Adam–Fourth Kill–Bye Bi Boy

His name was Jeremy, he was twenty-seven years old, he was bi-curious, and he wanted to fuck Adam.  He was also drunk, which was how Adam knew so much about him so fast.

 

The buff killer was back at the SoHoLo Hotel for the first time in weeks.  He liked it here; the ambience was nice and there was lots of fuckmeat.  Perhaps too much—his last kill had closed the place down for almost a full week.  The second gay snuff in two months had given the place a bad name; it had shut down, ostensibly for security upgrades, but Adam didn’t see anything different.  He wasn’t worried.

 

He never worried about getting caught; somehow, he knew it wouldn’t happen.

 

He’d hit up the bar first and had better luck this time.  No party in progress, and since it was the middle of the week, it was relatively quiet; the clientele seemed to be mostly confined to hotel guests.

 

Adam had seen several potential cumdumps in the place, but one dude at the bar caught his eye.  Like Adam, he was a redhead, but whereas Adam’s hair was a lustrous coppery color, almost metallic, this guy had an unruly mop of carroty-orange hair that seemed to suit his snub nose, emerald-green eyes and freckle-spattered face perfectly.

 

The dude looked a little disheveled, as if he’d had to dress in a hurry and had thrown on what was at hand.  He wasn’t badly built; the Domo-kun character emblazoned on his dull yellow t-shirt was stretched so tightly across his chest that it was almost pulled out of recognizable shape.  A pair of skinny jeans in dark brown denim showed that he had some decent muscles in his thighs and calves—to say nothing of the nice large bulge in his crotch with the accompanying ridge down the inside of his left thigh.  His feet were laced into what looked like a new pair of dark gray Nike Lunar Fingertrap trainers.

 

Adam had taken the dude in with a single glance; the dude took longer to let his eyes wander over Adam, but the guy’s interest was obvious.  Not that Adam was surprised; he’d dressed to get some looks.

 

Bearing in mind the atmosphere of his hunting ground, the experienced killer had gone with an upscale casual look.  He wore a light blue button-down shirt, but he’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbow and left the shirt unbuttoned, exposing his white cotton t-shirt underneath.  He also wore jeans, tight and faded, but clean.   He’d slipped on his old pair of Puma Cell running shoes, the black ones with white stripes.

 

Everything he wore but the kicks looked like it was size too small on his massive, muscle-bound bod.  He’d gotten several admiring looks—from both sexes—on the way in.  And he’d damn sure captured the attention of the guy at the bar.

 

All it took was a smile and a nod and soon Adam wasn’t alone in his booth.

 

That was when the whole story came out.  Jeremy had been in the bar for a couple of hours already, throwing back cheap beer but in the last half-hour or so, he’d switched to well drinks and was feeling no pain—a situation Adam was sure he could rectify easily.  He worked in construction, for a company that had a highway maintenance contract with the city.  He’d left his phone at home when he went to work.  His chick knew the code and accessed the phone—and found an email exchange where he’d replied to an M4M ad.  Nothing had ever come of it, but she’d had no idea of that side of him and went berserk.

 

He’d already scheduled a couple of days off work.  Now he was here alone at this hotel, he was drunk, horny, and bi-curious as ever, and, he slurred lasciviously, he wanted to bone Adam.

 

“I ain’t ever been fucked by a dude,” Adam said.  “We can go to your room and see what happens, though.”

 

Here Jeremy faltered slightly; there was something else he wanted to do, but even in his drunken state, he was hesitant to admit it.  “Well, I…thing is, I, uh, I wanna…fuck, man, yer shoes are so hot…”

 

Adam took the hint.  “You wanna worship my kicks?  Yeah, man you can do that.  Kinda like yours myself.”

 

Jeremy grinned with inebriated cheer.  “Aw, fuck yeah, man, this is gonna be so hot!  C’mon, bro, les’ go—I’m up on…um, it’s seven, I think…yeah, room 726.”

 

Adam wasn’t afraid of getting caught, but he wasn’t completely reckless, either.  He didn’t want to be seen leaving the bar with the drunk fucker.  “I gotta go take a leak first.  Plus, I need to settle my tab.  You go on and I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

 

“You ain’t gonna back out on me, are ya?” Jeremy asked anxiously.

 

“Fuck no, dude,” Adam said, leering at the smaller man.  “I’m gonna show ya such a good time tonight, you ain’t ever gonna go back to pussy again.”

 

Jeremy stood up, a huge happy smile on his freckled face and an obviously throbbing bulge in his groin, and headed for the door.  Drunk as he was, he walked in a remarkably straight line.

 

Adam chuckled contemptuously and ordered a shot of Jack.  When it came, he downed it and paid the bill, then slowly sauntered out, heading for the elevators.  Just as the elevator doors were starting to close, he dived in and found a giggling teenaged couple already in the car—with the button for floor seven pushed.

 

“Nine, please,” he said, and the boy obliged, disentangling himself from the girl just long enough to hit the floor button.

 

Adam let them get out on seven and continued to nine, where he walked down the hall to the emergency stairs and used them to get back to seven.  By the time he emerged on the floor, the hall was empty.  Reaching room 726 unseen, he knocked at the door, hoping the meat hadn’t passed out.  Unlikely—it was drunk, but not that drunk.

 

Jeremy opened the door just a crack, glanced around, and then opened it wide, standing behind it.  Adam stepped inside, turning as the door closed behind him to see that the dude had stripped to nothing but his sneakers and a pair of red briefs that did nothing to hide his thick shaft of manmeat.

 

The dude didn’t have a bad body; he was broad-chested and had some muscles, but he wasn’t anywhere near as built as Adam was.  Or as hairy.  There was the faint shadow of a strawberry-blond haze on his flat belly that seemed to thicken slightly as it plunged beneath the waistband of his briefs, but other than that, his skin was soft and smooth as silk.

 

“Fuck, man,” Jeremy said breathlessly, “I been dreamin’ about doin’ some a’ this shit since before high school.  Come over here an’ sit down, I wanna work on your feet before I fuck ya.”

 

Adam played along, walking into the room.  This was one of the least expensive rooms in the hotel; it still had the stripped-down, ultra-modern vibe, but it lacked the fancy bathroom and the huge window with the great view.  It compensated for the latter by covering the large closet doors with mirrors that reflected the gleaming black furniture and everything else.

 

Some of the less congruous items reflected in the mirror were Jeremy’s work clothes, piled in a chair—jeans and white t-shirt, both filthy; a yellow reflective vest and a similarly-colored hard hat; and on the floor next to the chair, a pair of dirty, well-worn construction boots, slouching and completely unlaced.

 

On the closest nightstand, Adam noticed a package of new bootlaces—one lace still in the open package, the other out and coiled to one side.  Even from this distance, the words “heavy duty” could be seen clearly on the package, as well as the length of seventy-two inches.  The sick sadist grinned; looked like the foot-fetish pervert was planning on doing some boot maintenance.

 

Jeremy caught Adam’s first glance at the chair and looked away momentarily, embarrassed.  “Yeah, I hadn’t had time to change when Amber kicked me out.  Had to check in wearin’ that gear; lucky I was able to get some shit together in a bag.”

 

“Ok, where do ya want me?” Adam asked, determined to give the little sicko enough rope to hang himself, so to speak.  He was gonna off the dude no matter what—he just wanted to see how badly the fucker deserved it.

 

He wanted to see how badly the guy needed to suffer before he was purified into prime fuckmeat, ready to receive his cock.

 

“Over here—sit over here,” Jeremy panted, indicating a chair in the corner of the room.  Adam obligingly sat, with the nightstand on his right and the mirrored closet door on his left.  The moment he was down, the half-nude punk was on his knees at Adam’s feet.

 

Jeremy grabbed Adam’s right foot, lifting it and caressing the Puma sneaker.  Raising it higher, he held it in one hand, bending forward and rubbing his face on the shoe’s upper while running his other hand up Adam’s leg, fondling his thick thigh muscles through the denim.   “Fuck yeah,” the dude moaned, his voice hitching in sexual excitement, “I been wantin’ this for-fuckin’-ever, man…”

 

He bent his head forward again and ran his tongue over the black leather sneaker.  Adam leaned back in the chair and slipped off his dress shirt, then peeled off the white t-shirt.  Jeremy glanced up, his eyes running up the skin-tight denim wrapped around the stud’s thigh muscles.  Passing the wide leather belt, the bi dude’s gaze swept along the trail of dark fur leading up from Adam’s waistband, rippling over his perfect washboard abs and spreading out into a thick, wiry forest of chest hair on his massive pecs.

 

“Holy shit, man, I wanna fuck you so bad…” Jeremy said, his voice low and taut with sexual energy.  He saw Adam’s smile but he was too lost in his desires—and too drunk—to see the cold, cruel glint in that smile.

 

“You ain’t done workin’ my kicks yet,” Adam told him.  This time, Jeremy picked up a little—a very little—of the tone of contempt in the hardbodied killer’s voice; he paused for a moment, looking back up into the copper-haired hunk’s face.  But there was no hint of emotion in the hooded, long-lashed eyes, and Jeremy bent down and applied his tongue to Adam’s other sneaker, still flat on the floor.

 

Adam sneered down at the kneeling footpig.  This little shit thought he was gonna fuck Adam?  He had to be taught how wrong he was.  And Adam was just the dude to make sure he learned his lesson real good.

 

The muscle-bound necro freak slowly unzipped his fly.  Reaching in with both hands, it took him a couple of minutes to fully extract his dick.  Jeremy was too busy slobbering over Adam’s Pumas to notice anything until he heard a dull thump above him.

 

Looking up, he saw a seven-inch tube of manmeat, over an inch thick—and completely soft.  “You want it hard?” Adam asked, leering down at him, “You gotta earn it, bro.  Ain’t goin’ in ya till it’s hard.”

 

Jeremy blinked in confusion.  “What?  I—no, man, I ain’t gay.  I-I ain’t takin’ anything up the ass, dude, ok?  Nothin’ wrong with it, but I don’t swing that way.  You’re supposed to ride my dick, remember?”

 

Given his drunken state, he was remarkably eloquent in stating his desires. It had remarkably little impact on what happened to him over the next forty minutes.

 

Adam stood up abruptly.  Jeremy, knocked back on his ass, threw an arm behind himself for support.  “Watch it, motherfucker!” he yelled with alcohol-fueled bravery, “Don’t make me fuck you up!”

 

Adam smiled coldly down at him.  “So,” he said with a quiet, calm voice, “You really think you’re man enough to fuck me, you little faggot?”

 

Jeremy’s face went red.  “I ain’t no faggot!” he shouted angrily.  “Dint I tell ya I gotta piece a’ pussy?  I was just lookin’ for someone to take my load, and I been curious—”

 

Disturbed, the slim young man had scooted himself backwards until he reached the bed and could go no farther.  Adam had moved forward as the punk had moved back and was towering over him, looking down with a contempt-filled smirk.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he jeered, “Yer gonna act like you don’t want the D, but you ain’t fooling no one, cocksucker.  See, problem is, I ain’t no homo either.  There’s only one way for you to earn my cock, ya fuckin’ fairy, and you ain’t gonna like it.”

 

Jeremy stared up at the hulking dude, his eyes wide with sudden fear.  “You’re crazy, bro.  You’re fuckin’ psycho. Ain’t no way I’m gonna—GAACK!!”

 

Adam had pounced with the swiftness of a jaguar, clamping his left hand around Jeremy’s throat with the speed and force of a bear trap, cutting off the dude’s air.  With a single deep grunt—the same sound he made when doing squats in the gym—he single-handedly lifted the guy up off the floor and held him dangling at arm’s length in the air.

 

Jeremy’s Nikes kicked furiously but were unable to find any support.  His fingers clawed frenetically at Adam’s hand but for all the impact they had, he might as well have been scratching at a statue.   Gagging and choking, Jeremy’s panicked, bulging eyes watched in horror as Adam held up his right hand, balled into a fist.  The brutal alpha kissed his own knuckles, said, “From Hell with love, cunt,” and sucker-punched Jeremy in the face so swift and so viciously, the fucker never saw it coming, and never felt it land.

 

That isn’t to say he didn’t feel pain.  His next sensation was huge explosion of pain; his lips were split, there were…things in his mouth and he could taste blood.  He jerked violently, which made his head hurt worse, and drooled the solid objects out of his mouth, which turned out to be teeth.  Three of them.

 

“Gha…gha…” Jeremy grunted, his closed-off windpipe preventing any further protest.

 

Adam grinned cheerfully.  “This next one’s from Hell, too,” he said.  “But there ain’t no love in this one.”  There was a flash and what seemed to be a violent explosion that filled his mind with a red haze and a sound like someone crumpling stiff paper, only louder.  The force of the blow had been so intense it momentarily delayed the pain of his crushed nose—but not for long.

 

Agony slammed through Jeremy’s firm young body like a physical blow; he was starting to lose consciousness from lack of air and everything from his neck up was already in terrible pain, but this new torment amplified the process.  The red sea of pain in which he swam suddenly rose up and swallowed him down in a tsunami of suffering.  Jeremy was aware of little else…there was a brief sensation of violent motion, and the red sea became oblivion.

 

When he regained consciousness, Jeremy felt pain in every limb.  He was lying on the floor with no further idea of the force with which Adam had flung him down than that which his aching, battered body provided him.  He hurt so bad he couldn’t move—but he could breathe.  The lithe young redhead instinctively curled into a fetal position as he coughed and gagged.  At the moment, catching his breath was more important than trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

 

And he didn’t have to figure anything out, in any case.  Sensing the presence of Adam, Jeremy opened his eyes—just barely, his agonized grimace forced them into slits—to see, in the mirrored closet doors, the reflection of the powerfully-built alpha grinning psychotically behind him.  The muscled stud was holding something in his hands but Jeremy’s eyesight was too blurred to make it out.

 

“You stupid faggot,” Adam chuckled with malevolent glee, “You don’t even know how to use a hot pair of kicks right.  You damn sure don’t deserve the ones ya got on, so I’m gonna take ‘em, asswipe.  And I’m gonna break ‘em in the right way, cunt.”  He bent down and in a single violent motion grabbed the waistband of Jeremy’s red briefs and jerked forcefully.  There was a rough tugging sensation at the dude’s waist, a ripping sound, and suddenly Jeremy’s Nikes were all he had left on.

 

Tossing the torn underwear into the corner, Adam grabbed a fistful of the slim youth’s bright red hair and pulled him, moaning and blubbering, to his knees, facing the mirrored doors.  “Open yer eyes, fuckwad,” Adam hissed, “Open ‘em up and lookit yerself.”

 

The tone of command, tinged with contemptuous arrogance, was too powerful to resist; Jeremy obeyed instinctively.  Reluctantly forcing the swollen lids of his eyes open, he could see his own ruined face, streaked with blood, snot and tears, staring desperately back at him from less than three feet away.  His vision was still somewhat blurry, but he could also see now what Adam was holding in his hand.

 

It was the bootlace from the nightstand—seventy-two inches of heavy-duty braided nylon.

 

Adam, standing directly behind him, patted Jeremy on the shoulder.  “See, the right way to break in those sexy sneakers ya got is to wear ‘em while yer fuckin’ a good piece a’ meat.  And that’s just what I’m gonna do; ya feel me, brah?  I’m gonna be wearin’ ‘em while I fuck ya.”

 

The hulking, hard-bodied stud stretched the bootlace out to its full length, then began to wrap each end around his palms.  He did this multiple times, getting an unbreakable hold on the nylon cord while still leaving a good long length free between his hands.  “’Course, I ain’t no cumsuckin’ faggot pig.  I don’t stick my dick in no worthless homo shit like you, motherfucker.  Know what that means?  Means that if we’re gonna get them kicks christened right, yer gonna die.”

 

Adam lunged forward and wrapped the bootlace around Jeremy’s neck so fast the battered bi kid never saw it happen.  There was a blur, and then he couldn’t breathe.

 

This was worse than before.  It hurt worse; the thin nylon cord dug deeply and painfully into his throat, sinking below the surface of the flesh even as his fingers clawed frantically at it.  And earlier, when the psycho stud had held him up and choked him, Jeremy had been afraid he might die.

 

Now, he knew it.  He just didn’t believe it.

 

Pulling the nylon cord tight, Adam stood over him, grinning down at his kneeling, struggling victim.  “Hey, dude,” he whispered sensually, “Look in the mirror.  Watch yerself die, faggot.  Watch yerself choke to death.”

 

Jeremy’s eyes were already wide in terror; he couldn’t help but to watch the scene reflected in the mirror.  It showed him himself—part of him refused to recognize that swollen face, battered and bleeding, as his—on his knees, jerking fitfully and pawing at his throat.  Standing behind him was the half-dressed alpha, his furry muscled chest glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his powerful biceps bulging as he viciously tightened the cord around his victim’s throat.  The hardbodied stud stood with his legs spread, the toes of his Puma Cells digging into the carpet as he slowly choked the life out of the punk.

 

The worst thing of all, though, was the expression on Adam’s brutally handsome face; it was a look that mingled contemptuous lust and a murderous triumph.  There was no hint of mercy or pity in that look; it was the look of an experienced sex killer.

 

As Jeremy coughed and gagged thickly, he realized that this time the dude wasn’t gonna let go.  If he was gonna get out of this alive, he was gonna have to do it on his own.  A single glance in the mirror should have forewarned him of the futility of the effort—Jeremy was neither weak nor scrawny but he was no match of someone of Adam’s massive build—but reason and panic aren’t compatible and the inability to breathe had shoved Jeremy pretty firmly into the latter state.

 

He thrashed about on the nylon cord like a deep-sea fish fighting a line; Adam was forced to dig in with both feet to maintain his balance while keeping up the pressure.  In the back of his head, some part of Jeremy’s flashed up the memory of his purchase of the bootlaces and felt a vague touch of irony at his selection of the “heavy-duty” pair.  The bootlace was durable; he’d be dead long before it broke.

 

“Quit fightin’ it, motherfucker,” Adam hissed, his face twisted with rage.  “You piece of faggot shit—best thing I can do to ya is put ya down.  Does it hurt, asswipe?  I fuckin’ hope so.  You deserve to die squealin’ in agony like a stuck pig, you goddam homo!”

 

Jeremy had stopped trying to dig the cord out of his throat—it had sunk in too deeply; all he was doing was tearing at his own flesh.  His eyes, already starting to bulge grotesquely from their orbits, could see every detail of his own murder.  Among other things, he could see Adam’s arms, so he transferred his attention there, clawing at his assailant like a cornered bobcat.  Bending backwards, he managed to pull one leg up underneath him and plant it in front of himself.  Lifting up, he tried to do the same with the other.  If he succeeded, he’d go from a kneeling position to a standing position and might have a better chance for defense.

 

His actual chance of defense against an experienced sociopath like Adam was nil whether he succeeded or not—not that he did succeed in rising to his feet; Adam had noticed the movement—had anticipated something of the sort, in fact—and had thrown his weight forward, right on Jeremy’s neck.  If the lithe young fag had kept trying to arc backward to free his foot, he’d have broken his own neck.

 

“G’wan,” he whispered huskily in Jeremy’s ear as their heads were pressed together, “Keep movin’, pussyboy.  I wanna hear yer spine shatter.  It sounds like a fresh branch breaking, a kinda wet cracking snap as your spinal fluid sprays out and your vertebrae shred your spinal cord.  It’s so fuckin’ hot, that sound, it’s gettin’ me hard just thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

 

A thick grunting sound came from Jeremy’s swollen lips as he backed down into his kneeling position again.  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Adam sneered.  “All you fuckin’ fags are the same.  Keep thinkin’ somethin’ gonna save yer stupid ass at the last second, too goddam dumb to take the easy way out when I offer it to ya.  Suffer, you cumsuckin’ cunt; watch yerself die in terror and agony like ya fuckin’ deserve.”

 

Jeremy gazed at himself in the mirrored closet doors a blasé expression that had more to do with fading consciousness than boredom.  The whites of his unfocused eyes were becoming peppered with tiny red hemorrhages; it was difficult for him to see as a pounding gray haze filled his vision.

 

Adam could see well enough; he knelt behind Jeremy and pulled him towards himself, the bitch’s sweaty, shuddering back pressed against his muscled chest, his wiry fur digging into the punk’s smooth, slick flesh.

 

“Shit, motherfucker,” he growled seductively, “Think yer gonna die here soon.  Your dick is hard as fuck—can ya feel it, cocksucker?  Huh?  Yeah?  Ya feelin’ that shit, asswipe?  It means yer brain is startin’ to shut down.”

 

Jeremy wasn’t able to see very well, but he could hear.  The words came through distorted and slow, but still audible over the jackhammer pounding of his frenetic pulse that echoed off the inside of his skull.  And yes, he could feel his erection.

 

It hurt.  Fuck, it hurt so bad.  He was so fuckin’ hard it felt like his dick was gonna split.  He tried to reach down, to feel himself, but he’d lost fine motor control in his arms; they raked convulsively at the air.

 

Adam knew there was still a spark of humanity left in the twitching fagmeat he was strangling.  He wanted to humiliate what little was left of the stupid faggot who though he was gonna fuck Adam.  As he bunched his deltoids and triceps and tightened the braided nylon bootlace, he spoke derisively.

 

“You see yer face, asshole?  Yer “girlfriend”—bet he’s a real cunt—wouldn’t wanna fuck ya now, huh?  All purple an’ swollen—damn, yer one ugly-ass homo!  Lookit the way yer droolin’ all over yerself, ya disgustin’ sick-ass bitch.  And once you’re down, I’m gonna slip on those Nikes and fuck your dead ass good and hard.  I’m gonna plant my seed in yer cold boymeat, and I’m gonna take your kicks when I go.  All they’re gonna find is a sack of dead meat I used for a cumrag.  You got that, cunt?”

 

It was the last thing the cunt got.  The constricting agony in his throat intensified—the bunched-up skin in his neck felt like it was shredding—then there was sudden, horrible release of the tension.  It wasn’t the release he’d been praying for, though—it was accompanied by a nightmarish crushing sensation, a cracking and shattering of cartilage that was felt more than heard.  What little was left of Jeremy realized, not that his esophagus had collapsed, but that he was a dead man.

 

And in the blink of an eye, Adam held a thrashing, jerking piece of meat in his arms, a lithe, smooth-skinned corpse that was not only convulsing violently, it was spewing its death load with the force of an opened fire hydrant.  Jeremy sprayed the closet doors with cum, his hot sperm splashing off the mirrored surfaces and splattering over the heaving, sweaty bodies of both killer and victim.

 

“Goddam right,” Adam snarled, “Got what ya deserved, you fuckin’ faggot cunt.  Now you’re prime fuckmeat.”

 

Dropping the dead sack of manflesh, Adam stood up.  He was breathing heavily; his huge chest, sweaty and matted with cum, heaved with his recent exertion.  He wasn’t done yet, though—he bent back down and picked up Jeremy’s body.  He had to clamp down on it; the boymeat was still convulsing as he lifted it in his powerful arms and tossed it face-down on the bed.

