me waste your cocksuckin’ homo boyfriend.”

 

As Toby continued to shudder and tremble on the floor, Adam waked around him until he was facing Mike on the bed.  With a wide, deliberate grin, he raised his right foot and planted his boot on the young faggot’s neck.  The sadistic killer stared directly into Mike’s disbelieving, tear-filled eyes.  “Look, ma,” he whispered.  “No hands.”  The hulking stud slowly began shifting his weight onto the foot on Toby’s neck.

 

The tattooed skaterpunk could only stare helplessly up at the huge, muscle-bound figure towering over him; there was no way for Toby to defend himself.  His broken arms jerked and flopped aimlessly, like dying fish; he had no way reach for the heavy black boot that was slowly—oh, so slowly—crushing his throat.  If he kicked, he bent his abdomen, causing his snapped rib to dig agonizingly into his guts, threatening to puncture his lung and pancreas.  If he tried to cry out, the jagged ends of his broken jaw ground together, causing hellish pain in his mouth…

 

Every movement bristled with torture, but Toby’s air was gradually being cut off.  He couldn’t keep still.  The tread on the killer’s sole was deep and intricate; as it sank into the tender flesh of his throat, what little lucidity the long-haired power bottom still possessed began to melt away in the face of impending asphyxiation.

 

Adam bent his head and spat in Toby’s face.  “Gettin’ harder to breathe, ain’t it?” he chuckled.  “See, as you choke an’ die, yer dick is gonna get all hard—and then yer gonna cum.  Happens almost every time I choke out a faggot.  You perverted little pansies empty your fuckin’ balls every time I waste ya—nothin’ turns ya on like gettin’ put down hard.  You wanna suffer even more than I wanna fuck you up.  Disgusting sack a’ shit—I gotta squeeze your load out and drain your sick fag seed outta yer meat to make it worthy of my cock.  Don’t worry, motherfucker—I’ll fill yer worthless corpse with my sperm.  I’ll baptize yer guts with hot manspunk before I leave you to rot.  And best of all, your fairy-ass boyfriend gets to watch you die!”

 

The words hit Toby’s ears like a dull ache, utterly swamped in the rising tide of instinctive terror as his oxygen was cut off.  He began to shudder and kick, helplessly flailing his firm, smooth legs and jerking his broken arms aimlessly.  Air.  He needed air.

 

And that was when it finally hit the lean twink—the realization that he was gonna die finally sank through the multiple layer of pain that had wrapped him like a cocoon.  Panic set in, a terrifying white panic the left him conscious and aware but still unable to control his actions.  Smirking, Adam watched Toby lose his shit as the boy choked under the alpha’s booted foot.  The pathetic little homo thrashed, his Adidas Baseline kicks carving furrows in the carpet as his inked arms flailed limply and helplessly.

 

As he struggled, Toby’s long hair became tangled and dark with sweat.  His entire body, in fact, was slick with sweat, the cold rank sweat of physical suffering.  The brutalized faggot’s smooth firm flesh glistened in the light, even as his face began to swell and grow dark.  “Hey, man,” Adam called out to Mike, “Lookit this shit.  See how his eyes are bulgin’?  That’s cause pressure’s building up in his head.  Damn, motherfucker, that’s gotta hurt like shit.”

 

Staring coldly into Mike’s bottomless brown eyes, the cruel alpha laughed, the sound slashing at Mike’s soul like a knife.  “Remember that, asswipe,” Adam hissed viciously.  “Dying hurts.  It hurts like nothing you’ve ever suffered in your useless faggot life.  Remember that when it’s your turn.”

 

From his position on the floor, Toby found that he couldn’t look away from his killer’s tall, powerfully-built form—quite literally.  As Adam had pointed out, his eyes were bulging; he couldn’t close them.  Toby had no choice but to stare up at the stud who was snuffing him.

 

The most immediate part of Adam in Toby’s field of vision was the shaft of his boot, the black leather rising from the bottom of his line of sight—he could clearly see how the extra-long laces circled the top of the shaft and were tied in front.  Above it, he could trace the line of the alpha’s thick calf and thigh muscles, outlined in the leg of his cargo pants.

 

Then there was the cock–the huge, throbbing shaft, jutting arrogantly in from, clear precum oozing in an almost steady stream…but Toby had to block that out, he couldn’t follow the link of pain and death and lust…

 

Beyond the webbed nylon belt circling his tight waist, the curly, golden fur that rose above the waistband, running up the killer’s ripped abs, spread out lushly on his broad, jutting pecs.  Heaving with exertion, Adam’s chest glittered as he moved and beads of sweat caught in his body hair caught the light.

 

Above that, there was a face, a beautiful, cold, contempt-filled face surmounted by red-gold curls like a copper nimbus, but it was too far away.  Toby was starting to have trouble seeing; darkness exploded in his sight light the blooms of huge black flowers.  His tongue was swelling, causing the dying twink horrible pain as it forced aside his broken jaw, but there was nothing he could do.  White, foamy drool leaked from his swelling lips, running down his chin and pooling around the treads of Adam’s utility boot.

 

The pounding in his heat was swift and intense; Toby could feel that it coincided with his speeding, panicked heart.  Despite the pounding and loud ringing in his ears, the slowly choking youth could hear the sadistically mocking words of his killer.

 

“How’s it feel, dying like a fuckin’ insect, havin’ yer useless life ground out under my boot, faggot?  Ya like gettin’ put down like the garbage you are, huh?  Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, I toldja you’d get hard again.  Disgustin’ little pervert, you just fuckin’ love it when a real man finally ends yer worthless existence.  C’mon, homo, time to drain yer sick faggot sperm so I can fuck some clean meat.”

 

With a snarl, Adam leaned forward, throwing all his weight on his right foot.  There was a loud crunch and the steel-toed boot suddenly sank a good two inches into Toby’s throat as the punk’s windpipe collapsed.  The young fag’s attention, momentarily diverted to the bizarre phenomenon of his throbbing, painfully erect cock, experienced the blast of horrifying agony that accompanies a mortal injury.

 

Adam steadied himself as the lean, lithe body beneath his feet began to shudder violently.  Toby’s huge green eyes, stained red by numerous ruptured blood vessels, rolled back into his head as he convulsed, his legs drawing up, then straightening as he kicked his life away with such force the Adidas sneaker was pulled off his left foot.  The buff alpha knew what was happening; shifting his body to one side, he applied more pressure to the boot embedded in the twink’s neck, twisting his foot sideways.

 

With a loud cracking noise, Adam snapped Toby’s neck like a dead twig.  As the sudden electrochemical shock flooded the dead kid’s nervous system, his erect shaft pulsed visibly and sent a solid stream of boyjizz up in a four-foot geyser.  Disgust on his face, Adam managed to dodge the fountain of spunk, letting it splash back on Toby body as it continued to jerk and flail in its death throes.

 

“Fuck yeah, man, there we go,” the sick top gloated at the dead boy’s sobbing boyfriend.  “Once that worthless fag spunk is unloaded, I’ll fill the meat with real manseed.  Finally givin’ this useless pansy a purpose—it died so I can have a cumrag.”

 

Adam stalked across the room, retrieving a chair that was standing behind the closet door.  As he did so, Mike, aflame with panic and anger, writhed violently on the bed.  Unable to loosen the zip ties binding him, the muscle twink increased his efforts until he managed to rise up vertically on the bed.  Once he was upright, though, he had no way of balancing himself and instantly felt himself falling over sideways.

 

His thick, muscular body hit the nightstand with a crash, causing him to start bleeding again from his already-broken nose.  He fell to the floor, accompanied by the lamp.  The bulb didn’t break; still lit, the light cast surreal shadows across the room from its low angle on the floor.

 

Adam had watched it all happen.  He wasn’t worried about Mike; there was no way for the meat to break free of its bonds.  And the dude had landed on the floor in a great position for a close-up of the next act.

 

The buff killer placed the chair upright in front of Mike, a few feet away.  Then he bent down and grabbed Toby, manhandling the still-quivering corpse until he’d draped it face-down over the back of the chair.  Then, without another word, he brandished his huge, dripping cock, grinned at Mike, and mounted the dead kid, his shaft penetrating Toby’s sphincter and sinking deeply into the meat’s guts.

 

“Fuck yeah, nice and smooth, just like I like ‘em,” Adam smirked as Mike burst anew into hot tears of outrage and terror.  The bound punk struggled to protest, but the soiled jock had been shoved too deeply into his mouth for him to be able to force it out; all he could do was watch the violation of his boyfriend’s corpse in silence.

 

The chair creaked loudly as Adam gripped the meat’s narrow waist and plowed its still-spasming asshole.  His furry, sweat-streaked flesh slapped loudly against Toby’s cooling skin as the alpha brutally pumped his shaft into the dead boy’s rectum.  As he fucked the corpse, Adam reached up and grabbed a handful of the punk’s long hair and jerked it back, raising Toby’s head.

 

“Look at him,” the vicious sadist hissed at the crying, struggling boy on the ground, “Look at his face.  See the pain and terror he endured?  See how the horror of his last few seconds of life are etched into his face?  Disgustin’ little faggot deserved to suffer so much more but he was weak.  You ain’t.  You can take what I’m gonna give ya—and it’s gonna be so much worse than what he went through.”

 

Adam never missed a single stroke of his brutal necro fuck as he spoke, slamming his gigantic rod into the corpse with a virulent power that was equal parts lust and hatred.  Through his tears, Mike watched Toby’s body jerk and flop with every intrusive thrust of Adam’s hips.

 

Suddenly Adam’s face tightened.  He gave a loud grunt, ramming his shaft home as his hulking, muscle-bound form went rigid.  There was a loud crack and the chair began a slow-motion collapse under the weight of Adam’s orgasmic thrust.  The killer had time to slide one booted foot forward and keep his balance as the chair bent forward and fell to the floor.  Toby’s body fell with it, slowly sliding off the alpha’s still-shooting cock.  Adam finished up by spraying his load onto the corpse’s back.

 

Snorting with contempt, Adam glared at Mike.  “Fucker was totally worthless.  Even dead, he couldn’t take a real man’s load.   My balls are still fulla cum, motherfucker—now it’s yer turn.  He was just the appetizer—you’re the main course, fuckwad.  And I like to linger over my meat.  Ready to dance, asswipe?  Yer gonna die clawin’ and pissin’ yerself in agony, faggot.”

 

Mike shook his head frantically, the stained jockstrap protruding from his mouth.  His already large brown eyes were huge with stunned shock; the sheer horror of watching his boyfriend’s snuff and necro-rape was reflected in his taut, pale face.

 

Bending down, Adam wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat.  Hoisting the jerking, struggling youth into the air, he slammed him against the wall on the far side of the dresser.  The terrified fag had a brief lucid moment to comprehend the sheer power of his assailant as Adam drew his right arm back, keeping Mike pinned with his back to the wall, several inches off the ground, with just one hand—and this with a loose enough grip to allow the beefy punk to breathe.

 

The he noticed that Adam’s hand had curled into a fist.  He saw the dude’s massive bicep twitch—and then his world exploded in pain as Adam drove his fist into the pansy’s face with the force of a steam hammer.

 

Mike’s head rocked backwards, punching a hole in the drywall as his left cheekbone and the thin bone behind his left eye shattered.  His hands, uselessly bound behind him, clawed at the wall, peeling off strips of paint with his fingernails.  His loud cry was muffled by the reeking fabric shoved into his throat.

 

He didn’t need to worry about the gag for long.  The bruised, battered homo was so stunned by the blow to his head that he never saw Adam’s thick arm draw back again.  He felt it, though; the muscular sadist pounded his huge fist straight into Mike’s solar plexus, at the base of his sternum.

 

The writhing fag’s diaphragm spasmed, his well-built chest collapsing in as the air in his lungs was expelled violently enough for him to blow the jockstrap out of his mouth; it dropped to the floor in the few inches of no-man’s-land between the vicious killer and his helpless prey.  Mike was unable to take advantage of his sudden freedom to speak—his entire attention was focused on being able to breathe.  For several terrifying seconds, the buff young queerboy was unable to inhale, his lungs refusing to inflate.  His eyes, wide and round, the left one blackening and swelling, were dulled over in sheer panic as he savored a foretaste of suffocation.

 

Suddenly the bulging groin of his American Eagle boxers darkened.  Struggling and terrified, the well-built youth had pissed himself in terror, the yellow urine running down his legs and flowing into his Nikes.  His one lucid thought was that however he was gonna die, he didn’t want to choke or suffocate.  Anything but this, he begged silently in the dark empty corners of his mind.  Anything but this.

 

Adam read the terror in the kid’s eyes and his grin widened and became shark-like.  His thick, swinging dick stiffened as he contemplated the bound, helpless faggot in his grasp.  The fucker was his do with as he pleased—and what pleased him damn sure wasn’t gonna please the homo.

 

Jerking and sweating, Mike suddenly inhaled deeply, managing to force oxygen back into his lungs.  With no warning, Adam delivered a brutal gutpunch to the suspended boy, sinking his fist deep into Mike’s firm, flat belly and driving out the air again.  This time, he released the kid, letting Mike fall back to the floor, shuddering and gasping like a landed fish dying on the deck of a trawler.  As the fag’s face went purple, Adam stood over him, sneering.

 

“Lookitya, you pathetic piece a’ shit,” he drawled contemptuously.  “Got yerself all buff an’ muscular, but yer still a worthless fuckin’ fairy.  Your muscles ain’t no match for mine, asswipe; they ain’t gonna help ya now.  I’m gonna fuck you up even worse than I did yer pansy-ass little boyfriend.  Hey, remember when I did this to ‘im?”

 

With a swift kick of his powerful leg, Adam’s steel-toed boot smashed into Mike’s flank, shattering two ribs into multiple pieces.  Once again, the handsome young homo had just regained his air, only to suffer a brutal impact that drove it back out.  This one was worse, though.  This one did major damage.

 

For the rest of Mike’s life—that is, for the next few minutes—the fit young punk desperately tried to breathe, never knowing that bone shards from his broken ribs had punctured his left lung, causing it slowly to deflate.  He only knew the creeping terror of slow advancing suffocation—and pain.  He became very familiar with pain.

 

Leaving one boot planted firmly on Mike’s chest, Adam leaned down and casually spit in the youth’s strained, agonized face.  “Naw, man, I ain’t gonna kill ya with my feet like I did yer fucktoy,” he jeered.  “That was fun, but I got somethin’ more…intense planned for you.  But first, I wanna know—did he ever fuck you?  Or were you always the top?”

 

Mike looked up at the alpha, his eyes running from the tightly laced boot on his chest up along the well-fitted black cargo pants to the huge, engorged shaft of manmeat that jutted out in front of Adam.  Huge and oozing, it added an emphasis to the sadist’s questions that intimidated the fuck out of Mike.  Wallowing in pain, he looked away, gasping and heaving.

 

“I asked you a question, motherfucker,” Adam said, a cold, hard tone in his voice.  “You got three seconds to answer it.  One.  Two…”

 

Mike opened his mouth, but in his panic, he could only croak incoherently.

 

“Three,” Adam concluded, with evident satisfaction.  “Ok, fuckwad, guess I gotta beat it outta ya.”

 

“…no…” Mike gasped faintly.

 

“What was that, fuckmeat?” Adam grinned.  Bending down, he clamped his left hand around Mike’s throat.  The bulked-out psycho was strong enough to hoist the buff young homo into the air single-handedly.  His windpipe was almost completely closed off this time and his left flank burned with pain where his ribs ground together but the attractive young punk unfortunately managed to remain somewhat lucid.  Lucid enough to comprehend the sheer power of the man who had him so completely at his mercy.

 

He needed a way to fight back.  Despite the pain, he needed to fight back or the same thing would happen to him that happened to Toby.  Toby—oh fuck, Toby, what the fuck happened…they were just gonna have a fun evening and this fucker showed up…

 

With a lightning-fast lunge of his arm, Adam snatched at Mike’s piss-soaked briefs and tore them off him, the elastic at the waist snapping back painfully on Mike’s bare flesh.  Nude except for his Nike hightops, the queer hunk dangled in mid-air, slowly choking as he struggled and squirmed, causing the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles to dig even deeper into his skin.

 

“Did that dead piece a’ shit lyin’ over there ever fuck you, asswipe?” Adam demanded.  “Ever had a cock up yer boyhole?  Answer me, fuckwad!”  Adam punctuated his demand with another blow to Mike’s face, this one splitting his lips and knocking out one of the kid’s canines.  “Can’t talk, motherfucker?  Ok, just nod or shake yer head.  Or I’m gonna beat ya to death right fuckin’ now.”

 

Mike’s lucidity was fast drowning in a rising tide of terror; he knew the hulking stud wasn’t kidding.  Eventually, he forced himself to shake his head—not very well, but enough for Adam to feel it.

