RCSS–Going Rogue

Dan sat in the cab of the pickup, his buzzcut blond hair glinting the in rays of the setting sun that came in through the passenger window.  Even though the hot and steamy day was becoming an unpleasantly humid evening, the cop kept the engine off and the windows down.  He was watching.

 

It wasn’t an official stakeout; he was in his personal vehicle.  Backed off the road into the brush, he was keeping his icy blue eyes pointed to a spot a couple of hundred yards down the road where a gravel track branched off, leading back some distance.  At the end of the track, well out of sight, was Brody’s trailer.

 

Dan knew that Brody was gonna make a move tonight.  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.  It had been Pete’s day off, but like a loyal young soldier, he’d kept an eye on the place until Dan left the sheriff’s office for the day and headed out to meet him.

 

“Yeah, he left once,” Pete had reported.  “When down to the corner store an’ got gas and beer.  If he’d gone any farther, I’da called, but he went back home.  So ya really think he’s gonna be up to somethin’ here soon?”

 

“I did a little research on this Josh Perez punk he says he’s gonna question.  Kid’s a worthless little faggot with a couple of public lewdness charges, but if he has anything to do with the drug trade in this county, it’s as an end user.  And Brody knows it.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“’Cause Brody was arrested along with Josh on one of those charges.  No charges ever filed, though—not enough evidence.  Seems Brody never actually exposed himself.  And Josh was so damn drunk he didn’t remember any of it, according to the file–claimed he didn’t know or recognize Brody.  So nothing happened.”

 

“Brody already knows Josh,” Pete said—a statement, not a question, muttered in a tone of disgusted betrayal.  “Son-of-a-bitch…” he muttered slowly.  “But you think he’s gonna make his move soon?”

 

“Yeah.  I can feel it.  It’s Friday night, it’s hot and humid and there’ll be a full moon—look.”  He nodded to the eat where the moon already hung over the horizon, pale and huge in the waning sunlight, already starting to slide under a cloud bank that had bubbled up from nowhere.  “Prime rutting season for a rogue predator male.”

 

“Uh, look, Cap,” Pete said, almost bashfully, “If anything, um, comes up—you’ll call me?  I mean you said yerself he could take us individually.”

 

“I said we’d have a hard time with him individually—but don’t worry, dude,” Dan said smilingly, “I’m just watching, no matter what he does.  I’m just going to watch him and see how he handles himself.”

 

Pete gave him a quizzical look.  In response, Dan said, “Don’t forget—he’s supposed to let me know he’s going out after the kid, but he could simply forget that.  I want to see what he actually does with Josh.”

 

The younger cop’s scruffy, boyishly handsome face twisted into a leer.  “You’re gonna watch him snuff that fag.”

 

Dan’s answering smile was colder and grimmer.  “Why not?  Whatever else happens, at least it’ll be one less homo in my county.”

 

A few more parting civilities and Pete headed off to the gym, intent on relieving his physical tensions with a demanding workout.  Dan was left, watching and waiting, no less intent on relieving his suspicions about a possible psycho fag killer.

 

After all, Dan didn’t mind a dead faggot or two, especially if he was the one who made them dead, but there was a limit.  There had to be control.  There had to be Authority, and Brody was flying in the face of Authority.  Loose cannons were dangerous and had to be disposed of, quickly and effectively.

 

The buff police captain sat and watched for his mark, his huge, muscle-bound body tense and ready for action at any time.  No matter when Brody appeared or what he attempted to do, Dan would be prepared.

 


 

He didn’t have long to wait.  Dusk didn’t last long at this latitude; with the clouds closing in quickly, darkness closed in even more quickly—and darkness was what drew the predator from his lair.  Dan spotted a pair of headlights bouncing down the potholed gravel drive, but kept his cool, not starting his engine until Brody was almost a half mile down the road towards Corrington.  After that, it was easy to follow him, at least until he got into the town itself.

 

Corrington was a small place, but on Friday night, everyone from the outlying villages and farms came into town to get drunk.  Brody’s black pickup could have been easily lost in the sea of other big black trucks on the streets, but he’d jacked it up high enough to stand out.  Dan followed it discreetly into the parking lot of The Well.

 

Dan had no intention of following Brody into the bar; his face would be instantly recognized—by the bouncer and bartender, if no one else; he was the local law, after all.  He decided to just sit and wait, parking at the far end of a row where he could keep an eye on the back door—the way Brody had entered the place—without being immediately seen by anyone leaving.

 

It took about forty-five minutes.  Dan had been prepared to wait much longer; he was rather surprised at how quickly Brody and Josh came out.  He was also surprised at Brody’s brazenness, practically dragging his victim out the door.  And his victim wasn’t going quietly.

 

It wasn’t that Josh was resisting; on the contrary, he was drunk and vocally horny.

 

Josh was young—far too young to be in the bar; he wasn’t yet twenty.  He got around that handily enough by sucking the dicks of the bouncer and the bartender and anyone else inside who might cause a problem.  He had some money; for this little burg, he was considered a rich kid.  His dad managed one of the larger farms, located about fifteen miles northwest of town.

 

Josh was known for coming into town on Friday night and not making it back out to the farm until late Monday morning—afternoon, sometimes.  His father kept getting pissed and threatening to put him to work, but never got around to it; largely because he knew his faggot son’s uselessness.  It’d kill the boy’s mother to hear about it, though, so he kept his mouth shut.

 

Dan was well aware of the details of Josh’s life; having reviewed all available info in the files, he knew the kid was a worthless waste of human flesh.  But he also knew that the cocksucker didn’t have the ambition to get involved in any kind of drug trade.  He bought some shit all right, but nothing like China white.  He was into party drugs–molly, X, even roofies.  Fentanyl wouldn’t be his thing; it’d kill the mood.

 

Josh was evidently on something now, given the way he was staggering across the parking lot with Brody, although he could have just been drunk.  He had taken off his shirt—presuming he’d been wearing one—and his strong but not overly-muscled torso was smooth and shiny with sweat.  His dark, almost blue-black hair had been brushed up from his forehead at one point but was now disheveled and slick with perspiration; he had a patch of hair on his chin that was the same color.

 

Below the torso, he wore a pair of tight, worn Levi’s with a thick belt of brown, uncured leather circling his tight waist; he’d shoved a pair of Timberland boots on, leaving them half-laced and completely united.  It was easier to kick them off when he was ready to get fucked.  And the way his large, dark, bloodshot eyes kept turning to Brody, it was obvious that Josh was ready to get fucked.

 

Of course the little faggot was drawn to Brody.  The older dude was dressed similarly in faded skintight jeans and his half-laced Redwing construction boots.  Above, the buff sadist sported a sleeveless compression t-shirt in some dark shade that wasn’t clear in the uneven lighting of the parking lot.  He strode steadily and purposefully towards his truck, Josh following him with the eagerness of a puppy.

 

Dan knew that Josh didn’t have an address in town and figured it was unlikely that Brody would take his prey back to its own home.  Instead, he’d probably head back to his trailer, but Dan wanted to make certain.  Once the redneck alpha pulled his truck out of the Well’s lot, Dan started his engine and began following.  As soon as he confirmed that the big black pickup had turned onto the county road in the direction of Brody’s trailer, he fell back.  No sense in making the psycho paranoid.

 

And that’s exactly what Brody was to Dan, a psycho.  A killing machine, responsive only to transient emotions and sensations, not to reason.  Something easily distracted and overwhelmed by rage and lust.

 

Something blind to the value of Authority.

 

But he had to know.  He had to be sure.  He knew that, whatever happened, the odds of him overpowering the muscle-bound redneck in any physical altercation were at best fifty-fifty.  So he let Brody’s taillights vanish in the distance, giving the guy time to get home.  Time for Dan to watch him in the act.

 

Then, once his suspicions were confirmed—and only then—would he bring Pete on board and let him in on his plan.  No sense getting the kid mixed up in the messy details until Dan was certain they’d be needed.

 

By the time Dan got to the turning for Brody’s trailer, the latter was already home.  Turning off his headlights, the off-duty Captain slowly and carefully eased his pickup down the rutted gravel drive.  He stopped inside the tree line, about a half mile off the road, and walked the rest of the way.

 

As he approached the dilapidated single-wide trailer, he could hear music coming from inside.  Dance music—not Brody’s choice, surely; he preferred country.  Dan crept closer for a better look, but needed some help.  Even at six and a half feet, he wasn’t quite tall enough to look into any of the windows.  Glancing around, he spied exactly what he needed—a cinderblock.  Placing it below the living room window, he stood on it, carefully shifting his scuffed roper boots to maintain balance.

 

The window was covered with cheap plastic miniblinds; they had been closed, but they were warped and a number of them were broken.  By bending down slightly—he was too tall now—Dan was easily able to peer into the living room.

 

What he saw got his dick hard instantly.

 

Brody was leaning back in an old recliner.  Josh had stripped down to nothing his scuffed Timberlands and a pair of fire-engine red boxer briefs that clung to his groin like they’d been painted on, perfectly outlining his bulging package and erect, straining cock.  The boy had his arms up and his hands on the back of his head, arcing his back.

 

Little fucker was drunkenly giving Brody a lap dance.  Even from the window, Dan could see and easily interpret the gleam in Brody’s eye; the gyrating cocksucker was even closer, but was either too fucked up to notice—or just didn’t care.  As the cop watched, Josh reached down towards Brody’s lap, then quickly jerked his hands upward, pulling the buff older man’s compression t-shirt off over his head.  He tossed it idly to the side.

 

The boy was clearly indulging himself, writhing on the muscle-bound sadist’s lap, running his hands over Brody’s rock-hard pecs and lacing his fingers in the stud’s chest fur.  Dan shifted his boots on the cinderblock from time to time to keep the circulation flowing to his feet.  At the moment, it tended to pool near his aroused dick…

 

As the teenaged punk ground his taint over Brody’s bulging groin, he seemed to get more and more aroused himself.  The tentpole that formed in his skintight red boxers showed the dimensions of the homo’s dick; it wasn’t very long, but it was thick and meaty.  Already, a dark moist spot had formed on the thin cotton that covered the big bulbous head of his cock.

 

Brody’s trailer was old and hadn’t been top-of-the-line when new.  All the windows were single-glazed; sound penetrated them easily.  Josh started speaking, and even over the dance music, Dan could hear his words clearly.  “C’mon, man,” the punk whined, “I need dick.  I wantcha in me.  C’mon, gimme it, fucker!”

 

He climbed unsteadily off Brody’s lap and shut off the music coming from his phone, then grabbed Brody’s arm off the recliner and began tugging at it.  “C’mon!” Josh insisted, his dick all but visibly pulsating inside his boxers.  The boy’s eyes were lit with an intoxicated lust that was no less intense for not being rationalized.  He’d said all there was to say—he needed dick.

 

Brody stared evenly at him for a moment, then reset the recliner and rose to his feet.  As Dan watched, the horny young cocksucker allowed himself to be led into the bed, the smirk on his face telling Dan everything he needed to know.

 

For example, he knew he needed to move if he wanted a continued view of the action.

 

Dan hopped off the cinderblock, his boots hitting the gravel with a faint crunch that would have worried him had Brody not already closed the bedroom door behind him.  He moved down to the next window, but its blinds were closed and evidently there was something hanging over them on the inside; not even a crack of light emerged into the dark humid night.

 

Concerned, Dan prowled around the end of the trailer, which was no help—only a small, high window; this was the bathroom.  He continued around to the back, where he struck gold.  There was a small window into the bedroom that not only had the shades up, it was also perfectly positioned.  It was near the head of the bed, and separated from it only by the width of a nightstand.

 

Peering in, Dan realized he was less than a yard from where Josh was already flat on his back with his feet in the air.

 

The window was dirty—Brody never bothered to wash them—so the view wasn’t particularly clear; on the other hand, Dan realized that the film of dirt worked both ways.  He could practically press his face up against the glass and not be seen.  As it so happened, he didn’t need to get quite that close to be able to see what he wanted to see.

 

The bedroom was filthy, but the piles of clutter didn’t seem to have been there long.  Dan figured that Travis, despite his known uselessness, must have kept the place in some kind of order.  Evidently Brody needed a new house bitch.

 

Mounds of dirty clothes lined the walls.  One was directly opposite the window; on the top of a pair of filthy oil- and mud-stained pair of jeans was a pair of ten-inch Justin work boots, the tan leather uppers equally as mud-spattered.  Folded receipts and papers, some with Brody’s semi-literate scrawl on them, cascaded over the dresser, mixed with loose change, junk mail and unopened bills.

 

The dim yellow light in the overhead ceiling fan made the room look small and dingy.  The battered walls glared bleakly at each other across the confined space.  There was no sign of covering or pillows on the bed—the cheap stained fitted sheet was repelling, the thin, pale blue rayon becoming a downright repulsive shade.

 

It was clear, though, that Josh wasn’t there for the aesthetics.

 

The kid had already ditched his boxer briefs.  He was nude, his cock rising from a mass of black tangled pubes.  His slim, strong body was already slick with sweat that reeked of testosterone; the adolescent punk was so oversexed he seemed on the verge of losing control of himself.  His tan boots hung in the air as he pleaded with the hulking alpha.

 

“Lemme see it,” Josh was whining, intoxication adding a petulant tone to his usual uncontrolled horniness, “Whip that bad boy out an’ lemme see whatcha got.  I know a hunk like you’s gotta have a big ol’ dick…”

 

Brody, standing near the foot of the bed, only smiled mirthlessly and reached for his zipper.  He lowered it slowly and theatrically; it was obvious to Dan that he was enjoying himself immensely.  When Brody pulled his massive rod out of his jeans, the cop, having seen it before, already knew what to expect.

 

Josh didn’t.

 

“Holy fuck,” he whispered; even in his inebriated state, the faggot twink could tell that this enormous shaft was more than he could handle.  Not that he wasn’t willing to try.  “Dude, you gotta go slow with that.  Ya got any lube?”

 

Brody’s malevolent grin should have been both answer and warning enough; for the randy little homo hungry for cock, it was neither.

 

The older man climbed slowly onto the bed, his thick, throbbing rod dangling between his legs.  “Hey, boy, wanna hear somethin’ funny?  I’m workin’ with the cops—practically a goddam deputized po-po myself—and this is supposed t’ be an interrogation.”

 

“What?” Josh asked fuzzily, wondering what the hell Brody was going on about.

 

“See, I’m supposed to be askin’ ya about yer drug use…” Brody went on.  Josh looked confusedly up at the handsome redneck’s face.  In his bewilderment, he didn’t notice how the enormous dripping head of Brody’s cock was already pressing against his asshole, but Dan, with his ringside point of view, could see it perfectly.  He knew better than the faggot what was going to happen next.

 

“An’ I kinda wanted to go all good-cop bad-cop on ya,” the grinning muscular alpha continued, “But fuck, everyone knows yer a worthless druggie faggot—so, fuck, might as well spare the cops the trouble an’ just handle the whole thing myself.”

 

“Huh?” Josh blurted out, his face betraying the first signs of fear.  It was too late.  Brody launched himself at the prone twink, slamming his balled-up fist into the boy’s face while simultaneously spearing kid’s ass with his dick, shoving ruthlessly past the tight sphincter and sinking his shaft as deeply as he could into Josh’s guts.

 

The sudden attack even surprised Dan; the powerful redneck was good.  He hadn’t signaled his moves at all.  The Captain felt that his decision not to handle Brody alone was validated; he and Pete would need a plan to take out this strong-ass motherfucker.

 

If Dan had been surprised, Josh had been literally stunned.  Moaning, eyes rolled back in his head, the slim, firm body of the semiconscious faggot jerked as Brody thrust his cock inside it with long, brutal strokes.  For the moment, the boy was a living meat puppet, with the pumping of another man’s dick as its only moving force.

 

Dan gripped the windowsill tightly, forcing his hands to remain where they were and not seek out his painfully erect rod.

 

Brody bent over the limp, sweat-slick youth and slapped his face.  “C’mon, ya pussy, wake up.”  Josh groaned faintly, but gave no other response, so Brody backhanded him, harder.  The punk gave a louder groan and began blinking his eyes, a sign he was coming to.  “Jesus, whadda fuckin’ pansy,” Brody sneered, “You grow up the way I did, faggot, ya learn how to take a punch.”

 

Josh’s ascent to consciousness was more or less a climb into horrible torment.  His head pounded and ached from the blows he’d endured, but that was nothing next to the searing agony in his torn and bloody rectum.  Long before he was fully awake, the teen homo was sobbing with pain.

 

“S-st-stop!” he begged unable to get his bearing in the sea of agony he was foundering in, “F-fuck’s sa-sake, stop!”

 

“Aw, shaddup,” Brody sneered and bitchslapped the suffering teen.

 

Despite Brody’s derision, Josh had dealt with a certain amount of violence in the past—being an open cockwhore in a rural area had its risks and the boy had taken a certain amount of abuse.  He’d even been raped once, when he just happened to run across the team captain of the county high school’s baseball team one night after the dude had broken up with his girlfriend and gotten drunk…

 

But then again, he’d kinda known about the breakup.  And where Frank would be at that point.  And he’d enjoyed it.  This was different—much, much different.  It took a moment to catch his breath, but once he did, he made his displeasure known.

 

“HELP!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “HELP!! POLICE!!”

 

Dan knew perfectly well—and knew the Brody did too—that there wasn’t another inhabited residence within a mile.  But it still seemed to piss Brody off.

 

The look of vicious rage that contorted his roughly handsome face was terrifying.  Josh had experienced pain and fear so far this evening, but the expression on Brody’s face inspired sheer terror.  If he’d ever seen this look on the dude’s face he’d never have gone anywhere alone with him—and now here he was, overpowered and helpless, pinned to a bed by the gigantic dick of a heavily-muscled psycho.

 

But the flash of awareness came too late to save Josh from the brutal effects of Brody’s anger.  From his vantage point, Dan, with the keen instincts of a predator himself, had recognized the erotic look of fear in the faggot’s face.  Now his dick pulsed and ached as he witnessed how that fear was justified.

 

In his rage, Brody lost any control he ever had over his accent.  “Ah tole you to” (here he balled up his fist, drew it back, and drove it into Josh’s face, his huge bicep twanging like a bowstring as the helpless teen grunted out “huk!” loudly, involuntarily) “SHUT” (WHAM, grunt) “THE” (WHAM, grunt) “FUCK” (WHAM, moan) “UP!!” (WHAM, faint bleat).

 

Brody paused for a moment, on his knees, towering over the prone youth, his dick still firmly planted in the unfortunate faggot’s ass.  The sadistic alpha shook his hand out, grinning contemptuously down at the semiconscious adolescent.

 

Dan admired the fucker’s style.  It was a shame Brody was going rogue; he’d have been a great addition to the elite squad that Dan was planning to recruit.  But still, there was nothing without Authority, so he had no choice but to see that the redneck was put down like rabid dog.

 

Plus, the thought made him hard.  Well, harder.

 

But right now, he had a snuff to watch.

 

Brody bent back over the boy, planting his hands palm down on the bed beside the kid’s shoulders and began plowing his ass, reaming the punk’s fuckhole.  Each time the huge engorged head of the muscular alpha’s dick ground ruthlessly over Josh’s prostate, the boy moaned loudly, a deep, guttural sound.

 

And even though the rest of his lean, lithe body was limp, his cock not only remained stiff, it pulsed with each brutal thrust of Brody’s hips.

 

Dan was watching the scene intently but he was far too good a hunter to allow his attention to be completely absorbed.  He was aware of a faint flickering and could feel just the slightest hint of a breeze.  He withdrew mentally from the view in front of him just long enough to feel, rather than hear, a very faint rumble.  There was a storm brewing.

 

The Captain turned back to the window.  He wondered if Josh would live to see the rain.

 

Inside, Josh appeared to be starting to recover.  It was hard to tell, though; his face was battered and both eyes blackened and swollen.  The viciousness of the beating he’d received had left distinctive evidence on the boy’s face.

 

He brought his hands up to his face for a moment, then unexpected, shoved both arms up into Brody’s face and turned away, a uselessly feeble protest against the assault he was enduring.  Brody wasn’t having it.  He wrapped his thick muscled limb around Josh’s strong but overpowered right arm and with nothing more than an angry sneer and a quick, brutal jerk of his bicep, violently dislocated the kid’s elbow.

 

Josh screamed as tendons and ligaments tore, a high, thin screech, the raw sound of human suffering pushed past the point of endurance.  The lean, lithe punk writhed on the bed, the heels of his Timberland boots tracing furrows on the thin sheet as his legs flailed in agony.

 

As Dan watched, hard and leaking, Brody raised himself up over Josh.  Pinned to the bed, the boy looked up, his dark, puffy eyes awash in tears.  From this angle, the hard-muscled, furry torso of the older man filled his field of view; Josh had a close-up of those huge hairy pecs and thick jutting nipples that had enticed him so much, but now all that power was being used to hurt him.  He didn’t understand…

 

“W-why?” he managed to blurt out during his uncontrollable sobbing, “Why?”

 

As an answer, Brody punched him in the gut, his fist sinking deeply into Josh’s smooth, flat belly.  “HOOG!” the teen bellowed involuntarily, rising up into a near-sitting position as the air was forced out of his lungs, then flopping back limply.

 

There was a brief moment when Josh was still too stunned to even try to inhale; he merely lay on the bed, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, as he stared incredulously at Brody, his eyes as wide as their swollen lids would allow.

 

“Why?” Brody said, “Cause it gets me off, that’s why.  Hurtin’ dumbass little fags like you gets me hard, motherfucker.  Killin’ ya little cunts makes me cum.  That what ya wanted to know, boy?  I figured I wanted to drain my balls tonight an’ I picked you to drain ‘em into.  Now don’t that make ya feel special, queerboy?”

 

Josh’s face was a mottled purple as he choked and wheezed, then inhaled loudly and deeply.  As the leanly muscled adolescent suddenly convulsed with violent coughing, Brody, still on his knees looming over the prone youth, leaned back and guffawed loudly.  “Aintcha glad ya asked, boy?” he chortled with malevolent glee.

 

Josh was locked in a cycle of sucking in lots of air, only to expel it in a spasm of coughing.  His alcohol- and hormone-sodden brain was barely functional enough to handle Brody’s words, but he’d picked up enough to know that the searing pain in his asshole and the hot throbbing ache in his face were only hints of something worse.

 

He was right.  He managed, surprisingly quickly, to regain control over himself and stifled the coughing.  He needed to do something, think, something quick—

 

And that was when the flash lit up the room, overpowering the dim overhead light with the intense blue-white light of an electric arc.  Josh had turned his head to the side, straining away from Brody, so that while Brody was looking down at him, he was looking at the window.

 

In that split-second white-hot flash, Josh and Dan were staring each other directly in the eyes.

 

Then, as the thunder cracked like a pistol shot overhead, Brody’s big strong hands wrapped around Josh’s throat and squeezed it shut.

 

Panic seized Josh as his air was cut off.  He knew who Dan was—he’d lusted after the hulking police officer since he was fourteen—but the cop wasn’t doing anything.  He was just sitting there…watching…

 

Josh clawed at Brody’s hands, his fingers digging uselessly at the older man’s vise-like grip.  Once or twice, he reached out towards the window, his helpless fingers clutching at the empty air mere inches from Dan’s face.  The teen’s mute plea for help kept the cop’s dick achingly hard.

 

Brody, wrapped up in his bloodlust, ignored Josh’s movements.  In the hot, airless room, he pressed his heavy, sweat-lubed body onto Josh’s.  As Brody pumped his ass and throttled him, the slim teen felt the alpha’s powerful muscles working within his body as he raped and strangled the boy; even the thick, wiry chest fur that Josh had found so hot was painfully abrading his skin like steel wool.

 

“Yer a lazy piece of ass for a faggot,” Brody sneered, “Goddam homo don’t even know how to work a real man’s dick.”

 

The hardbodied redneck had pinned him to the bed and was using his body like a disposable fucktoy and there wasn’t a damn thing Josh could do about it.  And the more time went on, there was less he could do at all.

 

His handsome young face had already been beaten out of recognition; now, it was a hideous black mask.  Josh could barely see; his eyelids were horribly swollen and through the tiny slits that he was able to force open, his whites were starting to turn red with hemorrhaging blood vessels.  Convulsive movements of his enlarged tongue made him cough up white, foamy drool that trickled down his chin and lodged in the sad excuse for a soul patch on his chin.

 

His youthful body, flooded with adrenaline, kicked and thrashed in a frantic attempt at survival.  The impulse, which originated in the primitive brainstem, bypassed all rational thought.  If Josh had been capable of rational thought, he would have realized that raking and pummeling Brody’s taut, firm asscheeks with the heels of his Timberlands wouldn’t help him much.  It did help burn the oxygen in his bloodstream, though.

 

Brody knew what was happening; he’d so gotten off on snuffing Travis that every detail of death was engraved in his memory.  “Gettin’ close, aintcha, boy?” he whispered, bending down his head till his long, dark hair fell forward and brushed Josh’s black swollen cheeks.   “I can tell cause yer dick’s still hard,” the sadistic alpha chuckled and wrapped his massive, powerful hands even tighter around the suffering teen’s throat—he was able to lock his fingers in back.  Outside,  Dan had to strain to hear  Brody’s words over the rising breeze that swept up around him.

 

“I’m done, faggot,” the buff older man muttered hoarsely, the strain of holding back on orgasm telling in his voice, “Time to die, asswipe.  Gonna fuckin’ hose yer guts with my manseed, you piece a’ shit fag—AAARRGHHH!!!”

 

It was as if every muscle in his over-developed body went rigid at once.  His powerful legs tensed as he spewed a searing jet of spunk deep into Josh’s asshole.  At the same time, his hands clenched spasmodically, crushing the teen boy’s esophagus into a solid mass of gristle with a loud, cracking crunch.

 

Josh’s tongue was forced out of his mouth in gush of foamy spittle and his sperm was forced out of his cock in a geyser of pearly cum.

 

FUCK!” Brody roared, shuddering and spunking, “GODDAM CUNT!  FUCKIN—UHH!”

 

His hands tightened again, but this time was cracking sound was more brittle.  Brody had not only crushed Josh’s hyoid bone, he’d shattered the C-3 cervical vertebra, the razor-sharp shards of bone slicing through the helpless adolescent’s spinal column.

 

The boy only felt one final nightmarish shock that ended an eternity in hell; he never knew that the horrible pain had been one last explosive orgasm triggered by the massive trauma to his nervous system.  His entire body suddenly contracted around Brody as the arms, flung wildly around the alpha’s head and his legs, wrapped around Brody’s waist, convulsed and tightened inexorably.  The corpse’s feet kicked and shuddered so violently that one of Josh’s Timbs flipped off and tumbled onto the floor under the window.

 

Dan clutched the windowsill tightly, desperately ignoring the nearly irresistible straining in his groin.  Brody screamed again, loudly and inarticulately, as he shot another load up the dead kid’s ass and Dan let go.  He maintained enough control to remain rigid and upright as he creamed his jeans—

 

—then the sudden flash of lighting that burst overhead startled even him, and the cop toppled sideways off the cinderblock to the bare turf below.  Simultaneously, the apocalyptic explosion of thunder, so loud it rattled the windows in the trailer, showed how swiftly the storm had approached.  It was almost on top the them.

 

Lying in the weed-strewn yard, Dan cursed for a moment, only for the sky to light up again.  As it did, he looked up at the window that had let him watch Josh get snuffed, and his heart skipped a beat.  Brody was standing there, looking out.

 

Or, rather, looking up.  He was staring at the sky, his handsome white trash face twisted into a smirk.  The fur on his broad chest, illuminated by the flickering lighting, was thickly matted with spunk.  He stood with his hands on his hips, his still-erect cock jutting out in front—and still dripping.  And Dan had inadvertently put himself in the position of prey; his view of Brody towering over him was nearly identical to that of the buff alpha’s victims.

 

When the redneck killer turned away, Dan got to his feet and quickly circled the trailer.  As he ducked through the woods, he could hear a faint but increasing patter as the rain started to fall.  He was lucky enough to make it back to his truck before the downpour started.  He sat in the driver’s seat, pondering for a moment.

 

He had no real fear of Brody, but there was deep concern.  The cop knew it was his duty to take out the rogue killer before he could imperil Authority in Rigler County—but Dan wasn’t in a position to act with impunity.  He wasn’t sheriff—yet.

 

This needed to be done discreetly and when Brody started putting up a fight—no ‘if’, just ‘when’—Dan would need to make certain that the hardbodied psycho could be contained quickly.  Unquestionably, he would need Pete’s help.  What was open to question was how much Pete could help.  The boy was young and buff, incredibly muscular—but would it be enough?

 

Dan started the truck and eased his way down the gravel track, creeping along at five miles an hour till the county road was in sight—he left his headlights off and avoided using the brakes as much as possible so as not to give Brody any kind of alert.  He drove directly home, thinking long and hard about how to proceed.  He’d need to talk to Pete tomorrow.  And in the meantime, he needed to wash the dried cum out of his jeans…

 


 

Dan needn’t have worried about drawing Brody’s attention; the powerful stud was otherwise occupied.

 

He’d instantly decided that the easiest way to dispose of the pile of still-quivering fagmeat was to wrap it up in the bedsheet and just dump it.  He wasn’t concerned about this one being found—fuck, he was workin’ with po-po, wasn’t he?  Of course, that didn’t mean he wanted it found in his crib.

 

Brody went into the living room and gathered up Josh’s discarded clothing.  He carried it back into the bedroom and tossed it onto the corpse.  He took a quick look around and, satisfied that he’d taken care of the evidence, began to loosen the sheet from the mattress.  After prying it loose on one side, he walked around to the other.

 

That was when he noticed the fag’s Timberland boot lying on the floor.  Snatching it up, he tossed it, too, onto the body, where it landed with a moist thump.  Gathering up the corners of the sheet, Brody took one last look at Josh.

 

The dead teen was on his back, with his head turned to the left, as if he’d spent his last few seconds on earth staring beseechingly out the window.  His grotesquely swollen face had faded from black to cyan blue, but the tongue protruding thickly from hit puffy, split lips was still a congested purple.  The homo’s corpse was still jerking; the spasms were far apart and getting farther, but one of them had caused the bundle of clothing to roll off his torso and lodge under his arm.  As a result, his boot had landed in the middle of a huge mass of half-congealed cum that had pooled on his chest.

 

It was hot and Brody felt his massive hog twitch at the sight.  Josh’s own dick, slowly—very slowly—receding from its profound erection, was still oozing pearly beads of lukewarm spunk.

 

Enough.  Brody brought all four corners—or as close as he could come with a fitted sheet—to the center and tied the whole thing into an enormous bundle.  As the sheet tightened around it, Josh’s corpse rolled to one side and curled into a fetal position around the Timberland boot.

 

Brody hefted the bundle easily and carried it out to his truck.  It was pouring rain as he stepped out the door, but it felt good.  Cool and soothing.  He threw the sack of fagmeat into the bed of his truck, then stood for a moment in the pounding rain, feeling it flow over his bare chest and wash the teen’s jizz out of his chest hair.  A brilliant flash of lighting and a low grumble of thunder recalled the redneck killer to himself.  He jumped into the cab of his truck, his skin-tight, sopping jean making a squishing sound as he sat in the driver’s seat.

 

With his headlights on, he was able to reach the county road much faster than Dan had been able to.  Like the Captain, he too, turned towards town—but Dan didn’t live in Corrington.  Heading towards the highway, the cop had sped past the intersection of the county road and the town’s main street.  Brody didn’t.

 

Pulling over just past the intersection, the buff, half-nude redneck got out of his truck, still indifferent, if not oblivious, to the downpour.  The rain had intensified to the point that it was almost blinding.  When Brody bent over the bed of the truck to haul the body out, he could see that the thin rayon was virtually transparent, clinging to Josh’s corpse like wet newspaper.

 

A flash of lighting, so close that it illuminated the scene in polarized hues of blue-white and blue-black, played about the sick alpha’s head as he loomed over the dead teen, grinning with evil pleasure at the memory of snuffing him.  He reached in and hoisted the sodden bundle of fabric, boots and boymeat out of the bed, then turned around.

 

Directly behind him was a drainage ditch that ran parallel to Main Street.  About four feet deep and equally as wide, it passed under the county road in a culvert formed from a concrete pipe, slightly smaller in diameter—about a yard wide.  The ditch was already half full, water rushing madly past its grassy banks towards the culvert.

 

Yeah, that’d work to dump the cumdump.

 

With a quick heave of his powerful arms, Brody tossed the teenager’s raped and murdered corpse into the swiftly-flowing channel.   It sank like a brick, the water backing up momentarily before washing around and over it.

 

As Brody headed back to the truck, his Redwing boots sank in the mud.  When he got to the road, he paused and scraped his soles on the edge of the asphalt; he didn’t want to track filth into his truck.  After all, he’d just thrown a pile of filth out of it.

 


 

Both Brody and Dan made it safely to their homes that night, but Josh was not the only one who didn’t.  The storms grew stronger overnight, resulting in flooding in several parts of the county.  The highway was clogged with enough accidents that the state police had to be called out.  The sheriff’s department was inundated with requests for help.

 

Just before daybreak, Dan was woken by his phone; he was needed.  The call was particularly tragic; a family of five in a minivan had pulled off the highway for gas, gotten lost, and had driven into high water on one of the low-lying roads on the west side of the county.  The vehicle had been washed off the road before help could arrive; Dan had to superintend its retrieval from ten feet of water some two hundred yards downstream of the road.  Immediately after, he was given word that the county rest home was flooding…

 

It was like that everywhere across the county.  As a result, it wasn’t until late that afternoon that a county road works truck arrived at the intersection of Main Street and the county road to investigate what had blocked the drainage and caused water to back up over the crossroads.  The discovery of the corpse of a young male, evidently washed down the ditch and lodged in the culvert, let to a call to the sheriff’s office; the fact that it seemed to have been sexually assaulted and murdered, was entered into the long list of events that the officers needed to process.

 

As the body was being wheeled into the morgue, the report on its discovery landed on Dan’s desk, two flights up.  By this time, it had been identified—Josh’s wallet, with his driver’s license and seven dollars in cash had been found in a pocket of the jeans.  Dan didn’t bother to read it; he knew more about it than what would be in the report.

 

He leaned back in his chair and sighed.  It was late—past nine in the evening—but he was waiting to see Pete.  The younger cop had been assigned the second shift rotation that started today and was out on a call, but Dan expected him back soon.  They had both been too busy during the day to speak; in the same way Dan had worked late, Pete had been called in early.

 

As if on cue, Dan heard the heavy tread of Pete’s Danner Tachyon boots on the tile out in the hall.  After a quick double tap at the door, the buff, dark-haired cop entered, his face somewhat hard with the stress of the day.

 

“So?” he asked abruptly, “What happened last night?”

 

Dan tossed him the file he’d just gotten.  “Here.  That’s what happened last night.”

 

Pete looked at the Captain curiously, then read through the file.  “Damn.  Dude got rough.  This is exactly what the fuck happened to that first one.”

 

“Travis, yeah.”

 

“You saw it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

A lascivious leer crossed Pete’s face.

 

“Wipe that grin off your face, boy,” Dan snapped, “This was done in direct contradiction to orders.  He has disrespected Authority, and that makes him a murderer.”

 

“Yes sir!” Pete responded, his own respect for Authority plainly obvious.

 

Dan slowly rose to his feet.  Placing his hands flat on the desk, he leaned over it, his powerful body straining his khaki button-down as he looked Pete directly in the eyes.  “We need to take him down.  Just us, you and me.  And even with two of us, it’s gonna be tough.  He’s strong, boy.”

