Trucker 5–Trucker v Trooper

It was trouble, of course; the Trucker was intelligent enough to realize that right away.

If nothing else, the timing would have told him that.  Not very likely that it’d be a coincidence that someone was banging at the door minutes after he’d wasted a bitch.  He wasn’t prepared to deal with anyone but he was cold-blooded enough that it didn’t worry him much.  But after dragging the twitching corpse into the bathroom, the Trucker had stripped—he’d wanted to clean himself off before hoisting the body into the tub, since he planned to leave it in there when he left.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he closed the door behind him, leaving the shower running.  He strode towards the door, totally nude, his dick still erect, jutting out in front of him, thick and purple.  With the shower running behindff the closed bathroom door, he could say he’d just had sex and the slut was cleaning up.

After all, with the door closed, the corpse on the bathroom floor couldn’t be seen.

And the Trucker decided he wanted to answer the door nude.  He was well aware of his imposing physique and the impression it made on others.  A little intimidation always came in handy in a situation like this.

And while he hadn’t been caught with a raped and murdered boy in a motel room before, he’d had some close calls.  That last kid he’d done on his prior route, the one before the Marine.  His older brother had walked in before he was finished.  And then—

The Trucker grinned at the memory as he worked the locks on the door, only slightly aware that his reminiscences had made his cock start oozing precum again.

Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t a gun.

The man holding it was familiar.  And a cop—a trooper…it clicked.  That cunt he’d picked up on the side of the road; the one he’d tossed in a ditch like the garbage he was—this was the cop that had come up to his truck while he was snuffing the faggot.

For the first time in his life, the Trucker was genuinely caught off guard.  He was careful and very, very good at what he did.  He was truly stunned to find that he’d been traced like this.

The Trooper, for his part, was just as stunned.  With his sidearm out and at the ready, he’d started in gleeful ecstasy, recognizing the face of the man he’d hunted for so long. But as he turned his attention downward and took in the Trucker’s body, glistening with sweat from his recent exertions, he was subsumed in a rising tide of lust.  And that huge dripping shaft dangling out in front…

The Trucker saw the Trooper’s gaze slide down his body; he also notice the tentpole rising in the crotch of the tight khaki slacks the Trooper was wearing.  The young cop looked back up into the Trucker’s face—he was about four inches shorter than the older man—his eyes glittering with desire.

“Get back in that room, motherfucker,” he hissed.  “Quiet and slow, asshole.  I can put a hole the size of my fist in your guts and claim self-defense and ain’t no one in this part of the state gonna question it, so move.  NOW.”  He motioned with the large nickel-plated handgun—it looked like a .45.

As the Trucker carefully stepped backward into the room, he felt every predatory sense he possessed as a hunter engage.  He knew that his life was in danger, but there was more going on here.

The Trooper entered the room at the same snail’s pace with which the Trucker backed away.  Once he was fully inside the room, he kicked back, his high black leather boot connecting with the door and swinging it shut, the automatic lock engaging with a loud click.

The deathly silence that enveloped the room belied the vortex of manscent and testosterone that swirled as two expert killers sized up each other.

The Trooper slowly circled to the left, inching towards the bathroom with a careful sidestep motion.  He stood directly in front of the door and reached behind him to grab the doorknob, never removing his eyes—or the barrel of the gun—from the Trucker until he got the door open.  Then he took a quick glance into the steam-filled room, but the gun never wavered.

His head was turned for only a split second and the Trucker was too far away to reach him in that time.  He didn’t even try.   But that didn’t mean he wasn’t looking for some weak spot to attack.  He was in deep shit; that was obvious.  And yet, somehow, the thought of arrest never crossed his mind.  That wasn’t the point here, and he knew it.

If he hadn’t, the look on the Trooper’s face as he turned back would have been a good clue.  The salacious grin, the evil leer twisting his young, handsome face, were the first hint; the swift enlargement of the bulge in his groin was the second.  The cop must be hung like a horse.  A well-hung horse, at that.

The Trooper chuckled.  “Damn, dude, ya did a good job on him.  Not as good as the last one, but better than the others.”

There was a short pause, then the Trucker replied with a brief question.  “How long?”

“I found your first boytoy where ya dropped him off—in that gully.  Or was he the first?  Where’d ya get those dogtags, asswipe?  You in the military?  Doubt it.  But I do remember an alert about a Marine got himself raped and strangled several days ago.”

The Trucker glanced guardedly at the Trooper’s ice-blue eyes.  “Fine.  So how’d ya find me here?”

The Trooper smirked at the older man, ogling him as he spoke.  “I’m a good cop, and you were sloppy.  You left evidence and witnesses.”

“Evidence?  Witness—that little weasel fucker.  That worthless little cocksucking faggot, I’m gonna—“

“What you’re gonna do, jackoff, is get over there against the radiator,” snapped the Trooper.  “Move it, motherfucker!”

The Trucker moved back to the radiator in the far corner of the room, on the far side of the nightstand, as the young man approached, reaching down to open a pocket on his duty belt and slip out a pair of handcuffs.

The Trooper pressed forward, forcing the Trucker up against the wall.  Standing face to face with the older man, he had to look slightly up, the four-inch height differential forced him to look slightly upwards. But he wasn’t too short to jam the muzzle of the handgun painfully against the Trucker’s temple…

At this close range, the Trucker could see that his buzz-cut hair had a reddish tint and the five o’clock shadow starting to darken his smooth cheeks was red-gold.  His blue eyes were colder than ice; they glittered like chips of quartz.

It was unmistakable.  The Trucker had seen it dozens of times before.  They were glittering with lust.

Before he’d had the chance to process this information, the Trooper had whipped out the cuffs and bound him to the radiator with the swiftness of a well-practiced maneuver.

Then the cop backed towards the bed.  Setting his gun down on the disheveled, semen-soaked sheets, he slowly began unbuttoning his short-sleeve khaki dress shirt.  He slipped it off, revealing his simple white cotton t-shirt tucked into his trousers.  It stretched so tightly over his broad pecs that his large nipples stood out far enough to cast small shadows.

The Trucker stood still, trying to decide how to deal with the situation.  He knew better than to show emotion; he was a master of using a chink in emotional armor to break his victim’s spirit.  And that, more than anything else, was what gave him pause.  He was facing someone who might be his equal.

Not all of his prey were twinks; he’d offed some pretty strong dudes.  But they were sluts and whores, taken by surprise.  He might get the jump momentarily on this guy, but the cop would be quick to react.

Had he killed before?  That was the question the Trucker had to figure out.  In a struggle to the death, there are certain factors to take into account.  There are unexpected movements from the dying pig, unexpected urges and desires in the killer…

If the hot young stud slowly stripping in front of him hadn’t killed, the Trucker still had an advantage.  But if he was an experienced predator, this could be bad.

Very, very bad.

The Trooper sat gingerly on the bed, avoiding the wet spots.  Crossing his legs, one at a time, he pulled off his high, glossy leather boots and set them at the foot of the bed.  Standing back up, he slowly unbuckled his dress belt and unfastened his pants, leaving his duty belt still clasped.  He glanced down as he did so, but after confirming that the slacks still clung to his hips, almost immediately turned his flinty eyes up to leer at the Trucker.

Despite his resolve, the Trucker was unable to prevent the obvious swelling of his tool, the increased amount of precum bubbling out of his thick purple head.  The Trooper’s expression of malicious triumph was as maddening as his body was mesmerizing; it was as if his personality changed to match the look on his face.

The cop’s lascivious grin gave his handsome, almost model-worthy face an impish look.  When he broke eye contact to unfasten the catch on his duty belt, though, his face fell back into an unpleasant arrogant expression.

The younger man placed his duty belt on the nightstand but the weight of the baton threw it off balance and it slid to the floor.  With a muttered curse, the hard-bodied rogue lawman reached down and unsnapped the loop that held the two-foot aluminum baton in place.  He kicked out with his foot, his white sock bright against the black side handle, shoving the weapon away from him (although no closer to the Trucker).  Snatching up the belt, he tossed it back onto the nightstand, where it landed loudly—there were several more items still in it.  The Trucker could see a small container of pepper spray and another pair of cuffs, among other things.

The Trooper dropped his pants and immediately gathered up his uniform, carefully folding both shirt and slacks before laying them on the dresser.

As he moved, his firm, muscular body flexed in his t-shirt, gray boxers and calf-high white athletic socks.  His bulging thighs and biceps were smooth, but his forearms and calves shimmered with a faint reddish-gold haze from a light furry fuzz.  Almost irrelevantly, the Trucker noticed the sharp, defined line where the cop’s buzz-cut hair ended on the back of his head.

Turning towards his captive, the Trooper smiled sardonically in acknowledgement of the effect he was having on the older man.  He executed a sort of strip-tease, peeling the t-shirt off his sculpted torso and slowly sliding the boxers down his thick legs, revealing a thick, dripping tube of flesh that nearly equaled the Trucker’s own in size, hanging semi-limply from a bushy mass of strawberry-blond curls.

The Trooper stood with his legs spread, nude except for the socks up his calves, grinning at the Trucker.  “Like what ya see, asshole?  Bet ya do, you fuckin’ psycho faggot.”  He twisted to the left, snatching his huge .45 off the bed before advancing on his prisoner.

He was good.  The Trucker hadn’t seen him palm the key to the cuffs.  The younger man had almost managed to get them unlocked before the Trucker caught on.  But for a moment—just the briefest moment—the Trooper needed both hands to work the key.  He never let go of the gun, using his thumb and the last two fingers to brace the cuff itself, but the barrel was no longer pointed right at the Trucker.

That was when the cuffs popped open, freeing the older man’s hand.  The Trucker was just as calm and cold as the cop, still in control despite his lust.  His wits were about him, enough, at least, to take advantage of this momentary break.

In the blink of an eye, he knocked the gun out of the young cop’s hand; it clattered on top of the table in front of the window, skittering across the surface before sliding off into the corner behind the chair.

Both men stared at the corner, processing the fact that the weapon was out of the immediate reach of both.  Then they looked at each other, each sizing up the other in the realization that this was going to be a fight to the death.

But death, when it came for the loser, would be a welcome relief, a blessed escape from agony and humiliation.

Two well-built, muscular men regarded each other in full awareness that only one of them was going to leave the room alive.  And the one that didn’t was going to suffer a brutal rape and unimaginable torture.

Each one kept a razor-sharp eye contact with the other, seeking any sign, any signal of a weak spot.  They circled slowly, unconsciously moving clockwise—the space between the bed and the wall just barely big enough for them to remain out of arm’s reach while doing so.

They lunged simultaneously.

They struggled in silence at first, a silence fraught with desperate tension and lust, a silence punctuated by deep grunts of physical exertion as they grappled.  The Trucker’s hands were clenched around the Trooper’s bulging, flexing biceps as he tried to force him back.  The younger man was doing the same with his hands placed on his adversary’s forearms, just below the elbow.

They circled again, tightly gripped in each other’s arms.  When they made eye contact, they were only inches apart; the expressions of contemptuous lust was obvious. An impartial observer might have thought of Greco-Roman wrestling—except that both of these guys were so hard they were swordfighting, their cocks slapping together as they manhandled each other.

Then the Trooper twisted in the Trucker’s arms.  Before the older man could react, the cop jerked his leg in a swift sidesweep and knocked his adversary’s feet out from under him.  The Trucker hit the floor on his back, knocking the wind out of him.  Before he could get it back, the solidly-muscled younger man threw himself down hard on top of him.

Now the Trucker had no air at all.  As he fought to breathe, he saw the cop’s balled fist draw back and he knew it was aimed at his face.

Damned if he was gonna let it land there.

The Trooper released his roundhouse piledriver—back in the Academy, he’d knocked a combat instructor out cold with this move—expecting to end the battle.  But the older man managed to get his hand up and deflect the blow.  The Trooper had put too much force into it and overbalanced himself, falling forward onto the Trucker.

The Trucker had a snapshot visual of the scene:  the rogue cop was lying face-down on top of him, his head next to the Trucker’s on the right side.  His neck would have been directly on the Trucker’s neck if his right arm—the one he’d used to throw the punch—wasn’t between them.

He certainly wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity.  Wrapping a thick, muscular arm around the younger man’s neck, the Trucker applied as much pressure as he could.

It took a moment for the Trooper to realize the change in power structure.  His first thought was to regain control, so he pushed back up off the predator.  Well aware of the danger he was in, he felt a twinge of fear when he heard the older man gasp.  It meant he was getting his air—and his wits—back.

And right now he had control over the Trooper.  He was larger, too.  This wasn’t just dangerous, this was deadly.  He needed to keep calm and find a way out.

By twisting his head to one side, the Trooper managed to find a space in the crook of the Trucker’s arm where he could free his windpipe enough to inhale slight amounts of air.

The gun was on the far side of the Trucker.  The Trooper lunged in the other direction, trying to reach his duty belt, even if he had to physically drag the larger man with him.  He was strong enough to do it.

Scrabbling desperately at the carpet, the Trooper inched his way forward.  The Trucker felt the younger man’s hard body twisting and struggling in his arms.  Glancing up, he realized the cop’s fingers had come within reach of the baton.

The weapon would tip the balance of power back into the Trooper’s favor.  They both knew it, and both reacted accordingly.  The Trooper was able to grasp the side handle and actually pick up the baton.  The Trucker drew his leg up under himself and pushed up, physically lifting both of them off the floor.  As he gained his feet, he managed to keep the cop off his.

Fighting for balance, the Trooper was unable to aim his blows.  He swung the baton forcefully but wildly.  A couple of random blows struck the Trucker—not seriously, but painfully on the shoulder and across the chest.

Enraged, the Trucker grabbed at the baton, but the Trooper was swinging it too erratically.  It was clear to the older man that he needed to disable his opponent as soon as possible or he would be in serious shit.

His strong, bulging arm was still wrapped around the Trooper’s neck. The Trucker twisted violently to the side and bent down, forcing the younger man to bend at the waist as well.

Drawing back his free arm, the Trucker began slamming his fist into the Trooper’s handsome face, repeatedly driving blow after brutal blow into the dazed cop’s face.

The Trooper was in pain and afraid—quite possibly for the first time in his life.  His position of authority cowed most of the guys he’d come up against, and he’d been stronger and faster than the remaining few, overpowering them quickly.

This—this wasn’t supposed to be happening.  He flailed with the baton, frantically trying to land a blow on his assailant while his face was being beaten to hamburger.

The Trucker had had enough.  He spun the young man around so he stood, stunned and swaying, facing him. Looping his arm back, he pounded his fist with full force into the Trooper’s jaw, sending the cop flying backwards.  He hit he bed and flipped over onto his back, losing his hold on the baton.

But the Trooper wasn’t out.  Despite the pain in his swelling face, his training kicked in. Bringing his feet up and twisting slightly to the right, he managed to roll off the foot of the bed, putting some space between himself and the Trucker—a brief respite that wouldn’t last long, but might last long enough.  He was young and strong and could recover quickly.

Shifting his balance quickly, like a feral cat, the lithe, muscular cop crouched at the foot of the bed.  Noticing that the baton was on the floor not far away, he moved his arm towards it—slowly, so he wouldn’t alert the Trucker, who couldn’t see the baton from where he was standing.

Just as his fingers grasped the handle, the Trucker lunged.  The younger stud leaped up from his crouching position, swinging the weapon and hoping to blindside his opponent.  He did—not as completely as he’d hoped; he’d been hoping to go upside the psycho fucker’s head, but the hard-bodied older man turned slightly at the last moment and took the aluminum baton hard across the thick bicep of his dominant arm.

The Trooper had put a lot of energy in the blow—if he’d hit the dead twink in the bathroom that hard, he’d have shattered the bone.   He didn’t come anywhere near close to doing that to the Trucker, but it was still a stunning, painful blow.

The Trucker was thrown off his game for a moment—and again, the younger man was able to use that brief pause to his advantage.  Swiftly slipping behind the momentarily disabled man, the Trooper swung the baton out horizontally in front of the Trucker at neck level before catching the far end in the crook of his other elbow.

He immediately started to squeeze, garroting the older man with the shaft.  The Trucker knew instantly what was happening. The little punk cop was trying to choke him into submission.  He wasn’t gonna kill him, not yet—just weaken him to the point where he would be unable to resist whatever the Trooper wanted to do to him.

And he knew what the Trooper would do to him.  It was the same thing he’d do to the younger man if he could manage to take him down.

Humiliating, nightmarish torture and rape preceding an agonizingly slow death.

The Trucker fought it.  The crushing pain in his throat increased as he struggled harder, feeling the Trooper’s hard smooth chest tightly pressed against his back.  Jerking his head back, his cheek brushed that of his assailant, his dark scruff scraping against the cop’s golden fuzz.

His ears were ringing and his vision was starting to dim—and again, he knew exactly what was happening.  It wasn’t gonna happen to him, goddammit.  This fucking cocksucker wasn’t gonna fuck him.

He twisted violently to the left, then abruptly reversed course, throwing himself back with his elbow out and jamming it into the Trooper’s abdomen.  The younger man’s belly was smooth, firm, and flat, but it wasn’t strong enough to resist the brutal blow.  With a loud, breathy grunt, the cop dropped the baton.  It tumbled to the far corner of the bed, momentarily out of reach.

Both men fell gasping to their knees, the Trucker’s hand at his throat as he, starved for oxygen, inhaled greedily.  Next to him—within arm’s reach, in fact—the Trooper was doubled up, his forehead almost touching the floor.  In his crouching position, his calves bulged in the tight white tube socks.

Out of the corner of his right eye, the Trucker caught sight of the cop’s duty belt still lying on top of the nightstand.  Forcing his bruised windpipe to relax and open, he gasped loudly and dove for the webbed tactical belt—there were things he could use on it.  At the last second, the Trooper, alerted by the sound, noticed the Trucker’s lunge and willed himself upright to block his opponent.

They both got their hands on the belt simultaneously.  Their eyes met for a moment; the pause could only have lasted a fraction of a second but the electric sexual tension between the nude muscular men crackled almost audibly.  The flinty blue eyes of the younger man gleamed with rage, fear and lust—or were those reflections from the Trucker’s equally icy glare?  It was impossible to tell, both muscular bodies, heaving with exertion and slick with sweat, exuded testosterone and manscent in a fog of hate-fueled lust.

The Trooper was younger, and that was to his advantage.  He had slightly more energy and slightly faster reflexes.

What he didn’t have was experience.  He’d killed before—the Trucker had figured that out by now—but not often.  He’d probably taken out a few rentboys and drug addicts, youthful offenders who didn’t expect a sexual assault from that angle and were utterly unable to resist in any case, given the overpowering might of weapons the Trooper carried.

He wasn’t used to a battle for his life, and he was afraid.  The Trucker was afraid, too; he knew exactly what was at stake.  But the Trucker had enough control over himself to deal with the fear and move on.  The Trooper got careless.  In his panic, he telegraphed his moves with his eyes, glancing down at his arm before swinging it at the Trucker.

The older man took the hint and used it.  As the blond youth, hair dark with sweat, jerked his fist at the Trucker’s face, the hard killer pulled his head back and brought his hand up against the Trooper’s head, hard, fast and strong.

Before the young cop knew what was happening, the Trucker had slammed his head down on the nightstand, completely stunning the hard-bodied youth.  The Trooper grunted in pain, disoriented by the blow.   The Trucker grabbed the duty belt and quickly began fumbling at the catch of the strap holding the pepper spray.

Suddenly, the belt was jerked out of his hands.  Groaning audibly, the Trooper had managed to snatch the dangling end of the belt.  Clinging to it, he fell to his knees, using his weight to yank it away from his assailant.

The Trucker looked down at the cop who swayed woozily on his knees.  The cop looked wearily up at him and broke into a weary smile—and the Trucker noticed the punk had managed to get the pepper spray out.

There was no time to think.  Again, the Trucker’s experience—aided by his reflexes and strength—held the advantage.  He literally fell on the boy, his left knee striking the Trooper’s right arm hard enough to knock the pepper spray loose.  The small canister rolled out of reach under the bed.  At the same time, the older man grasped the killer cop’s head with both hands, slamming the psycho stud into the nightstand laterally.  The blond muscled youth slumped unconscious to the floor.

The battle was over.  Time for the games to begin.

The Trucker took a few moments to recover.  He was a hard, strong man but this kid had been nearly his physical equal.  He’d almost been beat.  He’d almost been the meat.  This fucker—this goddam cocksucking motherfucker!

The rage boiled over in him; he vented it by spitting on the cop’s head as the younger man lolled limply on the floor.  The Trucker kicked the punk’s head, knocking it to one side.  As he ground the sole of his foot into the slack face of the senseless youth, his cock began to swell and throb.

“Stupid piece of shit, thought you were gonna fuck me?” he hissed in a vindictive whisper. ”Oh fuck, dude, I got a first-class reservation in hell for you.  Let’s get ya ready for the trip.”

Bending down, the Trucker grabbed the Trooper’s limp form under the arms and manhandled the firm, sweat-slicked body onto the bed.  The older man’s rigid shaft pressed against the firm insensate torso, leaving a snail-like trail of clear precum across the inert cop’s smooth skin.  He dropped the punk on his back on the bed like a sack of potatoes.

The duty belt was still on the floor.  Retrieving it, the Trucker unsnapped the pocket holding the backup cuffs.  He didn’t know where the key was, and he didn’t care.  And by the time he was done, the Trooper would be long past caring whether his hands were cuffed or not.

Before then, however—remembering the fight the Trooper put up, the Trucker made sure his hands were firmly cuffed to each other around the tarnished faux-brass headboard.  The cop lay splayed out, a muscular blond god bound for sacrifice.

The older man sneered down at his captive.  “You fuckin’ worthless piece of shit,” he jeered, “yer gonna wake up to your worst nightmare.”  Placing his large strong hands on the youth’s firm but supine form, the Trucker slowly caressed the hard, smooth chest.  Sliding his hands down the sweaty flat stomach, he curled his fingers in the golden nest of pubes at the base of the Trooper long, flaccid shaft.

Digging his hands into the short wiry mass of hair, the Trucker sneered and yanked, hard.  The punk cop was still out cold, but even in his unconsciousness, his thick cock jerked and throbbed.  The older man, with his greater experience, knew what that meant.  His malicious grin widened in anticipation.  This psycho fucking cunt was into pain, all right—both giving and getting.

Well, good.  Maybe tonight wasn’t gonna to be a total loss for him, the Trucker thought.  Although, he had to admit, the well-built youth himself was gonna be a total loss.  More precum dripped out of his pulsing dick.

Regaining some control, he continued fondling the cop’s body, running his hands down the thickly-muscled legs to the calves, where smooth skin gave way to the white tube socks just below the knee.  Suddenly, the handsome blond shuddered and moaned, his eyelids fluttering as awareness began painfully to return.

“Welcome back, you sick fucking bastard,” the Trucker jeered, “ya ready for some fun?  C’mon, fuckmeat, wakey, wakey.  I wanna hear ya scream.”  Rearing back his large hand, he bitchslapped the helpless youth, his palm leaving a large red imprint on the cop’s cheek.

The younger man blinked blearily and stared at the Trucker, his face a smooth dazed mask.  As his memory returned, the color drained out of his face and was replaced with horror.  Even as he began to jerk his arms frantically—and futilely—against his restraints, it was clear that he was fully aware of the situation.

Still, the sadistic older dude thought, nothing wrong with filling in the details.  After all, he was sure, the budding serial killer would have some interest in his own demise.  Might as well let him in on the fun—eventually.

First things first.  The Trucker wanted to be fully inserted in the punk before he could tense up and fight the D.  He wanted the strapping young man to struggle on his cock, but he wanted it all the way down his shaft.

Forcing the blond stud’s legs abruptly apart, he lunged forward, spearing the blond’s pulsing pink sphincter with virtually no warning.  Before the writhing cop could react, the Trucker’s massive tool had plunged deep into his guts like a harpoon, the only lube being the slimy layer of precum oozing from the alpha’s cock—and blood, as the Trooper’s ass muscle was torn during the assault.

The Trooper opened his mouth wide and shrieked.  The Trucker didn’t care.  His usual caution had deserted him in his blinding anger against this arrogant piece of shit who dared to try to rape him.  And in the back of his mind, he knew that the adjacent rooms were empty from when he’d brought that twink back—the one who was stiffening on the bathroom floor…

“Oh yeah!  That’s it, cunt, lemme know how much ya like my cock, you fuckin’ psycho faggot!  Go ahead and try to push it out, just like that, yeah, bitch—damn, I can feel your fuckhole strokin’ my shaft.  Goddam, you’re a worthless excuse for a cop but you’re a great fuck—and we ain’t even started the fun stuff yet!”

Despite his agony, this remark caught the Trooper’s attention.  His large blue eyes had been squeezed shut in pain, but now they opened wide.  He wasn’t gonna think about the “fun”.  He knew what he’d been planning to do to the killer stud when he got control—and he was sure this dude was gonna be even more extreme.

The Trucker noted the blond cop’s fear and grinned.  The dead Marine’s dogtags danced and jingled before the captive youth’s eyes as the alpha continued to the thrust and pump, his hard, sweaty body in constant fluid motion.

“Ya get it, boy?” the Trucker hissed.  “You’re my bitch now.  I’m gonna use you like a cheap cumrag, you fuckin’ pervert homo cop.  Ya like my shaft up your hole, ya piece of shit?  Yeah?  Then work it, cunt, work it like ya love it—or I’ll make ya work it.”

He leaned down over the Trooper, close enough to see the individual beads of sweat on the punk’s forehead, and whispered, “and if I make ya, it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.  I promise.  Got it?”

The blond cop nodded, quickly and jerkily.  He damn well knew it was gonna hurt.  But he’d take the pain, he’d take all the pain if it meant a chance of getting out alive…

The Trucker chuckled.  He had enough experience to know what was running through the fuckmeat’s mind.  The hot hard youth would submit until he realized that there was no hope of survival.  The Trucker, of course, would make sure that by the time his victim realized the truth, he’d have been tortured beyond the point of effective resistance.

Stupid fucker shoulda known better.  He’d done this before.  The Trucker was certain of it.  Good—he was gonna enjoy this one so fucking much.  Most of his victims hadn’t thought about death to any great extent; this one was just as turned on by it as he was.

This guy knew exactly what was happening to him as it happened.  He didn’t just know what was being done to him, he knew why.  He knew which physical response was associated with which form of trauma.

The Trooper had nowhere to hide.  Unless his psyche shattered under the stress, he would be excruciatingly aware of the purpose behind every act of pain.

Placing his hands on the young cop’s broad, smooth, sweaty pecs, the Trucker braced himself as he ramped up the speed of his thrusting.  His thick, engorged shaft plunged deep into the blond youth’s torn fuckhole in a split second; the swollen purple head caught against the rectal wall, scraping it agonizingly as it was viciously withdrawn with the force of a plunger.

The punk cop moaned and squealed in pain that bordered on agony—and pleasure.  He was terrified, not just afraid of getting raped and murdered, but of liking the sensation of tortuous agony so much that he assisted with his own death.  He couldn’t let it happen, he couldn’t be found like this…

He began to resist.  He jerked his hard muscled arms forcefully but futilely against the case-hardened steel cuffs that bound him to the bed.  The jingling of the Trucker’s dogtags was drowned out by the clanging sounds of the cuffs against the cheap brass-colored aluminum headboard.

“Get off me, you sick fucking lunatic!” he barked, finding his voice.  “You ain’t gonna be the man who takes me down!”

The Trucker smiled gently down into the writhing cop’s face, watching it twist and darken in a rage fueled by fear.  The punk could yell all he wanted; nobody could hear him and he had no way out.

Of course, it might not be a bad idea to remind him of the latter fact.

“You’re already down, cunt,” the buff older man whispered.   The effect was more chilling than if he’d snarled in anger.  “Only question, is how long it’s gonna take you to die on my cock.  Your fuckhole ain’t tight enough, you faggot—you been getting’ banged a lot?  Bendin’ over and takin’ the dick during them all-night orgies at the trooper barracks?  Bet ya let every one of them cops ride yer ass, huh, you worthless homo slut?”

The Trooper rose to the bait, kicking and jerking—and clenching his sphincter.  His muscles grew tense in an involuntary rage response, causing him to clamp his colon down on the Trucker’s thick, pulsating shaft.  “GET OFF ME YOU SICK FUCK!!!” he screeched, unaware that the horrible intensification of pain in his ass was his own fault.

The Trucker jeered.  “Damn, faggot, you’re supposed to be a tough cop?  You’re squealin’ like a bitch on my tool.  C’mon, dude, fight it.  Show me what ya got, punk, fuckin’ work my dick!”

The Trooper thrashed wildly, his hard body sliding on a sheen of sweat under the Trucker’s hands.  The alpha rapist could feel the younger man’s tight pectoral muscles working under his smooth flesh as he struggled uselessly to free himself.  His long, thick legs wrapped around the Trucker’s before the cop bent his knees and tried to get his feet up under his assailant’s body to lift him off.

“Stupid piece a’ shit, you should know better than that,” the Trucker snapped harshly before backhanding the Trooper across the face.  It was an effective ploy; the pain in his handsome but already bruised face made the youth pause and gave the Trucker time to lay his full weight on top of the cop, using gravity to add momentum to his thrust and jamming his engorged shaft deep inside the Trooper’s guts.

The young blond howled in agony, his mind floundering in such agony that he—almost—didn’t register the sensation of the Trucker’s slick flat belly pressed against his own, both sliding together in warm, erotic contact.  There was a scraping pain at each end, though, as the wiry hair on the alpha’s abdomen scoured his skin and the darker pubic hair of the older man tore at his own blond curls.

The cop’s heart constricted in terror when he felt something cold circling his neck.  Even though, deep in his dark, twisted soul, he knew how this would end, his conscious mind still expected to break free.  He couldn’t die.  But if it was starting—

Then he realized that the Trucker’s dogtags had settled on his chest and slid up to his neck.  He felt a relief that had no basis in reality and was untinged with the memory of what had happened to the original owner of the tags…

The Trucker, meanwhile, was balls-deep in the Trooper, his huge rod reaming out the punk’s colon.  The cop’s sphincter had finally given in and relaxed; the young man was accepting the dick.

And that was so disappointing.

“Yer lettin’ me down, cunt,” he snarled.  Gripping the cop’s jaw with excruciating force, he held the Trooper’s face still and spitting into it.  “Ya can’t even get fucked right, can ya, you worthless psycho faggot?  Your pansy ass won’t even grab my tool anymore—guess you took so many cocks up yer ass you wore it out, huh?  What’d ya do, homo, man the gloryhole at the barracks?  Gotta get ya tight again, dude.”

Despite his arrogance, his certainty of his own importance, the Trooper whimpered slightly at these words.  He knew how the Trucker was gonna get him tight.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that his life flashed before his eyes—what flashed before them were visions of his own snuffs.  There had only been a couple—well, three, if you count that teen who fled into the woods; he shot the punk in the line of duty and only fucked his corpse afterward.

The other two, also young teens, had been more deliberate.  He’d found them just out walking around, picking them up on a pretense so he could cuff them and throw them into the back of his car.  A quick trip out into the desert, a quick tussle with a helpless kid, “two pumps, a tickle and a squirt”, as they say.

Then he would strangle them slowly.  Even though he’d just cum, his dick would get hard again during the snuff.  As the kid died, the Trooper would shoot all over him.  The body would get shoved into a dry run in the desert; within days there’d be nothing left.

And now it was gonna happen to him.  And the deathpig stirred within and started to respond.  Even in his fear, the grim promise rumbling deep in the Trucker’s bass voice sent an electric thrill to the base of his cock.  As his large shaft stiffened and began to stand erect, the Trooper felt betrayed by his own body.

But he still couldn’t be found like this. Whatever his dick wanted, he couldn’t be humiliated like this—even if he had to humiliate himself now.  He faced the Trucker directly, tears filling his bright blue eyes.  “Please, man, don’t,” he whispered hoarsely.  “I’ll do anything ya want, man just don’t kill me.  Ya wanna shit on me?  Ya wanna piss in my mouth?  I’ll do it all, dude, I’ll do anything you want, please don’t kill me, man, I won’t tell anyone, I swear, dude, fuck, please—“

The youth broke off, sobbing as the older man glared coldly down at him.  Sneering slightly, he spit into the cop’s face again, then rose up on his knees, his rod still plugging the Trooper’s rectum.  He looked around languidly, taking his time, knowing that escape was impossible.   A disturbingly malicious grin formed on his face as he spotted the black webbed duty belt on the nightstand.

The Trooper’s cock was only half-erect when he opened his tear-rimmed eyes.  He saw the grin and knew what the Trucker was looking at.  He was still soft enough to lose control and have it show.

He pissed on himself.  Not a lot, but a couple of golden splashes across his belly that ran off in rivulets to soak into the sheets, already moist with sweat and semen.

The Trucker threw his head back and laughed.  Still chuckling, he leaned forward and grabbed the belt.  It was thick, about an inch and a half.  He knew from experience that the thinner the garrote, the easier it is to strangle someone.

This was gonna be slow.  The cop was gonna take a long, long time to die.  And best of all—the motherfucker knew it.  He understood.  To the Trucker, that mattered.  He wasn’t just raping the Trooper’s ass, he was raping his mind at the same time.

