Trucker 16–Trucker vs Fratboi

The Trucker stood in the convention center parking lot, looking north.  He’d spent the last hour overseeing the delivery of his load at the center’s service entrance; by noon the next day, he was scheduled to pick up a trailer loaded with sugar at a refinery south of the city.

 

Tonight, he was free.  Since he was only in town overnight, he decided to leave his rig at the convention center; he could come back and sleep in it if no better option came along.

 

Despite the fact that it was the Trucker’s first time in New Orleans, he was sure that some better option would come along.  All he had to do was hunt it down.

 

He decided to head someplace he knew would be teeming with anonymous fags no one would miss.  Picking up the train at Julia Street across from the Port of New Orleans, he headed north towards the French Quarter.

 

It was a warm and sultry evening, the humidity a palpable presence that enveloped one like sopping wool blanket; windows everywhere were fogged with condensation.  In spite of his position in a corner of the train car (to avoid attracting attention), the glittering beads of sweat on the hardbodied alpha drew a couple of envious—and lust-filled—glances.  But given the way he was dressed, he knew to expect a certain degree of faggot focus anyway.

 

In deference to the warmth of the evening, he wore a dark gray short-sleeve mechanic’s shirt, unbuttoned.  It hung wide, exposing his broad, fur-covered chest and hairy ripped abdomen for all to see.  Those who did see, and kept watching, were occasionally rewarded as a sudden movement or gust of air flapped the shirt open even wider, exposing one of the stud’s thick, dark, rock-hard nipples.  For those who had allowed their attention to wander, the faint, flickering reflection of the dogtags nestled in the thick body fur between the huge mounds of his pecs was sufficient to make them look again.

 

The thick forest of fur that carpeted the Trucker’s hard flat belly lead down to—and past—the waistband of a pair of clean but very well-used jeans, the denim worn in places to the softness of velvet.  An inch-thick belt of black leather emphasized the tightness of the Trucker’s waist.  The jeans were also so tight that the softness ensured that every pulsing vein in the well-hung stud’s package was visible if one looked closely enough.

 

More than one were looking closely enough as the train began to accelerate out of the Toulouse station, rounding the curve past the Natchez’s dock.  The Trucker was on the left side, looking out the window on the side away from the river.  He saw the bulk of the Jax Brewery building go past and, drawing the brim of his camouflage-patterned trucker’s cap down low over his icy blue eyes, began to think it was time to explore a little.

 

Once he saw Jackson Square go by, he’d decided to get off; as the train came to a stop at the Dumaine station, he got out and soon the sidewalk of Decatur Street was thudding with the reverberations of his big black leather engineer boots as he walked north, looking around him.

 

Damn, there was so much meat scampering about.  So many vermin to be put down…

 

The bulge in his groin became even more pronounced.

 

He’d walked past Latrobe Park before turning east—well, northeast, actually—on Ursulines, heading away from the Mississippi and deeper into the French Quarter.  The further he went, the more faggots he saw.

 

The Trucker had heard of Southern Decadence; at some point, one of the homos he’d put down had bleated something about it.  Out of curiosity, he’d looked it up, but hadn’t thought much about it.  He had no idea that it was in full swing and that on this hot and humid September evening, he’d find the Quarter packed with faggot twinks.

 

It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.

 

He turned right on Chartres, passing that fortress of supposed chastity, the Ursuline Convent—darkened and locked, as was proper for that hour, but now it was because it was a museum, and past closing time.  Making a left on Governor Nicholls Street—again, just to wander and see what was on offer—the muscled stud ambled up to Royal Street.  On the way, a couple of fey twinks in short shorts and thick-soled sandals ogled him and giggled as he passed under a streetlight.  He sneered at them in disgust, his rage against the worthless little queers mounting within him.  Then he reached the corner of Governor Nicholls and Royal, and stopped cold in front of the Lalaurie house.

 

Delphine Lalaurie was yet another part of New Orleans lore of which the Trucker was already aware.  Not that there’d ever been much of a racial component in the sex killer’s general contempt for humanity—it was just that he’d admired some of ol’ Delphine’s methods.

 

He kept heading up Royal to the next intersection, which was Bourbon Street.  Figuring that he was pretty much in the heart of the Quarter—which he was—the Trucker decided that it was as good a time as any to begin the hunt in earnest.  He turned left, back towards Canal Street, and refocused his attention on the environment with the eyes of a predator stalking for a kill.

 

There was rainbow bunting strung across the street; rainbow flags hung from streetlights and from private balconies.  At St. Phillip Street, the next intersection, a preacher with bright red flag stood on a box, loudly denouncing the rampant sin around him to a few earnest acolytes in white short-sleeve shirts and dark ties; everyone else ignored him completely with the exception of a pair of large furry bears who laughed out loud at him, then embraced and kissed passionately in front of him and his disciples, all of whom blushed violently.

 

The Trucker grinned.  Stupid fuckers; that wasn’t how you handled faggots.

 

There was a small, low building to his right, covered in what looked like dingy white stucco; there was a sign—“Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop Bar”—and it was packed with homos.  The Trucker had to stop for a moment to catch his breath; the sense of anticipation, of the soon-to-come pleasure of release was almost overwhelming.

 

Then he stepped inside.

 

It was a fucking smorgasbord of fuckmeat.  The inside was dark and packed with writhing male bodies.  The moment the Trucker planted his boots on the sunken brick floor, he realized the ancient building, with its forge still in place, was too overcrowded to offer much hope for successful hunting.  Immediately adjacent, though, was a small walled courtyard that opened onto the street.  The courtyard was far less crowded and had a few small metal bistro tables scattered about; most were occupied.

 

At the back of the yard was a small covered bar where business was surprisingly slow; aside from a couple of fairies whispering and sniggering as they sucked ghastly purple frozen drinks up through straws, there were no other customers at the moment.

 

“Gimme a Jack on the rocks,” the Trucker told the bartender.  “Make it a double.”  He flipped the dude some cash when he got his drink and leaned back against the bar, looking out at the crowd.

 

Dudes of all shapes and sized wandered past the arched doorway to the street, but inside the dimly-lit courtyard, the faces all clustered together around the candles on each table, faces lit from below and blurring together in their vacuous lust.  The Trucker felt rage and disgust rising in him again, the pressure forcing its way to his cock, making it pulse and ache…

 

And that was when he saw him.  The boy who was sitting by himself at a table to the right of the doorway—it wasn’t just that he was the only other person alone in the courtyard.  It wasn’t even that he was openly staring at the Trucker.

 

It was the naked hunger in the twink’s eyes; an almost imperious desire that somehow brought a look of vulnerability to the otherwise unpleasantly arrogant cast of the punk’s face.  This was the one, the Trucker decided on the spot.  This little cocksucker was gonna die on his dick tonight.

 

He walked slowly towards the table at which the kid sat; a faint stirring of the humid air flared his shirt out behind him like a cape.  The boy at the table had a perfect view of the alpha stud’s broad, hairy chest, as hard and as perfectly formed as if carved from marble, with a glint of metal in the middle from his dogtags.

 

There was a cold, metallic glint above, too, above the strong, scruffy jaw—glints that came from eyes hidden deep in the shadow cast by the brim of the trucker’s cap.   And that huge package, so tantalizingly displayed right out in front…

 

The kid was still sitting when the Trucker reached the table, his jaw literally hanging open.  His brown hair was cut short on the sides and back, but left long in front and combed back over his head.  His nose was long and straight, dividing a pair of murky hazel eyes and terminating just above a pair full lips that formed a natural pout when closed.

