Convict 2–the Will to Die

The high-pitched whine of tires on concrete accompanied the car as it raced down the highway. As he shifted gears, Carlos found himself chuckling grimly at the memory of the car’s prior owner—a worthless little faggot who’d died in unspeakable agony.

 

The thought got him hard again. But that was okay–if things worked out the way he planned, he’d soon be able to release the rage and lust still boiling within him. And maybe get even more cash…

 

He didn’t know where Will was living now, but if he was still in town, he’d be hanging at the Hideout, a seedy little dive on the west side of town. Carlos took the Winterbourne exit off the highway; the Hideout was three miles north at Winterbourne and Exposition. As he got closer to his destination, the well-built killer noticed that the neighborhood looked much the same, if not worse. At any rate, there damn sure hadn’t been any gentrification going on out here.

 

Will had probably moved. He’d had the money to do so–his family was wealthy and gave him an allowance. He’d be–what, about twenty-three now?  And that was assuming the rich little cumsucker was still alive; he could have easily OD’d or been offed by someone else by now. Still, if he was around, he’d have plenty of cash.

 

And Carlos had a score to settle with the pansy piece of shit.  Little homo liked it rough; for the right price, Carlos had given it to him rough.  The slut was a serious pig and got off on getting fucked by an authentic cholo punk from the streets.

 

And that had led Carlos to his mistake.  Knowing how much money Will had, he decided to impress the little fuck by boasting about his kill.  He was sure that the rich suburban boy would pay extra after that.

 

Instead, the queer-ass bitch had narced on him.  He didn’t testify, but some details had come up in the trial—and the only way the prosecution could have known was if Will had told them.

 

Carlos shifted gears, then reached down to the crotch of his tight jeans and shifted his dick.  It was time, he thought, for Will to learn why he shoulda kept his mouth shut.

 

He’d made a very bad decision and now he had to suffer the consequences.  And Carlos was gonna make damn sure he suffered.

 

The Hideout was still there.  It was housed in a dilapidated two-story building right on the corner; the parking lot was behind and could be reached from either street.  The corner of the building that faced the intersection had been built flat to accommodate what had then been the main entrance.  Needless to say, most dudes came in the back these days.  In more ways than one.

 

Carlos slid the Mustang into a space near the back of the lot—he’d found one that actually gave him a direct line of sight to the rear door.  He could see anyone leaving or entering; it was perfect.  He reclined the seat and settled in, waiting for his prey.  He made himself comfortable

 

He’d already spent some of Chad’s money; the first thing he did after renting a cheap motel room was to go get some clothes.  Actually, the very first thing he did was go and buy two cartons of cigarettes. He’d had to give them up inside because he’d had no money and the only thing he’d had to trade was his body—and he wasn’t no faggot.

 

He’d finished his first smoke before Chad’s mangled corpse had stopped shuddering back in the apartment.

 

Now he was outfitted in black.  Skin-tight black denim cradled his firm ass and stretched tautly over his muscled thighs, cinched around his waist with a belt of woven leather straps.  A black short-sleeve compression shirt spread like a second skin over his broad, sculpted chest, clearly delineating his large erect nipples.  He’d even replaced the bandanna covering his short, closed-shaved hair with a glossy black do-rag.

 

Out of everything he’d left prison with, all that was left was his pair of steel-toed boots. The thick black leather boots still fit perfectly.  And tonight, he might be able to put them to use…

 

As he waited, he stewed in anger.  Will coulda helped him; he coulda at least have bailed him out.  Little faggot piece a’ shit coulda done it without a problem; his folks could drop fifty large in the gutter and never even notice.  He coulda paid, and instead, he’d fucked Carlos over.

 

Now Carlos was gonna fuck him over—and make sure he paid this time.  With interest.

 

He didn’t have long to wait.

 

Will hadn’t changed much.  He was well and truly fubar’d when the bouncer tossed him out.  He staggered across the lot in a haze of alcohol and something else—at least weed, if nothing more—passing directly in front of Carlos.  He was instantly recognizable.

 

Will was short, no more than five and a half feet tall.  His short brown hair had a slight natural wave to it.  He was dark and was occasionally mistaken for Hispanic himself.  His slim body was tightly wrapped in skinny jeans that had elastic at the ankles, showing his bright blue skate sneakers and matching athletic socks.  His t-shirt was the same shade of electric blue, now sweat-stained under the arms.  The night being warmer than anticipated, his brown leather jacket was slung over his arm.

 

His broad face and snub nose were the same too, innocent and cheerful in appearance.  Utter bullshit, of course, Carlos had pumped the worthless little faggot full of cum himself and he knew for a fact he wasn’t the only one.  Amazing how neither drug and alcohol use nor rampant bareback sex had left their mark on the wealthy youth.

 

Well, he was gonna get marked soon enough.  Carlos’s eyes narrowed to icy slits as he tracked the boy to his car.  A BMW M3—of course.  Well, it’d be easy to follow, especially in that shade of red—no one else anywhere near this shitty neighborhood could afford a car like that.  And Carlos was sure the ‘Stang, old and beat-up as it was, could keep up with the flashy import.

 

Will pulled out and headed up Exposition.  Carlos was right on all counts.  The Ford kept pace with the BMW—and Will clearly didn’t live in the same place.  His old place had been off Winterbourne, the other street…

 

Carlos followed the red car for several miles up the avenue until it turned off onto a side street.  He made sure to keep enough distance between himself and Will so that the cunt wouldn’t think he was being followed—unlikely as that was; the worthless homo was too fucked up to notice much of anything, given the way he was driving.

 

He slowed on the street as the BMW turned into a gated apartment complex.  Once Will had opened the gate and let himself in, Carlos was able to dash in behind him before it closed again.  He followed the tricked-out import to a covered, numbered spot and pulled into the closest unnumbered spot he could find, luckily not too far away.

 

He shut off the ignition and lights and watched, noting the time as he did so—it was 11:30pm.  Good.  Long before the bars closed.

 

Will opened the car door and climbed laboriously to his feet.  Slamming the door shut and leaving his jacket in the car behind him, he lurched across the parking lot towards his apartment, staggering drunkenly from side to side.  Carlos had plenty of time to get out and follow him, his fucked-up prey oblivious to the heavy sounds of footfalls as the killer’s thick engineer boots thumped on the pavement.

 

The complex was upscale, neat rows of townhouse units.  Will lurched unevenly down the walk towards the row on the left, the soles of his sneakers slapping irregularly on the concrete slabs as he tried to keep his balance.  He managed to remain upright but the effort evidently amused him; he started giggling as a goofy grin spread over his face.

 

Carlos was close enough to make out the punk’s face now.  He’d held back under the covered parking area but Will was so trashed he probably wouldn’t have recognized Carlos if he’d been standing directly in front of him.  The boy’s eyes were red and half-lidded; he was clearly baked.

 

Will paused on the walk leading up to the last unit on the left, at the end of the building.  He wormed his hand down into the pocket of his tight skinny jeans and working his keys out.  He fumbled through them, looking for the right one.  He had plenty of light—the unit next to him was lit up like the top of the Chrysler Building.  All blinds had been pulled up, revealing lights burning in every room, all of them empty.  Paint buckets, stepladders and drop cloths—the unit was being repainted between tenants.

 

Deep in the shadows, Carlos grinned.  The little fuck still had no idea he was being stalked.  The well-built convict crouched, preparing to launch his muscled body into action.  Balling his hands into fists so tightly his knuckles cracked, he tensed for the assault.  He didn’t have long to wait.

 

Will reached his door.  As he poked at it drunkenly with his key, scratching the wood, the black-shrouded killer leaped out of the darkness.  There was a small patch of lawn in front of each townhouse; Carlos’s boots landed quietly on the grass just to the right of the sidewalk.  Hunched over, he crept forward swiftly, reaching the front door just as Will got it open.

 

The attack was quick and brutal.

 

Carlos hit Will full-body from behind, knocking him across the dark room.  He hit what must have been a side table, upsetting it with a loud crash before falling to the floor with a thump.  Following the stunned boy, the hulking convict stepped in and closed the door behind him.  In complete darkness, he felt the wall next to the door and quickly found the switch.

 

Several lamps spread around the room illuminated at once, showing a small but well-furnished living room with an L-shaped sectional sofa and a huge LCD TV.  Immediately to his right was a flight of stairs leading to the second floor.  Beyond the living room, the dining room was still shrouded in darkness but Carlos could see a rustic table that matched the hardwood floor, with armchairs on all four sides.  A door beyond presumably led to a kitchen.

 

Will was huddled on the floor by the sofa, groaning and utterly confused.  Carlos had been right—an end table on its side and the shattered fragments of a lamp marked the boy’s landing spot.  Musta hurt like a bitch.  As he struggled to his feet, his skin-tight clothing showed the muscles working in his lean, lithe body.  He hadn’t changed a bit, Carlos realized.  Still the smooth little slut.  Good—that would make this even more fun.

 

Striding brusquely forward, Carlos grabbed a handful of Will’s brown hair.  Jerking his head back, Carlos sneered down into the kid’s drugged and befuddled face before slamming his fist into the boy’s snub nose.  Will’s head snapped back under the force of the blow and he gave a breathy grunt of surprise.

 

“Uhhh…” he muttered, wiping his swelling nose with the back of his hand, then peering owlishly at the blood.  “Wha’ th’ fuck?”  He turned his bleary bloodshot eyes up to the dark figure looming over him.  “Dude, wha’s goin on?”

 

Carlos glared down at the boy.  “Shoulda kept yer mouth shut, faggot,” he snarled.  “Now you’re gonna hafta be taught a lesson.”

 

“Wha-what ya talkin’ ‘bout?” Will slurred.  It was obvious he hadn’t recognized Carlos yet—not that Carlos cared.  “Shut up, cunt,” the aggressive stud barked, kicking at the boy.  He drove his steel-toed boot into Will’s ribs, leaving the slut writhing on the floor in pain.  “You still gotta problem runnin’ your mouth, dontcha, bitch?  Gonna have to do somethin’ about that.”