 

He paused, but Pete could tell he wasn’t done talking yet.  There was something about Dan’s manner that made Pete feel as if the older cop was trying to break something to him tactfully.

 

“Frankly, Pete, you’re good—but I need you better.  I need you bigger.  I need you stronger.  When we finally take this motherfucker head-on, I need to know that you’ll be prepared to back me up.  Do you understand?”

 

Pete did, actually.  He’d admired the sheer physical strength that had allowed Dan to enforce Authority properly and had already increased the number of workouts he was doing during the week.  Now, he decided, he’d intensify the workouts themselves.

 

“Good,” Dan said, not needing a reply; he’d seen Pete’s acceptance in his eyes.  “You got two weeks.  You’re nearly there, man, but we need to be certain we can overpower him when the time comes.”

 

An evil grin flashed over Dan’s face, identical to the one Pete had displayed earlier.  “Then we can show that sick faggot-fucker what’s what.”

 

Pete returned the grin with no fear of contradiction this time.

 

“In the meantime,” Dan said offhandedly, “If you get some time during the night, go down and take a look at Brody’s handiwork.  Motivate yourself for what you need to do.  I’m heading out, but I’ll be on call if I’m needed.  Looks like the worst of the flooding has subsided, at least.”

 

With that they parted, Pete heading downstairs as Dan locked up.

 

Dan had been right—the flooding had died down; the rest of Pete’s evening was quiet and mostly confined to completing reports.  He was able to leave at the end of his shift, and true to his word, headed down to the basement and the morgue.  Since the whole building was considered secure, there was no particular guard on the morgue itself and everyone on the force knew the code to the door lock.

 

It was just a few minutes past midnight.  The place had been fairly full earlier but a number of funeral homes around the county had sprung into action; at one point in the afternoon, there had been five hearses in a line, waiting for their place at the loading dock.  The  morgue—more a cold storage locker; actual autopsies were done at the Medical Examiner’s office—was still something of a mess.

 

The far end had nine of the traditional old-fashioned sliding drawers in three tiers of three; half of them were part-way open and all of them were empty.  Much of the floor space was taken up with gurneys, mostly bare, with an occasional empty body bag dangling limply off the sides.

 

Two of the gurneys were occupied.  There was one immediately to the left of the door; from where he stood, Pete could clearly read “Jane Doe” printed on the tag connected to the black plastic body bag.  He crossed to the other cart—it was located closer to the rear of the room, on the right side, up against the wall.  Pete had to move a couple of empty gurneys out of the way to reach it.

 

He unzipped the bag and opened it out, inverting down over the sides of the cart, leaving Josh’s abused body nude and exposed under the glaring fluorescents.  The teen’s corpse was now dry by now and rigor had passed, leaving it rag-doll limp.  The dead boy’s skin had paled but his lips and fingernails were still dusky shade of blue.  A milky film had formed over the half-lidded eyes.

 

The Timberland boot was still in the center of Josh’s chest; his body had curled around it, giving it some protection in the water.  The rest of his clothes, along with the remains of the sheet, were off to the side.

 

Pete could see the damage done to Josh’s throat.  It looked like the faggot had gotten his neck wrung.  It was obvious that the kid’s trachea had been crushed to gristle…and thinking about it, about the power needed to do it, about being able to wield that kind of power…

 

Pete felt himself getting hard.  Fuck yeah, he realized, this was what he wanted.  He wanted to be able to force little homos like this to obey Authority, the way Dan did.  The way Brody could, if he had the proper respect.

 

The hardbodied young cop scratched the wiry black scruff covering his left cheek—then lowered his hand to his zipper.  Lowering it, he pulled out his  throbbing dick–slowly, as if hypnotized…

 

He could see the scene now, not with Brody as a villain, but with himself as a hero, the squealing cocksucker foolishly resisting, bringing down the justifiable use of brute force on itself.  Pete stood over the corpse, one hand running over the cold flaccid flesh, the other stroking his huge, pulsing cock.  He was almost unconscious, lost in his own fantasy of physical strength righteously devoted to terminating criminal scum.

 

He imagined what the sensation of crushing the teen’s windpipe would feel like, what the look in the boy’s eyes would be as it suffered its well-deserved punishment.  His hand traveled down to Josh’s smooth thigh, his fingers scraping off fleck of dried cum.  Simultaneously, as he milked his long thick shaft furiously, the memory of driving a knife into Robbie Clebbs’ neck flashed before his eyes and the erotic joy of boysnuff, of watching the punk gag and die in the name of the law tripped Pete’s trigger.

 

“Fuck!” he shouted in a tight voice as a jet of cum shot from his pulsating rod and fell across Josh’s inert form.  Then the buff cop bent over and jerked spasmodically.  “GODDAM!  FUCK!!!”

 

As he cried out, he spewed a thick, ropy geyser of manspunk all over the adolescent’s body, from the face to the crotch.  Pete’s sperm pooled in Josh’s unseeing eyes, spattered across the tan Timberland boot still on his chest, and fell in thick pearly beads onto the kid’s matter pubes.

 

Pete staggered and fell back against the gurney behind him; luckily, the wheels on this one had been locked, so it held him up as he recovered his breath and his balance.

 

Fuck yeah, he was motivated.  He wanted to be able to do this to worthless criminal bitches.  He wanted to get off on snuffing for the good guys.

 

Unlike Brody, he was also aware of the need to remove evidence of his presence.  Not that he was worried about the consequences of his cum being found of the corpse; Brody had actually gotten it right in assuming that Dan could fix such things.  But Pete didn’t want Dan to need to do that, so he began to clean up.

 

He hadn’t expected to shoot a wad all over the corpse when he went to the morgue; he hadn’t thought to bring anything resembling a cumrag.  Glancing around, his eyes lighted on the next best thing—Josh’s red boxer briefs, still damp with ditchwater.  Pete carefully scrubbed his spunk out of the dead teen’s eyes and wiped down the Timb’s tan leather to remove the cum spots.  He finished up by wiping down and patting down the punk’s thick pubes, then balled the cotton boxers up and stuck them in his pocket.

 

Stuffing his tool back into his chinos, Pete carefully re-sealed the body bag, then left the morgue, flicking off the lights on his way out.  The sheriff’s department provided a gym; it was at the other end of the basement.  No one would be using it at this hour, but Pete was determined not to waste a moment in living up to Dan’s and his own expectations.

 

As he headed down the hall, Pete added a reminder on his phone to speak with Dan as soon as possible the next day.  While he didn’t want Dan to have to explain about his bodily fluids on a murder victim’s body, he had no qualms about asking the Captain to remove the reference to boxer briefs being found with the corpse.  He knew—correctly—that Dan had no problem with that; after all, the Captain had sent him there in the first place.

 

Freshly drained and fired up, Pete headed eagerly in the direction of the gym.  Brody was a monster, and it takes a monster to fight a monster.  Pete was looking forward to the encounter.

M4M4JO

It had been a rough week at work and Joe needed to vent.  His anger had been building for several days but tonight he was off and could blow off some steam.

 

He needed to find a nice piece of boymeat he could use to work off his backlog of rage and cum.

 

It’d been considerably longer than a week since he snuffed that faggot punk in the basement; he’d laid low for a while after it.  As an experienced serial killer, Joe knew the advantages of a low profile, but some of his kills drew media attention, and this latest one had stirred up the usual hornet’s nest of tearful relatives, blustering law enforcement, pandering politicians and bleating clergy.

 

He’d been lucky in getting a special assignment that kept him out of town for a couple of weeks—and the nature of the job itself had given him a certain satisfaction—but when he’d come back, he found it harder to restrain his innate desire to hunt.  And the job he’d just finished had managed to be frustrating without being challenging, so the tension kept rising.

 

Now, he was ready.  He’d eaten, slept and showered.  He stood nude in the center of his dimly-lit bedroom, the hall light silhouetting his well-muscled body on the far wall.  The classical male outline so starkly revealed was not so much that of Michelangelo’s “David” as that of the Hercules sculpted by Bandinelli as standing triumphantly over a submissive Cacus.

 

Except that Joe’s outline was larger and better developed—and somehow seemed to be more dominant.

 

After finishing his shower, he’d snagged a phone off his dresser on his way out the bathroom; it was the same phone from the meat who’d had the poppers—that was all Joe could remember about that kill, and the only reason he still remembered it was cause he was still using the cunt’s phone.  He knew he should dump it, especially after all the fuss that basement punk had caused, but he figured he could use it safely at least once more, especially if he avoided using the same app.

 

The next app he opened—the dead slut had several of them on his phone—seemed to aim at older, better developed men to the exclusion of twinks.  Joe found himself scrolling through the offerings with interest; there seemed to be a fair amount of Grade-A beef out there waiting to get slaughtered.

 

The actual number of possibilities was a little lower, of course; some of the profiles had pics that were a little too “professional” or had profiles that had a hint of catfishing.  Some had flat-out no info at all, including location.  No point in messing with those.  Joe had kept scrolling idly but was about ready to close the app and move on, when suddenly a new profile swept onto the screen.

 

The dude was no twink.  His photo, showing him from the waist up, revealed a thick torso, firm and fit, faintly shadowed by rust-colored body hair that ranged across his broad chest and down his flat belly.  Above, his face was smiling and friendly and covered with a dark red—almost walnut—beard.  The short hair on his head was the same shade but the attached moustache seemed slightly lighter.

 

The profile itself was intriguing—

 

“Tanner, 28, 6’2” 240 lbs: Looking for hot discrete dude for mutual JO @ my place.  HMU for chill fun n play.”

 

Joe thought he could have some fun—although the chill part would come later, at the morgue.  He contacted the dude, sending a pic of his torso only—not his face, and not the same pic he’d sent the basement punk.  No sense in being too obvious.

 

And in any case, it worked.  He pulled on a thin wifebeater, a size too small, that clung to his well-built chest.  It was stretched so thin that his dark, jutting nipples were as visible as if he was wearing nothing at all; as he slipped on a pair of equally tight jeans, soft and worn with age, the phone alerted.

 

“Hot c’mon by got good weed and some brew”; he sent Joe his map location.  The hardbodied alpha opened and studied it as he threaded a thick leather belt around his waist.  The location was on Lamar Boulevard several miles to the southeast, in a neighborhood notorious for high crime, low property values, and violence.  Even Joe, who knew how to handle himself, hesitated about going down there—and he damn sure didn’t want to park his vintage Camaro down there.

 

And just at that point another message came in from the same meat: “Park in back lot.  Gonna leave lock and chain on gate but unlocked.   Lock when u come in and ill let u out”

 

That made a difference. “Be there in 20” Joe responded, then pulled on a pair sixteen-inch black leather engineer boots, tightening the buckles at the top of the shafts.  The lower ones, around the insteps, needed no adjustment.  He stood and admired himself for a moment in the mirror, well aware of how his powerfully-muscled body, so well displayed in thin cotton and denim and thick leather, would appeal to any faggot.

 

That was exactly the look he was going for.  Like moths to a flame.  He chuckled malevolently and headed out to his car; in exactly eighteen minutes, he turned left onto Lamar, noting the number of people out on foot despite the lateness and the heat.  At least no one down here would see him—no one down here ever saw anything.

 

The address was a two-story building, a stark rectangular cube of cinderblock, covered in dingy white paint that was peeling off like scabs.  There were a pair of overhead doors on the left of that façade; on the right was an office.  The large windows that had been put in when the place was built had been bricked over and there was a rusty metal grille over the door.  “Denardo’s Garage” had been painted unsteadily over the door; it too was starting to fade and peel.

 

To the right of the office was a drive.  Joe pulled in and found an eight-foot chain link fence topped with razor wire, even on the gate.  There was a thick rusty chain around the gate’s post, but the lock, gleaming in his headlights, was fairly new—and hanging open.

 

He got out of the car and quickly opened the gate.  Tossing the chain and lock into the passenger seat, he pulled around to the rear of the building, noticing several vehicles in various stages of repair, including some that could only be used for parts—cars that seemed to be fairly new and suspiciously free of any obvious damage.  He parked next to a wooden set of stairs that led up to the second floor, but before he ascended, he walked back around the corner and locked the gate.  As he headed back, he was aware that the heavy tread of his boots thudding on the cracked pavement signaled his arrival if nothing else had.

 

He was right.  When he got to the top of the stairs, he found himself on a small and structurally questionable platform that functioned as a porch for a second-floor apartment.  A cooler and a cheap charcoal grill had been pushed to the far side but they still took up have the space.  The screen door to the apartment was closed, but the apartment door itself was open and Tanner stood there, gaping out at Joe’s muscled physique.

 

The porch light flicked on, immediately attracting insects that looped and fluttered in the white glow.  “Goddam,” Tanner muttered, “Yer pic was good, but damn, dude…”  He stared unabashedly at Joe’s package, so indelibly outlined by his skin-tight jeans.  Holding open the screen door with one hand, he motioned Joe in with the other—which was holding a can of Budweiser.

 

“I been workin’ late,” Tanner said as Joe entered, “Gotta keep the boss happy, ya know.  Just finished up about a half hour ago an’ I ain’t even showered yet, but I’m horny as fuck.”  He grinned, his pale blue eyes lighting up with pleasure.  Joe reached behind to lock the front door behind him—a standard precaution to prevent the meat from escaping—but Tanner moved him away from it, into the room.  He then locked the door himself, turning off the outside light as well.

 

“Don’t wanna be interrupted,” he said with a charmingly boyish grin, “Speakin’ a which, don’ lemme forget—I got the gate key in my pocket here.”  The buff alpha was amused, knowing how desperately the faggot would be praying for some kind of interruption in about, say, forty minutes or so.  He might come to regret all those locks…

 

Joe, an efficient and experienced killer, had already scoped out the situation as Tanner spoke, starting with Tanner himself.  That wasn’t hard—the guy was friendly, relatively innocent, and dumber than a sack of hammers.  He was also a bit more buff than most of Joe’s recent kills, and neither innocence nor stupidity precluded the ability to fight.  Especially if self-reservation was involved.

 

Tanner was wearing a grey sleeveless t-shirt with the armholes cut so deeply out that his sides were clearly visible; Joe could see the dude’s bristling underarm hair and the glistening sheen of sweat on his firm flanks.  He wore a pair of gym shorts that dangled to just above the knee, black with insets of luminous green; they seemed almost to match the Air Jordan 4 Retro “Green Glow” kicks he sported.  On his head was a camo trucker’s cap with an International Harvester logo.

 

“Workin’?  Whaddaya do?” Joe asked automatically, continuing to scan the room.

 

“I’m a mechanic, duh,” the hunk scoffed, “What else do ya think I’d be doin’ here?  Work for Denardo downstairs.  Ain’t too bad, either.  Pays me to work on cars for customers and lets me have this place for workin’ on his other—well, uh, I dunno where those other cars come from; I just part ‘em out like he tells me.  But I got this place and enough for my weed and beer, an’ I’m savin’ up to buy me a Harley.”

 

The place Tanner was so proud of was dingy and dilapidated.  There was a mismatched living room set with a massive, thirty-year old sleeper sofa covered with a cheap beige fleece blanket; only the arms were uncovered and they were stained and torn, leaking polyester fluff.  Next to it was as old loveseat with a “rustic” wood frame and thin cushions covered in dark green fabric.  Across from this was small TV sitting on a rolling set of plastic drawers that stood about a yard high.  There was one window in the front and one in the rear, overlooking the lot.

 

“I gotta take a leak,” Joe said abruptly.

 

Tanner was startled out of his reverie.  “Oh, uh, yeah, ok—um—down there, second door on the left.”

 

Joe headed down the short hallway.  The first opening on the left had no actual door; it was to a tiny kitchenette with a small window overlooking the street.  The bathroom was ancient, the white tile yellow with age, cracking and separating on the floor and around the tub.  Joe pissed for a few minutes, draining his bladder to better prepare for the other, more important draining to come, so to speak.

 

Leaving the bathroom, he took a quick glance at the room at the end of the hall, the bedroom.  Like the other rooms, it was small and sparsely furnished.  There was a cheap pine nightstand and a matching dresser. Both were scratched and chipped, and the mirror attached to the dresser had a crack meandering across the top.  The nightstand held a digital clock and an incredibly ugly lamp in harvest gold, with a dirty shade.  The double bed was stark, with a metal frame and no headboard, but the white sheets, if cheap and thin, were at least clean.  There was no other bedding in place, though—the synthetic wool blanket and the pillows were in a wad in the middle of the bed.

 

“You get lost, man?” Tanner called from the living room.  The twang in his voice revealed both his country upbringing and his level of intoxication; the more he drank, the more pronounced it grew.

 

“Naw, dude, jest checkin’ out yer sweet crib, man,” Joe replied, modulating his own voice to match that of the meat while also pitching it low and seductively, the human equivalent of a mating call.  He strode back into the living room to find Tanner had taken the opportunity to strip off his shirt and his shorts, tossing them onto the love seat.  He was lounging back on the sofa, showing off the almost-auburn body fur on his firm, broad chest and the thick fireplug of a cock already rising, semi-erect, from his russet pubes, nude but for his ped socks and his Nikes.  He was hotboxing a joint as quickly as he could, but he quickly offered it to Joe once the latter re-entered the room.  Joe enjoyed weed himself, when it was appropriate.  Just before a kill wasn’t appropriate.  He smiled and waved it off.

 

Tanner took another hit.  “Sorry,” he croaked, trying not to exhale, “Didja see my Beyoncé posters?”  Joe nodded; thumbtacked to the walls, they’d been the only things covering the sagging drywall in the bedroom.  “She’s a fine chick; I’d hit ‘er—”

 

Here he lost control and hacked up a huge cloud of fragrant blue smoke, coughing and wheezing.  It took a couple of minutes for him to regain enough control to continue speaking.  “I, uh—” he broke off and chuckled, grinning goofily at Joe, higher than a kite.  “I, uh, I ain’t gay, y’know?  I mean, I like it when another dude jacks me off, cause, like, another dude knows what feels good, y’know?  But I ain’t never sucked a dick or taken it up the ass, man—I jest wanna get off good.  You get me, right, dude?  I mean, fuck, lookitcha—yer a real fuckin’ man; I kin tell jest by lookin’ atcha!”

 

“Yeah, you ain’t no fag,” Joe smirked.  “I can tell jest by lookin’ at you.  You ain’t got no interest in this at all, do ya?”  And with a cold, leering grin, the hardbodied alpha unzipped his fly, letting his stiffening shaft of manmeat spring out, spattering precum over Tanner’s face where it sparkled like diamond in the buff blue-collar boy’s beard.

 

“Fuck…” Tanner moaned, his dick pulsing and rising, and Joe had his answer.

 

No mattered how hard it struggled, this one was gonna be fuckmeat.

 

Grinning broadly, he took off his sticky wifebeater.  He knew how to give a good show when he wanted; slowly and sensuously, he peeled the sweat-dampened fabric away from his firm, strapping torso, slowly revealing his thick body fur and hard jutting nipples standing out on his huge hubcap pecs.  He didn’t need to look at Tanner to know that the well-built mechanic was entranced; the motherfucker might deny it, but he was an all-out homo, and Joe knew from experience that he could snag any cocksucker he wanted.

 

He looked anyway.  Tanner was staring up at him, slack-jawed and damn near drooling with lust.  Too fuckin’ easy, Joe thought.  He sat down on the sofa.

 

Without a word, Tanner reached out and grasped Joe’s huge throbbing cock.

 

“Goddam, dude,” the handsome young laborer said breathily, with a catch in his voice as he began to masturbate the serial killer, “Biggest goddam dick I ever seen.  I bet you pump a gallon of cum at a time outta that thing, huh?”

 

Joe’s evil intentions were obvious in the grin the threw Tanner, but the latter was too focused on the massive tube of manmeat in front of him to notice.  “You wanna see how much I cum, boy, you need to work my cock a fuck of a lot better than that.”

 

Tanner blushed under the lash of Joe’s tongue, but it was a blush of pleasure.  “You, uh, ya wanna take me on?” he asked.

 

“I ain’t touchin’ you, cunt,” Joe sneered, “I don’t jack faggots off.”

 

Tanner froze.  “I already toldja I ain’t no faggot,” he said quietly, almost whispering.

 

“Yer the one with yer hand on my cock,” Joe chuckled, “In my book, that makes you a faggot.”

 

“I toldja.  I toldja about that,” Tanner said, blushing again—but not in pleasure this time.  “A dude knows how to make another dude feel good.  Better than a chick, sometimes—but that don’t make me a faggot.”

 

“Aw, shaddup and gimme some head, cocksucker,” Joe jeered.

 

Tanner blanched as if the thought of sucking Joe’s dick terrified him—but his own cock pulsed twice, visibly.  He didn’t seem to be aware that it had happened, though.

 

“You, uh, you better go—I don’t think this is gonna work,” the mechanic said decisively.  “I don’t think yer—URK!”

 

Joe had been sitting on Tanner’s right, so the younger man never saw the buff killer’s bicep bulge as he tensed it—and the roundhouse blow Joe delivered straight to his face came too fast for him to see it, much less react to it.

 

Tanner’s head was knocked to the side, stunning him momentarily—but then he rebounded, coming up off the couch.  “You MOTHERFUCKER!” he screamed and threw himself at Joe.   The buff alpha was only slightly larger than the burly young homo; he was aware that Tanner’s explosion of fear-fueled anger had the possibility of becoming a serious threat.

 

The dude came for him, head down and plunging forward with all the force and power of a football guard rushing a quarterback, swinging his fists as he came.  But Joe’s slight physical advantage was greatly strengthened by another quality—experience.  The punk couldn’t have signaled his moves more if he’d rented a billboard and Joe was able to blunt the force of the impact by dodging to one side—which didn’t mean he didn’t get hit.  Tanner’s hard clenched fists pounded against Joe’s flank, the blows landing with loud beefy smacking sounds but doing little actual damage.

 

Joe sidestepped, throwing Tanner off balance; the punk stumbled over the coffee table, shoving it sideways and knocking his beer can off.  The brew foamed out onto the decayed wood floorboards, adding a thick, yeasty smell to the funk of weed and steamy mansweat already filling the room.

 

The younger man rounded on the older.  “You hit me, asshole,” he hissed, “In my own fuckin’ crib, you hit me.”  The look of rage in his eyes amused Joe.  He knew good and well that the youth’s anger had more to with his discomfort of his own lust than anything else.

 

Well, that was just fine.  All the cunt needed was a good fuck, and Joe was there to make sure he got one.

 

Tanner crouched, obviously about to lunge again.  He paused, breathing heavily, sweat matting his dark red chest hair and adding a shimmer to his skin.  Then—as expected—he lunged and Joe pivoted neatly to the left, swinging his right arm out swiftly and viciously gutpunching Tanner as the punk, overbalanced again, staggered past.

 

Tanner’s abs were furry and ripped, but they were no match for Joe’s strength.  His fist sank deeply into the younger man’s belly.  “HOOG!” the faggot cried inarticulately as the air was driven from his lungs by the violent impact to his diaphragm.  Grasping his aching gut, he stumbled and almost fell to his knees but managed to stay up long enough to make it to the far wall, where he braced himself and desperately focused all his energies on inhaling.

 

Tanner’s resistance had made Joe more contemptuously amused than angry, but the throbbing in his enormous manshaft had grown more insistent with every passing minute.  This time, he wasn’t gonna wait for the meat to attack.

 

He strode towards Tanner, the loud thumping of his boots on the wood floor making the gasping youth raise his head.  He was still unable to breathe or speak, but the look of fear that now crossed his face said everything that needed to be said.

 

Pain had subdued Tanner’s rage, and some small portion of reason had returned.  The younger man had just realized that he was alone with a much stronger man, one who wanted him to do things he didn’t want to do.  Things like…like…

 

He couldn’t complete the thought; for some reason, his cock was so hard it hurt—

 

Then Joe’s hand wrapped around his wrist and jerked him sideways.  “Hey, faggot,” the sadistic alpha said conversationally, a wide grin on his face, “Foreplay’s over.  Time to lay some pipe up yer ass.”  He drove his fist straight into Tanner’s jaw, knocking out two teeth and sending the punk backpedaling into the side wall where he fell against the ersatz TV stand.

 

Tanner, the plastic drawers and the TV all came crashing down in a heap.  The connections that had held the cheap set of drawers together all managed to separate simultaneously and the entire thing disintegrated, spilling the contents out.  The buff young man lay sprawled on his back, groaning on the floor, his hard firm nude body heaving as he tried to roll over and rise.

 

Joe was upon him again before he had time to move.  Tanner had a nearly vertical view of the hard-bodied killer looming over him.  He had a particularly good view of the thick-treaded sole of Joe’s engineer boot as the powerful sadist raised his right leg and stomped the punk’s chest.  Three times in quick succession, Joe’s high leather boot rose and fell, grinding the pattern of his tread into Tanner’s chest.

 

Flat on the floor, the well-built mechanic was in agony and bewildered.  Tanner knew his own strength; he’d only been in the city for a few years, but he’d lived in this shitty neighborhood for all of them and had needed to resort to violence on multiple occasions.  He’d been sure he could take care of himself, but now this motherfucker—

 

His gaze climbed up Joe’s leg, up the long buckled black shaft of his boot to the thick thigh muscle restrained by tight, worn denim—and then the cock, holy fuck that gigantic cock…even in his state of dazed pain, he was drawn to the massive dripping tube of vein-wreathed manflesh…

 

Then Joe stomped him again, driving his boot into Tanner’s belly, in the same place where he’d landed the gutpunch.  The younger man squealed, a high, cracking sound like a deflating balloon as he curled up in pain like a pill bug, wrapping around Joe’s steel-toed boot.  The brawny predator shook him off with a look of scorn, then crouched down over him.

 

“Awright, faggot,” he sneered as Tanner wheezed and gurgled beneath him, the latter’s large blue eyes filling with tears that gave them a puppy-dog appeal, “You like to play, asswipe?  So do I.  And I play rough.”

 

He reached out right hand and, clamping a vice grip around Tanner’s throat, proceeded to stand up, lifting all two-hundred-plus pounds of muscle straight up off the floor until the punk’s Jordans dangled three inches above the warped wooden planks.  Without a word, Joe marched down the hall into the bedroom, keeping Tanner hoisted and gagging for air the entire way.  Once in the bedroom, he tossed the buff young stud onto the bed with no more effort than if he was a rag doll.

 

At once Tanner’s hands went to his throat—he’d been busy clawing at Joe’s fingers on the way down the hall, to no avail—as he coughed and heaved, trying desperately not to vomit.  His face slowly became less livid.  His bulging eyes came back into focus; he could see Joe turn back and close the bedroom door.

 

His body still throbbed and ached from the beating he’d endured, but he was young and strong and rational enough, despite his fear, to know that it was imperative that he get out of this room immediately.  Even though he hadn’t fully caught his breath, he watched carefully for the first time Joe turned his eyes away, then rolled off the bed and dashed for the door.

 

He’d been sharp enough to see Joe closing the door, but not enough to see that he’d turned the latch in the center of the knob.  It took Tanner perhaps three seconds to realize why the knob wouldn’t turn, but those three seconds determined his fate.  By the time he’d unlocked the door and started to open it, Joe was on him.

 

This time, Joe’s hand closed around Tanner’s upper arm; the punk’s bicep was large enough that Joe’s hand couldn’t completely close around it, but he did well enough.  With a single strong yank, he sent Tanner flying across the room, where he smashed into the nightstand.  The room was plunged into instant darkness as the lamp shattered and the cheap pine wood came apart with a loud crack.

 

Joe blinked in the darkness as Tanner moaned quietly.  It took a moment for his eyes to become accustomed, but once they did, he realized there was actually plenty of light to see by.  Between the signage of the pawn shop next door and the all-night bodega across the street, its clerk secure behind three inches of bullet-proof Plexiglas, Tanner’s bedroom was flooded with light in lurid shades of red, green, and yellow.

 

Now that he could make objects out again, Joe could see that Tanner was struggling helplessly in the wreckage of the nightstand, like a turtle on its back.  Next to the broken clock, he could also see some of the things Tanner kept in the nightstand.  One was a black silicon dildo, so big that it would have seemed like a caricature had Joe’s own dick not been still bigger.

 

The other item puzzled Joe; since Tanner wasn’t going anywhere at the moment, the alpha took the time to investigate it.  It was a six-inch tube of extremely soft and stretchy silicon, with an inner lining of what appeared to be genuine sheepskin and Joe immediately realized it was a jackoff toy.  He grinned and stuck it in his back pocket, then stepped over to the bed and cleared it of everything but the fitted sheet with a single brusque sweep of his muscled arm.

 

Tanner could hear the heavy thud of Joe’s boots on the floor even when he couldn’t see him; the punk was almost in a state a shock.  His well-built young body was blooming with bruises; the imprints of Joe’s boots clearly visible even under his thick russet chest hair.  His left shoulder had made the initial impact with the nightstand and was dislocated and another dark bruise rose up his cheek from his beard.

 

It wasn’t physical trauma—after all, he’d been battered but not severely injured—that kept Tanner scrabbling aimlessly at the floor.  And Joe knew the fuckmeat’s sudden passivity wasn’t so much acceptance as it was mental vapor-lock.  He knew a way to break that lock.

 

Another lift-and-jerk-and-toss, smooth and rhythmic, like a workout routine, and Tanner had been flung back onto the bed, where he bounced limply, his eyes wide and catatonic.  Joe wasn’t fooled—the homo’s dick was still hard.  He swung himself up onto the bed, straddling Tanner’s well-developed torso.

 

“C’mon, faggot, wakey, wakey,” Joe jeered, slapping Tanner’s cheeks.  The youth’s pale eyes remained wide and unblinking, circled with gray.  Joe leaned back and slowly slid his leather belt out of its loops, well aware that no matter Tanner’s state of mind, he could easily see Joe.  And the experienced killer knew someone was home when he looked into Tanner’s eyes—he damn well knew the look when no one was home…

 

As he slowly removed his belt, grinning malevolently down at his helplessly stunned victim, the outside lighting shifted again and covered the room with a scarlet glow.  Joe’s strapping body was bathed in a fiery hue as if they were at the threshold of Hell and he was about to inflict an eternity of torture on Tanner—

 

“So ya wanna play possum?” Joe growled, his voice deep with a disturbing tone as he doubled the belt in his right hand.  “Lessee ya play dead through this.”

 

Raising his arm, he lashed Tanner across the face with the belt.

 

The reaction was instant; Tanner jerked and screamed, clutching at the huge red welt that had formed immediately.  At the same time, there was a loud flat bang outside, somewhere in front—the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

 

Joe was curious—but it could wait.  Whatever it was, these next few moments were critical; he was about to establish his dominance over this fagmeat.  Once it was under his control he could investigate.

 

Tanner wept softly, holding his injured face.  “Why?” he whispered, “Why me?”

 

“Why you?” Joe laughed harshly.  “Cause you let me in, that’s why.  You invited me in, you stupid piece a’ shit.  An’ now I’m gonna use you till I’m done with ya—and if you check out before you make me cum, I’ll just finish up with yer corpse.”

 

Tanner’s look of horror made it clear that he’d understood what Joe had said; whether or not he retained it was another matter.  Grinning merrily, Joe leaned forward and whispered, “‘Course, the best way to make me cum is to check out.  Don’t worry, cunt; I’ll make sure ya figure it out.”

 

Suddenly a sound that had been slowly growing in the distance rose to the threshold of consciousness, the rancorous sound of a siren that seemed to be zeroing in on them.  As it grew louder, it was clear that more than one vehicle was involved.  Tanner turned his head towards the window; just then, the lighting changed again as the lurid neon tones were obliterated by vividly flashing blue and red.

 

Joe wanted to check out what was going on, but he needed to re-focus the fuckmeat first.  The punk was struggling, rolling to one side, trying to reach the window.  “Where the fuck do ya think yer goin’!?” the hardbodied alpha snarled and swung the belt again.  This time it slashed across Tanner’s pectoral muscle with a loud, solid slap, somewhat muffled by his chest fur and more drowned out by his screech of pain.  The thick leather strap had landed squarely on his nipple, badly bruising the hard nub of flesh.

 

Joe wasn’t done.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I say so!”  He beat Tanner again, his powerful arm rising and falling as the belt lashed across the faggot’s flat belly and his upper arms.  “You stay the fuck there till I’m done with ya, asshole, you understand me?”  And leaving the strong young man cowering and whimpering on the bed, Joe got off and strode to the window, nonchalantly glancing out.

 

The street was full of police cars.  Even from this distance, Joe could see the complex network of cracks radiating through the bodega’s bulletproof glass.  The cops were interviewing a middle-eastern dude who was talking excitedly and on occasions gesticulated wildly at the shattered front window.

 

Satisfied, Joe turned and headed back to the bed.  As he approached, something crunched loudly under his bootheel.  Looking down, he saw scattered shards of plastic under his foot, the black case of the digital clock instantly recognizable despite the intense red and blue lights flashing form the window.

 

He paused for a moment, looked at Tanner’s muscled body writhing in pain on the bed, and bent down to grab the cord.  Winding it tightly about his hand, he stood up and ground the base of the clock under his boot.  Pulling up on the cord, his bicep swelling with the effort, he was rewarded by the cord pulling free with a faint popping sound.

 

Climbing back up on the bed, he positioned himself between Tanner’s firm, sinewy legs, parting them effortlessly.  He reached down with his free hand and squeezed the firm furry globes of the young man’s ass before brutally intruding his fingers into the homo’s rectum.  The moment the punk looked up, Joe met his eyes with malicious joy.

 

“Yer a virgin, aintcha?” he jeered, “Then you better buckle up, bitch, cause I ain’t just gonna pop yer cherry, I’m gonna grind it to pieces!  Hey, hotshot, ya like the lightin’?  Street’s fulla po-po, muthafucka!  Someone tried to rob that towelhead across the way and now a dozen cops are gonna be pokin’ around while I ream yer fuckhole!”

 

He grinned, the strobe-like effect of the vivid, flickering lights adding a hallucinatory touch to his satanically handsome face.  He leaned over Tanner, his massively-built form looming ominously over the severely-beaten young mechanic.  “Hey, fuckwad, lookit me.  Up here, asswipe, up at my eyes,” he said quietly, his manic glee momentarily toned down.

 

Tanner looked up.  He was in pain, but more than that, he was beaten in a moral sense.  He had no desire to tempt fate—or this incredibly powerful psycho who seemed intent on raping him—by trying to escape.  He would obey any order he was given, if it meant getting through this.

 

He’d already managed to purge any recollection that Joe had referred to his death; it wasn’t that he hadn’t understood so much as he hadn’t believed it was possible, and still didn’t.  He’d get through this…and then he’d track this motherfucker down and dust his ass.

 

So, he looked up, slowly and reluctantly raising his eyes to meet those of Joe.  He took in—he couldn’t help but notice—the serial killer’s burly torso, covered with dark hair wiry as steel wool.  It filled his field of view as his eye rose upwards, past the huge mounds of his pecs, the solid muscle jutting out and thrusting the large dark nipples upwards.  And the above that, the darkly handsome, scruffy face, so chillingly gleeful…

 

And at that moment, Tanner felt something press against his asshole.  It felt like a post, or a bat, or some kinda beam poking against his sphincter.

 

“That’s my cock, faggot,” Joe whispered, his voice husky with repressed lust, “I’m gonna fuck you now, and yer gonna scream.  Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it—I’m gonna literally rip yer asshole open, you fuckin’ homo coward.  Maybe if ya’d taken it up the ass sooner, cunt, yer fuckhole wouldn’t be so tight an’ I wouldn’t hafta do this to ya, but there’s too many cops around for you to start squealin’.”