 

Approaching the shuddering corpse, Adam’s long thick cock finally began oozing precum.  Snuffing the homo had got him hard and throbbing, but the thought of cornholing the dead meat was what really got him off.  Well, that and something else.

 

Sitting on the neatly-made and undisturbed bed, Adam slipped off his Puma Cells and placed them on the nightstand next to the unused bootlace.  Then he got up, his toes curling in his ped socks, digging into the plush carpet.  He stood behind the quivering sack of fagmeat and untied the Nike Fingertraps, pulling them both off.  Jeremy had died with his ankle socks on; Adam grabbed one of the spasming, jerking feet, feeling it quiver in his hand under the white cotton sock.

 

With a deep shuddering sigh of pleasure, the buff killer grabbed the other foot and brought both feel together on his dick.  He moaned faintly as his shaft pulsed between the twitching socked feet, the steady stream of his precum soaking into the absorbent white cotton.

 

He knew he might cum if kept it up, so he dropped the sexy dead boyfeet and sat back on the bed, slipping his feed into the dead cunt’s Nikes and lacing them tightly.  Then he spread the legs of the shuddering meatsack.  “This is how you break in a good pair of kicks, ya dumbass pansy,” he whispered.

 

Climbing up on the bed, Adam mounted the corpse, aiming the swollen purple head of his rod directly at the dead dude’s fuckhole.  With a single, savage lunge, the muscled necro freak speared Jeremy with his tool, penetrating the sphincter with no other lube but his precum.  It wasn’t as if Jeremy was in any position to complain with his black, congested face buried in the comforter.

 

There was a brief resistance, then the ass muscle went slack as Adam penetrated the corpse’s colon.  “Oh yeah,” Adam sighed with pleasure as his cock sank full-length into the dude’s limp, quivering body.  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  Nothing like some hot fuckin’ meat to plow.”

 

True to his word, the powerful alpha began to plow the corpse, the smack of flesh on flesh echoing in the quiet room.  The only other sound was Adam’s heavy breathing and the deep grunts of sexual arousal that he let out with every brutal thrust of his hips, every deep plunge of his huge swollen cockhead into the dead faggot’s guts.

 

Jeremy’s body was still trying to understand it was dead; it trembled and jerked under Adam in its final death throes.  To get better traction, the well-built sociopath planted the Nike Fingertraps on the comforter and dug his toes in as his massive dick plumbed the depths of their former owner’s corpse.

 

The dead guy’s smooth back was still slick with sweat, now cold and clammy.  Adam placed his hands on the small of Jeremy’s back, but they slid off.  “Goddam motherfucker,” the necro psycho muttered under his breath, his rage building along with the pressure of sperm boiling over in his puckered nutsack.

 

Suddenly both reached a crisis point.  As he tried to keep his spunk from erupting from his pounding, pulsing shaft, Adam began beating the corpse, slamming his hammer-like fist into the dead homo’s back.  “Fuckin’ faggot!” he roared, “Ya goddam cum-slurpin’ asswipe!”  Each blow of his fist, each thrust of his rod, was bringing him closer to orgasm.

 

And then it was there.  He’d fucked the limp body hard enough to turn the head to the side; as the muscled killer transferred his attention to Jeremy’s dead, cum-covered face, breaking bones and knocking teeth out with every hate-filled punch, a sensation went down his dick like and electric wire had been inserted.  “Fuck!  Fuck!  Fuck!” Adam yelled as his body hunched over, violently and uncontrollably; he shot a steady geyser of manseed into the dead dude’s ass that lasted for a good twenty seconds without interruption.

 

Then his hard, bulked-out body convulsed and he cursed and shot again, even harder.  And then again, and again.

 

Adam didn’t know how long he stayed with his cock stuck in Jeremy’s body, hosing the corpse’s guts with cum.  It seemed to last a long time, and when he finally pulled out, backing off the bed, his knees were a little weak and his scrotum felt empty.  A thick, slimy wad of white spunk leaked out of Jeremy’s reamed-out ass and trickled down his taint to soak into the comforter.

 

Glancing around, Adam spied Jeremy’s Domo-kun t-shirt over in the chair; he got it and used it to wipe off the sperm still oozing from his rod  and the drying crust from his chest fur before carelessly tossing it on the floor.  He then retrieved his own shirts, slipping the white t-shirt back over his broad sweaty chest, then putting the button-down back on.  Finally, he picked up his Puma Cells from the nightstand.

 

He walked back over to the corpse.  Jeremy was motionless now; the brutal assfuck had stilled his death throes.  The boy was still lying face down; from the door, it wouldn’t be obvious that too much was wrong with him, aside from the mottled appearance of his badly-beaten flesh.  Once they rolled him over, things would be different—but to roll him over, they’d have to peel that fancy, expensive comforter off him.  It was stuck to his chest and belly by a thick dried glaze of his own cum.

 

Tucking his Puma kicks under his arms, Adam took a final glance, to impress the satisfying memory of his latest kill in his mind, then left the room.  He headed for the stairwell, just to make sure no one saw him and wondered why he was carrying an extra pair of sneakers under his arm.  He made it to his car, and then home with no unpleasant consequences.

 

Actually, there was one unpleasant consequence, but Adam didn’t learn about it until the end of the week, when it was announced that the SoHoLo hotel was closing until further notice.  Nobody paid attention to a snuffed fag or two, but three in the same place—and that place a hip, high-end hotel—made the news in a bad way.

 

Adam watched the broadcast about the closing and it made him think.  He was gonna hafta change his hunting pattern.  While that wasn’t a bad thing—falling into a pattern was fatal for a serial killer, and besides, it was beginning to bore him—he hadn’t made arrangements for anything new yet.

 

The more he searched for a new and interesting plan, the less progress he made, and then something else came to mind.  Why not something old and interesting?  He cast his mind back to the days when he was just developing an interest in snuff, and suddenly an idea occurred to him.  He wasn’t sure he could carry it out perfectly, but it seemed with an idea.

 

The more Adam thought about it, the harder his dick got.  Oh fuck yeah, it’d be worth it just to give it a try.  Alone in his room, his handsome face twisted with malicious glee; anyone seeing his expression would have known immediately that it meant death.

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.

M4M4S&M

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

 

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

 

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

 

It certainly appealed to Joe.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The reply was swift.  “Cool cum now”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Oh no, what has Bartholomew been doing?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Trucker 13–Trucker vs Teen Runaway

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker growled, shoving harder.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

…but he couldn’t stop screaming.

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Adam–Third Kill–Room Service

It was about eight-thirty on a warm summer evening when Adam pulled into the parking lot on the west side of the SoHoLo Hotel.  Getting out of his car, he could a bank of clouds still illuminated from underneath by the setting sun.  They were lit in a garish blood-red.

 

Adam took it as a good sign.  For a moment, his handsome face flashed an evil, shark-like grin before it lapsed back into its normal innocent expression.  He reached into the car and grabbed a gym bag before heading towards the hotel lobby.

 

He’d enjoyed himself so much the last time he was here, he’d left the place a five-star rating on Yelp, hoping to offset some of the negative publicity that swirled around the hotel once the violated corpse of his kill had been found.  Now he was back and on the hunt again.

 

This time, he didn’t want to wait around in the lobby.  He’d checked out the amenities online from the well-equipped exercise room and the full-service laundry in the basement to the luxury spa and executive suites on the tenth floor.  He’d decided to start in the bar.  If that didn’t work out, he’d hit up the gym and the pool, in that order.  Maybe the top-floor sauna after that.

 

Surely, the copper-haired stud thought, he’d find some dude to play with.  At any rate, he’d brought a change of clothes along, just in case he struck out in the bar and needed to get more…physical.  Otherwise, he was dressed casually in a dark green button-down shirt and a pair of tight jeans, faded to pale blue.  On his feet were the gray Nike Flight Falcons that he’d used on his last kill here at the hotel.

 

Holding his gym bag casually, Adam crossed the large lobby area, circling around the open work space in the center.  A few of the carrel-like spaces were occupied, but no one caught Adam’s eye.  He headed for the darkened passage that led to the bar and the elevator lobby.

 

The hip, modern décor with flames and falling water, did nothing to illuminate the murky entrance to the bar, but the raucous babble of voices and music were sufficient indication of its location.  Just outside the door was a sign with plastic letters spelling out “Morrison bachelorette party.”

 

Sighing, Adam poked his head into the bar.  On the far left was a small impromptu stage where three drunk women were wailing off-key at a karaoke machine.  The handsome sex killer shook his head in disgust and withdrew.  He’d pinned his hopes on finding fresh meat in the bar; now he’d have to fall back to plan B and see if there was anyone in the hotel’s well-equipped exercise room.

 

The elevator lobby was just behind him; within two minutes, he was outside the glass door leading to the hotel’s gym.  Peering in, he saw a middle-aged woman, lean and stringy in a t-shirt and yoga pants, riding a stationary bike.  He dismissed her immediately, focusing his attention on the other occupant of the room.

 

The young man—he was no older than his early twenties—was over by the free weights, working his biceps with a set of dumbbells.  He was wearing nothing but a pair of gray Under Armor shorts, leaving his broad, well-built chest, streaked with sweat, to glisten under the overhead fluorescents.  His short hair was also darkened and spiked by sweat, but the stubble on his cheeks and his strong jaw showed its true chestnut color.  Below the shorts, muscled legs descended to a pair of white and gray Nike Zooms.  Presumably the dude was wearing ped socks; Adam couldn’t see from his position.

 

The woman on the bike finished her workout and walked towards one of a pair of cubicles to the left side of the exercise room; they were changing rooms—not that the broad bothered to change anything but her shoes.  She emerged quickly and, opening the door, headed towards the elevators.

 

Adam took his chance, stepping forward and catching the door before it closed—and then he was in.  He headed directly for the changing room and swiftly got into his workout gear.

 

The t-shirt that clung tightly to his massive pecs was a bright, eye-catching yellow.  There was a tear at the collar, deep enough to reveal his furry chest and the lack of sleeves emphasized his thick biceps and hairy forearms.  His powerful legs were bracketed between the Flight Falcon kicks and a pair of black Adidas shorts.  The outfit was designed to draw attention to his strong, hard body.

 

 

It did the trick.  From the moment he stepped back into the gym area, the other dude focused on him with laser intensity.  Deep hazel eyes ringed with long lashes roamed over Adam’s hot, hard body.  There was a visible tenting action in the kid’s shorts as he approached, holding out his hand, a big grin on his face.

 

“Hey there,” he said with a slight Southern drawl.  “Name’s Clint.”

 

Adam shook his strong, sweaty hand.  “Hey,” he responded, “I’m Tim.  Just got into town.”

 

Clint perked up.  “Me too!  Here for the horse show tomorrow—you know, down in the arena?”

 

Adam shook his head; he was honestly unaware of what was happening in the arena downtown over the weekend.

 

Clint gave a sheepish grin.  “Yeah, well, it ain’t a big deal.  I’m assistant to Clyde Sanger—you prob’ly ain’t heard’a him; he’s a horse trainer.  He got himself a nice room downtown, but said there weren’t no more vacancies, so he put me up here.  Anyway, reason I’m yammerin’ my mouth off—I didn’t get the chance to work the horses—Clyde did it himself tonight—and if I don’t get a good workout in before bed, I can’t sleep.  I was hopin’ you’d spot for me.”

 

Adam nodded sympathetically.  “Sure, bro, I’ll spot ya,” he said.

 

“Cool, man!”  Clint smiled enthusiastically and, heading to the bench, lay on it.  He’d already fastened a pair of forty-five pound weights on each side of the bar.  “I like to start by pressin’ one-eighty,” he confided.  “No way I coulda asked that lady in here earlier to spot me; weight woulda killed the broad.”

 

“I gotcha,” Adam said, flexing his arm so the thick vein running down each bicep popped out. Clint stared up at him, lust glittering in his eyes, before laying back, gripping the bar and lifting almost two hundred pounds.

 

Clint strained under the weight.  His handsome, scruffy face flushed red and pulled back into a rictus of Herculean effort.  His bare pecs, glistening with sweat, bulged massively as he struggled; his Nikes were pressed firmly against the floor to give him leverage.

 

Slowly, he extended his arms out to full length, then brought the barbell back down to its rest.  Adam walked to the head of the bench and stood there while the buff boy pressed seven more reps.  By the eighth, Adam had seen enough to get hard himself.

 

This was prime meat.  Time to get the show on the road.  He stepped forward as Clint lifted the bar again.  The kid glanced up—and found he could look right up Adam’s Adidas shorts.

 

Adam, of course, was commando.  Clint had a perfect view of the stud’s huge, hairy balls and, above them, his massive, vein-wrapped member looking less like a tent pole in his shorts and more like a baseball bat under a napkin.

 

This wasn’t Clint’s first time at the rodeo, so to speak.  He was twenty-two and had been working for Clyde since he was sixteen.  He’d started accompanying his employer when he was seventeen—and had managed to sneak out of the hotel and get himself fucked on that first trip.  He’d been on more than two dozen trips since then, and had only struck out twice.  He was no virgin.

 

But he’d never seen a cock this big.  Fuck, it was huge, and he wanted it so bad.  He gasped aloud—and in his distraction he let the barbell slip.  For a brief moment, it hung in the balance, then it tipped to the side and Clint found that he was unable to stop it.

 

Adam saw the barbell moving sideways.  “Here, dude, I got it,” he said, leaning forward and grabbing the bar with both hands.  He then impressed the hell outta Clint by easily lifting a hundred and eighty pounds, setting the bar back in its rests.  When he straightened up, he wasn’t even breathing hard.

 

“D-damn, man,” Clint stuttered, disconcerted both by Adam’s tool and his strength.  “Shit, buddy, you’re powerful as fuck.”  And with an unmistakably direct look at Adam’s crotch, he continued, almost shyly.  “And speakin’ of a powerful fuck, I, uh, I gotta room by myself up on the eighth floor…”

 

Adam grinned, a predatory gleam in his eye.  “Well, hell, bro, what we waitin’ for?”  He stepped to the far side of the exercise room and retrieved his gym bag as Clint gathered up his own gear.  The deviant sex killer followed his victim out to the elevator, watching the kid’s frim ass flex in his Under Armor shorts.  Hell yeah, he wanted to stick his dick into that meat—the thought was getting him even harder.

 

So was the thought of making the little fucker into meat in the first place.

 

Clint hadn’t bothered to put his shirt back on; his well-developed chest glistened with sweat in the dim elevator lighting.  His dark eyes were glued to Adam’s crotch.  As he stared he rubbed the massive bulge in his own shorts almost absentmindedly.  Adam smirked, looking at his prey.  The kid was strong and tough, only about three inches shorter than Adam, and nearly as well built.

 

Adam was gonna have to plan this carefully; the punk would probably put up a fight.  As an experienced killer, he knew he could take the boy down—but he didn’t want to get injured doing it.  This was going to take either a little finesse or a lot of brute force.

 

The car slid to a stop on the eighth floor; the ride had occurred in silence, but Clint spoke as soon as they stepped out.  “It’s down here, on the right.  Just a little ways,” he said reassuringly, as if he was afraid Adam would change his mind.

 

Adam had no intention of changing his mind.  As he tagged along behind the buff boy, he could feel sexual desire flowing though himself like an electrical charge.  Such prime fuckin’ meat; it was gonna be so hot fucking that sexy corpse…

 

Caught up in his thoughts of murderous lust, Adam almost walked into Clint when the latter stopped and opened the door to his room.  He followed the punk into the room and glanced around.

 

The room wasn’t quite as swanky as the last one he’d been in; it was smaller and the view wasn’t as good—the window was large, but it looked out over a side street at the solid glass wall of an office building—but it still had a certain hip sparseness to it.  Like the other room, a floor-to-ceiling divider wall separated the bedroom form the bathroom with the bed facing the window, its head against the divider.  On the far side of the room was corner unit that combined desk, TV stand and minibar; there was a small dresser on the near side.

 

Clint flicked on the lights.  There were three; one on a nightstand next to the bed, one on the dresser and one on the desk.  Together, they cast a warm yellow glow into the dark room.  Once the lights were on, the hot young faggot didn’t waste any time; tossing his shirt aside on the floor, he kicked off his Nikes and shimmied out of his shorts.

 

Of course he was freeballing underneath.  His thick cock sprang out the moment his shorts were lowered, slapping up against his flat ripped abs.  It was over six inches long and about an inch and a half thick, not including the pulsing veins wrapped around it.  It rose in a graceful curve from a mass of bushy brown curls that filled his crotch.

 

Wordlessly, the buff young slut approached the bed and began stripping it, first peeling back the thick, soft sand-colored comforter, then the crisp white high-thread-count cotton sheets.  As he worked, Clint put his hard body on display, his thick muscles flexing as he bent down or reached across the mattress.  In the space of a few seconds, a large, luxuriously-appointed bed had been pared down to bare platform for fucking, with only a single fitted sheet left.

 

When he was done, he turned back to Adam, silent, almost nervous, nude except for a pair of black ped socks.

 

Adam smiled—it was more like a sneer.  “Get on the bed, boy,” he commanded as he pulled off his sleeveless yellow t-shirt.  He approached the bed, still in his shorts and hightops.  As he loomed over the young man, he could see the boy’s eyes fixed on his chest, the pupils moving as they traced the contours of his furry, hubcap-like pecs.

 

“I wanna see your dick…” Clint said breathlessly, almost in a moan.  His shaft pulsated powerfully twice, then there was a glitter in the piss slit of his engorged head as his precum started to flow.

 

Adam turned abruptly and walked to the window without saying a word.  Standing with his back to the bed, he slowly slipped the Adidas shorts down his legs, stepping out of them without removing his Nikes.  He, like the kid, was commando underneath; as he bent down to retrieve the shorts, Clint got a perfect view of the older stud’s firm, perfect asscheeks flexing with the movement.

 

When Adam turned around, Clint gasped aloud.  He’d had a glimpse of Adam’s dick while the dude was spotting him, but that had been partially obscured and at an awkward angle.  Now he could see the enormous club-shaped shaft of engorged, pulsating flesh clearly.

 

He wanted that cock.  He’d never wanted dick so badly in his life.

 

Even from the window, Adam could see lust glinting in the boy’s eyes.  The fag was hooked; all he needed to do was reel him in.  He approached the bed, slowly and deliberately—almost ominously.

 

Clint sighed in sexual contentment as the (slightly) older man climbed onto the bed—and onto him, sitting on his torso and straddling him.  The young fag could feel the buff stud’s firm asscheeks planted on his belly as Adam’s huge tool jutted over his chest, dripping hot pearls of transparent precum onto Clint’s hard, glistening pecs.

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” he moaned, arching backwards and thrusting his pelvis up, his own cock slapping against the small of Adam’s back, “Fuck me, dude, stick it in me…”

 

Adam looked down in disgust at the muscular homo writhing in sexual pleasure beneath him.  He wanted nothing to do with the pathetic, mewling degenerate shuddering between his legs; he was just looking for a hot sexy corpse into which he could sink his aching shaft and find release.

 

That meant he had to put a little effort in—luckily, it was work he enjoyed.  Plus, it’d make up for the workout he’d cut short.

 

And, of course, tough meat like this always benefitted from tenderizing.

 

Clint opened his large, dark eyes, placing his hands on Adam’s thick, powerful thighs as he gazed worshipfully up into the perverted killer’s face.  “Damn, bro, you’re so fuckin’ hot,” he muttered, fondling the alpha’s tree-trunk-like legs that were wrapped around his waist.  “I gotta tell ya, dude, I work hard and I play hard.  After a long day workin’ out the horses, I like to get rid’ myself, but I ain’t never seen no hossdick like yers.”

 

The youth ran his eyes lasciviously up the top’s well-defined torso, then let his hands follow suit.  They slid up Adam’s smooth, sweat-slicked flanks to lodge in the stud’s chest hair.  Clint sighed with erotic pleasure as he curled his fingers in the dark, wiry fur spread across Adam’s broad, muscled chest.

 

Clint was too engrossed in sexual desire to pick up on Adam’s silence or to notice the expression of lust-laced rage on the stronger man’s face.  The boy was focused completely on the muscled form that straddled him, pinning him to the bed.  Instinctively, irresistibly, he reached up and grabbed Adam’s enormous cock with both hands.

 

“Goddam,” he whispered, his eyes huge as he slowly jacked the long, thick shaft.  “I—uh, I don’t know…I mean, uh—well, I want ya in me, but—well, shit, dude—this thing it gonna tear me open.  You’ll go slow, won’tcha?”

 

Adam leaned forward, placing one large powerful hand on the kid’s chest and resting his weight on it.  Clint grunted as the air was pressed out of his lungs.  Even though he was looking directly into Adam’s face, the horny young faggot still thought the gleam that lit the copper-haired top’s eyes was lust; he was incapable of recognizing the glitter of gleeful cruelty that was radiating from the alpha.

 

“You want it slow, boy?” Adam whispered huskily.  “I can make it slow.  I can make it go so slow you’d beg me to end it if you could still speak.”

 

“Holy shit,” Clint gasped, writhing ecstatically under the serial killer’s heavy, well-built body, “That’s the hottest fuckin’ thing anyone’s said to me.  Fuckin’-A, man, use me.  I wanna be your sex toy.  Just—just don’t hurt me too bad, ok?  I, uh, I still gotta work tomorrow…”

 

“Don’t worry,” Adam smirked, “I guarantee you won’t be in any pain tomorrow.”

 

Clint’s handsome young face broke into a broad smile, despite the intense pressure on his chest.  “Goddam, man,” he moaned, “That hog’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad but I’m gonna cum before it’s all the way up my ass…”

 

“You’ll dump your load before that, cocksucker,” Adam responded.

 

Once again, Clint failed to notice the coldness in the stronger man’s voice.  “Oh no,” he chirped as well as his compressed torso would allow, “I usta shoot a wad at the slightest touch but nowadays I need to get fucked before I can cum.  Nothin’ else does it any more, not even BJs.”

 

As he spoke, the hard-bodied punk ran both hands up the one arm Adam was using to pin him to the bed, feeling the knotted muscles slide under his palms. Once he reached the shoulder, he brought his hands back down, curling his fingers in the wiry, sweat-matted hair covering the alpha’s wide, powerful chest.  Lost in physical admiration, he smiled happily up at the murderous stud.

 

Adam permitted himself a small, icy grin as he shifted his weight to his other hand—and moved it higher up Clint’s chest, making it more difficult for the kid to breath.

 

“Yeah?” he sneered, “Ya whored yerself out so much you gotta get yer fuckhole reamed so you can spunk?  I got another way to get it outta ya, you worthless fag—I can just squeeze it outta ya.”