 

The kid made faint mewling sounds as he shuddered and tried to regain his breath.  He cowered on the floor in fear and confusion. The still-unknown (to him, at least) hunk towering over him stretched out his thickly-muscled leg again, this time forcing the thick sole of his black harness boot into Will’s face.  As the rich little punk bleated and wailed, Carlos ground the tread into his smooth cheeks.  “Lick it,” he sneered coldly.  “Lick the sole of my boot, you worthless homo pig.  C’mon, ya fuckin’ whore, work your tongue!”

 

Despite his pain and confusion, the command had an immediate physical reaction in Will.  The tight crotch of his skinny jeans did nothing to hide his growing erection, a long ridge in the denim that was visibly swelling.  It continued to grow as he slurped his tongue over the sole of Carlos’s boot.

 

He began to get into it.  He was still too wasted to be able to think clearly; he just slipped instinctively into full-on pig mode.  Getting bored with the sole, he moved his head and began to give his attention to the scarred tip of the well-worn boot—only to find it suddenly withdrawn.

 

“I told you the sole, you stupid piece of shit!” came a cold hiss from above.  Then Will had a brief sensation of movement before an excruciating blackness exploded in his face.  With another vicious kick, Carlos had put his lights out.  He’d also broken the cunt’s jaw.

 

The sadistic alpha dragged the limp youth up on the couch, face down, where the blood from his split lips began to trickle onto the fabric.  Carlos then strode back through the dark dining room and pushed open the door at the rear.  In the darkness beyond, he groped to the side and found the switch—he’d been correct, a small but well-appointed kitchen was revealed.  Directly across from the door was the knife block; he reached out and snatched one of the steak knives.

 

Returning to his victim, Carlos began cutting the unconscious boy’s clothes off.  He started with a quick slice at the collar of the t-shirt, taking a moment first to control the strong urge to slash the bitch’s throat and just watch him bleed out.  But that’d be too quick and much too easy for the little motherfucker.  Carlos wanted Will to enjoy their reunion wide awake.

 

The nick at the collar was enough; the muscled con ripped the shirt open like paper down Will’s back.  He manhandled the limp, smooth body roughly as he pulled the arms out of the sleeves and tossed the shredded fabric into the corner like a bright blue dishrag, leaving the bitch face-up, drooling and shuddering.  The slut’s belt was unfinished leather—but it was no match for the expensive knife set he’d bought.  As Carlos cut through both the belt and the waist of the skin-tight jeans, he chuckled evilly to himself and wondered if the stupid cunt had ever imagined the use to which at least one blade would be put…

 

He ripped the knife through the denim by sliding it down each leg on the inside, between the skin and the fabric, edged side up.    Yanking the slashed jeans off the cunt’s smooth, slimly muscled legs, he threw them, along with the knife, off to one side.  The wad of sliced-open denim ended up spread over the other side of the couch.  The knife bounced on the floor and skittered under the end table; its pointed tip, glittering with reflected light, the only part left visible.

 

Underneath, the faggot was commando—as Carlos knew he’d be, the flaming boyslut always went commando when he went out.  He was ready to get his hole plugged at any time.

 

He probably wasn’t ready now, though.  Not, of course, that it mattered.  Carlos peeled the compression shirt off his broad, powerful chest and tossed up onto the back of the sofa; it instantly slipped off behind.  At the same time, Will gave a guttural groan, more of a thick gagging sound, as agony-soaked awareness slowly seeped back into his stunned mind.

 

The kid blinked—twice, slowly, then several more times with increasing speed.  He finally came back to himself in the middle of a nightmare rendered terrifying by pain and confusion.  His drug- and alcohol-fogged brain was in no condition to process what was happening.  He remembered getting knocked across the room, the hot stranger who seemed to be angry but then triggered his pig love of boot worship, but none of it matched with his current experience.

 

His short-term memory had been disturbed and hadn’t retained the kick.  Will’s jaw was in flaming agony and he had no idea why.  Or why he was nude with nothing but his tube socks still clinging to his calves and his skate kicks tightly laced around his feet.

 

More importantly, as his eyes, dark circles of shock already forming around them, turned up to the well-built stud towering over him, they drew an utter blank.  Will did not recognize the former street hustler who used to plow his hole for cash and drugs.

 

Of course, Carlos had changed a bit.  For one thing, he was much more developed now, his bulging muscles showing the effect of daily prison workouts.  And for another, he had a lot more tattoos than the last time Will had seen him.

 

And finally, Will had killed so many brain cells with his constant whoring and partying that it was unlikely he would have remembered who Carlos was even if he’d been sober.  He’d squealed on the killer, sure—but Carlos wasn’t the only one.  He was just the only one to have been released from prison yet.

 

The hot buff stud looming ominously over him was unknown to Will.  He cowered in terror and tried to speak—to beg, to plead, to protest—but the pain of his snapped jaw prevented him from making any articulate sounds.  Only a low keening wail slipped past his swollen, bloody lips.

 

Carlos looked down at the helpless snitch.  The punk’s smooth, slim frame was much as he remembered it.  He’d always kinda liked fucking Will—not that he was a faggot or anything like that, but the boy was responsive.  He loved getting plowed.  It was unlikely that the little motherfucker had changed.

 

The hardened convict let his eyes roam over the youth’s lean swimmer’s body, coldly wondering how much the whore would like it this time.  Not much, he suspected.

 

Grinning evilly, he decided to make sure.

 

His icy eyes locked onto Will’s as he unzipped the crotch of his black jeans.    The eye contact was broken when he dug in and yanked out his huge dripping hog.  Will’s attention was understandably drawn downwards, his large tearstained brown eyes growing huge as they took in Carlos’s dangling meat.

 

He had seen it before, but not hanging threateningly over his head.  And perhaps it had grown some too, like the rest of the alpha’s taut body.  At any rate, the last time he’d seen it, it hadn’t made the impression on him that it was making now.

 

“Lookitya, you stupid cocksucker,” Carlos hissed, “still tryin’ to talk.  Talking’s what got ya here in the first place, faggot.  Guess you still ain’t learned yer lesson, huh?  So I gotta teach ya.”

 

He bent down, thrusting his hard, unshaven face close to his whimpering victim’s.  “I learned somethin’ in prison, fag,” he whispered.  “The best way to remember something is through pain.  Here, lemme show ya.”

 

Will began to weep even before Carlos parted his legs, but he didn’t start to scream until the rage-fueled killer shoved his massive, vein-wrapped cock into the boy’s quivering, unprepared fuckhole.  Every time Carlos had fucked Will in the past, he’d used vast amounts of lube, wrapped his dong in a condom (god knows what else had been up that hole)—and he’d eased in slowly.

 

None of that mattered now.  His thick shaft tore through the young slut’s ass like a hot knife through butter, stretching the sphincter past its tolerance and splitting apart the rectal lining with a white-hot searing agony that made Will shriek like he was getting raped with a razor blade.

 

It was music to Carlos’s ears.  And the way the lean young cunt threw his entire body into his screaming—that was almost magic, the way it massaged the swollen purple head of the grimly sadistic con’s dick.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt!” he grunted as his muscled body heaved and pumped his rod up the kid’s traumatized rectum.  “Goddam little fuckin’ pain slut, huh?  Scream all ya want, bitch—ain’t no one gonna hear it and it feels so goddam good on my cock.  Scream, you worthless homo stoolie, scream like your useless life matters!”

 

Carlos was hunched over the well-used slut, his skin-tight jeans still clinging to his thick muscled thighs as they pumped his shaft up the cunt’s colon.  One leg was up on the sofa but his other black boot was planted firmly on the floor to give him enough traction to sink his tool deep into the squealing queerboy’s guts.  He gripped the whore’s left shoulder tightly to keep the target immobile as he drove his rock-hard fist into the punk’s smooth flat belly.

 

Will was screaming shrilly in agony, his body awash in a white-hot flame of excruciating pain as his ass was violated more brutally than anything he’d ever experienced in his short, wasted life.  His mind was a quagmire of terror and physical trauma but still, some deep dark pig corner reveled in the abuse and rape.

 

That little corner noted the contempt on the hot rough alpha’s face as he hocked up a huge disgusting wad of phlegm and spit it on Will’s face, where it blended in with his involuntary tears.  It also noticed Carlos suddenly leaning back, unbuckling his belt of woven leather straps and slipping it off.

 

Even the pig part refused to recognize the implications.  Even the pig part was unable to face its own death-worship.  But on a deep subconscious level, there was a response.

 

Despite the intense pain he was experiencing, as Carlos slid his belt free menacingly, some part of Will was aware that his own dick was stiffening.  He was hung well himself—not as large as his assailant, but his thick tube steak towered a good seven inches over his flat smooth belly when it was fully aroused, as it was now.

 

But his own throbbing cock couldn’t compete for his attention as Carlos tossed the belt down on the sofa cushion and bent over him.  The young punk gasped involuntarily as the hard scruffy face of his torturer filled his field of vision.  Again, his body responded to stimuli of which his conscious mind was unaware—in this case the earthy scent of Carlos’s sweaty body, heavily laden with testosterone.

 

With a faint sense of despair, Will felt his erect dick, now more sensitive than ever, slap wetly against his sadistic rapist’s rippled belly.  From his point of view, he couldn’t see how the oozing spongy head of his shaft was leaving glistening trails over Carlos’s short dark body fur, but he was still aware that his traitorous rod was leaking precum—

 

Carlos was pissed.  He’d noticed Will’s attention wandering again.  Stupid little fuck didn’t even realize what was at stake.  Even worse, he was committing a fatal error.

 

He was getting loose.

 

As Carlos began whispering to him, Will noticed the word “revenge” tattooed amateurishly on the cruel stud’s neck for the first time.  His fear- and drug-sodden brain was too impaired to connect it to anything that followed.