 

And when he did, he grinned.  “Excellent.  Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than fuckin’ a virgin corpse.”

 

Mike would have pissed himself again at the words if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder—and if his dick hadn’t grown unaccountably hard.

 

Adam noticed it too.  “Fuckin’ fag pervert,” he snarled, “Ya like that, dontcha?  You want my fuckin’ rod in ya so bad yer willin’ to die to get it, aintcha?  Disgustin’ piece a’ shit—see, this is why I gotta waste ya.  Doin’ the fuckin’ world a favor, I am, by clearin’ it of sick fucks like you.”

 

Mike could feel his pulse racing—it pounded in his temples and in his rigid cock.  His eyes felt like they were gonna pop right out of his head; tears streamed down his cheeks.  Pain and terror fought for control within him and he wondered if he was going to die like this, suspended in mid-air, shuddering and jerking.

 

And then he was sailing through the air.  It happened in the blink of an eye; there was no warning—Adam simply tossed him across the room with no more effort than if he was a rag doll.  The buff homo slammed violently into the wooden headboard.  It broke in half vertically with a loud crack as a hundred and sixty pounds of muscled boymeat smashed against it and fell back limply onto the tangled pile of sheets covering the bed.

 

Barely conscious, Mike rolled onto his back and stared blankly up at the ceiling as well as his swollen eyes would allow—particularly the left one.  His entire face was bruised and puffed up, aching horribly from the broken bones in his face.  It hurt bad, but his side, where the snapped ribs were grinding against each other, hurt worse.  His wrists and ankles were raw and nearly bleeding from the way the zip ties had cut into his flesh during his useless struggles.  Fuck, it all hurt so bad…and then there was Toby…

 

The hardbodied young punk was losing his will to live.  Mike had endured a ruthless mindfuck.  Despite his impressive build, he wasn’t emotionally strong; he simply couldn’t handle the combination of mental and physical trauma he’d been forced to endure.  Adam could see it in his eyes; the homo was starting to check out.  He needed to move fast.

 

Suddenly Mike felt a weight on him.  Adam was climbing onto the bed—and onto him.  His blank stare no longer focused on the ceiling; now his killer filled his field of vision.  Seeing the hard face, so cruel and so handsome, topped with copper curls, Mike knew he was looking into the face of the man who was gonna kill him.  For the first time, he really knew it.

 

The power of the muscle-bound sadist was obvious; it was expressed in everything about him from the wiry, sweat-matted fur covering his broad hubcap pecs to the powerful tang of adrenaline and testosterone that was blended in with his musky perspiration.  Mike knew he was strong, but he was helpless before this bulked-out hypermasculine stud.

 

Adam knew the score.  He lowered himself down, letting his massive cock make contact with Mike’s flat, smooth belly.  The thick, engorged head was oozing precum steadily; it acted as lube, letting the pulsing shaft of manmeat slide up Mike’s abdomen.  As Adam lay full-length on Mike, belly to belly, their erect dicks were pressed between them, side by side.

 

“Look at me, faggot,” Adam whispered quietly, almost seductively, as he wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat.  “Look me in the eyes as I put yer worthless ass down.  I wanna watch your wasted life drain outta ya.  I wanna see death in yer eyes.  You feel me, bro?  Last thing yer ever gonna see is my grinnin’ face as I wipe yer fag ass off the face of the earth.”

 

And then he started squeezing.

 

Mike had panicked as he’d been held up and dangled but Adam hadn’t been trying to strangle him then.  This was different.  This hurt a fuck of a lot more.  He was low on oxygen as it was, his left lung having slowly collapsed over the last few minutes, but Adam was literally crushing his esophagus.  The cruel killer had wrapped his fingers behind the boy’s neck but had placed his thumbs in front, right on the larynx.  As he clamped his hands down with the force of steel trap, Mike’s voicebox was remorselessly shoved back into his throat, the cartilage deforming past its limits.

 

It hurt, Jesus, it hurt so fuckin’ bad.  But as bad as it hurt, the pain receded into a loud buzzing in the background as white, blinding tide of terror rose within Mike.  He was suffocating.  He couldn’t breathe.  Worse, he couldn’t fight it.  He was helpless, pressed under the heavy mass of his killer’s muscles, his hands and legs excruciatingly bound.  This was it, oh fuck, this was for real, no, no, he wasn’t gonna die, not now…

 

Adam knew the faggot was too far gone in fear to pay attention to anything he said.  And while that was a good thing—fear was excellent for purifying faggotry—the little (compared to Adam) fuckwad needed to be brought back into the now.  Applying some pressure, he swiftly and viciously dug his thumbs in and was rewarded with a loud crack.

 

Mike instantly stopped thrashing and stared with horror into Adam’s face.  His larynx had just been crushed into a useless mass of mangled cartilage.

 

Adam grinned.  “Ya know what, faggot?  Yer dick’s still hard.  I can feel it.  That’s gotta hurt like all fuck.  You gotta know yer dyin’ by now, you gotta feel like yer dyin’ by now—but yer dick’s still hard, you sick little fuck.”

 

As his gorgeous but abused body went rigid in horrific agony, some dark corner of Mike’s mind-raped psyche knew the brutal sadist was speaking the truth.  Even in the midst of overwhelming suffering, Mike could feel his own shaft, achingly erect, rubbing against his killer’s ripped, hairy abs.

 

“Time for lights out, asswipe,” Adam continued.  “You’re almost clean enough for my cock.  I just need to squeeze the defective homo sperm outta yer nutsack and you’ll be ready to receive the load of a real man.  Time to die.”  He paused, with a faint chuckle.  “Ain’t like anyone’s gonna miss another faggot, anyways.  Only one who mighta cared is already dead.  And he was a damn lousy fuck.”

 

He squeezed even harder.  Mike’s tongue, already thick, swelled to the point it forced his mouth open.  The near-black tip parted the cunt’s blue lips as white foamy drool trickled down the youth’s cheeks.  As the weight of asphyxiation crushed his chest, Mike’s tremulous sanity succumbed to remorseless hammering in his head.  A screaming pitch-black vortex of sheer terror opened in his mind…

 

…but he wasn’t too far gone to hear—or to feel—the loud crackling, crunching sound as his trachea collapsed into a bloody mass of gristle under Adam’s relentless, vise-like grip.  And in the utter shock of fatal injury, Mike shot a death load of epic proportions.  His bulging eyes were looking directly into Adam’s as he felt an agony he’d never know could exist—it felt like his entire self, his life essence, had been violently ripped out and was being expelled in his hot, ropy jizz.

 

His powerful, sweaty body entwined with that of the dying muscular twink, Adam felt the faggot’s spunk splattering over his abs and soaking into the wiry fur that forested his bulked-out torso.  It infuriated him—nasty homo seed contaminating his well-cared-for body.  With a roar, he let go of Mike’s neck and grabbed the unlucky pansy’s ankles.

 

In the last five seconds of his life, Mike suffered one last time from the sadistic stranger’s hate and lust.  Enraged, Adam jerked the kid’s legs apart.  As ice-cold darkness closed in on him, Mike saw Adam’s huge, sweaty biceps flex awesomely—and then, with a loud snap, Adam broke the zip tie.  The thin plastic dug through Mike’s flesh down to the bone, but it finally gave way before the sheer power of the hardbodied killer.

 

The cuts had severed an artery in Mike’s right ankle, but since his heart had stopped beating almost simultaneously, blood merely seeped from the wound instead of spurting.  Adam wasn’t done with his victim, though.

 

Enraged, the psychotic stud brandished his hard, club-like cock and plunged it into Mike’s fuckhole.  Even though the corpse’s sphincter was flaccid in death, it still wasn’t elastic enough to accept a shaft of the size of the one now being brutally rammed into it—Adam tore the dead kid’s ass open.  “You worthless queerboy fucker,” he snarled, “Thought you’d make me a fag by squirtin’ yer diseased homo cum on me, huh?  You ain’t the first faggot to try it, cunt, but ain’t none of ya ever man enough to turn me!”

 

His hips thrusting swiftly, Adam nailed the dead kid’s butthole.  Sweat trickled down the small of his muscled back as he fucked the corpse, every pump of his cock violently expressing his hate and disgust for the fag he was banging.  He became aware that his balls were drawing up as his semen started to boil over.  And then orgasm hit him, almost like a violent cramp.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, “Fuck!”

 

It was almost involuntary, the way his right arm drew back and then pumped forward like a steam piston, smashing into the corpse’s face.  Adam didn’t try to stop it, though—it felt so fuckin’ right.  As his cock swelled and spurted again, his fist shot forward again.  And again.  With every spurt of hot manseed from his engorged dick, Adam punched Mike’s swollen, blackened face as hard as he could.

 

This was what Adam had wanted, had hoped for—had worked for.  It felt right.

 

He came a lot.  A lot.  By the time he was done, Mike was unrecognizable.  Adam had beaten his face to hamburger.

 

With a deep sigh, Adam pulled back and sat on the bed, his dripping cock resting on the tangled sheets.  He glanced around the room, noting the position of a couple of items, then got up and headed for the bathroom.

 

After spending a few minutes cleaning the drying semen off his torso, he tucked his dick back into his cargo pants.  Grabbing a clean towel, he headed back to the bedroom.  Once there, he used the towel to pry the Nike Vandals off Mike’s feet.  They were soaked with the dead kid’s piss, but they could be cleaned.

 

Then he collected Toby’s Adidas kicks, pulling one off his foot and simply picking the other up off the floor.  He’d seen a gym bag on the far side of the dresser; he used it to collect his trophies, picking up his long-sleeve t-shirt and his knit cap as he passed them.  It was a cool night, but Adam was still warm and sweaty; he decided not to put either on at the moment.

 

Bag in hand, he paused at the door and looked back.  Toby was still lying belly-up on the floor, his limbs and head all at grotesque angles to the body.  Mike, his hands still bound behind him, was also lying belly-up on the bed, his legs spread, white spunk oozing from his ravaged asshole.

 

It wasn’t complete.  He needed to recreate that first necro fuck for it to be right.

 

Leaving the bag at the door, Adam returned to Toby and rolled him over, off the broken remains of the chair, burying his dead swollen face in the carpet.  With a quick step to the bed, the psycho killer grabbed Mike’s corpse under the arms, dragging it over to Toby’s.  Tossing it down on top of the long-haired dude’s body like a sack of dirty laundry, Adam bent down and manipulated Mike’s still semi-erect penis into Toby’s ass, then adjusted the legs.

 

Stepping back, Adam admired his posing.  It looked like a perfectly natural fuck.  Well, except that Mike’s hands were still zip tied behind his back.  And the fact that both punks had suffered major physical trauma.  And that both were obviously dead.

 

As far as Adam was concerned, it was perfect.  He’d erased any possible homo contamination from his first necro fuck.  Picking up the bag, he headed out the door.  Within six minutes, he was off the property, walking bare-chested down the street to where he’d parked his truck a safe distance away.

 

While he walked, Adam found his thoughts—and his cock—drawn to public restrooms.

M4M4RightNow

“Cum fill my hole—looking NOW

It’s a warm wet night and I need to be bred right now

R U man enough?  Send pic”

 

The photo attached to the post was only a torso shot; it was difficult to determine the dude’s age.  But the pic showed a lean, boyish chest with broad smooth pecs.  Large dark nipples weren’t the only thing to stand; a large tattoo was inked across the left pectoral—the anarchy symbol, a letter A made of three crossed lines, with a circle around them.

 

There was a faint haze of brownish fuzz across the guy’s flat belly; there was nothing else distinguishing about the pic—but it was enough for Joe.

 

He’d been off work, but it had rained all day.  Now, long after the sun had set, he sat listening to the pattering of raindrops against the window.  He was bored and horny, and that meant one thing.

 

Some lucky faggot was gonna spend the last few minutes of his life with Joe’s huge cock buried in his ass.

 

He’d trolled through the app he’d downloaded to an earlier victim’s phone.  Nothing stood out, so he’d held off until later in the evening.  The really sick homos, the ones who most deserved to be put down like dogs, tended to crawl out from under their rocks under the cover of darkness.

 

And he’d been right.  This fucker right here was just beggin’ to get whacked.

 

He sent a reply—a dick pic, full erect.  “U bitch enough to take me all the way?”

 

The response was quick and detailed.  An address, and the info the door was unlocked.  The pansy wanted Joe to come right in, head for the bedroom where the queer would be on the bed on his hands and knees.  He wanted Joe to walk in and stick his dick right up his ass.  No foreplay, no talk—just plug his hole and start banging him.

 

Joe could do that.  He let the dude know.

 

“Cool can you make it quick—got more dudes cummin later gonna be a serious cum dumpster—Cliff ”

 

Joe smirked as he padded off to put some clothes on, his hard, muscled body moving like a panther’s in the dark.  No, it wasn’t gonna be quick.  No matter how much Cliff begged, it wasn’t gonna be quick at all.

 

The hardcore sex killer selected his outfit with care.  It was warm and humid outside; the rain was the last of the summer showers, but it hadn’t cooled off quite yet.  He pulled a black sleeveless t-shirt over his hairy chest; it displayed his well-developed biceps and furry forearms perfectly.  Next, he slipped into his favorite pair of jeans well-worn and skin-tight, cinching them around his narrow waist with a wide belt of black leather.  Finally, he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled on a pair of engineer boots, also of black leather, with a buckled strap across the ankle and another at the top of the shaft.  It was easier just to pull them on over the legs of his jeans…

 

Dressed to kill, Joe stood up and headed for the door, his dick already tenting the crotch of his jeans in anticipation.  He needed to drain his huge, hairy balls badly, and that meant he needed a cumrag—a human cumrag.  Time to head out.

 

Within fifteen minutes, Joe had arrived at the address given to him, a gated apartment complex in a decent part of town.  Cliff had already sent him the gate code; Joe drove into the complex, looking for the right apartment.

 

It took a while.  The rain had stopped-or, rather, the air had become so saturated with water that everything was wrapped in a warm, soggy mist like fog.  The apartments were three-story units in long rows down alleyways; the ground floor of each unit was a garage and an entryway.

 

Finally locating the right unit, Joe parked in front of the garage door.  He glanced up and down the alley, but no one was out on a wet night like this.  Trying the front door, he found it unlocked as promised and entered the unit.

 

He found himself in a small entryway with a tiled floor.  To his immediate right was a door to the garage; straight ahead were the stairs.  The slutboy had informed him that the bedroom was on the third floor, so Joe headed up the steps.  Halfway up, they turned and doubled back and Joe found himself in a dimly-lit living/dining area; off to his left was a dark space that was obviously the kitchen.  The stairs continued up, and so did Joe.

 

There were three doorways on the third floor; two of them—presumably leading to a bedroom and a bathroom—gaped blackly at the landing at the top of the stairs.  The third one, though, was illuminated by a faint flicker of light.  Joe entered the room.

 

Dark shapes of furniture lined the walls.  Joe had to maneuver around what appeared to be a club chair—it was difficult to make out, but there appeared to be clothing draped over the back of the chair.  A fragment of color caught briefly in the faint light—a silk tie lay on top.  As he passed by, the bulked-out alpha snatched the tie and stuffed it in his pocket; no telling how it might come in handy at some point in the evening.  The motion had been too quick and subtle to be seen.

 

But in any case, the only thing that could be seen clearly was the bed.  It was king-sized and had a mirrored headboard with a built-in shelf; the flickering light—the only light in the room—came from three LED candles sitting on this shelf.  The bed itself had been stripped down to the fitted sheet, but it wasn’t bare.  Crouched on his hands and knees on the bed with his ass in the air, the fag was staring into the mirror, trying to get a better look at the dude who was gonna breed him.

 

Cliff was twenty-eight but with his lean, lithe body and nearly shoulder-length tousled dirty-blond hair, he looked younger.  He worked as an account manager at a bank, where he got by with a button-down look and a quiet demeanor; there was no hint of his wild, sluttish sex life at the office.  Once he got home, though, the whore came out to play—and played hard.

 

The youth was a serious power bottom; he loved to get fucked by anyone anytime—as long as he was off work.  “You don’t shit where you eat,” was his motto, and he stuck by it, but his sex drive was so intense, he was usually trolling for tops on his phone as he sat at stoplights on the way home.

 

The room was dim—he liked a sense of anonymity, of danger—and it was difficult to see, but it looked to Cliff like he’d scored big-time tonight.  Yeah, he had other dudes lined up later on, but this hulking muscular stud damn sure looked like he knew how to handle a hot bottom boy.  Cliff couldn’t see the guy’s face in the mirror, but he didn’t really care.  What he could see of the body was hot as fuck; what he really wanted a look at was the dude’s dick.

 

He got it soon enough.

