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.

Trucker 10–Trucker v Birthday Boi

It was a Friday night, so of course the bar was full.  Dylan was thrilled—he knew, naturally, that it wasn’t all for him, but it still made him feel good.  The crowded bar wasn’t the only thing that was making him feel good; he’d already slammed three beers and smoked a joint before he’d left the house.  He was primed for a party.

 

Specifically, his eighteenth birthday party.

 

Legally, he never should have been let in the door, but he’d been selling weed inside the bar for over a year by a simple expedient—going to into the back with Don, the owner, and letting the older man bend him over his desk and fuck his ass.  He’d had a free pass ever since, even being allowed to buy alcohol, as long as Don got to plow his hole on occasion.

 

Tonight, Don was out.  That was fine with Dylan.  Even though he was attracted to older men, Don was a duty fuck.  Tonight, the boy wanted fun.  He wanted a real man.

 

Dylan had plenty of cash—he was also the main (but not the only) pot dealer for the county high school.  And looking around, he could see some of his classmates at the bar and another one on the dance floor.  He knew them; they’d gotten in with fake IDs.  Unless they wanted to buy some smoke, they left him alone and vice versa—they all already knew he wasn’t into twinks, despite being such a beautiful one himself.

 

Dylan was well-built and almost exactly six feet tall.  He had dark brown hair of moderate length.  It was styled in silky waves over his forehead, almost obscuring the long lashes surrounding his large dark brown eyes.

 

Since he wanted to be the center of attention on his birthday, he sported a vintage Rolling Stones t-shirt, white, with the famous logo across the chest.  It was thin, worn cotton, two sizes too small—it fitted his torso like a second skin, making obvious the twink’s large pecs, flat belly and hard, erect nipples.

 

Under the t-shirt, his legs were displayed in a pair of basic Adidas basketball shorts, black with red strips.  Long, slightly furred calves descended into a pair of ped socks, almost invisible deep inside his red Nike Jordan Horizon hightops.

 

Dylan had always looked younger than his age; even now, based on his appearance, most people thought he was no older than sixteen.  The Asian ideograms tattooed down the inside of his lower left arm (he had no idea what they meant, if anything; he just thought they were cool) and the small solid gold hoops in his pierced ears only added to the confusion regarding his age.

 

He didn’t complain, though—he could get laid anytime he wanted, by any guy he wanted; his model-like looks guaranteed his ability to pick and choose.  Shame he had no better place to bestow his charms than this dive; the highway nearby had a truck stop which lured in a few eligible prospects, but otherwise Dylan knew all the regulars—and wanted nothing to do with them.  He already knew he was too good for them.  But it was a Friday night and the pickings could be good.  He’d just have to see what showed up.

 

He didn’t have to wait long.  He’d already downed three rum and cokes at the bar before crossing back to the dance floor when he noticed the stud who’d just walked in the door—and froze.  It only took a single glance for the teen fag to realize that this dude would be the perfect birthday gift to himself.

 

As tall and well-built as Dylan was, this hot motherfucker was even taller and more buff.  Obviously a dominant alpha, the stud strolled in with a wide-legged stance that bespoke a massive set of tackle between his legs.

 

The older man wore a dark blue sleeveless t-shirt that emphasized not only his incredibly-sculpted chest but also his thick, bulging biceps.  His tight, faded jeans were worn so thin that the head of his huge cock was clearly outlined in his crotch.

 

The jeans were tucked inside a pair of dust-yellow construction boots.  Left laced but untied, the uppers, with a black leather band around the cuff, came halfway up the calves of the undeniably arousing stranger.

 

The stranger’s face seemed to be covered with a dark, wiry scruff, but it was hard to make out under his cap—a black trucker’s cap, mesh in the back with a solid fabric front and the word “Rogue” embroidered on it.

 

He already knew—this was it.  Dylan had decided that he was gonna have this hot fucking alpha inside him before the night was out.  Wasting no time, he struck out across the dance floor, anxious to hit the stud up before anyone else could.

 

For his part, the Trucker had already taken notice of the hot young slut.  Most of the dudes in the bar were in jeans and t-shirts or short sleeve button downs; there were a lot of caps and boots.  A few twinks writhed and undulated on the dance floor in skinny jeans and expensive kicks—but none of them stood out like the teen punk heading towards him.

 

And that was good.  It’d been a couple of weeks since he’d last had the chance to vent his sexual anger; even now, the thought of how the last meat had twitched and quivered as its life was choked out with a wallet chain made him horny.

 

The alpha killer was primed and ready to blow; all he needed was suitable prey—and that difficulty seemed to be surmounted already.  He stared down at the boy as the latter strutted towards him; the kid clearly thought he was hot shit.

 

“Hey, man,” the cocky teen drawled, posing with one hip jutted forward.  “It’s my birthday—I turn eighteen at midnight—and I deserve somethin’ special.  Whaddaya say—I’ll get us a room at that place down the street and you can plow my ass.  Think you can do that?”

 

The Trucker glared down at the arrogant little fucker, a slight smirk on his face—which actually took some control.  Jesus, this stupid twink bitch needed to be put down hard; just the thought of teaching the teenaged faggot his proper place made the cruel stud’s dick pulse and throb.

 

And his jeans were so tight, it was obvious.

 

Dylan saw it and blinked.  Fuck, the dude must be almost literally hung like a horse, the way his trouser snake—trouser python—wriggled in his crotch and down his leg.  And his own cock responded in kind, visibly tenting the groin of his black athletic shorts.  The boy’s lust was obvious, painting a bright gleam in his dark, nearly liquid eyes.

 

“I can do that, bitch,” the Trucker said in a low, cold monotone.

 

Suddenly cowed, Dylan found that he couldn’t look the stud in the face.  His eyes were naturally drawn to glinting reflections on the older man’s massive chest.  Keeping his gaze on them—they appeared to be dog tags—he stuttered, “O-ok, ma-man, let’s g-go.  I’ll, uh, I’ll get us room at the Shamrock Inn next door.”  Gulping deeply, he glanced up at the towering stud’s face, as if seeking approval.

 

The Trucker remained still, not moving a muscle.

 

“Ya-ya w-wanna go?” the punk quavered.

 

The alpha chuckled deeply, a bass note that vibrated along the root of Dylan’s dick.  “Ok, boy, I’ll bang yer boycunt if that’s what ya need.  Go get the room, faggot; I’m gonna grab a brew.”  And with that, the Trucker strode across the dance floor towards the bar, his hulking, powerful form parting the twinks like a bull moving through tall grass.

 

Staring after him, Dylan’s breath hitched with erotic anticipation.  His dick was pulsing in his shorts; he could already feel the precum oozing from the tip.  He headed out of the bar and crossed the gritty acre of asphalt that served both the bar and the motel as a parking lot.

 

Despite his drunkenness, the handsome young slut managed to successfully navigate the litter-strewn expanse.  He entered the dingy office and greeted the wizened old Indian clerk like an old acquaintance, as indeed he was.  “You again?” the old man asked in a clipped British accent.

 

“Hey, Anjit,” Dylan replied, “That one on the end open?  In the back—you know, 130?”

 

“No,” the clerk replied, “But the front wing is completely empty.”

 

“Gimme one in the middle,” the kid said, taking a moment to brush an errant lock of silky hair up out of his eyes.  “I got a live one tonight; want some privacy.”

 

The elderly Indian slid the key across the counter with an air of resigned dignity; he clearly didn’t care what Dylan had planned.

 

The teen turned to leave, but paused once he reached the door.  “Oh—and, Anjit?” he said, turning back, “I’ll probably wanna sleep in after this one.  If the lock works as bad as the one on 130, tell that stupid spic bitch that picks up the used rubbers to leave me alone, huh?  She can clean up once I check out.”

 

The clerk nodded and picked up a pen and pad of paper to note the request.  Once Dylan was out the door; Anjit put the blank, unused pad down and headed back into the rear office, already putting the transaction out of his mind.

 

After all, he’d be doing this for at least a dozen faggots on a Friday night.  He couldn’t keep track of them all and had no intention of trying.

 

The night was unusually warm for the time of year; it was very obvious to Dylan after the overly-chilled motel office.  The room was a couple of doors down on his left; as he waited, unsure of whether he should go to look for his birthday stud (and with a sudden pang of concern that perhaps he’d been dumped—not likely given his looks, he knew, but still…) when suddenly he heard the heavy measured tread of a muscular man in boots.

 

Glancing in the direction of the footsteps, he saw the hunk approaching and felt a thrill run through his groin.  Inadvertently, the Trucker had positioned himself between Dylan and the security lights of a used-car lot across the street; as a result, the hulking alpha’s phenomenal body was illuminated in silhouette, highlighting his powerful and perfectly-developed physique.

 

The well-built teen’s natural adolescent horniness had been enhanced by his chemically-altered mental state; between the bud and the booze, the punk was so ready to get laid that he could barely contain his excitement.  He gulped, then called out.  “Over here—number 103.”

 

 

Hearing the kid’s voice, the Trucker glanced up and ambled in his direction.  The room was in the front of the building, but the entire wing seemed to be virtually empty.  The vicious psycho smirked—it would do.

 

An adequate pit for slaughtering the little homo pig.

 

Dylan had already reached the room and opened the door.  Reaching in, he flicked on the light to reveal a dark and dingy room.  The towering alpha followed the twink in, shooting the deadbolt and setting the chain as the kid moved forward to turn on the bedside lamp.  More light revealed cheap worn furniture.  Cheap-ass particle board with peeling brass accents and papered veneer pocked with cigarette burns.  At least it was a matching set, the Trucker thought, and about thirty years old.

 

In his eagerness, Dylan was already turning down the thin scratchy polyester to reveal the old yellowed sheets underneath, reeking with an industrial bleach smell.  The cunt’s presumption amused the Trucker; hauling out his pack of Marlboros, he lit a smoke and wandered in to check out the bathroom.

 

His boots thumped loudly on the tile floor.  The bathroom was decrepit, with loose shower tiles and dripping taps, but it seemed to be reasonably clean.  Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink, the Trucker lowered the bill of his cap some—just enough to obscure his face, leaving only his strong, stubble-covered chin visible.

 

Walking back into the room, he saw that the bitch had stripped the bed—only the pillows and the fitted sheet remained.  The teen punk stood at the foot of bed, facing the bathroom door, massaging the extremely obvious bulge in his crotch.  The Trucker leaned in the doorway, this time with the deliberate knowledge of the impact his silhouette was having.

 

The muscled stud curled his lip.  “Strip, cunt,” he sneered, taking a drag of his cigarette, “Let’s see if yer faggot ass is worth my dick.”

 

Dylan moaned softly as peeled his Rolling Stones t-shirt off his smooth, strong torso.  His body wasn’t quite beefy enough to qualify for the football team, but it was close.  Not that Dylan was interested in football.  Football players, on the other hand…

 

“Did I stutter, bitch?” the Trucker snapped.  “I said strip.  That mean yer shorts too, boy.”  He grinned, feeling his own thick meat swelling and pulsing.  This kid liked to be dominated—that was good.  The Trucker had no problem with the thought of dominating him; his boiling rage was gonna dominate the little fucker to death.

 

Dylan dropped his shorts, freeing his thick tool to bob about and splatter precum everywhere.  Among other places, transparent drops of hot pre-ejaculate darkened the honeycomb pattern on his red Nike Jordans, all that he was left wearing.  Nude but for his footgear, the teen slut was ready and anxious to get fucked.

 

The meat’s eagerness and anticipation was obvious; the Trucker had no intention of satisfying it quickly.  The twink needed to suffer in all things, including its expectations.

 

As the kid stood trembling in front of him, the Trucker parked his smoldering butt in an ashtray on the dresser and pulled his own sleeveless T off over his head, maneuvering carefully so that his trucker cap remained placed exactly where he wanted it.  Stepping forward, he loomed over the teen by at least a good half-foot.

 

“You want my dick, faggot?” he demanded.

 

Dylan gulped, unable to catch his breath.  The Trucker’s face twisted in anger.

 

“I asked you a question, you stupid motherfucker,” he snapped and backhanded Dylan across the face, smacking the kid’s head sideways.  The young pansy gasped and moaned loudly; at the same time, his huge semi-soft cock got hard, spurting out more precum across the room before sinking back to drizzle the clear fluid on his expensive kicks.

 

The Trucker noticed—and barked out raucous laughter.  “Ya like that, do ya, faggot?  Ya like a good beatdown, you worthless cocksuckin’ fairy?  Fuck yeah, yer just the bitch I been lookin’ fer, fag—you like it rough, yeah?  Huh?  Answer me, ya queer-ass cunt!  Ya want me to ream ya like the whore ya are, right?”

 

“Yes—” Dylan had time to gasp before the Trucker unzipped his fly.  It took a bit for hulking top to excavate the entire length of his enormous, pulsating manmeat, but the teen homo’s attention was focused entirely on the spectacle unfolding in front of him.

 

The Trucker loomed before him, his massive chest darkened with wiry manfur except where the dogtags gleamed between the two huge hubcap pecs.  Below, his almost-frightening horse dick jutted proudly from the groin of the faded jeans that still clung tightly to his strong legs, bulging with muscles.  His open workboots, reaching to mid-calf, were planted wide apart in a domineering, open-legged stance.

 

“Ya want this cock, boy?  Ya think ya deserve it?” he jeered.

 

Dylan nodded blankly; he absently wiped his lips with the back of his hand—an instinctive reaction since he was utterly unaware that he’d been drooling.  His cocky young arrogance reasserted itself.  “Yeah, man, I deserve it.  Toldja it’s my birthday, didn’t I?” he slurred in drunken lust, “I deserve some nice dick on my eighteenth birthday, dude—and after all I paid for the room, yeah?”

 

The Trucker paused for tension-filled moment, picked up his smoke and found it nearly all burned to ash.  Taking a final drag, he ground it out and stepped forward.  The shadow cast by the brim of his cap cast hid the expression in his eyes, but the grim twist to his lips and the firm set of his chiseled jaw clearly showed the contempt he felt—not that Dylan was sober enough to recognize it.

 

“So ya paid for the room,” the Trucker said evenly, “So what?  Ya think ya bought me, boy, huh?  That what ya think, huh?”

 

The booze was flowing full strength through the teen’s bloodstream by this point; the beers he’d drunk before hitting the bar had been superseded by the four rum-and-cokes wannabe admirers had bought him at the bar.  Dylan had been both drinking and smoking pot for more than five years, but he was more tanked tonight than he’d been in a long time.

 

In other words, he felt both invincible and entitled.  And he was too fucked up to realize how dangerous that attitude was in his current situation.

 

“Yeah, dude, that’s what I think,” the handsome teenaged slut replied in a sarcastic tone.  “So c’mon and stick it in me, fucker.  Whaddaya waitin’ for; ya wanna give me my birthday spankings?”

 

And at that moment the Trucker straightened up, his cock suddenly starting to pulse.  Transparent beads of pre-ejaculate started to drip from the thick, mushroom-shaped head.  The cold, cruel mouth visible under the shadow on the alpha’s face curled into a malevolent grin.

 

“Yeah, cunt, that’s what ya want?  I can do that too…”

 

And with that, the Trucker stepped forward again, even closer to Dylan.  The young gay slut inhaled abruptly as the muscular alpha was suddenly within arms’ reach, an intimidating and threatening presence.  As his nostrils filled with the scent of pheromones and mansweat, laced with nicotine, the kid turned his dark eyes, the whites stained with red, up to the older hunk’s inscrutable face.

 

And that was when the Trucker’s powerful arm lashed out, diving his fist into the youth’s face and snapping his left cheekbone.

 

Dylan fell back directly onto the bed in shock.  He knew he’d been hurt badly.  Clutching the side of his face, he gaped at his attacker.  “Wh-wha—” he stuttered, the sharp pain in his cheek making it difficult to form the words.

 

“That was one,” the towering alpha sneered down at the boy cowering on the bed.  “How old didja say ya were gonna be—eighteen?  And look, it’s past midnight.  So ya got seventeen more coming, ya little sack a’ shit.  And unless you want the next one to break yer nose, ya better start gulping down my cock.  Now, faggot!”

 

Reaching out with his large, paw-like hand, the Trucker grabbed a hank of Dylan’s silky brown hair and jerk his head forward viciously.  The teen opened his mouth to cry out in pain only to find it plugged with a thick wad of throbbing flesh, oozing a stream of thick, salty fluid.  Before he knew what was happening, the monstrous tube of manmeat had been shoved past his tonsils and down his esophagus.

 

The pain in Dylan’s cheek became a piercing agony as his face was stretched out of shape; combined with the sudden cessation of oxygen as his air was cut off, the young slut was stunned both literally and metaphorically.  His birthday present was going horribly wrong and he didn’t know why or how—it made no sense, it couldn’t really be happening…

 

The Trucker knew the thoughts racing through the cunt’s sad excuse for a mind.  All these young cockpigs were the same; no concept of their own mortality until it was staring them in the face.  He chuckled deeply as he forced his enormous shaft down the punk’s throat; this evening was turning out better than it had started.

 

He’d left his rig at a truck stop on the other side of the interstate, then walked to the bar on the offhand chance of finding a decent fag on which he could work out his anger issue.  He’d actually been accosted by a hustler in the darkness of the highway underpass, a scrawny, cadaverous addict with missing teeth and a rancid odor.  He aroused nothing but disgust from the Trucker and putting the fucker’s lights out with a blow to the head didn’t provide him the vent he needed; it just served the purpose of shutting the skank up.

 

Now, though, he had this entitled, cocky-ass little fuck in his control.  Several long days in the driver’s seat had left him with a violent need to drain the built-up manseed in his balls.

 

Birthday boi was gonna suffer—bad.

 

And the worthless little fuck seemed to want to suffer.  It might simply have been a twitch in the muscles from having his jaw pried open so wide, but suddenly the Trucker could feel teeth.  And that was bad—for Dylan.

 

Using his handful of hair as a handle, he jerked the kid’s head back off his dick.  The moment his airway was clear, Dylan began gagging and coughing up his drool on the Trucker’s thick tool.    “Big mistake, you stupid motherfucker,” the muscular alpha hissed, “I guess that means you ain’t no good at givin’ head.  That means I gotta buttfuck ya to get off, cunt, huh?  Stand up.  Now, you goddam faggot!”

 

Stunned and shuddering the well-built teen climbed shakily to his feet, standing trembling at the foot of the bed.  His face was still beautiful but with his left cheek swollen and bruised, a little less perfect.  Tears leaked from his eyes and snot from his nose as he glanced up at older top.

 

Fear prevented Dylan from making eye contact with the Trucker; the cowed youth turned his gaze from the massive hog bobbing in the air in front of him, glistening with his own spit, up along the fur-covered ripples of the alpha’s buff abs.  Above that, the body hair widened out into a dark, wiry forest spread across the top’s broad chest.  In the declivity between the hubcap pecs a pair of dogtags caught both the light and Dylan’s eyes.

 

“Think yer due for another birthday bash, faggot?” the Trucker jeered.  “Need a little tenderizin’?”

 

Stunned and shocked, the twink’s attention was focused on the shiny objects; he could hear the words but the ominous meaning failed to penetrate his drug- and fear-clouded mind.  The killer noticed—unfortunately for Dylan, since it aroused his sadistic brutality.

 

“Stupid fuckin’ cunt,” he barked in rage, “Guess this’ll get yer attention!”

 

And with that, he slammed his fist into Dylan’s jaw with all the force of a train wreck, snapping it into three pieces.  The teen slut made an odd sound, a kind of gurgling shriek, and dropped like a sack of potatoes.  With a lightning-swift reflex, the Trucker reached out and snatched at the now-tousled brown hair again.  Grabbing a fistful, he pivoted and tossed the boy across the room.

 

He didn’t toss the slut at random, though. In front of the yellowed drapes covering the window was a round table flanked by armchairs; Dylan smashed into it just at waist level.  His torso smacked down onto the table, which tipped back, struck the AC unit under the window, and bounce back upright.

 

As the Trucker approached, the teenaged homo was bent over the table, chest down, quivering and helpless in agony, his legs hanging down with his red Jordan kicks just barely touching the floor.  His pink, pulsating fuckhole was clearly visible; the cruel alpha smirked as he aimed his huge dripping hog at the puckered hole in the twink’s bubble butt.

 

In a nightmarish haze of excruciating pain, Dylan clutched the edge of the table tightly, blubbering as blood trickled down his ruined chin.  Although he’d miraculously escaped losing a tooth, the slightest movement of his mouth slammed waves of agony into his head. He struggled just to maintain consciousness, barely noticing the sudden pressure on sphincter.

 

Then it wasn’t pressure anymore; it was an engorged, vein-wrapped tube of hard pulsing manflesh—and it was in him.  All the way.