 

And with that, he showed Tanner the cord he’d held on to.  The younger man stared at it blankly, flat-out refusing to understand Joe’s words until he leaned down and slid it under the cocksucker’s head and wrapped it around his neck.

 

“Aw, who am I kiddin’?” Joe chuckled.  “I’d be doin’ this shit anyway.  Time to saddle up, you piece a’ worthless faggot garbage, cause I gotta load a’ hot manseed that needs to be milked outta my shaft, and I’m gonna use yer asshole to do it!”

 

He crossed the ends of the cord, jerking it tight—and then downwards, as he thrust upwards with his hips.  Tanner had a brief nightmarish moment of clarity as his throat was cinched off before the sadistic alpha’s cock tore open his sphincter and plowed relentlessly into his rectum, the enormous tube of vein-wrapped manmeat completely filling Tanner’s colon and stretching his intestines like sausage casing.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was like those horror stories he used to read about Vlad the Impaler, propping dudes up with stakes shoved up their asses and leaving them to die.  The pain was phenomenal; the buff young homo’s body was badly bruised, but this pain—something horrible was being done to his insides.  This wasn’t just rape; this powerful motherfucker was fucking his guts.

 

He clawed frantically at the tight strand of crushing pressure that circled his neck, already sunken so deep into his tender flesh that the tips of his fingers were just barely able to reach it.  His legs flailed violently, his retro Nikes kicking uselessly at the air as Joe pounded his ass.  The sound of flash slapping rapidly against flesh filled the room.

 

It wasn’t all to fill the room.  Directly underneath was one of the garage bays and on this hot summer evening, the gaps in the decrepit old building let in the intense chemical smell of oil and gasoline from the pits and the concrete below, encrusted with many decades’ worth of leak residue.  Up till this point, it had been the overriding olfactory impression that the bedroom had given, but now a new smell was taking over—the hot acrid scent of forced mansex, a mix of sweat, adrenaline and testosterone with its own unique tang.

 

It rose from the entwined bodies of the two muscular, hair-covered males, locked in a life-and-death struggle, and both sexually aroused to the highest pitch.  Even as Tanner gagged and fought, his hard thick cock slapped back and forth between his washboard belly and Joe’s even more ripped abs.  And each time it made contact, a large gob of precum flew out; in a matter of minutes, both men had a smeared, matter semicircle of body fur above the navel.

 

The searing pain in his fuckhole was unbearable but Tanner could only endure it—he couldn’t think about the agony; it was distracting him from his struggle to survive.  His scrambling fingers flayed the skin on his neck as he desperately tried to dig the cord out.  Without oxygen, his lungs were starting to ache and burn and he could feel his face swell, the skin becoming taut and painful.

 

“Does it hurt, cumsucker?” Joe hissed, his brawny, muscular body flexing and thrusting as his massive shaft brutally reamed Tanner’s rectum.  He spit into the younger man’s cyan-blue face and sneered.  “You ain’t felt nothin’ yet.  Yer gonna die, ya pansy fuck, and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.

 

The hard, craggily masculine face of the experienced killer hovered mere inches over that of his slowly-dying victim—cold, commanding, triumphant and so erotic.  Even as he fought through agony to stave off death, Tanner could feel the aching throb of unreasoning lust pulse through his erect, straining dick.  But despite the frantic pounding of his own heartbeat inside his skull, he could hear the words the dominant stud had spoken.  He just refused to believe them.

 

It wasn’t a conscious decision; Tanner was beginning to lose the capacity for conscious thought.  His air had only been cut off for a couple of minutes.  Asphyxia hadn’t progressed far enough to interfere with his ability to think—just enough to prevent him from thinking rationally.  Panic kicked in.

 

Adrenaline flooded Tanner’s strong furry body.  Joe was highly experienced in manual killing; he felt the youth’s powerful limbs tense.  He was even able to detect the chemical change in the homo’s manscent.  He knew what was coming and he was prepared.

 

Joe jerked the cord tighter around Tanner’s throat and held on as the powerful younger fag exploded into a fear-driven frenzy.  Kicking and scrambling, Tanner pawed at Joe’s broad chest.  His fingers, hooked into claws, scraped at his killer’s massive, stone-like pecs, snagging in the wiry body hair.  His legs, parted by Joe’s strapping body, flailed uselessly, the heels of his retro Nikes scraping at the sheets.

 

The hardbodied alpha hung on throughout Tanner’s paroxysm of terror, grunting with pleasure as the young man’s thrashing body work worked his engorged manshaft.  “Oh fuck yeah,” he snarled, staring directly into the bulging horrified eyes of his victim, “Milk my cock, motherfucker.  C’mon, ya fuckin’ faggot, work that load out.”

 

And Tanner was working it.  He couldn’t help it.  The more he struggled, the faster he burned through the oxygen remaining in his bloodstream.  The pain in his chest had grown monstrously; his entire ribcage seemed to be on the verge of implosion.  The dying homo could no longer hear his pulse in his head; all sounds seemed to have become sluggish and distant.  He could still make out Joe’s words, though…

 

And as Joe ruthlessly used the convulsions of Tanner’s well-built body to jack off, he made sure that the younger man knew why he was dying.

 

“That’s it, cunt, kick an’ die on my dick.  Goddam, I been needin’ t’drain my overloaded balls into a hot sack a’ manmeat all week,” he jeered.  “Fuckin’ die, ya useless homo, so I can use yer corpse as a cumdump and leave it marinatin’ in my hot manseed.”

 

But Tanner’s struggles were slowing.  He was no longer beating at Joe’s rock-like chest; now, his hands moved slowly, feebly, as if he was caressing it instead.  The jerking spasms in his colon that stroked Joe’s huge tube of manmeat so well had become irregular in both timing and intensity.

 

The handsome, friendly face of the young mechanic was gone, replaced with a puffy black caricature.  His eyelids were so swollen that the eyeballs themselves could only be seen as thin, blood-red slits.  His purple lips, thick and grotesque, were almost indistinguishable from his sark, protruding tongue.  The dying faggot gagged and coughed at random, thick, foamy drool pouring over his lips and lodging in his beard.

 

Tanner was almost gone; he wasn’t dead yet, but he was going on to a full five minutes without air.  Much of his brain was irretrievably damaged; he was blind, his last mental image having been Joe’s cruelly triumphant face in the flashing red and blue light before the darkness had bloomed permanently.  His head seemed to have been muffled in layers of hot cotton…

 

…but he could still feel pain.  What little consciousness remained to Tanner was screaming in nightmarish agony as impending asphyxiation seemed to dramatically increase the sensitivity of his nerve endings.

 

He could feel every vein that wrapped around Joe’s huge cock as it ground its way relentlessly back and forth over his prostate.  He could feel every single blow Joe had managed to land on him, from the throb in his jaw where his teeth had been knocked out to the ache on his pecs where the bruising clearly revealed the tread pattern of Joe’s boots.  But the crushing pain in his throat was the worst; it was literally mortal agony.  Nothing else hurt so bad—except there was that searing heat rising up from the base of his dick—

 

“Aw fuck, this one’s used up,” Joe grunted, “Worthless piece a’ shit.”  His thick biceps bulged with power as he violently yanked the ends of the cord.  Instantly there was a loud wet crack as the cartilage of Tanner’s trachea splintered and collapsed, compacting his esophagus into a solid mass of bloody tissue.

 

Tanner didn’t hear his throat get crushed, but he felt it.  It was the final straw, an overwhelming stimulus that flooded his nervous system and triggered his uncontrollably savage death throes.  The buff young man’s body bucked like a bronco, forcing Joe to hold on tight, moaning, sweating and cursing.  As their hairy, muscular bellies pressed firmly together, flesh sliding against sweat-lubed flesh, Tanner’s cock was caught between.

 

Joe could feel the way the throbbing of the dying man’s dick was increasing; he pulled himself back just in time to see a thick ropy jet of semen launched inches from his face, splattering against the cracked drywall at the head of the bed.  It was the first of the hairy young buck’s deathloads, and it triggered Joe’s orgasm.

 

The scene was almost surrealistic—the brawny older man hunched over the younger, thrusting and cursing as he pumped his hot seed into the corpse, filling its guts with spunk as nearly a dozen cops milled around processing a crime scene less than fifty yards away.  As the dead faggot continued to spew cum uncontrollably, Joe found himself overwhelmed by the intensity of his orgasm, blowing load after load—and at some point becoming aware that he’d been whaling on Tanner, driving his fist into the meat’s blackened, spunk-covered face.

 

As the hardbodied older man slowly shuddered to a halt, he extracted his fully-engorged manhood from the dead faggot.  Seed still dribbled from the huge purple head as it was withdrawn from Tanner’s torn, used asshole.  The corpse, sprawled flat on its back, still twitched and jerked spasmodically.

 

Joe’s boots thudded heavily on the wooden floor as he headed down the hall to the bathroom.  It was small and dilapidated, but the sink still worked and there was a towel clean enough for Joe to wipe his firm torso and wiry fur clean of homo cum.  As he stood at the sink, moistening the towel, he noticed that the room was getting steadily darker.  The flashing red and blue lights were going away.

 

The bathroom had one small window, like the kitchen, except it was paned with frosted glass.  Joe zipped his enormous tool back into his tight jeans and headed back into the bedroom so he could see what was going on.  Ignoring the still-quivering body on the bed, he strode to the window and looked out.  He’d been right, most of the cops had left—but there were still two cars out there.  Both had turned off the overhead lights, though; and as he watched, one of them left, heading down Lamar in the direction of the highway.

 

There were still a couple of cops left, though, talking to the swarthy store clerk.  Joe couldn’t leave just yet.

 

He wandered around the room for a moment, noting Tanner’s Beyoncé poster with amused contempt, before his boot made contact with something.  Glancing down, he could just barely make out the form of the big black dildo in the dim light.  Grinning, he bent down and retrieved it.

 

The dead dude was leaking Joe’s manseed out of its torn asshole.  This would solve that problem.  “Here ya go, fuckmeat,” Joe sneered as his biceps bulged with effort as he brutally shoved the enormous silicon phallus into the corpse’s rectum.  Tanner’s long, thick cock, not yet limp, suddenly stiffened again, forced erect even in death as the dildo pressed on his prostate.

 

Joe stood back and admired his work for a moment, then snapped his fingers.  “That reminds me,” he murmured, reaching into his back pocket.  “Gotta make sure everyone sees what happens to faggots who don’t even fuckin’ put out…”  He pulled out the silicon jackoff toy and walked up to the head of the bed.  Again, his deltoids and biceps flexed powerfully; it took a little force to pry Tanner’s jaws apart.  Once he did, though, it was relatively easy to cram the sex toy down the corpse’s throat.  He had to angle the head back a bit to get it all the way in, but by the time he’d shoved the fleece-lined silicon tube all the way down to the collapsed section of the esophagus, the end was barely visible between Tanner’s black, swollen lips.

 

“There,” Joe said with satisfaction as he stepped back.  Tanner’s strong, firm frame, wrapped with muscles and covered with russet body fur, lay spread-eagled on its back.  The chest was covered with the dead dude’s own spunk.  The face, black, swollen, gaping, was almost unrecognizable, even the beard, matted with cum and drool wasn’t the same color it had been.  One of the meat’s thickly-muscled legs spasmed abruptly, the Nike Jordan retro kick quivering on the bed.  Tanner’s legs were spread wide and given the position of the bed in the room, his asshole was pointed straight at the door.  There was no way anyone entering the room could miss the way the corpse had been violated with the dildo.

 

“Don’t no one like a tease, fag,” Joe chuckled as he headed down the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him.

 

Once in the living room, he looked around for his shirt.  The one lamp in the room had been knocked off the table during the struggle earlier, but it hadn’t broken.  From its place on the floor, it lit the room at a weird, off-kilter angle, throwing lurid shadows on the walls.

 

Suddenly the dead silence of the apartment was broken by the piercing wail of a siren; simultaneously, the room was bathed in the now-familiar flickerings of red and blue.  Joe quickly crossed to the window and peered out, taking care not to be seen from outside.

 

The two cops had evidently gotten a call; Joe was just in time to see them wheel the car about and head up Lamar at speed, blasting right through a red light.  The store clerk across the street had already gone back inside; as the siren faded in the distance, quiet settled back on the block.

 

It was an unnatural quiet, and Joe knew it.  The confluence of police had driven away the street scum who congregated along here at all times of the day and night—it wouldn’t be long before they were back.  While he wasn’t overly worried about getting caught, Joe understood that leaving before any witnesses were around was a good idea.

 

Instead of continuing to look for his shirt, he grabbed Tanner’s camo trucker cap and slipped it on his head, just in case anyone did see him.  One thing he’d never lost sight of was the key for gate chain; he scooped up Tanner’s shorts and dug it out of the pocket.  He also found the dude’s phone, and grinning, slipped it into his own pocket.  He left the apartment immediately, taking care to set the latch to lock the door as he closed it behind him.

 

The buff alpha, satiated with his fresh kill, strolled casually across the cement lot to the gate, his muscled flesh gleaming in the hot humid moonlight.  He had the gate open quickly and in a matter of minutes had gotten his car out and re-locked it exactly as it was—with the padlock on the inside, reaching through the openings in the wire mesh to close the clasp.

 

As he pulled out onto Lamar and headed in the direction of the highway, Joe chuckled to himself.  All those cops, so close…not like anyone was gonna care about some fag gettin’ snuffed in the bad part of town, of course, but still…

 

At the red lights, he scrolled through the dead homo’s phone.  Meat always leads to meat and he liked breakin’ in unused faggots.  Maybe he could find some more of these weaselly little fucks who only wanted to “touch”—an’ show ‘em what gettin’ “touched” by a real man was like…

 


 

“Why I gotta tell you all this again?  I tol’ that one cop, then I tell that jefe who left already—him, I tell twice!  An’ now I gotta tell you?” Reynoso demanded querulously.

 

Hobart pressed his hand to his temple, trying to ignore the stabbing pain behind his eyes.  Another goddam stress headache.  Why did he draw these bullshit calls?  “Look, I know you already told the detective your story, but I need to corroborate some of the details, ok?  So let me just go back over the gist of your statement here.”

 

Reynoso groaned and rolled his eyes but kept still as Hobart spoke.

 

“Ok, so you showed up here at approximately eight a.m. to see Denardo about work on your car?”

 

“Right.  A brake job—business, you know?  I do Uber to make extra cash.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Hobart nodded, “so Denardo’s done work for you before?”

 

“Yeah, once or twice,” Reynoso said evasively.

 

“Ok, well, you say he got here right after you did, no more than two or three minutes later, is that correct?”

 

“Yeah, he pulled up right after me.  Pissed that the place was still locked up.  He was cursin’ that white boy.”

 

“You mean our victim here?”

 

“Yes…madre de Dios, that I should see such a thing…”

 

“Anyway, it says here that he had the keys, so he unlocked the gate—you noted that the padlock was on the inside—and the two of you went upstairs.  The front door of the apartment was also locked but Denardo had the key to that as well.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—I already toldja all this.”

 

“And everything in here looked just as it does now?”

 

“Yes, yes, helluva fight.  Someone fucked that kid up good.”

 

“You were with Denardo when the body was found?”

 

“I—yeah, I, uh we, found…found that…”

 

“And what did Denardo do then?”

 

“Do?  Whaddaya think he do?  He cry out to God and he leave!  More than he can stand, poor man.”

 

“And that’s why it was you who called the police and not him?  Did he say anything else?”

 

“What more was there to say?  He see the body, he scream ‘My God, I’m ruined!’ and he run.”

 

Hobart sighed.  This wasn’t getting him anywhere.  Suddenly there was a knock at the door and one of the local beat cops opened it.  “Hey, sarge?  The ME guy is here.”

 

“Let him in.”

 

The ME tech was a young man in his mid-twenties, slim, with pale blond hair.  He had a rather frazzled look on his face.  “He called you sarge,” he said to Hobart, “Can I ask you a favor?  We’re short-handed at the morgue today; can you get a couple of guys to help get this gurney up here?”

 

“Ok, you can go now,” Hobart told Reynoso, then followed him out the door.  “Bates,” he told the uniformed cop, “Go get Chen and get that gurney up here for the tech.”

 

“Thanks, sarge,” the tech smiled.  Hobart could see the plastic badge on the man’s white crime scene jumpsuit; it read, ‘Harris, M’.

 

“Has the scene already been processed?” Harris asked.

 

“Yeah, the photographer just left,” Hobart replied.  “There won’t be any rush on this one.  Gay rape and murder—no one will care.  There are more important crimes and we’re too underfunded to waste the resources.  Right now, we have a bigger issue; it looks like this place is the center of a major car theft ring.  Get this mess thoroughly cleaned up; we don’t need it to interfere with the larger investigation.”

 

“Gotcha,” Harris said.  “In that case, let me borrow your guys again to get the body up onto the gurney.  Already got the body bag in place and open.  I can bag the hands there and get it ready to go.”

 

“Bates, Chen, you heard the man,” Hobart said.  The unformed men headed into the bedroom with obvious reluctance.  The splayed corpse was pale and cold, on the downside of rigor mortis so that it could be picked up and moved with relative ease.  The two buff cops had just deposited it on the gurney, with the legs slightly bowed to preserve the dildo in situ, when Hobart called them back.

 

“Come on, men, we need you to seal off the office so the computer guys can take possession.  Hey, Harris, just let us know when you need that thing brought down.”

 

“Not a problem,” Harris said.  “Shouldn’t be too long.”

 

He didn’t plan to be long; one look at that hot nude corpse had made his balls pucker and ache so bad, he knew it wouldn’t take long to cum.

 

Once he was sure he was alone, Harris slipped off one of the dead dude’s retro Jordans.  Holding it over his face, he inhaled deeply, fondling the thick ridge of flesh that tented his jumpsuit.  The scent of hot manfunk made his cock throb so hard…

 

The dead man’s torso was covered with a cracked glaze of dried cum; Harris placed the sneaker on it as he walked around to the head of the gurney.  Slipping his hands under the corpse’s shoulders, he pulled it towards him until the head tipped back off the end of the gurney, placing the gaping mouth right at the height of Harris’s crotch.

 

Grinning evilly, he unzipped his jumpsuit all the way down to his waist.  Reaching in, he pulled out his dick—not overly thick, but impressively long.  He placed the large glistening head of his cock against the dead fag’s swollen lips, then with a grunt and a strong shove, started skullfucking the corpse.

 

Harris’s job didn’t pay much, but he loved the perks.

 

The sensation as his throbbing shaft of manmeat slid down the cadaver’s esophagus was phenomenal—he hadn’t looked closely enough to notice the sex toy that had been rammed in there first.  But once he felt it, he knew what it was—he had one himself.

 

“Goddam,” he muttered down at the corpse as he picked the sneaker back up, “You were fuckin’ waitin’ for me, weren’tcha, ya dead cunt?”  Then he crammed the Nike back over his face, grinding it in and relishing the way it felt as he throatfucked its dead owner.  Each thrust drove his long cock deeper and deeper into the body’s ruined windpipe.

 

Suddenly, the head of Harris’s cock impacted the crushed cartilage that had made the buff young man into dead meat.  The tech had already admired the deep ligature wound the electrical cord had made; he knew exactly what the sensation was.

 

It was too much.  As he huffed the faggot’s sneaker, his cock exploded deep in its throat, pumping out a geyser of cum.

 

Harris hadn’t found a good corpse to unload in for almost a week; he’d almost gotten a hot nigger gangbanger who’d been shot Wednesday night, but that new guy, Mellon, had taken the call, damn him.  His balls were so full even he was surprised at how much spunk he was blowing outta his shaft.  He was still grunting and shooting as he withdrew, forced out the dead meat’s head by the overflow.  His sperm was flowing back out of the corpse’s nostrils.

 

Harris finished up by spewing the rest of his load into the dude’s Nike Jordan, then slipping it back onto his foot, letting his cum soak into the corpse’s ped sock.

 

Once he regained his breath, Harris stepped into the bathroom.  There was a towel on the floor, slightly damp, but not noticeably filthy.  He used it to wipe off his dick, then, tossing it back on the floor, zipped up his jumpsuit and returned to his job.

 

In less than ten minutes he had the corpse repositioned bag on the gurney, centered in the open body bag on which it had been laid.  He wasn’t particularly careful bagging the hands; the cop was right—no one was gonna devote any resources into solving the murder of a faggot like this.  It’d be chalked up to a lover’s quarrel or something.

 

Grinning, Harris zipped the bag up, enshrouding what was left of Tanner’s well-used body in plastic.  He left it in the bedroom as he headed out of the apartment and down the stairs.  “Hey sarge?” he called out, “Can I borrow your men again?  This thing’s ready for the meatwagon.”

Rigler County Snuff Squad–the Inception

It was past five at the end of a long slow day of paperwork and Dan was uptight.  Too long at the desk tended to do that to him; he was a man who craved action.  Right now, he needed something to break the tension before driving home.  Three days ago, he’d busted a low-level weed dealer and confiscated his pot—there were still several rolled joints in his desk drawer.  Unlocking it, he pulled it out and extracted one of them.

 

He had no qualms about lighting up in his office; no one would dare enter without knocking.  And anyway, the building was practically empty.  The first shift had left and second was out on its rounds.  Cooper was manning the duty desk on the other side of the building, and Schumacher was tending the two drunks in the basement cells.  Only other person around was Pete, and he—

 

There was a rap at the door.  “C’mon in, Pete,” Dan said.

 

The heavily-muscled deputy entered the room and sniffed.  A conspiratorial grin spread across his handsome, hirsute face, and he eagerly accepted a toke from the smoldering jay Dan handed him.

 

“You wanted to see me, Cap?” he croaked, trying not to exhale too much of the sweet-scented blue smoke.

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, taking the joint back and tossing him a manila folder full of papers instead.  “Here, before you get too high, read this an’ tell me what ya think.”

 

“What is it?” Pete asked, then answered his own question by reading the header on the first page.  “Autopsy report?  Whose?  And who’s this Dr. Herrera?”

 

“Herrera is the county medical examiner.  Corpse is some kid from Corrington.”

 

“Corrington?  That’s south of here, isn’t it?  Not far from the Quail County line?”

 

“Southwest, yeah.  Little podunk place—you ever been there?”

 

Pete, who had moved to Rigler County recently, shook his head.

 

“It was the original county seat,” Dan continued.  “The old courthouse is still down there, but there ain’t more than three or four thousand folk down in that whole southwestern corner now.  That’s what makes that report so interesting.”

 

Pete turned his attention back to the autopsy.  “Lessee, Caucasian male, late teens to early twenties…found partially submerged in moderate state of decay…proximate cause of death, traumatic dislocation of spine between first and second cervical vertebrae…”  He turned back to Dan, who was proffering the joint again.  “I don’t get it,” he said, “So we got a dead kid with a broken neck.  So what?”

 

“Keep goin’,” Dan replied complacently.

 

“Ok, Pete said resignedly, “Where was I…oh, here we are…broken fingers on left hand…shattered right patella…nose broken…what the—?”

 

“Find something interesting?” Dan asked innocently.

 

“Crushed esophagus indicative of violent manual strangulation…clear evidence of sexual assault…sperm recovered but likely too degraded for local analysis; recommend the State Bureau of Investigation be involved…”

 

Pete paused for a moment; Dan spoke up.

 

“Body was ID’d through fingerprints.  Twenty-three year old waste of human flesh called Travis Egerton.  Couple a’ rednecks out frog-giggin’ found him floatin’ in a swamp.  Thought we might take a ride out to Corrington tomorrow, yeah?  I wanna find this guy—for several reasons. I really wanna find him.”

 

There was something in Dan’s smile that made Pete’s dick stiffen until it tentpoled his tan chinos.  “Me too, Cap,” he replied, his broad grin lighting up his youthful face, “Me too.  Count me in.”

 


 

The county road was poorly maintained; Captain Dan’s pickup bucked and rocked on the crumbling, pitted asphalt.  Pete, grateful for the four-wheel drive, peered at the paperwork again.

 

“Where is the place—this 1805 CR 83 west?  I couldn’t find it online.  Who are we looking for?”

 

Frowning with concentration, Dan gripped the steering wheel tightly, his high glossy boots working the pedals carefully as he maneuvered the truck around the worst of the potholes.  “It’s where that Travis fucker was stayin’.  I did a little research after you left last night—turns out our dead meat was a known associate of that other dead piece a’ shit, Robbie Clebbs.”

 

As Robbie’s name was mention, an image flashed briefly through Pete’s mind—the look on the teen cunt’s face when Pete knifed him in the throat.  Instantly, the groin of his tight chinos was bulging as the erotic pleasure of the memory warmed his blood.  A quick, surreptitious glance at Cap’s crotch showed he hadn’t been immune to the power of flashback.

 

“Anyway,” Dan went on, grinning, “That gave me enough to roust Judge Wheeler outta bed early this mornin’ an’ sign a search warrant for the dude’s last known address.”

 

“Awful long—” Pete started when the truck hit a deep pothole with a resounding bang.  Dan cursed under his breath.  “Awful long way to come for this,” the deputy continued, “We coulda done what the ME suggested and called in the SBI to test the cum in the punk’s ass.”

 

“Yeah,” Dan admitted, “We coulda done that.  But I wanna keep control of the situation.  I wanna decide what to do when we find this guy…”  His voice trailed off and he seemed to grow contemplative for a moment before returning to himself.  “He clearly has certain…talents that might come in handy.  If the state’s involved, there’s nothing I can do, you got me?”

 

“Yeah, I think I do,” Pete replied thoughtfully.  “You thinkin’ about hirin’ another deputy?”

 

“We’ll see,” Dan said.  “Depends on his attitude towards Authority.”

 

Pete, who understood and shared Dan’s dedication to Authority, said nothing more until Dan swung off the road onto an even more rutted dirt track.  Several hundred yards off the road, they came to halt in front of an old single-wide trailer with a jacked-up black pickup parked in front.  They got out of their vehicle and mounted the shoddily-built wooden stairs to the front door; Pete noted how the thin wood steps gave under his Danner Tachyon boots.

 

Dan found it necessary to bang repeatedly on the hollow aluminum door before he got any kind of response.  At long last, the door was slowly—and, it seemed, grudgingly—unlocked.  It opened a crack and a bleary, scruffy face looked out.

 

“Whatcha want?”

 

Dan held the search warrant up so the dude could read the name on it.  “That you?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” Brody said with a deep sigh as he opened the door and reluctantly let the cops in.

 

They stepped inside the dimly-lit space.  The trailer had an unhealthy, musty smell comprised equally of stale beer, manscent and the taint of formaldehyde-treated plywood.  Neither cop minded the smell, though, they were both looking intently at Brody.

 

He was a little large and a little older than Pete—and, by the same token, younger than and not quite as muscular as Captain Dan.  He was wearing nothing but cutoff jean shorts, white tube socks that covered his meaty calves, and a pair of untied Redwing construction boots.  Even in the low lighting, it was impossible to miss his ripped abs and broad, hubcap pecs with jutting erect nipples.

 

Brody ran his eyes over the two men standing before him, his gaze magnetically drawn to the older cop’s trooper boots, admiring the polished brown leather.  The other one was younger, his scruffy face somehow intriguing the well-built redneck.

 

Then Dan began.  “You know a kid named Travis Egerton?”

 

“Yeah,” Brody replied with elaborate nonchalance.  “He lived here for a coupla years, but he ran off a few weeks ago.  Dunno why and don’t care; little faggot wasn’t pullin’ his weight ‘round here anyways.”

 

“So he just left?  Didn’t leave any forwarding address?  Did he have a job?”

 

Brody’s face assumed an expression of impassive reluctance; he was clearly uncomfortable speaking to them.  “Yeah, like I toldja—he just left and I don’t know where.  And yeah, he had a job—kinda.  Worked part time at the Kum ‘n Buy up the road.  But they don’t know where he is either, I already asked.”

 

Pete was learning his trade quickly.  Like Cap, he’d picked up on Brody’s discomfort.  “Thought you said you didn’t care what happened to him,” he put in.  “So why’dja go ask about him?”

 

“I wanted them to gimme his last paycheck,” Brody snapped, his eyes hooded and cautious, “Motherfucker owed me back rent, so I figgered it belonged to me.  Fuckin’ chink bastard who owns the place wouldn’t give it to me.”

 

“So he left without picking up his last paycheck,” Dan mused aloud meditatively.  “Did he ever mention or hang around with another kid called Ronnie?  Eighteen, slim, kinda curly black hair, not quite as long as yours—ring a bell?”

 

“Yeah, I heard ‘im mention the name a coupla time.  Thought it was just another one of those little pansy friends of his.  Never met the queer.  Anyway, why are ya askin’ all this shit?  What’s goin’ on here anyway?”

 

Dan paused for a moment, letting his ice-cold, ice-blue eyes roam over Brody’s physique, noting the redneck’s overdeveloped musculature.  Then he glanced up into the redneck’s deep dark eyes and told him about the discovery of Travis’s corpse and the autopsy report.  Brody not only took it in stride, he barely blinked.

 

Dan’s suspicions were confirmed.  He glanced at Pete and they locked eyes only for a second, but it was enough for the Captain to understand that his protégé had been quick enough to pick up on the same signals.  Pride flowed through his huge, powerful body—he’d make something of Pete yet.

 

But they had other fish to fry at the moment, and the first thing to do was to land the one that had already swallowed their bait.

 

“Little homo got himself fucked to death, huh?” Brody jeered.  “Can’t say I’m surprised; the bitch was a major cockwhore.”

 

The tone of his voice and the look in his face made both Dan and Pete more certain in their convictions.

 

“Yeah?” Dan said evenly, “Y’know, the Clebbs punk went out the same way.  Naw, his neck wasn’t broke, but he got it good up the ass and then he died—hard.  We’re, uh,”—and here he glanced sideways at Pete—“we’re goin’ on the theory that it’s drug-related, maybe gang work.”

 

Brody’s reaction to Dan’s words was an immediate relaxation that was so abrupt as to be almost physically tactile.  And with it came something else.  Even before another word was spoken, there was something electric in the air between the three men; something dark and primal.

 

It might have had something to do with the massive wood all three men were sporting as they discussed the rape and murder of a couple of twinks.

 

“So anyway,” Dan continued, “We’re lookin’ for any of Travis’s associates—anyone you can think of that was into the same scene and might have some info for us.”

 

Brody paused for a moment.  “You want someone like Travis…” he muttered sotto voce, as if speaking only to himself—then a broad grin spread over his ruthlessly handsome face.  “Yeah, bro, I got the dude for ya.”

 

Dan nudged Pete, who whipped out his phone and began to take an audio recording.  Brody was never asked for permission or advised of his rights; this was a strictly extralegal procedure.  Nothing that was said would be given in evidence.

 

“His name’s Eric,” Brody went on eagerly, “Eric—hell, I can’t remember his last name.  But I think he was the one helping Travis to esca—er, get high.  An’ I ain’t talkin’ just weed; I know they was doin’ meth.”

 

“Ever hear them mention the words “China white”?” Pete inquired.  Brody shook his head mutely.

 

“You know where we can find this Eric?” Dan asked.  “Can you take us to him?”

 

As Brody stood facing the two cops, a large bead of transparent fluid ran down his thigh from underneath his shorts.  Both Dan and Pete noticed it.

 

“Yeah, I can take you to him.  Thought about makin’ a visit there myself, but with you guys comin’ along…”

 

He didn’t need to finish his sentence; the huge viscous drop of precum that had leaked out of his throbbing cock onto his thigh pretty clearly showed his opinion of making an unexpected house call on that little cunt Eric in the company of two armed and heavily-muscled studs.

 

Today was gonna be epic.

 


 

After he’d snuffed Travis, Brody had accessed the dead kid’s email and had managed to retrieve some of his deleted texts; as a result, he had quite a lot of info on Eric.  He was able to lead the cops directly to the punk’s house.

 

The kid rented one side of a tiny duplex on a gravel road on the other side of Corrington.  He was a bartender at The Well, a little dive bar that was known to law enforcement for occasional arrests for indecency in the men’s room.  Pete didn’t have Dan’s familiarity with the place, but he’d heard of it.

 

As they all headed over in Brody’s truck—Dan’s idea; he didn’t want to spook the kid by pulling up in a police vehicle—the redneck sadist told them some of what he’d learned.  Like how Eric’s pay wasn’t enough to cover his rent, his car payment, and his drug use, so he supplemented it with some pay-for-play activities with dudes in the parking lot of the bar.  He refused to do anything inside the bar, though; he said he didn’t want to get fired.

 

“So is he into the drug scene big-time here in Corrington?” Pete asked.

 

“Well, I dunno about big-time,” Brody replied, scratching his rough, unshaven cheek, “With him, it’s more a matter of variety, y’know?  He likes coke, meth, and weed, but he’ll do whatever’s available.”

 

“Good.  If there’s a possibility that he knows anything about China white comin’ into this county, I wanna hear it,” Dan growled.  “And I ain’t takin’ no for an answer.”  The angry gleam in his eye showed his seriousness; he wasn’t kidding.  He wasn’t going to have his county become the epicenter of an outbreak of fentanyl overdoses—even if he had to kill to make sure.

 

In fact, it’d be a pleasure.

 

They pulled off the road and parked behind an old Ford Focus with oxidized paint by the side of small structure of gray weathered clapboard.  There was a single porch with two doors; the door on the left had a metal letter “A” nailed to it, as the one on the left had a “B.”  Brody’s Redwing boots thumped loudly on the deteriorated floorboards as he crossed the porch and knocked loudly on the left door.

 

The door swung open and revealed a young man, shirtless, in jeans and sneakers.  His hair was deep blond and fairly short, like a golden aurora around his head.  His large eyes were pale blue and ringed with long lashes; a spattering of freckles ran across the bridge of his slightly-upturned nose.  Below lush, full lips, there was a large dimple in his chin.

 

The boy’s smooth chest was broad and muscled.  His build wasn’t of the caliber of the three men who confronted him, but was more like that of a high school quarterback, in keeping with his youthful face.  His firm, flat belly, barely covered with a fine down like peach fuzz, vanished into the waistband of jeans so tight they looked as if they’d been painted on.  The denim clung with such faithfulness to the punk’s package that it was damn near possible to pick out individual veins on his dick.   The jeans left little doubt as to the musculature of Eric’s legs as they descended to the checkerboard Vans hightops the kid was sporting.

 

Dan, Pete, Brody—all three—were able to take all this in in a split second.  It was all that was allowed.  The moment Eric’s eyes landed on Brody’s face, they widened with fear and he slammed the door.  One thing Brody hadn’t counted on was that Eric knew as much about him as he did about Eric.  Travis had kept his friend informed of the escalating violence in their relationship, and while Eric didn’t know that Travis had been murdered, he suspected Brody in his disappearance.  He was terrified of the older man.

 

“Go away!  I know who you are!  I’m gonna call the cops!” he screamed through the locked door.

 

“Dude, I got the cops here with me,” Brody responded.  “They wanna talk to you.”

 

There was a pause, then the sound of the bolt sliding back.  Opening the door cautiously, Eric peered out and, for the first time, sighted the two massive alpha studs, uniformed and booted, standing beyond Brody.  In spite of his nervousness, the kid felt his dick stir; in his tight jeans, the reaction was obvious to all three men.

 

“Well, uh, okay,” Eric said hesitantly, then stepped back to let them in.  “But I, uh, I gotta leave for work in an hour or so.”