 

Standing at the foot of the bed, Joe grinned at how easy the horny faggot was making it.  This pansy wanted a thick tubesteak up his ass bad, and Joe was just the man to give it to him.  Unzipping his fly, he reached down into his crotch and slowly extracted his massive cock like a handler pulling a python out of a cage.  He heard a faint gasp and realized the homo had caught sight of it.  The punk had seen it before, when Joe sent his dick pic, but it had been a close-up without a good sense of scale.

 

Now Cliff could see the full size of Joe’s shaft, the impressive length and frightening girth obvious as the thick rod of manflesh throbbed and swelled.  The dark veins wrapped around it practically writhed as they pulsed with blood.  Eager as he was, Cliff had never seen a cock that big and wasn’t sure his asshole could take it.  It wasn’t like he hadn’t had plenty of dicks up inside him before, but this…this was something different.

 

Good thing he had a fresh bottle of poppers.

 

Joe climbed onto the bed and moved forward until he was up on his knees directly behind Cliff.  Pulling up his cock, he let it fall back down onto the homo’s bare backside where it landed with a loud, meaty slap.  Cliff moaned and quivered like a bitch in heat and Joe’s grin got wider and more shark-like.

 

“Ya want that, do ya, cunt?” he jeered, grabbing his dong and steadily slapping it against Cliff’s smooth, rounded asscheeks.

 

“Go easy, dude,” Cliff gasped his breath shuddering in erotic anticipation, “I ain’t—I mean, you’re—Jesus, that thing is gonna hurt.  Just go slow, man, ok?”

 

Since Cliff’s face was closer to both the mirrored headboard and the sources of light, Joe could make it out much better than Cliff could his.  The long-haired queer’s eyes were large and dark, with long lashes.  His nose was long and straight, and around his mouth was a sandy-brown stubble, a goatee just a shade darker than his hair.  Joe could also make out the small dark bottle clutched in the cunt’s hand.  So the faggot liked his poppers?  Good.  Joe could make use of that.

 

He decided to give the slut something to look at.  It was warm up on the third floor and Joe was sweating a little.  He grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it up over his head, bending back slightly.  While still unable to make out Joe’s face, Cliff could make out his incredibly well-developed torso very well, drinking in the details of the dominant stud’s thickly-muscled chest—broad pecs with large dark nipples jutting out, seemingly hard enough to cut glass.  Thick, dark, abundant fur spread across the alpha’s abdomen and ran down his ripped abs, disappearing below the waistband of his jeans, demarcated by the wide leather belt.

 

“Oh fuck it,” Cliff muttered.  “Fuckin’ hell, lookit that bod.  Put it in me, man.  It’s gonna hurt, but I want you in me so fuckin’ bad…”  He opened the bottle of poppers and inhaled deeply, holding first to one nostril and then the other.

 

Joe wasn’t waiting for an invitation.  And he wasn’t waiting for lube either; he was going in dry.  The little fuck needed to feel it.  He pressed the thick, swollen head of his cock against Cliff’s pink puckered sphincter and pressed slightly.  Cliff moaned loudly.

 

Then Joe rammed his shaft home, shoving it all the way in until his pubes were rasping on Cliff’s baby-smooth asscheeks.  His enormous shaft speared the pansy’s colon, ripping open the clenched ass muscle and tearing at the tender lining of the rectum.  Cliff screeched in pain as the huge rod sank deep in his guts, further than anything had ever penetrated before—

 

—and could also feel an electric shock run through his own dick as Joe’s cock rode over his prostate like an out-of-control semi.  He’d been right, it hurt so bad, it hurt so fuckin’ bad…but he was still getting hard.

 

“Damn, man, no,” he whined, “Pull out, dude—jeez, I toldja to go slow, lemme get used to it!  Goddam, I think ya tore somethin’…” Digging his hands into the mattress, Cliff tried to pull himself off Joe’s dick.

 

“No ya don’t, bitch,” Joe said calmly, and grabbing Cliff’s right bicep, pulled that arm around behind the boy’s back.

 

 

“Wha—?” Cliff asked in bewilderment.  “What the fuck ya doin’?”

 

Joe didn’t both to explain.  Fishing the tie out of his pocket, he brought the slut’s left arm around in the same way—expending a little more effort this time since Cliff was disposed to resist—and with the ease of an expert soon had the gay youth’s hands bound securely behind his back.

 

Cliff’s fear started to override the horrible pain of torn flesh in his anus. There was always the possibility of something going wrong in these blind anonymous hookups—but nothing ever had before.  Now, though…this guy was hurting him, and he couldn’t get away.

 

“Get off me!” he yelled.  “I don’t wanna do this anymore!”

 

Without saying a word, Joe hunched over the cunt’s lithe, smooth body and began pumping his cock fast and hard, plunging all the way into Cliff’s ass.  As often as he’d offered his fuckhole up to anyone who’d use it, Cliff had never been fucked all the way up into his guts before.  There was something horrible about the searing pain—something that made it feel like he was being badly fucked up on the inside.  And yet despite all that, his own cock was so hard it actually hurt…

 

“Stop!” Cliff cried.  “Goddammit, no!  This is fucking rape—stop!!”

 

“Shaddup, faggot,” Joe said evenly, “Ya know ya want it.  You like it like this, dontcha, ya worthless cocksucker?  This what ya been looking for, huh?  A real man to come in and pound the shit outta yer ass?  So quit squawkin’ and enjoy the ride, motherfucker, or I’m really gonna make ya hurt.”

 

Laying his head back down on the mattress, Cliff realized he had no choice.  He couldn’t free himself; he was pinned to the bed as if the alpha’s enormous shaft had impaled him on the mattress.  “Oh god,” he moaned tearfully, “Oh god, oh god, oh god…”  His lean, straining body was wracked with pain with every thrust of Joe’s long, thick rod; his long brown hair darkening as sweat was forced from his smooth skin.

 

Hearing a clinking sound behind him, the humbled and submissive youth glanced in the mirror.  It took him a moment to notice the glint of light winking off to the power top’s side.  It was a belt buckle, he realized; the rapist had unbuckled his belt.  It had no significance for him.

 

What did have some significance was that he was still lucid despite the increasingly nightmarish nature of the evening.  After all, some part of his bottom pig soul reasoned, all that was really happening was he was getting a good rough fuck, right?  And that was what he’d been looking for anyway, right?

 

But for all the times he’d whored his ass out, he’d never endured so much pain—and even worse, somehow, he’d never been made to feel so trapped and helpless.  This dude was not only rough, he was incredibly powerful and Cliff was utterly at his mercy.

 

And it wasn’t long before he learned Joe had no mercy at which to be.

 

“Yer gettin’ loose on me, asswipe,” the hulking alpha growled.  “Tighten up that fuckhole boy, or I’m gonna tighten it for ya.”

 

“I—I ca-can’t…” Cliff said, his body and his voice jerking with Joe’s deep, powerful thrusts.  He looked pleadingly at the top in the mirror.  As he spoke, Cliff could see the alpha’s hands moving at his waist.  The dude was slowly and menacingly removing his belt, but the boyslut was too full of cock to care why. “Dude, you-you’re reamin’ me ow-out…”

 

“So ya wanna play it the hard way, faggot?” Joe sneered.  “Figures.  You worthless fag cunts always hafta have some sense beaten into ya.”

 

He drew his right fist back and slammed it down onto Cliff’s kidney with the force of a piledriver; the thick, meaty slap of flesh on flesh sounded like someone hitting a side of beef with a baseball bat.  The sudden agony of the kidney punch made Cliff squeal, a loud, high-pitched sound almost identical to that of a pig.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Joe grunted, “Felt that one in my cock.  That what ya like, fag?  You need to be hurt to get off?  Fuck yeah, homo, can do.  I’ll put yer worthless ass down so hard you’ll cum for joy, ya disgusting little assfuck.”

 

Moaning and gasping for air, Cliff wallowed in a small dark cloud of pain.  He could hear Joe speak; he could even make out the words, but he was too busy trying to deal with the agony in his ass and his guts and his back to bother to comprehend what was being said to him.  He could only writhe in abject fear and pain, which worked Joe’s cock even better—and caused Cliff even more pain in his traumatized rectum.

 

Glancing up at the mirrored headboard, the dazed youth could see the buff older man’s torso shifting in the dim light as the alpha brutally plowed his hole.  The fur on Joe’s chest started to darken and mat with sweat; the room was hot and stuffy and the atmosphere was becoming increasingly more charged with male pheromones with each passing moment.  In horror, Cliff could see Joe’s thick, strong arm draw back, bicep swelling with latent power, and he knew he was gonna get hit again.

 

Joe timed the blow with the thrusting of his cock so that he was balls-deep in the kid’s guts when his fist impacted Cliff’s back like a cannonball, fracturing a rib.  The slut grunted in pain and the entire length of his smooth, slim body, slick with sweat, went rigid.

 

“Hell yeah, work my cock, you fuckin’ pansy,” Joe muttered as Cliff’s colon clamped down on his swollen shaft in agony.  “Now I got yer number—abuse gets ya off, huh, ya disgustin’ pervert?  Huh?  Ya like gettin’ a beatdown from a real man?  Well it’s yer lucky fuckin’ night, asswipe, cause I’m the man to put ya in yer place and make ya stay there!”

 

Grinding his hips at an incredibly swift speed, Joe powerfucked the bound, helpless homo as he spoke, reaming the kid mercilessly.  “Ya wanna know where yer place is, you dumbass sack a’ shit?” he sneered, “It’s ridin’ my cock down into yer grave and then takin’ a nice long dirt nap.  You ain’t no good to me or anyone else once you’ve soaked up my manspunk.  Like any other cumrag, yer just gonna end up another piece of garbage.”  Another blow, this one totally unheralded, struck Cliff’s other kidney, the sudden organ trauma literally taking the slut’s breath away.

 

“Course, ya gotta milk my load outta me first,” the sadistic killer drawled casually as the long-haired punk shuddered silently beneath him, desperately trying to draw a breath.  “Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you work my dick right.  I got a sure-fire means of inspiration.”

 

With that, he tossed his belt down onto the bed in front of Cliff.  The lean young man, already suffering under the brutal blows to his back and the violent assfuck, stared dully and uncomprehendingly at it.  Wrapped tightly in an aching haze, he could only tug his hands feebly at the silk binding and endure the pain.

 

The gay punk had retreated into a mental fugue state once the assault had begun, hearing the words that were spoken to him and suffering the pain of the beating and the rape, but not allowing anything to sink any deeper into his psyche.  His body was responding automatically; the heady funk of testosterone and mansweat in the air would have kept his dick just as hard even if Joe’s gigantic hog wasn’t crushing his prostate under its huge, vein-wrapped girth.

 

The youth had whored out his twink body on hundreds of occasions; while he’d always known that the danger of running into someone like Joe was out there, he also knew that it was the kinda thing that would always happen to someone else—never him.  After all, he just wanted to get fucked.  What was wrong with that?

 

But Cliff’s need for dick had increased.   Getting fucked led to getting bred multiple times a night by anonymous strangers—which led to Joe.  To the extent that Cliff allowed himself to think, he wondered vaguely how this had happened.  He could feel the top’s strong, muscled thighs press against his own with every thrust of the dude’s cock and felt a faint sense of shock that this should have been the best fuck ever—such a fuckin’ stud—and had turned out so bad.

 

Joe sensed the boy going slack beneath him and knew immediately what was happening.  He’d offed enough fuckmeat by now to know that the kid was withdrawing; he was minimizing his psychological damage by submitting to the physical rape without processing any mental input.

 

Joe didn’t like that.  He wanted the kid to suffer mentally as well.  He wanted to rape Cliff’s mind as well, to fuck and abuse and destroy the useless fag’s entire being.  And he knew exactly how to do it.  He started by leaning forward, stretching out and laying full-length on top of his writhing victim, feeling the slim youth’s smooth back writhing under his chest.

 

Cliff, likewise, could feel Joe on top of him, the wiry, sweat-matted chest hair scraping and scouring the tender skin on his back every time the unlucky punk shuddering in pain.  He looked up, quite by accident, and for the first time, got a look at Joe’s face in the mirror—and froze, his blood running ice-cold in terror.

 

The man fucking him was brutally handsome, his face composed of hard, sharp angles and deep shadows.  Some of the latter, the ones that ran across the alpha’s chin and cheeks, were blue and scratchy, shadows of scruff.  Dark, slightly curly hair, a long straight nose and full lips curled into a sneer of disgust completed the face of what could have been a portrait of masculinity in the abstract.

 

But it was the look in the eyes—the beautiful, long-lashed, ice-blue eyes—that instilled such fear in Cliff.  It shifted and changed, with rage and lust and disgust chasing each other, but the glint of homicidal glee never faded.  Without another word being said, Cliff realized this guy wasn’t just gonna kill him—this guy was gonna get off while killing him.

 

Then Joe clamped one big strong hand over Cliff’s nose and mouth, completely cutting off his air.

 

“You’re startin’ to bore me, faggot,” the cruel alpha said quietly, the wiry scruff on his cheek scraping the bound cunt’s ear ash he bent his head down to whisper.  “Time for me to blow my load and split.  Time for you to die, you homo trash.  You need to massage my rod good and hard, and I got an idea.”

 

Joe had spoken softly and calmly, taking his time as Cliff, squirming and kicking beneath him, slowly suffocated with the top’s powerful hand clutching his face.  When he judged the fuckmeat desperate enough, Joe brought up the bottle of poppers which he’d picked up off the bed after binding Cliff hands.

 

With one hand, Joe unscrewed the top of the small dark bottle.  With the other, he released the fag’s left nostril only.  As Cliff inhaled deeply and desperately, Joe applied the bottle. The slutty young homo found himself involuntarily taking the largest hit of poppers he’d ever done in his short, wasted life.  Joe closed his air off again and held on for sixty seconds as the meat, riding on its rush, bucked and jerked frantically beneath him, Cliff’s smooth back sliding along Joe’s muscled chest and ripped abs on a film of slick boysweat.

 

Joe suddenly released Cliff’s face, letting the kid exhale.  This close to his meat, Joe could smell the chemical fumes on the cunt’s outgoing breath.  Before the slut could breathe in again, Joe closed off everything but his right nostril and reapplied the bottle.   Lack of oxygen meant that Cliff had no choice but to inhale another lung-busting hit of poppers, deeply and lengthily.

 

The young homo felt himself losing it; his head spun and there was a loud throbbing in his ears.  His cock was so fuckin’ hard and his ass was getting plowed and he wanted it to go on all fuckin’ night—

 

—and that was when Joe released his head again, picked up the belt, and wrapped it around the fuckmeat’s neck.

 

Leaning back, Joe pulled on the thick strap of black leather, forcing Cliff’s head up off the bed.  The boy slowly bent backwards as Joe continued to pull; for every fraction of an inch that the kid’s head moved back, the pain in his twisting spine grew geometrically.  The force caused the belt to sink deeply into Cliff’s neck—not completely cutting off his air but impeding the flow down his trachea enough to cause the bitch to wheeze frantically.

 

Cliff’s hands jerked and pulled at the silk tie binding his wrists; Joe could feel the boy’s fingertips desperately twining in the fur on his ripped abs.  Nothing the kid could do would loosen the knot; he was as helpless as if he’d been caught in a steel trap.  Cliff looked up involuntarily—and caught sight of his own image in the mirror.

 

Somehow, that was the worst thing of all.    His mind was still fogged with an intense chemical haze from the forced poppers; it only seemed to intensify the horror.  He’d been pulled so far backwards that his chest was off the bed.  His face was already starting to turn blue and his painful, labored attempts to breathe deeply had forced saliva out of his mouth where it ran down his chin in a foamy drool.  It was grotesque and sickening—and he wasn’t actually even being strangled yet.

 

But it was coming.  He knew it was coming.

 

The most surreal aspect of the whole thing was his cock.  He was being raped and murdered, but—as he could see very well—the biggest, most intense erection he’d ever experienced was flopping around between his smooth thighs and slapping against flat, sweat-beaded belly.

 

“Don’t,” he cried out, “Please stop…”

 

At least, that’s what Cliff heard in his head.  What came out of his mouth was more of a choking, gagging sound, accompanied by more streamers of drool trailing from his chin.

 

“Shaddup, faggot, and work my dick,” Joe growled.  He wrapped the belt around both palms and, grinning sadistically, rode Cliff’s ass like a bucking bronco, using the belt to control the meat like reins.  Joe’s thick cock, plugged up the kid’s fuckhole like a baseball bat, could sense whenever the homo’s jerking and kicking slowed; the alpha lost that sensation of moist velvet caressing the swollen, leaking head of his shaft.

 

To get it back, all he had to do was pull on the reins and cut off a little more of Cliff’s air.

 

The next fifteen minutes—the last fifteen minutes of Cliff’s life—were a pit of nightmarish horror as the smooth young faggot was slowly and incrementally choked to death.