 

Not that they were closed at the moment.  “You, uh, y-you wanna sit?” the kid asked almost timorously, then immediately regained some composure.  “I mean, I ain’t expectin’ no one or anything.”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said evenly and lowered his massive form onto the tiny metal chair.  The delicate wrought iron of the bistro set only enhanced his aura of well-built power.

 

“I-I’m Trent,” the kid said suddenly, holding out his hand.  The Trucker looked at it silently.  Trent flushed and let it fall back to the table.

 

After an awkward pause, the Trucker looked at the boy, giving Trent the impact of his cold blue eyes for the first time.  “How old are ya, kid?” he asked flatly.

 

“I’m nineteen,” Trent replied, raising his chin almost defensively.

 

The Trucker, sipping from his glass, glanced significantly at the glass that was sitting in front of the boy; it was another one of those purple concoctions.  Trent flushed again.

 

“Well, ya know, they ain’t cardin’ nobody tonight,” he replied in a low voice. “You ain’t gonna narc on me, are ya, bro?”

 

“Naw,” the Trucker drawled, his lips curled into a sardonic grin, “I ain’t gonna rat ya out to the cops, dude.  You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that.”

 

 

Trent grinned and took a mouthful of the frozen drink.  “It’s called a Zombie,” he said, “Want some?”

 

“No thanks,” the Trucker said dryly and took another slug of his whiskey.  “Look, dude, I ain’t interested in bein’ yer friend.  I’m lookin’ for someone to fuck.  I’m lookin’ for a cumdump.  You gotta room?”

 

Once again, Trent sat and stared at the hulking stud with his mouth open.  It wasn’t that he was upset; it was just that the blunt nature of the demand startled him.  He had to clear his throat and chug another mouthful of the purple swill before he could stammer out a reply.

 

“Uh, y-yeah man, I, uh, I gotta place—AirBnB, y’know—whol-whole damn apartment.  Got the whole second floor looking down into a private courtyard—hot, huh?  Daddy’s payin’ for it, but he don’t know.  Told ‘im I needed to get away for the weekend cause my frat bros—I’ma Phi Alpha Gamma, y’know—told ‘im they made to much noise and I had an exam comin’ up.  Daddy’s a partner in a big law firm up in Baton Rouge, lotsa political pull, y’know, so he let me put it on his office credit card.  And ain’t no one gonna know I’m usin’ the place to get fucked—smart, huh, bro?”

 

Trent stopped gushing and looked at the Trucker, realizing he was drunk and had let his enthusiasm get out from under him.  The older man had polished off his drink and was looking around the courtyard in a bored manner.

 

“—Anyway,” the kid finished up lamely, “I gotta nice room.  Wanna go?  I got some Johnnie Walker, too.”

 

The Trucker finally turned his attention back to the fuckmeat.  “Sure,” he drawled, “Long as you gotta place I can plow yer ass, that’s all I need.  Let’s go, boy.”

 

They stood up.  Trent turned towards the arched doorway, then paused and turned back to the Trucker, a barely-discernable look of concern on his face.  “Trent,” he said, “My name is Trent.”

 

“Whatever,” the Trucker replied flatly, “Let’s go.”

 

Without another word, Trent wheeled around and led the way out onto the street, turning right.  Even in his alcohol-induced buzz, there was a slight misgiving at the back of his hormone-wracked mind…but the swelling in his groin was much less possible to ignore.

 

And glancing at the blue-collar muscle stud walking beside him, Trent knew damn good and well that he didn’t want to ignore it.  This hardbodied god was gonna bang him tonight; that was all that mattered.

 

Fuck the consequences.

 

At some point, Trent moved ahead; he had to—he was the one who knew where they were going.  They turned right at the first street and the Trucker drifted back a couple of steps so that it wasn’t obvious that he was following the kid.  Not that there was much chance of being noticed; despite the crowd on Bourbon Street, not too many dudes had ventured this far northeast.  There wasn’t much reason to; most of the buildings faced back onto Bourbon Street or forward into the next block.  The street was mainly lined with brick walls.

 

It was dim, but between the occasional streetlight and the orange glow cast off by and reflected back down to the city from the low-hanging clouds, there was enough light for the Trucker to scope out the boy’s ass.

 

The teen slut had dressed—or, rather, undressed—for the humid night air.  His chest, slimly muscular, was already streaked with sweat; perspiration outlined the kid’s pecs on the thin ribbed cotton of his gray wifebeater.  Just barely visible beneath the hem of the shirt was a pair of the shortest gym shorts the Trucker had ever seen, barely four inches from waistband to hem.  Trent’s smooth thighs and firm calves flexed with every step the teen took, his retro black and white Nike Jordan 10s stumbling occasionally on the pavement at the buzzed punk staggered from time to time.  But he kept heading forward purposely.

 

Finally, Trent turned left onto Burgundy Street.  “Jus’ a lil way longer,” he chirped happily, managing to sound even more drunk than he was.  Luckily, the Trucker was in the shadows at the moment or Trent couldn’t have failed to miss the look of contempt the alpha threw at him.

 

As it turned out, Trent’s rental was several blocks down Burgundy, which was better lit than the street they’d left, if just as empty—there were fewer businesses, and most had already closed.  When they finally reached the building, it was an old two-story townhouse.  The ground floor had been converted to a restaurant; it was closed—apparently not for the evening, but for good.  Above it was an apartment that the Trucker presumed wasn’t Trent’s—there was a huge party going on full blast; it was the only noise in the otherwise quiet street.  The place had three pairs of French doors opening out onto the cast-iron balcony; all were open and lit up.  There was crowd of kids of both sexes talking, drinking and dancing, both inside and on the balcony, their yammering nearly blotting out the blaring music.

 

Even intoxicated, Trent had enough presence of mind to duck back into the shadows—just in case any of his frat brothers was at the party.  The Trucker noticed the maneuver, following directly in the faggot’s footsteps as the kid pulled out a key and moved towards a metal gate blocking an arched passage on the right side of the façade.

 

Letting the kid lead the way down the passage, the Trucker closed the gate softly behind him, then headed into the courtyard.

 

The building was L-shaped, with the base of the L being the front, facing the street, and the upright of the letter running back from the street.  The rest of the space was a courtyard that seemed to be laid out as an arbor or pleasure garden.  In the dim light cast by a couple of muted lampposts near the back of the garden, the Trucker thought he could make out a gazebo.  The sides of the yard not surrounded by the building were blocked by high, blank brick walls; none of the neighbors had a window overlooking the yard.

 

Another cast-iron balcony ran around the second floor here, too.  Trent was already climbing a set of stairs immediately to the left of the arched entry.  The Trucker followed him up, the clanging of his big black boots on the iron steps almost inaudible over the sounds of the party.  They had to cross in front of the windows to the party suite in order to turn the corner and get to Trent’s place in the rear.  Looking across, the Trucker could see three darkened French doors, much like the ones on the front of the building; this was where the teen punk was leading him.  The party suite didn’t have doors to this balcony, just windows overlooking it, and shades had been pulled over them.  There was enough light to see their footing—and to make out occasion shapes silhouetted against the shades—but no one was looking out.

 

The Trucker was able to follow the twink into his place without being observed.  Even better, the noise and music from the next unit was so loud, no one could possibly hear anything going on anywhere else.

 

That was good.  That meant the Trucker could make the homo twink squeal a little before putting him down.