 

The Trucker had thrust his cock deep into the kid’s ass, his thick precum the only lube.  The swollen purple head hadn’t hesitated at the resistance of the youth’s ass muscle; worn out with regular buttsex as it was, it still couldn’t accommodate the muscled alpha’s powerful tool.  With a faint grunt, the brutal rapist rammed his shaft home, tearing Dylan’s sphincter in two places.

 

The tsunami of sharp, glassy pain that tore through the teen’s ravaged fuckhole was too much; he passed out on the Trucker’s dick.  The sweating, heaving top spent the next few minutes pumping his shaft doggy-style into the unconscious punk’s torn and bleeding ass.

 

The hard-bodied boy awakened into the same universe of suffering that he’d left; his first sensation in the darkness of semi-consciousness was the searing pain in his torn colon and he instinctively started crying.  That triggered the second sensation—the agony of broken bone ends grinding together in his jaw.  He was forced to taper off to a faint, high-pitched keening noise.

 

Unluckily for him, the sound annoyed the Trucker.

 

“What the fuck is that, cunt?  Ya must be likin’ it, huh, faggot—yer squealin’ like a goddam pig!  If yer into that, you sick fuck, then yer gonna love this shit—check it, dude, I’m gonna make yer next birthday taps donkey punches, huh?  Bet ya know what that is; yer a stupid piece a’ shit, but yer a fucking sick-ass pansy slut too, right, boy?  You know all the disgusting homo perversions, dontcha?  Then ya know ya better buckle the fuck up, bitch, cause here it comes!”

 

Grabbing a hank of Dylan’s long (and now badly tousled) brown hair—reaching up to snatch a fistful near the forehead in front—he yanked the kid’s head back.  With no warning, he slammed his other fist like a piston into the back of the teen’s skull.

 

The idea behind a donkey punch is that the blow to the head makes the sphincter tighten.  The Trucker hadn’t actually tried it before; much to his surprise, it actually worked.  Ripped and bleeding, Dylan’s ass muscle still managed to cinch around the hairy base of the sadist’s shaft like a cock ring.

 

The stunned teen moaned as his body responded to the punch by clenching up; even his toes curled as his red Nike hightops kicked and scraped at the carpet.  Gripping the table tightly, he tried desperately to pull his head away but the alpha’s grip on his scalp was too firm; despite the horrific agony involved in moving his mouth, he began to sob and beg inarticulately, knowing that he was unable to escape the vicious assault.

 

And he was right.

 

“Fuck yeah, cunt, that really got yer sick homo ass off, dinnit?” the Trucker laughed cruelly, “Here—have another, birthday boi!”

 

With that, he popped the little shit in the back of head again, this time a little harder so the he was rewarded with even more tightening.  The young fag’s rectum gripped his huge vein-wrapped cock like a velvet glove, squeezing it and caressing it.  Not one to miss an opportunity, the Trucker shifted his muscular, denim-sheathed legs, planting his workboots further apart for better traction, and doubled the speed of his hard, driving buttfuck.

 

By now, Dylan was clinging to the table with his head pulled up, curled painfully backwards.  His pain-wracked face streaked with tears, his head was being violently shaken to the same tempo as his brutal assrape.  His attempts to beg had become random syllables of pain force from his mangled mouth along with a thin stream of drool, pink with blood.

 

“Shit, motherfucker, I’m gonna like puttin’ you down; I can control yer meat real good.  I don’t even need you to be alive for you jack me off, ya worthless faggot, ya hear me?”

 

Dylan heard words but no meaning; things were starting to go grey at the edges and there was a loud buzzing in his head; he welcomed the fuzziness, since it might make the pain go away…

 

The powerful, well-skilled sadist sensed he was losing his audience.  He wasn’t done with this one yet, not by a long shot.  The cruel serial killer still had a lot of rage to vent—and a lot of cum.

 

He pounded one more roundhouse into the fucker’s cranium.  The youth’s reaction was swift; he thrashed out with both arms and legs as he lost consciousness again.  The Trucker pumped the suddenly re-tightened fuckhole furiously, leaning forward, lowering his weight onto his victim’s limp form—

 

—and that was when the table gave way.  Tipping forward, it impacted the AC unit under the window hard enough to bend the metal vents out of shape; with a loud splintering sound, the circular top tore free from the metal base column.  Everything collapsed to the floor with a loud crash—top, base, the chairs on each side, and, of course, Dylan.

 

He went to the ground still impaled on the Trucker’s dick.  The experienced top had understood what was happening.  Even though it was too late to prevent it, he’d managed to turn and extend his arm, catching himself easily and breaking his fall; with his other hand, he’d caught at the boy, pivoted, and slammed him to the ground.

 

Reluctantly, though, the alpha knew he had to pull out; he needed to make a quick security check.  He’d just made a lot more noise than he liked in a public motel.  Withdrawing his long, pulsing shaft, he left Dylan slowly shuddering his way back to tortured awareness and glanced out the window from a chink in the drapes.  Nothing moved in the darkness beyond, but he still wanted to give it a minute, just to make sure everything had settled down.

 

Digging his smokes out of his pocket, he lit one and sat on the foot of the bed.  As he smoked, reassuring himself all was quiet, he could watch the meat slowly regain consciousness.  The cunt trembled and gasped before rolling over so the he now faced the bed, hid eyelids fluttering open to reveal his rolled-back eyes, white streaked with red.

 

As the kid painfully came to, the gray dimness of his vision was first pierced by a pair of bright glints of light; as he became more able to focus, he could see the dogtags buried the muscular stud’s chest fur.  Looking up, the coldly handsome face was still partially shaded by the trucker’s cap.  When he got out of the, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to ID a photo of his rapist.

 

Because he was gonna get out of this, Dylan knew; he was hurt but he wasn’t dead.  His birthday had turned into an unimaginable horror story—some deep pig part of him still wanted this violent, erotic dominant top—but the thought that he wasn’t going to survive this ordeal never seriously crossed his mind.

 

Then the Trucker spoke.

 

“That’s five, boy,” he drawled gleefully.  “It twenty past midnight, so yer, what—eighteen?  Only got thirteen more birthday beatings to go, bitch.”

 

The Trucker hit his cigarette again, exhaling in the kid’s direction as he waited for the words to sink in.  It took a bit for the youth to realize that this powerful psycho was gonna do a lot more of what he’d already done.

 

When he did realize it, the Trucker spoke again.  “Tell ya what, faggot, I’ll give ya a fair chance—you make it through yer birthday taps and I’ll let ya go.  Gotta tell ya, though, yer gonna hafta fight to survive, cause I’m gonna work ya over good—you faggot pigs feel so good when ya squeal and die on my dick.  But, hey, if ya live, ya live, and I don’t ever go back on my word.  Whaddaya say—sound like a deal?”  He ended the question with a deep, throaty chuckle.

 

The teenager’s eyes, already circled with gray rings of shock, widened in horror.  This hot, intensely masculine stud that he’d wanted so bad—the dude was gonna kill him.  He was gonna beat him and kill him.

 

Dylan panicked. Flailing wildly, he shrugged off the waves of pain from his broken jaw and began scrambling across the thin, dirty carpet towards the door on his hand and knees.  He didn’t go more than two feet before the Trucker swung out his foot.  The alpha’s powerful leg kicked forward, slamming the steel-toed workboot into the punk’s flank.

 

The kick was violent enough to flip Dylan into the air.  Smashing into the broken table, he slid to the floor, moaning in agony as the jagged ends of three broken ribs dig into his internal organs, one scraping against—but not puncturing—his lung.

 

Taking another drag from his Marlboro, the depraved killer stood up and walked toward where Dylan lay helpless and mewling on the floor.  As the high, loosely-laced boots filled his ground-level view, the teen winced at a brief singe on his cheek where the alpha had knocked off an ash.

 

“That was six, asswipe.  Wanna go for seven?”

 

The brutalized teen shuddered and wheezed; every breath cause a terrifying stabbing pain in his side.  Blinking blearily up at the grinning alpha towering over him, Dylan’s misshapen jaw moved feebly as he tried to beg for release from the torment.  Nothing comprehensible emerged from his mouth—and it wouldn’t have mattered it anything had.

 

The Trucker stooped and wrapped his large strong hands around the youth’s throat.  With a deep grunt, he heaved the struggling punk into the air with a single swift motion.  Dazed as he was, the injured slut began to flail frantically the moment his air was cut off, his red Nikes kicking vainly for traction a good six inches off the ground.

 

Holding the boy’s darkening face inches from his own, the Trucker sneered and spat.  As his phlegm trickled down to mingle with the cunt’s tears, he chuckled.  “Tell ya what, bitch, I won’t hit ya for number seven, huh?  I won’t even kick ya—how’s that sound?”

 

Deep in the shadows under the brim of his trucker’s cap, a bright glint of malicious glee illuminated his eyes.  “All I’ll do for seven it—this!”

 

He whirled and flung the well-built teen through the air with the ease of a stuffed toy.  Dylan flew across the room, smashing into the desk-dresser combo with his back.  The flimsy unit rocked back against the wall, breaking off the mirror.  As the hard-bodied homo fell face-down on the floor, the mirror crashed down over him, peppering his smooth skin with shards of glass.  Numerous small nicks and slashes were inflicted on his sweat-streaked flesh, but nothing even remotely fatal.

 

Dylan wasn’t getting out that easy.

 

The Trucker strode over and kicked the twisted wooden frame of the mirror aside.  “Tell ya what, ya pansy-ass piece a’ shit, I’ll be gentle with ya—seein’ as how it’s yer birthday an’ all—and I’ll count the mirror as eight.”

 

With a cold, braying laugh, he bent down and snatched bleeding, gasping teen fag—one hand grasping the right ankle and the other a sweaty mass of long brown hair.  From this position, the powerful alpha rose and spun, flinging the well-built meat into the wall above the bed’s headboard.

 

Dylan hit the wall and exhaled a loud, helpless bleat as he caved in the drywall and fell back onto the bed, bouncing onto his back with his legs spread.

 

The Trucker approached the bed slowly, the lower half of his face the only part visible in the dim light.  Above his strong, stubble-darkened jaw, a wicked grin had crossed his face.  “Of course,” he smirked, “Everything after eight’s gotta count for more, ya understand?  I mean, fair’s fair, yeah?”

 

And with that, the hulking alpha climbed onto the bed and grabbed Dylan’s legs by the ankles.  Spreading them back and apart he lowered his hairy, muscled form between them before repositioning the terrified teen’s red kicks up onto his own shoulders.  Then, in a single simultaneous movement, he buried his cock so deep into the slut’s ass that his pubes scraped the boy’s smooth asscheeks—and rammed his fist into the boy’s face with an unexpected violence, breaking the meat’s nose with a thick wet crunching sound.

 

“Nine, cunt,” the powerful sadist chuckled, spitting into the boy’s swelling face as he ran a hand down the punk’s smooth, muscled chest, slick with panicked sweat.  “Fuckin’-A, you really are a nasty pain pig, aintcha, faggot?  Yer dick is hard and drippin’, motherfucker, I can feel it slappin’ against, you sick perv—goddam, this shit is really gettin’ yer rocks off, huh?”

 

Moaning loudly, Dylan started to flail violently.  It was too much; the pain was too much.  His ass was split wide open, his guts were impaled with huge throbbing manmeat, broken ribs ground in his torso with each agonizing breath—and his face, oh fuck, his face hurt so goddam bad, he had to get out, he had to get away—

 

Less a thinking human than a desperate, trapped animal, the well-built teen let his desperation run wild, clawing viciously at his assailant.  His hooked fingers scrabbled at the Trucker’s face, but the skilled killer knew what to expect and was able to avoid the homo’s frantic, questing hands.  After scraping at the alpha’s chin a couple of times, Dylan suddenly threw one arm up and caught the brim of the trucker cap, knocking it off.

 

The Trucker’s reaction was immediate.  He wasn’t havin’ no fag meat fuck with his lid; with terrifying brutality, he slammed his balled-up fist into the boy’s face four times in a row, with the speed of a jackhammer.  Each blow landed with a loud, wet smacking sound—and each one made the little shit’s body jump and jerk like an electrical shock.

 

The Trucker’s grin widened; each powerhouse punch had resonated through the fag’s body and tightened his ass.  Each one had squeezed the sick top’s swollen shaft, massaging the dominant psycho’s pulsating hog.

 

Lowering his head, he hissed at the semi-conscious youth.  “Think yer gonna make it, bitch?  Can ya hold out?  Fight it, cunt, fight for yer worthless life.  Like I said, faggot, if ya survive the beatin’, I’ll let ya live—but I don’t think it’s gonna happen, you weak gay-ass cocksucker.  Yer gonna die here and now on my cock, aintcha?”

 

His face beaten to hamburger, Dylan could only gurgle his protest, his desire to live.  Even in the rising red tide of agony that had become his entire universe, he was still aware of his own straining, oozing dick, inexplicably erect despite the ongoing trauma.  But he was young and he was strong—he had every intention of surviving this horrific nightmare.

 

“Up to thirteen now, boy,” the Trucker grinned as he relentlessly shagged the punk’s bruised and bleeding fuckhole.  “Ya still with me, homo?  Ain’t been fucked to death yet?  Hang on, meat, we ain’t done yet!”  As the hypersexual alpha pumped and grunted, sweat oozed form his broad heaving back, filling the room with pheromones and manscent.

 

Dylan might have actually enjoyed it had his shattered nose not filled his sinuses with blood.

 

The teen’s slick body bent back in distress, his arms now flailing at the thin fitted sheet as he arched his back in agony.  Scrambling blindly, he managed to knock the pillows off the bed; the right one skittered across the night stand and took the clock and phone to the floor with it, accompanied by a loud crash.  The lamp was hit too, but didn’t fall to the ground—instead, it fell on its side, crushing the shade.

 

The top of the bulb threw an unaccustomed glare across the bed, casting lurid shadows of violent mansex onto the far wall.  The image was so crisp that the Trucker’s dogtags were clearly silhouetted as they dangled between the killer and his victim.

 

Deep within the recesses of his traumatized mind, Dylan felt a sense of betrayal at the way his body was responding to the vicious rape and beating; each pounding he took seemed to force more hot precum from his throbbing shaft.  Even now, as the older man lay on him, thrusting and penetrating him for his own pleasure, the teen could feel his thick rod poking into the fur on the alpha’s firm, flat abs, sliding around on a slimy film of sweat and pre-ejaculate.

 

“Shit, ya stupid fuck, yer goin’ loose on me again,” the Trucker snarled.  “Gotta tighten yer worn-out fuckhole, faggot—ya know what that means, dontcha?”

 

Rising up on his knees, the muscle-bound stud drew back his arm, tensed his thick, bulging bicep and drove his fist into Dylan’s smooth flat belly like a piston.

 

“HOOOG!!!” the fucked-up youth cried, expelling all the air in his lungs in one mighty yelp of pain.  He jerked up violently, trying to double over in pain, but the moment his torso rose off the bed the Trucker hit him again, this blow impacting the boy’s broad left pec, immediately knocking him back down onto the mattress.

 

Gasping and struggling, Dylan popped up again—a reflexive reaction caused by the agony that the punch had caused to his snapped ribs—only to be met with another belt in the chest.  Shuddering and whimpering, the brutalized teen fell back.  His face, twisted and covered with tears and snot, darkened as he fought to regain his breath.

 

The Trucker grinned; the last three hits had done as good a job as genuine donkey punches would have in terms of tightening the meat’s anus.  Grunting deeply, he hunched over the suffering teenager and rammed his enormous rod furiously into the boy’s torn and mangled colon.  “Where are we now, cunt?” he hissed at the stunned and traumatized adolescent, “Sixteen?  Gettin’ close, whore, gettin’ fuckin’ close.  It’s time to separate the men from the boymeat, and I’m willin’ to betcha can’t take it all the way, ya cumsuckin’ fag!”

 

As a thin trickle of air managed to painfully work its way back down Dylan’s esophagus, he heard and comprehended—and hoped.  The mauled youngster knew he was badly injured, but not fatally; if he could just get out of this room alive, he’d make it.  He’d survive.

 

But oh fuck, those last two blows…

 

The Trucker could tell what was running through the little cockpig’s head.  Even though his once-gorgeous face had been pummeled into hamburger, it was still easy to see the light of hope gleaming in the kid’s swollen, red-rimmed eyes.  Worthless little sacks of shit, they were all the same—it was so easy to manipulate them; the stupid fucks always walked right into the trap.

 

The sick sadist could also see the fear.  This meat knew it still had some suffering to endure.  As he pumped the oozing, engorged head of his cock deep into the homo’s guts, the Trucker smirked—asswipe had no clue how much suffering was on the way.

 

Maybe it was time to let him know.

 

“Ya like gettin’ hit, dontcha, ya disgusting painpig?” the alpha stud whispered, lowering his face so close to his victim’s that his dogtags rested on the kid’s heaving chest, “Ya sure seem to like my hairy balls slappin’ at yer gay-ass fuckhole, huh?  Well if ya like that, fuckmeat, yer gonna spunk with joy with this one—take it, bitch!”

 

This was a roundhouse punch that circled wide from the shoulder and smashed into Dylan’s face like a bomb blast, snapping facial bones and shattering the already-broken jaw.  The boy went rigid with shock.  “Fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!  Goddam, cunt, that got yer meat good and tight—let’s do that again!”

 

The next blow came from the other side; the experienced killer was ambidextrous.  Even had the battered teen been in a positon to expect anything, he couldn’t have foreseen the fist rocketing towards him from the off side.  And after the impact, he didn’t see anything at all; a mountain of glassy pain fell on him, crushing his consciousness out.

 

Pain.  His first and most basic sensation as he came to was pain, overwhelming and all-encompassing.  Every part of his body, even his somehow still-erect cock and straining cock, was flooded with agony.  The second sensation was motion; combined with the searing, slashing pain in his rectum, he knew the hulking alpha was still raping him.

 

Opening his eyes, Dylan could see the Trucker sneering down at him.  One thought kept ringing in his mind: he was alive.  He’d made it through all eighteen.  He was gonna be ok.

 

The Trucker’s dick began to pulse even faster at the sight of hope pooling in those eyes, dark puddles in a ruined face.  This was his favorite part.

 

“Oh, yeah,” he chuckled malignly, “I forgot one—what is it they call it?  One to grow on?”

 

This blow was a rabbit-punch—swift, brutal, and intensely powerful.  In the blink of an eye, the experienced killer had slammed his knuckles directly into Dylan’s larynx, instantly smashing it back into the esophagus and crushing both with a horrifyingly loud crunching sound.

 

“We’ll call that one to die on,” the well-built psycho whispered with malicious glee, without missing a single thrust of his cock.

 

Dylan’s eyes widened in terror.  Throwing his arms out, he clutched at the bed first, arching his back violently upwards as he tried desperately to breathe.  It was useless.  His trachea had been compressed into a solid mangled mass of splintered cartilage.  There was nothing he could do; his airway was completely crushed.

 

He was suffocating.  He was gonna die.

 

No, that couldn’t be right.  He’d promised; the dude had promised him and he’d fought, oh fuck, he’d fought so hard to live—and his birthday wasn’t supposed to turn out like this; he was supposed to be having fun and getting laid—

 

As blind terror set in, the realization that he actually was getting laid never crossed Dylan’s panicked mind.

 

Again, the well-built, writhing teen pawed at the Trucker’s face, fingers clawing with no specific object in mind, motivated by mindless anguish.  The brutal top held the kid down, riding his ass as he died, feeling the boy’s smooth slick body flail underneath him.

 

Dylan’s flow of oxygen had already been seriously obstructed by earlier sinus damage.  He didn’t have any reserves left in his lung—the onset of brain death didn’t take long.

 

As darkness closed in on the teen faggot, his frantic scrambling became slower and calmer; soon, his hand settled on the Trucker’s shoulders, gripping them tightly just past where his own red Nike kicks rested.  At the same time, the youth’s strong, muscled body began undulating, a kind of rhythmic flow that the well-versed sadist knew to be a precursor to violent convulsions.

 

Now he just needed to hold on and ride the birthday boi into his grave.

 

As he expected, the kid began to shudder and twitch, jerking his head swiftly from side to side as bloody froth erupted from his lopsided, ruined mouth.  Although it was difficult to see at first, under the swollen, bruised flesh, the punk’s face soon darkened to a noticeable point, growing ever more purple as his tongue began to protrude.

 

Holding his killer tightly by the shoulders, his sneakers touching his hands, Dylan convulsively pulled the alpha to him as his hips began to buck uncontrollably.  Over the Trucker’s shoulders, the punk’s Jordan Horizons thrashed helplessly in the air; the left one, which had slowly come untied, suddenly flew off the boy’s foot, spinning into the far corner of the room with a clatter.  The punk’s foot was left to flex, curling his toes in the white ped sock.