 

“You stupid worthless piece of shit.  Your tongue and your ass are both too loose—guess you been whorin’ out both, huh?  Your ass to anyone who’ll pay and your mouth to anyone who’ll listen?  Time to tighten ‘em both, motherfucker!”

 

Will shuddered—he himself didn’t know if in terror or pleasure—as Carlos bent even closer, the short black bristles on his unshaven cheek scraping Will’s face like steel wool, and muttered in his ear.  “Guess what, cunt?  It’s gonna hurt.  It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you’ll shoot your load in agony.”

 

Staring coldly into his victim’s face, the powerful alpha grabbed Will’s jaw and squeezed, grinding the broken ends of the bone together in an excruciating vise-like grip.  The strung-out punk could only squeal in agony, his voice rising in a thin shrill shriek as he experienced pain he’d never encountered—or even imagined—in his protected, rich-kid life.

 

Carlos leaned back and sneered at him. Spitting in his tear-streaked face, he snarled, “Shut up, ya goddam faggot!”  Still gasping the writhing youth’s jaw in an iron grip, he backhanded Will across the face with the other hand.  “Fuck yeah!” he growled, “Now you’re gettin’ good and tight.  Ya like it when I hurt ya, huh?  Ya like gettin’ beat down like a weak useless homo punk?  Sure the fuck hope so, cunt, cause that’s what’s gonna happen!”

 

Will was caught up in a maelstrom of pain and panic.  Squealing in pure fright, he fought back violently, his bright blue kicks flailing in the air as his smooth legs wrapped around Carlos’s sweaty muscular flank.  As the powerful convict held the boy down and slammed his monstrous shaft up the struggling kid’s torn, bleeding rectum, Will beat against the alpha’s chest, his balled fists having no impact at all on the stud’s broad glistening pecs.

 

They did, however, have an impact on Carlos’s temper.  He got pissed.  He spat a stream of curses at the tormented punk, squeezing Will’s jaw periodically.  Each time he did, he could feel the broken bones grinding and watch Will stiffen and moan in agony.

 

“Stupid fucking bitch [squeeze, moan], quit tryin’ to fight it [squeeze, louder moan].  Time for you [harder squeeze, shrill wail] to take your punishment like a man [much hard squeeze, hoarse shriek].  Ya gotta learn, cunt, and we ain’t even gotten started yet!”

 

He let go of Will’s jaw.  As the lithe boyslut, pale and trembling from the torture he’d just endured, shakily gasped in relief, Carlos slammed his fist into the kid’s face.  His bulging bicep gave his arm the force of a piledriver as he beat the helpless drugged youth ruthlessly.

 

“Ya ain’t ever gonna squeal on no one again, you faggot scumbag!” Carlos snarled while Will succumbed to the beating, his firm slim body thrashing and jerking as each painful blow landed.  “I’m gonna shut you up for good, ya hear me?  I ain’t just gonna waste ya, dude, I’m gonna use yer dyin’ body to jack off.  Ya like that, huh, ya disgusting fuckpig?”

 

Will heard the words but was unable to process them—both his face and his ass were getting pounded by the brutal hard-bodied killer.  His brain was repeatedly impacting the interior of his skull; it was able to absorb stimuli but not to interpret them.  It had a lot to absorb.

 

Despite the agony and vicious violence of the moment, Will’s brain detected the pheromones saturating his torturer’s musky scent.  Deep in the punk’s brain stem, the physiological response to dominant rape kicked in.

 

And it stayed in.  Carlos halted the assault and sat up on his knees, keeping his long rod buried in the useless stoolie’s quivering ass.  As the paroled strongman rested for a moment, his buff, tattooed torso heaved as he regained his breath.  Will continued to shudder and writhe in pain, causing Carlos to grunt in pleasure and take a moment to enjoy the cunt helplessly grinding his fuckhole onto his tormentor’s swollen shaft.

 

Even now, Will wasn’t able to recognize the inevitable.  His face was battered, his eyes were blackened and swollen.  Both the orbit of his left eye and his left cheekbone had been broken—and yet, on some primal level, his bottom pig nature kicked in.  He’d always been a bottom, and the rougher the sex, the better.

 

He was, after all, only taking his sexual inclination to its logical conclusion.  And while his fragile, jagged psyche couldn’t admit it, his body was responding to the brutal rape and assault as if it was enduring the greatest fuck it had ever experienced—as it truly was.

 

But that didn’t stop Will’s conscious terror.  He could barely see out of his swollen, battered eyes—but he could see well enough when Carlos reached down and picked up the woven leather belt.  As the well-built convict rode the helpless punk’s ass, he dangled the belt in front of Will’s eyes and grinned.

 

“Damn, dude, you’re fucked up.  You’re fucked up bad,” the sadistic alpha chuckled.  Even up on his knees, his thighs were developed enough to let him keep slamming his cock up the writhing, terrified youth’s fuckhole.  “Know what, cunt?  It ain’t enough.  What you did to me—you made me do this, you squealin’ little fag.  Remember that.  Everything you’ve suffered, everything you’re about to suffer, you made me do to you, you motherfucking cumguzzling queer!”

 

Holding the belt out taut in front of him, Carlos extended his arms and, bending down, managed to slip it under Will’s head in with a quick, sweeping motion.  Bringing the loose ends around, he crossed them over the kid’s throat; the boy’s white flesh showing through the small gaps between the meshed leather straps.

 

Carlos released the belt, letting it lie across Will neck loosely.  Hunching down over the kicking, flailing slut, he again grabbed Will’s broken, misshapen jaw and clenched his iron grip.

 

“Does it hurt, you homo pig?” he hissed.  “Does it hurt, huh?  Want me to end it?  Want me to make it all go away, you fuckin’ rat?  Fuck yeah, dude, I think it’s time to exterminate some vermin!  Gonna do the world a favor and off your worthless ass.  Even your momma and daddy gonna thank me for wastin’ their useless pansy money drain, y’know?  Ain’t no one gonna miss ya, ain’t no one gonna care.”

 

Will was gasping raggedly, his mouth hanging open.  It hurt too much to close it anyway.  His nose, pummeled and broken during the beating, was clogged with blood and snot; he wasn’t able to breathe through it.  He was still struggling, still resisting the inevitable, but with much less intensity.  He’d endured far too much trauma to have any real fight left in him.

 

Even through Will’s bruised and slitted eyelids, Carlos could see the spark of resistance fade from his victim’s eyes.  He didn’t want that; at least, not yet.  “What’s wrong, ya worthless fuck?  I got beat worse than that every week in prison.  Made a man outta me—but then, I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot stoolie. You ain’t gettin’ outta this that easy, bitch, you ain’t done workin’ my cock yet.  Betcha I know how to get some fight back in your limp homo ass, boy!”

 

As the boy moaned weakly, the muscled killer stud jerked the ends of the belt, instantly causing the thin, interwoven leather straps to sink deeply into the slut’s neck.  Carlos had been right; the moment his air was cut off, the limp faggot revived immediately, a flame of sheer terror consuming what little rational mind the viciously abused youth had left.

 

Will drummed the heels of his skate shoes into Carlos’s firm ass, but the hardbodied convict never so much as noticed it through the jeans he was still wearing.  Even open at the crotch and free of the belt, the black denim still clung tightly to his muscular thighs and rounded ass.  What he did notice was the way Will’s sphincter suddenly grabbed hold of his enormous throbbing shaft.

 

“Fuck, cunt, that’s it!  Yeah, you squealin’ pig, work my dick as you die, you cocksucker!”  The words reverberated in Will’s ears as the belt sank deeper into his throat.  He was already nearly insane with the instinctual panic generated by suffocation; the physical and mental torture were almost wasted on him—but not quite.  The power bottom pig that lurked deep in Will’s dank soul heard and responded, yet again.

 

Even as the slim, lithe youth beat his hands ineffectually against his killer’s broad sweaty chest, the oozing purple tip of his rod was digging furrows in Carlos’s body fur as the overpowering killer continued to rape and strangle the little fuck.  Though his nose was blocked, his body still managed to absorb and react to the sex pheromones and testosterone that drenched the room.

 

At some point during his murder, Will remembered he was on his own couch.  He’d sat here last night and watched TV.  This wasn’t happening.  He was having a nightmare—no, nightmares didn’t hurt like this.  He was having a bad trip.  He’d taken something and was tripping balls, but oh fuck whatever he was on he’d never do it again, please god just let me come down safe and I won’t do any more LSD but holy shit acid never did this to me…

 

He couldn’t keep it up.  LSD might explain the choking sensation—but not the rape.  He could feel every ridge of every vein on Carlos’s grotesquely thick shaft tearing through his rectum, even as his head and chest started to burn.

 

It started out dull, the burn, but the pressure in his lungs and head was increasing geometrically, swelling the dull ache into a fiery agony within moments.  All the pain from the trauma his face had suffered was amplified as his bruised skin darkened even further and grew taut and stretched.

 

The terrified punk realized that his slim young body was no match for the brawny dominant stud who seemed to know him…but those tattoos—that winged skull on his arm, the horrific figure of death on the alpha’s pec, urging him to die…he didn’t know those.

 

Will had no idea who was raping and murdering him—or why.  He was far too fucked up—physically, mentally, chemically—to comprehend either the inevitability or the appropriateness of his snuff.

 

What he did comprehend, and comprehend very well, was that he couldn’t force the stranger off him.  The dude was a strapping powerhouse, a muscled god, and while Will was neither weak nor scrawny, he had no chance in hell of moving Carlos’s herculean bulk off of him.

 

The dying snitch slut had only one other option—the belt itself.  Will had no hope of either wresting it away from Carlos’s grasp or inflicting any kind of damage on the woven leather straps, but that didn’t stop him from clawing at it in a terror-stricken frenzy.  The struggling youth had little conscious thought left in any case; most of his response was simply aimed at the area where the pain was worst.

 

The slow but inexorably crushing of Will’s esophagus had overtaken the lack of oxygen in the kid’s register of pain.