 

Inside, Trent turned on the lights as the Trucker closed a set of plantation shutters over the door, just to make sure they couldn’t be seen.  Looking around, the hardbodied alpha was somewhat surprised to see that the entire space had been converted into a single large room.  The center of the room was a living area, with a fireplace against the far wall.  To the left, an open area had been converted to a kitchen, to the right was the sleeping area.  In the far corner was a walled-off area that was evidently a bathroom.  The entire place was furnished with period antiques, giving the room the somewhat schizophrenic feel of a French Colonial loft apartment.  Even the walls had been taken down to the original brick.

 

“Hey, ya wanna drink?” Trent said.

 

“Sure,” the Trucker replied, “On the rocks.  It’s a hot night.”

 

As Trent headed to the kitchen, thinking that it was indeed a hot night, the Trucker pulled his cap off and tossed it onto the butler’s tray table that was in front of the antique settee.  Digging his pack of Marlboros out of his shirt pocket, the older man lit one, then slipped out of his shirt and tossed it onto the table as well.

 

When Trent turned back around with two glasses of scotch in his hands, the Trucker was standing in the center of the room, wearing nothing but his skin-tight jeans and his black leather engineer boots.  The teen fratboi gasped and almost dropped the drinks; seeing the Trucker clearly under good lighting for the first time, he was almost frightened.

 

He’d certainly been able to see enough up till now to know that the older dude was a major stud, but he hadn’t perceived how truly huge the guy was.  Those huge pecs, bigger than any hubcaps he’d ever seen, that dark wiry fur covering his chest and his ripped abs, those thick jutting nipples…

 

He looked like he could literally fuck Trent in half—and that thought both scared and aroused the horny teen slut.

 

“H-here,” he stammered, shakily handing the Trucker a glass.  “Damn, y-you’re—I, uh, I…um, hang on, I’ll be ri-right back…”  Taking a hefty slug from his own glass, Trent crossed to a bedside table; a rather large piece of furniture meant to match the high four-poster bed.  After digging in a drawer for a moment, Trent came back with a lit joint.  Taking a deep hit, he proffered the jay to the Trucker.  “Want some?” he gasped breathlessly to avoid exhaling.

 

The Trucker shook his head silently and took another drag from his smoke.  Sipping his scotch, he stared at Trent for another few moments before speaking.

 

“Get outta those clothes, bitch,” he ordered.  Suddenly, Trent found himself obeying the iron tone of command in the alpha’s voice.  He peeled the wifebeater off over his head, revealing his smooth, lithe twink torso, slim but firm and strong.  With a quick shuck and shuffle, Trent had wriggled his way out of the shorts—they fell to his ankles and he stepped easily out of them, leaving himself nude except for his retro Jordans and no-show ped socks.

 

His thick twink cock swung free between his legs; while it was nowhere near as huge as the Trucker’s, it was still an impressive piece of meat for a teenaged faggot.  More than six inches long, it sprang semi-erect from a bushy mound of dark-brown pubes between Trent’s smooth, firm thighs.

 

The Trucker took another drag from his cigarette.  “Horny little fucker, aintcha?” he jeered, leaning back and slowly unzipping his fly.  The vicious alpha’s eyes never left the kid’s face; he watched as the boy’s eyes lit up with lust, the young punk panting as the Trucker’s zipper slipped further down his crotch.

 

Finally the Trucker decided the time had come to let the little homo see exactly what he was gonna be dealing with.  The older man had to reach into his jeans with both hands to extract the enormous tube of manflesh that he intended to ram into the twink’s asshole.

 

First, though, he had other plans.

 

“Get over here and suck my cock, you fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled.  Trent blinked; he’d known the dude would take over and turn dominant—he expected that.  But he also expected some kinda warning.  This sudden onslaught caught him by surprise.

 

“W-what?” he stammered, “I, uh, I—”

 

“Shut the fuck up and wrap yer faggot lips around my dick, asswipe!” the Trucker barked.  Again, the tone of command lashed Trent like a whip.  Before he was even conscious of his actions, the teen slut found himself on his knees, trying to take the biggest cock he’d ever seen down his throat without gagging.  It was a losing battle, and he knew it.

 

The Trucker grunted with pleasure as he felt the twink whore choke on his dick.  “Yeah, that’s it, ya fucking homo,” he said as he grasped Trent’s head with both hands and forced it violently into his crotch, “That’s what a real man’s cock tastes like.  Ya like it, faggot?  Yeah?  Choke on it, cunt, gag on a man’s dick, you fuckin’ pansy-ass queerboy!”

 

Trent would have protested the vile homophobic names he was being called—he was a bottom, but he had limits.  Unfortunately for him, he was too busy being a pansy-ass queerboy to call a halt to the proceedings.  And even as the massive rod of manmeat pinned his epiglottis closed, sealing off his windpipe as it plunged halfway to his diaphragm, his own tool was swelling and pulsing.

 

But as much as Trent reveled in choking down the hot blue-collar stud’s cock, he still couldn’t breathe.  And as horny as he was, at some point the need to inhale became imperative—and suddenly, just as he started to squirm, the teenaged cocksucker felt the older man’s denim-wrapped thighs press against the side of his head.

 

As Trent began—slowly at first, but with increasing desperation—to pull his head up off the hardbodied top’s dick, the pressure on the sides of his head increased painfully.  The Trucker wasn’t actually trying to use his incredibly powerful thighs to crack Trent’s skull like a walnut, but if the panicking fag thought that, so much the better.

 

The teen’s face began to darken.  Tears streaming involuntarily from his wide, bulging eyes, Trent looked desperately up at the Trucker’s face, his eyes pleading silently for air.  The sense of control, of power over the teenaged faggot was almost too much for the Trucker…

 

…he had to let the kid go.  He hadn’t suffered anywhere near as much as he needed to.

 

Relaxing his legs, he let Trent jerk himself backward out of the older man’s groin and fall backwards onto the floor.  As the lean, lithe punk lay gasping and gagging on the floor, the Trucker stood up and polished off his drink.  He took a final drag off his smoke and tapped the ash onto the prone youth before stubbing the butt out in an ashtray.

 

“Awright, bitch, enough foreplay.  Get yer ass on the bed.  I’m gonna show ya how faggot cunts like you need to be fucked.  Ya hear me, asswipe?  Get yer goddam homo ass up, clear them pansy sheets off the bed, and get yer legs in the air, ya hear me?”

 

Still coughing, Trent rose shakily to his feet, then turned and grabbed his drink off the coffee table.  He took a big slug of the booze, snatched his still-smoldering joint from the ashtray and took a deep, lung-busting hit.

 

“What the fuck are ya waitin’ for, cocksucker?” the Trucker snarled, “Get over there an’ clear that goddam bed off!”

 

This time, Trent obeyed, snuffing his jay in the ashtray, unaware of how soon his own life would be so easily snuffed.  Shoving the pillows off the far side of the bed, he grabbed the comforter, blanket and flat sheets in a single handful and jerked the bedding down to the foot of the bed.  All three pieces were tucked in deeply at the foot; Trent gave up trying to pull them off and left them draped over the footboard and dragging on the floor.

 

The Trucker watched the lithe teen’s muscles flex and bulge under his smooth skin.  A rather large one bulged in front—the little faggot punk evidently liked being verbally abused.  His dick was swollen and erect, a purple staff that bobbed and weaved in the air with Trent’s every motion.

 

Then the kid climbed up onto the bed, rolled onto his back, and raised his Nike Jordans in the air.  His cock rose straight up from his groin, curving slightly up towards his smooth flat belly.  Trent nestled himself into position, then reached around and grabbed his own asscheeks, spreading the fuzz-covered peachlike globes and exposing his pink puckered asshole.