 

Knowing what was coming, the hard-bodied stud repositioned his legs, planting his unlaced workboots wide apart for better traction on the slick sheet. Grinning, he felt the little fucker’s ass start to grip his shaft as it slid over the vein-wrapped tube of manmeat with increasing speed.

 

“That’s it, faggot,” the testosterone-laden muscled killer muttered, “Milk my load out as you get offed.  Yeah, die, motherfucker, die so I can blow my wad.  Fuckin’ work the cum outta my cock with yer convulsions, ya homo asswipe.  One less worthless fag in the world after tonight, but at least I get to use yer death to drain the spunk outta my hog, yeah?  Fair trade, huh?  Now die like the perverted subhuman cumpig you are, you fairy cunt!”

 

By the time he finished speaking, there wasn’t enough of Dylan left to hear him.  The gay teenager who had left the bar forty-five minutes ago looking for a good time on his birthday had slid screaming in terror and agony down a dark hole that led straight to death.  Technically his heart was still beating—a wildly irregular pulse—but the human spark had seeped out of the physical tissue.

 

The Trucker was left with a shuddering piece of meat that clutched amazingly at his swollen cock.  With an inarticulate cry, the powerful alpha jerked and sent a solid spray of semen deep into the boy’s guts, hosing down his prostate and flooding his intestines.

 

Whether or not Dylan’s brain was too dead for him to know what had happened, his dick responded as if he did.  He pressed his belly up to the Trucker’s; the latter could feel the kid’s cock suddenly swell and writhe like a garden hose on full flow.  Huge wads of thick oversexed boyseed spewed from Dylan’s pulsing rod, matting the older stud’s chest hair and coating the kid’s already slick, broad chest with another layer of fluid.

 

The Trucker and the teen continued to hold each other tightly, locked in an erotically fatal embrace, as each kept cumming, the Trucker using the kid’s death throes to jack off—the adolescent’s dying corpse made a phenomenal sex toy.  Dylan himself was unloading reflexively, an instinctive reaction to death by suffocation.

 

After what seemed like half an hour—but was likely no more than a tenth of that time—the Trucker pulled himself together, then pulled himself out of the dead, shuddering meat.  Getting back off the bed, he let the meat’s legs flop back off his shoulders, leave the dead fag splayed out on his back, arms and legs spread.

 

Turning away, the alpha fished out another Marlboro, lit it, and grinding shards of glass from the broken mirror into the carpet with the thick soles of his boots, crossed into the bathroom.  He needed to clean up; little homo cocksucker sure had been fulla spunk…

 

After wiping down with a wet towel—which his left under running water in the sink—the cruel stud leaned in the bathroom doorway and, taking another drag of his half-done smoke, surveyed his work.

 

The room was demolished.  There was a small cheap flat-screen TV on a flimsy stand on the far side of the room; it was the only thing not damaged during the rape and murder.  The AC under the window was making an odd noise; from this angle, the Trucker could see that the collapsed table had put a large dent in the front of the unit as well; likely it was impacting the fan blade.

 

The dead fag was the centerpiece, though, without a doubt.  Dramatically highlighted by the overturned lamp, the birthday boi—who could have had a modeling career if he hadn’t been a cumsucking druggie in a small town—was now nothing but a shuddering mass of meat, his once-stunning face reduced to bleeding pulp.

 

The Trucker approached the corpse, still jerking and kicking in the long-drawn-out death throes associated with asphyxiation, and tossed his smoldering cigarette butt at it; the glowing ember sizzled out in the congealing puddle of semen in the center of the meat’s chest.

 

The slut’s right foot, still laced into its Nike hightop, kicked and jerked on the dislodged and twisted fitted sheet.  The meat’s left foot had been kicking and scuffling too; in fact, it had worked the sock off, revealing the teen’s bare toes curling reflexively in death.

 

The condition of both the body and the room made the nightmarish violence of Dylan’s death obvious.  The Trucker felt purged and relaxed.  He slipped his sleeveless t-shirt back on, then located his cap, halfway under the bed.  Taking one last glance backwards at the teenaged homo’s still-quivering corpse, spread out and lit like a selection of prime meat on a butcher’s slab, the cruel alpha felt a sense of pride in his work.

 

As he headed back towards his rig, he began to whistle.  Quietly, of course, so as not to attract too much attention—in fact, the thumping of his thick boot soles on the pavement nearly drowned it out—but the note of satisfaction was obvious to anyone who could hear it.

 

Carlos Solo: A Little Time to Kill

When the light changed, Carlos eased off the brake and turned left off the Strip, heading east on Flamingo.  Even though it was past one in the morning, the crowds on Las Vegas Boulevard had diminished only slightly; it took several minutes to complete the turn while he waited for the idiots who’d decided to cross against the signal.

 

Finally the way was clear; Carlos gunned the Benz.  He’d gotten angry at the delay.  Given that he was already bored and horny, it was a lethal combination.

 

Someone was gonna die tonight.  Somewhere out there was a fag who was gonna soak up Carlos’s cum and die on his dick.

 

Nick was out of town.  He’d had a sudden offer to film a straight snuff flick in Tahoe; he’d packed his equipment in his truck and driven up yesterday.  Prior to that, though, they’d planned to go hunting this weekend.  With Nick gone, Carlos had decided not to alter his plans.

 

So here he was, heading east on Flamingo.  It was a pleasant night with the temperature in the mid-seventies, so the top was down on the bright red luxury car.  Inside, the hard-bodied convict displayed his broad, sculpted chest and flat ripped abs in a leather vest with no shirt underneath; a thick gold chain sparkled alluringly around his muscular throat.  His skin-tight black leather jeans were tucked into a pair of engineer boots.

 

And he’d found something while idly poking around the condo last night—likely left over from one of Nick’s earlier flicks.  A pair of thin leather gloves that fit Carlos’s powerful hands like a black second skin.  He was wearing them now, as his fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.

 

He turned right off Flamingo into what had been a decent middle-class neighborhood.  Now it was little more than a cluster of run-down cinderblock homes with dirt yards and questionable tenants.  There was still some activity on the street, most of it furtive and probably criminal, but Carlos couldn’t spot anything worth fucking.

 

Heading further south before turning east again, the leather-clad predator found the streets less well-lit—and less-populated.  After a couple of blocks, he no longer saw anyone at all, so he turned back towards Flamingo, fuming in frustration

 

That was when he saw the boy.

 

He had come to a stop at a stop sign.  The kid was on the sidewalk, leaning against the sign itself.  Late teens or early twenties—at the latest—the punk had a mane of sandy blond hair that came nearly to his shoulders.  Completely bare-chested, the youth wore a pair of denim shorts that stopped just above the knee.  On the feet were a shiny pair of black Adidas Originals X hightops.  Otherwise, the boy’s smooth, muscular body was as visible as meat on a butcher’s counter.

 

It seemed an odd place to find a trick, but the moment the convertible Benz came to a halt, the punk stepped off the curb and approaching the car, reached in.  “You can put it in my mouth for twenty or my ass for fifty,” he said, grabbing the enormous bulge in the crotch of Carlos’s leather jeans.

 

For a moment, the brutal sadist was actually surprised.  Prey was hunted; it didn’t just wander into the killing pit on its own—but this one had.

 

“How much for the rest of the evening?” Carlos asked, knowing that the amount the boywhore named wouldn’t matter, since he wouldn’t be in a condition to collect it anyway.

 

The rentboy’s eyes opened wide with surprised greed; he clearly hadn’t expected an offer of this magnitude.  The eyes in question were dark, dark brown, almost black, and the white were stained red as a result of drugs and/or alcohol.  “Two-fifty and you can do what ya want till morning,” the slut responded, its breath confirming the at least the alcohol part of Carlos’s estimation.  The killer chuckled inwardly—this was Vegas, for fuck’s sake; kid with a body like that coulda asked for at least double that.

 

Good.  Ain’t no one was gonna miss a cheap fucking fag whore.

 

“Get in,” Carlos said gruffly.  “I ain’t fuckin’ ya in public, cunt, I got class.  My place is a coupla miles north.”  Class had nothing to do with it; he was gonna destroy this cheap-ass hustler, and he didn’t want an audience while he worked the bitch over.

 

The rentboy obeyed, jumping into the passenger seat and buckling himself in.  As Carlos stepped on the gas, he noticed the kid sizing him up with sidelong glances.  He also noticed—he couldn’t help it, it was too obvious—that a tentpole was stretching the denim in faggot’s groin.  Little cocksucker was horny himself. Carlos headed out.

 

They were inside the condo in less than twenty minutes.  “Damn,” the meat said, looking around in awe, “This is some nice crib ya got, dawg.  Name’s Kris, by the way—Kris with a K.”

 

Carlos ignored the cunt and headed to the bedroom in silence.  He didn’t turn on the bedside lamp; instead, he opened the curtain on the picture window, allowing the bright neon of the Strip to reflect gaudily off the gold satin bedspread.

 

Kris staggered in, his booze- and meth-addled head reeling in the kaleidoscopic effect the spectacular view provided.  “Goddam,” he muttered.  His bleary eyes lit up; Carlos could almost see dollar signs in them like a cartoon character’s.  The muscle-bound sadist chuckled.  Wheeling around the kid, he locked the bedroom door behind him.  Kris was still too stunned by his surroundings to notice.

 

The boywhore was attuned enough to hear the stealthy sound of a zipper, though.  He turned and directed his entire attention on Carlos’s crotch as the tattooed stud extracted the full length of his horse-like dick from the confines of his tight leather jeans.  The glistening tube of meat fell out and slapped against the alpha’s thigh, throbbing and swelling as it bobbed in the air.

 

Kris gasped.  The whore had seen lots of cocks, but had never come across one quite this large.  Even as he watched beads of precum well up on the pulsing purple tip, he could feel his own boyjuice start to trickle from his straining, aching shaft.  Instinctively, he reached down and grabbed the bulge in his groin.  He gave his tight waist a quick jerk and his denim shorts slid to the floor.  Stepping out of them, Kris grabbed his cock and stood fondling it in nothing but his shiny black Adidas hightops.

 

“Get yer hands off yer dick, faggot!” Carlos barked.  “I bought you for the night, cunt, remember?  You’re here to serve me, got it, ya fuckin’ whore?  Now get over here; I wanna skullfuck ya!”

 

Kris staggered across the room towards Carlos.  He liked being used, and he was high enough to let anyone use him, but the combination of lust for this dominant hunk and chemical confusion led him to ignore any red flags—like the tattoos.  Despite his age—he was a couple of months shy of his twenty-first birthday, not even old enough yet to buy beer legally—he was no stranger to crime or convicts.  He knew the meaning of some of Carlos’s inks—and recognized the amateurish nature of others that indicated a prison origin.

 

It didn’t matter.  The dude had the body of a god.  And he was gonna pay him enough to stay high for three days straight, maybe more.  Maybe, if he played his cards right, this guy could become a regular customer—fuck, lookit this place, he must be fuckin’ loaded

 

“Suck my cock, faggot!” Carlos snapped, cutting through Kris’s reverie.  Before he could respond appropriately, Kris found that he couldn’t respond at all—Carlos had literally taken matters into his own hands by grabbing thick fistfuls of Kris’s hair and jerking the rentboy’s head forward until it was forced down onto the ex-con’s dick.

 

The well-used whore found his eyes watering as the massive flesh tube was thrust inexorably past his tonsils, the thick mushroom tip slipping into his esophagus on a lube of spit and precum.  The young homo was an experienced cocksucker; he knew how to control his breathing while sucking a pulsing, vein-wrapped hog down his throat—but this was manmeat of a different magnitude.

 

And Kris realized it once Carlos’s tool slid over his epiglottis and sealed of his airway.  Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all.

 

“Fuck, dude, is that all of me you can take?” Carlos sneered, “Whadda lousy cocksucker!  Shit, whore, ya gotta do a lot better than that if ya wanna get paid—now swallow my fuckin’ dick, you worthless homo slut!”

 

Kris’s hand’s reached out in from of him, looking for support, something to brace himself, as Carlos’s grip intensified and he plunged his iron-hard shaft further down the boy’s throat.  The hard-bodied alpha began to throatfuck the punk, but never drew his shaft out far enough for Kris to take a breath.

 

The helpless rentboy was too drunk and too high to fully understand what was happening; he just knew he couldn’t breathe.  His hands had finally made contact with the smooth, pumping firmness of Carlos’s leather-clad thighs, but no matter how hard he pushed back, all he seemed likely to do was tear open his scalp where the vicious sociopath still held a tight grip.

 

As the young faggot whore jerked and writhed under him, Carlos closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure.  “Choke on it, cocksucker, choke on my cock, you worthless motherfucker! That’s it, work my load out, bitch—take this one and if yer lucky, I’ll give ya another!”

 

Kris heard him.  His response was divided; his logical mind ignored the words and kept beating against those strong, thrusting thighs, wrapped in black leather, while his unconscious absorbed the full meaning, causing the slim but well-built young pansy’s own cock to swell painfully.

 

The kneeling slut could hear his pulse pounding in his head; the rapid, frenetic tempo seemed to match the speed at which the cruel, leering top was facefucking him.  His chest seemed to balloon up, swelling in agony as froth spilled from both nostrils.  Kris could feel his eyes bulge; his sight went dim and his panicked struggles slowed and became more rhythmic.

 

Just as Kris’s consciousness started to fade, the powerful convict, still holding him in an inescapable grip, began to shudder and grunt uncontrollably.  Even on the verge of asphyxia, the experience cumsucker knew an incipient orgasm; if he could only hold on a little longer…there!

 

The young faggot felt the thick, wide base of the alpha’s cock pulse as it pumped a solid stream of cum down his throat.  Kris had no choice but to swallow; he was literally just trying to stay conscious as the muscled stud unloaded a massive amount of spunk, jets of hot creamy sperm shooting into his belly as the huge shaft of manmeat continued to throb and pump.

 

Kris felt like he was drowning in cum.  His burning, heaving lungs seemed to be filling up with manseed as the brutally aggressive top emptied his massive, puckered balls.  Suddenly, the hot dude let go and Kris fell back into a huddled heap on the floor.  He gasped, choked, and coughed up an enormous wad of cum.  It dribbled down his chin as he panted and drooled, trying to regain his breath.

 

Finally, the shaken and cowed boywhore turned his paradoxically innocent face up to that of his assailant, his dark eyes wide with shock.  The well-endowed ex-con towered over him, his monstrous cock jutting out from the black leather darkness of his crotch.  Above, even in the semi-darkness, Kris could trace the amateur tattoos inked on the killer’s rippled abs and broad, sculpted chest, even under the latter’s body fur and leather vest.

 

The faint glitter of the gold chain was visible around the thick, bull-like neck.  And above that, the handsome, chiseled face—despite the trauma he’d just endured, Kris could feel his own shaft stiffen as he gazed on the john’s wiry black goatee and stared into those blue eyes, flinty with a cold rage.  The incredible stud wore a do-rag on his head; it seems to be shiny black satin.  In the back of his head, Kris wondered if this hot, scary-ass fucker was shaved like a skinhead…

 

Then the hard, cruel face broke into an open sneer.  “Don’t get comfortable, faggot,” Carlos snarled, “There’s a fuck of a lot more where that came from.  I got another load already churnin’ in my scrote, bitch.”

 

The words snapped the slut out of his reverie.  The meth he’d smoked and the Colt 45’s he’d drunk had dimmed his sense of danger, but not his sense of business.  Sadly for him, it led him to miscalculate and make a bad business decision.  He decided that there was enough demand to inflate his price.

 

“D-dude,” he coughed, still choking on Carlos’s spunk, “If yer gonna do that kinda shit—get all rough and shit—you gotta pay more.  At least four or five big ones, man.”

 

“You worthless piece of shit,” Carlos returned in an even, toneless voice.  “We had an agreement.”

 

“Yeah, and now I’m uppin’ the price, man.  I can take gettin’ used, dawg, but you gotta pay extra for that freaky chokin’ shit, see?”

 

Even in his drugged state, Kris could feel the tension in the room thicken like glue.  He half-expected the stud to explode in rage; he was somewhat disconcerted when the guy gave him a cold, shark-like grin instead.  “Sure,” the alpha replied, “I’ll go to five if ya want.”

 

There was something about his malicious chuckle that raised Kris’s hackles.  He suspected he was gonna get ripped off.  “Show me,” he said suspiciously, still sitting on the floor with his firm, buff legs curled under him.  “I wanna see yer cash, dude.  Course, if ya ain’t got it, I’ll take meth, or coke.  I mean look at this set-up—ya gotta have one of the three around here.”

 

The boywhore knew the value of his body and was trying to use it to get what he wanted.  What he got was something he feared—something he’d heard about often enough, since it was an occupational hazard.  He just never thought it’d happen to him.

 

His first clue was the flash in the older stud’s eyes; it was literally as if a light had shone momentarily.  Unfortunately for Kris, he didn’t see the glare of rage for what it was.  “So what’s it gonna be, dawg?  Cash or dope, dude, ya gotta pay up—”

 

And that was when Carlos said, again in his calm, toneless voice, “Naw, ya faggot cunt, yer the one who’s gotta pay.”  The second he finished speaking, he drove his foot forward, sinking the steel toe of his leather engineer boot deeply into the yielding, unprepared flesh of Kris’s belly.

 

“HOOOGH!!!” the boycunt cried as the swift, vicious kick forced all the air from his lungs; grabbing his midsection, the youth doubled over in agony, his sweet, innocent face twisted in pain.

 

“Fuck yeah, now yer talkin’” Carlos crowed as he stood over the shuddering, gasping youth.  “Ya like that, ya faggot cunt?  Huh?  That feel good, cocksucker?  Cause just like my load, there’s plenty more where that come from!”

 

Fighting against the physical trauma, Kris managed to inhale deeply enough to regain control of himself.  He knew now, beyond any drugged doubt, that he’d picked up a bad john.  He knew he’d let his defenses down and that his survival depended on his getting away from this psycho motherfucker as soon as possible.

 

So he bolted for the door.

 

He was already low to the ground so he lunged forward, below the grasp of the killer alpha—he hoped.  Scooting past Carlos, he grabbed the doorknobs for the double bedroom doors. He didn’t stop to notice that the hulking stud wasn’t coming after him.

 

He did notice that he couldn’t open the doors.

 

Kris jerked frantically on the doorknobs as he became aware that Carlos had finally turned and was moving towards him.  Whimpering in horror, the blond whore stopped trying to open the doors and beat on them mindlessly as death approached slowly and deliberately.

 

A strong hand gripped his shoulder and despite his hard dick, Kris was vaguely aware that he was pissing himself in terror.  The yellow fluid spurted from his erect shaft again when he felt the grip on his other shoulder.  When Carlos whispered, “Big mistake, asswipe,” a flood of urine splashed from Kris’s cock, splattering his black hightops, but before he knew what he was doing, he was flipped in the air up over Carlos’s shoulder and slammed back down flat on the floor face-down with rib-shattering violence.

 

Kris’s breath was driven from his muscled frame with a loud, agonized grunt.  As he moaned and writhed on the floor, the killer’s big black boots stepped into view.  Suddenly, Carlos squatted down.  Grabbing a fistful of long blond hair, he pulled the kid’s head back, twisting it to the side so he could look into the slut’s pale, terrified face.

 

“You wanna see how yer gonna get paid, you sack of shit?” the powerful convict hissed, his eyes narrowed into rage-filled slits.  “This is how—pain.  Yer getting paid in pain, bitch, and ya just asked for double, right?  Yeah?   Don’t worry, ya stupid homo fuck, yer gonna get paid real good.  It’s yer lucky night, cunt; I’m feelin’ generous!”

 

Carlos let go of Kris’s hair and stood back up, then, with a swift kick, slammed his boot into the weeping punk’s face and snapped a cheekbone.  The handsome blond whore squealed, grabbing at his injured face and groveling on the floor.  “Shaddup, ya worthless cockpig,” the hypersexual alpha snarled, his thick tool still erect and dripping as he bent down and jerked Kris by the hair yet again.

 

This time, he forced the trembling youth upright and up against the wall in the corner of the bedroom.  Finding himself trapped with the well-built powerful body of the vicious killer in front of him, Kris began babbling.  Tears streaked down his bruised, swelling face as he begged for his life.

 

“P-please, man, d-d-don’t do th-this,” the young, drugged whore pleaded, “Don-don’t hurt me, d-dude, oh please, oh fuck, don’t kill me I’ll do any—URK!”

 

His shrill pleas were suddenly cut off when a hand encased in a tight black leather glove closed around his throat.  Kris opened his eyes wide, just in time to see the other gloved hand, balled into a fist, drawn back then rocketing towards him with blinding speed.

