Ride-along with Captain Dan

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

 

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

 

It wasn’t a good idea to cross him.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Leaving the engine running, he killed the lights.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Bill?  Bill who?”

 

“Bill Traster, my mom’s brother.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Naw, Cap—that’s a new one on me.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Cap?” he asked again, “A cruiser?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Now what?” Pete asked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Passed yer test, son.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And Pete did.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And what?”

 

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

 

“Anything else?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

As he headed back to the cruiser, Rand called back out to him.  “Hey, am I crazy, or did I see that new guy Pete at the car wash, hosing out the back of yer 4X4?  I thought you wouldn’t let anyone else touch that thing—are ya fallin’ for the kid?”

 

“Naw,” Dan replied with a boyish grin.  “Got a little dirt on it last night is all.”

 

“Yeah, but I also heard you requested him as a partner.”

 

“I see somethin’ in that kid.  He’s goin’ places, I tell ya.”

Meat Chronicles 18–Boy Toy Destroyed

I almost missed him.  I was heading west on Roman Boulevard and he popped out of one of the side streets on his skateboard; I had a split-second glimpse of him, then I was past.  That glimpse was enough to make me turn around, though.

 

It’s been a while since I’ve been out hunting.  I never got back to my last meat; the used van I’d bought threw a rod the next morning.  Took me a couple of days to get a new ride—by the time I got back out to the abandoned warehouse, there was a chain-link fence around the entire property and a large sign that announced a new construction project.

 

I turned around and left; the meat woulda been too overripe to hold my dick anyway.  Wonder what they’ll do when they start tearing the place down and find what’s left of him.  In this summer heat, I bet it there won’t be much left to find—just his bones and his kicks.

 

At any rate, I gotta load that needs release.  I need to find a punk to dump my seed in, and it looks like I just spotted one.  I ease into the left lane and pull a U in my van—it’s a nondescript gray Chevy Astrovan—heading back towards the boy I’d seen.

 

He’s ahead on the left, about half a block up from a shopping center and heading towards it.  I speed up, overtaking the kid and turning into the strip mall’s parking lot.  Pulling into a spot facing the street, well away from the stores, I wait for the kid to approach.  Soon enough, he glides into view.

 

Young—no more than eighteen or nineteen, at most.  Long sandy-blond hair, almost shoulder length.  His lean, firm chest is wrapped in a black Nirvana t-shirt, and he’s sporting skinny jeans so tight it’s impressive the little shit can move at all.   His feet, in a pair of gray and white Adidas Top Ten Hi’s, cling tenaciously to his board as he rounds the corner into the parking lot, leaning into the turn.  He passes within ten feet of me, allowing me to see the large bulge in his crotch in greater detail.

 

Yeah, this one would work.  This meat would be acceptable to soak up my cum.  Now I just need a lure.

 

I watch him for a while; I got plenty of time.  He navigates the parking lot in decreasing circles that centers on the convenience store to my left.  After about fifteen minutes, he slows to stop about thirty feet away from me.  Bending down and flashing his bubble butt at me, he snags his board and heads into the gas station’s store.

 

Ten minutes later he comes back out with a pack of cigarettes and an agitated expression on his face.  He walks to the end of the store closest to me and lights a smoke, looking around for a minute of two.  Suddenly he moved towards a dude who’d just exited the store carrying a twelve-pack of beer.  The kid approached and had a conversation with the guy, at one point pulling out his wallet and offering money.  The other dude shook his head in clear refusal, then got in his car and left.

 

The long-haired kid looked dejected and continued to suck on his smoke.  Five minutes later, he was approaching someone else leaving the store—a Mexican laborer with a six-pack of Modelo.  Again, a brief conversation, an offer of money, and the kid gets shot down.

 

Took me a minute to get it, but once I did, I knew I had my lure.  The little fucker was trying to get someone to sell him beer; he was too young to buy it himself.

 

I waited till he left the store’s lot, morosely heading back in my direction on his board.  I let him get about ten feet away, starting his turn back out onto the boulevard, before I rolled down the window and called out to him.

 

“Yo!  Brah!  Hey, I ain’t from ‘round here—you know where there’s a liquor store?  I wanna get some decent booze, none of this gas station crap.”

 

His hair fanned out behind him briefly as he whipped his head in my direction.  His face was smooth, with full lips, a large nose.  He had huge puppy-dog-brown eyes ringed with lashes so long they were almost effeminate; they lit up at the word “liquor”, as I knew they would.

 

These little suburban kids; they’re so stupid, so predictable—and so much fun to play with.

 

“Sure, I know a great place,” he said, somewhat unsure of himself.  They got all kinda stuff.  But ya gotta do somethin’ for me if I take ya there.”

 

“Like what?”  I ask, as if I don’t already know.

 

“Buy me some beer.  I’ll pay for it; I mean just go in and actually buy it.  They won’t sell it to me—” he broke off and blushed embarrassedly.

 

“How old are ya, dude?” I ask.

 

His blush deepens.  “I turned eighteen two months ago,” he admits shame-facedly.  Suddenly he recovers himself, though, shaking his head so that his long hair spun out.  He looks up and grins; his face is youthful and eager and I want to slam my fist into it so badly I can barely control myself.

 

“Hop in, dude.  I’ll get ya fucked up—don’t worry about it.”

 

With a cheerful smile, the punk makes the worst mistake in his life and opens the door to my van.  Tossing his board to the floor of the passenger seat, he speaks as he climbs in.  “Hey, man, I’m Timothy.  Well, no, only my mom calls me that.  You can call me T-Money.”

 

What a tool.  I snort derisively and the kid gives me a suspicious side-eye.  Then, noticing my physical presence for the first time, he gives me a longer look-ever.

 

I’m dressed for the hunt.  It was hot enough outside that I had no qualms about dispensing with a shirt altogether, but I didn’t want to have my skin up against the cloth seat of the used van, so I’d slipped on a thin leather vest, leaving it unbutton to show off my massive pecs and flat ripped abs.  My jeans were tight, but they were old, with a number of tears, and faded to a pale sky-blue.  Halfway down my claves, they were tucked into a pair of worn black combat boots that I’d laced but left untied.

 

As he looked at me, I could see his dick start to get stiff; his jeans were so tight it was kinda hard to miss.  I eyed it rather pointedly and grinned at the boy; he flushed beet-red and turned away.  Interesting reaction.

 

“Ya see anything ya like?”  I asked in a low voice.

 

The punk turned back to me, more embarrassed that ever.  “I, um, I—wh-what’re ya talkin’ ‘bout, brah?” he mumbled, not looking me in the face.

 

I pulled over into the parking lot of a church.  In the middle of a weekday afternoon, the lot was empty.  I turned to face the kid.  “My dick.  You want it,” I said matter-of-factly.

 

What?” he cried.  “Dude, I ain’t gay.”

 

“The fuck you ain’t,” I snapped, “Yer cock is hard right now.  You want me to fuck you good and hard.  You know it and I know it, so stop pretendin’.”

 

The kid unbuckled his seat belt and inched toward the door.  “Man, I done told ya I ain’t no fruit.  Ain’t no way yer gonna fuck me, ya psycho.”

 

“The fuck I ain’t, cunt,” I hiss with an expression to match his last word.  His eyes wide with sudden fear, the punk snatches at the door handle but in his haste is unable to grasp it properly.  Not that it would’ve mattered; I’d’ve caught him before he exited the van.

 

Shit!” he yells in desperation just as I grab a hank of his long dirty-blond hair and slam his face brutally into the dashboard.  With his hair as a handle, I jerk his head back up again swiftly.  “Uhhh…” the boy moans dazedly as I ram his head forward, smashing his face a second time.  This time, when I pull his head back up, he’s silent.  I let go and he slumps limply into the seat, unconscious.

 

I head out of the church lot.  I know a place to go; I’ve been there before.  It’s not that far from the last place I dumped meat.  It’s been a couple of years since I was on the property; at that time, there had been an operating business in the building, so I’d gone there at night.  Now, it was abandoned like much of the rest of the neighborhood.

 

I could park in the back and shove the meat out into the drainage ditch behind the property in broad daylight.  And it won’t matter that it hasn’t rained in weeks; no one goes back there.  By the time anyone finds him, there won’t be anything left beyond a bloated, unrecognizable corpse.

 

A car whips out of nowhere as I start to pull out of the lot, forcing me to slam on my brakes.  The kid slides off the seat and slumps on the floorboards like a pile of dirty laundry.  Good place for him; I leave him there as I head to the east side.

 

I cruise slowly through the industrial neighborhood, tracing my way back to the kill site.  Most of the buildings around here are empty if not downright abandoned; there’s no traffic and the parking lots are empty.  I’ll have plenty of privacy while I play with my meat—at least urban blight is good for something.

 

Finally, I turn onto a side street.  Just past the next intersection is the long, low one-story building that has the strip of parking in the rear, up against the drainage canal.  It takes less than three minutes to whip around the building and back into a parking space up against the canal’s low guardrail.

 

One of the reasons I chose this van was because it had been a utility or cargo van at one point; the rear section was sealed off from the cab.  Nice and private; the only windows were the polarized ones on the rear doors.  Of course, it’s a pain to have to drag the meat out of the passenger seat, but it’s worth the effort.

 

I exit the cab and walk around to the passenger side.  Opening the sliding door to the back first, I then reach for the passenger door.   I reach down and jerk the kid up off the floorboards.  He isn’t very big; only about five-eight.  And while he’s not scrawny—I can feel some firm muscles under his smooth skin—he can’t weigh more than a hundred twenty.  I’m pretty built myself; I can lift him like a sack of potatoes and easily toss him into the back of the van.

 

Like the last one I had, I’ve made my own improvements to create a mobile killing pit.  The floor is covered with Astroturf, and the walls are bare metal.  I can hose the whole thing out with ease—and that’s a good thing.  This one is gonna get a little…messy.  The one touch I’ve added is a mirror, about two feet square, propped against the front barrier that blocks off the cab.

 

I’m gonna do this kid doggie style, but I still wanna watch his face as he dies.

 

I close the door behind me; the interior is dim but not dark.  It’s hot, though, and my chest is already slick with sweat; I slip out of my leather vest and lay it carefully by the rear doors.  As I do, I hear a loud groan behind me—the little shit is starting to wake up.  I stand up—not fully, I have to slouch some to avoid hitting my head against the roof—and dig in my pocket for the zip tie I’d brought with me.  My jeans are tight enough that it takes me a moment to retrieve it.

 

He’s still groaning as I approach him, his long eyelashes fluttering as he starts to awaken.  I flip him over onto his belly and secure his hands tightly with the zip tie.  He starts trembling.  “Whu—” he mutters thickly, “Wh-whas happen…”

 

“Shh,” I whisper, patting him gently on the back of the head.  “I got somethin’ that’ll explain everything.  Lemme go grab it.”

 

What I have is located in the large lower compartment of the center console in the front of the van.  Now that the whoreboy is bound, I can retrieve it.  I open the side door again and go into the cab. I’m gone no more than fifteen seconds, but it’s enough for the kid to be fully awake and trying to roll over when I get back.

 

Time to put the stupid little punk in the picture.  Sliding the door closed behind me, I smile sweetly at him.  “I got somethin’ for ya, darling’,” I drawl.  “I got somethin’ long and hard, and it’s gonna feel so fuckin’ sexy when I stick it in ya.”

 

He looks up, and I notice a crusty trail of dried blood extending from his left nostril.  He’s still in some discomfort from having his face slammed into the dashboard, but it’s nowhere near overwhelming enough to cause him serious distress.  His face is flushed again—but not with embarrassment; this time he’s angry.

 

“I told ya I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot!” he yells.  “Keep yer fuckin’ dick away from me, ya pervert!”

 

I allow my smile to grow broad.  “Oh, I wasn’t talkin’ about my cock.  I mean, yeah, I’m gonna fuck ya in the ass, but that wasn’t what I was talking about.”  I’d kept one hand behind my back the entire time’ now I brought it around to show the cunt what I was holding.  “I was talking about this.”

 

The moment T-Money sees my knife, the color drains from his face and his eyes open so wide they look like they’re in danger of falling out.  It’s an eleven-and-a-half inch long hunting knife with a seven inch serrated steel blade and a wood grip.  Ideal for gutting, flaying, and general mayhem on all kinda fuckmeat.

 

The kid gulps in fear like a cartoon character; I laugh aloud at his fear.  “Aw, this is gonna be all kinds of fun,” I grin, “Especially if you fight my cock.  Cause if ya do, I’m gonna start usin’ this on ya nice and slow.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  You better be down with my D, dawg, or I’m gonna jack ya up.”

 

The boy whimpers and seems to shrink into himself, cowering.  His arms are jerking frenetically, but there’s no way the teenaged dickwad is gonna break free of that zip tie; all he’s doing is digging deep, painful furrows into his wrists.

 

He blinks and looks up at me but the moment his puppy-dog eyes meet mine, he looks away and gives another comic gulp.  “You, uh, you don’t need the knife, man.  You—you can p-put yer dick in me.  Just put away the blade, dude, please…put it away and you can do what you want to me…”

 

I can do what I want to him anyway, and will, but I go ahead and play along with it.  After all, it’s his suffering that gets me off, and if I can mindfuck him and assrape him at the same time, that just makes it so much hotter.  “Sure, bitch,” I chuckle, “But I gotta cut myself some access first.”

 

“Hey, man, wait!” he cries out as I come nearer, but I’m not going to hurt him yet.  I kick him back over onto his belly, then bend down and slip the knife under his t-shirt and start cutting.  The thin cotton parts at the slightest touch of my sharpened steel blade.  A couple of well-aims slashes and the punk’s Nirvana shirt slides off him, a mass of black shreds.  Over the kid’s protests, I cut open his jeans too.  The denim is tougher than the shirt hard been, but it’s still no match for my knife; I’m even able to saw through his leather belt in less than seven seconds.

 

I’m pleased.  I’ve honed this blade to a razor sharpness; my work is about to pay off.

 

Within about a minute, the kid is lying nude—of course the little fucker is commando; despite his denials, he’s been lookin’ for dick—on the Astroturf, only his Adidas hightops left to him.  “That shirt cost me thirty-five bucks!” the teen wails.

 

I squat beside him, fondling the silky-smooth skin of his back and his thighs.  This boy is small but strong; I can feel the muscles moving under his flesh as he squirms and kicks and tries to evade my touch.  “Get yer hands off me, ya fuckin’ sicko!” he yells as squeeze the firm, tender mounds of his asscheeks.

 

“Ok,” I say, pulling my hands back, “After all, puttin’ my hands on you ain’t anywhere near as much fun as what I’m gonna be puttin’ in ya.”

 

He goes quiet for a moment as I place the tip of the blade against the back of his neck and slide it, slowly and sensually, down the center of his back, following his spine down to the crack of his ass.  My touch is light; there’s not enough pressure to break the skin—just enough to remind the fuckboy why he’s in this position.

 

After a moment, he speaks with a sob.  “You—oh god, go slow, please—you-you’ll be the first, just d-don’t hurt me.  Okay?  Please?”

 

There’s a crack in his voice as he pleads that makes my cock throb.  I stand up and grin.  He rolls on his side to look up at me with hope and fear in his eyes.  I reach down, unbutton and unzip my jeans and let my hog flop out.

 

Once T-Money sees my dick, his demeanor changes.  The latent little faggot had been willing to get fucked in theory, as long as he could convince himself that he was forced into and didn’t really want it.  Once he sees the size of my tackle, though, he knows that this is gonna hurt—bad.  Real bad.  I don’t like to boast, but I’m hung like a stallion.  When I fuck a bitch, he stays fucked.

 

For good.

 

“Shit, dude, I can’t take that,” the helpless teen whispers, his wide eyes focused on my pulsating rod.  I step behind him, planting my combat boots on each side of his legs and lowering my jeans to my knees.  Kneeling, I slap the huge purple head of my schlong against the boy’s ass, spattering it with hot precum.

 

“No,” he begs, “For fuck’s sake, get some lube, man, yer gonna make me bleed!”

 

“Fuck yeah I am, you stupid cunt,” I whisper, mounting him like an animal and inserting my shaft into his ass.  I shove as hard as I can, encountering such stiff resistance from the kid’s clenched sphincter that for a moment I’m almost worried that I’m gonna bend my dick.  Then I can feel the flesh tear in his rectum and my cock slams home, penetrating the full length of his colon and sinking the head of my tool deep into his intestines.  I chuckle when I feel my wiry pubes grinding against those smooth buttcheeks of his.

 

“Guess you were right about one thing,” I jeer, “Damn sure made ya bleed.”

 

The teen is unable to enjoy my taunt; he’s screaming in pain—loud shrieks that end in sobs.  I laugh at his pain.  “G’wan, scream like a little girl, ya fuckin’ pussy.  Ain’t no one around for miles.  Every time ya scream, yer ass tickles my dick, so keep it up, cunt—it feels fuckin’ great!”

 

I know he heard that one, because he tries to stop.  He can’t be completely quiet; he’s in far too much pain, but he does manage to subdue his outburst to low sobbing moans.  “Aw, you spoilsport,” I whisper, “Here, lessee if ya like this, then.”

 

All I’d done so far was to merely mount and penetrate the teen.  Now I started fucking him, reaming my thick, vein-wrapped shaft in and out of his asshole.  Each brutal pump of my hips tore his sphincter fractionally more; as he bled internally, I could feel the warm liquid flow on my cock.

 

This fresh new source of pain drew an immediate reaction.  “Fuck, no!” he screeched, “Get outta me!  Oh God, no, yer tearin’ me open!  Get the fuck outta me!”

 

I reach one hand down under him, jamming it up under his flat belly and working my way down to his dick.  It ain’t huge, but it’s respectable—and it’s hard.  I knew it would be; my rod is grinding against his prostate like it’s drillin’ for oil, so the motherfucker can’t help his erection.  I grab hold of it and start jacking.

 

“Shaddup, ya dumbass little homo,” I hiss in his ear.  “You fuckin’ love it, dontcha?  You worthless teenage faggot—so full of hormones and sperm; all you needed was a real man to come along and drain it all outta ya, right?  You young pups are all the same—you just need a genuine alpha to load you up with manseed and put you in your place.”

 

“Uhhh…” the punk moans, still sobbing.  His legs are thrashing, his Adidas kicks scrabbling against the Astroturf, seeking purchase, but he can’t get any traction.  I’m lying on top of him, my chest against his back, and I can feel the fingers of his bound hands clenching and clawing at the coarse, dark hair on my abs.

 

I pump the slut’s ass like a steam piston.  He’s starting to accommodate himself to my rod; that’s a shame.  I want it to hurt him.  It doesn’t feel as good if he’s not in pain, and the more pain he’s in, the better it feels.  Then I remember—in all the swiftness of the rape, the kid hasn’t noticed the mirror.

 

“Hey boy,” I whisper, “Look up.”

 

Moaning and crying, the fucker ignores me—so I grab a handful of his hair and jerk his head back.  “I said look up, asswipe.”

 

His head bent back, he opens his eyes and finds he’s looking himself in the tear-stained, snot-streaked face.  Looking up a little higher, he meets my eyes and I grin cheerfully at him.  “Hey there, cunt,” I smirk, “Ya feelin’ me yet?”

 

I squeeze his dick hard, feeling the thick, erect shaft of flesh pulse moistly in my hand.  He moans loudly, a sound somewhere between pleasure and pain, and I know he’s starting to submit.  He’s starting to relax, accepting my cock and letting it plunge deep into his guts with less resistance.  He’s starting to enjoy getting fucked.

 

And I’m starting not to enjoy fucking him.  The resistance it what feels good.  I like it when the meat’s ass clenches in agony on my tool.  Once the little pansy starts accepting my cock, it means I’ve reamed him out and I need to find a way to re-tighten his fuckhole.

 

“Oh…oh…oh, yeah…” the adolescent faggot is moaning as I plow his hole.  In the mirror, I can see that his face is still taut and pale with pain, but there’s a hint of a smile in his expression.

 

“Goddam, I knew you were a cumguzzlin’ queer-ass fairy,” I sneer at the kid; he opens his eyes wide and stares at me in the mirror, bewilderment written on his face.  “I’m the real man who’s gonna give you exactly what you deserve—and what you deserve is a nice long dirt nap.  I’m gonna put you in yer place, and yer place is dead and rottin’ in a ditch.  Now don’t that sound fuckin’ hot as hell?”

 

“Wha—what?” he asks, his huge brown eyes focused on mine with sudden laser intensity.  “What’re ya sayin’?  Wh-what’s goin’ on?”

 

“It ain’t what’s goin’ on,” I reply, “It’s what’s goin’ in.  You’re getting loose, asshole.  Yer fuckhole’s wearin’ out.  How many cocks you had up there, you fuckin’ whore?  What—didja bang the whole football team at yer school?  Only one way to tighten up a reamed-out fag hole, ya sperm-suckin’ homo, and that’s with pain.  I’m gonna hurt you, asswipe.  I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad yer gonna pray for death—but you ain’t gonna die till ya milked the load outta my shaft.  Remember that, boy.  You can end it any time ya want, but ya gotta make me cum to do it.”

 

And without another word—or any warning whatsoever—I stick the knife into the punk’s back.

 

I know what I’m doing; I’ve done this before.  I can have a lot of fun with my meat and a sharp implement as long as I avoid the vital areas.  And there’s a surprisingly large number of excruciatingly sensitive non-vital areas on the human body—I’ve kept meat alive for over an hour, screaming itself hoarse.