 

Almost before Trent realized it, the Trucker was on the bed with him, still in his jeans and boots.  The stud had his cock in both hands, rubbing the huge engorged head of his tool against the boy’s fuckhole, the alpha’s precum smearing over the orifice—it was the only lube the hapless bitch was gonna get.

 

To Trent, it felt more like the business end of a Louisville slugger.  As the Trucker hovered over him, the teen looked up at the older man.  He felt something touch him directly between his pecs and heard a faint clinking sound—they were close enough for the stud’s dogtags to settle onto his chest.  All sense of caution and self-preservation evaporated as the bottom boy drank in the view of hairy muscled manflesh about to pump his ass.  His bleary pot-reddened eyes sought out the Trucker’s icy blue glare.

 

“I know it’s gonna hurt like fuck,” Trent said softly, nearly in a whisper.  “I’ll probably scream.  Don’t stop.”

 

The Trucker’s lips twisted into a knowing leer.  “Don’t worry ‘bout that, faggot,” he chuckled, “I ain’t gonna stop no matter how much ya scream.”  Without another word, he shoved his massive rod into Trent’s ass, not waiting for the teen’s sphincter to relax.

 

Trent was right.  He screamed.

 

The Trucker stiffened with pleasure as he felt the youth’s colon clench in resistance to the searing pain, tightening up on his cock.  “Fuck yeah, that’s it,” he grunted, “Keep fightin’ it, faggot, keep workin’ my shaft.”

 

Trent liked getting fucked, and he liked it to hurt—but now a whole new dimension of agony was opening up in front of him.  He’d never been so full of cock before. It wasn’t just the pain of split skin and torn muscles in his rectum; he could feel the Trucker’s enormous, club-like rod prodding deep into his viscera and his head filled with images of horrific internal injuries.

 

The punk was howling with pain, but his own cock was not only hard, it was slapping against the alpha, spattering clear viscous drops of precum over the latter’s firm hairy belly.  Trying to endure the brutal assfuck, Trent clutched the Trucker with desperate strength, his fingers digging into the stud’s biceps and his smooth thighs wrapped tightly around the alpha’s waist.

 

Trent’s Nikes kicked in the air as his toes curled involuntarily with every thrust of the Trucker’s hips.  The kid’s swollen shaft pulsated at the same tempo as the top’s massive, vein-sheathed rod ground its way relentlessly over his prostate.  Already overloaded with teen hormones, the boy didn’t need much stimulation—no matter how much pain he was in, he was gonna stay hard.  It wasn’t something he could control.

 

Suddenly the music coming from the party suite stopped; the cacophonic rumble of overlapping human voices continued, but the volume level dropped dramatically.  Problem was, Trent was still squealing—and now it might be heard.

 

The Trucker put a stop to that real quick.  “Shaddup, cunt,” he barked, and popped Trent in the face.

 

The force of the blow slammed the kid’s jaws together, making him bite his tongue painfully.  The alpha hadn’t even needed to slow the tempo of his fucking; he’d simply pulled one powerful arm back and plowed it into the teen’s face while still supporting himself with his other arm.

 

It worked.  Trent shut up, his bloodshot eyes, large and vulnerable, looking accusingly up at the Trucker before they started to fill with tears.

 

“Aww, whatsa matter?” the Trucker sneered.  “Is de wittle faggot gonna cry?  Man up, ya little motherfucker—you said ya wanted it to hurt, remember?  Cause I sure the fuck remember.  You ain’t even started to hurt yet, asswipe.  I’m gonna use yer homo ass up, you piece of fag garbage.  By the time I’m done with ya, you ain’t ever gonna need to get fucked again—ever.”

 

As the Trucker reared himself up on his knees, looming over the lithe young boy, he maintained control over the situation physically, keeping the kid pinned to the bed with his dick.  Trent watched—as best he could; despite his best efforts, he was crying—with a growing sense of surreal horror as the older man unbuckled his thick black leather belt and slipped out from around his waist.

 

The Trucker doubled the belt and held it in his right hand and suddenly, somehow, Trent’s vision cleared.  He looked up at the older man’s powerful chest, his broad hubcap pecs carpeted with a mass of dark wiry hair, his thick nipples jutting proudly at the crest of each mound.  And above that, the dark, scruff-covered face, so masculine and so cold, with that icy heat in those blue eyes…

 

And while Trent was almost hypnotized with lust for the man who was hurting him so badly, the Trucker swept his arm down, slashing Trent across the face with the doubled end of the belt.

 

It didn’t break anything or even draw blood, but it left a terrible welt across the kid’s soft fuzz-covered cheek.  Trent shrieked.

 

“Shut the fuck up!” the Trucker roared and hit him with the belt again.  This time it was a backhand blow, and this time it was harder.

 

The teen sobbed openly but managed enough self-control to avoid screaming aloud.  He was in considerable pain and utterly bewildered by what was happening.  All he knew for a fact was that he was still getting violently fucked—and he was still hard…

 

“Wh-why?” he gasped out between sobs, “Hit-hit m-me—wh-why?”

 

“Because it feels good, you worthless piece of fuckmeat,” the Trucker grinned.  “Every time I hurt you, your horny little faggot teen body gets all nice and tight on my dick.  Hurting you gets me off—you feel me, cumdump?  Yer gonna feel me, I fuckin’ promise.  The more pain you’re in, the better you work my cock.  Here, I’ll show ya!”

 

Trent lay back on the bed with the older man’s shaft still buried deep in his guts.  His fragile young psyche was starting to disintegrate in the face of sheer terror; it was as if what was happening to him was part of a movie he was watching.  He wondered if it was past midnight yet; he really did have an exam on Monday—Bio 101 and he was gonna flunk but who gives a shit, he didn’t need Bio to get into Daddy’s law firm and make it big—

 

And then there was one single moment of lucidity, like a flash of lightning illuminating an unknown landscape for a fraction of a second—just enough time for Trent to see that the Trucker had looped the belt through its buckle, forming a simple noose.  The hairy musclestud was holding it up and showing it to the boy, his face twisted with malevolent glee.

 

Trent was shallow and unintelligent, but even he understood what was gonna happen.  He snapped back to reality instantly.

 

“N-no—” he begged, “For G-god’s sake, no—please, oh dear God, please d-don’t—”

 

The young kid broke down sobbing.  The Trucker looked down at him and laughed aloud, coldly and cruelly.

 

“The meat always begs,” he said with an amused tone in his voice, almost as if he was speaking solely to himself.  “Like it has any worth until it’s full of my seed.  You need to learn that the only reason you exist is to be my cumrag, faggot.  Once I pump my load into ya, you’re done.  You’ve served your purpose on this planet.  All that’ll be left is a pile of boymeat.”

 

Trent’s eyes, wide with stunned horror flashed up at his killer.  The teen still wasn’t able to think of the Trucker in that way yet, but his desperate denial was crumbling.

 

“Y-you’re kiddin’—ha!  A’course, that’s it—it’s a joke, right?  Huh?  Cause I asked for it rough, huh?  Right?”  Fear drove the boy’s pitch higher with each work; the final question was a squeak.

 

“Time to die, cocksucker,” the Trucker said complacently as he reached out and lowered the belt around Trent’s head.  The lithe young fratboi tried to fight the older man off, but the alpha knocked the kid’s flailing hands away like so many annoying mosquitos and, taking advantage of an unguarded moment when Trent lifted his head up off the bed, managed to get the belt around the punk’s neck with minimal effort.