 

Even if Clint had missed the tone of Adam’s voice, this time there was no way to miss his words.  The boy was young, well-built and extremely attractive; he had gotten many protestations of love—but no abuse.  His eyes widened in confusion as Adam’s contempt caught his attention.

 

“Wh-what?” he gasped in bewilderment.  “What-what’d ya c-call me?”

 

“I said you were a worthless cumsuckin’ piece of shit,” Adam said calmly, “And I’m not gonna fuck you, ya stupid homo; I’m gonna fuck your dead meatsack corpse.”

 

His eyes wide as dinner plates, the muscular slut stared up at the alpha, incomprehension writ large on his face.  His brain simply refused to process the words.  “Wh-” he stammered, “I—wha—I don’t under-understand—”

 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you’re dumber than a sack of hammers.  Guess I gotta beat it into ya, asswipe.”

 

Adam reached out and snatched up the lamp on the nightstand.  In spite of its weight—the base was a two-foot rectangle of polished stone and carved wood—he swing it around easily and cracked Clint across the skull with it, putting the kid’s lights out good and hard.

 

With the fuckmeat lying limply beneath him, Adam held the lamp in one hand and wrapped its power cord around his other hand.  He pulled hard enough for the veins to pop out on his bulging biceps, but within seconds he’d pulled the cord free from both the base and the outlet simultaneously.

 

In the increased dimness of ambient light, he tossed the lamp to the floor, barely noticing the sound as the shade crumpled and the bulb shattered with a loud pop.  His bulked-out hairy chest sweaty and heaving with exertion, Adam swiftly used the cord to bind Clint’s hands to the open metalwork of the bed’s headboard.  As he jerked the cord tightly around the kid’s wrists, the latter moaned, an indication that he was starting to regain consciousness despite the vicious blow to the head that had left blood trickling from a nasty cut on his temple.

 

Pain, in fact, was the first thing Clint experienced on awakening, the unexpectedness of the blow adding shock to the sensation of physical damage.  He could feel weight on his abdomen, but it took him a moment to clear the aching dimness out of his mind and remember the stud he’d picked up down in the exercise room.  Dude had hit him—what the fuck?  He tried to push the guy off him, only to find his hands above his head, so tightly bound that the circulation was cut off.

 

And that was when fear joined shock and pain.  Clint’s eyes widened and his cock wilted.

 

“Wacha doon?” he slurred, still disoriented and lacking some fine motor control.

 

“I’m gonna strangle you to death, then I’m gonna fuck your corpse, that’s what I’m doing, faggot.  Ready to die?”

 

 

Adam waited for what he knew would follow.  First, about fifteen seconds of quiet as the meat tried to digest the meaning of his words.  Second would be a rigidity, a stiffening of the body in horror as full understand sank in.

 

Third depended on the nature of the meat.  Clint went with begging.

 

“Why-why ya wanna kill me, man?” he whimpered, “I ain’t done nothin’ to ya.  Please, bro, don’ hurt me—you can do anythin’ ya want, I won’t say anythin’, I swear I won’t!”

 

Terror had enhanced his slight southern drawl.  Adam’s first response was twitch in his dick, followed by a visible increase in the precum drooling from his purple tip.  Clint could feel the hot liquid spattering his chest and moaned in fear.

 

“Ain’t gonna say nothin’?” Adam sneered.  “Course you ain’t gonna say nothin’—you’ll be dead, asswipe.  You’re gonna be a sack of rotting meat.  You ain’t telling no one nothin’.”

 

“B-but why?” the buff youth wailed.

 

“Cause I wanna,” Adam said coldly.  “Cause it gets me off.  Cause I ain’t no homo.  I don’t fuck other dudes, you worthless cocksuckin’ pig; I fuck meat.”

 

Clint stared in confusion up at the alpha’s handsome, masculine face, now twisted bewilderingly into a mask of rage.  He couldn’t understand why this was happening.  He was just gonna have some innocent fun getting fucked in the ass by a strong, muscled stranger.  How had he ended up bound and helpless under a sociopathic killer?

 

 

“No—fuck, please no…” he whispered in terror.  They were the last words he ever spoke.

 

“I’m horny,” Adam growled.  “I wanna cum.  Time to take a dirt nap, motherfucker.”  Leaning forward, he wrapped his huge, powerful hands around the kid’s throat and squeezed.

 

Clint was in instant agony; it felt like a bear trap had closed on his neck.  He tried to scream but all that came out was a thick, wet gagging sound.

 

Adam glared down at the panicked, struggling youth.  “Die, you stupid sack of shit,” he hissed, “My balls are so fulla cum they hurt.  Choke and die, asswipe, so I can fill your useless boymeat with my spunk.”

 

The writhing, terrified punk knew he was dying.  His young, innocent was swelling and turning red.  He jerked his arms frantically, his well-developed delts and triceps quivering with the strain, slowly managing to unloosen the knot,even though he was unaware of it.

 

“Quit fightin’ it, faggot,” Adam snarled.  “More ya fight, more I make it hurt.  Ya got that, cunt?  You’re dyin’—how long it takes and how bad it hurts is all up to you, bitch.”

 

Clint gagged and heaved, hearing the words but unable to control his strong young body.  Adam, of course, knew that most of the kid’s movements were involuntary; he just wanted to watch the boy suffer as he tried to stop the physical reactions.  “Dumbass cocksucker,” the cruel alpha sneered, “I toldja to stop strugglin’.  Now I’m gonna hafta hurt ya.  Hold on, fuckwad, this is gonna blow yer tiny faggot mind.”

 

Twisting his hands, Adam positioned them on Clint’s throat with his thumbs resting on the punk’s larynx—and then squeezed.  Hard.  Really fucking hard.

 

Clint’s eyes were already starting to protrude from lack of oxygen; there was nothing in his agonized, distorted face to indicate the new depths of pain he was plumbing as his voice box was slowly crushed.  His legs, on the other hand, expressed his reaction eloquently; his thick, muscled thighs flexing as he kicked violently.  As he flailed, the sock was pulled off his left foot, which was left bare, toes curling with exertion.

 

Viciously, Adam spat into Clint’s darkening face.  “Ya feelin’ the burn yet, homo?  Useless fag like you deserves to die in a fuckload of pain, right?  So take what’s comin’ to ya, boy, die like a fuckin’ dog!”

 

His thumbs dug deeply into the bulge of cartilage in Clint’s throat.  As it began to deform and give way under his brute strength, Adam’s cock began to pulse even faster, the veins wrapped round it becoming more engorged with lust and rage-fueled blood.

 

Clint’s dick had a different response.  Adam felt a wet spurt against the small of his back, and a persistent warm trickle under his asscheeks.  Clint had pissed himself in sheer terror as his throat was being crushed.

 

Suddenly, a faint crunch came from the kid’s windpipe; the larynx had collapsed and folded back into the esophagus.  Between the pain and the horrific impact the sound of the physical damage made, Clint went momentarily insane.

 

Thrashing like a landed fish, Clint’s hands slipped free of the cord.  The boy beat his hands vainly against Adam’s massive chest.  He pressed his hands against the top’s arms and tried to pry them away from his neck.  He pressed his feet—now both bare—against the bed and tried to lift himself up and shove the alpha off.  Nothing worked.  All he succeeded in doing was to burn through most of what little oxygen remained in his bloodstream.

 

“That’s it, you stupid sack of shit,” Adam whispered, “Give it up.  You’re done; fuckin’ die already.  Only way the pain’s gonna stop, asswipe.  Go to fuckin’ sleep and let it go.”

 

Still Clint struggled, straight-arming death for as long as the strength in his young hard body held out.  By now, most of his resistance was involuntary.  His eyes bulged unseeingly from his tear-streaked, blackening face, his thick, protruding tongue was almost as purple as Adam’s dick.  Foam bubbled out past his blue, swollen lips as his hands gradually slowed from panicked pounding to near-gentle caresses of his killer’s shoulders and arms.

 

And his cock was starting to swell, too.  Even as Adam was violently strangling his prey, he could feel the spongy tip of the meat’s shaft pressing against the small of his back.  The sensation of the kid’s stiffening cock touching him further enraged the psychotic stud.

 

Spitting into Clint’s black, unrecognizable face again.  “Die, you fuckin’ pig!” he hissed.  Underneath him, there was little left of Clint to understand; the buff gay boy started to shudder as large parts of his brain started to die.  The pain in his throat, the pounding in his head and the horrible pressure in his chest were all starting to fade, along with his consciousness and his personality.  A loud, buzzing darkness had started at the periphery and was now rapidly eating its way to the center of the fag’s universe, and the darkness was death.  The punk’s heart began to fail, beating in an increasingly (and excruciatingly) erratic pattern…

 

…and there was a deep, vital ache in his scrotum, like he’d been kicked in the balls, except it ran the entire length of his unaccountably erect, swollen cock…

 

As his body progressed from violently flailing to slow, pre-death convulsions, Clint’s randomly-moving hands stroked his killer’s hard, sweaty body.  One hand reached up and slid almost tenderly down Adam’s cheek while the other, clutching at the alpha’s chest, ended with its fingers curled tightly in the wiry fur.

 

“Fuck you, faggot,” Adam whispered and clenched his hands together as tightly as he could. The cracking, splintering sound of Clint’s esophagus collapsing into a mangled ball of cartilage rang out like a shot in the dimly-lit room.

 

The meat’s eyes rolled back in its head and the body began to convulse rhythmically, jerking and flopping between Adam’s powerful thighs as he straddled the dying punk.  All of Clint’s short, spunk-filled existence contracted into a blast of searing agony that boiled up out of his balls and shot out great strands of pearly boyseed, jetting straight up and raining back down on both the killer and his victim.

 

Grimacing with rage and effort, Adam kept throttling the corpse, feeling the meat convulsing in its death throes under him.  The punk’s load had splattered in his hair and down his back; some of it had even shot over his head and landed in the kid’s own face, where it pooled in his half-open eyes from which only the blood-streaked white peeked.  More boyspunk had fallen on the homo’s cheeks, where it blended perfectly with the foamy drool still leaking of the meat’s face.

 

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Adam muttered, “Nice piece a’ fuckmeat.”  Releasing the corpse’s neck, he reached down.  Looping his arms under the meat’s still-quivering legs, he brought them up, placing the ankles on his shoulders.  The strong alpha inserted his tool into the dead kid’s fuckhole and shoved.  Despite being flaccid in death, there still wasn’t enough elasticity in the sphincter to take the full girth of the top’s shaft.  Adam felt the ass muscle tear as he mounted the corpse.

 

The meat was still shuddering in its death throes as Adam pumped his rod deep into its guts.  Out of corner of his eye, he could catch a glimpse of its feet, resting on his shoulders.  The toes were curling; it was a mindless reflex, of course, the random firing of nerves as the last few functional brain cells died, but they seemed to be perfectly timed to Adam’s thrusts.

 

It was almost like the fagmeat was still alive.  Adam didn’t like that.  Without missing a beat, he reached around and grabbed the corpse’s crushed throat, digging his fingers into the spinal ridge in the back while placing his thumbs under the corner of the jaw.

 

As he fucked the meat, he applied pressure to his thumbs.

 

The alpha’s hard, sweat-soaked body pumped the dead homo brutally.  Adam could feel his balls drawing up, ready to fill the corpse with hot geysers of mansperm.  His breathing became labored and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he tried to delay his orgasm—then he gave in.

 

“Fuckin’-A!” he shouted, tightening his hands involuntarily as his muscled form shuddered violently in physical release.  There was a faint cracking sound, barely audible over Adam’s deep, orgasmic grunts and the corpse went rigid; for a brief moment, the slack dead intestinal muscles tightened around Adam’s throbbing, shooting tool before lapsing back into limp death, this time irretrievably.  The buff killer had literally popped the meat’s skull off its spine when he shot his wad.

 

Sighing with sexual satisfaction, Adam held his position for a little longer, his still-oozing dick buried in the corpse.  When he finally stopped shuddering in ecstasy, he pulled out and stood at the foot of the bed, his chest and sides heaving as his breathing gradually slowed back to a normal pace.  Abruptly, he turned and headed for the bathroom.  He needed a shower.

 

Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the bedroom, pulling on his jeans a slipping back into the green button-down.  He didn’t put the Flight Falcons back on, though; he slipped the hightops into his gym back—along with the dead boy’s Under Armor shorts.  They looked like they’d fit him.  He laced the fuckmeat’s Nike Zooms onto his own feet before zipping up the back and heading towards the door.

 

Just before stepping out of the room, he turned for a final look back.  The dead fag was splayed out on the bed, hands near the head with the fingers curled in final death agony.  The body wasn’t twitching anymore; the neck snap had taken care of that.  The abuse and violence inflicted on the sexy, unfortunate youth was as obvious as the fact that his corpse had been violated after death.

 

With a huge, self-satisfied grin, Adam left the room.  He hung the “do not disturb” tag on the door on his way out, wondering how long it’d take for the punk’s boss to get pissed off enough to come looking for him.  The meat would be nice and stiff by time it was found.

Carlos Solo–Down for the Count

…at two now and the queen and six cancel each other out, but the pair of tens that idiot split take it to zero…

 

It was a slow night and the count sucked.  Carlos had already dropped two hundred bucks playing five-dollar minimum blackjack.  It had taken three hours and the count had never gone double-digit positive.  He was done; he got up off the stool and left the table.

 

The buff sexual killer had taken up card counting in his spare time and had actually developed a talent for it.  The casinos frowned on it, but it wasn’t illegal, and Carlos wasn’t making large bets—it was just a pastime.

 

It had come in handy at the moment; Nick was out in LA, evaluating video editing software at a convention.   Carlos, left to his own devices, was bored and horny, which was a very dangerous combination for some unfortunate boy.  But he didn’t want to mess up the condo; Nick had plans for a shoot there once he got back and would be especially eager to get it rolling if he found a good editor in California.  So Carlos had gone to a casino instead.

 

It was a local casino—still a large complex with a big hotel attached, but located well north of downtown and not a common destination for tourists.  The inside of the casino, though, was the typical cacophony of music, electronic sounds and voice clips.  A kaleidoscope of flashing lights and video screens viewed through a smoky haze, there is something unique about a casino; it even has a distinctive smell.  By now, Carlos was familiar with it all.

 

But he was done here tonight.  He’d been sucking back free beers that the cocktails waitresses brought round, but he was by no means drunk.  He did, however, need to piss, so he headed for the men’s room.

 

The closest one was still a good hundred yards away as the crow flies, but crows didn’t have to navigate around clusters of elderly Chinese women clutching slot machines like they were life support.  It took Carlos a while to make some headway—and that gave him the chance to realize that he was being followed.  The kid wasn’t very good at it, but that might not have been his fault; the winding path the sadistic alpha was forced to take made it kinda obvious.

 

Carlos didn’t get a detailed impression at the boy; he wasn’t going to be so blunt as to turn around and look behind himself.  But his massive cock began to shift and stiffen; in his tight jeans, it was very visible that the long tube of flesh running down his left thigh was stirring to attention.

 

The boy entered the restroom twenty seconds after he did.  There was an older man standing at the far urinal; he flushed and zipped up as Carlos went to one of the urinals in the middle.  This place still had ashtrays attached to the urinals; the old dude had parked his butt there.  He left without washing his hands, the acrid scent of his cheap smoke lingering afterwards in the silent room.  They were alone.

 

Getting a good look at the kid’s face, Carlos felt a flicker of recognition. He’d seen the boy recently; he just couldn’t quite place the face.

 

He knew where he wanted to place it, though—under the heel of his boot.

 

“H-hey,” the boy faltered nervously, “Name’s Cody.  I, uh—well, I been watchin’ ya for a bit…”

 

That was where Carlos had seen him; the little fuck had been slinking around in the background, among the small crowd that occasionally gathers to watch the play at a blackjack table.  He’d peered over Carlos’s shoulder several times.

 

Cody looked young.  His fashionably disheveled hair was swept in dirty blond bangs low across his forehead, partially obscuring his huge brown eyes.  The kid’s cheeks were smooth and rounded, but there was a faint brown fuzz on his upper lip.  The boy had to be over twenty-one to be in the casino, but he looked like he was barely out of puberty.

 

Cody’s skinny jeans outlined his lean, youth body extremely well.  They had a low-rise waistband, and the tight t-shirt wrapped around his torso didn’t come all the way down, leaving the skin at the base of the spine exposed, along with the punk’s tramp stamp.  The t-shirt was thin cotton in bright yellow; it left nothing of Cody’s flat belly or slender but firm chest to the imagination.  Carlos noticed a tattoo on the inside of the kid’s wrist; it looked like a spider.

 

The youth sported a pair of Supra Skytop 2 hightops in black leather; they added little to his height.  Carlos was almost six and a half feet tall, but Cody was no taller than five foot nine. The boy might not be actively trolling for sex, but he was dressed to show off his lean young body.  His tight clothing displayed more than that, though—the long bulge running down the kid’s thigh swelled noticeably as his eyes ran lasciviously over the hardbodied alpha’s muscled form.

 

“Yeah?” Carlos questioned nonchalantly.

 

“Well, I—uh, I saw the way you were movin’ your bets, and, uh…”

 

“Yeah?  So I was movin’ my bets.  So what?”

 

The kid gulped and blushed.  “You, um—yer countin’, aintcha?” he asked quickly, getting the question out before embarrassment overcame him.

 

“Yeah,” Carlos replied.  “So what’s it to ya?  Ain’t illegal.”

 

“No, no, I know,” Cody said hastily, “It ain’t that—I wanna learn.  Can you teach me?”

 

A large grin of sharklike proportions covered Carlos’s face.  “Sure, boy,” he chuckled, “I can teach ya a lot.”

 

Carlos wasn’t dressed provocatively, at least for him.  He was in his typical gear, tight black jeans and a tank top with a low scooped neck that gripped his torso and displayed his tattoos and hard, hairy chest to perfection; the thick links of the gold chain around his neck sparkled under the bathroom’s fluorescents.  A black do-rag on his shaved head and a pair of slightly worn black harness boots on his feet completed the casual look.

 

Again, for him, nothing special.  To Cody, though, he appeared as a physical avatar of masculinity, a rough trade badass who could teach him how to successfully count cards.  The kid’s youthful face broke into a broad smile.

 

“Excellent, dude!  Aw, man, I been lookin’ to learn for a long time.  Plenty of ways to get lessons in Vegas, but I ain’t got no money for anythin’ real, y’know what I’m sayin’?  Lotsa grifters out there, but you, you look…”

 

A faint gleam of lust lit deep within the boy’s large brown eyes as his voice trailed off in distraction.

 

“Ok,” Carlos rumbled, “Your place in—lessee, what time is it?  Almost eleven?  Ok, your place in about an hour.”

 

Again Cody blushed with embarrassment.  “My place? Ok, well, um…”

 

“What’s wrong?” Carlos sneered.  “Don’t got yer own place?”

 

“Yeah, I do,” Cody said slowly, “But it’s kinda a mess.  See, I’m a handyman for the complex I live in.  I get the apartment rent-free, but I take my work home with me sometimes.  There’s a lot of machine parts and tools scattered about.  It ain’t very clean, either…”

 

“Fuck, bro, I ain’t comin’ by to grade yer fuckin’ housekeeping.  You wanna learn to count or not?”

 

“Ok, man,” Cody responded quickly.  “It’s 1224 Miranda Street, unit one forty-three in the back.  Mira Vista Apartments.  You’ll be there, right?  In an hour?  You’re not gonna stand me up?”

 

Carlos gave the kid a thin-lipped smile.  “Trust me,” he said quietly, “I’ll be there.”

 


 

An hour later, exactly on schedule, Carlos eased the red Benz convertible into a narrow parking space at the back end of the lot in the apartment complex.  He strolled casually across the asphalt, his boots thumping loudly, his wide-legged stance caused by the thick tube of manmeat dangling between his thighs.

 

The apartment was in the far rear corner; a tiny patio opened directly out onto a dumpster.  Its location clearly made it one of the least desirable units in the complex, hence it was a perfect place to lodge the handyman rent-free.  The light near the door was out—little fucker wasn’t a very good caretaker—so Carlos knocked at the door in darkness.  A slit of light appeared and widened, then filled with Cody’s eager face.

 

“You came!” he exclaimed, “Cool!”  He stepped aside and opened the door, letting Carlos in.  “Sorry about the heat, dude, the AC’s on the fritz and I ain’t got around to fixin’ it yet.”

 

Well, that certainly explained the funk inside the apartment; the lack of ventilation enhanced the background scent of marijuana and boysweat.  The unit was small and dingy, most of the interior light coming from a large flat-screen TV; a paused video game was on the screen.  A faint glow in the left rear corner indicated the kitchen; it was the light in the vent hood over the stove.

 

The heat also explained Cody’s outfit, or utter lack of one.  His lean form stood before Carlos clad in nothing but a pair of white cotton briefs, his smooth, clear skin glistening with sweat.  The tighty whities did nothing to hide the kid’s thick, half-erect shaft.  The coiled tube of flesh stirred as the boy looked at Carlos.

 

“C’mon man, in here,” Cody chirped, heading towards a larger rectangle of light on the right side; it emerged from the open bedroom door.  “”Like I said, place is a mess.  Bed is the only clear space ya can spread out the cards.”

 

A quick glimpse around confirmed the truth of this statement.  There was a tiny dinette set near the kitchen, the table piled high with machine parts.  More were scattered about randomly on the floor.

 

The chaos was even more intense in the bedroom.  Piles of dirty clothes, mostly jeans and soiled t-shirts were spread across the floor.  At least two pairs of well-worn work boots were scattered around the room.  On the dresser next to the bed was a well-stocked tool belt—and two decks of cards.

 

“Over here, bro,” Cody said, swiping the tangled bedding—limited as it was—to the floor, leaving the stained mattress free of encumbrance.  Blinking his long-lashed eyes, he managed to catch a hint of disgust in the hardman’s face.  “Yeah, I know, but I can’t afford any better.  Yet.  But now that I’m learnin’ to count, I’ll be makin’ some easy money, right, bro?”  He flashed a broad happy grin at Carlos.

 

The alpha grunted and picked up the decks of cards.  Quickly removing them from the boxes and discarding the unneeded cards, he expertly shuffled the cards in midair between his large, strong hands.

 

“I’m gonna deal seven hands and the dealer,” the older man said evenly.  “This is simple.  Tens through aces are counted minus one and deuce through six are counted plus one.  Got it?”

 

“Yeah,” Cody replied thoughtfully.  “What about seven through nine?”

 

“They’re zero.  Don’t count ‘em.  Anyway, here we go.  I’ll play out the whole table but leave the cards out till the end of the hand.  In real life, yer gonna need to be fast enough to do this before the dealer clears the table.”

 

The two of them played out all hands—four busted, two wins and a push on dealer eighteen.  When it was done, Carlos, still standing, asked, “Ok, boy.  What’s the count?”

 

Cody blinked rapidly.  “Uh—I got four…” he said hesitantly.