He held the duty belt in front of the punk’s dazed face.  “Ya see this?  Wanna see what it feels like around your neck?  I sure the fuck do, meat.  I bet it’s gonna feel fuckin’ great—for me.  For you, it’s gonna hurt like holy fucking hell.  And your pain it gonna feel so motherfuckin’ good on my cock.  And guess what?  If ya make me cum before ya die, I might let ya live.  So work my cock, you goddam homo cuntmeat, work it like your life depends on it—cause, trust me, it does.”

The muscled blond cop, confronted with the belt held in front of his face by the Trucker’s muscled arms, regressed into his mind, trying to escape the obvious implications.  It required an almost deliberate shutdown of consciousness—a very bad idea.  After all, his nervous system was still working perfectly—and with nothing else to focus on, physical sensation became everything.

And everything quickly became nightmarish.

Slowly, almost tenderly, the Trucker leaned forward and draped the belt lightly on the Trooper’s throat.  Keeping his eyes tightly closed, the hot young cop turned his head to the left and gulped.  He tensed momentarily in fear—not long, but long enough for the older man to feel a certain velvety constriction around his pumping shaft.  He grinned again.  This one was gonna be good.  The meat was both aware and responsive.

“Yeah, pig, you’re gonna love this, ain’t ya?” he whispered.  “Fuckin’ homo cop, you liked banging and wastin’ helpless kids and now you’re gonna get to find out what they went through.  How ya like that shit, ya sick fuck?  Huh?  Goddam, lookit yer dick—gettin’ hard already.  Can’t wait to see how horny ya get when we really start rockin’ and rollin’, bitch—let’s find out!”

Moving slowly and sensually, the Trucker wrapped the belt around the Trooper’s throat, at one point gripping the buzz-cut cop’s head tightly in his big paw so he could slide the belt under his neck.  Suddenly, the blond youth could no longer ignore what was happening to him.

The sensation of webbed nylon looping around his throat was terrifying and he tensed up.  But tensing suddenly made the terrible reaming pain in his ass intensify as his torn sphincter tightened around the Trucker’s dick.  His huge blue eyes, circled with dark rings of shock, opened wide as he gasped and inhaled jerkily.

The Trucker’s grinning face was inches from his; the Trooper could feel the panting breath of the older man plowing his ass.  Sweat tricked down the alpha’s cheeks, slipping under the black goatee and snagging on the scruff of five o’clock shadow darkening the killer’s hard face.  He was close enough that the dogtags weren’t dangling; they’d settled on the cop’s broad chest and bounced a jingling accompaniment to each excruciating thrust.

He’d gotten the belt completely around the Trooper’s neck, letting it lie loosely as he rose back up on his knees.  His cock started sliding out of the youth’s traumatized fuckhole.  He stopped his withdrawal at the last moment, leaving just his swollen purple head inside the blond’s quivering sphincter.  The Trooper was shuddering and gasping, emitting a low whining sound with each breath.

In some recess of his mind, the perverted young cop knew that he needed to keep control, that this psycho was feeding off his reactions.  He fought violently against himself, realizing that the more obvious it was that this dude was causing him pain, the more pain the dude would cause.

But he couldn’t.  That was the real nightmare.  He knew what it would take to mitigate the pain but he couldn’t control himself to get there.  It hurt too fucking much.

The Trucker only got harder as he watched the struggle play out in front of his face.  “Boy,” he chuckled, “this ain’t nothin’.  In five minutes you’re gonna think this pain is a kiss from momma.  In fifteen minutes you ain’t gonna remember this pain.  And in half an hour, you ain’t gonna remember your momma.”

The older man loomed over the bound youth, a wild grin twisting his chiseled face.  A gleeful light of lust danced in his eyes, heating the cold blue irises until they glittered in a way that terrified the helpless young psychopath.  The Trooper hadn’t known that the same gleam of insanity had helped demoralize his own victims—but now that he was on the receiving end, the impact was like a direct punch to the face.

Reason—at least such reason as the perverted lawman possessed—wouldn’t help here.  He’d already known he couldn’t break free of the case-hardened steel clamped painfully around his wrists.  Now it was horribly obvious that he couldn’t talk his way out of the situation as well.  Nothing, not even begging, was going to help.  He was utterly within the Trucker’s mercy.

And he was sure the sadistic bastard had no mercy.

He was right.

The dogtags struck his chin as the older man drew closer.  The Trooper didn’t look away; his eyes were drawn to those of his rapist’s as if he was being hypnotized by a snake.  He was aware of movement, feeling the Trucker’s hard, rough hands sliding down his body, smearing his sweat over his smooth flesh like an oil rubdown.

The muscular blond punk shuddered in erotic terror as the alpha fondled his thick pecs, callused palms scraping over the Trooper’s painfully stiff and sensitive nipples.  Despite himself, the helpless rogue cop moaned, softly and breathily.  The pressure of the killer’s hands slipped down to his flat belly; the bound youth could trace the downward movement growing closer and closer to his throbbing dick.

The Trucker noticed the Trooper’s cock, straining and painfully erect.  He slowly ran his hands down to the meat’s groin, curling his fingers in the golden nest of curly hair.  As he had earlier, the older man yanked the pubes—but this time the bitch was awake.  The boy groaned and writhed on the sheets, sliding on a film of body fluids.  His shaft twitched and began oozing.

“Yeah, I thought so, cocksucker,” sneered the Trucker.  “Ya wanna get hurt, dontcha, cunt?  You’re into the pain, huh, you worthless fuckin’ pig?  Yeah?  Ya like it?”  He leaned forward and slapped the Trooper, hard.  The younger man gasped at the fresh pain in his already battered and bruised face; with his eyes closed, he hadn’t seen the blow coming.

The Trooper’s expression of hurt and disappointment triggered something deep within the Trucker.  All he’d done was keep his cock plugged in the meat’s ass while groping the fucker’s body—and the piece of shit thought he was gettin’ romanced!

“What, motherfucker, ya thought I was fallin’ in love with you, you perverted fuckin’ faggot?  Thought you could worm your way out like that?  Holy shit, dude, you ain’t even got me drippin’ again yet.  You’re boring me.  Time to make you into meat.”

He hunched over the blond boy yet again, abruptly this time, his dogtags striking the fuckmeat right in the face, make the Trooper grunt and flinch.  Slowly and deliberately, the Trucker’s hands crept toward the loose ends of the duty belt which was still wound around the cop’s throat.

The Trooper had indeed surrendered to a fantasy similar to the one the Trucker had imagined; it was based on a combination of physical lust and mortal terror, as if he knew his last chance for survival depended on establishing an emotional contact with his killer—a contact possible only in his fear-borne delusion.

Now cold hard realty was approaching with a horrifying inevitability.  Those hands, that sensation of rough nylon around his throat…  A slow, agonizing death was coming and the suffering was gonna be unimaginable and the humiliation and the–  And the—

And why the fuck was dick still hard and pulsating?

The Trucker knew why.  He’d lowered himself gradually onto the meat’s hard body, feeling the young man squirm under him.  The cop’s cock felt like a hot rod of iron laid flat against his belly; even through his fur, he could feel the throbbing heat of the swollen shaft of flesh lying along his abdomen.

The meat liked it.  He could scream and struggle and curse as much as he liked, but deep in his sick little pig soul, the thought of his own rape and strangulation got him horny as fuck.

Nothing left to wait for, then, really.  The Trucker wrapped the ends of the belt around his hands and began to pull.  He didn’t put a lot of effort into it at first, just enough to get the homo deathpig started.

The Trooper reacted instantly.  The Trucker wasn’t actually choking him yet; with some effort, he could still breathe.  But the collision of his greatest fear and his greatest desire tripped a panic response.  Squealing shrilly, the muscled stud began to twist, flailing his legs against the alpha’s heaving, pumping flanks.  His struggle provided a staccato background rhythm of slapping, firm smooth flesh against flesh.

The Trucker snarled, the high-pitched keening of his victim irritating him.  “Jesus,” he hissed, “if you’re gonna squeal like a dying pig, you’re gonna be a dying pig.”  His biceps bulged as he applied torque to the belt, watching the webbing compress as it tightened around the Trooper’s throat.

The hard-bodied cop opened his mouth widely, his face frozen in horror as he tried vainly to gulp for air.  His body went rigid instinctively, clenching his rectum around the sadistic older man’s pulsating shaft.

“Fuck yeah, meat,” moaned the Trucker, “that’s what ya needed, huh?  Just needed a top who knows how to choke a bitch?  Then it’s your lucky motherfuckin’ day, cunt, cause I’m gonna choke ya nice and slow.”

Grinning, he spit into the Trooper’s swelling, darkening face.  The younger man’s rigidity was starting to pass; his firm, limber legs began to beat at the Trucker’s thighs while his twisting arms made the cuffs clank against the headboard loud enough to drown out the killer’s grunting and the thick gagging sounds scraping out of the fucktoy’s blocked windpipe.

The rogue cop felt an intolerable pressure building in his head, a hot dark pounding pressure that filled his consciousness—no, not quite.  There was other pain, more pain.  His chest, that wasn’t pressure.  It was more like a vacuum generated in his lungs; it felt like his chest was gonna explode.  And the horrible plunging and reaming in his ass—the pain was merging, flowing into a tsunami of agony threatening to drag him under.

As great black blooms burst in his field of vision, the young man’s fading vision focused on his killer’s chest, fur matted with sweat, tensing and straining with the effort of choking his life out. The Trooper’s ears filled with a loud buzzing and suddenly he fell back into dark pit, a pit lined with pain…

Seeing that his prey had lost consciousness, the Trucker loosened the belt slightly.  Not a lot, of course; just enough to let the limp hard-bodied punk gasp involuntarily for air, his body shuddering in effort on the alpha’s tool.

Grinning and pumping, the alpha observed the meat’s face starting to resume normal proportions and coloration.  The breathing became less ragged and the tight firm body under his slowed in its struggles.  As the punk’s eyelids began fluttering with returning awareness, the Trucker spit in his victim’s face almost casually before he started slapping it.

“C’mon, you worthless fuck, you can take more than that.  I ain’t even gotten started pounding yer fuckhole cunt—ya gotta keep up with me, dude.”

The Trooper gave a faint gurgling sound; he was awake now.  His tender, abused colon was still getting mercilessly plowed but he could breathe—and understand.  He heard the Trucker.

“Man, I told ya I’d let ya live if you got me off before I whacked ya.  Had no idea you were such a fucking weak-ass pansy homo.  You keep tryin’ to check out while I’m ballin’ ya, I’m gonna get pissed and make sure it hurts, bitch,” the Trucker barked in anger.  “So how about a little incentive, huh?  Tell ya what, ya fuckin’ sick sack a’ shit, if you die before I’m done with ya, I’m gonna leave your body spread on the bed with your nightstick rammed up your ass like a fuckin’ popsicle stick, ya feelin’ me, fag?  Get what I’m sayin?  All yer motherfuckin’ cop buddies are gonna that you got used real good before you were put down.”

The blond youth moaned and spoke thickly through his damaged esophagus. “Yes-yessir, p-please don’t…anything, sir…d-do what ya want b-but please don-don’t k-kill me,” he sobbed.

The Trucker tensed up on the ends of the belt, pulling it taut but not flush.  “Good, meat,” he hissed, his eyes glittering with rage and lust, “beg me for your life.  You’ve killed, aintcha?  I know.  You’ve snuffed a bitch.  Beg for your life, cunt, beg like your boys begged you.  Lemme hear their words outta your mouth, motherfucker.”

The Trooper’s eyes welled with tears as he heard the words, but at the same time, the older man increased the speed and depths of his thrusts.  As his cock sank deeper into the blond cop’s ass, the helpless stud cried aloud before dropping into a subdued blubbering.  “Goddam worthless faggot, you really are fuckin’ useless, aintcha, cocksucker?” snarled the furious alpha.  “If your life ain’t worth beggin’ for, I guess it ain’t worth shit, huh?”  He yanked the belt as hard as he could, clamping his victim’s windpipe shut.

Again, the reaction was immediate.  The cop’s low wailing ceased instantly, replaced with a thick moist gagging noise.  The muscled punk bent and twisted like a bull, tying to buck the Trucker off.  The Trooper still had enough strength to bend his back up off the bed, even with the older man lying on top of him.

It was a bad idea.  He couldn’t remain in that contorted position for long; he collapsed back onto the bed in a few seconds.  The drop was enough to cause the killer to lose his balance, just for a moment, but it was enough to loosen the belt.  Again, not a good thing.  At the same time as the constriction around his throat eased, the weight of the Trucker on his chest made him exhale, not inhale.  What little reserve of oxygen had remained in his lungs was now expelled.

Before he had a chance to gasp in another breath, the alpha regained control and cinched down the belt again.  “Smooth move, you stupid motherfucker,” sneered the Trucker, “really fucked up, dintcha?  And ya didn’t even knock my cock outta yer ass!”  The older man threw his dark head back and laughed aloud.

He’d cut off the meat’s air, but hadn’t pulled it tight—really tight.  Looking down at the writhing youth under him, the Trucker watched the meat’s handsome face slowly swell and darken.  He knew the pressure was going to continue to build inside his victim, inescapable pain and pressure—and he knew the faggot cunt knew it too.

The boy’s panic was obvious in his protruding eyes; he seemed oblivious to the way his fuckhole was stroking his killer’s cock, but his firm smooth thighs frantically slapping against those of the older man were a sign of his desperation.  Despite the flailing of his legs, though, the white tube socks continued to cling tightly to his muscled calves.

The Trooper actually could feel his assailant’s engorged shaft plugging his colon—in fact, every movement he made caused unspeakable agony in his ass as the huge rod, rigid as iron, tore at his rectal lining.  But his chest was exploding and his skull was imploding as screaming darkness closed in.  The blond lawman realized that parts of his brain were starting to die; the pain of the rape was, had to be, utterly insignificant, crowded out by the terror and agony of death.

Sliding into crisis mode, the cop’s lithe, developed body shuddered, his legs wrapping tightly around his killer’s broad, heaving back.  At the same time, the alpha rested his entire weight on top of the meat so he could wrap the belt around his hand one more time, tightening it even further.  Both hard-bodied men were now quivering in a warm, moist embrace, fur grinding over smooth flesh on a film of sweat being wrung out of the dying punk.

The room echoed with the sounds of rape and snuff.  Loudest of all was the clanging of the meat’s handcuffs on the headboard as his arms jerked frantically.  The violent arching of his back was responsible for the next sound—the Trucker’s dogtags jangling as he held onto his convulsing fucktoy.  The slapping of slick flesh was almost inaudible under the loud grunting coming from both—the alpha’s in effort and the meat’s involuntarily as froth oozed from his mouth.

The Trucker’s face was just inches away from that of his fucktoy.  He was able to observe the physical effects of slow, traumatic strangulation at close range.  Breathing deeply, he inhaled the heady scent of sex and death, pheromones and testosterone and mansweat.  Beneath him, the young blond was almost unrecognizable.

Swelling and darkening again, the punk’s face became grotesque as his eyes bulged horribly, reddening with petechial hemorrhages.  The fuckmeat’s tongue, thick and purple like the head of a dick, emerged from his blue lips, lube by the foam bubbling out of his blocked windpipe.

Suddenly, the cop went rigid, his head bobbing and nodding violently.  “Fuck yeah, you’re close,” the sadistic dom top whispered to the convulsing youth.  “Lookit your cock, asswipe, you’re already droolin’ a steady stream a’ precum.  You ain’t got me off yet, cunt; I should just let yer worthless ass die, huh?  Maybe I will—bye-bye, bitch, lights out.”

When the Trooper went under, his eyes rolled back until nothing but blood-shot whites showed under his long fluttering lashes.  The Trucker immediately slackened the belt; the meat gasped thickly in an involuntary scramble for air.  The older dude grinned and remained still; for the moment, he didn’t need to do more.

The psycho lawman jerked and inhaled arrhythmically.  As he struggled involuntarily to pump enough oxygen through his system to prevent irreversible brain trauma, his colon still maintained a tight, velvety grip on the alpha’s sensitive shaft.  Each gag, every cough vibrated through the Trooper’s firm, muscled body.  At some point, each traumatic retching gasp rippled through the meat’s rectum and stroked his rapist’s tool.

“Ya back yet, cunt?” he hissed.  “Fuckin’-A, you useless pervert, you still ain’t got me off yet!”

The Trooper clawed his way back up a razor-lined shaft into reality, the returning of awareness a long painful process.  His vision was cloudy, his hearing intermittent.  His sense of touch—his sense of sense, so to speak—that worked.  Oh fuck, it still worked…

He hadn’t know how oxygen deprivation increased sensitivity as nerve ends began to die.  His own victims—the agony they must have experienced as they died…

Despite the crushing pain of getting throttled until he lost consciousness, despite the deep slashing pain in his ass, the understanding of the horror he’d inflicted on those kids he’d wasted had a physical impact.

He got hard.

The Trucker noticed—and the Trooper noticed he noticed.  It was a brutal slap of reality; he remembered what was happening.  He went limp.

The Trucker was furious.

“What the fuck ya need, cumsucker—pain?  That it?  You a pain pig?  Fuck yeah, dude, didn’t know ya had it in ya!  You like to get hurt, huh?  Saddle up, you motherfuckin’ faggot, I’ll hurt ya so fuckin’ bad you’ll cum!” he snarled in rage, spit flying from his lips.  The sadistic alpha gave the belt one last twist around the frantic punk’s neck, cinching it agonizingly before transferring both ends to his left hand.  He wrapped them around his palm so he could grip them in one hand without slackening the wide ligature sunk painfully into the fucker’s taut throat.

The muscled killer’s right arm was free.  He made use of it immediately, piledriving his rock-hard fist into the meat’s firm belly.  The pain-wracked youth tried instinctively to curl into a fetal position, but the weight of his well-built rapist kept him pinned to the bed.  He could only writhe and shudder on the damp sheets as tears oozed from his bulging eyes.

“Goddam, fuckmeat, that did ya some good—I felt that all the way down my dick.  That’s what ya like, ya fuckin’ psycho homo pervert, huh?  You just need a good beatdown.  Here ya go, cunt!” the Trucker growled, repeating the blow.  “Yeah, that’s it, bitch, lookit your hard dick slappin’ against me—worthless faggot pain pig!” Another gutpunch, and another.  Each time the killer grunted as the blunt force reverberated through his victim’s traumatized body and flowed down his rectum, tightening his asshole.

The Trooper was almost beyond rational thought.  A vast fog enveloped his mind, a screaming, pounding silence deafened him—but it was the pain that overshadowed all.  His stomach was strong and firm, the smooth skin rippled with muscles, but he’d already suffered so much that even his hard, developed torso was unable to withstand the attack.

The fog was turning into a hot black wave.  Something else he hadn’t known—he’d always thought being strangled would be a cold death but it wasn’t.  His victims—that first one in the back of the cop car—he’d sweated like a hog as the Trooper choked him.  At the time, he thought the kid was on crack.

The hot darkness was penetrated by lightning—each time he was punched, the older man’s fist sank deep into his guts, just above the point where the man’s cock was impaling his innards.  Everything—oh fuck, everything—his chest, his ass, his head, it all hurt.  Fiery numbness froze his bound hands; his arms twitched convulsively, making the cuffs clang rhythmically against the headboard.  He couldn’t hear it.

As his swollen, congested face darkened, white froth bubbled past his protruding tongue.  It slid across his snot-smeared face, now grotesquely twisted.  He wasn’t aware of the details, though; his head was one source of pain among many.  His ass, oh fuck, his ass, his dick…

His dick.  As black cacophony took him under, he could still sense his rod, erect and straining to an unbearable extent.  He was dying and he was so hard it hurt; it wasn’t fair…but those boys he’d wasted, they’d gone hard as they died…now it was happening to him…hot dark screaming pain…no, wait…

The Trucker almost missed the signal.  The meat’s cock was slapping against his furry belly as the motherfucker’s lights went out; it was only when precum began to splatter across his chest that he realized he’d taken the cop closer to death than he wanted.  He unwound the belt from his left hand right away.  The blond stud writhed and convulsed beneath him, his fuckhole stroking the alpha’s huge engorged shaft.

“C’mon back, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” the Trucker whispered to the youth as he coughed and gagged.  Somewhere along the line—the Trucker didn’t notice exactly when and didn’t care—the fuckmeat regained consciousness.  The rogue cop’s slow and painful climb back to reality was accompanied by a background of abuse.

“Wake the fuck up, you punk-ass cocksucker.  C’mon, bitch, milk my fuckin’ shaft.  I’m done fuckin’ around with ya.  Remember when I told ya I’d let ya live if you managed to get me off?  I lied, faggot.  Only reason you’re still alive is cause I haven’t cum yet.”

By now the Trooper was fully awake; at least, as awake as he’d ever be again.  After all, he’d been without oxygen for extended periods twice now.  Things were fuzzy around the edges…

No.  The pain, that was as sharp as ever.

“Ok, you disgusting pervert, I’m gonna wipe your stain off this planet.  Ya feel me, motherfucker?  This time it’s gonna be for real.  See, I’m gonna make you hurt so bad you’ll make me blow my load just so I’ll end your pain.  You thought you were man enough to take me down, you fuckin’ queerboy?  I bet every real man in the barracks knew you were a homo cocksucker!”

He bent down over the dazed youth, dropping his dogtags into his smeared red face.  The Trucker’s eyes glinted with an icy, malevolent glee as he whispered into the blond punk’s ear, “and if they don’t know it now, I’ll make sure they find out.  I’m gonna leave your reamed-out corpse right here, bound to this cum-soaked bed with your own cuffs.  They’re gonna know you got fucked in the ass, cause I’m gonna leave yer nightstick in it, shoved up to the hilt.  Bet that turns ya on, you disgusting pig, huh”

The Trooper cringed and blubbered, coughing up blood-streaked phlegm from his damaged windpipe.  He was alive and aware—and wishing he wasn’t.  The pain was still there.

What little of him was left was focused on breathing; an excruciating experience on its own.  Each desperate gasp for air was like inhaling razor blades.  The hammering in his skull was unbearable; the knowledge that he was hearing the desperate beat of his pulse as his heart struggled in vain to pump oxygen to his brain only terrified him even more—and made his heart speed up.

His chest felt like it was imploding; a vacuum of agonizing force was centered there.   As the Trooper’s eyes became less dim (and as they sank back into their orbits, his vision became less distorted), he could see the older man’s face leering down at him in contemptuous lust.  Sweat trickled down the Trucker’s cheek, the beads disappearing into the scruff darkening the killer’s firm jawline.

The blond youth gagged and coughed repeatedly.  If his need for air hadn’t been so desperate—and his airway so traumatized—he would have been screaming.  The grotesque impaling sensation in his colon had never dimmed; it was just that now the agony of actual death was fading.  There was nothing else to compete with the feeling of the alpha’s swollen tool rammed deep into his guts, tearing him open inside.

“Dude, you’re goin’ loose again,” the Trucker hissed warningly.  “You’re bleedin’ inside and it’s makin’ ya slippery.  I wanna feel yer fuckhole grab hold of my shaft good, ya hear?  I’m givin’ ya five seconds to grip my dick with yer ass or I’m just gonna snuff ya and let yer death throes jack me off.  Get started, you faggot cunt, or this is gonna be the last couple of minutes of your worthless life.  NOW!!”

The Trooper shook his head frantically but was still incapable of articulate speech.  Grunts and gurgles bubbled out of his throat in a blood-streaked foam.  His barely-functioning mind was in chaos; his thoughts were incompatible with each other.

He wanted to end the pain.  He wanted to die; that was the only way to end it.

He wanted to obey.  He wanted to work his ass muscles to make his top cum; he just didn’t know how.

He wanted to kill this motherfucker.  He wanted to make him suffer this pain; the serial killer in him was still alive.

He wanted to shoot his load.  He wanted to give up his life seed as he slipped into death; it was what he’d wanted all along.

Glaring down into his victim’s face, the Trucker already knew what was running through what was left of his mind.  He was experienced; they always went through something like this as they trembled on the edge of their blackest desire.  Fuckin’ deathpigs—not even grateful when you give ‘em what they want.

And although the Trooper didn’t know it yet, three outta four ain’t bad.


The muscled top started the countdown.  The bound lawman knew what it meant.


The cop tried to ignore the words.  He clenched his eyes closed again, retreating into himself the same way he’d done at the start.  Problem was, this time he already knew what his assailant was capable of.


In a panic, he began flexing his rectum, trying to constrict his sphincter.  There had to be a way out—if he could just get more time…


It wasn’t enough for the fucker.  There had to be more he could do—but it hurt, oh god, his ass hurt so fuckin’ bad, this guy was tearing him open, each movement was ripping his tender flesh deep inside…

“Five.  Time to die, faggot.”

Some deep, hidden part of the Trooper’s psyche heard the words and responded by overriding every reflex of pain or fear that would prevent an erection.  As the webbed nylon belt constricted around his throat again, the bound muscular cop felt his cock rise up, painfully rigid and oozing an almost steady stream of precum.

All his cocky arrogance had been wrung out of him, oozing out with his sweat and pain.  He his brain was full of an icy fog that paralyzed his will; he was terrified of his hard-on—he knew it was only gonna become more agonizing as the spark of life was throttled out of him—but he was past the point of active resistance.

The Trucker leaned back, stretching his arm out.  Feeling around behind himself, the alpha retrieved the nightstick. He held it front of the Trooper, his other hand holding the belt taut but not tight around the meat’s neck.  He laid the baton down next to the blond’s head; if the cunt turned to the right, he’d see it.  And the killer could tell by his victim’s expression that the punk hadn’t forgotten where the Trucker was gonna leave it.

The muscular stud jerked on the belt pulling the Trooper roughly up off the bed.  Inhaling deeply, he hocked a huge wad of phlegm onto the stunned cop’s face, wiping it over the youth’s swollen, tear-slicked cheeks with his strong, rough paw.

The young man grimaced blearily.  The Trucker dropped him back onto the bed and took the ends of the belt in both hands.  His huge rod, still plugging the fucktoy’s ass, pulsed warmly and wetly in anticipation.  He paused—cruelly, just to let the tension build.

The Trooper was undergoing an agonizing epiphany, an approach to understanding the nightmarish erotic pain to which he’d subjected two innocent teenage boys.  He was sinking into a dull haze, hypnotized by the dancing flashes of light reflecting off the dogtags dangling from the Trucker’s thick neck…

For a moment, there was no sound in the room but that of two well-built men panting with lustful exertion.  As the funk of sweat, testosterone and old cum intensified, the Trucker broke the silence with a whisper.  “Third time’s the charm, fuckin’ homo cunt.”

He abruptly yanked his arms, jerking the belt tight around his meat’s throat.  The fucker leaped like a fish on a line, snapped out of his daze by the crushing pain in his esophagus and the now-familiar crushing agony in his chest and his head.  “Fuck yeah, bitch,” the Trucker hissed through gritted teeth, “now you’re working my cock.  That’s it, fight it, faggot.  C’mon, kick and twitch on my dick, motherfucker!”

The alpha lowered his head until his face was inches from the Trooper.  His expression twisted into sneering sexual contempt as he watched the blond youth’s face darken through shades of red and violet.  The serial killer wanna-be, helpless and struggling, began oozing drool from the side of his mouth as his tongue protruded, as purple and swollen as the head of his cock, bobbing in the air—and also oozing.

Grinning hatefully, the scruffy top pulled hard on the belt, causing his rock-hard biceps to bulge.  The thick black nylon webbing circling the rogue cop’s neck sank in deeply.  The punk’s eyes opened wide and he began flailing and coughing in a frantic and futile attempt to inhale; he didn’t manage to do more than spit up wads of white foam.

“Does it hurt yet, cunt?” leered the older man, slightly panting his words out as he kept the pressure on his meat’s windpipe.  “Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it?  You know, you worthless piece of shit, you know how good it feels.  You know how fuckin’ hot it is to waste someone while you’re banging ‘em, yeah?  Now you get ta feel what it’s like to be the fuckpig—told ya it was gonna be yer lucky motherfuckin’ day, didn’t I, huh?”

The Trooper knew.  Even in the involuntary convulsions of imminent death he hadn’t forgotten the feeling of raping and snuffing those soft smooth boys—and this was what they’d endured, the little cumsacks…

But he’d been right about his dick.  It hurt—oh fuck, how it hurt, so hard and engorged it felt like it was gonna split…  But he couldn’t help it.  Throughout the entire ordeal, the Trucker had never pulled out of the young man’s ass—and now he was back to reaming it like a plumber’s snake.  Every thrust was like a direct punch to his prostate.  Every thrust caused another agonizing, uncontrollable throb in his swollen shaft.

As the Trucker maintained the tightness of the belt by brute strength, the hard-bodied youth writhed beneath him, his smooth flesh sliding around on yet another film of death-sweat slowly being squeezed out of him.  His firm, muscular legs wrapped around his killer’s waist with an involuntary vice-like grip, his white tube socks somehow still clinging to his thick calves as his feet kicked desperately at the dominant alpha’s pumping ass.

The Trooper’s arms jerked arrhythmically, clanging the handcuffs against the headboard, the jagged tempo increasing as his convulsion became more acute.  His entire intestinal tract spasmed violently in organ failure; the older man grunted in pleasure as the homo punk’s colon massaged his thick rod.  The meat’s sphincter tightened around the root of his dick like a cockring.

“Fuckin’ die, you faggot pervert, die on my dick!” the Trucker growled as he sped up his thrusts, driving his enormous shaft deep into the youth’s twitching guts.  The young handsome blond was almost unrecognizable now, his face horrifyingly black and distorted—but he wasn’t dead yet.

Some parts of his brain were shutting down but as dark fireworks burst silently in front of his swollen, blood-shot eyes, he was still aware enough to realize that oxygen deprivation was again inducing hypersensitivity in his traumatized anus.  That was why it felt like this psycho stud’s massive tool had a barbed head that was slashing at his rectum…

But knowing the cause didn’t lessen the agony.

As death closed in, the Trooper felt waves of nightmarish knife-like pain roll across his muscular form.  He knew he was convulsing, his thick, strong limbs shuddering.  His legs, clamped like scissors around the alpha’s heaving, sweaty flanks, kicked futilely in the air while his quivering arms beat an accompaniment of clanking metal to his final moments.

He’d been right—the heat had seeped out of him with his pheromone-soaked sweat.  Death was dark and cold, promising and icy release from the torture he was enduring, but the white-hot burning sensation in his cock was getting more intense with each passing second.

And the seconds themselves seemed to slow down.  Over the pounding of his pulse, the frenetic tempo of his heart trying to push oxygen that wasn’t there, the young cop heard his killer speak.  The words were low and long, like a slowed-down film.

“Ya fuckin’ useless pig—thought you were gonna fuck me?  Looks like you were wrong—dead wrong, cunt.  And now yer buddies are gonna find ya with cum up your ass, rammed home with your own nightstick.  I’ll make sure to leave you with your legs spread wide so they can see what a slut you were, faggot.”

The Trooper was almost gone; the words worked their way through his dying brain like bubble through molasses.  He could still grasp their import but was incapable of acknowledging it with anything more than dull despair.  The slashing agony in his fuckhole seared its way up the root of his dick, a solid spike of horribly erotic pain beyond his experience.

Deep within the pig part of his mind, the part that was wallowing in the black mud of helpless rape and murder, he could feel that part of his oozing, straining hard-on was inspired by his realization of what his victims had suffered.  The sick bastard, getting snuffed himself, was hard at the full understanding of the torture he’d inflicted on his own victims.

Of course, he still hadn’t gone all the way.  He hadn’t made the full journey into the dark.

“Goddam, fuckin’ close, cunt,” rumbled the Trucker in his deep bass voice, “gonna blow my load here in a sec, dude.  Ya ready, motherfucker?  Ready for me to bring the pain?  C’mon, you homo bitch, shoot your wad!  Yeah, cocksucker, lemme feel ya work my rod as you die on it!”

With a loud grunt, the Trucker put all his muscle into tightening the belt, pulling so hard the tendons stood out on his neck.  The wide black webbing embedded itself into the Trooper’s neck.  A loud cracking, crunching sound penetrated the room as the blond cop went rigid.

The pain from his crushed esophagus momentarily overrode the pleasure/pain of the rape.  The fireworks were inside his head now, each explosion wiping out functional parts of his nervous system.  Just before his vision faded, it circled in on the sneering face of the Trucker, his hard, handsome features, covered with black stubble and facial hair, twisted in contempt as he spit on his victim one last time.

Then the perverted killer cop fell into a deep cold howling pit, his last connection to life the raging agony in his ass and cock.  He never felt the blows the Trucker rained brutally on his face, making his body convulse more violently and work the shaft on which it was impaled even more intensely.  He never heard the smacking sound of fist on flesh, the guttural grunting of the alpha as he edged closer to orgasm, the crunch of his nose as his assailant flattened it…

Then the tension snapped.  The Trucker’s huge, throbbing cock erupted, ejecting a massive wad of hot cum into the fuckmeat’s shredded colon.  Trembling on the edge of hell, the cop felt his ass flooded with molten steel, the sensation of boiling liquid seeming to eat its way through his bowels.