 

“There,” the buff killer said in a self-satisfied tone, “Now we’re ready for business.”  He shifted himself, keeping his huge rod embedded in the teen’s ass as he dug the thick soles of his engineer boots into the mattress.  He was gonna need a lotta leverage to make the meat milk his shaft right.

 

“Oh fuck no please don—urk!” Trent cried out, his final useless plea cut off as the hardbodied psycho tightened the belt and cinched the kid’s windpipe off with a single jerk.  From then on, the only sounds the fratboi could make out loud were thick gagging noises as he was slowly choked to death.

 

Inside, though, he was screaming.  The inability to breathe had refocused the worthless little punk; now he had a purpose—to keep alive as long as possible, to stave off death to the last of his strength.

 

And that was exactly what the Trucker wanted, too—to feel the young faggot struggle and die on his cock.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered seductively to the panicking teen, “Keep fightin’ it, fuckmeat.  Fuck yeah, boy, just like that.  Work my dick, you sack a’ shit, fuckin’ milk my shaft as you go under.”

 

Trent fought it, all right; he fought and thrashed like a landed fish.  His hands, curved into claws, came flying at the Trucker, digging and scratching for any vulnerable spot—anything to relieve the crushing agony in his throat.

 

It had taken long enough for the shallow young homo to understand that this was really happening to him, that he’d used his smooth young body to lure in something much more dangerous than a hot anonymous fuck.  Even now, as his guts were getting reamed and his pulse pounded swiftly and deafeningly inside his skull, he refused to accept the fact that death was imminent.  His fear at the moment was getting hurt so bad his father had to be called; what the fuck would he do then?

 

“Am I losin’ ya, asswipe?  You findin’ something more entertain’ than my cock to think about?  Ok, cunt, I’ll make yer sorry goddam ass pay attention to what matters most in yer useless life—working the spunk outta my dick.  Here, this’ll help ya focus—”

 

The Trucker wrapped the loose end of the belt around his thick, hairy wrist, grabbing the end of it in his right hand.  Placing his left hand on Trent’s chest, he began to pull backwards with his right.  He started off slowly, almost gently, but kept increasing the power.  Within a matter of seconds, his right bicep was bulging, a visible manifestation of the sheer strength the older man was using to snuff the teenaged faggot.

 

Trent clawed frantically at the Trucker’s chest, clutching and releasing handfuls of wiry hair like steel wool.  As his esophagus began to deform under the crushing pressure and his face started to swell excruciatingly from lack of oxygen, it finally began to dawn on the fratboi that he wasn’t going to survive this encounter.

 

That was what it took to trip the trigger.  Panic set in, ensuring that Trent’s actions were no longer aimed at a rational attempt to free himself—he was thrashing and flailing in blind terror, his desperate attempts to free himself punctuated by the jangling music of the alpha’s dancing dogtags.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” the Trucker grunted in ecstasy.  “Goddam, I love how twink meat kicks as it dies!”

 

The shuddering, sweating pile of teen boymeat was no longer a lucid human being.  Trent had relapsed to the state of a terrified animal caught in a trap. He clawed and dug at the thick leather strap that was wrapped so tightly around his throat that it had sunk in; his fingernails shredded the flesh of his neck as he tried vainly to get them up under the belt.

 

The Trucker felt the teen’s smooth skin sliding against his, lubed with an oily film of panicked deathsweat that was literally being squeezed out of the kid’s body.  He looked down with sick lust at Trent’s grotesque, blackened face, swollen and distorted out of recognition.  The fratboi’s tongue, huge and purple, had pushed its way past the thick blue lips and was protruding amidst a steady stream of white, foamy drool that leaked down Trent’s peach-fuzz-covered cheeks.

 

“I’m gettin’ close, fuckwad,” the Trucker hissed hoarsely, “Ya want my load?  Ya want to end it, to stop the pain?  Die, faggot, die on my cock.  Fuckin’ kick and die an’ jack me off.  C’mon, you worthless little pansy, make yer fuckin’ faggot life mean somethin’.  Drain my balls an’ I’ll let ya rot with my hot manseed in yer guts.  Die, you piece of shit, so I can use you as a cumrag.”

 

The pounding in Trent’s head was overwhelming; it drowned out everything else.  It drowned out the razor-sharp agony of the brutal buttfuck; in fact, Trent was almost desensitized to that pain by now.  It also drowned out the horrific pain of his collapsing trachea and the fiery sense of intense pressure radiating from his oxygen-starved lungs…

 

…but it didn’t drown out the burning sensation that ran the length of his swollen, aching cock.  Even as his sense faded and he began to slip convulsively into progressive brain damage, the teen slut could still feel his own painfully erect and throbbing cock pressed against the Trucker’s belly–and was somehow till sensitive enough to feel the older man’s muscled form hunched over him, working and pumping, using his body as a sex toy, to be tossed aside after orgasm.

 

And as his brain shut down, Trent began to want it.  He began to accept death, to accept that his best, his only purpose in life was to receive this stud’s semen, to accept his sperm in a mighty gush.  That was all he was, a receptacle for hot mancum, and if he had to suffer like this to achieve it, it was ok…

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, huh, bro?” the Trucker whispered, “Now ya like it, yeah?  Now ya want it, right?  Fuck you, ya goddam worthless faggot!”

 

Pulling up violently on the belt, the Trucker took his left hand off Trent’s chest and drove it as hard as he could into the dying teen’s face.

 

Several things happened at once.  Trent was too far gone to hear the words, but he certainly felt the Trucker jerking the belt—it would have been difficult for him to miss, since his trachea was crushed into a bloody mass of cartilage, his larynx reduced to a mangled wad of tissue.

 

That sudden blast of nightmarish pain proved to be too much for the near-dead punk; his traumatized nervous system went into overload and he began to spunk uncontrollably.  The dying fratboi shot an interminable, high-pressure jet of semen onto the Trucker’s body, splashing up his chest and splattering on his dangling dogtags.

 

Less than half a second later, the Trucker’s blow drove Trent’s nose into his face, shattering the bridge like glass and sending bone shards flying into what little part of the teen’s brain was still alive.  It also ruptured the kid’s cervical vertebrae, tearing open the spinal column and mangling the spinal cord itself.

 

As the kid went rigid with massive nerve trauma beneath him, the Trucker felt his seething balls erupt in an explosion of pure manseed.  In his final death agony, Trent clung tightly to his killer, his firm smooth thighs tightly wrapped around the Trucker’s waist and his retro Nike Jordans kicking and flailing mindlessly in the air behind the Trucker’s back.  His arms had shifted as well; now he held his killer in a tighter embrace than any lover ever dared.

 

The Trucker cried out, a long inarticulate cry of orgasm and male dominance.  He spewed load after load uncontrollably into the human cumrag he’d snuffed, letting the corpse’s convulsions milk the last drop of spunk from his aching, overfilled scrotum.  At some point, he realized he was pounding his fist again and again into Trent’s defenseless face.

 

The teen was long past caring.  He was dead.  His body hadn’t quite realized the fact, though; the smooth young fratboi was still quivering and spunking, jet after jet of cum shooting from his convulsing corpse.  It took more than a minute for both Trent and the Trucker to stop unloading.

 

Finally, the Trucker shuddered to a stop.  He paused for a moment, gasping and sweating, his leaking cock still buried deep in the corpse.  Almost from outside himself came the awareness that the music from the part suite had started again; he suddenly realized that he’d shot his entire wad to the background music of “Let the Bodies Hit the Floor” by Activator.  Well, at least it was appropriate.