 

Dan looked at Pete with a grin on his face, then turned his icy eyes back to the blond faggot.  “That’s ok, boy,” he said, “I think we’ll be done with you by then.”

 

The front room was small and dark, with blankets nailed up over the windows.  The air was thick and nauseatingly sweet with the scent of weed, crack and incense.  It was also uncomfortably warm; the window AC unit roared like a jet engine off on one side, but made little difference in the ambient temperature.

 

With four muscled male bodies—two already half nude—crammed in a room barely ten feet by fourteen feet, the acrid odor of mansweat began to take precedence.  And Dan was determined to make Eric sweat some more.

 

“Ok, wh-whaddaya want?” the kid said defensively, his eyes darting between the three men.

 

“Siddown,” Dan ordered him, “I’m gonna ask you some questions.”

 

“Um, okay,” Eric said, sitting on the battered black leather loveseat that was the only article of furniture in the room besides the TV stand.  The three hardbodied alphas all stood in front of him, Pete kicking a game console that was sitting on the floor in front of the TV out of the way.

 

“Hey!” Eric yelped, “Dude, careful with that thing!”

 

“Shaddup!” Dan barked.  Eric’s jaw snapped shut as if he’d been slapped.  He stared silently up at Dan, his big blue eyes wide—more with anxiety than fear.

 

Dan smirked down at the little punk.  The fear would be there soon enough.

 

“You’re Eric, right?  Bartender at The Well?” he began.

 

“Uh-huh,” Eric answered quietly.

 

“You know Travis Egerton?”

 

Now fear appeared in Eric’s eyes as he shifted them quickly to Brody.

 

“Yeah, I know ‘im, but I ain’t seen ‘im around in a while,” the kid admitted.

 

“Where did he get his drugs?”

 

The blunt nature of the question startled Eric, who had no intention of admitting drug use to a cop.  “I, uh, I don’t know…” he muttered, looking away.

 

“You lie to me, you little cocksucker, and I’ll fuck you up worse than your little brain can imagine,” Dan snarled.  Eric’s face drained of all color as he stared up as Captain Dan in utter shock.  Almost mindlessly, he turned and looked at Pete.

 

“You’d best tell him, boy,” Pete grinned, “Or he ain’t gonna be the only one who gets to fuck you…up.”

 

Eric caught the slight pause at the end of Pete’s sentence.  It’s unlikely his shallow, drug-addled mind would have understood the significance of the remark if he hadn’t already been sitting at eye level with the muscle studs’ groins.  Even in his sudden fear, the randy young faggot couldn’t help to notice how each man in front of him had a visibly throbbing bulge in his crotch.

 

It was almost like a scene from one of Eric’s favorite porn flicks…so why was he so scared?

 

“C’mon, you little fuckwad,” Brody snarled suddenly, “You heard the man.  I know you and Travis were fuckin’, an’ I know he toldja all kinda shit.  So you better start tellin’ this here cop what he wants to know—an’ I mean the right stuff—or I’ll stick my dick up yer fuckhole and show yer little faggot ass what a real man feels like.”

 

Eric was a strung-out little cocksucker, but even his limited intellect picked up on the emphasis in Brody’s words.  He understood the message.  He could blab all he wanted about Travis buying drugs, but the moment he mentioned the shit Brody had done to Travis—well, his mind didn’t go any further down that path.

 

“Well, uh—” the kid faltered.  He still didn’t want to admit to anything that would get him in trouble.  “I dunno.  Seriously, bro, I dunno where he got his shit.”

 

“Not good enough,” Dan said calmly, then sighed, as if what he was about to do made him sad.  The bulge in his groin belied that.  “Guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.  Get him, boys.”

 

As if choreographed in advance, Pete sprang up and grabbed Eric’s left arm as Brody pinioned his right; together, they yanked him up off the couch.  Trapped in the painful grip of the two muscle studs, the kid boldly looked Dan straight in the eyes, but the paleness of his youthful face showed his fear plainly enough.

 

“You gonna tell me where Travis got his shit?” Dan asked, a note of final warning in his voice.

 

Eric gulped, his throat making a dry clicking sound.  “Well, I—uh…he bought weed from Charlie Baler and his brother Eddie…”

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

“And where’d he get the rest of it—coke, meth…China white?” Dan watched the boy’s eyes closely, noting the way they darted downward, trying to avoid his gaze.

 

“I dunno,” Eric replied sullenly, “I dunno ‘bout that stuff, bro; I don’t use.  I mean, I did, but…I don’t anymore.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dan snorted with a contemptuous laugh that was echoed by Pete.

 

Eric’s fear momentarily spilled over, giving him a fleeting and spurious sense of courage.  He began struggling, his smooth sweat-slick skin pressing tight against Pete and Brody.  As he tried to free himself, the thick, snake-like muscles in his arms pulsed and bulged, but were utterly useless against the more massive strength of both Pete and Brody.

 

In his desperation, Eric made a mistake.

 

“Whaddaya gonna do, beat it outta me?  Fuck, bro, I’ll sue the fuckin’ county for millions—”

 

“Hey, Cap,” Pete broke in, “Y’know, we got a civilian here too.  Not like he’s a county employee.”

 

Eric stopped talking, his face ashen gray and his jaw hanging open.  Dan grinned in his face and stepped quickly to one side.

 

“C’mere,” he told Brody, “I got ‘im,” as he reached out and grabbed the punk’s wrist, keeping his arm twisted painfully behind his back as Brody stepped directly in front of Eric and peeled his shirt off.

 

“There ya go, faggot,” the sadistic redneck sneered, “Gave ya some eye candy, huh, ya worthless cocksucker?  Haw!”

 

Despite having heard tales of Brody’s capacity for violence, Eric was still unable to keep his gaze from locking onto the buff killer’s well-built torso.  His eyes slid down the broad hairy chest, following the dark trail of body fur down the washboard abs until it disappeared beneath the waistband of the shorts.  Still entranced, the kid kept going, noting the ridge in the denim and tracing it down to the thick purple tip just peeking out below the cuff of the shorts.  He watched a thick transparent bead ooze out and fall, splattering on the toe of Brody’s untied construction boot.

 

It was instinctual.  Eric had no control over the fact that he suddenly had a raging, almost painful erection.  He also had no control over being such a homo whore that he’d gotten hard fast enough for the movement in his groin to be visible.  Brody noticed it.  So did Pete, who’d been looking down over Eric’s shoulder.

 

“Hey, Captain,” Pete said eagerly, “I think we need to unzip the perp’s fly.  Looks like he may be carryin’ a weapon—or maybe just somethin’ that’s achin’ to get into the open air.”

 

Dan guffawed.  “Go ahead,” he chuckled, nodding at Brody, “Unzip ‘im and lessee if the little pansy-ass junkie likes gettin’…interrogated.”

 

“I ain’t no junkie!” Eric squawked as Brody stepped forward with a broad grin and jerked down his fly.  Reaching in with one big beefy hand, he hauled out the kid’s dick—long and thick, but nothing to impress any of the three men surrounding him at the moment.

 

“Wonder how long he can keep it up,” Pete said casually to Dan.

 

“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out,” Dan replied with a dry chuckle.  “You know what to do, I guess,” he said to Brody.  “I’m gonna ask questions.  He’s gonna give answers.  You’re gonna make sure he gives answers.”

 

“Yeah,” Brody said abruptly, staring Eric in the eyes.  The broad grin never left his face and he fondled his crotch as he spoke.

 

“All right, you worthless little fuck, where did Travis Egerton buy his coke from?  His meth?” Dan hissed viciously into Eric’s ear.  Even though his cock was hard, the boy was scared, very scared.  But he still scared of the wrong things.

 

“Tim Ventnor, ok?  Lemme go!  He got the coke from Tim Ventnor.  Meth too, when he didn’t get it from Hector Casias.  Ok?  That good enough for you?”

 

Eric wasn’t in a position to see the signal that passed between Dan’s and Brody’s eyes, but it was so quick and so subtle—an almost imperceptible flicker of that deep-seated flame of lust and rage in their eyes—that it’s unlikely Eric would have understood or even noticed it if he could have.

 

What Eric could see was the way the deltoid and bicep on Brody’s right arm bulged, swelling almost grotesquely as he pulled the arm back.  The helpless, struggling twink had a split second to notice, to appreciate the sheer force and power contained in those muscles before they released with the relentlessness of a coiled spring and drove Brody’s fist deep into Eric’s gut.

 

“HOOG!” the kid hacked out as his abdomen absorbed the blow, shoving his diaphragm up and violently expelling all the air from his lungs.  His entire body bucked and jerked, his exposed cock swinging and bobbing wildly—but staying erect.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Pete said happily, his face beaming, “That’s how you conduct an interrogation!”

 

“You lied, you useless sack of shit,” Dan said flatly.  “Ventnor’s been in jail on a weapons charge for six months.  And Casias left the state.  So since yer such a fuckin’ dumbass, I’ll start nice an’ slow, ok?  Where—did—Travis—Egerton—get—his—coke?  Think you can answer that one without too much strain on yer pathetic faggot brain?”

 

Tears streaming from his eyes, Eric gasped helplessly, trying to regain his breath.  Despite his blurred vision, he could see what effect his suffering was having on Brody’s cock—and it scared him.  The guy was oozing precum like a soaker hose—after a single gutpunch.  How far was this actually gonna go?

 

Pete, picking up on Eric’s fear, reached around and grabbed the latter’s chin, his powerful hand clamped on the punk’s jaw with the inexorably rigidity of a bear trap.  The buff young deputy forced the faggot’s head forward, bending his neck until the kid was looking directly into Brody’s face.

 

“Look at him,” he told Eric coldly.  “Look into his face, ya homo cunt.  You see what he wants to do to ya?  Only reason he can’t is cause we’d stop ‘im.  And if ya don’t quit lyin’—we ain’t gonna stop ‘im.  Ya feelin’ me, asswipe?”

 

Eric moaned, a faint pathetic sound of despair.  Dan was proud of his protégé; the boy was learning the art of first-rate questioning, and he had clearly taken his lessons to heart.

 

The older cop motioned for Pete to come back and resume restraining the perp.  Dan moved slightly to the side to get a better view of Eric’s face, his enormous cock visibly swollen in his chinos.

 

Ain’t nothing more erotic than a round of bad cop/bad cop.

 

“Ok, you worthless waste of flesh,” Dan sneered, “I gotta name.  I want you to tell me all about him.”

 

Still breathing heavily, Eric glance dully at Dan, then lowered his gaze.

 

“Robbie Clebbs.”

 

In a flash, Eric’s head was back up.  “Aw, I don’t nothin’ about that!” he wheezed out excitedly.  “I ain’t seen him in months!  Bro, I dunno jack shit about him gettin’ offed like that!”

 

Dan smiled grimly.  “Then yer about to learn somethin’ about it.  And I ain’t yer bro, you queer-ass fuckwad.”  He turned to Brody and said, “I ain’t heard an answer to my question.  Back to you.”

 

His face alive with malevolent glee, Brody took time drawing back for the next blow, giving Eric time to anticipate the impact.  The hulking redneck watched the kid quiver in fear for a moment before driving a roundhouse blow straight from his shoulder to Eric’s sternum.

 

Eric couldn’t breathe.  At all.  It was like being hit by a car.  He wasn’t given time to fully process the situation, though; in quick succession, Brody landed three more blows, battering the boy’s flat, smooth belly and firm chest.

 

Realizing Eric wasn’t in a position to resist at the moment, Pete let him go.  The young slut slumped to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry, gagging and dry-heaving.  Dan kicked him in the ass, the worn denim of his jeans offering little protection against the steel toe of the cop’s trooper boot.

 

“Now, where were we?” Dan asked conversationally.  “Oh, yes, Mr. Clebbs.  Robbie.  I wanna know what kinda shit you got from him.  And I wanna know where he got it from—I know you know.  Start talkin’.”

 

Still gagging, Eric raised his head feebly from the floor, a stringer of drool dangling from his chin.  He tried to speak but went into a coughing fit that left him dry-heaving again.  It took him several minutes before he regained enough control to speak clearly.

 

“I-I…ain’t s-seen…R-Robbie in thr-three, three months…”

 

“See, this is what happens when these fuckin’ faggots come into my county,” Dan sighed.  “Little cumguzzlin’ pansies get all drugged up and get the gangs in.  And then they fuckin’ lie about it!”

 

These last words were said in a crescendo of rage that managed to penetrate Eric’s suffering.  He already knew what was coming—but he was unaware that his dick knew, too, and was giving an entirely different signal.

 

“N-no, p-p-please…” he begged, “Tellin’-tellin’ the truth…”

 

His plea went unheard, overridden by Pete’s raucous laughter.  “Look, Cap, lookit the faggot’s dick!” he chortled.  “I swear, the moment you yelled at ‘im, the cunt got all hard again!”

 

“God, n-no,” Eric sobbed, still drooling and wracked with fits of coughing, “S-swear ‘m tell-tellin’ the truth!”

 

“Goddam,” Dan muttered, “Pathetic little faggot crawlin’ on the ground and he still ain’t gonna tell me what I wanna hear.”  He paused for a moment and looked down at Pete, then looked over at Brody.

 

“Hey, dude,” he said to the white trash alpha, “You warned the homo perp that you’d show ‘im what a real man in his ass would feel like.  You still up to making good on that threat?”  There was no need to answer; a single quick glance at the thick tube of manmeat that hung, pulsing and oozing, out of Brody’s shorts.

 

Brody answered anyway.  “You know it man—I always back the blue.”  Grinning wildly, he kicked Eric viciously so that the moaning punk rolled onto his back.  From that position, it was easy for the hardbodied redneck to bend down, clamp one hand around Eric’s throat, and deadlift him straight into the air.

 

Both Dan and Pete were impressed with Brody’s strength—Dan could have done the same, but Pete wasn’t there yet.  The fact that Brody was almost as strong as Dan himself was a mark in his favor.

 

Still holding the choking homo aloft by his throat, Brody carried him down the dark, narrow hallway to the tiny bedroom at the back of the house. Blankets dyed jet black had been nailed up over the windows; most of the room was bathed in the vivid ultraviolet of a blacklight.  There was a bedside table that held a small lamp—off at the moment—and an enormous bong in elaborately-blown glass.

 

In the center of the room was a twin bed—a twisted pile of dirty sheets on top of an old, stained mattress.  All three men—Eric was no longer defined as such—filed into the room; then, without a word needing to be said, Brody stood aside so that Pete had enough space to quickly shove the bed linen to the floor with a single sweep of his arm.

 

Even then, Brody didn’t release Eric.  He held him up, his maniacal grin still lighting up his face, and stared the kid straight in the eyes as Eric’s checkered Vans kicked and flailed five inches above the warped wooden floorboards.

 

His heart and his head pounding in frenetic syncopation, the strangling punk clawed at Brody’s fingers.  Everything Travis had ever told him about Brody came back to him and suddenly it took every fiber of his being to fight off the cold panic that rose inside him.

 

“Chill out, bro,” Brody whispered seductively, the grin never leaving his face, “We’re jest gettin’ started.  Here, lemme make ya a little more comfortable.”

 

Reaching down with his free hand, he unbuttoned Eric’s jeans, then reached down and pulled the zipper down.  Once that was done, a single quick jerk dropped Eric’s jeans to his ankles; as they fell, Eric’s cock sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, making Dan and Pete grin and Brody  chuckle derisively.

 

Brody lowered Eric just to floor level, then placed his big Redwing boot between the kid’s legs, on the jeans.  Bearing down on Eric’s throat, Brody jerked the boy upwards, keeping his foot in place; the movement was swift and violent, but it effectively pulled Eric’s jeans off over his feet, leaving him nude with his kicks still on.

 

Brody’s grip on his windpipe left him in agony too, but no one else gave a shit.  With a satisfied grunt, the redneck tossed the flailing punk onto the bed.  As Eric writhed and gagged, Brody slowly hiked up the cuff of his shorts, exposing more and more of his massive erect dick.  He didn’t see the need to get any more undressed; he could plow his shaft into this faggot without bothering to go to that much trouble.

 

“Hang on a second there,” Dan suddenly commanded.  “Maybe you can fuck the truth outta him, but if he lies, he needs to learn to respect Authority—and that means us.  Pete, get up there and haul out yer junk and every time this little sack a’ shit gives me a bad answer, I want you to stick yer meat down his throat until he chokes on it—and not let go until I tell ya.  You got that, deputy?”

 

“Sir, yes sir!” Pete responded happily.  Scrambling up onto the bed, he got up on his knees, unzipped the fly of his chinos and extracted his huge, throbbing cock.  “Ready for duty, sir!” he cried, with a mischievous wink.

 

“Awright,” Dan barked, “Phase two of the interrogation.  Start now.”

 

Brody wasn’t used to taking orders, but he had no problems obeying this one ASAP.  He reached out and grabbed at Eric—and missed.  Eric had twisted to the side to avoid him.

 

It wasn’t as if Eric had a hope of escaping; he moved instinctively.  He’d been too busy fighting to breathe to hear every detail of Dan’s words, but he’d been able to make out the gist of it.  Earlier, the thought of getting plowed by these muscle studs had gotten him horny; now, it just got him scared.  This wouldn’t be a fun fuck.  These dudes were gonna hurt him—and if half of what Travis had told him was true, Brody was gonna like hurting him.

 

Eric had been used like a whore and slapped around, but he’d never had to deal with anyone who got off on causing prolonged human suffering.  The urge to dodge Brody’s hand was as involuntary at it was useless.

 

“Where the fuck you think yer goin’?” Pete demanded as he caught Eric’s upper arm and forcibly rolled the kid onto his stomach.  Once the punk was in that position, Brody, still standing at the side of the bed, grabbed Eric’s hips and dragged him around until the kid’s fuckhole was aligned with his thick, throbbing shaft.  At the same time, Pete maneuvered himself to Eric’s head.  Still on his knees, he snatched a handful of the boy’s short blond hair and, pulling his head up, slapped Eric’s face with his swollen cock.  Each blow landed with a wet smacking sound and left a spatter of precum on Eric’s face.

 

“Okay, ya worthless little faggot, when was the last time you saw Robbie Clebbs?” Dan snarled, bending down over Eric’s face, inches from Pete’s engorged member.

 

“Th-three months ago!” the boy wailed, his quavering voice cracked with fear.

 

Dan sighed as if upset but the gleam in his eye and the bulge in his groin said otherwise.  “Ok, boys,” he said evenly, “Motherfucker keeps on lyin’—y’all know what to do.”

 

They did.  Before Eric had time to brace himself, he was rammed so full of cock it hurt.  Badly.  In fact, it was fucking agonizing.

 

Brody’s enormous rod, thickly wreathed in veins, forced the faggot’s sphincter to open wider than it ever had before, and it didn’t happen slowly.  Eric would have screamed at the slashing, razor-like pain in his asshole as his delicate rectal lining was torn like wet newspaper—except that Pete’s long, leaking tool was jammed so far down his throat he couldn’t breathe.

 

The boy’s hands beat wildly at Pete but the buff young deputy simply swatted them away.  He laughed, a deep but boyish sound of amusement, as he watched the lean blond homo suffer and choke.

 

“Awright, deputy, stand down.  Gotta give the perp a chance to talk.”

 

Pete was having fun with his dick down Eric’s throat, but he obeyed the Captain unhesitatingly.  He pulled the punk’s head up off his shaft and shoved it aside like garbage.  As Eric coughed and gagged, the deputy unbuttoned his khaki short-sleeve shirt and, reaching to the side, tossed it onto the dresser.  His white cotton t-shirt soon followed, leaving Pete’s broad furry chest, already glistening with sweat, exposed to the open air.  The acrid scent of testosterone in the air increased.

 

Dan noted it and smiled approvingly.  “You know the drill now, asswipe.  You gonna tell me what I wanna hear?” he hissed at Eric.

 

The smooth, slender faggot was moaning and sobbing; he was too focused on the horrific pain in his rectum to be able to answer Dan, although he not only heard the words, but finally understood them.  It didn’t matter that the last time he’d seen Robbie really had been three months ago—that wasn’t what this psycho wanted to hear.

 

Dan, meanwhile, had turned his attention to Brody.  “Think you can make him talk?”

 

“Fuck yeah,” Brody grinned and began plowing his huge rod into Eric’s ass; it was as if a motor had been shifted into high gear.  Eric’s eyes widened; his expression was that of utter helpless pain as he screeched in a high falsetto.

 

Dan, standing next to where Pete was kneeling, drew his fist back, his bulging bicep stretching the cuff of his short-sleeve button-down.  “I said talk, not squeal like a little girl, you useless fuckin’ bitch!” he barked and punched Eric in the face.

 

All but unconscious, the kid went limp.  He was in a gray twilight haze, but he could still feel his asshole getting rammed with the brutal relentlessness of a steam piston.  He had to speak.  He knew it; if he didn’t speak, he’d be dead.

 

“L-l-l…” he tried.

 

“I think he’s tryin’ to say somthin’, Cap,” Pete said.  Dan lowered his head to hear better.

 

“Las-last w-w-week,” Eric groaned.  “S-saw him l-last we-week…”

 

“Well, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Dan said.  “All that fuckin’ trouble just to get one honest answer outta ya, you lyin’ piece a’ shit.  I gotta lot more to ask you, boy, so you either better start tellin’ the truth—or hope your little twink body has the stamina to finish the interrogation.  You feelin’ me, cocksucker?  Cause I know yer damn sure feelin’ my buddies here, ha!”

 

Then the smile vanished from his face.  “Okay, then, next question.  Who was the Clebbs fuckwad gettin’ his drugs from?  Who was helpin’ him bring the fentanyl in?”

 

Eric—who didn’t know the term “China white”—despaired.  He had no idea who Clebbs was buying from and this was the first he’d head of fentanyl.  But he also knew that if he didn’t come up with satisfactory answers, he was likely to get fucked to death.  And as much fun as that would have sounded as little as an hour ago, Eric now knew from personal experience that if he didn’t tell these hardbodied sadists what they wanted to hear, he was gonna suffer—a lot.

 

“R-Rusty Tur-Turner,” the young fag squealed, his voice forced into a staccato rhythm by the brutal repetitive force of Brody’s ass-pounding, “Rust-Rusty and J-Josh Perez, man, that’s wh-who he was buyin’ from!”

 

Eric didn’t know if either Rusty or Josh knew Robbie; they were just a couple of dudes who came into The Well from time to time and had sucked him off on occasion.  But he needed names, and he needed them fast.

 

“Yer lyin’ again, cocksucker,” Dan snapped, “I can tell.”  But he noted the names down carefully anyway; it certainly would hurt to have a few of the fag’s friends to interrogate as well.  Once you start turning over rocks, all kinda insects start scurryin’ from the light.  “Hey, Pete—make sure he’s tellin’ us everything.”

 

Pete didn’t need to be told twice.  Jerking Eric’s head back up, he looked into the boy’s frantic eyes.  The look of desperation on the youth’s face make his cock throb so hard he could barely stand it.  The deputy spat contemptuously into the homo’s face, then forced Eric’s head remorselessly into his crotch, shoving his oozing dick inch by inch down the helpless punk’s trachea.

 

As the engorged, precum-lubed head slipped slowly down his windpipe, Eric had to call on all his strength—strength no one who knew him would have supposed he possessed—to stave off panic.  The struggle was partly physical, and Brody was the one who benefitted by it.

 

“Oh fuck yeah,” the muscle-bound redneck alpha grunted as his hips pumped his swollen member rapidly and rhythmically up Eric’s ass, “Little cunt’s startin’ to get into it now.  Toldja I’d fuck the right info outta the cum-guzzlin’ pansy!”  The huge purple head of his dick ground relentlessly over the slut’s prostate, keeping Eric in an involuntary and excruciatingly constant state of erection.

 

Dan, standing next to Pete, slowly unbuttoned and peeled his own shirt off.  Like Pete, he tossed it and his cotton undershirt onto the dresser.  The next time Eric looked up, his entire field of view was taken up by the Captain’s massive chest, his dark blond chest hair glinting with beads of sweat.  “Hold ‘im there,” Dan ordered, and Pete, his thick tool so completely blocking the lean punk’s airway as to choke the kid, obeyed immediately.

 

As Eric flailed, thick gagging sounds erupting from his closed-off throat and large tears rolling down his darkening cheeks, he heard the sound of a zipper.  It was another couple of seconds before he felt the blow across his face; it was like he’d been hit with an iron bar.

 

His bulging eyes were too blurred by tears to see that Dan had hauled his monstrously large cock out of his chinos and had dickslapped Eric with it.  But the sheer weight and size of Dan’s member left a bruise on Eric’s blackening face.

 

“Ok, pull it up and let it talk,” Dan said in a tone of derisory amusement.  His change of pronoun was noted by the others, but not by Eric—which was probably for the best, since he would have shit himself in terror if he’d known what it signaled.

 

Dan had what he wanted.  He’d milk the cunt for any more information he could get, but it was just about time to dispose of the disgusting little pervert.  Dan had plans for this one, though.  He’d done some research and wanted to fine-tune this snuff.

 

Or, rather, he wanted Pete to fine-tune it.  It was time to break the boy in, pop his snuff cherry. Dan hadn’t planned on a civvie being present for this, though; he was still concerned about Brody’s presence.  Sure, the hyper-masculine hick knew how to handle faggots, but did he respect Authority?

 

The question was, did he have the discipline that Dan was looking for?  It was a very rare, quality, this discipline; Pete was the only one he’d met so far who understood it—except for may Pete’s uncle.  But there it was; it was hereditary in his deputy.

 

But that all passed through his mind in a fraction of a second.  Pete had pulled Eric’s head back up; once again, the kid was coughing and gagging, long streamers of drool running down his chin and drizzling onto Pete massive, glistening cock.

 

“J-J-Jo-Joey B-Bes-Bessemer, Wa-Wade Pl-Pl-Plymouth…” the faggot managed to retch up between the wracking coughing fits that caused his whole body to clench and give such obvious physical pleasure to the muscle-bound cracker alpha whose cock was buried in his ass.

 

Dan smiled—a cold, sharp, mirthless smile that Eric could barely make out but which still chilled him to the bone.

 

“Yer sayin’ Robbie got shit from Joey and Wade?” he asked sneeringly.

 

“Oh God,” Eric suddenly sobbed, “Pl-please stop this…I-I can’t…no-no more…c-can’t…”

 

“Answer me, motherfucker, or I’m gonna jam my own cock down yer faggot throat and shoot so fuckin’ hard you drown in my cum, you hear me, you pansy asswipe?

 

“R-Robbie got h-his outta t-town sh-sh-shit from-from Wade,” Eric wailed helplessly, “T-Travis tol’ me he g-got his co-coke an’ shit like-like that from Jo-Jo-Joey…”

 

Dan stood straight, a satisfied smile playing across his features.  He had four good leads.  “So tell me about Joey,” he said.  “Think he was the one who killed Travis?”

 

Despite everything he’d already endured, Eric’s reaction to this statement was extreme.

 

“Travis is dead?” he gasped in horror.

 

“We hauled him outta a swamp a few days ago.  He’d been beaten, raped, strangled and his neck was broken.”

 

Suddenly Brody’s pumping intensified; Eric’s was being rammed so hard he felt like he was literally being fucked in half.  Despite the nightmarish agony in his reamed-out colon, he struggled to speak.

 

“N-n-no!  Th-they…no…n-not AHHH MY ASS not them…” he sputtered.

 

Brody tensed, his huge muscular body on high alert.  This was one of his hottest fantasies; snuffing a helpless faggot.  The fact that there were a couple of cops helping him intensified the eroticism more than he could have imagined—but as hot as it was, he had no intention of being revealed as an already-experienced murderer before two members of the sheriff’s department.  His next movement was a deliberate as it was cum-inducing.

 

Jerking Eric’s head up, Brody slammed his fist into the back of the faggot’s neck—a donkey-punch with the power of hate- and contempt-driven muscles behind it; Eric never had a chance.  His cervical vertebrae shattered like glass, bone shards shearing mercilessly through the twink’s spinal column.

 

Dan realized what was happening.  “NO!” he shouted, but it was too late.  Eric had gone rigid in his death agony; the searing chemical-electric bolt that overwhelmed his nervous system locking his lean, hard young body into the perfect position to receive Brody’s manmeat.

 

No one was in a position to see the twink spew his deathload but the intense pain of his boysperm being violently and involuntarily expelled was one of the last sensations Eric experienced in his short, useless life.

 

As the corpse convulsed and flailed, Brody’s face twisted into a grimace of pain and pleasure.  “FUCK!  AW YEAH, FUCK!” he screamed as his huge tube of manmeat pulsed and pumped more than a quart of steaming hot manseed up the dead kid’s ass.

 

Pete had been too close to unloading to stop once Brody took over; as Eric’s head was jerked up off his cock, Pete began to squirt uncontrollably, his swollen shaft spurting gush after gush of thick, milky cum over the dying punk’s head, the pearly geysers of manspunk jetting upwards, only to fall back in thick ropy strands on Eric’s congested head.   Under the deep ultraviolet hue of the blacklight, the huge creamy spurts of hot sperm were illuminate with a surreal glow.

 

“FUCK!!” Dan cried, partly in orgasm induced by watching the worthless faggot die, partly in frustration, as his enormous rod spewed his steaming, potent manseed over everyone involved.  The reactions were telling; Pete gloried in wearing his Captain’s spunk—Brody shuddered and quickly looked for something with which to wipe it off.

 

The three alphas laid back, an unspoken mutual agreement to catch their individual breaths.  It had been an intense—and as far as Dan was concerned, fruitful—interrogation.  The dead fag had provided useful info.

 

“Awright,” Brody said, grabbing one of Eric’s soiled t-shirt from off the floor and using it to first swab the sweat off his hard muscled body, then ground it into his crotch to soak up his cum, “So who’ve we got?  Joey Bessemer…”

 

“He’s dead,” Dan responded quickly, “OD’d a month and a half ago.  Cunt was lyin’ about him.”

 

“So we got Wade Plymouth and Josh Perez, yeah?  I know where Josh hangs; I can go question him for ya…”

 

Dan had some deep concerns about Brody, but he decided to let the situation play out on its own.  “Ok,” he said, quickly shoving his thick cock back into his chinos, “Lemme know what he tells ya—remember, dude, I need names, yeah?”

 

“I gotcha,” Brody said confidently, stuffing his massive, cum-smeared cock back down inside his jeans.  “I’ll letcha know anythin’ I find out, yeah?”

 

“Um, yeah,” Dan said hesitantly.  He knew the score; he knew he was dealing with a faggot serial killer.  He also knew that if he let Brody realize he knew, his own life might be forfeit.  He thought he could take Brody in a fight to the death if he had to, but this was neither the time nor the place.

 

“Awright, then,” the Captain said, turning to Pete, “We’ll head out later this week and, er, “talk” to Wade.  C’mon, deputy, get yerself cleaned up; you’re a disgrace to the department.”

 

Although this last was said tongue-in-cheek as Dan ran his eyes over Pete’s muscled torso, glistening with sweat and carpeted with dark body fur, Brody took the words literally and smirked as the buff young cop selected another cast-off item of Eric’s wardrobe and used it to swab his chest and abdomen.  Dan had already done so; by the time Pete tossed the rank, cum-smeared pair of jeans to the floor, the Captain had already slipped his undershirt back on and was buttoning his khaki shirt.  He nodded Brody out of the room as Pete completed dressing.

 

When the deputy had finished, he took one look back at Eric’s splayed-out corpse.  The blond’s body was face down with a thick milky trail of cum leaking out of its asshole.  It was still jerking, random nerves firing through the remains of its shredded spinal column.  As Pete watched, one of the dead twink’s feet twitched violently, the sole of its checkered Vans hightop scraping audibly against the mattress as a muscle in the firm smooth calf spasmed visibly and frenetically.

 

The image and the sound were enough, if not to get Pete hard (he still was that), to keep him erect and further, to make him stiff in the crotch every time he recalled the scene later.

 

When he got back to the tiny living room—which, thanks to the lackluster AC, was approximately two degrees cooler than the bedroom—Brody was leaning against the door with his eyes closed and a beatific smile on his face.  Dan had one foot up on the couch and was polishing the high shank of his trooper boot with a handkerchief.  His expression seemed grimmer than merely focusing on his task would require.

 

“Ready to go?” Brody asked, opening his eyes at the sound of Pete’s boots crossing the wood floor.

 

“I am,” Pete said, looking at Dan.  Silently, the Captain stood up and nodded, then all three left.  Dan was the last one out; he knew he’d have to leave the deadbolt undone but he turned the latch on the doorknob itself to leave the door locked behind him.

 

When he got out, the others were already in Brody’s truck.  The drive back to the trailer was quiet.  Brody was relaxing in his “freshly fucked” after-sex glow, Dan was tense and worried, and Pete, sensing his superior’s mood, kept his peace.

 

Dan finally spoke once they arrived back at Brody’s.  “Remember,” he told the buff redneck, “Don’t go back there.  Let someone else find the body.  And remember this—you contact me before you go out to Perez’s place, you hear me?  It’s possible I may have some new information and I may have some specific questions for him.  You got that?”

 

“Sure, I got it,” Brody said nonchalantly as he swaggered towards the trailer.  Dan and Pete watched him, his heavy Redwing boots thumping as he climbed the set of wood steps up to the front door.

 

“Get into the truck,” Dan said quietly.  Pete didn’t need to look at the Captain; the tone of his voice alone was enough to command obedience.

 

It took another ten minutes—by which time they were speeding back down the county road toward town—for Pete to work up the courage to question his superior.  “What’s goin’ on, Cap?” he asked shyly.  “I thought you were gonna offer him a job.  He was the one, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Dan replied stonily, “He was the one, all right.  Snuffed this faggot just like the other one.  I had…I had plans for this one, but that don’t matter; I’ll make sure that gets taken care of.  The problem here, deputy, is that this psycho fucker don’t respect Authority.”

 

“He sure seemed like he wanted to help.”

 

“Lemme ask you this—if he thought he could make a quick buck by squealin’ about our interrogation method, do you think he would?”

 

Pete sat in silence, unable to answer.

 

“Ok, lemme put it this way—do you trust that he wouldn’t?”

 

This time Pete shook his head, silently but decisively.

 

“Ok then, we’re gonna need to keep an eye on this motherfucker.  Let’s see what happens with the Perez cunt.  Tell ya what the first clue is gonna be—he ain’t gonna gimme a heads-up before he goes out to question him, like I told him too.  Now reach into the glove compartment and fire up that thick jay I brought.”

 

Pete lit the huge joint, inhaling deeply, and handed it to Dan.  As he exhaled the cloud of fragrant blue smoke out the window, he turned back to the Captain.

 

“So what’re we gonna do if he does that?  If he goes out there and gets ahold of Perez without letting you know?”

 

“Well, we ain’t gonna lose any info–Perez was in county lockup for three weeks, remember?  He ain’t got nothing to do with Clebbs or his China white.  Joey Bessemer might, though.”

 

“I thought you said he was dead!” Pete protested.

 

“Naw, he’s alive, but I don’t want this Brody dude goin’ near ‘im.  I wanna find out what he knows myself.”  Dan took a deep hit from the joint.

 

“Ok, I get it,” Pete said, “But how are we gonna handle this Brody dude?”

 

Holding his smoke, Dan waited a few moments before exhaling and replying.  “I don’t know,” he said flatly.  “A lot is gonna depend on the situation.  It may be dangerous; this guy is strong.  He ain’t a match for us together, but we’d have a hard time with him physically on an individual basis.”

 

Pete nodded but said nothing.