 

The blow landed on Kris’s nose, smashing it with a wet, squelching sound.  The hot young slut jerked, his howl of pain managing to escape Carlos’s grip on his neck.  The vicious stud cut the cry off with another swift punch; this one caught the bitch on his jaw, snapping his mouth shut so fast and so hard that the boy bit through his bottom lip.  After that, the succession of belts and bashes to the face were brutally regular.

 

Kris was stunned, his head rocking back under the hail of blows that were slamming against it.  As blood flowed from his split lip and bruises bloomed on his young, smooth face, the whimpering cunt could just barely make out the words his assailant was hissing with malevolent glee.

 

“Enjoyin’ the pain, motherfucker?  Ya must be, ya worthless pig bottom bitch, lookit the way yer dick’s throbbin’ an’ oozin’ every time I pop ya one!  Fucking sick-ass pansy piece a’ shit, yer just lovin’ this, aintcha?  Yeah?  Ya like gettin’ put in yer place, faggot?  Ya like gettin’ shown what a useless cocksuckin’ pervert like you deserves, huh?”

 

Carlos paused, his large, muscled body heaving and slick with sweat.  Kris focused his blackened, swollen eyes on the powerfully-built alpha.  It was drawn first to the thick gold chain around the convict’s neck, glinting and highlighting the buff killer’s neck tats.  But then he shifted to Carlos’s balled fist, drawn back to shoulder level and waiting, ready to spring into action in the blink of an eye, inflicting even more agony and more damage.

 

During the tension-laden pause in the violence, Kris had time to notice that the skin-tight glove looked wet.  His already drugged and now brutalized brain didn’t have time to realize that his own blood was too dark to show on the black leather.  Then his attention was drawn back to the cold, hard masculine countenance of his killer.

 

“You wanted money,” Carlos whispered, his eyes narrowing with a piercing, ice-cold rage.  The expression would have made Kris piss himself again if anything had been left in his flaccid bladder.  “How much was it, cunt?  How much didja want me to pay?”

 

Kris blinked dazedly and moaned.  With unbelievable speed, the sadistic alpha drove his bulging, inked arm into the rentboy’s face with the force of a jackhammer; after an intense, bright-red explosion of agony, the hard-bodied young whore shuddered and coughed up a bicuspid.

 

“Answer me, you cumsucking cunt, or I’m gonna knock out yer teeth one by one, ya hear?  How much?  How much didja want, faggot?”

 

“T-t-two h-hundr-dr-dred…” Kris muttered, barely afloat in a sea of pain.  There was a slight whistling sound caused by the gap in his teeth.

 

Carlos’s face twisted in anger.  “Lyin’ homo bitch!” he snarled, slamming another right hook into the youth’s jaw.  “It was two-fifty, yeah?  That’s what ya think yer worth, you piece of shit?  You stupid cumsuckin’ motherfucker, didja really think I was so desperate to fuck your worn-out asshole that I’d spend that much for ya?”

 

He punctuated his contempt with another blow.  Kris could sense this one coming and tried to turn away but the hand of the buff sadist was gripping his neck too tightly for him to move.

 

Not that it mattered.  Carlos went low this time, delivering a devastating and excruciating gutpunch.  His gloved fist smacked into Kris smooth, flat belly; despite the kid’s firm abs, the jab sank in deeply.  The whore’s throat wasn’t closed off and the gutbash drove the air out of him in a loud, deep grunt.

 

“And now you want more, you fucking pervert?  Ya want more money cause you ain’t enough of a faggot to take my cock?  Fuck, bitch, if I’m gonna pay that much, I wanna free trial.  Ha!  Yeah, cunt, I think I’m gonna try before I buy—you gonna guarantee my satisfaction, huh?  Fuck no you ain’t, you reamed-out pansy-ass whore; ain’t no way a little queer pain pig like you gonna satisfy a real man!”

 

The well-built ex-con let go of the young rentboy’s neck; reaching up, he grabbed the punk’s mouth, the tight leather glove sealing off Kris’s mouth as Carlos’s hand clenched his jaw painfully.  “You do know what happens, dontcha, fuckwad?  You know how this is gonna end.  I’m gonna fuck ya now, and I’m gonna make it hurt—ya like that, huh, dontcha?  Fuck yeah, yer cock is all hard an’ drippin’—ha!  Holy shit—you really want this, huh?  You wanna go all the way?  Saddle up, cumslut, I’m about to make your deepest painpig desires come true!”

 

What happened next happened so quickly that Kris wasn’t even aware that it happened at all.  With one hand around Kris’s jaw, Carlos bent down and, reaching under the whoreboy’s oozing cock, grabbed his ass.  Standing back up, the muscled convict pivoted and tossed the youth onto the bed.  He was standing near the foot of the bed so that Kris landed on his left side, head toward the headboard.

 

Rolling onto his back, Kris gurgled and gasped, still trying to recover his breath.  His bruised and swollen eyes were difficult to open but when they did, he had a blurred view of the hulking form of Carlos towering over him at the foot of the bed, his amazingly sculpted torso glistening with sweat in the reflected light that also glittered on the gold chain at his throat.

 

With exaggerated slowness, the aggressive sadist slipped off his leather vest.  His massive cock dangled over Kris’s fit and nubile body, hot precum dripping onto the kid’s flesh and burning it like melted wax.  The panicked whore tried to beg, to plead for forgiveness or mercy or something—it didn’t matter—but was so terrified that nothing emerged from his trembling lips beyond a shuddering moan.

 

Stooping down, Carlos grabbed Kris’s legs and pulled them up as he climbed onto the bed so that the boy’s shiny Adidas kicks were resting on his shoulders.  Bending the rentboy double, he slapped the swollen purple head of his cock against the slut’s puckered fuckhole.

 

Then all the pain Kris had experienced faded to the intensity of love taps compared to what he had to endure—it was as if someone had suddenly and unexpectedly shoved a baseball bat up his ass without warning and without lube.  If the hot young boywhore had been able to breathe, he might have screamed; as it was, all he could do was flap his jaw and gasp like a dying fish.

 

The pain was so mind-shattering that Carlos had pumped his enormous shaft up Kris’s ass half a dozen times before the latter realized he was getting buttfucked.  While his rectum was being brutally shredded, the well-built rentboy writhed on the smooth satin bedspread and tried desperately to inhale.  He succeeded—but not for long.

 

His mistake was screaming.  Deep in his pig soul, Kris knew that it was a mistake, but he was in too much agony to control himself, and he was too terrified to try.  The whore was well aware that he was trapped, pinned helplessly under his muscle-bound rapist.

 

He was also aware of the stories that circulated among the hustler crowd—horror stories of boys who’d gone off with the wrong trick, only to be found tortured, raped and murdered when they were found at all.  He’d always listened to the tales with a sort of amused contempt, not fully believing them, and certain that he was far too smart to be caught in such a situation should it occur.

 

But tonight he’d been drunk and high and horny.  He’d mixed business and pleasure and had been too fucked up to recognize any red flags.  It was his own fault but if he could just survive this night—

 

—and then the panic bubbled over and the welling scream finally burst from Kris’s swollen, bleeding lips.

 

“Goddam, ya stupid sack a’ shit, shut the fuck up!” Carlos bark, his face twisted in rage.  He rested more of his heavy, buff body on the flailing punk, pinning the cunt to the bed with his cock.  Kris’s own swollen, throbbing cock was pressed between their two flat, firm bellies; his hightops jerked and kicked on his rapist’s shoulders  As Carlos leaned in, his hard, handsome, cruel face filling Kris’s field of vision, the boy inhaled the deep masculine scents of pheromones and mansweat.

 

“I’m sick of yer squealin’, pig,” Carlos hissed, “And it’s time for you to die anyway.  Beatin’ the fuck outta yer fag ass got me all kinda hard, bitch, huh?  Yeah, ya like that idea?  Ya like gettin’ worked over by a real man, faggot?  Fuckin-A, I think I’m blow a load here soon—ya know what that means, dontcha, ya homo cumdump?  It means I’m gonna put ya down like a fuckin’ dog—fuck, I hope this hurts.  I hope ya die in horrible fuckin’ agony, dude—it’s so goddam hot!”

 

With a quick shift of his arms, Carlos wrapped one leather-gloved hand around Kris’s neck and clamped the other over the whore’s face, sealing off his mouth and nose.  Just before his air was cut off, Kris got whiff of musky leather scent from the black glove.

 

Then he realized he was suffocating.

 

Carlos hunched down over the helpless youth, their torsos pressed together in hot sweaty mansex, fur scraping over skin on a lube of testosterone-spiked perspiration.  Kris’s battered, blackened eyes bulged in terror as the convict sneered and spit in his face.  The whore closed his eyes but couldn’t turn his head—Carlos was putting a lot of his weight on his arms; his hand was literally crushing the cunt’s nose and lips.

 

Some part of his mind, walled off from the agony of the brutal assrape, was able to discern a faint jingling sound amid the grunting of the rutting top and the noise of violent sex.  Feeling the killer’s spittle slide down his cheek, Kris opened his eyes again, catching sight of Carlos’s gold chain.  The boy knew what the jingling sound had been.  The thick chain seem to be dancing in the air with malicious glee, coming to life with each of its owner’s deep, repeated thrusts.

 

Each penetrating plunge of his killer’s cock brought searing agony to Kris’s rectum, but every part of his body was flooded with pain.  Beyond the shiny dark do-rag covering Carlos’s head, Kris could see his own hightops kicking feebly in the air; he had no idea that the slashing pain across his midsection was from being doubled-over.  Carlos’s ferocious gutpunch had torn the slut’s liver; this position was tearing it even more.  Left untreated, the injury was large enough to cause Kris to bleed to death internally with about forty-five minutes…

 

But there was other pain.  His once-adorable face had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp out of which his large brown eyes now protruded grotesquely, tiny hemorrhages popping up in the whites.  His long blond hair, dark and matted with sweat, was spread in tangles across the gold satin comforter.  And the excruciating pressure that the muscled and tattooed convict was now exerting on his already-broken nose and torn lips made him claw frantically at the killer’s hands—only to find the leather gloves so smooth and tight he was unable to catch a grip.

 

And then the pain got really bad.  It got bad because Kris had been without oxygen for almost a minute; reflexively, his body fought for survival by dumping a shitload of adrenaline into the dying rentboy’s bloodstream.  When it hit his brain, it triggered a tsunami of panic.

 

Kris was suddenly very, very aware that he was dying.

 

He jerked and kicked desperately, his hands flailing against Carlos’s rock-hard body.  One hand reached up to the sadist’s grinning face, scraping at the rough stubble on his face; the other hand, grabbing at Carlos’s chest, managed to snatch the gold chain and yank it, but the thick metal links didn’t give way.  The kid let go, reaching around to beat fruitlessly against the stud’s steel-like bicep.

 

Carlos stopped thrusting, giving his powerful thighs a break.  He didn’t need to pump any more anyway; the meat was doing the work for him now.  It was something he’d learned from Nick—at a certain point, the fuckmeat loses its shit and starts bucking like a bronco.

 

“All ya gotta do then,” Nick had said, “Is pretend like yer breakin’ a horse, ya know?  Ya gotta stay in the saddle and ride it till it tires out.  If ya work it right, you can hold the fag in that position and make it milk your cock until it’s down for good and you can let those fuckin’ hot-ass anal convulsions jack ya off…”

 

That was exactly what Carlos was doing now.  His huge, powerful arms were clamped onto Kris’s face and neck and locked like iron bars.  His monstrously engorged shaft was buried deep in the youth’s guts.  His leather-clad legs were spread wide, his engineer boots secure on the floor, giving his hunched-over posture the stability to keep the struggling rentboy pinned into place.

 

“That’s it,” he murmured quietly, barely above a whisper, “That’s it, bitch, fight it.  Keep fightin’ you useless faggot whore, keep fightin’ for yer worthless life—it ain’t gonna do you no good, but it’s doin’ me plenty good right now, cunt!  Fuck yeah, keep it up, motherfucker, yer working my tool so fuckin’ good right now—aw, fuck, dude, is that yer tongue?  I can feel it through the glove, cocksucker, yer tongue is stickin’ out!  Ya know what that means?  It means yer dyin’, asswipe, yer gonna die here and now with my hog up yer guts—ain’t that so fuckin’ hot, ya cumsuckin’ fag?”

 

Trembling on the verge of brain death, Kris heard the words and understood them but wasn’t able to process them fully through the roaring, pulsing silence that was darkening his pain-wracked existence.  Pressure was building in too many places—his head, his ass, his chest, his scrotum—that he couldn’t focus on anything.

 

His frenetic clawing had stopped; his hands were now gripping Carlos’s upper arms tightly in what could have been mistaken for the acquiescent clutch of an eager, willing bottom.  His wild thrashing slowed to a more rhythmic movement.  As silent explosions burst in his head and dimmed his vision, Kris was still aware of his painfully-erect dick.  It had been—and still was being—massaged between his flat, smooth, sweat-slick belly and Carlos’s hard, ripped, furry abs and had not stopped throbbing and oozing throughout Kris’s ordeal.

 

Carlos had noticed it too.  “You fuckin’ disgustin’ faggot pig,” he sneered, hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it into the whore’s tear-streaked face.  “You deserve this, you piece of queer shit, dontcha?  Ya know it, too, cocksucker—that’s why yer dick is hard, innit?  Fuckin’ homosexual scumbag pervert, ya know ya need to get put down like a cock-worshippin’ pig!  This is what ya needed, huh—a real man to take ya out?  You were just waiting for the right dude to come along, weren’t ya—someone man enough to treat ya like the worthless piece of garbage ya are?”

 

The sadistic killer’s cruel words faded to a ringing echo in Kris’s mind as more and more of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation.  His hands slid up Carlos’s arms and over his shoulders, past his own sporadically quivering black Adidas hightops.   As death approached swiftly, Kris’s hands clutched Carlos’s muscular back.  Jerking his arms involuntarily in his final few moments, the young boywhore held his murderer in an embrace tighter than any lover’s.

 

As a result, their faces were close together at the end.  Kris was being crushed in the grip of an icy, all-consuming darkness, but he could still feel parts of his body—and he could hear.

 

“Ok, faggot, I’m gettin’ bored with yer ass—you done worn out yer welcome, bitch.  I got shit to do; I ain’t got all night waitin’ for you to get me off.  I’m a busy man, dude, time for me to drain my load and move on.  Yer a suck-ass whore, by the way—hope ya got cash in yer wallet, cunt; you owe me for the time I’m takin’ to waste yer useless ass.  So ya ready to get this done?  I sure the fuck am, scumbag.  Die, you worthless motherfucker!”

 

It was a single swift movement that was utterly spontaneous; in the blink of an eye, Carlos had let go of Kris’s mouth, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of as much of the kid’s hair as he could.  Wrapping it around his right hand, he yanked that arm back with a might jerk that made his inked bicep bulge even more; at the same time, he threw himself down with all his weight on his left arm.

 

Kris’s head snapped forward and, with the splintering sound of shattering vertebrae, popped off the top of his spinal column.

 

The whore’s last experience in his pathetic, wasted existence, was an electrical shock that ran through his entire body, holding him momentarily in an agonized paralysis as his balls exploded and released a raging flood of semen through his rigid shaft.  His boiling deathload spewed in a solid stream of cum that lasted for a good fifteen seconds, hosing the dead slut’s belly and splattering up along Carlos’s chest.

 

Instinctively, Carlos bent his head back as a final wad shot between them, splashing against the picture window and smearing the view.  Carlos’s reaction was instinctive because he was cumming so hard himself that his eyes rolled back in his head.  His massive, well-built body bent back, rigid with extreme stress as the hulking alpha injected the dying boycunt with his load, pumping what felt like a dull quart of manseed into the dead kid’s convulsing fuckhole.

 

Carlos’s huge puckered scrote wasn’t empty, though—bending forward to send his second jet of spunk into the youth’s guts, the sadist was so lost in his bloodlust that he leaned too far forward over his victim.  His boots had good deep tread, but they could only go so far.

 

Carlos fell forward, full-length on his victim’s trembling corpse.  He ended up spewing his final wad into the dead boy with his face in the mattress, cheek-to-cheek with that of the corpse, now doubled over into a position that would be impossible for a living person.

 

And there they stayed for at least three minutes while Carlos regained control of himself.  Heaving and panting, he finally straightened up, withdrawing his still-throbbing purple cock from his victim’s ruined anus. Heading for the bathroom, he kept one hand wrapped around the head of his shaft to avoid having any cum drip onto the carpet.

 

After all, he already had enough of a problem figuring out how to clean the bedspread and take out the garbage before Nick got back; he wasn’t afraid of Nick, but he wasn’t sure how the dude who paid the bills would react to something like this, so he wanted to keep it on the DL…

 


 

Carlos didn’t watch the videos Nick made of him; his interest was in the doing, not the viewing, for which Nick was grateful.  The experienced snuff producer had known that the cameras he’d hidden in the condo—more than twenty in the bedroom itself—would come in handy with Carlos around.

 

He’d seen the video within an hour of returning from Tahoe; it was edited and posted online at a very high premium by that evening; it had returned a record profit by morning.

 

No, Nick was not angry about Carlos’s solo adventure.  Not at all.

The Convict

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

They were reacting instinctively to a soul filled with hate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone needs to teach ‘em a lesson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When it did, he focused instantly on Carlos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The thought got Chad even harder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Out in front, his cock rose as well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was only half right.

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

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

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

A lot happened in the next few seconds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Score.

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

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

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.

Jack, Offed

Jack walked warily down the rain-slicked sidewalk. He was drunk, and angry—and horny—but not enough of any of them to risk getting the new gray Etnies skate shoes laced tightly around his feet getting wet. He was higher than fuck, too, having burned an entire joint himself in the men’s room back at Club 69.

He was high enough to be seeing tracers, making his ability to avoid the large puddles on the pavement seem miraculous. But then, Jack had always had the ability to perform well while impaired; he spent most of his life drunk or stoned or cranked out of his head, but he still managed to hold onto a job and an apartment.

Not much of either one, which was fine with Jack. His goals in life were to stay as fucked-up as possible and to get fucked as much as possible. It actually took a great deal of skill to manage. Jack wasn’t intelligent, but he had street cunning and a lot of drive. He’d kept his body slim and taut, looking far younger than his true age of twenty-three; he looked like he was mid- to late teens.

His short black hair was draped across his forehead, arranged with careful negligence, giving him a scruffy look. He was short, about five-seven at the most. His emerald eyes glittered out from behind long dark lashes, his full lips parting almost to a pout in resting position.

He’d have had the face of a model if he hadn’t abused his body so much; he’d been active with both drugs and sex at a very early age and nearly a decade of hard living had taken a toll—still subtle, but present, and becoming much more obvious year by year. Even now, his skin wasn’t clear and there was a dark shadow under his bloodshot eyes. His nose was large and getting larger (and redder) as his drinking increased over the years.

Jack was still hot, but he was wearing out. And he knew it. It was why he was so angry tonight. He was horny as fuck, and he couldn’t get fucked. All the studs on the dance floor—the big strong types Jack liked—had blown him off and gone for the other twinks.

Jack had been devastated. He worked hard to maintain his firm, smooth body. He knew he looked good, dressed as he was. Under a plain gray t-shirt, he wore a long-sleeved skin-tight black thermal shirt that he’d tucked into black skinny jeans. The jeans ended just above the ankle to show an inch of his white socks above his skate shoes.

At one point, he’d discarded the t-shirt to show how tightly the thermal shirt clung to his lithe but developed chest. But even with clothing so tight that very little imagination was required to picture Jack nude, there was still a hard edge to his face and manner that put dudes off.

And so Jack stormed angrily out into the rain, grabbing his leather jacket—a simple windbreaker—on his way out the door, but leaving the t-shirt on the dance floor.

He had no idea it’d be retrieved later as evidence.

Although Jack wouldn’t admit it to himself, the fact that none of the twinks had come on to him made it worse. He wouldn’t have touched them; he had standards, after all. He liked his tops bigger, stronger, slightly older than he was. When he’d been younger, he’d been offered money by twink types that wanted to bang him. But he wasn’t a whore; money gave the other guy too much control. And Jack liked to get fucked, but there was a limit.

But by the same token, he was a slut, willing to get fucked bareback by any stranger who actually did turn him on. Problem was, he was a picky bitch and only wanted to get fucked by muscle studs.

Alpha muscle studs were hard to find, though. And while he had the perfect teen body, his abuse of it over the years was finally catching up to him. The few tops he’d wanted were all snagged by younger kids.

So here he was, walking home in the rain like a Hemingway hero. Not that he’d heard of Hemingway, or could be considered a hero; he was just a drunk, stoned twink who was pissed off because he wasn’t quite enough of a twink.

He didn’t have his shit together enough to afford a car, but he managed to hold on to a shitty hourly job and filthy cheap-ass efficiency apartment. So he was gonna go back, drink some more, toke some more, and pass out with the TV on and his dick hard.

