M4M4Greek

Joe wasn’t worried about breaking lockdown.  After all, it wasn’t like his job allowed him to practice social distancing, and it was damn sure essential.  When the government needed him to do a job, there were no excuses.  But Joe didn’t use a gun and the only other was to neutralize a target silently and swift was to get up close and personal.

 

So the thought of venturing out for some R&R didn’t bother him.  And he was sure that there was some dumb fag out there who was just as willing to ignore his own safety to get some dick.

 

That was just what he wanted—young dumb fagmeat.  Much as he enjoyed getting paid to off dudes, he always appreciated the chance to do it on his own time so he could drain a load into the fucker as it died.  And it seemed the younger the homo was, the more it wanted cock.  Probably raging hormones, he figured.  Didn’t matter, as long as there was one available.

 

There was always one available.

 

He spun through the hookup apps on his stolen phone.  He’d have to remember to take the one belonging to his next cumdump; he’d been using this one too long.  It didn’t take him too long to find some prospective meat.

 

“Looking for hookup RIGHT NOW

–18, 5’10”, 132lbs.  Home alone @ Kappa Tau frat house, brothers at formal.  Want 2 get plowed but u gotta cum & go by 11”

 

It was accompanied by a torso shot, a lean, firm swimmer’s build with muscle but not overly developed.  A second photo showed a hard stiff boycock rising eagerly from a tangled mass of dark pubes.

 

Joe responded with a shot of his own chest.  Letting the image of his swollen pecs and ripped abs, covered with wiry fir, do its magic, he started to dress.  He’d just slipped into a tight pair of jeans, comfortably worn and faded, when the phone pinged.  The little homo slut had responded.

 

And he hadn’t been kidding; he wanted Joe to come to the frat house.  Seemed he was a pledge who’d drawn the short straw and was left to watch the house when everyone else went to the formal.

 

And he was a virgin.

 

Joe got the map location and slid his feet into his big black pair of Chippewa loggers, tucking the jeans into the wide, untied boot tops.  Over this, he pulled on a navy-blue compression t-shirt that emphasized his incredibly well-developed upper body.  Slipping the keys to the Camaro into his pocket, the last thing he did before he left was tie a bandanna around the lower half of his face.

 

It was jet black with a skull’s grin.  He strode to his car, dark erotic death stalking the night.

 


 

The frat house was two blocks from the college, over on Ramsdale Street.  Ramsdale was more or less the Greek Row for the local campus of the state college.  About half a dozen frat houses—and half as many sorority houses—were located on it, in what had once been large, upscale homes.

 

The Kappa Tau house was no different than the others, except it was dark and quiet.  A two-story white Colonial, from the front it bore a striking resemblance to the Cunningham’s house on “Happy Days.”  But Joe, who’d parked on the next street over and had slid noiselessly though the shadows, was to go around to the back.  The gate was open; once past it, he found himself in a paved area with a large swimming pool.  A wing of the house extended down one side of the pool area and wrapped around to the back—there was a lot of space inside.

 

He knocked at the rear door.  An overhead light flashed on and the door opened.

 

The boy who opened it was young and cocky.  Well, maybe he wasn’t, but he was unlucky enough to have full lips which formed a natural pout and large emerald-green eyes circled by long dark lashes.  With his prey’s dark bangs sweeping low across his forehead, his pert snub nose and smooth white cheeks with a faint down on the upper lip, barely visible, Joe felt his cock pulse and throb in his jeans.

 

On opening the door and finding Joe looming over him with his leering mask, the boy flinched.  Then he blushed and grinned embarrassedly.  “Nice mask.  C’mon in, my room’s this way…”

 

He led the way through a large kitchen fitted with industrial appliances.  Out in the hall, the were passing a dimly-lit game room when Stu paused at the doorway to dark, cavernous media room from which a deep bass hum was coming.

 

“Hang on, someone left somthin’ on,” he said, then darted in.  There was a click and the hum stopped.

 

“Assholes,” he muttered, emerging form the darkness, “I drew the short straw, so I gotta housesit while they go off and party…”

 

“Everything’s closed,” Joe said quietly as he followed the kid up the stairs.

 

“Yeah, they’re all over at Mikey’s.  His folks got a huge place over on Conover—you know, in that gated community?  And since the hotel cancelled the reservation, the bros decided to move it there.  Fuck, I bet they’re having a blast—his folks are in Colorado, y’know.”

 

Joe didn’t know and didn’t care, but it explained how bunch of fratboi douches could hold a formal in the middle of a lockdown.  And without any nearby authority figure to shut it down, the buff serial killer figured he’d have plenty of time for some nice brutal foreplay before he finally snuffed this bitch.

 

He kept close behind the kid, the boy’s ass at his eye level.  He glued his eyes to the tender rounded buttcheeks, tightly wrapped in denim, as they flexed in front of him.  The punk was in a bright yellow t-shirt and his jeans were so pale and worn they were a faint sky blue.  His Nike Air Force 1 hightops were nearly the same shade.

 

At the top of the stairs, the kid turned left and opened the first door on the left.  Flicking on the overhead light, he unapologetically led Joe into the most stereotypically filthy dorm room he’d ever seen.

 

He already knew that most of the assholes associated with the fraternity came from wealthy families; the detritus in the room confirmed that fact.  There were the usual piles of beer bottles pizza boxes, and dirty clothes—but the beer bottles were imports and craft beers, the pizza boxes were from local gourmet parlors, not the big chains, and the wadded-up clothing included designer jeans and expensive dress shirts.

 

Stu caught Joe’s glance and had the decency to blush.  “Yeah, since they cancelled classes, we ain’t done too much.  See, my dad says he’s spending enough for this place and I might as well stay here.  Most of the guys have heard something like that from their folks.  It’s fucking great—we eat and drink and party, an’ don’t even gotta go to class!”

 

The boy crossed the room, pulling his shirt off over his head as he did so.  He missed Joe’s contemptuous smirk behind his back, but by the time he turned and face his guest, Joe was taking his own shirt off, revealing his huge, hairy chest, so much more developed than Stu’s smooth, lithe torso.  The well-built sadist shook out his shirt—his bandanna had come off and gotten caught in it—before laying over the back of a chair.

 

Stu’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of Joe’s chest; it was one thing to have seen a photo but for the virgin slut to have such a stud in his actual presence was more than he’d hoped for this evening, and he was willing to abandon all caution in his near-mindless lust.

 

“Well?” Joe barked gruffly, “Strip, fucker.  I wanna see what I’m gonna be stickin’ my dick in.”

 

The young homo damn near wriggled with pleasure at the command.  Joe’s disgust at the worthless cocksucker rose in proportion to his need for sexual release.  It was a combination that invariably had horrific consequences for the object of Joe’s attention.

 

Stu was on the verge of learning that, but he was too horny to pay attention to any red flags.  He kicked his Nikes off and shimmied his way out of his jeans, his long, thick boycock swinging ponderously from side to side as he did so.  He was generously endowed, six inches already and only semi-hard.

 

It was nothing compared to Joe’s meat, though, and the hardbodied fagkiller thought it was time for his prey to see that for itself.  He unzipped his fly and hauled out his throbbing, erect cock, maintaining eye contact with Stu the entire time.  The boy wanted to look but couldn’t bring himself to break the older man’s hypnotic gaze; he already knew he would do whatever the man asked of him.

 

Of course, he had no idea how much was to be asked of him.

 

Then Joe chuckled and blinked, letting the boy drop his eyes and behold the enormous tube of manflesh that was going to be rammed up his ass.  Stu gulped.  He reached a slightly shaky hand up and swept his dark chestnut bangs from his eyes.

 

“That’s—I, uh, I mean…” he faltered.

 

“What’s wrong, boy?” Joe asked, his deep basso silky smooth as he leered at his prey.  He reached down and began unbuckling his belt.  Stu hadn’t noticed the inch-wide strap of black leather circling the older man’s waist before, and there was something somehow sinister about the stud’s action.

 

“I, uh, I ain’t never had no one up in me before,” the fratboi said tremulously, his expression suddenly wary.  He took a step back.  “That, um, your—your dick, I mean, it’s, uh, it’s so big, and, and, I’m just not sure…”

 

“You backin’ out, boy?” Joe asked, giving his voice an edge.  Just a little one.

 

Stu gulped again, loudly this time, and blushed.  “It’s not that, it’s just…it’s, uh, it’s—”

 

“It’s what, faggot?” Joe asked.

 

The fratboi reacted to the word as if he’d been slapped.  Despite his own obvious desires and everything he’d initiated, he couldn’t acknowledge it out loud, especially not with that word.

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” he cried out, so angry he was almost in tears.

 

Joe threw his head back and laughed, a deep, manly vibrato of derisive amusement.

 

Something snapped in Stu’s head.  Had he been experimenting with someone similar to himself in physique who’d happened to call him a faggot, Stu might have become a sex murderer himself.  A red haze of anger filled his mind that focused his attention and his rage on Joe; he launched himself at the older dude he’d invited over for sex.

 

Joe was surprised the kid had it in him.  He wasn’t surprised in a literal way, his training prevented him from ever truly relaxing.  He was always prepared to be attacked—and to kill in self-defense—at all times.  He could kill coming out of a sound sleep.

 

A pissed-off rich little frat punk wasn’t a threat.  Joe had his belt off by now; as soon as Stu got within reach, he lashed out, cutting the boy across the face with the doubled-over leather strap.  The teen meat fell to his knees, clutching the dark angry welt on his cheek and squealing like a bitch.

 

“Wha—wha—” Stu moaned when suddenly he heard Joe laugh.  It was that same deep laugh of supreme satisfaction.  As the fratboi kneeled, his eyes downcast, Joe’s Chippewa boots came into view.  Reluctantly raising his eyes, Stu ran his gaze up the stud’s thickly-muscled legs in tight denim to the huge jutting tackle—he had to skip that; it led to imagining what it’d be like in him but there was no way that could happen without causing him permanent damage.

 

Above, though, those furry washboard abs and the broad hubcap pecs with the thick nipples standing out in silhouette, and then that cold, confident, masculine face leering down at him, obviously enjoying his pain…how had this happened?  He’d just wanted a little fun…

 

And then the older dude raised his arm again, the one with the belt.  Stu’s eyes kept rising, following the upward arc.  As it paused, he whimpered, but did nothing to protect himself.

 

It was a bad call.  Joe had no mercy in him; this blow was more vicious than the first.

 

Stu squealed like a pig as the thick leather belt slapped across the side of his head, knocking him to the floor where he lay cowering and cradling his aching skull.  Joe stood over the quivering pile of boymeat, leering and fondling his enormous rod.  He was anticipation plunging his swollen member into that tender young flesh when he noticed movement from his prey.

 

Stu was trying to crawl away.

 

Joe stood for a moment and let him go.  When he was about halfway across the room, the fratboi got up onto his hands and knees, the rounded, peach-like globes of his asscheeks pointed directly at the older man.

 

Joe couldn’t resist such a target.  Three quick steps and he was beating Stu’s ass mercilessly, the kid crying as his ass reddened and formed welts under the assault.  At some point it got to be too much; the punk rolled over and began to resist.

 

“Stop it!  Stop it!  Fucking stop it!!!” he screamed, when a well-aimed slash with the belt form Joe reminded the fucker that in rolling over, he’d exposed his balls to attack.  With a loud screech, Stu tucked back into a fetal curl, sobbing loudly.

 

Joe tossed the belt onto the bed.  His bloodlust, his need to dominate this little faggot, to force it to suffer and die for his sexual gratification, was rising to an uncontrollable point.  He approached the writhing teen.

 

In his pain and fear, Stu could hear the footfalls of Joe’s heavy boots get nearer.  He still didn’t know how things had gone bad, but it was obvious they had.  But he was a young and dumb homo with a limited imagination.  Stu had no idea that within minutes, if not seconds, what now seemed “bad” was going to appear as gentle as his mother’s caresses.

 

He got his first inkling when Joe began kicking him.

 

The Chippewa boots were steel-toed.  Everyplace they landed developed a huge black bruise—at the least.  Since the boy was curled up on his side, his back bore the initial brunt of the alpha’s attack.

 

“Ya fuckin’ little piece a’ shit faggot—how’s that feel, huh?  Goddam homos need to get kicked around a little, just to remind ‘em that they’re garbage.  Right, motherfucker?”  Every time his boot contacted Stu’s flesh, the boy jerked and cried out in pain.  Joe put a little more force into the next kick, catching the fratboi in the upper back, just left of the spine.  There was a muffled snapping sound and Stu’s next cry had a difference in tone and tenor that let the sadist know he’d succeeded in inflicting some internal damage to the pansy.

 

The kid rolled onto his back, his teen body heaving and covered in sweat as he panted, looking desperately up at his assailant.  “Pl-please, no…” he gasped, his dark eyes casting a beseeching gaze on the hardbodied killer.

 

“No?” Joe said with an evil smirk as he raised his boot, “Ya don’t like this?”  Driving his leg down with all the power his thick muscles could muster, he stomped Stu’s flat smooth belly, driving the sole of his boot down into the boy’s gut like a piston.  The sound the homo fratboi made as his lungs were violently and forcibly compressed was an extended, wheezing grunt, devoid of all consonants.

 

As he plunged his boot into Stu’s belly, Joe had leaned over, staring into the boy’s face, maintaining eye contact so he could enjoy not only the cunt’s pain, but his sudden, frantic fear as he found his diaphragm momentarily paralyzed by the sudden physical shock.

 

For about twenty seconds—the longest twenty seconds of Stu’s life, at least up to this point—the teen fag was unable to inhale.  He literally couldn’t breathe; it was the most terrifying thing he’d ever had to endure.  But it was more than a scare; it was an epiphany.

 

This dude could do this to him.  And if he could do this so easily and casually, what else could he do?

 

And it was at that point that Stu realized that he’d let the muscled stud do anything he wanted, anything, as long as he didn’t do that again.  Please, whatever happened, just let him keep breathing.  He clutched at Joe’s leg, one hand tightly gripping the unlaced Chippewa boot, the other higher up, clenched behind the stud’s knee like an embrace.

 

It wasn’t an embrace; it was desperate plea, and Joe recognized it for what it was.  He ground his boot into the cunt’s firm belly, leaving an exact image of the tread as a deep, black bruise.  Stu lay on his back, beating his curled fists on the floor as he tried to inhale.  Tears welled in his huge eyes as his face went red; then, in a loud and sudden gasp, his diaphragm stopped spasming and he was able to suck in air.

 

The muscled stud was laughing at him, standing over him with his huge jutting cock dripping with anticipation.  If it hadn’t been for the pain, Stu would have thought he was in a porno.

 

But he couldn’t ignore the pain; it hurt to breathe.  The sadistic alpha he’d invited over had kicked him hard enough to break one of his ribs, in the back.  The jagged edges of the bones ground against each other every time his chest expanded or compressed.

 

He’d been hurt.  This wasn’t some sort of mind game.  As Stu lay on the floor, looking up at the buff stranger, something else crossed his mind, something that he refused to recognize in full.  It wasn’t just that this scary motherfucker could do something as terrifying as stop Stu’s breath—it was that he might want to.  Blinking away his tears, the fratboi peered up at Joe with sudden terror in his eyes.

 

Joe was experienced enough as a killer to recognize the look; he pounced on the little fuck, clamping one hand around the boy’s neck like a claw and lifting the teen bodily from the ground, one-handedly, until the boy’s toes curled frantically in the air four inches above the dirty, scarred wood floor.  The cunt gazed in horror at the alpha, its hands clawing frenetically at Joe’s iron-tight fingers, to no avail.  He held it aloft, watching it choke.  It was time, he decided.  It needed to know its place.

 

“You know where this is goin’, dontcha.”  It was said as a statement, not a question.  “Yer gonna die.  Ya hear me, cunt?  You were put on this planet for me to use you.  The only value of your existence is in how hard you make me cum as you die.  You get it?  No?  Don’t worry, faggot, you don’t have to understand, you just have to convulse hard enough as you die to jack me off.”  With a grunt and a jerk of his massive bicep, he flung the fratboi into the wall hard enough to crumble and collapse a square yard of plaster.

 

Stu lay on the ground, not processing anything.  Part of him had known, of course; the scene had gotten too bad too fast for any other outcome.  This psycho couldn’t let him live, not after what had already happened.  But that part had also convinced itself that he’d be able to talk his way out it maybe.

 

Now he knew that there was no way to talk himself out of whatever what gonna happen next.  And then he heard the footsteps.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes.  He couldn’t bring himself to watch death approach.  And when Joe’s scuffed Chippewas strode into the narrow area of floor on which he’d focused his eyes, Stu snapped.  He tried to beg but started sobbing uncontrollably, then pissed himself.

 

“Christ, what a worthless goddam faggot,” Joe sneered, “I offed fourteen-year-old guards in South America who put up more fight than you, ya piece a’ shit.  Get up here.”  Grabbing Stu’s arm just above the wrist, he spun his shoulder and flung the punk onto the closest twin bed.

 

The privileged and entitled teen, now terrified and humiliated, saw Joe approach him, grinning malevolently and wielding his enormous shaft like a club, slapping it vigorously into the open palm of his other hand.  He knew that that huge rod was going to get shoved into his ass, and he would suffer, and he would die…and he suddenly felt something in his groin.

 

He was getting hard.  No, that wasn’t right.  It couldn’t be right.  But then Joe spoke.  “There ya go,” he chuckled malignly, “Fuckin’ homos always want the D, even when they know they’re gonna die.  Just can’t help it, can ya, cocksucker?”  Still in his jeans and boots, he climbed onto the bed and, planting his hands on the teen’s firm, smooth thighs, forced the boy’s legs apart.

 

“Here ya go, cunt,” he grunted, “This is whatcha want—fuckin’ take it, bitch!”

 

And suddenly Stu was full of cock.

 

It wasn’t like being stabbed or impaled; it was like being shot.  The massive, unlubed rod of manmeat had literally ripped open his sphincter and ramrodded its way through his colon and into his intestines before Stu even realized he’d been penetrated.

 

The teen’s eyes widen, huge dark circles of shock forming around them.  The circles were contrasted by the paleness of his face as the pain hit.

 

“Oh my FUCKING GOD IT—” [WHAM WHAM]

 

Joe cut off the meat’s scream with two quick punches to the face.  As it lolled and gurgled for a moment, shuddering in agony, he reached out and picked up the belt.  He looped it through the buckle, making a basic but effective noose.  Once he was done, he began plowing the teen’s fuckhole.

 

Stu, cowed by a black eye and bloody nose, had a sudden, vivid mental image of an industrial plumber’s snake up his ass, ripping out his guts.  He had no idea getting fucked could hurt so bad; this couldn’t have been what he’d wanted—but as his lithe young body was violently jerked by the brutal force of the rape, it was accompanied by the sound of flesh on flesh as his own hard boycock slapped against his belly and Joe’s.

 

Then Joe held the noose in front of his face.  “Time to die, fuckmeat.”

 

The fratboi panicked.  He knew what the noose meant; in an instant, his scrambling arms entwined with Joe’s as the punk tried to snatch at the instrument of his death.  Joe’s face twisted into an angry snarl; knocking the kid’s arms out of the way, he balled up his huge fist and raised it.

 

“Stop fightin’ me, faggot [POW]!  You want this [POW], you need this [POW] and goddam sure know you deserve it, you cumsuckin’ pile of fuckmeat [POW], so stop resistin’, motherfucker!”

 

As each roundhouse blow landed on Stu’s cheek or chest or jaw, his teen body jerked and went momentarily stiff, his ravaged colon clutching tightly at Joe’s engorged member.  The fratboi was responsive to the pain; it only made Joe more eager to begin choking the life out of the worthless little cumdump.

 

The worthless little cumdump was almost ready to allow it to happen.  The beating had broken Stu’s will; he surrendered.  His arms fell, twitching, to his sides and he didn’t react when Joe grabbed a handful of his long bangs to jerk his head up off the bed so the noose could be slipped over it.  He even felt the rough, rawhide-like sensation of the unfinished leather on the inside of the belt as it settled around his throat without reacting.

 

Then it tightened, and everything changed.

 

The pain of the sudden, crushing constriction of his esophagus was nothing compared to the terror provoked as his airway collapsed to barely a tenth of its former diameter, reducing Stu’s ability to breathe down to a laborious, drawn-out wheeze.  The punk’s eyes were huge with panic; he grabbed at Joe’s arms, his fingers clamped to his rapist’s biceps as if they were riveted, while his taut, smooth body arced and heaved under the stud’s weight.

 

As the fratboi jerked and spasmed, struggling tortuously to inhale, Joe leaned over, his rugged, unshaven face leering down at the helpless teen.  “I can feel my load about to boil over, bitch,” he grinned as his hard, taut body hunched and thrusted, plunging his huge shaft balls-deep into the virgin adolescent.  “Yer one lucky faggot, asswipe—you get to die so you can be my cumdump.  You want this; yer homo cock is hard as hell.”

 

And it was.  Stu’s long thick boycock was so stiff it ached; in his terror, he’d forgotten about it but, but now he could feel it again, being compressed between the firm flat bellies of two males locked in a violent embrace of sex, pain and power.

 

And death.  With a grunt and a brutal jerk, Joe tightened the belt around Stu’s neck and cut off his air completely.  The overprivileged fratboi found himself enduring his worst nightmare; something so horrifying he hadn’t considered the possibility of it happening to him before this terrible, surreal evening.

 

He lasted about thirty seconds.  Then Stu disappeared and the primitive animal emerged from the midbrain, engaging in the primal struggle for survival.

 

It might have been dangerous for Joe—if he hadn’t been a powerful, well-built, and highly experienced killer.  He knew what to expect from his fuckmeat; all faggots died pretty much the same way.  They fought it at first; they fought it hard.  It wasn’t till irreversible brain damage set in that they could let go of the desire to cling to their worthless little homo lives and work his dick like it deserved.

 

And in the end, they loved it.  Joe knew that.  Even the most useless cocksucker he’d ever snuffed had blown an enormous deathload as he ended its miserable existence.  This one wouldn’t be any different—but for now, it needed to be brought back under some control.  The stupid fuck wasn’t brain-dead enough to appreciate what Joe was doing for it and the kicking and clawing was getting annoying.

 

Time to remind the fucking cunt who was boss.

 

Jerking the belt noose tight with his left hand, the muscled mankiller began beating the fuckmeat’s face in.  As his huge right fist slammed into the punk’s once-handsome face, the faggot threw its arms up to block the devastating blows, to no avail.  As impact after brutal impact crushed the fratboi’s nose and knocked half his teeth down his throat, he was still suffering from oxygen deprivation.

 

It was more than the twink could handle.   His lithe young body wasn’t used to this level of abuse.  He continued to shudder and tremble, his velvety homo colon milking Joe’s gigantic, vein-sheathed rod, but the frantic panic-inspired thrashing slowly ceased under the vicious beating he was enduring.

 

Sweating and heaving, Joe finally stopped pounding on the meat.  He’d managed not to break the swift, rough tempo of his fucking even as he punched the living (just barely) fuck out of the spoiled rich kid.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he growled at the quivering, semiconscious pile of boymeat he was raping, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere but a long dirt nap, motherfucker, so stop fightin’ and work my dick!”

 

The boy’s face was ruined, beaten to a pulp and swollen beyond recognition.  His skin was black and his bulging, horror-filled eyes were dilating as ruptured blood vessels turned the whites to dusky pink.  His entire body began to move in rhythmic spasms; each one was accompanied by a thick, sickening grunt from the kid’s sealed-off throat.  And with every grunt, a streamer of foamy drool trickled down the dying fratboi’s chin.

 

“I’m getting close,” Joe suddenly muttered in a choked voice.  “Ya ready, you little piece a’ shit?  Ready to die on my cock like yer supposed ta?  Fuckin’ milk me as you kick off, faggot; this is yer only shot.  You were put here to make me cum as you die, you worthless spunkpig; do yer fuckin’ job and I’ll let ya rot in a ditch with my load in yer guts, yeah?  So come on, cunt, earn my seed!”

 

The hard-bodied alpha dug his Chippewas in for traction as he fucked the boy to death, the deep tread of the boots digging into the mattress as the brutal assrape made the twin bed bump and creak.  On top of it, the sweaty male bodies slapped together in a frenzied combination of bloodlust and brain death.  The shuddering sack of boymeat that had been Stu had slipped past the point of conscious thought with Joe’s taunts ringing in his ears; he fell screaming into the cold vortex of death knowing that everything he was suffering was so that a complete stranger could cum.

 

But the body wasn’t dead yet.  The heart still beat—wildly and ever more erratically, but it still beat.  The nerves still functioned; there was still enough gray matter left alive to suffer.  The meat could still feel pain, and still respond to it.

 

That was all Joe needed.  He was so fucking close, but he had to hurt the faggot one last time.

 

As the dying teen homo jerked and convulsed on his cock, Joe placed his hand over the meat’s face, pressing down on it, covering those blank bulging eyes as he wrapped the end of the belt a couple of times around his other hand.  Pressing down on the cunt’s head, Joe pulled back on the belt.  He looked down at the adolescent’s sweat-slick lithe body thrashing under him and grinned.

 

And in that last moment, the part of Stu’s brain that could still register sensation went hyperactive.  Everything, from the rough, wiry chest hair scraping his skin like sandpaper, to each individual vein encircling his killer’s gigantic cock as it tore through his rectum, was taken in by the agonized, dying fratboi.

 

Then, his massive biceps bulging at the effort, Joe jerked the belt, violently.  It was quick, brutal, and very effective.  By pushing the meat’s head and body down as he pulled its neck up, Joe not only shattered the kid’s cervical vertebrae, he severed the spinal cord from the brain, literally pulling it out through the hole in the bottom of the skull with a thick, gristly, cracking sound.

 

The teen’s taut body reacted instinctively to the massive nervous system trauma.  Already fully erect from a combination of overabundant hormones, remorseless prostate stimulation, and basic faggot horniness, Stu wasn’t mentally present to enjoy the massive deathload that spewed involuntarily from his rigid form.  In fact, with his spine ripped from his brain, he couldn’t feel anything at all.

 

That didn’t stop his dying nervous system from responding to Joe’s massive load.  As the muscled, booted killer clutched the teen’s thrashing corpse, he cried out, hoarsely and inarticulately, and hosed the fucker’s guts with his sperm.  Thick, hot jets of semen coated the dead fag’s rectum and intestines, the sudden warmth setting off another blast of spunk from the dead boy—huge, pearly wads that splattered and matted Joe’s thick chest fur.

 

The heaving hardbodied fagkiller spent the next five minutes shuddering and gasping, his enormous tackle still buried in the corpse’s ass as he randomly spewed his DNA, pumping and thrusting until his aching balls were completely drained.  Then he felt composed enough to extract his manmeat from the dead fratboi and get off the bed.

 

He paced around, looking for a bathroom so he could clean the homo spooge off his chest.  He finally found one—a connecting bath, shared with the two punks in the next room.  Used by four adolescent boys with no supervision, no self-discipline, and minimally-paid housekeeping, the room was so filthy that Joe went back to the other bedroom and snatched the dead fuck’s yellow t-shirt off the floor.  Returning to the bathroom, he used it as a washrag to clean the cum off, then tossed it into the disgusting toilet.

 

Tucking his rod back into his jeans, the hulking stud strode back into the killing room and picked up his own shirt and his bandanna.  Remembering his need for a new phone for his next fag hunt, he swiped the dead punk’s iPhone off the dresser and pocketed it.  He was about to head out when he remembered his belt.  He liked that belt.  He didn’t want to leave it behind.

 

Retrieving it was a bit difficult; it had been tightened around the boy’s throat to the point that the dead fuck’s neck had been compressed to about three inches in diameter.  Even after Joe managed to get the belt back through the buckle, the part that was still actually wrapped around the neck was embedded too deep for him to easily pull it out.

 

In the end, he dragged the still-trembling corpse off the bed, letting it tumble face-first onto the floor.  Then, placing his big black boot on the homo’s back, he was able to get enough leverage to pry the belt loose.

 

Looping it back around his waist, he had a moment to admire his kill.  The fratboi was huddled on the floor like a sack of garbage, partly turned on its side, its ass was pointed directly at the door, the cum and blood seeping from the shredded sphincter clearly visible from across the room.

 

Joe felt great; he loved his work, but he had to be quiet and efficient.  He couldn’t linger over it and savor it, the way he could when he put down fags just for the fuck of it, like this.  As he slipped on his shirt and head out of the room, he was a very happy sadist.

 

And a careful one.  He didn’t forget to tie his bandanna back on before he left.  After all, it was dangerous out there…

 


 

It was Ben who raised the alarm; he was Stu’s roommate in the fraternity.  He’d been one of the last ones to arrive back from the “formal”, and was no more (or less) drunk than any of the rest of them, but unlike the others, he’d decided to go up to his room to divest himself of his uncomfortable rented tux as soon as he got in.

 

The sound he made couldn’t really have been described as a scream; nonetheless, it got everyone’s attention.  A crowd of elaborately-dressed boys clambered up the staircase, to be met by Ben, stumbling down it.  He was ashen-faced, trembling, and damn near incoherent.

 

“Stu!” he moaned, pointing upstairs, “He’s…oh, fuck!  And he’s…oh, Jesus, he’s, he’s been—”

 

Realizing they weren’t going to get more out of him, the majority of the members headed up to confront the gruesome scene awaiting them.

 

For some time afterwards, confusion reigned in the frat house, except for one small room where Sam, Mark, and Ronny met.  Sam was the fraternity president, Mark the veep and Ronny was the secretary.  By rights, the treasurer should have been there too—but Ben was the treasurer, and he wasn’t very useful at the moment.

 

“Shit,” Sam muttered, “This is gonna get us shut down.  Sure as shit, you just watch.  And for a fuckin’ pledge, too!”

 

“When are we gonna call the police?” Ronny asked querulously.  “The longer we wait, the worse it looks!”

 

“I know that, asshole,” Sam snarled, “We’re waiting to hear back from Mark’s dad, remember?  He said he’d help us with any legal trouble.”  Suddenly, he rounded on Mark.  “He did say that, right?  And he’s gonna return your call, right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, he’s gonna call me back,” Mark replied, obviously nowhere near as calm as he was desperately pretending to be.  “But y’know, he’s gonna be asking about a lotta shit…they always do when a frat’s involved…”

 

“What kinda shit?” Sam demanded nervously.  “Whaddaya mean?”

 

“Well, he’s a pledge, and, well, y’know, frats have a bad name nowadays because of hazin’, and shit like that…”

 

“Yeah, well—” Sam started out defiantly, then fell quiet.  They all did.  They were all trying very hard not to think about the fact that their hazing ritual involved inserting certain…items…into the pledges’ anuses.  Depending on the inserter, the insertee, and the item being inserted, things had gotten carried away on occasion in the past.

 

As they sat in the darkened room waiting for a call from the lawyer, it occurred to each of the young men that Stu had gotten hazed a little early–and had ended up blackballed.

Boot Blackened Bitch

Teddy leaned against the lamppost and reached down to his groin, adjusting his meat.  Goddam jeans were too tight; he made a mental note not to wear them again.  Displaying the goods on sale was one thing; highlighting them to the point of damage was something else.  Last thing he needed was to cut off the circulation to his dick so bad he couldn’t get it up for a john.

 

He hoped someone would come along soon.  This part of the park was known for its boywhores and Teddy usually did a good trade here, but it was a slow night and he was jonesing for a bump.  He needed money.

 

Plus, he didn’t want to be hanging out here all night.  It was unusually cool for this time of the year, and he hadn’t thought to bring a jacket.  His clothing wasn’t well-suited to the chill in the air either; his thin cotton t-shirt offered nothing but a chart of Pokémon characters across its front as protection against the cold.  And while his feet were fine in his black Reebok hightops, the skillfully-done slashes above the knees of his jeans reveal his smooth, firm thighs—and also let in the night air.

 

In short, Teddy wasn’t in the mood to be picky.  Coming from a broken, dysfunctional home, he’d been whoring himself out for years, quickly learning how to take dick from and give it to all sorts of men.  If they had the cash, he’d do what they wanted—and sometimes, he didn’t demand much cash.

 

Tonight was different.  Charlie had a big batch of the good stuff and Teddy was amped.  Someone had to come along soon, preferably some fat old fuck who’d cum in forty-five seconds and hand him a wad of cash out of guilt.

 

When Teddy first saw the dude approaching him, he briskly rubbed his eyes.  The man was a fucking stud; he damn sure didn’t look like the type who needed to pay for sex—which meant he probably wanted something beyond the realm of normal sex.  Well, that was fine—as long as he could pay for it.

 

He was an older man, perhaps mid to late thirties. He was on the far side of the next streetlight, just inside the circle of light, and Teddy could see the guy was wearing a black leather aviator’s jacket that hung open and showed he wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath.  Even at this distance, the young slut could make out the stud’s washboard abs and huge pecs, dusted with dark, virile hair.

 

The man’s face was shadowed with scruff that faded back from a dark goatee around his full, yet somehow harsh mouth. He sported a black ball cap worn backwards; a hank of dark hair had escaped from under the brim and lay across his forehead.  His faded denim jeans were so tight that Teddy see that the dude was circumcised from nearly fifty yards away.  But the denim ended at the knee; below that, it was tucked into a pair of 20-hole Grinder Cs Derby leather boots, also in black leather.

 

Despite himself, Teddy found his dick getting hard.  That was a bad sign; this was business, not pleasure.  He’d charge the guy out the ass—literally—but damn, he hoped the john wouldn’t be into anything too weird.  He wanted to enjoy this.

 

The man kept coming.  He didn’t smile—in fact, his handsome face seemed hard and emotionless—but Teddy knew the dude was coming for him, wanted him.  Not that there was anyone else working this stretch of the street, but Teddy was pleased anyway.  Still, though, he better have money.