His last living act, involuntary and almost unconscious, was the ejaculation of a thick, ropy jet of semen.  He died in nightmarish agony, his dick shooting so hard it felt like it was being flayed inside out, his awareness flickering out in his irreparably damaged brain as the best part of him was pumped out of his cock in white, creamy geysers.

The Trooper’s streams of spunk splashed across the Trucker’s furry torso, smearing with the older man’s sweat to mat the hair on his chest.  As the dying punk jerked wildly in his death throes, more sperm spattered warmly and wetly on the underside of the alpha’s strong jaw, almost like a deliberate blast from a water gun.  The Trooper continued to writhe and expel a phenomenal amount of cum for another forty-five seconds, hosing himself, his killer, and the bed in general with vast spurts of DNA.

The Trucker grunted and panted, his eyes closed tight, biting his lower lip in the intensity of his own rage-filled orgasm.  Too hate-filled to speak, he forced his spewing shaft as far up the corpse’s fuckhole as he could, pumping his hot seed deep into the dead cop’s guts.  Groaning loudly, he instinctively contracted his arms, pulling the twitching body up off the soiled sheets.

As he felt his balls empty violently, the Trucker stared into the Trooper’s grotesquely blackened face.  The lolling head drooped, the bulging, hemorrhaged eyes rolling back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites were visible.  The rogue cop was now nothing but a quivering meat puppet milking the cum out of the stronger man.

Still shuddering in intense ejaculation, the older top let the young blond’s corpse drop back onto the wet sheets, his groin grinding into the dead youth’s asscheeks before he finally relented.  Sighing deeply, he slowly and reluctantly let his still-pulsing cock slide out of the punk’s fuckhole.  It slipped out on with a slimy, pearly lube of spunk, tinted pink with blood.

“If ya’d been any good, I’da taught ya some tricks,” he muttered, “but you’re just meat.”  Reaching to the side, he grabbed the baton.  True to his word, he inserted it into the Trooper’s slack asshole, steadily shoving it in more deeply.  Any resistance he encountered he overcame with increased force, feeling flesh tear each time he applied more pressure.

By the time he was done, the inch-and-a-half diameter aluminum rod was sunk to the hilt in the blond cop’s ass.  The Trucker propped his legs apart, placing a pillow under the corpse’s ass so that the baton was clearly visible from the door.

Still panting and sweating, the Trucker stepped into the bathroom, now utterly sauna-like from the hot shower that he’d left running.  It didn’t take long to scrub the thick white crust of dried cum from his wiry chest fur and the finer dark hairs on his flat but rippled belly.  Before he did, though, he wiped some of the lawman’s still-moist seed off his hard torso with a hand towel and set it aside.

After cleansing himself to his satisfaction, the Trucker dragged the teen’s corpse to the shower.  He’d spent just over an hour dealing with the unwelcome but entertaining intruder; the cunt he’d left on the floor was starting to stiffen.  There was just enough flexibility for him to drag the dead meat into the shower, aim the ass into the shower head and pull open the sphincter.   After flushing the colon with hot water, he held the corpse upright, still pulling the ass open with his fingers.  Despite the physical ordeal he’d been through, both sexual and combative, the teen’s corpse was no strain on his muscles.  After allowing the anal cavity to drain, he yanked the rigid body out of the tub and placed it back on the floor.

Retrieving the plunger from behind the toilet, the Trucker wrapped the cum-soaked towel around the handle—then rammed the handle up the stiff’s ass.  He made sure to grind it around inside the corpse, smearing the Trooper’s DNA inside the washed-out cavity.

He chuckled silently—at the very least, it would confuse the issue.  And the cop’s own ass was pooling with blood leaking from the slashed and shredded rectal tissue.  Yeah, there’d be a lot of questions about this one…

His jeans had been left in the bathroom; dark, warm and moist, they clung tightly to his thighs as he forced them on.  His socks and boots were just outside the door.  First, though, he slipped his t-shirt and leather vest back on, lighting a smoke from the pocket of his shirt.

Clenching the cigarette between his teeth, he sat on the bed next to the Trooper’s still-quivering body.  Crossing his legs, he slid his socks and boots on, pausing between each to tap his ash into the dead cop’s drool-soaked face.  When he was done, he extinguished his smoke on the dark, dry tongue with a loud sizzle.

The Trucker stepped back to take one last look.  He needed to remember this scene; he’d almost died here.  The face of the blond lawman was still black and swollen; the belt was too embedded in the neck to remove.  The tousled wet sheets, slimy with cum and sweat, were rank with sex.  The Trooper’s spread, shuddering legs obscenely thrust the nightstick forward with each convulsion, as if the dead youth was proudly displaying a new dildo.

The Trucker had an idea.  He gathered up the Trooper’s uniform.  The slacks, the shirt, the boots—he also made sure to get cuffs he’d been bound with.  They were still clamped on the radiator, the key in the open cuff that had been around his wrist.  After pocketing it, he even got down on hands and knees to retrieve the gun.  Not that he’d kill anyone with the gun, of course.  He wanted it for intimidation.

It was way too fast a way of death for him to actually employ.

Rolling the cop’s gear into a ball, the older man turned out the lights in the room and quickly slipped out the door in the dark.  He strode quickly across the parking lot, his boots thumping on the pavement.  Skirting the circle of light shed by the motel office, he slipped unnoticed across the street.  The bar was long since closed; the only two vehicle left in the lot were his rig—and a state trooper’s car.  Damn. The Trucker scrambled into his cab, shifted into gear, and eased out of the lot and up onto the highway.

He wasn’t done in this area, oh no.  There was a least one cunt not too far away who deserved to be taught his value in the world—which was about the same as a used cumrag.

But right now, he needed to go.  He needed to be out of the jurisdiction of the state cops, at least for a while.

On the highway, he headed north.  He was over the state line in less than an hour; in less than twenty-four, he was on the hunt again.

Trucker 4–Trucker vs Teen Slut

Night was falling and the Trooper hadn’t caught up with the rig the ferret-like kid back at the truck stop had described so eloquently.  He pounded his fist on the steering wheel in frustration; he was sure this guy would strike again soon, so he’d stopped at every truck stop on the highway that was within five miles of a gay bar.  He’d searched them on his phone, getting accurate directions, making sure not to miss a single one—but nothing.

And that semi couldn’t accelerate out of the state faster than the Trooper’s cruiser.  Even with all his stops, he should have caught up by now.  No, the dude had pulled off somewhere—but where?  Not any of the obvious truck stops.  And the Trooper had run through every rest stop on the way, not stopping, and not seeing the truck he was looking for.

He took the last exit before the start line, whipping around on a desolate overpass in the middle of the desert.  He’d missed something.  He shifted into park and paused, his hopes rising suddenly as the headlights of an obviously large truck came around a curve in the distance behind him.

The Trooper wasn’t familiar enough with this corner of the state to remember what was down that road; he just knew that it was miles away.  It was possible that this was the guy he wanted, but it wasn’t likely that he’d gotten that far off the highway, did what he wanted to do, and was on his return trip now.  The timing was wrong.

And of course, it wasn’t the rig.  Even from a distance, this one was visible because of its bright white paint job, the sleeper cab trimmed in cherry red.  It flashed by him, turning north, heading out of state.  The one he was looking for was darker, a distinct metallic blue.  But still…

He thought for a moment before pulling out his phone and running a search.  He’d had an idea that was worth checking out—and the search results backed that up.

As the last bit of blue sky faded to black on his right, the Trooper got back on the interstate, heading south to a couple of exits he hadn’t checked before.


Adam had had way too much to drink, but nobody was concerned about it—for a couple of reasons.  The first was that it was far too frequent an occurrence for the strung-out little twink for it to attract much notice.  The other was that there was no one to care.

The bar was a small, dimly lit building of corrugated steel in the center of a cracked asphalt slab.  It was located at an exit on the interstate that gave access to a county road connecting small mining and industrial communities.  Most of the towns had a single main employer—a mine, a refinery, a power plant—and contained no more than a few hundred residents, nearly all blue-collar workers.  Each town had several bars, of course—but this building, out by the interstate, was the only gay bar.

The clientele was mostly local; in the small, closed-off world of small town gay life, everyone knew everyone—and everyone knew Adam.

And because everyone knew Adam, no one gave a shit how drunk he was.

Adam had first shown up at the bar three years earlier.  At that time, the place had been known by the innocuous name of “The Men’s Club”.  His attractive youthful looks had instantly made him popular and he retreated to the restroom in the company of others several times that first trip.

Two weeks later, he repeated his performance to equal acclaim.  This time, however, his father caught him sneaking back in the house afterwards.  Since Adam was sixteen years old at the time, all hell broke loose (literally, as far as the local preachers screamed).

The Men’s Club was instantly shuttered, a flurry of warrants, indictments and charges flew in a vicious legal whirlwind, and a deathly silence prevailed over the fate of half a dozen local citizens who were taken off to the state penitentiary.

In time, the bar managed to re-open under new ownership.  Now it was just “Dan’s Bar”, and it was freely admitted that the name was a DBA and that there was no Dan.  It took a while for the thundering from the pulpits and the fulminations from the electoral podiums to die down, but eventually business began to return to normal and the stigma of what had happened began to fade.

And then Adam started showing back up.  At nineteen, his still had that lean, slim firm teen body that explained his physical appeal.  His face was still smooth but his complexion was starting to show the effects of an excess of alcohol.

He followed the same pattern every night, showing up in the sluttiest outfit he could find, desperate to get laid.  None of the locals would go near him.  After a while, he’d start to get teary-eyed and go to the bar, slam down a twenty and get as many shots of cheap tequila he could, downing one after the other.

Then he’d drunkenly cruise the floor for any strangers; there was a tiny cheap motel across the road and sometimes—especially on weekends—there was some trade from the interstate.  He was certainly attractive and still looked young.  He could appeal to the guys who looked like they had money by emphasizing the victimhood of his molestation in that very bar.

In his own way he was right; he was a victim.  He was a pariah to the locals; no one who knew him dared go anywhere near him.  He knew it but wasn’t self-aware enough to know why, so he drank himself into a stupor and threw himself at every strange male who came in, wheedling money out of the rich ones and sex out of all of them.

As Adam looked up this night, the dude his bleary eyes slowly focused on mighta been rich, but it wouldn’t have mattered.  Right away, Adam wanted him.  Drunk as he was, his dick still managed to rise to attention at the sight of the well-built man leaning back in one of the corner booths against the far wall.

The dude was older; late thirties, perhaps.  He wore a flat-brimmed trucker’s cap that made it hard to distinguish his hair, but below his gunmetal-blue eyes, a coarse, wiry scruff of black fur covered his cheeks, just barely longer than five o’clock shadow except where it darkened into a goatee around his mouth.

A white t-shirt stretched tautly over his wide chest.  Over it he wore an unlined leather vest, very plain and simple.  It dangled open to reveal the man’s large pectoral muscles with what looked like a pair of dogtags glinting in between on top of the t-shirt.

He was in the corner booth, behind the table, so Adam couldn’t get a good view of him below the waist—but then stud shifted and stretched out a long leg, knotted with muscle like the limb of a tree, tightly wrapped in torn, slightly stained denim, terminating in a worn and scarred brown leather pull-on work boot.

Adam felt himself drawn in; some kind of gravitational field of lust was pulling him to this dude.

Somehow, deep inside his sad, sordid little soul, he knew this guy would solve all his problems.

He never imagined how.

He might have been drunk, but Adam wasn’t completely wasted.  He knew he had to remain presentable—and to that end, quickly ducked into the restroom to check his appearance in the mirror.  The two dudes already in there certainly weren’t resting, but they split immediately when they saw who had walked in.

Adam ignored them; he was so used to the cold shoulder that it didn’t even register.  He stood at the filthy sink and ran water over his hands, splashing a little on his face to help him focus before examining his appearance in the cracked and pitted mirror.

Beneath his tousled blond hair, deep hazel eyes stared back at him from the reflective surface.  Surprisingly clear given the amount of alcohol he’d consumed, they were long-lashed and slightly almond-shaped.  His nose was wide and the drinking had already caused some spreading and reddening, but in the dim light, his face still managed to project an air of innocence and naivety that was wholly disingenuous.  There was nothing innocent or naïve about the little slut.

He grinned at his reflection.  Fuck the other guys in the bar.  He wasn’t looking for love, he was looking for sex, and he’d already set his sights for the dude he wanted to plow his hole tonight.

It was a warm night and Adam had dressed accordingly; he looked as if he was ready for action of some kind, at any rate.  He wore a deep blue sleeveless basketball jersey; it clung to his slim but firm frame, the shiny polyester catching the light.  Below, matching shorts ended well above mid-thigh, showing Adam’s long muscled legs to perfect advantage.  His tight, smooth limbs were dusted with a fine golden down that glinted a fiery glow when the light struck it just right.  His thick calves were encased in black Nike athletic socks, running down to black leather hightop sneakers with the same distinctive swoosh.

He grinned at himself in the mirror.  He could still dress like he was sixteen and get away with it.  He wouldn’t be able to for much longer before the booze caught up to him, but that thought never occurred to him.

Smirking at his youthful face in the blemished mirror, Adam shoved his hand down his shorts.  Tightly gripping his dick, still firm and meaty at the memory of the hot stud in the booth, he adjusted it to the right, laying it against his bare thigh so the bulge would be obvious in the flashy shorts.

Finally satisfied with his finishing touches, Adam left the restroom on his quest to snag himself a good hard top.

He’d heard the warning about being careful what one asks for, but he’d never understood it.  Tonight, he would.

The haze of smoke, the flash of strobes and the rattling bass of the music had turned the bar into a kaleidoscope of male flesh and lust.   Adam could still make out the dude, deep in the shadows.

He was still in the booth, his steely blue eyes casting a coldly appraising glance over the men on display.  There was something contemptuous in the stillness of his face that made a deep dark part of Adam’s soul throb.  His beautiful body, wrapped in denim and leather—Adam felt himself gasp in imagined pleasure.

He approached the dude’s table.  Reaching it, he stood silently, legs spread, hands on his hips.  Despite his overwhelming desire to be brutally cornholed by this stud, he managed to strike an arrogant pose so as not to sell himself short.

“You’re a big dude,” he jeered, “everything about you big?”  He’d cast his voice low and sultry but in his excitement, it had risen noticeably.

The older man glanced at him dismissively before silently turning his eyes back to the dance floor.  Not a muscle in his face had moved but his eyes.  Adam broke into a nervous sweat.  He tried again.

“C’mon, man,” he wheedled.  “You gotta nice big dick you can stick in me?”

This time the alpha male examined Adam more closely, his penetrating gaze sliding over the teen’s body as if he was sizing up a cut of meat.  A corner of his mouth curled in what might have been a sneer, but between the alcohol and the chaotic atmosphere of the club, Adam was incapable of noticing that level of detail.

When he finally spoke, it was in a deep guttural bass that seemed to vibrate the deepest root of Adam’s shaft.  “You lookin’ to get fucked?” he growled.

Suddenly, in the full spotlight of the stud’s attention, Adam was intimidated.  He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry; when he swallowed, all he got was a faint click.  He nodded dumbly.  There was something in the muscular dude’s immobile face that let him know he didn’t need to speak.  The message had gotten across.

The silence between them extended to an almost unbearable length before the older man spoke.  “Yeah, I could plow your hole. You gotta place I can bang ya?”

Adam nodded swiftly, recovering his voice as best he could. “Y-yes, over in-in F-f-farmington; it’s ab-about t-t-twenty miles d-down—“

“Fuck that,” snapped the stud.  “I got a room across the way.  C’mon.  And you better be a good fuck, boy, cause if you ain’t, I can damn sure make ya are one.”

Adam shuddered to his core; he was still too drunk to recognize the threat implicit in the statement.  He was shuddering in anticipation.

He stepped aside to let the alpha stud out of the booth.  The older man got up; his leather vest fell open, revealing the skin-tight t-shirt that highlighted every detail of his sculpted torso.  As the man stood in front of him, Adam couldn’t help but notice how his jeans exposed the massive ridge extending outwards from the dude’s crotch.

Adam quailed momentarily; even in his alcoholic stupor, this was a case of biting off more than he could chew, so to speak.  This guy was huge.  This was gonna hurt, and if this guy used him the way he wanted to be used, it was gonna hurt a lot.

Then he glanced up at the muscled top towering over him and decided it didn’t matter.  He wanted this man’s cock, no matter what it took.

Gulping nervously, he cleared his throat and spoke.  This time he got the low, throaty tone he’d been aiming for.  “Yeah, man, that’ll work.  You can put it up my ass, big boy.  Let’s see what you can do.”

This time there was no way he could miss the contemptuous smirk on the alpha’s face, but he disregarded it; he assumed it meant the dominant stud had accepted his challenge.  And indeed he had, but not how Adam had hoped for.

He eagerly followed the stud out the main entrance.


The Trooper shifted his firm ass in the leather seat of his cruiser; he’d been sitting there for some time and didn’t want it to fall asleep.  No telling how much longer he’d be sitting here; it was just past midnight and this place was open till two in the morning, if local ordinances didn’t allow it to stay open later.

Nonetheless, he was willing to spend the night here.  This was the second exit he’d checked on his return trip and he instantly recognized the rig in the bar’s parking lot.

He’d realized back at the state line that he’d focused too exclusively on truck stops.  A quick online search had shown him all the gay bars in this part of the state, and there weren’t too many.  He’d hit pay dirt his on his second stop.

Now all he had to do was sit in the dark and wait for his mark to leave the bar.  He’d parked at the back end of the lot, in a spot where he could see the bar entrance on one side of his field of view and the truck on the other.  He’d manage to catch sight of his man at some point between the two…

As he settled back into his seat, he saw the door open and two figures come out.  It was hard to discern details at this distance, but one was a kid in a shiny purple baller outfit and high black socks and shoes. The Trooper had actually noted him pulling into the lot a couple of hours ago in an ancient wheezy Mercedes.

The other was a tall, muscular man in jeans, a white t-shirt and a black vest, wearing a trucker’s cap…

The Trooper was instantly on the alert; it sure looked like the guy he’d seen before.  Same massive, muscular body.  There was more facial hair, but it had been several days.  It had to be him—

But they didn’t cross to the cab of the truck; instead, they turned the other direction and soon vanished around the corner of the building.

The Trooper grunted in frustration.  He was close, so close.  He knew it.  But he wasn’t about go into the bar and confront the dude in front of witnesses.

No, he had other plans.


As the Trucker opened the door to the room, his nose was assailed by the mingled reek of bleach and cigarette smoke.  He’d rented it earlier but hadn’t bothered to enter the room before; he knew what to expect anyway, more or less.  It was slightly cleaner than some of the other shitholes he’d been in lately, but still well used and run down.

As he stepped to the side to jerk the faded brown drapes over the window, the punk in the b-ball jersey came in, letting the door close behind him.  The Trucker crossed swiftly behind him to lock and bolt the door before turning to face the kid.

The old dented lampshades obscured much of the room in gloom, but the boy had taken the chair at the desk-dresser combo and was seated in a circle of light.  He shook his head as if to clear it, his unruly blond hair creating a golden aura about his head.  The kid grinned up at the older man, his eyes illuminated with lust.

The Trucker glanced down the teen’s tight, lithe body, his purple jersey revealing the full length of his firm arms, his biceps forming small mounds under his skin, which was covered with a faint golden down.  He sat with his legs spread wide, his smooth, muscled thighs parted and his skimpy shorts pulled up so that his entire package was lying out on the chair.  On top of his large puckered scrotum his dick, a long dark sausage-like tube projected from a tangled mass of red-gold curls.

The punk reached his hand down, gripping his meat tightly.  He shifted his feet, flexing his thick calf muscles in their tight black socks as he stared brazenly at the Trucker.

“So,” he drawled, “ya gonna fuck me or what?”

The Trucker looked down at the boy without saying anything.  Suddenly, his face twisted into a grim smirk.   “Sure, I’ll fuck ya.  You want the dick, you fuckin’ slut?  Work for it.  You gotta earn this cock, bitch,”

Still fully dressed, the Trucker reached down and unzipped his bulging fly.  His massive member was too long to flop out on its own—he had to reach in to set it free.  As it swayed and bobbed in the air, Adam’s eyes glazed over.

The Tucker gave a slight chuckle as he saw the kid’s cock get even darker and start to swell.

“Strip, you cunt,” he snarled, “gimme a show.”


The Trooper was uneasy.  He knew he had the right truck and he could have sworn that the guy he’d just seen was the driver.  But he didn’t go back to the truck.  So where did he go?

The only other option was the motel on the other corner.  As he pondered it, the Trooper became more certain that he’d let his quarry slip out of his sight.  He knew this predator liked to kill in motel rooms, but so far he hadn’t rented one on his own; the victims had all rented their deathbeds themselves.

And that kid hadn’t rented a room; the Trooper had seen him arrive.  So maybe this time the truck driver had rented a room for himself.

The Trooper quickly got out of his car.  If the dude was at the motel, he’d find him, but he didn’t want to park his car in the lot in case the killer glanced out the window at some point.  No sense spooking him.

Thick-soled boots pounding firmly on the pavement, the Trooper quickly crossed the street and approached the office, a brightly lit glass cube at one end of the L-shaped building.

Inside the office, the fluorescent lights gave off a maddening buzz which likely explained the half-crazed look on the face of the night manager.  She was a large older woman of indeterminate age with unkempt gray hair and cat-eye glasses.

She was a tough old broad who was there to take the money, hand out the keys and call in the local sheriff if anything got outta hand.  No, there hadn’t been no problems tonight.  And no, she didn’t remember any features of any of the guys staying.  Best she could do was tell him which rooms were occupied; if he wanted anything more, he was welcome to come back with a warrant…

The Trooper smiled graciously, stifling his irritation.  Fewer than half a dozen rooms were occupied; as he stepped out of the office, he noticed that one of the rooms she’d indicated was dark.  If this dude truly was what the Trooper thought he was, there should be some sound involved.

Crossing swiftly but quietly to the darkened motel room, the Trooper removed his peaked cap and pressed his ear to the door.  It was cheap hollow-core plywood, acting almost as sounding board.  The room on the other side was very quiet with the exception of one very distinct sound—snoring.

The young cop stepped back and straightened up.  He flexed his well-developed body, limbering up his back.  He hadn’t expected this room to be it.  The guy couldn’t possibly be done yet; what he did took too long.  And he didn’t do it in the dark, either; this sick fucker enjoyed watching his victims suffer.  It was gonna be one of the rooms that still had the lights on.

There were four other rooms to check.  Walking slowly so that the thick soles of his high leather boots didn’t make too much noise on the pavement, he approached the closest lighted room, crouching quietly, waiting and listening.


The Trucker slipped off his leather vest.  His tight white t-shirt underneath had a breast pocket with a distinctive rectangular bulge.  He fished out his pack of smokes, lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the cracked and yellowed glass ashtray on the desk.  Stripping out of his shirt, switching the cig from one hand to the other as he did so, the Trucker leaned back against the door and took a deep drag as Adam slowly rose from his chair.

Keeping his head pointed down, he turned his eyes up to the older man’s face, peering at him from under his sandy blond eyebrows.  A cocky leer twisted his face as he ran his hands down his body, stroking the shiny polyester material of his jersey and shorts.  He let them go down to his knees before pulling them back up, catching at the bottom of his shorts and pulling them up as well.

As he flashed his smooth inner thighs at the Trucker, Adam grinned with eager lust.  Raising his hands to his hips, he gave a quick shake and the shorts fell to the ground.  He still had the black socks clinging to his thighs and the leather sneakers tightly laced around his feet, but he was otherwise nude from the waist down.

Adam’s thick dark cock jutted like a masthead from the golden fleece of his pubic hair; already the Trucker could see a faint glint of precum welling from the slit at the tip of the swollen purple head.  The little fuck was excited.  He wanted to be used; it was obvious.  Smirking, the Trucker knocked his ashes onto the thin, cheap carpet.  He raised his left hand up to his large, hard nipple and began to stroke it.

Adam inhaled—more of a deep, shuddery gasp, really, a sound of pure desire.  “Fuck, man, I want your dick inside me so bad,” he moaned.

The Trucker sneered down at him.  “Ya want the D, motherfucker?  You gotta earn it first, bitch.  Let’s see what you can do.  Get over here and work my nips.”

Adam approached the Trucker hesitantly—not because he was sharp enough to pick up on any danger signals, but because he was so turned on by this older alpha dude that he was afraid the guy would suddenly vanish, like a mirage.

Or worse, change his mind.  Adam would do anything to prevent that from happening.  Whatever this guy wanted to do to him, however far he wanted to go, Adam was willing to endure it if it meant this stud would unload inside him.

It didn’t occur to him that there might actually be a “too far”.

Reaching out a trembling hand, he gingerly grasped the Trucker’s nipples between his thumb and forefingers, squeezing gently.  The Trucker took a deep drag of his smoke before responding with a jeer.  “Is that the best ya can do, slut?  I said work them, not tickle them, you stupid piece of shit.”

Closing his eyes, Adam gave another shuddering groan and began pulling more firmly on the alpha’s manteats, gradually increasing force and torque until he was twisting them violently.  Not a muscle in the Trucker’s face moved in response to Adam’s attention, but his massive cock had swung out like the boom of a ship, slapping against the boy’s slightly smaller but no less erect shaft.

“Put your mouth on ‘em, boy,” growled the Trucker, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray.  “If ya work ‘em good enough, I’ll stick my dick down yer throat.”

Adam bent his head forward and let his tongue explore the contours of the older man’s nipples.  Giving a faint grunt, the Trucker lit another cig and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the door.  He stood with his thick, denim-clad legs spread wide, boots placed far apart, dipping cock hanging out of his open fly.  The smooth youth clung to his hard sculpted torso, fingers curled into the stud’s chest fur.

The teen’s full red lips spread over the Trucker’s areola, loudly slurping on the firm broad pecs as the boy reached between his legs and began jacking himself off.  Suddenly the alpha grabbed the boy’s upper arms and pulled him off.  He blew smoke into the punk’s face and began barking orders at him while the kid coughed.

“Enough.  On your knees, cunt.  Time to see what it takes to make ya gag.  Down on your fucking knees and sit there like a pig with your mouth wide open.  Now, bitch!”

An undefinable sensation ran through Adam’s body like an electrical jolt; a remarkable combination of hot lust and cold chill.  Not being given to analysis, Adam heeded the one that felt best and obeyed.  He sank to his knees and opened his mouth eagerly.

Taking another drag, the Trucker stepped forward and flicked his ash contemptuously into the little slut’s face.  “Ready to choke on it, cunt?  C’mon, you can open wider than that, cocksucker,” he chuckled.

Suddenly, he sprang forward, snatching a fistful of Adam’s tousled blond hair and jerked the startled youth’s head down onto his hard shaft.  Before Adam could even brace himself, he found himself experiencing the most brutal skullfuck he’d ever endured.


The Trooper stood outside room 112, his ear pressed to the door.  This was the third door he’d tried—the second one with the lights on.  In the first lit room, he’d heard a lot of vigorous sex, but one of the voices was female.

He doubted his quarry was in the room, but he’d listened anyway; from the snatches of conversation he’d heard, the broad sounded like a whore.

Losing interest, the Trooper turned away.  Even if the whore ended up murdered, he could give a shit.  It wasn’t his problem. But he was anxious to find the killer and confront him.

In fact, his massive cock was throbbing in anticipation.

He’d paused and wheeled about in the parking lot, checking the location of the next rented room.  Now he was here, listening eagerly for any sound through the door.  So far, though, nothing but silence.

That worried him.  He didn’t think he was too late, but it was possible.  If not, that dude was probably murdering the kid he’d taken out of the bar right now.   The Trooper wasn’t concerned about stopping the murder; he wanted to catch the fucker red-handed—on the other hand, he could still have some fun even if the kid wasn’t dead yet.   He’d still be calling in a corpse or two by the time he was finished here.

But he didn’t want to take too long.  After all, if the guy was done, there wouldn’t be any sound to indicate which room.  There might be nothing but silence.

Like this room.

Damn!  Where was he?


Adam coughed and gagged on the massive tube of flesh blocking his throat.  He tried to look up at the Trucker, but his head was jammed so far into the dominant stud’s crotch that the dude’s wiry pubic hair scratched and scraped at his face like steel wool.

He pulled back involuntarily, in an instinctual attempt to breathe but the Trucker’s hands gripped his skull with vise-like strength, the crushing pain almost overriding the panic of suffocation.

“Swallow my dick, bitch, choke on it,” grunted the Trucker, holding Adam’s head immobile and pumping his hips violently.  “C’mon and gag, you worthless cumsucker.  Show me how much you like to get throatfucked, cunt!”

Adam reached up, trying desperately to get a grip on the older man’s torso, to find some way to get leverage and free himself, but it was futile.  He grasped at the alpha’s muscular flanks but they were sweaty with exertion and his hands slipped off.

His grasping, fluttering fingers slipped to the Trucker’s thighs and found purchase on the tight denim wrapping the powerful, thrusting legs.  He still couldn’t breathe, but he wasn’t strong enough to push back against the alpha top and get loose.

It happened suddenly—he couldn’t breathe, it was bad, it hurt—and the need to vomit.  He gagged up a huge froth of saliva and the Trucker pulled his huge dick out, letting the punk drool a long streamer of foam from his lips down onto his bare thighs.

Still kneeling, Adam leaned back against the bed.  He continued to cough and gag.

“Stupid little fuck, can’t take a real man, can ya, faggot?” sneered the Trucker.  “Let’s see if your fuckhole can do better than your useless mouth.  Can’t call ya a cocksucker, ya piece a’ shit—can’t even do that right.  Now take off that stupid fuckin’ jersey and get up on the bed.  On your back with your legs in the air, cunt.  NOW.”

Eyes closed, still gasping for air, Adam heard the man’s words and moaned faintly with pleasure.  Fuck, this was the real thing.  This dude was gonna give him his best fuck ever; he knew it.

He was right.

Quickly, tremblingly, he jerked the slick purple jersey off over his head.  He backed onto the bed, his smooth, slim body glistening with a light sheen of perspiration.  A faint golden haze, like the down on a peach, darkened the lower part of his smooth, flat belly, growing thicker as it descended towards his groin.

The Trucker lit another cigarette.  Still standing upright, legs spread with his shaft jutting straight out in front of him, he remained motionless as Adam positioned himself, watching the slut with no more expression than a faint sneer.

Settling himself with both pillows propping up his head, Adam was lying on his back.  He reached down and, placing his hands behind his knees, pulled his legs up and apart, spreading them for easy access to his asshole.  His fingers dug deeply into the silky-smooth flesh of his thighs; his calves and feet still covered with the black tube socks and black leather hightop sneakers, now hanging in the air, bobbing slightly—his toes curling in expectation of the pleasure to come.

The Trucker was only half-finished with his smoke when Adam finished arranging himself.  He grinned, but didn’t move.  Neither did Adam.  As if knowing instinctively what to do, he did nothing—remained there with his legs spread in the air, pink asshole pulsating, long-lashed eyes staring longingly at the silent alpha male who was leisurely finished his cig…

It was a silent but very intense moment that stretched out for an almost unbearably long time—and yet somehow did not lessen in intensity while it lasted.  Which was why neither of them heard the faint crunch of a booted footstep outside the door.

Nor did they hear it three minutes later, moving away.


The Trooper moved on to the next room, but he wasn’t happy.  That room had been too quiet.  Of course, whoever rented it could be out and have left the light on—but in this kinda place, that was unlikely.  Most customers rented for a short time for a specific purpose.  Once they left the room, they usually didn’t come back.

But he had other rooms to check.  Maybe he’d be hit paydirt with one of them.

Still, he couldn’t get the quiet room off his mind…


It ceased to be quiet fairly quickly.  The Trucker tossed his still-smoldering butt into the ashtray and approached the slut.  Grasping his massive club-like cock in one hand, he slapped it against the other as he approached the bed, splattering Adam’s lithe body with transparent drops of precum.

“Ready for it, cunt?” he jeered.  “Fuckin’ whore like you ain’t gettin’ no lube, so this is gonna hurt, even for a slut like you.”

Before Adam could respond, the alpha stud had parted his legs and placed the swollen purple head of his shaft against the teen’s quivering fuckhole.  As he felt the massive spade-shaped bulb press forcibly against his sphincter, the punk responded with sudden trepidation.  “H-hey, man—d-don’t hurt me, huh?”

The Trucker grinned but remained silent.  Lunging forward suddenly, he slammed his engorged tool up Adam’s pulsating rectum, feeling the boy’s sphincter resist, tightening around his shaft like a cockring.

Adam, suddenly confronted with horrible sexual trauma, squealed like a pig.  All the other dudes who’d fucked him were grateful for the experience, grateful that a slut with a youthful appearance would let them use his hole.  This was different.  It was obvious that this guy didn’t give a shit about poor little Adam and all the trouble he’d had in life.  This guy wanted to use him like an object and didn’t care what happened to him beyond that point.

It was terrifying and it made Adam hornier than he could have imagined.  He moaned loudly, his stretched-out ass muscle feeling every vein wrapped around the massive shaft jammed up his colon.

The Trucker leaned forward, his huge muscled form pressing down on the punk’s slim, smooth form.  Hooking his arms under the slut’s knees, he pulled the kid’s legs forward and up, rotating his ass so it was perfectly aligned to the natural angle of his own cock.