 

“I’ll be honest,” Dan said in a quiet tone, “This guy is a serial killer and a loose cannon.  We’re gonna hafta do somethin’ about him—but I damn sure don’t know what.”

 

As the harsh sunset faded into indigo, the big truck headed back to the sheriff’s department, its cab redolent with weed and echoing with the silence of the two men lost in their own thoughts, wondering what it would take to bring down the hulking, hardbodied redneck.

Ride-along with Captain Dan

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

 

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

 

It wasn’t a good idea to cross him.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Leaving the engine running, he killed the lights.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Bill?  Bill who?”

 

“Bill Traster, my mom’s brother.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Naw, Cap—that’s a new one on me.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Cap?” he asked again, “A cruiser?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Now what?” Pete asked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Passed yer test, son.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And Pete did.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And what?”

 

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

 

“Anything else?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Bus Stop by Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

I wrote this story about 10 years ago, when there were other possible election results, but somehow part of it seems relevant again.  So with apologies to my more conservative friends, I hope folk enjoy it.

 

I should probably also admit that the “Matt” in the story is my fantasy for me.  I try to stay naked as much as possible, and feel it would be entirely appropriate if I were enslaved, tortured, and snuffed.  So if you have story ideas on how that might happen, let me know.

 

 

 

 

Matt stood at the bus stop and waited somewhat anxiously for the next bus downtown to the industrial district.  Buses didn’t run very regularly anymore, so he wasn’t sure when it would arrive.  He was apprehensive and optimistic about the day, and it was important that he made his appointment.  He was also self-conscious, and hoped there wouldn’t be very many other people who would arrive and stare at him.  That was an aspect of his status he particularly hated.

 

At least it was a warm day, so Matt wasn’t shivering.  People sometimes misunderstood that reaction, and thought it was a sign of fear.  Matt wasn’t afraid.  When the weather was colder his body simply reacted to the cold.  That’s what happens when you’re legally required to be completely naked at all times.  Being also required to maintain an erection whenever possible added to the self-consciousness, since Matt was actually somewhat shy and nearly everyone would point at his manhood when they saw him, making comments or just laughing.  But he stroked himself to keep his cock hard, knowing there would likely be someone who would show up at the bus stop and he’d risk trouble if he was not displaying an erect cock for public viewing.  His shyness made it a little more difficult, but being 23 meant his sexual energies helped him comply with the law.  He did enjoy playing with himself, and was actually kind of proud of the size of his cock as well as his exceptional level of fitness and good looks.

 

Matt remembered when the buses ran very regularly, and there was a strong transit system.  Tampa had been much more vibrant then, with lots of public services and real tolerance for diversity.  Of course, all that had changed with the election of President Palin in 2012 and the complete takeover of Congress and the State of Florida by the religious right.  Public services like mass transit had been massively cut back.  There were no protests any more, and unions had been abolished so no one protested either the lack of transportation or the newly oppressive working conditions.  The huge corporations that bankrolled the new government could do whatever they liked with employees, all in the name of keeping jobs in the USA.  With 90% pay cuts, longer hours, no benefits, and no safety rules, there were enough jobs, but they were pretty awful.  Mat had originally enjoyed his job as a quality expert, testing new software, but it was no longer any fun at all and it was clear the new owners of the company didn’t really care much about quality.

 

Matt heard some people behind him approaching the bus stop.  He didn’t turn around, and as he stroked himself to be sure he stayed hard he hoped there would not be any problems.  He did look over his shoulder to see who it was.  It turned out to be an old woman with her grandson.  They also looked somewhat poor given their shabby clothes, so maybe they would even be sympathetic.  But that was not to be.

 

“Look, Todd,” the old lady said.  “Can you read the words branded on the back of the live meat?”

 

The boy was about seven, and apparently not much of a reader.  That wasn’t surprising, since schools were now all private and if you couldn’t pay for an education you didn’t get much.   The boy struggled to read as his grandmother had instructed him.  He realized he’d seen the phrase before, and it was certainly large enough on Matt’s naked back to be discernable.  Matt remembered how painful it had been when he was dragged to the front of the assembly near the end of his senior year in high school, stripped naked, and tied to a large frame while the huge, red-hot branding iron was applied to his flesh, burning in his status for all to see.  The cheering and laughter in the auditorium had been almost as painful as the seared flesh, since so many of the students had once been his friends.  The President had only been in office eight years at that point, and there had been some hope among those who opposed the administration.  But it was still too dangerous not to join in when there was a public event.  Names were taken of those who didn’t, and retaliation was severe.

 

“I know this one,” the boy exclaimed, bringing Matt back from his memories to his place at the bus stop.  I’ve seen it on TV, when the First Dude displays the meat he’s going to hunt on his show.  You know, “Hunting and Cooking with the First Family.”  It was branded on the back of the animal he hunted last night and it says “Fag Sinner.”  It was a really a great show last night.  He nailed the guy with an arrow right through his heart, and he started skinning the meat even before the guy was completely dead.  The First Dude explained that since the guy was going to hell anyway, it was useful for people to see him suffer a little more so others would learn from it.  But I don’t know what the words mean.  Will this guy get killed by the First Dude too?  That would be fun to watch.”

 

Matt listened to the kid jabber on, knowing that he was probably turning red with embarrassment.  But he knew enough to just stand there and not to say anything.

 

“Very good, Todd,” the old lady complemented her grandson – who was obviously named after the President’s husband, as were so many boys these days.  “That was a very good show, and it was generous of the President to share one of her recipies for cooking human meat.  They are such a generous couple, and it was such a positive family scene watching them eat the fellow who had been shot.  Next week I understand they are going to feature some techniques for eating a slave while it’s still alive, which should be even more fun.”

 

“But won’t the First Dude get to shoot one?  That’s the best part of the show, watching the guy squirm and listening to him scream, and then watching the First Dude cut up the meat for the President to cook.”  The young boy was afraid his entertainment wouldn’t be complete.

 

“Don’t worry, Todd,” his grandmother laughed.  “Your namesake always finishes his hunting, and gets his kill.  Maybe they’ll just carve up another live slave for the recipes once he finishes hunting.  In fact, I think he’s going to use an AK-47 for this week’s kill, so maybe they’re just taking into account the fact the body will be ripped to shreds by the weapon.  I think you’ll enjoy watching that, and it will help promote sales of those kinds of guns.  After all, there are lots of meat slaves to dispose of.”  This assured the boy.

 

“But what does “Fag Sinner” mean?” the boy asked.  At this point the tone of the grandmother’s voice changed, and she addressed Matt.

 

“Hey fag, turn around and explain to my grandson what you are and why you’ve been branded and required to go around naked with your penis hanging out.”  It was not a request, and Matt knew there would be trouble if he didn’t comply immediately and with the appropriate respect.  He turned to the grandmother and her grandson, and realized that a third person had now joined the group, a tough looking but handsome young man in his thirties, who was wearing the uniform of the Jesus Police.  Matt was now more nervous than ever.  He had to be very careful.

 

“Of course, ma’am,” Matt began respectfully, careful to keep any sarcasm out of his voice.  “I am a homosexual, which is another word for fag.  That is a sin against the law of the Old Testament, and therefore against the law of the United States now that the Old Testament is officially the law of America.  So I am also a sinner, condemned to go to hell when I die.  As a lesson to others, I have been branded for what I am and required to display myself as an object lesson for people like your grandson.  It is a kindness greater than I deserve to allow me to be of some use beyond what I can contribute in my role as a slave worker at the local Halliburton factory and in my eventual role as meat.  I am displayed at churches on Sundays and whipped during the service, again as an object lesson.  Also, since the Old Testament permits slavery, and that overrides the prior constitution under the rulings of the Supreme Court, I am reduced to the status of slave and am actually the property of Halliburton.  They have decided to cut costs, so I will no longer live in an apartment with other slaves.  I will now live and work at the factory until they decide I am of no further use and sell me to one of the meat packing plants.  This is all as it should be, and I look forward to that day so I can make a final contribution to the society I have stained by my existence.  Once I am cut up and eaten, my soul will of course reside in hell, which is what I deserve.”

 

The grandmother looked satisfied, but the JP trouper wasn’t.  “Nice try, fag, but it’s not good enough.   You forgot to explain why your cock is required to be hard, and for that matter you’ve let it pretty much shrivel up.”  He turned toward the boy.

 

“What the fag meat left out is that he has to keep himself sexually aroused at all times, which means his penis gets large and sticks out.  You’ll learn all about that someday, although thankfully it’s not permitted to be discussed in school any more.  But this is done to shame him, and to highlight his sin.  Remember, the Supreme Court ruled that the original intention of the Founding Fathers was to follow the Old Testament, and therefore all those silly amendments that created rights, eliminated slavery, and limited the number of terms of the President were not valid.  So we finally have the rule of Law the way it was intended, and the President has agreed to serve for life, the way King David did.”  That was far more than the boy could understand, but the JP was proud of himself for the history lesson he had delivered.

 

Meanwhile, Matt quickly began stroking himself, but with the stress of the scene he was having trouble getting hard again.  There was no way he could fake a hard-on while being naked.  Events were not going well for him, and this had been a day he was really looking forward to.

 

“OK, fag.  Up against the bus stop.  You know the rules and the position.”

 

Matt did as instructed, leaning against the bus stop and clutching the two rings that were fastened near the top of the small structure, which caused his arms to be spread out above his head.  The JP quickly used handcuffs to assure that his wrists were held firm to the two rings, and then kicked Matt’s feet apart to better position him.  Matt’s exposed backside was now spread-eagled and positioned for receiving punishment.  The JP took a whip out of his belt (one of the standard pieces of equipment JP troupers carried) and began vigorously lacerating Matt’s back and butt.  Stroke after stroke hit its mark while the grandmother and her son watched, with the boy counting the strokes and giggling.  It was not long before Matt was bleeding from numerous welts.  After each stroke, as required, Matt thanked the JP for the punishment and requested another stroke since Matt was a sinner.  The trouper obliged for quite some time, but eventually grew a little tired.

 

“That’s all you get, fag.  You deserve a whole lot more, of course, and it would be the right thing to do for me to whip you to death.  But I don’t have time for that, and you are probably useful to your owners for a while.  But I sure would like to cut you up for a little mid-morning protein.”

 

The JP took out a small scanner, like a TV remote control, and proceeded to scan Matt’s bleeding ass.  The device beeped and the JP read what it said.

 

“What makes you think you have permission to be on the streets, anyway?” the JP asked.  The chip embedded in your butt says you do indeed belong to Halliburton, but it shows you’re supposed to be at work.  Not only that, the psychological profile says you’re a suicide risk and you’re part of some sort of experimental group of slaves.  Explain yourself.”

 

Matt was now extremely nervous.  He knew how vulnerable he was in every way.  The JP was perfectly entitled to arrest him, and might even get a reward from his owner for nabbing a stray slave.

 

“I am on my way to work now, sir,” Matt responded.  “I was required to clean out my former apartment and assist in the sale of my possessions before heading into work.  I will now be kept in my cubicle except for any permitted exercise periods, which will allow my owner to get more productivity from me and prevent me from any ability to kill myself before I am sold for meat.  As part of the experiment to increase productivity I will have a pail for my waste, and my dog dish will be filled to the extent my owner determines I am worth feeding.  This will increase profits for my owner, which is the American way.”  Most of that was true, but Matt was holding back some key information.  He was extremely worried that the JP would apply a lie detector.  If so, he was really doomed.

 

Fortunately for Matt, the bus the grandmother and son were waiting for arrived at this point, and they departed.  That left him alone with the JP trouper, who had a better idea than arresting Matt.  He released Matt from the restraints, and told him to kneel in front of him and suck his cock.  Matt observed that the guy had gotten a pretty good hard-on while whipping him, which was apparent through his tight uniform.  Matt quickly obliged as the policeman unzipped his pants and thrust the aroused cock into Matt’s mouth.  Matt was indeed gay, and pretty expert at sucking cock, so this was no problem.  Indeed, Matt’s own cock quickly regained its required status.

 

“My girlfriend is mad at me, so I didn’t get any sex this morning,” the JP trouper explained, needing to make it clear he wasn’t gay.  “So you’ll have to do for now.”  Matt was used to JP types who pretended they weren’t gay, and was smart enough to ignore the fraud.  He sucked expertly and even eagerly (the guy was pretty good looking, and the cock pretty large), bringing him close to orgasm.  But then the JP ordered Matt to let go and to present his butt so he could shoot his load up Matt’s fag asshole.  Matt of course obliged, feeling the large cock being roughly inserted and concerned he might shoot his own load as the guy thrust in and out.  This was clearly not the first time this JP had fucked another guy, and he was obviously enjoying it.  He came quickly, and Matt was able to restrain himself.  After that, Matt also obliged by using his mouth to clean the guy’s cock and then to swallow a large load of piss sent down Matt’s throat.

 

Matt was extremely relieved.  He knew that the JP would not now arrest him, since there was cum inside Matt that could be traced back to the JP.  And the lie detector test Matt would surely receive upon being arrested would reveal this transgression, which might even get the guy exposed as a fellow fag.  There were tests for that too, and in fact that is how Matt had been exposed.

 

“OK, fag.  You can go when your bus comes.  You’ve got a nice tight ass, so if I get cut off again maybe I’ll track you down.  Or maybe I can get permission to cut you up for snacks.  Either way, you better hope we don’t meet again.”

 

The JP trouper left, and to Matt’s relief his bus arrived shortly thereafter.  It wasn’t the bus to the factory where he worked, but there was no one at the bus stop to observe that fact.

 

Of course, being naked and without possessions of any type, Matt had no way to pay for the fare.  That was handled by the bar code branded on Matt’s arm, which would result in a small charge to Halliburton.  This was one area where things had gotten more efficient.  The large corporations knew how to process and control their slaves.  As a slave, Matt wasn’t permitted to sit down, of course, and he stood at the front of the bus displaying his excited cock for the amusement of the other riders.  Several also commented on the welts still shining on his backside, and he was obliged to explain that he had been (as appropriate) whipped by a member of the JP.  The other riders, of course, fully approved and one guy amused himself by hitting Matt in the balls and then in the belly, which also was well received by the other riders.  Matt was grateful the beating wasn’t so severe it would cause him to throw up (as many of them did), since he then would have been required to lick up his vomit and that would risk him missing his stop.  So it was a good bus ride, all things considered.  Maybe the day would be OK after all.

 

Matt got off at a dodgy part of town where even the JP were cautious and wouldn’t show up except with overwhelming numbers.  This was the really bad part of town.

 

The contact from the underground had given Matt very explicit directions on which streets to walk as he headed to the unmarked warehouse.  “Trust me, there are worse ways to die if you stray from the safe route,” the guy had stressed.  Even though Matt’s goal today was to get himself killed, he knew the kinds of people who occupied this part of town had some far too entertaining ideas on how to make that happen.  He had arranged what he hoped would be a relatively quick death, with his body then turned over to one of the meat plants for dog food.  It was the only way he saw to escape his latest fate.  Being chained in his cubicle for two years without any relief was more than he could endure.  It had been bad enough already, working 12 hour days seven days a week, being hauled in front of churches for ridicule and torture, being laughed at whenever he was in public, and (most of all) being deprived of sex with other guys.  He would get relief when he turned 25, since that was the age at which slaves were processed for meat to make sure the meat was nice and tasty, but he knew even then that he ran a high risk of being processed as live meat – sold to a restaurant to be eaten alive.  There was no other reason they would keep him fit, and he was well aware that he was unusually handsome and therefore of greater value in the restaurant market than as just a used-up slave to be slaughtered and butchered.  Those were the lucky ones.  Matt desperately needed an end to all this, and he had encountered another guy who told him that there was a group in this part of town that would be willing to accommodate him.

 

“You’ll get tortured first, and raped and such.  They pretend to be straight, but they’re all actually gay guys who are into extreme S&M.  But the tortures usually last only a couple of hours, and it’s a whole lot better than what awaits you otherwise.  If you cooperate it will go quicker, and a lot of gay guys manage to get off big time during the sessions, which pleases the gang and encourages them to let you die sooner.  Then they cook up the good parts of your body, enjoy lunch, and sell the rest to a nearby pet food factory.  It’s a pretty straightforward process.”

 

Matt thought about it, nervous about the torture session, but concluded this was the best available option for him.  He agreed, and got directions and a time to meet the “gang” who would be generous enough to torture, rape, and snuff him.  As he walked toward the warehouse and thought about his fate, he actually got a bit more aroused, even dripping a little pre-cum.  He had been into S&M, and that part kind of turned him on.

 

Matt saw the sign the guy had described, which read “live meat deliveries.”  He knew what it meant, and knocked on the door.  When it was opened, he was horrified to see the same JP trouper who had whipped and raped him just an hour or so earlier.  Matt didn’t know what to say and just stood there staring.

 

“Hi, fag, remember me?” the JP sneered.  “I’m your worst nightmare.  I know what you’re after, and I’m going to make sure you don’t get to die yet.  But you do get tortured.”

 

With that, the JP grabbed Matt and pulled him into the hallway, and then forced him into a large room where about ten JP troupers had gathered.  There was a naked young male tied to a post in the middle of the room, and it was obvious that they were enjoying torturing him.  All the gang wore their JP berets but most were otherwise naked themselves, their large cocks fully aroused and their bodies glistening with sweat from the effort of whipping, beating, fucking, and otherwise abusing their victim.  The guy’s back was so covered in welts from whipping that the “fag sinner” brand was hardly readable.  His screams were not very audible, and Matt suspected that was because he had lost his voice from the audible entertainment he had already supplied to his torturers.

 

“Hey guys, here’s the one I was telling you about,” the JP announced to the group, who all stopped what they were doing (mostly either beating the victim or sucking each other off) and stared at Matt.  “We don’t get to snuff this one, but we can play with him for a while before we return him to his owners.  He’s part of an experiment and they want to see how it plays out.”

 

The gang was delighted with the fresh handsome meat, even if it wasn’t going to be another snuff party.  After all, it was clear the guy they had been working over was pretty close to dead, and he had enough meat for a great meal for the entire group.  Matt was just an added benefit to their fun.

 

The JP laughed at Matt, who was completely confused and terrified.  “Here’s the deal, fag.  Halliburton wants more productivity from its slave workers, and someone figured having you guys work and live in your cubicles would be a way to do it.  That way you only stop working when you require sleep, or maybe some exercise.  You can work through feedings and you can piss and shit in a pail in your cubicle that can be emptied by another slave every few days when it’s full.    But the problem is suicide.  The psychological tests show you ungrateful shitheads will try to kill yourselves, and that reduces productivity and throws off the schedule for when you’re sold for meat.

 

“The slave resources department decided to do some experiments, and you’re part of one of them.  They wanted to see if you’d try to get yourself snuffed, and sure enough they were right.  But it won’t work, and now they’ll watch you even more closely.  We’ve been tracking you all day.  Also, you’ll now be in the experiment to figure out how much pain a slave can endure, and how that affects productivity.  That experiment will last the full two years until you’re sold for meat.  So you get to be sort of useful after all.

 

“But don’t worry.  The torture part that my buddy told you about is correct.  We get to do that before we turn you back over to your owners.  And we get a bonus.  We just don’t get to kill you.”

 

Matt was quickly tied to a fuck-horse and the gang wasted no time enjoying a vigorous gangbang at his expense.  The JP from the bus stop took another turn, bragging about his prowess.  They made sure Matt watched as they finally finished off the original victim, tying him on his back to a large table by his wrists and ankles, and then tossing dice to see who got the first bites.  They didn’t bother to cook the guy, since that would kill him too quickly, and they simply cut off parts and ate him raw and alive.  They expressed disappointment that he was too hoarse from his earlier screams to provide a sound track for their lunch, but on the other hand there was no objection when one of the guys cut out the tongue, a favorite delicacy of that JP trouper.  The major contest, of course, was to see who got to cut off the cock and the balls, which were removed separately and slowly so three of the gang could enjoy the fun of cutting and eating while the rest cheered them on.  The victim didn’t actually last all that long after that, since the gang was hungry and not very careful where they cut.  Matt saw the relief in his face as he finally was able to die.  Matt envied him greatly.

 

Matt’s own fate was even worse than he feared.  After lunch the gang was horny again, so there was another gang rape.  Then they tied him up and whipped him to the point there was almost no part of his body that wasn’t cut.  He doubted his own branding was legible any more, and could see the welts on his chest and belly.  Even the bar code on his arm that identified him was scarred, but he realized there would be no more bus rides.

 

“Anyone want desert?” the leader of the group asked jokingly.  When everyone laughed and answered in the affirmative, Matt was tied to the same table as the prior victim.  He had a slight hope that maybe they would get carried away and snuff him, but that was not the case.  Instead, they once again rolled dice to see who the three winners would be.  The JP who had “managed” Matt explained to him that his owners were appreciative of the gang’s efforts and wanted to reward them.  Since Matt wouldn’t have any use for his cock and balls, they were being donated to the gang as a thank-you gift.  Now, when Matt was displayed on Sundays (which he assured Matt would still happen), the congregation would have another reason to laugh at him.  And Matt would not be able to engage in any more actual sinning, so this was really a favor to him.

 

The pain from having his cock slowly cut off, and then his ball sack sliced open so that each testicle could be removed, was beyond anything Matt could imagine.  He could not help but watch as his manhood was slowly eaten in front of him by the winning gang members, and he passed out as they sewed him up to make sure he didn’t bleed to death.

 

Matt was returned to the factory, and a collar was attached around his neck that allowed easy administration of electricity to his exposed body.  When the scars from his scourging finally healed, he was re-branded with “fag sinner” so that it would remain prominent.  If his productivity slowed down, the collar would be activated and he would feel intense pain, which in due course converted him into the Pavlovian dog that his owners desired.  The few hours of sleep each day were his only relief, and of course that did not come with the usual pleasure of masturbation that had been his only solace before the experiment began.  Since restaurants didn’t buy eunuchs, there was no point keeping him all that fit, so the daily exercise was minimal.  Being displayed on Sunday was the worst, as he was now not only laughed at for being a branded eunuch and then whipped but, to show the nature of his sin, he was now also sodomized with whatever happened to be available in the church, or brought in by enthusiastic members of the congregation.  At one time that might have carried at least a little pleasure, but without his manhood and his man-seeds there was only pain and humiliation.

 

The Halliburton slave resources group ultimately declared the experiment a great success, pointing to the increased productivity from test subjects like Matt.  In fact, they even won a presidential award for improving US efficiency.  Matt was hauled out in front of the cameras as an example, his body no longer fit and, like his spirit, completely broken.  The reporter from Fox News, the only remaining news channel, made it a point to focus on the gap where Matt’s cock and balls had once been proudly displayed.   But at least he was 25 then, and figured that things would be over at long last when he was sold for meat.  But, to his ultimate despair, Matt heard the reporter state that the experiment was so successful they had decided to keep the slaves alive for an added 5 years.  After all, the meat would still be eatable, and the productivity over that time would be highly profitable.

 

Matt was led back to the cubicle that was his world and his prison.  That day at the bus stop had not turned out well at all.

Carlos and Nick 3: Keeping It in the Family

For Carlos, it started with a text from Nick: “be @ office in ½ hr—got a job”.  In this context, Carlos knew exactly what “job” meant.  And the fact that Nick wanted him at the office so quickly meant it had to be something good; at this hour of the day, traffic made that timetable impossible.  Nick must be really excited.

 

Carlos was already casually dressed in tight but faded jeans, a navy-blue thermal shirt with long sleeves; it clung to the hard-bodied convict like it had been painted on.  On his feet were a pair of boots—brown leather ropers, so worn, they slouched and were soft as leather.  The outside temperature was in the lower 40’s—a chilly evening for Vegas.  Carlos was used to colder weather; he didn’t bother to put a jacket on before he left the condo.  On the other hand, he kept the top up and the heat on in the Mercedes.

 

The office that Nick referred to was literally that; he’d rented some space in an office/warehouse park in the southwest part of town off Blue Diamond Road.  It consisted of a suite of two rooms, the inner devoted to the technical aspects of the production.  Carlos rarely entered it; Nick kept it freezing for the sake of the server and expensive desktop units he used for editing and storage.

 

The outer room, however, was furnished for people to meet.  A sofa and four chairs, all cheap but relatively comfortable, were spread out with a couple of strategically-placed chairs.  In one corner was a desk with a monitor; this desktop was considerably cheaper than anything in the inner room but served well enough for things like bookkeeping and communication.  This was where Nick was seated when Carlos entered.

 

The slightly older stud was clearly eager; Carlos wasn’t fully in the room before Nick started talking.  “Look at this,” he said, gesturing to an email he had up on the computer screen.  “It’s a commission, and a damn good one—look at that amount!”  The young killer sat casually on the corner of the desk and leaned his buff body inwards for a better view of the monitor; he blinked in surprise and grinned when he saw the number of zeros after the dollar sign.  “Holy fuck—where’d that come from?  What do they want?”

 

“They wanna cop scene with two vics.  Busting a couple of fag whores, blackmailing them into sex and then snuffing them.  One vic is strangled, the other—well, let’s just say they’ve seen your work and they want you to get creative with a blade.”  Carlos chuckled at this news, and Nick noticed the bulge in the younger stud’s jeans swell visibly.

 

And the psycho killer said he wasn’t gay.  Nick knew better, but he was too smart to admit it.  He was also too smart to admit that this commission had been the result of his posting the video he’d secretly recorded of Carlos raping and murdering the young blond hustler.  Carlos still had no idea his brutal performance had been witnessed—by this time—by many, many others.

 

“Oh hell yeah, I’m down for wastin’ more homos,” the buff, tattooed sadist smirked.  “I take it you already got a plan.  Any good meat lined up?”

 

Nick’s face broke into a broad grin.  “Fuck yeah, man, you know it.  I already have this one framed in my head to get the right shot. I was savin’ these two for a special occasion, and if this doesn’t fit the bill, then nothing ever will.  Check these fuckin’ cunts out.”  And with that, he pulled up a video file, moving his chair aside to give Carlos a better view as he did so.

 

“This was sent to me by someone who wanted to see them snuffed,” Nick added by way of explanation, “But they couldn’t fund the project and I wasn’t gonna waste my time on it.  Now that we got a job, I’ll see how much these two fags want and offer them more.”

 

The video popped up to full screen; Carlos could feel his hog swelling even more within twenty seconds.  It showed two dudes, one obviously older than the other, fucking in the missionary position.  The older man was firm, fit, and looked like he was in his late thirties.  He had light brown hair that was starting to recede slightly in the pattern caused by an excess of testosterone; he compensated with a short goatee that was almost a dark gold in color.  His broad chest was covered with tightly curled fur and was almost—but not quite—as muscled as either Nick or Carlos.

 

The younger slut’s hair was lighter, almost blond, but was darkening in places.  His form was slim and smooth, and he looked like he was in his late teens.  He was the bottom in the sex scene; despite the way his handsome young face was twisted in the pain and pleasure of rough anal sex, there was still a noticeable resemblance between him and the older dude fucking him.

 

“This was shot a couple of years ago,” Nick said by way of explanation.  “The older dude is Ed and the younger is Johnny.  When this was shot, they were thirty-six and sixteen.  Video came with contact info, see—I’ve already talked to them.  They’re local—and they’re father and son.  Seriously.”

 

“Fuckin’ hell!” Carlos barked in surprise.  “So that’s why they look alike?  These perverted sacks a’ shit need to die like dogs!”

 

As a chilly grin spread across Nick’s face, he could feel his own cock start to stiffen.  “No shit, man; that’s the idea.  You up for puttin’ ‘em down?  I’ll take daddy and you can take son.  We’ll set it up like the cop porno and fuckin’ waste the faggots with extreme prejudice.  First, though—we gotta meet them.”

 

“What?  Why?”

“I want them to feel comfortable.  Nothing to alarm them. And we can set up the cop scenario—that’s what we’re being paid for, after all.  Let ‘em know where the shoot’s gonna be, that sorta thing.”

 

Carlos’s face showed the reluctance with which he acquiesced; it was obvious he wanted to get hold of the incestuous pair and wreak havoc on their unsuspecting male bodies right away.  “Yeah?” he demanded, “So where is it gonna be?  Gonna whack ‘em in the condo?”

 

“Naw,” Nick chuckled, “I gotta better idea than that.  Leave it to me, dude, just leave it to me…”

 


 

Four days later, on a much balmier Saturday, the long violet dusk of the desert was fading into blackness as Carlos stepped out of the bathroom in cheap but clean motel room.  Looking around the room, he could see Nick, already in costume.

 

Carlos himself was dressed as agreed; he was role-playing a motorcycle cop.  But since this was supposed to be “straight” gay porn, so to speak, he was dressed as the gay ideal of a motorcycle cop, which meant lots of black leather—tight leather pants tucked into a pair of nearly knee-high glossy motorcycle boots.  Even the utility belt and shoulder harness were leather straps, the latter worn over his broad, bare chest.  Shirtless, the winged skull tat on the ex-con’s left pec would be visible on camera, as would the fully inked sleeve on his right arm.

 

Picking up a classic black and white bike helmet from the dresser, Carlos turned to Nick.  Around his throat, the massy links of his thick gold necklace glinted in the bleak light of the bare overhead bulb.  “So?” he asked, “How do I look?”

 

Nick grinned appreciatively.  “Those homos will be beggin’ for yer shaft when they see ya in that getup,” he chuckled, “But speakin’ of shafts, I can see the one in yer boot”.  Glancing down, Carlos could see the hilt of his shank protruding from his boot.  It was a Ka-Bar Becker, a Bowie combat knife with a nine-inch blade of jet black carbon steel, customized with jagged serrations.  It was unlikely that the cocksuckers in the next room would notice it against his black leather gear, but there was no sense in taking a chance—he slid the viciously-edged weapon deeper into his boot.

 

Nick’s costume, while erotic, was slightly more conservative; a standard police uniform, complete with badge.  On the other hand, it was two sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin, the white stripe running down the outside of the legs of the slacks highlighted his bulging thighs and muscular calves as it disappeared into Nick’s tightly laced combat boots.

 

“And them?” Carlos asked, nodding at a door in the side wall.  “Are they ready?”

 

Nick’s grin grew wider and more shark-like.  “Fuck, whaddaya think?  Ain’t no way they’re ready for how bad we’re gonna fuck ‘em up.”

 

The door led to a connecting room in the cheap one-story motel Nick had found east of downtown, off the Boulder Highway—an old, run-down motor court with a defunct neon sign displaying the name Snake Eyes.  During the initial meeting, he’d given Ed some cash to rent a room there on his own—then Nick had gotten the connecting room himself under an assumed name.

 

There had been some rocky moments in the initial interview; Ed and Johnny had been somewhat hesitant about the scenario.  The rough sex wasn’t an issue, once they were told they’d be paid extra, but the cuffs were more of a concern—turned out they’d never done bondage before.  It took the offer of even more cash to get them (well, Ed, actually, like a good boy, Johnny let daddy do the talking) to agree.

 

And even then, the older pervert demanded a down payment.  Nick simmered with repressed rage as he handed five Franklins over to the well-built but slightly smaller man.  That cash was gone for good, he reflected angrily; the fucker wasn’t likely to bring it back to the shoot.

 

Once the money was settled, though, things went more smoothly for a while.  The meeting at the motel was arranged and the plot agreed to—Carlos and Nick were to bust in and find Ed and Johnny fucking; after separating and cuffing them, Carlos would fuck Johnny while Nick fucked Ed.  Surprisingly enough, Ed—who’d only appeared in the video as a top—had no problem with the thought of taking Nick’s cock up his ass, but Johnny seemed intimidated by Carlos’s massive dong; both tops had been  wearing revealingly tight jeans that day specifically to show off.

 

After a hurried, whispered conference between father and son, Ed spoke up in an embarrassed tone.  Johnny thought Carlos was hot as fuck but, had admitted, the kid had never taken a dick that size and was gonna need something to help with the pain.  It took another ten minutes of hemming and hawing for him to confess that Johnny wanted meth on the set.

 

Nick and Carlos glanced at each other.  They didn’t particularly care what the fuckmeat did to itself, but they didn’t want to be inhaling those toxic fumes themselves.  It was agreed that Johnny could smoke in the bathroom with the fan on prior to the killers entering the room.

 

And that was what was presumably happening on the other side of the connecting door right now.  Nick had a video feed from one of the cameras he’d set up previously over there streaming to his phone; the screen showed Ed utterly nude but for the thin gold chain around his neck, from which a plain cross of the same shiny metal gleamed in a nest of his chest fur.  The wiry muscles of his hairy body rippled as he paced the room, his long tool swaying as he turned.

 

The sick faggot was clearly impatient for his son to come out of the bathroom so he could fuck the slim teenager.

 

He didn’t have long to wait; the door opened suddenly and the blond kid walked out.   Unlike his dad, he wasn’t nude; he sported a pair of plain white cotton briefs that barely contained his short but incredibly thick cock and cradled his smooth bubble-butt asscheeks.  He’d left his sneakers on too, a pair of Puma Redon Moves in black.

 

There were two double beds in the room, each under the gaze of several different types of camera.  Nick hadn’t left any angles uncovered by either video or a still camera set for multiple timed shots.  As the father/son pair approached the bed on the left, Johnny’s face swam into view; even on the small screen of Nick’s phone, the kid’s twitching bloodshot eyes showed how hard the little fuck was tweaking.

 

Not that it mattered.  The adolescent homo embraced the older man; as they kissed, each obviously thrusting his tongue deep into the other’s mouth, the family resemblance became very clear.  The same deep brown eyes with long lashes, the same snub nose, dimpled chin and full, red lips—no one watching the scene could miss the fact that they were watching father and son indulging in incestuous gay sex.

 

Ed reached down and with a swift yank, jerked Johnny’s tighty whities down past his knees; they fell to the floor and Johnny stepped out of them, his fireplug-like dick popping up and smacking his abs, splattering his smooth flat belly with precum.  Panting with lust, Johnny hopped onto the bed and, rolling onto his back, spread his kicks in the air as he waited for daddy to come mount and penetrate his ass.  Ed was already there, his erect shaft probing at his teenaged son’s sphincter.  The moment daddy rammed it in, Johnny grimaced and he let out a loud moan that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

 

Smirking, Carlos looked over at Nick, who nodded back.  It was time.  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Carlos, chuckled, then put his boot to the connecting door.  Kicking it open, he drew the gun from his shoulder harness holster and burst into the other room.  “Police!” he bellowed ferociously for the camera, “Everyone freeze!”

 

Nick followed, also with a drawn handgun—the guns were real but not loaded.  After all, shooting the pansies wouldn’t have been any fun.

 

“Well, whadda we got here?” Carlos jeered.

 

“Looks like that report about faggot whores in this room was right,” Nick replied.  “C’mon, ya sick perverts, up against the wall.”

 

Ed and Johnny disentangled themselves, got out of bed and slowly back away from the “cops”, hands in the air.  “Isn’t there something we can do about this?” Ed asked, sticking to the script, “Some way we can work this out?”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos leered, “Like what?”

 

Ed looked over at Johnny.  “Go on, boy,” he said, “Show him what.”  With his father’s sanction, the firm, slim youth reached out and grabbed Carlos’s crotch, rubbing his hand over the enormous bulge in the black leather, fondling the long shaft.  The boy’s eyes widened as his fingers slid over the detail of every vein wrapped around the monster hog; daddy wasn’t this big.  Johnny was glad he’d gotten high first; he was gonna need it.