 

In this case, I’ve inserted the knife just below the ribcage and angled it upwards.  If my aim is correct—and it is—the razor-sharp steel slices through the kid’s right kidney and impales his liver.

 

The reaction is exactly what I’d hoped.  The meat screams, his voice rising to a pitch he’d not yet achieved, as his body goes rigid with trauma and shock, gripping my engorged dick life a tight velvet fist.  “Oh fuck yeah, now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” I grunt with a satisfied sigh as the teen faggot shrieks in agony.  He buries his face in the floor as his entire body shudders rigidly—but I still have one hand on his cock, and I felt it pulse as I stuck him.  Little fuck can say he don’t like it, but we both know the truth.

 

It doesn’t matter how much he screams and cries and begs, he wants this.  And I’m the man to give it to him.

 

I leave the knife embedded in his back as I pump my erect shaft into his torn and bleeding rectum.  The punk howls in pain, thrashing under my weight.  It’s hot in here and I’m sweating—so is the kid, but his is a cold rank sweat forced out of his smooth young body by suffering.  But I only get about a half-dozen good deep thrusts before his ass starts to go loose again.

 

“Jeez, you’re a worthless assfuck, you bitch,” I sneer, drowning out the boy’s wailing.  “Yer ass muscle goes as limp as a flat tire in five minutes.  Guess I gotta keep tighten’ you manually, huh?  That what it’s gonna take to keep you workin’ my shaft right?  Goddam, yer one sick-ass painpig, aintcha?”

 

I jerk my blade out of his back and, transferring it to my left hand, slip it into his flank, as smooth as a hot knife into butter.  The vicious serrated barbs rip their way through the boywhore’s pancreas and into his spleen and again, he stiffens instinctively with massive internal organ trauma.

 

“Does that feel good, ya sack a’ shit?” I whisper erotically into his ear as he shudders and gasps, too far gone in shock to scream.  “Yer a lucky faggot, y’know?  You get to have two long hard shafts stuck in ya today, hah!”  I rub my free hand down his smooth, slick back; there’s very little blood from the wound I’ve made there—most of the bleeding is internal.  His lithe teenage body writhes and kicks and I can feel each shudder as it resonates in his colon and down my thick, engorged cock.

 

“No…” he moans shakily, his voice thick and slow with agony, “P-please…no…stop…”

 

“Stop?” I guffaw.  “I’m just gettin’ started.  Dude, I’m gonna jack up yer ass so fuckin’ bad they’re gonna have to use DNA to ID yer rottin’ meat.”   I look into his eyes but the little fuck lowers his head and sobs; I can’t see his face.

 

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, you dumbass motherfucker,” I snarl and twist the knife in the wound, gouging out huge chunks of his pancreas.  It gives me the reaction I want; the meat raises his head and squeals like a stuck pig—which is exactly what he is.

 

“Learnin’ yer lesson yet, boy?” I growl.

 

“F-fu-fuck you,” he moans between teeth gritted in agony.

 

“Wrong answer,” I say.  And it is.  I show him just how wrong by jerking the knife out of his side with a flourish that spatters blood on the side wall of the van.  Switching the wickedly sharp blade between one hand and the other, I poke his back with the tip—just enough to break the skin and elicit a tense yelp from the cunt, but doing no real damage.  Yet.

 

“Where’s it gonna go, boy?  What part of ya is gonna be lucky enough to feel the cold sharp bite of my blade?  What area of yer flesh do ya want ripped open by my serrated steel blade, you teenage fuckwad?”  I make damn sure that as I’m poking him with the knife, his boyhole is getting all the attention it deserves from my dick.  “Make up yer mind quick, you cumsuckin’ shit, cause yer ass is gettin’ loose again.  Where do ya want me to stick ya and make ya tight again?”

 

The kid is groaning sluggishly; he’s bleeding internally, but not badly enough to be in imminent danger of dying.  On the other hand, shock is setting in.  That makes it hard to keep his attention.  He needs more pain, and I need to make it drastic.

 

I reach around, down and behind, and place the tip of the blade against the punk’s taint, just behind his scrotum.  I can feel his puckered balls—pulsating sacks of sperm, shifted into overdrive by relentless adolescent hormones.  There’s a lot of things going on in a very small space in this part of the body; I had to do a bit of research to get this move down right.  I wanna see how this will work on live meat.

 

I did practice, once, on some fuckmeat that was already dead.  But that’s a story for another time.  At any rate, I’m fairly certain I know what I’m doing here.  With a loud grunt and a powerful flex of my large bicep, I shove the blade up into the scumbag’s body, behind his balls.

 

The angle of the blade is the most important thing.  It slides up between the prostate and the pubic symphysis, a mass of cartilage in the front of the groin.  The serrated steel slashes the kid’s vas deferens, separating his seminal vesicles from his penis but leaving the testicles intact.  When I yank the blade out, tearing the wound even wider, there’s a gush of warm yellow fluid—the tip of the knife had punctured the little shit’s bladder.  The muscles at the base of his cock, clenched tight due to the crushing pressure my monster hog was exerting on his prostate, had blocked the flow of his urethra at that point.

 

Now I’d cut an alternate path through his taint.  The teen was pissing himself though the knife wound.

 

This is a pain that he’d never imagined existed.  Soft suburban meat, learning the true meaning of suffering.  His head is up, his eyes meet mine in the mirror, but he’s not looking at me.  He’s looking at Hell.  I know he can see it burning in my eyes; the expression on his face tells me so.  Goddam, it’s so fuckin’ hot—he’s so cute and he’s suffering so horribly, so erotically, I just wish I could keep torturing him for eternity.

 

His mouth is open; he’s screaming, but no sound is coming out.  The pain is too great to be released that way.  “Aw, fuck yeah,” I moan in his ear, “Now you’re gettin’ it, faggot.  Now you’re working my cock right.  All I had to do was hurt ya in the right way to make ya nice and tight.  That’s it, ya worthless homo cunt, milk my shaft.”

 

His body is trembling uncontrollably; his white kicks knocking against my combat boots and his bound hands still clutching uselessly at my belly fur.  He’s making gasping and grunting noises as the flow of bloody piss from his mangled taint slows to a drip.  Suddenly, he inhales in a great shuddering breath.

 

“K-kill me…” he gasps, his tormented face white and taut in the mirror.  “P-please, n-no more, man…just-just kill me, dear God, just end it…”  He looks at me, a silent plea for mercy—those puppy-dog eyes are begging for euthanasia.

 

“You worthless faggot,” I sneer, riding his thrashing ass like a bucking bronco, “You wanna die?  Ok, cunt, I’ll waste yer useless as, but first I’m gonna make it my own personal cum dumpster.  Get up, bitch—on yer knees!”

 

I lean back and pull myself up onto my knees; grabbing a hank of the kid’s long hard, now darkened and slick with sweat, I drag him up too, keeping my thick engorged tool buried in his guts as I change position.  When we’re both on our knees in front of the mirror, I keep one hand in his hair, pulling his head back with his chin slightly raised.  The other hand still has the knife.  I hold it up in front of him.  This is the first time he’s seen it up close.

 

“Look at it, you piece of shit,” I whisper to the shuddering, sobbing teen.  “That’s your blood dripping off of it.  See those shreds of flesh caught in the serrations?  That’s part of yer guts, brah; ain’t that hot?  Sure ya wanna end the fun now?  I mean, lookit how hard yer cock is, faggot.”

 

His brown eyes, ringed with great black circles of shock, look up at mine with an almost insane intensity.  His dick was slapping rapidly against his belly in time to his frantic, pain-maddened pulse.  The little shit must be bleeding heavily inside by now, but my huge dick plugging his ass kept his cock rock-hard and throbbing.

 

Suddenly I can feel the electric tingling in my balls, and I know I’m about to shoot my wad.  “Ok motherfucker,” I growl at the dying kid, “Here’s what’s gonna happen.  I’m gonna take this long sharp blade and I’m gonna cut your throat.  I’m gonna slice open the tender flesh of your neck, but when I get to your trachea—that’s the windpipe, you stupid little fuck—well, that’s made out of gristle, and I’m gonna have to saw it open.  Think I’ll cut ya so I have to saw open your larynx, too—that’ll take some time, so you’ll get to enjoy it longer.  Sound like fun?  Fuck yeah, bitch, let’s get rockin’ and rollin’!”

 

Now that he’s been told what’s gonna happen to him and he can see the weapon that’s gonna be used, he changes his tune.  I’ve been expecting it; even in nightmarish agony, the young ones hesitate when push comes to shove.

 

“Oh my fuckin’ God, no…” he whispers, a catch in his strained, pain-filled voice as he begs.  “Please don’t, just make it end, I don’t wanna hurt no more, please, just make it stop…”

 

“Even when it stops, I’m still gonna be fuckin’ yer ass,” I jeer.  “Now shaddup and die, you worthless shit.”  Yanking his head back, I place the blade up against his throat and start slicing.

 

His flesh parts swiftly, almost eagerly, as it seems to open up at the merest touch of the knife.  Blood flows from the wound—a small trickle at first but soon becoming a hot, coppery gush.  The kid’s taut, lean body is rigid, tightly clenched in mortal pain.

 

“Oh hell yeah, cunt, milk my shaft as ya die,” I grunt, my physical pleasure ringing in my voice— he knows as his life blood jets from his throat in time to his panicked pulse that his pain and death are bringing me to orgasm.  The little asswipe should appreciate the honor.

 

As I’d told him, I had to slow down once I hit the esophagus; it’s a stiff and rubbery piece of tissue.  He starts shrieking as I begin to cut in.  “Oh God no Jesus Christ help me fuckin’ stoAAAGGHHH—”

 

At the last second, his scream spirals up an octave as I pierce his windpipe, allowing his breath to whistle out of the hole I’ve cut in his throat.  The thrashing teen can’t scream anymore; all he can do is make thick gargling sounds as he coughs up his own blood.

 

His body is still so stiff and hard it’s quivering; his ass has my dick in a deathgrip, squeezing it and jerking it like it’s deliberately trying to make me cum. His fingers are clutching at my hard flat abs in agony, unable to get a purchase on my skin, slick with sweat.  All he can do is grasp at my wiry body fur.  His smooth, firm legs are kicking and shuddering, the Adidas Top Tens knocking against my black combat boots.

 

I’ve got a teenaged boy dying in horrible pain in my arms and on my cock and it feels fuckin’ fantastic.

 

I toss the knife down; I don’t need it any more.  He’s bleeding heavily from his throat but I’ve managed to do no more than nick either the jugular vein or the carotid artery—which means he’s gonna remain conscious for maybe another forty-five seconds before his heart starts going into arrhythmia from overwhelming blood loss.

 

I’m still gripping a handful of his hair, more to keep him upright than anything else.  I put my free hand to good use—reaching around his sweaty, heaving torso, I grab his thick cock, still amazingly erect, and start jacking him.

 

“C’mon, motherfucker, just fuckin’ die,” I whisper in his ear as he trembles and gargles his blood.  “You want this.  Deep inside, you needed a man to fuck you and put you down like the piece of shit you are.  I’m about to blow, cunt.  Last thing yer gonna feel in your useless faggot life is my hot manseed hosin’ down yer guts—”

 

He doesn’t give me a chance to finish.  His body jerks violently in my arms and I can feel a powerful throbbing spasm in his dick. It erupts in a geyser of teen boycum, sending a jet of sperm up almost to the roof of the van before falling back to spatter viscously on the mirror.

 

I can’t control it anymore; the pressure in my balls is too intense.  Howling and cursing, I pump my spunk up the meat’s ass.  I’m still holding the kid’s dick; I jerk it and crank it mercilessly.  As powerful as my ejaculations are, I’m still able to notice something in the mirror—a puddle of milky fluid under the meat’s scrote.

 

It takes me a minute to realize that I’d severed the kid’s vas deferens when I jammed my blade into his taint; the seminal vesicles were behind the cut, and they produce the fluid in semen.

 

The kid wasn’t just cumming outta his dick, he was cumming outta the hole I’d sliced in him.

 

The meat is gone.  His eyes have rolled back into his head and his body jerks as he strains to breathe, air wheezing sickeningly through the gash in his windpipe.  Pearly beads of cum are oozing from his hard cock as I let him go, the rank sweaty boymeat slumping lifelessly to the floor.  One of his legs twitches randomly, his hightop sneaker scuffling momentarily on the Astroturf, then he’s still.

 

T-Money is cashed out.

 

I pull out and roll over on my back.  Fuck, that was so fuckin’ good.  I just need a little nap…

 


 

It’s still warm in the van when I wake up, and the sun is still up, so I haven’t been asleep for long.  I grab the shredded remains of the punk’s Nirvana shirt and use it to brush off the dried smears of blood on my chest from the boy’s back wounds.  He’s still laying on the AstroTurf, hunched over with his ass in the air, his legs spread with his kicks splayed out, forming a perfect V leading to his fuckhole.  His face is buried in the floor; his long sandy blond hair fanned out around his head.

 

From the rear, I can see that the dead kid’s taint is completely crusted with dried cum—some of his that leaked from the hole I’d cut and the rest is mine, leaked from his torn asshole.

 

Goddam, I’m hard again.

 

I’ve already reamed out the meat’s ass; I need a new hole to fuck.  I give the corpse a good hard kick, my boot making contact with its belly and flip it over onto its back.  From here I can see the pale face and blue lips, the gruesome slash that opened the throat, exposing the severed trachea—

 

—a nice firm hole just waiting for my shaft.  Fuck yeah.

 

I squat over the dead boy’s head, facing his feet, and feed my erect tool into the mangled esophagus.  The flesh is still warm and pliant, almost moist, and it seems to cling to my thick, throbbing rod.  I sit on the corpse’s face and throatfuck it for another seven or eight minutes, my hands fondling the smooth limp body.  The dead punk jerks with every pump of my hog, his Adidas kicks scraping as his legs twitch.

 

This time, I have no warning.  Suddenly, I find myself hunched over in orgasmic spasm, shooting a load down the kid’s windpipe and into his lungs.  I remain straddling the corpse for another couple of minutes, regaining my breath, before I pull my dick back out of the cut throat.  Standing up, I pull up my jeans and tuck my shaft back into ‘em.

 

Time to dump the meat.  I open the rear doors, flooding the interior with the bright golden light of late-afternoon summer.  The drainage ditch is only a yard away, beyond the foot-high guardrail.  The ditch is deep, too; it’s a good fifteen feet to the bottom.

 

The kid is laying splayed on his back, his hands still bound behind him, naked but for his kicks.  I’m still not satisfied.  I owned this little motherfucker, and I want everyone to know it. And then an idea comes to me.

 

I grab the knife in one hand and the meat’s scrotum in the other and start cutting.  It takes less than sixty seconds to completely remove the dead fag’s cock and balls.  I bend over the corpse and grin.  “Stupid little homo, all ya wanted was some beer.  Hope it was worth it.”

 

Then I shove the severed genitalia into the throat wound, tucking the kid’s cock into his trachea, where it slid in smoothly on a lube of my cum.  If they find him before he rots, they’ll find him choking on his own dick.

 

I drag the meat out and over the guardrail, dropping it unceremoniously and watching it tumble down the embankment into the trickle of muddy water at the bottom.  I return to the van and gather up the remains of the clothing, then toss them over the rail as well.  I notice that one of the slut’s Adidas sneakers had evidently caught on the rail and been jerked off; it was sitting upright at the edge of the concrete.

 

I left it there and climbed into the van.  Fifteen minutes later, I was merging onto the highway, heading for a DIY car wash over on Third that I’d used before; I still needed to hoes out the back of the van.  Just as I entered the highway, I heard a rattling sound from the floorboards on the passenger side.  I shot a quick glimpse over there and realized I still had the fuckmeat’s skateboard.

 

It was probably dangerous to unbuckle my seatbelt and lunge across the cab, keeping one hand on the wheel, but I managed to snag the board without any major repercussions.  Just as I reached my exit, I rolled down the window and tossed the skateboard out onto the highway.  I kept an eye on it in my rearview mirror as I headed down the exit ramp; it bounced across two lanes before being run over by a semi.  It was destroyed, crushed to pieces.

 

It makes me feel even better.  I’m still tingling with afterglow as go to wash out my killing pit.

What Do You Want by Den

I first meet Jack on an on-line torture forum. Sexual torture, not the political prisoner stuff, and we hit it off almost instantly. We meet for a drink about a week later, and it’s the same story: Instant attraction. He drags me back to his place and works me over for hours, taking me places I didn’t know I’d enjoy going. I soon come to love the look in his eyes that communicates his absolute joy in cruelty.

In a few short months we progress from play piercing to permanent piercing and soon I am hanging two thick and heavy rings in each nipple, and enough stainless steel in my genitals to fashion a full place setting of flatware, and we‘re both proud of his handiwork. He has a great love for knifeplay, and soon so do I. Shallow careful cuts progress as I come to like it, till I sport a selection of scars on my chest and back and arms to go with my hardware. A permanent map of our landscape of pleasure and pain. Eventually the sight of my own blood begins to excite me as much as it does Jack. He really gets off on hearing me ask for his cruelty and I am more than happy to oblige, He’ll bring out the knife and ask, as he holds it to my chest “What do you want boy?” “Please, cut me”. I’ll say. And he does.

Of course I want it, he knows exactly what I want and how to make me feel pain and pleasure mixed incredibly. But the added pleasure we get from the ritual is great. I have never had orgasms as intense or as satisfying as when Jack is torturing me, and over time I find myself craving more and more brutality from him. The line between pleasure and pain shifts more and more to the left, and he always has another trick up his sleeve to turn me on. Finally, and inevitably I think, my thoughts turn to snuff and it dawns on me that I want the experience of being butchered by him. Want it bad.

We see each other regularly for well over a year, and it just keeps getting better. I want to give him more and more in return for the excitement and pleasure I get from our play. I daydream more and more about what it might be like to be killed in the midst of a brutal play session, high on both lust and drugs and aware that i was to be killed. I think of him killing me when ever we are together, but not knowing his inner desires never let on. I let him think it is simply his use of my body that has inspired the increasing sexual frenzy i display when he tortures me.
One night while walking home very late I hear a vehicle approach. The streets are totally deserted, but I think nothing of it. The brakes screech, the door opens and the next thing I know a damp fume-reeking  rag covers my nose and mouth and I pass out.

When I come to, I have no idea how much later that is. I am bound naked on a steel table with a raised edge, and a drain in one corner, like an enormous pan. I realize immediately it is an autopsy table. A rubber mat makes it a bit more comfortable. It is in what appears to be a basement room dimly lit by moonlight coming through a small window, and I can hear crickets outside. I am obviously outside the city. The overhead light comes on suddenly and I hear Jack say “Hey boy, quite a surprise huh?”
“What’s going on, what are you doing?” I ask, but intuitively I already know and my mind begins to race, my dick swell.
“I really hadn‘t planned this, but have had this room set up for a number of months now with an eye towards future activity. This is an old family property, way out of town and in the middle of 100 wooded acres. I saw you last night just by chance. I had been out late, and with no one around it was really perfect.  Having the ether was just dumb luck, my cousin needed some for a model boat engine so I’d picked it up during the day. It seems fated to me. No one knows we are here, no one saw me take you.” He walks around where I can see him and he is naked as well, his body gleaming in an anticipatory sweat, his dick proud and long. He strokes my body and then mounts my face to fuck my throat, it is hard to move, but I manage to get to it and give him the best blow job of my life. I am more excited than I could ever imagine, totally certain at this point of what is ultimately in store. And sure enough while fucking my face he says softly “All this time since we met I have wanted to kill you. Tonight’s the night. I have already dug your grave”, as if he has read my mind.  My excitement is huge and I struggle to get his dick as far down my throat as is possible. He pulls out before he comes, panting and raging with desire.

“What do you want boy?” he asks.
I could say let me go and bring an end to this, and I am sure he would do it, but seeing the excitement in him, and feeling the same in myself I answer quickly. There is fear, but desire trumps that by a mile.

“Please Jack, hurt me. Make me scream. YES Jack, kill me.Please!” I whisper. And he goes to work. I moan and scream and cry, as much in excitement as in pain as he works on me with a freedom and pleasure we have not known before. He kisses me hard on the lips and whispers in my ear “There is nothing stopping us now.” “I know, you can do whatever you want to me, no limits!” He lets me lick and worship his sweaty armpits as he admires my bound torso.”Are you scared boy?” “Yeah, but look at my dick, I’m not too scared to do this. This is what I’ve wanted for a while now but was scared to tell you.” He tortures me for hours with belt, cane, fists, paddle, an exacto knife, and all the other toys we love. A Wartenberg wheel makes beaufitul bloody patterns across my chest, scrotum and abdomen; bloody rows of dots on my hard dick.  We had shied away from drugs in the past but now considering the one way trip I’m on, he stokes us both up with speed and poppers to make my experience more pleasurable. My body sings as it gets covered with sweat, piss, bruises, blood….Terror wells up in me periodically, but lust keeps up, and the things i am feeling as he slowly destroys my body make me realize that my death is the only way to get what i know i want.