 

Carlos grinned.  “Good!  That’s right, four.  That’s the raw count.  To get the true count, you gotta divide by the number of decks remaining in the shoe.  Since we just started with two decks, the true count is closer to two.”

 

“Um, ok,” Cody said doubtfully, “But most casinos use a six-deck shoe…”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos grinned, “So you gotta be good with yer math.  And fast.  Learn to pair up combinations.  You see a ten and a six come out, they automatically cancel each other out, so you can dismiss ‘em, see?”

 

“Yeah, I-I guess…”

 

“Ok, we’ll go again.”

 

Carlos dealt another complete table and played it out, this time at a faster pace.  Cody managed to keep up, correctly calculating that the count had gone negative.  After a third time at an even greater speed, the kid still kept pace.

 

By this time, the heat coming off two virile male bodies in the small unventilated room was making Carlos sweat.  His tank top was sticking unpleasantly to his back; unthinkingly, as he finished up the fourth round, he reached down and swept it off over his shoulder in a single smooth motion, tossing into a corner where it ended up draped over one of the kid’s well-worn workboots—

—and Cody immediately lost the count.

 

“So what is it, boy?” the alpha asked as he stood over Cody, the latter still seated on the bare mattress.  “What’re we up to now?  What’s the count?”

 

“I—uh, I…” Cody licked his lips and trailed off, his eyes fastened on Carlos’s broad, muscled chest and wiry, sweat-matted body fur.  “I don’t…um, I—”

 

Carlos froze, his eyes narrowing on the half-naked punk.  “What?”

 

“Geez, dude, you got a hot bod…” Cody muttered, standing up.  The muscled killer could see that the youth’s hormones were working overtime; his dick was fully erect, not only tenting the cotton briefs, but staining the crotch with a dark, widening circle of precum.

 

“What’s that?” Carlos snarled icily.  “You some kinda faggot?”

 

Cody, lost in lust, never heard the danger signal, the cold erotic hate in the buff top’s rumbling voice.  His eyes fixated on the glimmering loop of metal links nestled in Carlos’s chest hair.  “Lemme see yer dick,” the slim youth panted, “Pull it out and put it in me, bro…”

 

“You want my cock?” Carlos growled, his hands curling into tight fists as he took a step closer to where the nearly-nude punk was sitting on the mattress, “What make you think a cum-suckin’ fairy like you deserves a real man’s tool?”

 

As the muscled alpha closed in on the boy, the thick bulge in the tight denim of his crotch was visibly pulsating.  Cody focused on it, unaware of the imminent menace looming over him—until Carlos grabbed his neck in a crushing iron grip.  Looking up, he saw the boiling rage in the older man’s eyes…

 

…and had a sudden sense of the overwhelming power and strength of the stranger he’d invited into his apartment.  His eyes widened as he felt an intense stab of fear.  “Wha-what’s wrong, dude?” he gasped, his voice croaking.

 

“Worthless fuckin’ homo,” Carlos spat out and jerked him off the bed, dangling him in midair.  “I’m gonna teach ya what a sack a’ shit like you deserves.  Ready to learn, cunt?  It’s gonna hurt like fuck!”

 

And with that, he bunched his thick, bulging bicep and slammed a line-drive blow straight from his shoulder into Cody’s mouth, splitting the kid’s lips and knocking out his left canine tooth.

 

The stunned youth kicked and jerked helplessly in midair, squealing in pain as blood trickled down his chin.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Carlos crowed.  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ bout!”  Cody heard the words, but before he could react, there was another bright red burst of terrible pain.  The helpless, bewildered kid not only felt his nose break as the alpha’s fist smashed it, he could hear the loud cracking sound it made as it was crushed.  He squealed again, louder and more shrilly.

 

“Goddam, that’s hot,” Carlos said.  “Squeal like a pig, faggot, squeal like the useless piece of fuckmeat ya are.  Ya wanna earn my dick?  Ya gotta take more than that, boy—you gotta take a whole lot fuckin’ more!”

 

Gagging and flailing, his bare feet kicking helplessly a good foot of the ground, Cody clawed at the unbelievably strong hand that was clutching his throat like a steel clamp.  He didn’t hear the powerful sadist’s words; he was choking, his pulse pounding deafeningly in his ears as the edges of the world began to grow gray.

 

He could still see enough, though, to see the dude’s other hand swinging towards him again.  It would have been hard for him to miss—the massive, balled-up fist was headed directly towards his eye.  The blow rocked his head back, the impact hard enough to stun him into a state of semi-consciousness.  In the loud angry darkness that consumed him, his only awareness that Carlos had flung him back down onto the bed was a sense of violent motion and the realization that he could breathe again.

 

Then his blurred vision began to clear, and he looked up.  Towering over him, Carlos stood like a muscled god, the older man’s face harsh expression somehow emphasized by the black do-rag on his head and the dark stubble on his face.  The tattoos on his hairy chest and down his bulging deltoids and triceps were illuminated by the sheen of sweat on the alpha’s skin.  The young punk, as always attracted to bright, shiny objects, found his attention drawn back to the glittering gold chain lying on the top’s heaving chest—until a motion below the waist caught his notice.

 

Carlos had unbuttoned his fly and was slowly extracting the tremendous length of his cock from his jeans.  Battered and in pain, Cody still found himself unable to look away as inch after inch of throbbing manflesh emerged from the tight denim confines.  His mind, still reeling in shock, remembered that he’d wanted to have that huge horsedick inside him; there was no way he could take that thing, it’d split him wide open—

 

—and hidden in a corner of his faggot brain’s pleasure center, tucked deep within his midbrain, the power bottom pain pig facet of his personality responded.  Cody didn’t know it yet, but his own dick was getting stiffer by the second.

 

“Stupid little cunt,” Carlos growled menacingly, “Ya thought you deserved this hog?  Ya think a queer-ass bitch like you should get my cock?  Only one way for you to earn my cum, scumbag—and you ain’t gonna like it.”

 

Carlos paused for a second, then laughed, deeply, erotically, ominously.  “You ain’t gonna like it, cocksucker, but I sure the fuck am.”   Holding his thick, vein-wrapped shaft in one hand, he slapped it repeatedly in the palm of the other hand, splattering precum over the shuddering youth on the bed.

 

Cody moaned as the hot transparent drops rained on his lithe body.  The throbbing pain in his face faded into the background once he realized the sadistic alpha was reaching out for him again.  The pain receded before the icy hand of fear that clutched at his heart.

 

“Wha—no!” he bleated, cowering vainly on the bed.  His arms came up to block Carlos’s hand, but he wasn’t fast enough.  “Dude, no, plea—urk!!”

 

His protest was cut off abruptly, along with his air.  Beating ineffectually at the buff top’s incredibly powerful arm, he felt himself jerked up off the bare mattress and helplessly dangled, his bare boyfeet kicking uselessly in midair.

 

Despite his swollen, blackened eye, Cody could see the psychotic light of rage in the older man’s cold eyes.  Gagging and flailing as he choked, he dug his fingernails into Carlos’s wrist—he did it in spite of himself, with a vague awareness that resistance would only make things worse.

 

He was right.

 

“Big mistake, cunt,” Carlos snarled as Cody, in his panic, drew blood.  “Big fuckin’ mistake.”  Drawing his fist back, he rammed it forward with the force of a piledriver, sinking it deep into the kid’s smooth, firm belly.  Cody’s eyes widened as the intense blast of pain hit; it hurt so bad, he’d have puked if his throat hadn’t been clamped shut.

 

Carlos wasn’t done yet.

 

“Ya cumsuckin’ [WHAM] disgustin’ [WHAM] sack of faggot shit [WHAM], didja think ya were gonna get loose [WHAM]?  Didja think a worthless little pansy like you [WHAM] could actually hurt me [WHAM]?  Fuckin’ [WHAM] homo [WHAM] asswipe [WHAM], ya better enjoy these gutpunches [WHAM], cause these are gonna feel like fuckin’ love taps [WHAM] compared to what I got planned for ya, cunt [WHAM]!”

 

By the time he was done, Cody could no longer hear his words.  He had passed out from pain and lack of oxygen.  Limply tossed back onto the bed, he was in no position to know that the alpha had lifted him higher and jerked his briefs off first, or to notice Carlos admiring his tool belt—

 

—or that the buff sexual sadist had extracted a huge, flat-bladed screwdriver with a twelve-inch shank of solid steel.

 

Slowly regaining consciousness, Cody found himself curled in a fetal position, instinctively trying to protect his badly beaten and bruised abdomen.  Surfacing in a rough sea of suffering, the battered youth could remain lucid only in flashes.  He remembered meeting an incredibly hot stud; he remembered the stud showing up at his apartment…and now there was nothing but terrible agony…he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened or why…

 

And then sudden motion made him realize that Carlos had climbed onto the bed with him, and he remembered.

 

Cody knew something really bad was about to happen.  The agony of his badly-pummeled abdomen kept him from crying out; all he could do was shrink back on the bed, whimpering as tears streaked down his swollen face.  He shook his head wildly side to side when Carlos grabbed his ankles and forced his legs wide apart, but he head to look up involuntarily when he felt pressure against his clenched sphincter.

 

The older man was up on his knees, between Cody’s spread legs, leering down at the prostate youth.  And between them, Cody could see his own dick standing straight up and oozing from the tip.  The powerful alpha, emitting menace and testosterone from every pore, spat on the writhing kid.

 

“Even after I beat the fuck outta ya, you still want the D,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, “Goddam faggot, you wanna get fucked even if it kills ya, huh?  Guess what, you worthless asswipe—looks like you’re gonna get what ya want.  It is gonna kill ya!”

 

Leaning forward, Carlos thrust with his hips.  There was a brief resistance, a sudden ripping sensation, and then his freakishly huge shaft was buried in Cody’s guts.  A second sense of resistance, brushed aside during the plunge, indicated the point at which the alpha’s massive purple tip had impacted Cody’s prostate.

 

It wasn’t the only thing.  Even as Cody shrieked in nightmarish agony as his sphincter was torn apart, his cock pulsed visibly and drooled out a steady stream of precum.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Carlos muttered with an arrogant grin as he ground his rough, wiry pubes against Cody’s smooth, tender asscheeks, “Fuckin’ pansy power bottom homo.”

 

Taking a deep breath, Cody screamed again, his voice cracking shrilly.  All the pain of his vicious beating had faded to a background hum compared to the searing torture in his rectum.  He’d taken dick up his ass before, plenty of times—but this was like getting raped by a horse—

 

And then, even though Cody didn’t think it possible, it got even worse.

 

“Ya wanna scream?” Carlos hissed, “I’ll give yer punk ass somthin’ to scream about, bitch.  Ya like my long hard hot tool rammed in ya, huh?  Wait’ll ya get this long hard cold tool stuck into yer guts, too!”

 

The sadistic killer held the screwdriver directly in front of Cody’s bloodshot, tear-filled eyes so the boy could contemplate all the ways in which it could be used to inflict pain—not that he was allowed long to contemplate.  Carlos, living up to his muscular, inked, rough trade look, reversed the tip of the screwdriver and slammed it down.  The large flat blade pierced Cody’s smooth flat belly like a hot knife through butter, the thick steel shaft sinking nearly to the hilt.

 

Cody’s eyes grew huge, dark circles of shock ringing them and making them look even larger.  His hands reached up and clawed at Carlos’s chest fur as his breath was expelled in a loud, agonized grunt.  As a tidal wave of anguish swept over him, he could see the gleam of sexual insanity in the powerful top’s eyes.

 

“Hell yeah, fuckmeat,” the brutal sadist chuckled, “Loved that, didn’t ya, ya fucking homo pervert, huh?  Yer ass grabbed my cock nice and hard when I stabbed ya, you disgusting pain pig—good, but not good enough.  Guess I gotta stick it in ya a lot more if I wanna cum, huh?  Yeah?  That what ya want, faggot?  Cause it’s what yer gonna get!”

 

Jerking the tool back up out of Cody’s gut, the psycho alpha held it up and admired the long, blood-streaked shank as the lean, lithe youth writhed and mewled in nightmarish pain beneath him.  A slow, cunning smile crept over Carlos’s face, and he whipped his hand out to the side and rammed the screwdriver into the helpless kid’s flank, puncturing the smooth, soft flesh just under the rib cage and punching the cold steel shaft through Cody’s kidney and up into his spleen.

 

The sudden intense agony of organ trauma crushed Cody in a fiery grip.  His hands clutched at Carlos’s upper arms, his fingers so tight on the hardbodied top’s biceps that his fingertips were turning white with pressure.  The kid’s eyes, wide with physical shock, stared unseeingly into Carlos’s.  As badly as he was suffering, the lean punk could feel every vein-wrapped inch of thick manmeat rammed up his ass; even his cock ached unbearably as the older man’s shaft pressed against his prostate and preventing his own erection form going limp.

 

Cody could hear the older man whispering, but could barely follow the words.  Seeing this, Carlos decided to emphasize his words.

 

Lowering himself down until his heavy, muscled body was on top of the faggot’s, Carlos let his weight press the kid into the mattress.  Bending his head forward to that the unshaven scruff on his face scraped Cody’s cheek, he muttered softly in the boy’s ear.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me bro, yeah?  Must feel sexy as fuck, bitch, the way your dick is throbbin’ and spewin’ precum, motherfucker.  Here ya go, cocksucker, enjoy it some more!”

 

With that, he twisted the screwdriver in the wound, then viciously reamed the handle in a wide circle, churning the strong steel shank through the young cunt’s tender innards.   The icy slashing pain deep inside him made Cody clutch his assailant even harder, pulling him close in an involuntary embrace of nightmarish pain.

 

It also made Cody realize that he was gonna die.  He was getting assfucked and he wasn’t gonna survive it.  He didn’t know why—it made no sense, he needed answers…

 

“Wh-why…” he moaned faintly.  Carlos’s head was still against his; he could feel himself trapped under the weight of the powerful stud on top of him, sliding across his smooth, slick flesh on a film of mansweat.  His lips were against the alpha’s ear; he didn’t need to speak loudly.  “Ju-ju-just wanted t’ g-get fuck-fucked, man, why k-kill me…”

 

Carlos pulled back just a bit and sneered down at Cody.  The kid’s face was taut with pain, his long sandy blond bangs plastered to his forehead by sweat.  The kid’s agony was so fuckin’ hot.  Carlos spat in Cody’s face, the phlegm trickling down his cheek along with his tears.

 

“I’m gonna kill ya because it’s what makes me cum,” Carlos said evenly.  “Get it?  Yer just fuckmeat to me; hurtin’ ya and wastin’ ya is what gets me off.  And I’m really horny tonight, faggot.  Think ya hurt now?  Buckle up, fuckwad; I’m just gettin’ started.  I’m gonna end your useless, wasted life in a blast of agony so hard, you’ll cum till yer balls are deflated.  You gotta lot to look forward to tonight, boy!”

 

Cody bleated incoherently in terror.  His desperate struggles to free him merely aroused his rapist, who shuddered with pleasure as the smooth, slick boyflesh slid against him while the sick sadist lay full-length on top of his victim.  “Yeah, bitch, ya like that, huh?  That thought get ya all horny?  Like ridin’ two hard shafts at once, yeah?  Here, try this, cunt, lessee if it’ll make yer dick even harder!”

 

Jerking the tool back out of the meat’s side, Carlos rose up on his knees.  Beneath him, Cody shuddered in pain, his breath coming in short, agonized gasps.  His handsome, youthful face was almost unrecognizable, twisted and gray with unimaginable torment and serious organ damage.  Blood trickled from the hole punched in his flat, smooth belly, but not much; most of the bleeding was internal. Somewhat more was leaking from the wound in his side; much more damage had been done there.

 

Just what Carlos wanted—tortured fuckmeat, splayed out helplessly beneath him.  “Yer ass works my cock real good when ya suffer, faggot.  Fuckin’-A, yer a natural-born pain pig—saddle up, motherfucker, yer gonna love this shit!”

 

Holding the screwdriver in front of him, tip down, the buff, muscular alpha drove his arm downwards with the force of a piston.   Aimed at Cody’s chest on the left side, below the heart, the rather blunt tip punched through the youth’s torso between the ribs and impaled the left lung before striking a rib in the back from the inside.  The impact was hard enough to break the rib, but it took the momentum out of the blow and the screwdriver stopped with its tip lodged deeply in Cody’s rhomboid muscle.

 

As Cody’s young, tender body plumbed new depths of hell, the defenseless young homo could only look up at the testosterone-oozing stud looming over him.  Even in his agony, Cody knew that his cock was pulsing and slapping against the top’s furry belly with each brutal thrust of the older man’s hips.  It was too much for his shattered mind to take; the shallow cunt retreated to his love of shiny things and fixated on the thick links of Carlos’s gold chain, subconsciously trying to hypnotize himself out of his waking nightmare and failing spectacularly.

 

Carlos could feel the manseed start to bubble over in his balls as the slender youth shuddered and trembled beneath him.  The kid was clearly in respiratory distress; his punctured lung was collapsing and the fucker was gurgling and gasping for air, a faint blue tinge forming on his swollen, split lips.

 

Cody’s consciousness was starting to fade; the fit but lean young fuckmeat had endured too much trauma.  Things were going gray and numb around the edges.  He could still feel the half-inch-thick shank of stainless steel embedded in his chest, just below his heart, and he could still feel the two-inch thick shaft of solid pulsing manflesh stuffed in his guts—but the icy darkness promised that soon he’d feel nothing, and he was grateful.

 

He made the mistake of letting it show on his face.

 

Carlos was an experienced killer.  He knew the meat was trying to relax into unconsciousness; an attempt to escape the excruciating pain and ease into death.  He wasn’t having that.

 

“No you don’t, ya stupid faggot,” he snarled, pumping his engorged rod viciously into the kid’s ravaged asshole, “You ain’t gonna take a dirt nap yet—you ain’t worked the spunk outta my cock yet, meatsack.  I’m close, motherfucker, I’m real close, but you ain’t doin’ it for me—am I borin’ ya, asswipe? Guess I gotta amp it up, yeah?  Gotta make ya pay attention.”

 

Leaning forward, the cruel alpha yanked the screwdriver out of Cody’s heaving chest, holding the gore-streaked shaft in front of the boy’s taut, pale face.  “Know what I’m gonna do?  I’m gonna shove this into yer head.  I’m gonna fuck yer brain to hamburger with it.  You’re gonna kick and convulse as ya die and yer fuckhole is gonna work my dick so good.  And if I shank the right part of yer worthless homo brain, ya might even cum yourself, ya fuckin’ pervert.”

 

Reaching up to grab a hank of the kid’s sweat-soaked blond hair to hold his thrashing head in place, Carlos brought the screwdriver up and—so that the meat would know what was coming—slowly and gently inserted the large blunt tip of the steel tool into the punk’s left ear.

 

Cody gazed up, completely and utterly helpless, his eyes wide with horror as the realization of what was about to happen to him sank in.  As the ruthless, brutally handsome alpha loomed over him, he tried again to focus on the gold links, on anything to take his mind off that pressure in his ear—

 

—then Carlos wrapped his large, strong hand around Cody’s jaw, crushing in in a vise-like grip and began to shove on the screwdriver.

 

Then next two minutes were both the worst and the last of Cody’s life.

 

Even with his jaw clamped shut by Carlos’s iron grasp, the volume of the shrill shrieks the trapped boymeat emitted were a good indication of the mind-bending agony he was enduring as the half-inch-wide metal tip tore through his eardrum and ground its way through his middle ear.

 

As promised, the excruciating pain made the slim youth flail and shudder, his hands slapping vainly against Carlos’s hairy chest.  His legs, spread wide apart with the alpha’s muscle-bound form between them, could only kick at the air, his bare toes curling each time Carlos went balls-deep in his ass.   Then the blade of the screwdriver punched through to the inner ear and slashed through the cochlea and the semi-circular canals, destroying the unfortunate fag’s balance mechanism.

 

Instantly, Cody’s screaming nightmare of suffering was intensified by a sickening, unbearable vertigo.  Instinctively, he clutched at the only solid, stable thing in his shrunken universe—his killer.  His hands reached up and clutched the stud’s sweating, bulging biceps; his legs wrapped around the alpha’s heaving, thrusting waist.  Then the screwdriver penetrated past the ear structure with a loud, sickening crunching sound and dug its way into the soft gray matter filling the punk’s skull.  “Fucking piece a’ meat, die on my fuckin’ cock!” Carlos barked and reamed the steel shank into the dying boy’s cranium.

 

Cody stiffened with the onset of massive brain damage, his lithe, lean, sweat-slicked body going rigid as his eyes rolled back in his head, nothing but blood-streaked white showing beneath fluttering lids ringed with long dark lashes.  Carlos ground the screwdriver around in large circles, carving out large trails of carnage in the kid’s cerebellum—then one swipe of the steel tip slashed through the pleasure center of the young fag’s brain.

 

In some deep dark corner, the last spark of Cody’s personality screamed in orgasmic agony as his firm slender form convulsed violently.   Carlos held on, grunting in intense pleasure as the meat’s rectum gripped his swollen cock and massaged it in rhythmic spasms.  Simultaneously, the cunt’s rod, pressed against Carlos’s furry ripped abs, pulsed and squirmed.

 

“FUCK!” Carlos screamed, injecting a jet of boiling manseed deep into the meat, “FUCK!  GODDAM!  FUCK!”

 

There wasn’t enough left of Cody to hear his killer or feel the load pumped into him; the last sensation the nearly-dead homo was able to feel was his own geyser of spunk.  It arose in an agonizing stream, splashing all over Carlos in a continuous flow, unnaturally drawn out due to brain trauma.  The last thing Cody felt was an almost electric pain in his engorged cock as his life drained out of it, all over the hard body of his killer.

 

As a last act of contempt towards the fagmeat, Carlos slammed the screwdriver into the corpse’s head as hard as he could and left it with the tip embedded in the cranium on the inside.  Gasping for air, his muscled chest heaving and matted with sweat and cum, Carlos pulled his still-dripping cock out of the dead meat and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at the mess he’d left.

 

Cody lay sprawled out on his back on the bare mattress, his abused and violated young body still quivering in its death throes.  There was a small pool of blood at the flank and another at the side of the head, under the ear from which the handle of the screwdriver still protruded.  Even in death, his bare toes were curling and relaxing convulsively.

 

Carlos sneered.  “Dead piece of faggot shit,” he muttered as pearly drops of cum continued to ooze from his own mushroom tip.  Impulsively, he bent down, grabbed Cody’s arm, and dragged the corpse off the bed, through the apartment and out onto the patio, leaving a trail blood streaked behind him.

 

Once on the patio, he lifted the body over the railing and tossed it into the half-full dumpster, where it landed with a loud thump.  It was still visible when Carlos glanced in; it had landed face-down.  With a vague interest, the killer noticed a white spot on the small of the kid’s back, just above the tramp stamp—a playing card had been plastered there by sweat.  It was the ace of spades.