 

Ed, for his part, had reached out and started unbuttoning Nick’s tight shirt.  “Hey, I think these cocksuckers are tryin’ to bribe us.” Nick laughed, slipping his gun back into the holster dangling from his thick belt.

 

“Yeah, ya think so?” Carlos replied.  “Bribin’ a cop’s a punishable offense.  I say we punish their asses, dude; whaddaya think?”

 

“I think we need to take these faggots into custody, man, make sure they don’t try to get up to nothin’,” Nick drawled, shrugging off his black shirt.  “Turn around and put yer hands behind yer back, ya queer-ass bitch!” he barked as he spun the older man around.  Ed, fit but less powerful, was a top with his son, but the rough manhandling he was getting from the muscled stud was keeping his dick hard.

 

As Nick locked the steel cuffs around Ed’s wrists and, pressing the helpless bound man to the wall, began fondling him, Carlos turned to Johnny.  A cold grin slowly crept over his sexy, cruel face as he reached up and slid the inch-wide leather holster harness strap off his right shoulder.  “You too, boy,” he hissed at the slim, firm teen who was backing away, intimidation clearly showing in his face.  “Turn around, bitch.  You don’t wanna make me come after you.”

 

The threat implicit in the ex-con’s husky voice carried to his intended victim, if not to the kid’s father.  But the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree; the harsh authoritative tone of command managed to fill the boy with both fear and lust.  He obeyed implicitly, almost unconsciously, whimpering slightly as Carlos removed the harness completely.  Placing the revolver on the dresser, he proceeded to use the leather straps to bind the teenager’s arms like a roast trussed for the oven.

 

“There ya go, boy,” the muscular, inked stud growled, “Now get over on the bed.  We’re gonna show y’all how the law ‘round these parts handles faggots.”  He pushed Johnny towards the bed on the left; the unexpected shove knocked the youth off-balance, causing him to stumble into the wall, knocking his head on the cheap pine paneling.

 

“Hey!” Ed yelled, “You leave him alone!”  It was improvisation for the sake of the porn film—but there was a note of concern in the tone the both of the sadistic killers picked up on.  “You too, cunt,” Nick spat out, “Sit down on that bed, motherfucker!”

 

As Carlos ran his hands over the teen’s smooth, silky skin, making the adolescent moan in anticipation, Nick stood spread-legged at the foot of the other bed, facing Ed.  “Unbuckle my belt,” he commanded the well-built older man.

 

“My-my hands,” Ed stammered, “They’re still cuffed—”

 

“You stupid cocksucker,” the alpha snarled, slapping the pervert’s face, “Use yer fuckin’ mouth!”

 

Ed winced and shuddered under the blow, but his erect shaft pulsed and squeezed out a dribble of precum.  Nick chuckled.  Oh yeah, this pansy liked it rough and hard.

 

Good—he was gonna get rough and hard in abundance.

 

In the meantime, though, he had to work his mouth assiduously on the thick leather strap of Nick’s belt.  It took a while for him to get it undone.

 

Carlos, on the other hand, wasn’t into foreplay.  He’d fondled the twink enough; now he was ready to fuck.  Standing up, he undid the fly on the tight leather pants—not a zipper, but several buttons he needed to release.  As his hand worked its way down his groin, his enormous rod suddenly fell out like a toppled tree—a big, thick log crashing down.

 

Johnny’s big brown soulful eyes grew wide; both fear and lust were reflected in them as the young fag was confronted with the longest, thickest cock he’d ever seen.  The kid’s own shaft, already semi-hard and pulsing, sprang to full attention.  Carlos leered down at the adolescent and chuckled.  “Yeah, ya like that, dontcha, ya little cock pig?  Put it in yer mouth, bitch.”

 

Johnny blinked at the powerful ex-con and hesitated.  “Suck my fuckin’ dick, cunt—now!” Carlos barked loudly.  The slim youth gulped, leaned forward, and wrapped his lips around the huge oozing tube of pulsing meat.

 

As his son started to suck Carlos’s cock, Ed, still seated on the other bed, had managed to get Nick’s belt undone. Now the latter had a new task for the older man’s mouth.  Lifting his leg, he placed his thick-soled combat boot on Ed’s thigh.  “Untie it, motherfucker,” he demanded, flexing a strong bicep in front of the manwhore’s face as a show of power.  “Work it with yer mouth, slut, and hurry the fuck up, cause yer gonna do the other one too.”

 

Ed was more experienced with this kinda thing; there was no hesitation on his part as he bent his head forward and seized the woven nylon laces with his teeth.  When he jerked his head to the side to free the knot, the side of his face brushed against the boot; like his son, his tool responded to the sexual stimulus by swelling and drooling precum.

 

“Fuckin’ bootpig pervert,” Nick sneered and Ed dripped even more.

 

It only took a couple of minutes for the older man to untie both boots and little more for Nick to unlace them to the point of being able to slip out of them.  The entire time, the action was accompanied by the slurping sound of Johnny deep-throating Carlos’s shaft.

 

“Get on your back, faggot, and spread your legs,” Nick demanded, “Time for you to learn how much trouble yer in—see, cops on this beat know how to make you homos hurt.  By the time we’re done reamin’ yer fuckholes, you won’t want any other men.”

 

Ed struggled to comply, scooting himself backwards up the bed as best he could with his hands cuffed behind him.  Lying on his back was gonna hurt with the handcuff on, but he was gettin’ paid extra, so he’d deal with it.

 

On the other bed, Johnny was having a little trouble maneuvering himself, so Carlos grabbed his arm, lifted him up, and tossed him down on the bed.  The kid’s cry of pain coincided with Nick’s sudden penetration of Ed’s sphincter; the older man’s face was twisted into a grimace of discomfort.  He was gritting his teeth and trying for too hard not to cry out in pain himself to pay attention to his son’s distress.  Besides, the boy liked getting hurt.

 

“You squeal like a worthless fuckin’ pig, boy,” Carlos growled menacingly, “I like that.  Let’s see if I can make ya do it more.”  Positioning himself between Johnny’s legs on the bed, Carlos propped the punk’s Pumas up on his own shoulders and slapped the swollen purple head of his dick against the teen’s quivering pink fuckhole, splattering the smooth asscheeks with clear precum.

 

Then, without warning, he rammed his rod home, spearing Johnny’s ass; his rigid tool tore through the boy’s colon, gouging the tender rectal lining and striking the prostate as it rocketed deep into the teen’s guts.

 

The look on Johnny’s face showed Carlos he’d gone too far—he’d wanted to make the kid yell, not scream, but his innate sadism had taken over.  Quickly, he leaned forward and, clamping his large, strong hand over the punk’s mouth, squeezed it shut.  Johnny’s shriek of agony was muffled to a high-pitched squeal as tears flowed copiously from his eyes.

 

In any other situation, the noise would have been both noticeable and startling; as it was, Johnny’ father was too busy getting fucked himself to care.

 

The small room, already crowded by two double beds, a cheap dresser and a single nightstand, was swiftly filling with the sounds and scents of man-on-man sex.  Sweat and testosterone filled the air with an erotic masculine musk as two pairs of tightly entwined male bodies writhed on the beds, locked together and rutting in an excruciatingly sexual embrace.

 

Ed moaned and groaned with pleasure as Nick’s swollen shaft plunged deep into his intestines; Johnny, on the other hand, needed to be held down and muffled until his teenaged fuckhole had relaxed enough to accept Carlos’s cock.  It took more than five minutes of powerful reaming for the kid to calm down enough for the ex-con to remove his hand; the mesmeric gleaming and jingling of the thick links in the stud’s gold necklace seemed to help, somehow having a calming effect.

 

“Just shut up and take my dick,” the powerful, tattooed alpha hissed at the youth, bound and pinned helplessly under his heavy muscles.  Johnny’s true fag nature came to the fore; doing what he was told, he relaxed his ass muscle and accepted the thick tube of meat.  Closing his eyes, the teen sank back into a sensation of both pleasure and pain, sighing as he heard his father’s staccato grunting—the older man was getting pounded good.

 

Ed had been right, the cuffs were painful as hell, given that his arms were compressed behind his back by not only his own body weight but that of the well-built fucker on top of him.  But the violently intense shafting the handsome furry daddy was getting felt so erotic that he ignored both the way the metal cuffs were digging into the small of his back and the way his gold cross  pendant had slid up his hairy chest to lodge uncomfortably under his chin.  He simply spread his legs wider.

 

Ed didn’t get a chance to indulge his bottom pig side often, since Johnny was naturally an intense power bottom.  He’d forgotten how good it felt to have a real man ramming a thick cock up his ass; it’d been far too long…

 

Lost in sexual indulgence, Ed paid no attention to what was happening to his son.  The kid was doing what he loved the most, getting fucked, and that was all Ed knew.

 

So Ed never noticed when Carlos reached down and slowly withdrew the wickedly sharp blade from his boot.

 

Nick noticed; he was expecting it.  He and Carlos glanced at each other; a quick nod was all that was needed to confirm that the action was about to swing into high gear.  First, though, Nick grabbed Ed’s chin and jerked it away from the other bed.  Simultaneously, the brutal convict leaned forward and slapped his hand over Johnny’s mouth, sealing the kid’s lips so he couldn’t scream.  Then he flashed Johnny the knife.

 

The teen’s eyes grew wide with horror as he stared at nine inches of viciously-serrated steel.  “Shh,” Carlos whispered, “Quiet, motherfucker or I’ll stick this in ya.”

 

Johnny was only eighteen; he’d never come up against anything like this in his short, wasted life.  Lying helpless and bound on his back, with this sicko’s huge cock up his ass, the youth knew he was utterly trapped.  His eyes scanned up Carlos’s ripped abs, past his massive inked chest, wiry fur matted with fucksweat, up to where the thick gold links glittered in the dim light.  The blade, evil and hard, was matte black; it didn’t reflect light–a dark, cold presentiment of death.

 

Something was seriously wrong here, the teen realized—and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do to escape whatever nightmare was coming.

 

He was right.

 

Grinning maliciously, Carlos hunched down over the bound punk, so close that every frantic breath Johnny took was impregnated with mansweat and testosterone; terrified as he was, he responded instinctively to the pheromones.  As the cruel alpha slid the sharp, icy tip of the Ka-Bar blade down, the smooth, silky skin of Johnny’s chest, the boy’s thick, fireplug dick began to throb and pulse on its own, standing up and slapping Carlos’s hard belly and splattering it with precum.

 

On the other bed, Nick was driving his steel-hard shaft into Ed’s ass, keeping the older man’s face turned away from the intimidation process his son was undergoing; daddy would see what was happening to his boy soon enough, but for right now, Nick wanted to make sure Carlos had a little sadistic fun.

 

After all, he’d have his own turn later.  They’d worked out a symbiotic plan of snuff, cruelly effective, in which each would enjoy his own kill.  Carlos got to go first; Nick got to watch.

 

And when it got bad, Ed got to watch, too.

 

Though cold terror had seized his soul at the sight of the vicious blade, Johnny couldn’t quite believe that anything bad was going to happen; this was the best fuck he’d even gotten. Even Dad wasn’t this well hung, this muscled, this well-wrapped in tight black leather–the smooth slickness of which Johnny could feel as his thighs brushed against Carlos’s powerful, pumping legs.  Despite the older man’s hand gripping his mouth painfully, the boy could still smell the dark, masculine scent of the leather.

 

Carlos was enjoying himself, digging his shiny motorcycle boots into the sheets to help with traction as he thrust his massive rod into the kid.  The teen’s large dark eyes glittered with both lust and fear—the prey was right where Carlos wanted it.  “Hey, boy, ya sure seem to like gettin’ stuck with a long, hard shaft, huh?  Yeah?  So lessee how ya like gettin’ stuck with another one!”

 

Rising up over the bound, helpless teenager, the well-developed convict placed all his weight on the hand over the boy’s mouth.  By this point, his other hand had reached the level of Johnny’s smooth, flat belly, now heaving in panic.  Slowly and steadily, Carlos applied pressure, driving the razor-sharp blade into the skin several inches above the navel.

 

The knife was designed for killing; it slid into Johnny’s guts easily, like a hot knife into butter.  Despite Carlos’s weight grinding his mouth shut, the youth’s high-pitched squeal was loud enough to catch his father’s attention.  Nick let him look—it wasn’t as if he was gonna be able to help.  Like Carlos, though, he understood the need to keep his victim quiet until fucker was fully controlled.

 

Clamping down on the older man’s mouth, Nick whispered in his ear.  “Wanna watch yer boy die, motherfucker?  I sure the fuck do, so shaddap and enjoy the show.”  Ed was strong and fit, but not as strong or as fit as the younger man who was now pinning him to the bed; he kicked and jerked frantically, trying to reach his son, but it was going to take him a little time to learn how futile his struggles were.

 

For the moment, Ed was forced to lie there and take Nick’s cock up his ass while watching his boy suffer.

 

And Johnny was suffering badly.  The serrated blade sliced down through his intestines but didn’t cut any major blood vessels on the way; Carlos was inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of fatal injury.  That way he got to play with his meat longer.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude, that sure tightens yer ass up,” the sadistic ex-con jeered. “You must really be likin’ my blade.  That’s whatcha been wantin’, huh, faggot?  You been lettin’ daddy fuck ya for years, but he ain’t never hurt you good enough, huh?  Go on and tell him, cunt, tell yer fuckin’ father how much you love me guttin’ ya like fresh kill!”

 

As he took his hand from Johnny’s mouth, Carlos twisted the nine-inch blade, now fully inserted into the teen’s belly, in the wound, then yanked it back out in a single, brutal jerk.  The youth stared at the dripping knife, the small strings of flesh dangling from the serrations reflected in Johnny’s wide, glazed eyes.  His mouth was wide too, but his pain was so extreme, all that came out was a single agonized croak.  Shuddering violently, the poor kid turned to his father, appealing mutely for help—and seeing that there was none to be had.

 

Carlos, in the meantime, ran the tip of the blade down the teen’s left flank, then rammed the blade upwards under the rib cage.  This time, the length of sharpened steel slashed through the punk’s spleen and liver.  “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Johnny cried involuntarily as his body went rigid with shock.

 

“Aw hell yeah,” Carlos moaned, grinning over at Nick—and Ed.  “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout, dude!  Goddam boy pussy gets all good and tight—fuckin’ piece of fag meat!  Shit, man, hope yours jacks ya off as good as this one when ya waste it, man!”

 

Nick chuckled, easily maintaining control as Ed’s struggles and muffled cries both became more frenetic.  “It will, bro, I got it covered.  Gonna take a while to put this one down, so go ahead and work that little bitch over.  Daddy here needs some tenderizin’—he gets to watch.”

 

“Hear that?” Nick sneered into Ed’s incredulous, bewildered face, “You disgusting perverts are both gonna die tonight.  Fuckin’ incest faggots—gettin’ both you and yer boy here killed, huh?  Look on the bright side, cunt; yer both gonna die fulla manspunk—now don’t that make ya feel better?”  The older man shook his head violently, as if trying to shake the words out of his ears; as his head whipped from side to side, his gold cross lodging in the crook of his neck as his furry pecs slid across Nick’s in the same direction.  As their chest hair entwined, it was compressed and matted by a thin layer of sweat.  Even in his fear for himself and his son, Ed was suddenly aware of how painfully erect his nipples were with each scrape of his chest.

 

And his dick was still erect too—what the fuck?  Johnny was being murdered right in front of him, how the fuck could his dick be hard?  Jesus, this guy’s cock, too, it hurt so fucking bad, it filled his ass so—

 

—and then a shrill scream from Johnny redirected Ed’s attention.

 

Carlos was in a rush of bloodlust.  He knew the symptoms by now; the intense eroticism of every moan, every whimper he elicited from the meat; the utter clarity that allowed him to control the desperate youth who fought like the wounded and dying animal he was.  He could feel the excitement start to build deep in his balls, but he’d need to exercise control over both himself and his meat to cum the way he wanted.  And after all, this one was gonna be a money shot in the literal sense of the word.

 

The boy was sobbing softly, almost lost in shock, with the long Ka-Bar knife buried to its hilt in his left side.  The belly wound was bleeding internally, but he wouldn’t bleed out from that for another half hour or so.  This one in his side, though had cut that time to less than twenty minutes; Carlos was going to have to get the motherfucker to milk his cock before the little shit’s lights went out for good.

 

Good thing the kid responded to pain; he was about to endure a lot of it.

 

“Ok, you cumsuckin’ sicko,” Carlos growled, “Foreplay’s over.  You ready to earn my load?  Fuck no, you ain’t; no way no incestuous fairy like you ever gonna earn my cum—but I’m gonna make you work it outta me anyway.”

 

“Hey, asshole,” Carlos called across to Ed, “Yeah, you, motherfucker—did ya smack yer boy while fuckin’ ‘im?  Y’know, give the little cunt a good whack across the face like he deserves?  No?  Too bad, asswipe; your pervert son likes pain.  Fuck yeah, dude, that get ya off the way it gets me off?  C’mon, lessee how much pain he likes—lessee how much I have to stick him to make me cum!”

 

Still without breaking eye contact with Ed—or the timing of a single thrust of his cock—Carlos jerked the knife from Johnny’s side, whirled it expertly in the air, and slammed it back down into the kid’s chest.  The blade speared through the left pectoral, slipping between the ribs to puncture the left lung and come out Johnny’s back.  By the time the hilt was resting on the teen’s chest, the tip of the blade had sunk three inches into the mattress.

 

It was a shame the involuntary reaction was so violent; the convulsive thrashing caused the embedded blade to shred the existing chest wound.  “Fuckin’-A!” Carlos yelled as Johnny’s legs clamped tightly around his waist; the killer’s leather-clad legs pumped furiously as the stabbed teen flailed helplessly against him, his own chest hair matted into dark, wiry swirls.

 

Johnny had been held too tightly in an iron grip of pain and fear to think rationally, but this impaling thrust was driven home with an icy shaft of agony that somehow brought clarity to the tortured youth.  The teen lifted his head, his pain-twisted face streaked with tears, his short hair now dark and slick with sweat.  There was no trace left of his meth high; he strained his eyes to focus on the jingling links of Carlos’s chain dangling just in front of his face.

 

The horrible rigid metal shaft embedded in his chest was starting to overwhelm the kid; despite a minimum of outward bleeding, his chest cavity was starting to fill with blood.  The pain in his lung, his guts, his ass—it was all starting to go cold and gray.  His ears were ringing—what was happening here?  He couldn’t quite remember…daddy had been fucking him and then there were cops…what had he done?  Why was a cop raping him and killing him?

 

Daddy would know.  Johnny turned his head and saw his father being held down and viciously fucked.  Daddy was looking at him—and crying.  Why was he crying?  Johnny tried to reach out to him to no avail, then tried to speak.  “Da—urk!” the teenager grunted as a bubble of blood burst from his lips and trickled down his chin.

 

“Daddy can’t help ya now, cunt,” the buff, inked sadist sneered.  “And you still ain’t worked the spunk outta my tool yet—fuck, you’re even useless as a faggot, ain’tcha?  Ok, looks like I gotta make yer ass work.”

 

“Hey look,” he called over to Nick, “I looked this one up online.  If I do this right, I can make this boymeat convulse so hard his ass sucks my load right outta my balls—course, it’s gonna cause nightmarish pain.  But after all,” he said, turning his handsome and gleefully malevolent face back to Johnny, “That’s what yer here for, ain’t it, meat?  To suffer and die on my dick just so I can cum, right?  So get to work, ya fuckin’ homo, start drainin’ my sack!”

 

With that, he pulled the knife out of Johnny’s chest with a flourish, sending a spatter of blood across the ceiling before he swiftly reversed the blade.  Leaning forward, he placed one hand on the boy’s forehead, shoving the head back and the jaw up.  “Time to die, fag,” he hissed as he placed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh on the underside of the jaw, about two inches back from the chin—and slowly inserted it.

 

The next thirty seconds were not only Johnny’s last, they were also the most nightmarish he’d experience.  Carlos was lying flat on top of the suffering teen, the kid’s slick, smooth body writhing beneath that of the powerful convict; during the entire cruel ordeal, Johnny was aware of his helplessness under the crushing weight of his powerful killer.

 

And Johnny was aware—as gruesomely slow as the upward progress of the blade seemed to the one who was enduring it, it was still faster than death, or even unconsciousness by blood loss.  Johnny experienced every single second of pain as nine inches of sharpened steel began to penetrate his skull.

 

As the knife inched its way up, it severed the boy’s tongue near the base before slicing up through the soft palate into the sinuses.  “Fuuuuck…” Carlos moaned, glancing over at Ed and Nick, intertwined in an intense male embrace of lust and power.  “The meat’s finally gettin’ it, bro, he’s sufferin’ so fuckin’ bad…”

 

Turning back, the cruel stud spat into the punk’s gray, agonized face; the teen’s wide, pain-crazed eyes were ringed with dark circles of shock.  With a loud grunt, Carlos reapplied pressure to the knife.  Immediately he encountered resistance; wrapping one tatted bicep around the top of the kid’s head, he shoved harder and was rewarded when the blade jerked upward with a loud crunching sound.

 

The expression in Johnny’s eyes as his septum shattered and the carbon steel blade ripped through his sinuses would be difficult to describe in words, but the grasping, shuddering convulsions that wracked the teen’s body culminated in his rectum, frantically (if involuntarily) milking Carlos’s swollen cock.

 

The tight leather pants cradling the buff killer’s ass afforded little protection as the dying boy’s Puma Redons kicked and flailed; Johnny’s smooth thighs had locked around Carlos’s waist reflexively as the convict’s vein-wrapped shaft ground against the adolescent’s hormone-swelled prostate. The sense of power the sick sex murderer felt in feeling the youth’s smooth body twist and jerk in agony beneath him became more intense the closer the kid came to death.  “Fuckin’ cunt,” the sweating, tattooed stud grunted as he hunched over Johnny’s thrashing form, “That’s it.  Now yer feelin’ me, meat.  Gonna unload in yer ass real soon here, ya worthless cumdump, my balls are already startin’ to boil over—aw, fuck!  Fuck! AARRRGGH!!”

 

With a loud cry, Carlos went rigid and shot a stream of hot spunk deep into Johnny’s guts; at the same time, he clenched his biceps and shoved the knife violently.  There was a crunching sound as the serrated steel blade tore free from the boy’s sinuses and thrust up through the brain, the tip embedding itself on the inside of the cranium.

 

At that point, Johnny ceased to be Johnny.  The teenager’s eyes rolled back in his head; he no longer felt pain or terror or his last nightmarish seconds on earth. He also didn’t feel his death load, spontaneously generated by massive brain trauma.  Carlos felt it, though; the adolescent’s sweating, heaving body suddenly went rigid—and then there was no teen boy left in Carlos’s arms, just a violently convulsing piece of meat that was orgasming explosively because it didn’t know it was dead yet.  A geyser of hot sperm splashed up along the alpha’s abs, matting in his dark, wiry belly fur. A second, stronger—and longer—jet of spunk splattered on the scruff-covered underside of the killer’s jaw; thick streams of cum trailed off to smear across the winged skull inexpertly inked over Carlos’s left pec.

 

The muscular ex-con kept fucking the meat, grunting and snarling as the cumdump’s death throes worked wad after wad out of the killer’s stiff, unyielding shaft.  When he’d finally emptied his huge, puckered sack, Carlos pulled out and knelt on the bed above the still-shuddering corpse.  He reached up and yanked the knife out of the meat’s head—it took both hands and a little effort to pry it loose—and glanced over at the other bed.  Nick, riding his prey like a bronco, grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

 

“Goddam, dude, that was one fuck of a money shot,” he said, chuckling, then spat into Ed’s face; the latter was weeping with his eyes shut.  “Got me so fuckin’ amped up, I think it’s just about time to put this queer bitch down too.  Here, toss me the phone; I’ll yank the cord out.”

 

“Naw, man,” Carlos replied, “Too much work.  Here, use these.”  With that, he spun Johnny’s trembling meat over and quickly untied the intricate knot he’d used on his holster harness; the corpse continued to thrash on the edge of the bed, but didn’t fall. “Here, use this,” he said, handing over the harness.

 

Nick grabbed one of the black leather straps and help it up.  “It’ll work; thanks, bro.”

 

Carlos wanted to get a close-up of the action; there was camera mounted on a tripod on the far side of his bed—there hadn’t been enough room to pose one similarly by Nick’s bed—and he reached back to get it.  The camera slipped from his hands; Carlos had to lunge for it, knocking the tripod over behind the bed.  From this awkward position, he turned to move closer; in order to steady himself, he planted one boot directly on the back of the dead kid’s head.

 

And that was the moment Ed chose to turn his head and open his eyes.  That was the image that was seared into Ed’s brain after watching Johnny’s horrific death—his boy’s killer posed on one knee over the quivering corpse, still-dripping hog hanging out of the tight leather pants, one boot grinding his poor dead son’s head into the mattress…he’d never get to fuck that sweet young ass again…

 

Despair rose up within the older man, despair that soon turned to terror once he remembered he was still helpless in the control of two younger, stronger sex killers.  He opened his mouth—even he didn’t know if he was gonna beg or plead or just scream—but to no avail; as he did so, Nick wrapped one of the holster straps around his neck and pulled.

 

“Ready to join yer boy in a dirt nap?” the dominant sadist chuckled, twisting the inch-wide leather strap around his hands for better leverage, “Cause it’s time to die, dude; yer gonna die on my dick like a fuckin’ dog…”

 

The older faggot had been so wrought up by the sadistically cruel assault on his son that his concern for himself had been subsumed into a general sense of terror and panic; now that he’d been forced to watch Johnny being raped and tortured, the words of his tormentor meant little.

 

The fact that he couldn’t breathe, though—that was something else.  He’d loved his son, in his own sick way—but he needed to breathe.  Ed went rigid immediately, fighting for air; the secondary pain of his gold cross, caught under the strap and digging into his flesh, was but a minor annoyance at the moment.

 

“That’s it, cumsucker!” Nick crowed.  “I knew ya had some fight left in ya; you faggots are too stupid to know death when ya see it.  Well, don’t worry, cunt, it’s gonna take several minutes to choke the life outta ya; you’ll have plenty of time to learn that yer dyin’.”

 

As the crushing pain circling his throat intensified, Ed was also aware of how much harder his ass was being pumped by the younger, stronger top.  And another presence—the other one, the one who killed Johnny—he was there, shoving a camera into Ed’s face.

 

And whispering.

 

“Hey, man,” Carlos was hissing, “Yer boy died hard.  Didja like watchin’ it?  Fuckin’ hot as hell, wasn’t it?  It felt so fuckin’ good, makin’ him suffer, and now yer gonna do the same for my bro here, yeah?  And the best part is, we been recordin’ it all.  Dudes all over the world are gonna pay us so they can beat off watchin’ you and yer cocksuckin’ kid get snuffed—ain’t that sexy shit?  Smile for the camera, asswipe, give ‘em a grin before ya get offed.”

 

The older man thrashed and heaved violently on the mattress, his chest and hard, flat belly writhing against Nick’s as their body fur interlocked like a zipper.  His handsome face was growing congested as the holster strap sank deeper into his neck.  His dark eyes bulged open, forcing him to stare into the faces of the two grinning alpha killers hovering over him, two hard, muscled men taking pleasure in his pain and suffering—

 

—and he was suffering.  Nick had never stopped fucking him, but now the sadistic top was aggressively plunging his engorged tool deeper into Ed’s rectum than ever before; even this pleasure had become agony.  The metal handcuffs that kept his arms twisted excruciatingly behind his back had dug in his wrists far enough to cut off the flow of blood to his hands; they were nothing but useless, throbbing lumps.

 

But the trauma being inflicted on his throat was merely the most unendurable; not only was his esophagus slowly compacting into a mangled mass, but his own pendant—the gold cross (that he’d always secretly superstitiously believed would protect him from the evil he now knew existed beyond any doubt) was compressed so firmly into the tender flesh on the side of his neck that it was literally tearing the skin, making a trickle of blood seep onto the sheets.

 

“Ya likin’ that shit, fuckwad?” Nick taunted his older but well-developed victim.  “Yer ass is grabbin’ my cock like it wants more—fuck, man, if I’d known it took a good strong chokeout to make ya work my shaft right, I’d squeezed yer throat long before now.  Hey, bro,” he called over to Carlos, “Did he teach his fucktoy kid right or did ya have stick ‘im first to have fun?”

 

“Naw, dude,” Carlos drawled, winking and sticking his tongue out at Ed’s swelling, horror-filled face, “Stupid sack of shit acted like he’d never had a dick up his ass till I slipped my shank into his guts—an’ even then, I hadda twist the blade in ‘im before he really showed how much he liked gettin’ buttfucked.”

 

“Shit, man,” Nick snarled down at Ed, “Like father, like son.  Both of ya lousy fag fucks who need pain to teach ya how to take a real man’s hog, ain’t that right, cunt?”

 

The buff sadist pumped his tool up the dying porn star’s colon with ruthless efficiency; his biceps and triceps, already glistening with mansweat, began to bulge with the effort he put into cranking Ed’s windpipe permanently shut.

 

Ed could feel it, too, the effort Nick was expending on both his neck and his fuckhole.  The jackhammer pounding of his frantic pulse in his head was echoed in the furious reaming that his rectum was enduring; there was a fiery ball of pressure that was swelling in his chest and his face was about to burst—and then his eyes…oh fuck, he couldn’t close his eyes, the hard, handsome faces of his killers hovering over him, so close they could kiss…with a sense of despair, he realized that their jeering triumph in his death would be the last thing he’d see on earth…

 

And still they tortured him, not just physically, but mentally as well.

 

Carlos was particularly cruel; as he sneered and spit on their helpless victim, his thick cock—still hanging out of his tight leather pants, dripping with cum—began to stiffen again.  “I really got off on hurtin’ yer son, ya perverted fuck,” he whispered. “He was really cryin’ for his daddy when he died—too bad you were too busy gettin’ fucked, faggot.  Know what part’s the best?  Loadin’ him up with my seed.  It don’t matter how many times ya fucked yer little boy in the ass, he’s gonna end up takin’ a nice long dirt nap fulla my jizz, not yers, asswipe.”

 

“Goddammit,” Nick barked in intense anger, “Yer gettin’ loose, old man.  What, ya want it tighter—or ya need some more pain?  Yeah, that’s it—just like any other faggot, I’m gonna hafta hurt ya to make ya grip my shaft right.”  Twisting the ends of the strap together, the sweating, powerful killer yanked them to one side so he could hold them both in the same hand; as he did, Ed’s gold cross bent under the stress of the increased pressure, tearing an agonizing three-inch slash into the side of Ed’s throat as it did so.  Sadly for Ed, it did no further damage—he had no hope of escaping his suffering by bleeding out.

 

But even that pain was soon overtaken by new suffering.  The buff, strong—but not quite strong enough—musclebound victim hadn’t noticed the sidelong glance Nick had slipped Carlos.  Carlos, did, though, and recognized it as a hint for a close-up.  Zooming the camera in on Ed, he had a perfect angle to capture Nick balled-up fist raining blows into the bound, trapped stud’s dark, puffy face.

 

Each loud, wet smack of flesh on flesh was accompanied by a raging curse from Nick; the hulking alpha had shifted into sadistic bloodlust mode.  “Stupid fuckin’ (WHAM) sack a’ shit (WHAM), ya wanted to get paid for me to fuck ya ( WHAM WHAM WHAM); are ya gettin’ paid good enough now (WHAM?) Ya worthless goddam (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) pervert (WHAM), how old was yer kid (WHAM) when ya started fuckin’ ‘im (WHAM) ya fucking child-molestin’ homo (WHAM)?”

 

Nick paused to catch his breath; without dropping the tempo of his brutal assfuck, he pulled back a bit, still gripping the leather holster strap tightly in one hand.  The lifted the meat’s head up from the blood-spattered pillow.  Carlos leaned forward, allowing the fag’s battered and swollen face to fill the frame.  Ed had been a strikingly handsome man of thirty-seven, with his testosterone-influenced receding hairline, his honey-gold goatee and the long lashes rimming his large, dark, liquid eyes.

 

The only thing recognizable in the bloody, pulped ruin now being captured on camera was the goatee surrounding the swollen, blue lips.

 

“Fuck, dude,” Carlos panted as he looked into Ed’s violently-beaten face, “I think this meat’s nearly done.  Ya fucked it over real good, bro.”  The erotic hoarseness in his voice was underscored by the steady transparent stream oozing from his by-now fully erect dick.

 

Semi-conscious in a universe of screaming pain, some pig corner tucked into the back of Ed’s brain heard and agreed.  His own thick, vein-wreathed rod, already achingly stiff, smacking swiftly between his own and Nick’s flat, furry bellies in time to the rapid assfuck, suddenly began to splatter beads of precum everywhere.

 

“Yeah?” Nick grinned at Carlos (and the camera), his cruel sadism glinting in his eyes like a cold light.  “Think it’s time to put the fucker down?  Ya may be right, bro; I’m gettin’ kinda bored with these faggots.  Guess it’s time to dump my load and split.”

 

He shifted slightly as Carlos moved closer to the headboard and reversed the angle, looking down on the writhing, interlocked male bodies, glistening with sweat and slapping together in a swift, animalistic rhythm.

 

Nick was close to shooting his load, but he recognized that he’d brutalized the meat too much for any further mental abuse to avail.  He needed one final blow to the nervous system, quick, strong and fatally brutal, to make the faggot’s fuckhole tighten up around his cock.

 

He knew exactly what to do.  Wrapping the strap ends around the palm of his right hand, Nick placed his right hand flat on the meat’s slick, heaving (but not breathing) chest.  Lowering his face, the psychopathic sex killer glanced up at Carlos and the camera impishly through his own tousled bangs.

 

“Hey, bro,” he whispered, “Check this shit out.”

 

And then he jerked on the holster strap.  Hard.  Gritting-his-teeth hard, tendons-standing-out on his-neck hard, veins-standing-out-on-bicep hard.  At the same time, grunting with the physical strain, he shoved his other arm down on the fuckmeat’s muscled chest.  The buff older man’s face bent forward and his neck seemed to elongate.  As his face turned down, his thick, protruding tongue pushed out of his mouth, forcing a long foamy stream of drool to fall into his chest fur.

 

“That’s it, cunt, time to go bye-bye,” Nick hissed and yanked again.  There was a sickeningly loud cracking, crunching sound as the muscle-bound alpha literally tore his victim’s head off the top of his spine, crushing the esophagus and shattering three vertebrae simultaneously.

 

The impact to Ed’s nervous system was immediate.  He died instantly, his entire musculature going rigid in a heartbeat.  The muscles in his cock stiffened, forcing a violent eruption of semen from his agonizingly erect shaft.  The first load was so abrupt and intense, it actually shot between his head and Nick’s, splashing against the wall three feet above the top of the headboard—although some fallout landed in his dark blond hair.

 

At the same time, his colon and lower intestines contracted around Nick’s engorged cock; it was like a hand in a velvet glove jacking him off.  With a loud, inarticulate cry, Nick flooded the meat’s guts with boiling sperm.  He continued to twist Ed’s head around, mangling the spinal column.

 

This triggered Ed’s second deathload, a steady jet of spunk that lasted a good ten seconds straight, spewing huge pearly loads of spunk all over both his chest and that of his killer.  This load, though was interrupted by a third one, form a different source.

 

Still holding the camera, recording all the action, Carlos had shot a second wad completely hands-free.  Recorded for the paying viewers to see, his thick, creamy load squirted a flood of hot manseed over both the corpse and its killer.