What do you want boy?
“Destroy my balls Jack, please.” And he does, tying off my sac then spending the next hour with nails pliers, ,branding iron and finally the caresses of a mallet to reduce my manhood to pulp, as I have always fantasized. From my thrashing, cries and screams he knows he has given me what I want. Looking into my eyes, wide with agony, he asks:”What do you want?” “Castrate me, Jack, Castrate me please” And he does. Slowly and sweetly drawing a blade through my scrotum making it last as long as possible, and then rubbing the ruined sac over my body leaving cool bloody smears that make me shudder. I have my penultimate orgasm, and it is blindingly intense. I had expected the pain which draws an involuntary scream from me, but not the pleasure that floods my body in equal measure as he cut my balls and sac free of my body. My fear fades away as I understand that this will be as I had imagined and that there is absolutely no turning back.

He goes to work again with excitement and relish and hours more pass. My nipples are pleasured by knife, heated pliers and toothed clamps till they are gone, all that remains is the ache and sting centered on an unrecognizable mass of bloody tissue. The skin of my pecs around the nipples is sliced and peeled away.  My ass is opened wide by both his arms; stretched to the point of tearing as he lays all his strength into getting both elbows into my body. When he asks”What do you want ?” all I manage to say is “more!” He pulls my sphincter apart with all his strength, like some giant muscular speculum, and with a groan from me, it gives way and tears. Finally he shows me a razor sharp Swingblade knife and I nod my consent as my excitement mounts still further. With the point just above the groin begins to sink the blade into me. “Give me what I want boy!” He commands, barely under control at this point. ” Yes Jack!Gut me!  please…… please!” And he does.

The first blade goes in sweetly, he reverses it and i arch my back to get the hooked blade in as quickly as possible. It easily zips me open from groin to sternum, and he quickly makes side cuts at the top and the bottom. Pulling me apart with his hands we both gasp to see my guts shiny and alive inside me. He cuts the rest of my abdomen away, clamping all the big vessels as he goes. I am lost in the pain and in my own blood lust, but my dick is still hard and throbbing despite my screams and moaning.  He strokes and plays with my guts and the feeling of his hands on my entrails is exactly as i had imagined. “Untie my hands” I implore, and of course he does, kissing me hard. I need to feel the heat and slippery mass of my own guts.The pain threatens to overwhelm my excitement, but he begins to skull fuck me taking my mind off myself, and pleasure wins out. I begin to jack off, wanting to feel what orgasm will do to the pain and wanting to be killed soon, as I am already meat, beyond saving. Jack comes and then pisses into my open abdomen and I receive his sperm and piss in a frenzy of sensation and sexual excitement. Finally I approach orgasm, and as I lose myself in the unbearable sensations, see him raise a gleaming new hunting knife.

My orgasm begins to well up as I feel the knife’s blade pressing into my neck and I groan in actual pleasure at the feeling. I am no longer scared, this has been exactly what I had imagined. We both know I am too far gone now anyway and must be finished. He kisses me hard then asks fiercely, his voice thick with animal lust and well aware that all my pain is being momentarily transmuted by orgasm  “What do you want boy? What do you want?” His face aglow and grinning from ear to ear.

My orgasm is enveloping my body, and it is too intense to hold back”Please Jack, KILL ME! Please kill me NOW” I cry, head back to bare my neck “Kill me Jack, please!”
And he does.

 

**********************

********************

Although he has just come, Jack is so wound up form the thrill of watching his boy cum while being gutted and killed, that he pulls the head over the edge of the autopsy table and mounts it. He fucks the dead throat brutally as the body, still dripping sperm, piss and blood jerks randomly. He lets go of the head and gripping the sides of the table fucks like a madman. The sound of the body’s neck snapping throws him over the edge and he howls as a huge load pours into the corpse. When he withdraws, the  head flops at the end of the broken neck. „Fuck YEAH“ he groans in awe of what he has just done. He will fuck the head and the soft loops of gut several times before he finally disposed of the body that gave them both so much pleasure. With every future kill he will wonder who had the most satisfying experience, him or the men who sought him out and welcomed his desire to kill them.

Fantasy Scenario 18

 

The kid’s in his late teens, I think.  He’s walking away from me, so it’s kinda hard to tell.  I’d spotted him instantly; the guilty way he’d looked around before stepping into the dark alley was much more obvious than the little shit thought it had been.  He wasn’t in there long—it was empty.  I knew that because I’d already scouted it myself.

 

I was out on the hunt again.  It’s been a while; I had to clean house after my last kill.  That’s too cumbersome—I got a different place now for a killing pit.  For transport, I got another van.  I didn’t bother to carper the back; I laid down Astroturf.

 

I can take it out and hose it down.

 

I’ve been trolling the street for meat; there’s not much out.  It was a rainy day, but the clouds cleared at sunset.  For some reason, the rentboys stayed inside, so I decided I need to look elsewhere.

 

Which led me here—lotta drug traffic on this block, at times, but not tonight.  There’d been a raid here two days ago; it had been on the news.  It was a chance, but it paid off.  Some stupid white kid in from the suburbs, looking to get high.  Poor little fucker, he’s gonna get in trouble wandering around this neighborhood this time of night…

 

Maybe I can help him.

 

He’s wearing skinny jeans that cradle his firm ass and cling to his legs all the way down to his red and white Air Jordans.  Above the waist, he’s got on a red hoodie and—oddly enough—a red ball cap.  His hair is russet brown; I can tell by the sideburns that slope down to a thin line of facial hair that runs along the jaw line and that the punk evidently thinks is a beard.

 

Little boy pretending to be a man.  The aching stiffness in my groin makes me shift in my seat; my feet, tightly laced into black combat boots, shuffle eagerly on the floor.   I’m parked near the corner; starting the van, I swiftly pull up to him.  He turns to me, startled, his youthful face openly suspicious in a way that seemed to emphasize his true innocence.

 

After all, if he knew what I had planned for him, he wouldn’t be suspicious; he’d be terrified.

 

“You, uh, lookin’?” I ask him with a knowing leer.  “Whatcha want?”

 

Again, the kid glances furtively up and down the street before giving me the hairy eyeball.

 

“You a cop?” he asks.

 

“No, I ain’t a cop,” I replied.

 

“Cause I heard if you’re a cop and you get asked, you can’t lie,” he came back.

 

“Fuck, dude, I ain’t a cop,” I snapped.  “Ya want anything or not?”

 

Suddenly, he blushed and grinned.  “Sorry, man, I just—well, anyway, yeah.  I, uh, I was just hopin’ to score some weed and some coke.  Say, a half and a couple of eightballs?”

 

I grin at him.  “I got ya covered, dude.  Climb in.”  He hesitates, of course; he’s a stupid little fuck but he does have basic survival skills.  Let’s see how basic.

 

 

“C’mon, man, I ain’t got all night.  You don’t think I’m ridin’ dirty, do ya?  I don’t do my business out in the street.  I gotta place around the corner where you can get a little sample.”

 

The kid is clearly a newbie at this.  He actually falls for it; I’d expected a bit more of an argument.  When he opens the door, I can see by the dome light that his eyes are a dark hazel brown.  His smooth cheeks are lightly sprinkled with freckles and despite the thin line of fur on his jawline, I can see the dimple in his chin.

 

He climbs into the passenger seat and closes the door.  “We, uh, we gotta go far?” he asks, fastening the seatbelt.

 

“It’s just around the corner,” I reply, “No more than five minutes.  There’s a jay in the ashtray if ya wanna hit; it’s the same shit I’m sellin’.”

 

The boy snatched it up, digging a lighter out of his pocket.  His jeans are so tight, I can recognize the oblong shape of a pack of cigarettes still there.  He lit it and inhaled deeply, leaning back in the seat.

 

“You haven’t asked my prices,” I commented dryly.

 

The punk exhaled, filling the air with sweet smoke; I cracked the windows.  “As long as it’s reasonable, man.  Name’s Toby.  My bro Ernie’s gettin’ married this weekend—poor dickwad knocked that cunt Amy up, so he’s gotta marry her.  Asshole—he’s only a coupla months younger than me and now his life is all fucked up at age eighteen.  Anyway, we’re gonna give him one fuckuva sendoff with a kick-ass bachelor party.”

 

“So you’re in charge of gettin’ party supplies?” I ask, like I give a shit.  I’m gearing up to make a move I’ve been practicing for a while.

 

Toby takes another lung-busting hit off the joint.  This time, he at least has the presence of mind to exhale out the window; I don’t want the cab of my van reeking of weed.  “Some of ‘em,” he says slowly.  He turns languidly to me, his eyes red.  He’s stoned as fuck and I didn’t even lace this one.  “See, Chuck’s over 21, so he’s gettin’ th’ booze, an’ Dan’s gettin’ th’ pussy an’ Arnie’s lettin’ us use his basement—”

 

A line drive blow straight out from the left shoulder isn’t an easy move to perfect, and I don’t claim to have done so, especially given the results.  I put out the kid’s lights with a hefty, satisfying smack to the jaw; but in the end I should have pulled the punch a little.  Motherfucker went into the passenger window so hard he broke it.

 

I put the still-smoldering joint out in the ashtray and headed west.

 


 

 

I’d found this place some time ago, but I had to scope it out a while to make sure it was as isolated as it seemed.  A large warehouse property, it was the abandoned distribution center of a grocery chain that had withdrawn from the region over a decade before.  Technically for sale, the site was full of loading bays and storage areas that had become the hangouts of local gangs and the homeless.

 

One end of the massive building was left utterly deserted, though, and by its very nature could be sealed off and made soundproof.  It was a complex of industrial freezers at the north end of the structure; it was deserted to the point that it even lacked graffiti tags.

 

I switched off the lights as I pulled onto the property, driving around the back to the small loading bay on the north end.  It was little used as well and was a perfect place to conceal the van.  I only had to drag the unconscious meat a few dozen yards into the small freezer space I’d located and “decorated”.

 

It was no more than two hundred square feet; I have no idea what the original purpose was.  I strung up some lights, with a battery generator.  It’s an emergency power backup device, but it’ll work for my purposes.  Except for the ceiling, every surface of the room is covered with painter’s plastic—makes for easy clean-up.  Down the center of the ceiling runs a line of meat hooks.

 

In one corner is a folded, oversized TV tray, next to a small tool chest; as the name implies, I use the latter for my tools.  Dumping the boymeat on the metal-lined floor, I open the chest and retrieve a zip-tie.    Returning to the limp sack of boyflesh, I swiftly pull his hoodie—and the t-shirt he had on under—off over his head.  Leaving his jeans on, I bind the cunt’s hands in front of him.

 

Then I lift him up, slipping the plastic tie over the meat hook.  It’s perfect.  He dangles from his arms, the toes of his b-ball kicks swaying four inches above the metal floor.

 

And his ass is right at the level of my crotch.

 

His hat had fallen off in the van when he broke the window with his punk-ass head—stupid motherfucker.  His red-brown hair is short and wavy, somewhat matted with blood on the right side—the impact had broken the skin, but not badly.  He’s gonna suffer a lot more damage than that over the next hour.

 

Suddenly, he twitches and gives an almost inaudible moan.  His long eyelashes flutter; he’s starting to wake up.  I need to get into position.

 

I’d already removed my jacket and t-shirt outside the freezer.  My skin-tight jeans are tucked into my combat boots; I don’t wanna take them off.  And it doesn’t matter; this pair is old and stained with paint and grease, the denim worn thin in places.  They’re garbage.  Doesn’t matter if they get a few more stains.

 

I stand in front of the hanging fucktoy, my boots spread wide.  Reaching down and unzipping my fly, I hauled out my thick, pulsing hog, letting it dangle, semi-hard, between my legs.  I wait with my arms crossed across my hairy, muscled chest; I’ll be the first thing the little fuckwad sees when he wakes—which he does, almost immediately.

 

He groans loudly and my cock stiffens slightly.  His eyes open, but they’re rolled back.  He gurgles and chokes on his tongue momentarily, then jerks violently—and regains consciousness.

 

He looks at me, his eyes wide.  He’s confused and in pain.  “Wha…wha…”

 

I grin and fondle my cock.  He looks at me, then glances down at my groin.  His eyes widen.  “Dude, wh-what the fuck?” he quavers.  His eyes are bloodshot; he’s still high.  That’s ok; I’ll sober him up soon enough.

 

Silently, I step forward and begin fondling him.  He grunts and kicks wildly as I reach out and grab the crotch of his jeans, massaging the thick tube of flesh that even now seems to be getting a little hard.   “Get the fuck offa me, man; I ain’t no faggot!” he yells in angry denial.  Ignoring him, I run my hands up his smooth, firm chest.  His pecs and trapezius muscles were painfully elongated, causing his small dark nipples to thrust upwards.

 

He shudders under my hands.  “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I got snatched by a fuckin’ pervert,” he snarls as I run my fingers through the wiry hair in his pits.  He’s already starting to sweat, not just from anxiety, but from the sheer physical stress of hanging by his arms.  “Lemme down!” he squawks.

 

I let go and step back, still grinning, still silent, before turning back to the tool chest.  “Ya hear me, motherfucker?!” the cunt shouts.  “Get back here, asswipe!  Get me down from here!”

 

Having retrieved what I want, I wheel back to him.  “That’s it, buddy,” he calls, “now get over here and—”

 

That was when he glanced down and saw that I was holding a knife.  He shut up quick.  Suddenly, he seemed to have a lot less desire to have me approach him.  Not that his desires matter; it’s mine that are gonna get satisfied tonight.  I need to let him know that—but first, I want him nude.  Walking behind him, I reach down and grab the Air Jordan shoe on his left foot.    I grip it tightly, expecting him to kick, but he doesn’t—he’s too intimidated.

 

“What ya doin’, man?” he whispers hoarsely, his voice tight with fear.

 

Again, I don’t say a word.  I insert the tip of the knife blade under the cuff of his jeans, above the left shoe, and slice upward, slitting the fabric cleanly up the back of his leg.  I keep going up to the waistband and cut through it, rapidly sawing through his belt.  It’s a Ka-Bar Bowie with a nine-inch serrated blade; it went through the inch of thin leather like it was paper.  Another slice up the other leg and the slut hung there, nude but for his kicks.

 

I walk back around to the front.  His large hazel eyes watch me anxiously.  I’m actually kinda impressed; he’s clearly a lower-middle-class teenaged punk—I’d’ve thought he’d already be crying and pleading to be let go.  Well, I can change that soon enough.

 

I need a staging area—I grab the TV tray and, setting it up, lay the knife on it.  Then I return to the tool chest.  The tray is positioned so that the boycunt can see it clearly, but just enough out of reach if he starts to kick.

 

I think he’s gonna kick.  Especially once I turn back with the item out I got out of the chest.

 

I hold it up to him; it glints in the light.  He looks at it, his long-lased eyes blinking slowly, like a cow’s.  He doesn’t get it—so I help him get it.

 

“It’s a staple gun,” I say.  It’s the first thing I’ve said since he’s regained consciousness; his eyes immediately snap to mine.  “I’m gonna hurt you with it.”

 

His face pales, making his freckles stand out.  He’s more confused than ever, so I help him out.  I step forward and, placing the staple gun against his firm, flat belly.  “Like this,” I say helpfully, and squeeze the handle.

 

With a loud “chunk”, the device slams an inch-long roofing staple through the kid’s smooth skin.  I was right about making the bitch kick; he squeals in pain and flails his legs.  The only sign of exterior damage, though, is the barely-visible glint of metal on the fucker’s heaving belly, from the ends of which two tiny trickles of blood leaked.

 

“Ya see, boy, I’m gonna rape yer ass,” I drawl casually.  The hanging boyfuck stops whimpering and gasps, but I keep on going.  “But a worthless little sack of shit like you—yer ass ain’t gonna get me off, bitch.  And I need to get off, bad.”

 

I leer cruelly at him; his brown eyes are huge as he stares at me in disbelief.  “Ya know what will get me off?  Making you hurt.  Before I fuck you and as I fuck you, I’m gonna hurt you.  I’m gonna fuck you up so goddam bad.  But ya know what the best part of all this is?”

 

He’s breathing deeply, but he flinches as I lean in close to his youthful, innocent face.  I want him to hear me as I whisper, “The best part is that yer gonna get off too.  I’m gonna put you in so much agony that yer gonna cum—and if ya don’t think I can do that, then ya better buckle up, cause I’m gonna prove it to ya, startin’ now!”

 

Balling up my fist, I slam it into the teen’s abs, a swift and powerful gutpunch directly on top of the staple.

 

The meat’s eyes and mouth both open wide, the latter a perfect O of shock and pain.  The breath rushes out of his lungs with a loud gurgling grunt as his lean form twists and kicks vainly in the air.  His red Air Jordans flail uselessly several inches above the ground as his long, thick hog slaps audibly against his smooth thighs.  I reach out and grab his cock, nimbly avoiding his jerking legs.  I stroke the teen’s meat as I swing the staple gun up and drive a pair of sharp metal prongs into his having flank.

 

He thrashes and squeals again—but there’s a reaction in his dick, too.  It was faint, but I could feel the punk’s semi-soft trouser snake throb slightly as he twisted in pain.

 

I knew it.  Moment I laid eyes on him, I knew the little fuck was into pain.  They all are, really, even the stupid little shits like this one who try to pretend they’re straight.  They’re just waiting for a real man to come along and dominate them.  And after all, what’s the ultimate show of power?  Making the victim suffer and die.  That’s what they want, what they crave in their sick souls—they wanna suffer and die.

 

I’m more than happy to oblige, of course.  I let the meat know.

 

“Ya like that shit, dontcha, faggot?” I sneer.  “Toldja so—yer dick is gettin’ hard in my hand.  Fuck, cunt, yer gonna love what I’m gonna do to ya—it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ night!”  Raising the staple gun to his chest, I slam one into the center of his stretched-out pecs.  Each time the thin metal points pierce his skin, he yelps in pain.

 

I step back for a moment to consider my next target.  That’s when he finally starts pleading.  “Stop it, man, please,” he sobs, his voice cracking with fear and distress, “Please, please, I’ll do anything ya want, just stop hurting me…”

 

“Will you?” I ask, grinning.  “Really?  Anything I want?”  Bending down, I pop a staple into the silky-smooth flesh of his inner thigh.  He shrieks.  “And what if I just wanna keep hurting you?  What if I just want you to keep hanging there like a good piece of fuckmeat while I torture you to death?”

 

Tears are streaming down his young, freckled-filled face; they dampen and darken the narrow line of fuzz that the punk pretends is a beard.  His long-lashed eyes are closed, though; he can’t bring himself to look me in the face.  “Y-you can fuck me…” he whispers so reluctantly it’s almost inaudible.  “I-I swear, ma-man, I won’t tell no one, if you’ll j-just lemme go…”

 

As I return to the tool box and get another toy, he breaks down and starts sobbing.  “P-please don’t k-kill me,” he gasps out between tears, “I prom-promise I w-won’t tell any-anyone about this—”

 

 

The sight of me and my toy cuts him off violently—it’s a set of brass knuckles.  I start with a line drive straight form my shoulder to right side of his chest; I can feel that the impact of my fist, amplified by heavy metal, is strong enough to shatter a couple of ribs, expelling a violent grunt of pain from the kid.

 

The meat stops crying and stares at me, his face darkening as he struggles to breathe.  I’ve knocked the air outta him and with those broken ribs, it’s gotta hurt to inhale.  He will eventually, of course; he has to.  As he struggles painfully in mid-air I stand and grin at him, holding up the brass knuckles for him to admire.

 

“Yeah, meat, bet that one got ya all horny, huh?  Hell fuckin’ yeah, boy, there’s a lot more where that came from.  And this is just foreplay, bitch; you ain’t suffered near enough to even get my dick hard yet, let alone to make me cum once I’m buried balls-deep in yer ass.  If yer a religious type, ya need to be thankin’ Jeebus for thowin’ you in my path, cause I’m gonna purge you with pain and fuck you into eternity on a violent, agonizing sea of cum!”

 

He loses it; shrieking and kicking, he thrashes like a wild man.  I knew this point would come—this is why (and where) they need tenderizing.  Managing to keep away from his flailing legs, I rain blow after blow on his lithe, nude, twisting body.  I’m punching him hard enough to do internal damage; even as he screams in panic, he has to grunt in pain as the physical pain overrides the mental terror while I pound his smooth, wiry abdomen.  I snap another rib on his right side; I’m amazed that I haven’t punctured his lung yet.

 

He’s young and strong; his panic is powerful.  Body blows aren’t getting his attention.  I focus on his face.

 

The first blow snaps a cheekbone; the second crushed his nose.  I can feel the cartilage crunch under my fist.  It works; he quiets down and simply dangles there, whimpering and sobbing softly.  I still want to smash his beautiful young face to hamburger and have to restrain myself from shattering his jaw.  But I’m still a long ways form being done with him, and I still wanna hear him bleat and squeal.

 

“That’s it,” I tell him, “Now you’re startin’ to get it.  You’re just gonna hang there and accept whatever I do to you.  You’re nothing but fuckmeat, strung up in a meat locker and ready for butcherin’.  Ya feel me, boy?  Ya get what I’m sayin?  Here and now, I own yer ass and I’m gonna do what I wanna with you.  As of now, your only purpose on this planet is to make me cum—and the only way you’re gonna do that is to suffer.  How long you live depends on how much you can endure, but know this—the rest of your short, worthless life is gonna be nothing but horrific, nightmarish pain—and my cock.  These will be the only two things in your universe for the rest of your life.”