 

He paused four feet from Teddy; the slut had the chance to check him out and confirm his first impressions; the man was a serious stud, muscled and hairy.  This close, Teddy could pick up the heady odor of the john’s leather and the acrider scent of the dude’s testosterone, literally oozing form his skin.

 

“I wanna drain my load,” the guy growled abruptly, “You any good?”

 

“Make ya cum so hard you scream,” Teddy shot back, grinning insolently.

 

“How much?”

 

Teddy looked him over carefully, not from an erotic point a view but a mercenary one.  That jacket and those boots weren’t cheap.  “You c’n put it up my ass for two hundred.”

 

“Ok.”

 

“You got the cash?”

 

The older man reached in his pocket and pulled out a wallet—also in black leather, of course—and gave Teddy a quick peek at the wad of twenties tucked inside. “You gotta place?”

 

Teddy nodded his head to the right.

 

“What, up the alley?”

 

“Yeah, unless you wanna pop for a hotel room.”

 

“Naw—go on.”

 

Teddy turned and led the way into the dark alley, ignoring the dude’s muttered “Fuckin’ street whore…” comment.  He didn’t need to turn and see if the john was following him; the stud’s booted footfalls easily drowned out the faint sound made by his Reeboks on the filthy alley pavement.

 

About a third of the way down, behind a restaurant, was a dumpster.  Teddy had been here often.  Redolent of chicken scraps and rotting greens, it formed a perfect screen; the area on the far side got just enough light for johns to be able to find his asshole.

 

Unfastening his jeans, Teddy let them drop to his ankles, then turned to face the wall.  He bent forward slightly, placing his hands up against the rough bricks.  There was a pause as he waited for the fumbling at his buttcheeks that invariably occurred at this stage.

 

Except it didn’t.

 

“Take off your shirt,” the john growled.

 

Teddy sighed; he’d been afraid of something like this.  He reached down and pulled the t-shirt up over his head, then balled it up and stuck it down into the denim hammock formed by his jeans at his ankles; he didn’t want it on the disgusting alley concrete.  “Weird shit’s gonna cost ya extra,” he warned.

 

Sudden a pair of hand clamped Teddy’s hips tightly.  Without a word of warning or a sign of any kind, the john was suddenly deep in the whore’s ass, his enormous engorged head grinding relentlessly into the punk’s colon, tearing at its tender lining as it plowed its way into his guts.

 

Teddy had been fucked rough; he’d been fucked dry, too.  But it had never been by someone this incredibly well-hung.  The dude had a dick like a horse and the slut had been totally unprepared for it; the pain was shattering.

 

It took all his effort to keep from screaming.  He bit his tongue, savagely and deliberately, but he would not let himself cry out.  Part of it was professional; it was a bad idea to make enough noise to draw attention to yourself when a john was fucking you.  But for Teddy, there was also a matter of pride.  He was gonna show this stud he could take it, no matter what.  Even though he could feel blood trickling from his torn asshole, he wasn’t gonna let the fucker know he’d hurt him.

 

He could feel the hardbodied stud’s hot breath on the nape of his neck and hear the dude’s grunting as he pounded Teddy’s ass.  The teen’s toes curled inside his Reeboks as the thick spongy head of the john’s hog plowed roughly over his prostate, forcing his already-hard dick to stretch and throb until it ached.

 

To accommodate the massive shaft impaling him, Teddy shifted his legs out, as best he could with his jeans shackling his ankles.  But he could only go so far, his sneakers penned between the dude’s boots.  Try as he might, the teen whore wasn’t able to find a position that made taking the dick any less painful; he’d just have to ride it out.  But even though it hurt, it hurt good.

 

Teddy was surprised at the dude’s silence; he’d looked like he could get real verbal, but he hadn’t uttered a word since he’d started fucking.  That was ok; a little abuse would have been fun, but the way he was reaming teddy’s fuckhole was amazing.  The deeper he went, the less pain and more pleasure there seemed to be.

 

The teenaged boy might have been an experienced street whore, but he was still an adolescent whose lithe lean body had been pumped full of testosterone and other hormones by his over-revved nads with little way to control the reaction.  He could feel his orgasm building as he got fucked up against a wall in a dark, dirty alley and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop it.

 

As the swift slapping sound of flesh on flesh echoed off the grimy brickwork, Teddy could feel his balls begin to contract.  Each plunge of the older man’s tackle into his anus forced a squirt of hot precum from the youth’s jutting, quivering shaft.

 

“Fuck, man,” he moaned as the john clutched his sweaty, heaving flanks in a vise-like grip, “I’m gonna blow…”

 

The muscled stud switched into overdrive; it was like a jackhammer had been jammed up Teddy’s ass.  The pain was phenomenal; he’d never had such a vicious, brutal assfuck—and he loved it.  He was surprised by his own reaction; the sheer agony of being violently used was getting him off.  Part of him wondered what it meant, but rational thought faded was fading.

 

“I’m cumming—fuck, aw fuck—”

 

And for the next forty seconds, there was no coherent Teddy, just a shuddering teenaged boy, inarticulate and helpless as it spasmed in the grip of an overwhelming orgasm.  As the boy grunted and jerked, a steady stream of hot boyseed splashed against the wall, spattering back down onto the kid’s hightops and the john’s boots.

 

“Aw, goddam,” Teddy moaned, gasping for air, “Fuckin-A, man—”

 

Suddenly, the dick was gone.  He’d pulled out, quickly and quietly, with no warning.  The trickling sensation he could feel wasn’t the john’s load, it was his own blood.

 

“What—” he began, and then he was on the ground.  He had no clue that the sharp pain he’d felt had been a kick from a steel-toed boot to the back of his knee.

 

Teddy found himself lying on his back in a nasty puddle, looking up at the john.  Something was very wrong.  The man leaned over him, his knee-high boots shiny and glinting in the dim light.  Above the massive cock, dangling over Teddy’s prone body, the stud’s huge chest and ripped abs could be seen under their haze of dark fur as the leather jacket swung open.  But the light faded at the neck; the hard, scruff covered face was hidden in the shadows.  Only a faint cold gleam hinted at the location of the john’s eyes.

 

“What the fuck?” Teddy demanded, his pleasure at getting reamed fading before his anger.  “What are you fuckin’ doin’?  Dude, you still owe me even if ya didn’t cum—”

 

“Goddam faggot,” the voice came out of the darkness, deep and icy in a way that chilled Teddy’s blood, “That wasn’t worth shit.”

 

Despite his fear, Teddy wasn’t about to give in.  It had felt fuckin’ great, but this was business, after all.  “You fuckin’ owe me.  You better fuckin’ pay!”  He tried to sound menacing; it came out as a whine.

 

The john took a step closer; the light bisected his face, leaving the top half dark but illuminating his strong, fur-covered chin and contemptuous smirk.  He raised his leg and suddenly Teddy found himself looking at the series of X’s that made up the tread of the heavy black boot.

 

“Oh, you’ll get paid, all right, cocksucker,” the dude said quietly, his manner still coldly composed, “I’m gonna make damn sure you get everything a fag whore like you deserves.”

 

With that, he slammed his boot down onto Teddy’s chest.  It hit the kid at the bottom edge of his ribcage like a piledriver, snapping two ribs and ripping his diaphragm muscle.  “HORG!!”  the teen slut cried inarticulately as air was forced violently from his lungs.  The john ground his boot into the flesh, putting his entire body weight onto that foot.

 

Teddy, his eyes bulging in pain and disbelief, reached up and desperately clutched at the john’s ankle, feeling the smooth leather and tight laces under his hands as he tried to lessen the intense, grinding pressure on his midsection.  The sadistic stud stood on the boy with that foot instead, using the other foot to kick the boy’s flank, hard, snapping another rib.  With a choking cry, Teddy let go of the alpha’s boot.

 

“You fuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the john snarled, spitting on Teddy.  The confused boywhore tried to wrap his mind around what was happening when suddenly the stud began kicking him brutally, driving his steel toed boots into the boy’s prone body.  Squealing like a piglet in his fear and pain, Teddy curled into a fetal position to protect his more vulnerable areas.

 

It didn’t slow the vicious alpha down.  Teddy’s exposed back offered plenty of flesh for the sick top to aim for.  He wasn’t able to break all the homo’s ribs, although he tried.  He scored a good shot on the cunt’s scrote, though; as Teddy brought his knees up to his chest, his balls dangled between his legs and were exposed on their back side when he rolled away from his attacker.

 

The impact between the hardbodied john’s Digger boots and the soft, pulpy tissue of Teddy’s gonads was so severe that Teddy’s left testicle was crushed like an overripe grape, blood and cum spurting over the whore’s taint and the alpha’s boot.  The pain was more traumatic than anything the teen slut had ever experienced—he literally shot up in the air, coming back down onto his back again, splashing the oil-scummed water pooling in the alley.

 

His scream was piercing but brief.  “Shaddup, cocksucker,” the top jeered, then kicked him again—this time in the face.  Teddy shut up.  He was too busy trying to maintain consciousness after having his jaw broken and three teeth kicked down his throat.

 

“Just another worthless faggot cunt,” the alpha growled, “Fuckin’ garbage that can’t even work the load outta my hog.  Ain’t no one gonna miss ya, pansy!”  He slammed his foot down on Teddy’s smooth bare chest and once again was rewarded with the splintering sound of breaking bones.

 

This time was different, as least for the teen slut.  This time, in addition to the breaking ribs, Teddy felt a horrible pain as something tore deep in his torso, a terrifying ripping sensation—and then he couldn’t breathe.

 

He tried to inhale and found that he could, but just barely.  It took all his effort to suck in air, and the pain was excruciating.  He had no idea that his right lung had been torn open by the jagged end of a broken rib and was slowly collapsing; he only knew that he was dying.

 

The john saw it too, and didn’t stop.  He kept applying his steel-toed boots to the mortally injured whoreboy, kicking him in the legs and hips, stomping on his arms.  As he pinned Teddy’s right hand to the pavement and ground it to a useless wad of flesh and bone shards, the adolescent cunt felt drops of hot liquid spattering his face.

 

Prying his eyes open reluctantly, Teddy looked up to see the john’s huge cock dangling directly over him, dripping precum.  The dude was watching intently as he inflicted physical damage on the teenaged punk, and he was getting off on it.

 

He hadn’t cum while fucking Teddy, but he was gonna cum while kicking him to death.

 

It wasn’t real.  He wasn’t lying here nearly nude in a puddle of filth in a back alley, being stomped to death by a rogue alpha john.  The pain was so intense, so severe, that Teddy was as disoriented as if he’d taken a huge dose of hallucinogens.  But the stud’s words penetrated his trauma-hazed mind, reinforcing the nightmarish reality.

 

“Fuckin’ scum—gonna hafta scrape what’s left of ya off my soles like dogshit, haw!  Does it hurt, cunt?  You deserve this shit, bitch.  I’m gonna kick you to death like a nigger, motherfucker!”

 

He kept his voice in control; the tone of joyous rage didn’t travel far down the alley, but it reached Teddy clear enough.  The alpha didn’t think so, though; he felt the need to drive his point home and punctuate it with his black leather footgear.

 

Teddy could see the muscled john raise his leg; cruelly, time seemed to slow down, extending his suffering and giving him a chance to see approaching agony that he was utterly unable to ward off or abate.

 

The black X’s on the dude’s heavy tread glistened darkly as the boot dangled over Teddy’s nude, shuddering body.  It was blood, the boywhore realized dully, his own blood.  He felt no surprise or shock at the discovery—he was far too full of pain and fear for there to be room for other sensations.

 

Then the john began pounding him.

 

“Fuckin’ [STOMP] piece a’ [STOMP] faggot trash [STOMP], die under my boots [STOMP STOMP]!!!”

 

The tearing feeling again, much worse.  The john had crushed Teddy’s other testicle, then slammed his feet so hard into the teen’s chest and gut that the punk had suffered severe injuries to his liver, stomach, and spleen and had punctured his other lung.  As he painfully coughed up a huge wad of blood, air was escaping from his torn lungs into his chest cavity.  In five minutes, the pressure would be enough to collapse both lungs and he would suffocate.

 

He didn’t live that long.

 

As he gasped and choked, expending more and more effort just to breathe, some part of Teddy wished he’d managed to get that meth; it would have made this so much easier to deal with…

 

Then the alpha kicked him twice in the face, the steel toes shattering his cheekbones and knocking four teeth out of his upper jaw.  Suddenly an acrid, sour stench filled the alley.  To far gone to maintain control, Teddy pissed himself.

 

The alpha chuckled.  Placing his boot on Teddy’s throat, he stood over the dying adolescent and started jerking his huge, oozing shaft.

 

“Guess yer finally gonna get my load, boy,” he said with a wicked grin, “Lights out, motherfucker.”

 

Slowly and intimately, he crushed Teddy’s trachea under his boot, increasing the pressure until it gave underfoot like a beer can.  As it cracked and crunched beneath his sole, the alpha grunted, a deep basso rumble, and spewed his hot jizz on the teen’s face.

 

Teddy felt his esophagus give way; as the older man’s boot destroyed his windpipe, the anguished youth jerked, his arms flailing and beating on the pavement until his hands were bloody.  His feet, trapped by his lowered jeans, were no help to him, and as his face darkened and his tongue protruded in choking agony, the alpha’s spunk spattered across his face.

 

The last sensation Teddy received as he died was the salty taste of his killer’s sperm on his tongue.  His cock pulsed and twitched but his faggot balls had been too irreparably damaged for the boywhore to experience a deathload.  He quivered and died in a puddle of oily water, blood,  and piss in in the foul-smelling alleyway.

 

Smirking, the top stuffed his still-dripping tool back into his jeans.  He was still zipping his fly as he turned and headed back down the alley, whistling “Turkey in the Straw”.  Behind him, as the tune and the heavy booted footfalls faded away, the body of the teen boywhore, battered and bruised beyond recognition, continued to tremble.

 

As the night wore on and the corpse cooled and stiffened, rats began to gather.

The Trucker 19–Trucker vs Plague Rat

The Trucker had a need for prey.  He usually took his time and enjoyed the hunt, but tonight was different.

 

The last few weeks had been insane, and it didn’t look like things were getting better anytime soon.  Constantly on the move and always in demand, his job qualified as an essential service.

 

Tonight, he needed some essential servicing himself.  He’d dropped a trailer full of supplies at the distribution warehouse for a small chain of grocery stores in central Texas this morning, then headed north and east in his unburdened cab.  Wanting to avoid the larger cities, he pulled over about forty miles south of Dallas in a small town well off the interstate.

 

He’d headed here specifically, based on an app he’d downloaded.  Just outside of town was a small roadside motel, and on the other side of the state highway, sitting in about two acres of crumbling asphalt, was a huge metal building housing a nightclub.  According to the app, the place wasn’t a gay bar, but it was known for the likelihood of faggots propositioning men from the bar in the parking lot.

 

The Trucker had also heard about the place from some of his fellow drivers.  Seems the fags got taken up on their offers enough for the place to develop a reputation.  Of course, it had another reputation—sometimes the homos hit on the wrong dude, and bad things happened.  Very bad things.

 

Tonight, the Trucker was full of built-up testosterone and rage.  He needed to do some very bad things.

 

He pulled into the motel parking lot and headed for the office.  His sleeper cab was his home, and he didn’t want to mess it up.  He needed a temporary killing pit.

 

There was a small Hispanic woman behind the counter with a bandanna over her face.  No shelter-in-place order had been given locally, so everything was still open, but she clearly wanted to avoid the Trucker.  She handled his cash gingerly and shoved the key across the counter at him as if he was visibly radiating plague germs.

 

Clearly no one at the honky-tonk was worried about physical contact; as his thick, heavy Timberland Pro Logger boots thudded on the cracked cement pavement, he could see the full parking lot across the street and hear the loud, raucous music.  He was in number fifteen, the next-to last on the right end of the ground floor.

 

The moment he opened the door, the overpowering reek of bleach hit his nose; the cleaning staff weren’t taking any chances.  The buff hardman quickly strode to the window and opened it; the atmosphere was damn near toxic.  As he waited for the eye-watering fumes to clear, he glanced around and took in his accommodations.

 

A queen-sized bed with a thin mattress, thin, flat pillows and a thin and scratchy comforter of quilted polyester.  A dresser/desk unit that had no legs; it was evidently bolted directly to the wall.  There was a small and battered chair for the desk and, on the other side of the room, a mismatched armchair that didn’t look sturdy enough to support his weight next to a small round table.

 

The bathroom, to one side, was small and white-tiled.  Very, very white.  Housekeeping had gone through a full gallon of bleach in here, at least; almost too much to be accounted for by the virus.  The Trucker wondered idly if the place had been used as a killing pit before.

 

Well if it hadn’t, it was about to be broken in.  He’d seen what he needed to—it’d suffice.

 

He flicked off the lights and headed out, a muscular man in a leather jacket and tight jeans tucked into laced but untied logger boots striding purposefully towards the bar.  Anyone seeing him would know that he was a man with a mission, but few would be able to guess at a distance what a violent and murderous mission it was.

 

There was movement in the club parking lot; he could sense the surreptitious mansex occurring all around him and grinned viciously.  If the stupid fags couldn’t stay in quarantine, what else could they expect but death?

 

He was about two thirds of the way to the main entrance when words caught his ear; he suddenly found himself listening to a couple of homos having an argument two rows over.

 

“—couldn’t even stay in Dallas, couldja?  Lemme guess—with everything shut down, you couldn’t find any cock to suck but mine, and that ain’t good enough, is it?”

 

“Aw, chill out, man; I’m just havin’ a little fun—ain’t no big deal.”

 

“No big deal?  Fuck you, Jay.  I’m done.  You’re a whore and you’re gonna get me sick, one way or another.  I’m leaving.”

 

“What?  C’mon, Chris, you ain’t going—”

 

“The hell I ain’t.  Go on and have your fun, Jay.  I won’t be there when you get back—if you get back.”

 

They parted, one climbing into a mid-size SUV and pulling out.  The remaining one headed towards the club entrance—directly towards the Trucker.

 

The moment they were able to get a clear view of each other, something filled the air between them like powerfully charged ions; thunder and lightning smoldered in their eyes.

 

The Trucker, with his jeans, jacket, and boots, was enough to entrance any twink cocksucker; his skintight white cotton t-shirt clung to the vast rise of his huge pecs and the rippled surface of his muscled abs.  His long dark hair showed under the black trucker cap he sported and the three-days’ growth of scruff on his face emphasized its somehow dangerous masculinity.

 

The kid also wore a leather jacket and a tight white cotton t-shirt, but that was where the resemblance ended.  His t-shirt bore an Adidas logo and below he had on a pair of skinny track pants in shiny black polyester.  For some reason, he’d pulled sport socks up over the hem of the trackies, perhaps to better display his white Adidas All Star hightops, which he wore with the ankle straps hanging loose.

 

His face was young—the Trucker doubted the kid would’ve been let into the club without a fake ID, but maybe they were less strict out here.  Little fuck sure didn’t look country, though; with his carefully-arranged hair with the faggy upsweep in the front, it was obvious he wasn’t from around here…

 

The fag was horny and alone.  It was perfect.  The Trucker had homed in on his prey; now he needed to get it back to the room.  That, it turned out, was relatively easy.

 

Jay’s eyed had locked in on the Trucker’s bulging crotch the moment he got close enough to see it.  Between the teen’s salacious grin—he was still three months shy of his twentieth birthday—and the Trucker’s evil leer, they didn’t need to bandy words coyly about intent.  Each one wanted to use the other for sex, and each one knew it.

 

“It’s dark enough over there in the corner, if ya wanna whip it out,” Jay began, jerking his head to indicate the back of the parking lot.

 

“Naw, not in public,” the Trucker drawled laconically, “Like to take my time.  Gotta room in the motel over there.  C’mon.”

 

Jay’s skinny trackies were tight enough for his long boycock to tent as it sprang to attention.  “Fuck yeah, bro, right behind ya.”

 

As they headed across the street, the Trucker’s boots again thudded heavily on the road surface.  Jay’s kicks, in contrast, made no sound at all, as if the young fag was already a ghost.  As he approached the motel and followed the Trucker across the threshold, he had no idea that he would never re-cross it alive.

 

He was about to find out, though.

 

Nothing was said as they entered the room; nothing needed to be said.  As the Trucker drew the curtains over the window and locked the door, Jay slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing it on the armchair, and peeled out of his t-shirt.  His smooth bare chest revealed, he turned and expectantly waited for the Trucker to respond.

 

The older man locked eyes with the kid, grinned, and turned back to slide the chain lock on the door.  He took off his cap and tossed it onto the table, then pulled off his jacket and threw it on top of the kid’s.  With a single, smooth motion, he grasped the hem of his own t-shirt and jerked it up and over his head, shaking out his long dark hair as he did so.

 

Jay stared, jaw sagging, at the stud’s muscled, furry torso. The metallic glinting of dogtags drew the slut’s eyes to the muscled stud’s chest.  The huge nipples, thick and erect, rose up over the forest of fur that covered the valley between the pectorals and ran down his hard washboard abs to disappear beneath the waist of his jeans.  Seeing the fagboy gaping in lust, the Trucker smirked and unzipped his fly.  As Jay’s eyes strayed down towards his crotch, the hardman slowly pulled his enormous tool free from its confinement, letting it spring forward, jutting and throbbing in the open air.

 

With his mouth still hanging open, Jay fell to his knees.

 

“Get over here and suck it, cunt.  Don’t get up, you stupid faggot.  On your knees, boy, crawl for it.”

 

Jay obeyed, creeping forward until he was in reach of the massive, pulsating shaft.  He leaned in and gingerly put his lips on the thick, spongy head.  Instantly, the Trucker’s hands clamped onto the back of his head.  Before Jay had the chance to react, his esophagus was full of oozing mancock.

 

“I said suck it, ya useless homo, not lick it!  Fuck, cantcha give decent head, dumbass?”

Jay had no issues with a little rough talk but between the verbal abuse and the forced throatfuck, his bottom pig nature was already finding the encounter to be humiliating, uncomfortable, and a little scary.  He’d have said as much, only he was gagging and grimacing, tears leaking from his eyes as his face became red.

 

He beat his hands on the Trucker’s legs; the fagkiller’s thighs were thick and hard, like denim-covered marble.  The kid moved his arms up, his fingers clawing the dark wiry fur on the alpha’s muscled gut.  The Trucker responded by shoving the kid so that he fell back, still on his knees, throwing his left arm down and behind to support himself while gasping and coughing, wiping spittle from his lips with his right hand.  Blinking the tears from his eyes, he glared up at the Trucker.

 

“Dude, what the fuck—” WHAM!

 

The Trucker stopped the cunt’s squawking by popping it in the face.

 

Jay huddled on the floor, clutching his bruised cheek.  This time, he slowly and carefully raised his eyes.  He could see the hulking stud’s logger boots, the smooth black leather rising to nearly mid-calf before the denim took over.  Just above, the gigantic dick, dripping precum and boyspit—Jay had felt the way every vein wrapped around it had pulsed in excitement as he gagged on it.  And then that belly and those huge pecs with the dogtags jingling cheerfully between them.  And above that…

 

Above that, a leering, masculine stud and something else, something moving, a blur—

 

The second blow caught Jay in the mouth.  There was sharp pain and the coppery taste of blood and then everything went nice and peaceful and dark and he didn’t have to worry about what the fuck was happening—for a bit.

 


 

When he awoke, his cranium ringing like a cathedral bell, the boyslut thought he was nude.  He was in pain and his mind was vague—he remembered an assault but not much else—but he had no clothes on.  It was only when he flexed his toes that he realized he was still wearing his socks and shoes.

 

His trackies had zippers running up a few inches from the ankles so that he could have slipped them off over his kicks if he’d wanted, but he couldn’t remember wanting to.  And why that fuck did his face hurt so goddam bad?

 

“You finally back, fuckwad?  Whadda fuckin’ pansy.  Can’t even handle a little foreplay—just wait till I start actually fuckin’ ya, faggot.”

 

The deep masculine voice brought it all back.  Jay forced his eyes open and sat up, slowly and groggily on the bed. The Trucker was leaning casually against the table, smoking a Marlboro and eyeing the boy with lustful contempt.  In a corner by the door was a wadded pile of shiny polyester—what was left of Jay’s track pants.

 

And as the Trucker flicked his smoke at an ashtray on the table, the cunt’s eyes followed the motion and saw his wallet on the table.  It was open and had obviously been rifled through.

 

No matter how much or little money Jay had, he was greedily possessive of it; the thought that someone else had their hands on his cash made him forget the fact that he was locked in a room with a powerful stranger who’d already punched him twice in the face.  The moment he noticed the wallet, he popped off the bed like he’d been launched, his long, thick boycock swaying between his smooth thighs as he lurched unsteadily across the room.

 

“My fuckin’ wallet!  Where’s my cash, you asshole?  I’m gonna—”

 

His ranting came to an instant halt the moment he stepped within arm’s reach of the Trucker.  The powerful hardman shot out his right arm, grabbed Jay by the neck—his hand nearly large enough to encircle the fag’s throat—and hoisted him straight up in the air.  As the teen gagged and kicked, his flailing Adidas sneakers swinging four inches about the thin carpet, the muscled killer turned and slammed him into the door.

 

Still holding the meat aloft, the Trucker closed in, face to face, his cold blue eyes staring mesmerizingly into those of his prey, like a snake’s.

 

“You ain’t gonna need money by the time I’m done with you, queerboy.  I brought you in here to waste yer worthless ass.  Yer gonna die on my dick, ya piece a’ shit; I’m gonna use yer dyin’ convulsions to jack off.  Ain’t no one gonna miss a cumguzzlin’ fag like you, cunt, so shaddup and take what you fuckin’ deserve!”

 

With that, the Trucker gutpunched the whore, making Jay gag and thrash, his heels drumming against the door.  The hypermasculine fagkiller chuckled, his enormous cock throbbing as he watched the punk suffer for a moment, then dropped him.

 

Jay sank to his knees, both hands clutching his now-open throat as he choked and coughed between racking sobs.  Now that he could breathe again, he was aware of how the reek of bleach had become overpowered by a mixture of cigarette smoke, mansweat, and a musky smell that he couldn’t identify but that his cock recognized as testosterone and responded in kind.  This…this wasn’t happening.  He had to get out of here.  Maybe Chris hadn’t left yet, maybe he could find him in the parking lot or at least someone, anyone to help him—

 

In blind panic, the teen slut turned and scrabbled at the door, clutching desperately at the knob, fingers fumbling at the lock.  Behind him, the Trucker looked on in scorn, smirking at the meat’s noticeable relief when it managed to get the knob unlocked and open the door—only to find it had forgotten the chain.  He stepped forward, slammed the door, and grabbed the cunt by the faggy hairdo, dragging it back into the room.  As it moaned and bleated in terror, he bent down to its crotch and reaching one hand under its taint to its taut adolescent asscheeks, picked the homo up bodily and flung it across the room.

 

The kid slammed into the desk/dresser unit, rolling up on top and smacking into the wall behind hard enough to shatter the mirror and dent the drywall.  The unit had been poorly installed and had never been intended to hold much weight to begin with.  With a loud ripping sound, the entire unit tore free of the wall and fell forward onto the floor, projecting Jay halfway back across the room in the process.

 

When it was done, the sheetrock had been torn from half of the far wall.  The dresser/desk lay facedown on the floor and half the room was littered with dust, pieces of drywall and shards of glass.  In the middle was the huddled nude teen whore.

 

The Trucker walked casually over to him.  Lying on his face and groaning in pain, the youth reached out his left hand pathetically, as if pleading for help.

 

Bringing his big black boot down on the homo’s hand, the Trucker ground it into the floor, grinning with pleasure as he heard and felt the boy’s bones snapping and crunching under his heel.  The kid’s squeals of agony make his cock drip.

 

He was a long way from being done.  The fag needed to suffer more—a lot more—before the muscled killer planned on ending its useless life.

 

“Does it hurt, asswipe?” he muttered so softly that the agonized teen could barely hear him, “Not enough, it doesn’t.  Not yet.”

 

He knelt beside the boy.  For a brief moment, there was something in the way the older man was beside him, something about the Trucker’s movement and position the stirred some childhood memory inside Jay and made him think of a time when someone—his grandpa, maybe, had gotten down on his knees to help him.

 

But as the Trucker placed his knee on Jay’s left arm, just below the elbow, and grabbed his hand, pulling it up and back, the boywhore realized that the muscled stud wasn’t trying to express tenderness—he was breaking Jay’s arm.

 

The realization hit the cunt’s mind just as his arm bent upright at a ninety-degree angle, halfway between the wrist and the elbow.  The loud, wet snapping of the radius and ulna was almost, but not quite simultaneous—Jay heard as well as felt the Trucker break both bones with the ease of cracking a wishbone.

 

He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t.  He lay on the floor, nude but for his kicks, staring at his mangled left arm and gasping loudly.  As the Trucker stepped back for a moment, the strong, smooth youth began to rise to his feet.  It was a painful and laborious process, since he only had one arm to brace himself with.  He used it to grab at the table, painfully clinging to the furniture as he pulled himself upright.

 

As he stood, swaying, his hair dark with the sweat that trickled down his lean body, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and realized at the last second that the process of getting up had been so intense, he’d lost sight of the Trucker.

 

The Trucker hadn’t lost sight of him.  Just as Jay turned his head in his direction, the Trucker swung the upright wooden desk chair he’d picked up.  The slut didn’t have time to duck; the chair struck him with such violent force that it shattered to kindling.  The impact knocked the young onto and over the table; since he was still tightly clutching the edge, he managed to pull it with him, flipping it over on top of himself as he fell on the far side.

 

It hurt.  It hurt so fucking bad, and Jay was scared to the point of panic, but his young, strong body served him cruelly, refusing to let him lose consciousness.  He was forced to endure, to feel everything happening to him.  And through it all, he was constantly aware of the Trucker’s hulking, intimidating presence.  Like now, when the older man suddenly jerked the table off him, sending it skittering halfway across the room as easily as if it had been made of balsa wood.

 

The Trucker bent down and lifted the meat by the throat again; he liked this hold–this way, he knew he had the fag’s attention when he spoke to it.  Jay gagged and kicked, but not as violently as he had the first time.  He’d been pretty well tenderized; his right arm was clawing at the Trucker’s grip on his neck, but the left dangled and twitched uselessly.

 

And yet, beneath all that, the Trucker saw the teen’s thick boydick swell and stiffen.  Even as he choked, tears of pain and terror running down his face, he was getting hard.

 

He knew.  He expected it.  Fuckin’ homos screamed and cried and fought, but they all died with hard cocks, shooting their final load in gratitude as he fulfilled their destiny and gave them their final purpose on this planet—to be used as a cumdump and tossed aside like the garbage they were.

 

Deep down, they all knew they wanted it.  Ya just had to beat some sense into ‘em sometimes.

 

“Ready, motherfucker?” he hissed, grinning with malevolent glee at battered punk slowly choking in his hand, “Foreplay is over.  I’m ready to cum.  Wanna know how I’m gonna get off?  I’m gonna stick my cock balls-deep in yer ass and strangle you so yer convulsions jack me off.  Yer gonna die just so I can have a fucktoy.  And ya better work my hog good, fuckmeat—I can make this as long and as painful as I hafta.”

 

As he spoke, he crossed the room accompanied by loud crunching and cracking sounds as debris was crushed under the thick soles of his logging boots.  Jay was kicking with a bit more spirit now; the Trucker hadn’t held him this long before, and he was seriously starting to choke.  As they approached the bed, a certain reality set in; stupid as Jay was, he realized that what he was experiencing now was what he’d be feeling as he died.  True panic set in; he began thrashing like a fish on a line.

 

The Trucker, for once caught somewhat by surprise by a meat’s struggling, grunted and braced himself to keep his hold on the cunt.  It flailed about vigorously, its hand beating fruitlessly at the older man’s broad chest, legs kicking so violently that one caught the bedside lamp, shattering it and sending the pieces flying into the wall.  With another grunt, the Trucker tossed the kid faceup onto the bed; before Jay could rise, the fagkiller was there beside him.

 

He didn’t have a chance, not that he could truly believe that yet.  Even as he peered up at the hardbodied, hairy-chested stud towering over him, eyes glaring, nipples jutting and cock oozing, he still could not accept that he wouldn’t survive the night.

 

The Trucker knew it, too.  These teen homos were all the same; unless they were hardcore whores or users, the young ones hadn’t seen enough of life to understand how brutal it really can be.  And those who had seen it thought they were smart enough to avoid the worst—until they crossed paths with the Trucker.

 

Now it was time for this cunt to learn.  The alpha stud’s cock was beginning to ache; it needed release.  He climbed onto the bed, feeling the thin scratchy comforter under his knees as he pried open the punk’s legs and brandished his massive erect member like a spear, aiming it directly at the kid’s fuckhole.

 

Jay saw it coming and braced himself, but it didn’t help.  He’d been taking it up the ass for four years but had never experienced anything this bad.

 

It didn’t just hurt, he was being damaged.  From the moment the enormous head of the Trucker’s cock ripped his sphincter open so wide that flesh and muscles were torn, Jay realized that things were being done to him that would require massive medical intervention to fix, if it could be fixed at all.  The horrible sensation of a huge alien impalement continued as the older man’s rod probed deep in the boy’s guts, ripping at the tender lining of his colon and grinding relentlessly over his prostate.

 

Jay screamed and kicked, thrashing as violently as he had when he was getting choked.  This wasn’t the panic caused by asphyxiation, though; the fucker was wailing in sheer agony, trying desperately to get off the huge shaft that was tearing him open on the inside.  His right arm beat again at the Trucker’s chest, his fist thudding dully against the wiry, sweat-matted fur and making the dogtags jump.  His legs flailed, his feet dragging and kicking to the point that the sneaker on his left foot was pulled off; it fell unnoticed to the floor with a faint thump.

 

It was the noise the Trucker fund most annoying; the meat was squealing like a stuck pig.  “Aw, shaddup, motherfucker,” he snarled and punch the boy twice in the face.