He turned the corner and walked past the parking lot behind the clubs. Club 69 was where he’d ended up; he’d run the entire circuit on the strip. So there was no use in trolling the parking lot; no one coming out was interested. He’d already tried. Fuck. If he’d had a car, he might have tried The Underpass, but it was too far to walk. And he was way too drunk to drive, anyways…

Jack was three blocks down, deep in the gay ghetto, before he remembered he needed to go two blocks south; he had just kept staggering drunkenly (but amazingly around anything that might soil his shoes; high as he was, he’d paid too much to want to ruin them this soon) after he turned the corner, ruminating angrily over his slights. At the next intersection, he turned left onto the dark, unlit side street.

Halfway down the block was the entrance to an alley that gave access to parking in the rear of all the properties that faced the main street. The side street was dark but there were security lights down the alley from the parking lot of a house that was divided into apartments.

Jack paused a few steps down the street. There was a shadow stretching out from the alley, the elongated, backlit image of a man standing with his legs spread. Some guy was just standing there, in the alley, out of sight behind the wall that ran along the pavement. Jack felt a chill for a moment but kept going. He could handle himself. He might have the body of a sixteen-year-old, but he was lithe and deceptively strong.

Jack moved quickly, increasing his step as he approached the alleyway, determined not to look or draw attention to himself. He flipped the collar of his leather jacket up, ducked his head and strode quickly along the sidewalk.

The voice, when it came, had something in it—a quality, a timbre—that made him listen and obey. “Hey,” was all it said, a deep, basso voice that seemed to reverberate along his spine and command him to stop. So he stopped. And looked.

All he could see was a silhouette. One of the security lights was angled down the alley to the street; the glaring halogen blinded Jack, but he could see a large, tall man standing there. As Jack paused, shading his eyes with his hand, the man slowly began to move towards him. Perversely, as the man blocked out more of the light with his body, Jack could see his body more clearly than he had with the light in his eyes.

This dude was huge, well over six feet. His biceps and thighs were larger than Jack’s torso. His hair was black as well; it had an almost blue glint and curled tightly, a feature it carried down the side of his face to merge with a thick goatee covering a strong, firm jaw. Even with his face in shadow, the dude’s eyes sparkled in pools of darkness.

He wore what looked like a plain white cotton t-shirt under a thick leather biker’s jacket with zippers at the cuffs. His tight denim jeans sank into a pair of black leather harness boots with buckled straps.

Jack’s fear was gone, instantly replaced with lust; this was exactly the kinda stud he’d been looking for. He grinned up at the man, a giant towering over him, praying that he could lure this incredible stud back to his place. “Hey,” he replied, “what ya lookin’ for?”

The stud stepped out onto the sidewalk and turned to face Jack, leering down at him. Jack could see the left half of his face illuminated by the alley light. The dude’s eyes were an extraordinary pale blue. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw covered with the same curly black fur that circled his mouth. His lips were full and red, but compressed into a hard, tight line.

“I’m lookin’ for someone to fuck,” the dude drawled lazily. “I’m lookin’ for someone who can take my cock.”

“I can take it,” gasped Jack, trying to contain his excitement.

“Yeah?” asked the leather-bound stud. “Gotta warn ya, punk, I fuck hard. Ain’t found anyone yet who could stay the whole course. If ya get what I mean.”

Jack smiled, an almost contemptuous look on his face. “I know what ya mean. I can take you, dude. I can take anything you give me.”

The man stepped forward into the light; Jack got a much better look at him. He was somewhat older, but his age was hard to discern; he was well-built and his body was incredibly developed; the arms of his leather jacket and the legs of his jeans bulged with muscles. He could have been anywhere from his early thirties to his early fifties; the only evidence that he was at the younger end of the spectrum was his jet-black hair with no trace of gray.

He looked down at Jack, smiling faintly. “Can you, dude? Can you take whatever I give ya? Let’s find out. You got someplace private I can stick it in ya?”

Jack gasped as lust flooded his body, triggering the flow of hormones. “Yeah, man, just follow me back to my place.” He wheeled about and began staggering down the street. He was more fucked up than he thought—but he attributed his difficulty walking to the fact that his cock was harder than a brick.

Across one more street, then up the alley to the right—this one far less well-lit than the other—to the rear parking lot of Jack’s little bills-paid complex. He led the stud around to the rear-most unit on the left on the ground floor.

It was a squalid affair; Jack’s job didn’t pay much. He had a memory foam mattress—but no bed to put it on; it sat on the floor. He had a decent chair and an expensive TV and game system. On the other side of the large room, next to the open closet displaying Jack’s expensive clothing, was a cheap desk supporting an equally inexpensive computer and printer. Jack’s priorities were fairly clear; especially when one took into account the amount of booze in the kitchen, pot in the bathroom, and coke in the closet.

But this guy didn’t need to know any of that, Jack decided; he just needed to stick his hopefully enormous schlong up Jack’s ass.

The older man glanced coldly at the squalor around him—despite Jack’s care with his new clothing, anything that remained in his possession more than two months was considered too used to be worth caring for. As a result, costly designer shirts and name-brand jeans were massed in piles on the floor. Soiled sheets of high-grade Egyptian cotton twisted across the bed and dragged onto the filthy floor.

His eyes, ice-blue and utterly emotionless locked onto Jack’s own. Jack felt a tremor run through his body, but was unable to define the emotion associated with it. Lust and unease and the sense of something hidden and unknown stirring deep inside him.

The older man shrugged off his heavy leather biker jacket, letting it fall to the floor with a thump. Under it, he was wearing a thin white cotton wifebeater which he proceeded to pull off as well.

He stood before Jack, almost literally taking the boy’s breath away. His thick, taut torso descended in a V-shape into the top of his tight jeans, his waist circled by a belt woven of black leather strips. It had no holes; the shaft of the buckle could be jammed into the weave at any point.

But Jack’s eyes didn’t linger on the belt. They were drawn back up to the six-pack abs and rippled chest, covered with thick, wiry black fur. It spread over the dude’s chest but concentrated in a distinct line as it got lower, a line running straight down to his crotch.

The stud sneered at Jack as he spoke. “On your knees, bitch. Suck on it. I wanna see how far I can stick my cock down your throat.”

Jack’s green eyes glittered defiantly as he replied. “You can stick it in my ass if ya want, but I don’t take any guy’s dirty piss-stained dick in my mouth.”

The alpha dude’s expression changed from contempt to terrifying rage instantly. He stepped forward and snatched a fistful of Jack’s shirt, jerking him forward and twisting the fabric. As he did so, Jack’s collar tightened into a near chokehold.

“Listen, cunt, you’re gonna get on your knees and suck on whatever I put in your mouth. There is no ‘or else’; you’re gonna do it. Your only choice is gonna be how much it hurts.”

Jack made his fatal mistake. He hesitated. That was all it took to establish the balance of power, once and for all. And although he wasn’t aware of it at the moment, ‘for all’ wasn’t going to be much longer for Jack—say forty minutes at the outside.

Depended on how strong he was, really, although that could work against him, too. Somewhere near the end of those forty minutes, it was likely that Jack would be hoping that the end of ‘for all’ was imminent.

But as Jack sank to his knees and the black-haired stud unzipped his fly, letting his thick, veined hog flop out like a butcher laying out a slab of prime beef, the end of it all was still several minutes in the future. Jack paused, looking at the enormous organ with trepidation. His useless bravado aside, Jack was no stranger to BJs; he’d swallowed enough sperm to float—well, if not a battleship, at least a dinghy. But this was something else, a tool big enough to completely plug his esophagus.

Even with the amount of use—he called it ‘experience’—Jack had undergone, he knew that this fuck was gonna hurt worse than anything he’d experienced before. Even so, he had no concept of the pain in store for him as the dude’s rough, strong hands grabbed Jack’s face and roughly forced his mouth open.

There was no tentative exploration. Before Jack had the time to react, his mouth and throat were full of cock. He could feel the thick oozing head plugging his windpipe, its ridged length lying on top of his epiglottis, preventing him from breathing.

He grunted in panic, his hands pummeling the dude’s legs. It felt like (and seemed to have the same effect as) beating on tree trunks. As tears welled from Jack’s bulging eyes and saliva bubbled out in a foam past the massive tube of meat jammed into his mouth, he could feel the hard manstud’s pubic hairs scratching his face. He turned his eyes upward, trying desperately to catch those of the stranger choking him, but his vision faded into the dark forest of fur hanging above him.

Gasping and choking, Jack placed his hands against the stud’s rock-hard thighs and pushed with as much force as he could muster. The top clamped his hands down onto the side of Jack’s head. With excruciating, inexorable force, he exerted a vise grip on Jack’s skull, causing him great pain as he forced his dick even further down the slut’s gurgling throat.

Jack’s resistance was useless. The tender flesh on the inside of his lip was torn against his teeth as his face was forced relentlessly into the top’s groin. He squealed and gurgled; his tongue wriggling reflexively along the underside of the alpha stud’s shaft, making the man grunt and apply yet more agonizing pressure.

Jack could feel himself going under; as he coughed and spewed foam, darkness was closing in around him. He was going numb. His body was fading…foam dribbling down his chin past the manmeat in his mouth…why was his dick hard…

Suddenly, it was gone. He could breathe. Jack took a deep, whooping gasp of air and fell back onto the half-stripped foam mattress. He laid back, eyelids fluttering, as he spent the next two minutes coughing foam up onto his cheeks, the darkness in his face slowly fading.

The alpha top glared silently down at him, waiting for him to recover enough to obey. He decided a couple of minutes were enough. “Okay, bitch, strip. Still think you can take me? Let’s see what my shaft feels like up your ass, cunt. Get outta yer clothes, slut. Now.”

Jack pulled his shirt off in one fluid motion, revealing his firm, slim, smooth torso, shiny with sweat. The deep register of the older man’s voice had vibrated through his tender ass to the root of his cock, already erect. Even though he hadn’t recovered enough of his wind to be able to think clearly, he knew that he had to do as he was told.

He sat abruptly on the edge of his mattress as he pulled off the new sneakers. Standing up immediately, he wriggled out of his jeans. He stood before the dominant stud, nude except for the white athletic socks climbing his calves. His cock, unaccountably, was jutting out in front of him, despite what he had just been through.

Jack faced the unknown man, letting his eyes slowly slide up the dude’s hard body, starting with his black harness boots. They moved up the thick calves and thighs, tightly wrapped in worn, frayed denim. His long, thick, cock, still only semi-hard, dangled out in front like tackle, its swollen purple head shiny with saliva and precum. His scrotum was still in his jeans; they still clung firmly to his tight ass even with the fly and waist open, peeled back to show a black, hairy V from which his throbbing, veined shaft protruded.

Jack’s attention was momentarily diverted by something shiny—it was just the dangling buckle of the woven leather belt catching the light—before it was drawn upwards along the stranger’s body, almost hypnotically. The stud’s furry, rippled abdomen, his heaving, sweaty flanks, the muscles in his chest bulging as he breathed—Jack took them all in greedily, knowing that no matter how much this might hurt, he was gonna be able to beat off to the memories for the rest of his life. This motherfucker was the perfect stud; exactly what Jack had wanted. Even the skull tattoo on the right shoulder.

Then up to his face. Dark curly hair covered a strong jaw and circled a full mouth set in an emotionless straight line. The beard merged with the thick hair that was just as black and curly. But the eyes; those icy blue eye…Jack stared directly into them—

WHAM

It wasn’t a punch; it was a backhand blow hard enough to raise a bruised welt on his cheek. Jack was both physically and emotionally unprepared for the assault, though, and crumpled to the mattress as if he’d decked in the jaw. As he cowered, clutching his face, the older man spoke.

“You don’t get to look at me, cunt. Only time my bitches get to look me in the face is when they make me cum. Got that, you fucking worthless faggot? You wanna look me in the face, you gotta earn it by milking the sperm outta my dick. Now roll over and get on your hands and knees, slut, I’m gonna fuck ya like the homo dog you are. Gonna take ya from behind, boy. You won’t get to see me, but ya damn sure get to feel me.”

As Jack positioned himself on the mattress on his hands and knees, he felt almost nothing at all. It was due more to denial than anything else—yes, he was a bottom, but he’d been a desirable one, able to command respect. He’d never anticipated so completely losing control of a situation. He was shocked; he felt nothing.

The top lived up to his word. Jack felt something soon enough. His response started as a moan but quickly escalated to a shriek as the dude’s massive tool stretched his sphincter past its breaking point. Instantly a hand clamped tightly and painfully over his mouth and a voice snarled, “Goddam, cunt, ya squeal like a fuckin’ pig,” so close he could feel the breath hot on his ear.

It took forever. The stud was enjoying Jack’s pain, holding him close with the brutality of iron clamps as he slowly slid his cock into Jack’s torn, quivering fuckhole. Jack’s arms beat frantically against the mattress, his fingers tightly flexed, his toes curling visibly in his white socks, his jerking feet confined between the alpha’s boots. Holy fuck, it felt like he was getting raped with a baseball bat…

Then, there was blessed relief. It stopped. The dude wasn’t shoving it in anymore; he was kneeling behind Jack with one hand spread on his back, holding him down, the other hand over his mouth, pulling his head back.

Suddenly both hands were gone.

Jack gasped and whimpered, his entire body trembling. He was still upright on his hands and knees. He felt full of cock. The pain, the trauma to his lower colon, had taken his breath away, but at least it had stopped. Christ, any farther and he’d be getting fucked in his guts—there’d be internal damage…

He’d known it’d hurt. He’d been willing to accept that as the price for the perfect fuck. He hadn’t known it would be this bad—but it was still worth it. If he could just take a moment to let his ass muscle collapse and accept the stud’s shaft…

As usual, Jack’s grasp of reality was weak. This time, though, the contradiction was about to be driven home, brutally. It started with a faint rasping sound.

It didn’t last long, and Jack couldn’t make out what it was at first. Then he realized the alpha stud was slowly slipping his belt out the loops on his jeans. Jack almost went faint with relief; the dude would have to pull out of him to undress further—maybe Jack could talk him into some lube—

It was a brief relief. As Jack trembled on his hands and knees, with an excruciatingly huge cock shoved up his ass and sweat running down his face, something flashed in front of his eyes—something that looked like woven leather straps.

Then the top’s belt cinched brutally around Jack’s throat, instantly cutting off his air.

Jack’s hands frantically scrabbled at the leather mesh digging into his neck, leaving his upper body unsupported. The older man threw himself down on Jack’s back, letting the young slut feel the dude’s muscles rasping his belly fur against Jack’s smooth, slick back. They boy fell forward, the thick choking grunts emerging from his closed-off windpipe directly into the mattress as his face was buried in it.

There was a terrible, tearing pain on the right side of Jack’s neck. His hands found the spot, clawing desperately at the piece of metal cutting into his skin. It was the belt buckle—the alpha wasn’t using the belt like a cord; he’d made a basic noose by looping it back through the buckle.

The stud took control immediately, locking Jack into place by grabbing a fistful of hair on the back of his head; with the head immobilized, he only needed to pull on the belt with one hand to tighten the leather mesh through the buckle.

Jack’s mind was aflame with sheer panic. He’d never known—never had any reason to consider—that sudden cessation of breath could be so terrifying. The only thing that kept his weak psyche from disintegrating in a white-hot sheet of terror was the pain; as scared as he was, he couldn’t escape the agony of his physical suffering.

It wasn’t just the strangling; the top had started shoving his dick in again. Jack braced himself up on one arm, bending the other behind him at an almost impossible angle in his desperate attempt to reach his torment.

“Stop it, you worthless fuck, you ain’t gettin’ away,” the dude growled, then spit on the back of Jack’s shuddering head. “Only way you’re getting’ off my dick is with my load inside you. Sooner ya make me shoot, the sooner I let ya go. Whaddaya think, cocksucker, think you’ll last long enough for me to cum? I bet not. You’re a useless fuckin’ faggot, not even good at gettin’ fucked. Look at ya, bitch, look at this place. Ain’t no one gonna miss ya.”

Jack couldn’t see that his face was turning purple, but he could feel it swelling painfully. His throat was blazing agony, the woven straps sinking ever more deeply below the surface of his skin, making impossible for his fingers to find a purchase. It pulled violently at the buckle, jerking his skin up and tearing it, a trickle of blood dripping onto the mattress and soiled sheets.

There was a huge, swelling pressure in his chest. His air had been shut off for almost two minutes, most of which time Jack had been struggling and burning the limited oxygen in his bloodstream. But his years of drug use had conditioned his body to functioning under extreme conditions—which meant, unfortunately for Jack, that he was a long way from going numb or losing consciousness.

Already, despite his instinctive fight against the overpowering force crushing the life out of him, part of Jack’s spinning, frantic brain craved oblivion—even death, if it meant an end to the pain.

His ass—oh fuck, it was being torn wide open. He could feel the burning shaft of ridged flesh penetrating deep into his guts, tearing him on the inside. He’d never felt so full, so completely violated before. But as painful as it was, it had to come second in his attention. Breathing came first. Jack jerked and writhed, anything, anything to release that horrible crushing pressure in his chest, oh shit his lungs were gonna pop move move get away…

Then came the voice. Even in full survival mode, there was something in the deep bass timbre of the stud’s voice that reverberated along the root of Jack’s unaccountably hard dick.

“Now you got it, fucker. Goddam, your quivering and trembling feels so good on my tool. Gotta get ya to do it some more. Let’s see—ya like that, pig? Fuck yeah, that made ya kick! Goddam, I gotta do more of that; you milk my cock good, you fucking squealing cockwhore!”

The top had shifted himself slightly and ground his engorged rod into Jack’s bleeding fuckhole at a different angle, tearing the rectal lining in a new spot.

Jack had bent his back upwards, his hands clawing the air in front of him in mindless agony. The tip of his black, swollen tongue was already forcing its excruciating way out his mouth as thick foamy drool spilled down his smooth, weak chin. His bulging eyes leaked tears as petechial hemorrhages formed in the lids and blood vessels ruptured, red blossoms appearing in his green eyes. In some deep recess in his fear-wracked mind, some part of Jack was screaming at the thought that the nightmarish pain and terror he was experiencing was sexually arousing to his assailant.

That was the true, mind-shattering revelation for Jack. He’d just planned tonight to be like any other. Get a little stoned, get a little drunk, let some stud fuck him. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Tonight there’d be no repeat. This guy wasn’t just gonna kill him; this guy was gonna get off on killing him as slowly and painfully as possible.

The realization was accompanied by an icy coldness flooding Jack’s body. Through it all, he could still feel his own dick, traitorously hard, slapping against his thighs as his body bucked and jerked. He wasn’t paying attention anymore, though, huge black roses were blooming in his face; they made a buzzing sound that got louder. He could still the alpha stranger speak, but the words had no real significance to him…

“Almost there, you faggot piece of shit. Almost ready to shoot. Goddam, I had to work you over good—you really are a stupid cunt, ain’t ya? Don’t even know how to make a guy cum without choking the fuck outta ya. But ya like it, don’t ya, whore? Ya like that mancock rippin’ into your soft homo guts, huh? Are ya ready for my load, faggot? Think ya can take it? Ready to look me in the face as you get my spunk, you worthless queer? Get ready, motherfucker, here it comes—UUURRRGHHH!!!!”

With a loud cry, the dude hunched down over Jack, his cock swelling and pumping a solid stream of boiling semen into Jack’s torn colon. As he did, he locked the buckle into place around Jack’s neck so the belt wouldn’t loosen.

Then, still clutching a hank of hair at the back of the head, the alpha reached around, grabbed Jack’s jaw in the other hand, and twisted his head through 180 degrees.

Even in the extreme last moments of consciousness, Jack was aware of what had happened. His protruding eyes gazed in utter, absolute horror at those of his killer, ice-cold and remorseless. The sound was that of a tree limb snapping, but Jack felt it as well as heard it. It was the last thing he heard or felt.

The sensation was that of a massive electrical shock running through his body. He had no awareness that his erect cock had blown a huge load of creamy sperm onto the bed as his neck shattered. He didn’t feel it; what he did feel was the shattering of half a dozen vertebrae that sent bone fragments slicing into his spinal cord.

His entire body went intensely rigid, every muscle clenching tightly. Even torn and mangled, his sphincter was able to tighten around the base of the killer’s dick, making the stud cry out and collapse on top of Jack’s quivering body, punching the shuddering mass of flesh repeatedly.

As the universe faded into a cold sheet of dark eternal ice, Jack’s consciousness faded to a pinpoint focused on the rage and lust of the man who was beating him while filling his abdomen with semen and spitting into his gasping, dying face. It was the last thing he saw.