 

I reset the tray within easy reach as I step behind the kid.  At the height he’s hanging, his ass is perfectly lined up at my groin; I don’t need to adjust anything at all.  My cock is full erect by now; the swollen purple head is glistening with precum.  It’s all the lube the boycunt is gonna get.

 

I probe his fuckhole with my shaft, feeling the tight resistance of his sphincter against my firm mushroom tip.  Oh fuck yeah, this meat’s deep in the closet; no one’s been up here yet.

 

“Savin’ yerself for me, huh?” I whisper in his ear as I reach around his slim, slick torso and pull him close.  I can smell his rank, fear-laden boysweat, thick with adolescent pheromones as I press my muscled chest to his back and slowly tear apart his straining ass muscle, penetrating the sobbing youth remorselessly.  “Ain’t gonna help ya, bitch; it’s only gonna make this hurt so much worse.  But I fuckin’ love rippin’ virgin boycunts open, faggot; this is gonna be yer first, last and best assfuck ever.”

 

He screams as I give a sudden violent thrust; my shaft scrapes against his rectal lining, causing an excruciating internal tear, before my long, vein-wrapped rod plows into his prostate.

 

Slipping my other hand around to the punk’s crotch, I find that the prostate impact has had its usual result; the fuckmeat’s cock is hard as a rock.  It’s an almost involuntary reaction to a nice internal prostate massage.  The head of my dick keeps traveling deep into the boy’s velvety guts, but as long as the throbbing length of my shaft presses against that gland, I can keep the meat erect, no matter what I do to him.

 

He still doesn’t like it, though. He hasn’t accepted his rightful place on my cock; he squeals like a pig and clenches his arms.  His biceps and triceps aren’t huge, but I can see them bulge as the teen punk tries desperately to raise himself up off the impaling shaft of my dick.

 

“Aw, no, cunt,” I bark, “Where ya tryin’ to run to?  Ain’t no way you’re gettin’ off my cock, ya stupid sack a’ shit—this is where yer gonna die.  Get used to ridin’ my rod, motherfucker, yer gonna be doin’ it for the rest of yer suck-ass life!”

 

He snaps.  The terror and the agony are too much for him.  “No!” he screams.  “Lemme down! Get offa me!  Get the fuck outta me, asshole!  Get the—URK!”

 

As he yelled, I reached down, snatched the Ka-Bar, and rammed it into his flank on the right-hand side.  He chokes on his shout as the pain overwhelms him, but I’ve been kind. I didn’t sink all nine inches of the blade into his lean, lithe abdomen; I only sank the carbon-steel knife in to a depth of five inches.

 

All I did was slash open his intestines and maybe pierce his spleen.  Theoretically survivable, if he gets help in time.

 

He won’t get help in time.

 

But he’s still a long way from death.  The teenaged punk is alive and kicking—and responding to the pain.  “Oh yeah, that’s it, fuckmeat,” I whisper in his ear, letting him know what a real man’s beard feels like, scratching his cheek as I lean forward to taunt him.  “Yer guts tighten up around my cock so fuckin’ good when I stick ya.  Fuckin’ deathpig—all you hot little twinks, huh?  Just waitin’ for the right man to come along, stuff ya fulla dick and put ya down like the garbage ya are, huh?  You’re such a lucky cumdump—tonight yer gonna get it, ya hear?”  I jerk the blade back out, quickly, and hold it up in front of his face as he shrieks and his taut, lean body shudders in my arms.  “Lucky little deathpig is gonna get pumped fulla long lard manshaft and long hard manshank—I wonder which one is gonna make you cum hardest, huh?”

 

He gasps and kicks, the heels of his b-ball kick drumming into my shins; it’s annoying as fuck.  “Calm down, meat,” I hiss and flip the blade around, driving it deep into his belly.  “HOOG!” he yells, adding to his repertoire of inarticulate cries.  Again, I don’t shove it in up to the hilt—this time, more outta self-preservation.  If I’d stuck it all the way in, it’d have come out his back and stuck me.

 

Which isn’t to say it won’t get shoved into the tender young boyflesh up to the hilt at some point; just not yet.  After all, I haven’t hit anything vital yet.  I can still play with the teen meat for a while yet.

 

And besides, it feel so good on my engorged tubesteak.  His warm, satin-smooth colon wraps around my cock and squeezes like a hand every time I stick the blade in…

 

…it’s almost like his ass is responding to him getting fucked by the blade.

 

Oh, this really is a sick little pervert.  Teenaged deathpig out lookin’ for party supplies—ha!  He’s havin’ the party of his fuckin’ life now.  Bet the faggot ain’t high no more.

 

Well, maybe he’s high on life—what little he’s got left.

 

I yank the blade back up, again holding it upright in front of his face. “Look at it, meat,” I whisper, nuzzling his shuddering head again.  “See those pink bits dangling from the serrations on the blade?  That’s your guts, bitch.  That’s what yer insides look like.”

 

He moans breathily, then, unexpectedly, speaks.  “Toby,” he moans, “My name…Toby…”

 

Little piece of shit is trying to establish an emotional connection by telling me his name.  “Meat doesn’t have a name, asswipe,” I remind him.  To drive the point home, I stick him again, this time on the left side.

 

He bleats like a dying lamb.  Helplessly impaled on my cock, he thrashes vainly as I twist the knife in the wound, grinding a massive hole in his liver.  Not enough to make him bleed out, but enough to make the cunt go rigid with shock from major organ trauma.

 

“What’s yer name, meat?” I hiss, reaming the blade in his side as he rides my cock.  “What’s yer fuckin’ name, huh?”

 

He gasps and grunts, but doesn’t answer.

 

“Yeah, I thought so,” I jeer.  “You’re nothing but a sack of boymeat.  You’re only here to suffer so I can cum.  You’re gonna drain my cock and die, you worthless fucker.  I’m gonna use you as my personal cumrag and throw you out after like the garbage you are, you got it?  Yeah?  You got yer place in the general scheme of things now, deathpig?”

 

The boy trembles and sobs, a low whimpering sound, as I run my hands down his chest.  I’ve left the blade in the wound; it bobs back and forth as I continue to pound the punk’s asshole.  I hold him to me, his back pressed against my chest, the slick boysweat forced from his young body matting the fur on my thick, broad pecs.  My nipples get hard as he writhes against me, his smooth skin slipping over them as if lubed.

 

And all the time, he’s working my cock.

 

Poor boy, he’s in so much agony.  He leans his head back as I fuck him mercilessly so I can see his pain-wracked face, taut and gray with shock.  His thin line of facial fur tangles in my scruff and he inadvertently nuzzles my cheek as he begs.

 

“P-please…” he moans weakly, “S-stop…no-no more…fuck, g-god, no more…any-anythin’, du-dude, just…just please fuckin’ stop…”

 

“You ain’t made me cum yet, cunt,” I murmur in his ear.  “You don’t stop sufferin’ until I’ve emptied my load in yer guts—ya feel me, cumdump?”  I prod him in the back with the blade—not badly; I only sink the blade in a couple of inches.  He stiffens and gasps.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” I tell him, “That’s what I’m looking for.  See what I mean, bitch?  Every time I stick ya, yer ass gets all nice and tight.  So I gotta keep pokin’ ya till I blow my load.  If ya live long enough, I’ll make you cum too.  It’ll hurt like all fuck, bro, but I promise you—you’ll never shoot a bigger wad in yer life!”

 

He keeps struggling, his slender body thrashing against mine as his Air Jordan hightop kick futilely at my shins.  He’s jerking his arms, his delts and triceps bulging pitifully as he desperately tries to pull himself up off my thick, throbbing shaft.

 

“Where ya think yer goin, motherfucker?” I jeer.  “Still think yer gonna run away my cock, huh?  Only escape from my pulsing manmeat is death. Get it, fag?  You ain’t gettin’ off my dick till you’re dead.  Take it, you stupid sack of shit, just accept my cock and make me cum.  Once my hot seed fills yer guts, I promise the pain will stop.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

The tortured, abused teen moans in despair.  His lithe, lean body slips and slides along mine as he still vainly tries to release himself from the horrible impaling pain of his virgin buttfuck.  Fuckin’ idiot, he still doesn’t get it—but he reacts so well to pain.

 

I wrap one hand around him, sliding it up his blood-smeared chest to his mouth.  I can feel his lips working against my palm as he continues to beg and plead silently for his worthless life.  “Fuckin’ teenaged meat,” I mutter contemptuously.  “Always has to learn the hard way.”  I ram the blade into his back, this time up to the hilt.  It slashes on a downward angle though his lean, tender flesh like a carving knife through rare roast beef, ripping right through his kidney before it emerges from the lower right quadrant of his abdomen, just above the pelvis.

 

Once again, major organ trauma has a magical effect on the cumpunk’s asshole.  Fuck, if they could control their colons this well voluntarily, I wouldn’t need to snuff them…

 

…well, no.  Worthless painpig cumdump, they all need to die, preferably in horrible agony, with my dick up their asses.  Like this one.

 

“Hey, cunt,” I whisper in his ear as he shudders violently and rigidly, his rectum squeezing my cock to tightly, I need a lot of self-control not to cum right now.  “Yer gettin’ me close, boy.  Think I’m gonna spunk soon.  Gonna anoint yer worthless guts with my potent manseed, yeah?  You ready, fuckmeat?  You ready to feel my sperm ticklin’ yer innards?  It’s almost time to make you into my personal cumrag.  Gonna make you into meat, boy, gonna make you into fuckin’ meat!”

 

I lower my hand from his mouth to his dick.  Of course it’s still hard; with my own enormous tool plugging his colon and pressing on his prostate, he physically can’t go soft.  No matter how much pain and terror he’s experiencing, his seven-inch cock remains involuntarily erect and pulsing.  As I slip my hand over the purple, spongy, engorged head, his precum smears over the palm.

 

I use it as lube while I jack his teen dick.

 

He responds, his body going rigid again, pressing back against me—whether in resistance or pleasure, I can’t tell, but he rides my shaft rhythmically, squeezing his sphincter as it slides along every vein-wrapped inch.

 

I beat his oozing tool, feeling his hard young body trembling in my arm as his ragged breathing speeds up.  Bleeding and in excruciating pain, the meat is still so full of adolescent hormones that he’s leaking a steady stream of precum.

 

This is why I like ‘em young.  Horny little fucker—even in mortal agony, he relaxes into my arms, letting me jack him off.

 

I don’t want him relaxed.  I want him tight on my rod.  He moans and stiffens slightly—not enough.  He’s about to cum, but I ain’t quite there yet.

 

“Die, you worthless piece of faggot shit,” I snarl, and slam the Ka-bar knife horizontally through his throat.

 

It’s what he needs, what he wants.  As the cold steel blade slashes through his larynx, he makes a high-pitched shriek, the death-squeal of a true pain pig.  His body, already traumatized, goes into shock; his strong young muscles snap into a rigid rictus of agony.

 

His ass tightens like a cockring around my pulsating shaft.  I can feel my balls boiling over, the hot strong squirts of my manseed flooding the dying teen’s rectum.  “Aw fuck!” I yell and slice the knife forward, sawing my way out of the cunt’s throat from the inside, “Die, motherfucker, die!”

 

I’m holding the knife in one hand—I’m still beating him off with the other.  As my blade rips open his throat, sending spurts of hot, coppery blood across the room, I can feel a massive spasm in his cock.  He’s blowing his death load so fucking hard, I can see it shooting up like a pearly geyser over his shoulder.  His steaming deathwad splatters back on my face as the teenager’s final convulsions clench my dick and his ass seems to literally suck my scrote dry.

 

I’m kinda out of it for a few minutes as I empty my pent-up load into the shuddering boycorpse still dangling by the hands and impaled on my dick.  The quivering meat is soaked in agonized deathsweat, his russet hair dark and matted, individual beads of perspiration still trickling from his rank pits—just as pink, frothy blood leaks from his slashed throat and translucent beads of jizz are still dripping from his purple head.  Even dead, he’s still leaking his bodily fluids.

 

Sighing deeply, I step back, my still-hard cock popping up as I pull out of the dead kid’s ass, spattering my oozing spunk everywhere.  I use the boy’s t-shirt to wipe my dick off, then replaced all my toys back in the tool chest.  Well, all the ones I’d taken out.

 

Getting myself dressed, I go out to my van—and drove home.  I’m tired, I need sleep…and I want the meat to stop bleeding.  I’ll come back for it tomorrow.  Who know?  I might not be done with it, if it ain’t too ripe when I get back.

 

And besides, I need to get the passenger window fixed.  Stupid piece of fuckin’ meat, I was too easy on him.  I shoulda really hurt ‘im…

Convict 3–No Trace of Mercy

As Carlos merged back onto the highway from the Winterbourne Road onramp, he became aware of a loud whistling sound accompanied by a jet of cold air.  Glancing up, he realized that the strip of duct tape covering a tear in the convertible roof had peeled off.

 

His broad, tattooed chest was still glistening with sweat from his revenge fuck.  Even though it wasn’t that cold outside, it was chilly enough to be uncomfortable against his bare skin.  He abruptly made up his mind to head back to his motel room for a moment.

 

He wasn’t done for the night, fuck no.  His adrenaline and testosterone were flowing; he was flush with cash—and he was hard again.  A quick stop to pick up a couple of things, and he’d be back on the street.

 

Another unlucky fag was gonna get snuffed tonight.  He was out there somewhere, right now, trolling the streets for dick.

 

Carlos put the pedal down.  He was unaware of the ugly leer that twisted his hard, handsome face into a sadistic grimace; he just knew he was in a hurry.  He was riding a high fueled by lust and endorphins, and he was gonna take advantage of it.  The twenty minutes it took to get back across town to his motel seemed endless.

 

He was in the room for only about five minutes.  After hiding the cash, it only took seconds to cross to the closet and pull a jacket off a hanger.  He’d gotten it at a pawn shop earlier that day, after he’d bought his other clothes.  It was a heavy leather biker jacket, a brand named “American Armor”.  Slightly worn but in excellent shape, it had zippered sleeves, wide double-breasted lapels with snaps and a thick quilted lining; it was legitimately made for a biker.

 

And used by one, to judge by the smell.  It was rank with sweat and smoke, but above all, the dense, heady scent of leather emanated strongly from it; one whiff would get the fag pigs running.

 

Laying the jacket across the back of a chair he dug in the closet for another purchase he’d made that day, this time in an army surplus store.  Taking the box to the bed, he opened it to reveal a new pair of black nylon combat boots with thick rubber soles and—the real selling point for Carlos—a boot sheath in each one, for right- or left-handed action.

 

The brawny convict sat on the bed and slipped his engineer boots off, noticing a stain of Will’s blood on the right toe.  He quickly wiped it off with a tissue before carefully setting the boots to the side.  They were still his favorite, but the new pair would hold a knife better.

 

He laced them tightly up his calf, making sure they were snug.  In the future, he’d use the zippers on the sides, but he needed to ensure the fit the first time.  He also needed to test the fit of his knife; he wasn’t sure the sheath was designed to handle his foot-long blade.

 

Carlos paused on the way out the door, admiring his hard, lightly-furred body in the mirror.  He was still all in black, from his combat utility boots to his tight jeans to the musky jacket hanging open and giving a tantalizing glimpse of his broad pecs and ripped abs.  Even the shiny black do-rag was still knotted onto his shaved head.

 

 

The hard-bodied convict grinned.  He looked hot, and he knew it.  What’s more, he looked dangerous.  The bulge in his jeans several inches below his knee caused by the handle of his knife wasn’t obvious enough to cause comment, but it might cause some interest.  No true bottom pig faggot would be able to turn him down, and he was counting on it.

 

His earlier prey had been specifically targeted for money, but now Carlos was flush with cash.  When he stalked out of hotel room, he wasn’t out to find a victim with cash.

 

A demon of sexual rage still burned in his chest. This time, he was just out to make a homo slut suffer.

 

Back in the stolen Mustang, back on the prowl.  Carlos was looking for meat on the hoof and he knew where to find it—back at his old cruising grounds.  Actually, he’d had several, all notorious pick-up spots in disreputable areas on the edge of the gay ghetto, several of which had been redeveloped while he was in the pen.

 

River Oak Park hadn’t, though.  It was still dilapidated and dark; the trails that wound under the eponymous oaks had large areas of zero visibility where the pathway lights were out.  At least it had the oaks; the “river”—more an embanked storm culvert than a natural waterway—was dry with the lack of recent rain.

 

It wasn’t a place most people chose to use for relaxation, so it became a place a few people chose to use for sex.  Carlos had met the fag he’d whacked—the one he got sent away for—in this park; then they’d driven elsewhere.

 

He’d put out his headlights even before pulling into the parking lot; his car a dark shape gliding among several others.  Drifting slowly into a space, he shut the vehicle off and glanced around.

 

Even in the dim light—only three of parking lot’s sixteen light poles were working—he could see several dudes.  Some were hanging out in the parking lot itself; as he watched, he saw one boy, barely out of his teens, so fucked on booze or drugs—well, it must have been something to make him crawl in through an open window instead of just opening the car door.  Whatever the case was, the car started up and left the park immediately.

 

Carlos wondered idly if the boy would be seen alive again. If it had been his car…

 

Other dudes seem to emerge out of and melt back into the darkness of the park.  Carlos decided it was time to get out; he wasn’t gonna do anything in the car, at any rate.

 

As his broad, muscular body slipped into invisibility under the bare, interlocking branches of the oaks, he moved forward silently.  The rubber soles of his combat boots had been designed for stealth; it emphasized the intensity of the hunt.

 

Carlos was horny, hard, and ready to kill again.  Time to take down another worthless cocksucking pansy.  His black eyes, wide and sparkling in the darkness, peered around eagerly.  So many disgusting fags; who was gonna be the lucky cunt to taste his sperm and his steel?

 

Just under a mile away, the creek bed made a sharp turn south.  The path, running along the north side of the creek, bent as well.  The inside of the bend, on the south side of the path between it and the creek, was actually a flat peninsula screened by brush—very popular and currently in use by several couples.

 

North of the path the land was also covered with low-lying underbrush, but rising to the north as it did, it was less congenial to immediate public buttfucking; one had to hike some ways up a hill to reach a level but secluded clearing.  Still, that side of the path wasn’t unpopulated.

 

Trace stood alone in the dark, in the bushes on the north of the path, angry and impatient.  The teen shifted, his long, lean body stiff and uncomfortable.  Jimmy shoulda been there almost an hour ago; Trace wasn’t gonna wait for him much longer.  After all, he’d sneaked out of his house that night just so Jimmy could skullfuck him.

 

If Jimmy wasn’t gonna show, Trace was sure he could find other dudes to ream his throat just has hard as Jimmy did.

 

Trace was just six weeks past his eighteenth birthday; his wide blue eyes made him look even younger.  His black hair was long and carefully negligent, with long bangs spread over his forehead, almost hanging into his eyes.  In the back, it was longer and layered.  Combined with his smooth cheeks and wide, easy-going grin, he had a look that ensured he got what he wanted in terms of sex.

 

Trace could have had any girl in the senior class, but what he wanted was Jimmy, tight end on the football team.  It wasn’t that Trace was pining for a sports hero to take his virginity—he’d been with half the football team and a third of both the basketball team and the wrestling team before he got out of his junior year—but there was something about Jimmy…

 

Jimmy was straight.  If he wasn’t, he was good at playing it—he’d only meet Trace in the park after dark, in a pre-arranged location so no one would know.  And it was hard to believe that his contempt for homosexuals was role-play, given the way he slapped Trace around while ruthlessly breeding his mouth.  One day, if he thought he could take the pain, he’d let Jimmy up his ass…

 

Trace had loved every fucking second of it.  And tonight, Jimmy wasn’t here.  Even worse, Trace could hear the sounds of sex all around him in the darkness.  He couldn’t see anything, but his teenage body was responding to the outpouring of semen and testosterone around him.

 

It was maddening.   It was an itch he couldn’t scratch—and it was centered deep in his balls.  The lean, well-built youth was as randy as a cat in heat.  He was done waiting for his top.

 

The lust- and hormone-fueled teen decided he couldn’t wait any more.  He followed his hard dick out into the darkness to meet his fate.

 

He was certainly dressed to meet someone.  Trace had a slim swimmer’s build—lean and firm, not scrawny—and he knew how to accentuate it.  Tonight, his smooth chest was covered with a simple white cotton t-shirt at least one size too small, looking as if it had been painted onto his low, broad pecs and his flat belly.

 

Since the night was chilly, he wore a blue denim button-down shirt open over the t-shirt.  His equally-revealing jogging jeans were less faded, but the way they clung to his tight ass and highlighted his package left nothing to the imagination.  The jeans had elastic gathering the ankles, so they appeared to be bloused into Trace’s red canvas Converse hightops.

 

The young fag hadn’t specifically dressed like a slut—but he was a slut, and a good-looking one at that, and he felt no need to hide his light under a bushel.  In fact, he wanted all the hot dudes to see just how much he was flaming.  Not that he was particularly effeminate.

 

But he did love dick.

 

Stepping out onto the path, the horny teen followed his eager, throbbing cock into the darkness.  The new moon, thin as a fingernail paring, shed little light and the occasional working light within the park itself didn’t do much to dispel the blackness.  Trace could sense other men just off the path, but couldn’t see exactly what they were doing—or if they were interested.

 

He walked on, the white soles of his canvas hightops almost silent on the paved footpath.  The ground to his left sloped down to the creek, while that on his right rose gently into a heavily wooded section of the greenbelt.  He’d wandered just over half a mile when he realized that he hadn’t seen anyone for a while.