 

With his left eye blackened and his lips split, Jay lowered his cries to a faint mewling that still abraded the sadist’s nerves.  “Goddamit, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit, I said shut the fuck up!!”

 

Three blows strait into the fag’s belly, punctuated by the teen’s grunts as air was forced from his lungs by the impact: WHAM!  “Grk!” WHAM! “Hagk!” WHAM! “Guh!”

 

The Trucker went for the adolescent’s face again, before he could inhale, putting an end to the boy’s loud cries by dislocating, then breaking his jaw.  The entire time he was beating the cunt, his dick was still balls-deep inside it.  The killer could feel the fuckmeat take the brunt of every blow as it twitched and jerked on his cock.

 

And through it all, the faggot was hard too.  Jay had sunk into a near-trance state as an instinctive defense against the brutal mental and physical trauma he was suffering.  The pain alone was almost too much to endure in a conscious state.  He didn’t know the Trucker had beat him hard enough to tear his diaphragm and break his jaw; he only knew that he was in horrific agony—but despite all the other sensations overwhelming his brain, he was still aware of his own erection as it was compressed between his smooth flat belly and the Trucker’s muscled, furry abs.

 

Above him and inside him, the hardbodied fagkiller grunted and pumped, but he was getting diminishing returns.  The meat was tenderized enough.  Time to finish it off.

 

He leaned forward so that his huge muscled pecs rested on the punk’s chest.  His dogtags jingled as they struck the boy’s chest, then slid up and off to one side, by his left shoulder.  Wrapping his huge hand around the cunt’s neck, he started squeezing.

 

Jay opened his eyes—as much as he could open them—and his look of utter terror was what the Trucker had been waiting for.

 

“This is it, motherfucker.  This is why you were put on this earth, cunt—to milk my load out as you ride my cock while I choke ya to death.  Ready to justify yer faggot existence?  C’mon, bitch, fight it.  Struggle, asswipe, I wanna feel ya die.  Make yer mama proud, homo; she went through labor to give me a fag corpse for a personal cumdump.  Now fuckin’ die, meat!”

 

He tightened his hands; they clutched Jay’s throat with the cruel intensity of a steel trap, remorselessly constricting the boy’s windpipe.  The teen slut was panicking again; his air hadn’t yet been cut off as long as it had before—but the simple fact that he couldn’t breathe had pulled him out of his trance state.

 

He’d heard every word the Trucker had said.  This was it.  He was gonna die.  He’d end up beaten, raped, and strangled to death like a street hustler.  He was gonna fuckin’ die.

 

No he wasn’t.

 

In a Hollywood movie, his newfound courage and the way it rallied his strength to fight back against his cruel fate would have had a happy ending.  In reality, all it did was piss the Trucker off and cause Jay new trauma and horrible suffering before he died like a bitch.

 

Putting his one good hand to use, the gagging homo clawed desperately at his rapist’s face, his fingers seeking a grip on the older man’s unshaven cheeks and chin.  The Trucker angrily jerked his head away; feeling his target slip from his grasp, the dying teen transferred his attention elsewhere, beating and pawing at the Trucker’s massive, rock-hard chest.

 

The fur here was longer and wirier; Jay was able to hook his fingers in and jerk.  The hardbodied killer grunted in irked discomfort as the punk pulled some of the hair out, but it was the kid’s next handful that set the stud off—the kid managed to snag his dogtags.  That was unacceptable.

 

The Trucker wrapped his thickly-muscled left arm around the meat’s good right arm and began pulling and twisting.  The action began putting stress on the joints at the shoulder and the elbow; the harder the Trucker pulled, the greater the stress became.

 

Jay was worse off than he’d been before; the Trucker was easily strong enough to choke him out one-handed while ripping his arm out of it socket, and that’s exactly what he was doing. As his reamed-out, bleeding colon continued to suffer brutal punishment from the older man’s huge cock, he could feel the sinews and tendons in his shoulder and his elbow being stretched past the point of endurance.

 

“You stupid cunt,” the Trucker remarked calmly, “Hope this hurts like fuck.  You deserve it, bitch.”  Twisting his face into a snarl, he gave a might jerk.  With a sickening gristly crunch, Jay felt his muscles tear open and his ligaments snap like overstretched rubber bands.  The arm rolled sickeningly out at the shoulder and bent backwards at the elbow.

 

He would’ve screamed if he could have.  Some small part of him that had walled itself off from the agony felt a dull surprise that he could even feel the pain after already enduring so much—but he damn sure could feel it.

 

Able to return his right hand to the fucker’s throat, the Trucker applied more pressure. Letting go with one hand hadn’t allowed the meat to get any air; its swollen face was black and congested, physical proof of the sheer physical agony of strangulation.  The half-lidded, bloodshot eyes were starting to bulge, an expression of abject horror glinting deep with them.

 

Jay’s legs were kicking and flailing; by now, it was utterly involuntary.  His arms lay useless and twitching, twisted into odd shapes at his sides, but his thrashing legs showed the youth’s frenetic fight to hang onto his swiftly-fading life.  His boyfeet flexed in his death agonies; as he drummed his heels helplessly against the mattress, the sock on his shoeless foot was pulled off, leaving his toes curling in the open air.

 

The Trucker could feel the boymeat heaving under him, lubed by the cold deathsweat forced from its body in the last few moments of its life.  But Jay was experiencing a whole new level of tactile sensations.  As his brain began to die off, his nervous system kicked into overdrive, developing a hypersensitivity which amped up his susceptibility to physical sensation.

 

He could feel the polyester threads of the comforter, cold and wet with his sweat, as they scratched at his back.  He could feel the Trucker’s chest hair, also matted with sweat, as it scraped and ground like sandpaper against his smooth, slick flesh.  The weight of the stronger, more powerful man was unendurable as it pressed him into the cheap, nasty motel bed…

 

But these were side notes, flickering at the edge of his awareness.  What he felt most was the enormous, bludgeon-like cock that some seemed to be larger that his asshole, so that his lower intestines clung to its veined cylindrical length like a condom.  What he felt most was the slow, inexorable crushing of his windpipe, as the cartilage was distorted past the point of its ability to recover.

 

What he felt was the pain and the pounding, the confusion and the terror of being raped and choked to death by a powerful serial killer—that, and the way his own cock was responding, pulsing and aching excruciatingly, in a way he’d never experienced before.

 

Jay had no way of knowing that deep in his teenaged balls, his deathload was brewing—that final, ecstatic, agonizing burst as his spasming body desperately tried to save some of its DNA before it died.

 

Spunk was building in the Trucker’s huge, hairy scrote as well.  The meat was obviously near death; a thick white foam oozed out of its mouth past the swollen purple tongue and ran down its darkened cheek.  The eyes had rolled back into the head so that only the whites showed, blood vessels bursting like fireworks deep within them.  The real clue, though, was the easing of resistance.

 

Since the alpha had snapped both the teen homo’s arms, judging the intensity of its struggles required the in-depth knowledge of an experienced fagkiller.  The meat was nearly ripe for seeding; its brain was dying.

 

The firm, smooth adolescent body began to move rhythmically.  The convulsions were slow and gentle at first, but the Trucker knew enough to hang on.  This was the whole point of tonight’s wild ride; this was the destination, the payoff.  There was no sensation the Trucker wanted more, nothing else that felt so incredible, as young fag boymeat convulsing on his cock as it died, and he wanted to savor it.

 

As the cunt’s brain shut down, it began sending faulty signals through the nervous system.  As a result, its rectum began to clench and spasm, massaging the Trucker’s massive swollen member.  Gritting his teeth, he leaned forward.  Spitting in the punk’s black and congested face, he started plowing its ass mercilessly as he relentlessly increased the pressure on its esophagus.

 

His cock was so huge, and Jay’s fuckhole so collapsed around it, that the muscled sadist’s brutal thrusting literally shredded the unfortunate boy’s rectal lining.  The teenaged slut may have been in an irretrievable state of brain death at this point, but it could still feel.

 

All it could feel was agony as its asshole was torn apart.

 

As the aching pressure in his balls grew, the Trucker growled, a deep, guttural sound, and dug his thumbs into the dying faggot’s larynx.  There was a distinctly satisfying crunch as the delicate structure was pulped to a wad of bloody gristle under the inexorable pressure, sealing the bitch’s throat off for good.

 

The collapse of his trachea was the physiological trigger for Jay’s deathload, as if on some deep, instinctual level, the teen’s body knew it was lost and tried to expel its DNA.  The firm young body, warm and slick with sweat, arced up in a final, bone-wracking convulsion.

 

The meat couldn’t clutch at the Trucker, the way other meat had in the past; its arms were twitching violently and fruitlessly on the bed, but its legs wrapped tightly around the older man’s waist, the firm thighs squeezing him in death agony.

 

“Fuuuuck…” the hardbodied psycho moaned as the boy’s guts clutched and jerked at his engorged, oozing rod.  This was it, he couldn’t hold it back any longer—

 

—and that was he and the meat shot their loads together, the alpha crying incoherently, completely unaware that he’d started beating the punk’s face in as he hosed its guts with his hot potent mansperm.

 

The meat spewed thick gobs of boycum all over the Trucker’s ripped abs and broad, muscled chest, spattering it into the dark wiry fur.  The last sensations Jay experienced as he unceremoniously exited his short, wasted life were the Trucker’s seething load filling him like molten lead and his own spunk jetting from his body with a mortal pain, as if taking the last remaining shreds of his life with it.

 

And it did.  Jay was dead before he stopped cumming, his black, grotesquely-swollen head lolling on top of his compressed neck.

 

By the time the Trucker stopped shooting, he was a heaving, sweaty, spunk-covered mass of muscles, gasping for air after the intensity of rough sex.  It took him a moment to recover—and another moment to extract his massive tool from the corpse’s collapsed rectum.  A flow of blood-stained cum leaked from the dead boy’s ravaged asshole after the Trucker’s hog was out.

 

The fagkiller crossed to the bathroom, debris again snapping and crunching under his logger boots.  Once there, he took a few moments to tidy up, wiping off his still-oozing shaft and tucking it back inside his jeans before turning his attention to the larger task of cleaning the meat’s deathwad off his chest.  After cleaning himself, the buff serial killer returned to bedroom to retrieve his clothes and admire his work.

 

What was left of the adolescent homo wasn’t easy to identify.  The face was beaten to hamburger; the smooth flesh of the chest and belly was black with bruises and the arms were just—wrong.  They were twisted and bent in ways that hurt to look at.

 

The legs were spread, the one Adidas hightop the meat had retained still twitching as the corpse cooled.  Between the smooth boyish buttcheeks, blood and sperm continued to ooze from its well-reamed ass.

 

The room itself was devastated; the bed and the armchair the only pieces of furniture that survived the vicious assault intact.  There was easily several thousand dollars worth of damage

 

The Trucker slipped his leather jacket on over his bare chest, wadding up his t-shirt and shoving it his pocket.  Putting on his cap, he unlocked the door.  After taking one last satisfied look back, he opened it.

 

He was immediately greeted with the sound of sirens.

 

For a split second, he hesitated on the threshold.  But he realized they weren’t heading for the hotel; they were heading for the honky-tonk on the other side of the road.  There were two local cruisers in the lot already; as he watched, another pair of cars—these belonging to the state troopers—pulled in, sirens blaring.  There seemed to be a large crowd gathered in the parking lot, and from what the Trucker could tell, some sort of fight had broken out.

 

It was a perfect distraction.  He headed for his cab.  Climbing in and starting it up, he began to pull out of the parking lot when he noticed the desk clerk coming out of the office.  But she didn’t notice him at all; her attention was focused on the commotion across the street.

 

He chuckled and headed into the dark night, his thick cock still warm and happy with a job well done.

 

 


 

Pendleton had been on the force for six years.  He’d seen some shit in that time; shit that would’ve scarred a lesser man.  Appalling cases of domestic abuse, drug- and booze-induced fights, horrifying car accidents—but this was on a whole new level.

 

He waited outside the room for the ME to show up.

 

“Hey, Pendleton; who’s the lead on the case?”

 

“Hey, doc.  Ain’t one.  I’m the only one here.”

 

The ME, a wizened, gray-haired man in his fifties, frowned in concern.  “Whaddaya mean, you’re the only one?  I can’t wait around all day for a detective to show up; I need to get the body out of here!”

 

“They’re all workin’ on that fight from last night…”

 

“Oh yeah, across the street—what was the count?  Three stabbed and four shot?  I understand the chief wants see about getting some kind of lockdown order enforced…but anyway, I still don’t have time to wait.”

 

“Don’t think you’ll need to.  Take a look inside.  Pretty fuckin’ clear what happened.”

 

When the ME came back out of the room, his face was a gray as his hair.  “Jesus wept.  Kid was fucking beat to a pulp.  Looks like a goddam bomb exploded in there.”

 

“Didja see that shit leakin’ outta his ass?” the patrolman asked morosely, “Boy was raped.  Raped bad.

 

“Yeah, raped and strangled.  No detective work needed there, I admit, but won’t the chief want to have the scene processed?”

 

“You kiddin’?  You know the chief.  Some out-of-town faggot gets offed, he won’t wanna arrest the dude; he’ll wanna shake his hand.  Hell, the chief would lift a lockdown order for him—after all, by keepin’ the down the fag population, he performin’ an essential service.”

 

The ME sighed.  “I suppose so.  Things have changed since my day, when homosexuals knew their place.  Still, I don’t think it’s fair that my office has to clean up this mess.”  Grumbling under his voice, the disgruntled medical examiner pulled out his phone, calling for transport as he walked to his car.

 

Pendleton smirked.  “Whaddaya bitchin’ about, old man?” he muttered too quietly for the ME to hear, “I feel sorry for the maid.  Not only did she find the faggot this mornin’, she’s gonna hafta clean the room, too.”

 

Shaking his head, he scuffed the sole of his boot on the parking lot surface and idly considered his options for lunch as he watched the ME pulled a folded body bag from his trunk.

Carlos Solo–Doubling Down On a Losing Pair

It had been a cloudy, and for Vegas, a cool day, never getting higher than the mid-sixties.  Tooling around in the convertible Benz, Carlos had kept his leather biker jacket on all day.  Now that the sun was setting, he was disinclined to remove it, especially since he was heading into a gay bar.

 

He didn’t want to go in; the sight of so many worthless perverted faggots flaunting themselves in public would enrage him—hell, the thought of slaughtering some of ‘em already had him hard—but Nick had a commission, so he needed a boywhore that was willing to put out on film.

 

Of course, by the time he and Nick were done with the slut, it would be put out permanently.  And Carlos could inflict on it all the suffering he wanted to mete out on all the disgusting assmunchers he was about to endure.  That would make it worthwhile.

 

The bar actually occupied the entirety of a small L-shaped strip center.  The place was only a few blocks west of the Strip, but it was some ways south of the airport.  The main entrance was on the extreme left, under a backlit plastic sign reading “Ruby’s Roadhouse” in red letters, each one of which was outlined a different color of the rainbow.  It was a low, non-descript building with windows lining the front that had either been heavily tinted or simply painted over on the inside.

 

The parking lot was full of a random assortment of vehicles, but the number of California plates indicated that a number were rentals.  This wasn’t the kinda place most tourists knew about, but there were some dudes who could find boymeat in any town.  Carlos’s black harness boots thudded heavily on the asphalt as he made his way between the cars.  There was no line; he walked right in—and had to fork out a cover charge.

 

The hardbodied killer ground his teeth.  Whatever cunt he found better have some cash to make up for it, or he’d take it out of its flesh.

 

As he headed into the bar, he grinned, knowing he’d take it out of the whore’s flesh in any case.

 

He had to cross the dance floor to get to the bar itself.  He shoved his way through the crowd, glowering at the homos and pansies that surrounded him.  The looks they returned were just as intense, if less hostile.

 

The fagkiller was dressed to lure in his prey; under the jacket was a white cotton wifebeater two sizes too small.  It clung to each individual ab on his ripped six-pack and showed off the ink on his bulging biceps where the leather jacket hung open.  Around his neck the thick gold chain flashed brilliantly when a spinning disco light happened to fall on it.  In the darkness, it was difficult to see how much his tight black jeans revealed of his thickly muscled legs and the massive bulge in his crotch; that became obvious only when he emerged into the light.

 

He could feel homo eyes crawling over him like a literal physical sensation; it made him shudder with revulsion in the same way he would if he’d had insects on his skin.  They all needed to die.  Not quickly, with a gun or a bomb, but slowly and individually, each one bleating out its worthless life in Carlos’s hands…

 

Lost in reverie, the buff ex-con suddenly found he’d reached the bar.  He ordered a shot of Jack, tossed it back, and turned around, leaning on the bar and surveying the crowd.  A room full of provocatively-dressed useless twinks, writhing against one another to the pulsing beat of industrial dance music and disco lighting effects—yeah, they all needed to be snuffed, but Carlos didn’t see anyone worthy of bearing their sins on camera.  Then his eye was caught by movement on is extreme left.

 

The boy had been in the shadows next to the restroom entrance.  He’d caught Carlos’s attention by stepping forward under one of the dim overhead lights, but his appearance didn’t provide much information.

 

He was wearing a plain gray fleece hoodie with the hood up, obscuring his face in shadow; all Carlos could make out was lower half, which showed a cocky grin, and a faint golden haze on the upper lip.  The jacket was only zipped a quarter way up from the waist, though, showing that the kid was wearing a tight dark tank top underneath.

 

The punk sported a pair of Nike mid-thigh shorts in Green Bay Packers colors, green spreading out from the thick lump in the crotch to the yellow running down the sides of the legs, drawing attention to how the smooth firm thighs descended to strong calves covered with a golden dusting of fur similar to that on the boy’s lip.  On his feet were a pair of expensive Nike Jordan 4 Breds.

 

Carlos had no doubt he’d found his whore.  He’d want to see it in the light before making the final call but the way the fucker dressed, the way it carried itself—it didn’t get to be that obvious a cumslut without having looks worth paying for.

 

The boy sidled up to Carlos.  Now that he was closer, the buff fagkiller could make out the cunt’s face.  He was young, early twenties at the latest.  His face was strikingly handsome, with regular features, clear skin, a pert, upturned nose and sandy blond hair.  But the boy had the face of an experienced whore; his expression was hard and calculating and his beautiful blue eyes were cold.  As like called to like, Carlos recognized the slut as a predator, looking to prey on anyone he felt was weaker or more stupid than he was.

 

Not that he wasn’t still a faggot.  His long side-eye glances at Carlos were full of equal parts cupidity and lust.  The little cocksucker was obviously torn between the desire to get fucked by Carlos and the urge to rip him off.   To Carlos, though, it didn’t matter; what mattered was him being able to lure the fucker to the warehouse.  To that end, he needed to strike up a conversation, since it didn’t seem like the kid was gonna speak up himself.

 

“You a Packers fan?” he asked brusquely, looking down at the boy’s shorts.

 

“Naw,” the kid drawled easily, “It’s just a look, y’know?”

 

That got the ball rolling.  His name was Colton—at least, that was the name he gave to Carlos—and he was plenty interested in the ex-con’s porn movie offer.  If, that is, the price was right.

 

“You’ll really pay me a grand?” he asked, his eyes glinting with greed, “For just an hour’s work?”

 

“Sure,” Carlos grinned, repressing his anger and refusing to allow a snarl to form on his face—not that the boywhore would’ve noticed; he was too lost in dreams of incipient hardcore fame.

 

“Cool!” the cunt said eagerly, “You can bill me as Colt.  No, even better—Colt 45!”

 

The convicted killer had to make a major effort not to gag.  “Sure, if that’s what ya want,” he commented blandly.

 

“Hang on, I wanna ‘nother drink,” Colton said, digging into his pockets and pulling out an anemic wad of cash that turned out to consist of exactly three ones.  “Hey, gimme some money,” he said to Carlos.

 

“What?” the muscular sadist asked blankly.

 

“Front me some cash.  An advance.  I ain’t leavin’ this place without at least fifty bucks in my hands.”

 

Carlos looked levelly at Colton for a long while.  Usually, he didn’t mind advancing money to the meat; he always got it back when he was done.  This one, though, wanted to spend some of it.  It wasn’t the loss of the cash that bothered Carlos, it was the principle.  Goddam faggot should be paying him for putting it out of its miserable existence.

 

“Ok,” he said reluctantly, digging into his back pocket.  He pulled two twenties and a ten out of his wallet and handed them to the boy.

 

“Thanks!” the cunt chirped and headed for the bar.  While he was gone, Carlos texted Nick that he’d landed some prey and would be out at the warehouse soon.  As he typed, he occasionally glanced up, keeping an eye on Colton and making sure the fucker didn’t duck out with his money.

 

The rentboy didn’t sneak out, though; he had other plans.

 

“Hey, I wanna run by my place before we go to the set,” Colton said, returning to Carlos with a big bottle of cheap malt liquor.  The ex-con was amused to find a bar selling the shit—at least the cocksucker hadn’t spent much money yet.

 

“What for?” he asked the kid.

 

“I wanna shower before gettin’ nekkid,” the punk said with a mischievous grin.

 

“We gotta shower at the set,” Carlos responded.

 

“…and I wanna change.  And get my poppers.  C’mon, dude, just a quick pitstop.”

 

Carlos’s lips were compressed into a thin straight line when he agreed to run the motherfucker by his apartment on the way out to the warehouse.  This cunt was asking for too much and the more he gave way, the more Carlos’s vicious, perverted combination of rage and lust mounted within him.

 

The meat was gonna pay.  One way or another, it was gonna pay.

 

“Awright,” the convicted killer growled, “Let’s get moving.”

 

The slut chugged his bottle of cheap booze and followed the hardbodied older man out the door.  Carlos wasn’t concerned about being seen; at this hour on a Friday night, the fag bar was packed, with dude entering and leaving constantly.  The heavy traffic hid the fact that the kid in the hoodie was following the leather-clad stud into the parking lot.

 

Carlos slid soundlessly into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes.  The boywhore, clearly impressed at the ride, slid into the passenger seat and gave the ex-con his address.  Soon, they were out of the parking lot, heading north on Las Vegas Boulevard.  Carlos left the top of the convertible down; it was a pleasant evening—and, more importantly, the outside noise was long enough that he didn’t have to hear whatever the meat jabbering away about.

 

Judging by what little he could pick, up, the stupid cunt was blathering about something he was going to do tomorrow—as if the motherfucker was gonna be alive tomorrow.  Well, it would learn its mistake soon enough.

 

Colton’s apartment turned out to be in a squalid little building south of Sahara and east of Boulder Highway, a two-story structure built in the early sixties and not maintained with particularly loving care.   It stretched the width of the narrow block, shaped like a bracket—a long row of apartments with metal stairs and an exterior balcony for the second floor.  The units at each end were turned end-on, forming the short sides of the bracket; in the middle was the parking, entered by either street.

 

The building’s address was on Worth Street; the ground floor unit on that end was the manager’s apartment.  Colton’s was the other end.  Carlos drove to the far end of the lot, avoiding any open spaces, and pulled up next to the building at the far end, well past the parking area—and all the doors and windows.  He figured the faded ocher mark on the crumbling asphalt was a no parking fire line—but he knew damn good and well that cops in this neighborhood had more important things to do than worry about illegal parking.

 

Colton jumped out of the car, heading briskly around the corner.  Carlos got out and slipped off his leather jacket, tossing it onto the floorboards of the back seat, where it was virtually invisible.  He started to follow the whore, when suddenly he heard one of the apartment doors open.  Freezing momentarily, he forced himself to relax and crept to the corner of the building.  Just then, he heard voices.

 

“Hey, Colt, that you, dude?”

 

“Uh, yeah, hey, Denny…I, uh, I don’t have time—”

 

“’S’cool, man.  Just wanted to tell ya Buddy’s been lookin’ for ya.  He sez he gotta great batch of quality meth, but you ain’t gettin’ nothin’ till he gets the fifty bucks back, ok?  Said he’d be back latter for it.  Gotta run, yo.  Peace!”

 

There was the slam of a car door, then Carlos saw a small foreign car with a make indistinguishable in the darkness—there were no lights on the apartment building and on the other side of the parking area was a featureless wall of concrete blocks three stories high.  The car headed away, towards the street.  Deciding it was a bad idea to wait any longer, he dashed around the corner, his boots pounding on the pavement, and got to Colton’s front door just in time to keep the whore form slamming it his face.

 

“I changed my mind,” the kid said, struggling to shove the door shut, “I ain’t goin’.”

 

Carlos’s fury didn’t impair his intelligence.  He was able to put the conversation he’d just heard together with the fucker’s request for fifty bucks in the bar and realized the piece of shit had never intended to accompany him to the set.

 

He thought he could rip Carlos off for drug money and just walk away.  The goddam little motherfucker actually thought that.

 

Colton must have seen something in Carlos’s eyes; his efforts to close the door, which had been energetic, suddenly became frenzied—downright panicked, in fact.

 

They didn’t do him a damn bit of good.

 

Carlos force himself through the door with such violent intensity that the inside door hand was buried in the sheetrock and Colton was flung halfway across the room.  The kid landed flat on his back on top of a brass-and-glass coffee table that had been the height of Eighties fashion but was by now so decrepit that Colton’s weight reduced to a pile of bent metal and razor-sharp shards.

 

Groaning and rubbing his face, Colton looked up to catch the muscle-bound ex-con grinning sadistically as he pulled the door free of the wall, closed it, and locked it behind him, maintaining eye contact with the kid the entire time.  There was something deliberately malicious about the actions that filled Colton with an almost overwhelming fear.

 

The room was small.  Colton lay on the floor between a loveseat and an easy chair.  The loveseat had been an expensive piece at one time, but now its blue-and-gold brocade was worn and split, with tufts of soiled stuffing peeping through.  The easy chair, with its ottoman was brown velour, stained and rubbed bald in spots.  There was a spindly side table with a thrift-store lamp; on the other wall, a large LED TV completed the living room furniture.

 

The kitchen was the far end of the room, just beyond the loveseat.  There was no dividing line, just a small fridge, a single sink and what almost looked like a miniature electric range lining the far wall with about two square feet of tiled counter.

 

The place was so small, Carlos could see the grout missing between the tiles from the front door.

 

To the left, just past the TV, was a doorway that presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom.  At least, that was what Carlos assumed when he noticed the way Colton’s eyes kept darting towards it, as if he was calculating his chances of making it.

 

And that’s exactly what the terrified little rentboy was doing.  Colton was a greedy, drug-addled slut, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could make it into the bedroom before the muscular psycho reached him.  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t maneuver himself into a position that tilted the odds in his favor…

 

His hood fell back, revealing a sandy blond disheveled mop.  Carlos’s eyes narrowed as he watched Colton’s tight, fur-covered calves shift and his Nikes dig into the carpet.  He knew exactly what the fucker was trying to do, but he wasn’t worried.  This little wad of fagmeat wasn’t going anywhere except to its grave.

 

Suddenly, Colton sprang into movement, exactly as the experienced boykiller expected.  The only thing Carlos hadn’t specifically foreseen was the direction of Colton’s flight; instead of breaking for Carlos’s right or left, the homo tried scrambling right over the loveseat.  Carlos reached out to grab him and caught a firm grip on the edge of his hoodie.

 

Colton fumbled frantically with the zipped; as he did so, in his fear, he kept straining to get away from the hulking sadist.  When, quite by chance, he managed to get his zipper undone, he was so overbalanced that instead of breaking for the kitchen, he simply tumbled over the back of the loveseat onto the floor.

 

He braced his palms on the thin, scratchy carpet, lifted his eyes—and before he could get level, found himself confronted with Carlos’s black leather harness boots.

 

Colton didn’t want to keep raising his eye, but he was somehow compelled.  The Latino convict’s jeans did nothing to hide his thick thigh muscles and firm calves, but once Colton got the bulge in the sicko’s groin, the kid had to pause.

 

His faggot pig interest in the powerful older stud had been subdued by need for cash (he wouldn’t let himself go far enough to recognize the meth addiction that caused the need for cash) but Carlos could see the look that now crept over the cocksucker’s face.  Grinning with malignity, he reached down to his crotch and slowly slid his zipper down.  Then, with equally dramatic pacing, he extracted his massive tube of thick, potent manmeat, laying his pulsating rod out for the worthless pansy to admire.

 

Colton, in his tank top and shorts, rose onto his hands and knees.  Looking up, he reached out for Carlos’s throbbing hog.  “Dude, I want that in me—”

 

“Too late, asswipe,” Carlos snarled, and kicked him in the face, snapping his cheekbone and knocking out two teeth.  “Ya tried to rip me off, motherfucker.  Ya need to learn whadda real bad idea that was.  Betcha startin’ to figure that out, huh?  That was lesson one.  Here’s lesson two, cunt.”  Raising his foot, he stomped hard on Colton’s head, driving the thick sole of his boot deep into the boy’s cheek, leaving a deep, livid bruise that matched the tread pattern perfectly.

 

The young punk, stunned by the repeated impacts to his cranium, moaned and shuddered on the floor as Carlos stood over him, sneering.

 

“Didja like that, faggot?  Betcha did; you little cumsuckin’ pansies love it when a real dude lays a good hard beatdown on ya.  Every goddam homo I wasted died with a hard-on and you ain’t gonna be no different.”  He stopped to spit on the groaning whore.

 

Colton was in a lot of pain.  He’d been beaten before; sometimes, he even got paid for it.  And sometimes, the other guy had been really trying to hurt him, but somehow, this time was different.  He head was still reeling, too much to for him to analyze anything—but he knew he had to get away from this nutjob, or he was gonna die.

 

He began to climb to his knees, slowly.  He was well aware that Carlos was standing right next to him, watching his movements, but whatever happened, he wasn’t gonna be in a position to do anything if he was still on the floor.  So he got up.

 

As the boy rose shakily to his feet, his eyes, desperately avoiding his tormentor’s massive, jutting cock, skipped up to the Hispanic stud’s ripped abs, clearly visible through his skin-tight cotton wifebeater, and furry, muscle-bound torso.  For a moment, his gaze was caught by the glimmer of the thick gold chain around Carlos’s neck—like any good whore, gold could distract him even in times of crisis—but he had to look away once he reached the ex-con’s handsome face and found the cold, contemptuously amused smirk waiting for him.

 

His next glance was at the killer’s thickly-muscled arms, writhing with ink, but he had to look away from them, too.  It was an instinctive reflex; it meant he didn’t have to consciously acknowledge the sheer physical power capable of being unleashed upon his lean young body.

 

Carlos knew the little slut was gonna run.  They always thought they could get away.  Maybe he should warn the motherfucker; he didn’t feel like chasing the meat—just pounding it.  “Don’t even try, you stupid little—”

 

Colton bolted.

 

He fled like a startled deer and was through the doorway on the side of the room, Carlos hot on his heels.  It was another instinctive reaction for the boy; he had a vague idea of locking he bedroom door behind him, buying enough time to get out the bedroom window.  But when he turned into the tiny L-shaped hallway that led to the bathroom one way and the bedroom the other, he was confronted with the fact that he’d closed his bedroom door.

 

He was sweaty with panic, and his palms were slick.  The few seconds he spent fumbling with the doorknob were enough for Carlos to catch up.

 

Colton had no way of knowing the details of what was happening to him; he felt a violent whipping sensation followed by a bone-jarring impact that seemed to tear at him.  A fraction of a second of weightlessness was followed by an impact of such intensity that he lost consciousness.

 

Back in the hallway, Carlos snarled.  In his rage, he reached up to his collar and without thinking about it, ripped the thin cotton top like wet paper, tearing the shreds from his ripped, muscled torso and tossing them on the floor behind him.  Throwing the fucking cunt through the closed door had whetted his rage, not diminished it.  He barged through the open doorway, dislodging the remaining pieces of the door that still clung to the twisted hinges—mute evidence to the violence of Colton’s impact.

 

The kid was huddled on the floor near the head of the bed, moaning and twitching in a pile of splintered particle board that had once been a cheap nightstand.  Carlos flicked on the overhead light as he entered; under its bleak glare, he could see the heaving fuckmeat stirring and regaining consciousness.  Its smooth, youthful skin hadn’t yet started the inevitable roughening that was the natural result of drug addiction, but blood was trickling from a number of lacerations across its back, chest, and thighs.  Some of the cuts had been inflicted by a porcelain lamp, the shattered remains of which could be seen spread around Colton’s body.

 

The kid was vaguely aware of Carlos’s approach.  His vision was blurred, and his swollen eyes didn’t want to open.  When they did, he was confronted with a familiar sight—and one that filler him with despair.  Some part of his faggot soul thrilled at finding himself at floor level with a muscular stud’s harness boots, but he already knew that Carlos’s proximity meant pain.

 

He had no idea how right he was about to be proved.

 

The dazed slut had been aware that Carlos had picked up something behind him.  The powerful killer’s grunt indicated that he was putting effort into something, but even when the bent and stripped base of the lamp fell to the floor in front of him, Colton still hadn’t figured out what Carlos was up to.

 

Not that it mattered; he’d learn in good time.  In any case, the fagkiller’s next action put that lamp right out of the boy’s mind.

 

Colton was still mostly face-down; Carlos pressed his boot down on the nape of the fucker’s neck, pinning him to the floor.  Casually reaching down and grabbing the collar of kid’s tank top, he proceeded to rip it off the whore as easily as he’d torn his own off.

 

Standing back upright, looming over his victim, Carlos looked down at the pathetic faggot huddled shirtless on the floor.

 

“Get up, motherfucker.  Now, goddamit!”

 

Colton heard and knew he had to obey.  He tried, he really did, but only managed to make it to his knees before Carlos lost patience and grabbed him by the throat.

 

If Colton had been an impartial observer, he would have been impressed with the sheer physical strength it took to lift his strong young body one-handed and hold it aloft, arm ramrod-straight, with no other support.  Colton, of course, was not an impartial observer; in fact, given that his entire body was now dangling from a powerful hand clamped around his windpipe, he was starting to choke—and it was terrifying.