 

Every jerk on the belt made it that much harder to breathe, to pull air into his lungs.  Cliff no longer paid attention to the searing pain in his ass; he could still feel the alpha’s enormous cock reaming out his rectum, but his entire being was focused on the effort of breathing.  And again, another pull on the belt, and this time Cliff both heard and felt something crack in his neck.  Against his will, he tried to look in the mirror again.  It took a little effort—his head was tilted back now, so he had to point his eyes downward but they responded slowly, and it took a moment for him to see himself.

 

Joe’s cock was still smashing Cliff’s prostate, keeping the slut in an erect state, which is why Cliff wasn’t able to piss himself when his eyes focused on his image.

 

For a moment, he refused to recognize himself.  That couldn’t be him, that gargoyle in the mirror.  Cliff was rapidly aging out of the twink category, but he prided himself on his youthful, boyish appearance.  He’d always looked younger than his actual age, and that alone had gotten him lots of dick.

 

But that thing in mirror was a caricature.  His face, yes, but swollen and purple, his full lips now blue and parted by his thick, protruding tongue.  His face burned and felt hot, so very hot—and that thing was sweating, its near-black skin smeared with clammy perspiration—but no, not him, not him…

 

Joe had glanced up and noticed the direction of the dying pansy’s stare.  “Oh fuck yeah, watch yerself die, you piece of queer-ass shit,” he chortled cruelly.  “You like that, yeah?  You sick fuckin’ pervert, this is what you been lookin’ for, ain’t it?  You been layin’ here night after night, lettin’ any dude who walks through the door fill you with cum, hopin’ that one of ‘em would put you outta yer fuckin’ misery and waste yer sorry ass, yeah?  Well I’m here, boy, and you’re done.”

 

The muscled killer bent forward, not allowing any slack in the remorseless leather strap.  His head nearly nuzzled Cliff’s, his hot breath disturbing the meat’s long hair, now damp and stringy with agonized boysweat.  “See the way yer eyes are buggin’ out?” he whispered, the stubble on his cheek scraping Cliff’s left ear.  “Watch the whites turn red as blood vessels pop.  You can hear it, cantcha?  That pounding in yer empty fuckin’ head?  It’s yer pulse—you’ll be able to hear your heart start to fail.  Damn, fag, yer droolin’ some pink foam now, see?  Know what that is?  That’s blood.  We done jacked up yer windpipe real bad, boy—and yer dick is still hard as a fuckin’ brick!”

 

The pain was clawing at Cliff like some vicious living entity.  The front of his throat had been squeezed so far back by the belt that ran around it that the cartilage of his trachea had cracked.  Every drawn-out and desperately-fought-for cubic inch of air that the cumslut drew into his burning lungs was accompanied by a searing pain in his fractured windpipe.  And even though the pounding and dark buzzing in Cliff’s head made rational though difficult, the struggling homo had no problem feeling Joe’s massive shaft still plowing his hole, a relentless, unstoppable reaming that he had never known could exist—it was like he was getting fucked to the depths of his sick little faggot soul.

 

Joe could see that the meat was just barely hanging on.  The little fuck’s ass was starting to spasm weakly; it felt good—but not good enough.  Time to kick this shit into high gear.

 

“Looks like it hurts,” Joe chuckled, his lips inches from the side of Cliff’s head.  “Looks like it hurts like fuck.  Does it?  Does it hurt, fag?  I hope the fuck it does.  The more it hurts, the more you work my tool.  And I gotta tell ya, cumdump, you ain’t workin’ it good.  You ain’t givin’ me no satisfaction, boy.”

 

Still trembling on the edge of functionality, Cliff heard and understood every word, but his entire being was engaged in the struggle of just staying conscious.  The battered and abused youth knew that if he blacked out, he’d never wake back up.

 

The alpha’s cold, dry chuckle would have made Cliff’s blood run cold if he could have spared the attention.  “Guess that means I gotta hurt ya some more,” Joe whispered seductively.  “Ya like that, dontcha?  Sure you fuckin’ do, you pig fuck; lookit how yer little faggot dick is droolin’ precum.  Guess what, dude—I’m gonna hurt you so bad yer gonna cum like a fuckin’ geyser, cunt.  Know how I’m gonna do it?  Huh?  Know what hurts bad enough to do that, bitch?”

 

Joe’s head hovered beside Cliff’s, his breath hot on the punk’s ear as he whispered.  “Death, motherfucker,” he hissed.  “Death is the ultimate pain.  You’ll never suffer more agony that what you’re about to experience.  And your dying convulsions are gonna suck the sperm right outta my balls.  I’m gonna pump yer stupid fag ass full of cum and leave your dead meat to rot.  Don’t that sound hot as fuckin’ hell?”

 

The struggle to live was wearing Cliff down, but he wasn’t ready to die.  Some arrogant part of his weak, sputtering personality simply refused to believe that he was gonna die; the part that regarded him as the main character in his own story couldn’t accept that the story was about to have a dark ending.

 

And some part of his sick pig soul didn’t want to die because it felt so good—the sharp, searing pain in his torn rectum, the shattered sensation in his crushed throat, the blooming bruises on his back…the searing, throbbing agony of his forced, involuntary erection…it all hurt so fuckin’ good.  At the very end of his short, wasted life, some part of Cliff embraced the pain, wallowed in it, fetishized it—because on a deeply subconscious level, the reamed-out and used-up fag knew that pain was the last thing he’d feel.  Only death would release him from pain, and he didn’t want to die.

 

Joe knew it all.  He knew what the meat went through when he snuffed it, and he didn’t give a shit.  He was doing the homo a favor—taking a worthless pansy and giving it a purpose as his personal cumrag.  Little fucker should be thanking him.  Instead, the stupid cunt wasn’t even able to give his thick oozing shaft the intense stroking it needed.

 

“I’m done with you, ya worthless asswipe,” Joe snarled, his voice dripping with menace.  “You’re even useless as a faggot—ain’t even a good buttfuck, huh?  I’ll be doin’ the planet a service by takin’ out a waste of space like you, bitch.  You think someone’s gonna care how much you’re sufferin’?  Fuck that—no one’s gonna give a shit that you’re dead, motherfucker.  No one cares.  Time to die like the garbage you are, queermeat.”

 

Joe’s next move was so swift that Cliff never noticed it—not that the bound, struggling homo was in enough control of his sense to note anything at all.  The muscle-bound alpha brought both ends of the belt together, looping the loose end through the buckle—a simple slip knot.  Then, with a single brutal jerk of his powerful biceps, he cinched the belt around Cliff’s neck, sinking it in even deeper than it had been before.  As the leather strap whipped into place, it moved so fast it flayed the tender flesh around the punk’s throat in a neat circle.   The slashing pain was so intense, for a brief, horrific moment Cliff thought his throat had been cut.

 

It would have been no more horrific than what happened next.  Joe had only given the belt a casual yank, but his brute strength had been enough to tighten the belt to the point that it completely crushed Cliff’s trachea.  The lean, long-haired bottom pig was still alive, but no matter what happened, he’d be dead within five minutes.

 

His bulging, bloodshot eyes locked on the mirror, the choking, dying faggot could see the depths of his own suffering in the grotesque and distorted mask his once-handsome visage had become.  Black and swollen, his cheeks smeared with snot and foamy drool, Cliff’s face was etched with strangled agony.  His legs were useless, pinned under him as his killer’s weight bore him down onto the bed.  His arms still struggled against the silk binding, to no avail.

 

He could feel it all, though—from his crushed and mangled larynx to Joe’s wiry pubes scraping his smooth asscheeks with every balls-deep thrust, to his own erect and oozing cock–even as he died, Cliff continued to suffer.  Well past rational thought, he caught motion in the mirror and could see Joe draw his powerful arm back, but this time he wasn’t able to follow the idea to its logical conclusion.

 

“Die, motherfucker,” Joe snarled and unleashed the ultimate rabbit punch on his victim.

 

The muscle-bound killer’s fist struck the back of Cliff’s head with the force of a sledgehammer.  Simultaneously, Joe jerked back violently on the belt.  The combined impact drove Cliff’s head forward while his neck was pulled backwards.  There was a loud, wet crunching sound and the top three vertebrae of Cliff’s neck exploded into tiny shards of bone, tearing through his spinal column like shrapnel.

 

Unluckily for Cliff, the damage to his nervous system was catastrophic but not instantly fatal.  His spinal cord was severely damaged but hadn’t been completely severed.  The pain was beyond anything in the young homo’s imagination.  It was a searing electrical shock that tore through every nerve fiber in his body, completely filling the lean punk with burning agony. As his head lolled forward limply on his broken neck, his muscles contracted involuntarily, his slick, smooth body trembling with rigidity.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!” Joe grunted with pleasure as he hunched forward and unloaded a steady stream of cum into Cliff’s guts.  The nearly-dead meat felt the splash of manseed deep inside, but his traumatized nerves could only record the boiling heat of Joe’s load, as if the killer had pumped his victim full of molten lead.

 

At the same time, the shattering of his spine had also triggered the fag’s straining cock.  Cliff’s dangling head no longer allowed him to look in the mirror, but he had a perfect view of the long, ropy strands of semen that were being violently expelled from his own purple, engorged shaft.

 

It hurt.  He was cumming so hard it hurt.  It felt like his innards were being ripped out and expelled from his body in a squirt of boyspunk.  Unable to look up, he never saw his cum splatter and smear on the headboard mirror.

 

Joe held the corpse close to him for a few moments, his powerful, bulked-out body shuddering as the fag’s death throes continued to milk his swollen, sensitive shaft.  Finally, he withdrew his still-oozing rod from the punk’s mutilated asshole and let Cliff drop to the bed.  The randy young fag spent his last seconds on earth suffocating face-down in puddle of his own sperm.

 

Standing up, Joe turned to the chair with the clothing piled on it and extracting a pale blue button-down shirt, used it to wipe the sweat and cum off his hard, hairy torso still-erect cock before tossing it onto the floor.  Tucking his long shaft back into his jeans, Joe then grabbed his own shirt from the floor beside the bed and put it back on.

 

The last thing he did was retrieve his belt.  It took a moment to pry it from around Cliff’s loose, shattered neck.   It had sunk so deeply into the flesh of the throat that Joe had to sit on the bed for a moment with the head of the trembling corpse in his lap so he could dig the leather strap out.  Once he’d clawed it free, he stood up, dumping the pile of dead manmeat onto the floor with a loud thump.  Treading on the dead body with a contemptuous sneer, the muscled alpha threaded the belt back around his waist and left the room.

 

In the silent darkness, broken only by the faint flickering candlelight, Cliff’s body began to cool and stiffen.  Long minutes later, there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs and someone walked into the bedroom.

 

Joe hadn’t been the only dude Cliff had been intending to trick with that night; he’d had multiple appointments.  The next guy in line had arrived.  It took a few minutes of confusion for him to locate the corpse, but once his did, he backed away in horror and fled the apartment, not stopping to alert anyone—or to wonder why the sight of the murdered slut had left him hard.

 

Over the next six hours, three more dudes arrived ready to fuck Cliff, only to leave hurriedly—in in terror, one in frustration, and one curiously stimulated and more eager than ever to find someone to fuck.  None of them called the police.

 

The body wasn’t officially found for another two days, after the mail had backed up and one of the neighbors complained about the smell.

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.

The Club by Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

Bill’s lust was mostly for smooth “muscle boys” who were young, trim, sexually eager, and very well built. He liked the “twink” variety best, if they had worked out to perfect their amazing smooth young bodies. Using his ample cock to fuck their tight bubble-butt assholes was his favourite hobby – and he did it often. Money was not an issue for Bill, being extremely successful in his business, so he could well afford to rent the kind of male meat he liked. He just expected the meat to obey his every whim and please him however, wherever, and whenever he felt like being serviced.

In terms of Bill’s “rentals” there was no question Paul was his best find ever. The young stud had recently moved from Dallas to Tampa, and adopted “Paul Paulson” as a stage name for his career as a male prostitute. That’s how Bill had found him, through a web service that included pictures and reviews. They were all positive – every guy who reviewed Paul commented on how well he sucked cock, how friendly he was, and what a truly great body he possessed. Paul was about medium height, just right for good 69 sessions, and his body was in absolutely perfect shape, reflecting the hours of workouts he put in every day. His skin was smooth and mostly hairless, except for a little clump around his very appealing crotch, which included a larger than usual scrotum that caused his balls to hang a little lower than the usual male equipment, so they were easy for Bill to massage with his mouth. Paul didn’t have a massive cock, but it was decently sized, uncut, and very functional. Paul had no problem getting and maintaining his erections, which reflected a combination of his youth (he was 20) and his great physical shape. All of this really turned Bill on, and his orgasms were pretty explosive when he rented Paul for an evening’s fun.

Bill particularly remembered one evening, when they had ventured out of Paul’s condo and enjoyed themselves at a local gay strip club. They rated the dancers in a joking way over a beer or two, and they agreed that one guy in particular had an especially sexy body. The dancer was named Matt, and he didn’t waste any time stripping for Paul and Dave. He started out completely naked – unlike the other guys, he even was barefoot. The only things he had on were a tight, yellow collar that highlighted his tanned skin and had a ring to which a leash could be attached, and a set of metal rings around his scrotum and his cock that held them tight and rigid and were in turn secured in place with a small padlock. His cock was erect and bounced in front of him as he danced, the cock restraints helping to keep it that way.

“There’s no place to put a tip,” Bill hollered over the loud music.   Bill was always more than willing to pay for his sexual entertainment.

”I am a sex slave, sir, merely live male meat provided by the bar owner for your amusement. Slaves don’t deserve tips, sir. We simply exist to serve our owners. My master told me to dance for the two of you, and to let you use my body however you would like.”

“Who owns you,” Paul inquired, curious and also very aroused by the image of the beautiful young boy dancing in front of him for his amusement while adorned with appropriate slave insignias. While Paul worked as a prostitute, he never made himself that available, and limited what his customers could do with him.

“Mr. Jameson, the owner, purchased me at an auction last week along with some other furniture for the bar, sir, but I believe he intends to sell me. Of course, that’s none of my business and I obviously have no say in the matter.” The boy had been stroking his dick, and now had an even harder erection that was pointing nearly straight up in front of him, but still bouncing as he moved. That turned on Bill and Paul even more.

Bill recognized the name and asked the waiter to see if Mr. Jameson would like to chat with him, and the bar owner wandered over to their table shortly afterwards. By then Matt was on all fours in front of the two interested patrons, letting them examine his tight young ass and stroke his cock. Paul was taking full advantage of the opportunity.

“So, Bill, do you like my new purchase?” asked Mr. Jameson. “As you can tell, it’s really well trained and I figured it could be a feature at our meeting next weekend.”

“Stan!” came Bill’s startled reply. “I recognized your name when the slave told us who owned it, but I had no idea you owned this place. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I just bought it at an auction last week. The prior owner went bust. It turned out the meat you and your buddy are enjoying was his too, so I added a couple of bucks and bought myself a little boy-flesh. Feel free to do whatever you like to him, by the way, and now that I own the place it’s OK for customers to get naked and fuck in the bar itself. I figure that will help business, and it just costs a little extra with the local cops. Mostly I just let them in for free fucks.”

Bill and Paul were already shirtless, since Bill liked to look at Paul’s amazing body and have Paul stroke his own very attractive skin, but at Bill’s signal they now both stripped completely. Both had gotten hard watching Matt and the other dancers, so they were ready for action.

“Looks like you guys are ready for some fucking. Trust me; this shithead is a great piece of meat to fuck. Do you want it on its belly or on its back?” Stan inquired. “My suggestion is to have it lay across the table on its belly so one of you can fuck its butt while it sucks off the other guy. It might as well get used to being spit-roasted.” Matt picked up on the instructions and quickly positioned himself as suggested for maximum use by the two favoured patrons. Stan reached into his pocket and pulled out several short pieces of rope, which he quickly used to tie each of his slave’s hands and feet to one of the legs of the table, making the boy completely vulnerable and unable to resist. Given Matt’s training and attitude that was hardly necessary, but it clearly added to the ambiance.

“Once you two are done using it, I figure the rest of the bar might as well have a turn. I don’t plan to keep the slave long, so I am not too worried if it gets a little used up.”

“Well, don’t let it get too damaged,” Bill urged. “We do want to have a good meeting.”

“Oh, I’ll make sure it’s still useful,” Stan assured. “But what about your buddy here? I am guessing he’s a whore and I’d sure like to have him join us. He’s a lot better looking than my little boy toy. He’d be a huge hit if you brought him.”

“Well, he is a prostitute,” Bill intoned, “but he’s not into being a slave, and he generally does not let other guys fuck him. But, frankly, he’s so good looking and such a great cocksucker and kisser that I’m OK with that.”

Paul wasn’t very pleased with the conversation. He was very proud, and although he knew that he had to provide service in his role as a prostitute, he viewed it as a profession, worthy of respect from his customers. He did not like being referred to like a commodity. However, Bill paid extremely well, so he let it pass for now.