The dude didn’t stay around long. He stepped into the bathroom to wash up. When he came out, slipping his wifebeater back over his slick, heaving torso–still breathing deeply with exertion–Jack’s body was still convulsing on the mattress, face up but chest down. His white tube socks were still covering his twitching calves and white foam still trickled down his blackened face from his blue lips, parted by his grotesquely swollen tongue. Even from here, the dude could see his own cum oozing out of the corpse’s ravaged ass.

The killer stuffed his thick cock back inside his tight faded jeans and zipped the fly. Approaching the bed, he bent down and grabbed a handful of Jack’s sweat-soaked hair, lifting his head. It lolled forward easily with no functioning spine to stiffen it. Keeping a firm grip on Jack’s hair, the dude worked the fingers of his free hand up under the belt; his nails tearing open the purple flesh of the slut’s crushed neck. The buckle had become embedded deeply—it took a few minutes before it was pulled off and slipped back around the top’s waist.

Jack’s eyes, now faded to a cloudy green ringed with red, stared into his killer’s face. Blank and dull, they gave no hint of the terror he’d experienced at being forced to give up his useless, wasted life.

Slipping his leather jacket back on, the stud smiled to himself. He always enjoyed putting down a pig; it was a good workout. Kept him in shape. And it wasn’t like anyone was gonna miss the worthless little homo slut anyway…

Another Skater Bites the Dust

“Hey, dude, ya got any smoke?”

I sit forward on the bench and take a closer look at the kid. He and his friends had been riding their boards around all afternoon—or at least as long as I’ve been sitting on this bench. This boy has taken a couple of good long looks in my direction but he hasn’t indicated any interest, till now.

Maybe that’s because his friends had left. There’s no one to see what he does now. Which is good for me.

It’s very bad for him, but he doesn’t know that yet.

He’s no older than eighteen, if that. Shoulder-length brown hair, with large dark eyes. He’s about 6 feet tall, but not big—he has more of a swimmer’s build, lean but muscled; not scrawny. He’s wearing tight grey jeans that just cover his ass and a black t-shirt with some band logo on it. On his feet are what look like purple suede hightops, tightly laced…

He’s beautiful. And he’s hoping to get high with me.

Sure, I’ll get him high. And then I’ll put him down like a dog.

“Ya wanna smoke?” I ask him. He nods eagerly. “Sure, I got some weed back at my place. C’mon, we’ll go get high and see what happens. I’m parked over here.”

He follows me back to my van like a puppy; the little fag was eager to “see what happens”. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him massaging his dick with one hand. Horny little fucker thinks he’s gonna get his cock sucked or something.

He’ll get something, all right. I grin at him as he climbs into the seat beside me. Poor little boy grins back. He has no idea what’s in store.

Back at my place, I roll a joint while the kid gets undressed. “What about my kicks?” he asks. “Some guys like watchin’ me jack with ‘em on.”

“Yeah, go ahead and put ‘em back on,” I tell him, wondering how many guys he’s been with. I don’t think it’s been very many. He’s too—oh, how do I put it? Too soft. No rough edges; he’s a sweet but kinda stupid suburban kid whose main interests are clearly getting high and draining the copious amounts of semen his raging teen hormones are producing.

Other guys like watching him cum while he’s wearing his kicks? I’m gonna like watching him die wearing them.

See, I knew it. I tell him I’m gonna fuck him and he gets all nervous. A virgin; at least anally. And he protests too much. “I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot! You wanna suck my dick, fine, but I ain’t lettin’ no dude stick anything into me!”

Of course he wants my thick purple rod up his ass; for all his words, the look on his face and the gleam of lust in his eyes as he stares at my meat show the truth. I push him over onto his back, spread his legs with my arms and plow my cock straight into his tender hole.

He tries to scream. I quickly let go of his legs and clamp both hands over his mouth. Gotta keep the fucktoy quiet for now. He struggles beneath me, the heels of his hightops beating on my asscheeks. I’m reaming him violently, penetrating deep into his rectum with each thrust. His cries emerge as plaintive moans from behind my hands, clenching painfully tight on his mouth.

I spend a good ten minutes ramming his virgin teen fuckhole with no lube but my own spit. Then I let up on his mouth; his cries have tapered off. He’s still moaning, but now it’s in pleasure. He’s a natural little homo all right; he just loves it up the ass.

Shame to have to end it all, now that he’s found out what makes him happy.

It looks like a simple length of white clothesline. It’s just a nylon cord. The skater punk is lying back, eyes closed, a huge happy grin on his face. He never sees it.

I lift him up and gently loop the cord about his neck. Then I pull tight—hard—straining to tighten it as much as possible.

The kid reacts instantly. His eyes wide with horror, he claws frantically at me, at my arms. I’m pressing him down onto the floor with the cord around his neck and my dick still in his ass. I’m dominating him to such an extent that he can’t really move. He gyrates his ass side to side in an attempt to break free but all he’s really doing is massaging my cock.

“Ooh yeah, ya little fuck,” I mutter in pleasure, “that’s it, bitch. Struggle and die. Milk my cock as you kick away your last few minutes on earth. I wanna feel you suffer. C’mon, boy, die for me, let me feel your agony in my dick. Useless fuckin’ skater punk…”

He’s beating and slapping at my face now, but he’s so panicked that he’s not doing any damage. I can see the terror in the kid’s face; the stunned disbelief that this can be happening to him. He’d planned to go to the park, show himself off, maybe get high, get sucked off–he hadn’t known that he’d die today.

But he is dying. He’s dying like a fucking cumdump whore on my cock. He’s thrashing violently, but there’s no concerted effort to escape. He’s in a state of blind panic; his conscious mind is still there, but it’s nothing but a solid shriek of terror. He’s sweating heavily with the strain and the lack of oxygen.

His face darkens from red through purple to a near black color. As it darkens, it swells. His eyes bulge, seeming to stare frantically at me as the tiny vessels hemorrhage.

The boy gags horribly as his tongue swells and protrudes. Drool leaks out both corners of his mouth and his eyes have become so red it looks like he’s gotten higher than his wildest dreams.

Maybe he has. The oxygen deprivation has taken a toll. He’s not fighting me any longer. His movements have slowed, become much gentler. He’s caressing me now. He’s sweat so much his body is covered with a fine oily sheen that slips and slides against my own.

I tighten the cord, brutally. It sinks into the teen’s neck so deeply it can’t be seen. There’s a loud cracking sound as the kid’s hyoid bone shatters. I could release the little shit now; it wouldn’t matter. I’ve crushed his windpipe. He’s dead meat now, no matter what. I’ve wasted the little fucker. From here on out, it’s mindless nerves and dead meat. The punk is toast.

He leans back, in extremis. Suddenly he arcs his body upwards intensely. His smooth, firm chest and belly slide frictionlessly over my body and I feel a sudden warmth blazing against my stomach.

Skater punk has shot his load all over me.

He falls back into the rhythmic convulsions of fatal brain trauma. Oh god, the inside of his little virgin bitch hole feels like velvet as it flutters against the head of my dick in its dying spasms. I can’t control myself.

The last thing I remember, as I unload what feels like a solid quart of spunk into the dying teen’s ass, is that I’m cursing and punching the boy in his face as hard as I can…

-————————————————————————————————–

It’s very late when I wake up. I’m still on top of the kid and my limp cock is still in his ass. He’s cool to the touch now, but I’ve been out for a while and I think rigor mortis has passed already.

Oh, my poor little skater boy. So alone, so utterly helpless—now he needs me more than ever. And he’s sticky and dirty. There’s blood on his face—he must not have been completely dead when I punched him.

I draw a nice warm bath and get in—not alone, of course; he’s the one who needs it. I lower his body down onto mine as I sit in the tub. I take soap and a washcloth and I gently bathe my boy.

He lies in my lap, so peacefully, so willingly. I clean his beautiful body all over. I wash the scales of dried spunk off his tight, smooth belly. I carefully clean his adorable face, washing off the blood and snot and foamy drool. His thick cock floats limply in the water as I clean it, too.

When we’re done, I dry myself off, then my boy. We lay in bed, together, he and I, and I kiss him deeply, passionately. I force my tongue against his, swollen, bulging, rough, dry. His bloodshot eyes are turning milky in erotic death. He wants to get fucked again and how can I resist such innocent beauty? I slip my swollen tool back into his cool smooth teen fuckhole.

He jerks limply with each thrust of my dick. He’s so pretty, so totally dependent on me, so helpless in the face of my every whim—how can I deny him my seed?

I shudder and cry out as I fill his cold dead guts with spunk.

It saddens me to know that I’ll have to dispose of him soon, but he won’t be fit to keep for much longer. Such a shame; he was so adorable. But there will be others.

There are always others.

Party & Punish

Tommy was out looking for a good time and he was reasonably certain of finding one. He’d accentuated his lean, hard body with the kind of clothing Ralph liked to see him in. Tight skinny jeans in black, with a purple sleeveless t-shirt highlighting the contours of his smooth, slim chest, just giving the slightest hint of pectoral muscles. Ankle-high skate shoes of the same color completed his mating plumage.

He was nineteen, with long brown hair that stopped just short of his shoulders. His full red lips were surrounded with a faint fuzz of the same color; Tommy liked to imagine that it was a virile goatee. In reality it was a sparse haze that actually made him look a little younger than he actually was. At any rate, it certainly accomplished its purpose of attracting the eye; he got lots of admiring glances. Tonight he’d try for more than just a glance.

Ralph was sound asleep and had no idea Tommy had even left, much less taken the car. But Ralph was fat and middle-aged; the only reason Tommy tolerated him was because he had money—and was willing to spend it on Tommy. But, of course, nothing is free. Ralph liked to get fucked. Problem was, so did Tommy. So Tommy banged him and got access to the house, car, and bank account—but he didn’t get the sex he wanted.

Tonight wasn’t the first time he’d sneaked out after Ralph had fallen asleep. His slim form behind the wheel of the huge Cadillac had become a familiar sight as he trolled the back streets for hustlers. A quick pickup, some party drugs and a cheap motel room gave Tommy some release after performing for his sugar daddy all day (not that Tommy actually did anything for Ralph that day or most others, but he considered just being around the man was work enough).

Tommy, in other words, was a cheap whore looking for a cheap whore; the only difference between him and the rentboys he hooked up with was that he was filling a longer-term position than they did. But the motivations and mentality were the same.

Well, usually. Tommy didn’t know it, but tonight he’d find someone with motivations he couldn’t possibly have imagined.

He eased the big car around the corner onto the street that ran behind the clubs. This was the spot he picked up most of his tricks, but the two guys he saw—one at the corner, the other under a streetlight more than halfway down the block—had the same build he did. Tommy wasn’t interested; he wanted a real man to fuck the shit outta him tonight. These kids couldn’t give his ass the workout he was looking for.

That meant turning west and heading towards the highway. He’d expected this; it was where the rough trade was located, and rough was exactly what he wanted. He didn’t care if the guy was a junkie—hell, Tommy would take a hit or a bump along with him—but he had to have power and stamina.

He wasn’t always in the mood to get treated like a sex toy—well, no, that wasn’t true; he always liked it rough but that usually cost extra. Ralph would want to know where the money went. It came from his account, so he’d notice most of the time and Tommy would have to come up with a convincing lie about a necessary expenditure.

But Ralph had been generous; he’d just gotten a bonus from work and had given Tommy a large amount of cash, to do with as he wished. Naturally, Tommy couldn’t wait to get away from him and go spend it.

As a result, Tommy had promptly impaired his already negligible sense of judgment. He was slightly (read: extremely) intoxicated, having gotten Ralph to sleep by spending the evening insisting they get drunk in celebration of the bonus—knowing that the older man was diabetic and would pass out after three very strong cocktails.

He was also very high; he always had a steady supply of weed. Ralph knew and disapproved, but continued to pay for it on the basis that fucked-up Tommy was considerably easier to live with than stone-cold sober Tommy.

Long story short: one very high twink slut cruising around looking for rough sex. A recipe for disaster, but Tommy had gotten away with it before; this was far from the first time. He knew what he was doing—he thought.

He’d travelled about a mile and a half west when he spotted a dude hanging out on the periphery of a run-down convenience store; the kind of place with wire mesh in the windows and where business after dark is conducted via a drawer under three inches of bullet-proof glass.

He was standing next to a pole that had been installed thirty years ago to hold a payphone; the metal shell with the Ma Bell logo was still extant. A fluorescent light, still working, illuminated him, but the placement of a huge garbage bin blocked the view of the store itself. Tommy slowed abruptly—holy fuck, this one was hot.

He wasn’t tall, certainly not over six feet, but he was extremely well-built and dressed to show it. He had a swarthy, almost Italian appearance, with short jet-black hair and eyebrows. His face, with large dark eyes, even features and a Roman nose, was almost that of a model, but dark circles under the eyes testified to some…unhealthy habits.

He wore a denim vest, skin-tight jeans, combat boots—and, as near as Tommy could tell, nothing else. His huge smooth chest was clearly visible under the vest, swelling in front before dropping to the rippling firmness of his muscled abdomen. Given the dark-blue shadow wrapped around the hustler’s jaw, Tommy guessed the guy must shave his chest regularly; otherwise, it’d have to be covered in black hair. His lower arms certainly were, but not quite enough to hide the needle tracks in the inner elbow of his left arm. His upper arms bulged with biceps, though; they looked like they barely fit through the holes in the vest.

His jeans were so tight, his legs looked like they’d been painted with denim. Tommy was kinda surprised that he’d been able to find jeans that tight that still had such a large area in the crotch; nonetheless, the long tube of flesh was clearly defined as it strained the material. Tommy’s eyes slid down the hustler’s legs to his combat boots, laced, but not tied. He caught a glint of light from something stuck inside the right boot, but it didn’t register.

He wanted this guy inside him. He wanted to feel the dude’s cum splashing in his guts.

The hustler had noticed him the moment he braked. He approached as the passenger window rolled down. Up close, Tommy noticed the guy was sweaty and jittery. Serious junkie then—good. They usually can be gotten pretty cheap.

“Dude, I got a hundred plus whatever kinda hit you want if you’ll bang me like a screen door in a tornado.”

The hustler bent down to the window and grinned. “You payin’ for the hit? Sure. Keep drivin’ and pull over when I tell ya.” He opened the door and hopped in.

Tommy went three and a half blocks further west before the trick told him to pull over outside a decrepit apartment complex. The muscled dude got out and vanished into the darkness of the complex courtyard. Tommy waited patiently. When he’d slipped the whore two twenties for the coke, he’d made sure he’d seen that there was plenty more where that came from. The dude would be back.

Unfortunately for him, he was right.

In fact, he wasn’t gone more than five minutes. He reappeared from the shadows, still grinning, striding along with the smooth feral grace of a panther. Tommy got hard just watching him walk.

The moment the hustler was back in the car, Tommy pointed it west. A mile or two away some worn-out motor court motels still stood on what had once been the state highway. But the interstate had been put in a mile still further west, some fifty years ago. What had once been valuable commercial land was now mostly vacant lots strewn with rubble and glass shards. The two motels still standing survived by renting by the hour, no questions asked, open twenty-four hours. Given the hourly rate, the low overhead and the general utility of the places, they were probably making someone a mint.

Tommy pulled into the Shamrock Motel. He threw the car into park near the office and got out. He wasn’t quite as incapacitated as to forget to take the keys with him. He doubted the dude would take the car and go, but there was no sense in taking chances.

By the time the irony of that phrase was driven home to Tommy, he was in no position to appreciate the lesson.

Tommy left the car in the middle of the parking lot—wisely, perhaps, since everyone else had parked in front of the rooms and he was far too fucked up to fit the huge Caddy between the lines. He handed the key to the whore as he shut off the engine. Once they got out and he locked the doors, he stumbled after the dude, who headed straight towards the room.

The hustler had gone in and turned on the light by the time Tommy got to the door. He already knew what to expect—the cheap, thin, mis-matched carpet; the dented AC unit squealing like stuck pig for the sole purpose of pushing the fetid air around, the antique TV chained to the dresser, and burn marks on everything.

The stud already had his kit out and had drawn up the coke powder in a couple of syringes. He turned and faced Tommy and unzipped his fly. He reached in and uncurled his long, semi-soft cock like a length of rope.

“You want my cock? Pay me. Gimme the money, we’ll do a bump and I’ll fuck ya, man. I can get hard when I’m high. But I gotta get the money first.”

Tommy had been stripping while the hustler was talking. He bent down and retrieved his wallet from the pocket of his jeans on the floor. He made sure the hustler saw that the Franklin he slipped out had company, figuring the dude might be willing to go a bit further than most if he know Tommy would make it worth his while. For once, Tommy was dead right.

He placed the wallet on the dresser and continued to undress until he was wearing nothing but his socks and purple skate shoes. His dick, thin but long, jutted in front like a flagpole. The whore tied Tommy off with a strip of rubber and shot him up. As Tommy started to feel the train, the hustler injected himself. As the rush set in, he grabbed Tommy and threw him face-down on the bed.

Tommy had a metallic taste in his mouth; he knew he was seriously high and about to get plowed. He was happier than a pig in shit—which was a pretty good description of his situation. He moaned in pleasure as he felt the hustler grab his wrists and roughly twist his arms behind him. “Stay like that, bitch; I’m gonna tie you down before I fuck ya,” he heard whispered into his ear. He did as he was told.

He felt a cord wrapped multiple times around his wrists, painfully, before being tied in an excruciatingly tight knot. He moaned again, his mouth stretched into a broad grin. “Fuck yeah, man, rape the fuck outta me, dude,” he muttered. “Shut up, bitch,” the whore snarled back. Tommy buried his face in the pillow in a wave of pig lust, never wondering how the hell his hands would get untied after being bound so securely.

When it came, it was even more brutal than Tommy had been expecting. His head was forced violently down into the thin, scratchy pillows a split second before the dude’s cock tore its way through his sphincter.

Tommy screamed. It was muffled to a faint cry by the pillows. He twisted and writhed, instinctively seeking escape from the pain; it felt like someone had stuck a light bulb up his ass. He hadn’t realized the whore was this big—and as much as Tommy had whored his own ass out, that said a lot.

“Shut the fuck up, you piece of shit, and take my fuckin’ cock,” snarled the rough trade trick. Tommy writhed in pig lust, enjoying the pain. Deep in his slut soul, he loved being treated like the whore he truly was, and he didn’t mind paying for it.

The dude pulled Tommy closer to mount him more securely. Tommy could feel his jeans rasping against his outer thighs with each thrust, could feel the older man’s boots flexing against his own feet in rhythm with each agonizing penetration of his ass. Suddenly, the trick straightened his back and pulled his vest off, his massive, muscled chest slick with sweat, his pecs and biceps glistening in the dim light—not that Tommy, face down on the bed, was in a position to appreciate any of it.

“Ya like that, ya little fuckin’ faggot,” sneered the trick as he pumped Tommy’s ass. Given that he was still forcing Tommy’s face into the pillow, the expectation of a reply would probably be unreasonable. He let go, disentangling his hand from Tommy’s long hair for a moment. Tommy raised his head and gasped for air, emitting faint whines with each lungful.

The trick grabbed him roughly and turned him slightly on his left side, bringing his own right leg up and planting his right boot in front of Tommy’s face. Tommy had a perfect view when the dude pulled the folding buck knife out of his loose boot. His eyes widened as the trick opened it, revealing a serrated five-inch blade.

“What the fuck, man?” he whispered hoarsely. “What’s that for?”

“”It’s to stick into you, you worthless faggot. Fuckin’ homo. You deserve to die, you fuckin’ pervert.”

Tommy gulped, then giggled nervously. “Dude, stop kidding. You’re fucking me too good not to like this. What’s it for?”

“It’s for you, you fucking cocksucking slut. Goddam fucking cock pig, I’m gonna waste ya and have some fun with your money. You’ll keep me high for a week at least, maybe more. Understand this, you fuckin’ bitch, I ain’t no faggot; I’m just wastin’ ya for your money. But I figure, why not enjoy myself while I put down another useless homo cunt?”

Deep within Tommy’s drug- and alcohol-hazed brain, the true danger of his situation began to seep through. He started to snivel and blubber, begging incoherently, not realizing how much his desperate babbling was turning the trick on. The fact that the guy’s rod seemed to have swollen to fill his entire rectum should have been a clue; Tommy had never experienced so painful a fuck to begin with. Every vein wrapped around his massive shaft seemed to force Tommy’s ass open even further.

“Fuckin’ A,” came a deep, lust-filled whisper into his ear, “I’m gonna kill you, cunt. You’re gonna die with my cock up your ass. Ain’t no one gonna miss a worthless little fuckhole like you. What, you got some sugar daddy payin’ yer bills? Dude, he’s gonna thank me for wastin’ your ass.”