 

“That’s it, bro,” Nick gasped hoarsely, “Spunk all over that fuckin’ faggot!”  Inwardly, he exulted in feeling Carlos’s hot semen splatter on his chest, but, still ejaculating uncontrollably himself, he didn’t process the emotion; he could only shudder and shoot.

 


 

Several cum-drenched minutes later, Nick and Carlos both found themselves in enough control of themselves to disengage from the bed and get themselves cleaned up.  Carlos moved first—largely because, unlike Nick, his dick wasn’t stuck in a quivering corpse.  Retreating to the bathroom to wash up, he chuckled with contemptuous amusement at Johnny’s meth pipe sitting on the top of the toilet cistern, along with a lighter and small baggie partially full of powder.  He left them alone.

 

Nick, for his part, withdrew his leaking shaft for the dead man.  He rolled Ed over and uncuffed him; when he did, the shuddering body slid limply to the floor with a thump.  Picking up his discarded cop outfit, he went back through the connecting door into the adjoining room, using that bathroom to wash off the evidence of violent sex.

 

By this time, Carlos had finished up and returned into the death room.  He gathered up his own gear, including the gun and the holster harness Nick had used to kill Ed; that took a bit of time to recover, given how deeply it was embedded in the meat’s neck.  At one point, he ground his boot into Ed’s face to hold his head down as he pried the strap out of the corpse’s crushed throat.  He carried the armful  of gear back into the other room and dumped it on the bed, only to be brought up short when Nick asked, “Where’s yer shank, bro?”

 

He couldn’t remember what he’d done with it.  He went back into the other room and began poking around on the bed; almost immediately, he noticed it tangled in the sheet on the other side of the teenager’s cooling, stiffening corpse.  It was still covered in gore, so Carlos used the cheap motel sheet to wipe it down; his actions made the bed shake slightly.  Not enough, but enough to dislodge Johnny’s body.  The dead teen rolled off the bed, landing on top of his father’s corpse.  Ed was face-up and Johnny face-down; they’d have been looking each other in the eye, had Johnny’s eyes not been rolled too far back in his head that only the whites showed from under his half-open lids.

 

Just then, Nick came back into the room.  “Aw, ain’t that sweet,” he jeered, “the faggot lovebirds united forever in death.  Let ‘em rot there.  You get the cameras on that side an’ I’ll get the ones on this side.  We should be able to clear out in about half an hour or so.”

 

Because of the layout of the room, the bodies on the floor between the beds made it difficult to reach everything on his side, which might account for what happened later.  But Nick had been right; they were gone within thirty minutes.

 


 

The bodies weren’t found for another eighteen hours; the maid who found them subsequently required psychiatric treatment, as did one of the two first responding police officers.  The other, a twenty-six year old rookie named Rog, found a camera tripod that had fallen behind one of the beds.  Even before the autopsy results revealed that both males had been raped as well as murdered, Rog had realized that someone, somewhere, had a video of what happened.

 

And despite the tremendous swell in publicity surrounding the case once DNA results revealed that the victims were father and son, Rog kept his surmises to himself, and laid his plans.

 


 

Nick was laying plans, too.  The commission was not only paid promptly, it included a sizeable gratuity—and a distribution agreement, with a percentage on the gross.

 

“Shit, bro, we’re gonna be fuckin’ millionaires,” he laughed a week later.  He and Carlos were both sitting in the office.  “I already paid the condo off.  Think I’m gonna soundproof that second bedroom.  We can have all kinda fun in there.”

 

Carlos didn’t care; Nick was giving him all the cash he needed.  He had wheels and a crib—and the opportunity to waste any fag he wanted, when he wanted…how he wanted…

 

“Cool, dude,” he drawled contentedly.  “Ya got any new hits?”

 

“I got a message yesterday, saying somthin’ might be coming.  Believe it or not, I haven’t checked email yet; I was too busy payin’ off debts.  Lessee if we got anything.”

 

Turning on the monitor, Nick fired up the PC, grinning broadly.  Part of it was the financial—and artistic, so to speak—success.  But part of it was what he’d learned about Carlos.  Straight, my ass, some cold, calculating part of his mind thought—he mighta gone into prison straight, but he came out a full-blown fag.  That might come in handy someday.

 

It took a while for the system to boot up; it took even longer for the email to come up.  Carlos had lost interest and was surfing on his phone when a loud ping echoed through the office.  Nick clicked on a couple of things, then his eyes grew wide.

 

“We got another commission,” he said quietly.  “Holy fuck, bro, come lookit this.”

Trucker 8–Trucker v Loose End

Mark was livid.

 

The psychopathic homosexual serial killer he was tracking had at least a twenty-four hour lead on him.  And it wasn’t as if Mark could discern a pattern anyway; despite being one of the best profilers employed by the FBI, he still couldn’t determine exactly why the dude had offed two low-level hustlers—one a paid dancer at a club—in the same night.

 

And the state in which he’d left them, especially that kid in the motel room…

 

Dan was still incommunicado on assignment and Mark was getting increasingly frustrated.  He needed to find this motherfucker, and fast.  This was gonna hit the news soon, even if it wasn’t linked across state lines to that dead trooper.  The stripper knocked off in his apartment coulda been kept under wraps, but the room maid who found the dead drug slut in the motel went full mental and half the town knew something had happened by the time Mark had arrived.

 

Where the fuck was this guy?

 

————————————————————————–

 

 

The guy in question was in the last place Mark expected him to be.  It was a cliché—and a true one—that criminals returned to the scene of their crimes, but even an experienced profiler wouldn’t have expected to find the Trucker in room 115 of the Waters Motel.

 

He’d planned to ask for the room when he checked in, but it turned out to be the one the aged clerk gave him anyway.  He’d checked in using cash and a false name (like everyone else who used the place), leaving his rig back at the truck stop, as he’d done on his earlier visit. The only difference was that he was carrying an overnight bag on his walk to the motel.

 

This time, the room didn’t reek of crack and mansex, just a slight musty smell that the aggressively citrus-scented cleaner couldn’t quite overcome.  The furniture was intact, but the mirror didn’t match the dresser.  The TV and bedside lamps were new and very, very cheap.

 

The drywall had been replaced, but the paint was half a shade off, just barely noticeable.  Most of the occupants of the room were doubtlessly too intent on other things to notice these details—much less guess at the savage beating, rape and murder that had caused them.

 

The Trucker dropped his bag on the floor.  For a brief moment it all came back to him—the white-hot rage that burned within him when he discovered the whore stealing, the pleasure he got out of throwing the worthless cunt across the room before beating the fuck out of him, the fag suffering an agonizing, drawn-out death while riding his cock…

 

The powerful sadist grinned, his dick hard at the memory.  Then he shook his head brusquely, clearing his mind.  He was here for a specific purpose.  Well, he always had a specific purpose—but now he had a specific target.

 

He glanced at his watch in the dim, depressing glow of the overhead light.  Past ten p.m.—he needed to get ready.  Retrieving his bag from the floor, he tossed it on the bed and began to strip.

 

Slipping off his loosely-laced work boots, he took off his jeans, peeling the thin denim from his bulging thighs and thick calves.  Taking off his trucker’s cap, he ran his hands through his thick, fine hair, tousling the black strands before peeling off the thin white cotton t-shirt that clung to his hubcap pecs like a second skin, his large nipples proudly protruding from his broad chest.

 

Except for the white tube socks clinging to his muscled calves, the Trucker stood nude in the center of the room, facing the mirror.

 

He took a moment to admire his own body—an erotic, powerful killing machine.  His broad chest, slightly glistening with sweat in the warm room, rose and fell with his even breaths.  The faint motion was just enough for a dim shimmer of light to reflect from the dogtags nestled snugly in his wiry chest hair.

 

In the mirror, the Trucker’s eyes followed the line of fur down his firm, rippled abs.  The happy trail became denser as it approached his waist, finally bursting out in a bush of curly black pubes.  From the center of this dark nest, the alpha’s enormous cock jutted proudly.  The memory of the last time he’d been here, the justice he’d meted out to the thieving boywhore, had gotten him hard.

 

As he watched the mirror, he could see his dick throb; the pulsations were visible from halfway across the room.  And soon so was the faint twinkle refracting from a transparent drop of precum.

 

Not yet, he thought.  He needed to get ready; he had a plan to put into motion.

 

And he knew he’d have an opportunity to drain his shaft later on.

 

Padding back to the bed, his feet still clad in the tight white cotton socks, he opened his bag and began extracting clothing.  He removed a tan shirt and pair of slacks first.  Underneath them was a pair of glossy brown leather boots, nearly knee-high.  When they were out, all that was left, rattling in the bottom of the bag, was a pair of hardened steel handcuffs.  Well, that and a bottle of Jack Daniels that quickly went into the nightstand drawer.

 

It was the Trooper’s uniform—well, most of it.  The Trucker was planning on walking a fine line between enticement and intimidation tonight.  Not that that was particularly unusual for him, but tonight his sense of purpose added something extra—perhaps a touch of anticipation, of eagerness, to tease his jaded appetite.

 

He dressed carefully.  The Trooper had been slightly smaller than him, so the clothes were tight.  The Trucker didn’t realize quite how tight until he tried to pull the smooth khaki trousers up over his thick, strong thighs.  The tan-colored chinos clung to the alpha’s firm legs, stretching the seams to their limits.

 

Leaving the pants undone, he slipped on a clean white t-shirt, followed by the Trooper’s tan button-down shirt.  The Trucker left the top two buttons unfastened, allowing a glimpse of his curly chest hair over the collar of the t-shirt.

 

After tucking the shirttail into the waist of the pants, the muscled stud picked up the jeans he’d tossed on the bed and unthreaded the thick belt from the loops.  The belt, nearly two inches of black leather, was soon cinched tightly around his waist.

 

It wasn’t the Trooper’s original belt.  He hadn’t kept the badge, and he’d gotten rid of the gun too.  Guns weren’t his style to begin with—he liked to linger over his kills—but he had another reason as well.

 

After all, the local fags would clam up around a real cop.  But a dude in a cop uniform would be an irresistible lure for some of the cockpigs, whether or not they were into roleplay.

 

The Trucker sat on the bed and pulled the knee-high glossy boots on before standing and facing the mirror again.  His smile became colder and more evil as he assessed his appearance.

 

In front of him stood a tall, intimidating man whose body was rippled with muscles.  The khaki uniform seemed to be painted onto his powerful physique; even the brown leather boots were bulging with his hard, thick calves.  The black belt didn’t quite match, and there was no badge—no way he could be legitimately accused of impersonating an officer.

 

The cuffs he jammed into his hip pocket were the real deal, though.  And as smoothly as the tan chinos clung to his firm, rounded buttocks, the cuffs were obvious.

 

Again, there were cockpigs who would find that irresistible.  And the Trucker had a strong suspicion that his target would be one.  Now, he just needed to wait.  Quickly placing his original clothing into the bag, along with the work boots, he laid the bag smoothly into the top drawer of the dresser.

 

Turning out the light, the Trucker opened the blinds in the window.  And waited.

 

He had a decent view across the parking lot and the street to the main entrance of the gay bar.  As it turned out, he had to wait just over an hour before he saw the cunt he was stalking saunter down the street.  The punk paused under the electric glare of the bar’s sign to check his wallet before pushing open the blacked-out door and vanishing inside.

 

The Trucker stood up straight, feeling his throbbing dick tentpoling the tight khaki chinos.  The angry sensation of heat in his scrotum told him it was time to get the show on the road—he was done waiting.  He strode out the door, ensuring the room was ready for his return with a quick backwards glance.

 

The Trooper’s boots thumped loudly on the parking lot blacktop, a forceful, masculine sound.  The brown leather uppers gripped his legs snugly, bulging slightly as his thick calf muscles flexed with each step.

 

He crossed the street quickly.  As it happened, there was no one out front when he approached the place.  He slipped inside the door, noting the appraising leer of the bouncer—who was rubbing his groin.

 

The entryway was small and garishly lit.  Once past it, though, the Trucker found himself in a Stygian blackness, broken by random strobe lights that induced instant disorientation by virtue of being out of synch with the pounding music.  The cold, experienced killer grinned happily.

 

It was perfect.  So much chaos—no one would be able to describe him with any accuracy.

 

Another benefit of the flashing, psychedelic atmosphere was that it gave him a brief moment of anonymity to reconnoiter.  Once he stepped out of the shadows, he’d be the center of attention.  He knew it.  It wasn’t arrogance—it was simple fact.  In the skin-tight cop uniform, he would be irresistible to all the cumpigs in the bar.

 

He was only after one.  But he already knew that one was interested in him.  The cunt wouldn’t recognize him in this getup—but would be flattered to be singled out.

 

After all, the Trucker was a well-built, powerful man, and he was dressed to highlight his physique.  And the testosterone he was pumping out with his pheromones drew fags to him like moths to a candle.  Or flies to a flytrap.

 

Either way, the insects died horribly.

 

He’d entered at one corner of a large open space.  At the other was a huge TV screen, playing music videos that were utterly unrelated to the music actually playing.  Two-thirds of the open area was dance floor; the remainder was a collection of rickety tables and chairs, sparsely occupied.  The bar stretched along three of the four walls, with stools pulled up.  Most of the clientele was either at the bar or on the dance floor.

 

Pausing in the shadows, the Trucker surveyed the crowd.  It was just about midnight and the club was in full swing.  Even though it was a small town in the middle of nowhere, it was the only gay bar in the county, so it tended to be pretty popular.  And the proximity of the truck stop didn’t hurt.

 

The clientele was a mix—some twinks, some fat old trolls, and an assortment of muscular farm boy/manual labor types.  That made it easier to sight his prey.  He was after a twink; there weren’t enough to allow the punk to blend in.

 

The buff alpha spotted the boy—he was halfway down the bar on the left-hand side of the room.  As the Trucker sized up his victim, he noticed that the kid was facing away from him, slowly nursing a Bud Light. In a room full of men in blue jeans and work boots or cowboy boots, the boy stood out—not so much as to draw a lot of attention, but enough to make him easy to track.

 

His shoulder-length black hair gleamed in the light, pulled back in a ponytail.  The Trucker smirked in contempt—at least it was clean this time.  Last time he’d seen the fucker, it had been greasy.  It had also been loose and spread out over the ears, which was why the brawny killer hadn’t noticed the multiple silver studs piercing the kid’s ears.

 

The boy was about five foot ten, with a tight, lean swimmer’s build that was amply displayed by his too-small t-shirt, thin cotton in bright red that clung to his smooth torso and slim waist like a second skin.  Beneath, the punk’s black skinny jeans gripped his taut asscheeks tightly and revealed every muscle in the youth’s legs.

 

His shoes were what stood out the most; a pair of Nike Kobe X Elites in black and red.  Taller than most sneakers, they came several inches above his ankle.  The cuffs of his jeans had gotten tucked inside; it gave him the appearance of wearing black cloth lace-up boots.

 

Time to make his move.  The Trucker crossed to the bar, heading for the stool next to the kid.  As he reached it, he made sure to jostle his prey while ordering a shot of Jack.  Naturally enough, the boy turned and eyed the Trucker.

 

The cold, calculating killer ignored him, at least for the moment.  But out of the corner of his eye, he could see the way the boy was checking him out.  In fact, he could almost literally feel the punk’s hot, lascivious gaze sliding up and down his powerful body.

 

The kid was taking the bait.

 

The Trucker finally turned and acknowledged the boy, letting his glance flicker over the kid’s slim, firm body.  The boy blinked, looked up into the Trucker’s face and gulped.  “H-hey, man, wh-wh-what’s up?” he stammered, trying to give a show of insouciance and failing miserably.

 

The older man gave the youth a friendly smile. The little piece of shit was hooked.  Time to play with his catch a little before reeling him in.

 

“Hey,” he rumbled casually in his deep bass voice.  “Just checkin’ things out.  What’s up with you?”

 

The punk’s lips must have gone dry; he literally licked them before replying.  “Just looking for some fun,” he said, recovering a slight measure of nonchalance.  “Name’s Zach…”

 

Here he broke off and peered up at the Trucker closely.  “You look familiar,” he said questioningly.  “Are you a model?  You do porn?”

 

The well-built alpha chuckled pleasantly.  “Naw, man, I ain’t done no porn—“  He broke off, remembering the video of him snuffing the stripper.  “Well, nothin’ you seen, boy.”

 

As he expected, this aroused the kid even more.

 

“So you done something?” Zach asked eagerly.  “What’d you do—play a cop?  That outfit is so fuckin’ hot…”

 

The Trucker laughed.  “No, I didn’t play a cop.  But I can.  Why—you want one?”

 

Here Zach hesitated, embarrassed.  He blushed, then muttered, “No, not a cop…”  The punk turned his reddened face away for a moment.  He seemed to consider for a moment before shrugging his discomfort off and turned back to the Trucker.

 

“Naw, I don’t want a cop.  I wanna jail guard.  I spent three months in juvie—it don’t matter why—and there was this one guard who’d let me suck him off.  He was so damn hot, I’da let him do anything he wanted, but that was all he’d do to me.”

 

Grinning bashfully, he shook his head, flicking his black ponytail.  “You’re even hotter than he was.  Can ya be a guard with a prisoner at your mercy?”

 

The effort to control himself forced the Trucker to dig his fingernails into the surface of the wooden bar.  “Yeah,” he said evenly, “yeah, I think I can do that.”

 

He turned to fully face the boy, standing in such a way that the enormous erection tenting the chinos in his crotch was instantly obvious to Zach.  The young slut again lost his cool, gasping aloud as he gazed on the evidence of the older dude’s ability to give him everything he wanted.  Forcing his eyes away, the kid found them drawn to a glint of light at the stud’s waist.  Peering closer, he could see the rounded metal arcs of handcuffs peeking out of the stud’s pocket.

 

That was it.  That was all that was needed.  The Trucker had landed his catch.

 

Time to take the fish back and clean it.

 

The Trucker could see that the fucker was still nursing his beer.  “Ya might wanna get somethin’ stronger than that horse piss before I go Attica on yer ass, boy,” he chuckled.

 

Zach’s face, pockmarked with adolescent acne, flushed red again.  “I-I can’t, dude.  I’m only eighteen.  The bartender slips me a Bud or two cause I suck him off sometimes, but they won’t serve me here.”

 

“Well, damn, bitch, yer gonna need something stronger for sure.  I gotta fresh bottle of JD back in my hotel room.  Let’s have ya hit it, then I’ll hit you—ha!”

 

The kid lit up at the suggestion.  “Fuck yeah, dude, let’s go!” he chirped giddily, slamming the remainder of his beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

 

Zach followed the Trucker out of the bar and across to the motel as eagerly as a puppy; if the young cunt had had a tail, he’d have been wagging it.  His tall Nike hightops padded quietly on the pavement, the sound completely covered by the older man’s heavy footfalls—not that there was anyone to hear.

 

It was past midnight in a small country town; most of the action was already inside the bar (or one of several straight bars in town).  They were able to reach the room without being seen by anyone, not that Zach paid attention.  But the Trucker did.

 

The Trucker opened the door and went in, flicking on the lights as he entered.  He stepped to the side to allow the boy to enter, then closed the door behind him, making certain that the self-locking latch had connected properly.  Again, Zach paid no attention, seating himself on the bed and looking around.

 

The alpha crossed to the bathroom and grabbed a couple of disposable plastic cups.  He handed them to Zach.  “Here,” he said, “get that wrap off them while I get the bottle.”  He allowed a slight gruffness into his tone, noting how the boy seemed to shudder at the ring of command in his voice.

 

The little cocksucker liked to be dominated.  He liked to be forced to obey.

 

So it was time to give him something to obey.  He grabbed the cups from the kid.  “Now strip the bed, boy.  Next time I look at it, I don’t wanna see nothin’ but the bottom sheet, ya hear me?”

 

The Trucker turned away from him to get the whiskey bottle out of the nightstand, which was probably a good thing; the sadistic killer was unable to completely hide the look of malevolent glee that crossed his face.

 

He opened the bottle and  filled the cups,  each about half full.  They were eight-ounce cups; each had the equivalent of four shots.  Turning around, he was pleased to see his order had been obeyed; everything had been swept off the bed into a pile on the far side of the room; the kid was sitting on the edge of the bed, his tight black jeans highlighted by the dingy, off-white fitted sheet.

 

The Trucker handed one of the cups to Zach.

 

“Here’s to yer jail rape, dude,” he grinned, “here’s to a fuck so long and hard you’ll remember it for the rest of yer life—no matter how long that is.”  He bumped the rims of the plastic cups together before tossing back the entire cupful.  He steeled himself as the smoky amber liquid coursed down his throat, setting his blood aflame.  He cleared his throat twice, shook his head, and set the cup down, staring expectantly at Zach.

 

He knew damn well Zach hadn’t had much in the way of hard booze before, not if he was already known at the bar.  He didn’t seem to know what a large amount he’d been handed, and he didn’t want the hot cop dude to think he couldn’t take it.  Without hesitation, he shot back all four ounces as well.

 

Well, not as well.  Not well at all, in fact; it took a moment for it to hit him, then he fell to his knees with his hands at his searing throat, coughing and crying.  His face was bright red and he was gasping like he’d drunk acid—but he didn’t puke.  He kept the booze down.

 

“That’s it, boy,” the Trucker chuckled.  “Don’t puke.  Ya know what happens if ya puke in jail, dontcha, bitch?  Ya gotta lick it up!”

 

Even as Zach tried to control his choking, he could feel his cock stiffening in his groin, painfully restrained by his tight jeans. This was it; this was the real deal.  This hard motherfucker was gonna treat him like the pig he was.  He couldn’t fuckin’ wait.

 

And that was when the alcohol hit.  The Trucker had been right; Zach wasn’t used to that amount of liquor—certainly not at once.  The boy tried unsteadily to rise off his knees.  He put his hand out to the nightstand for support but kept missing it, his hand grabbing at air.

 

“C’mon, bitch, stand up,” the muscled strongman snapped, stepping forward and jerking the boy upright by his arm.  Once on his feet again, Zach grinned up at the Trucker.  The pockmarked teen was only attractive in his youth, his smooth slim body.  His face was slightly rounded, with a weak chin and large, bloodshot brown eyes.  His nose was crooked and slightly snub, and his long black hair was coarse and stringy.

 

Ain’t no one gonna miss this one, the Trucker thought.  And after all, he was at the height of his attraction now; really, it was a mercy to waste him.

 

Of course, the Trucker’s method wasn’t going to be merciful, but that was beside the point.  The worthless little faggot needed to be taught a lesson and the powerful alpha was gonna make sure the cunt learned it if was the last thing the boy learned on earth—which it would be.

 

But for now, he was willing to take his time, to play a little.  And he was curious to see just how far he could go before the cumpig realized that his fantasy was becoming a snuff.

 

“C’mon, punk, get outta that shirt,” he barked, “ya know the drill; I gotta search ya, make sure you ain’t got no weapons.”  Zach complied right away, pulling the tight red t-shirt up over his head and shaking his ponytail free.  He stood facing the Trucker, swaying drunkenly, his soft, smooth skin glistening faintly with a thin sheen of sweat as his chest heaved in excitement.  The long, swollen ridge in his groin, wrapped tightly in black denim, pulsed visibly as the teen gasped raggedly in lust.

 

“Up against the wall, boy, NOW!” the older man shouted suddenly, “assume the position!”  Startled, the kid jumped, but instantly did as he was told, wheeling around and placing his palms flat on the wall.  Then the Trucker approached.

 

The muscle-bound alpha pressed himself against Zach’s back, leaning in to whisper.  “Gonna frisk ya, bitch—and if I find anything, I’m gonna do a cavity search.”  With that, he placed his large, strong hands on the teen and began to fondle him.  He wrapped one arm around the boy’s chest, holding him in place like an iron bar while he shoved the other hand down the front of the kid’s jeans.

 

The Trucker grabbed hold of Zach’s long, throbbing cock and began to twist it and squeeze it, slowly increasing the force until the youth was whimpering in pain.  Floundering in a haze of lust and alcohol, Zach found himself unable to break free; with each brutal wrench of his scrotum, he could feel his tormentor’s huge pecs bulging in effort, pressed against his back.

 

The young cockpig loved it.

 

“F-fuckin’-A,” he slurred, moaning ecstatically, “yeah, dude, I’ll be yer fuckin’ prison bitsh.  Use me, you fucker…”  He broke off in a breathy gasp, shuddering with pleasure.

 

Without saying a word, the Trucker let go of the boy’s dick and withdrew his hands.  With a sudden, practiced movement, he jerked Zach’s hands around behind his back and had them cuffed before the boy even realized what had happened.  Even when he did realize, he was too incapacitated by the booze to do much.

 

He stood and swayed, staring blearily at the Trucker as the latter slowly unbuttoned the cop’s tan dress shirt and tossed it on the floor.  Next, the older stud unbuckled his thick leather belt and unsnaked it from his tight waist, hanging it over the headboard of the bed.  Only after all this was complete did his pull off the thin white cotton t-shirt.

 

If Zach had been less drunk, he might have recognized that amazing chest, broad and muscled with dark wiry hair; it had certainly drawn his attention the last time he’d seen it.  Unluckily for him, the alcohol was interfering with his sense of danger to such an extent that even the sight of the dogtags nestled between the alpha’s hubcap-like pecs didn’t send up a red flag.

 

“C’mere, faggot,” the Trucker snarled.  “C’mere and work my chest, you jailyard cumslut.”

 

Zach approached the brawny sadist slowly, almost hesitant to touch the Trucker for fear that his fantasy would pop like a bubble.  The Trucker grunted with impatience.  He reached out and snagged the teen by one of his ear studs and brutally yanked him closer, making Zach cry out in pain.  But before he could yelp again, his face was being ground into the alpha’s chest; the older man’s fur scraping at his skin like steel wool.

 

“Work it, cunt, get yer tongue out and work it!” came a vicious hiss.  Zach did as he was told, running his tongue along the dude’s skin, slurping up a heady salty mix of mansweat and pheromones.  The teen’s adolescent body, already in a ferment of hormones, went into overdrive.  He felt the hard metallic edges of the dogtags slicing against his face—painful, but too dull to break the skin.

 

As Zach knelt to run his tongue down the length of the Trucker’s rippled abs, his own young, slim body was flooded with testosterone and adrenaline.  When the buff alpha pulled the boy back up to his feet and forced the kid’s face into his pits, the youth was pressed against him and he could feel the hot rigid shaft in the punk’s crotch.  “C’mon, ya fuckin’ jailbait, work my pits good,” he growled, “show me how ya keep yer cellie clean.”

 

The Trucker abruptly stood up straight and, grabbing Zach by the upper arms, threw him down onto the bed on his back.  The boy drew a sharp, surprised intake of breath.  His eyes opened wide as the Trucker loomed ominously over him and, bending down, grabbed the fly of Zach’s jeans.  A single rough, swift jerk undid the button; the loose zipper came down immediately.

 

Another couple of jerks and the Trucker had peeled the jeans off the kid completely, turning them inside out as he shucked the boy like corn.  There was a slight ripping sound as the cuffs were forced over the heels of Zach’s Kobe X’s, but a little extra tightening of his bicep was enough to power through the resistance.

 

Zach didn’t protest the damage to his pants; he was both too drunk and too horny to care.  Despite the former, he was able to demonstrate the latter with no doubt; his own dick had bobbed up ecstatically the moment it was free from the confining denim, slapping against his flat belly and spattering precum like a fine rain, the drops of which were caught on the soft brown fur surrounding his navel.

 

“Fuck, man,” the horny young punk moaned, “you got me in cuffs, you can lock me up and do what the fuck you wanna do to me…”

 

Nude but for the Nike hightops laced above his ankles, Zach’s smooth skin gleamed with the slight film of sweat worked up by his sexual ecstasy.  He writhed in erotic helplessness as the heavily-muscled stranger towered over him.

 

“Do me,” the teen gasped, almost involuntarily.  “Stick it in me…”  It was obvious that his rational mind was shut down, overpowered by the hormones rampaging through his slender but firm body.  The adolescent faggot wanted dick.  He wanted it rough, and he wanted it now.

 

The Trucker was only too happy to provide.  But not yet.  He’d left a pack of Marlboro Reds on the dresser.  Wheeling abruptly on the heel of his boot, he walked across the room and took a moment to light one up, completely ignoring the desperately randy youth shuddering on the bed.

 

Turning back, he could see that the little fuck had raised his head.  Whimpering faintly, the kid was gazing at him with a look of raw sexual hunger.  Zach was actually right—the Trucker could do whatever he wanted to the teenager.  No one could stop him.

 

His grin deepened, giving him a predatory, carnivorous look.

 

The Trucker approached the bed again slowly, his incredible body rippling with menace.  He exhaled a cloud of smoke over the boy before placing the cigarette, still lit, on the nightstand. Reaching down to his groin, he lowered his own zipper.  His massive dong was too large to fall out of the trooper’s tight beige chinos on its own; the Trucker had to reach in with both hands to extract the thick, pulsing tube of meat.

 

Drunk and horny as he was, Zach blanched when he saw the monster cock emerge, throbbing and dripping.  Things were long past the point of him having the power to object, though, even if he hadn’t been swamped in teenage horniness.  But when the older man bent down over him, the youth lost whatever trepidation had penetrated his whiskey-fumed haze.

 

His large dark eyes greedily drank in the alpha’s broad hairy pecs as they got closer.  For a moment, he was distracted by the jingling dogtags before looking up to the stud’s scruffy face, hard and handsome, with icy blue eyes…

 

The punk’s reverie was shattered as the Trucker grabbed him by the arms and yanked him roughly, positioning him so that his head was at the head of the bed.  Instantly, the sadistic strongman was on the bed on his knees, his large callused hands pressed against the boy’s smooth, firm thighs and forcing them apart, then lifting them.

 

Before Zach knew it, he was staring fuzzily at his Nike Kobe Xs, kicking the empty air over the Trucker’s shoulders.

 

“Yeah, cunt, ya liked gettin’ fucked in juvie, huh?” the Trucker sneered, gripping his dick in one hand like a club and slapping it into the palm of the other, spattering as much precum on Zach as the randy teen had himself.  “Ya liked bein’ backed into a corner and gettin’ raped?  Hell yeah, boy, I’m gonna shag ya like a prison bitch, you fuckin’ sack of shit!”  Zach laid his head back on the bed, shuddering in bottom pig pleasure.  He never saw it coming; he didn’t see the Trucker aiming his gigantic cock right at the kid’s tender pink fuckhole.

 

He damn sure felt it.

 

The adolescent felt pressure against his sphincter—a pressure that swelled to excruciating pain in the blink of an eye.  It happened so fast that Zach couldn’t breathe.  The slim youth looked up at the Trucker with tormented, watering eyes as he gasped like a dying fish, unable to catch his breath from sheer agony.

 

The searing, white-hot pain of ripped flesh and torn muscles slashed through the mist of alcohol in his brain.  His desperate hyperventilation seemed to go on forever; he was forcing his air out with a high-pitched panicked whine that didn’t give his lungs enough time to absorb oxygen.  As darkness mercifully closed in on the nightmarish physical shock he was experiencing, Zach seemed to see, without quite registering it, a cold, cruel light of lust illuminating the alpha’s eyes without thawing their cold steel-blue tint.

 

The Trucker spent the next couple of minute raping the kid’s motionless ass.  Unconsciousness caused the boy’s muscles to relax; his sphincter, torn and bleeding, gave way at last, allowing the Trucker to penetrate deep into the punk’s colon.

 

Zach came to slowly, moaning and blinking.  The horrible spearing pain in his ass was still there, but now he could feel the pulsing immenseness of the muscled stud’s rod plugging his rectum.  The powerful man was bearing down on him with each vicious thrust of his hips; the handcuffs binding the slut’s hands painfully crushed between his back and the stripped bed.

 

“Dude—“ Zach managed to wheeze out.  “Y-yer hurtin’ me…please stop, man, lemme just…just…”

 

“Shut up,” the Trucker snarled, “ya wanted to get fucked like a prison bitch?  You got it, cunt.  I’m gonna use you like fresh meat and the more ya squeal, the more I’m gonna ream out yer hole like the jailyard pig you are.  Trust me, you worthless piece of shit, I know how to make you hurt.”

 

Tightly gripping the youth’s slim hips, the sadistic killer held him down on the bed and drilled the kid’s mangled fuckhole, his powerful thigh muscles flexing and bulging with each excruciatingly deep pump of his shaft.  Zach tried to protest but the violence and pain of the assault left him unable to speak; he could only stare beseechingly into the cold, contemptuous face of his tormentor.

 

The cruel alpha smirked at the pain-wracked adolescent writhing on his dick.  “Guess what, faggot?” he hissed malevolently.  “You’re locked in with a killer—just like prison, huh?  Ya got what ya want; is that fuckin’ hot or what?”

 

Zach was still trying to figure out how his greatest fantasy had morphed into an excruciating nightmare.  The actual meaning of the Trucker’s words took some time to sink in.  When they did, they hit a brick wall of deliberate incomprehension.

 

“No…you c-can’t…you haven’t…” the teen squeaked in a high, terrified pitch.

 

The Trucker leaned down and rested his body full length on top of the boy, sweat-streaked skin to skin, full length.  The punk’s legs twisted painfully to the side as the weight of the older man’s well-built body crushed him; the dogtags digging into the kid’s heaving chest.

 

From this position, the Trucker’s hard-edged, masculine face, twisted with rage and sick lust, filled Zach’s field of view.   “Yes I can,” the sadist whispered icily.  “And I have.  Right here.  Look around ya, boy—you ain’t gonna be the first homo cunt I wasted in this room.”

 

Again, Zach’s face was blank; the teenager was either too frightened or simply too stupid to understand the allusion.  Not that it bothered the Trucker—he was looking forward to enlightening the cunt.

 

“I knew you were a worthless pansy slut the first time I laid eyes on ya,” the brawny, powerful sadist growled.  “Or the first time you laid eyes on me.  Just another disgusting faggot who wanted my body.  And since ya couldn’t keep yer homo trap shut, you’re gonna get my body—all up in your guts.”

 

A dim light of recognition glinted in Zach’s shocked, terrified eyes.  That face, that broad hairy chest—he had seen them before; in fact, he’d gone home that night and jerked off until he was sore over the memory of them.

 

This was the hot guy from the truck stop; the one who’d asked about the bar.  He’d come back in a couple of hours later, bare-chested, sweaty, hot as all fuck…

 

…and that was the night that cheap-ass rent boy got the shit beat out of him.  Kid was raped and strangled, in this motel…

 

The Trucker watched the horrifying realization dawn on the boy. The panic in his victim’s face made his dick, sunk deep into the teen’s rectum, pulse and swell.  He knew exactly what thoughts were running through the punk’s head.

 

“This room, dude,” the Trucker whispered with malicious cruelty as one hand crept towards the head of the bed.  “That spot on the wall where I frisked ya?  They fixed it good—I threw that cunt into it so hard he went through the sheetrock.  Slammed the motherfucker through the TV, too.  Thieving queer-ass cocksucker tried to steal my wallet, so I fucked him to death.”

 

He drew back his hand, now clutching the belt he’d left over the headboard, without once allowing Zach’s wide, shock-rimmed eyes to escape from his own terrifyingly hypnotic gaze, at once white-hot with lust and ice-cold with killing rage.

 

“It took him a long time to die.  And it hurt—I made sure of that.  When he finally died, he was grateful to escape the agony.”   The Trucker lowered his face down to Zach’s, so close that his dark scruff scraped against the boy’s cheek as the alpha whispered into his ear.  “And all he did was to try to steal my wallet.  You squealed about me to the cop.”