 

Shrugging, Trace decided that dudes looking for a hookup didn’t go this far into the park.  He turned, deciding to try his luck in the parking lot, when he heard footsteps behind.

 

Instead of leaving, the young slut made the worst mistake of his life and paused to listen.  The footfalls were faint and the path curved around a bend in the creek five yards ahead—he couldn’t see anyone.

 

And then suddenly, there he was.  A tall, muscular stud, appearing out of the murk and looming over him.  Thirty feet back was a light pole; the glow wasn’t bright, but it was good enough to see the hot dude who’d come out of nowhere.

 

Just a single glance at the teen he stumbled across told Carlos all he needed to know.  After all, the little fuck wasn’t dressed to hide his assets; even in the dim lighting, he could see the punk’s thick junk through his tight jeans.  It was the eyes, though—the way lust illuminated them. Cat-like, they almost glowed in the dark.

 

The little faggot wanted it bad, Carlos realized.  Well, he was ready to give it—bad.  Real bad.

 

Trace gazed up in wonder at the muscled cholo looming over him.  The well-built dude was all in black, practically camouflage in this part of the park, but the aroused teen could still make out the older man’s huge pecs.  Even in the dim light, he could see the tattoos half-hidden under the leather jacket, the dark treasure trail undulating over the stud’s ripped abs as it disappeared beneath the waistband of the tight black denim.

 

Carlos had read the signs right.  A single look at the strapping con had driven all thoughts of Jimmy out of the youth’s mind.  This dude—this was a real man.  Trace wanted this guy inside him.  Deep.

 

Carlos could see the boy’s mouth open and silently mouth the word “wow” before his tongue darted quickly across his lips.  He knew the little fag was thinking about gagging on Carlos’s fat hog; the kid’s worthless pig lust was radiating palpably from his tight, hormone-filled body.

 

Time to make his move, he decided.  This was gonna be easy as shooting fish in a barrel.

 

It was just gonna be a lot, lot slower.

 

“Ya want my dick, boy?” Carlos grunted in a low voice, already knowing what the answer would be.

 

“Uh-huh,” Trace muttered, barely audible.  Tentatively, he reached his hand out toward the swollen bulge he could just barely discern in the top’s groin.

 

“Not here, puta,” Carlos snapped.  “I ain’t pluggin’ yer face on the path.  I don’t give no free shows, vato, got me?

 

Wide-eyed, the teen slut nodded; the gruff bass of the alpha’s hoarse voice seemed to vibrate along his spine and the root of his dick.  “Up there,” he gasped, jerking his head to the right where the ground sloped up to more dense woods.

 

As they turned and silently made their way uphill, Trace found himself walking stiffly.  His cock was so hard it hurt.

 

In a moment, they were picking their way through the trees.  The thick carpet of dead leaves crackled under the soles of the kid’s Converse sneakers.  Carlos’s military-style combat boots made much less noise.

 

Not that it mattered; they were too far back into the greenbelt to see the path.  Five yards further on, a high chain link fence marked the edge of park land.  Beyond, the tree line dwindled down to a swath of waste ground that bordered a landfill a mile away.

 

They were completely isolated, for all intents and purposes—even Carlos’s.

 

Trace’s hands fumbled hurriedly in his groin as he unzipped his fly to give some release to the aching six-inch cock trapped in his tight jeans.  Carlos stood and watched him in silent contempt—stupid little homo couldn’t even control his disgusting urges.

 

Well, then—Carlos was gonna have to control them for him.  Reaching down to his own groin, he hauled his huge tube of meat out, letting it dangle and drip in the night air.

 

The teen froze.  He was mesmerized by the older dude’s tool.  Fuck, Jimmy was hung, but this guy put Jimmy to shame.  He wanted this cock inside him, fuck, he wanted it so bad…

 

He swiftly shucked off his button-down shirt, tossing it negligently onto the ground before pulling off his tight t-shirt and tossing it on top of the other.  As he stepped toward Carlos, a thin sliver of faint moonlight illuminated his soft, flat belly and smooth chest, firm but not overly developed.

 

He approached the towering cholo stud, hesitantly but eagerly.  His huge blue eyes, framed by long lashes that added an extra hint of vulnerability to his beautiful, youthful face, turned expectantly up to those of the erotic, mysterious alpha.

 

Like a good bottom pig, he was awaiting orders.  He didn’t have long to wait.

 

“Suck my cock, faggot,” Carlos snarled abruptly.  “Down on your knees and gag on it, you worthless homo—now!”

 

Trace jerked, startled by the suddenness of the order, but he obeyed.  Falling to his knees on the soft flooring of leaves, he opened his mouth wide and took the swollen, oozing head into his mouth, tasting the salty drops of precum trickling from the tip.

 

Carlos grunted as the teen slowly began deepthroating him.  He felt the boy’s esophagus wrap tightly around his shaft as the kid buried his face in the alpha’s crotch, grinding his nose voluntarily into the stud’s pubic hair.

 

“Goddam, puta, you mother fuckin’ cocksucker,” the grinning killer hissed, “fuckin’ punk gobblin’ down my dick—you a natural born faggot, aintcha?”

 

Trace made the mistake of trying to answer, gurgling on the shaft of flesh jammed down his throat.  He was rewarded with a hard bitchslap across his face.  “Shaddap!” Carlos growled.  “Lick under my head, cunt.  Run your tongue down my tool.”

 

The boy obeyed, wrapping his arms around the stud’s thick, muscled legs.  As he chugged down the convict’s cock, he ran his hands up and down the taut denim, feeling Carlos’s hard, chiseled thighs and calves.  His hands sank lower and lower, down towards the alpha’s combat boots…

 

…and encountered the hilt of the knife.

 

“What?” Trace muttered in surprise as he pulled his head up off Carlos’s throbbing hog.  “What was that?”  He peered up into the stranger’s face, obscured in the darkness.

 

He couldn’t see the look of cruel anger building in the brawny convict’s face, but he could hear the menace in the older man’s cold whisper.  “It was gonna be a surprise for ya, boy.  See, vato, you’re broken.  I’m gonna fix ya.  When I’m done with ya, you won’t be a faggot no more.”

 

Trace scrambled backward across the dead leaves, trying to get to his feet.  “Wh-whatcha talkin’ ‘bout, man?” he quavered as the realization of impending danger began to percolate through his haze of lust and hormones.

 

“I’m talking about stickin’ you like the useless fag pig you are, punk.  And the first thing I’m gonna stick you with is my cock.  Shame ya didn’t give me more head, fairy, cause that’s all the lube yer gonna get.”

 

“What? No!” the youth squealed in fear.  “Dude, I just give head—ain’t no one been up my ass!”

 

“Tough luck, cunt,” the vicious convict sneered.  “Guess that means this is gonna hurt like a bitch, huh?  Good.  Don’t worry, motherfucker, I’ll make sure you ain’t too tight.”

 

“M-man, I th-think I gotta go,” Trace whispered as cold fear stole over his smooth slim body, trembling in the pale moonlight.  “I-I gotta be-be somewhere…”

 

He had time for just one yelp of terror as Carlos sprang at him and slammed him sideways into a tree.  Unluckily for the randy, adventurous teen, there was no one close enough to hear it.  As he slumped unconscious to the ground, there was no hope of rescue.  And Carlos knew it.

 

It only took a moment to bind the punk’s hands behind his back, using his own button-down denim shirt, twisted into a band.  That done, Carlos flipped the boy onto his back, making sure the boy’s bound hands were bent up into an agonizing position under his own body weight.

 

Carlos was gonna teach the teen homo a thing or two about the pain he felt all faggots deserved, before “fixing’ him for good.

 

He started by parting the slut’s legs, leaving his jeans and hightops still on.  Shrugging off his leather jacket, he laid it between the boy’s spread legs.  As he did, the kid began to moan.  The fluttering eyelashes in his gorgeous face signaled the slow, reluctant return of consciousness.

 

Carlos grunted in contempt.  Little fuck hadn’t even hit the tree hard enough to break the skin.  If that was all it took to lay him low, he realized, he was gonna hafta be careful or he’d fix the fag before he got to have any fun with him.

 

The strapping convict stood over the prone, helpless teen.  Stripped to the waist, his powerful, tattooed torso gleamed in the faint sliver light in the small clearing.  The teen swam back to a stunned awareness to see the ominous muscled silhouette looming over him—and he realized just how isolated and alone he was.

 

Trace began to blubber, jerking and yanking his arms helplessly against the tight binding.  “P-please, man, no,” he sobbed, “I’ll do anything ya-ya want, dude, you can stick it up my ass, I w-won’t tell anyone—“  He trailed off into incoherent weeping.

 

Carlos just stood silently over the cowering, helpless boy.  He didn’t say a word—he just held up the knife.

 

It was the same one he’d bought his first day out.  The razor-sharp edge, all twelve inches of it, glinted wickedly in the faint light, as did the deep, evil serrations on the other side.  The hilt ended in a handle with a handguard; Carlos could be assured of a secure, well-balanced grip whether he was slashing through organs or slicing through bone.

 

Tonight, he was planning to do both.  But he needed to be careful.  Little queer-ass pansy was fragile; he’d have to make sure he was only hitting non-vital areas to start.  Good thing he’d learned all about inflicting nightmarish but non-fatal pain in prison.

 

But to start with, he wanted to fuck.  His throbbing shaft needed care and a warm, moist sheath.  This teen’s ass would work perfectly, but he knew it’d take time, effort, and some slight discomfort to pop the cherry hole.

 

He had a better idea.

 

“So you ain’t never had anyone up yer fuckhole, huh, you worthless slut?  What kinda fag are ya, bitch?  We’re gonna fix that right now.  Don’t worry, cunt, my shaft ain’t gonna hurt ya.  Well, not after I open ya up with this.”

 

Dropping to his knees on his jacket between the kid’s legs, Carlos leaned forward over the prone youth and held his knife up in front of the boy’s face.

 

Trace already knew that things were bad, that he was in more danger than he’d ever been in before, but he wasn’t able to absorb the implication of the knife.  For one thing, at seventeen inches with a twelve-inch double-sided stainless steel blade, it was both larger and incomparably better designed to inflict pain and death than any blade he’d ever seen before.  He simply couldn’t imagine it being used on him.

 

That changed the moment Carlos lifted the helpless youth’s legs and rammed the knife straight through the tight denim cradling his ass up into his rectum.  The sadistic killer hadn’t just cut himself a fuckhole through the jeans, he forced the blade up into the unfortunate kid’s colon, slicing his sphincter suddenly and brutally.

 

Carlos paused for a moment, his biceps bulging as he forced the blade in deeper.  Then he twisted it viciously deep in Trace’s guts before yanking it out again in a swift, cruel, slicing motion.  Holding the bloody blade up for a moment, the evil killer admired the evidence of his own malignant sadism.

 

Beneath him, the teen writhed in agony, experiencing an entire spectrum of pain he’d never known existed.  The cold, glassy slashes deep inside his tender fuckhole were too intense for him to scream; he could only gurgle and spray saliva as he tried desperately not to vomit in pain.

 

Carlos could see the amount of agony he’d inflicted on his victim.  “Fuck yeah, cunt, looks like you’re finally ready to take my dick.  ‘Course, even after slittin’ ya so it won’t hurt so bad, I’m still gonna tear ya some, but you like the pain, right faggot?”

 

As the bound, helpless teen writhed and mewled in pain, the brutal convict grabbed his club-like cock and plunged it into the kid’s mangled ass.  The only lube was the boy’s warm blood as Carlos proved true to his word; the slashes he’d cut in the cunt’s sphincter weren’t enough—his thick, pulsing shaft tore Trace’s ass open even more painfully than the knife had.

 

The young virgin had reached a snapping point; the pain was too much.  He shrieked in a shrill cry of agony, fear and despair.

 

It was music to Carlos’s ears.  It was proof of the pain he was able to inflict on this worthless little faggot—but it could also draw the attention of others.  He wasn’t done torturing this motherfucker, not by a long shot.  He needed to keep the meat quiet.

 

He brought his blade into play again.

 

For a few months, he’d shared a cell with a straight serial killer.  The guy had had lots of useful tips; Carlos had learned a lot from him.  Like how to silence a fucktoy while still keeping ‘em alive.  It caused unimaginable pain—but who cared?

 

He used it now.  “Stupid pansy piece of shit, guess I gotta shut you up, your fuckin’ pig squeals are goddam annoying, motherfucker,” he snarled as he stuck the tip of his blade into Trace’s Adam’s apple.

 

Tightening his strong bicep, he drove the sharp steel tip down into the boy’s larynx.  He had to apply some force when he felt the resistance of the cartilage, but he was able to slice through the voicebox and slit Trace’s vocal cords with ease.  Once the knife was inserted far enough to do the appropriate damage, the cruel killer abruptly yanked it back out.

 

He’d rendered the helpless teen boy mute and wallowing in unimaginable agony, without endangering a single major blood vessel.  Trace wasn’t dying; he only wished he was.

 

The pain was far beyond anything he’d ever imagined; in him mind he was screaming in horrific agony.  The fact that all he could hear was a wet gurgling sound accompanied by a faint spray of blood scared him so bad he was barely coherent, but the grotesque blood-gargling sensation in his throat was nothing compare to the red-hot iron shaft being shoved up his ass…

 

At some point, Trace wished devoutly he’d stayed in the bushes and waited for Jimmy, but it was a fleeting thought in the whirlwind of slashing agony that was enveloping him.  As he gasped frantically, he heard air whistling through the slash in his neck.

 

“Yeah, that shut ya the fuck up, dinnit,” sneered the dark-skinned cholo sadist.  “Now take my dick, homo, make me cum.  I’m gonna give ya exactly what you deserve, you useless cocksucker; I’m gonna stick ya like a fuckin’ pig.”

 

Sitting up on his knees with the boy’s feet on his shoulders and his arms wrapped around the helpless youth’s legs, Carlos held the knife in front of Trace’s pale face.  He saw its icy glint reflected in the teen’s wide, shock-ringed eyes as he continued to taunt his terrified victim.

 

“Look at it, cunt,” he whispered sharply.  “Lookit how sharp it is.  You already felt it, bitch—didja like it?  Sure the fuck hope so, ya cumsuckin’ fairy, cause you’re about to get a whole lot more of it.”

 

Bending down, he snarled in Trace’s weeping, gurgling face.  “Quit whining, you stupid fuck.  You’re out here cause you love ta get all kinda shafts stuck in ya, right?  So here ya go, you fag piece of shit, I’m givin’ ya one that’s longer and harder than any you’ve ever had—or ever will.  Now shut the fuck up and get ready to blow your load as I fuck ya to death with both my dick and my blade—two shafts at once, huh, ya cock pig?”

 

Holding the blade upright, he pointed the tip down and rammed it into Trace’s soft, flat belly, the knife penetrating the smooth skin with no resistance at all.  It sliced through the punk’s tender guts, slashing through the intestines.  Grunting forcefully, Carlos applied pressure with his arm, causing the tattoo on his bicep to bulge visibly as he forced the blade all the way through the teen’s slim, writhing body and pinning him to the earth underneath.

 

Trace’s struggles were involuntary; he was embedded in a fiery wall of pain like an insect in amber.  He wasn’t rational—he only knew that he must not move, the slightest movement made the horrible burning slashing in his guts much much worse…

 

He didn’t have much luck remaining motionless.  Carlos was ruthlessly raping his ass.  As the twisted convict pumped his enormous tool up the teen’s slit, bleeding fuckhole, the force of his thrusts jerked the kid along the ground.  Unfortunately for the young slut, the knife that was impaling him didn’t move; it was buried in the ground.

 

Every time Carlos shoved his cock deeply into Trace’s ass, the boy’s body was forced against the blade, widening the wound as he got fucked.

 

Mewling silently, the panicked boyslut jerked his head from side to side.  The slit in his neck was small and barely visible; aside from a fine mist sprayed with each desperate breath, there was very little bleeding.  He was trying frantically to scream, his beautiful face twisted in pain and terror, smeared with snot and tears.

 

But it was the hurt, bruised expression in his eyes that tripped a switch in Carlos.  There was something about the vulnerability of the hot young teen’s face that sent his sadistic anger into overdrive.

 

With another deep grunt, he yanked the knife back up and out of the kid’s abdomen.  Trace flailed in agony, his red chucks kicking the air just over his killer’s broad shoulders as the wheezing and gurgling increased in his damaged windpipe.

 

“Fuck, ya like that dontcha, ya sick fuck?”  Carlos grinned maliciously at his young, helpless victim.  “Goddam pig, yer ass sure grabbed hold of my dick when I stuck ya.  Shit, lookit yer cock, you disgusting queer-ass bitch, you’re gettin’ hard—you disgusting fuckin’ piece of shit, gettin’ banged by a real man gets ya all stiff even when yer gettin’ snuffed!”

 

Trace heard the words but they meant nothing to him; his mind was a chemical stew of adrenaline and testosterone that was incapable of coherent thought—but it was able to process the sensation of bewildering and somehow painful erection.

 

It didn’t have long to process it, though.  Carlos leveled the blade at the waist on the boy’s left side, then rammed it in at an upward angle.  This time, stabbing diagonally into the unlucky teen’s torso, the brutal killer was able to shove the knife in up to the hilt, all twelve inches of sharpened steel buried deep inside the punk’s firm, quivering body.

 

The powerful cholo groaned in pleasure as massive organ trauma caused involuntary spasms in Trace’s colon and esophagus.  As the viciously serrated blade sliced through the kid’s liver, spleen and stomach before puncturing his right lung, his rectum grasped Carlos’s thick, throbbing rod and began milking it in long, rolling convulsions.  At the same time, the boy started vomiting; there was nothing in his stomach to come up, but the cruel, excruciating internal injuries he’d endured triggered an uncontrollable retching that only intensified his agony.

 

“Now yer gettin’ it, huh, puta?” the fag-hating alpha hissed at the dying teen.  “Now yer gettin’ what all you fuckin’ queers deserve—a long hot shaft in your ass and a long cold shaft in your guts.  Told ya I’d fix ya, you stupid homo—you ain’t gonna be no faggot by the time I’m done with ya; you’re gonna be fuckin’ meat!”

 

Gripping the long handle-like hilt of the military knife, Carlos twisted and ground it in the wound, slashing the boy’s tender innards into ribbons of bleeding flesh.  Then he yanked the blade out in a sing, swift, brutal jerk.  Grinning malevolently, he spit in the cunt’s vacant, stunned face before holding the dripping knife in front of it.

 

“Look at it, fag,” he whispered evilly.  “See those strings of meat hanging off the serrations?  Those are your guts, you worthless cock-gobblin’ pussyboy.  And as much I as keep guttin’ ya like a fish, you’re still hard and drippin’ on my dick.  Ain’t no way to help ya, motherfucker; yer a natural-born homo.  So I guess you’re just garbage, huh?  Ain’t no one gonna miss garbage.”

 

The convict’s muscular, inked body heaved with lust and rage, his broad back and tatted chest glistening with hot reeking mansweat.  Trace’s smooth, flat swimmer’s chest was also covered with sweat, but his was a clammy, cold sweat wrung agonizingly from the teen’s lithe dying body.  But the strong, strapping body of the enraged alpha hunched over him, driving his thick swollen cock up the convulsing teen’s ass, gave off so much heat he was steaming slightly in the chill night air.

 

The kid’s jeans rasped against Carlos’s pubic hair as the hulking alpha’s huge, hairy balls slapped at the slash he’d cut in the denim to access the pansy’s ass.  The killer’s own tight jeans massaged his tight, taut ass as his muscled legs planted his combat boots firmly on the ground, guaranteeing plenty of traction for powerful thrusts.  As the slashed, sliced teen thrashed in mindless agony, his Converse hightops quivered and flailed over Carlos’s broad, heaving shoulders.

 

Raising the knife up over his head, Carlos brought it back down, slamming it home in Trace’s broad, shallow pectoral on his left side, slipping it between two ribs just below his heart.  It was a smooth, swift stab right into the chest, completely puncturing the left lung and—like the belly stab—completely impaling the tortured teen and pinning him to the ground.

 

The force of the blade through his lung rippled through his body, forcing his breath out with a long, ragged groan, whistling through his mangled vocal cords.  Convulsions flowed down his once-virgin body, each one causing his cock to rise up and smack wetly against his killer’s furry belly and his rectum to stroke the cruel con’s engorged tool.

 

Now, Carlos realized, the clock was running.  He’d taken care of the teen fag; the disgusting little pervert wasn’t gonna suck no more cocks—but Carlos still demanded his orgasm of rage.  The punk bitch was meat but he still hadn’t drained his righteous killer’s cock.

 

The homo whore needed to suffer more.  That was always the answer.

 

Carlos lay full-length on top of the dying young boy.  Trace was barely alive; as his lungs slowly collapsed, all his attention was now focused on being able to breathe.  He wasn’t able to comprehend that he was enduring the last few moments of his life—he only knew that he had to keep breathing.  It was hard; there was a heavy weight on his chest, sliding around on a film of sweat and compressing his somehow stiff and oozing cock…but breathe, ignore the pain, ignore the warm soft flesh sliding on your dick as you writhe in agony, just breathe…

 

And the sadistic cholo chuckled.  “Time to die, vato.  Just fuckin’ die on my cock like ya deserve, you fucking pervert punk!”