Tommy was in deep panic by this point. He was frozen in fear, unable to process what was happening. So far the hustler was threatening him, but Tommy couldn’t see the knife any more. Maybe he got off on talking tough…

The first thrust of the blade, when it came, was nothing like Tommy had anticipated. It was almost icy cold, a quick penetration into his right side; thrust and twist, then out again. He gasped in shock, uncertain what had actually just happened.

Whatever it was, he knew it was bad. He reacted as expected; the trick could feel his hands clench involuntarily in pain and fear. Tommy drew his legs up in shock; the rough trade junkie could feel his victim spasm uncontrollably beneath him as the punk went into clinical shock. But the junkie wasn’t done with him yet.

The next few minutes of Tommy’s life—the last few minutes of Tommy’s life—were the stuff of nightmares. The torture inflicted on him far exceeded his own pig needs and wants.

The trick timed the thrusts of his knife to the thrusts of his dick; each time his long hard cock tore into Tommy’s guts, his long cold blade ripped into Tommy’s lungs, or liver, or stomach. At one point, the dude pulled Tommy up on his knees and, reversing his blade, thrust upwards into Tommy’s soft, smooth belly, slicing holes in his abdomen.

Tommy cried in pain and fear, sniveling and babbling as he died in horrible agony, terror seizing control of his body and rendering him utterly incapable of resisting as he was raped and murdered. And somewhere deep inside, as he felt the cold knife tearing into him, he knew that this was exactly what he’d always deserved, what he’d prowled the streets looking for.

It hurts, oh fucking god it hurts, please end it now I’m full of him his dick his knife oh fuck he’s sticking me everywhere shit the pain stop the pain oh fucking god stop the pain this is it his cock is plugging the hole in my soul or is it his knife it doesn’t matter he’s in me I’m going fuck that burns my ass so bad is that his cum it burns so fucking bad no not yet not ye–

The hustler took a couple of minutes to let his tool drain into the corpse, with the ease of someone who’d had a great deal of experience at this. After the quivering, bleeding meat milked his shaft dry, the muscled junkie pulled his swollen shaft out of the twitching smooth buttocks. He toweled the sweat off his hard, gleaming body and opened the wallet to empty it of cash before tossing it onto the huddled bleeding mass of hamburger on the blood-soaked bed.

“Fuck yeah, cunt, you’re gonna keep me higher than fuck for a long time,” he said with a grin to the still-twitching corpse on the stained bedspread. Slipping his vest (blood-free since he’d had the foresight to remove it) back on and stuffing his still-dripping dick back into his jeans, the whore searched Tommy’s jean for his keys.

As he walked out the door, he took a last backwards glance. Tommy’s blood-soaked corpse, eyes wide open in terror, gaped at the left-hand wall, his hair fanned out over his shoulders, his knees drawn up and his ass in the air. It was obvious that he’d been fucked and wasted like the useless cunt he was.

Ralph got his car back; it was found outside the drug complex with the keys in it. It had sustained no damage. Ralph himself cried for the better part of a week after learning of Tommy’s death, but within three months, found his finances improved. A year later, he moved to a much nicer neighborhood…

Mac and Bill 1

They had scoped out the kill and were ready.

They didn’t know who the client was. Sometimes the client was private and sometimes it was a government contract. It didn’t matter. All they needed to know was who the targets were and whether they were supposed to die easy or hard.

This job, they were supposed to die hard.

The targets were a couple of drug lords. Intelligence had it that they were meeting in a neutral location to work out a territorial dispute. They had kept security light— some local punks who hadn’t been able to pay their tabs.

Mac grinned as he sighted the first sentry. He and Bill were gonna enjoy this. The actual targets would be done too quickly—a couple of taps to the head and it’d be over. But the men standing guard–oh, yeah, this was gonna be fun.

Mac and Bill had over a hundred kills of this kind between them. They’d worked out a method that involved incredible precision. Mac had found on an earlier kill that if a knife enters the target’s brain at a certain point and depth, it strikes an area that controls orgasm. The target will drop like a rag doll and cream his jeans on the way down.

He’d practiced it on his next few hits and when he felt confident, he demonstrated it to Bill. It had been on a job south of the border. Bill had already whacked his target—a Mexican hardman who gagged and coughed his life away in Bill’s arms after his throat had been slit.

The sentry Mac was going for was a young man with dirty jeans and combat boots. He wore a tight black tee which covered the handgun tucked down the front of his pants. He’d heard his buddy’s dying gasps and started moving in that direction. Mac had come behind him and clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth; ramming his razor-sharp knife into the guy’s kidney. As the hardman stiffened in agony and shock, Mac had called Bill and had him watch as he lifted the man’s chin and slammed the knife up through the guard’s jaw, puncturing his tongue and soft palate and piercing his brain. After seeing the massive, sticky wet spot form in the dying man’s crotch, Bill had been a willing and able student of form.

Now it was time to send these two punks out the same way.

Mac saw that Bill had the same hard grin as he did. This was gonna be real smooth. These two were practically kids, barely old enough to buy their own beer. Hardman wanna-bes. The wanted to be men; they were gonna die like men. And it was gonna hurt.

The two mercs had gotten close enough to overhear the guards. From their conversation, they had learned the names of each. Danny was short and dark, with shoulder-length black hair. He was wearing tight jeans and hightops, but had no shirt covering his well-developed chest. Bobby was the other one; he was practically a skinhead, with a razor-thin goatee. He was wearing a white wifebeater and showing the tattoos on his muscled arms to an admiring Danny. At the start of the conversation, Bobby had pulled a bag of weed out of his boot and fished papers from the back pocket of his jeans. They had passed a joint back and forth while talking about how fucked up they’d gotten and how many bitches they’d reamed out. When they finished, Bobby had rolled the each their own before they split up.

The warriors’ smiles got tighter. High on guard duty—these two were the definition of ‘young, dumb, and full of cum.’

Time to let that cum out.

Bobby was walking further up the road. Mac trailed him silently, timing the kill.

The hit on Danny was quick and brutal. It was over in an instant, but a lot happened in that instant.

Danny had just taken a lung-busting hit of his own from the joint when Bill grabbed the hair on the top of his head and pulled it back. At the same time, he brought his commando knife upward into Danny’s exposed jaw, slamming it home into the punk’s brain. Danny’s eyes opened wide with pain and fear as his cock swelled and began spurting uncontrollably. The dying punk jerked backwards several times, grinding his ass into Bill’s crotch before going rag-doll. Bill lowered the still-twitching corpse to the ground and turned to follow Mac.

Mac was crouched down in a ditch about ten yards behind Bobby. Bobby was fucked up—he’d been hotboxing his joint and had smoked it down in less than two minutes. Mac wasn’t worried about cover; the guy was too stoned to have any reaction speed.

Mac crept in silently for the kill. About ten feet behind the guard, he pulled his knife from his boot sheath.

He jumped forward quickly, one hand clamping the punk’s mouth, his fingerless leather glove forming a seal to muffle any noise. The other hand pressed the knife into the base of the guard’s head. There was a resistance, then a slight crunching sound as the tip of the knife penetrated the base of the skull. After that, it slid in smooth and easy.

Bobby’s reaction was immediate. He stiffened in a seizure that jerked his body erect. He arched backwards and his eyes rolled back. A grunt was forced out that was muffled to a moan by Mac’s glove.

“Shut up and die, motherfucker,” Mac whispered in Bobby’s ear.

In the dark buzzing vortex of his swiftly-diminishing consciousness, Bobby somehow knew that while he was being told to shut up and die he was spunking so hard it was agony.

After that, there was nothing left but the convulsions of brain trauma. Bobby thrashed violently, his boots digging furrows in the dirt. Mac held him tightly and reamed his knife into Bobby’s brain. The punk shuddered and went limp in Mac’s arms. Mac lowered him to the ground and wiped his knife on the corpse’s shirt.

Looking up, he saw Bill had been enjoying the show. They quickly regrouped and pressed on. There were at least two more guards between them and the final targets.

Things got quiet after they left. The dead meat that had been Bobby still kicked a little as random nerves fired. One of these kicks dislodged the bag of weed in his boot.

Danny’s body lay on its back, glazed eyes staring at nothing. Down the left side of the face was a small trickle of blood from the nose and another from the corner of the mouth. The body occasionally gave a slight twitch, the hightops scraping the dirt.

Mac and Bill crept silently up the road, leaving the piles of twitching meat behind them to rot.

Three hundred yards down, a sound to their right made them freeze. There shouldn’t have been any more guards this far out from the target, but intelligence had been incomplete before. Mac sent Bill further down the road to reconnoiter and went to investigate the sounds himself.

Moving silently through the underbrush, Mac emerged suddenly into a clearing. Right in front of him, leaning against a tree, was a young guard beating his meat. This was Frank.

Frank was wearing an open shirt-sleeve work shirt over his tight white undershirt. His jeans, opened at the fly to display his fully erect cock, were tucked into his dirty, slouched work boots. In his right boot was a half-ounce bag of weed—it was their advance pay for guard duty.

Frank was higher than a kite and had been thinking about the bitch he’d banged in an alleyway last night as he jacked himself. Precum was just starting to ooze from his mushroom tip when merc materialized in front of him. Franks bloodshot eyes widened as he tried to focus on the man who was going to end his life. The guy was wearing all black, from the cap on his close-shaven head to the tactical gloves and the combat boots.

Then bright pain exploded in Frank’s face.

Mac had been caught slightly by surprise, but hadn’t hesitated in wasting the punk. He’d stunned the little fuck with a line-drive punch straight from the shoulder. The steel knuckles built into his gloves added power to the blow.

Frank, semi-conscious, reeled away from Mac. His cheekbone was broken and his lips split. His dick, forgotten but still hard, bobbed in the wind.

Mac stepped forward and slid his left hand under Frank’s left arm and across his chest, grabbing his right shoulder. He reached his right hand around the back of Frank’s head to grab his chin from the left and pulled both of his arms back violently.

There was a cracking sound as Frank’s vertebrae shattered and his spinal cord ruptured. His head was twisted 180 degrees and his stunned, terrified eyes were staring directly into Mac’s.

Frank’s body stiffened and shuddered. His muscles went rigid involuntarily, forcing a geyser of cum to spew from his dick. Faint gasping sounds escaped his lips as he struggled to draw air with muscles and lungs that had stopped working.

There was another shudder and another fountain of spunk. Then Frank’s legs gave way, his boots buckling at the ankles and digging out paths in the dirt. Mac held him all the way down, starting into his eyes. The last thing the punk saw as his wasted life slipped away was the merciless face of the hard man who’d offed him.

Kneeling on the dead meat, with his leg on the corpse’s ass and his gloved hand pressing strongly on the blank, staring face, Mac paused and listed. These fucks usually traveled in pairs.

Sure enough, there was a rustling sound ahead and a little to the left. Mac moved quietly back into the woods, leaving the body in the clearing behind him to stiffen. After a while, the cum dried, leaving the corpse with glazed eyes and glazed thighs.

Mac was moving quietly parallel to the road. About ten yards beyond the clearing where he’d left Frank’s body, he was brought up short by a motorcycle hidden in the brush, with a helmet hanging from the handlebars. The sound he was tracking was louder now, and seemed to come from his right. He moved off in that direction.

It didn’t take him long to find the other guard. He was taking a leak into a small stream, with his back to Mac. This one had a shock of unruly black hair and a gold loop in his ear caught the light. He was wearing a white t-shirt tucked into tight leather pants cinched by some kind of metallic belt. The leather pants, in turn, were tucked into high biker boots. This one was young, about nineteen or twenty.

Mac slowly reached for the length of nylon cord in his pocket. He looped it around the kid’s neck in a flash and pulled hard.

The punk, as high as the others, hadn’t seen it coming. He flailed wildly, struggling for breath. Mac tightened his hold on the guard’s windpipe and braced himself as his victim fought—vainly—for his life.

The punk had some fight in him, too. He spent some time grabbing ineffectively at the cord digging into his neck, but Mac was pulling it violently and it was embedded in the flesh. That was when the kid panicked.

He stopped struggling with the cord and reached up, trying to connect with anything that would release his agonized throat and let him breathe again. In his terror of death, he lost control of his bladder. His dick was still out and the piss dribbled down his leather pants onto his desperately kicking boots.

The guard’s flailing hands batted aimlessly at Mac’s face and caught at his arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Mac could see that the stupid little fuck had a tribal armband tattoo. Then the victim’s hands were in his face again and he decided enough was enough.

He kicked the guy’s boots out from under him and kneeled to follow him down. The guard was now sitting on the ground with his legs jerking out in front, boots tearing up the dirt and leaves. Mac could see the pot leaf emblazoned on the punk’s belt buckle. He wondered if the kid had any idea that he was going to die wearing it when he put it on today. He gave the cord a hard tug and there was a crunching sound.

Mac knew he could let the punk go now; his windpipe was crushed and he’d be dead in sixty seconds no matter what. But he held on, watching the guy’s flaccid cock suddenly swell and turn a vivid purple—the same purple as the guard’s face. A foamy trickle of saliva escaped past the kid’s swollen, protruding tongue. His hands had stopped beating violently at Mac’s face and were moving slower, almost caressing him.

The punk’s random jerking became a rhythmic convulsion. With each spasm, the kid shot a load and he shot hard. Mac felt a splatter of semen on his cheek. The guy shot his next three loads into his own face. Cum dripped from his dull, half-open eyes down over the tip of his tongue and off his chin.

Mac held on to the wetly pulsating meat for a little while longer before removing his cord. He had to tug at it as it was buried deeply in the guard’s throat. He turned and left as quietly as he had come, on his way to rejoin Bill.

The silence that settled over the kill after Mac’s departure was only broken by the death throes of the corpse. These became fewer over time, but with each spasm, a slight trickle of sperm leaked out onto the leather pants.

Mac found Bill near what the map had marked as the last turn in the road. Beyond this point, the road ascended in a straight line to the cabin where the final targets were supposed to be located.

Naturally, there were another couple of guards around the bend.

Bill had already scoped them out. He told Mac that he’d gathered from their conversation that they were brothers. The younger brother wouldn’t give them any problems—he’d only come along to get high and would be easy to drop. The older brother, with bright red hair, would be tougher. He’d worked for the targets before and acted as if he knew how to handle himself. He didn’t, but he could still cause problems.

Mac went carefully forward and checked them out. They were standing by the far side of the road. Both had dressed similarly in tight black shirts and tight jeans. The ginger guard was in his mid-20’s and had his shirt tucked into his jeans. When he turned his back to Mac, he could see a 9-millimeter jammed down the back of the guy’s jeans, the handle out for access. Ginger was wearing combat boots and thick leather bands around his wrists, one of them holding a watch.

Junior was about 18 or 19. He was wearing a ball cap and didn’t have his shirt tucked in. He was squatting with his back to Mac, who could see that the kid was going commando. He’d tucked his jeans into ropers.

Mac returned to Bill.

“I found two more guard back there,” he said.

“Any problems?”

“Nah. They kicked a little. But we need to get one of these to talk. Need to find out if there’s any other surprises.”

Bill grinned.

“Good cop, bad cop? It’s my turn to be bad cop.”

They sprang out simultaneously. Bill went for Ginger, kicking his legs out. The guard fell to his knees with Bill behind him, one hand clenched in his hair. The other held a knife at the side of Ginger’s throat.

Junior had risen and was facing Mac when he jumped. Mac slammed the kid back into a tree and pressed hard on him, gloved hand over his mouth. He too had a knife, pointed at Junior’s belly.

Bill yanked up on Ginger’s hair.

“Ok, you little cocksucker, talk!”

Ginger snapped back, “Fuck you! I ain’t tellin’ ya shit!”

Bill hadn’t expected him to. He turned to Mac with a smile.

“He says he don’t wanna.”

Mac eased his pressure on Junior’s mouth just enough to let him speak.

“What about you? You feel like talking? “

“Don’t you say a word, dude!” shouted Ginger. “Those guys’ll fuck us up bad!”

Mac leaned forward, pinning Junior to the tree with his full body weight. He forced Junior’s head to the right, giving him a direct view of his brother.

“Watch what happens if you don’t talk. Go for it, Bill.”

With a violent jerk, Bill thrust his knife into Ginger’s throat, the tip coming out the other side. The sharp serrated blade tore through the punk’s vocal cords and windpipe, neatly spearing the adam’s apple.

Ginger made a choked gurgling sound. His face was a mask of pain and terror.

“Watch him,” whispered Mac into Junior’s ear, “watch him die.”

Ginger’s hands flailed helplessly in front of him. His body jerked and shuddered as a pink foam began to leak from the corners of his mouth. He sagged forward. The only thing keeping him from falling face down in the dirt was Bill’s hold on his hair.

Bill had gotten rock hard. He pulled Ginger’s head back into his groin. In his last few seconds alive, Ginger was dimly aware of only one other thing beside the agony of death—the sensation of a hot iron rod covered in fabric pressed against the back of his head.

Mac eased up on Junior’s mouth again. “Now talk, bitch,” he growled. “How many others between here and the cabin?”

Junior started crying—they’d been right; he was the weak one. When he spoke, it came out in one long gasp of terror, all at once.

“Ohfuckdon’tkillmepleasedon’tilltellyaanythingohfuckohshit,” he pleaded.

“Quit babbling, you little shit and tell me—anyone else between here and the cabin?’

Junior gulped hard and just barely managed to control his panic. “No one, dude,” he sobbed, “just them two dudes that went up there and the guys driving their cars—I swear. Fuck, dude, don’t kill me—I told ya what ya wanted to know. Oh God, please don’t kill me!’

Mac clamped his hand back over Junior’s mouth and turned to Bill with a grin.

“Whaddaya think?”

“Nah, he’s useless. Waste the little fuck.”

Mac turned back to Junior. “Sorry, kid,” he said with a smile. “If he says I gotta waste ya, I gotta waste ya.”

Junior stared at him with terrified eyes, He began struggling, tears running down his face.

Mac stabbed his knife upwards into Junior’s belly. Even with Mac’s gloved hand firmly covering his mouth, faint screams could be heard.

Mac slowly withdrew the knife. “You’re gonna die with your boots on, like a real man,” he whispered. “This is gonna hurt.”

With a single controlled jab, he rammed the knife up through Junior’s jaw and tongue, embedding it in the soft palate. The intense burst of agony combined with the shock of the gut stab had halted Junior’s struggle. He stood shuddering, his eyes wide.

Mac jammed the knife up into the kid’s brain. Junior’s eyes dilated, then rolled back so only the white could be seen. His tight muscular body arced forward, grinding his groin into Mac’s. Mac felt Junior’s hard dick rubbing against his own through several layers of fabric, getting him hard as well.

Then he felt liquid on his balls and the base of his cock and knew that the kid was cumming so hard in his dying moments that the spunk had soaked through. Mac lost control and shot his wad. As his own jizz spread over his belly and the kid’s cum oozed onto his balls, Mac skullfucked Junior with his knife, reaming in and out and shredding the kid’s brain.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mac saw that Bill hadn’t been able to control himself either. Still holding Ginger’s corpse by the hair, he’d positioned the body so it was facing him. He pulled his long rigid dick out and stuck it in Ginger’s mouth. A quick, violent facefuck and Bill growled, then gave a low groan, sending ropy strands of his spunk over Ginger’s mangled larynx. He was still oozing when he pulled out, sperm mixing with the blood drying at the corner of Ginger’s mouth.

“Sorry,” muttered Bill when he noticed Mac watching him. “Just seeing the two of you…well…”

“Don’t apologize. I didn’t know it would be like that. We’ll have to find a way to get ourselves off on every kill. Why should we let these fucks have all the fun?” As he finished saying this he kicked Junior’s blank staring face with his steel-toed boot.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “Shame we can’t have much fun with the targets. But I still got more spunk of my own to let out.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Mac. They cleaned themselves using the shirts of their dead fuckbuddies. “I think we can still have some fun during cleanup.”

They started climbing the hill in the direction of the cabin.

The approach to the cabin was difficult. Just a few yards past the spot where Ginger and Junior were turning cold and stiff, the line of sight forced them into the treeline—Mac and Bill could be seen from the cabin if they stayed on the road. The need for silence slowed them, especially if the two “drivers”—more likely professional killers—were outside.

They were. One of them was clearly a hardman type. Well-built, with thick short dark curls, he wore a white t-shirt and jeans, both skin-tight. His camo-patterned cap was backwards and his combat boots were desert camo.

The other guard surprised the mercs. He was about 18, little more than a kid. A black wifebeater showed tattoos on his muscled arms and pecs. His strong legs ended in colorful expensive sneakers. They later found that he was the nephew of one of the targets. He’d killed before and thought he was a major bad-ass. Mac and Bill agreed not to kill him right away.

They had plans for him.

The guards were standing between the cabin door and the cars, which were parked parallel to the front of the building. By keeping low and moving carefully, Mac and Bill had reached the other side of the cars, where they split up.