 

He pulled back and raised himself up so that he was kneeling over Zack, his enormous shaft still jammed up inside the frightened teen’s smooth body.  He held the belt now in both hands, letting the import of both his words and the leather strap sink in.

 

“The cop, yeah?  You remember him?  I raped and tortured him to death, too.  I took my time with him and left his baton jammed up his ass.  You’re the last loose end—and the one with the biggest lesson to learn.”

 

Zach understood.  He knew what was about to happen, and why.  He also knew that there was nothing—absolutely nothing—he could do to evade the brutal violence he was about to endure, but this didn’t resign him to his fate.

 

In a moment, the teenager went into full reflex mode, his lean but muscled body thrashing and flailing in blind panic.  He wrapped his legs around the Trucker’s firm, hard flanks and squeezed; the alpha responded by slipping his arms under the teen’s legs and hoisting them back onto his shoulder, where the punk’s Nike kicks flailed uselessly in the air.

 

Zach was in too much fear to be able to cry for help or even scream effectively; he gibbered and squealed like a stuck pig, spittle flecking his thick lips.  As his sweat-streaked body writhed on the bed, his terror was so strong that a stream of piss was shot out of his long cock, even though it was still semi-erect from the adolescent hormonal overload.

 

The Trucker glared down at the helpless, fear-maddened teenager.  “Stop squealin’, you stupid motherfucker,” he barked in anger.  “You don’t even deserve to die on my dick, you faggot piece of shit; I shoulda just offed ya.  But I wanna drain my balls, and since I gotta snuff ya anyway, I might as well dump my load in yer ass as I take ya out.”

 

Zach’s first panic had faded, simply because he didn’t have the energy to sustain his frenzied thrashing.  “No…no…you…no…” he moaned quietly.

 

“Shut the fuck up, cunt,” the Trucker said evenly as he drove his fist into Zach’s jaw.  The boy gave a deep, instinctive grunt of pain as his mouth slammed shut and he bit through his tongue.  The vicious alpha spit into the face of the suffering youth, the phlegm sliding down the kid’s smooth cheeks and mingling with the blood leaking out of his mouth.

 

Stunned, awash in agony and sheer terror, Zach inhaled deeply.  He’d found his voice again; even though no conscious thought was involved, his animal midbrain realized that the only way to survive the next hour was to get help by alerting others.  He didn’t know he needed to scream; it was going to happen anyway.

 

The Trucker knew he needed to scream, though, and he wasn’t gonna have it.  Zach had stopped inhaling and had opened his mouth wide to shriek, when it all came to sudden halt.  Instantly, a thick band of crushing pain circled his throat, and he couldn’t scream.  He couldn’t breathe.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Nothing.  Nothing he could do.  He wrung his hands in the cuffs underneath him, the sudden panic overriding the pain as the case-hardened steel tore cruelly into the tender flesh in the small of his back and bloodily flayed the skin from his wrists.  Nothing.  That pain around his throat—it was the belt…

 

Still fucking the boy’s torn asshole, deeply and intently, the Trucker focused his eyes on Zach’s face and watched him start to die.  The kid continued to kick and writhe as he fought for his short, wasted life; all that the youth’s frantic struggles accomplished was to give this killer’s cock a nice, vigorous massage.  As he twisted and jerked, he burnt though his oxygen even faster.

 

His face swelled and darkened, turning purple—and so did his dick.  The teen could feel his own erection, but the sensation was lost in the horrifying agony of strangulation.  As his throat was compressed, Zach’s eyes, wide with terror, started to bulge.  He could feel his tongue swelling, too—it seemed to fill his entire mouth.

 

The worst pain of all was still in his ass, though—that was the truly nightmarish part of Zach’s situation; he wasn’t only forced to suffer the pain and violence of a slow murder, he also had to endure the pain and violence of a vicious rape.  It was too much.  It was overwhelming.  His weak adolescent psyche crumbled under the onslaught of the attack.

 

The Trucker had no intention of letting him slide into a catatonic haze, though.  He wasn’t done with him—not by a long shot.  “You stupid motherfucker,” he contemptuously taunted the dying teenager, “this is what happens to dumbass squealin’ cocksuckers.  Only reason yer still alive, faggot, is cause you ain’t milked my cum out.  Does it hurt, you worthless cunt?  Ya want me to stop it?  I’ll end your useless homo life the second I fill your guts with sperm.”

 

He gripped the belt forcefully, straining his biceps as he tightened the strap around the boy’s neck.  Bending down, he spit into the kid’s distorted, blackening face as he sneered, “When it hurts bad enough, you’ll wanna die.  Make me cum, slut, and I’ll stop the pain and the fear.  C’mon, you worthless fag, drain me and die”

 

The helpless, choking youth could feel the rigid stiffness of his own dick.  Even as his lithe, smooth body convulsed and kicked, he was still gruesomely aware of his own throbbing erection.  As Zach twitched beneath him, the Trucker could see that the teen was swiftly going under.  He kept up the tension in the belt; the room filled with the musk of sex and sweat, forced out of his bulging muscles by the effort.

 

Suddenly the punk went rigid, his stiff dick bobbing up, its oozing head smacking wetly against the alpha’s rippled abs.  His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but blood-streaked whites under fluttering lids.

 

He was edging—literally.  Zach was trembling on the brink of irreparable brain death.

 

The Trucker grunted in anger.  He wasn’t even close to cumming.  Worthless little faggot couldn’t even make him shoot as he died.

 

Ok, so it wasn’t time for him to die.  The Trucker slackened the belt; after a couple of convulsive gurgles, Zach began to cough uncontrollably, blood-spotted mucus from his damaged throat splattering his cheeks.

 

The powerful sadist, his hard, heaving body glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, remained looming over the gasping adolescent, his monstrous shaft still jammed deeply into Zach’s guts.  He stopped pumping, though, taking a moment to let the boy wake up.  The Trucker wanted him conscious again before starting the next round.

 

And anyway, the fuckmeat was still desperately trying to catch his breath; in his struggles, he was working his killer’s shaft pretty damn good on his own.

 

The traumatized youth slowly clawed his way back into consciousness; the pain flooded in as he gradually came to.  The dark lividness of Zach’s drool-smeared face drained away while his breathing slowed slightly—it was still rapid and ragged, but he was no longer gasping violently in an attempt to stave off brain death.

 

The kid’s fuckhole was still gripping the Trucker’s thick tool like a fist in a velvet glove, but it was no longer jacking him off.  On his shoulders, the hard-bodied top could feel the high fabric tops of Zach’s Nikes, resting now as opposed to flailing in the air, but still trembling perceptibly.  With his arms still wrapped around the boy’s legs, the silky-smooth flesh of the latter’s inner thighs was pressed against his rapist’s sweaty, powerful flanks.

 

Finally, the boycunt recovered his voice—barely.  “P-pl-please…” he croaked, “I-I can’t…don’t…”

 

“You stupid piece of shit,” the cruel, hulking brute sneered in reply.  “I ain’t done with ya yet, cunt; you ain’t made me cum yet.  Ya know what that means, meat?  It means you ain’t learned your lesson yet.  You ain’t suffered enough yet.”

 

The belt was still wrapped around Zach’s neck; no longer crushing his windpipe, it was still sunk into the skin.  With a deliberate intent to cause pain, the Trucker viciously jerked it free from the punk’s throat, flaying the skin underneath.  Zach was still too weak to do more than shudder and make faint mewling noises, as much in fear as in agony.

 

The Trucker passed the end of the belt through the buckle, making a loop, and slipped it back over the boy’s head.  Now he had a slipknot leash to pull the kid up with one hand.

 

He did so.  The other hand he used to deliver a driving roundhouse punch to Zach’s face; the immediate result was a wet smacking sound, a deep involuntary grunt of pain and the faint crunching sound of the teen’s cheekbone breaking.

 

“Fuck yeah, you worthless cocksucker, that felt good, dinnit?” the muscle-bound alpha chuckled gleefully at his helpless prey.  “Ya musta really liked it, cumpig; yer reamed-out ass worked the head of my shaft great—that what it’s gonna take, huh?  You a pain pig, cunt?  Damn, fag, ya shoulda said so!  Hell, I’ll give ya all ya want!”

 

Zach was wedged into an excruciating position—his slim, firm torso brutally yanked up by the loop of leather around his neck, his arms twisted agonizingly behind his back while his expensive kicks had slipped from the Trucker’s shoulders but were still caught in the latter’s arms.  The only part of the boy still touching the bed was his ass—and the Trucker’s huge, rigid cock was still plugging it.

 

Zach retreated mentally; the sheer horror that the knowledge of his helplessness, his utter inability to prevent or evade whatever nightmarish torture this sexual psychopath wished to inflict on him, plunged him into a state where he was capable of little more than response to stimuli.  His fogged attention, like an animal’s, focused blearily on bright, shiny objects, which was how Zach found himself staring at the Trucker’s dogtags, jingling against the latter’s hard furry chest, as the tortured teen homo wallowed in agony.

 

The Trucker could see the blank, stunned look in the eighteen-year-old kid’s eyes; it was the look of a youth who had been subjected to an unexpected and shockingly violent assault.  The sadist’s powerful body was filled with a strong urge to overwhelm and destroy the boy, to literally fuck him to death.

 

He braced himself by extending one leg, planting the glossy brown boot on the floor and tensing his thighs, making them bulge visibly in the tight beige chinos he still wore.  He channeled his sexual rage into his fist, driving it into the side of the kid’s head with such explosive savagery that he lost his grip on the belt—he’d literally knocked the little fuck right out of his own hand.

 

Zach’s head whipped to the side, flinging his dark ponytail behind as his skull hit the nightstand with a loud crack.  The impact toppled both the lamp, which fell to the floor and broke, and the bottle of Jack, which stayed on the stand.  The amber-colored fluid splashed across the flat surface, drenching Zach’s hair and adding a distinct smoky scent to the pheromone-laden air.

 

“Goddam it,” the Trucker muttered in the deep, guttural growl of a predator, “that shit cost more than you’re worth, you miserable pansy.”  He leaned down and whispered into the ear of the semi-conscious teen, so close that even in his deep, pain-wracked haze, he could feel the killer’s wiry scruff as it grazed his cheek.  “You owe me, cunt; how ya gonna pay?  Huh?”

 

Then the Trucker paused.  At this distance he could see the studs in the kid’s ear much more clearly; there were three—and the top one had a slight sparkle.

 

“Motherfuck—ya been holdin’ out on me, boy.  Bad mistake.  If that tiny chip is real diamond, it might cover the cost of my booze.  Maybe.  Lemme take a look.  If it’s real, I’m gonna take the other one too.”

 

He spread his huge hand out and placed it on the side of Zach’s head; placing all his weight on that arm, he forced the kid’s head down onto the nightstand with such power that the unfortunate youth was already mewling with pain when the Trucker started fondling the top stud.  He held the ear between two fingers, one looped about the stud, the other around its back.

 

Then, with a single tremendous jerk, he tore the stud out of the teen’s ear.

 

The sharp agony of ripped flesh snapped the tormented adolescent out of his catatonic state; he tried to scream but could only push out a high, thin shriek that spiraled into a croak.  His bloodshot eyes, huge and darkly ringed by shock, were riveted on the Trucker, who was examining the stud under the light on the other nightstand.

 

The pain in his ear, now throbbing with his pulse as blood flowed from the wound, was so severe that he even managed to forget the gigantic rod that even now was still skewering his torn colon.  But what he couldn’t forget was his own erection; his dick was so stiff as to be downright painful.  He didn’t know how it could still be so hard after all he’d suffered.

 

It never occurred to him that he liked it.  On some level, he wanted and deserved it, but he could never have admitted it.

 

And whatever he desired, pain overrode the physical and fear the mental aspects.  No matter how hard he got, how close he came to shooting his wad, he was still going to fight death to the very end.  He wouldn’t submit, no matter how much he wanted to.

 

The Trucker didn’t give him the choice.

 

Repositioning his big cop boot on the thin carpet, he shifted his muscled mass and pulled Zach back upright on the bed by the belt around his neck.  Reaching around to the other side of the punk’s head, he ripped the top stud on that side out too.

 

This time, the response was much stronger.  This stud had been torn from the side of the punk’s head that had been drenched in whiskey; the alcohol burned like fire as it trickled into the open wound.

 

Zach screeched like an ape, twisting and shuddering violently.  His black Nikes kicked the air behind the Trucker’s head—until the kid made the mistake of jerking one leg in and kicking the Trucker right in the side of the head.

 

“Ok, meat, that’s it.  Yer done.”  Enraged, the powerful alpha yanked the belt in a whip-like motion, unexpectedly snapping Zach’s head down and to the side so that it smashed back onto the nightstand.  Except it didn’t—it smashed into the half-empty whiskey bottle and shattered it, shards of glass slicing open the skin at Zach’s temple.  A jagged edge left on the base of the bottle left a shallow—but long and painful—slash across his cheek.

 

Instantly, the teen was jerked back up into position, his rectum rotating on the Trucker’s engorged tool.  Scrambling his pricey kicks, Zach drew his legs up and, planting his feet on the older man’s rippled washboard abs, pushed himself off the bed—and off the Trucker’s cock.  The smooth young teen, half-insane with fear, threw himself on the thin, cheap carpet, bleating in terror as he tried to wriggle away from his killer.

 

The Trucker had grunted with surprise at the blow, but otherwise didn’t make a sound.  He simply stood up and strode towards Zach, his powerful muscled form looming over the nude youth.  Flat on his back with his arms twisted behind him, the kid was still erect despite the pain from his mangled ears, and slashed head, all still bleeding.

 

But as the Trucker towered above, Zach shot another golden stream of piss involuntarily across his firm, smooth chest, already glittering with sweat.  The teenager was lost in a rising tide of doom; turning his head to the side, he could see the shiny finish on the tall cop boots.  His eyes traveled up the legs, muscles visibly bulging through the skin-tight sand colored chino trousers…

 

…and above that, a huge shaft of meat, dark, throbbing and oozing—and streaked with blood.  His blood.

 

The heaving, furry chest above, dogtags lying between the broad, hubcap-like pecs…and above that, the face…that face.  That hard face, the cold, cold rage in those eyes that showed there would be no mercy, no remorse, nothing but the desire to inflict as much pain as possible.

 

In his mind, Zach screamed; what came out of his mouth was a feeble gurgle.

 

The Trucker trembled with rage as he glared down at the worthless fag who dared to defy him, to try to escape the consequences of his actions.  The tall, well-built killer bent over slowly at the waist, extending his hand and reaching out to the helpless boy who cowered and sniveled in terror.  The muscle-bound stud grabbed the end of the belt that was still looped around the kid’s neck.

 

Standing up, the half-nude alpha continued to raise his arm as if he was doing curls with a set of weights.  As the bicep on his arm flexed with the strain, the Trucker lifted Zach up off the ground and held the slim young teen dangling in the air.

 

The boy kicked weakly, his Nike hightops dancing in the air as his own weight tightened the leather strap around his neck and cut off his breath.  Struggling uselessly as the incredibly powerful older man literally hanged him by holding him in the air, the sweaty, shuddering punk was nonetheless aware of his own dick slapping wetly against his firm, flat belly as he thrashed and choked.

 

The red-tinted blackness that filled Zach’s bewildered mind had the effect of focusing his attention on the hard, chiseled face of his assailant.  It was somehow getting him even hornier; he could feel it even as he felt consciousness slipping away.  That strong, hard jaw, that jet-black goatee surrounded by fainter fuzz—a five o’clock shadow of gunmetal blue that darkened the sadist’s cheeks—and those eyes.  Again, those eyes—so blue, bright with a light that curiously combined the heat of lust and rage with the calculating coldness of an experienced killer.

 

And then Zach was snapped out of it.  In fact, he was damn near snapped out of life forever.  With the loud, snarling growl of a vicious predator, the Trucker whipped his arm to the side.  The belt popped like a whip as the teenage boy flew through the air and slammed into the wall so hard he blacked out for a moment.

 

But it was just a moment; as he blinked and tried to breathe—the impact hadn’t loosened the leather noose enough for him to inhale—he could feel death approach in the heavy tread of the boots on the floor behind him.  He was lying near the far wall of the room, facing it, his back to the room.  Turning his bulging eyes up, he could see the huge dent his body had made in the drywall.

 

As the boots paused, directly behind him, Zach had a brief flash of clarity—and memory.  Something this hot, erotic, cruel, brutal psycho…something this dude had said…the other guy.  That whore.  He’d been killed in this room—but he’d been beaten into hamburger first.

 

And part of that beating had put him through the wall too.

 

Once again, despite his huge and painfully throbbing erection, Zach lost control of his bladder to such an extent that the stream of urine that shot out of him hit the wall and splashed the teen with his own piss before he was hoisted into the air again, his slender young body jerking and kicking.

 

The Trucker sneered contemptuously at the choking boy.  The muscles in the powerful alpha’s arm were knotted with the strain of holding the kid up off the ground, but it was worth the effort to watch his expensive Nike kicks flail as they desperately sought some support to relieve the crushing pain in the suffering punk’s throat.

 

Then, in a lightning-swift motion, the strongman flung his helpless young victim across the room again.  In his suffocating haze, Zach felt a brief giddiness but was mostly unaware of his flight.  He was aware when it was interrupted, though, the impact of smashing headfirst into the flatscreen TV piercing through his dying fog.

 

This time, when he landed on the floor on his back, the belt noose loosened.  His lungs, full of useless carbon dioxide, emptied immediately with a loud sound somewhere between a cough and a grunt.  Much like before, his esophagus had been so badly crushed and traumatized that the expelled breath was accompanied by bloody mucus.

 

The Trucker approached.  He stood over his victim, his cold, stony gaze taking in the sight of the raped and tortured youth.  While his prey stared at the ceiling with wide-eyed shock, gasping violently, the vicious sadist took pleasure in letting his enormous cock jut out over the shuddering, sweating teen.  Large clear drops of precum welled from the slit in the center of his purple, engorged mushroom tip; they fell at random, sprinkling the writhing adolescent with his killer’s bodily fluids.  “Stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker said in his steely bass voice, his cold even tone more frightening than any screaming or ranting could have been.

 

He bent down.  Zach saw him coming.  He was completely and utterly unable to prevent whatever was coming; all he could do was gasp and try to inhale as much oxygen as possible in case it was cut off.

 

It was.  Instantly.  The Trucker snatched the belt again.  This time, there was no admiring, gloating dangle for the meat; the teenager experienced swift motion and terrible, slashing pain, but was too traumatized to realize he’d been thrown into the dresser and had shattered the mirror.   The glass slashed at the smooth, soft skin on his back but, like his encounter with the whiskey bottle, the injuries were agonizing but not serious.

 

When he fell to the floor this time, he landed face down.  The majority of Zach’s attention at this point was absorbed in trying to breathe; it was few seconds before the faint crunching sound of boots grinding glass into the carpet seeped into his awareness.

 

The Trucker was stepping on the remains of the mirror as he moved towards writhing prey.  Without a word, his huge muscled body moving with startling swiftness, the older man snatched the lithe, trembling teen, not by the belt this time, but by his long black ponytail.  For a single horrifying moment, Zach was suspended by his hair and felt his scalp starting to tear before the Trucker threw him on the bed.

 

Actually, threw him at the bed.  Zach smacked face-first into the headboard before rebounding and rolling back; he ended up nearly in the center of the mattress but turned ninety degrees to the orientation of the bed.  His long, smooth legs hung over the side, hightops not quite touching the floor.

 

On his back again now, he could look up and see the hulking form of his torturer towering implacably over him.  The powerful stud’s vicious sadism was obvious in his massive, throbbing cock, jutting proudly over the trapped youth and oozing a steady stream of transparent precum.  Above that, the psycho’s furred and heavily muscled torso was heaving, a faint sheen of sweat making his hard body glisten.  The stony, merciless look of cold masculinity on the handsome face was accented by the icy glitter in the eyes.

 

Zach looked into those eyes and he knew—no matter what type of personal hell he was gonna endure in the next few minutes, there would be no return from the silent darkness this time.  Death was staring him in the face.

 

But Death was gonna fuck him first.

 

Hoisting the kid’s legs, the Trucker dropped the punk’s Kobe X Elites on his shoulders and shoved the thick purple head of his shaft against the boy’s torn, quivering sphincter.  At the first hint of pressure, Zach moaned in terror and writhed, trying to wriggle away from the huge tool about to penetrate him.

 

And yet, with all the pain and the fear, the hormone-fueled adolescent still felt the overwhelming physical lure of the hard-bodied older man.  The funk of mansex and pheromones that pervaded the room so densely that it nearly coagulated into a visible fog that intensified the young slut’s sexual dilemma.  Zach’s own dick was hard and pulsating and he didn’t know why.  But as the Trucker lunged at him again, the boy couldn’t spare the time to worry about it.

 

“P-please…” the battered youth gasped faintly, “I-I’ll do any-anything…use me…hu-humiliate me, I w-won’t tell anyone…”  Here the slender kid gave way.  Stupid little piece of shit that he was, even he could figure out that tonight was gonna end with him taking a dirt nap.  He burst into tears.  “D-don’t kill me, man, p-p-please, I won-won’t tell anyone but don’t k-kill me, please, man, oh fuck, oh please—“

 

The Trucker’s sole response was an evil grin that spread slowly across his sexy masculine features. Zach saw it and understood, instantly breaking into loud, hysterical sobs as he went into panic mode.  The older stud decided that the meat needed something else to think about than becoming meat.  With a single powerful, brutal thrust, he plunged his monstrous vein-wrapped cock all the way up the teenager’s ass, tearing the sphincter and mangling the colon.

 

Eyes so wide with pain and shock that they seemed about to pop out of his head, Zach’s sobbing spiraled up into a frenetic shriek of agony.  “Shaddup, faggot,” the Trucker barked, popping the unfortunate punk in the jaw one last time before cinching the belt down on his neck.  The cunt’s scream was instantly throttled off into a wet gagging sound.

 

Wrapping the thick leather strap around his hand—so he could control the tightness of the noose while keeping one hand free—the Trucker flopped forward, his heavy, powerful body crushing the slender youth beneath him.  Zach’s legs, propped up on his assailant’s shoulders, were compressed back towards his body until his knees were resting on his chest.  And the weight of both males on his arms, still cuffed around his back, was excruciating.

 

The last few minutes of Zach’s short, wasted life were filled with unimaginable pain and terror.  He was pinned under the sheer physical bulk of his killer, feeling the alpha’s hard muscles flexing against him on a light lube of sweat as the older man continued to plunge his enormous shaft deep into the boy’s torn, bleeding guts.  The alpha’s wiry body fur scraped against the teen’s soft, silky flesh like steel wool.

 

The Trucker jerked the belt tightly.  His dogtags, laying on the meat’s smooth firm chest, were dislodged by the violence of the fucking; they slid up to Zach’s neck and slipped, jingling, into the depression circling his throat, caused by the leather garrote.

 

At this distance, the twisted sadist could enjoy the effects of the strangulation in detail.  As the slim, dying teen writhed beneath him, the cunt’s cock stayed hard as it slid on oily sweat between two flat, firm bellies pressed together in desperate, brutal sex.  His confusion was obvious, even on his swelling, darkening face.

 

“Ya don’t get it, do ya, you stupid cumsuckin’ fag?” the cruel, powerful top sneered.  “Yer lovin’ this shit.  You fuckin’ bottom pain pig, you love gettin’ plowed, dontcha?  Yeah?  Ya fuckin’ love gettin’ put down like the cheap cockslut you are—fuck, dude, lookit how hard ya get when yer gettin’ snuffed like a useless homo cunt!”

 

Zach’s body, slender but strong with youth, was wracked and contorted with pain.  The thick leather strap embedded in his neck was a constant source of agony—and the wretched punk, twisted in the nightmarish pain of slow, tortuous death, found the crushing torment in his windpipe less painful than the tearing, rending pain in his colon as his cruel, evil killer fucked him swiftly and brutally.

 

Zach’s black Nike kicks were twitching in the air behind the Trucker’s head; his current helpless position rendering them impotent as weapons.  As his bloodshot eyes bulged grotesquely, forced from their orbits by the pressure building inexorably inside his skull, he could just barely make out the crimson trademarked swoosh jerking and twitching in the distance.

 

Inches away, the Trucker admired the teen’s black face, swollen and distorted beyond measure.  He found the adolescent slut’s suffering erotic and, determined to draw out the torture as long as possible, let a little slack into the leather strap around the young whore’s neck.  Zack was allowed a single brief gasp of fresh oxygen to momentarily clear the death fog clouding his mind before his throat was clamped off again.

 

“You stupid cumsack,” the powerful alpha whispered into the ear of the dying teen, so close that the teenager writhed involuntarily with pleasure at the scrape of his killer’s scruff across his cheek, despite all the pain and horror.  The screaming, pounding silence that was filling the empty spaces of his pathetic cumslut soul was not yet loud enough to drown out the cruel taunts of his killer.

 

“You made me do this,” the psycho strongman hissed at his helpless young victim.  “You talked, you pansy-ass cunt.  You did this.  Does it hurt?  Good!  I want you to hurt.  I want you to die in fuckin’ agony on my cock, you disgusting faggot.  You wanted a prison fuck, you punk-ass bitch?  Fuck, dude, you got death fuckin’ row!  Now die, you fuckin’ homo meat; milk me and suck up my spunk like a sponge.  Best thing anyone can do to yer worthless fuckmeat is use ya as a cumrag and throw ya in the dump like the fuckin’ garbage you are, motherfucker!”

 

With a snarl, he jerked his arm, making the thick leather strap squeeze the queerboy’s throat shut.  Zach was sinking back into the stimulus-response phase of imminent death, but this time there would be no recovery.  The quivering youth hadn’t been able to take much advantage of the brief respite he’d been given; his contorted position—bent double with his killer’s muscled bulk crushing him into the mattress—had made it difficult for the semi-conscious punk to suck air.  He’d gasped and slobbered in panicked asphyxiation, but he hadn’t been able to get enough oxygen to stave off brain damage.

 

Zach had heard the Trucker and understood him, but just barely; the sadistic stud’s cruel taunts were the last words the brutalized teenager would hear in his life.  As his brain died, the universe contracted into a cold darkness.  Zach’s last five minutes of life slowed to a crawl.  Rational though all but ceased; the suffering boy was sunk in a pit of sensation—of pain.

 

He was vaguely aware of the powerful alpha pressing down on him; he could still feel the hairy thrusting form on top of him.  He could hear—without understanding what he was hearing—the deep, ragged breathing and strained grunts of the dude who was fucking him and killing him.  A faint memory of start of the evening flickered like a guttering candle in the dying kid’s mind…the hot cop, the booze—even now, he still reeked of whiskey—the erotic click of the cuffs behind his back…

 

The last truly conscious emotion to pass through Zach’s mind a fleeting sense of despair, like the plaintive bleat of a slaughtered sheep. Then the physical took over and the teenaged faggot was submerged in a crimson wave of pain.

 

It hurt.  The young punk’s smooth, slim body was wracked with agony, with an excruciating torture that shorted out his nervous system to the point that it was unable to discern pain from pleasure.

 

From inches away, the Trucker watched the face of the adolescent cumslut swell and darken.  Blood still leaked from his mutilated ears and his cheek, but it was sluggish and too thick to flow much.  Zach’s battered face was twisted into a grotesque, unrecognizable mask.

 

Wrapping the belt around his hand for greater control over the meat, the Trucker jerked the strap brutally, causing it to sink deeply into the boy’s neck.  The gay bottom boy went rigid, his swollen purple lips parted by his protruding tongue, forced out on a lube of foamy drool that trickled down the teen’s smooth cheeks.

 

The indefatigable power top continued to plow the dying kid’s ass.  Even as he murdered his victim, the timing of his thrusts wasn’t thrown off by a single thrust; his huge horse dick kept plunging deep into the meat’s fuckhole like it was being rammed by a piledriver.

 

It was getting a good workout, too.  The Trucker was vaguely aware of the Nike basketball shoes flailing randomly in the air behind his head as he kept the cunt’s legs propped up on his shoulders, but the little fucker, his body pinned into position by his larger, stronger killer was convulsing violently on the inside.

 

The Trucker grunted with pleasure; he realized the stupid piece of shit must be suffering nightmarish intestinal cramps for the punk’s guts to polish his knob so vigorously.  Zach’s own dick didn’t give the impression of pain; quite the opposite—it slapped, oozing and throbbing, between the two heaving, writhing male bodies, smearing precum over the teen’s flat smooth belly as well as the Trucker’s furry rippled abs.

 

The dogtags bounced off Zach’s flat, firm chest repeatedly before slipping off to the side where they occasionally added a faint jingle to the quiet, desperate sounds of sex and death.

 

Zach’s youth worked against him, prolonging his suffering until  the oxygen had been completely wrung from his quivering body.  In the end, even the physical started to fade.  The teenaged faggot no longer felt the pain from his limbs, twisted agonizingly in their sockets.  He couldn’t feel his eyes, bulging and rolled back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites showed under his fluttering lashes.

 

By a cruel neurological twist, though, he could still feel his rectum being savaged.  The erratic electrochemical bursts in his dying brain conveyed nothing more than a long thick hard shaft viciously impaling his innards; there was nothing left to process the concept of rape, of a throbbing vein-wrapped cock plunged up his boycunt.

 

In a way, it was a shame.  Zach was getting fucked exactly as he wanted; roughly, by an amazing muscled alpha who bound him and mounted him ruthlessly.

 

By the time the end came, Zach was past all sense of the irony of the where and how of his murder, past all fear—in a sense, past all pain.

 

The Trucker had a lot of experience of putting sluts down; he recognized the way the adolescent’s convulsions had lost their rhythmic tempo and slipped into spasms that were more intense but also more erratic.

 

Fuck, it felt wonderful.  The silky flesh of the teen’s guts sliding over his engorged mushroom tip while the motherfucker’s colon gripped his shaft like a fist—the worthless squealing cumpig was finally learning his lesson.  He was getting exactly what he deserved, the disgusting piece of homo shit.

 

The Trucker could feel the sperm boiling in his balls.  He was close; he just needed one last thing—he needed to know that the firm, smooth, slender teen had truly died on his cock.

 

One last brutal yank on the thick leather belt and the sociopathic sadist was rewarded.  The young kid’s esophagus collapsed with a loud cracking that was instantly followed by an even more intense and erotic snapping sound, like the splintering of green wood.   With a single powerful movement, the Trucker had crushed Zach’s windpipe and broken his neck.

 

The very last thing Zach experienced in his useless cumslut life before the searing electrical blast of bone shards slicing into his spinal cord sent him into screaming cold eternity was an eruption of searing heat in his groin.  In an instant, his existence shrank to the white-hot wire of pain/pleasure that ran along the underside of his cock; almost immediately, a similar agonizingly hot feeling, akin to molten lead, was pumped into his ass and up his guts, a last scorching sensation of heat as he slipped into frigid dark death.

 

The Trucker spent the next minute shuddering and spunking, filling the dead teen cunt with his sperm.  As his hulking muscled body jerked and shuddered in violent orgasm, he was vaguely aware of the teen’s thick, ropy cum splashing across his broad, hairy chest.  The hormone-laden adolescent was so full of semen that his corpse spewed a steady stream of pearly jizz for at least thirty seconds straight, catching both shuddering, sweating male bodies in a rain of glistening spooge.

 

Long after he’d emptied his balls of seed, the Trucker found himself still fucking and cursing at the convulsing sack of boymeat.  Regaining a measure of control, he took a deep breath and pulled his still-pulsing cock out of the corpse.  Getting quickly off the bed, he let Zach’s legs flop back, spread wide, one landing on the bed.  The other leg hung off the side, the Nike hightop just barely touching the floor.  As the body twitched, the expensive kick scuffed a ragged furrow in the thin cheap carpeting.

 

The Trucker felt a little rubbery after his explosive release of anger and semen; he staggered back to the dresser for his smokes, finding the pack undamaged from the earlier violence but surrounded by glass.  Lighting up a Red, he turned back and admired the gruesome scene.

 

Zach was still trembling; erratic spasms rippled the muscles under his smooth, sperm-glazed flesh.  Above the splayed legs, the teen’s long dick was still semi-erect, a faint trickle of pearly ooze leaking from the head onto his flat belly.  A pool of cum was congealing in the shallow smooth valley between the slight mounds of the youth’s pectorals.  The arms, of course, were still twisted behind the corpse’s back.

 

Taking another drag on his cigarette, the Trucker vaguely wondered if keys to official law enforcement handcuffs were universal across states or agencies or some other way.  If not, the coroner was gonna have a fun time; the keys had gone out the cab window somewhere on the other side of the state line.

 

Above the chest, things got ugly.  The thick leather belt was sunk so deeply into the boy’s throat that the Trucker had no intention of trying to retrieve it—something else for the coroner to enjoy.  And above that, the face was still swollen and congested with blood; the lividity would slowly drain away but that process had not yet begun.  As a result, Zach’s face bore no trace of his usual expression of slack-jawed adolescent lust.  Instead, it spoke eloquently of the torture the kid had endured, the agonizing pain and nightmarish terror in which the teenager had died.

 

The rolled-back eyes gave a blank white stare while the tongue, livid and swollen, still protruded from between blue lips.  The punk’s smooth cheeks were streaked with drool, snot and blood, but none of the wounds were bleeding anymore; even his mangled ears had stopped seeping.  At least one wasn’t; the other was hidden by the youth’s ponytail coiled beside it.

 

Even the room attested to the horrific violence of the teen’s murder.  The broken lamp and the shattered whiskey bottle—still adding its heady scent to the musky, smoky atmosphere of the room—were just the start of the physical destruction; the Trucker had deliberately targeted his violence towards the parts of the room he’d destroyed on his earlier visit.

 

After all, that was why he’d placed his clothes in the dresser drawer.  This time, they wouldn’t be covered with glass.

 

The buff older man picked his way across the debris-strewn floor and got the bag containing his clothes.  Snatching his pack of smokes as well, he crossed to the bathroom.  Soaking a hand towel in warm water, he wiped the dead teen fag’s spunk out of his body fur.   Wadding the towel up, he tossed it into the toilet before sitting down, pulling off the knee-high boots and stripping himself from the beige chinos trousers.  Just for the fuck of it, he rolled the latter into a ball and dropped it in the toilet as well, first fishing the diamond-chip studs out of the pocket.

 

It took just a minute to wriggle back into his familiar tight jeans and snug cotton t-shirt; it took even less to slip the trucker cap back onto his tousled black locks, slick with sweat.  Since his tube socks had never come off, he simply stepped into his scuffed work boots and left them loosely laced and untied. He pocketed the studs, picked up his bag and the cop’s boots and walked out of the bathroom.

 

Approaching the bed, he decided to add one bit of artifice to the naturally-posed scene.  He left the still-trembling corpse with one boot placed upright on the face and one on the groin.  He had no doubt they’d topple and perhaps dislodge before the body was found, but it didn’t matter.

 

It was dark and still outside.  The Trucker moved slowly along the pavement to the edge of the property, where he could walk along the edge of the blacktop.  That way, his boots wouldn’t thump with each footfall until he reached the street.  Not that there was anyone watching, of course, but avoiding attention immediately after a snuff was innate to the experienced sexual sadist by now; it was how he avoided capture for so long.  But loose ends like that little piece of shit needed to get what they deserved—which was sliding down the Trucker’s cock into their graves.

 

The muscled hardman grinned coldly.  He started whistling as he strode back to his rig.

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.

“One.”

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

“Two.”

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.

“Three.”

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…

“Four.”

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.