 

He did himself no favors.  His panic only made him kick his legs, his Nike 4 Breds swinging inches above the thin beige carpet, as Carlos tried to yank his shorts down.  If he’d kept his legs still, it would’ve been over faster—but then, Carlos wouldn’t have enjoyed an early preview of the punk gagging as his face darkened with asphyxiation.

 

Once Colton had nothing left on but his socks and kicks, Carlos tossed him onto the bed, then paused and waited for him to recover.

 

He wanted the meat to be fully awake and aware for what happened next.

 

It didn’t take long; the fucker was awake and scrambling much faster than Carlos would have given him credit for; the muscular fagkiller pounced on the bed with the swiftness of a tiger, not letting his prey have the opportunity to escape.  After a quick tussle, Colton found himself on his back with the Latino’s heavy, powerful body straddling him.

 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere yet, cunt,” the tattooed convict snarled at the boywhore trapped helplessly underneath him.  Colton struggled, but Carlos was kneeling on his arms.

 

“L-look, dude, I, I didn’t wanna—” the kid started, but Carlos bent down over him.  The Hispanic ex-con, face to face with the young meth whore, shifted his right leg, reaching down and pulling Colton’s left arm free.

 

“Shaddup,” the hulking sadist growled, “What you want don’t matter anymore.  Yer gonna learn, asswipe; yer gonna learn what happens to thieving little faggot whores.  Good with stealin’ shit, are ya?  Got light fingers?  Tell ya what—let’s see if we can make ‘em a little lighter!”

 

He held Colton’s hand up into the kid’s face, wrapping one of his own huge hands around the boy’s smaller one, clutching it tight, with the fingers point straight out.  With the other hand, he grabbed the kid’s index finger and began bending it backwards.  Slowly.

 

He wasn’t trying to break the finger, he’d grabbed it far too close to the first knuckle to break the bone.  Instead, he slowly and relentlessly torqued it so far back he separated it at the knuckle joint.

 

Colton’s eyes began to bulge as his sinews and tendons began to rip free like cast-off mooring lines.  When the finger finally came loose with sickening gristly cracking sound like a chicken wing being torn from the carcass, the boy began to shriek.

 

Carlos reacted instantly—the walls of this shithole were too thin for him to enjoy the meat’s screaming.  A few line-drive punches straight to the fucker’s face shut him up, with Carlos emphasizing the point.

 

“Shut [WHAM] yer goddam cocksuckin’ mouth [WHAM] and take it, motherfucker [WHAM]!”

 

As Colton flopped back on the bed, Carlos, still straddling him, reached down and buckled the thick black leather belt that encircled his tight waist.  Pulling it gently free, he wound the end without the buckle around his right hand.

 

“Fuck, son, looks like yer daddy didn’t beat ya enough.  That the problem, huh?  That why yer a thief? That why yer screamin’ like a girl?  That why yer takin cock up yer ass like a girl?  I can fix that, you sick piece a’ shit.  I can fix you for good.  But first, I’m gonna beat ya like yer daddy shoulda.”

 

The metal edge of the buckle made a mean whistle as Carlos whipped it though the air.  The thud of metal on flesh was erotic as fuck, while Colton’s shriek of pain was glorious.

 

The belt buckle left a huge red welt on the punk’s smooth chest.  As the hulking sadist raised his powerful arm to land another blow, the whoreboy raised his left arm, index finger dangling uselessly, to try to ward off the impact.  With a snarl, Carlos batted it out of the way and began lashing the cunt.

 

The first two blows hit Colton on the face, the metal edges of the buckles splitting the skin, leaving the kid with a pair of slashes on his right cheek, trickling blood as the skin underneath turned black and puffed up with the intense bruising.   The boy kept yelling and crying; Carlos needed to keep him quiet, given the thin walls of the cheap apartment.  That was easily done—he pounded his fist into the slut’s face a few times, leaving the boy dazed and groaning as the vicious fagkiller continued to lash at him with the belt, leaving the punk’s smooth flesh severely marked with the evidence of a brutal beating.

 

Finally, heaving with the effort, his huge muscular body glistening with sweat, Carlos tossed the belt down.  He’d worked off his current surge of anger, but meth whores are tough meat and need a bit of tenderizing.  The cunt might need a few more love taps…

 

Colton was in a deep fog of physical agony and fear.  His entire body, from his impaled asshole to his pounded face, seemed to pulse with indescribable pain.  He’d stopped thinking coherently and was just enduring, holding on.  Never good at rational thought to begin with, the stupid little slut could only sink into the state of a dumb beast and try to weather the storm.

 

And yet through it, all, Colton was vividly hyperaware of his own inexplicable, humiliating erection.

 

Carlos was aware that he’d thrashed the meat too hard and that he was losing command of its attention when the whore’s fuckhole began to loosen up on his shaft.  It happened sometimes; the really stupid ones had some kinda mental breakdown at the concept of imminent death.  They’d never tried to conceptualize the end of their own existence, and they simply couldn’t handle it.

 

He wasn’t getting off that easy.  The mindfuck was half the fun.  And the one sure way to snap the fucker back to reality, as Carlos knew by experience, was to snap one of its bones.

 

Colton could see the hardbodied killer leaning over him, the thick gold chain dangling down as Carlos reached for his right hand.  As the powerful sadist began bending his right thumb backwards, the kid, realizing he was getting the same treatment as earlier, pulled himself out of his self-induced trance.

 

“No…w-wait… pl-please wait—AAIIIEEGHHughph!”

 

This one was like pulling a drumstick loose.  It was tougher; there were more tendons and ligaments to rip apart.  Carlos paused in the middle to quiet the kid’s howl of pain by popping him hard, once, in the jaw, then returned to pulling Colton’s thumb out of its socket.

 

By the time the sick fagkiller let go of the boy’s hand, Colton was through.  He lay back on the bed, limp, his eyes wide and surrounded by huge circles of shock so dark they almost looked like makeup.  He was used up.  There was no fight in him.  He wasn’t retreating into an inner world, he was just there, riding the Hispanic’s thick cock like an inflatable sex doll.

 

Well, that was an easy fix.  Reaching into his back pocket, Carlos pulled out something he’d tucked away earlier—the power cord he’d ripped out of the bedside lamp after he’d thrown the cunt through the door.  Smiling gently, he held it out, letting it dangle in front of Colton’s eyes.  The boy looked at it blankly, with virtually no curiosity.  Its significance utterly escaped him.

 

He didn’t retain the luxury of ignorance for long.

 

The moment Carlos looped the cord around his neck, Colton began shaking his head.  Dumbass meth head that he was, even he knew what it meant as the hypermasculine fagkiller cinched the plastic-covered wires around his throat.

 

“No…no, don’t, no no NOOOOackgth—” his final plea for his life ground to a choked gurgle as the muscled hardman tightened the cord.

 

The whoreboy choked and gagged, his eyes boggling incredulously as his oxygen supply ceased.  Instantly jerking and twisting, he began clawing desperately at his throat, his fingers—at least, the ones that were working—frenetically trying to dig at and under the vicious ligature.

 

Carlos grinned triumphantly as the boy writhed beneath him, feeling the kid’s smooth, firm body pressing desperately against his own heavy muscled bulk.  “Yeah, cunt, that’s it!  Show me how bad it hurts to die, motherfucker. Work my rod, you worthless whore, jack me off as you kick yer useless faggot life away, bitch!”

 

The cord had sunk too far into Colton’s neck for the slut to be able to grasp it; all he was doing was tearing and abrading his own flesh trying to reach it.  He transferred his attention to the next available thing: Carlos himself.

 

As an experienced whorekiller, Carlos knew that the meat would turn on him at some point.  Once the punk’s maimed hands flew up into the air, the sadistic psycho jerked his head up and back, keeping his face out of reach of the homo’s flailing fingers.  Colton brushed the tip of his chin a couple of times, then went for his chest.

 

Carlos’s furry torso and hard, sculpted pecs easily withstood the dying cunt’s onslaught, but the little fuck was spiraling into blind panic.  As the pressure increased inside Colton’s head, he could feel his eyeballs and tongue swelling.  It was fucking excruciating; his head felt like it was gonna pop like a balloon.  The was a crushing and fiery pain in his chest from his aching lungs and his heart was pounding faster than seemed possible, the frightening tempo slamming though his confused, congested skull.

 

And through the entire ordeal, he could still feel his innards being reamed by the muscle-bound ex-con; the enormous head of the Latino’s cock seemed to tear through his guts like a plumber’s snake, shredding him from the inside.  Yet despite everything, his own dick was still painfully hard; as it was compressed between his sweaty flat belly and Carlos’s ripped furry abs, he could sense the hot precum leaking from it…

 

In blind pain and terror, he clawed and scratched at Carlos, his fingers digging into the older man, leaving long red marks on his skin, running down his chest.  With a loud grunt, the convicted killer neatly shifted both ends of the cord to his left hand without loosening the hold on the kid’s neck.  This freed his right hand for necessary control measures.

 

“Keep yer hands [WHAM] to yer fuckin’ self, [WHAM] ya stupid cocksucker! [WHAM]” Punctuating his demand with his fist, Carlos watched the boy’s hands drop to his sides.  He’d gotten his message across.  The meat was learning its place.

 

It took a little longer for him to get the lesson across; the meth whore didn’t die easy.  Its eyes, huge and bloodshot, stared with blank horror into its killer’s face as thick, foamy drool bubbled out past its black, protruding tongue and ran down its smooth cheeks.  The lithe young body, slick with the cold sweat of massive physical crisis, jerked and thrashed against Carlos, the smooth skin rubbing erotically over his thick fur.

 

“You’re on yer way out, motherfucker.  Hope yer enjoyin’ yer last few seconds on Earth, faggot, cause you were gonna die tonight anyway.  I was gonna snuff ya on camera.  All you fuckin’ pansies are good for is drainin’ my load as ya die on my cock, but I’d’a made ya famous. But ya had to try to rip me off—what a fuckin’ moron.  Now, yer gonna be just another junkie whore strangled in a cheap rat trap.”

 

The meat was no longer fighting against Carlos; as its body began seizing, it clutched at him as if seeking something to brace itself while it convulsed.  Each jerk of the body tightly clenched the cunt’s colon and the torn remains of its sphincter; it was like the dying homo was trying to jack Carlos off with its asshole.

 

“Get it, bitch, get that load,” the muscular ex-con snarled as he pulled on the lamp cord, the veins in his thick biceps starting to bulge, “C’mon, faggot, milk my spunk, motherfucker!”

 

Most of Colton was dead.  His legs flailed randomly, his feet jerking and drumming so violently the lost the Nike in his left foot, kicking it to the floor.  On the inside, there was nothing left but a red fog filled with a high-pitched whine.  But as Carlos felt his balls pucker and an electric tingle at the base of his enormous shaft, he gave one last powerful tug to the cord.  With a loud, thick crunch, the whoreboy’s hyoid bone snapped and its esophagus collapsed, crushed inwards into an impenetrable wad of bloody, mangled gristle.

 

The sound and sensation penetrated the whining fog.  Somewhere deep within Colton misfiring brain, some last shred of the fag’s personality recognized the sound as the signal for the end.

 

It was ok.  He could stop fighting.  He’d always known, down inside, that it might come to this someday—getting wasted by a psycho john.  But until this moment, he’d never let himself realize that he’d always deserved this—it was why he did what he did.

 

He needed this.  The young cunt needed a strong, powerful man to put an end to his worthless existence.  He was getting exactly what he deserved.

 

At that moment, his ass was flooded with hot potent manseed.  It was the trigger for release—the release of the punk’s load, his life, his soul.

 

Colton died spewing a solid jet of thick boycum.  As Carlos pumped the meat full of sperm, the kid’s DNA and life poured of his body simultaneously in a geyser of semen that smeared across their chests as their shuddering muscled male bodies intertwined, once in orgiastic ecstasy, one in convulsive death.

 

Carlos lay on top of the meat for a few moments, his sweaty flanks heaving as he caught his breath.  As he finally peeled himself stickily from the corpse, it was still shuddering violently, spread-eagled on its back with one sneaker off and its grotesquely swollen face jet black.  He paused to admire his work for a moment—and then he heard something.

 

Someone was knocking at the door.  Loudly and insistently.

 

“Hey Colton, open up!  It’s me, Buddy!”

 

More knocking, rattling the knob.

 

“I know yer in there, asshat.  I want my fuckin’ money, ya hear?”

 

Now it was banging, the thin door barely withstanding the impacts.

 

“Goddamit, if you ain’t in, I know ya got that leather jacket worth fifty…”

 

The next sound wasn’t from the door, it was from the window in the front room.  A very faint tinkle of glass—just enough to let Carlos know that this Buddy fucker was breaking in.

 

Looking around quickly, the buff killer, still shirtless with his cock out and dripping cum decided the closet was his best chance to take the newcomer by surprise.  He slipped in, pulling the door behind him until it was open just a crack.  Just in time, too, as a shadow darkened the doorway.

 

 


 

 

Buddy knew exactly where Colton kept that hot leather jacket.  If that cheap piece of ass didn’t pay his debts, buddy had no hesitation in helping himself to even the account.

 

Buddy was a twenty-two-year-old thug, and looked it.  His build was similar to Colton’s but he was leaner and wirier, and slightly shorter.  He kept his dark hair trimmed short and his goatee was remarkably like Carlos’s in shape and color, if not effect.

 

Carlos looked hot and erotic with his goatee; Buddy just looked scuzzy.

 

He wore an Oakland cap under a pulled-up sleeveless hoodie in blue fleece.  He was shirtless underneath, the hoodie vest unzipped down to his navel to reveal his smooth chest and his flat belly.  His black mid-thigh gym shorts displayed his firm thighs and furry calves; on his feet were Adidas Entrap hightops.

 

Weasel-like, his dark eyes flitted form side to side as he made his way through the window and into the apartment.  With no lights on, it took him a moment to adjust to the dim ambient lighting that was tricling form the bedroom.  Once he did, it became obvious that something had happened.

 

His first presumption, on seeing the smashed furniture, was that he wasn’t the first person to come looking for Colton’s valuables tonight.  Well, he damn sure didn’t want to run into any trouble.  Hopefully, the other dude was gone.

 

Creeping around the corner, the young drug dealer was too high himself to notice the remains of the bedroom door.  Buddy was in the doorway before he spied the inert form of Colton spread out on the bed, luridly lit by the stark overhead bulb.

 

“Colt?” Buddy asked hesitantly, “Th-that you, mang?”  He stole forward, bending over and poking the still-warm body.

 

Then, with a sick grin on his face and a quick glance back at the doorway, he began fondling the dead boy’s still-oozing cock.

 

With his free hand, Buddy reached down and pried his own stiff rod free of his shorts; his dick bobbed in the air, already throbbing with excitement.  “Always knew someone’d fuck ya up right, motherfucker,” he whispered hoarsely as he jacked himself with one hand and let the other roam over the cum-glazed corpse.  “Goddam, wish I coulda been here to see ya get what ya deserved.”

 

Glancing down, he suddenly noticed Colton’s cast-off Nike 4 Bred on the floor next to the bed.  His grin broadened and got more perverse as he bent and picked it up, then held it up to his face.

 

For a brief moment, Buddy was in heaven, huffing the dead whore’s sneaker as he jacked off over the corpse.  Then he heard a noise behind him.

 

What happened next, happened fast—fast than Buddy could comprehend.  He never truly knew what hit him.  At the sound, he whirled around, still inadvertently clutching the Nike to his face.  He had one brief glimpse of Carlos emerging from the closet, but since they were less than four feet apart to start with, he didn’t have time to register anything beyond a huge, tatted, muscle-bound stud, shirtless and with his huge cock hanging out.  Then Carlos was on him.

 

Seething with rage at the faggot perversion he was witnessing from the closet, the sadistic killer launched himself at the thug cunt, slamming one hand into the sole of the shoe Buddy still had pressed to his face.  At the same time, Carlos’s other hand shot past the dealer’s head and circled back, anchoring the back of his skull.

 

With swift, vicious brutality, the ex-con crushed the Nike into the boy’s face, then twisted his head more than one hundred eighty degrees.

 

The snapping of the punk’s neck was a loud as popcorn in the silent bedroom.  As Buddy’s vertebrae became shrapnel, ripping through his spinal cord, the massive trauma to the nervous system sent a shock through his already-stimulated scrotum.

 

The last thing Buddy saw as everything went white was Colton’s black, congested face.  He never felt the spontaneous, hands-free geyser of spunk that he shot all over Carlos at close range.  Thick gobs of semen splattered on the toes of the fagkiller’s boots as the already-dead thug fell with a dull thud, a boneless sack of meat.  His Adidas kicked twice, violently scuffing on the floor, then trembled and became still.

 

Carlos looked around for a moment and spotted a t-shirt on the floor in the corner.  He used it to scrub the cum of two dead boys off his chest and belly, then tossed it back on the floor.  He’d left his belt on the bed next to the whore; kicking the dealer’s corpse aside, he retrieved it and slipped it back around his waist.

 

He turned back at the doorway, taking a last look.  Colton, of course, hadn’t moved.  He was still splayed on his back, legs spread like the whore he’d been.  Huddled on the floor next to him, Buddy’s face stared grotesquely backwards, the jaw agape and the eyes rolled back in the head with only the whites showing.  The Nike he’d coveted had rolled a yard away when it was dropped by his nerveless fingers in the seconds before the rest of him hit the floor.

 

All in all, Carlos felt relatively satisfied.  Since the door was still locked, he decided to leave the apartment by the window, after checking out the scene to make sure he wasn’t observed.  Slipping his jacket on when he got in the car, he started it up and crept out of the lot in first with the headlights off.  He was halfway down the next block before he switched them on and sped up.

 

One thing was still bothering him.  He’d told Nick he had a boy.  Well he’d had two, but hadn’t managed to get them on film.  Reaching for his phone, he decided he might as well break the bad news to his business partner.

 

Just then, as he was approaching the intersection with the highway, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.  Or, rather, someone.  A dude…just a glimpse.  But it might be something.

 

He put the phone down and made a U-turn.

 

 


 

 

“Aw, fuck,” Schweitz cried in disgust, “Not another garbage run.  Hey, Nuñez, will ya lookit this shit?  More dead fags.”

 

“Yeah,” Nuñez sighed, “I heard.  Let’s just get it over, huh?  Sooner we get done here, sooner we can get back to workin’ real cases.”

 

“Ain’t gonna make sergeant handlin’ fuckin’ animal jobs like this…ok, the one on the bed, rough play with faggot boyfriend.  Got what he was askin’ for.  The one on the floor—I dunno.  Don’t really care, neither.”

 

“Think he offed the one on the bed?”

 

“Maybe.  But he didn’t twist his own fuckin’ head off.  Wish I knew who did.  I’d shake the guy’s hand and give him a medal—”

 

“Hey, detective, the ME guys are here,” interrupted one of the patrol cops outside from the living room.

 

“The meatwagon?” Schweitz barked, “Great.  I dunno, we’ll say some jealous homo killed his pansy and the fag fucking the pansy.  Deep-six the file as killer unknown.”

 

“Fine by me,” Nuñez replied, nodding to the ME techs as they entered to collect the corpses.  “Tag ‘em, bag ‘em, and drag ‘em the fuck outta here, boys.  It’s time for lunch.”

 

By three that afternoon, both detectives had had three beers and forgotten they’d had a double murder case that day.

 

Meat Chronicles 22–Any Way You Slice It

He tells me his name’s Shawn.  He’s young and sweet, but he was stupid enough to climb into my van, and that means he’d gonna die.

 

I picked him up at the mall.  I’d been there legitimately but when I left, there was a knot of teenagers not far from my van.  I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.  They’d all gone to see a movie together and now that it was over, they were heading their separate ways.  One boy, though, didn’t have a car and couldn’t find anyone who was heading where he needed to go.

 

He was about seventeen, with wavy dark hair.  Tall and well-built, his broad friendly face radiated the kind of innocence that I love to destroy with my cock.  He wore a white button-down shirt, left unbuttoned halfway down his smooth muscular chest, with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow so that I could see a tattoo on the inside of his right forearm, without being able to tell what it was.

 

His faded jeans were tight enough to show the exact dimensions of his thick boycock; on his feet, he sported a pair of white leather DC skate shoes.  And as his friends hopped into their cars and pulled out, he was left, forlorn, sexy, and helpless, in the parking lot.

 

I moved in, offering him a lift.

 

It was easy enough; he was looking for something specific for his mother’s birthday and it wasn’t in stock here.  One of the stores on the other side of town had it, but none of his friends had the time to go all the way out there.  All I had to do was tell him I had an errand on that side of town, and he hopped right into the passenger seat, grinning.

 

I glance at him as I head for the highway. He’s not wearing an undershirt; I can see enough through the thin material of his button-down to get a good idea of his well-built chest and his ripped abs.  For a teen punk, he’s pretty buff.

 

I can take him, of course; as well-muscled as he is, I can break him like a twig.  That’s not what I’m gonna do to this one, but it’ll come in handy when I have to establish dominance over the little fucker.  And that’s gonna be soon.

 

The store he wants is in center that was recently built on the edge of town; I deliberately miss the highway exit, telling the meat when he points out my mistake that I’ll take the next exit and loop back.

 

Thing is, there’s a building site just down from the next exit—a development going in just off a county road.  There’s nothing around it, and on a golden Sunday afternoon like this, it’ll be completely ended.

 

It’s the perfect place to waste this teenaged cunt.

 

I head down the road and pull into the lot.  There’s a chain link fence around the site, but no gate to it.  There’s a construction shack on the left with a couple of earth movers parked next to it.  I think they’re building a new office park, with several high-rises going in.   It’s gonna be a nice, pleasant place for a dirt nap.

 

“Wha-what are we doing here?” Shawn asks, his deep dark eyes peering at me quizzically from under his mop of wavy bangs.

 

“Whaddaya think of the place?” I ask him, smiling cheerfully.  He blinks, surprised by the question, and glances out the window.

 

“I, uh, I dunno,” he says hesitantly, “I-I mean, it’s kinda a mess.  Can, uh, can we go?”

 

“Aw ain’t that a goddam shame,” I say, commiserating, “He don’t wanna stay.  Tough shit, motherfucker; yer gonna stay here forever.  This place is gonna be your grave.”

 

I’m itching to strike, but not yet.  I have to see it register.  I have to see the shock and confusion in the adolescent’s face first.

 

And there it is.  “Wh-” he starts, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in bewilderment, “Wh-wh-wh-”

 

“This is what, dumbass,” I say and drive my fist into his face.  His head flies backwards, bounces off the van’s window, and rolls forward again just in time to meet my second sucker punch.

 

The teen may be strong and well-built, but he’s got a glass jaw.  The only thing preventing his buff young body from slumping into the floorboards is his seat belt.  He lolls limply in the nylon harness, waiting for me to come release him.  And I am.

 

I’m gonna release him from so much.  His restraints, his clothes, his virginity.  His life.

 

I open the door and jump out of the van.  The prints of my boots in the dirt blend in with those of the site workers; in the morning; no one will be able to tell I was here.  I open the side door first, then the passenger door, unbuckling the seatbelt and manhandling the unconscious punk out of the seat.

 

His firm teenaged body feels good in my arms.  It’s gonna feel so much better thrashing on my cock.

 

I sit him on the door sill, slumped forward and leaning on me as I rip his shirt open, tearing off the buttons and revealing the boy’s toned and muscled chest.  I run my hands over his smooth pecs for a moment, stopping to twist and yank the taut nubs of his nipples, before I slip the shirt back over his shoulders, where it falls off behind him.

 

I kneel down, letting the cunt slip forward, bent over me, as I pull his kicks off and toss them over my shoulder, then unbutton and unzip his jeans.  It takes a little more effort to drag the fucker upright so that his jeans slip down to his ankles, but he starts to moan as I do it.  I let him flop back onto the cold bare metal floor as I pull his jeans off the rest of the way, then his briefs.

 

He’s got a nice thick boycock, almost five inches soft.  Nude except for his ped socks, the teen’s lithe, smooth body is sprawled out on its back on the floor of my van, mine to use and abuse.  And goddam, am I gonna use it.

 

I position him properly, lengthwise on the floor.  To his right, just about face level, I’ve placed a two-foot square section of mirrored glass.  At a certain point, the cunt’s gonna have a nice view of the festivities.  As he starts groaning and fluttering his eyelids, I peel off my muscle t-shirt and unzip my fly.  Once I haul out my thick stiff rod, I’m ready to rock ‘n roll.  One last item, and then we wait for full consciousness.

 

The last item, of course, is my knife.  Seven inches of razor-sharp carbon steel, serrated, with grooves to channel blood away from the poly molded grip, it’s wicked and potent.  It’s as long and as hard as my cock, and just as eager to penetrate the adolescent fuckmeat.  Clutching it tightly, I spread the boy’s firm thighs and kneel between them, waiting for him to waken.  I don’t wait long.

 

“Hey dude,” I say casually, grinning at the kid as his big brown eyes open and gaze around bewilderedly, “Ya look like ya need to get fucked.”  Smiling gently, I slam my blade down into the punk’s belly with such force as to completely impale his body; the tip impacts the van floor beneath him.

 

The teen gasps as the sharpened steel slashes its way through his guts, his coiled intestines offering no resistance as the blade slides easily through him.  His young face is taut and gray with shock, his eyes wide with agony and disbelief as his body goes rigid.

 

This is what I’ve been waiting for.  Before the physical shock lets go and the kid relaxes again, I ram my huge erect tool into his ass.

 

He’s a virgin, of course.  No one’s ever been up his fuckhole before.  And now, his unstretched sphincter is clenched tight in physical agony.  I plow into it with the force of a wrecking ball, the only lube the slick coat of precum glistening on the massive engorged head of my rock-hard tool.

 

I tear him open.  I can feel it, I can feel the tissues parting and the blood flowing.  Even better, the meat can feel it too, and he screams.  Jesus, how he screams and shrieks as I completely wreck his asshole, shoving my rod deep into his guts with the same viciousness that I used with the knife.

 

Except this seems to hurt him more.  Even better, his dick starts to harden almost immediately.  His adolescent body, already overflowing with sexual hormones, is responding involuntarily to the pounding his prostate is receiving from my fat cock.

 

“Fuck yeah, bitch, lemme hear ya scream.  Tell me how much it hurts, motherfucker, yer sufferin’ is so goddam hot!”

 

I’m not sure he can hear me; he’s too focused on avoiding the pain.  I can feel it on my cock; he’s shifting his tight young ass, trying to minimize the pain when I go balls-deep up his mangled fuckhole.  The knife is bobbing back and forth in his belly; each thrust of my hips rams the kid’s body, moving it while the knife is pinned against the floor of the van.

 

Must be fuckin’ painful, but not painful enough.  I wanna destroy this boy.  He ain’t done nothin’ to deserve it but be in my way when I felt the urge to unload in some fuckmeat.  Sucks to be him, heh.

 

He’s clutching me tightly, his boyish face clenched and grimacing as he tries to endure the pain.   I can see beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.  Suddenly, he seems to hit a breaking point and his eyes open, large and dark and full of tears.  Sobbing brokenly, he speaks.

 

“Oh god, oh fuck,” he wails, loosening his grip on my arms and raising his head to stare in horror at the molded grip of my knife rising from his heaving guts.  “Wh-wh-why?” he moans breathily as he reaches for the blade.

 

“No ya don’t, fuckwad,” I snarl, knocking his fumbling hands away and grabbing the hilt myself, “That’s how I get yer fag teen ass to work my cock.  Like this.”

 

I twist the knife in the wound, swinging it around like a pestle in a mortar, carving his intestines into tripe.  He howls loudly and raggedly, his voice cracking and rasping into near silence as I pull the knife out of him, pink strings of guts still dangling from the serrations.

 

He loses it.  I don’t know if he knows that given enough time, that wound is fatal.  He acts like he still has a chance to survive this; once I regain control, I need to make sure he knows he’s gonna die.  In the meantime, I just hang on as the little cunt thrashes under me, his lithe, lean teenaged body pressing against mine.  I can feel his smooth skin sliding on mine, moistened by the cold sweat forced from him by severe trauma.  His hands beat uselessly against me, clawing at my beard and thumping against my hard, muscled chest.

 

I don’t even have to pump my rod up his ass.  I just stay still and let his terror bounce him on my cock.  He’s workin’ it good, but it won’t last long—and I’m gettin’ kinda bored anyway.  Time to remind the meat who’s runnin’ this show.

 

Two love taps to the jaw—one of which knocks out a canine tooth—and the cunt is, is not still, as least back under control.  His face is swollen, bruised and purple, but he’s more focused on me than his pain, which is where I want him at the moment.

 

“See that mirror there?” I ask him, nodding off to the left.  He slowly turns and looks at it, silently, every motion hesitant form fear.  “Yer gonna hafta keep an eye on that, cause yer gonna see somethin’ sexy as all fuck in the in a second.  Wanna know what it’s gonna be?”

 

His eyes snap back to mine in a flash, wide with terror.  It’s almost as if the adolescent punk knows what’s coming, but it doesn’t.  It’s gonna be worse than the meat could ever imagine.  I hold the blade back up in front of it.

 

“Remember this?  That little tickle in yer guts was just foreplay, bitch.  I’m gonna cut yer throat open and make ya watch yerself bleed out while I fuck ya to death.  Hot as fuckin’ hell yeah?  Fuckin-A!  Time to saw yer trachea open, asswipe.  This is gonna hurt like all fuck!”

 

He doesn’t try to fight; he paralyzed in absolute terror.  He does try to scream, his handsome young face distorted and swollen, but only a faint high-pitched croak comes out.  I place the razor-sharp blade across his smooth throat and begin slicing.

 

Slowly.

 

Oh holy fuck, the way his smooth teen body clutches at me in agony, holding me tight as I plow his torn virgin rectum and carve into his esophagus like I’m slicing lunch meat.  The look in his eyes, the bewilderment and horror, are so goddam erotic…fuck, it takes all my effort not to cum right now.  But the meat ain’t dead yet.

 

I place my hand on the cunt’s face and force it to the side—facing the mirror.  The punk’s neck twists, so I have to angle the blade a bit, but that’s not a problem.  With one hand on my knife and the other on fucker’s head, I force the teen to watch his own throat being cut open.

 

The adolescent meat shrieks as I cut into it, but not for long.  The moment I open up the trachea, the screams suddenly dissolve into a high-pitched wheeze.  As blood spurts from the huge gash in the teen’s throat, I can see the rubbery trachea, clenching open and closed in exactly the same tempo as the cunt’s ass is working my rod.

 

Goddam, it’s so fuckin’ hot.  This is why.  This is why the boy has to die on my cock, so I can feel his body convulse and react to my weapon.  So I can control his agony and jack myself off with his convulsive death throes.

 

And it ain’t like the little fuck ain’t enjoyin’ itself on the way out.  At that age, they’re all so horny and full of hormones that they’re all practically fags anyway.  Its thick teen cock is pulsin’ and strainin’ so fuckin’ hard as it slaps against my ripped six-pack abs that I’m surprised the slut hasn’t already unloaded.

 

It will, though, before it dies.  They always do.  I know when it reaches the critical point; I can tell by the sound.

 

“How’s it taste, bitch, huh?” I ask it as it gazes in terror at the pink foam bubbling in its open esophagus—I knew that mirror would come in handy.  “I can hear ya garglin’ yer own blood.  Can ya taste the salt and iron?  Tastes like fuckin’ death, don’t it, cunt?”

 

It’s still writhing under me, its skin growing colder as it bleeds out, when sudden I feel its final death struggle start.  It begins jerking and wheezing under me, straining desperately to suck in enough oxygen to keep the brain alive only to have it spill back out in the spurting blood, its hands clutching my shoulders as if that alone could save its worthless life.

 

“Yeah, that’s it, motherfucker,” I tell it as it convulses, its hard teen cock splattering my chest with precum, “Fuckin’ milk my hog as ya bleed out.  Die, ya piece a’ fuckin’ teen meat, die on my cock and make me cum!”

 

In the end, it seems to know.  It seems to hear and understand that its one purpose on this planet was to die so I can spurt inside it.  There’s one last despairing gurgle and suddenly a shudder goes through the adolescent meat that I can feel all the way to the base of my dick.  At the same time, I feel the hot spatter of its deathload across my chest—burning wads of hormone-filled semen striking my skin as I unload huge wads of manseed into the punk’s shredded fuckhole.

 

It takes me a few minutes to catch my breath afterwards.  The boy is dead and the back of my van is a bloody mess, but it was worth it.  And both those problems are easy to resolve; since the back of this van is uncarpeted, it’s easy enough to hose out.  And as for the quivering pile of boymeat, well, there’s a reason I picked this building site.

 

There’s a large square hole not fifty yards from here where they’re about to pour a foundation post.  It takes me no time to drag the teen slut out of the van and across the dirt lot.  I dump the twitching corpse into the hole, where it lands with a thud—must be a good thirty feet down.

 

Heading back to the van,  I pick up the the kid’s clothes and toss them down on top of it.  Peering down into the hole, I can barely see anything of the corpse, but I don’t want the workmen to notice anything before they start pouring concrete down the hole.  Grabbing a nearby shovel, I dump enough dirt down the hole to cover the dead teen.

 

Monday morning, they’ll crush the fucker flat with several tons of liquid concrete.

 

S’pose his family will wonder what happened to him.  Shame I can’t tell ‘em what a great fuck he was.  Might make his mom feel better about him missing her birthday.

Brotherly Love, part 2

Bound to a chair in a puddle of his own piss, Ross could only gaze on in abject horror as Eddie manhandled the corpse of his younger brother.  The buff ex-Marine took the dead teen’s wrist in one hand and grabbed a hank of his hair in the other and proceeded to drag the still-twitching body off the bed and along the floor toward the older adolescent.  Josh’s ped socks were peeled back and off, first the right, then the left.