 

With that, Carlos held the knife across Trace’s neck and began to slice through his throat.  This time, he went below the larynx.  The esophagus itself was, he knew from experience, a rubbery piece of tissue.

 

It took him a little while to saw through it.

 

The ultimate agony of fatal trauma managed to focus the boy’s attention, gruesomely ensuring his full awareness of the final nightmarish horror of his last few seconds alive in a sadistic quirk of physiological fate.

 

Trace gasped and gurgled louder than ever as his throat was slashed.  He could feel each back-and-forth cut of the razor-sharp blade through the flesh and tendons of his neck.  As unimaginable pain rocked his nervous system, his swollen, purple dick pulsed with each slice of the blade.

 

So did his eager fuckhole.  “Yeaaahhhh…” grunted Carlos.  “Fuck yeah, you fucking fag cunt, ya like gettin’ put down by a real man, huh?  Then take, this, cocksucker!”

 

His powerful arm bulging, Carlos flayed the teen slut’s trachea open, listening with erotic glee as the young boy gagged and choked, gargling his own blood.  “Fuckin’ die, fag!” the angry, lust-driven alpha cried as the slim, sweaty sack of meat under him milked a massive boiling wad of  manspunk out of his almost painfully-swollen cock.

 

As the handsome teen hacked and drowned in his own blood, the screaming icy darkness that descended on him was held back by a single jolt of hot fluid flooding his mangled guts.  Somehow, it seemed to be accompanied by another in his groin; a single, white-hot wire sounding his long, thick, agonizingly hard dick…

 

Coughing up one last gout of blood, the gay teen kicked his chucks on his killer’s shoulders as a solid ropy stream of semen spurted out of his cock and was immediately smeared with his blood against his belly and that of his vicious, dominant killer.  The shuddering meat pumped a continual flow of DNA for more than twenty seconds but by that time, the teen’s blood pressure had dropped so low that brain death was occurring.

 

There wasn’t enough of Trace left to enjoy his death load.

 

Gasping, Carlos remained in place for a good two minutes as he caught his breath, his pulsing, oozing rod firmly sheathed in the corpse’s warm, moist, quivering colon.  Every few seconds the hulking, sweating convict shuddered violently and spat another stream of pearly seed into the boy’s mangled fuckhole.

 

Finally feeling his pulse return to normal, the burly killer pulled his still-dripping shaft out of the dead teen’s ass and rose to his feet.  Bending down, he retrieved his biker jacket and fished his pack of smokes out before slipping into the warm embrace of the leather.  He lit one up, inhaling deeply as he let his huge purple hog swing free and drip-dry, the cum swiftly drying to a white glaze in the cool night air.

 

Clenching the cigarette in the side of his mouth, Carlos knelt over the kid’s body, still trembling and spasming randomly in death.  “Toldja I’d fix ya, you cumsuckin’ homo,” the muscled killer chuckled vindictively.  “Ain’t gonna suck no more cocks, huh?  Unless the folks at the morgue or the undertaker’s wanna have some fun, but you still ain’t gonna be suckin’, huh, you worthless piece a’ shit pervert?”

 

Picking up his knife, Carlos looked around for a cloth.  He spied Trace’s t-shirt, a pile of white fabric easily seen in the darkness.  Grinning, he grabbed it and used it to wipe down his blade. He make sure to clean all the dangling strings of flesh trapped in the serrations, leaving the punk’s own t-shirt to be found smeared with the victim’s blood and meat.

 

Taking a final drag off his smoldering butt, he ground the glowing tobacco ember out in the very center of the dead youth’s forehead.  Rising to his feet, Carlos glanced around carefully.  There was no need; there was no one within sight or earshot.

 

And the few that Carlos encountered on his way back to the parking lot were too intent on their own activities to notice him.  Silently, he slipped back into the Mustang and had pulled out of the lot and onto the street before turning on the headlights.

 

Three minutes later, he was back on the highway.  He headed back to his motel room, finally feeling that he’d earned a rest for a job well done.

 

Not that his job was done.  They all needed to be put down—all of them.

 

Carlos felt renewed; the well-being derived from a sense of purpose filled him with excitement.  This was what he was here for—to put fags in their place.  And their place was taking his cock, then taking a dirt nap.

 

But he needed money.  Some homos had money—a lot of money.  Carlos could have all the fun he wanted, but with a little judicious hunting, he could be living good.

 

As he slowed the ‘Stang for the exit for his motel, the twisted convict began to laugh out loud.  He knew he was on the path of righteousness; being wrong couldn’t feel this good.

 

Fags needed to be taught a lesson.  He was just the man to learn ‘em.

 

 

Trace’s desperate parents reported him missing the following morning but his slaughtered corpse wasn’t found for another four days.  One of the local street whores met his dealer in the park; he got his fix for a discount if he gave the dude free sex.  Looking for somewhere to do their transactions in private, they inadvertently stumbled across the mangled body.

 

That night, Carlos beat off watching the news coverage.

Cut Throat Sex

The boy is starting to wake up. Damn, I thought I’d knocked him out harder than that. He’d smoked the doctored joint quickly enough, that’s for sure.

I think he’s about eighteen or so. I found him in the parking lot of a big box in the ‘burbs; he was looking to score some weed. I’d already rolled a “sample” joint with some trank tabs ground in. The kid was out cold after a couple of hits. I drove him back to my killing pit.

He was still out when I stripped him and tied him to the framework around the bed. He’d been wearing all white, for some reason. White baseball cap worn backwards, white t-shirt, white satin sports shorts and white canvas high-tops. I let him keep his shoes and his cap.

He has a tight, smooth body that I fondle as I strap him into the steel frame I’ve built around the bed. It’ll keep him still at the end; makes less of a mess. This abandoned house is perfect. It’s far enough from any neighbors that no one will hear any sounds that manage to escape. And when I’m done with my fucktoy, I can torch the place. It’ll be a while before anyone notices—much less before the fire department actually gets here. Any evidence will have gone up in flames.

But that’s for later. Time for fun first.

The fuckmeat is strapped face down, his hands and ankles are tied to posts at the corners of the bed. He’s immobile and completely helpless. And still out, at this point. I stuff my hard dick into his virgin ass. He doesn’t need to be awake for this part; I’m just priming my pump.

Oh god, that tight hole…no one’s been up there before. Smooth and sweet. While my cock is spearing the kid’s ass, I reach around and fasten a ball gag onto his mouth. It’s secluded here, but there’s no sense taking any chances.

And by the time I’m done with him, he’ll be screaming his little punk life out.

The drugs are wearing off faster than I thought they would. He’s starting to groan and struggle. I don’t think he’s awake enough to realize he’s being raped. He’ll figure it out soon enough. I’m tearing his tender asshole with every thrust and can feel his blood on my meat.

He’s awaking in agony. Really starting to moan and yell. I love it when he screams; it makes his rectum clench and vibrate.

His muffled voice begs and pleads for me to stop. Like that’s gonna happen. His boymeat just feels too good around my cock.

He struggles violently but all it’s doing is massaging my dick more. I lie down full length on top of him and whisper in his ear.

“Shut up and take my cock, you little fuckin’ bitch. The more you squirm, the more I tear you open. Just lay there and enjoy my tool deep inside you.”

He squirms and moans, but he’s listening.

“Yeah, this is what you want. Little fuckin’ punk wanted to get taken down by a hard man. You like my rod rippin’ you apart? Enjoy it now, faggot, ‘cause you’re gonna be screaming and bleeding out your last few seconds on earth. You’re gonna die on my dick.”

He doesn’t like hearing that. Even with his mouth gagged, his cries and screams are getting me hot. Little teen punk, dumb and full of cum, spending the last moments of his life trying to escape my cock. Each panicked spasm grips the swollen purple head of my cock tightly.

I’m getting close. Gonna blow my load soon. Time to amp up the terror. I can feel the muscles in the fuckbitch’s smooth calves tighten against my legs. The boy is tensing up; on some level, he may know what’s coming.

Time for show and tell. I show him my knife and tell him how I’m gonna kill him with it.

It’s a huge hunting knife with a viciously serrated blade. I hold it directly in front of the kid’s eyes so he can’t help but see it.

“See this?” I whisper. “In a few minutes I’m gonna cut your throat with it. You’re gonna feel each one of these jagged serrations rip into your throat. It’s not gonna be a neat little slit; I’m gonna tear your fuckin’ windpipe open. You’ll feel the gaping gash in your trachea but you won’t be able to cry out. You’ll just moan and start gurgling as you inhale your own blood. You’re gonna die, choking and gagging, your mouth full of blood and your ass full of cock. Your death throes will clamp your hole down hard on my dick. I’m killing you because your death will make me cum, fucker. You’re just here to die on my dick and get thrown out like rotting meat.”

Oh yes, there’s the panic I was looking for. The ball gag muffles the teen punk’s cries but I can make out the words. It’s the usual. Begging for his life, pleading for mercy. He doesn’t get it yet. I’m only interested in him as fuckmeat and that means he has to die. That’s all the bitch is good for.

I’m lying on top of him full length, not moving, not thrusting. I won’t need to; once I cut his throat, all I’ll need to do is hold on while his thrashing body works my cock for me.

As I lie there with the kid impaled on my rod, I reach around with one hand and pull the boy’s chin up. The knife is in my other hand; I press it into his tender flesh and start sawing his neck open.

The shriek that erupts from his blocked-off mouth ends in a high-pitched squeal as I puncture his trachea.

He backs his ass up on my cock. The sound of gushing blood can barely be heard over the kid’s labored breathing—each bubbling gasp accompanied by a moaning sound that escapes convulsively from the boy’s severed windpipe. I hold his violently jerking body down on the bed by placing a hand on each of his shoulders.

“That’s it,” I whisper into the dying teen’s ear, “just ride my cock as you bleed out. Feel it, punk; this is what a real man feels like inside you as you die. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? You wanted a hard man to take you and breed you and waste you. Don’t worry, you fucking cumdump pig, the last thing you’ll feel as life drains out of you is my load burning in your ass and then your job will be done, bitch.”

“MMMM-hmmm!” He gives a deep moan. There’s almost a sound of pleasure in it; he’s finally getting it. Getting me off is the last thing he’ll do in life and the best use of him. He wants it. He wants to feel my spunk in him before he fades out.

“Work it, you dying faggot bitch. Work my dick. Make me cum before you die, you useless punk.”

There’s a gurgle. “MMMMmmm!” His rectum clamps down and stokes my tool. He gurgles and moans a second time and a third; each time his tight virgin hole gasps my rod like a hand, jerking my meat in the agony of death.

The kid’s fourth moan is faint and despairing; it’ll be his last. His heart is spasming irregularly with the loss of blood; his consciousness is fading into a white haze. In a final, intense twitch his body grips my dick and I blow a hot geyser of cum deep into his quivering intestines. As his corpse goes limp in death, I fill his rectum with semen.

Still deep in his ass, I lie on top of him for a while, loving him now more than ever. I’d love to stick around and fuck his cold meat again but my phone tells me there’s already an alert out for him. Time to get a little fire going.

“Killer Party, Dude!”

Todd stumbled unsteadily on a root and staggered into a tree. He was very drunk and very high. He was drunk and high most nights; tonight, on his eighteenth birthday, the only difference was in degree. He was shitfaced.

The sounds from the clearing behind him had grown faint. He was far enough away to take a leak. Eddie and Jimbo and Mario were back there around the fire, partying without him. He wanted to get back quickly.

Todd grinned goofily, remembering Jimbo pulling up in his truck and telling him to climb in. “C’mon, dude,” he’d said, “We’re gonna go get you completely fucked on your birthday. I got a whole half-ounce of wicked weed here”— he slapped the half-laced construction boot his jeans were tucked into—“and some shrooms in the other boot. Gonna be a killer party, dude.”

On the way out of town they’d picked up Eddie and Mario. Each of them had snagged a case of cheap beer. The beer was warm, but none of them minded. It was a chilly night; the beer would cool. Besides, warm beer never stopped any of them from getting their drunk on.

Jimbo was the oldest, at twenty-one. He’d known Todd for years—in fact, when Todd had been thirteen, Jimbo had gotten him high for the first time and taught him how to jack off. Eddie and Mario were both nineteen and hung around with Jimbo a lot, so Todd had gotten to know them as well. They were always the ones with alcohol—if one of them couldn’t get it, the other could.

They spent all their free time together—they were worthless little punks, so they had plenty of free time. They had lots in common—they dressed similarly, they all lived in basements and converted garages because their families didn’t want them in the house, and their highest ambition was to get as wasted as possible on whatever they could get hold of.

Todd, who idolized Jimbo, tried to dress just like him. He wore the same tight jeans tucked into boots—but Todd’s boots were ropers. He wore the same black ball cap, white t-shirt and leather jacket—but Jimbo’s jacket was black and plain, while Todd’s was brown with black fabric cuffs.

The resemblance ended there. Todd was short and slim, with curly brown hair. Jimbo was taller and more muscular with shoulder-length black hair and a faint black moustache.

Eddie was muscular as well, but slightly less developed than Jimbo. He wore the same unofficial “club uniform” with his own individual touches. His jacket was denim and his cap was white. He had combat boots on. He had dirty blond hair and a tuft of down on his chin that he pretended was a goatee.

Mario had a lean swimmer’s build like Todd but was more than six inches taller. His boots were ropers, too, and his cap was dark blue. His black leather jacket was identical to Jimbo’s—they’d actually gone out together and stolen them at the same time. Mario was Mexican and his hair was black and short. He’d gelled and spiked it (and had taken shit from the others for doing so).

Another thing they had in common—they were all well-hung and knew it, the same way they knew Mario’s thick tool was uncut. They made a lot of noise about the chicks they’d banged, but all the girls in town knew that they were useless and spent whatever money they could grab on booze and drugs. Despite their tough talk and hard bodies, they were shunned.

For release, they turned to circle jerks. A lot. There would undoubtedly be one tonight, more likely two. They were horny boys full of testosterone and semen and the thing they wanted to do most was get their rocks off while tripping balls.

They drove to a place they’d partied at before. Off the state highway south of town was a dirt road. It was actually a maintenance road that ran alongside a line of electrical towers that marched across the landscape. They pulled over at the fourth tower and went north into the woods. After about a hundred yards, they came to the spot they were looking for. It was a clearing about thirty feet across. There was a large fire pit in the center, ringed with stones, with logs laid around it as a kind of seating.

They’d found it several months ago—they damn sure weren’t smart enough to build something like this. They’d come back several times and had seen no sign of use, so they felt it was a safe place to get high and beat off. They didn’t want anyone else around—they might get the wrong idea. It’s not like they were faggots or anything, just having a little fun…

They dragged in brushwood and lit a fire. Ben passed out beers and Jimbo pulled the pot out of his boot. “Best place to hide it—who’s gonna look in your smelly boots?” He rolled a joint for each of them—Todd first, for his birthday—and the party got started.

They knew what was coming—they’d talk some about the latest action movie and how they’d waste the villain if they ever ran across him. Then the conversation would swing around to chicks. They talked longingly about the chicks they wanted to bang and told elaborate lies about chicks they had banged. Their cocks would be throbbing and straining in their jeans the entire time. At some point Jimbo would give the signal by rubbing his hand on the bulge in his jeans. They would all do the same for a few minutes, looking back and forth at each other in silence.

Jimbo would be the first to pull out his rod. Then they would sit together gipping the cock of the one to the right while their own was grabbed by the person to the left.

Since it was Todd’s birthday, he would get to sit on Jimbo’s left. Jimbo would have assaulted anyone who said he was queer, but it was an open secret among them that they all wanted his dick and sitting on his left was an honor.

And it had all gone as planned until Jimbo began rubbing his crotch. They’d already worked through one case of beer and Todd realized he had to piss. This was the first time he’d been allowed to jack Jimbo and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. He muttered “gotta take a leak” and sprinted into the woods. Mario had been to his left and would be “handling” Jimbo till he got back. He wanted to return before Mario finished Jimbo off.

Todd was happy and severely intoxicated, but like his friends, his dick was painfully erect and would remain so until release. It was too hard for him to piss. He stood facing the tree, staring down at his hard cock with a blissful grin on his face. The savage blow that slammed him face-first into the tree took him completely by surprise.

Todd reeled back, bruised and bleeding. His upper lip was split. His dick was still hard despite being scratched from contact with the rough bark of the tree. A gloved hand tightly gripped his mouth and he felt the edge of a blade against his throat. A harsh voice whispered in his ear.

“Make a sound and you’re dead, motherfucker. Nod if you understand that.”

Todd, stunned and terrified, didn’t move. The hand clenched his face viciously and the knife was pressed to his throat, just breaking this skin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.

“Do you understand?” The voice was slower and colder this time. Todd nodded.

“Ok, here’s what’s gonna go down. I’m gonna ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them very quietly. If you make any other sound, I’m gonna rip your throat out and leave you to die like a dog. You got that?”

Todd nodded again. The hand was slowly removed from his mouth but never moved more than two inches away from his face.

“Ok, bitch, how many of your friends are back there and what the fuck are you doing?”

Todd replied in a tear-choked whisper, “Please, sir, there’s only four of us sir. It’s my birthday and we’re just having some fun. Please don’t hurt me, sir, please!”

The hardman holding him gave a grim chuckle. “A birthday party, yeah—that’s why your fly’s open and you got a hard-on. Bad place for a party, punk. I got some business here tonight and you’re in the way.”

The hand clamped down hard on Todd’s mouth but the knife was withdrawn. For a single second, Todd thought he was safe.

Then the knife was slammed into the side of his throat, the tip puncturing through and out the other side with one blow.

The blast of pain caused Todd’s muscles to go rigid. At the same time, a flood of adrenaline was dumped into his bloodstream. The combined result was that Todd’s engorged cock began spurting out thick, ropy stream of cum.

Todd could feel the knife being violently twisted inside him, the razor edge carving and slicing his larynx and esophagus. With each twist came another burst of agony and another blast of sperm.

The pain of his death orgasm was so completely overwhelming that Todd never realized that the knife had been removed from his throat and his killer had left. He was coughed up a great gout of blood. It ran down his chin, splattered down his leather jacket and onto his boots. He stared in horror at the blood on his hands, not comprehending what was happening to him. It spilled on his still-spurting cock. Blood and semen covered the tree trunk in front of him.

Todd sank to his knees as he bled out. His mind had shut down; the only sensations he was aware of were pain and orgasm. He pitched face first onto the ground, struggling to rise again, not knowing that he was a dead man. For a few seconds, his boots scuffled in the dirt. They slowed to an occasional spasmodic kick as life ebbed out of him. Then there was nothing but a quivering corpse with its face in a muddy puddle of blood and sperm. Todd had died without getting his chance to beat Jimbo off.

Back in the clearing, the circle jerk was in full swing.

Jimbo moaned softly. Sweat ran down his face as he looked down at Mario’s hand working his thick shaft. The cholo punk was tugging his meat hard and his balls had drawn up close to his body. Mario’s uncut cock was being yanked by Eddie, whose dick was throbbing in Jimbo’s grip.

Jimbo was close to shooting his wad but something was off. He let go of Eddie and knocked Mario’s hand away. “Lay off, dude,” he snapped, “Todd needs to be here. Dude, it’s his birthday and we need to get him off.”

“We’ll get him the next time round, when you break out the shrooms,” said Mario.

“Nah, I want him here for both.” Secretly, Jimbo had been waiting for this day for a while. He felt it was a rite of passage to let Todd handle his enormous rod. Todd was becoming a man.

He had no idea Todd’s cooling, stiffening corpse was less than a hundred feet away.

“I got an idea,” Eddie said suddenly. “Let’s split up and look for him. Keep your dicks out. If you find him first, you get to make him beat you off.”

“He’s gonna beat me off whether I find him first or not,” growled Jimbo. His hormones were in full flow and he had gone into full alpha-male mode. “All right, let’s go find the little fuck. Stay here, Mario; if he comes back first, he can jack you till we get back. Eddie, go that way; I’ll look over here.”

They vanished into the underbrush, leaving Mario at the fire. He dug down into his boot and pulled out the butt of his joint. He lit it and inhaled deeply, idly stroking his erection.

A gloved hand gripped his chin, another clamped on the top of his skull and his head was jerked violently. Mario gave an involuntary grunt as his cervical vertebrae splintered and shattered with explosive cracking sounds. His body felt a massive shock, as if he was being electrocuted. A stream of liquid fire ran the length of his uncut cock and erupted in a single massive spurt of cum.

He collapsed in a nerveless heap, his dazed eyes staring across the clearing into the treeline. Mario never heard his killer approach or leave. Someone out of nowhere had snapped his neck like a twig—he hadn’t even had time to exhale his smoke.

But Mario wasn’t dead yet. His head was propped against a log, which kept it raised above the ground. He was paralyzed from the neck down. His heart was still beating and his lungs were still working—but breathing was difficult. Every gasp of air was a struggle; a rasping, choking sound accompanied the white foam that emerged from his gaping mouth. As it oozed down the side of his face, the foam was tinted pink by the small trickle of blood that leaked from his nose. He couldn’t feel the semen drying in his coal-black pubic hair, but he could smell the piss and shit that had flooded out of him when he lost control of his bowels.

With immediate medical attention, Mario would live—as a quadriplegic on respirator, only able to communicate by moving his eyes. Without it, he was dying slowly and painfully by respiratory paralysis. Each breath was a little shallower and the awareness of impending death grew stronger.