 

Slowly and regretfully, he pulled his tool out of the dead kid.  His boots hit the wood floor with a loud thump as he crossed to the bathroom to clean up; wiping the boyspunk out of his wiry chest hair took some effort.  When he was done, he tossed the wet towel into the bathtub and walked back out.

 

It was a shame to let a nice room like this go to waste, he thought, but he had to get going.  After all, that sugar waiting for him tomorrow wasn’t going to deliver itself.  Still, there was a romantic appeal to the scene that presented itself to him—the old brick walls, the antique French provincial furniture, the tight, hot teen corpse lying spread-eagled on the bed with damn near a pint of creamy mancum leaking out of its ass and what looked like a quart of teen boyspunk congealing on its chest and a thick black leather belt embedded in its neck, its black and white Jordan 10s still twitching against thecum-soaked mattress…

 

 

The Trucker smirked.  Well, someone was gonna have some fun finding it.

 

Tucking his shirt into his back pocket so that some of it hung out, swinging against his taut ass like a hankie, he left the same way he came in.  Once past the party suite windows and down in the courtyard, the Trucker took a deep breath of fresh air, inhaling the heady scent of jasmine from somewhere nearby.  Yeah, he thought, he could come to like the Big Easy…

 

The sound of his boots on the pavement echoed through the French Quarter as he headed back to the train.

 


 

“Mr. Boudreaux?  I gotta call for you…”

 

“Dammit, Marcie, can’t you see I’m busy?  I’m about to start this conference call with the governor and Senator Boileau about gettin’ this Religious Freedom bill passed; can’t it wait?

 

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s the New Orleans police.  It’s your son.  They say—they…oh, sir, you really need to take this call!”

 

“Oh gawd, what’s the little bastard done now?  Another one of those stupid fraternity pranks?  I swear to God, if he wasn’t mixin’ with the right types down there, I wouldn’t be payin’ his dues.  Oh well, as long as it ain’t too serious.  But he better not be costin’ me any more money.  Go ahead an’ put ‘em though, Marcie.”

 

Ten minutes later, Trent Boudreaux, senior, had fled his office for the parking garage.  By the time he was on the road for New Orleans, his conference call was forgotten, not to be recalled to mind until he learned every last nightmarish detail of his son’s murder—after what was obviously consensual gay sex.

 

The funeral was private; family shame prevented any public announcement.  His frat brothers struck his name from the roll and never admitted they had allowed a faggot in their midst.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rigler County Snuff Squad–the Inception

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Keep goin’,” Dan replied complacently.

 

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

 

“Find something interesting?” Dan asked innocently.

 

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

 

Pete paused for a moment; Dan spoke up.

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Whatcha want?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Today was gonna be epic.

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

In fact, it’d be a pleasure.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Uh-huh,” Eric answered quietly.

 

“You know Travis Egerton?”

 

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

 

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

 

“Where did he get his drugs?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

In his desperation, Eric made a mistake.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Robbie Clebbs.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“L-l-l…” he tried.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Travis is dead?” he gasped in horror.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“He sure seemed like he wanted to help.”

 

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

 

Pete sat in silence, unable to answer.

 

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

 

This time Pete shook his head, silently but decisively.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Pete nodded but said nothing.

 

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

 

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

Dinner Celebration By Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

I enjoy writing and reading gay snuff stories, and I like to imagine an awesome world run by Alpha Males, where environmental issues are addressed, nations are at peace, prosperity is the norm, and there is a positive, stable social order.  A select group of Alpha Males achieve total dominance, with a large beta class of citizens who live productive, fulfilling, but controlled lives.  Supporting both groups would be a vast, disposable class of male slaves.  We would be naked animals assigned dangerous and degrading tasks to support the needs and desires of our owners. Our bodies would be tortured, used sexually, and destroyed at the whims of our masters, with zero limits on what is done to us or what we are ordered to do.  Gladiatorial contests among us are far more brutal and fatal than ancient Rome, providing entertainment and releasing tensions that otherwise might lead to conflict among citizens.  Medicine would advance rapidly with us as experimental lab animals that would be plentiful and totally disposable. (For example, new drugs would enable intense, satisfying orgasms as often as citizens wanted, complete with impressive loads of sperm, while slave orgasms become incidents of searing pain, not pleasure, since pain is more fun to watch and what we deserve.)  We would replace methane-emitting cattle as the prime source of meat, reducing global warming and giving citizens a fulfilling sense of power as we are butchered alive and express our appreciation for the honor of being part of their meal.  Our pathetic lives would comprise only pain and humiliation, and would mean nothing; our bodies would be food, turned to shit in the bellies of our masters.  We would be bred and trained to understand that this is what we deserve.

 

This is a celebration story from that glorious utopia.  Sadly, it’s all fiction, including names of characters.

 

 

Chris was excited about the evening’s dinner party.  It was a big event for someone as shy as Chris to host, with most of his best friends and colleagues from work attending.  He had hired a professional party planner for the occasion, and ordered a prime live specimen from Zambian Meats to assure his guests would enjoy dining on the best quality slave neat.  It all cost a lot of money, and Chris wasn’t rich, but it was worth it to impress his friends and assure they had a terrific evening.  He had also researched a new recipe that he was anxious to prepare.

 

Both the meat source and the planner were due at his condo at 10 am, and Chris was doubly excited when the doorbell rang at precisely on time.  He liked punctuality.   There were two young males at the door, one smartly dressed in a tux and the other totally naked.  Both were unusually handsome, and the naked male had a fantastic build with a solid erection that showed off the size of its awesome cock.  Zambian Meat had a reputation for quality, but it looked like they had outdone themselves Chris eagerly invited them in.

 

“Hi, my name’s Evan,” the guy in the tux introduced himself.  “You must be Chris.  I’ve brought the live meat, and look forward to helping you prepare for and enjoy your party.  I saw on the order that you’re up for a major promotion – executive assistant to a member of the Alpha Council – so I realize how important this is to you.  You can count on me to make sure it goes exactly how you want it.  Are there any questions I can answer to start with?”

 

Chris was ecstatic, and as he looked at the two males he realized his own cock was getting hard.  As a young gay guy himself, he enjoyed the sight of other attractive young males -especially naked ones with a hard-on.

 

“Welcome.  I’ll admit I’m excited about the party.  This is a big endeavor for me and I want it to go great.  My guests are people I really like and care about.  So, I’ve pushed my budget to the limit, and am delighted to see how appealing the meat seems to be.  And you’re amazing looking yourself.  As you can see, I’m getting pretty turned on.   But I do have a preliminary request.  You look sexy in your tux, but I wonder if you’d be OK taking it off and stripping naked.  My boss is Dr. Gordon Stuart, a senior member of the Alpha Council, and he is attending.  Like most of the Council he is a gay nudist, as am I.  Out of respect I’ve made the party a nudist event.  All the guests are also gay males, so I plan for the party to start with a fun orgy.  You might be out of place with a tux on, but I’m open to your planning ideas.”

 

Evan had no problem with the request, explaining that he too preferred to be naked, and immediately starting to strip.  He said Zambian’s party division didn’t presume everyone wanted it that way.  He did suggest he leave on the tux bow tie as an identification of his role, which Chris thought was a good idea.  In no time at all Evan was naked, and had a nice hard cock illustrating his interest in the event.

 

Chris next turned his attention to the meat slave, using his iPhone to read the information contained in the microchip implanted in the animal.  The information was interesting and useful.  Had the animal been scheduled to remain alive instead of being harvested for its meat, it would have turned 19 years old the next day.  Its body-fat ratio was low but not extremely low, which meant the meat would be flavorful but still lean.