 

In a moment of utter calm, Ross noticed that his brother’s toes were curling in their death throes, then wondered if he was losing his mind.  In the next two minutes, it became obvious that that was the more preferable alternative to accepting what was happening as reality.

 

“I’m gonna drain ya first, faggot,” Eddie chuckled, looming over him with his huge throbbing cock almost directly at eye level.  Even after everything that had happened, some part of Ross still wanted that massive, oozing, vein-gnarled shaft.  But he was able to break the spell long enough to glance hesitatingly upwards, taking in Eddie’s full physique as the muscular psycho hulked over him.  The stud’s bulging biceps and thick hubcap pecs were ample proof of the physical power the fagkiller was able to bring to bear on his helpless teenage victims.  Dogtags?  He hadn’t noticed the dogtags before.  His attention had been on other things, but there they were, dangling between the twin mound of his chest—

 

“There ya go,” Eddie said, snapping Ross back to reality, “Gonna milk ya dry first, so you can pay attention to milkin’ me when I waste ya.”

 

As he spoke, he lowered Josh’s head into Ross’s crotch, letting the teen’s stiff boycock project into the gaping mouth of his dead brother.

 

Ross gurgled in horror as Eddie forced the corpse further down onto his shaft, shoving Josh’s limp head forward until the dead kid was deepthroating his brother.  He titled the head back so that the eyes were staring straight up at Ross.

 

“Look at it,” the powerful sadist sneered, “Ya got a dead fag on yer cock.  Only good for one thing—use it, motherfucker, make it yer cumdump.”

 

And with those words, he began to bob the head up and down on Ross’s involuntarily erect boycock.  Looking into Josh’s vacant, starting eyes, the teen moaned in horror as the psychotic hardman started jacking him off with his brother’s skull—but part of the horror was that he’d jacked off himself, at one point, at the thought of his brother sucking his dick.

 

And this felt better than he’d imagined.  So much better, he couldn’t admit it to himself.

 

Eddie noticed, and laughed harshly.

 

“I thought so—you sick faggot fuck.  Yer fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?” he crowed, his clenched fist forcing the dead boy’s head repeatedly into Ross’s crotch.  The older teen shuddered and tried not to think about what was happening and how much it hurt that the words spoken by this cruel psychopath were right.  It did feel good—holy fuck, it felt fantastic the way Josh’s throat willingly engulfed Ross’s throbbing, hormone-primed cock—and that was wrong.

 

But the musclebound ex-Marine, spurred by an overwhelming sadistic impulse, kept jacking the adolescent punk off using his brother’s corpse.  The mere mindfuck alone was making Eddie’s massive tube of manflesh swell and pulse.

 

“Stop,” Ross moaned in a weak voice. In his pain and fear and confusion, he had a dim idea that what was happening now was some kind of challenge, or test.  If he blew a load down the dead boy’s throat, it meant, in some undefined way, that he was acknowledging the vicious stranger’s right to do what he had done, and was doing—and was going to do.

 

Ross stopped thinking at that point.  Or, rather, he closed his eyes tightly and tried desperately to think about anything else.

 

Eddie noticed his attempt and smirked.  “Tryin’ to ignore me, asswipe?  Haw!   Pansies don’t have any self-control.  That’s what makes ‘em so easy to snuff—it’s like they already know what they deserve.  This lil’ punkfuck here that’s milkin’ yer shaft, now, it knew it wanted a good hard exit.  It got so hot n’ horny about blowin’ its deathwad, it couldn’t even work my spunk out. That’s why I’m usin’ it to drain ya first.”

 

Here he bent down, grinning, his hard, handsome—and frighteningly jovial—face inches from Ross.  The hardman’s dogtags clinked as they bounced off Josh’s bobbing head.

 

“See, when yer time comes, ya piece a’ shit, I’m gonna make goddam sure that the last few seconds of yer useless life are devoted to making me cum.  Yer gonna go out like a fuckin’ dog, bitch, so hurry up and spunk.  C’mon, motherfucker, the sooner ya shoot, the sooner you can start dyin’ on my dick!”

 

And as Eddie pumped Josh’s head faster and faster on Ross’s cock, the teen turned his tear-streaked face away, closing his eyes and gritting his teeth.  He couldn’t give in.  He couldn’t cum.  He’d die if he did.

 

He was gonna die anyway, but he didn’t know that.  Or, rather, his mind wasn’t capable of harboring that idea yet.  That would come later.  Ross was focused on not cumming now, but it was getting more and more difficult.

 

He could feel the precum seeping out of his hard teen cock, adding to the lubrication of Josh’s still-slick esophagus.  His younger brother had only been dead a few minutes; it was almost as if Josh was still there, deliberately giving him a blow job—no, he couldn’t think that; he’d shoot his wad…

 

“Yer gettin’ off, aintcha?” Eddie asked with an abrasive, mocking laugh as he continued to pump Josh’s skull onto his older brother’s shaft.  “Don’t matter if the faggot’s dead—it can still give head, huh?”  The powerful ex-Marine reached out and grabbed a handful of Ross’s hair, forcing the boy’s head down.

 

Having both brothers by the hair, Eddie manipulate the corpse even faster, keeping up an even stroke, making sure that Josh’s immobile throat was perfectly aimed for plugging by Ross’s oozing rod.  “C’mon, motherfucker, shoot.  Ya know ya wanna.  How many times you beat off thinkin’ about this pansy wrappin’ its lips around yer meat, huh?  Now ya got it, an’ it’s the best kinda fag to cum in—a dead one.  C’mon, you goddam punkfuck, unload a wad down its throat!”

 

Ross couldn’t hold back.  His eyes were clenched, his jaw was clenched even tighter; his teeth hurt.  The swollen bruise on his chin where Eddie had decked him was throbbing and his lithe adolescent body was slick with sweat as he vainly tried to stifle his orgasm.  Suddenly he cried out, a hoarse, inarticulate shout of visceral physical release.

 

As Ross hunched over his dead brother’s head, spewing hot jets of hormone-packed teen semen down Josh’s unresponsive throat, Eddie broke out in loud, cruel laughter.  Ross continued to grunt and spasm, but tears were trickling down his smooth cheeks.

 

He’d never cum this hard before, ever.  Why couldn’t this have happened before Josh was…before he’d been…

 

And as the boyseed kept streaming out of him, Ross knew he’d been defeated.  He’d fight whatever was coming next; he’d have to, but the hot hardbodied man to whom he’d been willing to freely give his body earlier in the day was now going use his body in unspeakable ways.  And there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.

 

Eddie knew it, too.  He let go of Ross’s hair and stood up, jerking Josh’s head up off Ross’s still-leaking boymeat.  The dead kid’s jaw hung limply open, white trails of sperm leaking from both corners of the spunk-filled mouth.  Without glancing at it, Eddie forcefully jerked his arm, flinging the corpse down to one side like disposed garbage.

 

Ross looked at Josh in a kind of blank despair, then raised his eyes and met Eddie’s gaze.  The look of cold, cruel triumph twinkled in the fagkiller’s eyes like stars in a summer’s twilight.  Reaching into a pocket of his camo pants, he pulled out a set of handcuff keys.

 

“Now yer ready to ride my fuckin’ manhog all the way down into yer grave, fucker.  Buckle up, bitch, this is gonna be long and painful.  But remember, you better work my dick good, ya faggot asswipe, or I’ll make it hurt worse.  Milk my shaft or you’ll be fuckin’ beggin’ to die, yeah?”

 

The keys jingled as he bounced them in his palm, slowly striding to Ross’s rear.  “Time to get the show on the road,” came the low and somehow still-sexy voice from behind, “I got some business tonight.  Need to start wastin’ yer ass so I can drain my nads and get goin’.”

 

Ross’s hands were suddenly pulled painfully up behind him, but even as he cried out, there were some metallic clicks and suddenly his arms were free.

 

The “fight-or-flight” response is strong in the young; it kicked in the moment Ross felt the cuffs released.  Directly from his sitting position, he lunged toward the door, completely forgetting that his legs were still strapped to the chair legs.  The panicked homo toppled forward, falling across his brother’s still-quivering legs and stunning himself as his forehead hit the floor simultaneously with the high wooden back of the chair striking the back of his head.

 

In a deep fog, Ross felt his legs being untied and the chair being removed, all to the sound of a deep rumble that he was too dazed to recognize as Eddie’s sardonic chuckling.  He came abruptly out of his haze, though, when the hulking sadist bent down, grabbed a hank of his dark hair, and jerked him up onto his knees; Ross had to cooperate with the movement to avoid having his scalp ripped open.  As he knelt, panting, Eddie grasped his upper arms form behind, the ex-Marine’s hands completely encircling the teen’s biceps.

 

With no more effort than if he was tossing a pillow, Eddie flung Ross onto the bed; the kid hit face-down, but his momentum rolled him up and over so that he ended up diagonally across the bed, on his back.

 

Ross raised his head to see Eddie approaching the bed, grinning ominously.  The psychotic ex-Marine’s well-defined body glistened in the dim light under a thin sheen of sweat.  The boy allowed the jingling of the dogtags to pull his eyes from Eddie’s cold deadly gaze, but in letting them drift down, he found himself confronted with the sadist’s enormous shaft, dripping in anticipation—

 

—and Ross, knowing what it was dripping in anticipation of, began whimpering.

 

Eddie reached the bed and climbed up on it, slowly parting Ross’s smooth, firm thighs like a lover; only the vicious smirk on the hardbodied top’s face showed that this wasn’t gonna be a romantic scene.  Bringing Ross’s legs up until they rested on his shoulders, Eddie nestled himself in and began slapping his huge rod on Ross’s dick and balls as if he was beating them with a club.  Ross moaned loudly, partly in pain and partly in pleasure.

 

Ross would have denied the pleasurable aspect if he’d had the chance, but Eddie beat him to it—literally, with a sudden powerful backhand the split the teen’s lip.  “Ya like real mancock, faggot?  Good.  Take it, cunt, take my thick meat all the down to its root!” he snarled.  Ross felt a sudden pressure against his sphincter, and then his virgin asshole was torn open.

 

“Aw fuck yeah!” Eddie grunted, “Nice and tight.  Caughtcha just in time, didn’t I, you and the other one?  Gonna waste yer faggot ass before ya can breed.  Yeah, bitch, ya feel that in ya?  That’s the dick of a real man, a man who knows how to put down the baby fags before they can spread their perversion.  Enjoy my cock, ya worthless homo; it’s too goddam good for the likes of you!”

 

He spit in Ross’s grey, taut face, then leaned back and started pounding the teen’s fuckhole in earnest, whaling on the kid’s ass like a jackhammer.   It was more than Ross could take; the initial penetration had been agonizing, but this was unendurable.  The thick, engorged head of Eddie’s tool was scourging the tender lining of the kid’s colon.

 

Ross shrieked, high and shrill, like a girl.  Eddie chuckled and reamed him even harder.  It was a big house, and the neighbors weren’t close.  The teen boy screamed for more than three minutes straight, to absolutely no avail, before Eddie got bored with the noise and put an end to it by punching Ross hard in the face, twice, breaking his nose.

 

“Goddam, cunt,” he growled, “Yer fuckhole gets a real nice flutter when ya scream, but it ain’t worth that shit.  Keep it down or I’ll do it for ya.”  All this was said with an even tone as the muscular ex-Marine fucked the teen relentlessly.

 

Ross hadn’t completely shut up, but he managed to back it down to a low, snuffling sob, made nasal by a crushed nose and sinus passages blocked with blood.  But the remorseless, machine-like pounding in his ass was painful, it was agonizing, it was…starting to feel good.

 

Pumped full of adolescent hormones, Ross realized with dismay that his cock was getting stiff again.  It was happening outside of his control, as his rectum slowly relaxed around the huge shaft that was impaling it.  His moaning was starting to subside, too, as his ass began to stretch to fit the shape of Eddie’s cock.

 

The sadistic fagkiller knew what was happening, and why.

 

“You know yer gonna die,” he said, looking down into Ross’s face a he fucked the teen inexorably, his dogtags resting on the kid’s smooth chest, “Fuckin’ faggots are all alike.  I wasted yer worthless little shit of a brother and I’m gonna waste you too—and yer still fuckin’ hard.  Love the D so much yer willin’ to die for it, huh, cocksucker?”

 

Ross responded by struggling.  He didn’t stop to consider if it was physically possible for him to escape the older, stronger man’s grasp; he began writhing and flailing as soon as Eddie’s words seeped into his consciousness.  He’d refused to acknowledge the obvious outcome of the situation, despite watching Josh get slaughtered in front of his eyes, but Eddie’s voice drove it home.

 

He fought hard.  Eddie chuckled as the teenaged punk thrashed beneath him, the way the boy’s smooth, sweat-slicked skin slid against his chest and belly like suede…not that he was a fag, of course.  But the homos needed to learn their place, and it felt so fuckin’ good teachin’ ‘em.

 

Ross curled his fists and beat at Eddie’s massive, rock-hard chest.  The kid was punching as hard as he could—harder, even, as fear and adrenaline amped up his power—but for all the effect he was having, it might as well have been a cinderblock wall.  He reached for Eddie’s face, but the powerful psycho knocked the boy’s hand’s away with ease.

 

Nothing was working, and Ross was wearing himself out.  He stopped struggling and lay back on the bed.

 

“Given up, huh?” Eddie sneered, “Figures.  See, there might be a reason to let ya live if you were a good fuck, but you dumbass fags can’t even do that right.  So now I’m gonna hafta make ya work might shaft, and work it right.”

 

He bent down and thrust his cold, hard face right into Ross’s, grinning maniacally.  “This is gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.  Goddam, I love this shit!”  He clamped his big left hand around the punk’s throat and began squeezing.

 

His grip had a steel-like strength, instantly narrowing Ross’s windpipe to a point where it nearly closed.  Not quite, though.  The sadistic hardman wanted to watch his prey struggle a bit.

 

Ross had exhausted himself into complacency, but that all changed when his air supply was cut.  He could still breathe, but it took effort—a lot of effort—to get oxygen; every strain was accompanied by a faint wheeze as a few cubic inches of air entered his lungs.

 

“How’s that feel, faggot?”  Eddie jeered, “Ya likin’ that?  No?  Better start workin’ my dick, ya little slut, cause the moment I get bored with yer homo ass, I’m gonna crush yer fuckin’ throat and let ya die on my cock.  Now move yer ass, motherfucker!!”

 

His right hand was still free to make the fist that he drove into Ross’s face.  The first one came so suddenly, so fast, that the kid didn’t have time to flinch.  Eddie pounded the boy six times, half a dozen meaty thuds reverberating in the room as the ex-Marine blackened the teen’s eyes and knocked three teeth down his throat.

 

And with each blow, Ross’s ass squeezed Eddie’s dick tightly.

 

And with each blow, Ross’s hard boycock lurched up off his flat smooth belly, a transparent bead of precum sparkling like a jewel on the head of his dick.

 

“That’s it, asswipe, just like that.  Ya need more?  Ya like bein’ a punchin’ bag, ya goddam homo?  Fine with me, ya sick fuck!”

 

Ross sobbed incoherently, his tears mingled with snot and blood, as Eddie turned his attention lower and sent two roundhouse punches into the boy’s chest, one landing on each firm pec with a loud, hollow thump.  “Hoog!” Ross cried out, not so much a spoken word as the inarticulate sound of air forced violently past the vocal cords.

 

Grinning, Eddie then plowed his fist like a piledriver into the teen’s flat belly, three powerful blows in succession, driving every last inch of reserve air from the bottom of the boy’s lungs.

 

Ross raised his head up off the bed.  His eyelids were swelling but they stayed open, and the look of horror and despair in the adolescent’s eyes was what Eddie wanted to see.  The faggot was starting to learn its real place in the world.

 

Time to finish the lesson.  He tightened his grip.  The movement was easy, nonchalant, barely noticeable—and it completely cut off Ross’s air.  The kid’s expression didn’t change; his body was still rigid and stunned by the battering it had endured.  And then he began to convulse.

 

It wasn’t a genuine convulsion, but he was trying violently to inhale.  Nothing was happening, no air was coming in, so the lithe teenaged fag began to spasm, almost as if he was drowing.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Eddie grunted, “Work for it.  Work for that air, ya stupid bitch.  Just keep tryin’, dumbass, it feels so good on my shaft.”

 

Ross heard the ex-Marine’s harsh taunting voice; he didn’t know what was happening to him, but he knew it was Eddie’s fault.  It gave him somewhere to focus his panic—and his hands.  He tried to pry off the vice-like hand that was squeezing his airway shut with no effect at all.  As the pressure inside his skull began to mount, the teenager was swiftly losing control.

 

Suddenly, Eddie found his face full of scrabbling, clawing fingers.  He quickly jerked his head to the left, dodging enough that Ross’s gouging fingernails ended up scraping across the buff killer’s broad, rock-hard chest.  The long red scratches weren’t painful, but Eddie was pissed.

 

“Don’t you fuckin’ fight me, faggot!” he roared and began pounding his fist into the boy’s face…but this time he didn’t stop.

 

It felt too good; every time his wrecking-ball fist plowed into the boymeat, it jerked and twitched, giving his huge throbbing rod an extra squeeze as it reamed out the cunt’s rectum.  “That’s it,” the muscular killer grunted, “That’s what fags are good for.  Gotta make fuckin’ meat puppets outta ‘em first, though, yeah?”

 

By some cruel quirk of fate, Ross was still awake.  His face was being caved in—with occasion blows to the chest and stomach to change things up—but he hadn’t lost consciousness yet.  The pain of the beating was terrible, but it was fading.  Even the unbearable burning in his chest was fading.

 

The pain in his head, though, that wasn’t fading.  The pressure and the pounding within his cranium were nightmarish; he could feel his eyes bulge excruciatingly despite swollen blackened lids.  The horrible sensation in his mouth was his thick purple tongue slowly protruding past his split, bleeding lips.  The pain below, where he was getting raped—

 

—but that wasn’t his ass.  He knew he was still getting fucked; he could tell Eddie’s tool was buried deep in his guts, but the pain, the intense aching pain he was feeling was from his own cock.  It was literally so hard it hurt.

 

“I gotta go; time to unload,” Eddie announced.  “Say goodnight, motherfucker; time to make ya into meat.”  He slammed his fist three times into Ross’s jaw, breaking it in several places.  Then, before the tortured adolescent could react, Eddie leaned forward and put his weight on the hand around the boy’s throat.  With the meat pinned into place, Eddie placed his other hand behind its head.  His next movement was so fast as to be nearly invisible, but it was effect.

 

He jerked the head up while pressing the neck down in one single, swift, and very powerful movement.  The loud wet cracking sounds of the fag’s vertebrae shattering were what triggered Eddie’s orgasm.  He’d done what he needed to.  He’d shown the faggot that he was a real alpha male.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!  Yeah!  Die, ya faggot scum! Fuck! Fuck!”

 

All of Ross’s existence was compressed into the final nightmarish seconds of his life as his spinal cord was ripped out of his brain and a cataclysmic shock tore through his nervous system.  His entire being was distilled into that final blast of searing agony where his soul was stripped from its moorings and expelled from his body in jets of hot semen.  His deathload hollowed him out; as thick streams of boycum spewed from his erect shaft and covered both Eddie’s chest and his own, the teenaged faggot slid into the cold void of death.

 

Eddie shuddered and shot, grunting and punching the meat.  The homo was dead; it was shuddering and kicking in its death throes.  Even its sphincter flexed in death, milking Eddie thoroughly.  Finally, with a satisfied sigh, he extracted his mammoth shaft from the corpse and got off the bed.

 

Looking around, he spotted a door in the corner that evidently led to a bathroom.  He was right; the rich bitch had an attached bath.  Inside, he contemptuously swept aside bottles of cologne and scented body wash to soak a face towel in the sink.  Once wet, he used it to clean off his dick and wipe the dead boy’s cum off his chest before tossing it into the toilet.  Heading back to the bedroom, he paused in the doorway to admire the tableau.

 

Two dead baby fags—not a bad day’s work.  One was huddled on the floor, the thick red lines of blood that had leaked from the multiple holes in the body were now coagulated, thick and viscous.  From the way it was curled on its left side and partly rolled forward, its torn and bloody asshole was visible from the hall door.

 

The other was splayed on the bed, its face an unrecognizable mass of bruised and bloodied flesh, its lithe lean body covered with the evidence of a horrific beating—and with cum.  Its thick boycock, going limp in death, still oozed an occasional drop of semen.

 

It was perfect.  The parents should be grateful he put the worthless little homos outta their misery.  Even as he looked at the still-warm corpses, Eddie massive rod twitched.  He grinned, but reluctantly tucked it back into the combat fatigues.  After all, he did have other things to do tonight.

 

The tread of his boots echoed across the tiled entryway as he strode to the table where he’d tossed his shirt.  Slipping it on, he headed to the back door, stopping to exam the alarm.  He noticed it was set for internal alarm only; there was no central or police monitoring.  When he opened the door, it went off.  It was loud and shrill, but when he closed the door behind him, it became muffled.  As he headed deeper into the back yard it became inaudible.

 

He climbed back over into the vacant property and strolled back to his truck the way he came.  It was a weekend evening in upscale suburbia, and everyone was indoor, blinds closed, watching TV.  Not one of them noticed the well-built psychotic murderer casually walking their streets.

 


 

Following its programing when set for internal mode, the alarm sounded for four hours straight, then shut itself off.  It was still armed, though, so it went off the next time a door was opened—in this case, the front door.

 

“Goddammit, I’m gonna kill those kids!” Roger snarled as he dove for the keypad.

 

“Ross!  Josh!  What are you two doing?” his wife bawled up the stairs.  “Just look at this!  Josh left his shoes on the stairs!”  She headed up the stairs herself, not bothering to pick her son’s boots up.  “You answer me now!  I’m not your goddam maid that you can leave your shit lyin’ around for me to pick up!”

 

Roger dug his fingernails into his palms, tying to control his temper as his wife’s abrasive voice trailed off overhead.  For a brief moment, there was calm in the house.

 

Then she shrieked at the top of her voice.

 

Roger could feel his temper slip from his grasp as he raced for the stairs.  Dr. Stone of the First Baptist had practically promised him the vote of the congregation for the city council position.  He mounted the stairs, his anger rising with his elevation.

 

If either of those two little bastards did anything that could damage his election campaign, he’d tear them new assholes…

 

 

 

 

 

Meat Chronicles 21—Homo for the Holidays

Goddamn, it’s hard to maintain control sometimes.  There’s a pile of teenage fuckmeat lying on the floor in front of the passenger seat of my van and I wanna drain my distended, over-pressurized balls into it right away.  Can’t let myself go yet, though—I need to tenderize the fucker first; it’s a tough piece of meat.

 

I’d marked this one for prey some time ago, but he’s eluded me each time, mostly by proximity.  I first saw him about five weeks back, outside the liquor store.  Too young to buy his own booze, he was lurking in the parking lot and pouncing on anyone who seemed likely to make purchases for him.  I ignored him—for one thing, I’m known there, and for another, every square inch of the place, inside and out, is recorded on video.  You don’t shit where you eat.

 

I’d seen him there on a number of later occasions, but nowhere else.  As long as he stayed there, he was safe from me.

 

Today, I happened to spot him on the side of the road, three blocks from the liquor store.   Luring him in was so goddam easy; stupid fuckin’ cunt was looking to get fucked up.  I’d offered to give him a lift to the store, knowing he’d ask me to get him something, but he kept going on about wanting anything—from weed to meth to coke.

 

He said he was twenty, but he was barely eighteen, if that; his skin was too clear and his teeth were too intact for him to have experienced such heavy drug use for too long.  He had dark wavy hair and dark eyes, the wide oval lids ringed with long lashes.  He wore a black t-shirt with a Wu-Tang Clan logo in gold; the sleeves were ripped off showing his muscled arms.  The punk wasn’t badly built—nowhere near as powerful as I am of course; the little fucks I waste can never hope to compete—and the shirt was stretched tightly across his chest, highlighting his pecs.

 

His skin-tight brown jeans were very old and worn; they were tucked into a pair of brown leather harness boots that came almost halfway up the cunt’s calf.  It was the same outfit I’d seen him in each time.

 

He hopped in my van the moment I offered him a lift.  When talking about what he was looking for, he put his hand on my thigh; I could feel the warmth of his skin through the tight denim.  “You hook me up, bro,” he said, grinning lecherously at me, “And I promise you a good time.”

 

I grinned right back.  “Aw, dude, I’ll getcha so fucked up you won’t know what hit ya.”  I always try to keep my word.

 

As usual, the meat started babbling; it always does.  It can be about different things—its boring past, its dumbass desires or worthless ambitions—but as much as I try to ignore it, I can’t help picking up a thing or two.  He called himself Mikey, like I cared, and said he’d left home at the age of fifteen and had been on the streets ever since (I knew he was younger than twenty).

 

I drove past the liquor store and pulled into the parking lot of a half-empty strip mall.  “Whatcha got for me?” the cunt asked.

 

“A sucker punch,” I replied, driving my right fist straight out into his jaw with the speed and power of a pneumatic piston.  His head hit the window so hard I thought the glass had cracked.  It hadn’t, but the meat had.  It slumped forward, sliding limply off its seat, still and unconscious on the floorboards.  Stupid bitch had a glass jaw.

 

And now I get to make it die on my dick.  I just need to find the right spot to snuff out its worthless life.  Shouldn’t be too hard.

 

It takes me longer than I expected to find the right place, but I do find it.  Elmhurst Avenue, south of downtown—an old neighborhood, the side streets are lined with sixty-year-old apartment buildings and ninety-year-old houses cut up into apartments.  The avenue itself is lined with low brick buildings and empty lots; perhaps one out of every five buildings shows some hint of occupation.  It’s a place where the rents are cheap and yet still overpriced, a neighborhood reeking of failure and despair.

 

I find what I’m looking for at a corner formed by one of the side streets.  It looks like its most recent used had been as a car lot; the whole corner was paved flat.  In the middle of the lot is a cinderblock building with a canopy that may or may not have been a gas station in a past incarnation; at any rate, it had been gutted by fire at some point—above the gaping black holes of the windows and door, black cones of soot mar the peeling white paint.

 

The entire lot is surrounded by a high chain link fence topped with barbed wire; the fence is rusted and bent but it still stands.  The gate, which rolls parallel to the street on a track, had been forced and is still ajar.  I can’t see any other vehicle on the crumbling concrete pavement, so I cautiously pull in and head for the structure that first caught my eye—the sheet-metal garage in the back corner.  It’s got two overhead doors on the left and some sort of reception/office area on the right with a door and windows.  Well, doorways and window openings; the only thing intact is the overhead door on the extreme left.  The rest of the building has been gutted—not by fire this time, but by vandalism.

 

I slowly back my van in, making sure no one’s around to notice.  Luckily the building next door, a furniture clearance warehouse, had expanded at the back; the garage was up against two blank brick walls.  Shifting into park, I roll down the window and cut the engine, listening carefully.  A car goes by on the Avenue.  There’s a rustling in the corner that’s likely a rat.  Otherwise, there’s nothing.

 

It’s a perfect place to snuff the fag.

 

I get out, letting my combat boots hit the oil-stained cement with a thud, and casually stroll around to the passenger door.   Opening it, I bend down and grab the meat’s boots and pull them off his feet.

 

They might fit me.  I’m keeping them.

 

I open the back the van and dump the meat on the floor; he’s easier to strip that way.  I sit him up and pull off his shirt, tossing it over my shoulder to land on the filthy floor.  The kid has a great torso, with hard smooth pecs displaying large and jutting nipples.  I take a moment to squeeze and twist the firm mounds of flesh, pinching and pulling at them.

 

The cunt must like it.  He starts moaning and the long soft lashes ringing his large eyes begin to flutter.  He blinks blearily a few times, trying to focus—and then he comes to, all at once.  It’s easy to recognize.  He has the hard edge of a street slut faggot, but he’s still too young and naïve to be able to cover his fear.  And he is afraid.

 

Just not enough.

 

“Wha—?” he started, but I don’t want him awake yet.  It’d ruin the surprise.  A little love tap does it; I don’t clock him hard, just enough to split his full red lips and make them bleed a little.  But his lights go out and I’m able to peel his tight jeans off without further interruption.

 

He’s freeballin’ underneath, six and a half inches of uncut boycock lolling along his smooth thigh.  Underneath it, he’s endowed with a decent sack, covered with a forest of dark curly pubes.

 

Good enough for me.  I’ve been wearing a button-down flannel shirt, left open; I slip out of it and sling it over the back of the driver’s seat.  After unzipping my fly, it takes a minute to haul my tackle up out of my crotch, but it’s rigid and rarin’ to go them moment it hits the open air.

 

And so am I.  A quick glance around to confirm that no one was gonna spoil my playtime, and I hop in the van and close the door.  Next time I open it, this stupid little motherfucker ain’t just gonna be dead, he’s gonna be glad he’s dead.

 

It’s dim in the back of the van, but not too dark.  I can see the whoreboy; he’s starting to stir again.  That’s good—I want him awake for this.  I wanna see the pain and fear in his face.

 

Speaking of pain, it’s time I inflicted some on him.  I’ve got a number of random items in my kill van—things I’ve picked up from time to time that might come in handy.  Let’s see; what will fuck this cunt up…ah, that’ll work.

 

It’s a length of sixteen-gauge jack chain, about three and a half feet.  I kneel over him, slowly winding it around my fist.  The teen slut blinks and gazes up at me; I can see the glint of lust in his big faggot eyes was they scan my body, from my erect, jutting shaft along my ripped abs to my broad, furry chest.  They never make it to my face, thought; they stop dead at the chain around my hand.

 

Already scared and confused, the runaway punk turns gray.  “Wha—what’s goin’ on?”

 

Dumbass piece of shit can’t figure it out; in fact, he doesn’t even seem to realize he’d been stripped nude yet.  But I don’t suffer fools gladly; I gladly make fools suffer.

 

“Remember when I toldja I was gonna get ya so fucked up you wouldn’t know what hit ya?” I leer down at him.

 

“Uh-huh,” he nods, his face drawn with trepidation.

 

“Well, I lied.  Yer gonna know,” I say and hold up my chain-wrapped fist.  “It’s this.  This is what’s gonna hit ya.”

 

I slam it into his face as hard as I can, feeling his left cheekbone snapping under the impact.  The chain digs deep, tearing into his skin.

 

The cunt squeals and cries out, clutching his face.  I shift downward and land two rapid-fire blows in the center of his smooth, vulnerable belly.  They strike with the heavy slapping sound of flesh on flesh, the chain giving an added impetus to the force.

 

The kid rises up with an anguished expression, his face taut as the gutpunches violently expel the air from his lungs.  His cheek is already black and swollen, but he seems to have forgotten about that little bit of foreplay in his sudden inability to breathe.  Gasping futilely, he rolls onto his side in a fetal position.

 

The cunt doesn’t get to long to comfort himself.  I dive between his legs, forcing them apart as I roll him onto his back.  He squirms away, kicking his legs blindly.

 

“Don’t fight me, faggot,” I snarl.  As he twists to the side again, I pound on him again, this time nailing his kidney.  He instantly flops onto his back, gasping, and I can part his writhing teen legs with ease.  “You know ya want this dick, so shaddup and take it, cunt!”

 

I rub the thick oozing head of my dick over his ass, leaving a trail of precum through the soft down covering those firm rounded cheeks.  He’s still struggling, but not so much that I can’t easily overpower him.

 

He’ll fight later, when the panic sets in.  I can tell; he’s the type.  At some point I’m gonna hafta ride him hard and rough.  For right now, though, the only thing he’s afraid of is getting raped.  He has no clue how much worse it’s gonna get.  He gets a hint, though, when I suddenly plunge in balls-deep, with no warning and my precum the only lube.

 

I dunno if he’s a virgin, but I can tell instantly that anyone who’s been up his hole before me wasn’t anywhere near as hung as I am.  My massive erect tool punches through his asshole like an awl; I can feel it when his strained sphincter give way and tears open under my relentless cock.

 

His eyes grow huge and his face is a mask of pain and shock as my shaft plunges deep inside him.  He’s gripping my arms, each of his hands tightly clutching my powerful biceps while his guts are relentlessly pounded by my dick.

 

Well, the cunt damn sure ain’t a virgin now.

 

He’s finally getting enough air back into his lungs to speak.  “St-stop…no, fuck no, stop!”

 

I punch him again, this time landing one on his broad smooth chest, hitting the left pec with a satisfying thud.  Again, just a love tap—didn’t even break the skin with the chain.  “Shaddup, bitch, and take my cock.”

 

Dumbass motherfucker doesn’t shut up.  Goddam, I’m really doin’ a service to the planet by riddin’ it of stupid pieces of faggot fuckmeat.  Even worse, this one’s startin’ to struggle.

 

“Wh-wh-what? What?  Help! HELP!!!  HEL—”

 

Ok, so I make it shut up.  One hand on its throat, my chained fist emphasizin’ my point to the cunt.  Makin’ sure I drive it into its head, so to speak, though I’m specifically aiming for its face.

 

“I toldja [WHAM] to shut [WHAM] yer fuckin’ [WHAM] face!! [WHAM]”

 

Oh fuck, I can feel every individual impact reverberate through his firm adolescent body, his pain communicated directly to my dick, his traumatized colon milking and massaging it with every agonized muscle contraction.  It feels so good, I wanna keep goin’…but I can’t.  It’ll kill the meat, and I ain’t done with it yet.

 

And even now, I’ve reduced the left side of its face to hamburger.  The eye is swollen shut, the cheek is flayed, the lips swollen and bleeding, and the nose is listing badly to starboard.  It occurs to me that offin’ the homo will be a mercy killing—sparing it from a lot of painful reconstructive surgery.

 

Of course, by the time I’m done with it, it’ll be a mercy killin’ anyway, ha!