Bill whipped around the rear of the car and put the kid’s lights out. A lightning-fast blow to the jaw knocked the boy out.

The kid grunted when he got decked and the hardman heard. He turned towards Bill and opened his mouth to say something. He never had the chance. Mac was on him immediately, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other slashing mercilessly at his throat with a knife.

The hardman fell to his knees, hands grasping his throat. A look of horror and disbelief was in his eyes—he’d cut the throats of several men himself, but he didn’t know the pain and terror of watching his life spurt out. He tried to scream in agony but no sound came from his mangled larynx. The only noise was the uncontrollable gasping and gurgling from the wound.

The guard fell face down in a swiftly-spreading pool. He spent his last few seconds coughing up blood and scrabbling his boots ineffectually on the ground. The smell of blood and piss filled the air.

Bill had hogtied the boy to make sure he stayed put. The kid started to moan quietly.

“Hey, we need to shut him up. Whaddaya think?”

“Hold on a sec,” said Mac. He unlaced the dead guard’s boots and pulled them off. He yanked the corpse’s socks off and tossed them to Bill. “Gag him with these.”

Bill balled the guard’s reeking socks and shoved them into the boy’s mouth. The kid had no choice but to lie quietly until the mercs came back for him.

Time to take out the targets. There were two of them, Carlos Camacho and Eddie Herrera. Carlos was in his late 20’s and seriously hardcore. He was a major player in street gang drug activity in the western part of the state. He was wanted on several murder charges. His head was shaved but he wore a goatee and his arms were covered in tattoos. Bill and Mac, each watching through different windows, had no difficulty identifying him. He wore a white sleeveless t-shirt and tight white chinos. On his feet were expensive ostrich-skin cowboy boots.

Eddie had come up from Mexico to facilitate the flow of the drugs to Carlos. On his arrival, he’d found a rival supplier trying to make inroads with Carlos. He’d resolved the issue by leaving the rival and his entourage of guards alone—as dismembered corpses in a ravine. He was here tonight to work out the final details of the deal with Carlos in a place where they wouldn’t be interrupted.

He had no clue that both the deal and his life were about to be cut off.

Eddie was in his early 30’s and was beautiful to look at. His large brown eyes with long lashes had looked into the death stare of many men without losing the charm of innocence. His face, though, was hard and cold, showing the killer inside. He wore a long-sleeved western shirt tucked into tight blue jeans that sported a large belt buckle. His cowboy boots were dusty and plain, far less costly that the ones sported by Carlos.

The mercs quickly got the drop on their targets. The door splintered as soon as Mac applied his boot to it. He and Bill burst into the main room of the cabin, aiming their silenced handguns, taking Carlos and Eddie by surprise. The thugs were helpless.

“On your knees, assholes!” shouted Mac.

Then went down on their knees and raised their hands. Since the intruders were wearing paramilitary gear, Carlos and Eddie thought they were some branch of law enforcement. They foresaw legal issues, loss of time and money.

They didn’t see death staring them in the face—but they would, very soon.

“What have you done with Jose?” demanded Eddie.

“Who’s Jose?” asked Mac.

“My nephew,” replied Eddie, “He drove me here. If you hurt him—“

“The kid out front?” grinned Mac. “He’s safe. He’s gonna work for us. Now stand up and turn around. Spread ‘em”

Mac held the thugs at gunpoint while Bill frisked them. He did it thoroughly, making each man moan by squeezing the bulges between their legs. Nothing wrong with a man having a little fun on the job.

Neither Carlos nor Eddie was surprised when the handcuffs went on; they expected it as part of the arrest process. Mac was still pointing his gun at them, forcing them to keep their faces to the wall. They could hear Bill moving things behind them but had no idea what he was doing.

They soon found out. After a couple of minutes, Mac had them turn around. In the center of the room, a black nylon cord had been draped over a rafter. Each end of the cord terminated in a slip-knot loop, hanging about eight feet off the ground. Beneath each loop was a chair.

Even being forced up onto the chairs and having the loops placed around their necks didn’t faze the hardened thugs—they prided themselves on their reputation as tough motherfuckers and expected a little psychological torture in pursuit of a confession. The first conscious awareness they had that this wasn’t an ordinary arrest didn’t come until Mac and Bill had unzipped their captives’ pants and pulled out their thick, uncut cocks.

It was also their last conscious awareness. The mercs kicked away the chairs. After that, it was desperate, futile, primal fight for life.

Carlos and Eddie died a horrible, lingering death. With their hands bound but their legs free, they kicked at each other in their maddened struggle for breath.

Carlos had the strong, fit body of a street thug. This made him suffer longer. He jerked and kicked at his end of the rope, feeling Eddie die beside him. His face became congested and blue, with foam boiling from his open, swollen lips. His thick tool was fully erect.

Next to him, Eddie was also dancing on air, his boots flailing wildly beneath him. The slipknot had tightened agonizingly around his neck, causing great folds to form in the skin of the throat. Eddie’s thirteen-inch throat was constricted to a circumference of about five inches.

The blood, unable to escape, backed up in Eddie’s head. Vessels ruptured in his eyes and nose and his face turned black. His tongue and his bloodshot eyes bulged. A trickle of blood from the nose dripped onto the tip of his tongue. Like Carlos, his massive dick was standing up straight.

Carlos had stopped kicking. With his boots together, pointed down at the floor a couple of feet beneath him, he was arcing his body violently at the waist. He wasn’t ready to give up the battle for his life yet.

Eddie was. After a couple of convulsions, all Eddie could feel was burning agony in his throat and more burning agony in his cock. The sensation in his dick grew uncontrollably. As searing pain and death overwhelmed him, Eddie was unaware that cum had erupted from his cock in a steady stream. It shot up like a fountain and splattered back down onto all four of them. Several jets went up before Eddie’s spasms slowed and he dangled limply. The cum stains on his boots were washed off a moment later when his bladder voided post-mortem and piss flowed down his legs.

Mac pulled his straining cock out, already oozing with precum. He almost shot his wad watching Eddie die. He turned to Bill.

“You ready to finish off this little punk?” he asked.

Bill nodded. He was already beating his meat. He reached out and grabbed Carlos’s rigid dick.

Carlos’s body had let him down. It refused to let him die easy. The world had gone gray and soundless explosions burst inside his head but he was still conscious. Eddie’s spunk had splattered on his face and Carlos knew what that meant. He’d strangled men before and had seen them shoot as they died.

Carlos felt Bill’s hand on his cock, felt the smooth leather tactical glove stroke his shaft. He resisted the urge to shoot the seed bubbling up in his balls, but his dick was being controlled by automatic reflexes. He was getting jacked off as he died and he was going to blow his load whether he wanted to or not.

Carlos gave a vigorous jerk, thrusting his cock forward at Bill. It spat out a wad of cum, catching Bill full in the face. At the same time, Mac, pounding his meat furiously, shot his own load over Carlos’s legs and boots.

Bill didn’t even have to touch himself. He gushed his load when he caught Carlos’s dying facial. He continued to yank the thick rod in his hand. Carlos’s eyes rolled back in his head. Foamy spittle had run from the corner of his mouth and dripped from his jaw. Each tug on his meat was rewarded by another spurt of cum.

Bill grabbed the thug’s legs and jerked them downwards, hard. There was a thick cracking sound. Carlos felt sharp, stabbing pain in his neck and sank into the nothingness of death. His neck had stretched and his body went rigid at the moment of death, shooting out one last spray of sperm that splashed down Bill’s chest.

It took a few minutes for Mac and Bill to catch their breath. They cleaned themselves in the cabin’s washroom before retrieving Jose, who was still hogtied on the ground outside. They put him to work moving the bodies.

At gunpoint, they forced him into the driver’s seat of one of the cars. Bill sat next to him; Mac sat behind, the muzzle of his gun against the back of the boy’s head. He had to drive out to the first pair of corpses and load them into the trunk, then work his way back to the cabin. On the way down, they forced him to drive over Ginger’s body, still lying in the middle of the road.

“Shut up, bitch,” snarled Mac. “Just a pile of dead meat—which is what you’ll be, if you don’t shut your fuckin’ hole.”

Jose stopped whimpering, but terror was growing inside of him. He’d thought he was tough because he’d shanked a couple of dudes. This level of cold-bloodedness was beyond him. He was still too young to be this hard.

At each kill, Mac stayed inside the car with his gun on Jose as long as he was visible. Bill got out and had his gun in point-blank range of the kid the entire time. Jose had to drag each body to the car and lift it into the trunk. Every time he bent over a body, his eyes met the horror-filled death stare of the corpse and his panic increased.

They left the bodies in the car when they got back to the cabin. Taking a spade that was lying by the side of the building, they marched Jose into the woods. After about two hundred yards, they found what they were looking for. It was a clear spot, on the side of a hill overlooking a dry creek bed. Here they forced Jose to dig a pit.

The boy was almost hysterical now. Deep down, he knew that there was no way he’d survive this night. He had only one hope to hold on to, that his uncle was somehow all right and would save him. He hadn’t been inside the cabin yet.

That one hope was enough. He would still struggle for his worthless life. He sobbed in terror, but he dug the pit his own corpse would rot in.

When he was finished, shaking with exhaustion and with his grimy face streaked with his tears, they forced him to drag the corpses up one by one and throw them into the pit. Jose slowly emptied the car. By the time he’d pulled up the last body, the blood-caked hardman outside the cabin door, he had barely enough strength left to roll it into the pit. The corpses had been tossed in at random, boots on faces, groins to asses. The young punks had ended their worthless lives violently and were being left to rot like garbage.

Mac and Bill allowed Jose a little rest before taking him back to the cabin. They shoved him through to broken door and the first thing Jose saw was his uncle, still hanging from the beam. Carlos was dangling next to him, his neck grotesquely elongated. Jose fell to his knees, the last spark of hope dying inside him.

Mac cut the cord over the rafter and the bodies hit the floor with a thud. Jose dragged one body to the pit and Bill dragged the other.

When it was done, Mac made Jose stand at the edge of the pit and pull out his cock. His six inches of meat drooped in terror.

“Little hard-ass punk—can’t even get it up!” jeered Mac. “C’mere, Bill, let’s see if we can’t have a little fun offin’ this bitch.”

Mac wrapped a thin wire garrote around the kid’s neck and pulled it tight. The wire bit into the flesh, causing thin streams of blood to streak Jose’s throat. The boy sank to his knees, his hands clawing at his throat. Bill knelt beside him, tugging on his dick.

Jose was aware he was being jacked off, but the knife-like pain that shut off his air was more immediate. As his eyes bulged, everything grew dark and the edges of his vision shrank to a small vibrating circle. He could see his uncle’s twisted, blackened face staring back at him from the pit, Eddie’s own cum drying to a glaze on his face. Jose knew what was happening to him; when he shot his load, he knew he was dying. Before his sight vanished into oblivion, he saw his spunk raining in showers over the bodies in the pit.

Neither Bill not Mac had so much as undone their flies. Both had creamed their boxers as Jose hosed down the corpses with sperm. They rolled his body into the pit and left it the like the others to decay into a stinking pile of meat.

They returned to the cabin to clean themselves again and then started back to their local base. Time to send out word that they were ready for another job.

Victim POV 3–Motel Hell

I’d think the night before a three-day holiday weekend would be busy, but it looks like I’m wrong. I’ve been out here for a while, but no one’s biting.

There’s a guy down on the next corner. He’s getting picked up now. He’s a little older than me, but better built and more muscular. Guess I need to work out more if I wanna earn more.

Dammit, I can’t even get twenty bucks for a blowjob. Randy said he had plenty of rock, next time I needed a bump, but I gotta get the dough first. He ain’t gonna front the drugs anymore.

One of these faggots out here has to want to stick it in my mouth or up my ass. I’m frustrated, but not worried. I’ll find myself some desperate queer, have some fun and roll him for his wallet. Then I can visit Randy and get as high as I want.

There’s that van again. Must be the third time he’s circled the block. Asshole needs to make up his mind. C’mon, dude, pick me up. My buzz is starting to wear off; gonna need a bump real soon. I got one hit left, but I’m saving it; I may need a good anesthetic. Some of these homos are seriously hung.

He’s pulling over. Cool. Steady now, don’t look desperate. Let’s see what we got here.

He’s not bad looking. Young enough to be a powerhouse in the sack, but old enough to have some control. Late twenties or early thirties, I’d guess. Long black hair, mustache, black leather jacket over a red t-shirt sporting a beer logo. He’s even better built than the guy down the street had been; his shirt is straining tightly over his broad chest and the thick muscles on his thighs and calves bulge through his faded Levi’s. Something else, just as thick, bulges in his crotch.

I pull back for a moment. This trick might be more than I can handle. But I gotta do it if I wanna get high tonight. Besides, what’s the worst he can do? Just because he’s both bigger and stronger than me doesn’t mean he’s gonna hurt me or anything.

Sure, buddy, I’ll come along. Yeah, I’ll blow ya. But I ain’t going back to your place. Make a left at the next light; there’s a cheap no-tell motel I use sometimes. Yeah, you can pay by the hour. Yeah, they take cash–they ain’t stupid, they know the place ain’t bein’ used for prayer meetings.

He slips me a twenty and I go book the room. He only wants it for an hour. Dunno why he doesn’t want to book it. Maybe he thinks I’ll get a better rate, since they know me. And I do. It’s only ten buck for the hour, but I ain’t telling the dude that–and just like that, I’ve made ten bucks. Looks like it’s gonna be a good evening.

The room is out on the end, but the john parks around the side of the building; when we get out of the van, we have to walk around the corner to get to the room. Wonder why he parked so far away. Must be worried about being seen. Lots of guys on the down-low in this place.

The room is small and nasty with a thin stained carpet. The bed sheets aren’t much better. There’s an ancient TV and a microwave with the handle broken off. The faux-wood veneer is peeling off the dresser. There are cigarette burns on damn near everything.

Well, it ain’t the bridal suite, but it’ll do for a quick fuck. I excuse myself and head to the bathroom. Time to hit the one rock I have left; I think I’ll need it.

After I smoke the crack, I break off one of the thin wires that hold the shower curtain. I straighten it into a pusher and, gingerly holding the hot glass stem; push the chore up and down to collect as much of the coke oil as I can. One last quick burn and I’m ready.

Nice thing about crack is the way it kills pain. Of course, it’ll be difficult for me to get hard, but this guy just wants to bang me, so I’m not concerned. But I wanna be high as fuck when he splits my ass with that enormous dong.

When I step out of the bathroom, he’s getting undressed. His jacket and shirt are off but he hasn’t taken off the boots or jeans yet. He stops, looks up and grins as I come forward. There’s something disquieting, almost feral in his eyes. He unzips his fly and his dick falls out like a log.

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. I don’t think I’m in serious trouble, but it probably would have been easier just to mug a drunk for the money. Some of the johns out there have some extreme ideas–and I think this guy might be one of them.

But still, here we are and I’m still numb from the crack, so let’s get it over with. It doesn’t take me long to strip; I’m only wearing jeans, a concert t-shirt and sneakers. I stand nude at the foot of the bed as the john approaches. He still hasn’t taken off his jeans and his harness boots, but without his shirt, I can see his broad, smooth pecs, his strong arms–looks like there’s a skull tattooed on his right shoulder–and his flat abs with a light coat of black fur.

He stands in front of me, sneering, not speaking a word. Suddenly, he spits in my face. “What the fuck–” I start. I’m not given the chance to finish. He punches me in the face, hard.

Oh shit. I’m on my back on the bed, still seeing spots. This asshole decked me and I never saw it coming. If he thinks he’s getting away with–

Oh fuck oh fuck OH FUCK GET OFF ME GET YOUR DICK OUTTA ME!!

Fuck, he’s raping me. No fucking lube—he’s killing me–I gotta get him off, I gotta push him–what the hell? What’s wrong with my arms?

When did he tie them behind me? I don’t remember that–was I unconscious? He must’ve knocked me out oh shit he’s shoving it in again GET OUT OF ME IT HURTS IT HURTS…

He’s pinned me to the bed and spread my legs apart. I can clamp them together around his hard body, but I can’t get them under him to push him up and off. And with my hands bound behind me…

I’m helpless. I can’t move; I have to lie here and take whatever it is he wants to do to me.

I don’t want to look into his face, but it’s unavoidable. What I see there make my heart sink. I’ve never seen such a cold, hard look of hate. He likes hurting me. Oh shit.

“Please don’t hurt me, man, I’ll do anything you want,” I plead. Shit, I’m so scared. He sneers and I see movement out of the corner of my eye–then I’m awash in pain. He hit me again, so fast I couldn’t see it.

Dizzy. Pain. Oh god I hurt he’s splitting me open that can’t be his cock he’s raping me with a beer bottle or something his cock can’t be that big–WHAM!

Spots dancing in front of my eyes. He keeps punching me. I look into his face and again see his rage, his anger as he spits on me. He drives his fist into my stomach, leaving me gasping for air and wallowing in pain.

But he never misses a single stroke in my ass. As bad as his blows hurt, they’re nothing compared to the way he’s tearing open my fuckhole. And I don’t think he’s even shoved his dick all the way in yet.

Oh fuck please god if you’re there get me out of this I’ll never do crack again I’ll never steal or whore myself out oh please oh fuck I promise just let me go I promise–

He sits up on his knees and grabs my ankles. Brutally yanking my legs up, he bends over me, utterly dominating me. I can’t see or feel anything else but him and his sexual rage. With a loud grunt, he completely inserts his cock in my ass and starts fucking me like a wild animal.

Oh fuck OH MY GOD YOU’RE TEARING ME I’M BLEEDING GET OFF PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE PLEASE I’LL DO ANYTHING PLEASE STOP OH GOD NO STOP–

I scream. I can’t help it; I’m in too much pain. Somewhere deep inside, I realize I’m screaming like a little girl and it shames me but I can’t stop; it hurts too bad. I can feel him, fuck, no one has ever been this deep inside me oh shit another thrust OH GOD STOP YOU’RE HURTING ME YOU’RE RIPPING ME APART I CAN FEEL YOUR COCK IN MY GUTS–

What…what…another blow to the face…everything went dark…I can taste blood…

He’s gonna kill me. He’s hurt me too much to let me go. He’s gonna hafta kill me. Oh fuck no I don’t wanna die dude I was just gonna suck you off and get a little money I just wanted to get high I wasn’t supposed to die tonight in this shitty room oh god not another thrust OH FUCK THE PAIN IT HURTS SO BAD OH FUCK OH FUCK I’M SCREAMING AGAIN–

He rears up on his knees again. Oh god, I’m so grateful for the pause, the break from the pain. I can only lie here and gasp, blubbering, tears and snot and blood covering my face, agonized sweat oozing out of every pore, as he starts whispering to me.

“Goddam whore. Making too much noise, well, I’ll fix that, you bitch.” As he speaks, he reaches down and unbuckles his belt, pulling it out of the loops and holding it up. It’s thick black leather, with metal studs. He leers down at me as he wraps the leather strap around my neck…

No. No. Keep it away. Don’t do this. Please, oh fuck, please don’t. I won’t tell anyone, I promise. You can do what you want to me and I won’t say anything, just please don’t kill me–

Hands in my hair, roughly pulling my head up off the bed. I feel the warm embrace of the leather belt on the back of my neck and start sobbing uncontrollably. No, it’s not over, I’m not ready to die, this isn’t happening it’s just bad drugs please god let this just be a bad trip I’m not supposed to get fucked to death in a sleazy motel tight it’s so fucking tight–

Air oh dear god I need air he’s on me and in me and I can’t move and I can’t breathe he’s just using me oh fuck look at the rage in that face he wants me dead oh god I can’t breathe he wants to breed me and kill me–

No no no let me up please oh fuck I can’t get him off my legs slide uselessly over his sweaty flanks I can feel his body flex with each horrible agonizing pump in my ass my hands I can’t feel my hands they’re bound too tight that rushing sound in my head–

Pain oh shit so much pain my throat my head my ass I’m gonna puke I’m gonna barf oh fuck I can’t

Roaring in my ears I can’t hear anything he’s talking to me but I can’t hear him he spitting on me again my tongue is swelling it’s filling my mouth

Cracking crunching in my throat oh god pain didn’t know such pain existed

Fading everything roaring in my ears is failing light is fading dim and dark

His cock I can still feel his cock it’s filling me my cock is tingling too why am I getting hard

cold oh fuck death is so cold icy fingers gripping me in the darkness his cum it feels like hot lava inside me hold on to it hold on to the warmth the last spark of life in the cold darkness

my dick it hurts it’s spasming and shooting so hard it hurts going dark I’ve never cum this hard it’s all going black I wasn’t supposed to get raped and strangled he’s still grunting and thrusting

going everything is going away

spewing so hard it feels like I’m cumming razor blades

hot spunk still burning in my ass no no not dead yet not dead ye