 

As the agony of death intensified, Will grew more responsive to his assailant’s cock, just as Carlos had known it would.  “Now you’re gettin’ it,” the cold arrogant sadist sneered, “now you’re finally doin’ something useful, you worthless cunt.  Fuckin’ druggie faggot rat, only thing you’re good for is soaking up my cum, ya hear me?”

 

His face twisted in uncontrollable rage, Carlos bent down over Will.  The boy’s face was utterly unrecognizable.  His tongue, a bizarre shade of purple, protruded grotesquely from between swollen, blue split lips.  Oozing out around it was foamy saliva, stained pink with blood from both inside and outside the whore’s mouth.  The bubbly pink mass slid down Will’s blackened cheeks and hung off his chin in long streamers of pink drool.

 

The dying kid’s eyes bulged horribly from their orbits, red with both drug use and pinpoint hemorrhages.  As Carlos spat a huge wad of phlegm into the suffering youth’s face, Will’s hands began to lose their coordination while trying to pry the black leather belt from his throat.  They’d never had a chance of grabbing it; it had sunk in too deeply for that.  But now the slut wasn’t even trying.

 

The ripped stud kept plowing his shaft into Will’s lacerated fuckhole.  He knew that he only had a little time left—the worthless homo rat would be brain-dead within sixty seconds.  If he was gonna get off while the faggot died, he needed to put it into overdrive.

 

Will got to sample Hell before he went there permanently.

 

“Goddam piece of motherfuckin’ shit, you can’t even milk the spunk outta my hog, can ya, you fuckin’ pig?  Ok, cunt, you had yer chance.  Die, you motherfucker.  Die, you faggot!”

 

A red, lust-fueled mist descended over Carlos as he snarled and foamed in rage, his angry throbbing shaft tearing though Will’s tender guts as the killer brutally plowed the boy’s shuddering body.  He bore down on the whore, still weakly struggling.

 

There was little left of Will by this point; nothing more than quivering, sensitive flesh that was enduring the impact of trauma.  What little mind that had existed before the assault was gone; nothing was left but an awareness of physical sensation—and the physical reactions generated by those sensations.

 

So when the belt completely and utterly crushed Will’s windpipe, the cartilage crunching audibly, the young addict’s body went rigid, the rectum collapsing on Carlos’s thick pulsing cock with vacuum force.

 

As dark explosion burst in front of Will’s eyes and his last terrified spark of consciousness slid into a screaming vortex of glassy agony, his body broke out in an icy sweat as his adrenal system started to fail.  Cascading organ failure wracked the boy’s smooth body with violent convulsions

 

Carlos held the firm shuddering flesh close to him, feeling Will’s asscheeks flex and pump on the root of the hardbodied con’s extended cock.  The powerful thug grunted and tensed as his huge balls contracted.  Hot sperm boiled at the base of the killer’s dick as the dying slut kicked helplessly.

 

Suddenly Will went rigid in the grip of a nightmarish spasm, his slim but strong muscles contorting violently as inexorable progressive brain damage wreaked havoc on the cunt’s nervous system.  His legs wrapped tight around his murderer’s waist, his neon blue sneakers scraping raggedly over the skin-tight denim protecting the alpha’s ass.

 

 

The kid’s arm’s had flailed mindlessly, his hands beating and fluttering against Carlos’s massive torso, his fingers scrabbling vainly in the bigger dude’s sweat-matted chest hair.  As the smooth young punk stiffened in his final moments on earth, he involuntarily clutched at the convict’s broad shoulders and held them tightly, almost as a last desperate touch of humanity as the life he’d wasted was brutally choked out of him.

 

That’s when the long hot shaft pressed against Carlos’s furry belly began to pulse and spew.  A thick ropy jet of semen spurted between the writhing, sweating males, the tortured, vanquished youth acknowledging his defeat with his death load.  Creamy spunk splattered on the faggot’s black, swollen face, running viscously down his dark, distended cheeks and adding an additional glaze to his bulging bloodshot eyes.  And after everything, the terrified queerboy was dying without every really understanding who was killing him, or why.

 

It was too much for the muscular sadist.  “Fuck!” he snarled as his seed boiled over.  “Fuck yeah!  Fuckin’ ownin’ ya, cunt!  Fuckin’-A!”  As his hard tough body hunched and jerked in explosive orgasm, he could only keep the belt tight around his victim’s throat as he continued to curse and pump his hot seed into the corpse’s writhing innards.

 

The last physical sensation Will felt was one of utterly indescribable agony.  There was truly no Will left, just randomly firing nerves that imparted an impression of boiling magma and impalement on a sharp spike.  There was nothing to receive the impression.  Will was quivering meat, spunking involuntarily and uncontrollably.

 

Even Carlos was impressed.  As often as he’d been raped in jail, he’d seen a lot of cum.  But he’d never seen anything like the fountain of jizz forced outta the stoolie by his death throes.  Little motherfucker musta been full of spunk.

 

Still shuddering and tingling with pleasure, Carlos slowly backed off the couch, disengaging his huge, still-erect cock from the corpse’s fuckhole; it trailed a long pearly streamer of semen.  Standing up, he took a couple of minutes—it took that long to do it—to stuff his throbbing, dripping member back into his jeans.  He was just barely able to zip the fly; the enormous bulge in the crotch was incredibly conspicuous.

 

The tattooed convict stood over the sprawled corpse of his victim, admiring it for a moment.  Will was lying on his back, legs and arms both spread, completely nude except for his bright blue shoes and the athletic socks of the same shade that somehow still clung tightly to the corpse’s firm calves.  As Carlos watched, the body continued to twitch and jerk randomly, the typical mindless quiverings of a strangled corpse.

 

Will’s face was totally unrecognizable.  He’d been a beautiful—some had said adorable—youth; certainly his looks had been far more responsible for his position in life than his ability.  Carlos wondered what those “some” would say about the apparition before him now—face black, eyes bulging horrifically, thick purple tongue protruding, grotesquely misshapen jaw, and all covered with a drying glaze of spunk and foamy spittle.

 

But he’d enjoyed his kill long enough.  He still needed money.  He knew where Will kept it—if he hadn’t changed anything in the last couple of years; he’d moved, after all.  But Carlos was confident.  The stupid piece of shit had moved, but he hadn’t changed.

 

The can of shaving cream was in the downstairs bathroom.  The hardened convict recognized it immediately and, snatching it up, unscrewed the false bottom eagerly.

 

Holy shit.  What a huge fucking roll of bills.  Motherfucker had a wad of cash bigger than his death wad.

 

Carlos strolled back into the living room and casually tossed the cash down onto the end table.  Walking through to the kitchen, he took a couple of moments to root through the fridge and make himself a sandwich.

 

He returned to the living room and spent the next half hour comfortably eating his meal and counting the cash as Will’s corpse slowly started to cool and stiffen.  By the time Carlos found himself richer by more than seven grand, he’d had time to enjoy a post-meal smoke and the body had stopped kicking.  Probably for the best, since he ground his glowing butt out on the corpse’s scrotum.

 

Standing and stretching, the muscled killer felt tired in a good way.  He glanced around the room one last time and realized his shirt was missing.  He didn’t really care—it wasn’t like he couldn’t afford another, and there wasn’t anyone who’d be getting too worked up about an informer gettin’ whacked.  The cops were used to that shit; they’d shrug their shoulders and find themselves another snitch.

 

And anyway, his black belt of interwoven leather straps had sunk so deeply into the motherfucker’s windpipe, Carlos wasn’t gonna bother to try to retrieve it.  Let the cunt’s parents see what had happened to the useless cumsucker.  They’d probably heave a sigh of relief that their worthless money-sucking offspring wouldn’t trouble them further.

 

Carlos bent down and grabbed the whore’s shredded blue t-shirt.  He wadded it up and used it to swab the dried scaly cum and sweat off his sculpted torso before tossing it onto the splayed corpse.  It landed on the Will’s smooth flat abdomen and instantly started turning dark as it absorbed the still-uncoagulated sperm puddled in the hollow of the belly.

 

The hardened (and by now, well-experienced) killer took a last look around before heading out the door.  The gruesome results of his revenge sex murder were spread across the room, from the table and broken lamp on one side to the torn remains of Will’s jeans on the other—and, of course, the raped and strangled homo punk displayed as a centerpiece.  The steak knife under the table added a final macabre touch.

 

Carlos felt he’d gotten his point across.  He’d damn sure taught Will how to keep his mouth shut.

 

His thick black boots thudding on the pavement, Carlos strode back to the car.  The cool night breeze swept across his tattooed chest, stiffening his large dark nipples.  Deliberately passing up Will’s BMW as too conspicuous, he climbed back into the ‘Stang.  As his firm taut ass settled comfortably into the leather seat, he was aware of how the extremely tight black jeans he was wearing outlined the roll of cash in his pocket—it was almost as thick a ridge as his cock.

 

Carlos chuckled.  He kinda looked like the bassist in “Spinal Tap”.  As he put the car in gear and pulled out of the apartment parking lot, he wondered if it would improve his chances of landing another faggot tonight.

 

Not, of course, that he needed anything beyond his own amazingly well-developed body to lure in pansy whores.  But even now, he could still feel anger against those worthless faggot slut cunt pieces of shit—

 

And just like that, he was hard again.  He could almost feel rage and testosterone refilling his scrotum at a phenomenal rate.

 

Soon.  It had to be soon.  It was building up too fast for him to control it.  He’d have to drain it off again soon—his rage, his hate, his cum.

The Convict

Carlos strode quickly down the street, his big black boots thumping loudly on the warm pavement.  Bystanders saw a muscular young man moving purposely in their direction and stood aside; there was something dangerous in the youth’s hard face.

They were reacting instinctively to a soul filled with hate.

It had happened again last night.  His last night in.  Two and a half fuckin’ years in that place and they got him again, just to add insult to injury.