 

Turning back to the apartment, Carlos stepped into the bathroom to clean up.  It was small and filthy, but he was able to soak a towel with warm water at the sink.  He wiped the sweat and cum off his chest; then, glancing closely in the mirror, noticed that the little fucker had managed to shoot jizz onto his gold chain.  Smirking with pleasure at the memory, he cleaned the chain off as well.  He didn’t notice the playing card that had been stuck to his own body till it fell off and fluttered to the floor, landing face-up—his was the king of clubs.

 

Tucking his enormous dick back into his jeans, Carlos swiftly left the apartment.  He left behind his shirt, draped over a pair of Cody’s workboots.  He didn’t want it anymore—and anyway, his body fur was still wet.  He planned to air dry it by leaving the top down on the way home.

 


 

“Hey, Schweitz, what’s the story on that 187 ya had this morning?”

 

“That homicide out in Paradise, by the airport?  That ain’t mine, that’s Nuñez’s.”

 

“Yeah, fine, but Nuñez is out and I ain’t got a report on it yet.  Just gimme the basics.”

 

“Sure, Captain, but there ain’t nothin’ to it.  Patrol car got called in after a neighbor found the body in a dumpster.  Responding officers saw the blood trail on the patio next to the dumpster and called us in before they forced entry to the unit.  There was blood on the bed and someone had cleaned up in the bathroom, but we didn’t find any other physical evidence.”

 

“Did ya call the crime scene techs out?”

 

“Naw.  Why bother?  M.E. was there—said the vic had been raped before he was stabbed to death.  We asked the neighbor; turns out it was just another faggot who took the wrong trick home.  Neighbor said there’s pansies in and outta that place all the time.  He did remember a Mercedes convertible parked near the unit last night, though—want me to tell Nuñez to follow up on that?”

 

“No—like ya said, don’t bother.  Waste of resources.  We had two tourists robbed and shot on Tropicana two hours ago—check it out and take Nuñez with you.”

 

“And the fag?”

 

“Forget it.  Don’t worry about filing a report—not like a real human being was involved, anyway.  Go find out if those tourists are out of surgery yet—I will want a report on that one.”

Trucker 12–Trucker vs Wetback

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Where ya headed?” drawled the Trucker.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Until now.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“P-pero…pero p-pensé…” he whispered.

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

And tough shit if he was telling the truth.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

…and was getting off on it.

 

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

 

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

 

He didn’t like it.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And that’s when it happened.  With a final seismic grunt, the Trucker tightened his fingers one last time and was rewarded with a loud cracking sound and the feeling of Jorge’s esophagus collapsing into a mangled mass of cartilage under his hands.

 

The Mexican meat felt the injury more than it was able to hear it, although an echo of the intense crunch did manage to worm its way into that last single spark of awareness.  And with that, Jorge’s entire existence fused into a single bright moment when pleasure and pain fused together and became indistinguishable.  It was a solid electric shock that finally let him release; he was too far gone to know what was releasing, he only knew that it was draining from him.

 

Too close to death to realize that his semen was jetting from him in a solid stream, splattering across the Trucker’s sweaty, heaving chest and matting heavily in the fur, the fuckmeat convulsed violently, his torn, spasming sphincter clutching at the alpha’s huge dick like a drowning man clutching a log.

 

The muscled older man gave a loud, strangled cry as his cock swelled and spat out a near-endless geyser of cum, filling the corpse’s guts with massive amounts of searing manspunk.  The last sensation of Jorge’s wasted life was that as his life drained out through his dick and the chill of death seized him, there was one last spark of warmth filling his ass and his intestines—

 

—and then the useless spic whore found that death wasn’t peace, it was an icy howling vortex of blackness—

 

Shuddering and breathing heavily, the Trucker held onto the convulsing meat for a couple more minutes before standing up, inhaling deeply and pulling his thick dong out of the dead body.  Jorge, his handsome face swollen and unrecognizable and his throat visibly crushed, was still convulsing violently.  As the Trucker slipped past the privacy curtain and started the ignition on the rig, the trembling corpse managed to flop itself out of the bunk, landing in a huddled mass of flesh on the floor.

 

Turning up the AC, the buff top went back to the sleeper area and gathered up Jorge’s clothing, jamming the single loose sock down into one of the meat’s boots.  Bundling the boots with the jeans and shirt, the Trucker drew the curtain and carefully examined the landscape, using his outside mirrors as well.  No one had been by on the road while he’d been entertaining himself, but he still wanted to check.

 

Satisfied, he opened the door, then went back and grabbing the meat by its bare foot, dragging the corpse the corpse through the cab.  The sadistic alpha jumped from the rig, his loosely-laced combat boots hitting the asphalt with a loud thump.  The dead spic tumbled out behind him, hitting the ground like a sack of dirty laundry.  Glancing around quickly, the Trucker strode quickly across the two-lane blacktop, one hand clutching the cunt’s clothing, the other hand gripping the dead punk’s ankle—the foot was still twitching, the toes curling in final death throes.

 

On the other side of the road was a deep drainage ditch; it had been visible on the side of the road for miles, but since the land sloped away to the west at this point, it wasn’t visible here unless one was standing right at the edge of the shoulder.  No one would see anything here unless they were actively looking for it.

 

It was perfect.  The Trucker tossed the clothing in first, then held Jorge’s quivering corpse up one-handedly, he dangled it over the drop and let go.  The meat fell into the ditch—about five feet below—with a muffled thud.

 

Quickly crossing back to the semi, the Trucker climbed into the driver’s seat, slipped his cap back on and slowly edged his way back onto the road.  It was still warm in the cab; he was heading out with his shirt off and a dead kid’s cum drying to a glaze on his chest pinning his dogtags to his  fur.  He’d stop off at a rest area ahead somewhere and clean off.  In the meantime, he wanted to get across the state line.

 

Checking the side mirror, he caught a glimpse of movement—in the sky.  A small black shape, moving in lazy circles.  In a moment it was joined by another, then a third.  The Trucker understood.  With an evil grin on his face, he accelerated into the west and left Jorge to the buzzards.

M4M4Rent

It had been too long, and there was too little online.  Joe was frustrated and horny.  He was also uneasy; there were things going on…

 

Specifically, there had been a couple of fags snuffed recently that he’d had nothing to do with.  That bar back from Mack’s, that had the air of an amateur—twink was probably offed by a jealous boyfriend, or something.  The other one, though—that construction dude in the old Androy Hotel—that was something else.  That was someone who knew what he was doing.

 

So Joe had been worried, and he’d laid low a bit.  Turned out, he wasn’t the only one; when his hormones built up and he felt the need to drain the semen from his aching, overfilled balls, he found little to choose from while trolling on the hookup apps.

 

That was when he spotted the ad.

 

“19yo looking for gen daddy who can top me  5’10”, 145.  work out daily so you gotta be tough and buff enough to handle me  can’t host  cash only”

 

If the pickings had been better, he might have ignored it—he damn sure wasn’t gonna pay for the privilege of fucking the slut, and things could get tricky if the cash was asked for up front—but Joe was feeling the need to unload badly, so he responded to it anyway.

 

After all, wasn’t like the whore was gonna be able to spend a dime by the time Joe was done with him.  But he’d need to get a room somewhere; he wasn’t gonna waste meat in his own home.  You don’t shit where you eat.

 

“Powerful daddy, 32, 6’5”, 185.  I can bang ya all night long.  Can’t host either, know a place we can go?”  The message was accompanied by a body shot; the pic only showed Joe’s ripped, hairy abs and bulging pecs.

 

It was enough.  The reply was immediate.

 

“cum get me and we’ll work it out.  U no curley’s bar on olive st?  meet me @ back door in alley 20 mins ok?”  This one had the boy’s pic.

 

He certainly looked no older than nineteen, if that.  The photo was a nude, from the head to the knees; it showed a dark-haired youth with a slim but muscled body.  His smooth, creamy skin was unblemished.  His broad, almost innocent face had large blue eyes and a dark smudge on the upper lip that appeared to be an attempt at a mustache.

 

Below the waist, a long, glistening cock jutted proudly from a black tangle of pubic hair.  Kid had no qualms about putting it out there, that was for certain.  He knew how to market himself.

 

Tonight, he’d done it perhaps a bit too well.

 

Joe knew Curley’s; it was a gay piano bar, somewhat run-down these days, which catered to old queens with pretensions to money and culture.  It should have been a happy hunting ground for someone like this little slut; he musta struck out tonight for some reason.

 

Joe smiled.  Given the chance, he was gonna make sure the kid was struck out for good.  But he still needed a kill pit.  He wasn’t coming back here, and he didn’t wanna blow any cash on a motel room.  Well, as the whore said, it’d get worked out.

 

Joe slid his thick, muscled legs into a pair of tight black jeans before slipping on his eight-inch tall Timberland Classic boots, leaving them untied and loosely laced.  Pulling a khaki-green compression t-shirt over his head, he stood in front of the mirror and admired the way it highlighted his huge chest and washboard abs.  He made sure his own shoulder-length black hair was in place before heading out the door.

 

Within five minutes, he was in the driver’s seat of his classic Camaro, heading south towards Olive Street with the T-tops open.  It was a pleasant evening, and Joe was up for some fun.

 

There was still some traffic on Olive Street, but the side street was empty and the alley behind the bar was absolutely deserted—except for a lone figure, standing in the garish orange glow of a streetlight, smoking a cigarette.  Joe recognized the dark-haired youth from his face pic.  The kid was wearing a day-glo yellow t-shirt that clung to his well-built torso like a glove; the shirt was advertising some bodybuilding organization.

 

The little slut was clearly on the make—his low-slung skinny jeans in faded denim barely cleared his waist, letting skin flash between the bottom of the t-shirt and the beltline of the jeans.  This let the boywhore show off the tramp stamp tattoo on the small of his back just above his firm, well-rounded asscheeks.  The belt itself was thick black leather, pierced with dozens of flat, square studs.

 

On his feet, the kid sported what appeared to be a pair of black and white hightops with red laces—they were actually a pair of Asics JB Elite wrestling shoes.  Like the rest of his outfit, they were worn with the idea of attracting attention to his body, and they did the trick well.

 

Joe pulled the car up to him.  The kid approached and leaned into the window.  “You the dude from the app?” he asked, his voice slightly slurred.  Alcohol wafted on his breath.  Joe nodded, hoping the boy wasn’t too drunk to enjoy the ride.

 

“Cool,” the kid said, “Name’s Connor.”  Walking around the car, he opened the passenger door and hopped in.  “So, you gotta place we can go?”

 

“No,” Joe said evenly.  “Can’t go back to my place; the ol’ lady got home early.”

 

“Goddam!  Well, fuck…” Connor spat out.  “Shit, ya got money for a motel room?”

 

“Depends on how much you want for yourself,” Joe replied.

 

The whore paused to think, his large blue eyes narrowing, giving his face an almost feral look as he glanced at Joe, obviously considering how much he could get away with asking for.

 

“Dude, I get a hundred an hour,” he said at last, watching Joe carefully for a hint as to how his outrageous demand had been received.

 

The alpha killer smiled calmly; he’d been expecting something similar.  Little fucker was delusional—but Joe could work with that.  “Ok,” he said.  “Two hours.  But for that, no, I don’t got cash for a room.”

 

Connor’s face lit up, then fell a bit.  “Ok, I’ll take ya back to my place.  But it’s a shithole.  Don’t judge me by it, ok?  I got plans, bro—big plans.  You watch; yer gonna see me on the news some day.”

 

“Fine,” Joe said, shifting the Camaro into drive, “Now, which way?”

 

“Right onto Ransom Street and back out to the highway.  I’m in a place over on Willow Falls.”

 

Joe knew the area—cheap, run-down apartments and by–the-week motels.  Connor’s place turned out to be the former.

 

The apartment complex called itself “The Lakes” by virtue of a trash-filled ditch that functioned as runoff for a nearby creek.  It had rained yesterday, so the ditch was full—Joe couldn’t help but notice as Connor led him towards a building in the rear that faced the ditch.

 

It was a low, two-story building, about fifty years old.  All doors opened out onto the front; those on the second floor accessible by a balcony reached by an iron staircase at each end.  Connor’s was on the ground floor, third from the end.  Joe noticed how few lights were on in the building as a whole.

 

“Toldja it was a shithole,” Connor muttered.  “They ain’t renewing anyone’s leases—think I was the last person to sign a new one.  Plan on tearin’ the place down, I hear…”

 

With that, he unlocked the door and led the way inside, where it was even more of a shithole than outside.  A two-room apartment with a tiny kitchenette at one end of the front room and a bathroom at one of the back room.

 

The front room was furnished with a cheap futon; the mat was torn and leaking stuffing.  There was a warped particle board side table with a lamp and a cigarette-burn-scarred coffee table on which a Nintendo game console sat.  Facing it was a large flat-screen TV, easily the most expensive item in the apartment.

 

That assessment didn’t change when Joe saw the back room.  Under the pitiless, barren glare of a solitary overhead lightbulb, a single mattress was on the floor, completely bare.  There did seem to be a set of sheets, though, in a pile of apparently dirty laundry spilling out of the closet.  On the floor next to the bed was another lamp, a mate to the one in the living room.  The shade and bulb were missing.  By the lamp was an overflowing ashtray.

 

A tiny doorless room in the corner held the toilet and bathtub; the rest of the end of the room was taken up with the sink vanity with the mirror above—it reflected most of the smallish room.

 

Joe looked around in disgust.  The air reeked of stale cigarette smoke and boysweat.  Connor caught the look.  “It’s hard to get to the laundromat, an’ I don’t have a car.  Can’t use the laundry room here, man, the spics an’ niggers will steal all my threads.”

 

“Yeah?  Well lessee what ya look like outta yer threads, boy,” Joe replied, reaching down to the hem of his compression tee and pulling it up over his head.  Connor stiffened; even though he’d seen Joe’s fantastic physique in the body pic he’d gotten, the sight of that furry, muscular torso, already glistening with sweat in the warm bedroom, in real life was intensely erotic.  As the rentboy slipped off his own shirt, revealing his smooth firm chest, well-built but not bulked out like Joe’s, he already knew he wanted the older stud’s cock, bad.   But first, he wanted his money.  He whipped out his hard, throbbing cock.

 

“Cash up front, dude, or ya don’t get to touch the goods.  Ya gotta pay ta play, bro,” Connor said.  He’d always asked for payment in this manner, casual and cocky.  He twerked his hips briefly, letting his long dick bob about in the open air, as an enticement.

 

He had no idea of the nightmarish violence his usual request was about to unleash.  As usual, it started with an incredibly stupid move on the part of the slut.

 

Joe had turned around, seeking a clean spot to toss his compression t-shirt.  It took a sec; there weren’t many options.  Finally spotting a clear area on the floor, he bent over and let the shirt drop—and felt a simultaneous tug on his back pocket.  The one he kept his wallet in.

 

The buff, hulking alpha immediately stood up straight and turned around.  The slim but well-built boywhore had slipped Joe’s wallet out of his pocket and was rifling through it.  Spotting a wad of cash in the bill compartment, he yanked them out and pocketed them before turning back and glancing at the ID.

 

Connor’s eyes widened.  “Holy shit,” he said, “Is your name really—”

 

He never completed the sentence.  Joe’s rage was instant and overwhelming; he rabbit-punched the rentboy in the jaw, splitting his lip and sending him reeling.

 

Connor staggered back, dropping the wallet and clutching his face, his blue eyes wide with shock—he’d had no idea the blow was coming.  Tears running down his face, he looked up at Joe.  “Wha—what the fuck, dude?!?”

 

Joe’s eyes glittered with a dangerous, angry light.  “You tryin’ to steal from me, faggot?  You got no idea how big a fuckin’ mistake you just made.  You will, though.  By the time with you, you’ll know exactly how bad you just fucked up.”

 

Connor’s reaction was different than most of Joe’s prey.  Perhaps his physique inspired him; he was more toned and much more muscular than most of his johns—he was used to getting his way.

 

He got angry.  It was like putting out a fire with gasoline.

 

“You owe me, you sonovabitch!” he shouted petulantly.  “You want this body, asshole?  Then pay for it—now!”

 

The cold killer noted with amusement that despite getting punched in the face, the homo whore was willing to continue, as long as he got paid.

 

“I don’t pay,” Joe said calmly, stepping forward and wrapping his huge hands around Connor’s biceps.  “You, though—yer gonna pay, faggot.  Yer gonna pay hard, you thieving little sack of shit.”

 

In one single, swift moment of brutal violence, the powerful sadist lifted the unsuspecting cocksucker in the air by his arms, and turning on his heel, flung the punk across the room into the vanity.

 

It happened so fast, Connor didn’t realize what was going on.  He screamed in pain as he impacted the mirror and shattered it, before falling onto the vanity.  The tap on the sink tore into his flat, smooth belly before he rolled off and landed breathless on the floor.

 

He didn’t have time to catch his breath before Joe was on him again.  “Worthless pansy scum,” the alpha hissed before snatching the moaning rentboy by the arms and hurling him through the air again, into the bathroom.

 

This time, the impact was more intense.  Snagging the shower curtain and tearing the rod from the wall, Connor slammed into the tiled wall and fell into the hard, unforgiving fiberglass bathtub.  There was a momentary blast of agony, and the boywhore was knocked out.

 

He was only unconscious for a few moments.  It wasn’t long enough for Joe’s anger to subside.  He was dragging the limp boymeat out of the bathroom when it began to shudder and moan, as consciousness slowly and painfully flowed back in.  The enraged sadist dropped Connor to the floor and stood, towering over him.

 

Sure, he’d been planning on snuffing the faggot, but that woulda been a nice slow strangle.  This fucker—he had to pay.  Presumptuous little cocksucker had swiped his wallet and seen his ID.

 

No one had done that before.  A lesson needed to be taught here—not of course, that the pupil would benefit by his knowledge.  As soon as he learned what he needed to, he’d die.

 

The boy’s large blue eyes blinked open.  A large bruise was rising on his cheek where he’d hit the tile in the bathroom.  Another, caused by the vanity faucet, discolored his abdomen.  He closed his eyes again, groaned loudly, and then looked dazedly up at his assailant.

 

There was still some fight in him.  “Du-dude…” he uttered painfully, “Wh-when I g-g-get back onna my feet, I’m gon-gonna fuck ya up so b-bad…”

 

“No you’re not, ya piece of cumsucking shit,” Joe snarled.  “Wanna know what yer gonna do?  Yer gonna beg for your wasted life as I put the beatdown on ya, rape yer sorry ass and waste ya.”

 

Stooping down, he wrapped his huge hands around the teen’s throat and lifted him into the air.

 

Connor found himself dangling, hanging from his neck.  He instantly grabbed at Joe’s hands, trying to pry himself free of their choking, crushing grip.  Young and strong as he was, he was no match for the experienced killer—even with all his strength, he couldn’t move so much as a single one of the alpha’s fingers.  Worse, his air was cut off.  He’d been too groggy to process Joe’s words when they were uttered, but now the full import hit him like a ton of bricks.

 

He was gonna be murdered.

 

Connor panicked.  He’d always been the strongest and most fit of the small clique of rentboys he hung with; he always been far and away stronger and more fit that his johns.  This was the first guy he’d come across who could take him—and suddenly, he was taking him out.

 

The slut went feral.  He reached out, clawing, towards Joe’s face; too short to reach, he ended up clutching helplessly at the killer’s bulging biceps and triceps.  As his legs jerked and flailed, his bladder voided involuntarily, piss splattering on his jerking wrestling kicks.  Joe chuckled, then spat into the boy’s swelling, darkening face.  “Oh no you don’t, whore,” he jeered, “No nice easy choke-out for you.  I gotta beat some sense into ya, motherfucker.”

 

Connor had brief sensation of violent motion.  The hulking alpha had let go of his throat, but just as the cunt tried to draw a needed lungful of air, he was hit with a shattering blast of pain.

 

Joe had rammed Connor straight through the closet door, snapping the kid’s left humerus, the bone in the upper arm.  The battered, bleeding faggot found himself huddled on a pile of clothes, semi-conscious and moaning.  It was dark, except for the light coming through the large, Connor-sized hole in the cheap, hollow-core door.

 

Suddenly, a shadow fell across him.  Protectively holding his arm, mewling from the sharp agony of a broken bone, the boywhore turned his large, tear-filled blue eyes up and caught sight of Joe’s eyes staring right back at him through the mangled door.  The eyes of the buff killer were also blue, but they glittered with a cold sadistic light.  Even though Connor was in shock and in full mental retreat from the nightmare that his current reality had become, he still recognized the gleam of homicidal lust.

 

When Connor lost his shit this time, he pissed all over his dirty laundry.  This time, he drained himself; when he was done, the pile of clothes reeked of more than just sweat.  He scrambled off the sodden pile, cowering and gibbering in the corner of the closet as Joe tore the remainder of the door form its hinge and paced inexorably towards him.

 

As much as he consciously blocked the thought, Connor knew the approach of death when he saw it.  He was young and strong, but this towering slab of solid, hairy man-muscle was much more powerful than he was, and he knew it.  “No…” he whimpered as Joe approached slowly, menacingly.  “Please, no…don’t, bro, don’t do this…I’m sorry, man, I’m so sorry, just please don’t hurt me no more…”

 

Joe was grim and silent as he bent down and grabbed a handful of the whoreboy’s hair.  Yanking viciously on it, he dragged Connor, moaning and crying, to his feet and led him out of the closet like a dog on a leash.  The buff young slut staggered out and fell to his knees again.

 

“Please—” he started.  He had time enough to get just the one word out before Joe hoisted him into the air by his throat again.  This time Joe held the thrashing punk up at his eye level—with a single hand.  The muscles of his upper arm, already glistening with sweat, bulged with the strain of keeping the kid aloft.

 

“Lookitya, ya stupid faggot,” the cruel killer hissed, his face suddenly lit with a brutal, unholy glee.  “Y’know what?  You’re gonna die tonight.   And it’s gonna hurt, you worthless sack a’ shit.”

 

To emphasize his point, Joe drove a roundhouse punch directly into Connor’s face, as hard as he could.  There was a loud squelching sound as the rentboy’s nose was smashed into a pulp of crushed cartilage.   The powerful sadist drew his arm back again; the next blow was rewarded with a loud crunch as the teen’s cheekbone snapped.

 

With his esophagus closed off, Connor had no way to protest; using his good right arm—his broken left dangled uselessly—he could only claw at Joe’s thick, fur-covered arm as huge gray circles of shock formed around his wide, frantic eyes.  His face, already swelling and darkening with lack of oxygen, was now a mass of fiery pain.  A surge of panic shot through his smooth, muscled body, and he managed to catch hold of some of the skin on Joe’s arm.  Jerking quickly, the kid managed to scratch his assailant, drawing blood.

 

It was a bad move.

 

“You motherfucker!” Joe snarled.  Lifting Connor even higher, he rammed the boy down onto the floor, as hard as he could.