 

“Are you excited to make the trivial contribution of your body and your worthless life to help entertain and feed my guests?” Chris asked.  “And are you aware that one of the people eating you will be a member of the Alpha Council?”

 

The slave was clearly not aware of the guest, and appeared almost shaken with the news.  “I am deeply honored, sir, and worry that my body is not worthy of such an honor.  As human cattle I know this is my highest and only even remotely useful use, and I am very excited at the prospect of being killed and eaten as I deserve to be.  But the thought of being eaten by such a distinguished person is overwhelming.”

 

Chris was pleased with the answer, and Evan interjected.  “At Zambian we take pride in all the meat we breed and raise, but we are very careful to make sure only the best quality meat, with the best attitude, is served to Council members.  So, I chose this meat slave personally to be sure it would meet our standards and help assure the success of your party.”

 

Chris again addressed the meat slave.  “I see you would have turned 19 tomorrow, and I see you’ve been used as a sex toy for the past two years.  What were you used for?”

 

“Zambian stresses making sure its meat slaves are adequately degraded before we are harvested.  In my case I was rented to a large shopping center to serve shoppers sexually.  I wore only a metal collar, which was attached to a wall with a long chain.  That way guys could fuck me in any position they wanted, either up my ass or in my mouth.  I’d spend the day getting fucked, with lots of cum and piss going into my two openings.  I would also entertain the shoppers by having orgasms whenever told to do so, which meant they could enjoy watching my body shoot loads of cum while I endured the appropriate, severe agony that an orgasm causes for slaves.  As you know, we are now able to shoot loads of cum almost continuously, as citizens can do, but we have been drugged so the experience is one of extreme pain, not pleasure.  Shoppers could enjoy laughing at my gyrations as the pain shot through my body.  But since I was scheduled to be used as high-quality meat, shoppers were not permitted to torture me for fear it would damage the meat.  Of course, there were other slaves available for that purpose, and they were replaced frequently as they were tortured and killed.  My purpose for the two years was to provide sexual pleasure and entertainment, and to be conditioned to realize just how worthless I am and how much I deserve to suffer.  When the mall was closed I did janitorial work, personally licking clean the toilets and urinals.  Then I would exercise for several hours to keep the meat lean and fit.”

 

Chris checked the chip readout on the slave, and saw that it had been butt-fucked 36.950 times during the prior two years – about 50 times per day.  It had also had about the same number of pain-inducing orgasms.  There wasn’t a record of the amount of cum or piss it had swallowed or had been sent up its ass.  Chris raised a concern with Evan:

 

“That certainly seems a suitable use for a slave, and I know Zambian needs to get a little return on its investment prior to selling the meat for harvest.  But I worry whether its asshole is in good, tight shape.  Also, I have read about the impact of the pain from orgasms having driven some slaves insane and not mentally functional given how extreme it is.  It’s obvious the exercise was effective a to its appearance, but is this meat still in good shape internally and mentally?”

 

“Great questions,” Evan responded.  “I can see why you have been up for such a big promotion.  But I can assure you the meat’s condition is still prime quality.  We made sure to repair the asshole as needed at the end of each day, restoring its tightness, and I can personally assure you it’s very tight.  But obviously you should test it yourself, and maybe that’s the next thing we should do.  As for the mental part, we’ve found slaves respond in several ways.  True, some go insane and need to be harvested right away.  But most respond as this animal has done – reacting to the pain by recognizing how appropriate it is for them to suffer, and often seeking out more pain so they can provide more entertainment to people by suffering more.  They achieve a level of masochism that is essentially total.  So, this slave is quite sincere when he tells you how much it’s anxious to be killed and eaten.  It knows that’s its only way to make any contribution.  Having its body spend its 19th birthday in the bellies of real people, providing nutrition and being processed into shit is the only reason it was bred and allowed to exist this long.”  The look of acceptance, even joy, on the slave’s face convinced Chris of the accuracy of Evan’s analysis.

 

“Well, it’s been an hour since I last had an orgasm, and I’m pretty horny, so let’s see what its ass feels like.”  Chris signaled to the slave, who immediately knelt in front of Chris and sucked his cock.  At a further signal, it leaned forward and grabbed its ankles so Chris could insert his cock into its asshole.  Chris was quite pleased, as the ass tightened nicely around his cock, providing satisfying pleasure while Chris pumped, at first slowly and then with increasing motion as he neared climax.  Chris had also instructed the slave that it, too, should cum, and the two of them did so simultaneously, bringing powerful pleasure to Chris and extreme pain to the slave.  A part of Chris’s pleasure was enjoying the slave’s obvious pain.  This animal would do nicely to start the orgy, before it was officially turned into a main course for dinner.

 

“I am extremely pleased,” concluded Chris as he emptied a load of piss down the slave’s throat.  “You’ve done well and I will make sure you get a large tip for your efforts.  But feel free to fuck it yourself if you’d like.  I wouldn’t mind watching you shoot, and watching it suffer a bit more humiliation and pain.”  Evan thanked Chris for the promise of a big tip, and took advantage of the offer, putting on a nice show while Chris masturbated as he watched, sending this load down the slave’s throat as Evan sent his up its ass. And the slave once again provided an entertaining demonstration of its painful orgasm.

 

“By the way, does the slave have a name?” Chris asked.  Evan laughed out loud.  “Of course not.  That would be a waste.  Who would want to name a piece of meat?”  Chris joined in the laughter, having gotten the answer he expected.  The slave looked confused, since the concept was beyond his understanding.

 

Chris and Evan had enjoyed a fun hour chatting and fucking the dinner entree’.  But now it was time to get to work setting up the party.

 

Chris had rented a free-standing glass oven in which to cook the meat, and they started by having the slave lie in the oven so they could adjust it for a good fit and view.  Chris wanted the guests to be able to watch as their dinner baked.    The slave, of course, cooperated fully and thanked them for the honor of being chosen to be part of their meal.

 

Next, Evan guided Chris as he started to prepare the meat.  The slave lay on its back while Evan selected a gutting knife form a set of tools he’d brought.

 

“The recipe you found is promising, and not one I’ve tried myself.  So, this should be fun.  I think the key is getting the stuffing well situated so it can cook along with the meat itself.  We can make room for a lot by getting rid of some of the organs the meat no longer needs.  I suggest we start by opening its belly – which has the added advantage of being a lot of fun to do and exceptionally painful for the slave.  Being gutted alive really hurts given all the nerve endings in that area.”

 

Chris was concerned: “Won’t that kill it?  I want the meat alive when the guests arrive so they can fuck it and then enjoy watching me snuff it.  That’s part of the fun.”

 

“No worries.  If we do a careful job, it will stay alive for hours, and do so in severe pain.  The key is to remove the organs that are not needed short term, and tie off the arteries and veins.   I’ve learned how to do it so there’s no internal bleeding, which means the juices of the stuffing will permeate the cavity we create and season the meat.”

 

Chris was reassured and eager to begin.  Evan let him do the initial cutting, starting just above the genitals and slowly brining the knife up to the base of the rib cage.  Evan had injected the slave with drugs that assured it would remain awake to endure the pain and humiliation.  As Chris finished the initial gutting, using the knife to cut horizontally under the rib cage so they could easily peel back the skin of the slave’s belly, the slave thanked its tormenters once again for the honor of being used. But its screams as it was gutted were the more pleasing sounds.