All he had to do was thrust.

He leered obscenely in Adam’s face.  “Ya like that, ya fuckin’ cunt?  Is that big enough for your reamed-out fuckhole, ya whore?  Damn, bitch, I fucked professionals tighter than you—you really are a worthless faggot slut, aintcha?”

Adam’s face was clenched tight in a grimace of pain; tears leaked from his eyes, pulled back into slits.  Loose?  What the fuck was this dude talking about?  Adam’s ass was so full of dick he was afraid—really afraid—that physical damage was being done to his rectum.

“P-please, man—“ he stuttered, “F-fuck, dude, y-y-you’re killin’ me, p-please!”

The Trucker bent his head down until his face was mere inches from that of the sobbing, gasping teen.  Staring deep into Adam’s bloodshot eyes, the alpha’s grin shone with gleeful malevolence.  “Not yet, cunt,” he whispered, “not quite yet, you stupid bitch.”  Then he spit in the kid’s weeping face.


The Trooper was standing in the recessed doorway of an empty room, far enough back in the shadows that he couldn’t be seen.  He was in a quandary; a bit of good luck was dragging on so long it could turn into bad luck.

He’d just started towards the fourth room when the door to the fifth opened.  The Trooper had instantly ducked into the darkness where he could observe the occupants.

And more than one guy was leaving the room, making it highly unlikely either was his quarry—this predator always left alone—he didn’t leave anyone alive to leave under their own power.  That took care of one of the last two rooms; he only had one more to check.  It had to be that one or the one he’d just left.  He should have enough time to confirm which one was right and catch the dude in the act.

The problem was these two faggots who’d just left the room.  They were still there in the parking lot.  One was a young man in his late twenties, slim with long brown hair; the other was a hairy bear of a man in his forties who kept wrapping his massive paws around the boy.

The Trooper seethed.  If he emerged from the shadows now, he’d freak them out.  And if they made too much noise, he’d spook his prey.  His eyes glittered with anger as he ground his teeth in the darkness.  If it wasn’t for the need for silence, he’d march out right now and arrest those fucking homos…

They parted, suddenly, each to his own car.  When they pulled out of the lot, they went in different directions.

The Trooper remained still until their taillights faded to pinpoints in the distance—but the moment that point was reached, he bolted across the parking lot towards the last door.  He had to take a moment to quiet his pounding pulse before he crouched, breathlessly, and pressed his ear to the door.


Drunk as he’d been, Adam was sobering quickly and very unwillingly.  The pain was phenomenal; the dude wasn’t just plugging his ass, he was tearing it.

The punk found himself unable to breathe; utterly incapable of exhaling, he could only gasp and croak like a landed fish, his ears ringing with the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling and dangling in front of his face, reflecting light from the dim bedside lamp hypnotically back into his face, pale and strained in agony.

He squealed in pain.  Above him, the hard-muscled Trucker pumped and grunted, sneering into the tortured youth’s tear-stained face.  “Shaddup, you worthless whore.  Ya got the cock ya wanted, so quit yer fuckin’ bitching cause yer startin’ to piss me off.  And trust me, cunt—you think you’re in pain now?  You have no fucking clue what pain is.  Yer gonna learn, though.  I’m really gonna get the fuck off teachin’ ya all about pain, you stupid piece a’ shit!”

The wailing boy pushed and shoved on the thick arms, knotted with muscles, which pinned his shoulders to the bed; it was as futile as trying to move a post embedded in concrete.  His frantic, grasping hands slipped on the Trucker’s sweat-slicked skin—suddenly he found himself beating against the alpha dude’s chest with as much effect as if he was beating an oak tree.  Deep in desperation, Adam clutched involuntarily at the older man’s chest hair, the wiry fur scratching his palms as he bleated in agony.

“Goddammit, you worthless little motherfucker, you ain’t worth keepin’ alive to fuck!” rumbled the Trucker in his deep bass voice.  “Yer makin’ too much noise and fightin’ too hard, you stupid slut, and you damn sure ain’t no virgin; yer ass is way too loose, cunt!”

Again, he hocked up a massive wad of phlegm and spit it contemptuously into Adam’s face, already smeared with snot from his continuous sobbing.  The teen kicked his feet, his black leather sneakers beating the air helplessly over his assailant’s shoulders.  He was still trying to push the Trucker off him, despite the obvious uselessness of the effort.

Adam’s drunken brain was mired in a fog of terror and physical pain that prevented him from thinking logically.  He had clearly been warned that his best bet of getting out of this alive was to lie still and take the dick, but in his pain and panic, he wasn’t able to control his reactions.

His smooth teen body writhed violently on the soiled sheets, twisting them under him as they began to absorb the sweat forced out of his agonized form.  The room positively reeked of mansweat and mansex as the Trucker pumped his own pheromones into the air to compete with those of the raped youth, already awash in the hormones common at his age.

But it was his squealing that broke the camel’s back.  Aside from the possibility that it might alert others, it had a pig-like tone that set off the Trucker’s misophony, the neurologically hard-wired rage reaction in response to certain aural stimuli.

In other words, the teen’s cries of pain and fear automatically invoked an overwhelming anger in the Trucker.  The intense desire to destroy the source of the sound descended on his consciousness like a red mist.  It triggered a nightmarish apocalypse that rained down on the emotionally-damaged boy, filling his last moments on earth with a silent howling vortex of terror.

It started with the homicidal glint in the Trucker’s eyes—a look as cold and cutting as a sharp blade.  When he spoke, it was in a low, controlled whisper that was somehow more chilling than any enraged screaming could have been.

“I’m done with ya, bitch.  Gonna waste ya and let your dyin’ convulsions milk the spunk outta my cock.  Ain’t no one gonna miss ya, you useless cum-suckin’ homo.  Hell, they’ll probably gimme a medal for puttin’ yer worthless ass down, heh!  Yeah, ya ready for it, faggot?  Time to die, motherfucker!”

Adam’s already-shrill scream started to spiral into a shriek but before he could get enough air, the Trucker sealed him off.  It happened so fast Adam never saw it coming—one moment the dude’s hands were pressing down on his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises, the next, they were doing the same thing across his face.

One large strong hand was clamped across him mouth like a vise, the other had slammed down across his nose violently, crushing it flat.

Adam couldn’t breathe.  And he couldn’t move—the Trucker was lying full-length on top of him, the weight of the larger, stronger man pinning the teen’s body deep enough into the cheap thin mattress that Adam could feel the springs digging into his back.

It just added more pain to the dark tornado of agony and terror that roared through Adam’s mind.

The Trucker looked down approvingly.  He leered maliciously into the youth’s bulging, horrified eyes—all of the boy’s face that was visible above his hands.  As he smiled, he tightened his grip brutally, digging his fingers deep into the flesh of the kid’s cheeks.  “Mmmmpphhh!” the punk moaned, his long lashes fluttering as his eyes rolled back in his head.

The last thing Adam heard as he plunged into a bottomless black sea of pain, was a faint whisper, “Lights out, bitch.”


Silence.  The Trooper was getting frustrated again.  He had to be in one of two rooms—but which?  They were equally quiet.  And he had to be sure; he didn’t want to tip the dude off by causing a ruckus at the wrong door.  It had to be sudden, a surprise.

Besides, he was still technically on duty and could be called away at any moment; otherwise he’d have just hung around and got the guy once he left the room.

Beyond that, though, he had his own reasons for wanting to catch the dude in the act.  Reasons that got him hard.  Reasons that would have gotten him fired and more if they became known.

Yeah, he wanted to find this dude.  He could really give a shit if the kid was still alive when he got there; he wouldn’t be for long in any case.

The Trooper stood, again feeling the need to stretch.  He flexed his thick firm legs, making sure not to thump the soles of his boots too loudly on the pavement.  Just as he was about to return to his listening position, a flash of headlights swept through the parking lot.  The lithe young man darted into an alcove between the rooms, a dark space containing a loudly-malfunctioning ice machine, just as a car pulled up a couple of spaces away.

From the recesses of the alcove, the Trooper was able to peer around the corner and observe the occupants.  Straight couple—odd for this neighborhood.  They got out of the car, still talking animatedly, but the ice machine made their conversation inaudible.  Closer inspection, though, revealed that the chick was a tranny.  They were probably arguing about her fee.

They needed to hurry up.  The Trooper still didn’t know where his quarry was.  He was getting impatient…


There were storms on the sea of pain and one of them tossed Adam up on the rocky shore of consciousness; a thin, sharp sensation as he struggled to inhale through his mashed nose, now so miraculously free.

The other pain, though…  Nothing had dimmed the excruciating torture in his rectum; the agony was so intense he half believed he was being sodomized with a splintered wooden shaft; he’d been fucked many times before, no dude’s cock could be tearing him up like that…

The Trucker loomed over him, grinning.  “Welcome back, slut.  Ya didn’t think I was gonna let ya go that easy, didja?”  Clenching the fingers still stretched over the boy’s mouth, the Trucker managed to elicit another squeal of distress.  He responded to it by spitting into Adam’s flushed, distorted face.

Leaning back down over the trapped youth, the Trucker lowered his voice to a deep guttural snarl.  “Naw, you useless motherfucker, you gotta earn a clean death.  I’m gonna kill ya now.  I’m gonna close off your air and let you slowly die on my cock.  It’s gonna hurt, bitch, it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.  There’s only gonna be one way to end the pain, faggot—ya gotta make me cum.  I promise, cunt—the moment I unload, I’ll snap yer neck and put you out of your misery.  But until then, I’m gonna make sure your last moments are nightmarish.”

Adam stared blankly up at his tormentor. He’d heard the words but the second he understood them he decided not to understand them. The Trucker, however, wasn’t going to let him get away with it.  “The more it hurts you, cunt, the better it feels for me.  The better it feels for me, the more I hurt you.  Only way to stop it is to work my shaft with your homo fuckhole till ya milk the sperm outta me.  Then I’ll end for ya, nice and quick.  Got it, punk?  Ya better, cause it’s time to saddle up and ride ya till ya die in a fountain of spunk—yee-haw, motherfucker!”

He bent down and with his face just inches from that of his victim, neatly pinched Adam’s nose off between his thumb and forefinger.

The kid started jerking and twisting his head.  The Trucker was strong enough to grind Adam’s septum between his fingers without letting the teen’s struggles have the slightest chance of breaking free—and all with no visible effort.

He simply lay on top of the kicking, panicking youth, his cock fully inserted into the punk’s shuddering colon.  Still gripping Adam’s jaw and clamping his nose shut, the Trucker stared into the boy’s wide, terrified eyes, watching them swell as the pressure built in his head…

“Bet it’s startin’ to hurt now, huh?  Can ya feel the blood pooling in your head?  That pounding you hear, that’s your pulse.  Your heart is trying to get the last of the oxygenated blood into your brain—cause once that stops, your brain starts dyin’.  And there ain’t no comin’ back from that, motherfucker.  So just lie back and enjoy the show, you worthless faggot slut, while I use your death throes to jack off.”

Adam was still awake enough to know what was happening.  His reflexes were still sodden with alcohol but without the merciful dulling of edges conferred by drunkenness.  His reaction was swift and violent.


The Trooper’s reaction was just as swift, but much less violent for the moment.  The guy and the tranny had gone into the room he’d been watching.  That could only mean one thing—it was the other room, the one on the other side of the lot.

He stepped out of the alcove and was about to cross the lot when a raucous burst of profanity drew his attention to five young men walking across the street from the bar, all in one group.  Half-dressed twinks, they slobbered and pawed over each other seemingly at random as they ambled towards the office.

Goddammit!  The Trooper slipped reluctantly back up onto the pavement in front of the rooms.  One of the punks had gone into the office, but the others were still standing about in a giggling gaggle of twee little boys.  The Trooper snorted with disgust as he edged his was around to the other side along the pavement, not openly crossing the lot.  In this case, the most direct way would have taken him right in front of the fluttering fuckin’ butterflies…

On the other hand, it might not be a bad idea to see which room they got.  Just in case this wasn’t as fun as he’d planned—nothing wrong with having a Plan B.


As Adam slowly died beneath him, the Trucker amused himself by taunting the traumatized youth, fucking his mind no less brutally than his ass.  As his cock ripped and tore the teen’s guts, his jeering slashed at the stunned boy’s psyche, flaying his soul with terror.

“What’s it feel like, boy?  What’s it feel like to die with a dick up yer ass?  What’s it like knowin’ yer gonna be found pumped fulla cum and snuffed in a cheap motel next to a faggot bar, huh?  Gotta make yer momma and daddy proud, son!  C’mon, you queer-ass cock-suckin’ bitch, you gotta earn my load!”

Adam’s expression was one of terror and baffled despair; above the strong, tight, suffocating hands of his killer, his skin of his face was becoming livid and blotchy.  His blond hair was dark and slick with sweat, the cold sweat forced out of the dying punk’s body in instinctive reaction to the fiery pain in his chest and head.  His legs kicked frantically, one of his hightop sneakers flying off his foot and bouncing off the right-hand wall.

“Fuck yeah, you goddam homo whore, keep workin’ my tool—just like that, yeah.  Keep it up cunt, work for yer death.  It’ll be quick, faggot.  I’ll shatter your vertebrae so the bone shards slice open your spinal column.  It’ll hurt, holy fuckin’ hell, it’s gonna hurt but if ya keep goin’ out this way, it’ll be even worse—it’ll be a lot longer.

So c’mon, ya piece of shit, time to decide.  Work my ass.  Work with me, boy, and I’ll end your useless life in a swift blast of excruciating pain—

—or let your will to live keep you alive for another few seconds as I narrate what parts of your brain are dying.  Your choice.  Let’s see how much of a masochistic pig you really are.  You wanna die, to end it?   Work with me now.  That’s it, son, work with my thrusts, let your quivering fuckhole massage my dick.  Yeah, boy, you’re gettin’ it.  Keep it up and I’ll stop the pain.  Just like that, yeah, and I snuff your worthless life and end your misery.”

Adam nodded violently, but it would have been difficult for an outside observer to tell if it was in acquiescence or involuntary.  He was back in the howling black vortex, but this time was different—Adam didn’t want to escape.  His universe had coalesced into a bright point of burning pain and all that could assuage the agony was the icy coldness of death.

And that’s when he shot his wad.

All his pain, all his trauma, all his bitterness seemed to be distilled into his semen; it burned like acid as it boiled its way out of his somehow-erect cock, the sheer flaming agony of his over-sensitive nerves highlighting the shocking sense of physical betrayal as the shattered remains of Adam’s personality were sucked into frigid eternity.

One last spark of sentience received pain stimuli from the rectum and lower intestines; a sensation of boiling liquid heat.  There was no time to process the sensation of having cum shot up his dying ass; Adam simply registered the pain and died.

The Trucker gasped and steadied himself on the bed, his dogtags jangling as his muscled form shuddered in orgasm.  Beneath him, the punk’s face was almost black, his eyes swollen horribly.  The Trucker smiled gently and whispered, “Promised I’d snap yer neck if ya got me off.”

Still grasping the youth’s jaw with one hand, the Trucker wrapped the other in Adam’s sweat-drenched hair.  A quick, brutal jerk, instantly followed by the snapping, shattering sound of a greenstick fracture, and the teen’s head lolled limply and grotesquely on his chest.  As his vertebrae exploded, his body jerked as if an electrical shock had been applied—as indeed it had; one last blast of electrochemical activity along dead nerves.  The corpse’s cock, jolted back to life momentarily, stood up and sent one last spurt of seed up to splash against the underside of the Trucker’s jaw.

Trembling and tingling with the pleasure of a job well done, the Trucker slid his still-engorged shaft, still slimy with his own cum, out of the corpse’s quivering asshole.  His swollen purple head popped out of the torn sphincter, followed by a pink discharge of mingled blood and semen.

He needed to calm down for a moment, to regain some control and slow his breathing and pulse.  Scooping his t-shirt off the floor, he fished his smokes and lighter out of the pocket.  Lighting one, he relaxed and admired the view of Adam’s smooth lean body sprawled helplessly on the bed, feet still kicking–one tightly laced in its black leather sneaker, the other only half-covered by the Nike athletic sock which was being slowly pulled off by the corpse’s convulsions.

Striding quickly to the bathroom, the Trucker tossed his butt into the toilet and flushed it before turning on the shower.  He followed his prior MO of cleaning himself off and tossing the towels in the shower to wash away the evidence.  But unlike the last one, this cunt might not have been with anyone else tonight.

Time to wash some meat.

Stepping back into the room, the Trucker grabbed the corpse’s hand and dragged the still-kicking body into the bathroom, positioning it so he could get it into the bathtub and flush out the anal cavity.

And then a knock at the door changed everything.

M4M Oedipus Sex

Joe was relaxing, at least for the moment.  He sat shirtless on the sofa, his tight jeans hanging open and unbuckled, his feet propped up on the coffee table. He was playing with a cell phone, occasionally swigging from a bottle of beer at his side.

He wasn’t familiar with this kinda phone; it was the one he’d taken off the bitch he’d choked.  He’d held on to it for a couple of days while he kept his eye on the news.  There’d been a brief mention of a body found in a motel room, then a flare of attention as the story of the photo surfaced.  The pic of the boy’s corpse had been quickly scrubbed off the internet but public interest was really high.

So it would have to be a particularly stupid—or uncontrollably horny—faggot putting himself out online for sex now, at least in this part of town.  Joe had been planning to write another ad himself, but he didn’t know how much could be traced back to him from the last cunt’s computer.  And anyway, his curiosity had gotten the better of him.  There were several hookup apps on the kid’s phone and he wanted to see what was out there.

He didn’t have to search long.  The first app he looked at allowed anonymous postings; within the first two pages, he found what he wanted.


My daddy is out and I’m home alone.  18, 122, 5’8”.  Daddy’s a SWAT officer—can you fill his boots and my hole?  Don’t have a car so I gotta host, lol.

–Daddy’s Boy”

Joe’s dick was so hard it hurt.  Damn.  He hoped no one had gotten to this boy yet.  He wanted daddy?  Joe could do that.

Deep in thought, he was unaware of the evil leer that twisted his handsome but somehow cold face.  Oh yes, he could do that.  He could be a very good daddy—or a bad one, depending on the definition.


You wanna get dicked down by daddy?  Let’s roll.  32, 170, 6’4”.  Got some fatigues I can wear.


He never used the same screen name twice.  While he waited for a response, he popped off the couch and went into the bedroom, rummaging in the closet briefly until he found his desert camo outfit.  They were the real thing; he’d bought a complete army combat unit—ACU—from an army surplus store.

The sand-colored t-shirt was a couple of sizes too small; it wrapped so tightly around Joe’s muscled torso it looked wet.  He tucked it into the camo-patterned pants before buttoning the form-fitting pants around his slim waist.  He got the jacket on—it was too warm to close it up—and was just slipping on the socks when a chime from the dead kid’s phone alerted him to a message.

So the stupid little fucker was gonna respond, knowing that there was a killer out there?  Joe grinned again as he accessed the app and read the note.

“Damn daddy I want u in me.  What size shoe u wear?”

Joe paused, intrigued.  He responded.  “12—why?”

The reply was immediate.  “Perfect will u wear daddy’s boots when u fuck me? 1280 Stafford Ave/home alone front door unlocked/upstairs 1st door on left/ill be naked on bed waiting”

Still chuckling, Joe sent a message in the affirmative.  There was a perverse thrill in fucking and snuffing the teen while wearing his father’s boots.  Of course, he still needed something to wear on the way there.  He slipped on a pair of short black leather engineer boots; he could quickly remove them when he got there.

He knew the address; a relative had lived around the corner at one point.  It was an upper middle class neighborhood about twenty minutes away.  He considered that it might be some kind of trap, but only briefly; he had too much common sense to think such an elaborate ruse likely.

Of course, he also had too much common sense to take chances; when he got there, he parked on a side street two blocks up, pulling up the last block with his lights off.  As he approached the house, he walked on the grass verge on the far side of the sidewalk to avoid the inevitable thumping his thick-soled boots would cause.

The house was large, with a stone fascia stretching up two stories.  It was also dark; there was no sign that anyone was there, but that was what he expected.  The massive front door, unlocked as promised, was set with two large panes of glass, frosted and worked with lead.

Joe found himself on a square of tile surrounded by what seemed like a sea of neutral-colored carpet stretching off into the darkness.  As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he became more aware or his surroundings—dining room on the right, huge useless formal living room to the left, hallway straight ahead probably leading to kitchen.  The stairs started in the living room and curved up into blackness.

What a nice expensive house to desecrate with a rape and murder.

He started up the stairs, not caring how much noise he made now—in fact, he made sure the bitch knew he was coming.  The kid needed to be ready.

The kid was ready.  JC was so excited, he was afraid he was gonna cum before the dude got in the room.  He was a horny little fucker and had already jacked off twice that day, but he was so full of hormones and semen that he was almost literally ready to spunk at the slightest touch.

His dad had been doing yard work.  JC sat at his window overlooking the back yard, watching the muscled older man work his half-dressed body in the afternoon heat, cutting the grass and edging.

As daddy thrusted and flexed his hard, sweaty torso, JC beat his meat frantically, imagining getting brutally fucked by his macho father.

It’d never happen, of course, his father was ex-military and straighter than an arrow.  He was out right now at some strip club with his police buddies; he’d likely bring back a whore to fuck sometime after the place closed—he usually did.

JC’s bedroom was next door; he always liked listening to daddy grunt and pump on the other side of the wall.  Tonight, though, he had other ideas.   Tonight, he was get as close to daddy as he could.

The guy he’d contacted online had the same build and stats as JC’s dad, except for the age.  And he’d said he’d fuck him wearing military gear and daddy’s boots.

So it seemed only logical that he’d get fucked on daddy’s bed.

JC entered his father’s bedroom confidently, knowing he had at least a couple of hours before the titty bar closed.  The room was done in a dark masculine blue, with a black wrought iron metal bed covered with a simple fleece blanket.  JC swept it back, knowing that the linens underneath were high-quality; dad like to fuck his whore on 800-thread count percale—almost as smooth as satin.

The room was dark but there was enough reflected light bleeding through the open blinds from the streetlights outside to allow him to see.  Evidence of daddy was everywhere; combined with the scent of his cologne, it made a heady mix that would have gotten him hard if he wasn’t already.  Happened every time he entered the room.

His father’s black leather boots were on the floor in front of the dresser.  The laces were still tightly tied; the zippers up the sides were undone.  Daddy had put most of his tactical gear in the closet and locked up his gun, as usual, but there were some bits and pieces scattered about.

One of his many pairs of handcuffs was on the nightstand; daddy was probably gonna use ‘em on his whore later.  A belt of webbed black nylon, with a hard plastic clasp, was slung over the headboard of open ironwork.  Looking at them, JC felt his dick throb.  Aside from his socks, he was nude; it jutted in front of him, long, erect and dripping on daddy’s thick pile carpet.  The desire to be used like a slut swept over him; the horny teen decided he’d ask his hook-up to use the handcuffs.

He was in his own home, in his cop father’s bedroom.  The thought that he was in any kind of danger never crossed his lust-filled mind.

Sweeping back the blanket, JC climbed onto the bed.  He gathered up the pillows, propping them under his head so he could lie back at an inclined angle.  Sighing with comfort, he stretched out on his back on the expensive sheets, reflecting that even the bed smelled like daddy.  The idea tripped his raging hormones into overdrive—where was the guy?

There—in the silent house, he could hear the front door open, quickly followed by heavy footsteps across the foyer.  JC eagerly tracked the footfalls up the stairs.

He was right outside the door.  It was gonna happen.  JC was gonna get fucked in daddy’s bed by a hard dude in military gear and daddy’s boots.

JC wasn’t a virgin, but he had never hooked up with an anonymous stranger before and he’d never had sex in his own home before—much less in daddy’s bed.  The excitement was intense.  He closed eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to slow his racing heart.  If he didn’t calm down, he’d blow his wad before the guy was in the room…

Joe paused at the door at the top of the stairs.  It was about halfway open, the ambient lighting giving a faint glow to the darkly-hued walls.  He could make out a figure recumbent on the bed, moving slightly.

He stepped into the room and approached the bed.  The teen was stretched out, his smooth, lithe body glistening slightly in the half-light, sweating in the warmth of the night.  Joe reached down and switched on the bedside lamp.

The kid had evidently been in the dark for some time; he winced and shielded his eyes.  “What’s that for?” he whined.

“I like to see who I’m fucking.  C’mon, boy, lemme see your face.”

The kid blinked a couple of times, then rolled back onto his back.  Under long, disheveled sandy blond hair, hazel eyes flashed up, now green and now brown, framed by silky black lashes.  The young, eager face was shaded with a faint fuzz, noticeable on the upper lip.

His body was slim but not thin; the kid had some muscles.  He had firm thighs and calves; his feet were bare except for black ped socks that ended below his ankles.  His pecs gave a rise to his chest and his abdomen was smooth and flat.  A slight trail of fur started on his lower belly, growing darker and thicker as it merged with his pubic hair.  From that curly mass, the teen’s thick cock stood erect.  Long and thick (although neither longer nor thicker than Joe’s), it rose stiffly like a pole, the tip glittering with moisture.

Joe grinned.  Hot little motherfucker—he was gonna enjoy raping him.

He was gonna enjoy murdering him even more.

JC was even more pleased—damn, this dude looked almost exactly like daddy had in those old photos taken back when he was in the military.  He even had a real ACU—JC knew what that was; he’d obsessed on his father’s various uniforms and tactical outfits.  Holy fuck.  Holy fucking shit, daddy was gonna fuck him…

“Over there,” he muttered breathlessly, nodding towards the dresser.  “His boots—please, dude…  Fuckin’ fuck me in—“

He was almost incoherent in his lust.  Joe’s grin became downright evil, but it didn’t matter, the horny piece of shit probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d pulled out a weapon—speaking of which, he took a quick glance around the room.

The black combat boots in front of the dresser were clearly what the cunt wanted.  Bracing himself against the wall with one hand, Joe kicked off his black engineer boots one at a time.  He padded over to the dresser in his socks before snatching them up.  He sat at the foot of the bed and slipped them on, zipping them up. Already tightly laced, they encased his feet snugly and firmly.

No matter how much thrusting he did, he’d have plenty of traction.

Quickly rising, Joe stood at the side of the bed, towering over JC.  Looking down on the slut coldly and contemptuously, he slowly slipped out of his jacket, revealing his magnificent torso wrapped tightly in the khaki-brown t-shirt.  Tucking his hands down below the trouser waist, he grabbed the bottom edge of the shirt and slowly, almost sinuously, peeled it up and over his head, giving JC a view of his bulging pectorals and furry washboard abs.

The teen faggot gasped, his heart skipping a beat.  This was gonna be better than he ever imagined.  “Th-the cuffs…” he stuttered, gesturing towards the gleaming metal item on the nightstand.  “Y-ya wanna put ‘em on me?  It’s ok…”  As he wallowed in his pig-like lust, he was almost breathless.

Joe snatched up the handcuffs.  As he leaned menacingly over the kid, JC reached up, fondling Joe’s chest, twining his fingers in the wiry fur before moving up to feel the bulging biceps, hard as steel.

Joe smirked openly.  “What, ya wanna get raped by yer daddy?  Is that what you’re lookin’ for, boy?  C’mere, bitch, gimme those hands before I have to take ya down!”

JC felt the older man’s overwhelming strength—and his own powerlessness against it—as Joe grabbed his arms, roughly forcing them up over his head.  Before he could react, cold steel was tightened painfully around his wrists, the cuffs looped through the open ironwork of the headboard.  He was bound to the bed, unable to free himself on his own.  These were law enforcement handcuffs of case-hardened steel.  The only way out was with the key.

“Fuck me, daddy, c’mon!” JC moaned, lost in a tidalwave of hormone-fueled lust.  “Stick your fuckin’ SWAT cop cock up my ass!  Show your son how much ya want him, how much ya wanna plow his hole!”

But Joe didn’t move.  JC looked up at his surrogate father’s face and felt the first flash of unease as he met the older dude’s ice-cold eyes and expressionless face.  Daddy was supposed to fuck him long and hard, telling him how much he loved his boy.

This guy didn’t look like he loved his boy.  His disdainful stare left JC uncertain what was happening.

Joe broke the tension of the moment by reaching into his pocket while simultaneously sitting on the edge of the bed next to JC.  He’d fished out his pack of cigarettes; JC’s eye grew wide with concern as Joe proceeded to light one up.

“Dude!” he yelled, “You can’t do that!  No one smokes in here; my dad’ll smell that sure as shit!”

Joe turned his head slowly.  Cold and hard, he gazed down into JC’s concerned face.  “So?”

“B-but you’re gonna get me in trouble!  C’mon, man, don’t do this to me!”

“You have no idea what I’m gonna do to ya, boy.  Get ya in trouble?  Bitch, you’re already there!”

Joe’s smile was even colder and harder than his previous expressionless state.  An icy thrill ran through JC’s body as the awareness of his vulnerable position slowly percolated through his thick, slow-moving mind.

The terrifying awareness only grew as Joe contemptuously flicked his ashes over both JC and the bed.  “Please!  Daddy’s gonna kill me when he finds out about this!” the teen begged.

Joe exhaled a cloud of smoke into the helpless boy’s face.  As the teen cunt coughed and choked, Joe chortled deeply.  “Yeah, daddy’s gonna kill ya, bitch,” he sneered, “and he’s gonna cum in your worthless homo fuckhole when he does.”

JC didn’t react, largely because he was incapable of comprehending what he’d just been told—if he didn’t know better, it sounded like this hot daddy lookalike wanted to kill him.  But that was nuts.  It couldn’t be right.

“Dude, enough—lemme up!  Goddammit, I’m gonna get so fuckin’ grounded when he gets home!  Lemme up NOW or I’m gonna call the cops!”

Joe laughed.  He bent his head back and laughed loudly and contemptuously.  “Ya wanna call the cops, you little motherfucker?  Wanna call in your daddy’s friends so they can tell him how his punk-ass queerboy son got scared after lettin’ a dude come over to fuck ‘im?  Yeah?  C’mon, you stupid cunt, it that what ya want?”

JC’s face went blank.  The teen had managed to get by on his looks; his angelic, boyish face had charmed a lot of people.  His mental abilities, consequently, were atrophied and nowhere near up to dealing with what was going on.  The boy was simply not capable of understanding the situation.

Joe had expected this—they never really believed they could die, not the young, stupid ones.  Even as they screamed in the agony of death, they didn’t get it until the very end.

Thank God.  Getting them to that final realization of mortality, that moment when they gave up their last vital spurt of semen, was what made dealing with these useless cunts worthwhile.

Joe’s assessment of JC’s mental state was accurate; the kid’s heart was speeding in fear, but it was fear of what his father was gonna do when he got home.  He was concerned to the point that he forgot about the sex—but not for long.

Taking another drag, Joe set the cigarette carefully on the edge of the nightstand, noting the way the teen’s worried eyes followed him.  Standing over the prone youth, he maintained an icy eye contact as he slowly reached down and unfastened his fly.  As soon as his thick hog fell out, the boy broke the contact to gape at the massive tube of meat. Joe chuckled at he picked his smoke back up.

As swiftly obsessed with the smoking as JC had been before, it slipped just as quickly out of his mind as Joe’s enormous cock dangled over him, clear precum dripping on the punk’s smooth flesh.  He gasped, struggling in a wave of both fear and lust.

“Oh daddy…” he whispered.  Joe stiffened, a cold, tight grin on his face.  The cunt had surrendered.   Not as if Joe would have given him a choice, the fucker was cuffed to the bed and wasn’t leaving it alive.  But he liked knowing that the punk’s desire for him was greater than his fear.

Even though he’d already told the stupid piece of shit he was gonna get snuffed.  Goddam.  Motherfucker’s gotta want his daddy’s dick bad.  Joe decided it was time to oblige.

Leaning forward, he ground his butt out on the smooth varnished surfaced, deliberately provoking a reaction.  He liked his victims kicking a little when he penetrated them.

JC squealed indignantly, stunned at the desecration of his father’s bedroom.  His attention was still on assessing the damage when Joe’s massive cock was thrust brutally up his ass.  There was no warning, no lube, no slow accommodation—there was just an enormous shaft of meat impaling his tender rectum.

He screamed.  At least he thought he did; a deafening shriek echoed in him mind.  The fact that it never emerged from his mouth was due to the fist that Joe slammed into the kid’s face.  The pain was almost unnoticed in the trauma he was already experiencing, the physical assault overwhelmed by the sexual.

Then a pause.  Joe was fully inserted, his pubic hair grinding and scraping against JC’s smooth, peach-fuzz-covered asscheeks.  The teen lay back, not resisting, gasping and hyperventilating.  He was utterly unaware of the bruise darkening the left side of his face, or that his lower lip was split.

This was it.  This was daddy sex.

It hurt.  It hurt bad.  JC was starting to panic; the agonizing sensation of a hard shaft thrust up his ass was so intense, he was unable to catch his breath.  Now he could hear himself—he could hear the high-pitched whine he was emitting with his gasping.

The man over him was silent, his eyes cold slits that seemed to hide a glittering rage.  JC could feel the hard muscled body pressing him down, see the matted fur on the alpha’s heaving chest.  The older man’s musky scent filled the boy’s nostrils as he shuddered in pain, writhing on the smooth sheets.