 

And then before Connor could catch his breath, he was introduced to Joe’s Timberland Classic boots—the hard way.

 

It was like the older man was trying to kick a field goal.  Joe relished the sounds of ribs snapping like twigs and Connor’s shriek of pain as fragments of broken bones tore through his guts like shrapnel.  “Now you’re feelin’ me, ya cumsuckin’ faggot,” he muttered with a twisted grin on his cruel, handsome face.

 

Then he placed his foot on Connor’s flat, heaving belly and put his weight on it, grinding the tread pattern of the boot sole into the boy’s soft, smooth flesh.  The punk screamed in pain as the hulking, hardbodied killer stomped down with all his force, putting his weight into it.

 

“Shaddup, ya stupid fuckin’ faggot,” Joe snarled, “You love this shit.  Lookitya, you goddam cocksucker, yer dick is hard as fuck.  You love gettin’ treated like the sack of fuckin’ garbage you are, ain’t that right?”

 

Connor’s turned his once-smug face, now a purple mass of bruised flesh, up to his attacker.  His eyes were so swollen he could barely open them; when he did, tears flowed uninterruptedly.  “Wh-why?” he gasped as he clutched at the rough brown leather of the muscled alpha’s work boot, his fingers tangling in the loose laces.  “Why, du-dude? Sorry…p-please, so…s-so sorry—”

 

Despite his blurred vision, Connor could see well enough to see the dangerous flash of rage in Joe’s eyes.  He gasped in terror, knowing he was looking death in the face  He was even able to realize that there was something else behind the rage…something like glee—or could that be lust…

 

He didn’t notice the flash of motion until the last second.  “No!” he screamed—it was the last coherent word he ever spoke.

 

The reinforced toe of Joe’s boot made impact with the boywhore’s chin with high velocity as he delivered a brutally swift kick.  The blow was devastating; Connor’s jaw shattered into three separate pieces.  The inarticulate screech that escaped his mangled mouth had an animalistic quality to it.  The “fight or flight” instinct kicked in involuntarily; the boy was clearly unable to fight his way out of the situation so, taking advantage of the fact that Joe’s boot was no longer pinning him down, he rolled over and began to scramble awkwardly with one arm towards the doorway.

 

As the fuckmeat twisted away, Joe noticed that the fucker’s cock was not only hard, it was glistening at the tip.

 

Watching the rentboy’s bubble butt flexing in the tight jeans, his tramp stamp gleaming under a sheen of sweat, Joe realized how badly his puckered, aching scrotum needed release.  His balls were overfilled with manseed and needed draining immediately.

 

Time to mount the meat.

 

Striding forward Joe reached out to grab Connor by the waistband of his jeans.   The badly beaten rentboy heard the thumping of Joe’s boots approaching from behind and threw himself forward; all Joe managed to grab was the thick studded belt.  Since it was already unbuckled, one end slipped free and Joe was left with nothing in his hands.

 

Connor reached the doorway and, grasping at the jamb, tried to regain his feet.  Despite the agony as the jagged ends of broken ribs slashed at his innards, the dazed teen whore hoped he’d be able to make the front door—it was only a few feet beyond…

 

That was when Joe caught him by the waistband and jerked him back from the doorway.  Pinning the struggling meat to the floor face-first, the horny alpha yanked the youth’s jeans down to his knees.

 

Then, crouching over the shrieking boywhore, Joe placed his thick, throbbing, ooze-smeared dickhead against the pink, fluttering sphincter and drove the pulsating shaft deep into Connor’s guts, penetrating the punk until his thick, wiry pubes were scratching the kid’s smooth asscheeks.

 

In spite of the agony of his battered body, broken arm, and pulverized face, this new ripping, slashing sensation in his rectum took precedence in Connor’s universe of pain.  It wasn’t as if he’d never been fucked before; he did that for a living.  But he’d never been so viciously impaled on such a huge rod of manflesh; no one who’d fucked him before had ever been this big—or this brutal about it.

 

The well-built teen punk screamed, the movement of his shattered jaw increasing his torment.  As he pawed helplessly at the thin, stained carpet covering his bedroom floor, his stunned mind was trying to comprehend how what started as a simple trick had ended in such horror, but he wasn’t really capable of sustained rational thought.  His thrashing, useless attempts to escape were purely involuntary.

 

The whoreboy’s hightop Asics wrestling kicks managed to grab a purchase on the carpet, but it did no good; Joe was pinning the meat to the floor.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere but to fuckin’ hell,” Joe growled in Connor’s ear.  “You ain’t gettin’ offa my dick till you’re dead, cunt.  Does it hurt?  Good.  You better enjoy the pain, boy, cause when it stops, you’re dead.  Hear me, ya worthless homo?  As long as yer still in pain, yer still alive.”

 

As he rammed his massive shaft, writhing with veins like a log wrapped with barbed wire, into the critically injured teen rentboy, the buff alpha lowered himself to lay full length on the flailing kid.  Bending his head down so that his dark scruffy cheek scraped against Connor’s, Joe whispered into the squealing cumsucker’s ear.  “Ain’t gonna be long now, cockpig.  It’ll be over soon.  Gonna hurt ya one last time, then you’ll get to take a nice long dirt nap, pumped fulla my cum.  Fuck yeah, that’s whatcha want, ain’t it, faggot?  Yer dick’s still hard, you queer sack a’ shit, cause you know yer gonna die fulla my spunk.  Yer gonna get dumped like trash to rot with my sperm all up in yer guts…”

 

Connor heard the words, but physical shock had finally kicked in.  He could process the meaning, but his young, hard body, already full of testosterone and adolescent hormones, was suddenly flooded with adrenaline.  He shuddered violently, as much in chemical overload as in fear.  The older man was pumping harder and faster; his breath was becoming ragged—

 

Connor knew what was coming but had no way to brace himself against the onslaught of semen and pain he was going to be forced to endure; he could only wail aloud as a shriek of terror tore silently through his frantic mind.  He was gonna die.  It was gonna happen now.  No, it couldn’t, this couldn’t happen, he was just gonna meet a john to get banged real quick, he was gonna go hang with Stevie and Paulie later tonight…

 

Joe pulled himself back up on his knees, jerking Connor up with him, pulling the teen up onto his knees as well.  Connor’s right hand clawed aimlessly at the air, for just a moment.  Joe was panting, his rock-hard, sweat-soaked body smacking brutally and wetly against the abused teen.  His balls were aching so bad, he had to let go, it had to happen now…

 

It did.  As the first searing gush of manspunk hosed Connor’s guts, Joe reached around and grabbed the young faggot’s chin with one hand, placing his other hand on the back of the kid’s head and grabbing a hank of his black hair.  Then, with a single swift yank, the buff killer rotated the whoreboy’s head through a full one hundred and eighty degrees.

 

A loud sound like popcorn popping echoed in the room as five of Connor’s vertebrae shattered simultaneously, bone fragments slashing through his spinal cord.  The unfortunate youth could both hear and feel it; despite the damage to his nervous system, the cord was not completely severed.  Because of the powerful sadist’s straddling position, the slut’s wrestling shoes beat randomly against Joe’s Timberland boots.  An agonizing bolt like a lightning strike tore through the teen’s muscular body; an electrochemical blast that flipped a switch somewhere in cockpig’s balls.

 

As his neck was broken, Connor shot a huge deathload, a hot geyser of boyseed that jetted into the air to splatter back on both killer and victim.  Conner wasn’t dead yet, but he had no idea he’d shot the hottest, hardest, most intense load of his short, wasted life.  What he did have an idea of, though, was how much sexual pleasure the killer john had gotten from snuffing him.  To his utter horror, Connor most of his last few seconds on earth staring directly into the eyes of the man who’d killed him—as the dude was still cumming in his ass.

 

Joe held the twitching, mortally damaged teenager close, leering in orgasmic ecstasy into the wide, stunned blue eyes of the fuckmeat.  “Die, faggot,” Joe moaned gutturally, “Suffer and die…”

 

But Connor wasn’t dead.  As the last wad of jizz blasted out of his swollen shaft, he applied more pressure to the meat’s chin and twisted his head a further ninety degrees.  One last snapping sound, one last violent convulsion to milk the last drop of cum from Joe’s cock, and all Connor was aware of was loud white buzzing that appeared at the edges of his vision as the lights became too bright and I cant see oh dear god whats happening to me no wait—

 

The meat was still quivering as Joe withdrew his erect, still-oozing tool.  He walked to the vanity, admiring his body in the shattered remains of the mirror, the way the fur on his torso was swirled and sweat-matted.  He needed to clean it up, of course—there was a large hand towel that had fallen to the floor.  He picked it up, soaked it with hot (well, warm—and kinda brown) water from the sink, and wiped his entire body down.

 

Stuffing his enormous cock, still semi-hard, back into his jeans, Joe grabbed his compression t-shirt and slipped it back on, then stood over the quivering corpse, trying to make up his mind.

 

It wasn’t like Joe gave a shit about what happened with the meat when he was done with it, but lately there had been a lot of weird shit going on.  It was almost as if someone had been following him.  At any rate, he decided, there was nothing wrong with taking some precautions.

 

He looked around the room.  Hell, it looked abandoned as it was.  And the fagmeat had said they were only waiting for it to leave before tearing this place down.  Well, maybe Joe could do the owners a favor.

 

Turing off the light, Joe reached down and grabbed the twitching sack of dead flesh by the right wrist.  Striding towards the front door, he dragged Connor’s body behind him out of the apartment.  After all, it wasn’t like anyone was gonna miss the worthless cockpig.  When he got to the front door, he cracked it open and glanced out carefully.  He didn’t expect to see anyone, and he didn’t.

 

It was only fifteen steps to the ditch.  Joe lugged the still-jerking boymeat across a small patch of ground that was mostly dirt with sparse outcrops of crabgrass.  Connor’s Asics shoes—which he’d tightly laced on several hours ago, horny at the thought of getting fucked while wearing them—now carved trails in the bare soil as his corpse was dragged through the dirt to be dumped in a ditch.

 

Joe tossed the body, watching it hit the bank and roll limply down into the trickling stream of polluted water that seeped through the drainage ditch.  He stood for a moment, spit into the ditch, then turned and headed back to his car.

 

Once he was back on the highway, he was feeling the post-kill euphoria, when a bright flash in his rearview mirror caught his attention—and made him laugh aloud.  The flash had come from the sky, and the resounding crash of thunder practically rattled the car.  Pulling up the weather app on his phone, Joe was surprised at the size of the storm moving in—this one would produce hail.  The important thing, though, was the heavy rain that was approaching.

 

Who knew how far downstream the meat would be washed by morning?

Adam–Second Kill–Finale of a Footpig

The place was called the SoHoLo and it had opened three months ago in an attempt to lure some business to the suburbs on the north side of town.  A ten-story hotel, the exterior was severe in angular concrete, but the interior was a different matter.  Large rooms whose luxury belied the “loft-style hotel” concept were matched by a lobby that glittered with rare woods and hip furnishings.

 

At least it was nothing like a filthy roll in the leaves, Adam thought.

 

He was seated in a deep leather armchair in the shadows at the edge of the lobby.  Ahead of him, brightly lit in the center of a large open area, was the hotel’s business center; a large pen filled with what looked like study carrels, each with a docking station for laptops and Wi-Fi access to printers.

 

Behind him was a dark passage leading to the dimly-lit restaurant and the even murkier bar.  The passage contained one notable feature—a water wall that was as tall as the hallway itself and ran for a good ten feet in length, located directly across from the elevators.  The rippled wall down which the water cascaded had cutouts with gas jets, making the falling water sparkle with backlit flames.  From where he was sitting, Adam could hear the soothing, splashing sounds of the water.

 

His attention was focused elsewhere, though.

 

The dude was young—early twenties, likely a recent college graduate.  He was diligently working in the end carrel; even at this distance, Adam could just make out a spreadsheet on the guy’s laptop screen.  His hair was dark brown, almost black, as was the faint scruff on his cheeks that thickened to a goatee around his lush, full mouth.  He had an olive-skinned, almost Mediterranean complexion that complemented his large, dark eyes.

 

He was dressed in business casual—a light blue long-sleeve button-down dress shirt that seemed to pull open at the buttons when the dude stretched his arms, indicating a broad chest.  Under, he had on the tightest pair of chinos Adam had even seen; navy blue dress slacks that looked sprayed on.  The bulge in the guy’s crotch was visible halfway across the lobby.

 

He’d even carried the business casual look to his sneakers; they were Puma Classic in a two-toned suede look, blue-gray at the toes and natural brown across the rest of the uppers.  To complete the look, a light gray sports jacket was dangling from the back of the chair in which the guy was sitting.

 

The dude had gotten up to go to the bathroom about thirty minutes ago—it was located in the passage next to the water wall.  Adam had gotten a good look at him, admiring his thick firm legs as he approached and his firm bubble butt as he walked back.

 

More importantly, though, they’d made eye contact.  The dude had grinned a bit.  Then, on his way back, he turned and deliberately looked at Adam.  This time his grin was broader and he demonstratively shifted his swelling junk in his groin as he returned to work.  Adam was prepared to wait him out.

 

After all, Adam was dressed to attract a little attention himself.  He didn’t want to look to slutty in a hip, high-class place like this, so his clothing was restrained but still eye-catching enough to lure his intended prey.

 

He sported a red Polo tennis shirt, so tight across his chest that his nipples were visible underneath.  They were also visible because he was sitting with his aviator jacket—brown distressed leather—thrown wide open so his whole firm, muscled torso was on display.  The shirt and jacket only added to the lure of his face, attractive in an oddly feral way under his red-gold hair and the golden scruff on his cheeks.  Below the waist, he wore tight beige jeans.  Clean and relatively new, the skinny jeans fit him like a second skin.

 

 

In fact, the only things he was wearing that hadn’t been purchased in the last three weeks were his kicks—gray and white Nike Flight Falcon hightops.

 

He’d stolen them from one of the first corpses he’d fucked.  Tonight, he was gonna have them on when he fucked another corpse.

 

A flicker of movement caught his eye—the hot dude in the carrel had shut off his laptop and was gathering his belongings; he appeared to be shutting it down for the evening—after all, it was already past ten o’clock.  If he was staying here, he needed to pass by Adam to get to the elevators—but Adam knew the guy would be heading his way no matter what; the quick, lustful understanding in their brief eye contact ensured it.

 

And that was fine with Adam.  After all, if he was gonna fuck a corpse tonight, he first needed to make one.

 

The dude looked as if he was going to stroll right past, but he paused hesitantly just as he drew abreast of Adam.  His large dark eyes turned to those of the attractive young man in the leather jacket.

 

“Hey,” he said with a sheepish grin, “What’s up?”

 

Adam smiled back, “Not much, man.  Just chillin’.”

 

“Name’s Josh,” the young professional said.  “You, uh, you lookin’ for a little fun?”  As he asked, he subtly reached down and rubbed the growing bulge in his groin.

 

Adam let his eyes linger on Josh’s crotch as his smile spread.  “Yeah, I’m up for some fun,” he replied, the tent pole in his own groin putting emphasis on the word “up”.  Standing up, he asked “So, you gotta room?”

 

Josh took a moment to reply; he’d noticed how Adam’s tight jeans had outlined the massive ridge of his dick. “I—uh, yeah, I gotta room here…man, you gotta stick that thing in me…” he muttered, distracted by lust.

 

Adam stood up.  He loomed over Josh, being about five inches taller than the dark-haired young man.  They were about the same age, but Adam was larger and much more buff.  From Josh’s point of view, he’d found a perfect power top to plow his ass tonight.

 

“Got anything to drink?” Adam inquired.

 

“Got a bottle of Crown Royal in the room.” Josh responded.

 

“Well, fuck, man, let’s go!” Adam said, letting Josh lead the way to the elevators.

 

The ride was quick and quiet; the elevator car, elegantly paneled in dark wood with backlit panels, swift hummed to a stop at the seventh floor.  As the doors open, Josh grabbed Adam’s hand.  “Down this way,” he said, nodding to the left, “Room seven twenty-six.”  The well-built psycho withdrew his hand and let the prey lead the way to the room.

 

Josh slipped the key card out of his wallet and slid it into the slot on the handle.  The light on the lock turned green, there was a clicking sound, and Josh opened the door wide, letting Adam follow him in.

 

It was designed to look like a trendy New York loft; that meant little fitting-out of the room interior.  There was no ceiling; ducts, wiring, piping for sprinklers, all was visible hanging from the steel beams supporting the floor above.  The walls were exposed brick—likely a brick veneer on a steel frame.  The floor was bare concrete with area rugs, opulently deep and soft, scattered in strategic locations.

 

There was no separate bathroom.  To the left of the entry was an elaborate marble shower stall, a wide vanity with double sinks (and a TV embedded in the mirror above) and an ostentatiously simple toilet.  A single interior partition wall that extended up eight feet—as opposed to the ten-foot base of the rafters—was all that demarcated this space from the open room in general.

 

On the other side of the partition wall was the king-sized bed, headboard against the wall and foot pointing to the exterior wall—which was one solid single polarized window, showing a vast exterior vista without allowing anyone outside to see in—as long as the interior light was low.

 

On the far side of the room was a simple black dresser with sliver fittings, with a matching mirror above; to its left, a chrome bar bolted to the brick wall served as a closet.  On the near side, a huge armoire in the exact same pattern as the dresser, turned out to house a TV; the two armchairs facing it looked angular, modern, and uncomfortable as hell.

 

The room was beautiful.  Adam grinned; it’d make a nice, fashionable tomb for the meat once he was done with it.

 

Grabbing his hand again, Josh dragged him over to the bed.  Reaching up, he did his best to get Adam to bend down and kiss him.  The perverted top pushed him roughly away.  “You said you had some Royal, boy.  Go get it.”

 

Josh’s dark, puppy-dog-like eyes seemed a bit hurt, but he obeyed.  “How do ya want it?”

 

“Straight.  I like it straight, you faggot bitch.”

 

Josh flushed and inhaled sharply, but the way the bulge in his tight chinos pulsed was obvious.  The mini-bar was in the armoire with the TV, along with real glasses and full-sized ice cubes.  Turned out Josh took his on the rocks.

 

Adam took a gulp of the potent, smoky liquid.  He watched Josh do the same.  “So whaddaya lookin’ for, bro?” he asked the young professional.  Josh had tossed his laptop bag on the bed; now he moved it to the dresser and began peeling the multiple layers of blankets, comforters and sheets off the overstuffed bed.  “I want you to fuck me,” he said simply as he stripped the bed down to the flat sheet and the pillows.  “I can’t take too long, though—I have a meeting at eight in the morning.”

 

Adam smirked.  “Oh, I’ll fuck ya, faggot, don’t worry about that.  But you gotta work for it, cunt.  You gotta earn my dick first.  Ya hear me?”  He slipped out of his brown leather jacket, laying it on top of Josh’s laptop.

 

Josh stood still by the side of the bed, breathing heavily.  He could see Adam’s powerful, intimidating form much more clearly now without the jacket, and he was mesmerized.  “Yessir,” he said, “What must I do?”

 

“Lessee what ya got.  Strip, bitch.”

 

As Adam flipped around one of the armchairs, sitting in it and watching the show, Josh shrugged off his jacket and tossed it onto the other chair.  He sat on the bed and began unlacing his two-toned Pumas.  “Put ‘em back on when you’re done stripping, boy,” Adam demanded.  Josh glanced up and flushed again, this time smiling with pleasure.

 

Little shit wanted to get fucked with his kicks on.  If he was into sneakers, Adam could work with that.  Fuck yeah.

 

Standing up, Josh wriggled out of his skinny jeans, revealing his thick, hairy thighs.  He was wearing a pair of black briefs.  The jeans went onto the chair on top of the jacket and the briefs went onto the floor—they’d been far too inadequate to contain his thick, throbbing dick, anyway; it was already sticking out, pressed against his thigh and leaking precum out into his body fur.

 

And Josh had plenty of fur.  He wasn’t tall, but he was muscular and furry as hell.  When he managed to unbutton his dress shirt, his body hair was visible under his white cotton t-shirt; when he pulled that off, the dark mass of fur that covered his swarthy chest and flat belly was displayed perfectly in the indirect light—the only lit bulb in the room was in the bathroom; everything else was hinted at in the angular shadows.

 

Josh tossed the dress shirt and t-shirt on the other armchair as well.  This time, Adam caught motion from the chair in the corner of his eye; a dark silk tie that he hadn’t noticed before—evidently it had been draped over the back of the chair—now fell on top of Josh’s clothes.

 

Still a fledgling predator, he noted it for later.  He had no definite plans; he was learning to adapt to the circumstances of his kills.

 

Josh got the briefs off, letting his long cut cock free to bob about and drizzle precum.  Wearing nothing but a pair of black ped socks, he sat back on the bed and began to put his shoes on again.

 

“Furry little fuckin’ monkey, aintcha?” Adam jeered as Josh laced the second Puma on.

 

“I’m a Sephardic Jew,” Josh said, “My family came from Spain.”

 

“Like I give a shit, faggot,” Adam sneered.  “Get over here and lick my kicks, cunt.  Put yer tongue on my Nikes and clean ‘em good, asswipe, then you’re gonna take ‘em off me.  You got it, fuckwad?  Worship my sneakers, you sack of shit, and if ya can do that right, you may earn my cock!”

 

Josh scuttled forward eagerly, his tight, muscular body huddled on the floor as he slurped greedily at Adam’s Night Falcons.  “Yeah, bitch, work that tongue,” Adam commanded.  “Work it good, cunt.”

 

The crouching youth lapped at the alpha’s sneakers for a couple more minutes before Adam had him untie them and slip them off.  “Back up, boy, on yer knees,” he barked as he stood up and, pulling his shirt off over his head, tossed it onto the chair behind him.  Josh looked up in awe at Adam’s buff, broad chest, his dark nipples proudly erect on his bulging pectorals.

 

Adam had been working out more often since his first kill, and it showed.  He had no intention of letting the meat nearly slip through his fingers again; he knew that this time, he needed to dominate it from the beginning—and he took steps to ensure he had the physique to do so.

 

From Josh’s position, on his knees between the top’s legs, he seemed to be looking up at a golden-haired god.  It had been a warm evening to wear a jacket, and Adam’s thick biceps and firm triceps were glistening with a faint sheen of sweat.  So too was his hard, rippled abdomen—not at furry as Josh’s, it still had a golden down that collected the testosterone-laden mansweat, generating an invisible cloud of pheromones around the alpha.

 

Seeing the hypnotic effect he was having on the meat, Adam grinned down at the fag.  High-class pretty boy in town on business, slumming for a night with an anonymous hookup.  Only one way he was gonna earn Adam’s dick.

 

Adam didn’t think he was gonna like it.  The thought made his grin even more shark-like.