 

At the moment it’s still conscious; it turns its head and coughs up a gout of blood and a couple of teeth.  It’s lying back, gasping, with its mouth open and eyes—well, eye—closed.

 

And during the entire beating I never once even slow the tempo of the assrape.  Man, it felt so fuckin’ good, pounding the teen’s ass and face at the same time. The boy’s a natural painpig; the way his fuckhole worked my rod it all the proof I need.

 

The fact that he got hard as I whaled on his face just adds to the evidence.

 

“You fuckin’ pervert faggot,” I snarl, “Lookit this shit.  Goddam, I was right again.  All you little boyfags are lookin’ for is a real man to come along and make ya suffer like you deserve.  Tell ya what, motherfucker, if this kinda foreplay gets yer little homo dick hard, yer gonna blow yer pansy wad at what’s comin’ next!”

 

He looks at me, opening both eyes so wide that even the left one opens up a narrow slit—but since it’s leaking tears, I doubt it’s helping him.  He’s trying to speak, but the left side of his jaw is swollen and misshapen.  Wonder if I broke it—damn, I hate to have missed that.

 

Oh well. I can make up for it before I’m done with the kid.

 

He gurgles and bleats; it’s not incomprehensible—I just don’t care enough to try to figure out what he’s sayin’.  As long as his ass keeps grippin’ my hog, he can start singin’ the national anthem, for as much as I give a shit…

 

…except he ain’t grippin’ quite as tight as he was.

 

Well, goddamn.  Guess I gotta tighten the meat up again.  I start unwinding the chain from my fist.  I think I’m gonna start a rebellion here, and I need a little somthin’ to help me put it down.

 

“You know where this is headin’, dontcha, cunt?” I say, smiling down at him.  His fear is palpable, almost tactile.  Just a tiny spark to set it off.  “This kinda shit happens all the time.  Dumbass faggot picks up the wrong dude, ends up a pile of well-used homo meat.  Guess what, motherfucker—I’m that wrong dude.”

 

I was right.  He has the wiry athleticism of youth, keyed up to extremes by panic.  There’s no way he’s gonna be able to overpower me; as hard as he thrashes and beats his balled fists against my fur-insulated chest, he ain’t doin’ me any damage.

 

Still don’t mean I gotta put up with this shit, though.  Rising up on my knees without pulling my rod out of his ass, I start lashing him brutally with the chain.

 

The pansy screeches like a pig gettin’ its throat slit; I’m leaving welts in the shape of chain links on his smooth, tender boyflesh.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I jeer at him, spitting in his twisted, agonized face, “You just fuckin’ love this shit, dontcha?  Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it?  Hell yeah, bitch, keep screamin’—the more it hurts, the more ya work my dick.”

 

He squeals and throws up his arms to block the blows.  Big mistake.  Ever seen what a well-swung chain’ll do to human fingers?  His snap like toothpicks.

 

For a moment, he shuts up.  The only noise in the van is the slapping sound of a brutal assfuck.  The adolescent fagwhore stares, silent and agape, at the mangled remains of his right hand, splayed out like a crushed starfish.  I slash again with the chain, catching him across the left forearm with enough force to wrap the chain completely around it.  I grab his left hand with my free hand and stare him dead in the face.

 

“You deserve this, you motherfucking piece of faggot shit,” I sneer and jerk the chain, breaking both of the bones and ripping off a strip of flesh that completely encircles his arm.  He sputters and drools as his arm folds over, but I’m just about done with him.

 

“Yer a boring fuck, bitch, and I got shit to do today.  ‘Bout time to waste yer fag ass.  Hope ya kick a lot as ya die, motherfucker; it really helps get me off.”

 

Raising my hand in front of his bruised, terror-filled face, I let him watch me partially unwind the chain from my hand until I have a good two feet stretched in front of him.  “Ready to die, cocksucker?  Ready to choke to death so you can be my personal cumdump?  Not like you got any other reason for bein’ on this planet, ya useless cumguzzler; might as well work my shaft as ya get what’s comin’ to ya.”

 

He moans and shakes his head wildly as I lean forward and wrap the chain around his throat.  “Shh, shh,” I whisper, “Don’t worry—I promise, it’s gonna hurt. I promise.”

 

I yank the metal chain tight, so tight I can see his flesh welling up in the open spaces in the links.

 

The lithe teen body goes rigid with agony beneath me.  It feels so fuckin’ good, the smooth, soft flesh, taut with nightmarish suffering, pressed firmly against my hairy, muscular body.  The cunt doesn’t know how lucky he is; so many of his faggot buddies crave and yearn for the ultimate fuck.  Just like this stupid fucker, they deny it and fight it to the end, but I can see the gratitude in their eyes as they start to glaze over.  They stare into eternity with the knowledge that they’ve taken my load and thus achieved their greatest and highest use.

 

And they invariably blow a thick deathwad.

 

“That’s it, asswipe,” I grunt as I whale on his ass, “Fuckin’ die on my cock.  Ride my shaft right into yer grave, homo.  Ya know ya want this; that’s why yer teen dick is hard, right?  Fuck yeah, even a dumbass like you knows baby fags need to be put down by a real man.”

 

The meat’s eyes open wide—even the swollen one manages, a little—and it give me a look that tells me I need to hang on tight.   The boycunt is starting to panic; it’s not yet in a mindless frenzy of fear, but it’s coming soon.

 

And holy fuck does it feel good when the meat flails in mind-searing terror, its rectum sucking on my tool as if that’s what it was designed for.  On with the mindfuck.

 

“Yer gonna cum when ya die,” I casually remark to the meat, “Won’t be able to help it.  Shit, you shoulda seen the last teen cunt I offed; fucker musta shot damn near a quart of spooge.  Couse, he held out for a while.  Took him a long, long time to die…”

 

The meat’s close; there’s a developing glint in its one good eye reminiscent of insanity.

 

“You ain’t as good as he was, though,” I go on, “In fact, you’re a boring fuck.  Yer even useless as a faggot.  Hurry up an’ die, motherfucker, so I can toss yer worthless cumdump corpse out there in the filth and get outta here.  I’m a busy man, asshole—”

 

That did it.  The meat thrashes violently, as if its being electrocuted.  It can’t kick me, since I’m already between its legs, but they flail in the air behind me, feet and toes curling in agony in midair.  The cunt beats at my face with its right hand, slapping me since in can’t form its shattered fingers into a fist.  Its left arm flops and jerks uselessly at its side, the broken forearm limp and helpless.

 

And the entire time I hold the boyfag close to me, letting its ass milk my throbbing, oozing rod as I incrementally tighten the chain around its throat.

 

It’s obviously dying at this point.  Its face is congested and black, so distorted as to be almost unrecognizable.  Drool has bubbled out beside the engorged, protruding tongue and flows down both cheeks in white, foamy streams.  The slut is slick with sweat; the beads standing out on its forehead trickling painfully into its bulging eyes, now too swollen for mere bruised eyelids to hold them in.

 

“Now yer learnin’ yer place, cocksucker,” I tell the grunting, shuddering bitchboy, “You been needin’ this for a long time.  Die, fuckwad, choke and kick and die in agony!”

 

The cunt is arching its back, pressing its firm, flat belly against my furry ripped abs.  I can feel its hard thick boycock pressed firmly against me; the perverted little shit is so aroused by asphyxiation that its oozing precum as it dies.  Fuck, ain’t nobody gonna miss this disgustin’ babyfag.

 

Catch ‘em and take ‘em out while they’re still young so they do as little damage to society as possible.  And deep inside, the fuckers want it anyway.  They know gettin’ put down by a real man is the best thing that can happen to a fuckin’ useless pussyboy.

 

This one’s on its way out.  Its flailings are getting weaker and more uncoordinated; I brace myself and tighten the chain with as much force as I can.

 

The loud crunch of the teen’s larynx echoes in the confines of my van.  There’s a brief lull—the kid is shuddering beneath me, its blackened and drool-soaked cheeks distending with some final vain effort at exclamation, but no air is getting past the mangled wad of cartilage blocking its windpipe.  I can see one last gleam of consciousness left in its good eye, and in it I can recognize the true horror of a stupid faggot finally experiencing the brutal death it deserves.

 

And then the convulsions begin.

 

Once the convulsions start, the meat has reached a tipping point.  Too much brain damage has set in; whatever miserable excuse for a human once animated the body is gone and isn’t coming back.  But adolescent boys have a lot of stamina.  As the meat rhythmically writhes and kicks under my muscled weight, I realize it may be possible that there may still be some deep inner spark of personality still lit.

 

I let go of the chain and punch the thrashing cunt in the face.  Still pounding its ass, I lay at full length, my powerful form restraining its thrashing, and grab its head with both hands, forcing it back and to the side.

 

One hand is gripped around the jaw and the other around the back of the skull.  Slowly and inexorably, I force the fuckmeat’s head past its normal point of rotation.  I can feel “twangings”—the only way I can describe it—as the cervical tendons and sinews begin to snap. Suddenly, bone meets bone and I reach a hard stop.

 

The faggot is still convulsing beneath me.  It feels good, but my cock needs more.  And I know how to get it.

 

My biceps bulging with the effort, I twist the homo’s head with a might jerk and am instantly rewarded with the crunchy, popcorn-like noise of shattering vertebrae.

 

As bone shards tear through its spinal cord, the meat finally responds properly, its colon clutching tightly to my engorged shaft, milking the swollen, throbbing member desperately.  Fuck yeah, that’s it—don’t back off now…

 

With a primal grunt, I force the fucker’s head further.  More popcorn, the ass gets tighter—

 

Fuck fuck fuck I’m cumming take it you sack a’ shit, take my load ya worthless faggot scum, feel my hot manseed scald yer guts as you slide into cold death, motherfucker—

 

In the back of my mind I register the hot gooey splash of the teen’s thick and seemingly endless deathload.  The slut has stopped thrashing and is rigid from sudden massive nervous system trauma.  I’m locked into the corpse, almost helpless myself as I pump wad after wad of manspunk into the quivering cumdump.

 

After a moment, I realize I’ve finally emptied my huge aching sack.  The dead whoreboy has stopped unloading, too, only a slight pearlescent trickle oozing from the semi-soft dick.  Pulling my shaft out of the trembling corpse, I remain on my knees as I use the bitch’s t-shirt to sponge its death wad out of my chest fur.  After I wipe my tackle off, too, I stuff it back into my jeans, then open the van door.

 

I climb out and toss the cum-soaked t-shirt onto the floor.  Walking warily to the open doorway, I peer out and make sure the coast is still clear.  As I expected, no one is out in the middle of a muggy gray weekday, and close as it is to the holidays, this neighborhood damn sure isn’t considered a shopping area for anything but drugs and sex.

 

In other words, no one’s around, and if they were, they wouldn’t care.

 

I drag the dead punk’s body to the edge of the van and unceremoniously dump it out onto the filthy, oil-stained concrete floor, not bothering to remove the chain from around the throat of the the badly beaten corpse.  Some homeless bum or cheap whore looking for a quick pump-n-dump will find it sooner or later, but I don’t give a shit.  I toss its jeans out, too, after rifling the pocket and taking the wallet.  It’s got a driver’s license in it, but again, I don’t care.  I’ll take the three bucks in cash though; every little bit helps.

 

Easing the van out of the garage, I’m still carefully scanning to make sure no one’s noticing me.  I turn left onto Elmhurst and realize how good my timing is; half a block down is a city street crew attaching some forlorn-looking holiday decorations to alternate light poles.  Given the surroundings, the cheap and tattered tinsel isn’t so much a mockery as a final touch of sordidness.

 

Well, no one can say I didn’t do my part.  I left them a nice dead faggot with a creamy cum-filled center.  And my gift?  This nice pair of brown leather harness boots.  Think I wear ‘em on my next kill.

Carlos and Nick 7–Rubbin’ One Out

Carlos was trolling for a slut.

 

It wasn’t something the homophobic sex killer did much anymore; these days, the meat just seemed drawn to him.  Even Bryan had approached him—although his ex-prison “buddy” hadn’t been the usual prey.

 

Tonight, though, the Latino stud had a mission.  He and Nick had gotten a consignment but somehow hadn’t found the right victim yet.  He’d roped in a cunt he’d found on Fremont Street, but the bitch hadn’t shown up.  Then Nick came back with one too fey and fem for Carlos to touch—it was wearing makeup, for fuck’s sake.  And now the deadline was running out; if footage wasn’t shot tonight, Nick wouldn’t have time to process it and get it to the client.  Hence Carlos’s late-night jaunt.

 

He was cruising nice and slow down Boulder Highway, heading east away from downtown.  Despite the chill in the air, he kept the top on the Benz down; since he was shirtless under his leather biker jacket, his large thick nips were rigid in the cool breeze.  His skintight jeans were tucked into a pair of tall black harness boots.  The streetlights glinted off his smooth-shaven head and illuminated the sharp angles of his black goatee.

 

He spotted the kid off to the left.  Under the brightly lit canopy of a gas station, a boy in his late teens or early twenties seemed to be asking a woman for something; as Carlos watched, she shook her head emphatically and climbed into an SUV.  She pulled away so fast the kid had to jump back; he started after her for a while, crestfallen, then turned and headed off into the darkness.

 

He was going north up a side street.  Carlos had to wait for a red light to make a U-turn; by the time he got back to the gas station and turned up same street, he was worried that he might’ve missed the punk.

 

He hadn’t.  Halfway down the street, the buff ex-con could see the boy under a streetlight, walking away from him.  The kid wore skintight jeans; Carlos could see the boy’s rounded asscheeks flexing forward with each step.

 

He knew he was gonna be slamming his thick raging cock into that tight ass within an hour; he just needed to bait the dumb fag the right way and the homo would be his to destroy—on film.

 

In the cool of the desert evening, the boy sported a denim jacket.  On his feet, he wore a pair of genuine shitkickers—square-toed cowboy boots that thumped heavily each time they hit the pavement.

 

The boy paused at the next street corner, looking thoughtfully down the cross street in both directions, as if deciding where to go next.  Carlos solved the problem by pulling up next to him.

 

“Need a lift?” the sadistic serial killer asked, his masculine face beaming as he smiled broadly.  The punk turned to look at him, and Carlos caught sight of his face under the light for the first time.

 

The kid was no more than twenty or twenty-one.  His hair was dark and short on the sides, slightly longer and wavy in the front and on top.  Under long dark lashes, his eyes were a beautiful shade of aqua blue.  There was a haze of short dark scruff along his cheeks and chin, and, as he turned to face Carlos, the latter could see that under his denim jacket, the boy was wearing a ribbed cotton wifebeater with a low scooped neck that showed off the tops of the cunt’s pecs, lightly dusted with a faint covering of dark fur.  It also showed that he was wearing a necklace—handmade, beads stung in a regular pattern on a string.

 

There was an eagerness in those deep blue eyes that told Carlos he’d made a good choice.  “Well, I, uh…actually, uh, I need money more than a ride,” the punk said, grinning.

 

“Yeah?” Carlos asked, his own grin taking on a salacious slant.  “Whatcha willin’ do to for it?”

 

For his part, the boy was almost leering now.  “Well, if the price is right, I’ll do almost anything.”

 

“Like gettin’ fucked?  On camera?”

 

The boy’s grin fell, and a worried look crossed his face.  “I, um, I been in some threeways and got my dick sucked—but no one’s been up my ass before.”  Despite his protestation, Carlos could see that the young faggot had a massive woody.  His jeans were too tight to be tented, but the outline of the long rigid shaft of boydick was obvious.

 

“One scene, and it pays a grand,” Carlos said encouragingly, knowing the fucker would be past caring about money by the time he was done.

 

“Oh fuck yeah!” the boy said and, darting into the street, grabbed the door handle of the red Mercedes, his greed so intense that it startled even Carlos, who hadn’t had time to unlock the door.  He popped the button and the boy jumped in hurriedly.

 

“It’s cash, right?  And I get it tonight?  Name’s Caleb, by the way.”

 

“Just call me Sam,” Carlos replied with a subtle smile, “And yeah, you’ll get it tonight.”

 

As Caleb buckled the seatbelt, Carlos called Nick quickly.  Caleb could only hear one end of the conversation.

 

“Hey, it’s me—Sam.  Yeah, that’s right, I got one.  Promised him standard rate—one grand for one scene.”  Here he turned and, smiling, winked at Caleb.  “Uh-huh, right.  Yeah, heading there now.  About twenty minutes, I’d say.  Make sure it’s all set up, I think this one’s ready to rock ‘n roll the moment we get there.”

 

He was right in his estimate of timing, but it seemed longer.  The homo was a talker, and even though Carlos habitually tuned his fagmeat’s words out, some of them always seeped in.  He managed to avoid the details of the pansy’s Midwestern upbringing or his bi-curious sexual fumblings, but he did pick up some random comments about coming to Vegas looking for work, not finding any, and being reduced to begging and turning tricks.  He admitted to sucking cock and giving handies but still claimed his ass was virgin.

 

The only thing that really caught Carlos’s attention in whoreboy’s monologue was that he’d left the Salvation Army four days ago.  He’d spent three nights in a homeless camp and last night in a motel room with a trick, where he was able to shower.  He was on his last set of clean clothes, but with what he got paid tonight, he chirped, he’d throw it all out and buy new gear.

 

—from all of which, Carlos learned that no one was gonna come looking for the fagmeat when it went missing.  Dumb babbling motherfucker was just digging its own grave.

 

As Carlos negotiated his way through the industrial warehouses that surrounded the “studio”, the whore started to turn amorous, stroking Carlos’s thick muscular leg next to him.  He was acting like he was on a date, and every time he laid his faggot hand on Carlos, the vicious ex-con felt the bitter taste of anger and hatred rising in his throat.

 

This little homo needed to be put down, hard and brutally.  The thought of ending its life in a nightmarish blast of pain and terror made the murderous sadist grin; his dick throbbed at the thought.  He could hold his anger back until they reached the studio—but after that, no guarantees.  The kid was dead meat, no matter what happened.

 

For Caleb, it seemed to be a blur.  A grand wouldn’t go far in Vegas, but it was so long since he’d had any amount that he was ecstatic at the thought of getting some cash.  And if he was gonna give up his hole, it might as well be to this stud.  The dude was so masculine that the deepest cockpig corners of Caleb’s soul came to life, responding to the rampant testosterone wafting off Carlos.

 

There were a number of red flags about the whole situation, but the boy was so horny and desperate for cash that he ignored the very few he noticed.  One big one showed up when they pulled into the parking lot and Carlos killed the engine.  In an area full of workers and a cacophony of noise during the business day, it was utterly deserted and silent at night.

 

Caleb was too busy watching Carlos’s ass, encased in tight blue denim, to notice.  He followed his killer into the building like a puppy.

 

The anteroom was dark as the crossed it, the only light being shed by the computer monitor as it played a screensaver.  Beyond, the bare, concrete-floored hallway was dark as well, but light spilled into it from an open doorway some little distance down, and that was obviously where they were heading.

 

Carlos quickly stepped aside and revealed a huge, bodybuilder of a man with long dark hair.  A bright red t-shirt was stretched to capacity across the man’s broad, hubcap-like pecs, to tight his nipples jutted up like fire hydrants.  The dude had on a pair of cargo shorts; some of the pockets were in use for various items, although the only one Caleb could immediately recognize was a light meter.  The man’s powerful, hairy calves were bare but vanished quickly, as he sported a pair of Ariat ten-inch Linesman boots.

 

“I’m Caleb,” the boy said, stepping forward and holding out his hand.  Nick looked at it momentarily.

 

“Go ahead and strip,” he said curtly, “Over there.”  He pointed into the darkness, and Caleb finally noticed his surroundings—a very large dark space with a concrete floor and metal walls and roof.  The near corner had been finished off to resemble part of a bedroom with several intensely bright lights that hung from the ceiling trained on it.  It was on a dais that was carpeted but nothing else was.  To the immediate right of the bed, a couple of long folding tables had been set up; these were covered with computers and video equipment, along with a couple of small tabletop lamps.

 

The place Nick had pointed was beyond that.  No lights, no furniture.  Discomfited, Caleb walked into the far corner and pulled his boots off, leaving Nick and Carlos to converse privately.

 

“Whaddaya think?” Carlos asked.

 

“It’s a good one,” Nick agreed, “But we’re down to the wire.  Gotta keep this one short and sweet.  Beat it, bang it, break it, yeah?”

 

Carlos nodded.  Nick didn’t need to hear a verbal response, the look of anticipatory bloodlust in the Hispanic killer’s cold sneer said more than words would have.

 

Caleb had peeled off every item he had on except his and his socks.  Even with the latter still on, though, he thought the concrete was cold.  When he walked back into the light, holding his clothes, he’d slipped his brown leather western boots back on.  His long, tapered boycock dangled thickly between his legs.

 

“Where can I put these?” he asked, his jacket, shirt and jeans in his arms.

 

“I’ll take them,” Nick said, grabbing them from him.  “You need to get on the bed.”

 

Again, Nick’s abruptness unsettled Caleb; he didn’t even know the dude’s name yet, but he was obviously the cameraman.  Still, he followed Carlos over to the set, pausing while the ex-con took off his leather jacket and laid it over the back of a chair in front of the worktable.

 

The punk didn’t even realized Carlos had unzipped his jeans until they reached the set platform and the stud turned around.  Caleb’s eyes widened at the sight of the shaft he’d agreed to take up his fuckhole.

 

“Um, I don’t—I don’t know…” he began hesitantly.

 

“You don’t know what, motherfucker?” Nick demanded, tossing the boy’s carefully-folded clothing onto the floor.

 

“Hey!” Caleb barked indignantly, “What the fuck, dude?”

 

“I’ll tell ya what the fuck, bro,” Carlos said, stepping closer.  The bright lights gleamed off the ex-con’s thickly-muscled torso and suddenly Caleb’s spell was broken and the full aura of menace the serial killer exuded hit the boy like a gravel truck.  The prison ink—the skull, the cross, the word “revenge” on his neck—it all spooked the whore.  Even the bright sparkle of the stud’s gold chain seemed sinister.  “Yer gonna die, that’s what the fuck.  See, I’m gonna beat the fuck outta ya, then rape yer virgin hole and snuff ya.  Nick here’s gonna film it all, cause lotsa guys will pay good money to watch a useless faggot like you get taken out.”

 

The young man’s face was beautiful when he grinned.  Even when that grin faltered, it was still beautiful, but now filled with uncertainty.  Caleb heard the words, but he refused to accept them literally.

 

“I, uh…dude, if this is a joke—HOOG!!”

 

Without the slightest warning, Carlos gutpunched Caleb, his huge, doubled-up fist slamming into the boy’s flat firm belly, sinking deeply into his guts.  The sudden intense pressure on his diaphragm forcibly expelled the air from the whore’s lungs.

 

With a gasping, terrifying sense of suffocation, Caleb sank to his knees and bent forward, his forehead touching the concrete.  Just for the moment, he wasn’t scared; he wasn’t even surprised.  He didn’t have the luxury to indulge in those emotions; everything had become subordinate to his need to breathe.

 

“Got the camera ready?” Caleb could hear Carlos ask.  “I really wanna fuck this one up before I waste it.”  Turning his head up, the kid saw with horror that the ex-con’s huge, rigid tool was oozing from the tip as he spoke.  The dude was sexually pumped at the thought of inflicting pain on him.

 

Gasping and wheezing, the slim, firm-bodied youth managed to force enough oxygen into his lungs to function.  The next reaction was instinctive and immediate—the imperative of air had been instantly replaced with the imperative of escape.  Rising unexpectedly to his feet, Caleb bolted for the door.

 

It took both Carlos and Nick by surprise.  It took just a moment for Carlos to respond, springing forward in angry pursuit, but by that time, Caleb had cleared the door and the frantic pounding of his bootheels echoed down the hallway as he fled for the exit.

 

He burst through the anteroom with Carlos right behind him, then veered right and plunged through the front door into the parking lot.  Except for his boots, he was still nude, his long rod slapping against his smooth thighs as he ran.

 

Carlos hadn’t had time to put his weapon away, either.  He emerged into the lot with his raging manshaft still dripping as he chased down his prey.

 

“Help!” Caleb cried, “HELP!  For fuck’s sake, someone help me—”

 

Then Carlos had him.

 

Grabbing the kid by the arm, he whirled him about and sucker-punched him in the jaw, hard.  Caleb was aware of a violent, painful sensation, but it happened too fast to sort out the details.  He wasn’t out, but he was badly stunned.  Agony bloomed in his mouth; his bottom lip was split, and he’d bitten through his tongue.

 

The nude boy spat blood onto the asphalt as Carlos caught him under his arms and dragged him back to his death.

 

Nick was at the door, grinning.  He held it open as the grunting, sweaty convict hauled the meat inside.  As a producer, he appreciated it when the fags fought back; it always made Carlos angrier and more violent.  Those videos generated the highest profits.

 

And Carlos was pissed now.  He dumped the moaning kid onto the bare cement floor, not even bothering to get him to the set.  Nick barely had enough time to pick up the camera and focus before the livid serial killer began literally putting the boot in, kicking Caleb brutally and repeatedly in the gut.  The kid gagged and cried out as the steel toes of the ex-con’s harness boots sank deep into his belly, damaging his spleen and liver.

 

Carlos paused for a moment, his hairy, muscled torso heaving with exertion and glistening with sweat under the bright overhead lights.  At his feet, Caleb was curled into a fetal position, sobbing and moaning.  Nick knelt down and zoomed in on the boy’s anguished face.

 

“How’s that feel, motherfucker?” he asked, “Hope yer likin’ it, cause he’s just gettin’ started on yer worthless ass.  By the time he’s done, yer own mama ain’t gonna recognize ya.”

 

Having caught his breath, Carlos raised his boot and used it to nudge the cunt over onto its back.  It didn’t resist, but it kept its hands crossed over its belly, protecting the area that hurt the worst.

 

Carlos merely aimed elsewhere.  Caleb opened his eyes to see the heavily-muscled Latino towering over him.  Looking up from floor level, the prettyboy slut got a menacing perspective, up the ex-con’s powerful legs to the enormous jutting cock, now dangling directly over him and dripping hot clear beads of precum.   Carlos leaned forward and spat on him; as he did, Caleb could see the broad furry expanse of his ripped abs and huge pecs.  The killer’s nipples were large and as hard as his cock and between them, the thick gold necklace twinkled—

 

—then Carlos raised his foot.  Caleb got a brief glimpse of the harness boot’s deep tread before it slammed down on his chest.  There was a cracking sound, like twigs breaking, as three of Caleb’s ribs caved in on the right side of his chest.  Carlos ground the boot into the flesh; he was deliberately trying to leave deep bruise showing the tread pattern.

 

Caleb couldn’t speak.  His abdomen was in excruciating pain and the broken ribs made it difficult to breathe.  He could see both Carlos and Nick bending over him, the two muscle studs grinning and savoring his pain.  He’d shoved aside his bewilderment over the how and why and was focused on stopping the pain.  He looked into the faces of his tormentors, his large soft eyes pleading for mercy.

 

They were met with cold contemptuous eyes, eyes filled with hate, with lust, with sadistic glee.

 

“Is it ready for your cock yet?” Nick asked with a smirk.

 

“Naw,” Carlos drawled, “Dumbass homo still don’t get it.  I still gotta beat some sense into it, make understand how fuckin’ worthless it is.”  And with that, he bent down, grabbed a hank of Caleb’s wavy brown hair, and lifted.

 

Despite the agony of movement, the slender whoreboy had to shift and scramble up onto his knees to avoid having his scalp torn.  Every time he bent his torso, the jagged ends of the broken ribs ground against each other and poked at his lungs, forcing a high-pitched squeal out of his tortured body.

 

“Fuckin’ pig,” Carlos snarled.  Holding Caleb upright on his knees with one hand, be began to beat the cunt in the face with the other. He made sure the pansy knew why it was happening, using the blows to emphasize his point.

 

“You goddam faggots need to die [SMACK, knocking out three teeth], and it needs to hurt bad [SMACK, blackening the left eye] so ya know just how much I fuckin’ hate [SMACK, breaking the right cheekbone] yer disgustin’ pervert asses. [SMACK, knocking out another tooth and splitting the upper lip] Hear me, cocksucker? [SMACK, blackening the right eye] Think yer a man? [SMACK, fracturing the jaw] Yer gonna die with a real man’s dick up yer ass, cunt! [WHAM, a roundhouse blow to the center of the boy’s face, smashing his nose with a wet crunch]”

 

Nick kept the entire scene in a tight frame.  It was perfect; he managed to capture the kneeling young faggot, on its knees in helpless submission as the booted, hard-dicked muscle stud beat its face in.  Every time Carlos’s fist plowed into the homo’s head, Nick’s camera caught the violence of the impact, the sound of flesh on flesh, the spatter of blood and mucus.

 

Finally, the ex-con let go of Caleb’s hair.  The pulped boywhore slumped to the floor in a state of semi-consciousness.  Carlos stood over it, shaking out his hand.  “Fucker’s got a hard head,” he joked to the camera, grinning.

 

Turning back, he shook his huge throbbing shaft over the huddled pile of moaning boymeat, letting hot clear drops of precum splatter on the kid’s heaving, sweat-slick skin.  “Ok, I think he’s ready now,” he told Nick.

 

The hulking cameraman didn’t know if the pronoun referred to the whore or to Carlos’s dick, and it didn’t matter.  “Help me with something first.  I got an idea for staging.  Here, pull that cart over by the bed.  That one, there, with the TV on it.”

 

Carlos, still wanting a chance to cool down after tenderizing his meat, grabbed the cart and positioned it while Nick readied his latest expensive camera.  “What’s this for?” he asked.

 

“I’ll show ya.  Drag the meat around the other side and toss it face down bent over the bed.  Let its legs dangle onto the floor.”

 

As Carlos manhandled Caleb’s limp body onto the stripped bed, Nick was fixing a webcam to the top of the TV that was now facing Carlos.

 

“See,” Nick explained, “Yer gonna bang the fucker from behind.  I gotta have something here that you can choke the bitch with—here, this’ll do—and you not only get to watch it die on the monitor, you can force the dumb cunt to watch itself die.”  His leer got more malignant as he spoke; when he finished, he reached down and unzipped his shorts, letting his own enormous throbbing tool out for some air.

 

Carlos, meanwhile, looked down at what Nick had tossed him.  “What is this—old-school stereo wire?  Aw hell yeah, fuckmeat,” he chuckled, nudging Caleb’s writhing form, “It’s fuckin’ on.  Hear me, faggot?  Yer gonna fuckin’ die and it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.”

 

Caleb had heard him.  Caleb, in fact, had heard every word they’d said as they staged his rape and murder.  He was already having difficulty breathing, and the slightest movement sent jagged shock waves of pain through his firm body.  As Carlos continued to position his body, the young whore knew that the hardbodied sadist was lying; death wouldn’t hurt.

 

Caleb wanted death.  With the same single-mindedness with which he’d once focused on the now-forgotten thousand dollars, he now sought an end to his suffering, and death was the only answer he could see.  No matter what they did, as long as it killed him, he’d be out of pain.  He wouldn’t resist.

 

Then Carlos impaled the slut’s virgin fuckhole with his freakish huge cock, slamming home in a single, brutal thrust that stretched Caleb’s asshole wider than it was meant to go.  For a fraction of a second, there was a ring of pressure around the massive engorged head of Carlos’s shaft as the punk’s sphincter reached the end of its elasticity.  The ex-con applied a little more—a lot more—pressure himself and felt a momentary spurting sensation as the youth’s asshole tore open.  Lubed with its victim’s blood, Carlos’s hog plunged remorselessly into the kid’s guts.  It ground roughly over Caleb’s prostate before lodging deep in his intestines, adding to the boy’s misery by stimulating an intense, if involuntary erection.

 

The fagwhore tried not to move.  It all hurt if he moved.  The vicious convict had filled him with cock, more than he could take, but he wasn’t moving.  As long as he didn’t move, maybe he could accept it.  Maybe he could handle the agony.  But even breathing caused him pain.  Maybe he should stop breathing—

 

—and then he did stop breathing, as the sex killer wrapped the strong copper wire around his throat and tightened it.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Carlos said, looking at the camera, “Gotta good one here.  Clenched up its fuckhole nice and tight when I cut off the air.”

 

“Nothin’ better than a deathpig that knows its place,” Nick chuckled in reply.  “Hey, cunt,” he called out, shoving his camera in Caleb’s panicked face, “Does it hurt good?  Ya likin’ it?  Look up here, meat, yer face it already turnin’ purple—what’s left of it, anyway, haw!”

 

Caleb was losing himself; a vast tide of sheer terror was sweeping him away.  He clutched at the bed momentarily, feeling the cheap fitted sheet scratching against the nascent chest hair on his firm, bruised chest, then the clawing began.

 

“Yeah, cunt, fight it,” Carlos grunted and finally started fucking him.  Despite the sudden terrifying inability to breath, the sudden introduction of this unimaginable agony temporarily distracted Caleb.  The hardbodied ex-con was plowing his ass with jackhammer-like intensity, his insanely thick, vein-wrapped shaft reaming out the boy’s colon like a plumbing snake, shredding the nerve-rich rectal lining.

 

And yet even as he choked and gagged and struggle weakly and ineffectually to escape from this ongoing nightmare of agony, the whore was still aware in the depths of its pig soul that it was hard, and its own cock was starting to leak…

 

And then the pounding began.  In its head, in its chest, its racing heart furnished the tempo for its panicked horror.  It dug frantically at its neck, its nails digging deep and clawing bloody furrows in the flesh.  At some point, it clutched at its own bead necklace, snapping the string and sending the beads pattering over the bed.  The necklace had meant a lot to Caleb; Sarah made him that, and he’d gone longer with her than any other chick.  It was part of what made him Caleb.  But there was no more Caleb, only a feral animal, fighting desperately for its life.

 

“Now it’s gettin’ good,” Carlos said, again speaking into the camera directly to his fans.  “See, once it starts strugglin’, its fuckhole tightens up on my hawg real good.  Not as good as later, when it’s dyin’, sure, but enough to milk me good.”