Joe smirked down at the moaning teen.  “Feels good, don’t it, cunt?  Yeah?  Ya like that, yer gonna fuckin’ love this!”

He began thrusting his hips violently, knowing the boy hadn’t had time to get his tight sphincter accommodated to the huge tool spearing it.  He felt his shaft, ribbed with veins, pumping deeply into the kid’s tender, quivering fuckhole as the little slut thrashed his legs, kicking desperately at Joe’s back.

JC’s eyes widened in agony.  As he inhaled deeply, prior to letting out a massive shriek, Joe leaned down and grabbed the punk’s throat with one hand, drawing his other back in a fist.

“Lissen up, you cocksucking faggot,” he snarled, “You make one more sound and I’m gonna fuck you up bad.  I’ll start by breaking your jaw and just kinda work my way around my face.  Ya got me, motherfucker?  Ya feelin’ what I’m sayin’?  Just take the dick, bitch, like you’re supposed ta.”

Then he leaned down, glaring intently into the youth’s eyes, awaiting the erotic moment when fear overcame pain.  It was the way the agonized, frantic light in the cunt’s eyes faded and died.  They glazed over momentarily, only to be quickly filled with another light—dim at first, but fated to grow ever more intense until it went out permanently.

JC knew to the depths of his soul that the man fucking him, the man over him and in him, was deadly serious about what he’d said—not that he had any idea how deadly yet.  Even so, he was unable to remain completely silent.

“Daddy?” he whispered tearfully, “Please don’t hurt me—please don’t.  Y-you can fuck your boy, oh please, d-daddy…I want you daddy, just please don’t hurt your boy…”

The teen boy’s smooth face, pleading and distraught, his large tear-rimmed hazel eyes framed by long dark lashes, would have melted a heart of lead.

Joe’s heart was stone.  Stone doesn’t melt.  He leaned down slowly, almost gently, before spitting in JC’s face.

“You don’t want daddy to hurt you?  What the fuck you think daddy is here for?  Shut the fuck up and take my cock, you stupid piece of shit!”

Before the fuckmeat could react, Joe started pumping vigorously, long swift strokes ramming his swollen purple head into as-yet unreached depths of the kid’s colon.  And again, taking advantage of the pause as the punk inhaled to get enough air to scream, Joe quickly rabbit-punched the youth, snapping a cheekbone.

“Ya didn’t do what daddy said, you worthless cumsucking homo, so daddy’s gotta make ya.  Now lessee—whadda we got to keep daddy’s useless punk quiet?”  Joe glanced around and noticed the webbed belt draped over the headboard, easily within reach.  Grinning broadly and evilly, he bent down over the helpless boy.  “Ya like daddy’s shit, huh?  Lessee how much ya like daddy’s belt around your throat, you useless faggot slut!”

Joe was experienced.  Under different circumstances, JC might have appreciated the swift smoothness with which Joe, in a single movement, wrapped the belt around both of his broad, strong hands and around the trapped punk’s neck simultaneously.

JC was drowning in a tidal wave of pain, too caught up in trauma to pick up much of what the alpha stud was saying.  It felt like a hand grenade had been shoved up his ass and detonated.  The rugged material of the guy’s camo pants was scraping and burning the smooth flesh on the inside of his firm thighs; he wasn’t helping matters himself as he frantically flailed his legs.  The dude was too big, too strong, for JC to get his legs up under the older man’s ripped torso and push him off.

Joe had had enough; the little slut was pissing him off.  “What’s wrong, you stupid piece a’ shit?” he snarled, “Thought ya wanted a daddy to fuck ya!  You’re a goddam useless faggot if ya can’t even take daddy’s dick—but don’t worry, motherfucker.  I’m still gonna fuck ya—up.”

Bending down over the agonized, terrified teen, Joe spit in his face before whispering “What’s that thing fathers always tell their sons when they’re pissed—‘Boy, I brought ya into this world and I can take ya out’?  Well, tonight, let’s pretend I’m step-dad—not there for the first part, but there for the second.  I’ll take ya outta this world.  You can ride daddy’s dick all the way into your grave.”

He pulled the webbed belt tight around the kid’s neck.  There was no hesitation, no chance to comprehend the concept of death.  In the depths of an excruciating rape, JC suddenly found himself getting strangled.

Oh fuck.  Oh fuck.  It was worse than he could have ever imagined.  There was no air.  He didn’t understand what was happening—he’d wanted to get fucked by daddy but daddy was a straight faggot-hating SWAT cop.  He’d put himself out for something as close as possible—and he was, this dude looked so much like daddy and was wearing his boots and military gear—it was perfect.  How did it go wrong?

Joe could see the helpless bewilderment in the punk’s face.  The struggles of the trapped youth were erotic as fuck; he fought for air, he fought to free himself, he fought to stop the violent rape—and it was all utterly useless.  His smooth, firm legs thrashed against his assailant’s sweaty flanks, the sound of skin slapping together loud in the half-dark bedroom—louder even than the grunting and choking from JC’s closed-off windpipe.

“You’re dying, you fuckin’ cocksucker—how’s that feel, huh?  Ya likin’ daddy’s hard tool now that he’s showin’ ya what he does to worthless faggot boys?”  Joe jeered down into the kid’s twisted, swelling face.

JC was enveloped in a wall of fiery pain; the nightmarish agony of his impaled asshole now joined with the crushing pain in his throat and the mounting pressure in his head and chest.  His ears rang and pounded as he frantically jerked his arms, making the handcuffs clatter loudly against the headboard.  He wrapped his slim but strong legs around Joe’s abdomen, his feet, still in his low black socks, drumming desperately against the alpha’s slick pumping back, able to feel every single thrust between his legs as well as deep in his guts.

Joe loomed over the dying teen, his iron-hard arms jammed straight down into the bed with the black nylon belt wrapped tightly around his hands, forcing the little fucker’s neck so deep into the pillow that he head bent slightly forward, aiming his face directly at Joe’s

Joe watched intently as he grunted and pumped his shaft into the punk’s traumatized colon.  The boy’s beautiful hazel eyes were no longer beautiful, or even hazel.  As they began bulging excruciatingly from their orbits, blood vessels both within and around the eyes began rupturing, stippling the kid’s face with petechial hemorrhages.

JC thrashed, blindly, violently, doing his damnedest to straight-arm death.  He was young and strong, and even though he was overpowered and out-matched, he fought for his life with the desperate strength of panic. Despite the black roses blooming in his mind as parts of his brain began to die, he still believed that he could get out of this situation alive.

Joe was well aware of this; most of these stupid little cocksuckers had no concept of their own mortality.  Well, at least not until it was placed in context for them, ignorant pieces of shit…

“Lights out, cunt,” he whispered, bending close to the teen’s swelling, blackening face.  “Lookitya, motherfucker, yer chokin’ and droolin’ like a fucking dog.  Yer dyin’ with my dick up yer ass and it feels so fuckin’ good, bitch.  And ya know who’s gonna find ya?  Daddy!  That’s right, daddy’s gonna come home and find your fucked-out, choked-out corpse cuffed to his bed.  Think he’s gonna beat off over your raped ‘n murdered body?  I bet he spits on your disgusting faggot meat and burns the fuckin’ mattress!”

In the depths of JC’s mind, there was a tiny part of his personality left alive in the eye of the electrochemical storm caused by his failing, short-circuiting brain.  It still felt pain, and it could still feel and acknowledge humiliation.  He was sliding into an icy pit of terror, desperately trying to claw his way with the last of his strength, anything to avoid that, oh please, oh fuck, don’t let daddy find me like this don’t let him find me fucked and strangled in his bed—

Snarling and gritting his teeth, Joe pulled his arms tight, his biceps bulging, sweat and pheromones forced out of his muscular body by the effort of the snuff.  His hips were thrusting so swiftly, it felt almost like an automatic reflex, not controlled by conscious thought.  As the teen died, his sphincter contracted spontaneously, cinching up on Joe’s thick purple rod, making it even more sensitive to the velvet-like interior of JC’s shredded rectum.

As the punk’s head began shuddering, the older stud realized that the youth was entering the final stretch; brain death was starting to set in.  He could feel his spunk boiling up, his huge balls contracting as his scrotum prepared a geyser of semen.

It was time.

One last brutal jerk of his arms and he was rewarded with the dry cracking sound of shattered cartilage as the boy’s esophagus collapsed.  His body responded by immediately convulsing in violent death throes; Joe could only hang on to the bucking bronco of dying flesh, letting its quivering colon grasp and stroke his engorged cock.

JC’s face, black and twisted beyond recognition, shuddered as his tongue protruded grotesquely between swollen blue lips, foam oozing down the boy’s twitching cheeks.

Suddenly the teen’s slim, lithe body jerked violently; as his feet kicked convulsively, one black ankle sock was yanked off; it was later found in the corner of the room by CSI.

The boymeat gripped his killer instinctively and uncontrollably; his thick cock started to spurt a steady stream of cum.  The dying cunt didn’t just shoot a wad; a fountain of sperm erupted from his rigid shaft as if his death load had to pump out all the genetic material he’d ever produce.

As hot spunk splashed over Joe’s chiseled chest, he lost his control and, pulling the corpse onto his dick by the belt around its neck, flooded the teen’s intestines with his boiling seed.  In the back of his mind, he was aware that he was yelling, cursing the useless little faggot, the cumsucking teenager, worthless piece of shit—

He gasped abruptly, coming back to himself, still violating the youth’s corpse but slowing down the frequency of his thrusts as he coated the cunt’s guts with sperm.  The kid was still convulsing, his mindless body jerking and shuddering on the semen-soaked sheets, his quivering sphincter still stroking Joe’s engorged, sensitive rod.

Joe grunted and trembled, holding himself still, letting the teen slut’s final death spasms milk the last drops of cum from his dick while a few pearly beads oozed from JC’s cock.  The muscles at the root of the boy’s tool clenched in cadaveric spasm, leaving his purple shaft swollen with blood and still hard even in death.

Gripping the youth’s jerking legs tightly so they wouldn’t slip out of his hands, the muscled stud slowly withdrew from the corpse’s torn and ripped asshole.  Joe stood up and retrieved his shirt and jacket from the floor where he’d tossed them. He fished his smokes out of the breast pocket on the jacket and lit one up while he relaxed a bit, surveying his work.

It was a striking composition, a very stark tableau.  JC was lying on his back, still shuddering.  His feet, one still in a black sock, jerked across the smooth dark sheets.  A faint rattling sound came from the headboard where the convulsive clenching of the corpse’s fists were shaking the handcuffs against the iron.

The teen’s face was horrifying, head thrown back, eyes and tongue protruding, his skin black and swollen with his distended lips highlighted by the fountain of foam that had seeped from his blocked-off mouth and even now was drying into a scaly crust on his grotesquely dark cheeks.

The condition of the body told the story.  The legs spread, blood and cum dripping from the boy’s ass, were clear indications of the brutal rape, the black swollen face and the torn flesh at the wrists were evidence of the punk’s helpless and fear in the face of overwhelming violence.  The point was underscored by the black webbed belt, still deeply sunk into the corpse’s throat.

As for the spunk glazing the kid’s thighs and crotch and pooled so deeply in the hollows of his flat smooth belly that it hadn’t yet started to thicken, well, Daddy could make up his own mind about that.

Of course, Joe realized, he could always help daddy make up his mind about that.  Quickly slipping out of the combat boots, Joe finished putting his own gear back on, occasionally using JC’s dark, congested face as an ashtray.

He finished dressing at about the same time as he finished his cigarette, grinding out the glowing coal on JC’s forehead, leaving a sizzling black scorch mark.  Bending down, he retrieved the combat boots he’d worn when fucking the cunt.  He slammed them down onto the boy’s belly, splattering the coagulating semen.  Putting his weight into it, he ground them down into the boy’s abdomen, leaving deep treadmarks in the skin.

Joe stood back and reviewed the scene.  Something was missing.  What—ah!

He darted forward and snatched one of the boots, leaving the other on its side on JC’s belly.

Slipping his hand down inside the still-warm boot, Joe smashed his fist into the teen’s staring face, driving the thick sole of the combat boot—still covered in the kid’s own cum—into the corpse’s cheeks and nose, slamming the heel into the swollen mouth and dark forehead.

When he was done, he left the boot upright on the boy’s smashed face.

Picking up the youth’s cell phone off the nightstand, he took a couple of minutes to snap some striking photos of the corpse, both distance and close up.  Despite the dimness, the pics were crystal-clear; the phone had a good flash.

Slipping the phone into his pocket, Joe took a last look around to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything.  A tiny glint of metal at the corner of the nightstand caught his eye.

Joe grinned evilly as he snatched it up and slipped it into his pocket with the phone.  He chuckled as he left the room; when he got to the privacy of his own car, he laughed out loud.

Well, who knows—maybe daddy wanted his boy’s hole.  Maybe when daddy got home, he’d fuck his son’s corpse before calling the cops—or maybe he’d be too afraid of contaminating the crime scene.  Either way, daddy would have plenty of time to decide, cause it was gonna take a long time to get the little motherfucker off the bed.  Those case-hardened steel cuffs were hell to cut through and the little piece of metal sitting in his pocket was the key…

He figured forty-eight hours should do it.  By then, the kid would be outta daddy’s life.  And daddy would be missing him.  That was when Joe would start texting him the pics; that way, daddy would have something to jack off to.

Grinning broadly, Joe started his car.  He certainly hoped daddy appreciated his thoughtfulness. But just in case, when he pulled away from the curb, he drove several blocks before turning on his lights.

Trucker 3–Trucker v Rentboy

The Trucker sighed and leaned back in the driver’s seat. He’d been driving for hours and was sore and stiff. Traffic had been heavy during the day but now, after dark, it had dropped off considerably. He needed to pull over soon or he’d have a hard time keeping alert and awake.

Hell, he needed to pull over now. He needed to take a piss.

Might as well find somewhere to stop; wouldn’t be a bad idea to grab something to eat. And, if possible, to fuck. He was still traversing the desert, so most of the exits gave access only to state roads with no town in sight. If a rest stop came up, he’d pull over—he might find someone to play with, but the most he could hope for in the way of food would be a vending machine…

He kept his eyes out for the blue signs in front of the interstate exits that indicated the amenities available. Ten miles further on, he saw the logo of a large truck stop chain and felt better. He took the next exit.

The place wasn’t hard to spot. It was a couple of miles off the highway, right at the edge of town—but the sign, a good eighty feet in the air, was a blazing beacon in the dark. The lot was fairly empty; only a couple of rigs had stopped for the night. The Trucker followed his usual pattern in pulling to the back of the property.

He wasn’t particularly tired and didn’t know if he’d stop here for long—no telling what might come up. But the back end of the lot was a good place for privacy should he need it…

He shut off the massive, rumbling engine and glanced at his mirrors, making sure no one saw him exit the cab. His thick-soled, unlaced dirty tan work boots hit the ground with a thump. He was struck by the humidity as soon as he got out; he hadn’t experienced a night this sultry in the desert before—but then he remembered signs on the highway that indicated as dam and a reservoir.

At any rate, he began sweating heavily as he walked towards the brightly-lit truck stop. His tight jeans, clinging to his thick muscled legs, channeled his perspiration into his boots. His white wifebeater t-shirt became spotted with moisture as he traversed nearly an acre of burning concrete back to the building but the denim button-down he wore open over the t-shirt kept it mostly hidden. He was inside the store before his sweat had soaked into the tight-fitting, well-worn outer shirt

As he opened the door, an icy, air-conditioned blast hit his face. Realizing that he’d run out of cigarettes some time back, he moved towards the clerk at the register, his long, firm legs striding across the linoleum. The clerk, a young, weasely-looking youth with a pock-marked face and long greasy black hair, heard the Trucker’s boots clomping across the floor and turned to stare blearily at him.

Towering over the punk, the Trucker bought a pack of Camels. As the slack-jawed teen rang up the purchase, the Trucker asked where he could find some action in town.

The kid’s eyes slid up and down the Trucker’s hard, firm body. Deep inside those bloodshot eyes, the Trucker could make out a deep gleam of lust. He knew the kid wanted him—most of them did, after all—but he had no interest in this dank little wanker at the moment.

“There’s a bar about a mile down the road into town,” the boy muttered. “It’s called the ‘Manhole’. Can’t miss it; it’s right across from that sleazy pay-by-the-hour motel.”

The Trucker grunted. He grinned at the clerk, just to give him an image to jack off to later, and stalked quickly towards the bathroom.

The men’s room at the truck stop was large, bright and recently cleaned; the floor was still slick and the sweet citrus scent was overpowering. One of the eight stalls was occupied but there was no one at the urinals. The Trucker chose the one at the far end, and unzipping his bulging fly, let his thick hog flop out and a strong stream of yellow piss pound out into the bowl.

As he sighed with relief, the Trucker’s eyes focused on the tiled wall in front of him. He noticed tiny print written in the grout—“Gen? Joey”, followed by a phone number in with a 928 area code.

The Trucker memorized the number as he stuffed his massive member back into his tight jeans. As he washed his hands in one of the long line of lavatory sinks, he chuckled at his image in the mirror.

So Joey was looking for a generous dude? That could be arranged. Didn’t matter how much the guy asked for—it’d all be refunded at the end of the evening.

Best of all, he could avoid the bar the clerk had recommended. The punk had been eyeing him too closely for him to feel comfortable that the little fucking weasel wouldn’t remember him.

The Trucker strode quickly out of the store and back across the lot. He climbed into his cab—he’d left his phone there—and dialed the number from memory. The voice on the other end sounded young, a slightly higher pitch, almost a throaty hoarseness…

“Found your number at the truck stop. How much ya want, and how much can ya take?” the Trucker growled.

“Dude, you can do whatever you want to me for fifty an hour,” the slut replied.

“Okay—how about three hundred and I get ya for the night?”

There was a brief, calculating pause, and then, “Sure. I’m at the Waters Motel, right across from the Manhole. Room 115. Cash up front, man. How long?”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” the Trucker replied. “Maybe twenty.”

“Cool. Make it twenty; gotta finish somethin’. Bring your cash and your hard cock and I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

The Trucker smiled. “So will I.” He ended the call. He’d named three hundred just because he happened to have that amount on him. Not like he wasn’t gonna get his money back once he’d snuffed the whore.

He jumped back out of the cab, his jeans stretching tightly across his thick legs as they flexed under his weight on landing. His dick was obvious as a long ridge of denim in his crotch, even though it was still semi-soft. No sense in getting fully excited until he knew the lay of the land.

The walk into town wasn’t arduous; the state highway had been widened here and a sidewalk added, so that he walked past open fields rather than through them. The bar was on the same side of the street; the motel across from it. The Trucker strolled nonchalantly across four lanes—there was absolutely no traffic and only a few cars parked at the bar. Most of their clientele probably walked from the truck stop as well.

The motel office was a small cinderblock building out on the road; the rooms were a double row set back on the lot. The lobby in the office was dark but there was a light visible in a small shade-covered window at the rear of the building.

Room 115 turned out to be the room at the far right end of the row. The Trucker instantly wheeled about and moved along the chain-link fence that marked the property line between the motel and the empty waste ground next to it.

His boots crunched on the gravel at the edge of the parking lot as he made his way carefully towards the building. He drew up level with it and was about to step out into the lighted area when the door to 114 opened up and a pudgy middle-aged man stepped out. As he cautiously checked the lock, 115 opened and a tall thin red-headed man in his late twenties came out, closing the door quickly once he realized he wasn’t alone.

The Trucker paused in the shadows and watched. And listened.

The older man asked the other—who was clearly the rentboy’s last trick—if the bar across the street was a good place to have fun. The Trucker smirked as he watched the exchange; the older dude scoping out the younger and mentally undressing him; the younger noting the fact and deciding to play it for all it was worth…

“It can be,” he chirped encouragingly, “I can show ya how much, but it ain’t cheap. And I just partied, so ya gotta keep me goin’ for a while.”

“Not a problem,” the man said lasciviously. “I can pay my way and yours too.”

The trick, his dick still undoubtedly dripping from his encounter with the slut in 115, took the older man by the hand and they strolled off in the direction of the bar. The Trucker was very pleased.

This room was on the end. The room next door was gonna be empty for long time, thanks to the trick who was a whore himself. The Trucker wondered if drugs were involved; they usually were with these lowlifes.

He knocked on the door of 115. There was a momentary sound of scrambling in the room before it opened.

Standing silhouetted in the doorway was a kid in his late teens to early twenties—no older than twenty-one or –two. His hair was brown with frosted blond tips and was short but not overly so, about three or four inches. The fact that he’d been partying was reflected in his bloodshot eyes and pinpoint pupils; the little fucker was higher than Jesus.

“Hey, you the dude from the truck stop? C’mon in,” he said, backing out of the door and into the light. The Trucker could see him clearly now. Young and slim, he was no more than five-eight or –nine.

The Trucker grinned and stepped inside. Just the kinda worthless punk who gets wasted in a sleazy hourly motel. He knew he was gonna have a good time.

The kid was dressed in a tight black sleeveless t-shit and denim cutoffs cut very short—the head of the boy’s dick peeped out under the jagged, ripped cuffs. His strong, smooth legs tapered from his thick, firm thighs down to the black leather combat boots he wore tightly laced up his calves. His hard, wiry arms had a faint haze of light brown fur on the outer forearms. On the inside of the left arm was tattooed a skull.

The rentboy paused and took a good look at the Trucker, letting his eyes slide over the hard, menacing man towering over him. The Trucker glared icily back but the whore was too high to read the danger signals.

The Tucker’s entrance had let the sharp sweaty tang of his manscent in to cut the haze of smoke in the room; the male pheromones mixing in but not completely overpowering the heavy reek of cigarettes and the sweeter scents of weed and crack. The little motherfucker had been having a good time, it seemed.

Now it was the Trucker’s turn.

“Ya got the cash?” asked the slut.

Slowly, the Trucker dug his wallet out of his hip pocket, taking his time working it out of his skin-tight jeans as he maintained silent eye contact with the kid, not moving a muscle in his face. Despite the lack of reaction, the young hustler was too fucked up to feel what should have triggered a twinge of fear.

Slipping three Benjamins out, the Trucker waved them in front of the boy. “Strip,” he sneered. “Leave the boots on. Gonna fuck ya in ‘em”

As the punk peeled his t-shirt off, the Trucker fished his pack of smokes and the book of matches that came with it out of the breast pocket, replacing it with his wallet. Standing at the foot of the disheveled bed, the sheets tangled and soaked with sperm, the boy looked up at him, grinned, then began running his hands down his abdomen. The Trucker lit his smoke and inhaled, sticking the matches inside the cellophane wrapper before tossing the pack on the dresser, leaning back against the wall as the whore rubbed himself, his eager hands highlighting the sheen of sweat and other body fluids already oiling his smooth, firm skin.

While the Trucker slipped out of his open dress shirt and tossed it on the dresser, the punk worked his way down to his cutoffs. As the Trucker nonchalantly tapped his ash onto the stained carpet, his eyes greedily devoured the youth’s thick, smooth thighs and the dark brown tangle of pubic hair from which the slut’s short but thick cock now swung free.

When the Trucker took another drag, the rentboy whirled around, his shorts still on the floor around his boots. He bent over to retrieve them, straight from the waist, displaying his pink, quivering fuckhole like an animal presenting for mating. Little motherfucker was a pro; from here the Trucker would never had guessed the slut had been brutally cornholed just a few minutes earlier if he hadn’t seen the trick on his way out.

Too quick—he wanted to savor the moment a bit. The Trucker turned and stepped into the bathroom. “Gotta take a piss. Be on the bed with your boycunt in the air when I get back out.”

The Trucker stood in front of the mirror and pulled the tight, sweat-streaked wifebeater off his massive torso. Balling it up, he used it to swab out his reeking pits and sponge the perspiration from his thick, dark chest hair. The door was still open a bit and the Trucker was aware that the whore could see him in the angle of the mirror.

The cunt seemed mesmerized by the Trucker’s developed, rock-hard chest. Perhaps the dogtags had hypnotized him; his trophy from the marine still hung around his neck, catching the light over the bathroom mirror. The whore’s dong began to rise; even from this distance, the Trucker could see the tube of flesh begin to swell along the youth’s flat, firm belly.

Might as well give the cocksucker a show before the end, the Trucker thought as he grinned at his muscled image in the mirror, tossing the soaked t-shirt on the floor. Much like the slut had done, the older man ran his hands over his chest, emphasizing his huge, cut muscles, leering at the boy in the mirror.

The kid’s hand was a blur in his crotch, he was jacking already. With a cynical smile, the Trucker slowly unbuckled his belt and let it hang loose. He unzipped his fly gradually, teasingly, keeping eye contact with the enthralled bitch beating his meat on the bed. Just as his huge shaft was about to fall out, he stretched his leg back. His unlaced work boot made contact with the door; he swung his leg and it closed behind him.

He was gonna take a leak in private. Besides, he wanted the whore to feel his cock before he saw it. If he saw it at all; he probably wouldn’t survive feeling it…

The moment the door was closed, the rentboy was off the bed and at the dresser like a shot. He wanted the dude bad, but he needed the cash too; the last bump had been expensive and he was already going on credit. He owed the three hundred he’d be getting for this job to his dealer for fronting the crack he’d already smoked…

Too focused on his actions and too high—and horny—to pay attention to the sounds from the bathroom, the punk was still pawing through the Trucker’s wallet when the door opened unexpectedly. The Trucker hadn’t bothered to flush. His jeans were unzipped and his huge hog dangled in front of him.

The pause was momentary, no more than a couple of seconds, but despite his drug-addled brain, the rentboy was able to comprehend an awful lot in that time.

The first thing that struck him was the look of rage on the Trucker’s face. He’d never seen that depth of anger in a trick before, and he’d had some pretty nasty customers. And most of them had been old or fat or otherwise not much of a threat.

This was different. This guy was built like a fucking tank. His arms were thick and writhing with muscles; his massive pectorals seemed to swell as he approached. A trail of sweat glistened in the light as it snaked its way through his dark curly chest hair, already matted with perspiration. The dogtags jingled and danced with the Trucker’s powerful, loping stride.

The rentboy began trembling in fear, his legs going rubbery as he backed as far away as he could, cowering in the corner.

Just before the Trucker grabbed hold of him, the rentboy pissed himself in terror. Then he got a detailed tour of hell.

There was a pause, a split-second of lucidity in the whore’s numbed brain. His terror had crystallized into a solid object; gripping him tightly—it was more a force of nature than anything inside himself.

And so he was able to note, in a flame of panic so pure it was almost calm, that he could smell the rage boiling out in the Trucker’s sweat as the larger man bore relentlessly down on him. It was almost with a sense of detachment that he felt the dude’s hands clamp down on his biceps with a brutal, vise-like grip.

The calm broke the moment the Trucker lifted him into the air. That was because the Trucker didn’t want the rentboy paralyzed by fear; he wanted him to experience every single moment of what was about to unfold.

Shaking the kid violently, face twisted in anger, the Trucker snarled into the boy’s tear-streaked, pleading face. “Thought you were gonna rob me, huh, you worthless fucking faggot cunt? That three hundred wouldn’t have been enough? It’s at least three hundred times more than you’re worth, cocksucker!”

He paused, still gripping the punk tightly, dangling him in the air. The slut lolled his head limply. As he looked down, even in this moment of crisis, he couldn’t help but notice the Trucker’s crotch; his belt unbuckled, jeans unzipped, long thick dark tube of flesh hanging out.

A tube that was rapidly rising and swelling to frightening proportions.

The boy turned his shocked eyes back to the Trucker in mute horror. The Trucker knew he’d gotten the point, but wanted to make sure that the stupid motherfucker understood it thoroughly.

He grinned at the kid. “Not like ya’d have kept any of it, bitch; I was gonna waste ya tonight anyways. I was gonna choke you out while you rode my cock. You’da liked it. You know what? I might still do that. But before I do, you gotta be punished. You tried to rip me off, you worthless faggot piece of shit, so now you gotta pay. And I promise you, you ain’t gonna like this. It’s gonna hurt, cunt, it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

The rentboy shuddered and moaned in terror, unable to utter a single coherent word. A few final tickles of urine ran down his legs, soaking into the tops of the white athletic socks visible just about his tightly-laced boots, now dangling helplessly several inches off the floor.

The Trucker chuckled before growing silent and grim. He held the boy up eye level and spit in his face. “Ya ready for it, you useless homo cunt? Ready to die in nightmarish agony? Fuckin’-A, man I can’t wait to hurt you and fuck you to death!”

With no warning, the kid felt himself flying across the room with but a moment to realize what was happening before he smashed excruciatingly into the dresser, his momentum rolling him up onto the surface and into the mirror, shattering it. As he bounced off the wall and rolled back onto the floor, slivers of glass slashed at his smooth skin painfully but not severely. He slammed violently to the floor and lay still, not moving, his whole existence focused on being able to get air back into his lungs.

His mouth opened and closed silently, like a dying fish. As he tried to focus his pain-blurred eyes on the floor, the Trucker’s boots came into his field of vision. Before he had time to brace himself, the slut felt himself being grabbed and lifted effortlessly, but roughly, from the cheap, stained carpet, marking his smooth legs with rugburn.

The Trucker grinned sadistically as the boy jerked and shuddered in his grasp, the cunt’s face still twisted with the struggle to get his air back. “Stupid motherfucker,” he hissed evilly, “does it hurt? What’s that—not enough? You want more? Ok, you sick fuck, here ya go!”

He whipped around instantly; the punk was spun through the air and thrown into the TV set. The unit, a no-name flatscreen, buckled and caved in under the pressure. Again, he hit the wall behind it and bounced off, crashing back to the ground facedown, the broken TV falling on his back and driving the breath out of him again with a loud squeaking sound.

The whore kicked his legs, desperately seeking purchase with his combat boots in response to a futile instinct to flee, but he kept his eyes closed. He didn’t want to see the Trucker approach, he didn’t want to watch death stalk him…

In any case, he didn’t need to; he could hear the jingle of the dogtags and feel the heavy tread of the Trucker’s boots as he came nearer. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t think. He could only lie there defenselessly and accept what was happening to him.

The Trucker was still roiling with rage, his anger and hormones flowing swiftly, swelling his thick cock to fearful proportions. As he paused momentarily, standing over the cowering rentboy, huge, clear drops of precum oozed from his pulsing, purple head, splattering on the back of the kid’s head, matting his tousled, frosted hair.

With a deep, visceral grunt, he bent down and grabbed a fistful of the gasping youth’s hair. As he jerked the cunt roughly to his feet, the kid cried out and flailed his hands at the Trucker’s excruciating grip on his scalp. His hair was slick with oil and sweat; the Trucker suddenly found it slipping from between his fingers. Before either of them knew exactly what had happened, the kid was free.

The whore spun around and bolted for the door like a jackrabbit.

The Trucker had no intention of allowing his prey to escape. He clenched the buckle of his belt and gave a hard tug; the thick strap of brown leather snaked its way out from around his tight waist and immediately hung free.

Grasping the other end of the belt tightly, the Trucker shot after the whore. Before the rentboy could reach the door, the Trucker had thrown the belt over the punk’s head and looped it around his throat. He quickly transferred both ends of the belt to one hand, and pivoting to one side, put all his weight into swinging the cunt around by the strap around his neck.

The slut felt the constriction around his throat but before he could react, he found himself yanked backwards off his feet. The Trucker had pulled back on the belt almost hard enough to snap the kid’s neck. He flew through the air with devastating consequences.

The thick belt flayed the flesh around his neck excruciatingly as his lithe body twisted in the air. The Trucker found himself losing his grip on the belt with the force of his rage; he’d just meant to capture the fuckmeat and drag it back but the cunt shot completely across not only the bed, but the nightstands on each side before smashing into the far wall—the outside wall of the building—hard enough to cave in the drywall, leaving a massive dent. His limp, smooth form fell back painfully onto the fragmented remains of the bedside lamp, the clock and the phone, its cord torn from the wall in the violence of the moment.

The cunt’s battered, bruised body lay heaving on the floor, utterly helpless. He moaned faintly, his limbs twitching in agony from the assault, but he was still very much alive. The Trucker stood over him again, still grinning. As the boy rolled over, his swollen, tear-stained face begging the alpha male for mercy, the Trucker hocked up a massive wad of phlegm and spit into the kid’s desperate, pleading face, letting a streamer of drool mix with the snot coating the fucker’s smooth cheeks, so innocent-looking, so deceiving…

With a quick snatch and jerk, the Trucker grabbed the whore by one arm and tossed him onto the filthy, stained bed like a piece of trash. He looked around for something appropriate to express his rage; his belt had been flung to the far side of the room.

His eyes lit on the shattered base of the lamp. Placing his big construction boot on it, grinding it into the carpet, he bent down and wrapped the plug end of the power cord around his strong, muscled hand and pulled as hard as he could. Almost immediately, the cord tore free from the base.

The slut lay on his back, barely moving as the Trucker towered over him, sneering down at the rentboy’s pain and terror. The weeping boy cringed and held his bruised arms up over his face in a vain attempt to protect himself; the Trucker batted them away easily with a single swipe of his massive paw, leaving the punk exposed in his helplessness, his nude, battered body shuddering faintly in despair.