 

The towering killer opened the waistband of his jeans and, unzipping the fly, letting his enormous shaft fall out.  Josh’s eyes glittered with lust; the volume of precum leaking from his pulsing dick increased visibly as Adam let the jeans fall to the floor and stepped out of them, kicking them to one side.

 

The top was commando, of course; he’d been expecting a scene like this of some sort.  Nude but for his ped socks, he sat back in the armchair and held his right foot out.  “Now put my kicks back on, homo.  This one first.  Lace ‘em up nice and tight so they don’t slip off when I grind ‘em into yer worthless face.”

 

Josh paused for a moment, gulped, and lick his lips.  “Y-yessir,” he stammered in a low voice that was almost a moan.  As he gently slipped the Nikes back onto Adam’s feet, lacing them as told, he stooped to kiss them at times in the process.  Any time he tried to move his lips above the hightop ankles, Adam pushed him back down.

 

“Naw, man,” he said contemptuously, “Don’t put yer fag lips on me.”

 

Josh blushed with embarrassment.  “Yessir,” he muttered, “No sir…”  Having gotten both Nikes back onto Adam’s feet, he returned to his worship.

 

Adam stared down at the dark-skinned punk.  The little shit was totally in his control; he’d do anything Adam wanted—it was so fuckin’ hot.  Maybe he could—

 

But no.  Adam liked his meat, if not cold, at least utterly helpless and defenseless.  Josh wasn’t gonna get Adam’s dick until it was too late for him to enjoy it—which was gonna be about another fifteen minutes here or so.

 

“Get up on the bed, faggot,” Adam said, reaching across and grabbing the silk tie from the other armchair.  “I’m gonna tie your hands behind your back with this.”

 

As Adam stood up, Josh scrambled across the room to the nightstand.  He opened the drawer and pulled a couple of things out.  One was a band of heavy scarlet silk, at least three feet long.  “Here, use this,” Josh said, tossing it onto the bed.  “It belongs with the robe in the bathroom.”

 

The other item he got from the drawer was a silicone cockring; he was too busy slipping it on to see that Adam still had the tie.  Once he got the cockring into position—and his thick tool instantly turned purple and started swelling—Josh knelt on the bed, facing away, his hands behind his back.  Adam bound them with the tie, noting that the material was so fine it was hard to get a knot.  He shoved Josh down onto the bed and grabbed the red silk belt.  It seemed to be much sturdier.

 

“Roll over, asswipe.  On yer back,” he demanded.  Josh obeyed, rolling over, his dark, throbbing cock pointing straight at the ceiling.  Lifting his thick, strong leg, Adam placed one foot on the mattress and with a single powerful bound, stood up on the bed.  Josh, on his back with his arms tied behind him, found himself looking up at the well-built hardbodied alpha looming over him with a thick hard dripping cock even larger than his own tied-off rod.

 

The strawberry-blond muscle god sneered down at his fit and furry meat.  Stupid little cocksucker still had no idea how soon this was gonna go south on him.  Adam made sure he precum dripped across the kid’s chest, smearing in the dark wiry chest hairs.  Standing over the kid, straddling him, he let the hot transparent drops splatted on Josh’s chin.

 

Bound by silk and trapped by lust, Josh could only gaze up at the erotic specimen of aggressive masculinity towering over him.  This was just what he wanted, a hot stud who’d treat him like something to be scraped off his shoe—his shoes, those hot fucking Nikes…

 

Adam could feel his scrotum pucker and his seed bubbling up; he needed to unload soon.  He walked to the head of the bed and turned around.  He was standing with his feet on each side of Josh’s head, facing down towards the boy’s feet and the foot of the bed—and the huge window beyond.

 

Looking down into Josh’s swarthy, eager face, dark eyes glazed with erotic anticipation, Adam raised his right foot and placed his shoe directly on Josh’s face.  “Lick it, you faggot sack of shit,” he barked coldly.  “Lick the treads of my kicks like the piece of garbage you are.”

 

He spit on the kid’s heaving, sweat-matted chest.  With his Nike in Josh’s face, the perverted little punk was unable to see Adam looping one end of the robe belt back on itself, securing it with a slipknot.  Before Josh had the chance to be aware what was happening, Adam had removed his foot, bent down, and slipped the silken loop around his neck.

 

“Hey, what—” the slut blurted out.

 

“Shaddap, ya worthless homo scumbag, an’ get yer tongue back on my Nikes!” Adam roared.

 

And with that, he put his foot down—literally.  He began applying pressure to Josh’s face, slowly and gradually at first, but inexorably.  It took about forty-five seconds for the lust-engulfed footpig to realize his own discomfort.

 

The boy was assiduously licking the tread of the sneaker, in pig heaven, when he became aware of the crushing sensation.  “Hey, man, what’re ya doin’?” he managed to blurt out.

 

Adam’s response was to wrap the free end of the silk belt around his hand and pull it tight.

 

“Hey—urk!” Josh grunted, trying to protest as the silk band around his neck cinched inward.  “Dude, stop, (cough) yer (hack) chokin’ me—nngah! (gag) Fuck, (hack) what-uk! ack! ackth! whatcha doin’?”

 

Adam looked up.  Outside, he had a magnificent view across the highway, over the river and past the fields beyond.  Lighting from an oblique angle gave him a reflected glimpse of himself in the polarized glass, his muscle-bound body towering over his helpless, kicking meat as he ground his foot into its face, just as he’d promised.

 

His sense of power was almost overwhelming.

 

“What am I doin’, faggot?  I’m wastin’ yer sick, sorry ass, that’s what I’m doin’,” he jeered down at the struggling youth.  “Fuckin’ cumsucker, your perverted ass has gotta be dead before I’m gonna stick my dick in it.  I don’t fuck no homos, you disgustin’ queerboy, but I’ll shag good dead meat any fuckin’ day, ya get me?

 

Josh tried to speak, to plead—to scream, even—but Adam’s Night Falcon was smashing his face with excruciating force, pressing down while the choking ligature around his throat was being pulled up.  Between the two, Josh could feel his neck being pulled out of position.

 

He wasn’t as built as Adam, but he was strong, and he wasn’t gonna go quietly.  He kicked and thrashed, his thick, hairy, muscular legs jerking and flailing across the white cotton sheets.  His torso writhed violently from side to side in a vain attempt to free himself while Adam bore down with all his weight relentlessly on Josh’s face.  With a deeply satisfying crunch, the sadistic alpha felt the cartilage of the meat’s nose collapse under his sneaker.

 

The frantic youth was reduced to inarticulate noises to register is protest and his pain.  “Ng!  Urg! Agag!” he grunted in agony as the scarlet silk cord constricted his esophagus even further.

 

Adam watched the hard, hairy body kick and die under his Nikes.  His precum was almost a steady stream; it was so fuckin’ hot makin’ boymeat.

 

Only thing hotter? Bangin’ it.

 

That was when the loose knot in the silk tie binding Josh’s hands finally gave way; his repeated desperate jerking and pulling finally bore fruit.  His hands were free.

 

Immediately the frantic gay slut began pawing at Adam’s firm, muscular calf, trying to relieve the crushing agony.  His mind aflame with panic, the writhing footpig had no idea why he was being strangled; the alpha’s words had made no sense to him.  All he wanted to do was worship the stud’s hot, hard body, his firm legs laced into those sexy-ass Nikes…

 

…that were crushing his face so badly his upper lip split.  He tried to move Adam’s legs, but the dude’s muscles were like carved marble, utterly, inexorably immobile, still ruthlessly grinding and crushing his head as the silk belt continued to tighten around his throat…

 

Josh had just wanted to indulge his inner pig.  He’d forgotten how often pigs end up getting butchered.

 

“That’s it, you cum-guzzlin’ fag, fuckin’ choke and die.  Die with my kicks grindin’ yer worthless face, ya stupid sack of shit!”

 

Glancing up for a moment, Adam caught another glimpse of himself reflected in the window.  Projected on the view across the river, his large, muscled form towered over the helpless meat, thrashing on the bed beneath his foot.  His arm bulging as he pulled the scarlet silk belt tight, his overwhelmingly buff body was the very image of dominance.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Adam whispered, his huge cock throbbing swiftly as the power of the image swept through him.  He looked down as the hairy youth flailed in panicked desperation, enjoying the ultimate control of ending the faggot’s life.

 

Josh was in excruciating agony; his head and his windpipe were being crushed simultaneously.  It hurt so bad, he was barely lucid—he kept trying to slip into some form of denial, grasping at the delusional hope of his freeing himself from his killer’s relentless grip.  But the physical distress kept building; eventually it became too much for even Josh’s frenzied mind to deny.

 

His lungs were on fire; he thought his chest as going to explode.  The pulverizing force of the alpha’s rock-hard thigh and calf muscles smashing his mouth and mangling his already-broken nose was now accompanied by an insane pounding on the inside of his skull.

 

It was his heart.  He knew that he was hearing—and feeling—his own heart race from lack of oxygen.  As much as he refused to acknowledge it consciously, some part of him knew he was gonna hear his heart fail, too.  He was gonna hear himself die.

 

Worst of all, though—as he kept clawing at the top’s remorseless legs, he kept stroking the hard, clenched muscles, feeling the strong foot flexing in the gray Night Falcon on his face—worst of all, despite the terror and agony, some part of his sick pig soul found it so hot he was hard.

 

He was so hard it hurt.  The cockring was working too well.  He was being tortured and strangled to death, but his dick was so hard, he could still feel it straining painfully.

 

He could also hear the words of his tormentor.

 

“Time to die, cocksucker.  The only meetin’ yer makin’ in the morning is with the coroner.  Hang on, motherfucker, I’m gonna off ya hard.  This is gonna hurt like fuck.”

 

His mind aflame with terror, Josh made one last Herculean attempt to free himself from the grip of his powerful, sadistic torturer.  His fingers clutched Adam’s leg with as little effect as if he was trying to uproot a tree with his bare hands.  His own legs kicked and flailed frantically as Adam, lips curling in contempt, pulled relentlessly on the silk band about his neck.

 

The well-built alpha was right; the pain was worse than anything Josh had ever imagined.  His dark, furry body thrashed so violently in his agony that one of his two-toned Pumas was pulled off his foot and went flying across the room.  As he kept kicking, the black ped sock began to come off as well.

 

Adam spit on the lithe, hairy form jerking below him.  As his Nike hightop held Josh’s head pinned to the bed, the vicious killer gave the belt a might yank and the eager young footpig got the privilege of experiencing every excruciating sensation of suffering two causes of death simultaneously.  The first was the crushing of his esophagus; as he struggled, the terror-engulfed homo heard a loud crunching sound and felt the cartilage in his windpipe collapse, his larynx ground into a mangled mass of gristle.

 

Already near brain-death from strangulation, Josh’s black face was spewing foam from his closed-off airway, but as bad as the pain was, his oxygen had been cut off for a while.  But Adam kept up the pressure, mashing his hightop sneaker into the pigcunt’s swollen, purple lips and protruding tongue as he put his massive bicep to work pulling up on the silk belt.

 

There was a sound like a tree limb breaking—it was the shattering of four vertebrae in Josh’s neck.   The young faggot heard the sound—and then heard nothing else.  He died in what felt like a nightmarish blast of lightning, his hard, firm body going rigid.

 

The hairy little footfag had died with his deathload still churning, trapped in his puckered balls.

 

As Adam looked down at the quivering boymeat, his long, thick hog dripped hot precum into the dead cunt’s chest hair, already matted with agonized deathsweat squeezed out of the slut.  Hot fucking piece of meat—he was ready.

 

Jumping off the bed, the hulking top grabbed the trembling corpse by the legs and rotated it ninety degrees so that its ass was at the side of the bed.  Still holding the dead fag’s ankles, Adam propped them up on his shoulders, feeling the soft pseudo-suede of Josh’s remaining Puma Classic scrape against his scruffy cheek as the body convulsed.  On the other side of his head, the boy’s foot shuddered, causing the loose ped sock to slip off and leaving his toes free to curl in his death throes.

 

Squatting slightly, Adam placed the throbbing head of his dick against the corpse’s fuckhole and shoved, hard.  Even in death, Josh’s sphincter tried to resist him—but the buff alpha, deep in the throes of necrolust, tore through the rigid muscle with a single brutal thrust, sliding the entire length of his massive shaft through the dead homo’s asshole.

 

Adam’s rod plowed like a piston into the meat’s guts, scraping along Josh’s prostate.  Despite his spinal column being shredded by the shrapnel of his shattering vertebrae, random nerve impulses still coursed along his hard, furry body.  As the top’s vein-wrapped cock pressed against the fuckmeat’s swollen gland, it triggered a reaction that was purely physical; a simple example of stimulus and response.

 

As his corpse shuddered and convulsed, Josh’s dick, kept hard even in death by the tight cockring circling its base, spasmed visibly, then expelled its deathload in a single extended geyser of cum.  The furry young footpig had shot his wad the moment he got a dick up his ass.  If he’d still been alive, he’d have cum just as hard—it was a shame his short, wasted life had been brutally snuffed out just before the most intense orgasm he’d ever experience.  His dead dick pumped and swelled so violently that the silicone cockring snapped, shooting across the room like a rubber band.

 

His firm, hairy body, still slick with sweat, convulsed on Adam’s dick.  As it did, Josh spewed dead boyseed into his blackened, swollen face, his pearly spunk splattering the froth surrounding his thick, protruding tongue.  His head was turned to the side so that his bulging, bloodshot eyes stared sightlessly at the window; from this angle, the tread pattern of Adam’s Nike was livid where it had been ground into the corpse’s face.  Semen was starting to fill the furrows left in Josh’s cheek.

 

The dead boymeat gave one last massive shudder; as it did, the colon clenched and writhed around Adam’s huge, primed shaft.  “Fuck!” the alpha necro shouted as his manspunk boiled over and he flooded the corpse with cum.  “Yeah!  Fuck yeah!”  Grunting and cursing, he continued to unload in Josh’s ass for what seemed like ten minutes straight.  Each jet of hot semen was shot into the punk’s guts so intently that it was almost surprising it didn’t bubble back up out of his mouth.

 

The towering, muscled killer, shuddering himself in sexual exertion, spent another minute or two posed over the corpse before he withdrew his still-leaking cock; as he did, he noticed the dead fag’s dick was still hard, even without the cockring—evidently the muscled had gone rigid at the moment of death, trapping the organ in its swollen, engorged state.

 

When he stood up and stepped back, Josh’s quivering body slid off the bed onto the floor, coming to rest in a sitting position, back against the bed, legs spread out in a V in front of him.  He didn’t stay upright for long—as his corpse shuddered, his head bent forward, then his entire torso twisted and he slumped over onto his left side.  Adam stood over him for a moment, admiring the furry pile of quivering meat, before he turned and strolled into the bathroom to clean up.

 

Once he’d washed off the layer of body fluids, reeking of pheromones and mansex, Adam returned to the bedroom and got dressed.  He stopped before putting his leather jacket back on, though—he needed something first.

 

He hadn’t been sure the first time and he hadn’t liked that kill.  He was proud of this one.  He wanted his trophies.

 

Approaching the still-jerking meat, he knelt down; untying the Puma Classic, he slipped it off of the quivering foot.  Standing up, he glanced around for the other one.  It took a bit of time to locate; the fucker had kicked it straight at the window; when it ricocheted off the glass, it had flown across the room and landed behind the chair on which Josh had tossed his clothes.

 

He kept his Nikes on, but he rolled the Pumas up in his jacket and strode to the door.  Just before he opened it, he took a backward look at the room.  It really was first-rate, the way the bed faced the magnificent view across the river.    It was so nice, it took might take one a minute or two to notice the huddled pile of twitching boymeat on the floor at the side of the bed.

 

It really was first-rate.  Much better than a tussle in the dirt and leaves.

 

Adam decided he needed to hang out here more often.  He left, ambling down the hall towards the elevators with his victim’s kicks rolled up in his jacket and tucked under his arm.

Leather Pig Snuff

It started as a chance encounter, a shared elevator ride that lasted no more than forty-five seconds, but it changed the outcome of the evening for the two men involved.

 

The hotel was packed, of course; while the crowd at LFF—LeatherFetishFest—was tiny compared with that of, IML or Southern Decadence, there was still plenty of action to be had over the three-day weekend and the hospitality suites on the top floor were continually busy.

 

That was where David was coming from.  It was the last night of the con and he’d been scoping out the hot manmeat in the party suites.  Now it was after midnight, and even though the rooms were still packed, David was ready to go.  He took a last tour around the rooms, pausing to watch two dudes fuck in the far corner.  One guy with a leather mask over his face was bent over with his jeans down around his knees; he was taking it up the ass from a mohawked stud in solid rubber that adhered to his fit body like paint.  A number of guys among the admiring crowd were recording the action on their phones.

 

It was hot as fuck, and it was making David hard.  That was a bad sign; usually his self-control was stronger.  It had to be; he didn’t play at these events.  It was too public; these days, there were security cameras everywhere.  Every time he entered and left the hotel, it was recorded somewhere.  So he got horned up and inspired, but saved his playtime for when he got home.

 

At home, he knew where to hide the bodies.

 

And it wasn’t as if David was easy to miss.  Tall, broad, furry and very muscular, he’d had attracted attention in any gay gathering—in fact, the fags clustered around him like moths to a flame—but in his gear, he was the hottest dude in the room, no matter what room it was.

 

At the moment, his magnificent physique was well-displayed in a pair of quilted leather jeans.  The diamond-stitched quilting stretched tightly around his powerful legs and his groin, which was kept sealed by a pair of zippers, one on each side of the massive bulge in his crotch; when both were unzipped, the front of the crotch opened like a flap.

 

He’d worn it during playtime at home and had found it handy; he wore it now, imagining the looks on some of the boys in the room, if they knew what he was imagining doing to their tender, defenseless bodies…

 

The leather jeans highlighted David’s thighs; below that, he sported a pair of glossy, knee-high Wesco harness boots.  He used these at home, too; the thick soles were perfect for grinding into homo faces.

 

The only new item of gear he wore was the plain leather vest he wore open over his bare, hairy chest.  He’d bought it specifically for LFF; the front was cut so that it was too wide to close—it hung open so wide that the rigid erectness of David’s large dark nipples were visible to everyone.

 

As he left the hospitality suite, he stopped and checked himself at a large mirror near the door, well aware of the eyes focused on him.  It wasn’t unusual; he’d had many offers to appear in porn—but he didn’t want his face to be that recognizable.  And it would have been; it was striking.  Wavy hair so black it glittered above a wide, open brow and large emerald eyes lined with long lashes, his face alone was enough to cause an erection.  The wiry, jet-black goatee surrounding his full lips and covering his dimpled chin, with a faint but discernible scruff on his cheeks, completed the effect.

 

It was a look to fall in love with—right down to the thin gloves on his hands, encasing them in black leather so tight it looked painted on.  It was a look to die for—as some had found out too late.

 

Catching a glimpse of several lust-struck admirers in the mirror, David sneered at them and left the suite.  Prettyboys, all of them; he coulda had any one of them to fuck however he wanted, but for David, fucking was never enough.  And none of these sluts were worth the trouble of cleaning up afterwards.

 

The hotel was large and pricey; the long corridors were plush with predominant colors of white and gold.   The elevators were around the corner in a bay like a miniature temple, picked out in marble and onyx.  David sauntered leisurely down the hallway, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpeting.

 

Soundlessly, he turned right at the corner and took an immediate left for the elevators—and that was when he saw The Boy.

 

And The Boy saw him.

 

They stared at each other, silently, for a long, long time, their eyes saying all that needed to be said.

 

The kid looked like he was in his early twenties, about ten years younger than David.  Under spiked brown hair, his face was handsome and haughty, his dark eyes arrogantly aware of his own physical beauty.  His body was perfect, slender and lithe but toned and well-defined.  Standing shirtless—but for an over-the-shoulder strap that part of his leather belt—the skin of his lean, muscled torso was smooth and silky-looking, with small dark nipples.  The belt was around the waist of a pair of skin-tight leather jeans; unlike David’s, the youth’s pair was smooth and not quite glossy, but they clung erotically to his thick, firm thighs and emphasized the massive bulge in the crotch well enough.  The jeans were slightly too long; the hems were bunched into the boy’s laced but untied black and white DC skate shoes.  The ensemble was completed with a two-inch-wide leather wristband on the right arm and silver bracelet inset with turquoise on the left.

 

After a brief, intense struggle, David’s self-control gave up the fight.  He had to have this one.  As if on cue, the kid spoke up.

 

“Damn,” he said with a cocky grin, “Where you been?  I haven’t seen you before; I’d’a remembered a stud like you.”

 

“I been around, boy,” David drawled.

 

“Name’s Kirk,” the kid replied.  “I’d given up hope of gettin’ laid tonight, but damn, dude, you can stick that rod as far inside me as ya want.”  He nodded towards David’s groin, which was swelling visibly.

 

David grinned.  “How old are ya, boy?”

 

“I’m twenty-two.  And I got my own room here.”

 

Exactly ten years younger than David himself.  “Yeah?  This place is expensive as fuck—how’s a kid like you afford it?  You here alone?”

 

It was Kirk’s turn to grin.  “I got a daddy.  He paid for the room; he thinks it’s a seminar to help get me get a better job.  He’ll believe whatever I tell him; he’s kinda stupid that way, so he let me come here alone.”

 

David grunted.  That explained a lot of the cockiness.  Little fuck could get anything he wanted—and with a body like that, anyone.  He’d be willing to bet “daddy” was loaded, and probably expected that his boy was lying but was willing to keep paying and playing just to keep the slut coming back home.

 

“So, anyway, wanna fuck me?” Kirk asked and David burst into a huge smile; he’d made up his mind.  The slut wasn’t coming back home, not this time.

 

“Sure,” he said slowly.  “Where’s your room?”

 

“Third floor, in the front,” Kirk replied, pressing the call button for the elevator.  “Got a great view of the street party from there.  Stood in front of the window and waved my dick at a bunch of boys out there this morning; they loved it.  Man, I’m having the time of my fuckin’ life here.”

 

“Yeah, I bet,” David said, letting a slight hint of contempt slip into his tone, “But I’m gonna fuck ya so hard you’ll remember it for the rest of your life.”

 

“Ooh, you big, tough man,” Kirk jeered teasingly, stepping forward and running his hands over the older man’s biceps, “Lessee if you can live up to that promise.”

 

Just then the elevator arrived, the ping of the signal echoing in the marble lobby.  The doors opened silently and both leather-clad males stepped in. “Oh, I can fucking guarantee it,” David said quietly as the door closed and the descent started.

 

The ride was brief, but long enough for Kirk to reach out and fondle David’s thick shaft through the tight leather.  David smiled beatifically and leaned against the rear of the cab, letting the hot boy run one hand over his groin and another over his chest.  The alpha closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure—he was gonna be able to release tonight; he wasn’t gonna hafta wait to get home to drain his aching balls…

 

The elevator slowed, and Kirk stood up.  When the doors opened, he grabbed David by the hand and steered him around the corner and down the hall.  Even from this angle, the older, larger stud could see the young punk’s cock, straining violently in the confines of his groin.  The boy wanted the older man just as badly as David wanted him.