His well-built body was boiling with rage.  He’d been given back the clothes he’d worn when he went in—but that was two and a half years ago.  Not much else to do in prison but work out—Carlos wasn’t the type to read a book—and he was much more developed than he’d been when he bought the clothes.

The navy blue sleeveless t-shirt clung to his broad chest as if it’d been painted on.  A sleeve of tattoos, mostly geometric designs, covered his right arm from wrist to elbow, bulging along with his bicep.  A large winged skull was inexpertly tattooed on the left bicep, clearly done inside.  He’d always worn his jeans tight; he’d liked the admiring glances his huge hog got, but now the worn, thin denim not only highlighted his thick thighs but outlined the massive head of his tool.

The only thing that still fit right was his pair of black harness boots.

It was what he’d been wearing when he got popped for offin’ that faggot.  It wasn’t like Carlos was a queer, man, he didn’t hang like that.  But when he’d been down on his luck and needed a little money, some of them homos were good for a few bucks.  And no one had to know…

At least not till that one had stiffed him.  He’d actually swallowed the dude’s load, too, in the front seat of his car.  Motherfucker was gonna pay for that—then the bitch said he didn’t have any money.  Carlos was left gagging, still tasting the fuckwad’s smoky sperm, when he felt the rage take over.

He’d always been violent.  This time he kept slamming the faggot’s head in his car door till he crushed his skull.

His lawyer had been good and the jury was sympathetic to the gay panic defense.  Even with a record for assault, he still only got manslaughter two, five years.  Prison overcrowding, the attorney advised him, would get him out in half that time.  The lawyer had been right.

What he hadn’t told him was that the nature of his crime had proceeded him, as it always does.  Some of the guards have access to the details.  They gossip, exchange favors…and soon Carlos was marked as fresh meat.  Perfect prison bitch.

He’d fought it, god, how he’d fought, but each time he was overpowered and raped.  Each time, he was beaten and called faggot as his ass was painfully violated and violent felons forced their cocks into his mouth.

And yes, he’d worked out.  And he’d fought back more.  He’d gotten better at fending off the attacks, but if they jumped him from behind or enough ganged up on him, he still ended up moaning in a dark corner, bruised, oozing cum from multiple orifices.

Last night was the worst.  They’d gotten the drop on him; one dude—a big, muscular black bull—had snagged him from behind with his forearm and choked him out; he woke up to violent reaming.

There’d been blood in his shorts again this morning.

That worthless fuckin’ faggot.  If he’d just had the money he was supposed to, none of this woulda happened.  But them goddam pansies always lie and cheat.

Someone needs to teach ‘em a lesson.

In addition to his clothes, he’d been given fifty dollars and a bus ticket downtown.  The city council was still squalling about that practice but hadn’t managed to alter it yet, so Carlos soon found himself in a squalid neighborhood bordering the gay ghetto—his old stomping grounds, so to speak.

So here he was, moving purposely along the street, and he did indeed have a purpose.  His current objective was hardware and there were plenty of pawn shops on this street.

His ultimate objective was money, of course, but he needed a way to get that.  He already had a plan, one that—if he played it right—would get him some cash, some transportation, maybe a little more…and would also let him vent some of his seething anger.

A gun would be the most effective means of persuasion, but he’d literally just walked out of prison.  There was no way he was gonna be able to buy even a .22.  No, guns were not an option.

There’d be no difficulty in buying a knife, however.  He had $50 in cash; he could get something perfectly adequate for far less than that in one of these shady little places.  Carlos turned abruptly and walked into the closest one.

The guy at the register narrowed his eyes and stood up straight; he knew trouble when he saw it.  He was sure this rough dude was gonna make a bee-line right for the handguns and was relieved to see the he was eyeing the blades instead.

As the muscled punk examined his options in edged weapons, the clerk scanned his chiseled face, mouth circled by a long black goatee.  The clerk wondered if the guy had a shaved head; the Confederate flag bandanna he’d tied into a do-rag made it hard to be sure.  He blinked to make sure his vision wasn’t faulty; the dude had the word “revenge” tattooed on the left side of his neck.  The irregular spacing of the letters made it obvious that he hadn’t paid a licensed tattoo parlor for that thing.

The clerk really, really wanted this guy outta the shop.  “Show ya somethin’?” he asked, moving forward, determined to flush him out.  Much to his surprise, it appeared to be a normal transaction.

“Yeah, man,” the punk said levelly, “I wanna see this shank right here.”  He pointed at the most wicked-looking knife in the case.  The clerk bent down and, unlocking the back of the display case, extracted the knife.

“It’s a bowie combat knife,” the clerk said, reading the handwritten tag attached to the hilt with a loop of string.  “Total length seventeen inches, blade length twelve inches.  Stainless steel blade with double-serrated back edge.”  He placed it on the counter between them.  “Dude, this thing can seriously fuck someone up.”

The young man—he looked like a gangbanger to the clerk—grinned at the words.  “How much?” he drawled.  The price was marked on the tag; the clerk shoved it over.  “Ten bucks?  Sure, I’ll take it.”  He’d been given two twenties and a ten; he handed over the ten and walked out with a vicious lethal weapon, no questions asked.

Stooping just outside the pawn shop door, Carlos hoisted the leg of his jeans and slipped the evil-looking shank into his right boot.

He finally felt free again.  Now, he needed prey.  Time to hit up his old hunting grounds.

The neighborhood had changed since he’d been inside.  The piano bar where the rich old fat faggots hung out was gone; now it was some kinda hookah/vapor lounge.  Carlos snorted disgustedly.  He’d have been able to snag a soft and weak old homo there and get as much money as he needed.  Damn.

Turning into a side street, he noticed sleazy dive bar where he’d picked up dudes in the past.  It was dark, with strippers and a small dance floor, but most of the action was on the back patio.  Might be worth a shot.

He should have known—middle of a weekday afternoon, the bar was dead.  A rancid old troll sat on the far side, leering at the bartender and everyone else in the room—which consisted of exactly Carlos at the moment.  Quickly ordering a beer, he grabbed the bottle and stepped out onto the covered patio, about sixty square feet surrounded by a privacy fence and filled with picnic tables.

To his surprise, the patio bar was open as well.  Several of the tables were occupied—hustlers and tricks, mostly.  A couple of strung-out twink couples looking around furtively before hitting glass straights.  The sweet vanilla scent of crack wafted briefly in front of Carlos.

Sighing dispiritedly, he sat at a table near the bar, nursing his beer.  Nothing worthwhile here but maybe if he held out long enough, something might show up—hopefully he could drag out his cash long enough.

The afternoon crept slowly by.  The patio’s cover had ceiling fans; their lazy revolutions did little to combat the oppressive heat.  Carlos’s thick, tattooed arms were soon shiny with sweat.  He was getting hot, in several senses—the most influential of which was anger.  He began to eye some of the other dudes on the patio, wondering if maybe he shouldn’t slip out and wait for one to leave alone, just to take the edge off things…

That was when Chad walked in.  Carlos didn’t know his name at that moment, of course, but he soon learned it.  Chad was friendly with the bartender, and Carlos was close enough to eavesdrop.

Most of the conversation consisted of bragging; Chad was evidently a mid-level whore.  He was flirting with the bartender but was evidently more than the dude could afford.  At the moment, he was describing how much cash he’d gotten paid for a sleazy photo shoot—which explained his clothing.

The hustler had a swimmer’s build with slim but firm muscles, his body lean without being scrawny.  His face was shadowed with copper-colored hair, the same new-penny shade covering his goatee and beard.  His eyes, slightly almond-shaped, were bright green rimmed with long dark lashes.  Above the red scruff, the rentboy’s face was youthful; he was probably no older than twenty-one or –two, but he looked considerably younger. He got relentlessly carded—occasionally even here in his regular hangout, by new employees.

He detailed his spread to the bartender—he’d been paid $500 to dress up like a skate punk and let pics get taken as he stripped.  The photog had even slipped him a little X to get him into the mood.  Chad was still riding high and wanting to get fucked.

And since he’d come straight to the bar instead of going home first, he was still dressed the part.  A white ball cap with the letters “L.A.” embroidered on it didn’t quite hide short hair the same bright red as his facial scruff.   He wore an open sky blue short-sleeve dress shirt unbuttoned over a tight black t-shirt.  The t-shirt had a smiley face with a blood-spattered bullet hole in the center of the forehead.

Chad had slipped on his tightest pair of skinny jeans for the gig; they were so revealing he’d only gotten them in black.  The seam in the seat parted his smooth asscheeks perfectly; as the seam ran down to his groin, it massaged his bare taint.  Even with the black shade of the fabric, it was clear to anyone who looked closely—and Carlos was looking closely—that the kid was commando under the thin layer of denim.  The jeans clung tightly to his legs all the way down to his skate kicks, shiny red leather shoes with laces the same bright blue as his dress shirt.

“So what ya gonna do now?” the bartender asked.  It should have been obvious; Chad had downed four shots of peach schnapps while gloating.  At least he was honest.  “Gonna get fucked up an’ get fucked, man…” he slurred.

The door to the bar opened and the inside bartender leaned out.  “Hey, Jack, we gotta delivery comin’ in.  Boss wants ya to handle it while I keep the inside runnin’.  C’mon, man, they can come in for refills till ya get back.”

The bartender grinned sheepishly at Chad before slipping away.  The slut had managed to get a fifth shot from him before he’d gone.  Wheeling around on the barstool, Chad glanced around the patio and had already thrown back his shot before his sodden brain processed the information.

When it did, he focused instantly on Carlos.

Chad had always had a fascination with rough trade.  It was a rarely-satisfied curiosity, though; Chad got fucked for money and most of the really dangerous-looking ones—the ones that made his seven-inch dick get hard when he looked at them—didn’t have the money.  And if they didn’t pay, they didn’t play.

But right now, things were different.  He was flush with cash—and not being the type to save money when his slim, youthful body was still so much in demand, he felt free to indulge himself.  The fact that he was drunk didn’t impinge on his awareness at all; the alcohol had swept up over him all at once.