“Well, it’s obviously up to you,” Stan continued, openly admiring Paul’s now fully exposed body and taking the liberty of caressing his smooth, beautiful skin. “But as club president this year, Ill waive your whole year’s membership fee if you bring him.  I think we can recruit more of the right kind of members if we improve the quality of our guests.”

As Stan wandered off to tend to other customers and invite them to join in the fucking, Paul inquired what Stan was referring to. Despite being a little offended, he was also certainly curious.

“It’s a gay sex club I belong to that’s very exclusive. Each member brings a young guy to join in the weekly orgy, and we vote on which guest is the best looking, best fuck, and has the best attitude. The guys get rewards accordingly. It’s a whole lot of fun, and if you’d be interested I am pretty sure you’d at least win best looking. That’s a $5,000 prize, and obviously it would be in addition to your usual fee and tip. The only hitch is that you do have to wear slave gear and agree to be butt-fucked.” Bill had seen the spark of interest, and really wanted to get Paul to attend. He especially wanted to fuck Paul’s young bubble-butt, which Paul had not yet permitted. Paul was such an amazing stud that it would not only be a lot of fun but it would also impress the other members. Bill had joined only recently and was still trying to assure a good impression. All the members were extremely wealthy, so they brought really good looking studs and set the prize money very high.

“Well, maybe so – that’s a lot of money, after all. But you’d have to assure me they would follow my limits. I don’t mind a little S&M, but I am a top, not a bottom.”

“That’s not the usual approach, but I think it wouldn’t be a problem,” assured Bill, still hoping to get his cock into Paul’s backside. “The rules are very clear on all that sort of thing. We want everyone to have a great time and we especially value our guests.”

“OK, I’m game.” Bill was so thrilled at the prospect that he grabbed Paul by the back of the neck and pulled him close so he could provide a very enthusiastic kiss. They then took turns using the young slave tied to the table, with Bill so excited that he even let Paul have the first turn fucking the boy’s asshole while Bill inserted his own cock into the eager young mouth. As they fucked, they leaned over and continued their kissing session, eventually bringing each other to a fabulous mutual orgasm that drew applause from the other customers who had crowded around to enjoy the show. They were so into each other that they hadn’t noticed the crowd forming, but that too turned them on. So they traded places, and the slave cleaned Paul’s cock with his mouth as Paul regained an erection and then enjoyed a great blow job while Bill also restored his vigour and enjoyed fucking the recently used asshole. This time they were very aware of the crowd, and enjoyed being cheered on as they used the submissive young male flesh for their second round of orgasms. Not being greedy, they ordered drinks for the house while they watched the rest of the customers fuck the house slave and each other. It wasn’t long before someone produced a whip, and Mat’s back and butt were terrific targets, as were his belly, cock and balls when they turned him over to get a little variety into the torture. Matt thanked each of the customers for taking the trouble to use him for their pleasure, which was quite well received. So was the implication of Matt’s yellow slave collar, which signalled that there was no need to go the bathroom to piss – everyone’s urine just went down Matt’s throat.  It was a great evening, and when the bar finally closed Matt was left tied to the table with the whip resting on his belly.  “Might as well let the clean-up crew have some fun, too,” Stan said thoughtfully. “But I am aware they’ll just make the slave do all the work cleaning up, which is OK by me. He’s a good worker, and fun to watch as he walks around naked doing the chores. I insist that the rest of the clean-up crew is also naked, so it is a good show of whipping, fucking, and cleaning. I think I’ll stay to watch. I might as well get as much use as possible out of my new slave while I can.” Bill and Paul then returned to Paul’s condo for yet another sex session, joined by two of Paul’s roommates who also worked as prostitutes. It was an expensive evening for Bill, which didn’t matter at all since it was one he would always remember.

The following Saturday could hardly come soon enough for Bill, who was still quite excited at the prospect of having Paul join him at his club. They met at Bill’s house, and started the evening with a casual drink and a very relaxing 69 that got their sexual juices nicely aroused. Bill didn’t have them actually achieve orgasms; he wanted to be sure they had lots of sperm ready to go for the evening’s fun.

“This is a very unique club,” Bill explained. “All the members are extremely wealthy and extremely fit. We don’t let anyone in who doesn’t measure up both financially and physically, so there really aren’t any limits to the entertainment we can afford and everyone there is a turn-on. I don’t think there’s any other club quite like it.

“There is only one rule that will affect you. It is required that guests arrive naked and wear a slave collar. That way we can start the evaluations for the prizes right away. So you’ll need to strip once we get there, and I figure we can leave your stuff in my car. I brought a couple of collars you can choose from. Is that OK?”

Paul was a little taken aback, but had to admit to himself that he liked being naked and showing off his body to other guys, and he really liked orgies. The slave collar also, to his surprise, had the effect of turning him on. So, almost to his own surprise, he agreed. In fact, starting to get into the spirit of the evening, he suggested he just strip and leave his stuff in Bill’s house, knowing it would please Bill to be able to look at his naked flesh on the ride over and play with Paul’s cock while Bill drove. Paul would also make sure to get an erection, so he would arrive looking impressive. Bill showed Paul the selection of collars, and Paul picked out one that was simple leather and somewhat wide, with a hook to which a leash could be attached. Paul laughingly told Bill he might as well go for the full effect, but secretly he hoped Bill would indeed find a leash. With that, Paul stripped, they finished their drinks, and Bill drove them to the site of the club.

To Paul’s surprise, the club was located in the warehouse district, and it appeared to be just another warehouse from the outside. Bill explained that this made it convenient to get to, being close to town, and it helped assure no one bothered them or became aware of the club. “We value our privacy,” he explained. “And don’t let the outside fool you û inside its pretty awesome.”

When they got out of the car, Bill opened the trunk and surprised Paul with an added option–a leash. “It’s clearly your choice, Paul, but if you really want to go for the full effect, this should do it.” To Bill’s surprise and delight, Paul quickly agreed. So Bill approached the door to the warehouse holding Paul’s leash, with his beautiful rented slave walking dutifully behind him, naked, obedient, collared, leashed, and aroused.

Bill had not misrepresented how nice the interior of the club was. As soon as they entered, a very handsome young male respectfully greeted Bill and welcomed him. Bill stood still while the young man undressed him, carefully storing Bill’s clothes in a locker. He attached the end of the leash to a nearby post, as one would do with an owner’s horse in the Old West before the owner entered a saloon. Paul was impressed with the obvious symbolism, but not put off. He was really starting to get into the scene and wondered what would happen next.

Once Bill was naked, the doorman knelt in front of him and proceeded to suck on Bill’s cock until it was nice and hard. The combination of the doorman’s own nakedness and great body with the reality of having Paul so obviously willing to play meant that this process took no time at all. But Bill let the doorman take his time, enjoying the expert attention to his favorite muscle.

Once they passed through the next door, Paul was overwhelmed. The place was huge, and it was fantastic. There were bars in various strategic locations that featured whatever the members wanted to drink, and cushioned lounges everywhere for the comfort of the members while they played with each other and their guests. Best of all, there was a very large and comfortable looking mat in the middle of the room, which was obviously for the upcoming orgy.

Paul was also amazed by the quality of the male flesh that filled the room. While some of the guys were a bit older (obviously members), as Bill had promised every one of them was in great physical shape and very appealing sexually. The ‘guests’ were even better–Paul even felt there might be some competition on who was the best fuck, and determined to be sure he won the prize nonetheless. It wasn’t just the money (although that helped), it was now a matter of pride. Paul let Bill know that he would, after all, be willing to be butt-fucked and planned to win all three of the prizes. Bill, of course, was thrilled. Paul had never allowed Bill inside his ass before, and had claimed it was still virgin.

Bill quickly spotted his friend Stan and led Paul over to show off his prize. Stan was talking to another member, who was also showing off his guest. But Stan’s attention quickly turned to Paul when Bill led him over, and Stan’s interest was clear. While the other stud had gotten some arousal from Stan, the sight of Paul naked and erect with a collar and a leash obviously turned him on, and Stan made no effort to hide the effect. After all, displaying hard cocks was one goal of the evening.

“Well, this is a very pleasant surprise,” Stan said by way of greeting. “I guess I’ll have to waive your dues after all. But I sure don’t mind doing so.”

It was then that Paul had an inspired idea. He bowed to Bill, and knelt down in front of Stan, offering his mouth to service Stan’s cock. Like a good slave, he didn’t presume to touch it, but the offer was clear and respectful, waiting for permission and instructions.

“Wow. Did you even train him? This is quite impressive given what you told me the other night.” With that, Stan signaled his assent to Paul, who proceeded to take Stan’s manhood into his mouth and start massaging it. As Bill knew, Paul was probably the world’s greatest cocksucker, and Stan was so turned on that he actually began to moan in pleasure.

“This guy is awesome!” Stan exclaimed. “No wonder you put up with his limits. He’s clearly worth it.” But with that, Stan signaled Paul to release his manhood. “OK, I’m sold. But I don’t want to shoot just yet. However, when I do I want you to do the job. So do hang around.”

Bill and Stan giggled a little, just between them. Stan then asked if Paul had agreed to be butt-fucked, or if that was still off limits. Bill told him no, but that Paul had agreed to fucked for the first time tonight.

“Wow. That’s terrific,” gushed Stan, which also had the effect of getting Paul more aroused. “It’s all up to you and Bill of course, but if you’re up for a gang bang I’d sure love to be one of the first to enter. I’m guessing Bill wants the #1 shot.”

“Where’s the boy-toy you had at your club?” Bill asked. “He was pretty decent looking and clearly well trained. I wouldn’t mind playing with him a little as a start to the evening.”

“Oh, he’s here all right,” responded Stan. “I’ve got him spread-eagled in the playroom. Feel free to do whatever you like– but just don’t do anything that will spoil our fun for later on.”

“Of course not,” Bill promised. “But I feel like a little bit of a workout and he looked like an animal that would respond well to being whipped before being fucked.”

“Either way, my friend,” was Stan’s laughing response. “But if you want the opening fuck of the evening you’re probably too late. I think some of the other guys have discovered him. But you might get in the first flogging.”

Bill led Paul to a nearby room, which turned out to be the clubs extremely well equipped dungeon. That’s also where most of the members and their guests had congregated, and clearly Stan’s slave Matt was a part of the reason. The young, willing boy-toy was indeed spread-eagled with his hands and feet attached, respectively, to hooks in the ceiling and the floor. His smooth hairless body was readily available for whatever the members wanted to do to him, and everyone had ideas.

As Bill and Paul watched, a succession of guys approached Matt from behind and thrust their hard cocks into his tight little bubble-butt. They took their time, encouraged by the cheering of the onlookers. Meanwhile, Bill saw his chance and picked up a nearby whip. No one was attacking the slave from the front, so Bill got to land the first lashes of the evening onto the exposed belly and chest of the helpless victim. The youth squirmed from the obvious pain, but did not cry out. Instead, he responded as he had been trained, and as he responded to each guy who fucked him:

“Thank you, sir.”

The propriety of the reaction turned Bill on even more, and now he proceeded to turn his attention–and the whip –to the kid’s cock and balls. The cock was erect and made a great target, but reaching the balls took a little expertise. Fortunately, Bill was very experienced and able to inflict the pain of the lash on the full set of genitals. But the only verbal reaction was added expressions of appreciation. Bill always had admired what a great job Stan did training slaves, but felt this was exceptional and made a mental note to complement his friend.

But the strangest reaction was that of Paul. As he watched the remarkable scene that was unfolding, he found himself particularly turned on by how Matt was reacting.

“Would you like to whip me too?” Paul found himself asking Bill, as much to his own surprise as to Bill’s. “I see another set of shackles, and I think it would actually be a big turn-on for some of the members and improve my chances of winning. I’ve never really played slave, but maybe I’ve missed out.” Paul did not want to admit to Bill how turned on this scene had made him.

Bill didn’t hesitate. He handed the whip to another member, who continued the fun with Matt, and very quickly led Paul to the nearby set of shackles, quickly positioning and securing him in the same X position as Matt–two slaves side by side and ready for use. Bill then took a chance and inquired of his new property.

“I do think this will turn you on. But it would do so even more if we start with that butt-fuck you agreed to earlier. After all, that’s the most appropriate use of a slave, and if you want to have the full experience, and win all the prizes, it’s essential.”

Paul hesitated. He actually had a virgin asshole, and had prided himself on never having been ass-fucked. But Bill had a point, and Paul was somehow very anxious to please and to keep his promise.

“Sure. I’m all yours. Go for it. No limits.”

Bill was ecstatic. This had been his dream for a very long time, and now it was coming true. As Paul had made his speech of submission, Stan had wandered in to join the fun, and heard the offer.

“Well, that certainly simplifies things, doesn’t it?” Stan commented. “So, like I said before, I assume you want the first fuck. But I’d sure like to go next.”

Bill was a very generous person, and he really liked Stan. “No, you’re club president, and getting him here was actually your idea. So you go first, while I start the whipping. Besides, you’re still the best trainer in the club–as illustrated by your little hunk of boy-meat I just enjoyed.”

Stan appreciated the gesture, and wasted no time thrusting his aroused cock into Paul’s virgin ass. There was no foreplay or lube–Stan liked the reaction of guys getting the full thrust. “I had planned to have you suck me off, but frankly this is a lot better,” Stan informed his target. “Being the first guy to shoot a load up your butt will be a huge turn-on. It’s pretty rare we get a virgin butt in here.”

“Hey,” Paul began to protest. “I really had in mind having Bill fuck me, but at least use a condom.”

“No way,” came Stan’s quick response, as he started thrusting in and out of the very tight hole. “You said no limits, and around here that means no limits. As you’ll learn as the evening proceeds, the members make the rules. The slaves just obey and serve. You’ve now agreed to be a slave, and there is no turning back.”

Paul was upset, but before he could protest further he felt the first stoke of Bill’s whip hit his flesh. He had also never been whipped, and he was surprised how much it hurt. He inadvertently let out a scream, and a second one with the second stroke. Bill ignored the screams, actually increasing his efforts so that they began to lacerate Paul’s beautiful tight flesh, and Paul began to plead with him to stop.

“This isn’t turning me on,” Paul pleaded. “Please stop and let me loose.” But Paul’s hard cock put the lie to his complaints, and Bill didn’t really care at this point. What mattered, and what always mattered, is that the combination of whipping his favorite sex object while his buddy fucked him from behind was massively turning on Bill. And Stan.

It didn’t take Stan long to shoot his load, given how excited he was, and then it was Bill’s turn. They switched places, so that Stan could enjoy whipping Paul while Bill relieved his sexual tension at Paul’s expense. In and out, in and out, Bill kept the thrusts moving and increased the speed. The large load of cum Stan had deposited made a nice lubricant, for which Bill thanked Stan. When he finally released his load, it was probably the greatest orgasm he’d ever had. He was spent from the effort, but still completely turned on.

After the two friends had finished fucking Paul, they released him from the shackles. Paul was very upset, and now demanded to leave the club.

“Sorry, slave. Like I said before, it’s too late. You leave when we’re done with you.” Stan showed the authority that had gotten him elected president of the club.

The beating had left Paul weakened, so the two members had no problem securing him to a nearby wall, where he was forced to kneel. They explained that they had other business to take care of for a while, but they wanted Paul to remain useful.

“Our members like to drink beer,” Bill explained. “And that means they need a urinal. Until we get done with our other task, you’re the lucky recipient of all that piss. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll start your instructions personally.” And with that, Bill forced Paul’s mouth open and released a huge load of piss down Paul’s protesting throat.

“I don’t think he’s going to win the attitude award,” Stan speculated. They both laughed as they walked away from the horrified young man, who was quickly approached and used by another member. Both Stan and Bill noticed, however, that Paul’s cock was still hard.

The task awaiting Bill and Stan was to prepare Stan’s slave Matt for its next use. Unlike Paul, there was no protest when they released the shackles, and Matt stood obediently while they discussed their plans.

“How many main events do you plan tonight?” Bill asked. “It’s usually just one, right?”

“It is, but tonight I plan on two. No point using up too many of our slaves at the same time, but I had already planned to use up Matt and I think it would be instructive for Paul to see Matt’s fate first.”

“True,” Bill mused, “but it does seem a shame to use up Paul all at once. We could save him until next week, and have some fun in the meantime. He could spend the week considering what might happen, and we’d have more time to plan.”

“Deal,” Stan agreed. “Good thinking. So now we just need to figure out what to do with this one. Any preferences?”

“Well, I think his skin and his attitude are his best features. And it clearly should be something slow, after everyone gets in a good fuck. I’d suggest skinning him alive. If we’re careful, he’d still be alive when we start the feast.”