 

This was gonna be so fuckin’ fun.

 

The boy opened a door on the left side of the hall and turned on the lights.  His lean, shirtless torso glistened with sweat in the warm room; it was reflected in the broad expanse of glass in the wide picture window overlooking the street.  There was a chair and side table in front of the window; Kirk pushed them aside.  “C’m’ere, dude,” he said eagerly, “Lookit this shit.”

 

David strode to the far end of the room, noting the elegant dresser/mirror/TV stand on one side and the huge king-sized bed on the other, the latter with the bedding twisted in a knot and the expensive pale green Egyptian linen fitted sheet stiff with cum.  Reaching the window, he looked down into the huge crowds of men, wrapped in various degrees of leather, still partying out on the street.  It wasn’t even one in the morning; they’d be out there for hours.

 

Without bidding, Kirk reached up and slipped David’s vest off, tossing it onto the bed.  Embracing the older stud, he turned to that their backlit silhouette was clearly visible to the power fags milling on the street below and started sucking on the muscular alpha’s  thick, hard nipples.   David groaned erotically, feeling the boy’s tongue fluttering of the painfully stiff knot of flesh.

 

Lifting his head, Kirk looked David in the eyes, his young face flush and intense with lust.  “Fuck me here, stud.  Fuck me in the window.  I want ‘em to see.  I want ‘em all to watch me gettin’ plowed by a fuckin’ god like you.”

 

David grinned his charming, adorable grin that made Kirk feel faint.  “Ya like guys to watch ya get banged, huh?  Fuck yeah, bitch, I can do that.  I can fuck ya in public.”

 

Immediately, Kirk whirled around and bent over, bracing himself with one hand on the windowsill.  “There’s an opening,” he gasped excitedly.

 

Reaching down, David found it was true. In the deep depression separating the firm leather-covered globes of the kid’s ass, there was a series of snaps securing built-in access to the wearer’s ass.  One swift motion—and a rapid-fire popping of the snaps—and Kirk’s pink, pulsing fuckhole was exposed to open air.  “Stick it in me, fucker!” he cried.

 

“Not yet, faggot,” David barked.  “Ya want my cock?  Then come get it, motherfucker.  Get back here and free my tool.”

 

 

The boy whipped around obediently and grabbed the double zipper in David’s crotch.  He pulled both down simultaneously but the hulking top’s shaft was too long to be released without some help; tenderly, Kirk reached in and grasped the thick, hot, throbbing tube of manmeat, pulling it out from its musky leather confinement.

 

“C’mere, pup,” David commanded.  “Over here in the window.  No!  Stay down, bitch.  On yer knees, punk, get over here on yer knees.”    As Kirk crept the few feet to the window, the older stud glanced out onto the street and smirked.  “Let’s give the boys a show.”

 

As Kirk knelt in front of him, David started dickslapping him, the alpha’s thick, meaty shaft splattering precum across the youth’s model-perfect face.  Kirk blinked as the salty fluid spattered over his eyes and gripped the top’s powerful legs, feeling his thick thigh muscles flex under the tight quilted leather.

 

Brandishing his cock like a club, David grabbed a hank of the kid’s hair, feeling the spiking gel crunch in his hand.  As he beat the boy’s face with his engorged rod, he looked out the window, noticing that a large crowd had gathered around.  Three stories up and lit from behind, David knew that the action was clearly visible from the street without any identifying details being revealed.

 

And the audience seemed to be extremely appreciative of the performance so far.

 

The older leatherstud gave Kirk one more strong smack with his weapon-like dick, this one hard enough to knock the boy’s head sideways and make him grunt.  It did nothing to dampen the horny young punk’s enthusiasm, though.

 

“Suck my cock, faggot,” David demanded and Kirk responded eagerly, running his tongue over the swollen, purple head, greedily lapping up the precum still oozing from the pulsating piss-slit.  David was not pleased and let the disobedient pup know.  “I said suck it, motherfucker, not lick it,” he snapped, slapping Kirk in the face.

 

The boy gasped and pulled back; the blow had been soft, almost gentle, but it was unexpected.  He rose up straight, but remained on his knees.  David looked down at him angrily—and laughed.

 

“Fuck, you little leather pig, I knew ya’d like that—lookit that fuckin’ tentpole yer sportin’!  Pull that bad boy out, slut, or yer gonna tear them hot fuckin’ pants.”

 

Kirk blushed, realizing it was true; his dick was so hard it hurt.  He hurriedly unbuttoned his fly, freeing his aching hog from its constricting leather prison.  Like the alpha, his rod was seeping pre-ejaculate in a steady stream; it splashed out as his cock popped out of his crotch like an erotic jack-in-the-box, leaving large drops of the viscous, transparent fluid smeared across David’s knee-high Wescos.

 

“Get back on my shaft,” David barked.  “You ain’t a pup, you’re a pig.  So choke on my cock like a pig.”

 

Kirk paused as if to object, then, leaning forward and opening his mouth wide, he tried to swallow the older man’s tool.  He could only get the massive tube of throbbing manflesh a few inches into his mouth.  He simply couldn’t open his jaw enough to suck the alpha’s cock and still be able to breathe.

 

David, on the other hand, didn’t have the same priorities.  He ensured they were up against the window and visible to the mass of partying studs on the street below before wrapping his gloved hands around the kid’s head and slowly forced his enormous rod into Kirk’s throat.  At first, the leather-clad punk accepted the thick tubesteak but within a few seconds, things had changed.

 

David’s dick had cut off his air.

 

Kirk heaved and gagged, shaking his head and trying to pull back—only to discover that David’s grip on his head as a firm as a vise.  A sudden sharp fear rose in his breast, and he placed his hands on the power top’s thighs, feeling the quilted leather under his palms as he tried to push himself away.

 

He never noticed how his own cock had started to throb faster—but that was understandable; at that moment, David’s cock was also moving faster.

 

David could feel the boy struggle and gurgle on his shaft; it felt too good to ignore.  The youth’s beautiful face was turned up to him, helpless and distressed, the large, dark, puppy-like eyes watering.  “Fuck yeah, that’s my good little pig,” David grunted and started skullfucking Kirk brutally.

 

He rammed his dick down the kid’s throat with exaggerated thrusts that were obvious on the street outside.  Even on the third floor, the roar of the crowd’s approval was audible to both men—with different effect.  David was spurred to amp up the tempo of the facefuck while Kirk, his fingers scrabbling over the powerful stud’s boots, was still trying to find a way to break free long enough to inhale.

 

Kirk turned his seeking hands upwards, pawing at the top’s firm, furry belly.  His tear-streaked eyes turned up to the alpha’s face.  Looking down, David took pity—so to speak—on the horny but overwhelmed punk and pulled out of his throat.

 

Kirk bent over, coughing and gagging, spitting up foam on the floor between David’s boots.  The buff older man smirked down at the incapacitated boy.  “You ain’t done yet, pig,” he chuckled, “Stand up.  NOW, faggot!”

 

The ringing tone of command in his voice shot through Kirk like a jolt of electricity; he instantly stood upright.  His face was still red and slightly swollen, but the glint of lust was still visible in his eyes.  David recognized it for what it was.  “Turn around and bend over, cunt; I’m gonna fuck ya right here where everyone can see it,” he jeered.  “Ya like that, fuckpig?  Ya like havin’ an audience watchin’ you get plowed in the ass?  Does that make ya hard, slut?  Goddammit, cocksucker, I said bend over!”

 

Kirk’s obedience was immediate.  Facing away from David he bent over and grabbed his knees, the opening in the ass of his leather jeans exposing his pulsating fuckhole.  The muscled, leather-clothed top spit into his palm and lubed his cock with it—it was all the lube the lithe young boy was gonna get.

 

With no warning at all, David buried his shaft so deep in Kirk’s ass that his wiry pubic hair scratched the boy’s smooth asscheeks where the opening in the jeans was wide enough.  The beautiful bottom squealed shrilly, to the accompaniment of a rising cheer from the street below.

 

“Fuck, man, yer killin’ me!” the punk yelled, jerking forward.

 

“Not yet,” David hissed, grabbing at Kirk’s shoulder strap.  “Quit tryin’ to get away, fuckboy, we just got started.  You don’t wanna disappoint yer fans down there, do ya?”

 

Kirk whimpered and moaned as the hard-bodied top ran his hands over the boy’s smooth back, slick with sweat, but the kid never lost his erection. Even from the third floor, Kirk’s thick dick could be seen clearly by the crowd of randy, drunk faggots on the street below, swinging and bobbing with each ramrod thrust up his ass.

 

“Unh-unh-unh,” the punk grunted repeatedly, his toes curling inside his skate shoes as he experienced every inch of David’s enormous, vein-wrapped shaft plunged into the depth of his colon.  It wasn’t that he was inexperienced—he’d been gangbanged in this room the night before—but he’d never had anyone this large inside him before.  Even though his sphincter had finally relaxed to the point that Kirk didn’t feel like he was shitting razor blades every time the alpha drove his rod in, some corner of the kid’s mind was wondering if he’d been damaged and what he’d have to say to Daddy if he ended up needing medical help.

 

But then that corner was flooded with the lust that washed over the rest of Kirk’s body.  It was hard to focus on anything but how full he was of manmeat.  The atmosphere was charged with sex, heavy with the scent of mansweat, testosterone and leather.  The pain was receding and Kirk was slipping into his accustomed bottompig role, grinning with pleasure.

 

“Yeah, you fucker, give it to me!” he moaned ecstatically.  “Ram it in me, man!”

 

“Fuckin’ homo cunt,” David sneered, “Ya like bein’ watched as ya ride my dick, huh?  Shameless little whore, aintcha?  Take it, bitch, take the D.  Lemme hear how much ya want it.”

 

He was pounding the boy so hard Kirk was having trouble maintaining his balance. He tried grabbing the windowsill, but it was nothing more than a strip of metal an inch wide; his hand kept slipping.  David was holding him up with the leather shoulder strap.  The intensity of the fuck was obvious; from outside, both could hear a faint cry arise from the street, “Oh hell yeah, breed that bitch!”

 

They were getting carried away.  David decided it was time for a change of pace.  Keeping his cock buried deep in Kirk’s guts, he stopped pumping and pulled the boy’s torso back so that they were both standing upright, Kirk’s back pressed against David’s heaving, furry chest.  He slid a hand down towards the kid’s groin, and for a moment Kirk thought David might be trying to jack him off—but the muscled alpha unfastened the shoulder strap at the point where it attached to the belt in front.  Immediately afterwards, he’d freed it from the connection in the back, too.

 

Still in his tight leather jeans, Kirk was now nude from the waist up.  He felt David loop it around his throat, letting it hang down his back.  He had no idea what the stud was gonna do next.

 

What David did next was wrap his muscular arms around the boy’s lean torso, holding him in a tight embrace.  Kirk sighed happily, nestling back against the top’s chest.  David began fucking the kid again, starting slowly.  Simultaneously, he bent his head forward, letting his face scruff scrape Kirk’s smooth cheek.  Swamped with lust, the punk moaned shudderingly and reached up, running his hands through David’s hair.

The gathering on the street outside had gotten larger; dozens of dude were straining their eyes for a better view of the third-floor sex scene—and straining the crotches of their pants as well.  Even if no facial details could be discerned, the silhouetted forms framed in the window were perfectly clear.  So was what happened next.

 

Wrapping one arm around Kirk’s waist, David pressed his other hand between the bitchboy’s shoulder blades, bending the kid forward.  Spreading his skate kicks wide, Kirk gripped his own knees for support.  Then he felt the strap around his throat tighten—not unbearably, but enough to establish control.

 

Suddenly, with no warning, David began plowing his massive cock back into Kirk’s ass with mind-numbing speed and force, powerfucking the slim, buff youth mercilessly.  The aggressive alpha was holding the strap in both hands, pulling back on it like reins.  It wasn’t enough to choke the kid, but it was more than enough to dominate him.  His lean, lithe form bent backwards as he barked out short cries in the same tempo as David’s thrusts.

 

“Yeah, faggot,” David jeered, “That’s what it feel like to get banged by a real man.  Ya feelin’ me, cunt?  Ya like ridin’ genuine rock-hard manmeat, dontcha, ya little homo leatherpig?  Fuck, boy, take it—take my fuckin’ cock!”

 

The furry, well-built top was pounding the leatherboy’s ass so hard that his hips seemed to move in a blur.  Kirk cried out inarticulately in both pleasure and pain; his fuckhole had never withstood this amount of abuse before; it hurt so bad—and it hurt so good.  He was afraid he was gonna be injured but his own dick was so hard it hurt; even the gradually-increasing tightness of the strap around his throat was erotic as all fuck…

 

At that point, a chant that had started outside had finally grown loud enough for the heaving, interlocked men to hear: “Money shot!  Money shot!”  Above this, a single voice yelled “Finish ‘im off!”

 

“He’s right,” David chuckled, “It is time to finish you off.  Free show’s over—get on the bed, cunt.”  Quickly reversing the strap so that it hung down the front, the hulking top pulled out, feeling his log-like cock smack against the quilted leather on his thigh.  He shoved Kirk at the bed.

 

The boy scrambled to the center of the king-sized mattress, shoving the wadded, cum-stained bedding to one side.  His soft leather jeans slid smoothly over the expensive, high-thread-count fitted sheet.  He crouched in the center of the bed with his ass point up.

 

“Naw, bitch, on yer back,” David demanded and Kirk eagerly rolled over and spread his legs.  The leather pants swelled as the kid’s thick thighs and well-developed calves bulged under the strain of keeping his legs hefted into the air—but he didn’t use his hands.

 

And it wasn’t as if he needed to keep them up long—David was on him, and in him again, with surprising suddenness.  Kirk wrapped his legs around David’s waist, leather on leather, and embraced the muscled top as the latter once again probed the depths of his guts with his enormous rod.

 

Kirk looked up into David’s handsome, scruffy face, inches from his, and fell in instant love; the alpha seemed to be so happy fucking him.  “Are you rich?” he whispered.  “Daddy’s rich, but he can’t—”

 

David grabbed Kirk’s jaw, the scent of his leather glove wafting into Kirk’s nose as the older man squeezed the punk’s mouth painfully.  “Shaddup and take my dick, fag,” he sneered.  Increasing the pressure of his grip, he forced the youth’s mouth open and spit in it.

 

Despite himself, the young boyslut was turned on by this; David, of course, knew it right away—the naïve little faggot thought he was tough, but his dick had swollen and throbbed. Pressed as it was against David’s hard, ripped belly, the alpha had gotten the message.

 

He responded with a backhand across Kirk’s face.  This one had a little kick to it.

 

Slightly stunned, the boy grabbed his face, turning his dark eyes, wide and hurt, to the older man.  “What—why—”

 

David slapped him hard, again.  The glove seemed to make it sting even worse.

 

“Why?  Ya wanna know why?” David growled down at the bewildered youth, “Cause you’re pain pig, cunt.  See, when I hurt ya like that, it made yer ass muscle clench.  Just a little, though.  You must be one fuck of a slut, boy, yer ass is all worn out.  But see, now I know what it takes to make you milk my shaft.”

 

As a bruise slowly started to darken on Kirk’s left cheek, a blemish that somehow added to his youthful beauty, the kid lifted his head, his confusion obvious.  “Wha—I still—I don’t—”

 

“For fuck’s sake, you stupid sack of shit,” David snarled, “I’m gonna waste yer worthless ass.  Your butthole is gonna spasm as you die, and that’s gonna jack me off.  Got it, you stupid little fuckwad?  Good.  Time to die, cocksucker.”

 

Gathering the ends of the strap in his hands, he crossed them in front of Kirk’s neck, then wrapped them once around his palms to ensure a better grip.  He spit in the youth’s terrified face one more time.  “Dumbass piece of fuckmeat,” he muttered contemptuously, then jerked the strap tight.

 

This time, the strap around his throat was enforcing considerably more control over Kirk.

 

The sudden cessation of air induced instant panic.  Kirk’s mind was aflame; he’d never imagined anything like this happening to him, even within the limited range of his intellect.  Even the consequences were difficult to visualize—but David helped him there.

 

“They’re gonna find you here, ya know,” he taunted.  “Fucked and strangled.  Poor Daddy; havin’ to be told his hard-workin’ boy got himself filled with cum and snuffed at a fetish con.”

 

Despite the deafening pounding of his pulse, Kirk heard and understood the words.  His embrace of his perfect lover had morphed into a frantic struggle with his killer; his hands were clawing desperately at the point where the crossed ends of the strap were digging into his neck—excruciatingly, it was right on his larynx, slowly crushing his voicebox—as the heels of his kicks drummed relentlessly on David’s taut ass; the quilted leather came in handy here.

 

As he felt the dying boy’s colon writhing around his swollen shaft, some cold, detached corner of the killer’s mind wondered about that.  This was the first time he was doing something like this; usually he waited till he got home and offed some cheap rentboy or whatever other fuckmeat he could grab.  It wasn’t as if he planned this—but it had all worked out so right.  The beautiful boyslut with his own cum-splashed room—he was just begging to be snuffed.

 

David was more than happy to help.  In fact, he was overjoyed.  The pressure in Kirk’s head had increased to an agonizing extent; his dark eyes were bulging grotesquely—which meant he was unable to close them, to block out the sight of his killer towering over him, broad-shouldered with dark wiry fur in a triangle that stretched across both broad pecs, narrowing as it followed his torso down to his tapered waist—a triangle of body hair that pointed down to a dark line that led below the waistband of his leather pants to the dark tangled mass of his pubes.

 

And the face, the dark goatee, the rough scruff covering the cheeks, the glittering lash-lined emerald eyes—it was still a look to fall in love with.  It was still a look to die for.  Kirk was coming to accept that the two were not mutually exclusive.

 

The pain, though—that was something else.  In all his pampered existence, Kirk had never known anything like this.  The crushing, grinding pain in his throat, the vacuum-like pressure in his chest, the banging, pounding, screaming pain in his head…

 

…the straining, throbbing, pulsating pain in his cock…

 

“Hell yeah, cunt, now you’re learnin’,” David sneered, feeling the kid’s rectum contract as his swollen face darkened through purple into a frantic, livid black.  Kirk’s lips, thick and blue, were forcibly parted by his dark protruding tongue.

 

Kirk’s dying brain heard the words but was too busy enjoying the fireworks show.  Large areas of the boy’s field of vision were exploding into flares of blackness as blood vessels popped in the whites of his eyes, turning them red.

 

He was coming full circle, the fight for life slowly subsiding to a sensual dying caress of his killer.  Kirk’s desperate flailing had slowed, his hands now gently stroking the sweaty, bulging biceps of the man who was killing him.  The youth’s firm, leather-clad legs were wrapped tightly around the alpha’s waist, squeezing forcefully, as if to match the pressure on his neck.

 

As his ass fluttered and rippled on David’s tool, Kirk’s own rod continued to swell and throb at the tempo of the dying boy’s pulse—and his heart was slamming away its last few functional seconds before spasming into orgasmic arrhythmia.

 

“That’s it,” David whispered, “That’s a good little piggie.  Shh, just let go.  Die, motherfucker, let go and die.  It won’t hurt anymore once you’re dead, cunt.  Oh yeah, stop fuckin’ fightin’ it and die on my dick, fag.”

 

The pounding inside Kirk’s head had reached an overwhelming level; it dominated his entire universe—and then it seemed to falter.  There was a an intense, knife-like pain in his chest—Kirk was unaware of it, but it was the moment his heart failed—and just at that moment of silence, David words made it through the cold haze of impending death.

 

And Kirk knew he still loved him.  He died in convulsive agony on the dick of the greatest love he’d ever experienced.

 

His deathload was ample proof.  Kirk was young, strong, and very physically fit; his death throes were correspondingly violent.  Gripping his killer in an iron embrace, his body went through convulsions so intense, all David could do was hold on and allow his dick to be milked like a cow’s teat.

 

It was worth it.  Snuffing at the con was worth it.  This little fuck’s rectum was like a velvet glove sliding over his engorged, lubed head as it collapsed and spasmed along full length of manmeat buried in it.  Their hard, sweaty bodies, locked together in a haze of pheromones and leatherscent, ground against each other and writhed on the mattress.

 

Kirk gave one last gagging gurgle as foam erupted from his lips and cascaded down his cheeks in messy white strands.   Blood vessel continued to pop in his eyes.  Then, with no warning, he clutched David tightly.  A single last coughing gag sent a copious flow of drool down his face—and a violent spasm along the length of his dick.

 

Kirk shot a solid stream of cum out of his erect cock.

 

At the same time, his sphincter contracted like a cockring around the base of David’s dick.  It was all the latter had been waiting for.  With a loud, inarticulate cry, he unloaded his aching ballsack into the dead kid’s guts.

 

Kirk’s conscious brain was dead; his nervous system could only process physical sensations.  It was still aware enough that when David jerked violently in orgasm, tightening the strap and crushing Kirk’s larynx to a mangled was of gristle, it was interpreted as pain.  It was still enough of a stimulus to prompt a second geyser of semen to erupt from the fuckmeat.

 

Cold death, momentarily held at bay by an injection of boiling, life-giving manseed into his intestines—but it wasn’t enough.  Shuddering, convulsing and cumming, the choked-out cumsack once known as Kirk sank into a painful and well-deserved death.  David held on for a little while longer, though; his balls weren’t completely drained and the hard boycorpse went through an extended period of post-mortem convulsions.

 

Two hard, leather-clad bodies, shuddering together, one clutching the helpless, lifeless other.

 

Over the next fifteen minutes, David shot two more loads.  On the first one, he grunted, stiffened, and shot a long steady stream into the corpse’s guts.  The second one hurt; he cried out as he came, driving his fist into the youth’s grotesquely distorted face.

 

As he headed toward the bathroom, he glanced back.  Kirk’s lithe, firm corpse was still quivering and kicking.  His leather shoulder strap was embedded so deeply in his neck is was almost invisible.

 

Luckily, there were fresh towels in the bathroom; he was able to clean himself adequately afterwards.

 

David’s flight out was at noon, but he didn’t feel the need to sleep.  He simply tucked his cock back into his leather pants, slipped the vest back on and left the room.  Five minutes later, he was out mingling with the boys on the street.  It was inevitable that the subject of the window show would come up at some point, although it took forty-five minutes for David to stumble onto a conversation about it.

 

“Nice boots,” a bear with a thick beard remarked.  “Hey, didja see the shit that happened up there?” He nodded at Kirk’s third-floor window, now just an empty rectangle of light.

 

“I heard about it,” David replied.

 

“Man, that bottom was hot.  Whaddaya think he’s doin’ right now?  Maybe he’s just chillin’…”

 

“Yeah, I imagine he’s chillin’,” David returned, “He might even be downright cold by now.”