The single thought in his brain was that Jimbo would find him. Jimbo would fix things; he could fix anything. Paralyzed and dying, Mario could finally admit his worship of Jimbo to himself. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. Jimbo would save him. Jimbo wouldn’t let him die.

There was a rustling in the bushes just beyond Mario’s line of sight. His sprits rose, thinking that Jimbo had returned, but it was Eddie who staggered into view, blinking blearily at the fire. His dick was still out, preceding him like a flagpole, but since he too had stashed a joint down his combat boot and had hotboxed it in the two minutes it took to convert Mario into a helpless pile of meat, he was too stoned to see his buddy’s quivering body lying next to the log.

Mario could see him, though. And Mario could also see the shadowy figure dressed in black that had slipped from the treeline behind Eddie. His vision was starting to fade, but he clearly saw the firelight glinting on the long serrated knife in the figure’s hand. He tried to call out to Eddie, but he was losing control of his diaphragm muscles. His entire will to live was focused on breathing; speaking was too great an effort. Mario realized he was going to watch helplessly while Eddie got dropped.

Eddie never saw death coming for him. The knife that ended his life was inside him before he could react. His scream of pain was an automatic response, and the gloved hand over his mouth stifled it effectively.

Mario saw it all.

The knife had swung up in a swift arc and slammed sharply upward at a point just below the angle of Eddie’s jaw. The hitman had pulled Eddie’s head down to the left to allow the blade to slice a straight line into the brain through the opening at the base of the skull by which the spinal cord entered. The blade was so long that its tip struck Eddie’s cranium near the back of his head just above his left ear—from the inside.

Eddie’s world ended in a blast of agony. The physical reaction to massive brain trauma was instantaneous. He went up on his toes, spunk flowing out of him as if someone had pulled a plug. He began to convulse violently, each spasm flinging his cum out in a wide semicircle.

The killer shifted Eddie’s body to get a better grip. He brutally ground the knife inside Eddie’s skull, hacking his brain into quivering chunks and slashing away the spinal cord. The body went as limp as a rag doll, the flaccid penis still a good five inches long, semen glazing the head. The killer lowered Eddie to the ground as a gush of piss soaked the corpse’s jeans.

The silence of death was broken by Mario’s labored breathing. The killer looked straight at him, but all Mario could see of his face was a cold stare, calculating the level of threat. The rest of the face was hidden by camouflage paint.

Before anything could happen, the sound of a branch snapping burst from a point behind the hitman’s left shoulder. He quickly dragged the pile of meat that had been Eddie off in another direction, disappearing into the woods fifteen yards from the point where the sound had originated. Mario was alone again.

Not for long. It was Jimbo who came out of the woods next, pausing like Eddie had done when he entered the clearing. The swelling of hope that Mario felt was punctured by the fear that Jimbo would be attacked too. But Jimbo approached him without interference.

Jimbo was higher than any of the others had been—as unacknowledged leader, he’d kept the bag of weed tucked down inside his boot and had dipped in numerous times. The fact that Mario was lying on the ground in a twisted heap had no significance in his drug-fogged mind. He grinned foolishly as he walked towards Mario.

“Has that little faggot come back yet? Shit, I bet Eddie found him and is getting’ whacked off right now. Fuck, dude, when he gets back, I’ll make him lick my dick. Make a man of him,” growled Jimbo, massaging his dripping pole. He blinked and peered at Mario’s face.

Mario was facing away from the fire and Jimbo was unable to see the tears of relief which oozed from Mario’s eyes. But he could see—uncomprehendingly—the look of horror that came over Mario.

He couldn’t see the thin wire that had descended in front of his face, but he could damn sure feel it.

The slicing pain that circled his neck was excruciating but the inability to breathe that accompanied it was terrifying. Jimbo struggled to free himself like a fish on a line. The garrote tore into his flesh—the leaking blood made Jimbo’s hands slick as they scrambled frantically at his throat. It was no good. He couldn’t get a grip on anything.

Jimbo’s mind was aflame with panic, trying to understand what was happening to him. The concept that someone had just walked casually out of the woods and started killing him never occurred to him The world was fading and it hurt so bad, it hurt worse than anything else this is what death feels like it’s slow and it hurts Mario help me…

Mario watched Jimbo die, knowing that he was watching his own death. Jimbo was going to save him. But Jimbo was dying and Mario couldn’t help. He could only watch as Jimbo was slowly strangled.

Mario watched for a long time. Jimbo was young and hard and fought viciously for his life. But he was an ignorant redneck punk who spent most of his time stoned and drunk and he was in the hands of a professional killer. He never had a chance.

The hitman forced him to his knees. Jimbo could feel the killer’s strong, thickly muscled legs at his sides. He could feel something long and hard against the back of his head as his head was forced back into his killer’s crotch.

“On your knees, kid,” Jimbo heard whispered in his ear, “I’m gonna let your friend watch you get snuffed before I put his lights out for good.”

Mario looked up into Jimbo’s blackening face and his mind snapped in terror. He had never seen anyone strangled before. In all the action movies he’d seen, the victims had gone limp in thirty seconds and looked like they’d fallen asleep.

Jimbo didn’t look like that at all.

His eyes bulged horribly. It was impossible to tell if they were red because if bust blood vessels or because he was utterly baked. His face was a livid purple color and his tongue protruded grotesquely. Spittle leaked from the corners of his mouth and dangled from his chin. His hands, bloody from clutching his throat, grasped weakly at Mario, just out of reach. Jimbo was dying like a dog, his life being mercilessly choked out, slowly and painfully.

The last conscious thought in Jimbo’s failing brain was questioning. He was aware that he was being killed, killed by someone stronger and more bad-ass than himself. But who? And why? All he’d wanted to do was have some fun, to get fucked up and then get his rocks off…

And then, as the darkness dragged him down, he could feel that he’d done both. The most painfully intense orgasm he’d ever experienced overwhelmed him as death overcame him.

Jimbo’s spunk sprayed directly into Mario’s face. Mario, catatonic in terror, didn’t blink as cum splashed into his eyes and open mouth. Jimbo’s death cum splattered into Mario’s black spiked hair. It so completely covered his face that it ran down the back of his neck.

As Jimbo lost the battle for his life, he shot one last enormous wad of cum directly into Mario’s mouth. The hitman released the wire and Jimbo collapsed. Mindless spasms jerked in the legs, scuffling Jimbo’s loose construction boots in the dirt. Then all was quiet.

Mario stared blankly at the killer. There was nothing left inside him now. He had seen his savior, his idol die horribly in front of him and knew that he was next. So his mind simply stopped functioning.

He didn’t feel the hitman’s boot on his head, grinding semen into his hair with the tread. He didn’t smell his killer’s ripe combat boot that clamped his head into place while he bent down and grabbed Mario’s arm. He did feel a blast of pain when the hitman jerked his arm, causing his spinal cord to completely sever and a small trickle of cum to leak from his dick. Then there was nothing else to feel. Mario’s eyes stared dully, clouded by Jimbo’s spunk.

The killer crouched over Mario’s body, listening intently to make sure no one else was around, before he dragged the corpses into the woods. No one would find them for months, especially if he went back and moved the truck. He needed to hurry, though. He had business to attend to.

Todd spent the night of his eighteenth birthday rotting in the woods. It had been a killer party, dude.

Stealth Speed Kills

Tom stood alone in the dark and lighted a cigarette. He was cold and slightly bored but he had a job to do. He was standing guard.

No job for a professional, he thought. He was a hired killer, not a sentry. But the pay was good and all he had to do was make sure that no one went down the dirt track he was watching. He didn’t know why he needed to watch it and he didn’t need to know.

All he needed to know was that he was to kill anyone who appeared on the dirt road from which the track led. Someone wanted some privacy.

Tom wore jeans over black tactical boots. He had on a leather biker jacket, zipped up against the cold. A black knit cap fit tightly over his head. With a rifle in his hands and a knife in his boot, he felt ready for anything.

He had a hard, fit body to match his hard, cold mind. Tom was in his early thirties and had killed many men in many ways. He was familiar with sudden violent death and had watched men gasp away their last few seconds in shock and pain.

Someday it could happen to him. But not if he kept on his toes. And tonight, Mike was watching his back. He’d worked with Mike before and trusted him.

Mike had gone to check out the surroundings a little further down the road. His appearance was similar to Tom’s—same age, same cold face and hard body. His jeans, boots and cap were like Tom’s too, but he wore an olive green nylon jacket. He was as experienced a killer as Tom and could take care of any problems quickly and efficiently.

Tom took another drag on his cigarette. He wouldn’t be smoking if he thought there was a chance for some action, but he knew there was no one but Mike around for miles.

But for once his killer instinct let him down. As he took a third drag, he was unaware that he was being stalked and set up for a kill.

When it happened, it happened fast. Tom barely knew what hit him.

A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, crushing his lips. At the same time, a knife sheared through his leather jacket and plunged into his kidney in a burst of agony.

Shock flooded Tom’s body. He went up on his toes and bent backwards to escape the pain. He could feel the muscles of his killer’s chest against his back and hear his ragged breath in his ears. But the pain was what held him frozen—the pain and the adrenalin shock.

The killer’s arm held Tom like a steel trap as the knife was twisted viciously in the wound. The gloved hand sealed his mouth, his screams of pain reduced to muffled groans.

Then the knife was removed and the hand was grabbing his chin. Tom could open his mouth but deep shock prevented him from doing more than gasping. He felt himself pulled backwards so that his chest was exposed but he had no control of his body and was powerless to stop it.

He saw the gloved hand holding the blood-smeared knife a split second before the knife was slammed into his chest. It punctured him with such force that his breath was expelled in a long rattling moan.

Tom stared dully as the hand twisted the knife into this wound. The killer was grinding it, trying to cause as much damage as possible. It also caused as much pain as possible. The injury to his kidney was nothing compared to the searing agony of his quivering heart slicing itself to hamburger on the probing knife.

Tom’s wide, panicked eyes dilated and he lost control of his bowels. The air reeked of piss and shit and sweat—the smell of a dying man. He sank slowly to the ground. His killer left as silently as he had come. Tom twitched on the ground for a while, his eyes glazing into dull terror. He come up against someone who was a better killer than he was and experienced the same violent and painful death he’d dealt out himself.

The faint moans Tom had made in his death agonies hadn’t been heard by Mike. The first clue he had of trouble was his leg being kicked out from under him and his arm being twisted behind his back. He was on his knees with a razor-sharp knife slashing at his throat before he could react. The killer sliced Mike’s throat to ribbons, multiple slashes in a quick burst, cutting deeply through the larynx and esophagus. Then the killer was gone.

Mike knelt in the road, his eyes wide and his face white. His hands clawed in horror at the gaping flesh of his ripped-out throat. A rhythmic jet of blood pulsed from his neck, splashing his hands and the ground in front of him. The gurgling and hissing of his breath in his shredded windpipe grew more frenzied as pink foam bubbled out of the hole in his throat.

Suddenly Mike pitched forward into a pool of his own blood. He struggled for life for a few more seconds, slowly blinking his uncomprehending eyes, opening and closing his mouth as if he was still trying to speak.

His killer was long gone as Mike shuddered to his death alone on the dirt road. The hardman was left to rot in a sticky puddle of his own blood and piss.

Threesome

Travis took a huge swig of Jack before handing the bottle to Ryan and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, Ryan turned around and passed the bottle to Justin in the back seat. Justin returned the favor by handing Ryan the joint he’d just rolled.

“This weed’s pretty weak,” commented Justin after he’d swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey, “but we should be able to afford some good shit once we get paid.”

“Gotta do the work to get paid,” replied Travis. “Don’t get too fucked up. Sanchez said there might be some trouble tonight. Dunno what he’s heard, but he’ll treat us right if we keep everyone away from his field. And you know Sanchez’s weed is good. I got half an ounce in my boot now. We keep an eye on his grow operation and he’ll make sure we got plenty to smoke. Now shut up and let me drive. These logging trails are fuckin’ hell.”

Travis leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out the next turn the dirt road made. Travis was about twenty-five with long brown hair and a mean look on his acne-scarred face. He wore a black leather aviator’s jacket over a white t-shirt. His tight, ripped jeans were tucked into a pair of black harness boots, where a baggie of pot pressed against his ankle.

Travis was the town “problem”. Dropped out of school at sixteen, got by by selling drugs and doing odd jobs. He’d tried the biker lifestyle for about three days before he got so drunk he managed to end up ditching in the river. He never could remember how he’d done it, but he couldn’t afford another bike, so that was it for his crotch-rocket days.

Of course Ryan and Justin had gravitated towards him; he was their epitome of Cool. Ryan was twenty-one, with dark curly hair and a tuft on his chin that he thought of as a goatee. He wore a black t-shirt and gray jeans, with a white baseball cap. The work boots on his feet were clean because he didn’t do any work. He still lived with his folks, decent working-class people who had no idea that their son was a waste. He lived with them and ate their food, but he didn’t ask them for money because he got most of what he wanted by theft.

Justin, in the back seat, was the youngest at nineteen. He had more of a skater-rat look, with wavy auburn hair, skinny jeans and a hoodie, red skate shoes on his feet. He was nothing more than a small-time delinquent trying to gain some street cred by hanging around the local toughs.

They were headed out to Sanchez’s field—actually, a small clearing in the state forest. Sanchez had been growing his weed there for a while, using random occasional labor—Travis had done a lot of it; Sanchez had been his supplier for quite a while now.

Tonight, Sanchez had asked Travis to round up a couple of guys and keep an eye on the field. He didn’t say why. Evidently he had heard something—Travis thought it likely that a rival was going to make a move. He didn’t know what to expect, but he didn’t expect much. He’d chased off other growers before; they were pussies. Nothing to break a sweat over.

None of them knew they were going to die in excruciating pain in a very short time.

At a seemingly random place in the road, Travis pulled over and shut off the car (Ryan’s mother’s car, borrowed for the evening). They all got out. Travis turned to Justin.

“Dude, you stay here. Text me if you see or hear anything. We’re gonna go keep an eye on the field itself. You set up ok?”

Justin, who’d rolled himself three joints out of Travis’ stash, nodded. Travis and Ryan turned away and disappeared into the trees on the west side of the road. Justin leaned back against the car, fired up one of the jays and slipped his earphones in. In no time at all, he was groovin’ and flyin’, utterly unaware that he was being sized up for a kill.


The mercenaries crept forward silently, keeping their focus on the road. They had been hired to destroy a marijuana grow op. They were prepared to terminate any defense they encountered, by whatever means necessary.

There were two mercs, in black body suits and hoods, black tactical boots, black camo on their faces—absolutely invisible in the shadows of the forest. They had approached through the woods from the next logging road to the east, three miles as the crow flies. Justin was the first guard they came across and they were gonna make damn sure he didn’t have the chance to alert anyone.


 

Travis and Ryan split up when they reached the field. Ryan stayed on the east side of the field, closest to the road. Travis made sure Ryan was set up well and had a couple of jays tucked inside his boot too. The he made his way across to the west side. The clearing extended to a couple of acres, so when Travis got to the far side, he was some distance from Ryan.

Each of them was going to die alone.


Even if he hadn’t been rocking out, it’s unlikely Justin would have heard the faint crunch of the merc’s rubber-soled boot as he approached from behind. The kid had just taken a lung-busting hit off his joint when a kick to the back of his knee brought him down. A hand in a black leather fingerless glove clamped down over his forehead, middle fingers digging into Justin’s eyes. He gasped as his head was yanked back sharply.

He didn’t get the chance to exhale before the seven-inch serrated steel blade ripped his throat open.

Justin stiffened as the knife slashed mercilessly though his flesh and into his larynx. His involuntary scream of agony became a bubbling hiss, the coppery smell of blood blending in with the sweet scent of the smoke that had been trapped in the boy’s lungs and was now escaping through the gushing hole in his esophagus.

The merc held on tight as Justin kicked and jerked. Soon more primal smells prevailed—a dark stain spreading in the punk’s groin as the realization that he was dying pervaded his drug-fogged brain—Justin was pissing himself in terror. He could feel the terrible gash in his throat, could feel the blood filling his lungs with each desperate, gasping breath. He was dying, it hurt, it was going on so long…

When the merc let him go, Justin staggered to his feet, grabbing the terrible gash in his throat with both hands, feeling his blood pouring out around his fingers. He stumbled forward two steps, and then fell face-down in the road. He spent his last half-minute on earth inhaling mud made of the dirt road mixed with his own blood. In Justin’s last seconds, he was aware of the two dark figures that crossed the road and had a vague idea of demons. Then everything faded to gray.

Justin’s eyes glazed and his body continued to twitch and jerk for a few minutes. In the silence surrounding his corpse, the loudest sound was his red shoes scuffling in the dirt as neurons fired at random. Then there was nothing but a pile of cooling meat.


 

Ryan rubbed the bulge in his groin. He wasn’t particularly horny; he was just hard most of the time. He’d had a fair amount to drink tonight, though, so he didn’t think it was going to be an issue.

He’d already pulled a joint out of his boot and smoked it. He was thinking that Justin had been smart to bring some tunes; he wished he’d thought of it. He wasn’t given time to think of anything else. The cord that appeared out of nowhere, whipped round his neck and cut off his air also cut off whatever limited ability for rational thought that Ryan had ever had.

The boy fought hard for his life—harder than anyone who had seen him waste it would have thought warranted. He kicked and jerked like a trout on a line, thrashing about in a futile attempt to break free of the unknown force that was choking him to death.

As he struggled, Ryan reached back behind him in an instinctive drive to stop whatever was attacking him. He could feel the powerful muscles of the man behind him and heard his ragged breathing as he and his killer fought against one another. But Ryan was fighting without air–and was doomed.

As great dark patches appeared in his field of vision, Ryan could feel his face swelling with the terrible pressure that was building up. His eyes were starting to protrude and he could feel his tongue forcing its way out of his mouth. That wasn’t the only thing swelling, though. Vaguely at first, but growing more insistent, Ryan could feel his cock starting to strain as well.

It was surprising how it made a greater impression as his brain began to die. Ryan lost contact with various parts of his body as his nervous system began to shut down but the swelling and strain in his dick kept growing.

On the outside, the kid was drooling, ropes of foam dangling from his chin. His eyes stared frantically, the whites hemorrhaging to red. His thick, purple tongue extended grotesquely past his swollen, blue lips. He shook convulsively, his boots digging furrows in the dirt.

On the inside, it was all dark explosions, deafening in their silence. A fire burned in Ryan’s crotch, a blaze raging out of control until it erupted like a volcano with molten lead flowing from the caldera…

As Ryan died, he blew his load and shit his jeans simultaneously. His bowels went slack as he poured a dying load of semen into his shorts. The cord became embedded in Ryan’s neck so deeply the merc had to brace himself by planting his boot on the back of Ryan’s head to pull the it out.

He ground Ryan’s puffy black face into the dirt.


Two down, one to go. The mercs pushed quietly through the field in a direct line to the final target. There would be plenty of time afterwards to spread a few chemicals around and make sure this grow op was finished.

Their mandate didn’t include corpses. The bodies would be left where they fell. The mercs didn’t give a shit; they would be long gone by the time the bodies were found.


Travis stood facing the field, leaning against a tree with one hand, fishing a joint out of his boot with the other hand. He had drunk more than the others, so he was at even more of a disadvantage than the others when it came time to fight for his life.

The moment he stood upright, a hand clamped over his mouth and a sharp hard blade was slammed into his right kidney. Travis’ bloodshot, half-lidded eyes dilated in shock. He stiffened involuntarily, his body snapping upright and rising up on his toes. The merc twisted the knife, then ripped it back out of the wound, causing Travis unspeakable agony.

But it was nothing to the pain that came next, when the merc pulled Travis’ head back and stuck the knife into the soft flesh of the bottom jaw, behind the chin.

The tempered steel blade tore upward through the bottom jaw and pierced the tongue, pinning it to the roof of the punk’s mouth. The blade continued up through the soft palate, penetrating the sinuses, passing behind the eyes and severing the optic nerves, shredding the brain tissue in its path.

The tip of the blade came to rest in the pleasure center of the brain, which was why Travis began spewing huge amounts of spunk out of his dying cock.

Travis was locked in a blinded world of loud noises and the most phenomenal pain possible. The brain trauma sent a shockwave through his entire central nervous system. His body seemed to flow in waves from the mangled brain matter down his spine to his dick, where his entire life seemed to flow in great white gobs of cum out of his unnaturally engorged tool.

Travis fell back into the strong, ruthless arms of the merc, thrashing with massive brain damage, his entire existence reduced to the solid stream of semen his shorted-out cerebrum was forcing out of his rod in a final agonizing, involuntary orgasm.

The stoned fucker slumped to the ground, still twitching and convulsing. Long after the mercs had done what they needed to do, Travis was still jerking, cum oozing from the head of his flaccid cock.


The moon rose long after midnight. It shed its slivery beams down on three young men getting hard in the wood. But these boys were getting hard all over—in fact, they were downright stiff.

Good meat never goes to waste in the forest.

The Mule

The wind whipped round Josh’s helmet as he throttled his bike up over the speed limit. The Kawasaki lurched as he let off the clutch, almost throwing him. He knew he’d get pulled over if a trooper saw him out here on a state highway, going ninety miles an hour, and he didn’t have the skill to outrun a highway patrol car, anyway. But he was running out of time and had to take the risk.