Stan saw the logic of this and quickly agreed. Matt was listening, but made no objections, even while Bill had stroked his smooth skin when describing the idea of removing it. Stan had trained him well, and if his masters wanted to gang rape him, skin him alive, and then eat his flesh while he was still alive, then that was clearly their right. His duty would be to provide as much entertainment as possible and stay alive as long as possible to prolong his pain and their enjoyment.

Once Stan and Bill had made their decisions, Bill instructed one of the waiters to let everyone know the main event would start in about an hour. He also had him invite everyone to join him in appreciating a final dance form the attraction.

“Matt had wanted to be a dancer, but I explained to him he wasn’t good enough, and really only deserved to be a slave, and ultimately a source of meat. But I figure we can let him entertain us before we snuff him and eat him. It should be fun.”

Matt was thrilled and honored by what he overheard Stan tell Bill. So when he was told to go up on a nearby stage and perform for the club, he did so willingly. Before he started, Stan provided the introduction.

“As my fellow members know, one of our club traditions is to stage an entertaining snuff scene each Saturday evening, featuring one of the guests. Tonight it will be this young slave, whom all of you have enjoyed fucking during the course of the evening. I’ve decided, after chatting with my buddy Bill, that the most fun would be to skin him alive and then serve him to all of you for a very fresh meat entree. With a little luck, you can cut off a piece while he’s still alive. So, before he does a final dance for our entertainment, let’s do our traditional auction to see who gets to join in the fun.”

With that, Stan conducted a brief but very vigorous auction among the guests to determine who would get the final fuck, who would do the skinning, and who would get to cut off the cock and balls once he was skinned and ready to serve. The results of the auction easily paid for the expenses of the evening, and the young slave fetched a good sum.

The dance was very well done, both lively and sexy. Stan didn’t let it go on too long, as the members were getting both anxious and a little hungry. So Matt was led down from the stage after enduring one last fuck from the winning bidder. He was laid on an autopsy table, which helped keep the flow of blood and such from getting too messy as Stan (who won the bid on doing the skinning) inserted the knife just above his chest to start the fun. The members cheered as Stan expertly sliced down to the top of Matt”s crotch, and then slowly peeled back the skin. He did the same with the arms and legs, but left the head and genitals uncut. The head would be added to the clubs trophy case, and it was the right of the winning bidder for the cock and balls to have them still in perfect shape when they were removed. Matt had maintained a hard-on during the dance and for the start of the fatal torture session, and Stan had tied off the prize so it would still be hard, which it was. Bill had won that bid, and made sure he cut as slowly as possible to enhance and prolong the pain.

Matt lasted through the entire process, although clearly he was going to die soon. So the winning bidders on his choice cuts of meat helped themselves, removing breast meat, liver, kidneys, thighs, and all the rest of the delicious treats that had once been a gorgeous young male. There was a nearby hibachi for those who wanted the meat cooked, but most ate it raw, many while Matt was still able to watch. Of course, once the feast began he didn’t last long. But everyone agreed he had been a very accommodating, and tasty, young piece of live meat.

After the meal, Bill returned to where Paul was still secured in his role as the club urinal. All the guys had used him by now, and he was both scared and subdued.

“Did you enjoy the show,” Bill asked.

“No. Please let me go. I promise I won’t tell anyone.” Paul was desperate.

“Oh, we’re not worried about that. All of the guests understand what would happen to them if they told. And no one would believe them anyway. Besides, one of the members is the chief of police.

“What I came over to tell you is that you’ve won the prize. You’re clearly the most attractive guest. However, the bad news is that we lied about it being money. The prize is that you’re the main event next Saturday. And between now and then, you’ll get training from Stan and a chance to continue to serve both as a urinal and as a sex object. I get to decide how we snuff you, so if you have preferences be sure to let me know. I won’t necessarily follow them, but it would be fun to chat about it.”

Paul was horrified. Things had gotten completely out of control. After watching what had happened to Matt, he had no doubt Bill was telling the truth. He knew he would die the following week. And yet, there was something exciting about it. He had always been a prostitute since he had reached puberty, and he had gotten real pleasure out of serving other guys. Despite his terror, he was actually aroused û and his cock hardened a bit as Bill spoke. Bill noticed the effect, and smiled.

“I always knew you were really a masochist at heart. All prostitutes are. I just didn’t know how much. So now I’ll find out.”

Epilogue

Paul trained well during the following week. Once resigned to his fate, he decided to play his part. And Stan and Bill, who jointly did the training, were very skilled. They and their friends dropped by the club each day to use Paul sexually, and to experiment with various forms of torture. They found that, while Paul responded well to flogging, he responded better to electric shock. They tested him with near-death shocking, which was a huge turn-on for their newfound student. And, of course, both they and the club staff made full use of Paul whenever they needed to pee. He also turned out to be a very talented urinal, never spilling a drop.

Bill and Stan were so pleased with their new pet that they actually kept him in training for two weeks instead of the usual one, snuffing another young male the next Saturday. This met with approval form the club members, who also wanted another week of using Paul before torturing him to death and consuming his flesh. The guy who was snuffed instead proved adequate, but most of the members felt he wasn’t really as cooperative as he should have been. They compensated for that by extending the pre-snuff torture session, and looked forward to Paul’s performance.

Paul did not disappoint. He was fully trained by the time he was offered to the club for their weekly ritual, and he showed as much enthusiasm as Matt had done. His trainers had decided to do a combination of emasculating him and chocking him. They tied piano wire around his genitals, after securing him so he couldn’t move. Then they attached the two ends of the wire to the tops of two large buckets that were suspended on either side of the victim. The idea was simple. During the course of the evening, as the guys needed to piss, they would do so in the buckets. As the buckets gained weight from the liquid, it would have the effect of pulling the wire and tightening it around the base of the scrotum. In due course, the wire would be pulled tight and the prized
Man-meat would be cut from Paul’s body, falling into yet a third bucket. It took a very long time, and the members really got into the fun of combining a needed piss with a little greater incision into Paul’s proudest assets. When the flesh finally was decapitated and Paul let out an appropriate scream of agony and humiliation, the resulting cheer was accompanied by nearly every club member shooting his load. It had worked even better than Bill and Stan had anticipated. And, of course, there was a prize for the guy whose piss had triggered the final separation.

Now that Paul was a eunuch, there was no further point keeping him alive, and Bill bid in the right to finish him off. He did so slowly, using his strong hands to choke off Paul’s breathing, enjoying the feel of the life ebbing from his victim. As he did so, the winning bidders began cutting away their prized meat selections, adding to Paul’s pain and Bill’s pleasure. But everyone made sure it was Bill’s careful efforts that finally ended Paul’s life. And everyone agreed it had been one of their best sessions, well worth the extra week’s efforts at training.

A Meat Slave in Hell by Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

As the slave rotated slowly over the hot coals, its body impaled by an iron spit inserted into its anus that exited through its mouth (to which its hands and feet were tied), it wondered idly how many times it had been killed.  But that thought was interrupted as the slave’s elongated cock brushed against the little pile of particularly hot coals placed so that the cock would touch them on each rotation.  That pain was extraordinary even compared to the agony caused by the red-hot spit cooking its insides and the excessively hot coals that were blistering its skin as the live meat slave slowly turned and cooked.  This was how the demons, who watched, laughed, and used their powers to keep the spit turning, liked human flesh prepared – not just cooked, but burned, especially the delicious cock.  The cock was kept so aroused and hard that it was parallel to the horizontal body, enabling its entire underside to scorch as it brushed against the extra-hot pile of coals.  The cooking would not kill the slave, which was important since the demons insisted on only eating living flesh.  It would be the removal and consumption of the slave’s heart that would once again bring the sensation of death.  That would not happen until nearly all the high quality meat on the body was greedily eaten.  The real nourishment didn’t come from the meat, which they enjoyed but didn’t need to eat.  The nourishment came from the extraordinary pain they were able to inflict both in cooking and in eating.  After one of them removed the beating heart and ate that final organ, the slave’s body would reform and the cycle would start again, beginning with sexual torture and humiliation and ending with a creative way of once again preparing the slave as meat for a demon’s feast.

 

It had been over 2,000 years since the first time the slave had died. That event, like all the thousands in between, was one the slave still vividly remembered, and it could still relive the sensations.  It had been in a Roman circus, where it had been displayed as one of the slaves captured by the Emperor Caligula.  The capture was a fake, of course, since the Emperor never actually went to war, and the slave had simply been one of the many young males selected by the Emperor because he liked its body and wanted to watch it die.  So the slave was brought out naked to the cheers of the crowd, fucked by several huge gladiators, and hacked to death as the cheering increased.  The gladiators started by cutting off its penis and testicles, which were presented to the Emperor as trophies.  The Emperor tossed the shriveled cock to a nearby slave kneeling beside him on all fours, who ate it doggy-style.  But the Emperor picked the man-seeds from the ball sac (which he also tossed to his slave-dog) and popped the fresh meat into his mouth.  This further delighted the crowd.  Oddly, even though it no longer had any sex organs with which to react, the sight of its former male pride being eaten turned on the slave sexually.  It was pleased that it had been used so personally by the great emperor.  From its perspective, for a mere slave to have part of its body used as a snack by the Emperor of the Roman World was a great honor.  The fact it also meant the slave would die a very painful, humiliating death was of no concern to it (or anyone else).

 

At a signal from the emperor that he was done with his snack, the gladiators slowly and carefully hacked the slave into pieces, trying to keep it alive as long as possible, laughing and sharing the severed body parts as more crowd-pleasing snacks.  The slave died when one of the gladiators, after cutting open its belly and reaching in to remove its liver, reached into the body cavity again and pulled out its heart.  The slave was not alive to watch the heart stop beating and get consumed by the triumphant soldier.  But this established its method of death for its eternity of pain.

 

The slave had not resisted or even objected.  In fact, it was sexually turned on by having its naked body on display and getting gang-fucked while the crowd watched, so that it was able to maintain an erection until its cock was sliced off.  One of the gladiators had masturbated it to the point of orgasm, so that what he cut off was a pulsating cock just starting to emit cum.  The clever transformation from pleasure to pain was a huge crowd-pleaser.  The slave somehow felt it owed the crowd (and especially the Emperor) as much pleasure as possible for having allowed it to serve them, alerting the gladiator to its impending orgasm so he could have the knife ready and make the timing perfect.

 

It had been born into slavery, and because it was exceptionally handsome it had been trained and used as a sex slave (among other things, such as a human urinal).   Whether it had enjoyed that naturally, or simply become accustomed to being fucked and tortured, was of no matter.  The simple fact was that it was seriously turned on by having another guy’s cock up its ass, by being whipped and kicked, by drinking sperm and piss, and by having lots of people watching and enjoying its torment – or, better yet, joining in the fun.  That’s why its owner figured it would be a perfect slave to sell to the Emperor, who thrived on torturing young males.  The night before its public execution the Emperor had personally fucked and tortured the slave, which had been the greatest honor it could imagine.  The Emperor had even considered doing the killing himself, but decided to let the crowd enjoy the scene.  The slave was deeply humbled that the Emperor would even consider such an honor, and went to its public death quite content with its life.

 

The slave had only limited understanding of heaven and hell, or even the concept of an afterlife, while it was alive.  Its understanding really began the instant it died.  To its amazement, it was able to watch the soldier pull out its heart and eat it in front of the wildly cheering crowd as the other gladiators let go and what was left of its body finally crumpled to the ground, ready to be fed to the livestock.  Even more amazing, the slave could actually feel itself being eaten.  The pain was extraordinary, but so was the excitement.  The slave understood, at a much deeper level, how appropriate it was to be a slave, and that its ultimate fate was the best use of its otherwise worthless flesh.

 

As the slave watched the soldier finish his task by cutting off its head and holding that, too, for the crowd to enjoy, it was sexually aroused by the feel of the axe through its throat, and reached a kind of climax as the soldier fucked the severed head through its neck.  That’s when it realized that it was somehow whole again – complete with a cock that was spurting cum.  As it watched the pieces of its body being dragged off the field to make room for the next victim, the sight brought it to orgasm yet again – a level of intense orgasm it had never achieved before.  And as it watched its massive load of sperm literally shoot from its body, the slave realized it was not alone.

 

“Nice loads, slave,” a voice observed.   “I see you’ve adjusted rather quickly.”

 

The slave was horrified.  It had reached orgasm without permission, which it knew was wrong.  It turned to look at the person who spoke, and immediately got on its knees, knowing that this was truly a master deserving of obedience.  The voice belonged to the most beautiful male the slave had ever seen.  Naked and ageless, he was perfect in every sense, including his massive, erect cock that the slave desperately wanted to service.  As the slave contemplated the perfection of the being it now worshiped, it realized even more its own imperfections and how unworthy of service it was.  But it also could not help but note that it had reformed, still naked, without any of the flaws its body possessed during life.  It was as perfect as its unworthy body was capable of being.

 

“You are correct,” the voice informed the slave, reading its mind.  “You are far below me, and in no way worthy of my attention.  But I will grant you the honor of servicing my cock since that gives me pleasure and is so clearly your overwhelming desire.  You can suck while I inform you of your fate, which is my task and right.  You do not need to talk as I can read your tiny mind and discern your pathetic thoughts.”

 

The slave crawled on all fours over to the perfect male being, and gently used its mouth to begin massaging the giant cock.  It was almost too large to fit in its mouth, but the slave was expert at this task and gratefully began its first post-death sucking assignment.

 

The cock erupted almost immediately and began gushing sperm down the slave’s throat.  There was so much of it, and it was so thick, that the slave was concerned it would choke to death.  But it quickly discovered an advantage to already being dead – it could swallow all the cum without any problem.  As he continued to spew cum in an endless orgasm, the beautiful male explained things to the slave.

 

“You’re dead, so you can’t die again.  But you can feel the pain of death again and again.  That will happen whenever someone rips out your heart and eats it, since that’s how you died the first time.  Once that happens, your body will reform and you will be whole and healed.  But while you’re being tortured or eaten, you cannot experience death and will feel the pain of every stroke and every bite.  Your potential to suffer is infinite and there is no limit to the amount of pain you can feel, or to what can be done to you without allowing you any relief from the pain.  This will be your state for all eternity.

 

“But you have been given a gift.  You, like me, can keep your cock hard at all times and you can achieve ongoing orgasms with no limit to the amount of cum you shoot – like I’m doing now in your mouth.

“I am Satan, ruler of the underworld, and I have claimed you as one of my eternal victims.  You have been a sex slave your whole life, and you were very obedient.  But do you think a piece of slave meat like you belongs in heaven?  A worthless sack of shit like you belongs in hell where you can be tortured and eaten for eternity, serving Me and my demons.”

 

The slave considered the comments as it continued to swallow Satan’s amazing sperm, its own cock now rock-hard and ready to erupt.  It touched its own cock to test the statement about being able to cum endlessly, and to its amazement it quickly reached orgasm and began pumping its own sperm.  It did this before it realized it hadn’t gotten permission, and that helped it respond.

 

“I am a sex slave, and can see myself as a meat slave, sir.  I really don’t think I deserve to be in heaven.  I guess I belong in hell.”  It spoke no words, since it was still swallowing what had now turned into a gusher of piss, but the speaker read its mind.

 

“So do I,” the voice agreed.  And with that, he reached down toward the slave’s chest, and was able to push his hand into the chest cavity and tear out the slave’s heart.  The slave could feel the incredible pain once again, and watched as its heart was thrown toward a massive fire the slave noticed for the first time.

 

“One of My demons will eat your heart when it lands in hell, and you will reform there.  And that is where you will stay for eternity.”

 

And so it had begun.  After its heart was eaten that first time, the slave reformed in hell as predicted and was examined by a vicious demon who took great pleasure in ripping off parts of the slave as it was examined and its parts inventoried, then eating them.  The slave had indeed felt the pain of every tear in its flesh, muscle, and bones, and it was reconstituted again after the demon enjoyed eating its heart for the second time.  But the demons were also incredible examples of male perfection, and they sexually excited the slave immensely.  It felt honored to be consumed by them, and it achieved its ongoing orgasm even while it was being dismembered.  This, in turn, further amused the demons, who loved drinking human sperm while torturing its source.

 

The slave quickly learned that demons prefer their meat burned and charred, and they especially liked to overcook it on a bar-be-cue.  Their favorite was what had been done to it on this particular day, with a long, heated, iron spit rammed into its anus until it protruded from its mouth.  With its hands and feet also tied to the spit, it could be roasted both inside and out, producing charred meat that they greedily ripped off to enjoy.  The fact the meat was live even after being separated from the body, and the fact the slave could still feel the pain as it was eaten, was essential to their pleasure.  The slave even learned to amuse them further by achieving orgasm while it turned slowly over the flames, its sperm causing the coals to flare up and burn its skin a bit more intensely.  As it slowly turned, the slave focused on trying to get as many flare-ups as possible, since it obviously added to the pleasure of its tormentors.  This made it a favorite meal, and that in turn meant it was roasted more often than most of the other humans available to the demons.