The dude at the table closest to him was staring at him.  He had dark eyes, a black goatee, a body—holy shit, what a body—colored with tattoos.  Chad felt almost embarrassed by his single tattoo—Chinese characters running down the inside of his right arm the last two ideograms visible just below the cuff of his shirt.  He was such poser; he didn’t even know what it actually meant…

He somehow managed to get off the barstool without falling.  Walking confidently towards the dude—that bandanna; was he a fuckin’ skinhead?  He looks Mexican—Chad was utterly unaware of how badly he was staggering.

Carlos was, though.  He grinned.  Fuckin’ queerboy couldn’t hold his liquor, fuckin’ pansy-ass schnapps.  This was gonna be almost too easy.

Good.  He could take his time.  He could make it hurt.  He could inflict extended suffering on this faggot and wallow in the nightmarish agony he could wield.

Smiling warmly, he motioned Chad over.  “Have a seat, man.”

The slim rentboy slid unsteadily into the chair, almost overbalancing himself.  He slapped his red skate sneakers down hard onto the patio to keep from falling, his face beaming with a goofy grin the entire time.  When he finally got planted to his own satisfaction, he glanced up into the rough trade’s face.

“I’m Chad,” he slurred.  “Whass yer name?  Whatcha into?”

“Carlos,” the well-built tough said quietly.  “I’m looking for a bitch who can take my dick.  That you?”

Chad’s shaft started to swell at the sound of Carlos’s low, deep voice.  He tried to focus blurrily on the dude, but found himself shying away from the piercing stare in the cold black eyes.  The rough guy was only about five years older than him at most, but there was something about him that seemed to assume control of the situation.  High and drunk as he was, Chad new that this fella would be doing the driving, so to speak.

The thought got Chad even harder.

“Yeah,” he hiccupped, “yeah, thatss me.  Won’t even charge ya, Carlosh.  C’mon, stud, you can bang the fuck outta me back at my place—if yer up for it.  Less go, dude, lessee if ya can give me what I want and make it hurt.”

In a more sober state, Chad would have spoken more clearly, but just as directly.  He expected the guys who fucked him to be up to the task—and as more cocks got shoved up his hole, the bigger the task tended to be.  The only thing unusual in Chad’s comment was the lack of financial settlement; he normally settled the fee before taunting the trick.  But this one would be for fun, on his own time.

The patio had a one-way gate, exit only, which led to the parking lot in the rear.  After some difficulty navigating the exit, Chad stumbled into the lot and began fishing for his keys.  In his uncoordinated state, it took him a while to retrieve them, which was why he didn’t notice that it had taken several minutes for Carlos to follow him out.  Long enough, in fact, that no one on the patio had realized they’d left together.

As he yanked the keys out of the pocket of his incredibly tight jeans, they snagged on the fabric and he dropped them.  As he stood, swaying and looking dumbly down at them, Carlos swooped in and snatched them from the ground.

“I’ll drive, dude,” he muttered—little motherfuckin’ queer was way too trashed for Carlos to voluntarily sit in the passenger seat.

Chad shrugged.  “Sure, whatevs, man—it’s that one there.”

He pointed to a white Mustang convertible with red pinstriping.  The car was several years old and looked it; there were numerous small dings and scrapes but nothing major.  Part of the roof had a duct tape repair.  Carlos noted the car had paper tags.

Chad confirmed it.  “Just bought it last week—whaddaya think, huh?  Pretty sweet ride, huh?  I can tell ya, it hauls ass.”

Carlos unlocked it with the fob and slid into the driver’s seat; Chad fell in heavily next to him.  The car reeked of weed, french fries, and cheap floral air freshener.  “Take a left out the lot,” Chad said uncertainly but surprisingly clearly, “and the next left—no, wait, right.  Then second left.  It’s the De Gama Apartments; you can park in the back.”

Carlos had them there within three minutes; the place was literally walking distance from the bar.  Chad almost went to his knees crawling out of the passenger seat, but once upright, he was able to walk more or less in a straight line.  Handing him back the keys, Carlos followed him into the open breezeway of the building to the immediate left.  Chad’s apartment was first on the right.

Carlos found himself stepping into a dark, tiny efficiency apartment.  The single window was covered with blinds and had a blanket draped over the brackets holding the blinds; it let in no light whatsoever—and very little in the way of sound.

Chad turned on the overhead light to reveal the fact that he lived like a pig.  Carlos, long since used to a routine that had forced him to clean his cell on a daily basis, felt a thrill of disgust as he scanned the room.

It wasn’t that it filled with filth; but it was strewn with dirty clothing, much of it—judging by the smell—soaked with semen.  The tiny alcove that served as a kitchen didn’t need a lot to make it look cluttered; the empty glasses and liquor bottles on the two square feet of countertop sufficed.

The obscured window looked into the breezeway; in front of it was one of the few quality items in the unit—a 40-inch LCD television (the other item was a laptop barely visible on the floor under a pair of used briefs).  There was a cable box, a cable modem and an older Xbox on the lower level of the TV stand.

Opposite the TV was the bed with a nightstand on each side.  Carlos had to blink at it a couple of times before he realized it was an unfolded futon; it doubled as a sofa.  This dude was such a whore he never bother to put the bed away…

There was a cheap dresser next to the TV and past the kitchen were a couple of doors; presumably bathroom and closet.  The entire place couldn’t have been more than four hundred square feet.

And it reeked.  The funk of cigarette smoke, weed, incense, and sex was almost thick enough to be visible.

Chad chuckled drunkenly as he staggered forward and tried to smooth the twisted and stained sheets.  After a few fraught seconds, he gave it up as a bad job and sat on the edge of the thin foam mattress.  He glanced up at Carlos’s face, grinned, and started slipping off his blue dress shirt.

Tossing it on the floor, he stood up slowly.  He haltingly pulled the black tee with the shot smiley face up over his head, swaying alarmingly as he did so.  Carlos’s eye glittered as Chad revealed his leanly-muscled chest.  This shirt went on the floor as well, just as Chad lost his balance and fell back into a sitting position on the futon again.

He didn’t notice the narrowing of Carlos’s eyes.  The convict felt his cock straining in his jeans.  Another thing he could feel was the knife; much taller than the boot he’d hidden it in, the hilt was pressing into the side of his lower leg, a slight sensation of discomfort that made him both angrier and harder.  He shifted slightly and heard something crunch under his bootheel.

Looking down, he saw he’d shattered the case for one of the Xbox games—Call of Duty.  As he glanced around, he noticed the floor littered with cases and discs, some partially hidden under clothes.  Mixed with the games was a sizable collection of porn.  Judging by the titles, the slut liked it rough and raw.

Chad hadn’t heard the sound—he’d flopped onto his back and was running his fingertips up and down his slim, smooth chest, humming contentedly.  Carlos had been right in his assessment; he was drunkenly anticipating a long hard punkfuck by a hot, built gangbanger who could hold him down and ream him till he screamed.

That was exactly what he was gonna get—although when it happened, he wouldn’t be in a position to appreciate the gratification of his lust.  Taking advantage of Chad’s preoccupation, Carlos slipped off his own tight t-shit.  Quietly approaching the futon, he tossed it on the end table on the right side before Chad heard him and sat up.

He almost gasped at Carlos’s body.  Sweat gleamed off his muscular chest like a sheen of oil.  Across his left pectoral, just to the right of the large nipple, was another tattoo.  This one was also inexpertly done but very detailed; a grim reaper figure that carried not a scythe but an AK-47.  Under the figure was the phrase “Die, Motherfucker, Die!”

The wiry black fuzz that began on his broad chest thickened as it flowed down his washboard abs to his firm, flat belly.  The dark trail was cut off by the jeans and thick leather belt at Carlos’s waist.

The con could see the effect he was having on the whore; Chad’s skinny jeans bulged in the crotch as his eyes light up with lust; drunk as he was, the ecstasy was still having some effect.  He decided it was time to get started.  Reaching his hand up to his neck, he unconsciously scratched at the tattoo that said “revenge”.

“C’mon, punk, let’s see what ya got.  Show me your fuckhole, bitch.  NOW, goddamit!” he barked.

For a split second, Chad’s face registered the same shock as if he’d been slapped.  Then it vanished into a salacious grin as he scrambled to his feet.  “Yessir,” he panted, unbuckling his belt and worming the skin-tight denim down his firm legs.  His long dick—his moneymaker—flopped out stiffly, the slit at the tip of the swollen head glistening.

The jeans hit the floor on top of his bright red sneakers.  As he bent to remove them, Carlos abruptly shoved him back onto the bed.  “Just like that, bitch, I’m gonna plow your hole just like that.  Stay there like a good dog.”

Chad remained on his back, panting with anticipation as Carlos unfastened the brass buckle on his leather belt.  Unbuttoning and unzipping his crotch, he had to put in as much effort to get the jeans off as Chad had his; they were even tighter than the whore’s had been.

Underneath, he was bare; he’d gotten rid of the cheap thin skivvies the prison has issued him on his release.  He’d stopped in the first public restroom he could find and tossed them in the garbage.  Even though he tried to ignore it, he couldn’t help but notice the rust-colored stain of dried blood that had leaked from his violated ass.  Now, as the image flashed across his mind again, a red fog of fury rose behind his eyes.

Out in front, his cock rose as well.

Chad had a big dick.  Carlos’s was monstrous.  Chad’s eyes opened wide; even in his drugged haze, the kid was aware of how much this would hurt.  At the same time, seven inches of vein-wrapped flesh began to rise in his groin.  It was gonna hurt—and that turned him on.

He wanted it rough, and he was gonna get it rough.  In fact, it was gonna be fuckin’ brutal—starting now.