The badly beaten whore forced his swollen eyelids open, his large dark eyes utterly bloodshot. He only dared glance up at his attacker for a moment, but the image seared into his brain—the huge alpha Trucker, his massive pectoral muscles swelling as he leaned over his supine victim, slowly and menacingly.

The punk noticed, almost despite himself, the faint trail of sweat that worked its way through the older man’s chest hairs. It was almost hypnotic, the way it caught the light, amplified by the jingling sound of the dogtags that swam into focus as the Trucker came closer. He could sense, could almost smell the menace wafting off the alpha stud while the older man loomed over him as he climbed onto the bed.

The Trucker straddled the youth, his knees digging painfully into the rentboy’s upper arms, pinning them uncomfortably to the disgusting mattress, wet with sperm and sweat. Despite his state of traumatic shock, the weight of the Trucker’s body pressing him into the bed made the whore dimly realize that what was about to happen would be far, far worse than anything he’d yet experienced.

In panic, he began whipping his head from side to side. His swollen, split lips pulled back in an attempt to scream, but he’d been beaten so badly that all that he could get out was a high-pitched squeal.

It was enough to enrage the Trucker again. “Shut the fuck up, you worthless fuckpig!” he yelled at the sniveling slut. Like a swift crack of lightning, he backhanded the boy across the face, rocking his head back into the stained sheets.

The kid writhed and moaned in pain and terror. The Trucker chuckled malignly down at him before smacking him across the face again, hard, knocking the rentboy’s head back in the other direction. The whore grunted and jerked, but put up no further resistance. He’d been beaten into submission. He was ready.

“Get your fuckhole ready, you useless cumsucking faggot, cause I’m gonna plow your hole. I’m gonna ream your ass out, cunt, I’m gonna make you bleed. I’m gonna fuck you up bad inside. I’m gonna rip your guts out with my cock. It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad you’d scream your head off if ya could—but I’m gonna make sure you can’t.”

The whoreboy shuddered. He’d kept his eyes tightly closed, not wanting to look death in the face, but fascination got the better of him. Prying his bruised lids open, he batted his long, vulnerable lashes as he turned his bloodshot gaze up to the lamp cord the Trucker was wrapping around his large strong hands.

The slut gave a faint, snuffling gasp. He knew what the cord was for. And even if he hadn’t, the shark-like grin on the Trucker’s face and the predatory gleam in his eyes would have clued him in.

It was always there, this danger. Throughout all the sex, all the drugs, all the times he’d gotten fucked by random strangers or swallowed some dude’s cum in a back alley, he’d always know something like this could happen—but he’d never truly believed it could happen to him. He thought he was clever; he thought he’d had the street smarts to avoid becoming prey.

He was learning that he was not just wrong—he was nightmarishly wrong. This guy didn’t just want to kill him. He wanted to make it hurt.

The kid would have pissed himself again if there had been anything left in his bladder. The Trucker shifted his hard body. Whatever physical relief the slut might have had when the pressure was removed from his arms was swallowed up in horror as the Trucker suddenly grabbed his ankles—his combat boots, actually—and parted them roughly.

He let go of the punk’s left leg for a moment, grasping the thick, purple tube of flesh hanging between his legs and, brandishing it like a club, began slapping the rentboy’s unaccountably hard cock and puckered scrotum with it, splashing the cunt with thick spatters of precum.

The slut wriggled on the bed; the Trucker couldn’t tell if it was in fear or in pleasure. The boy didn’t seem to be aware of his own erection. His face, twisted into a grimace, was turned to the side. The Trucker let go of the whore’s cock—and paused, waiting.

Not for long. Just long enough to see the bitch relax momentarily. Beneath him, the lean, battered body still heaved with suppressed sobs. The youth let out a low gasping whine and snuffled his nose. As the Trucker kept still, he took note of the subtle signs of tension draining out of the punk’s face as the apprehension of immediate pain eased.

Without the slightest hint, the Trucker lunged forward, ramming his thick vein-wrapped dick deep into the kid’s ass, burying it as far in as he could, feeling his stiff wiry pubic hairs scraping at the cunt’s smooth asscheeks.

The boy’s reaction was swift and violent. He went rigid as a board in an instinctive attempt to resist the violation of his colon; his ass clenched tightly on the Trucker’s swollen cock, making the alpha dude grunt with pleasure. The whore’s wide eyes registered the shock as he parted his thick, bleeding lips and shrieked, a high-pitched wordless wail of agony.

“Shut up, you worthless piece of fuckmeat!” yelled the Trucker. He spit into the kid’s crying face before suddenly bending down and looping the lamp cord around the punk’s neck. He pulled it taut around his throat, but didn’t tighten it—yet.

The rentboy was in too much pain to stop the screaming but he somehow managed to find the will to control it a little and lowered it back to a shrill whine exhaled with each breath. The Trucker noted this and was pleased.

“Good boy. Good little faggot. That’s it. Save some of that fight, you cunt. I wanna feel you fight and kick away your last few minutes on earth while you’re ridin’ my cock. Make it last, you motherfuckin’ homo bitch. This is gonna be the last, best fuck of your wasted life. Yer gonna die choking and clawing, you thieving piece of shit, and they’re gonna find your used-up, reamed-out corpse left crumpled in this room like a used cumrag, filled with so much DNA from all the dudes who fucked ya today, they’d need an army to swab all the suspects.“

The boy’s large eyes, circled with bruises, turned wearily up to the Trucker’s cold, hard face. He didn’t seem to fully comprehend what was happening, even now; this living nightmare only happened to other guys, the stupid ones who walked into it…

When he attempted to beg and plead, the stunned youth couldn’t make contact with the Trucker’s steely gaze. He addressed his unintelligible stuttering to the dogtags clattering around the stronger man’s neck, now hanging just inches from his own face.

The Trucker grinned sadistically and began to pull the cord between his hands, watching it sink into the tender flesh of the punk’s throat.


The rentboy began to cough and gasp as his esophagus started to constrict. He brought his hands up, scrabbling desperately at the cord and at the Trucker’s fingers, but he was so weakened by the beating that even at that shallow depth, he couldn’t pry the cord away from his neck.

“How’s that feelin’, cunt?” chuckled the Trucker. “Ya likin’ that? Ya want more? I thought so. Here, let’s see if ya like more dick, too.” Gripping the cord tightly and expertly, he used it as a handle to pull the smooth, lean body down onto his cock as he started brutally thrusting his hips.

As he rode the helpless young man’s ass, he continued to tighten the cord down incrementally on his victim’s throat. The whore twisted desperately under him, hands flailing at the Trucker’s muscular arms and his legs clamping down on the alpha’s heaving, sweaty flanks. The boy’s face began to darken with the effort to breathe but he was still able to get air, as his high gasping squeal indicated.

The rentboy himself was in full survival mode. His entire body and mind were absorbed in the struggle for oxygen; in the back of his brain somewhere a cluster of nerves was screaming in excruciating pain as his sphincter was stretched and his rectum torn during the rape, but these sensations were secondary to the fight to live.

As of yet, he was still totally unaware of his own raging hardon.

“Yeah, fuck, yeah, that’s it, you cumsucking cunt,“ grunted the Trucker gutturally, knowing that the kid was still getting air and could comprehend him. “Fuckin’ kick on my dick, dude, kick on my dick. Flail like your worthless little life actually means something. C’mon, you whore, work my thick purple hog!”

The boy seemed almost to agree; his legs began to kick more violently, the thick black heels of his combat boots digging into the alpha top’s strong back muscles as his hands clutched the Trucker’s bulging, shuddering biceps. The older man sneered back down into the punk’s contorted face and spit in it again.

“Gettin’ loose, faggot. Goddam, you can’t even milk my spunk outta me, can ya, you useless piece a’ shit? I really am gonna do the world a favor by wastin’ ya, ain’t I? C’mon, fuckmeat, if you can’t grab my shaft better than that, I guess it’s time to make ya.”

The Trucker tightened the cord even more—to the absolute minimum of space left open in the slut’s trachea. The punk’s face went blank with panic as his gagging and whining was cinched up into the high-pitched squeal of air moving through a confined space. The opening in his throat was so narrow that it was repeatedly blocked with phlegm and saliva, forcing the youth to cough up a foamy drool that moistened his swollen, split lips and ran down his cheeks.

The Trucker held himself still for a moment; he didn’t need to move. The rentboy was impaled on the dominant stud’s massive shaft and in his frantic struggle to snatch his last few gasp of oxygen, he pumped his ass along the rod embedded agonizingly deep into his colon.

It quickly became apparent to the Trucker that he was losing the kid’s attention; it was understandable, of course—the boy was fighting for his life—but the Trucker wasn’t done messing with the little fucker’s mind yet. He didn’t just want to watch the whore die; he wanted to watch the whore die completely aware of what was happening to him.

So the kid was too busy trying to breathe? Maybe it was time to recapture his attention. The Trucker smiled down almost sweetly at the boy’s terrified, pain-wracked face. Momentarily transferring both ends of the lamp cord to one hand without slackening the ligature, he reached down his free hand and gently stroked the darkening, tear-stained cheek. The kid turned his head, his wide, bloodshot eyes—they might have been green in this light but he was so fucked up it was hard to tell—meeting the Trucker’s gaze for the first time since the start of the snuff, an almost insane light of hope flashing in them that was extinguished instantly as the Trucker drove his fist into the motherfucker’s nose, breaking it with a loud, wet crack.

The Trucker had reoriented the cord into both hands before the cunt’s head had ricocheted off the hard cheap mattress. With a swift, brutal jerk, he shut off the punk’s air for good.

The boy somehow managed to lift his head up off the bed. Streams of blood flowing from his swelling, crooked nose, he stared, frantically wide-eyed in shock and betrayal, directly at the alpha stud. Even now, he was still aware of the massive cock tearing into his rectum, each excruciating thrust adding geometrically to his agony. The Trucker watched the rentboy’s face as he died, finding each stage more erotic than the last, absorbing the punk’s suffering and terror like an aphrodisiac. He knew he had the bitch’s attention. Fucker damn sure wasn’t focused on any air moving into his lungs.

“Guess what, motherfucker? You’re dying! How’s it feel, huh? This what ya thought would happen to ya, getting’ used in a cheap motel room and thrown out like garbage?” he whispered into ear of the terrified youth. “I know you wanted this, you worthless fuckin’ faggot, cause your dick is hard. You just fuckin’ love this, don’t ya, you sick piece of cocksucking shit?”

The rentboy’s face was swelling and blackening; it became an almost-unrecognizable mask of pain as the dying kid’s eyes protruded grotesquely and his tongue, thick and dark, emerged in a froth of drool from his purple lips. The copious streams of blood from the punk’s broken nose leaked into the drool and made a pink foam that lubed the slut’s twisted, agonized face.

Now. It had to be now, the Trucker realized. The whore had been through too much trauma to take a nice long chokeout; he was gonna go brain-dead fairly swiftly. There was still just enough time left to let him know, though–to let him know what was happening and why.

“This is it, cunt. This is where I kill you just so your convulsions can jack me off. How’s that feel, knowin’ that’s all you’re good for, huh? All your pain, all your fear and suffering is just so I can shoot my load in your dying ass and then leave your corpse here to rot like trash—ya like that, you worthless motherfucker? I don’t want you, you stupid piece of shit, I want your shuddering, dying meat to work my shaft until I fill your dead guts with sperm. So go ahead and die, you stupid homo motherfucker, die with my cock rammed all the way up your worn-out asshole!”

With one last, sharp jerk, the Trucker violently tightened the cord one last time. It sank in deeply, crushing the cartilage of the esophagus with a loud crunching sound similar to the sound the kid’s nose made when the Trucker broke it.

In the extreme agony of death, the rentboy shuddered wildly, his entire body thrashing uncontrollably as his brain began to progressively die off from lack of oxygen. The Trucker threw himself down full-length on the lithe, smooth body thrashing helplessly under him, feeling it slide against his on a film of cold death-sweat forced out of the dying youth’s tortured form.

Suddenly the punk went rigid in mortal agony, a massive convulsion seizing his dying brain and causing his arms and legs to contract; the Trucker could only hold on as the dying kid embraced him and gripped him tightly, thrusting his smooth, traumatized rectum along the alpha’s huge purple rod.

The Trucker let out a loud cry, throwing himself down on top of the quivering, writhing youth as he injected huge amounts of boiling seed into the rentboy’s spasming colon. Some spark deep within the howling black vortex of pain and fear that had swept through the punk’s mind (his real name was Todd, not Joey, but even he didn’t know that or care anymore) felt and responded to the hot splash of fluid in his bowels; at the same moment, the slut’s dick began to throb in time to the convulsions and the Trucker felt a hot liquid gush against his own belly.

In the last dimly lit corner of his fragmented, fading psyche, the youth had felt the burning seed boil into him; the hypersensitivity of his dying nerves intensified the suffering of his last few moments of consciousness, giving him the nightmarishly tortuous sensation that molten steel had been pumped into his rectum; his own ejaculation, for the same reason, was just as agonizing. As darkness overwhelmed the boy, he slid into complete brain death in horrifying pain, convinced his life was being torn out of him through his cock…

Deep into his own orgasm, the Trucker did manage to register the fact that the meat was expelling his own DNA in a final instinctual attempt to preserve his inadequate genes. He grunted out expletives as he unloaded, almost uncontrollable in his rage as he filled his victim with his seed and his testosterone. “Fuck! Shit! Fuckin’ take my load, you worthless faggot! Die on my fucking cock, you homo piece of shit!”

It seemed to go on for minutes, pump and curse and shoot and pump and curse and shoot…

As the Trucker regained control, he found himself with his dick still buried into the quivering, shuddering corpse. The whore’s dick was still hard and throbbing; each pulse forced another pearl of spunk out of the dead punk’s cock to merge into the pool of semen that had formed on the boy’s flat belly.

He crouched over the body, still gasping and cursing. “Fuckin’ dead piece a’ shit. Tryin’ to steal from me, cunt? Showed ya what I do to worthless thieving faggot whores, huh?” He grabbed hold of the boy’s still-spasming dick, milking post-mortem spunk out of the shuddering corpse’s shaft, while using his other hand to slap his own thick tube of meat against the dead kid’s quivering thighs to shake the last drops of cum out of his pulsing member.

Finally feeling his pulse returning to normal levels, the Trucker pulled back up onto his knees. Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned his head back and ran his hands over his own sculpted torso, feeling the whore’s thick, sticky cum smearing into his dark, wiry chest hair along with his own rank sweat. For just a moment he indulged himself in playing with the jizz he’d choked out of the rentboy…

With a final grunt of pleasure, he climbed off the bed and went back into the bathroom. Grabbing one of the bath towels, he turned on the warm water in the shower and soaked the towel in it, then used it to rub down every inch of his torso, wiping away all the cum and sweat. Leaving the shower running, he tossed the sopping towel into the tub, to be left in a continual rinse until someone found the body and turned the shower off. He dried himself with the other towel—reluctantly, this one was much more stained—and threw it into the tub too. He took one last quick glance around the bathroom before stepping back out.

His glance had been a little too quick, but he wouldn’t find out about that until later.

Back in the bedroom, the Trucker snatched his pack of smokes from the dresser and lit one, taking a long, deep drag before going to work retrieving all his belongings that had been scattered during the assault. His belt was against the wall past the bathroom door. His wallet had been knocked under the bed in the scuffle; he’d noted it at the time and marked the location in his efficient killer’s mind.

Tapping his ash onto the ancient, torn carpeting, he slipped the wallet back into his rear pocket and wrapped the belt around his tight waist and scanned the room quickly. His denim shirt was on the floor in front of the dresser—covered in glass shards from the broken mirror.

He picked it up and shook it off, then held it to the light. He could see sparkles from tiny spicules of glass still embedded in the fabric. Putting it back on was not a good idea; he looped it through his belt.

Turning back, he took one last survey of the room.

It was a wreck, with the dresser and nightstand knocked about. The unflattering overhead light left no merciful shadows on the pitiful remains of the rentboy, his body twisted on the semen-soaked sheets, his swollen face, blackened and contorted, testifying to the unspeakable horror of his last few minutes on earth.

Around him, the shattered remains of the furnishings gave proof of the violence to which the punk had been subjected prior to being brutally raped and painfully strangled by the power cord ripped from the base of the lamp—which was still so deeply embedded in the corpse’s throat that it wasn’t visible.

The Trucker grinned. Tonight had turned out even better than he’d planned. He strode back towards the bed as he sucked the last few drags of his cigarette; each thump of his big thick construction boots was accompanied by a crunch of plastic or glass from the debris scatted across the floor.

The hard older alpha stood over the still-twitching cadaver of his latest victim. Sneering contemptuously at the quivering sack of meat that had been a functional cumsucking whore an hour ago, he bent down and ground out his glowing butt into the kid’s exposed cheek. There was a hiss and a sizzle like bacon—and a puff of smoke with a distinct smell.

As the Trucker left, he put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. He paced quickly away from the room, the warm breeze drying the sweat he’d worked up while gathering his belongings. With his hard bare chest, tight jeans, open boots and his denim shirt fluttering at his waist in the night air, he looked like any other faggot walking back to the truck stop from the bar.

He’d had quite a workout and he needed to rehydrate—to say nothing of eating; it was why he’d pulled over to begin with. Despite an instinct telling him to go back to his truck, he headed straight for the convenience store instead.

Even before he got inside, the condensation on the glass told him how cold it would be. When he opened the door, the air rushed out in an icy blast, hardening his large nipples almost painfully. He stepped quickly over to the coolers and extracted a sport drink to help get some fluids back into his body.

To the left was a refrigerated rack of premade sandwiches. The Trucker snatched an egg-and-cheese biscuit off the shelf and threw it into the microwave. Three minutes later, as he strolled to the counter to pay for the items, he noticed the same greasy teen clerk staring pointedly at his hard body, still gleaming with a sheen of sweat (despite the heavy AC) under the bright fluorescents. The useless little punk was still on shift.

The Trucker was sure the boy drooled over every decent-looking customer he dealt with, but there was a particular gleam in his eye at the moment that sent up a warning signal in the back of the Trucker’s brain. Nothing definite, just a slight uneasiness at the intense scrutiny.

Shrugging it off, he maintained a cold silence during the transaction, responding to the clerk’s attempt at small talk with a series of curt grunts. He left the store quickly, wolfing down his food as his boots thumped back across the wide expanse of concrete towards his rig. He tossed the paper wrapper over his shoulder, and, chugging the sport drink, pitched the empty plastic bottle after, leaving the trash to be blown about the parking lot.

It took less than ten minutes to put a new shirt on, get himself settled down and start the engine. Another five minutes saw him back on the interstate, heading out of town, with the clerk keeping an eye on the fading taillights through the foggy windows of the isolated truck stop.

================================================== ==================================

The Trooper struggled to keep his eyes open. It was a hot day and he’d had a large lunch; he could see the lines on the highway start to blur as he fought to keep his eyes open. Something needed to happen soon, something to keep him awake.

He got his wish soon enough. A call came in over his radio—it was a local sheriff’s deputy requesting backup for a homicide at a motel. When the address came across, the Trooper’s ears picked up; he’d just passed that exit.

Half a mile further on was an emergency vehicle crossover. The Trooper whipped his cruiser across the median and was back at the exit less than three minutes later.

He got even more interested when he arrived at the motel. There was no mistaking the nature of the bar across the street and the cheap flophouse was clearly the kinda cash-only place that didn’t bother to ask for ID—this should be good. He parked next to the deputy’s car, noting that the local cop was interviewing a pudgy middle-aged man standing in the doorway to a room. The door to the room next to it was open. There was another group of people standing further off; it appeared to be the motel manager and some others trying to comfort a weeping maid who was wailing loudly in Spanish.

No one noticed as he stepped into the room to survey the crime scene for himself. He was glad; there was no one to see the boner that arose involuntarily as his eyes slid lovingly over the battered, bruised body of a young man, splayed nude across the bed. A hard white crust like the glaze on a doughnut showed clearly that this had been a sex crime and the damage to the room showed just how violent it had been.

A dark circle the size of a quarter blemished the corpse’s smooth cheek, which on closer inspection was revealed to be a burn mark, probably from a cigarette. There were multiple butts scattered around the room, not always in ashtrays, but the one lying on the sheet in a large still-moist puddle was like the one that did the damage.

The Trooper grinned as the tent pole in his tight beige slacks rose even higher. He moved slowly about the room, drinking in all the details as fragments of glass and plastic crunched faintly under his glossy knee-high boots. He noted the huge dent in the wall, the shattered TV, the slight smears of blood on the dresser. The dead kid had some minor lacerations on his smooth flesh, now blue in death—the Trooper was sure the blood was his, left there during the assault.

After carefully scoping out the room, the Trooper stepped into the bathroom. The shower was still running; the small room was filled with steam like a sauna. He could see a couple of sodden towels lying in the bottom of the tub. No evidence to be found there, he realized. The killer had cleaned up and disposed neatly of the evidence. Sure, there was plenty of DNA, but that was useless without someone to whom to compare it. And there was no telling how many men had contributed to the obviously vast amount of sperm on the bed and the body.

As he turned to leave, the Trooper saw that the door had swung closed behind him. Up against the wall behind the door, he noticed what looked like a small white bundle on the floor. Bending down, he quickly retrieved it before any of the locals saw it.

It was a white wifebeater t-shirt, still stained and damp with sweat. The Trooper could tell it was sweat by the smell. The smell told him something else, too.

It was familiar. He’d encountered it before. He couldn’t place it, but evidently his dick could; it responded to his first sniff by swelling to almost painful proportions.

The Trooper knew he had to find this dude, for several reasons.

He wadded the shirt up and jammed it into his pocket before he went out to talk to the deputy. The local cop was a much older man and was completely out of his depth; he seemed to be relieved that someone was offering to help since the sheriff hadn’t bothered to dispatch anyone else to help with another faggot dead at what was the equivalent of the local whorehouse. He quickly clued the Trooper in on what he’d learned.

No one knew the victim by name; he was just some male slut who liked to hang around the bar and the truck stop. This kinda thing happened here every so often; it was clear that there wasn’t going to be any real investigation. The deputy was more aggravated by the amount of work involved in the pretense of looking busy that anything else. But he’d gleaned some useful info; the fat guy next door had confirmed that the whore hadn’t been in the bar anytime past midnight. The deputy wasn’t a smart man, but he had experience. Skin coloration and rigor mortis made it unlikely that the slut had been offed before then.

“Man, I can’t believe I gotta do all this legwork for some stupid fag that gets wasted whoring himself out—I mean, who cares, right? But I gotta a shitload of paperwork to get off my desk and this bullshit ain’t gonna help,” the local whined.

The Trooper paused, thought, then spoke. “I ain’t got any jurisdiction here, but I’m bored as shit. You said he wasn’t in the bar, so maybe he was at that truck stop I passed on the way here. Lotta homos like to hang out in those places. Why don’t I go ask around up there? Go get your shit done. If I hear anything important, I’ll let you know. If you don’t hear from me, I didn’t find anything worthwhile.”

The deputy’s face brightened considerably at this suggestion. Surprisingly, he’d already managed to get some crime scene tape up and notified the county coroner to get his meatwagon over to the Waters for another homo stiff. With profuse thanks, he gave the Trooper a card with his number on it in case he found anything. He was still grinning as he jumped into his car and peeled out of the lot, heading back into town, relieved to be free of what he regarded as a useless burden.

The Trooper tore the card apart and scattered the pieces in the breeze before climbing back into his cruiser and driving out to the truck stop.

Asking for the truck stop manager, he learned several things. The first was that the surveillance cameras posted around the store were all dummies; the owner was too cheap to install the real thing and thought that fakes would discourage robbers just as well. The manager disagreed, but what could he do?

The other thing the Trooper learned was that only a single clerk had been on duty after midnight last night—a local 18-year-old named Zach. The manager was sure he’d be asleep at this time, but willingly called the boy, waking him out of a sound sleep and demanding he get his ass back to work so a cop could talk to him.

While he waited for the clerk to show up, the Trooper used the restroom. Sighing with relief as he eased his huge throbbing member out of the confines of his tight white briefs, the image of the dead whore, face blackened in strangulation, displayed like a prize on his deathbed, flashed in front of his eyes. It took a massive amount of control to restrain himself from beating off at the thought.

The Trooper planted his boots wide apart, focused on the job at hand and managed to control himself. He willed himself to go limp so he could take the piss he’d needed to take for the last twenty minutes. As the hard flow of liquid from his semi-flaccid but still huge dong began to splash in the white urinal, his eyes were somehow drawn to tiny print written in the grout between the tiles. “Gen? Joey 928-“ it read—the rest of the number was smeared and illegible.

The Trooper grunted in frustration. He mighta called the dude if he coulda read the whole number; he could use a good release…

The night clerk was in by the time he left the restroom. A slim young man, face slightly pimpled, long black hair with a somewhat greasy sheen, there was a damp musty air about the teen. He wore a tight black t-shirt and tight black skinny jeans with black boots; clearly trying to rock the emo look. The Trooper didn’t like the way the boy’s eyes slid over his body, greedily devouring the cop’s well-built physique.

He did, however, realize that this attention to detail could be useful.

He spent the next forty-five minutes interrogating the punk—never once bringing himself to call the little shit by name—without letting him know exactly what had happened. It didn’t take much for the clerk to realize another hustler had been whacked at the motel; it wasn’t uncommon, but the Trooper was skillfully able to deflect his suspicions away from any individual.

He did this by asking about every single detail of everyone in the store the previous night without betraying any emotion or excitement. He felt plenty, though, as the weasely little fucker described the Trucker.

The shock of recognition was an almost physically electrical sensation as the teen fag enthusiastically described the phenomenally-built older man. It built to an almost fever pitch when the kid gave what details of the dude’s truck that he’d been able to absorb.

The Trooper had been taking notes in a pocket notebook during the interview. Normally, he recorded it on his phone, but that was state-issued and this was his own project. Now, his handwriting became jagged and unreadable as the memory of scent flooded his brain.

That smell, the one on the shirt. That was where he’d smelled it before—the cab of that rig that had been on the side of the road. And later he’d found that body, the kid with the beard…

Was that him? Had he been wasting that punk when the Trooper had showed up; was that why the cab had reeked of manscent?

It took a great deal of willpower for the Trooper to complete the rest of the interview calmly, but he didn’t want to let this motherfucker know that he’d pointed out the killer. This was his own thing; he wanted this dude for himself. He could feel his cock throbbing again…

Gritting his teeth, he got through the rest of the questions and left the truck stop quickly. North. The clerk had said he’d headed north when he left. He floored his cruiser as he left the lot, leaving rubber skid marks on the concrete.

Back at the truck stop, Zach added the image of Trooper to his treasured memory of the Trucker. He went home to jack off at the thought of the two of them fucking….

Trucker 1–Trucker v Marine

He sat in the cab of the parked semi. He’d left the lights off; he was sitting in the darkness looking out into the cold hazy night.

He’d pulled his rig all the way around to the far end of the truck stop lot, up by the chain-link fence at the edge of the property. He didn’t know yet if he’d be using his sleeper cab tonight or not. Maybe he’d find someone to fuck who had his own place. Either way, it didn’t matter, but there was more privacy out here on the edge.

And the fence helped. One of his earlier toys had managed to get out of the cab. It’d been in a different state, but he’d been at the edge of the lot that night too. The kid hadn’t been able to get past the fence before he’d been caught.

The Trucker smiled grimly. The punk had pissed him off, having to be chased down like that, but he’d paid. Oh yes, he’d paid. He’d squealed for mercy in agony before it was over…

A rush of lust flowed over the Trucker’s body at the memory. He took a deep, shuddering breath and regained his composure. Slipping out of the driver’s seat, he drew the curtain that partitioned off the sleeper compartment and turned on a light off to one side, giving himself one last glance in the small mirror.

A well-built man with sky-blue eyes staring out of a hard face looked back at him. Hair in loose black curls tumbled almost to his shoulders; his thick goatee was the same dark shade. He was broad-shouldered and handsome in a hard, craggy way that managed not to draw attention to his face.

In other words, he had the perfect face for a serial killer. Good enough to draw in victims without being so striking that it impressed itself on the memory of any possible witnesses.

Well, it was good enough, at any rate. He flicked out the light and returned to the driver’s compartment. He was clean and fully dressed and had already located the nearest bar by way of an app he’d been using for a couple of years. Luckily, it was less than a mile from here; he could actually see the place from here.

It was on a side street just off the highway exit, so it was literally just around the corner from the truck stop. From here, the Trucker could see the lights out front, but he could also see a long, low structure in the back. It looked like a motel.

First time he’d seen a fag bar with a motel attached. Not a bad idea, though; bet the place made a killing.

Maybe he needed to make sure it did make a killing.

He opened the cab door, but only used a single step or two before he leaped to the ground, his scuffed, worn ropers contacting the tarmac with a loud thump. The moment they did so, the Trucker reached into his faded denim jacket and extracted a pack of smokes from an inside pocket. That pocket was the main reason he’d held onto the jacket, worn and stained as it was. Most denim jackets don’t have inside pocket—it was useful. For—surprises.

His tight jeans were also faded and worn; they cradled his firm ass, leaving nothing to the imagination. Good thing the bar was close. They wouldn’t keep the cold out for long, nor would the thin, clean white cotton t-shirt he wore under his jacket. The outside temperature was just above the freezing point—not too cold, but cold enough to discourage loitering, especially when combined with the steady wind. Good thing it was dry, or else getting outta here would be a bitch.

And the Trucker’s plans involved a relatively easy getaway. They always did; it was why he chose the occupation to begin with. He was usually several counties away—if not several states—by the time his playmates were found.

Lost in the pleasant memories of past pleasures, the Trucker reached the end of the lot and wheeled about, heading towards the corner. He usually hunted twinks, but tonight, he was in the mood for someone with some fight in him. He wanted a faggot slut who’d give him a workout; someone who’d put up a fight before being put down. There was a military base nearby—next town up the highway, he thought it was; maybe he’d be lucky and stumble on a hot little army boy…

He paused for a last look back at his rig, just to keep an eye on it. Not that he was worried; it was a load of cheap imported textiles. Not fragile, not perishable, and certainly not valuable enough to draw unwanted attention.

It was cool. He released the concern from his mind as he prepared for the hunt.

There were several bars along this stretch of road. Most were straight strip clubs; some were just cheap dives. The proximity of the highway, the truck stop, and the military base all brought in a booming trade to this tiny little town, and the exchange of money for sex was exploited to the fullest.

The Trucker noticed several bars advertising rooms for rent on a nightly or hourly basis. Seemed that the standard business model in town was to buy a long lot, build a bar in front and a row of very basic motel rooms in the back. Serve cheap booze and charge a high hourly rate for the rooms.

Seemed like it was a successful model, at that.

Well, it explained what he’d seen behind the gay bar; it was indeed a motel. Maybe he wouldn’t be returning to his rig tonight, after all.

The industrial dance music was overpowering the moment he opened the door. A beefy dude in a tight black t-shirt stepped up; SECURITY was stenciled across his burly chest. “Cover’s five bucks, stud,” he said flatly.

“Are you shittin’ me?” snapped the Trucker—before reaching ruefully for his wallet. Don’t make a scene. Don’t make them remember you.

A cover charge for this shithole! Oh well, it was ok. Someone would pay. The Trucker smiled gently at the bouncer. Someone would pay for the indignity of the cover charge.

The inside was a haze of smoke and lights. At least this wasn’t one of those pansy-ass places that banned smoking in bars. The Trucker plucked another Red from the pack and lit it, leaning back against the outer wall and watching the boys at play.

There were several twinks on the dance floor who caught his eye, but they were slobbering over other twinks—and anyway, he really wasn’t in the mood for that. Not tonight. But the place seemed to be filled with local small-town boys and older truckers. Maybe a couple of military dudes, but they seemed to be sticking together. Nothing else was—

That was when the Trucker saw him, over on the far side of the dance floor, rockin’ out all by himself. A Marine. Well, he was wearing Marine combat fatigues, and there were enough military dudes near him to call him on it if he was fake. And even from this distance, the Trucker could spot the tiny beads of light reflecting off the chain holding the Marine’s dog tags.

He was young—no more than twenty-one or –two. It was hard to get a glimpse of his face under the circular flat-topped cap; all that was visible beneath the low desert camo brim was a pair of full lips, almost pouting.

Almost begging to be hurt, the Trucker thought.

It was an interesting look—the kid didn’t want anyone to know who he was, but he didn’t mind them knowing what he was; his combat fatigues made his military status clear. An olive-green t-shirt clung to the boy’s slim but muscled torso, darkening in spots where sweat had soaked through. The kid was giving himself a good workout dancing, given the thick soled lace-up combat boots his camo trousers were bloused into. The pants themselves were slightly baggy, but the Trucker could still get a good idea of the boy’s firm legs moving within them.

He watched the kid dance with various guys out on the floor. The Marine seemed to be almost aggressively horny, grabbing at every guy within reach. He kept getting shot down, though; there was something demeaning about his desperation that turned most dudes off.

It didn’t turn the Trucker off, it got him hard. He could put that desperation to good use. He’d give the Marine a whole new sense of desperation before morning.

The Trucker gave a slight dry chuckle; he was anticipating getting his five bucks’ worth outta the kid—and then some.