 

True, the slave also responded quite nicely to the torture sessions, which included rape with everything from huge, multiple demon cocks stuffed into its butt for simultaneous gang-fucks, to dynamite exploded in its asshole.  These sessions would last for many hours, or even days, between cooking events, and the demons prided themselves on their creativity.  Crucifixion of the humans in hell was routine, and since the sufferers wouldn’t die it was particularly effective at administering extreme agony over a long period of time.  The slave was included in those rotations as well, sometimes having its body nailed up in the middle of the vast desert-like setting for months on end, burned by the heat while trying desperately to breath.  And while the slave was not considered muscular enough to participate in the vicious gladiatorial contests, its great good looks made it a frequent target for events like archery and axe-throwing.  The greatest honor, however, was to be permitted to suck the giant cocks of the demons, drinking their gushing loads of sperm and urine that would have chocked the slaves to death in their prior existence.  Now it was something to look forward to, as it so clearly gave pleasure to their masters while degrading themselves.

 

What was strange was how none of this depressed or even bothered the slave.  It knew this was its intended purpose, and that it belonged in this place of torture and depravity.  Its cock was hard at all times in part because it was so sexually turned on by what was being done to it, by the extraordinary male bodies the demons chose to present themselves with to their victims, and especially by the knowledge that its degradation gave pleasure to its masters.  As a slave, what better purpose could it serve?

 

The daily cooking was nearing completion, and the slave realized its body was now appropriately charred and burned, ready to be eaten.  It was soon removed from the coals, and the spit was placed near a table where the demons could easily reach it without burning themselves.  The slave felt every bite and tear as its flesh was ripped from its body, and even felt the pain as each piece of meat was chewed and swallowed.  The greatest pain occurred when one of the senior demons pulled off its genitals, slowly munching on its burnt manhood as it idly tortured yet another doomed soul tied to a whipping post nearby.  It would be a while before one of the masters consumed its heart, causing it to reform, but there was plenty of time.  After all, there was eternity.

 

Peter and Michael had just finished a great 69 session, erupting into each other’s eager mouths with intense mutual orgasms.  This was one of their favorite activities, and they made sure to start all their meetings with a long sexual exploration of their amazing bodies.  When they finished coming, Peter asked a question:

 

“I don’t understand why you don’t retrieve that Roman slave you allowed Satan to claim all those centuries ago?  I don’t see how he ever did anything wrong, and even if he did it sure seems he’s suffered enough.  Look at him – being spit-roasted and eaten yet again.  I wasn’t here yet when he was processed, so maybe there’s something I’m missing.”

 

Michael laughed.  “There is indeed, my well-endowed friend.  This slave is one of the perverts He likes to make from time to time, who is truly happy only if suffering horribly and serving in a completely humiliating role.  Like many of them, this one revels at being eaten.  So I didn’t really sentence him to hell.  And I gave him the gift of continuous orgasm.  Being a meat slave is, for him, the equivalent of the highest level of heaven.  He’s completely content and will remain that way forever.”

 

Peter understood, and watched as the demons down below finished their latest meal.  It was a pretty good show, and Peter no longer felt guilty enjoying watching it.

Thrill Kill Live:  Kevin’s Retirement by Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

A few years ago I posted a story with this theme on Zambianmeat.com, and several guys requested a sequel.  M3Mayhen was kind enough to let me post it here a few weeks ago as well, and I also got some positive feedback.  One reader suggested maybe celebrating the host’s retirement show.  I thought that was a good idea, so here’s the result.  Let me know if you have thoughts or other suggestions.  My aim is to write stuff guys can get off on who enjoy snuff and torture themes, I do fantasizing myself as the willing victim.  I’m always appreciative of feedback – positive or not.

 

 

 

 

The opening credits began to run for a special episode of the hit series Thrill Kill Live!  The show was celebrating ten years at the top of every rating, whether traditional TV or internet.  It was the ultimate cash cow for the Fox network, and its creator and host, Kevin Strand, was a major celebrity.  But after ten years of hosting, Kevin had announced his intention to retire, and the network had heavily promoted this final episode under Kevin’s leadership, including the promised introduction of an as yet unnamed new host.  Viewership was massive, the studio was packed, and everyone had great anticipation for a terrific presentation.  Kevin’s simple formula of interviewing, torturing, killing, and ultimately selling the meat of good-looking young male losers, all on live TV, was a proven hit.  Clearly, the show would continue.  It was the ideal combination of entertainment and public service.

 

The stage was set to feature a large wrestling mat, and as soon as the credits finished two extremely athletic males walked onto the stage.  They appeared even younger than their 17 years, but were exceptionally muscular and attractive.  Each was naked, and each sported a decent-sized erection.  They walked to the two sides of the mat and stood still, facing each other.  Both looked very serious as they stared at each other, ignoring the audience.

 

Once the young males were in place the announcer began his usual introduction:  “Welcome everyone!  It’s that time of the week, and it’s another exciting show.  But this one is even more amazing than usual, a two hour episode to celebrate ten years of Kevin’s great creativity and leadership and to introduce our new host for the next ten years.  So, with no further ado, HERE’S KEVIN!”

 

The audience went nuts as Kevin walked on stage.   While he usually started the show wearing one of the expensive leather outfits he loved, which were made from the skin of some of the show’s “participants,” this time he was completely naked.  Kevin was 31 years old, having dreamed up and started the show when he turned 21, but his body looked much younger.  He kept himself fanatically fit, and had the benefit of an extraordinary body to work with.  It was no wonder he was so popular, and he had used his popularity, and the show, to become very rich.  The line of clothing made from the skin of young males he’d killed was just one of many cross promotions, and the meat sold after the show each week went for a huge premium.  Moreover, he had started related enterprises to increase his source of meat, with local contests designed to promote the show and also provide lots more young male “participants” whose bodies could be butchered and sold after their 15 minutes of fame (and their worthless lives) were over.  It was profitable local entertainment that served the moral good of reducing the population of these young troublemakers.  That’s why he had decided to retire, so he could focus more time on the ever-changing cadre of young male volunteers, prisoners, and slaves he owned and loved to torture, kill, and turn into a useful combination of meat and other byproducts.  His plan was to continue those highly profitable and worthwhile endeavors, but he had grown tired of the public spotlight.  It was practically impossible for him to even go to a restaurant without some depressed, cowardly, male asshole asking Kevin to kill him on the spot or to be selected for the show.  While Kevin enjoyed turning losers into meat, and always obliged the requests (with a knife thrust into the gut, since that would be quite painful, relatively slow, but always fatal), it was very intrusive of his privacy and got in the way of his own priorities.

 

“Welcome everyone,” Kevin began, “and I hope you all enjoy this very special show.  As you know, I have sold my rights to the show and I am turning over the hosting duties to someone else.  You will meet him shortly – and so will I.  My producer, Robert Gray, and I thought it would be more fun to keep everyone in suspense as to the identity of the new host, even including me.  So we’ll all be surprised to learn who the new host turns out to be, and to watch as he and I work over whoever tonight’s main attraction turns out to be – that’s also a surprise.

 

“But let’s start out with an extended version of our usual opening set, and this one is really special.  My guests are Tony and Mike, and they are both 17 years old.  Many of you have asked for younger meat, and we’re here to meet your desires!  But what’s really exciting is that we have combined with our colleagues at Fox Sports to provide a combination event.  You see, Tony and Mike are high school wrestling champions, and had been set to compete for the state championship even though they are only juniors in high school.  These are really talented athletes, and they are very aggressive.  Better yet, they have grown up in the same schools and they have come to hate each other.    So my friends on the sports side came up with a terrific suggestion.  Instead of the usual boring high school wrestling contest, why not feature them as our opening act, letting them fight to the death, with the winner fucking the dead body of the loser and getting to eat his cock?  We paid their parents a little money and got their permission, and the proceeds from this part of the show will help their high school build a much-needed new gym.  Each of the boys expects to win, and given their intense hatred for each other they were both immediately on board with the proposal.  It was an “everybody wins” idea that just makes too much sense not to pursue.  OK, maybe not everybody wins.  We’ll have a dead body here pretty soon that we will butcher and sell for meat, but by definition the dead kid will have been a loser and his body will be better used as meat snacks for our audience and maybe some leather boots.”

 

Kevin turned to the two boys, who were still glaring at each other, and stroking their cocks to keep them aroused.  Besides being exceptional young athletes, they were also exhibitionists who loved showing off their beautiful young bodies.  In fact, they had often persuaded the principal to let them wrestle nude during the regular season, and that was always approved once they agreed to suck him off and let him fuck their cute young assholes.

 

“OK guys, let’s start by getting a little more info on you.  I understand you really dislike each other, and wonder why.  Tony, let’s start with your side of the story.  What’s you beef with Mike?”

 

‘Mike ruined my relationship with my boyfriend Larry.  Larry is 19 and wants to be with me, so I can serve him, but Mike turned Larry in for fucking a minor and now Larry has to stay away from me or get arrested.  Mike is just jealous, since Larry prefers fucking me over fucking Mike, and I want vengeance.”

 

Kevin next handed the microphone to Mike.  “That’s bullshit.  If Larry had any taste in guys he’s prefer making out with me over Tony.  I know he really enjoyed himself when I let him fuck my ass and drink his cum.  But Larry is just an egotistical college kid who likes to throw his weight around and take advantage of his status.  I don’t give a shit about him or Tony, and once I finish killing Tony in this match I think I’ll figure out a way to capture and torture Larry to death just for fun.  And I’ll eat his cock too.”

 

“Wow,” observed Kevin.  “You two have a great grudge going, and I have no doubt you’ll finish it tonight.  So let’s get at it.

 

“You know the rules.  You have to stay on the mat, and if you step off it I get to whip you until you get back on.  There is no referee, and there are no limits on what you can do to each other while you fight.  The match ends when one of you is dead.  But to be victorious, the winner ahs to fuck the loser, sending a load of cum up the ass of the carcass.  The winner also has to chew the cock off the dead loser and swallow it.  We know both of you are gay, so I doubt those requirements will be much of a problem.  And we’ve pumped a lot of Viagra into your oversexed bodies, so you will likely keep those hard-ons during most of the match.  We think that will make it more fun to watch, and we hope you try to rip them off.  If the survivor has lost his cock during the match he won’t be able to fuck the dead meat, so he’ll die too.  Our rules are strict.  Finally, we want you each to drink the bottle of water on the table near you.  When one of you dies, we want to watch the animal piss all over himself. Our viewer surveys tell us that’s really a popular feature of the show.

 

“So, do you understand the rules?”   Both boys nodded, not saying anything.  Kevin then signaled for them to drain the bottles of water, which they quickly did, and then directed them to the center of the mat.  There was no shaking hands, or other civilities.  At Kevin’s signal, the two naked young animals went after each other with a ferocity that surprised even Kevin and that delighted the audience.  They especially tried to get to each other’s cocks, which obediently protruded in front of each boy and presented a great target.  While neither was able to rip off the other guy’s cock, they each landed very effective blows to the genitals, which resulted in loud cheers from the audience.  Bets had been placed both in the studio and at home, so the audience cared who own.  And, of course, that meant more money for the show and for the network.

 

It quickly became clear the two boys were very evenly matched.  As they wrestled, first one and then the other would be pinned on the mat, but then he would quickly recover and the fight would continue.  Of course, pinning didn’t matter – there was only one scoring criterion.  Also, the boys realized the mat was not quite as large as the usual wrestling area, so they sometimes landed off its edge.  That added to the fun, as Kevin was very athletic himself and able to use his whip to inflict some pain on the errant athlete.  That’s why he had decided to be naked for the match.  And Kevin had selected his favorite whip, which was designed to draw blood as it lacerated its victim’s skin.  Thus, as the fight preceded both boys suffered lacerations that were bleeding nicely and adding to the entertainment.  The blood and sweat, in turn, made the mat more slippery and meant they were more likely to slide off, again adding to the fun.  Their anger at each other now also included anger at Kevin, which naturally added to his personal enjoyment.  He was not only sporting a somewhat harder erection, but his own beautiful naked body was sweating almost as much as the two boys.

 

As the fight went on, it appeared Tony began to fade a bit.  Clearly, he had slipped off the mat many more times than Mike, and bore the resulting scars from the whippings.  The turning point of the fight happened when he slid off the mat on his back, and an unusually brutal stroke from Kevin’s whip hit his chest squarely on his left nipple, distracting him with the pain.  As Tony moved back onto the mat it gave Mike the chance he needed, and Mike was able to grab Tony’s right arm and bend it backwards to break it at the elbow.  Tony screamed in pain to the delight of the audience (especially those who had bet on Mike), and a look of fear came over his face.  But Mike didn’t move in for the kill just yet.  He first maneuvered so that he could reach Tony’s left arm, and without the use of his right Tony was unable to stop him.  Mike saw his opening and in no time had also managed to break Tony’s left arm.  Tony was in severe pain and now very distracted.  He was a superb wrestler, but not used to this kind of pain or the loss of the use of his arms.  Mike moved in again and tripped Tony, grabbing his leg as he fell.  Mike’s strength was impressive, and with a quick sidestep he was able to break the leg at the knee.  Tony was now pretty much helpless, and Mike had no trouble managing to break the other leg. Tony was screaming, and begged for mercy.  That was music to Mike’s ears (and Kevin’s), and Mike took a moment to spit in Tony’s face.  The hatred was indeed intense, and Mike wanted to prolong Tony’s agony and humiliation.

 

Mike did not yet finish off his enemy.  Instead, he focused on more of Tony’s limbs, and enjoyed himself breaking bones.  Mike broke both wrists, yanked the arms from the shoulders to dislocate them, and particularly seemed to enjoy further breaking the legs at the knees and ankles.  Mike then turned to Kevin:

 

“I want to make a wish and then break his legs at the crotch.  Would you like to help by grabbing one leg while I grab the other?”

 

The result of the fight was clear, and Kevin was more than happy to oblige.  So he and Mike each grabbed a leg, and Tony’s body was broken like a wishbone at Thanksgiving.  But Mike wasn’t done yet.

 

“May I borrow your whip?” Mike asked politely, his anger at Kevin replaced by his sense of triumph.  Once again, Kevin was delighted to oblige, and soon Mike was vigorously lacerating Tony’s back and butt as he lay on the mat, his body a bleeding contorted caricature of the beautiful young male he had been.  Mike then turned him over so he lay on his back and then applied the whip to the chest and belly.  It was a testament to Tony’s youth and fitness that he was still alive, let alone conscious.  But he was, and Mike was making sure his pain and humiliation were total.

 

What happened next surprised even Kevin, and thrilled the audience.  Mike put down the whip and knelt in front of Tony’s genitals, taking the doomed opponent’s cock into his mouth.  Despite all the pain, and aided by the sex drugs, Tony began to restore his erection – as did Mike.  Mike stroked his own cock, and expertly sucked off Tony.  To everyone’s amazement, Tony actually produced a load of cum, which Mike allowed to shoot straight up in the air, catching and swallowing it with his well-trained tongue.  Mike loved getting sucked off and sucking off other guys, and as he demonstrated he was very good at it.

 

But now it was time for Tony to die, and Mike once again showed some creativity.  While Tony’s cock was still hard, Mike again took it into his mouth.  But this time, instead of sucking it, he bit down hard at the base.  As Tony emitted an inhuman scream of ultimate shame and agony, Mike bit off his cock, letting the blood that was inside it drip form his mouth while he conspicuously chewed his victim’s manhood – being sure Tony could see what has happening.  As Mike finished and swallowed, his hands moved up Tony’s chest to his neck, and Mike’s strong hands choked the last remaining life from Tony’s broken body.  Kevin was so excited that even his normal self-control failed him, and he shot a load over the two boys as Tony finally stopped struggling and lay dead on the mat.  Mike dutifully licked up Kevin’s cum, which was his favorite liquid.

 

Mike had one more task to do, and he enthusiastically turned Tony’s body over so he could insert his cock into the asshole of the carcass that had once been his enemy.  The body was still warm, of course, and Mike was surprised how much he enjoyed fucking someone who was dead.  He made a mental note to himself to remember to fuck Larry after he killed him, and to find other occasions to do so, having no compunctions about the fact this would mean he would have to kill them first.  He was, indeed, a severe and total sadist with no limits.

 

Once Mike had erupted into Tony’s body he looked up at Kevin in total triumph.  “I believe I have won the match and done as instructed,” Mike casually stated.  “I want to claim the body as part of my prize, so I can finish eating him.  The cock tasted really good.”

 

A sly smile came across Kevin’s face.  “Yes, the body of the loser was part of the deal.  But unfortunately you broke the rules so you have not won.”

 

Mike was shocked and angry.  He knew he had put on a fantastic show.  And there was a mutilated, fucked dead body in front of him to prove his victory.