 

The panic won out.  Caleb’s hands left his throat and he grabbed handfuls of the sheet, trying to dig into the mattress, to get some kind of purchase—trying to pull himself off Carlos’s dick.

 

He was trapped and utterly helpless, unable to move the slightest inch.  His vision was going weird and there was a humming in his ears almost as loud as the pounding—but still he struggled.  And then he felt weight, pressure—Carlos was laying on top of him.  The serial killer still kept the wire tight around his throat, but he was only using one hand.  The other he used to reach around and grab Caleb’s jaw in a viselike grip, grinding the fractured bones together for a new source of suffering.

 

But more than that was the mindfuck.  Carlos lifted Caleb’s head and forced him to watch the TV screen.

 

Through his distorted, bulging eyes, the faggot could see a face on the screen that looked like a grotesque caricature of his own.  Swollen, blackened and bleeding, it was a taut mask of suffering and fear from which his tongue protruded sickeningly.  And even though he couldn’t feel it, he could see the drool bubbling out from between his thick purple lips and dangling off his chin in foamy streamers.

 

It was all being captured by the camera on top of the TV.  Nick had shifted his position for the moment and had gone around to the other side of the bed.  For a few moments, he closed in on their legs—both of them with their boots on the floor, Carlos’s thick, denim-wrapped legs on the outside, his harness boots flexing with each deep thrust of the sadist’s hips.  Caleb’s smooth, firm legs were pinned between, his shitkickers sliding on the floor as he struggled.

 

“Watch it, bitch,” Carlos hissed, “Watch yerself die.  Lookit how black yer face is gettin’.  You been without air for a coupla minutes, cunt—how much longer can ya hold out?”  As he spoke, Nick pulled back from the boot footage and came around, kneeling on the bed and zooming the camera in on the punk’s face; Caleb was aware that the long-haired hardman’s cock was just inches from his face, but that meant nothing to him now.

 

Nothing meant anything—nothingness meant everything, if he could achieve it.  The agony he was enduring was soul-shattering; what little was left of his lucid mind had long since retreated, screaming, into the dark recesses of his psyche.  What remained was a panicked meat scrambling uselessly for its life, with no consideration for its next course of action.  It just needed to get away.

 

“It’s tryin’ to get up off yer dick, bro,” Nick laughed.  He pointed the camera at Caleb’s twisted, tear- and snot-streaked back, “Must think it’s got someplace to go.  Haw—you ain’t even going to yer grave, cocksucker.  You ain’t worth the effort or diggin’ one.  Yer gonna be dead in another two or three minutes, and then we’re gonna dump yer ass in the desert to rot.”

 

As Nick spoke, a change was coming over Caleb.  Carlos was experienced enough as a sex killer to recognize the signs just by the way meat was gipping his dick inside its rectum.  The boy was reaching a tipping point; in a few more moments, the brain damage would be irreversible.  Actual brain death wouldn’t be far behind.

 

Time to give his fans their money shot.

 

Still plowing the shuddering whore relentlessly, Carlos raised himself up off the boy and spoke directly to the camera.  “Yo, dudes, ya wanna see the best part?  Watch this shit.”

 

He pulled back on the wire, now so deeply embedded in Caleb’s neck that it couldn’t be seen.  The fag’s head was pulled back until it could go no further; then, his inked biceps bulging with the effort, Carlos pulled the fucker up off the bed as well.  Nick was able to get a shot of the kid’s heaving chest, imprinted with the tread of his killer’s boot.  Further down, Caleb’s long boycock stood erect from a mass of brown curly pubes.

 

“Meat’s good for edgin’, but when yer done, ya only get one chance.  Watch this—I’ll show ya how to use faggots to milk out yer load as they die.  Trust me, dudes, it feels so fuckin’ good.”

 

He grinned and stuck his tongue out at the camera.  Beneath him, riding his pulsating shaft, Caleb’s tongue was also out—as were his hands, splayed helplessly in front of him and clawing at the air as if trying to reach directly into the camera for help.

 

“Yeah…that’s it, cunt…work it…almost there, faggot,” the musclebound ex-con muttered as his dick plunged into the dying slut’s asshole, “Fuck yeah…yeah…yeah…fuck yeah!”

 

Carlos’s face twisted with the intensity of his approaching orgasm.  His whole body seemed to tighten, his muscles swelling with the final effort of the snuff.  “FUCK!  FUCK!  FUCKIN’ DIE, YA PIECE A’ FAGGOT SHIT!!”

 

With a loud grunt, the powerful killer tightened the wire around Caleb’s neck so deeply it nearly cut the homo’s throat.  With an audible crunch, the fucker’s esophagus collapsed into a thick wad of mangled cartilage.

 

There was no more Caleb, but the piece of flesh that had been him (and was still technically alive) responded, as much to brain death as to the crushing of its windpipe.  It jerked violently, froze rigidly for a single brief moment, then spewed a single steady stream of cum from its rock-hard rod for more than twenty seconds.

 

As the dead whore spilled its boycum over the sheets, the camera captured a different shower of spunk.  Nick, who was still kneeling on the bed, spattered the fag’s face with his own load, his huge hard body jerking and heaving as he unloaded.  Thick gobs of semen coated the homo’s protruding tongue and eyes.

 

Behind him, Carlos got what he’d been aiming for.  When the meat shot its death load, its colon spasmed violently; the punk’s dying convulsions only added to the sensation of hungry velvety suction.  With an inarticulate cry, the buff convict flooded the homo’s guts with his seething hot manseed.

 

It took nearly a minute for the three of them to pump their balls dry.  They all fell limp on the bed, two of them gasping and all three twitching.  After another minute or so, both Nick and Carlos had recovered enough to get up.  Carlos extracted his massive hog from the corpse as Nick shut the cameras off.

 

“Think we got ourselves a gold mine with this one,” the long-haired stud said.  Carlos grinned and headed for the door.

 

“Gonna go wash up,” he said he headed down the hall towards the bathroom.

 

Nick just used an old cleaning cloth to wipe off his dick before stuffing it back into his shorts; even though it was already semi-soft, it still took some maneuvering to get the massive tube confined again.  He collected the pile of Caleb’s clothes and tossed them on the bed.  Then he walked around to the other side, bent down and grabbed the dead homo’s still-twitching boots, and shoved the corpse into the center of the bed.

 

When Carlos came back into the room, Nick had just pulled the fitted sheet loose and wrapped everything on the bed up in it, a nice, tidy bundle containing the cum-filled fagmeat and its clothes.  “Help me get this into the bed of my truck real quick,” he told Carlos.

 

Even as dead weight the fag whore caused the two buff musclemen little difficulty.  They tossed it into the back of the pickup like a sack of dirty laundry.

 

“You need help dumpin’ the garbage?” Carlos asked.

 

“Naw, I found a good spot coupla weeks ago,” Nick replied, “As long as I can find my way back out there in the dark, it’ll be easy.”

 

And it was.  Carlos left, and Nick followed him till they got to the highway.  Then Carlos turned and went south, towards downtown, while Nick headed north, away from town and into the desert.  Thirteen miles north of the city limits, he exited and drove west down a small road that lead to a cement plant.

 

Half a mile short of the plant, there was a dirt road running north/south; it was a service road for a long line of electrical pylons that ran past the horizon.  Nick had already scouted the area and knew that the road crossed a gully some three miles north, equidistant between two pylons.  His truck had four-wheel drive, so he had no difficulties when he reached gully and turned to the west, off-road.

 

He only went some two hundred yards from the road.  At this point, the gully deepened from a few feet to more than two dozen.  Nick’s boots crunched in the sandy soil as he jumped out of his cab, and he paused to look up.  Out here, away from the city, the night sky was amazing.  The hardbodied stud gazed upwards, entranced for a few moments, then retrieved the still-quivering corpse from the bed of his truck.

 

Carrying it to the gully, he tossed it in, hearing the rattling, avalanche-like sounds as it tumbled and slithered its was down into the depths.  Returning to his truck, he to another lingering, longing look at the sky.  “Just beautiful,” he muttered, “Wonder if I have a camera good enough for night shots…”

 

He climbed back in; his truck roaring its way back out of the desert.  Within fifteen minutes of his departure, the dust had settled.  It was if he’d never been there.

 

There were to be no sneering cops or sobbing kinfolk for Caleb; his body was dumped too far from regular human activity to be noticed.  That didn’t mean that it went undiscovered, though.  As arid and lifeless as the desert seems, it supports a tremendous diversity of life, much of which turns scavenger from sheer necessity.

 

Fresh meat is never wasted in the wild.

M4M4Whoreboy

It had been a rough week at work.

 

Joe felt tense and restless.  He usually enjoyed his work—a lot—but sometimes, some people made it unpleasant, especially when they fought—well, it didn’t matter.  It was over.  But Joe couldn’t relax.

 

He turned to his usual resource in times like these—the hookup app on the various phones he’d collected.  He no longer remembered who they’d belonged to; occasionally, he’d dump one to make sure activity couldn’t be traced back to him—but he’d pick up a new one as well, now and then.  It all balanced out.

 

The one he picked up at random was a white iPhone 6.  It had several apps uploaded; Joe chose one, again at random.  Then he leaned back on the sofa and casually scanned through the posts.  The first two pages were a mix of scrawny, effeminate twinks, bald pudgy trolls and obvious fakes using airbrushed models’ photos as profile avatars.  It wasn’t till he hit the third page that something caught Joe’s eye.

 

The kid looked like he was in his early twenties, and his profile said twenty-three.  His chestnut-colored hair was soft and wavy with long bangs, but there was a certain cast to his face betrayed a lack of youthful innocence behind the young face.  The boy’s hazel eyes, wide and long-lashed were slightly sunken and underneath, the flesh was just starting to sag and become lined.

 

The kid was a whore, and probably a junkie.

 

That he was a whore was certain; it was part of his profile:

 

“—Clint, 23, 4.8 miles

Looking for:  generous daddy

Preferred position:  all up in me

Favorite activity:  you pay you pick I do it all”

 

There were a couple more photos, showing Clint in nothing but bikini shorts.  He had a swimmer’s build, slim with taut wiry muscle.  A light coat of dark brown hair furred his belly, condensing into a dark line that ran down to his groin, vanishing beneath the waistband of the shorts.

 

The part about being a junkie was just something that Joe felt; there was nothing to prove, or even specifically indicate it.  But the dark circles under the whore’s eyes, the vague hint of pallor on the boy’s skin—Joe had seen that before.

 

Yeah, this one could get used.  No one would miss it; no one could care.  He could have some fun with the faggot and then—well, not put it out of its misery, no.

 

It was gonna endure a fuck of a lot more misery before he was done with it.

 

The first thing Joe had done when he’d gotten home was take a shower; he still wasn’t dressed.  He took a quick selfie torso shot, nothing above the shoulders or below the waist.  He replied to the post with the image, then strolled casually to the dresser to put some clothes on.  He already knew it wouldn’t be a matter of if the whore would respond back, but when.  And he suspected that it’d be sooner than later.

 

The stupid cunts always responded back.

 

The buff hardman pulled on a pair of jeans, so tight that damn near every vein on his huge cock was visible, and so worn they felt like suede, cinching it to his narrow waist with an inch-wide black leather belt.  Over this went a plain white t-shirt, clean but just as tight as the jeans.  He slipped on a pair of Chippewa eight-inch steel-toed boots, leaving them loosely laced and untied.

 

It was then that the phone buzzed.  Joe had been right; the little whore had responded.

 

“Fuk yeah daddy 100 and u can do what u want make me ur bitch rm 118”

 

Accompanying the notification was a location tag.  Joe didn’t know the Tavern Inn, but he was familiar enough with the part of town it was in to have a pretty good idea of what the place would be like.

 

Yeah, he could have some fun with this one, and no one would complain.  Whores of every gender were found dead in that neighborhood on a monthly, if not weekly, basis.

 

Grinning, the muscled killer paused in front of the mirror.  The jeans tucked onto the boots, the t-shirt so tight his large nipples tented the thin cotton stretched across his broad pecs…yeah, there was no way any fag whore was gonna be able to resist.  But still, it was a chilly evening…

 

When he stepped back in front of the mirror, he’d donned a black leather aviator jacket, zipping it up only a couple of inches from the waist.  It completed the outfit and Joe, satisfied, headed out.

 

Three highway exits and four stoplights later, the homicidal stud pulled his Camaro into the parking lot of the motel.  It was a one-story L-shaped building running back from the street, with the office a separate cinderblock structure across from the end of the hotel building.  No street number was visible, but the backlit sign stretched across the façade of the office read “Tavern Inn”.  Under that was a poster that read “Newly renovated—rooms by the week or month available!”

 

Turning in, Joe drove past the office and back into the motel lot.  Room 118 turned out to be in the far corner, near the end of the building.

 

Avoiding the potholes in the in the poorly-maintained parking lot, Joe parked at the far side, up against a vine-engulfed chain link fence that separated the motel property from the auto body lot next door.  He wasn’t too close to room 118 but he could cross the lot straight from his car without having to pass in front of any other rooms.

 

It got better; a glance back at the office showed a car pulling in and stopping at the entrance.  Anyone on duty was about to be needed at the front desk.  He was out of the car and striding across the lot in a heartbeat, the thick treaded soles of his boots making faint grinding sounds on the loose surface of the deteriorated asphalt.

 

The door in front of him was a faded turquoise.  He gave three sharp taps, it popped open and he stepped in unseen.

 

It was perfect; the fuckmeat had invited him in of its own free will.

 

Inside, the room was dim, but Joe had no problem focusing on Clint.  The well-used young rentboy was wearing nothing but red gym shorts and a pair of red and black Adidas Pro Model kicks.  He stood near the center of the room, his lean, firm body silhouetted by the bedside lamp directly behind him.

 

The sheets on the queen-sized bed were tangled into a mass off to one side; they looked cheap and thin, but they at least appeared clean.  True to the sign out front, the room did seem to have been remodeled, judging by the hastily-installed paneling and the slapdash paint job.  Some of the furniture looked as if it had been expensive at one point, but it was mismatched, marred, and at least a decade out of fashion—possibly leftovers from a hotel liquidation broker.  The heavy musk of mansex and various kinds of smoke was undercut by the sharper tang of paint and toxic chemicals from the cheap paneling.

 

Clint noticed Joe looking around.  “It’s cheap,” he said without any tinge of embarrassment.  “I usually Uber to a trick’s place but I went on a rock binge this afternoon.  Dude offered me some and after I left him, I blew all my cash on more.  Damn—crack’s great, but the down sucks after.  Anyways, now you’re here.  You got the cash?”

 

Joe smiled.  He did have it, and he pulled out his wallet to prove it, opening it up and letting the slut see the Franklin nestled inside.  The moment Clint reached for it, though, he closed it back up and slid it back into his pocket.

 

“Uh-uh,” he said brusquely, “Afterwards.  Let’s see if ya deserve it all first.”

 

There was a brief flash of fire in Clint’s eyes, a last flicker of a human soul that resented the dishonor of the insult.  Then it was gone, as the whore won out.  The punk smiled.  “Time yer done with me, daddy, you’ll wanna take care of me for the rest of my life.”

 

It was Joe’s turn to grin.  “If yer that good, boy, I may do just that.  Now get outta them shorts and let’s see what I’m payin’ for.”

 

Clint grinned and began shucking off his shorts.  While he did so, Joe slipped out of his leather jacket, laying it carefully on the back of an upright chair, then peeled off his shirt as well.  His last action before turning back to face the whoreboy was to unzip his fly and extract his freakishly large cock.

 

The look on Clint’s face when he saw Joe’s monster hog was pure awe.  The kid wasn’t badly hung himself, with nearly eight inches of thick stiff boymeat, but it looked like an overcooked frankfurter compared to the buff fagkiller’s tackle.  Joe noticed Clint’s intimidation and grinned maliciously.

 

“Ya ready to service my dick, boy?  Ready to give it what it deserves?” he jeered as the hot young punk approached slowly, mouth agape and hand reaching out to take Joe’s huge manhood.  There was something in the older man’s tone of voice, though, that made Clint pause—not a red flag, just a hint of something half-acknowledged.  The rentboy hesitated, giving Joe a good once-over.

 

The dude was certainly his type; older, erotically masculine, incredibly well-built.  From his boots and thickly-muscled legs wrapped in denim, up past his gigantic jutting cock, to the coarse, wiry fur spread heavily across his ripped abs and the broad mound of his pecs, the stranger had everything Clint wanted in a man.   And there was something more, something unseen, just below the surface—a hard, cold edge that the slut to which the slut somehow found himself attracted…

 

“Yeah,” he said breathily, “I’m ready to service it, bro.  Whaddaya want me to do?”

 

“Aw, that’s easy,” Joe grinned, “I want you to suffer.”  Clint was only briefly aware of movement on his left side before Joe’s fist slammed into his jaw like a runaway train, stunning the whoreboy and knocking him to the floor.

 

Dazed and groaning, Clint rubbed his aching face, feeling his split lips and swelling skin.  Blinking rapidly to clear his blurred vision, he looked up just in time to see Joe lock the room door and slip the chain on.  As the buff sadist turned and headed back towards him, Clint swiveled into a half-sitting position and spoke up, his voice weak and shaky.

 

“Wh-what th’ fuck, dude?” he whined, “What’s that for?”  He had to crane his neck as Joe loomed over him, cock dangling just above his head.

 

Joe answered in action, not words.  He kicked Clint in the belly, the rigid steel toe of his Chippewa boot sinking deeply into the punk’s firm, flat belly.

 

“HOOG!!” the whore spat out as his breath was violently expelled.  Clutching his injured gut, the kid fell over and writhed on the floor.

 

“Stupid piece a’ shit,” Joe drawled casually, “I toldja I wanted you to suffer.  I wanna see you hurt.  The more pain yer in, the more I get off.  Ya feel me, bitch?  Not yet?  Don’t worry, you will.  You gotta work for my load, cunt, and these little love taps don’t even count as foreplay.”

 

As Clint huddled and sobbed on the floor, Joe raised his leg and stomped on the kid, driving the tread of his boot deep into the soft, smooth flesh on the boy’s back and leaving a detailed black bruise.  It was too much for the young rentboy; he rolled to the side and scrambled on the floor, gasping and desperate to escape.  Clawing at the foot of the bed, he managed to get enough leverage to raise himself upright.

 

But there was nowhere for him to go.  And Joe was right there.

 

“Hey, motherfucker, where ya goin’?” the older man said, and Clint turned to look at him.  The kid’s hazel eyes were huge with fear and bewilderment, but there was something else, too—a wounded look, as if the punk had no right to expect such treatment.

 

Joe’s sense of homicidal contempt shifted into high gear.  The boy was a faggot whore.  If he didn’t already know that this was exactly what he deserved, Joe was gonna go to great lengths to ensure that he learned it thoroughly.

 

Clint open his mouth to speak but he never got a chance.  Joe clocked him in the side of the head, a stunning blow that sent the rentboy staggering across the room into the dresser.  The nude whore clutched at the furniture to keep from falling.

 

When he looked up, Joe was coming at him, fists—and dick—upraised.

 

“NO!” Clint screamed, now truly scared, “Stop!  I didn’t do nothin’—”

 

Whatever the slut thought he could do to avoid the inevitable was useless.  The thickly-muscled hardman descended upon him like the wrath of God, fists raining down blows of unbelievable force.  As the young whore got the living fuck beat out of him, he sank to the floor, arms raised above his head to ward off the hammer-like impacts.

 

That pissed Joe off.

 

“Quit fightin’ me, faggot, and take yer fukkin’ beating.  The more you resist, the more I gotta hurt ya.”  Here Joe bent down, thrusting his hard, grinning, masculine face into the kid’s weeping countenance, “And believe me, motherfucker, I wanna hurt you.”

 

He kicked out hard, swiftly, twice, and was rewarded each time with the crunch of bone as his boot made contact with Clint’s ribs.  The fuckmeat squealed, a bleating, despairing cry of helpless pain.  Joe’s engorged cock throbbed with pleasure at the sound.

 

“Yer mine, asswipe,” he told the terrified rentboy, “Mine to use how I want.  Mine to beat to hamburger and fuck raw.  Mine to use and leave behind like cum-soaked toilet paper.  Hear me, motherfucker?  I wanna cum and I’m gonna use you to do it.”

 

Under other circumstances, the diatribe he’d just heard might have made Clint horny, but the beating he’d suffered drove all thoughts of sex out of his mind.  He’d gotten hold of a crazy john.  He’d heard stories of dangerous tricks who did…things…to the dudes they’d hired, but Clint was too smart for that shit.

 

This wasn’t happening to him.  It couldn’t.  He was too smart…

 

…but if he was so smart, why did he hurt so bad?

 

Then Joe clenched a hank of his thick brown hair and hoisted him aloft.  The pain was excruciating; Clint thought that his scalp was being torn off, but it only lasted until Joe had got him up off the floor.  Then the hardbodied killer grabbed the kid by the throat, releasing his hair and holding him straight out.  Joe’s right bicep bulged with power needed to keep the whoreboy’s Adidas Pros dangling inches above the carpet; as Clint watched wide-eyed in choking horror, a vein in the buff sadist’s arm began to throb.

 

Clint kicked wildly.  Staring the gagging slut in the face and sneering with contempt, Joe calmly and carefully turned and walked to the small round table in the corner of the room.  Unmatched to anything else in the room, it was small and incredibly flimsy, with a particleboard surface inadequately covered by a paper-thin veneer.  Together with an aluminum-framed chair, it served as a desk, but it didn’t allow much room for work given that it also supported a thirty-two-inch no-name flat screen TV.

 

It allowed even less room to work once Joe rammed Clint’s head right through it.

 

It didn’t take much effort to punch the cunt’s skull through the thin particleboard, but the force broke Clint’s nose and lacerated his cheek.  As he hit the floor, the rentboy had the brief, lucid thought that he’d be off his game until his face healed.  Then the pain hit.

 

“Owwww…” he moaned, “Dude…don’t do this… give ya anything ya want…”

 

“Yeah,” Joe said evenly, “Ya sure will.”

 

He bent down and grabbed Clint’s ankles, slowly dragging him out form under the table.  The kid was half-stunned still, but he could feel the motion and fear rose within him, a bitter taste like bile in the back of his throat as his taut young body throbbed in pain.

 

He couldn’t get out of this himself.  He needed help, and he needed it now.

 

“HELP!!” he shrieked, turning his face towards the door, “IN HERE!!  FUCKING HELP OH GOD OH SHIT—GAAGHGHK!!!”

 

Again, Joe responded with the icy precision of a professional killer.  He dropped Clint’s legs, stepped up to the boy’s head and raising his leg, stomped the whore’s face, swiftly, powerfully, brutally.

 

He ground the heel of his Chippewa boot into the faggot’s mouth, his dick pulsating each time he heard the crack of Clint’s jaw snapping.  The cunt gurgled and coughed, hacking up half a dozen of its teeth as the twisted hardman crouched over it and spit in its face.

 

“That’ll keep ya quiet, fuckmeat.  Now shut up and get ready for my dick.”

 

He snagged the rentboy by the throat again; lost in a vast space of fiery agony, Clint felt a faint weightlessness as he was tossed onto the bed on his back.  The impact wasn’t as severe as others he’d already endured, but anything that caused the jagged edges of broken bones to grind together deep inside him caused inexpressible suffering.

 

Joe knew that and planned to take advantage of it.  Of course, he needed to be in the right place to do so.

 

As Clint writhed and moaned in horrible pain, Joe climbed up on the bed, hoisted Clint’s red kicks up to his shoulders, bending the agonized punk in half, and started probing the slut’s anus with the cue-ball-sized head of his dick.  The boy could feel the pressure and he knew what was coming next.  He didn’t want it.

 

His head and face were afire with horrific pain—to the point that his prior injuries weren’t even distant memories—and every attempt to vocalize was cut short by instant agony.  His hands were still free, though, and the moment Joe started to force his member into Clint, the cunt responded with a frenetic, clawing frenzy.

 

The boy’s hands rose up like embattled birds of prey, talons gaping wide, searching for any weak spot.  The impetus given them by Clint’s sheer panic gave them a force the used-up whoreboy could never have attained in the usual course of his wasted life.  His fingers raked Joe’s face, nails digging into the dark, wiry scruff covering the killer’s jaw—not quite enough to draw blood, but much more than enough to piss Joe off.

 

It was a simple disarming move, so to speak; one Joe had often used on the job.  Batting Clint’s left arm away, he wrapped his right arm around it and twisted, forcing the sweaty, gasping youth to strain as hard as he could to stop his arm from being bent backwards at the elbow.

 

Clint failed, of course.  He knew he was gonna fail, and so did Joe—which was why the sick killer felt such an erotic rush as he gazed into the terrified whore’s huge dark eyes just before he ripped the kid’s elbow socket apart like it was a chicken carcass.  There was a gristly cracking sound and the rentboy howled in inarticulate agony, his slim firm body rigid and trembling as it tried to process the trauma.

 

He was still howling when Joe plowed his massive cock up the kid’s ass in a single powerful thrust.  Clint’s screams suddenly spiraled up past an audible pitch.  The sound he was emitting was more like a ragged wheeze than a cry of pain—not that he wasn’t in pain.

 

Clint’s physical suffering was so intense it was nearly hallucinatory; he had a sense that none of this was happening—that he was already dead and was being tormented for his sins.  He’d asked this muscle-bound stud over to give him a nice hard fuck—and at a discount; he’d been horny—and the sudden explosion of violence and pain, with no warning at all, had traumatized his psyche as much as the beatdown had damaged his body.

 

He was getting fucked now, but this wasn’t what he wanted.  Even the fuck itself, as Joe’s enormous unlubed member tore open his unprepared sphincter and ground roughly over his prostate, caused him unspeakable agony.  And his arm…oh fuck, his arm—

 

“Yeah, fucker, yer just what I was lookin’ for tonight,” Joe commented with a wicked grin as his well-developed torso, gleaming with a slight film of perspiration under the dim light, pumped rhythmically between Clint’s smooth thighs.  “I needed a piece of meat to work my frustrations out on.  I can jack yer worthless ass up as much as I want, and ain’t no one gonna care what happens to cheap fag whore, amiright?”

 

Clint wasn’t looking and he was trying not to listen.  In fact, he’d come pretty damn close to putting himself into a trance state—not because he was adept in meditation, but as an instinctive reaction to protect what was left of his fracturing mind from this excruciating nightmare.  He had gone utterly limp, and since every movement brought forth new waves of nauseating pain, he let his tight young body flow with Joe’s thrusts, matching the sadistic top’s vigorous pumping.  It somehow seemed to make everything hurt less.

 

“Uh-uh, cunt.  Yer goin’ slack on my hog, meat.  Ya got all nice and tight when you were sufferin’ an’ now yer actin’ like a cocktease.  That pisses me off, motherfucker.  I showed ya my money, yeah?  And you said whatever I wanted…”

 

Joe’s voice trailed off as he reached down to his crotch with both hands.  The kid hadn’t been able to shut out his assailant’s cruel taunts, but he was gonna keep pairing his motion with that of Joe’s as long as he could.  It was only a sound—a familiar metal clank—that brought him back into hellish reality.

 

The sound was a belt being unbuckled.  Clint couldn’t lift his head much, but he could see Joe on his knees, Clint’s own legs wrapped around his waist.  His sculpted, hirsute torso flexed with each powerful thrust of the hips.  And without missing a beat, the handsome killer was slowly pulling his belt from around his tight waist, winding the long black leather strap around his hand.  Once it was completely off, he unwound it and passed the tip back through the buckle, making a simple but effective garrote.

 

Grinning, he kept eye contact with Clint the entire time.

 

He finally dangled it out over the boywhore’s heaving chest.

 

“You know what this is for, dontcha?”  It was more a statement than a question.  “You know how this is gonna end.  It’s happened to plenty of yer fag whore buddies, yeah?  Now it’s your turn, bitch.

 

Clint’s hazel eyes were huge with panic.  Despite the horrific agony of his mangled mouth, he tried to plead for his life.  He’d heard the stories…and there was his old fuckbuddy Rick, they never caught the guy who did that…

 

This involuntary defense mechanism—drifting off into inconsequentia—was abruptly terminated as Joe slipped the leather noose over Clint’s head and tightened it.  From that moment on, Clint was in the here and now, fighting for every last second of his useless life.

 

This was the point Joe was hard for—the way the cunts always thrashed and jerked when he began throttling their life out.  The most reamed-out whorefucks invariably locked their assholes around his shaft as death set in and they panicked, and this one was no different.

 

Clint’s left arm was useless, but his right worked fine; as his battered and bruised face began to swell and darken even further, he clawed frenetically at the thick leather strap encircling his throat.  It was already sunken so deep that he couldn’t get his fingers under it—all he did was tear at his own flesh until he drew blood.

 

The rentboy’s lithe young body was awash in physical misery; the symptoms of asphyxia that began to occur only added to his suffering.  The tight, fiery ache in his chest, the overwhelming pounding in his head, the excruciating pressure on his throat—and through it all, he was fully aware of the killer’s huge hog plowing his guts.  And his own erection.

 

The dude was snuffing him and fucking him like a rutting boar—and he was so fuckin’ hard it hurt.

 

Somehow that scared him most of all.  It set off a blind panic that transferred the meat’s attention from the belt around its throat to the stud holding the belt; in a flash, the whore’s hand came up, scrambling and digging at Joe’s face.  Even an experienced killer can be caught off guard, and this was one of those occasions; Joe jerked his head back and arced back to keep his face out of the flailing kid’s reach.  Instead, the desperate hand first beat on the buff killer’s broad, muscled chest, then snatched a thick fistful of the older man’s chest hair.  When it jerked back, it didn’t manage to pull out any of the sadist’s fur—but it did manage to piss him off.

 

“Goddam motherfucker,” he growled, grabbing the punk’s wrist with his free hand while keeping the belt tight around its neck with the other.  Slamming the slut’s arm down on its chest, he grabbed its index finger and bent it backwards.

 

“Just don’t get it, ya dumbass fuck?” Joe snarled, “You only exist to make me cum when you die [CRACK].”  The unfortunate whore wasn’t able to scream as its finger was broken, but with his dick, Joe could feel the way the pain registered in its ass.  He grinned with pleasure and moved on to the next finger.

 

“You need to stop fightin’ me, faggot, and die like the fuckin’ slutpig you are [CRACK].”  Again, the meat clenched its sphincter in agony.  Joe held the belt around its throat steady, neither increasing nor decreasing the pressure.  The bitch’s air was sealed off—but it was still reversible, and the whore knew it.  It didn’t matter what Joe said, it had to believe it could survive.

 

Good.  The more it suffered, the more it milked Joe’s cock.  He moved on to the third finger.

 

“You know it yerself, asswipe; you know this is why you were put on this planet.  That’s why yer pathetic fag dick is hard [CRACK].”  Blackened and twisted in nightmarish pain, the punk’s once-handsome face had become a grotesque mask of agony.  Its wavy hair was dark and matted with sweat, the hazel eyes were red with hemorrhages and bulging frantically from their sockets.  A swollen purple tongue protruded from the loose, mangled mouth as foamy drool oozed down its chin.

 

And even so, there was still some Clint left inside to hear Joe’s words, and as his brain progressively died of oxygen deprivation, the sadistic sex killer’s perverted logic made sense to the young rentboy.  And when the next blast of pain came, some sick part of him was eager for it.  When Joe bent the pinky finger not backward but outward, off the side of the hand, Clint had become an almost mindless being, living solely for the sake of the next intense stimulus—looking for one intense enough for…but the lucid thought was interrupted.

 

Joe was close; he could feel his hot potent seed churning in his huge, hairy sack, but he still had some last rage to vent, and he did it by using the whore’s face as a punching bag, pounding the fucker with both left and right jabs, transferring the belt from one hand to the other.  With each blow, the cunt’s firm smooth body jerked violently; the legs curled and kicked.

 

If the whore hadn’t already suffered irreversible brain damage, Joe’s beating would have had the same effect.  As it was, the punk flailed violently enough to kick off the Adidas Pro on its left foot; the sneaker tumbled to the floor as the toes curled in death agony inside the white ped sock.

 

And still some part of Clint held on.  Something more, yes, it needed something more.

 

Joe could feel his dick begin to tingle and swell.  He could also feel the rentboy’s hot rigid shaft pressed against his own furry ripped abs; the fuck was still hard even after he’d pulped its face.  It wasn’t dead yet.  He could still see the huge puppy-dog eyes, now red and staring.  He was about to blow, and the fag didn’t deserve to see it.

 

He splayed out his huge strong hand and pressed it onto the slut’s ruined face.  At the same time, he dug his Chippewa boots into the bed, wrapped the end of the belt a couple of time around his other hand, and gave it a brutally powerful jerk.

 

In a fraction of a second, the whoreboy’s esophagus collapsed just above the larynx, the cartilage crushed into a wad of gristle.  At the same time, three cervical vertebrae—C2, 3 and 4—were dislocated, mangling the spinal cord.

 

The tiny spark of painpig soul left in the cheap whore finally found justification for its ultimate orgasm in death.  As the massive trauma to its central nervous system sent the cunt’s slim but strong body into violent convulsions, it began to spew semen from its hard thick rod like an oil well striking a gusher.

 

Joe felt the hot spray of boycum on his thickly-furred belly at the same time he felt the punk’s rectum grip his pulsing tool and milk his load out as if there was a conscious effort to make him shoot.

 

“Fuckin’ die, ya worthless faggot!” Joe roared, and as he hosed the meat’s intestines with his seething manload, he jerked the belt again, ripping the bitchboy’s spinal cord out of its skull.  The meat responded with one last violent jerk, the limbs drawing in and wrapping around Joe as if giving its killer one last embrace.

 

Then the whore flopped back, quivering and trembling, utterly owned and used.