He circled the floor impatiently, like a shark sensing fresh blood. The place was packed—it was Saturday night, so it was naturally busy. And actually, it was already well past midnight.

The Trucker needed to work fast. The hours had been posted outside; the bar closed at two in the morning. That left just over an hour for him to lure the little fuck in and put him down. And he wanted to put the Marine boy down, hard. His impatience getting the better of him, he glanced angrily in the kid’s direction—

–and made immediate eye contact. The punk had been getting tired. He was worn out. He’d been flaunting his ass all night, frantically searching for a hot top to plow his hole before his furlough ended tomorrow morning.

The Marine had only been given a forty-eight hour leave; he’d spent the first day visiting his family. He didn’t see them often and they expected it; he’d been a major punk as a teen and had ended up being given the choice of the military or jail. He’d chosen the former.

He liked it. He especially liked being told what to do. Every command, every order, sent a thrill through his body that seemed to quiver the base of his cock. He had trouble not creaming his jeans when his drill sergeant snapped at him.

But he couldn’t play on base. It could be done, sure, but his family lived in town. It’d get around. So he’d take his occasional leaves, run down the highway to the truck stop exit, and book a room behind the gay bar.

Then he’d go out looking for someone to humiliate him like his drill sergeant while fucking him. It was a surprisingly difficult role to fill—most of the tops he found weren’t alpha enough to treat him the way he wanted to be treated. But on rare occasions, he did find what he was looking for. And when he did, he let his inner pig out to play.

But this time, he was striking out. Damn, the bar was gonna close in an hour. And his leave was up as of eight in the morning. That was what—six, seven hours?—to find a fuck memorable enough to keep him beating off till his next furlough. He needed to act fast

That was when he looked up, in utter sexual hopelessness, his huge hazel eyes catching the piercing glare of a man staring at him from just off the dance floor. The dude was taller than him and older, maybe mid-thirties. Very well-built and showing it in tight, faded jeans held by the thick brown strap of a distressed leather belt with a large buckle.

The man’s black hair was long, with a slight curliness, a sharp black goatee circling his mouth and covering his strong jaw with stubble. Under a denim jacket as faded and worn as his jeans, his white t-shirt had become transparent in the spots where sweat had soaked through, revealing dark fur on the man’s chest. The brown leather roper boots on his feet were as scuffed and worn as his belt.

This dude was the real thing; the Marine could feel it immediately. This was what he’d been looking for. He felt that old thrill running through him, straight from the base of his erect tool, as he looked up and caught the erotic look of contempt from—

–the Trucker, noticing he’d gotten the boy’s attention, jerked his head in command and wheeled about. Turning his back to the Marine, he went to the bar. The boy would follow. The Trucker knew for sure. He’d seen it. In that momentary flash of the eyes, he’d seen enough of the pig in the Marine’s soul to know how this night would play out.

He checked his watch and began calibrating. This place would close in an hour. He’d stay chatting and drinking till then, getting the punk well lubricated. No one was leaving now; they’d be unremarked in the crowd that was pushed out the door at closing. They’d get a room here. Let’s see—he’d already slept at the truck stop for a good eight hours. So—in the room by two, play with the kid for a bit before putting him down, say half an hour—no, he’d been through basic training, so he might be able to fight it out a little. Say forty-five minutes to fuck and waste him. Back at the rig by three, three-ten, out on the highway by three thirty, no one finds the body till eight at the earliest—doubt the maids come around that early, but ya never know, gotta take everything into account…

That would put him in the next state before the earliest the body could be found. Perfect.

“Hey,” came a voice from behind him, hesitant, eager, uncertain, vulnerable. The Trucker’s cock stiffened even further as he grinned to himself before turning slowly to face the Marine. He turned slowly, his cold eyes sliding over the Marine’s trim, tight body. The boy was still winded after dancing, his slim, firm chest heaving, the olive t-shirt plastered to every curve by sweat.

The punk’s hazel eyes flashed briefly up at the Trucker’s, then turned away shyly, a faint blush rising on his downy cheeks. He ducked his head, just enough for the brim of his round camo cap to cover his eyes. All the Trucker could see of the kid’s face was his tremulous, eager grin.

He smirked. This was gonna be easy. The fucker wanted to be used; he wanted to be used hard. Good. He’d be in hog heaven before he realized he was getting slaughtered like a pig.

The Trucker remained silent for a moment, watching the kid tremble as he waited for a response. Just before the marine could turn away, crestfallen at another failure, the Trucker spoke up laconically. “Whaddaya drinkin’?”

The Marine looked up, his face instantly beaming. “Whatever beer they got on tap. I don’t care.”

The Trucker got two draft beers from the bar and commandeered a small table. The beer was weak and watery, as he knew it would be. Even the kid was unimpressed. “I got a bottle of Jack back in my room for later. It’s yours anytime you wanna come back and fuck me. I’d kill for your load, dude; just sayin’.”

The Marine was ready. He clearly wanted to get fucked, now. But there was still at least a half hour before closing, when he and the boy would be lost among dozens of others in the mass exodus for the hotel rooms and a night of strenuous fucking. He had to fill the time somehow; he damn sure wasn’t drinking any more off this horsepiss beer.

“What ya looking for?” he drawled at the kid. And that was all he needed to do. The Marine spent the next half-hour proudly divulging his entire sexual history along with his favorite activities. The Tucker smiled and nodded the entire time, never listening to a word. After all, the fucker would be dead within an hour; no one gave shit about what he wanted.

“Last call!” yelled the shirtless, buff bartender. He was in a hurry and clearly had plans of his own. “C’mon, ladies, time to swallow! Ya don’t have to go home, but ya can’t stay here!”

The Trucker stood up as the interior lights came up. He aimed his face down, not making eye contact with anyone else in the crush heading to the door. The kid had bounced to his feet and grabbed the Trucker’s hand. The Trucker looked down in disgust at the pig touching him without permission as the punk dragged him out the door and around the corner towards the motel. “C’mon, man, we’ll crack open that bottle of Jack I got and you can stick your cock in me!”

The Trucker jerked his hand out of the Marine’s. The kid faltered momentarily but continued towards his room once he saw that the Trucker was still following.

For his part, the older man was seething. The kid would pay for grabbing his hand. That and the cover charge.

Kid had a lot to answer for. The Trucker wondered if the boy would last long enough to pay the debt in full. Oh well—if not, it’d still be a fuck of a lot fun trying.

The punk’s room was the one on the right end; at least, that was the one he staggered towards. The Trucker noticed that not all the rooms were occupied; the window on the one that abutted the Marine’s had the blinds open on an unlit room. That was good.

From the Marine’s point of view, it was bad—or at least extremely unlucky. It was extremely unlikely, however, that he would be in a position to appreciate the point when the time came. He was drunker than he’d thought; even that weak beer had had some effect. It didn’t matter; he was young enough and strong enough to get hard no matter how drunk he got.

He did have some other performance issues, though. The door key fought with him, in collaboration with the recalcitrant lock. Frustrated, he finally managed to get the door open when he was least prepared for it, losing his balance and stumbling across the floor to land face down on the bed in the dark. He giggled drunkenly and pushed himself up off the bed as the lights came on and he heard the door close behind him.

He could also hear all three locks engage—the handle knob, the deadbolt and the chain lock—but failed to see any significance in it.

He turned and saw the Trucker leaning against the door, appraising his body coldly, one hand rubbing the thick tube outlined in the crotch of his jeans. The Marine grinned. This was gonna be a good one, he could tell. This one was gonna hurt him the way he liked it. He opened the top drawer in the decrepit chest against the wall and retrieved the bottle of Jack, already open but still three-quarters full.

“Toss it here, bitch, and strip,” snapped the Trucker, “and keep your boots on. You’re gonna need some traction when I fuck ya.”

The Marine’s dick stiffened even further at the order. He tossed the bottle to the Trucker (who caught it one-handed, opened it and took a deep swig) as he sat on the end of the bed and undid the blousing straps around his ankles. Once they were off, the wide cuffs of the fatigue pants opened up and he was able to slip them off right over his boots.

As he did, he kept glancing up at the Trucker. The older dude had shrugged off his jacket and laid it over the back of a chair. With a fluid motion, he reached down and pulled his white t-shirt up over his head, shaking his long black hair free.

The Marine paused for a moment of lust, looking at the top’s beautifully sculpted chest and abdomen, covered in wiry black fur. With his shirt off, the smell of his sweat and pheromones overpowered the small room. The Trucker compensated by lighting another smoke. He took a deep drag before picking the bottle back up and tossing back another mouthful. Then he noticed the audience.

“Get it off, slut. I ain’t banging ya till yer nude; pigs don’t wear clothes.”

The Marine’s shirt came off quickly, his lithe torso slick with perspiration. His boxers gave him more difficulty; they hung up on his erect cock. Soon, though, they were off. And instinctively, the Marine knew what to do.

He stood to attention in front of the Trucker, boots firmly planted side by side, throbbing shaft jutting out in front, slim, muscled body unencumbered by anything but the dog tags dangling in the center of his chest.

He’d kept his camo cap on, though. It didn’t matter; the Trucker wasn’t looking for oral tonight. He had free access to the parts of the little shit’s body that he wanted to fuck; that was what was important.

The Trucker took another drag, exhaling the cigarette smoke directly into the boy’s face, smiling as the fucker flinched and grimaced. Oh dear, if that bothered him, he was gonna find tonight extremely unpleasant, to say the least.

He took another swig of Jack and another drag, letting the kid just stand. Punk didn’t seem to mind; even now, there was a transparent bead of precum welling on the kid’s thick purple head…

“Here,” he said abruptly, thrusting the bottle at the Marine, “drink up. A toast, bitch. Suck it down, cunt; let’s see how good you can swallow. A night to remember.”

The youth reached out hesitantly, taking the bottle in spite of feeling drunk enough already. He didn’t want to black out. But that was the point: a night to remember, at least until the next time he could get his hole plugged. So sure, what the fuck. Even if he’d been sober, he was too uneducated to associate the phrase with a disaster that took the lives of the majority of those involved. He tipped the bottle up and slammed back a hefty amount of booze. “A toatht,” he slurred happily, “a night to remememberer…”

“Turn around and bend over,” growled the Trucker, “now. Stand here at the foot of the bed, place your hands on the mattress and keep you back straight or I’ll beat the fuck outta you. Got that? No matter how hard I plow you, you’re gonna keep your back flat and level. If you don’t, you’ll knock my ashtray off.

And if you knock my ashtray off, the only thing I’ll be able to do with my smokes is stub them out on your ass. So keep your back flat and still or I’ll grind burning embers into your tender cheeks. Got it, Private Fuckwad? It’s time for drill, soldier, and you’re the one gettin’ drilled.”

With that, the Trucker unzipped his fly, letting his long thick cock flop out. A couple of quick strokes and the swollen purple shaft stood erect and waiting. The Marine was trying to keep still and failing; even his puckered pink fuckhole was quivering with excitement.

The boy jerked when the Trucker dropped the cold glass ashtray onto the small of his back—jerked, but not enough to dislodge the ashtray. The Trucker grinned. He’d have the little fucker jerking harder than that soon enough. In fact, now.

Without any warning, he grabbed the Marine’s hips and brutally thrust the bulbous head of his dick ruthlessly past the punk’s straining ass muscle. The kid gave a loud wordless wail, his boots flexing as he instinctively rose up on his toes and tried to tilt his rectum to allow for easier entry.

As he did, he could feel the ashtray starting to slide. The agony of the forced fuck was making him sweat. The few drops running down the hairy crack of his ass did nothing to lube the massive veined member ripping open his poor abused boycunt, but it did a helluva job for the ashtray.

The Marine found himself arching and writhing, shifting his back to keep the ashtray on, shuddering with pain as the Trucker’s cock tore his rectal lining; it felt like someone had shoved a billiard ball up his ass. He began whimpering and moaning.

The Trucker took another drag off his cigarette, then flicked the ashes onto the boy’s back. He didn’t aim for the ashtray; he had no intention of using it. It was there to give the slut something to fail at.

He noticed that the kid had ducked his head down, pressing his forehead into the mattress as a form of support. It was the sound that caught his attention—or, rather the lack of it. Soldier boy’s dog tags had been hanging down and jingling on their chain during the entire fuck, but when the kid lowered his head, they came to rest on the mattress. “Hey, bitch, get yer fuckin’ head up!” he barked. The Marine lifted his head obediently, his desert camo cap coming off and revealing his buzz-cut red-gold hair. He bent his neck back, turning his tear-stained face to the ceiling.

The Marine was in his own private world where the pain and the pleasure of the brutal assfuck merged into a steady glow. He could feel the older man grunting and pumping, behind him, inside him. He could feel the dude’s jeans, worn smooth with use, pressing up against the smooth taut backs of his thighs, flexing with each thrust up his ass. He could feel the stud’s pubic hair, curly and wiry as his chest hair, scraping the sensitive skin of his asscheeks like steel wool. He shifted his feet outward to accommodate more dick, feeling his combat boots knock up against the Trucker’s ropers as he carefully balanced the slick ashtray darting across his smooth back.

The slut was getting used to it, the Trucker thought. His sphincter has relaxed. He’d been hurt, but the worthless pig had enjoyed it.

If the pig enjoyed it, the Trucker didn’t. About time for him to have some fun. Let’s see—first thing to do is take care of that ashtray…

It wasn’t difficult; all he had to do was time an extra-deep thrust to the right point. He made sure the fucktoy bucked backwards in reaction; that flipped the ashtray up over his shoulder and let it land within his field of vision on the bed.

The Trucker hoped the whore would notice that it hadn’t been used. “Oh shit, cunt, you done fucked up now. I still got a lit cig I was just about to put out. Guess what happens now?”

The Trucker ground the smoldering butt slowly into the kid’s twitching asscheek. The Marine screamed uncontrollably as the small spot of flesh began to blacken and smoke. Without pulling his cock out of the young punk’s ass or removing the still-glowing stub of cigarette, the Trucker threw himself forward, forcing the unfortunate slut down onto the bed and shoving his face down into the mattress.

He held the position for a good forty-five seconds or so, even after the butt had gone out, sighing in pure erotic pleasure as the flailing youth pumped his ass in agony and fear along the top’s throbbing shaft. One hand on the boy’s ass, the other splayed in the short red hair, forcing his head down, in complete control of the useless fucking squealing pig.

The Marine was learning that, while a little of what you like does you good, a lot’ll kill ya. Despite the pain, he’d enjoyed the merciless fucking. This, though—this was a-whole-nother level.

A hot, searing pain on his ass. He screamed involuntarily, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard the Trucker curse. He knew, somehow, when his face was buried in the bedding, that it was to shut him up, not smother him.

This sick fucking psycho was gonna hurt him bad. But he wasn’t gonna kill him. That shit couldn’t happen to him; he was a Marine after all.

Suddenly, the pressure on the back of his head was gone; he could lift his head—he could breathe again. There was still a searing spot of pain on his ass, but he was too busy gasping for air to be able to scream. And by the time he got his breath back, he had other things to occupy him.

The Trucker grabbed the gasping fucktoy roughly by the shoulder, twisting him around. Keeping the boy impaled on his stiff cock the entire time, he grabbed the kid’s legs as well and managed to completely flip him without letting him off his dick. He was now staring down into the punk’s face.

The Marine was taken by surprise; before he could react, he was flat on his back with his legs spread; his eyes focused on his desert combat boots now hanging in the air past the alpha stud’s shoulders—what the fuck is going on here, what’s he doing now, oh fuck, that snarl of hate and lust oh my god what’s he gonna do…

Before he could say a word, the older man’s face contorted terrifyingly in rage and his hands clamped tightly around the Marine’s throat, squeezing with a force the poor boy wouldn’t have believed possible.

He fought. Oh god, how he fought. The Trucker knew he’d picked a good one; even if the worthless cunt hadn’t picked up anything else in the military, the physical training had made him hard to kill—and that made him a good fuck.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, it’s time to get what you came for. You wanted my load, right? You said you’d kill for it, remember? Will ya die for it? Cause that’s what it’s gonna take, motherfucker. You gotta die on my cock to get my cum. What’s that? You don’t want it that bad? Tough shit, cunt. The cancellation penalty’s even worse.”

He leaned forward and spit into the boy’s confused, tear-stricken face. It was obvious that the kid had no idea that he’d been targeted by a serial killer; despite detailed training in the military, the punk was so paralyzed by terror that he was unable to defend himself coherently.

He was young and strong, though, and his slim, lithe, sweat-slicked body thrashed violently on the bed as suffocating panic set in. The bitch flailed his arms desperately, sending the ashtray flying onto the floor with a loud clunk. His boots kicked frantically in the air as his bulging eyes peered up uncomprehendingly out of his blackening face into the leering, contempt-filled eyes of his killer. His dog tags jingled briefly as they skittered across his sweat-soaked chest before sliding off into his reeking armpit.

His hands clawed furiously at the Trucker’s chest, catching at the fur, tracing with frantic, erotic desperation the slick, firm muscles flexing, flexing to end his worthless life. He somehow realized the futility of grasping ineffectually at sweat-lubed skin and transferred his attention to his attacker’s face—but the alpha stud was experienced at putting whores down; he knew to expect the panicky gouging and dodged his head to one side while repositioning himself so that he could pin the fuckhole down with one arm crushing his esophagus.

With his other arm free, he began punching the Marine in the face, delivering shattering roundhouse blows with all the force his rage could muster.

“Quit fightin’ it, you useless faggot cunt. This is all you’re good for, you fuckin’ pansy Marine wanna-be. You thought you were a soldier, you worthless fuck? You ain’t dyin’ to serve your country, fuckwad, you’re dyin’ to serve my dick. How ya like that, huh? Take it, you fuckpig, take the pain. You know you love it and deserve it, you fuckin’ worthless homo cocksucker. Guess what your CO is gonna think of ya when they find your used, reamed-out, cum-filled corpse in this faggot fuckhole, yeah? Bet the thought just makes you wanna cum, worthless cum-sucking homo pig!”

Under a hail of pain and brutal physical impact, the Marine could hear and understand the Trucker’s words. They were the last words he was capable of understanding; at the moment they were said, he’d been without oxygen for over two minutes.

His thoughts were a jumble of random sensations jelled into a solid state of terror. His dying mind seemed to have broken into multiple compartments; the final fragmentation of a psyche confronted by horrifying, agonizing, yet phenomenally erotic death…

…because in one compartment, the Marine felt huge throbbing waves of heat originating in his puckered ballsack and flowing up the shaft of his cock, rendered so extraordinarily sensitive by approaching death that the slightest touch had the force of an electrical shock…

…and in another compartment, the Marine felt the terror and confusion of the sudden, random brutality of his death; just half an hour ago, he’d been surrounded by dozens of hot studs in the bar, any one of whom he’d have gladly blown—how did he go from that to getting raped and strangled in so short a time…

…and yet another compartment was flooded with the exquisite agony of death, the explosive, imperative pressure in his chest, the swelling torment of his head as his face turned black and blood vessels ruptured throughout his eyes and face…

…but the Trucker looked down on it all, and moved by the youth’s obvious terror, took a moment to ease the horror of death by driving another blow into the faggot’s grotesque, distorted face.

As he wrapped his other hand back around the fucker’s throat, applying bear-trap pressure to the dying kid’s windpipe, the Trucker watched the punk’s slime-covered tongue force its way past the swollen blue lips, thrust agonizingly out of the youth’s mouth accompanied by streams of foamy drool that seeped down the Marine’s death-contorted face.

The rational part of the punk’s brain began to fail from oxygen deprivation, but physical sensation continued to transmit; the Marine could still feel the Trucker’s huge hog plugging his colon and fucking his guts, even if the boy’s brain was too damaged to understand what he was feeling. As his universe collapsed into a constricting ring of blackness and pain, the Marine’s slick, smooth, muscled limbs thrashed convulsively; while his boots drummed mindlessly on the marble-like muscles of his killer’s back, his hands and arms flailed wildly on the bed. One random swing of his arm sent the bottle of Jack flying off to shatter against the wall.

Suddenly the Marine went stiff. It was the last convulsion of a slow, painful, brutal death, the final tightening of all muscles. It was what the Trucker had been holding on for; it was why he did this. The combination of the death spasm in the fucktoy’s sphincter and the convulsion in the lower intestine—it was like a spontaneous suction on his swollen shaft, with the ass muscle working as a cock ring—oh fuck, he was almost there—

The dying punk suddenly gave a violent convulsion under the Trucker. As he did so, the Trucker felt the hard burning shaft of the dying Marine’s cock begin to throb and pump; burning streams of semen erupting in a violent, desperate death orgasm as the Trucker felt the motherfucker’s esophagus collapse beneath his hands, the cartilage yielding with a satisfying crunch that added to the force of his orgasm when the older dude pumped the dead fucktoy’s ass full of hot cum.

The Trucker’s hard, muscled body locked up as firmly as the corpse of the younger boy thrashed violently under him, the alpha top nearly paralyzed and only able to emit a low, rough growl as he pumped his spunk uncontrollably up the dead Marine’s reamed-out cunt.

The Trucker spent the next few minutes gasping and trembling, his cock still buried in the corpse, feeling his balls drain of sperm. After he caught his breath, he pulled out of the still-twitching Marine, admiring the black face on the corpse, swollen almost unrecognizably.

The Trucker lit another smoke as he looked down at the body. Fuck, he was still hard. And the stunned look of horror on the corpse’s face was too irresistible.

Before he was aware of it, the Trucker was back on the Marine, violating the body, shoving his engorged shaft past the slimy, swollen tongue into the crushed throat.

The Trucker skull-fucked the corpse for several minutes before spilling so much seed that it overflowed the Marine’s crushed throat and mouth, pearly white streams oozing out the corpse’s nose.

He’d kept casually dragging on his smoke the entire time; when he was done, he ground the butt out on the whore’s forehead before stepping into the bathroom and soaking a towel to wipe the glaze of the dead Marine’s cum off his chest, where it was matting the fur.

Returning to the room, the Trucker pulled the white cotton t-shirt down over his massive furry chest; it instantly glued to him with a transparency due to the sweat from his recent workout. Picking up his denim jacket, he approached the bed.

The faggot Marine slut was still twitching and quivering on the bed. There was a small dark burn mark on his forehead where the Trucker had put out his butt, almost invisible against the throttled, blackened skin. The older dude grinned down at the corpse, hoping the homo pig had enjoyed his last few nightmarish minutes on earth.

He turned and walked towards the door, unfastening the multiple locks. As he opened the door, he glanced at his watch—2:42. Perfect. He’d be out of the state before the body was found. He took one last glance around the room to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

As his eyes rested on the convulsing corpse, a glint of light caught the Trucker’s eye. He returned to the bed to notice the Marine’s dog tags catching the light. With one deft motion, he reached down and jerked the chain off the corpse’s neck.

Slipping the dog tags over his own head, the Trucker smiled grimly as he fastened he denim jacket and headed back towards his truck. These cheap-ass textiles ain’t gonna deliver themselves, ya know. And there are so many bars and small towns and truck stops out there.

The Trucker chuckled as his worn ropers thumped across the motel’s tarmac. It was a big country. A veritable buffet of sex and death, just waiting for him…

Fantasy Scenario 16

It’s been a while since I’ve actively hunted. Recently, meat seems to come to me of its own accord. Today, though, I’m out and stalking. After all, I need to keep my skills up.

I’m sitting in the parking lot of a strip mall. This isn’t a good part of town and most of the businesses here are closed or seriously under-staffed. The lot is practically empty–which is why the two punks I’ve got my eye on are here; they have a wide-open space to practice their moves.

The taller one is on a skateboard. He’s got a ball cap on over his shoulder-length black hair. He’s about twenty, with a faint goatee encircling his mouth. Skinny jeans, a black t-shirt and black hightops complete the look.

The other kid is shorter and might be a year or two younger. He’s on a bike. He’s dressed just like his friend, except his shirt is blue and his sneakers are white. His blond hair is straight and not quite as long as his buddy’s. His face is smooth and hairless. As he speeds by the spot where I’m parked, I see that his wallet is attached to a belt loop with a chain.

Since I’m guessing they’re under 21, I have an easy lure. I’m parked where they can clearly see me downing a beer. I’m not actually drinking alcohol; the last thing I need is to get pulled over for DWI. This is an open can filled with water. But there’s a case in the back of my van in case they take the bait.

And they do. Stupid little shits. They deserve every second of suffering I have planned for them.

It’s the younger one, the kid on the bike, who comes by first. Hesitantly, he asks to borrow a cigarette. Sure, no problem. His name is Tommy and his buddy is Jake, who soon joins us.

I offer them a beer. They accept eagerly and soon they’re both guzzling away in the back of my van. It’s been earlier than I expected.

I tell them I have weed back at my place if they’re interested. They are, so we head out. It’s during the drive to my killing pit that Jake mentions he’d rather find some heroin. Tommy seconds him. I grin knowingly as I let them know I can accommodate them with that as well.

I hadn’t tagged the little fucks as needle freaks. It makes them easier to subdue, but I’ll need to be careful. As I’ve said before, I’ll fuck the meat even if it dies of an overdose, but I prefer a fresh kill.

Once we’re back at the run-down house I’ve rented, I leave them in the living room while I get my stash. I haven’t had the chance to use this stuff on my prey in a while; it’s extremely pure. I go ahead and load the syringes myself; they’d OD right away if I let them do it themselves.

Tommy is still on the couch when I get back to the living room, but Jake is peering out the front window. I know what he’s looking at; the house across the street is a notorious crack house–which is exactly what I was looking for.

Sometimes the best place to hide is right out in front. That house is a magnet for any law enforcement in the neighborhood. It keeps the cops so busy no one even glances in my direction.

I get Jake’s attention and draw him back to the couch. It’s not long before he and Tommy have tied off and are grinning and joking with each other. I let them have their last bit of fun.

When it’s my turn for fun, they’ll be screaming, not smiling.

It hits them hard. Jake nods off. Tommy gives me a goofy grin as he sinks into acquiescence. As I pull him up off the couch and drag him into the bedroom, I glance back at Jake. He won’t be rescuing his friend; he’s unconscious and drooling.

Tommy stumbles along with me and flops limply onto the bed when I shove him down and start cutting his clothes off with a utility knife. I slice up each leg of his jeans, running my hands along his smooth, firm thighs. He moans but doesn’t resist at all. I slash at his waistband and yank off the jeans. His shorts and shirt come off with no problems as well.

He’s lying back on the bed, eyes closed, long blond hair spread in a fan around his hair. His thick cock presses flaccidly against his inner leg. I want to fuck him badly, but not yet. He’s gonna get tenderized first–he gets to watch while I make his friend into meat. Of course, I’ll need to secure him beforehand. I have just the contraption for that.

I have a new toy as well, and Tommy’s gonna help me play with it. I’m anxious to try it out since it’s kinda unwieldy and a bit bulky; I hope it works well.

It’s a nail gun.

The bed faces the door. At the head of the bed, I’ve attached a 4X4 post upright to a base; the post is about four and a half feet high. Nailed horizontally to the post is a long 2X4, the whole forming a T shape.

I drag Tommy around the post and stand him up so that he’s facing it and looking down at the head of the bed. He giggles and drools a little while I force him up against the post and fondle his ass. He barely stirs when I fasten a ball gag into his mouth. High as he is, he’s gonna want to scream here in a sec, when I secure him to the 2X4. And as hot as I think his screaming will be, he’s not up at bat right now. Order must be maintained.

Somewhere inside the stupid little bitch’s drug-fogged mind, an awareness creeps in that something isn’t right. I don’t give him a chance to jerk away, though. I place his left hand with the palm flat against the board. Then I snatch up the nail gun and drive a three-inch nail through the back of his hand into the board. It sinks in, the head making a dimple in the back of the fucker’s hand out of which blood drips.

He reacts more violently than I’d anticipated, but it doesn’t matter–he can’t move with his hand nailed to the post. His cries are muffled by the gag and even with the pain, he’s still too high to fight back. I quickly get his right hand nailed into place on the other side. He’s permanently attached to the post, facing it, helpless to protect himself when his time comes.

Tommy is snuffling and crying but not really able to make enough noise to alert Jake–who’s too drugged himself to do anything anyway. He turns his tear-stained face to me in confusion, but I’m already on my way out of the room to get his buddy.

Jake has regained consciousness but hasn’t moved; he’s still in place on the couch. Like Tommy, he knows something is wrong but the drug has rendered him helpless to protect himself. I’m able to pull him up and get him into the bedroom with no trouble. He sees Tommy at the post, but he’s still high enough that it doesn’t register.

I cut his clothes off as well but he stays on the bed. It doesn’t take me long to get him into position; I’ve had lots of practice at this. I bind his hands behind his back with handcuffs before laying him out on the bed face up. When I mount him, I’ll be able to look up directly into Tommy’s face.

Even better, Tommy will have to watch Jake get raped and killed, knowing that it’s going to happen to him as well.

Jake gets to have a little fun himself, of course, whether he wants to or not. I snake a thick leather cockring through the bush of hair at the base of his long plump dick, encircling his scrotum as well. The moment I snap it closed, his cock begins to darken and swell.

I can’t wait. I’m fully erect at the thought of plowing the punk’s hole while life seeps out of his body. Time to rock ‘n roll.

Jake gasps and moans when I stuff my tool deep inside him. He’s extremely tight–this must be excruciating but he’s still too drugged to cry out. I’m on my knees with my arms wrapped around his legs to fuck him missionary position. I look across to Tommy’s dazed and confused face.

“Damn,” I tell him, “your friend’s a good piece of fuckmeat. Hope you’re as tight as he is. I can’t fucking wait to find out. Feels so goddam good stretching out his ass–if you’re any tighter yourself, I’m gonna have to tear your hole when I stick my cock in your ass. It’ll hurt like a bitch for you, but it’ll feel even better on my dick than your buddy–and he feels great. The inside of his ass is like silk.”

Jake’s arms are twisted painfully behind him as he lies on his back, adding to his discomfort. His body rocks back and forth with each of my thrusts; my balls slap his ass rhythmically. It’s nice, but something is missing. I know what–and I know how to fix it. I get Tommy’s attention first.

“Hey, meat, this fuckwad’s getting loose. I’ve already stretched him out too much. Gotta tighten him back up. Lessee now, what can I do to make him clench up? I got an idea…”

That’s when I hold up a military knife. It’s six inches long with a rubber grip and wicked serrations. I make sure they both can see it.

I lie across Jake and slide my other hand underneath him. I work it up between his shoulder blades until I can grasp his long, slightly curly black hair. As I do so, I lower the blade until it’s right over his head. I can see the glint of light on its razor-sharp edge reflected in his wide, fear-filled brown eyes. He knows it’s coming for him, but he doesn’t know where. I keep him in suspense for a while.

“Look at it, fuckmeat,” I whisper to him. “Look at the blade. Imagine it cutting into you, bitch, imagine how much it’s gonna hurt. I’m gonna slice your flesh open like tender roast beef. You’re gonna wallow in pain and blood, suffering unbearable agony while you ride my cock. Don’t that sound like fun, you fucking pig?”

Jake cries and babbles incoherently. He’s still too high to be able to put up any effective resistance–but not too high to know what’s about to happen. I turn to Tommy and crank up the horror.

“This fuckpig is just about reamed out. Guess it’s time for a radical retightening. Pay close attention, meat, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”

I wrap Jake’s hair around my hand and pull down, jerking his head back. I put the knife down for a moment to savor his long, muscular neck and massage his Adam’s apple. “Big piece of gristle in your throat,” I tell him, picking the knife back up, “let’s see if we can cut it down to size.”

I slam the blade straight down into his Adam’s apple, destroying his larynx in one blow.

Jake’s eyes open wide in shock. He starts to shriek, but I’ve severed his vocal cords; all that comes out is a gagging gasp. The knife has gone straight into the front of his throat so no major blood vessels have been cut. He’s in phenomenal pain–but he’s not dying.

I decide to enjoy it for a moment. I let go of the knife but leave it buried in his throat while I continue to fuck him.

“Oh yeah, motherfucker, that got you nice and clenched. Nothing like a little pain to help you get a grip on things–like my cock. Keep trying to scream, boy, your useless wheezing is really getting me off.”

Tommy is openly sobbing now. I’m gonna have to keep an eye on him; with that ball gag in, he could suffocate on his own snot. And I don’t want him dying till he’s on my dick.

Jake is coughing up a little blood but judging by the gurgling sounds I think he’s inhaling most of it. Each time I jam my rod deep inside of him, the blade bobs back and forth in the wound, causing more damage. His face is a rictus of agony, wet with tears, his black goatee stained with blood.

“Holy shit, that did the trick, you worthless little fuck. A little tickle with a blade got you all hot and horny. Keep it up, punk, you’re working my dick real good now.”

The meat has no choice; it has to lie there and submit to my knife and my cock. Rigid with pain and panic, Jake is trying desperately to remain conscious. It would be easier for him if he just let go, but he doesn’t know that. That’s why I like them young–they struggle to stay alive longer. Any strength they possess works against them by dragging out the nightmarish scene.

I’m really pounding the meat in the ass by this point. He’s staring at the ceiling in misery, face streaked with tears and snot and blood, probably trying to tell himself that he’ll get through this if he can just hold on. Time to disabuse him–and Tommy too–of that notion.