 

“You see,” Kevin continued, “the rules were to chew off the cock after Tony died, not before.  You deprived us of the fun of watching him piss all over himself once he died.  While I sure enjoyed watching you eat the cock while he was still alive – that was a nice touch that triggered a very satisfying orgasm for me – it broke the rules.  So you lose too.”

 

Now Mike was not only angry, but nervous.  “What do you mean?”

 

“The contract for the match not only allows us to make it a fight to the death, it also provides that if the winner doesn’t follow the rules we get to torture him to death also, in any way we want.  You should have read the fine print.”

 

Mike was horrified.  This was clearly not fair.  “No one showed me any contract,” he literally screamed at Kevin, “so you can’t hold me to anything like that.”

 

“Well, you’re under age so we showed it to your principal and your parents.  No one had any problem with it.  After all, they get some extra money as a result.”

 

Mike lunged at Kevin, but he was spent and in any event no match for the larger, stronger man.  Kevin handled him easily, and dragged him over to the other side of the stage.  There, as was customary, stood the Wheel of Death that, like the Wheel of Fortune that inspired it, was designed to be spun to land on a random selection.  But the selections here were a variety of ways for one of the show’s participants to be killed.  Kevin reminded Mike how it worked, and asked if Mike wanted to spin it.  Mike was still stunned, and didn’t respond.  So Kevin spun it for him, enjoying not only the amusement of how the young boy had been tricked, but also the knowledge that this gorgeous hunk of meat would soon be his to torture, kill, and enjoy.  Mike’s anger would make it just that much more fun.

 

The wheel spun for a while, building suspense as it was designed to do.  But it soon stopped, and to Kevin’s delight it had landed on “skinned alive.”  That was probably Kevin’s favorite way to torture and kill an animal, and it would also mean there would be a great source of new leather for one of Kevin’s popular outfits.  He loved wearing leather that was made from the skin of his victims, and this would be a special jacket since it would be from his final session as host of the show.  Best of all, Mike’s skin was extremely smooth, as befit his 17-year old youth, and it would make an especially nice piece of clothing.

 

It took very little time for the stage crew to set up the stage for the skinning, but Kevin wanted a little fun with Mike first.  There was a sawhorse-style fuck bench already nearby, and Kevin forced Mike onto it, tying his hands and ankles so Mike couldn’t resist and his terrific young ass was presented to Kevin for Kevin’s pleasure.  After all, the show had been on for nearly 20 minutes and Kevin had only shot one load of cum.  He needed some release, and Mike was the perfect target.  Kevin took his time, as the audience watched and enjoyed the show, thrusting slowly and deeply for quite a while before accelerating his pace and reaching his next climax.  He shot over Mike’s back so the audience could see the cum, and then he pissed all over the boy to clean off the cum and some of the sweat and blood from the fight.  A member of the stage crew showed up with a hose, and finished the job of cleaning up both Mike and Kevin with warm water for Kevin, cold for Mike, so that they would look fresh for the skinning.

 

Kevin then took the microphone, standing in front of Mike so he could watch.  “We now have another guest to introduce.  You’re already heard all about him, so with no further ado, let me introduce Larry – the cause of all this bad feeling.”

 

Yet another Adonis walked onto the stage.  His nude body was even more gorgeous than the other two, and he was as fit and impressive as anyone Kevin had ever invited on stage.  While a bit older than Tony and Mike, he nonetheless had the look of a very young male with terrific sex appeal.

 

“Welcome to the show, Larry.  As I told you, once Mike won the match it would not mean he would live through the show.  We rigged the match so Tony would lose, by putting some drugs into his water bottle that he drank before the fight.  And I made sure to focus my whip on him more than Mike.  I’m really happy about that since now I’ll get Mike’s smooth young skin without any scars.

 

“We also had it rigged so that we would have an excuse to torture and kill Mike, although he made it easy for us.  So, as we agreed, you would be allowed to fuck him and to administer the final torture that will result in his death.  Do you still want to do that?”

 

Larry nodded his head, and as he surveyed Mike’s vulnerable and available flesh Larry’s cock began to harden.

 

“Great.  The first thing I want you to fuck is his mouth.  But since he has a pattern of biting off cocks, and we want yours to stay attached, let’s do a little prep.  Here’s a pair of pliers.  How about if you take this plastic piece to keep his mouth open, and then use the pliers to remove his teeth?  It’s really fun to do, and astonishingly painful.”

 

As Larry eagerly agreed, to Mike’s horror, Kevin turned to the audience.  “And for the benefit of the audience, I want to let you know that we’ll turn the teeth into a nice bracelet, and that will be for sale once we’re done with the festivities.”  Kevin never missed a chance at a profitable promotion.

 

It turned out Larry had very sadistic tendencies of his own, and he took his time removing Mike’s teeth so that he could safely fuck his mouth.  He slowly used the pliers on each one, and placed the tooth into a nearby tray.  Mike’s pain was wonderfully obvious, and he screamed loudly.  Once Larry was done with his first task, he was quick to thrust his rock hard cock into Mike’s defenseless mouth and began pumping away.  Mike, however, couldn’t help himself.  He loved sucking cock so much that he actually cooperated, giving Larry an excellent blow job.  After all, it was Mike’s lust for Larry’s amazing body that had been the key to the grudge with Tony.  Kevin had moved to stand behind Mike’s ass, and amused himself by re-inserting his cock into the boy’s butt.  He watched Larry carefully, and when Larry shot his load all over Mike’s face, Kevin shot a load once again all over his back.  It was another crowd pleaser.

 

“Nice load,” Kevin congratulated Larry.  “Want to shoot one into his ass too?  I don’t think he’s going to be able to object.”

 

Larry was of course delighted to comply, and he soon added a plentiful supply of his cum to the sperm already shining on Mike’s exposed backside.  He finished by walking back in front of Mike’s face and pissing all over his face and down his throat.  Larry felt very satisfied and was now really enjoying himself.

 

Next, Mike was led to the special table Kevin had designed for the task of skinning a victim, and by this point he was too weak and shocked to resist.  The table was much like a rack, and had that added capacity, so Kevin stretched Mike, spread-eagled, on his back to the point his arms and legs were in pain.  To Kevin’s delight, Mike began to beg for mercy, offering to do anything in order to avoid his fate.  Kevin knew that always helped with audience enjoyment and that, in turn, improved ratings.

 

Kevin next put some attention to Mike’s smooth young cock, which he took in his mouth and soon got to a full, impressive erection.  Mike was too young and oversexed to resist the arousal, much as Tony had been when Mike sucked him off before biting off his cock.  This was another reason Kevin really liked torturing and snuffing boys in their late teens – they were like little cum-gushers he could always count on.

 

“Would you like to cum one last time before I skin you?” Kevin politely asked.  The answer wouldn’t matter, but he thought it would be fun to ask and get the reaction.

 

“Please, let me go.  I’ll do anything you want.  This isn’t fair,” was all Mike would say.

 

“OK, I’ll take that as a yes,” Kevin laughed in reply.  “Let me tell you how this will work.  You see the skinning knife I’m holding?  It is very sharp, which is important for getting a good clean separation of the skin form the meat and bone.  But first, since even you won’t be able to function sexually once I start in earnest, I am going to have Larry suck you off.  When you shoot, he’ll use the knife to cut off you cock and balls as a single unit.  They don’t’ represent much skin, and I Larry and I will eat them in front of you.  You can try not to watch, but you won’t be able to stop yourself.  It’s really pretty amusing how fixated male animals like you get when forced to watch your prized manhood being eaten while you’re still alive.”

 

Larry was delighted with this idea, and took his time sucking off the boy, but in due course Mike shot his final load.  Larry let it shoot over the smooth belly, and then licked it up for his enjoyment.  He also found cum his favorite liquid.  And as promised, as soon as the cock gyrated and began to shoot, Larry slowly cut away the scrotum and cock, so that by the time the cock was done shooting its load Larry was holding the manhood apparatus in his hand.  He and Kevin moved to where Mike could see them better, and very slowly they proceeded to enjoy the man-seed treats, starting with each eating a part of the penis and finishing with each enjoying a freshly detached testicle.  As Kevin predicted, Mike could not turn away – making for another instance of great TV.

 

The skinning itself was fairly routine, as Kevin had done it so many times before.  He started just under Mike’s chin and cut down to where his cock had been.  He slowly and expertly parted the skin, removing whole sections so that the resulting leather would be more seamless.  The specially designed table lifted the body up as needed so Kevin could pull the skin from the back as well as the chest, and once he had performed similarly on the arms and legs Mike was simply a bleeding pile of meat and bone – but, thanks to Kevin’s skills, not yet dead.  So Kevin was able to cut off a delicious piece of breast meat while Mike was still able to feel the pain and humiliation, and he ate that as well in front of the boy, who was once again fascinated and unable to turn away. When Kevin invited Larry to cut off another piece of boy tar-tar, however, it was too much for Mike’s system and everyone enjoyed the last convulsions of pain as Mike finally died and Larry concluded his snack and his task.  The camera had covered the proceedings expertly, and now canvassed the dead body for the enjoyment of the audience.

 

But there was one more use for Mike before he would be butchered in order to provide expensive treats for the studio audience (as Tony already had been).  Kevin adjusted the table so that there was an opening that allowed him to spread Mike’s skinless legs and approach the crotch that had once featured his young manhood.  The table then raised up Mike’s legs and positioned his butt so that Kevin could reach Mike’s ass.  Kevin also loved fucking his victims right after they died, while they were still warm and pliable.  He was again hard as a rock, and he thrust his cock into the well-lubricated asshole for Mike’s final fucking.  Kevin then invited Larry to do the same – the table had positioned the carcass ideally for a double fucking, and Kevin and Larry each pumped their cocks into the warm, moist flesh for Mike’s final humiliation.  (Of course, Kevin suspected the butchers would have a little fun before they started cutting Mike up, so maybe this was just the final time Mike would be fucked in public.)

 

Kevin and Larry simultaneously shot their loads into Mike this time, concluding what had been an exceptional opening segment.

 

Once they were sexually spent, Kevin turned to Larry.  “You have done really well, and I’ve enjoyed co-fucking this meat with you.  You’re not only a terrific stud, but you seem to be the brightest of the three of you.  So can I assume you know what happens now?”

 

“I can guess,” Larry replied.  “Since I technically killed Mike, I suppose you have the right to torture and kill me, and since that is what this show’s all about I figure that’s what you’ll do now.  I also assume you tricked me into signing something to that effect.  You do that a lot, and I think anyone who comes on the show should expect it.  I also recognize that once someone signs something, it’s final and binding.”

 

“Exactly right,” Kevin replied, impressed with the young stud.  “Shall we see what the Wheel of Death decides as to how you die?  Personally I can hardly wait, and while I like you I do hope it’s something very slow and painful so our audience can enjoy it.”

 

Larry did not resist.  He walked over with Kevin, and unlike Mike he was willing to spin the wheel to determine his fate.  He gave it a hard thrust, so it was a little longer before it slowed down and landed on one of the fatal options:  “crucified.”  The audience cheered loudly, realizing how truly long and painful that would be, but Larry did not complain.

 

The crew quickly showed up with a specially designed cross.  It was wooden, and very traditional in most ways.  But halfway down the vertical shaft was a very large dildo that pointed up at about a 45 degree angle.  Kevin explained the feature to Larry.  “This is actually a characteristic that dates way back to Roman times.  The idea is to have the victim fucked by the dildo, which adds a nice sexual touch and makes it a little more humiliating.  The Romans enjoyed mixing sex with death.  But it also has the advantage of supporting the body to some extent, and that is a great advantage since it means the animal will last days longer on the cross.  Instead of dying in just a few days, I’d guess that a strong, light young body like yours might make it close to a week.  So we’ll start by nailing you to the cross and positioning the dildo, and then we’ll turn our cameras on you so that our web audience can watch as you struggle, suffer, and eventually die – probably the longest and most painful option of all the wonderful choices on the Wheel.  Personally, I’m really pleased.  I’m sure you’ll provide lots of amusing entertainment for lots of days to come, and we’ll make a bit more money as people bet on how long you will last.  Oh, and it is also likely the dildo will keep you hard for a while, which will be an amusing touch given the agony you will be enduring.”

 

Larry listened, but stoically did not comment or resist.  He simply started to walk toward the cross, when a voice interrupted from off stage.

 

“Just a moment guys,” the voice interrupted.  “I have a couple of adjustments to announce.”  And with that Robert Gray, the show’s producer and Kevin’s long time business partner, walked on stage.  Like everyone associated with the show he was an awesome physical specimen, very fit and handsome.  He was wearing an outfit of the TKL leather that was so expensive and popular, and he turned to address Kevin.

 

“Before we proceed, I think it’s time to let everyone know who the new host is.  So maybe Larry can stay there and contemplate the cross while we chat on the couch for a moment.”

 

Kevin was surprised, but had come to expect surprises form the producer, who was the purchaser of Kevin’s interest in the show and a frequent sexual partner for Kevin.  They had met when Robert provided one of his male slave whores as the featured “guest” on the show, and the two men often enjoyed joint torture sessions and had similar preferences for the best recipes for young male meat.  Kevin knew his sometimes partner was very creative.

 

“Sure, Robert.  I’ve been really curious whom you’ve hired.”  With that Kevin walked over to the talk-show style desk and couch that was always on the side of the stage.  But instead of sitting at the desk as he usually did, both men sat on the couch.

 

“I think you’ll find this really amusing,” Robert began, smiling broadly.  “Remember the fine print you pointed out to that piece of meat formerly known as Mike?  And how you did pretty much the same kind of trick on poor Larry over there?  Well, I’ve got a fun little fine print report for you.  It’s in the contract you singed when you sold me your interest in the show.  Actually, I not only bought the show, but I also bought you – as a participant in the show.  I purchased the right to torture and kill you as part of the transition to a new host.”

 

Kevin was astonished.  “But I read the contract, and there was nothing like that in there,” he protested.  “And my lawyer read it too.”

 

“That’s actually where you made your mistake,” Mark informed him.  “I bribed your lawyer by arranging for him to inherit a third of your wealth.  I am very content with two-thirds, since I have so much I really don’t need any more.  He also gets a third of your meat and other body parts once you’re dead, with me again getting the rest.  So he agreed that he’d substitute a version of the contract that gives us your body and your assets at the last minute, so you would not realize what you were signing.   Given all the times you’ve pulled that sort of trick on participants on the show, I think that’s pretty funny.  Don’t you?”

 

Kevin was horrified, but knew he was doomed.  There were tens of millions of people watching, and he was very focused on his reputation.  He did not want to appear to be a coward or a bad sport.  He also knew that there was literally no way out, since the stage crew would enforce the contract.  He had frequently snuffed crew members when they made a mistake, or when he wanted their flesh, and that had built up a lot of resentment.  They would enjoy whatever was scheduled to happen next, and make sure it happened.  So he became resigned to his fate.  “Well, what the hell.  I know there’s no way out, and there is a little irony to it.  So I guess we go over to the Wheel?”

 

“Nope, you fate is already determined,” Mark informed his victim.  “I’ve also been researching a lot of potential replacement hosts, and frankly I have found that Larry has an unusual and unrecognized flare for both sadism and exhibitionism – just like you do.  And as he’s just demonstrated, he shares your amazing ability to shoot load after load of cum, especially when the cameras are rolling.  So he is the new host.  Once he and I finish double-fucking your ass, like you and he did to Mike’s dead body, you’ll just take Larry’s place on the cross.  As you had pointed out to him, it’s the longest and most painful means of death on the Wheel, and that is obviously appropriate for your snuff scene.  I had the Wheel rigged to land on that option.  Larry and I have timed it so you’ll die just about as we start filming next week’s show, and we’ll start the show by enjoying your best cuts of meat.”

 

Once Robert stripped naked to join in the fuck with Larry, the two of them had a rousing and enjoyable time jointly filling Kevin’s beautiful hole with their cum.  They then led him over to the cross, which lay on the stage so he could lie down on it, arms outstretched.  Kevin was a good sport, and didn’t resist as Larry and Mark each grabbed a hand and nailed it to a cross beam.  They then positioned the dildo up Kevin’s recently fucked ass, and proceeded to each nail a foot to a little platform near the base of the cross.  That, too, was designed to make it easier for Kevin to keep breathing, in order to prolong his suffering and their entertainment.  The whole process got Kevin aroused, and as the cross was raised to a vertical position his cock became quite rigid.  Larry and Robert looked forward to sharing the testicles that hung just below it, once Kevin finished dying and they started their new partnership as the new hosts of Thrill Kill Live!  As the cameras rolled with the closing credits, they headed over to the couch for more sex, a dinner featuring fresh cuts of meat form Mike’s body, and the arousing view of Kevin’s body starting its long torment.  It had been a great show, with many more to come.