 

Joe collapsed on top of it, heaving and spent, the weight of his furry muscled body pressing the shuddering corpse into the mattress.  After a few minutes, he’d caught his breath and began the slow process of peeling his cum-matted chest off the corpse’s torso while simultaneously extracting his still-oozing hog from its ass.

 

Climbing off the bed, he headed for the bathroom, his boots echoing loudly off its tiled surfaces.

 

The smell of new grout was overwhelming; even the thin, rough towels were new.  Joe found their sandpaper-like texture perfect for scrubbing congealed slutcum out of his wiry chest fur and off his massive schlong.  Tossing the towel into the toilet—which reeked of bleach—he tucked his enormous manhood back into his jeans and returned to the bedroom.

 

The room was mess, but the splayed corpse of the horribly beaten rentboy took center stage.  Spread-eagled on its back, with its parted legs and cum-dripping ass pointed directly towards the door, Joe decided it couldn’t be better posed if he’d done it deliberately.  He decided to leave his belt where it was; it was so buried in the dead whore’s throat, it’d be difficult to remove in any case.

 

Striding to the chair where he’d left his clothing, Joe picked up the t-shirt and balled it up.  He was still warm from his well-deserved and very satisfying workout; He slipped on the leather jacket and stuffed the t-shirt into its pocket.  He headed out the door without a backwards glance at the boy whose life he’d just so viciously and cold-bloodedly ended.

 

He took the T-tops off his Camaro for the drive home, basking in the crisp cool air with deep sense of well-being.

 

 


 

 

“Hey Danilo, whatcha got?”

 

The beat cop paused in the open doorway of the motel room, leaning against the jamb and glancing up at the detective, his face weary and his expression jaded.

 

“It’s a bad one.  Fag whore was offed.  Cocksucker died hard.”

 

“Bad trick?”

 

“Probably.  Manager says he’d been here about a month.  No regular hours.  Had guys in and out all the time.”

 

“ME seen him yet?”

 

“No, they’re on the way.”

 

The detective stepped into the room and took a good long look.  He returned to the beat cop.

 

“Musta been pretty goddam violent, and doesn’t look like it happened too long ago—you ask if anyone heard anything?”

 

The cop grimaced.  “C’mon, man, you know this place as well as I do.  Remember that chick that they hauled outta here last month?  The one that was gonna testify against that biker gang?  They held her down and injected her with battery acid and didn’t no one here hear or see a goddam thing.  You think anyone’s gonna care a pansy whore gets offed?”

 

The detective sighed.  “Yeah, I know, but its my job to ask.  Yer right, though, might was well sign off on this one and shove it to the back of the caseload pile.  Ain’t no one cares about these wastes of human flesh.  Tell the guys from the ME’s office to send me their report; I got crimes against real human beings to solve.”

 

The beat cop watched the detective walk off with contempt.  Figured he’d be the one left here with the stiff corpse of a worthless homo slut, waitin’ for the meat wagon to show up.  Like anyone would give a shit if he tossed it in the dumpster and went and had a beer.  If those ME dudes didn’t show up soon, that’s exactly what he’d do…

Young, Dumb and Full of Cum

Eddie was angry again.  In fact, he was angrier than he could remember being for a long, long time.  He didn’t know why or at what; he never did.  All he knew was that a titanic roiling rage filled his soul.

 

Well, he knew one other thing.  He’d figured out how to control it, to vent it so that life became bearable again.

 

That was why he was out cruising for faggots.

 

He was dressed for the hunt, in a khaki muscle shirt and tight battle fatigue pants tucked into his high laced combat boots.  His dogtags gleamed from deep within the valley formed by his huge pecs.  It was late in the afternoon; he was sporting a pair of polarized aviator sunglasses to ward off the slanting orange rays of the sun that glinted in his sandy buzzcut hair.

 

He’d liked to have been able to swing by the skate park again, but it was too soon to go there.  He’d somewhat underestimated the vehemence of the public outcry when the nude corpse of a raped and strangled teenaged boy had been found there.  The place was still attracting attention; there was even some kinda fuckin’ memorial growing up in the back where he’d dumped the meat.  A big pile of cards and flowers and fuckin’ stuffed toys and shit.  One night when things calmed down, he’d go out, douse the whole shitpile with gas and burn it right the fuck down.

 

But that was for later.  Right now, he needed prey.  Right now.

 

And that was when he spotted Hank.

 


 

Hank was eighteen and well-built.  Star of his high school wrestling team, his buff, muscled body turned heads every time he got into his tights, and he knew it.  He also knew that every time he grappled with other hardbodied young dudes, his dick got hard.  Sometimes theirs did too.

 

He wasn’t about to tell anyone that other guys made his shaft grow rigid; his father was the head of staff for the Lieutenant Governor, a powerful right-wing evangelical.  They attended the same church, where his mother ran the ladies’ auxiliary.  The thought of being gay horrified Hank, just as much as it would his parents, but there were times his hormones got the upper hand.

 

He’d always been able to calm himself down, closing his eyes, praying, reminding himself of his youth pastor’s exhortations against temptations.  But lately it was taking him more and more time to master the overpowering desire that radiated up from his balls into his thick, eager teenaged cock.

 

And then today, it hadn’t worked at all.

 

He’d left school early; no one was home when he got there.  He changed his clothes, leaving the house in his workout gear—black shorts with the drawstring dangling loosely in front, a black t-shirt with Pokémon characters printed across the front, and a pair of gray Nike Air Max 1 trainers.  Maybe some exercise would help exorcize the demon of lust living in his huge hairy scrote.  He set out walking more or less at random, with no fixed destination.  He didn’t want to go to the gym at school; his shorts did nothing to hide his stiff seven-inch boner, and he didn’t want anyone he knew to see him like this.

 

He succeeded; the person who saw him like that didn’t know him and didn’t need to.

 


 

There was something about Hank that snagged Eddie’s attention immediately.  The muscled teen with dark wavy hair, tousled with careful negligence, drew the psycho ex-Marine eyes off the road long enough for him to pull over into a fast-food parking lot and turn around.  The way the boy seemed to be deliberately displaying his smooth, hard build and his long erect dick screamed “faggot” inside Eddie’s dark and twisted mind.

 

The kid was a homo, and he needed to be put down.  All Eddie had to do was figure out a way to lure the faggot in.  But it wasn’t gonna be sex; Eddie wasn’t no pansy.  He was here to put the pansy in its place—taking a dirt nap.

 

But first it needed to learn what happened to fucking homo perverts.

 

He pulled up next to Hank and lowered the window of his truck.  “Hey, dude,” he called out, inspired by the kid’s workout gear, “Ya know a good gym around here?”

 

It was a measure of how deeply immersed Hank was in his own thoughts that he didn’t hear Eddie’s truck pull up.  The Dodge pickup had a deep throaty rumble that almost literally shook the ground.  But the young punk was too busy trying to come to terms with his rampant horniness to notice Eddie’s presence till the latter spoke—and even then, the hardbodied homo hunter had to repeat himself, loudly, startling Hank and making him jump.

 

The boy approached the jacked-up Ram, craning his neck to see inside.  All he could make out was the head and part of the upper torso of an incredibly fit young man with shades and a buzzcut.  It was more than enough to make his already-straining cock twitch and pulsate.

 

And that sealed his fate.  Eddie saw it, and saw red.  He’d been right, the little fucker was a faggot.  Faggots had gotten him kicked outta the Marines; they’d even thought he was one, for fuck’s sake.  But he wasn’t.  And he’d show ‘em—he’d show ‘em all.

 

By wasting every fucking homo he could lay his hands on with extreme prejudice.  Starting with this one.

 

“Uh, naw, man,” Hank replied diffidently.  He tried to force himself not to think of the stud’s hard firm body.  “I, uh, I was just tryin’ to find a place myself.  See, the, uh, the color squad is usin’ the school gym right now, and…well…”  He trailed off uncertainly.

 

“Yeah, there’s a Gold’s around the corner,” Eddie came back, “But I don’t like the clientele.  And anyway, my weight set is better that theirs, even if it ain’t all fancy and computerized.  Whatcha lookin’ for, my man?  Squats?  Curls?”

 

Hank blushed, feeling even more awkward, standing in the middle of the sidewalk with a huge erection.  “Well, uh, whatever.  Y’know, just lookin’ to work off some energy.”

 

“I’ll bet,” Eddie said.  Hank was taken aback slightly by the cold edge in the older man’s voice, but the next time Eddie spoke, it was gone.  “Well if that’s all ya want, you c’n come back to my place if ya like.  Plenty of ways to burn some energy with my set.”

 

The hint was unmistakable, and Hank had to go to some effort to avoid panting with excitement.  “Sure, dude!” he chirped, then dialed it back a little.  “I mean, yeah, that’d be cool.”

 

Eddie unlocked the passenger door.  “Hop in,” he said, “It’s just a couple streets down.  Name’s Mike, by the way.”  He had no intention of letting the little fucker know his real name, just in case.

 

“Thanks,” the buff, naïve teen said as he climbed up into the cab, “I’m Hank.”

 

“Hank?”  Eddie asked.  The kid blushed again.

 

“Actually, it’s Horace.  Named after my grandpa.  But nobody calls me that.  I’m just Hank.”

 

“No problem,” Eddie replied, glancing over at his passenger.  When Hank sat down, the lower hem of his shorts rode up, exposing a good two and a half inches of his cock, including the thick, spongy purple head.

 

Yeah, the cunt was a fuckin’ fag.  The sight made Eddie hard himself—at the thought of wasting the queer motherfucker.  He was silent for the rest of the drive, trying to control his psychotic hate and lust.  Luckily, he didn’t have long to wait before he could satisfy himself; they were at his place in less than five minutes.

 

The parking lot was mostly empty at Eddie’s place; there was no one to see the boy climb out of the truck and follow Eddie into his apartment.  There were no witnesses to Hank’s last public appearance—well, his last live appearance.

 


 

The living room was small and dark, with an intensely sweet smell that seemed to be covering something ranker.  If Hank hadn’t been so randy, the odor might have raised some red flags; as it was, the subtle scents of testosterone and death stimulated the teen’s primitive midbrain, sparking a form of nervous energy that was easily converted to sexual energy.  By the time they made it back to Eddie’s bedroom, Hank had developed tunnel vision—he was focused directly on the military stud’s powerful, thickly-muscled body.  He didn’t even notice the poster-sized photos of dead bodies on the walls.

 

Eddie walked to the far corner, peeled off his shirt and tossed it into an open hamper next to the closet door.  It was one of his favorites, and he didn’t want to ruin it.

 

And what he had planned would definitely ruin it.

 

When he turned back, Hank’s jaw dropped.  The man had the body of a god—huge smooth pecs with thick, hard, dark nipples rising like sharp tall peaks of low, broad hills.  Between them, his dogtags dangled, silvery gray under the bleak overhead light.  Below the chest, the ex-Marine’s torso tapered to his waist, his amazingly ripped abs making Hank both horny and envious.  And below, that massive bulge in his camo-patterned crotch…

 

“So,” Eddie said nonchalantly, “Whatcha into?”

 

The hormone-addled teenager was so distracted by Eddie’s body that he couldn’t make a coherent reply.  He just stammered, his gaze riveted on the stud’s groin.

 

Eddie leered.  “Or maybe yer into this,” he growled and unzipped his fly.  With Hank’s utter, rapt attention, the hardbodied psycho pulled his gigantic tube of manmeat out of his pants, letting the boy admire it in all its pulsating, vein-wreathed glory.

 

Hank had never seen so big a cock—and he’d damn sure been looking; every kid he’d wrestled with had gotten “inadvertently” groped at some point during the match.  No one he’d encountered had been this hung.

 

“Yeah?”  Eddie said with a suggestive grin, coming closer, “This what ya like?”

 

He was almost close enough to touch.  Hank reached out, almost involuntarily; he felt compelled to have that enormous piece of meat in his hands.

 

“This whatcha, been looking for, faggot?”

 

The word and the change of tone made Hank look up, but not fast enough to be able to react to the sudden, vicious jab that Eddie planted in the center of the teen’s smooth flat belly.

 

Expelling the air form his lungs in a mighty wheeze, Hank doubled over.  His knees buckled but he didn’t have time to hit the floor before Eddie’s next blow caught him in the jaw with the force of a train wreck, putting his lights out quite effectively.  The boy collapsed with a boneless thud, like a sack of potatoes, leaving Eddie standing over him, grinning, and preparing to give the young homo exactly what it deserved.

 


 

As he was coming to, Hank was aware of a throbbing pain in his gut, a pain that pulsed so relentlessly that he was having trouble breathing.  Even before he regained full consciousness, he realized that he’d been brutally attacked by the muscle-bound stud he’d followed home.  When he finally opened his eyes, he was—in some slight measure—prepared to find himself in an unpleasant situation.

 

He was totally unprepared for the reality.

 

Above him, Eddie loomed intimidatingly.  From his near-vertical viewpoint, Hank could see the older man’s massive jutting cock hanging over him, somehow both arousing and ominous.  Above that, Eddie’s huge pecs swelled out in front, with the ex-Marine’s evilly leering face pointed down at him with contemptuous amusement.

 

“Thought I was gonna hafta wake you up the hard way,” the fag-killer jeered.  “Glad I didn’t need to.   Cunts don’t scream when they’re out.”  He reached down and stroked his enormous glistening shaft.  “And I like it when they scream.  You ready to scream, boy?  Ready top scream like a good little faggot?  Ain’t nobody gonna hear ya, asswipe, so G’wan ahead and scream yer bitch lungs out, haw!”

 

Hank didn’t react; his lithe firm body was struggling to inhale and his young hormone-flushed psyche was in vapor-lock, unable to process the sadistic input it was receiving.  He could only lay inert on the floor and goggle wordlessly as his hardbodied assailant towered over him.

 

Eddie knew how to get a reaction, though.

 

“Looks like yer havin’ a little trouble breathin’ there, little buddy,” he chortled, “Here, lemme help.

 

Lifting his right leg, Eddie leaned forward slight and drove his knee down, stomping on Hank’s torso with enough force to crack three ribs.

 

‘HOOG!!!” the kid cried as what little air he’d managed to accumulate in his lungs was violently forced back as if he was a bellows.  Eddie kept his foot planted right in the center of Hank’s chest, grinding his boot into the boy’s t-shirt.

 

Hank’s head came up off the floor, but the rest of his body was pinned down.  As a result, the pain-wracked teen found himself staring directly at the ex-Marine’s combat boot as it continued to crush his abdomen. Inches away from the glossy black leather, Hank realized that the boot wasn’t tied and was only loosely laced.

 

And then he saw why.

 

Rising up from the boot along the outside of the sadist’s leg was a huge knife, evidently held in place by a boot sheath.  Even as Hank looked on, Eddie bent down—incidentally throwing more of his weight onto the kid’s solar plexus and amping up his agony—and grasped the wooden handle.  He withdrew it slowly, letting Hank see the weapon in close detail.

 

The blade was so sharp it almost literally hurt to look at it.  The other side of the blade was serrated so sharply it could saw through a four-by-four post with ease.  Near the hilt, it was engraved with the brand name Master.  And it was long.  The blade—not including the handle—was nearly a foot.

 

Then Hank looked up and caught Eddie’s eyes and sudden terror swept over him so completely that a pool of piss began to form on the floor under him.  The look in those eyes—rage, lust, excitement, hatred, and unreasoning insanity—told him that the knife was meant for him.

 

Eddie laughed—a harsh, cold sound—as he saw the effect he had on the kid.  “Not yet, ya stupid homo.  That’d be too easy.  Naw, you gotta learn yer place before you die.”  He held the knife in front of Hank’s bulging, horror-filled eyes.  “An’ believe me, faggot, by the time ya learn it, yer gonna be beggin’ me to waste yer worthless punk ass.”

 

Lifting his leg, the muscled killer swooped down on the writhing, gagging teen.  Eddie swung the blade forward with seeming carelessness but somehow managed to snag the hem of Hank’s t-shirt.  Before the kid could literally blink an eye, Pikachu had been sliced in half from stem to stern, the blade neatly cutting the collar.  The cheap, thin cotton fell back, revealing Hank’s slim but well-developed torso, with just the barest hint of peach fuzz covering the boy’s smooth, silky skin.

 

Reversing the blade, Eddie made a quick downward slash at Hank’s shorts—this time specifically pulling the kid’s waistband up to let the knife get underneath.  Once he did so, the elastic parted easily.  It took two swings of the blade to cut the shorts open down both legs, but once it was done, the revealed that the teenaged cunt was freeballing.  His spunk-filled balls nestled in a bush of curly brown pubes from which his long, thick boycock sprang.

 

And it was semi-hard, despite the fact that Hank was terrified and could barely breath.  Yeah, Eddie realized, the motherfucker really was a sick, worthless faggot.

 

It needed to fuckin’ die.

 

“You disgustin’ piece a’ shit,” Eddie growled at the prostrate youth, “Fuckin’ homos like you fuck it all up for men like me.  Got me kicked outta the Marines…you wanna real man?  That what yer worthless ass was out trollin’ the streets for?  Bro, ya goddam sure got one.  An’ it’s time show yer pansy little fuckhole exactly how real men treat perverted little pansies.”

 

He crouched down, leaning over Hank so that his dogtags jingled mere millimeters above the boy’s heaving, panicked chest.  “You wanted real mandick?  Yer gonna get some, right now.  I’m gonna ream out yer tight little boycunt like a goddam roto-rooter.  I’m gonna fuck yer guts so deep my cum’ll leak out yer fuckin’ nose.  C’mon, fuckwad, it’s time to get whatcha came for.”

 

He reached out and grabbed Hank by the throat, his huge hand clamping on the punk’s neck and completely cutting off his air.  In a moment, Hank found himself choking and gurgling, his hands clutching desperately at Eddie’s forearm while the toes of his Nikes flailed uselessly four inches above the worn bedroom carpet.

 

He didn’t remain dangling long.  Eddie slammed him down athwart the bed, so that his head impacted the drywall on the far side, but his legs below the knees were still bent down to the floor.  Hank groaned, raised his head and looked down the length of his own body to see Eddie standing at the side of the bed between his legs.  The ex-Marine’s cock was jutting out over the bed like the prow of a ship; all he had to do was bend down, scoop up Hank’s legs and expose his ass, and the rape would begin.

 

Except it didn’t.  Eddie stood there for a moment, looking down at Hank’s own throbbing shaft, getting more rigid by the second.  “Ya want my thick hog in ya, dontcha?” he asked with a sly smile.  “A’course ya do.  Fags always like havin’ somthin’ long and hard shoved into their guts, right?  Yeah?  Fuck yeah.  So here ya go faggot, here’ something long and hard buried in yer guts!”

 

Whipping his right arm up and over in a flash, he buried the knife in Hank’s smooth, flat belly to the hilt.  The razor-sharp blade pierced the abdominal muscle, slashed instantly through multiple coils of the teen’s intestines, and came out through his back, embedding itself over two inches into the mattress.

 

Hank’s screech was shrill and loud, finally tapering off into a guttural moan as his taut, firm frame went rigid and trembled in agony.  The boy clenched his fists, desperately trying not to move—with the blade embedded in the mattress, he was pinned to the bed and any movement forced his tender innards against the viciously sharp blade impaling his guts.  It might’ve worked—but Hank wasn’t calling the shots.

 

Grabbing the punk’s smooth, strong legs, Eddie wrapped his powerful arms around them and hoisted them so that Hank’s Nikes rested on his shoulders.  The motion this caused made Hank squeal in pain.  “Fuck yeah,” Eddie jeered, “Ya think that hurts, ya stupid cunt?”  He bent his legs just slightly and pressed the thick, spongy head of his cock against the teen’s fluttering asshole.  “See how ya like this, faggot!”

 

With a single monumental thrust, Eddie instantly drove his massively swollen manshaft balls-deep inside the adolescent virgin.  He had to tear flesh to do it, sighing with pleasure as the boy’s sphincter ripped open like wet paper against the sudden, inexorable pressure.  On the inside, the huge rod, unlubed except with its own precum, caught and tore the highly sensitive lining of the kid’s colon.

 

Hank had often fantasized about getting assfucked, and he’d suspected it might hurt—but he had no idea this kind of glassy, razor-sharp pain could happen.  For a moment—only a split second, but still a moment—he forgot about the blade sunk in his belly.

 

Then Eddie reached down and pulled the knife out.  Slowly.

 

Hank looked down in horror as inch after inch of the sharp bloody blade was extracted from his guts.  He could feel it moving inside himself, slashing at his intestines on the way out.  His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell limp.  The teen had passed out from sheer physical trauma.

 

It was ok.  He’d wake up again.  And in the meantime, Eddie continued to pound his ass, using him like a fucktoy—all the young fag was good for, after all.  The buff ex-Marine tossed the knife onto Hank’s heaving, sweat-slick chest and spent then next five minutes deep-plowing the teenager’s fuckhole as a thin stream of blood trickled from the gash in his belly.  The wound was deep, not wide, so the vast majority of the bleeding was internal.

 

For the second time in a half hour, Hank found himself waking to pain, but this time was worse.  After having both a dick and a blade shoved into his guts, regaining consciousness was a cruel experience.

 

Eddie recognized the boy’s fluttering eyelids as a sign that he was coming to and decided to make the experience even crueler.

 

“Hey motherfucker,” he hissed them moment Hank’s eyes were fully open, “See this?”  He held the knife directly in front of the kid’s face.  “See those little strings of meat hangin’ from the back?  That’s yer innards, fag.  That’s what yer goddam intestines look like. Ya like that shit?”

 

Hank could see it; he couldn’t understand it.  His youthful face, pale with shock, turned up to the older man.  “Wh-why?” he gasped, his breathy voice taut with agony, “I d-don’t…why?”

 

Eddie’s hard, masculine face twisted with hate and disgust.  “Cause yer a fuckin’ faggot cunt, that’s why” he roared, spittle flying from his lips as he spewed his rage.  “Fuckin homo scum like you needs to fuckin’ die!  Y’all goddam cocksuckers out there tryin’ to lure me in…make me a sick pervert like you…got me kicked outta the service—fuck you!!!”

 

Even as he lost it, Eddie still managed to keep perfect time with his hips, thrusting his huge rod into Hank’s rectum.  But the rant was over as suddenly as it started; the psycho fagkiller seemed to regain some measure of control.

 

Not a lot, though.

 

“Naw,” he smirked, “I could gut ya like a fuckin’ pig and you still wouldn’t suffer as much as you deserve.  Don’t mean it ain’t a good place to start, though.”  Without telegraphing his movements in the slightest, he whipped the knife around and drove it into Hank’s left flank.  The agonized adolescent felt the blade slicing through his organs before he even realized he’d been stabbed again.

 

This one was bad.  Penetrating between the eighth and ninth ribs, nearly twelve inches of razor-sharp steel bisected the punk’s torso.  The knife tore through Hank’s liver and gall bladder, slashing his stomach and pancreas and ended up impaling his spleen.  By the time the hilt was flush with the skin on the boy’s left side, the tip of the blade was less than an inch below the surface of the skin on the right side.

 

Eddie leaned over the suffering teen, his eyes glittering with lust at his ability to inflict unbearable pain.  “Say ‘thank you’, motherfucker,” he commanded.  “All you pansies ever say you want is to have somethin’ long and hard shoved inside ya; well, now ya got it.  And I’m the one that gave it to ya.  So say ‘thank you’, ya fuckin’ pigfag!”

 

Hank’s eyes were closed and his face twisted into a grimace of indescribable agony; he was past the point of being able to obey Eddie’s orders—unluckily for him.

 

“Say it, motherfucker, say it or I’ll make ya!!!” he screamed.  To his credit, Hank tried to speak, but could only emit a weak squawk of pain.  It wasn’t enough for Eddie.  Without inserting or removing the knife by even a fraction of an inch, he slowly twisted the blade inside the wound, rotating the handle so that the viciously sharp serrations and cutting edge carved a cylindrical wound all the way across Hank’s midsection.

 

The teen punk hadn’t imagined that pain like this couldn’t exist.  It was almost too much to handle; he was cruelly unable to pass out again, but he thought he was gonna throw up.  Every time his body tried to retch, though, his stomach was pressed against the blade’s edge, which only made it hurt worse.  He went rigid, his firm muscles locking his smooth young body stiffly into place to avoid bringing any more of his tender innards into contact with that vicious cutting edge.

 

“Aw, fuck,” Eddie moaned at the kid’s sphincter clamped around the base of his dick, “Fuck yeah, see, I knew this was how to treat you goddam cocksuckers.  You worthless pervs want this, dontcha?  All a real Alpha’s gotta do to make a faggot work his dick is fuckin’ gut it and it’ll massage his cock good and hard on its way out, haw!”

 

Eddie leaned forward.  Bracing himself with one hand on Hank’s smooth, firm chest, he jerked the knife back out of the kid’s side with a single, swift jerk, like he was checking the oil level in a car.  And in the dim light, there was some resemblance.  The blade was covered nearly to the hilt with dark, sticky liquid.

 

The kid was nearly full—at least, full of cock.

 

The extraction of the blade caused more damage than the insertion, including slicing open Hank’s stomach.  The adolescent was trembling on the edge of shock with massive organ trauma; the wound to the stomach alone would eventually be fatal—but right now, Hank’s guts were so compressed by his body’s doubled-up, easy-access-to-the-ass position, that even the internal blood lose was relatively minimal.

 

Death would take the teenaged homo, but not yet.  Not soon.  He still had a long time to enjoy his suffering, and Eddie knew it.

 

Hank didn’t know it; he could only endure and try not to think.  Thinking was just as painful as moving, because he’d be thinking about why this happened when all he wanted was to try to see if he could get a little dick for once on the DL.  He’d be thinking about death.  And some tiny part hidden deep in his brain would be thinking about the fact that he had a raging erection.  He damn sure didn’t want to think about any of that.

 

Eddie did, and he wanted Hank to as well.  With his free hand, he reached down and grabbed the teen’s thick, pulsing cock and wrenched it painfully to one side.  “Fuckin’ faggot, this kinda shit is why you perverts gotta die.  Ya like gettin’ hurt, dontcha?  Yer fuckin’ sick, bro, and the best way to use yer worthless ass is to let it soak up my cum when I put ya down like a dog.  Ya hear me, boy?  Ya feelin’ me?”

 

He let go of the seven-inch boycock, allowing it to slap back and forth between his rock-hard abs and Hank’s firm, flat belly with a loud smacking sound.  Then the sound was muffled as he hunched forward, laying his heavy muscled form down directly onto the writhing adolescent, feeling Hank’s smooth, sweat-lubed skin pressing and sliding against his own.  The humid friction made the hardbodied psycho’s nipples almost painfully erect; they dug into the kid’s pecs like fingers.

 

He was face-to-face with his prey now, savoring the look of confused terror and anguish in the teenager’s face.  His ability to cause suffer, to cause that look in the boy’s eyes, was part of what proved he was a true Alpha.

 

The other part was his ability to mark the fuckmeat as his by spraying its guts with his strong hot manseed.  He was almost ready to do it, too—but faggot was goin’ loose.  He’d reamed Hank’s virgin hole out so brutally, its torn sphincter could no longer clench his tackle.

 

Well, not without some stimulation.  A strong shock to the system, say.

 

He grinned evilly down at the helpless, pain-wacked youth, his eyes glittering and his dogtags lying on Hank’s heaving chest.  “Time to die, motherfucker.  You ain’t gonna see yer mommy an’ daddy no more, cunt; yer gonna die on my dick, right here and now.  Ya ready, bitch?  Ready to ride my fat he-man hog all the way down into yer grave?”

 

Hank finally found his voice.  His parents, oh fuck, what would they think?  “No, please dear God no, don’t do this, I’ll pay ya, my dad’ll pay ya, he’s rich, we got money, please anything—”

 

The hoarse, breathy quality of the teen’s voice was the result of blood loss.  Hank refused to acknowledge that he was already dying, but his body was betraying him.  Especially his hard, throbbing cock.  The kid was panicking, but his shaft didn’t seem to notice.

 

“—I swear, sir, please, sir, please don’t I won’t tell you don’t have to kill me just let me go somewhere I’ll never tell—”

 

Even as he begged, the teen punk shuddered and trembled with his lithe young form firmly compressed under the Eddie’s powerful body.  But all that did for the sadist was remind him of how useless Hank’s gaping boycunt had become.  As his grin became more shark-like, he raised the knife up above the kid’s shoulders—making sure that Hank saw it.

 

“—swear I’ll never oh god no please don’t no PLEASAAGGHthbbtpfft—”

 

Eddie drove the blade completely through Hank’s throat, from right to left, spearing the unfortunate boy’s larynx, easily slicing through the cartilage and the vocal cords—and the glottis, which seals off the lungs.  As Hank’s dark, puppy-like eyes bulged in horror and agony, blood trickled into his airway and he instantly found himself coughing it up, his mouth filled with a terrifying copper taste.

 

It was the shock Eddie had been looking for.  Involuntarily, the strong teen homo clutched at Eddie’s shoulders, his fingers digging in as he embraced his killer more closely than any lover could.  Simultaneously, the boy’s body went rigid again, this time with the added intensity of mortal agony.  As Hank’s rectum collapsed on Eddie’s straining, pulsating rod, the kid’s own long, glistening shaft suddenly swelled and spewed out thick creamy jets of boycum.  The abundance of hormones in the dying adolescent’s body seemed to ensure an endless supply of spunk—Hank kept shooting and shooting.

 

And it hurt.  It all hurt.  Pain was the only thing he could still feel—the way Eddie’s massive tackle tore cruelly at his colon, the way the sick ex-Marine had left the knife lodged in his throat so he didn’t bleed to death, the gaping holes carved deep into his vitals—and the way he just couldn’t stop blowing his deathwad.

 

“Uh—uh—aw—AW FUCK YEAH!!” Eddie screamed suddenly, feeling his hot semen boiling over and his dick swelling inside the kid’s ass.  “DIE YOU FUCKIN’ FAGGOT, DIE!!!”

 

As he’d done before, he twisted the knife in the wound, carving deeply into Hank’s throat before jerking the blade back out.  The presence of the blade in the wound had prevented heavy bleeding; Eddie made sure there was nothing to stop Hank from drowning in his own blood.  He’d been coughing it up before; now he was gargling it.

 

And still the muscular teen continued to cum.  As his life drained out through the gash in his throat, the only bit of warmth left of Hank to feel in the face of cold death was the engendered by Eddie’s potent manseed flowing into his guts.  Hank ejaculated his DNA into the void and Eddie filled the fagmeat with his own.

 

Hank’s eyes began to lose focus and to glaze over.  The stream of spunk from his hyper-sexed boydick slowed to a trickle and his body began to jerk and strain.  A wheezing, gurgling sound came from his damaged neck—the sound of human misery, of sodden lungs aspirating blood.  The kid was unconscious; in a way he was already dead, but his body was just now realizing that.

 

Even as the punk’s fingers lost their grip and fell from Eddie’s shoulders, the military stud still held on and erupted twice more, sending long jets of sperm into the corpse.  Only then did he back himself up, slowly extracting his enormous cock from the dead boy.  He headed for the bathroom, leaving the teenager gasping in extremis, but still with a heartbeat.

 

By the time he got back from cleaning off his dick and stuffing it back down his pants, even that was gone.

 

There’d been surprisingly little exterior hemorrhaging—given what the teenager had been forced to endure—but the sheets were an unsalvageable mess.  That was okay; he could get new ones.

 

Slipping his muscle shirt back on, Eddie approached the bed, staring down at the punk’s splayed form.  One of the kid’s Nikes twitched against the stained sheet as random nerves fired in the newly-dead corpse.  Leaning forward, Eddie planted one hand directly on the boy’s vacant, staring face, using it as a brace with he slowly pulled the blade from Hank’s throat with the same tender care as he’d pulled his cock from the teen’s ass.

 

Retrieving the sliced remnants of the faggot’s clothes, the ex-Marine used them to carefully clean the blood off the knife, then tossed them in the middle of the corpse’s chest, where they began to soak up the dead kid’s spunk that had pooled there and not yet begun to crust over.  Eddie then gathered the corners of the bedding, making certain that the meat was fairly well centered, so he could gather it all up like a bundle of dirty laundry.  As he bent over to grab the sheet on the far side of the corpse, he could see the youth’s dick slowly start to wilt in death.  It had still been full of cum when he died; as it shrank, it left behind pearls of semi-coagulated semen.

 

Fuckin’ faggot died too soon.  He’d make the next one suffer more.

 

Wrapping a tattered old blanket around the bundle to hide the bloodstains, Eddie carried the whole thing out to his truck and tossed it into the bed.  Five minutes later, he was heading down one of the main drags in town, heading for the Atopco factory.

 

Atopco was the largest manufacturer of custom tools and machine parts in this part of the state—until 1992, when the company went bust and the plant was padlocked.  It still was, which made it a great body dump.  Down on the south side of town, it was on a semi-abandoned block with no occupied buildings near.

 

The site itself was fenced in and locked, but that didn’t matter.  Just outside the fence, a drainage ditch, rank and overgrown with weeds, ran along the front of the property.  Eddie pulled up at the side of the road, quickly checking to make sure no one was around.  No one ever was; even the bums didn’t hang out down here—there was no real shelter, and no one to beg from.  It was perfect.

 

Eddie lifted the bundle out of the truck and carried it to the edge of the ditch.  Swiftly undoing it, he rolled the dead teen out of the sheet and down into the dank, scum-covered trickle of water flowing in the ditch.  He gathered the sheets up again; he’d get rid of them elsewhere.  Getting back in his truck, he felt satisfied with how he’d disposed of the faggot.  He figured didn’t need to take any more effort to hide the corpse; after all, he didn’t intend that it never be found.  It just needed a little time to ripen.

 

Let’s see what rich daddy has to say about that.

 

He felt his malicious grin creeping across his face as he headed away—but he also felt the anger brewing inside him again.  Yeah.  The next one would really fuckin’ suffer.