“Fuckin’ A, happens every time. I get to fucking a nice, conditioned piece of meat and it starts to go loose again. What are we gonna do about that, boy? I must not have hurt you bad enough for it to stick. Well, I can fix that. Hold on, pig; if you though that last one was bad, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

I press one hand down over his face to hold his head in place while I yank the blade out of his throat. More blood seeps from the wound as I reposition the knife and start flaying open his esophagus.

The punk fucker opens his mouth and screams silently as the taut flesh of his neck is sliced open, exposing the raw meat inside his throat. I only cut about halfway down, still trying to avoid the major blood vessels; bleeding out would be too quick. I’m still having fun playing with him. I find myself having to put some effort into sawing open the rubbery tissue of his windpipe.

As the gurgling sound of his respiration quickens in shock and terror, pink foam comes bubbling out of the gaping hole in his neck. Even without severing the carotid or the jugular, he’s still inhaling substantial amounts of blood

I take a quick peek at Tommy to see how he’s enjoying his ringside seat. He stares dully at the horror show in front of him. I suspect he’s protecting his psyche by retreating into a catatonic state.

Well, pain will take care of that. He won’t have the luxury of denial long.

Jake is still trying to straight-arm death. He’s losing the battle, but his fight is working my dick like magic. His trachea has partially collapsed and he’s having difficulty breathing. Each agonizing breath is accompanied by a high-pitched squeal as sliced shreds of flesh block the meat’s airway.

He’s having to strain harder with each attempt to inhale. Every time he does, his entire body goes rigid with the effort, causing his rectum to close up on my tool. I run my hands up his sides and over his firm, heaving chest, slick with desperate sweat. His glands are malfunctioning in the face of swiftly approaching death; powerful manstink wafts from his hairy pits.

As I lean over him, anxious to watch the light fade from his eyes, I can feel his dick, still swollen and engorged from the cockring. It’s hot and throbbing; I can feel it spasm against my belly. A bubble of blood burst from the meat’s mouth and then I feel a warmth spreading over my abdomen as the dying punk shoots uncontrollably.

His ass seems to pulse around my rod, forcing a huge wad of spunk to erupt deep inside him. At the same time, he hasn’t stopped shooting; a jet of semen rises in the air and splashes back down onto his face, diluting the blood and pooling into his slowly glazing eyes.

The meat gives one last long groan–a death rattle not caused by his shredded vocal cords but instead caused by his last breath forcing its way out past the mangled cartilage blocking his throat. He shudders momentarily, milking the last drop of cum out of my shaft before he goes still.

But I ain’t done yet. There’s still plenty of cream boiling in my sack. Time to drain it into my next fucktoy.

The first thing I do after pulling my cock out of the dead meat is remove the gag from Tommy’s mouth. Tommy’s eyes are half-closed. He drools and makes a low keening sound, terror rendering him non-functional. I approach him from behind, running my hands over his smooth ass, reaching between his legs and jacking his dick for a bit. He may be out of his mind with fear, but his tool responds like he’s really into this.

Maybe he is. Most of these little punks usually submit to their buried desire by the time death takes them. They’ll fight it to the bitter end, but they finally come to accept and understand. Some of them, I’m convinced, enjoy the pain and fear and domination–judging by how hard they cum when it’s all said and done.

Of course, I’ve learned a lot about human physiology over the years. Whether they want to or not, they all blow a huge load when they die. I see to that. But still, as they sink into the cold embrace of oblivion, I can see in their eyes gratitude for showing them their ultimate purpose and giving them the greatest orgasm possible, one fueled by the body’s instinctive need to expel its reproductive seed before it dies.

On the other hand, I leave some of the meat so brain-damaged that it’s incapable of realizing that it’s cumming. The orgasm is reflexive, caused by misfiring neurons. I really don’t care, as long as it gets me off. It’s just meat, after all.

There’s a recliner in the room. I pull it up behind my fucktoy and sit for a moment, admiring his tight ass, his muscular calves rising from his skate shoes, his smooth back widening to his shoulders. It’s not long before I’m hard again. When I get up, I leave the chair in place. I have plans for it, if I can manipulate the meat just right.

Tommy’s low moaning spirals into a wail as I split his asscheeks with my cock, mounting him from behind like a dog. The kid is clearly a virgin; he’s so tight it hurts my dick. His own pain is much worse, of course–I’m tearing his sphincter. I can feel a thick, viscous fluid on my tool. He’s bleeding inside.

I hold the meat tightly to me as I brutally fuck him. He sobs and moans in time to my thrusts, each pump of my hips eliciting a cry of pain. My hands slip down his belly to grab his dick and cup his balls. As I masturbate him, he starts to respond, growing erect in spite of himself.

“Horny little faggot, aren’t ya?” I whisper in his ear. “You just love my thick rod plowing your hole. Fuckin’ hurts, don’t it, but deep inside you’re a little fuckpig who gets off on gettin’ hurt. You’re really gonna like what happens next. I’m gonna hurt you so good you’ll scream with joy.”

I reach for the nail gun. I’ve really been looking forward to this. These three-inch nails will pitilessly tear into his young, hard body, embedding themselves into his muscles and bones. His agony will be exquisite and I’ll enjoy every second of the torture.

I reach around Tommy’s chest and up to his face, grabbing it and pulling him back so he’s pressed against me. I bring up the nail gun and fire it into his side.

The first one shatters a rib on the way in, spewing bone fragments like shrapnel. The kid stiffens and I can feel his scream vibrate down his body and up through my cock. He’s making too much noise; I need to quiet him down. Traumatic shock will do the job nicely. The next nail goes into his kidney.

The meat gasps and trembles. He’s panting like a dog and his blond hair is dark and slick with sweat. He jerks his arms but he’s held firm with his hands nailed to the board.

“Try as hard as you like, motherfucker. There’s no escape. You’ll take all the pain I give you until I’m ready to waste your punk ass. And you’re gonna die hard, bitch. Your last few minutes on earth will be a nightmare of agony. You’ll squeal like a pig as I off you and fill your corpse with cum.”

As his back writhes against my stomach, I slip the gun around to Tommy’s front and fire again. This nail misses the ribs but rips through his pectoral muscle and penetrates his lung. The punk kicks and twists vainly, unable to break free of the iron grip of pain. The hole in his lung makes it difficult to inhale; each breath is labored and panicked.

He’s so fucking hot–young, smooth, strong, bleeding and crying. Suddenly, with gasping words, he starts begging–not for his life, but for his death. He wants me to kill him and end his misery.

“I knew it, you worthless little fuck. This is what you want, what gets you hard. You’ll cry and piss and scream, but your fucking pig soul wants to be used and thrown out like the piece of shit you are. Now shut up and take my cock, whore; the only thing I wanna hear you beg for is more of my dick.”

I put a nail into the meat’s flat belly. His broken sobbing is beautifully erotic; in a haze of lust, I pound his ass furiously. Slippery with sweat, he moans and struggles, his silky skin sliding frictionlessly over mine. I’m close, I’m so close.

“Going into the home stretch, motherfucker. It’s just about time to pop one of these bad boys into your skull, dude. Are ya ready, bitch? Ready to feel steel in your brain and my cum warming your guts as you sink into a cold, agonizing death? I sure the fuck am. I’m gonna fuck up your brain so bad you’ll end up as a meat puppet dancing on the end of my dick and after I cum, I’m gonna toss you and your buddy in the trash like used rubbers.”

I’m hunched over him, hips gyrating in a blur, pressing the nail gun against the back of the meat’s head. After I speak, I stay silent for a while, fucking him continually, letting his terror build. After about sixty seconds, I feel him relax slightly. That’s when I fire the gun.

The nail penetrates his skull smoothly, the head resting flush against the skin, buried in his sweat-soaked hair. The punk’s soft, vulnerable cerebellum is peppered with shards of cranial bone. Tommy’s spasm is instant and incredibly violent; he arches his body back against mine. His arms pull back with a mighty yank, ripping his hands free by jerking the heads of the nails through the backs of his hands. As his fists clench and release convulsively, they bleed like stigmata. The nails I used to secure him remain in the crossbar, dripping blood and flesh. One has a length of tendon dangling from it.

Holding the meat to me, I stagger backwards and fall into the recliner. My cock never leaves the pig’s ass as I pull him down on top of me. I lay back and blast another nail into his brain, this one in the temple.

This one short-circuits the electrochemical pulses in his nervous system. He flops back in my lap; looking over his shoulder, I can see his thick rod, erect and corded with veins, throbbing and oozing pre-cum. He’s just about there. I just need to make him shoot.

I take my time. He’s bouncing up and down on my tool like he’s riding a pogo stick. His respiration speeds up; he’s breathing in short, irregular gasps. Each exhale is accompanied by an involuntary moan. I fondle the dying meat’s cock and balls as he seizes and convulses on top of me. This is my reward; this is what I wanted–this little skate punk bobbing mindlessly on my dick, helpless, vulnerable, completely in my control.

I’m set for the ultimate domination–working the agonized punk to orgasm as his life drains away. He’s nearly there already; the trauma to his brain has made him susceptible to physical manipulation. I jack him with one hand while I place the nail gun in his groin.

An explosion of semen, boiling like magma, erupts from the head of my cock and floods the meat’s rectum. Simultaneously, I fire the gun, driving a nail deep into the base of the punk’s sack, cold steel penetrating his scrotum and skewering the root of his cock. His velvety balls pucker and spasm instantly. The final blast of pain was all he needed–the extra stimulus to his nervous system pushing him over the edge of orgasm. Ropy white strands spew out of the straining purple head of the meat’s dick. His shuddering, rigid body locks up, forcing a series of grunts out of his mouth. At the same time, a chunk of meat slips from between his lips and off his chin, leaving a bloody trail. In his convulsions, the fuckpig bit off the tip of his tongue.

I don’t know how long I shoot. My orgasm seems to last for half an hour; I unload so much sperm into the meat’s intestines that I’m amazed my balls don’t collapse. My fucktoy is packed full of cum. I can feel it oozing out of his torn, reamed-out hole and matting my pubic hair.

I slump back in exhaustion, glancing over at Jake’s gorgeous corpse lying in a puddle of piss and cum. I may go another round with both boys–there’s no sense in wasting fresh meat, after all–but right now, I need some sleep. I start drifting off with my rod still sheathed in Tommy. As I close my eyes, I can still feel him quiver and twitch. When I wake up later on, he’ll be stiff and cold on my cock, but right now there’s still a tiny, dwindling spark of life left in his sexy, traumatized body. I hold him close, turn his trembling, innocent face to mine and kiss his bloody lips as I fall asleep.

Meat Chronicles 17–Carnivore Uncaged

Finally. I’m back out on the hunt. It’s been too long; I’ve had too much shit to deal with recently to go prowling for prey, but I’m back.

I’m hungry for meat.

Among other things, I got a new van. Didn’t want to tool around too long in the last car; it coulda been recognized at a dump site. This one’s nice. Lotta nice features.

The plastic lining the back isn’t standard. Did that myself. Covered as much of the interior as I can; no sense in leaving trace evidence.

Although the way I’m feeling today, there’ll be more than just “trace” evidence. Gonna take more than that to sate the hunger and rage inside.

It’s a warm night for this time of year. I’m in a major shopping center; there’s lots of meat out and about. There’s also a fair amount of security in some of these stores, but at the moment, I’m way out in the middle of the parking lot. There’s the strip mall dead ahead, the big-box store on my left and more strip mall behind me. To my right, I can see the back side of several fast food places and boutique stores facing the main street.

It’s late afternoon. The sky is strange; huge low heavy clouds sit oppressively overhead, but the sun is shining through a break. It seems so much brighter contrasted with the dark, lowering ceiling overhead. Everything is suffused with a golden light.

There aren’t too many cars near me, so I have a pretty good view. Not much to look at, though. There are a few hot boys running around, but they’re all either too far away or accompanied by someone. So I wait.

As the bronze rays of the sun slowly begin to slant away, the security light behind the restaurant closest to me comes on. Just after it does, I see the back door swing open and my meat steps out.

He doesn’t know he’s my meat yet. He’s young; looks like he’s about eighteen or nineteen. Tall, lean and lanky but not scrawny. Above his full lips his face is angular but no more acne-scarred than the average teenager. Just below his smoky blue-gray eyes, his straight nose is interrupted by a swelling; it appears to have been broken at some point in the past.

Good. He’s experienced pain…

In this light, his long blond hair has an amazing golden glow. It’s very straight except for a slight curl at the ends, just above his shoulders. As he turns and I can see his profile, I also notice the haze of shining curls on his chin, a tuft of blond hair there catching the light.

He must be about six, six one. He’s in a black t-shirt that clings tightly to his boyish chest, his pecs two small rises with a shallow valley between. Below his flat belly tight skinny jeans hug his rounded ass and outline a long ridge in his crotch. As his denim-wrapped legs taper to his black leather hightop sneakers, I can imagine his firm thighs tightening around me in agony…

Ok, deep breath. Let’s see what it takes to get the punk. He’s smoking a cigarette and talking on his phone. I’m about twenty yards away, but with the window down I can just barely make out the gist of his conversation.

He’s yelling at someone who was supposed to give him a ride home but didn’t answer his texts. Sounds like he’s talking to voicemail. Poor little guy; maybe he needs a lift. I can do that. But I don’t just wanna pull up in my van and offer a ride; that’d most likely raise a red flag.

This is what it means to be a hunter. It’s a gamble, literally; you’re betting that you’ll get a better shot at your prey while risking allowing him to escape. I wait.

He hangs up, tosses his butt aside and paces angrily for a couple of minutes. I continue to wait, wanting to see what he does. The length and force of his strides decreases as he walks off his frustration.

I settle back, waiting for my cue. It’ll come soon. My heart is pounding with anticipation; I know it’s coming soon. My cock is hard and oozing already but I’m focused and ready to pounce.

The lithe blond punk pauses and glances around. He slips his cigarette pack out again, but what he pulls out is slimmer and more irregular then a cigarette. He lights his joint and inhales deeply, closing his eyes in pleasure. It’s the opening I’ve been looking for.

I start my van and ease out of my parking space. I slowly coast down the row and turn right. The kid is facing away from me; good—he doesn’t hear me until I’m right up on him. He turns, startled, hiding the weed behind him with a guilty expression.

I grin nonchalantly. “Dude, you got another of those?” I ask him casually. “I’ll give ya five bucks; my guy can’t find any right now.”

He gives me a startled glance, but there’s no suspicion in his naïve boyish face. “Yeah, I got more,” he says slowly, eying me very closely. Is the little cunt cruising me? Goddam faggot—I knew it. “Ya wanna buy some? Gimme a lift and I’ll make ya a deal. My ride bailed on me.”

“Not a prob,” I chuckle, “hop in, dude.” He strolls around to the passenger side and climbs in. Fuck, his jeans are clinging so tightly to his slim, firm legs—it’s all I can do to resist jumping him right now. But I don’t; not yet. I need to get someplace private.

“Where we goin’?” I drawl. He gives me directions to one of the suburbs on the east side of town. Kinda a low-rent district. “Ok, I can do that,” I reply. “So whaddaya got to sell?”

“Dude,” he grins, his young, eager face framed by his long blond locks, “I gotta half-ounce tucked down inside my shoe right now.”

“That’ll work,” I smile back, “but I gotta run by my place and get the money first. I don’t tool around with a lot of cash.”

He agrees cheerfully. Perfect. I pull over in a residential area. “Get in the back,” I tell the kid, “I don’t want my girl to see ya; I got enough explainin’ to do as it is.” His beautiful cloudy gray eyes rest hesitantly on mine for a moment, but the punk is too stoned to pick up on any danger signals. He gives another big goofy grin. “Sure, dude,” he lilts, “don’t wanna cause a problem.”

“Don’t worry,” I say as I unbuckle my seat belt and start to follow him into the rear of the van, “you won’t.”

“Huh?” he grunts confusedly, turning his wide, slightly unfocused eyes towards me, “what’s that—unhh!”

He gives a loud grunt as I drive my fist into his face. The sound makes me hard.

The kid falls to his knees, mewling in pain. I grab a fistful of his long blond hair and yank his head back until I can look into his stunned eyes. “Welcome to hell, cunt,” I whisper, smiling into his vacant, horrified face before I slam my fist back into it, putting out his lights. He drops to the floor with a thump.

Well, I ain’t gonna do him here. Too exposed, too much traffic. But I can do a little prep work so he knows what to expect.

Stripping him isn’t difficult but I take a little time—not too much; I’m still on a main street—just enough to enjoy myself. I pull off his black t-shirt, still damp and reeking with boysweat, and toss it to one side. Rolling him flat on his back, I sit on his crotch, facing him, feeling his thick dick pressing against my ass through my tight jeans—and his. He moans thickly, his long eyelashes fluttering as I run my hand down his smooth, firm chest. After fondling his flat belly, I drive my fist into it violently, just to hear that erotic grunt again.

I like to fuck my meat with its shoes on, so his don’t come off. His jeans are too tight to pull off over them. Well, I wanted to get my knife out anyway…

I haven’t used it in a while. It’s so fucking hot; I’m already hard, but holding it makes me drip. It’s a Ka-bar knife with a seven-inch black steel blade. The last three inches towards the hilt are serrated. It’s vicious and clearly designed to inflict maximum damage. It slices through kid’s denim like it was butter, laying bare his muscled legs, covered with a faint fine down of blond hair.

Little motherfucker is commando under. Figures. Stupid bitch probably wants to get used. Well, fuck, guess he’s in for a good time, then—cause I’m damn sure gonna use him good and hard.

In fact, I’m gonna use him right the fuck up.

I was right about his cock, a long snake-like tube of flesh coiled in the golden nest of his pubic hair. I flip the limp slut over and admire his smooth taut bubble butt. Goddam, I can’t wait to plow that tight fuckhole. But I gotta get somewhere private, so I restrain myself—and restrain my meat. His hands go behind his back; I make sure the zip tie is painfully tight.

Later on, I’m gonna spread his legs and rape his smooth teen ass, but right now, I don’t need him kicking around in the back of my van, so I loop his belt around his ankles—a thick black leather strap. I cinch it tight, just above his hightops and white tube socks. I need to keep him quiet; just before climbing back into the driver’s seat, I ball up his reeking t-shirt and shove it in his mouth.

I also make sure to leave the knife where he can see it if he wakes up.

I’m not too far from one of my favorite killing grounds, a semi-deserted industrial area where I know I can get some privacy for at least an hour. That should be enough time to fuck and waste the meat.

It takes a couple of minutes to find the right spot—an enclosed yard containing the loading dock for a defunct factory. Isolated and dark, it hasn’t been used for years for any legitimate purpose. Judging by the amount of broken glass strewn across the cracked, streaked asphalt, it hasn’t been used for any other in quite a while too. Which makes it perfect, but I have to drive carefully.

The meat is awake. I can hear him struggling and jerking, a series of frantic muffled grunts and cries coming from his plugged-up mouth. Good—hope he’s seen the knife.

If not, that’s okay. He’ll see it soon enough anyway.

I ease my van in and shut off the ignition. I step into the rear and turn on the overhead light I had put in, attached directly to the battery. There’s a curtain I can draw to close off the front; with the tinted windows in the rear, no one can see in—not that there’s anyone within at least a mile.

I stand over the meat, looking down at him in the dim light. His face is smeared with tears and snot; he’s clearly terrified. His fear exudes from his hard nude body like an erotic musk. It’s time.

I bend down and snatch the sweaty t-shirt, now soaked with drool, out of the teen’s mouth. It doesn’t matter if he screams now; there’s no one to hear. And I want him to scream.

I like it when the meat screams.

The punk looks up at me, his long blond hair in disarray. When he speaks, his voice quavers in fear. “What-what ya doin’ man? What ya goin’ to do to me?” he whines.

I don’t say anything. Looking down at him with a leer on my face, I pull off my shirt. His smoky eyes slide over my hairy, muscular chest before returning to my face with obvious trepidation. He still doesn’t get it.

Without saying a word, I unzip my fly and let my long, thick, dripping hog flop out.

The kid’s eyes become large round circles and his face pales visibly. “No,” he whispers shakily, “please, fuck, no. Oh God, no, please, don’t do this…” He trails off into broken sobs.

Still not saying anything, I pick up my knife. The meat sees me and gasps, then begins blubbering incoherently. Ignoring him, I bend down and cut the belt binding his legs. Deep in the iron grip of terror, the teen doesn’t try to move; he shudders and trembles as I run my hand up his smooth firm thighs, parting them forcefully so I can get at his fuckhole.

As I kneel between his legs, the boy writhes on his back, his hands bound agonizingly under him. He knows what’s coming; grimacing, he turns his head to the side, tears slipping out from under his long pale lashes.

I move slowly, caressing his smooth boytaint with the oozing head of my dick, letting him feel the massive mushroom tip that’s about to get jammed up his ass. I make sure he doesn’t miss the point. “Yeah, cocksucker, feels good, don’t it? Think how it’s gonna feel when it’s reaming your guts out through your asshole!”

He gasps in fear—or pleasure. It sounds the same. But it’s not his gasping I wanna hear; it’s his screaming. I know how to get it.

Without warning, I plunge my swollen cock into his hole, ramming my vein-wrapped dong as far in as I can, grinding my dark pubic hair into the cunt’s smooth asscheeks. His shriek is loud and piercing—and beautiful. There’s no one for miles, so he can scream as much as he want. Fuck, it’s so goddam hot, the way his body tenses and his silky rectum tightens on my dick like a velvet glove…

The punk takes a deep, shuddering gasp and screams again. The vibration begins in his vocal cords and runs the length of his taut body. I moan out loud. “Fuck yeahhhhh…..”

He turns his head back towards me, his innocent teen face staring into my eyes in pain. “You like hurting me…” he whispers faintly as he pales with horror.

I grin down at him. “Yeah, you fuckin’ faggot. And trust me, you ain’t begun to start hurtin’ yet.”

He glares up at me defiantly. “I ain’t no faggot. And I ain’t gonna help you get off, fucker. You wanna hear me scream? Tough shit. Rape me all fuckin’ night, but I ain’t gonna scream.”

I piledrive my fist into his face, straight from my shoulder. The feisty teen fuckmeat gives another deep grunt of pain and shock as his head rocks back violently. I don’t say a word—I don’t need to. I just pick up my knife and lay it on the cunt’s flat, heaving belly.

My cock remains buried in the bitch’s hole the entire time. His colon massages my swollen, sensitive shaft as he jerks and claws his way back to consciousness. He lifts his head up off the floor, looking down at the knife resting on his abdomen. His left eye is already starting to swell and darken. He’s silent. Stupid fucking teen, but he knows what it means. I can see it in his face.

“Don’t think I can make ya scream, motherfucker? Wanna bet? You’re gonna be screamin’ like the bitch you are, you worthless homo piece of shit. You’re gonna scream and scream but the only way the pain is gonna stop is when I cum. Know what it’s gonna take to make me cum? You gotta die. That’s all there is for ya, pain and death. You’re gonna be a meat puppet filled with my spunk and left to rot in a ditch. How ya like that, you fuckin’ stoned-ass punk cunt?”

Fear rendering the queer punk unable to hold his rebellious glare, the boycunt ducks his head and whimpers. He’s coming to understand that his lithe, lean, smooth body is mine to use as I want. Understanding, however, is not acceptance. And it’s not compliance.

I lay down on top of him, the weight of my muscles holding down his slim teen body, forcing his hands agonizingly into the small of his back—I can see his pain in his eyes. It’s beautiful. It makes me want to hurt him more.

I slowly pump my engorged shaft deep within the youth’s quivering, traumatized rectum. The meat responds to each thrust with faint gasp, almost a moan, his pain-wracked face taut with panic. I can feel his warm, firm body twist and press against me as he seeks to escape from the penetrating agony of my huge cock reaming into his guts.

“Yeah, you worthless little fuck, ya like that, dontcha? Goddam faggot cunt, you love that massive fuckin’ tool plugging your hole, huh? Is that it? You like the way it hurts, fuckmeat? Fuckin’-A, yeah, dude, the way you’re ridin’ my cock, you gotta love it. And I know it hurts, bitch, cause I’m makin’ it hurt. So don’t worry, you worthless pain pig, I’m about to amp up the agony—fuck, meat, I’m gonna hurt you so motherfuckin’ good!”

I grab a fistful of the boy’s hair and pull him down to the floor, forcing my full weight on top of him. As he whines and struggles under me, I slip my other hand down his side, the knife gripped tightly in my fingers. I raise my head up slightly, clenching my fist and pulling up on his hair painfully. His lashes part and I meet the plea in those smoky blue eyes with a cold stare.

I sneer slightly just before I insert the knife into the kid’s flank, slowly inching the sharp, serrated blade into his liver.

The kid’s mouth opens. His face draws back into a rictus of pain; his slim, lithe body contracts around me, his tight legs gripping me tightly in a desperate reflex to trauma. I shudder and gasp as his asshole clamps down on my dick. Fuck, this one’s good. This one is responsive.

This ain’t just meat, this is steak. I need to savor it.

I let go of the knife, leaving it buried up to the hilt in the boy’s heaving, sweating flesh. I don’t want him to bleed out. I let him know.

“Goddam, you’re good fuckin’ meat. Lucky motherfuckin’ cunt, I ain’t gonna kill ya right away–gotta say, bitch, you really know how to enjoy the pain. Holy fuck, if this is getting’ ya off this much, I can’t wait to see what kinda reaction I’ll get from the nightmarish agony I got planned…”

The teen’s face is white but for the huge dark rings of shock forming around his eyes—on his left, it merges with the swollen, bruised skin from his earlier tenderizing. Even a good cut of meat needs some preparation. But he’s hitting the peak of the pain reaction; his body is relaxing, he’s gasping for air in a high-pitched squeal, his teen fuckhole is loosening on my cock.

“Yeah, faggot, that was good for me. Was it good for you? No? Didn’t hurt enough? Geez, dude, you really are a sick fuckin’ pain perv, aintcha? Ok, then, here ya go, ya worthless piece a’ homo shit, ya like this?”

As I lean over and spit into the kid’s face, his look of terrified incomprehension is beautiful. I’m about to recall him into the moment…

Grasping the knife tightly, I begin twisting it inside the youth. The razor-sharp steel slices effortlessly through his liver and spleen. I jerk the hilt brutally upwards, slashing into the teen’s kidney. The serrated edge comes in handy when I encounter some gristle. I look deep into the meat’s eyes as I saw through the obstruction.

He reacts exactly as I’d hoped, black sneakers kicking against my back as his legs grip me again, tightly, desperately, his firm chest slipping over mine on a sheen of cold, agonized sweat leaking out of his abused body. He tightens up even on the inside and I feel my cock swell as if his rectum was forming a vacuum.

“God-fuckin-dam, you motherfuckin’ pain whore! See, I knew it. Ya like that, yeah? How ya like this, meat—I’m about to waste your useless ass. You are about to die in screaming agony and they’re gonna find your body rotting in a ditch full of my cum. Ya like that, ya fuckin’ stoned-ass faggot pig? If not, ya got ten seconds to learn to love it, cocksucker, cause it’s time to die…


It’s my favorite way of offing my meat with a knife, because I can take my time. The pain the meat endures is excruciating if I do it slowly, and they remain aware of what’s happening for a long time.

I like that.

I swiftly jerk the knife out of the kid’s side, managing to elicit another physical contraction. I have to hold him and shudder for a moment; fuck, that sensation around my shaft… Ok, ok, I need to maintain control. The best part is yet to come—so to speak. I hold up the blade, watching it glisten in the dim overhead light, before I point the razor-sharp, crimson-stained  tip at just about the punk’s Adam’s apple.

Rotating the knife ninety degrees and holding it parallel to his throat, I shove the tip up under his jaw, near the rear of the mouth. As the tip penetrates the skin, releasing a thin trail of blood from the wound, the meat begins the greatest sexual performance of his wasted young life.

Again, he clamps his hard, sweaty legs around me in an unconscious, reflexive embrace. I can feel the heels of his sneakers digging into my thrusting ass as I continue to pump my thick, engorged shaft into the dying teen’s fuckhole. He jerks and thrashes in mortal pain and fear as I slowly insert my steel shaft into his head.

As the blade moves upward, I make sure to describe what’s going on to the meat; I want him to enjoy this as much as I do.

“Ok, cunt, can ya feel that? That’s my knife slicing up through the base of yer tongue. Y’know, like ya can get sliced tongue at the deli? Think of it like that. But I’m doing it to your tongue while my dick is up yer ass. That get ya off, ya pain pig? No? Fuck, ya coulda fooled me, the way your tight fuckin’ teen ass is suckin’ down my cock as I off ya. So let’s kick it up some, huh?

He’s thrashing violently, his face purple with strain and twisted by pain into an almost unrecognizable mask. But I can still see the occasional pimple on his teen face, the golden tuft of fur on his chin, now stained with the blood leaking out his gasping mouth—he’s still my stoned teen meat, writhing against me as I put his flesh to its highest and best use…

I tighten my large bicep, shoving the blade further into the kid’s head as I shove my massive rod deeper into his helpless guts.

“Hell yeah, dude, I bet your tongue is almost cut in half by now and the tip of my blade is goin’ up through the roof of your mouth. Fuck, bitch, that’s gotta fuckin’ hurt—good thing you’re a worthless pain pig, huh?”

Suddenly, the smooth progress of my knife is interrupted. The vicious tip of the blade jams into something solid. I make sure the meat knows that I won’t let it stop me.

“Damn, looks like I hit somethin’—must be the bottom of your sinuses. Goddam, you lucky fucking piece of shit fuckmeat, you get to hear my blade getting’ rammed through the bottom of your skull while you get to feel my dick shred your punk fuckhole.”

His eyes are huge and frantic. I’m not sure how much comprehension remains behind those amazing blue-gray orbs, now bloodshot and staring fixedly. But I haven’t touched his brain yet, so there’s nothing neurologically wrong. The pain, the knife will cut through his terror. He’ll be there for the money shot.

It begins as I press down on the boy’s head with one hand while I drive the knife upwards with the other. As the cunt struggles in my hands, I’m rewarded with the deeply erotic crunch of steel penetrating bone while my dick simultaneously penetrates the meat’s quivering teen rectum.

“What’s it feel like, motherfucker? What’s it feel like to have a serrated blade rammed up though your sinuses? What’s it feel like to ride both my cock and my blade down into agonizing death? I know you’re still in there, you fucking homo piece of shit, I know you can still hear me the same way you can still feel my dick up your ass.”

I smile sweetly into the punk’s crazed, horrified face, releasing the top of his head to stoke his strained, tear-streaked face before resuming my grip.

“You won’t feel your death; you’ll just feel your body and your senses shut down. But at some point, I’ll hit the point your brain that controls orgasm. At the moment of death, you’ll cum uncontrollably. When they find your discarded rotting corpse, they’ll find your own DNA.

Everyone is gonna think you wanted this, you fuckin’ cunt. They’re gonna think you wanted to get fucked to death—and you do, dontcha? This is what ya really want. So just enjoy it. I’m gonna fuck yer ass with my dick and yer brain with my blade; I’m gonna use your body to get off and I’m gonna throw your cum-filled body into the gutter like a used rubber, and ain’t no one gonna give a shit. So get ready to spunk and die, you faggot; get ready to have your fuckin’ pain pig death left in the street for everyone to see.”

I slide my knife up slowly, lovingly, though the teen’s sinuses, holding him down and maintaining control as his body convulses rhythmically, pumping his sphincter along my shaft as it clenches my rod like a cock ring. He rocks violently side to side, his eyes staring deeply into mine, conveying his complete surrender to the overwhelming assault on his body…

And then I hit the point I’ve been seeking—the point at which the teen is truly made into meat, the point of the brain that makes the punk blow his load despite the pain and fear and trauma.

I have no idea if he even knows what’s happening at this point. His eyes roll back in his head as his legs dig into me painfully, convulsing to the point of pulling me in and driving my swollen purple shaft even deeper into the meat’s torn and damaged rectum. As the faggot fuckmeat jerks under me, I feel a hot blast of fluid across my flat, hairy abdomen.

The cunt is shooting uncontrollably, just like I promised. I always make sure the meat blows a load. This one’s no different. His long thick glistening cock stands up and presses firmly into my belly so I can feel his shaft swell and spunk as he dies.

I ream his ass and his skull, one with a hot, hard shaft—the other with a cold, hard shaft. I pump his guts full of spunk as the dying meat drains his semen over my furry belly. Gasping deeply, I hold the youth tight, stroking and kissing the shuddering corpse tenderly.

I slowly regain my composure. Pulling my still-oozing tool out of the body’s torn colon, I wipe my dick (and my knife) off with what’s left of the meat’s jeans. I get dressed and, shutting off the light, slip past the curtain into the driver’s seat. I slowly ease out of the yard, glad there’s enough of a moon that I don’t have to turn on the lights.

I keep them off till I reach a main road. Long before then, though, I pull over to a storm culvert. There’s been a lot of rain lately, so it’s pretty full.

I drag the meat out of the van. Hands still bound behind its back, its black sneakers drag over the pavement as I lift it over the railing and dump it into the runoff. I quickly toss the cunt’s shirt and jeans in behind the meat and take off.

Damn, it feels good to be back in the saddle.