Carlos couldn’t wait anymore; mounting rage led to mounting and rape.  Placing his hard, rough hands on Chad’s smooth inner thighs, he forced them apart and thrust his thick, muscled body between them.  Both men has their jeans around their ankles.  For Carlos, it was a matter of expediency.  For Chad, it was a matter of bondage.  The scary-looking dude was suddenly right on top of him and he couldn’t move his legs.  He didn’t resist, though; so far, his most erotic fantasy was coming true.

Of course, he’d never noticed the knife rising out of Carlos’s boot.  And the way he was positioned now, he couldn’t see it. The rough ex-con reached down to aim his dick up the slut’s fuckhole—but before he did, he moved his hand a bit lower and grabbed the hilt of the blade, just to make sure it was still in reach.

After all, he didn’t want to be searching for it later.  Ruins the mood.

In his anger, it was the only thing he checked on; brandishing his massive rod like a weapon, he plowed it deeply into Chad’s rectum with no warning whatsoever.  There was no hint of what was happening, and no lube.  Chad wasn’t used to the lack of either, but it was the latter that had the greatest impact, in several senses of the word.

The pain tore through the drunken haze filling his weak, drugged mind.  It didn’t sober him, exactly, but it did make him aware that this might not be as fun as he’d thought—and that he was too fucked up to handle things if it went out of control.

It was a cardinal rule of whoredom.  Always be aware of the situation; always have a way out.  Most of Chad’s clients were middle-aged suburban men who found his slim, boyish body irresistible.  He’d never dealt with someone truly dangerous.  And this was fun, not business.  He’d let his guard down, but the thought was slow in processing, and the possible consequences hadn’t yet occurred to him.

What had occurred, however, was a horrible tearing sensation in his colon, a flaming, white-hot sheet of pain that evoked a shrill scream and an attempt to push Carlos off him.  “Bitch, I ain’t takin’ your shit,” Carlos snarled, “shut the fuck up, faggot, and take my cock—and if ya don’t, I’ll fuckin’ make ya.”

With another violent thrust, the muscular convict buried his tool in Chad’s fuckhole to the root.  Used and abused as the rentboy’s puckered asshole was, Carlos managed to stretch it past its prior limits, literally tearing the muscle in one place and the rectal lining in another.

Chad eyes went wide with shock; it hurt so bad his logic shorted out for a moment and he had a vivid mental image of a cactus shoved up his ass before he began to shriek at the top of his lungs.  It lasted less than a second; Carlos donkey-punched Chad in the jaw, putting out his lights.

“Worthless piece a’ shit, told ya I’d make ya shut up,” he whispered sneeringly at the limp form beneath him, the lithe body jerking unconsciously with each thrust of Carlos’s hips.  After about thirty seconds, the boy’s long lashes began to flutter.  Parting his swollen, split lips, he let out a gagging, guttural moan.

Carlos slipped his right hand down to his leg and carefully slid the knife out of his boot.  He placed it on Chad’s flat smooth belly; it was too large for the slut’s heaving gasps of breath to dislodge.  Still in the process of regaining consciousness, Chad was too dazed to notice the huge blade lying on his abdomen.    As his eyes focused on the sweaty, muscular chest in front of him, the rentboy’s awareness resurfaced in a torrent of verbal abuse from the convict.

“Stupid fuckin’ faggot, actin’ like you ain’t never had a dick up your worn-out fuckhole,” Carlos hissed viciously into the boy’s stunned, terrified face, “you squeal like a pig, ya know that?  Just like a motherfuckin’ queer-ass cocksucking pig!”

Chad was still high, still drunk—but it wasn’t fun anymore.  He wasn’t able to think clearly; all he knew was that this hot stud seemed to hate him and was hurting him more than he’d thought possible.  The drug had intensified his sensations; it was as if every vein wrapped around Carlos’s enormous shaft was barbed wire slashing at his torn sphincter.

The con was holding the slut down by pinning his shoulders to the thin foam mattress but Chad managed to wriggle out from under.  Still bleating in agony, he started clawing and beating at his assailant, making shallow scratches on the brutal killer’s hairy chest.  As he struggled, the knife slid off his belly but in his frantic, futile attempt to climb off the rod impaling his ass, he had yet to realize it was there.  The pain was just too intense for him to notice much else.

“What’s the matter, bitch, my dick ain’t enough?  Ya want somethin’ else shoved inside ya?” Carlos snarled.  Grunting in anger, he grabbed Chad’s flailing arms and held both wrists together in one hand above the boy’s head, immobilizing him.  He needed to get the cunt’s attention—time for show and tell.  With his other hand, he reached for the knife.

Carlos held the long, evil-looking blade in front of Chad’s bewildered eyes.  As the boy froze in shock, the con released his arms and clamped his hand over the slut’s mouth.   Leaning forward until their faces were a foot apart, he bought the knife between them so it almost filled Chad’s field of vision.  He couldn’t look away.

As Carlos whispered to him, Chad was unable to take his eyes off the gleaming steel blade, as if he was hypnotized by the razor-sharp edge and the double-serrated tip.  “Yeah, bitch, look at it,” the muscled killer murmured, “imagine what it’s gonna feel like inside ya.  It’s gonna feel fuckin’ great to me, I can tell ya.  I seen this inside, dude.  Guy got done like this.  It hurts bad, man, it hurts so fuckin’ bad you tighten up and milk the cum outta my cock.  And if I do it right, I can make it last a long time.  So get ready, you worthless faggot—it’s your lucky day; you’re gonna get all kinda long hard shafts stuck inside ya!”

Chad’s mind was a clean white sheet of panic, useless and helpless.  Tears welled from his large eyes and trickled down his cheeks into his copper-colored scruff.  His full, swollen lips trembled under Carlos’s excruciating grip as he began to blubber, a low keening sound grating to the nerves.  His own long dick, protruding limply from a tangle of strawberry-red hair, wasn’t hard enough to prevent pure terror forcing out a couple of trickles of piss that ran warmly down the boy’s smooth sides.

“Ready to get it on?” Carlos grinned.  “Ready for me to show ya what I think you disgusting faggots are worth?  Time for some fun, cunt!”

He lay his massive bulk on top of Chad’s slim body, feeling it wriggle in terror under him, slipping across his muscled form on a film of sweat and piss.  He kept his left hand tightly and painfully clamped over the whore’s mouth while with his right, he pressed the knife into the boy’s side, just below the armpit.  Applying just enough pressure to break the skin, he slowly drew the blade downward, tracing a long, oozing line of red down the kid’s smooth, heaving flank.

Chad closed his eyes tightly and tried to turn away; the hand that gripped his face like an iron vise didn’t let him move far.  He could feel the icy slice moving down his body and he knew that when it stopped—but he wasn’t able to think past that point.

He didn’t have to.  Carlos grinned evilly as he slowly brought the knife back up, cutting a little deeper this time.  Watching Chad wince in pain, he grunted and shoved his dick further up the boy’s ass, enjoying the muffled squeal he elicited.  Then he pulled the knife back and started touching the tip to the bitch’s side at random.  “Eeney, meeney, miney, moe,” he whispered, “catch a tiger—“  He shoved the blade in up to the hilt, burying all twelve inches of sharpened steel in Chad’s guts with a wet squelching sound.

The jagged serrations on both sides of the tip sliced through Chad’s tender flesh like soft butter.  The blade had entered his left side, just below the ribcage.  Slashing through the descending colon and a twisted mass of small intestine, the knife was rammed in on a slightly upward angle, shearing through the transverse colon and slicing the pancreas.  Before the sharp steel tip stopped moving, it had punctured Chad’s gall bladder and embedded itself in his liver.

And yet no major blood vessels had been hit.  The wound wasn’t immediately fatal—just horrifically painful.

Chad shuddered in shock, his wide eyes ringed with purple circles of agony.  A foot of cold steel had been shoved into his torso; the white-hot flame of agony was all-powerful.  What Carlos had said was true—he stiffened involuntarily; his muscles tightening on their own.  It made things worse; as his abdominal muscles clenched, they closed in on the knife, causing it to slice open the wound even wider on its own.

“Fuck yeah, homo, now you’re gettin’ it,” sighed Carlos.  “Goddam, guess that’s what it takes to get you stupid fuckin’ faggots to work a dick right—gotta stick ya like a pig.  That it, cunt?  That what ya like, you sick fuckin’ pansy?”

Chad barely heard the words; his world had become the flaming lance upon which he was impaled; the only other thing that worked its way through the agony was the tightening of his muscles—that had to be it, that had to be why his dick was getting hard, his muscles were sealing the blood flow into his painfully erect tool, that was OH HOLY FUCK—

Grabbing the handle, Carlos had twisted the blade ninety degrees.  As the tip rotated within the wound, the serrations on each side carved strips from Chad’s organs, shredding parts of his liver, pancreas and intestines.  With whip-like speed, the convict jerked the knife out of the whore’s quivering body.  A trickle of blood flowed from the small gash in the kid’s side, but most of the damage was internal.  Chad’s gall bladder was destroyed.

As the lean, smooth youth writhed in nightmarish agony on Carlos’s cock, his mangled sphincter desperately grabbing at the muscled killer’s tool, the con spit into the sobbing slut’s face before holding the knife up to him again.  Drops of his own blood spattered Chad’s cheeks; where they hit his beard, they made circles of crimson on the copper.

“Look at it, cocksucker,” Carlos snarled viciously.  “Ya like it when dude stick things in ya, you fuckin’ faggot, huh?  Ya like what I’m stickin’ in ya?  Look at the blade, you goddam homo cunt, lookit yer guts hangin’ in strings off my fuckin’ knife.  Fuck yeah, you ain’t dead yet, bitch.  I’m gonna make you hurt a whole fuckin’ lot more before you die.  Watch this, fag, you’re gonna love this shit!”

Lifting himself up off the rentboy’s twitching, sweat-smeared body, Carlos drew his arm back and plunged the knife down vertically, the blade sinking straight into Chad’s flat, smooth belly.  The redhead’s eyes widened to a grotesque extent as the blade again tore through his intestines, this time front to back.  The blade was longer than Chad’s torso was deep, it utterly impaled him, coming out his back and cutting several inches into the foam mattress.