And anyway, getting a speeding ticket wasn’t so bad. They’d never think anyone on a crotch rocket would be smuggling drugs. It wasn’t like he had any place to conceal them except his backpack; and there was nothing there but dirty clothes and toiletries. His youth would probably count against him—he was twenty but looked younger—but it was obvious he had nothing secreted about him.

He wore a skintight black t-shirt that showed the outlines of his pectoral muscles and the exact placement of his nipples. From under the sleeve stretched around his right bicep a snake tattoo writhed down his sweat-covered arm. Leather gloves kept his grip firm on the handlebar. His jeans were so tight they weren’t capable of hiding anything, neither his wallet attached by a chain to his belt or the thick gourd-like bulge that mushroomed out of his groin. The jeans clung to his leg down to the point where they disappeared into his calf-high black motorcycle boots with thick buckled straps circling his legs. No real reason to suspect he’d be carrying anything else.

And even if they did, even the dogs wouldn’t be able to sniff out the fourteen small balloons filled with heroin working their way through his intestines. He certainly hadn’t had any problem boarding his flight from Mexico six hours ago; he’d passed through the security at Escobedo International Airport in Monterrey without breaking a sweat.

He was sweating now, though. He wanted the damned things out of him and was cursing himself for ever getting involved. This was scary shit, dude, and Josh had every reason to be scared. But he had every reason to go on, too.

He’d never intended to get into debt with Rocky. But Josh hadn’t had a sugar daddy in a while (and never had worked in the usual sense of the word at all) and Rocky kept fronting the coke and meth—reeling him in, of course, though he’d been too doped up to see it.

He wasn’t doped up now. He’d found some while he was south of the border, but he’d used it all there. Even Josh wasn’t stupid enough to try to board an international flight with a bag of coke.

He was down, and down hard. He needed another boost. He needed to get back to Rocky. He knew that he was just getting himself in deeper, but it didn’t matter. Besides, there were other options. Rocky had offered to let him work off his debt with sex, but Josh chose being a drug mule with a sense of relief. Rocky was one of the hottest guys Josh knew, but he was also the scariest.

The man—Josh only knew that he was slightly older but was so well-built, Josh felt like a small child in his presence–was worse than a sadist; he was a sociopath. He’d let Josh watch some video he’d taken of one of his sessions with a delinquent customer. Josh had made him stop, pale and shaking, ten minutes in.

“I can’t believe he lived through that,” whispered Josh.

Rocky was silent. After thirty seconds, Josh ran to the bathroom and vomited.

And here he was, hurrying back like an anxious lover. But he thought he had an edge that would keep him safe for at least one night. And maybe he could tame the wild beast. Just one good fuck and Rocky would care enough for him not to hurt him.

Josh wasn’t old enough to have realized that sometimes a romantic nature can be fatal.

Rocky had arranged to meet Josh at a small motel on the rough side of town. He’d promised Josh some money and some extra coke when he showed up–his pay for a successful mission. Josh would hang around in the motel room until nature took its course and the balloons reappeared.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d let Rocky fuck him. He was counting on the fact that Rocky couldn’t afford to hurt him too badly until he got his heroin back to keep him safe. It never occurred to Josh that there was a flaw in his logic.

He’d called Rocky when he landed to confirm the meeting, so he already knew where to go and which room to knock at. He pulled off the state highway into the motel parking lot, hearing the gravel crunching under his tires. He cut the engine on the bike and got off, wheeling it over to room 113 so he didn’t attract too much attention with the noise.

Josh pulled off his helmet, revealing short, almost curly brown hair and thick, rosy cheeks that gave a hint of innocence to his cornflower-blue eyes that they certainly didn’t deserve. Leaving the helmet on the bike, he moved towards the building. The thick black soles of his boots clumped on the concrete walkway as he nervously approached the door.

Rocky opened up immediately. Josh gulped as the large muscular figure loomed in the doorway. Rocky was a good six inches taller than Josh. And while Josh certainly wasn’t underdeveloped, it was very clear that Rocky was much stronger than he was. Josh was still a bit unsettled just by being in the same room with the man; he radiated an air of menace and barely-suppressed violence that Josh found as erotic as it was disturbing.

Rocky let him enter and closed the door behind him. He stood grinning at Josh. Six and a half feet tall with short black hair under a baseball cap, Rocky was wearing nothing but his jeans and boots; his t-shirt was draped over the back of a chair. He’d been waiting here for Josh for a day or two and hadn’t bothered with his hygiene during that time. A faint musky reek of sweat drifted from him and his face was covered with rough black stubble.

It all made Josh hard. He stood silently, waiting for Rocky to say something, admiring his hard, firm body. Rocky’s left arm writhed with tattoos, a colorful sleeve of ink covering his bulging biceps from the shoulder to the wrist, too many shapes and patterns to assimilate. It was a warm evening and the AC wasn’t working well–Josh could see beads of sweat rolling down the smooth topography of Rocky’s chest and was filled with the desire to let his tongue trace the same path.

Rocky’s black jeans were too tight to leave much to the imagination; Josh felt that if he looked closely enough, he might even be able to see the veins wrapped around the huge, thick ridge outlined in denim in Rocky’s crotch.

Josh sat himself on the bed. Rocky looked down at him and couldn’t help noticing the huge hard-on tenting his jeans. He smiled to himself–he could have the kid anytime he wanted, just as he’d thought. Even though Josh had seen the kinds of things that got Rocky off in the sack, he’d still be willing to get fucked.

And once Rocky had Josh where he wanted him, there’d be no escape. He’d checked in with cash on Friday evening, at a time when the place was full of whores and tricks; no one had looked at him twice. He’d taken the room under a false name. No one would know who he was when all was said and done.

Well, Josh would know, but he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.

Rocky reached down and grabbed his thick package. “How about it?” he asked Josh. “I know you want it. I seen ya lookin’. Get your clothes off and I’ll bang ya.”

Josh hesitated momentarily–the things on that video had been terrifying–but relaxed with the knowledge that Rocky wouldn’t be able to do anything bad to him; not if he wanted his heroin back. It would be different if he didn’t have this hold over Rocky, he reflected as he slipped off his high motorcycle boots and wriggled out of his skin-tight jeans. Thick white socks clung to Josh’s chiseled calves; his muscled legs rose to a smooth, slim torso with a flat belly that looked like silk covered with a fine down. His massive shaft swung excitedly between his legs as Josh jerked his shirt off over his head, tousling his hair.

Josh lay back on the bed, displaying his lithe, firm body for Rocky, trembling with anticipation. He’d always wanted Rocky inside him, but had been too scared of what Rocky would actually do to him. Now he could enjoy it, as rough as it might get, because he represented an investment that Rocky couldn’t afford to waste. As long as he’d been in debt to Rocky, Josh would never have let himself get this far into the dude’s power, but now the tables were turned and Josh had something Rocky needed. He felt safe to enjoy a good fuck with a dangerous man, without worrying about the consequences.

Rocky unzipped his fly and let his hog flop out like a length of sausage, dripping at the tip. He’d wanted Josh just as much as Josh wanted him, but he was smarter, stronger, and infinitely crueler and had worked things out to the smallest detail. He already knew the lust-tinged thoughts percolating through the hot younger boy’s mind and had worked on allaying his fears to the point that he knew Josh wouldn’t begin to resist until it was too late. The kid was young and strong, but he was also a drug-addicted slut and not very clever; there were things about the situation he’d overlooked–just as Rocky had expected.

But he’d notice some things. Rocky still needed a little compliance from him still. He tossed the kid a rock, a lighter and a glass straight. “Light up, man,” he chuckled. “After all, I want ya in a good mood when I fuck ya. And yer gonna wanna be numb before it’s over, anyways.”

As the sharp, sweet scent of crack and the bubbling hiss of the melting rock filled the room, Rocky sat on the bed, his eyes moving over Josh’s lean body, glistening with sweat. Josh was too busy to notice Rocky’s surreptitious movement, sliding his hand down to his black leather harness boot as if to check something.

Josh’s big purple cock was lying along his stomach like an iron rod. Rocky was too horny to wait any longer. Kneeling between Josh’s legs, he threw the boy’s feet, still in white athletic socks, up on his shoulder and began spearing the thick, spade-shaped head of his dick into the kid’s ass. Josh whimpered and grimaced in pain as Rocky’s fireplug shaft pierced him like a javelin. He groaned as Rocky thrust in even further.

“Shut up, bitch, I ain’t even halfway in yet,” Rocky snarled.

“Oh fuck, please go slow,” moaned Josh. “You’re too big. It hurts.”

“Yeah,” grinned Rocky, “I know.” And he rammed himself in even harder.

“Fuck!” cried Josh. “Get out–yer killin’ me! Ease off, man, I can’t do this!”

Rocky had managed to get one hand in his pocket. He smiled down at Josh as he pulled it back out, holding some cable ties. He’d already known that this would happen–it wasn’t the first time–and he was prepared. “Too late to back out now,” he whispered.

Josh’s eyes grew wide. He still didn’t realize the danger he was in; he wasn’t panicking–he just wanted Rocky to stop hurting him and suddenly realized that wasn’t going to happen. Before he could react, Rocky had secured his right hand to the headboard with one of the cable ties.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Josh yelled angrily. “You think I’m gonna give you your shit if you rape me? Ain’t happening, dude. Now untie me and get outta my ass. I’ll blow ya, but you’re too big to fuck me.” He was beating at Rocky’s broad, sculpted chest with his left hand, trying futilely to push the larger, stronger man off of him.

Rocky caught hold of Josh’s flailing arm by the wrist and cinched it to the headboard as well. Josh began jerking his arms harder in a desperate attempt to free them but only succeeded in making the thin but tough plastic strap embed itself even more painfully in his skin.

Josh was beginning to realize that things weren’t going according to his plan. He whimpered and began to thrash but wasn’t able to move very much. He was pinned down to the bed, practically nailed to the mattress by Rocky’s enormous cock, his legs almost immobilized by Rocky’s strong arms.

Suddenly, Rocky bent forward, folding Josh’s legs until his knees were resting on his chest and Rocky’s leering, terrifying face hung a foot over his own. Josh just had time to wonder why he’d never noticed the homemade teardrop tattoo by Rocky’s eye before it hit him that not only was his ability to move restricted even further now, he also couldn’t get a deep enough breath to enable him to cry out loudly.

He stared fearfully into Rocky’s eyes and saw lust reflected back—but an ice-cold lust that regarded him as an object to be used for mere pleasure and discarded. Rocky wouldn’t “care for him” after just one fuck.

Rocky would dispose of his corpse after just one fuck.

Terror, true terror, can have different effects on different people (to state the obvious) and in Josh’s case, it induced a flaccid immobility. Rocky realized at once what had happened. He spit on Josh’s face, watching his spittle gleam on those rubicund cheeks.

“You—you can’t. You can’t kill me,” Josh whispered in horror, “I’ve still got your stuff in me…”

Rocky smiled gently. He moved his arm down to his boot and back, holding up a serrated hunting knife with a black seven-inch blade that he’d retrieved from his boot sheath. He reached his heavily-tattooed left arm down to stroke Josh’s face as he whispered in reply, “Who sez ya gotta be alive for me to get my shit back?”

The realization of the huge gap in his reasoning made Josh rigid with mental shock; he’d walked willingly into the lion’s den. And tonight, the lion was hungry.

Rocky had been waiting for the rigidity. He felt Josh’s sphincter tighten around his cock. Throwing himself back up on his knees, he pulled Josh’s body back towards him with as much force as he could, impaling the boy on his swollen shaft.

Josh wailed loudly. Rocky hit him—move of a love tap, really, didn’t even leave much of a bruise—and Josh subsided into a quiet sobbing. Rocky bent forward, fully inserted into the boy’s ass and stroked his tear-stained face again. He started to whisper once more. ”Hey, hey, hey. Shhh. C’mon, look up at me. It’s ok. I’m just kidding. I ain’t gonna cut the shit outta your dead body. Really, I ain’t.”

Josh snuffled and blinked hopefully up into Rocky’s face. The gentle smile encouraged him. “You’re not?” he whispered tremulously.

Rocky was straight up on his knees, with the kid’s legs parted around him, his hard strong body looming over the helpless, bound youth. He toyed with the knife for a moment, his smile fading slowly. “No,” he said. “I’m gonna cut it outta ya while you’re still alive, you useless cunt.”

His arm flashed down like lightning. Before Josh had enough time to process the words spoken to him, all seven inches of black cold carbon steel had torn through his hard flat abdomen, ripping viciously through his intestines.

The force of the blow made Josh exhale violently. There was nothing wrong with his lungs—yet—and he inhaled again immediately, only to blast it out again in agony.

Rocky leaned down and grabbed Josh’s jaw with his left arm. Josh’s field of vision was filled with Rocky’s leering face as the vicious sadist twisted the knife in his entrails. His eyes, circled with black rings of shock, looked up blankly into those of his assailant.

“Fuck yeah,” moaned Rocky as he yanked the knife up outta the wound, “lookit that nice fuckhole. Want me to stick it in there, Josh? Yeah, you’re just dyin’ for a hard cock inside of you, aincha, faggot?”

He held the knife in front of Josh’s eyes. Even in the chemical stew of shock, Josh realized that the bleeding shreds of meat caught in the serrations were parts of himself.

“Business before pleasure, though,” chortled Rocky as Josh’s rectum tensed at the root of his cock again; a spontaneous reaction to the pain. Inserting the knife back into the wound, he began cutting upwards, away from himself, slicing through the smooth flesh and opening a slit in the abdominal cavity.

Josh’s eyes grew so large in shock and horror that Rocky almost thought they’d pop. He was enjoying himself. He’d been right; Josh was fun to fuck. Shame it’d only be the once, but it was worth it. Josh was working his cock real good.

“Yeah, you little punk, time to get my investment back. Thought you could hold my delivery ransom till you got fucked, huh? How you like it, bitch? Was this the fuck you wanted? It’s damn sure the one I wanted. Set you up from the beginning, you cunt. Gave you the shittiest leftovers from making rock and meth—didn’t cost me a dime, bitch, but it got ya to think you had to go get me the real stuff. So now I’m gettin’ the real shit back and havin’ a little fun, too. Fuck yeah, dude, we shoulda done this sooner. You’re a great lay, motherfucker.”

In the vain denial of death that only the young and strong truly possess, Josh raised his head as he continued to flail his arms, trying to free himself. He was not equipped mentally for the sight of Rocky pulling out loops of his small intestine and slicing them open. The older man had felt through them with his hands until he’d located the balloons—and started cutting. Now he was squeezing Josh’s guts and popping the heroin out like he was shelling peas.

Josh shuddered and went rigid. His ass tightened in agony around Rocky’s dick once again. Rocky leaned back, dropping the slippery organ he’d been clutching—he’d just removed the last one—and inhaled deeply in blood-soaked lust.

He looked down at Josh. The boy lay beneath him, exposed, vulnerable. A four-inch slit, from which a pink loop of slashed intestine protruded slightly, ran up his belly. He was otherwise unmarked.

Aside, of course, from the mask of terror and agony stretched tightly across his young, innocent-looking face.

Josh’s brain was too full to work. He knew he was watching himself die. The pain itself would have rendered him unable to move, but the realization that he had never known that someone could actually go that far

How could he not have thought it? After the video he’d been shown, how could he not have realized that Rocky would go to these lengths? He’d been a fool…

He deserved it. Deep in his pig soul, he knew this was how his worthless life would end; this was why he was attracted to Rocky in the first place. Because Rocky was enough of a man to use him as he deserved to be used and then toss him aside like a reamed-out fucktoy whose utility was long gone. He’d served his brief purpose and could be disposed of; he knew it and welcomed it.

But the physical intervenes, as they say. Whatever Josh’s little crotch-rocket-riding, biker-gear-wearing soul craved, his body wanted to live. It fought back.

Rocky had counted on it. From long experience, he’d recognized the deathpig symptoms the moment he’d met Josh. He’d groomed him towards this moment, letting little hints drop about what was in store; just enough to titillate. He’d known, no matter what Josh had said, the boy would be turned on by the thought of a man who could to something like that to him.

Well, now the little fuck was getting it. He shuddered and jerked, looking up at Rocky’s face beseechingly, the skin on his face taut with agony. Rocky ran his eyes down the youth’s slim, blood-streaked body. Deep in the kid’s rectum, the head of Rocky’s dick was banging away at his victim’s prostate. Josh’s thick tool slapped against his belly in time to the pounding his ass was getting.

If Rocky had been inclined to remorse—he wasn’t—this would have ended it. Despite the horrible pain and the terror of imminent death, the punk was hard. It was all the proof Rocky needed that he’d been right; the little shit was a deathpig. Getting offed was getting him off.

Josh probably wouldn’t have put it in those terms, if he had been capable of putting things in any terms at all. At the moment, all he could do was lie back and try to breathe. Keep breathing was the thought he kept clinging to like a spar tossing on a violent sea of pain. If you’re breathing you’re still alive oh fuck keep breathing oh shit he’s so fucking deep in me oh god please just breathe…

His full, red lips, parted, gasping, drew Rocky’s eyes to the kid’s pale, snot-covered face. “I know,” he grinned down, “Hurts, don’t it? Must suck to get your guts yanked out, sliced open and then stuffed back in. But you knew it was coming, you fucking bitch. Thought you’d hold out on me? You wanted me to gut you like a deer, didn’t ya? You wouldn’t’a done it otherwise.”

Josh shuddered and sobbed violently, only able to express himself with faint mewling sounds. “Shut up!” snapped Rocky, backhanding Josh across the face with the hilt of the knife, splitting his upper lip and leaving a small laceration on his cheek. Josh’s blubbering became more subdued but did not cease altogether.

“You’re taking too long to die, fuckwad. You’re not bleeding out quick enough. I’m getting bored; you’re not worth keeping alive to fuck anymore. Your job is over, you useless piece of shit. When they find you—whatever parts of you they can find—they’re gonna know it’s just another sorry-ass drug mule who got cut up to get the load out. They ain’t gonna look for the load I put in ya. They ain’t even gonna look for me; dead thugs like you show up here all the time. They’re gonna haul your meat off and move on to the next dude. Get it, bitch? You’re gonna die on my cock and no one’s gonna know or care.”

Rocky leaned down over Josh’s face, carefully watching the reaction to his words. Once again, the mental shock produced a physical response, a tightening, stiffening throughout the entire body. Rocky could feel Josh’s colon wrap around his engorged rod like a glove.

This was it; this was the moment to hold. Before Josh was aware of what was happening, Rocky had clamped one hand down over his face and with the knife in the other, slashed brutally at his throat one, two, three—four times in lightning-quick succession.

Then he tossed the knife to the floor, placed his hands on Josh’s shoulders and, with his dick planted firmly in Josh’s ass, watched the kid die.

Josh’s eyes, already wide with shock, rolled back as his throat was sliced open. He could taste his own blood; could hear himself gargle his life away—and could feel an uncontrollable swelling in his cock. As he began to gray out, his blood pressure dropped dramatically everywhere but in his groin, where his muscles had locked in excruciating rigidity in reaction to the penetrating pain of Rocky’s enormous tool.

Josh’s entire body rocked with convulsions as he fought to stay conscious, desperately clinging to his wasted life. His asshole constricted tightly around Rocky’s shaft, tugging at it as if suction was being applied.

Suddenly, the open wound in the kid’s throat was covered in pink foam as he drowned in his own blood. Josh’s last physical sensation as everything faded into a screaming whiteness was that there was a white-hot wire running down the center of his dick; his final orgasm was so intense that his dying brain was too dull to interpret between pleasure and pain.

Josh’s body thrashed and flailed as thick, ropy streams of semen flew from the purple, straining head of his cock, splattering both himself and Rocky. His ass clenched and grasped, milking a burning wad out of Rocky’s swollen, aching rod. As Josh’s final loads splashed on Rocky’s chin and spattered his arms, obscuring some of his tattoo, the kid’s legs kicked away his last few seconds on earth, the white athletic socks still clinging to his sculpted calves but twisted around where he’d flailed against the denim of the jeans Rocky still wore.

Rocky grunted as he shot another load. He raised his arm and slammed the blade back down, grunting as the last wad of sperm exploded deep in Josh’s guts while the blade punched through the punk’s left pectoral and plunged directly into his quivering aorta. “Fuck, yeah…” moaned Rocky as he watched Josh’s eyes dilate and glaze over and a last milky spurt ooze from the fucker’s dick.

Rocky paused for a moment, waiting for the kid’s sphincter to relax in death. Once it did, he pulled his long hog back out of the corpse and stood up. Josh was on his back, legs spread, socks still on. His hands were bound to the headboard by the cable ties. A dull, gorgeous death stare gave a certain nobility to his violated corpse.

There was a lot of blood on the bed. Some had leaked from the opening sliced in his smooth flat belly (the protruding, sliced-open intestines testifying to the drug mule angle) down his flanks and stained the sheets at his sides, but most of the mess was up by his neck. The bloody froth exuded by his final breaths obscured the gaping wound where his throat had been torn out. And everywhere were pools of cum—which DNA testing would show were the victim’s own. And as Rocky knew, no one would care beyond that point. Just another addict pervert who made a really bad choice in a lifetime of bad choices.

Rocky showered quickly. He’d managed to keep the blood off his jeans and boots, but after throwing his t-shirt back on, he took Josh’s motorcycle boots—they’d fit him too. As for the rest—well, the maids in this part of town had dealt with worse.