Carlos’s left hand had come away from the rentboy’s mouth, but by this time it didn’t matter.  Chad gave an incoherent grunt of pain—“hoog!”—before sinking into a shuddering gasp.  He was past the point of consciously calling for help; his entire existence was now simply reaction to pain.

Part of the pain was in his dick.  It was harder that it had ever been, not that he was in a position to compare—but it was so hard it hurt.  He was well-endowed, nowhere near as big as the horse dick plugging his rectum, but too big for comfort at the moment.  As his long hard hog lay along his belly, the engorged purple head was scraping against the blade embedded in his belly.

In some malignant way, Carlos’s chuckle wormed its way through to Chad’s awareness.  He knew this tattooed roughneck was both amused and aroused by his pain.  As icy despair enveloped his shallow soul, Chad knew he’d be giving his killer exactly what he wanted as he died.  He’d be in too much pain to resist.  He’d die in horrible pain while his killer contemptuously used his convulsing rectum as a disposable sex toy.

In a defiant act of denial, the whore, realizing his arms were free, began to claw at Carlos’s face.  His manicured nails dug into the convict’s scruff-covered cheeks as the boy gasped and squealed uncontrollably.

“You goddam faggot,” Carlos growled flatly, “here, maybe this’ll shut your worthless ass up, huh?”  Yanking the long knife out of Chad’s stomach, he slammed it into the right side of the kid’s smooth chest.  The blade sliced through the boy’s broad, flat pectoral muscle between two ribs before it punctured the right lung and embedded itself into a rib in the slut’s back.

Carlos held the shuddering youth tightly to him, feeling the rentboy’s agony ripple through his lithe lean body in waves, each one convulsing Chad’s colon and sending a thrill of pleasure along the convict’s cock.  Again, he twisted the knife in the wound before yanking it back out, a long spurt of blood following the blade up out of the body.

He’d created a sucking chest wound.  The rest of the bleeding was internal.  Chad was sweating and quivering, his eyes wide and fixed as physical and electrochemical shock overwhelmed him.  The massive internal trauma he’d suffered was starting to catch up to him; damaged organs were leaking not just blood but hormones and enzymes into his abdominal cavity.

He wanted to plead, to beg for his life, not realizing that he was past saving by this point.  But it was moot; he still rigid from the physical shock, his body stiff and shuddering—and his cock.  It had something to do with the searing burning pain in his ass—some part of him remembered the alpha stud on top of him, this was his cock, he was gonna make his erotic fantasy come true…

The rage-filled killer leered at Chad’s bewildered expression.  There was a truly undeserving look of innocent appeal that made him even more contemptuous; his spit into the suffering cunt’s face again.  Chad was gasping, his face turning blue as his lung collapsed.  Suddenly, he jerked, his smooth firm legs wrapping tightly around Carlos’s waist, his red leather sneakers quivering in the air as gargling sound filled his throat.  His body strained momentarily, causing his dick to rise up and slap the con’s hairy chest, then a bubble of blood burst in his mouth.

Chad continued to jerk and cough, trickles of blood leaking from each corner of his mouth and winding its way through his curly red beard.  He was sweating profusely, his hair so dark with moisture its color was now hard to discern.

Carlos hadn’t done this before.  He’d seen dudes snuffed in jail, but the one he’d killed had been in anger.

He had no idea how good it’d feel.  And somehow, he knew exactly what to do—and when to do it.

He knew they were entering the home stretch when Chad began tensing rhythmically with each wheezing, desperate breath.  The bitch was losing too much blood.  Time to shift gears.

“Ok, homo, time for me to cum and you to go.  I’m sure they’ll slap a coat of paint on this shithole after they haul your rotting, spunk-filled corpse outta here.  That’s about all anyone’s gonna care about a cocksucking faggot whore who took the wrong trick home and got himself offed.  Just so you know, you queer piece of shit, ain’t no one gonna care how much it hurts or how scared you were.  The only one who cares is me.  And for me, more is better.”

Chad continued to shudder, his eyes losing focus and rolling back momentarily before he clawed his way back to consciousness, grimly hanging on to life despite the agonizing pain of each passing moment.  There was still enough of him left to feel the sadistic con’s engorged rod plunging deep into his battered and torn rectum.

Each breath was a struggle against the crushing pain of his collapsed lung, an uphill fight that left him weak.  Chad’s world had shrunk to a tunnel view of Carlos’s muscular chest; on the side of the pec, past the wiry hair, he again caught the words “Die, Motherfucker, Die!” on the tattoo.  Everything else was blinding white-hot pain.  Even his huge cock was so hard it seemed to be on fire.

In a way, Chad was at peace; he was experiencing the worst and it would soon be over.

He was only half right.

Carlos looked down into the ginger’s face, blue from limited oxygen.  “Useless goddam faggot, you still ain’t made me cum.  You homos make me so fuckin’ sick; you lure us straight guys in and somehow it’s our fault when we gotta teach you cunts a lesson. I went to jail for the last one, but I ain’t goin’ back cause of you.  Gonna take your cash and that piece of shit car you’re so proud of and by the time anyone bothers to check on your subhuman ass, you’re gonna be so rotten they ain’t gonna be able to tell what happen to ya for sure!”

Panting with rage and lust, Carlos held the knife up and looked at it, a terrifying glint of eagerness lighting his eyes as he gazed at the strings of flesh still caught in the serrations.  His hard body heaved, his bulging arms glistened with sweat.  The word “revenge” on his neck had actually been tattooed across his carotid; it throbbed with his racing pulse.  The Confederate flag bandanna wrapped around his shaved head was dark with sweat.

Carlos fixed his icy gaze on Chad’s dazed, half-lidded eyes.  “When we met, you told me you wanted it to hurt,” he hissed.  Inhaling deeply, he spat another wad of phlegm into the slut’s blue, tear-stained face.  “Does it hurt enough yet?  What’s that?  I can’t hear you, you motherfuckin’ piece a’ shit, so I’m gonna take that as a no.  Ok, wow, you really like it the hard way, huh?  Good, all of ya faggots deserve this much pain; glad ya realize it.  Ok, cocksucker, if ya want it to hurt, this is really gonna make you blow your cumsucking load!”

A lot happened in the next few seconds.

It started with Carlos’s left hand.  He placed it on the crown of Chad’s head, digging his fingers into the short wiry hair on his scalp like a handful of copper wires.  His right hand flashed up in a blur, shoving the blade up under Chad’s jaw, behind the chin.

Pressing down on Chad’s head with his left hand and shoving up with his right, he managed to slowly force the length of steel blade into the rentboy’s head.  The tip sliced slowly, excruciatingly up through the bottom of the jaw into the mouth.  Pinning the slut’s tongue to the roof of his mouth, it continued up through the soft palate at the top of the mouth into the sinuses.

The helpless youth kicked his feet convulsively in the air, his sneakers jerking as his body shuddered in incomprehensible agony.  Some part of him could hear, could feel his septum and the base of the cranium crunch and shatter as the knife continued its inexorable climb…

And then, nothing.  There are no nerve endings in the brain.  Chad wasn’t aware of the parts of his cerebrum that were destroyed as the knife passed through; he felt a twinge of pain as it punctured the dura and dug the tip into the inside of his cranium.

He felt an irrational and truly amazing sensation from his cock.  He didn’t know the blade had sliced through and short-circuited the pleasure center of his brain; he only knew that he was in more pain than humanly possible—and that he wanted to cum so bad…

That was when Carlos pulled his hands in different directions; the one in the hair pulling left while the one holding the knife impaling the cunt’s head pulling right.  In the blink of an eye, the convict had snapped Chad’s neck, completely severing the head from the spine.

The whore’s nervous system, already primed by the faulty signals from the brain, went into overload when the spinal column was mangled.  The smooth lean body again went rigid and quivered, but this time with an intensity far beyond anything it had displayed before.  The rentboy’s rectum clutched Carlos’s shaft desperately, like a drowning man.  The dying fag’s cock stood up.  It hesitated for a moment, throbbing and pulsating, before it began to pump out a steady stream of semen in a single ropy strand that splattered Carlos’s chest and smeared the dark fur on his buff torso.

With a loud, guttural grunt, Carlos felt himself pump his burning load into the dead whore’s guts; the convulsing slut still milking his hot spunk out of his shaft.  “Goddam faggot!” he snarled as he shot his wad, “fuckin’ die, you worthless cumsuckin’ homo!”  As he yelled, he felt himself shoot even harder; it didn’t matter if the motherfucker was already dead or not.

Carlos held on to the twitching, jerking corpse for a while longer before pulling out.  This process had to be done twice—once with his dick and once with his blade.  Then he was free to wriggle out from between the kid’s quivering thighs.

Carlos strolled to the bathroom and tried the sink.  The hot water was really, really hot.  That was good.  He soaked a hand towel and wiped himself down, then used the same towel to clean the blade.  When he was done, he left it in the sink under running water for a while.

Pulling up his jeans, he began a careful search of the room, starting with Chad’s clothes.  He found $460 in the wallet plus change from the booze he’d bought.  He also snagged the car keys.  A quick glance around showed nothing else unusual—besides the bleeding corpse of the boy sprawled nude on the bed, his jeans around his ankles, that is.

He grabbed his shirt off the nightstand next to the futon—but before putting it on, he looked into the kitchen.  There he did see something unusual.  In the midst of liquor bottles and fast food wrappers was a flour canister.  Opening it, he saw that there really was flour inside.  And under the flour was a baggie with $3500 in it.

Score.

Carlos dressed quickly.  Lifting the corner of the blanket, he peered out from behind the window blinds.  No one in the breezeway, no one in the parking lot.  Perfect.

His boots seemed to thump loudly on the pavement as he crossed the asphalt to the Mustang, but he didn’t worry about it.  He’d be past the state line by midnight.  And he had enough money now to last a while.  Well, at least till he found another victim.