 

Once Chris peeled back the skin to reveal the slave’s inner organs, Evan supervised more closely and they worked as a team.  Evan pointed out the needless organs, including the stomach itself, kidneys, bladder, and intestines.  Chris cut them off with a sharper knife, tossing them into a container.  They would be used to feed other slaves, consistent with the focus on environmental recycling even of the waste from slaves.  As each was removed, Evan carefully cauterized the arteries and veins that had been attached, so that there was no internal bleeding.  He also cleaned out the cavity form the blood that had flowed during the initial fun, and drained all the body fluids that were present in the belly cavity.  Of course, he was careful to leave the nerve endings exposed since they transmitted the pain that was generated by the organ removals.

 

“We haven’t done anything that disables the heart or lungs, and experiments proved that slaves will stay alive, awake and in pain for at least 8 hours in this condition.  There was a ton of research that went into the drugs and procedures we just used.  That’s yet another benefit of having millions of lab animals to experiment on, where we don’t have to worry about any limits on what we do to them.  Moreover, we also haven’t done anything to the genitals and we’ve left key sex organs like the prostate in place.  So, our research also shows the animal is still able to achieve orgasm.  And there’s no reason your guests can’t enjoy fucking it, maybe a gangbang depositing a bunch of cum into the ass that can add to the flavoring.  With its intestines and other obstacles gone, the cum will mix nicely with the stuffing.”

 

Chris was now thrilled, and expressed his appreciation and enthusiasm.   He had clearly hired the right party planner.  The two of them then did the stuffing, filling the slave’s belly with a flavorful mix of fruits, vegetables, and croutons that featured a strong pineapple compote.  The meat would be flavored by this as it cooked, and the flavor of the meat would in turn enhance the stuffing.  The guests would enjoy an outstanding meal.

 

Chris had one other question: “How do you think I should do the actual kill?  I’d like it to be as entertaining and painful as possible.”

 

Evan had the answer for this as well.  “We have completed some new research I think you’ll appreciate.  As you know, slaves are given drugs at birth that turn orgasms from pleasure to pain.  In terms of great medical research, it’s right up there with eliminating diseases and extended lifespans of citizens, and enabling males to have essentially constant orgasms when we feel like it (which of course is always!).  We’re constantly working on new ways to increase the pain, and have come across a new option that I think words well for your party.  We have a new drug that can be injected into the slave prior to its final orgasm.  The drug increases the intensity of the pain by at least ten times the normal level.  And as you know the normal level for orgasmic pain for slaves is near the top of what an animal can survive.  So, this means the final orgasm is fatal.  Better still, however, the death spasms last for at least 10 minutes and we get to watch the animal die in unbelievable agony, gyrating and screaming throughout.  It’s pure fun to watch and is a sure bet to bring everyone to their own awesome orgasm of pure pleasure.  It’s brand new and I doubt even your guest of honor has seen it in action.

 

Chris couldn’t believe his good luck.  This was going to be a great day!  He of course accepted the offer, and he and Evan finished their planning.  Once the slave finally died, shooting its last load over its belly and chest, Evan would do some quick cutting and remove the heart and lungs, adding some more stuffing to the dead animal’s innards.  He would also drain the blood that was flowing to keep other limbs alive, and remove the head.  That would be drained and passed around among the guests for those who wanted to fuck it, which was a popular pastime at parties.  While this was underway, Chris would thank everyone for coming (and Cuming) and introduce Dr. Stuart.  That would start the ceremony about promotion to be his special assistant, and the official celebration would get underway while the room was filled with the aroma of the slave cooking in the oven.  When the meat was ready, Evan would invite the guests to take a seat and Evan would carve and serve the meat.  It was an outstanding plan.

 

Chris and Evan had several hours to wait until the guests started to arrive, during which they enjoyed each other’s great bodies, and shot a few loads each up the ass of the slave.  They got to know each other, sharing stories about their careers.  Chris filled Evan in on the process of the job promotion, adding a lot of background that would help Evan in his role of party manager.  When it got to be time for the party to start, they fucked each other one more time, showered together and waited by the door.

 

The guests were prompt and arrived right on schedule.  Chris wasn’t surprised, since it would be very rude for anyone not to have arrived prior to when Dr. Stuart arrived (which was 15 minutes exactly after when the party was scheduled).  After all, being at a party with a member of the Alpha Council was a great honor for members of the beta class like Chris and his guests.

 

Dr. Gordon Stuart was one of the most senior members of the Council.  He was in his mid-30s, and handsome even for an Alpha leader.  Even surrounded by two dozen young, fit gay guys averaging in their early 20s, he was the most impressive and fit person there.  Unlike some members of the Council, he was also known for his kindness and thoughtfulness for members of the Beta class of citizens, feeling a responsibility to assure their lives were positive and productive.  It was not unusual for him to attend functions with lower class citizens, as he was doing this evening at Chris’ invitation.

 

Chris introduced Evan, who took the lead in explaining the plans for the evening, adorned only in his tux bow tie.  The two dozen guests were all naked and all exhibiting rigid hard-ons.  So Evan suggested they start with a gang rape of the evening’s meat, a suggestion that was quite well received.  Dr. Stuart went first, of course, and complemented Chris on obtaining such an obviously high-quality specimen.  Chris beamed with appreciation.  The evening not only started will, but as guests enjoyed their drinks it seemed to get even better.

 

The kill was a highlight, and Chris invited Dr. Stuart to do the honors by masturbating the slave.  But consistent with his typical courtesy, Dr. Stuart deferred to Chris and Chris had the pleasure of jerking off the meat while also fucking it. They both came together, and as the slave put on its amazing final show, screaming and gyrating wonderfully as it shot a giant load of cum all over its belly and chest, Chris enjoyed continuing to pump its tight ass.   Everyone else also enjoyed an added orgasm as they watched, massively turned on by the length and intensity of the slave’s fatal orgasm.  In fact, they were a bit spent once the show was over.  That worked well with the timing, as Chris thanked everyone for attending, especially Dr. Stuart, and turned the ceremony over to him.

 

“Thanks, Chris.  I think you have put on an amazing party and I’m pleased to be here.  As you know, I enjoy mingling with all our citizens, whether Alpha or Beta class.  And Chris and indeed all of you are great role models for our betas.  Now, as you also know, I am taking on a new executive assistant, since my existing one, Chad, has caught the eye of another member of the Council, who has decided to make him his official consort.  This is of course a great honor for Chad, being the husband of a Council member, and I am always delighted when my staff get a promotion.  But this time I’ve decided to choose someone from the beta class.”  A cheer went up from the grateful betas in the room.  “It’s an extremely helpful and prestigious role – the highest available to any beta – so I have been careful in making my choice.

 

“I finally got it down to two finalists, Chris and Marcus.  And I notice Marcus is also here, which is thoughtful on Chris’ part.  But that’s how Chris is.

 

“I let Chris know my choice several days ago, and he suggested this party to celebrate.  But before I make the official announcement, I want to clarify my reasons.  Both Chris and Marcus have all the skills needed for the job and either would have been an excellent choice.  But part of the job involves always being available for my sexual use, and therefore my sexual tastes are quite relevant.  Let’s have the two finalists stand side by side so I can explain.”  Marcus came forward and stood next to Chris, both facing the rest of the guests and both with extreme erections that were dripping pre-cum.  Marcus looked nervous and was sweating a bit.

 

“As you can see, these are each terrific male specimen.   I’d enjoy fucking either of them – and I’ve done that a lot of times, by the way, as part of my selection process.  I also know they are both more than willing to act as a human urinal if there is not a slave nearby, although that is rarely needed.  And I enjoy watching them jerk off.  So it’s been a tough choice on that criterion as well.  Fuck, as you can see even their cocks are the same size!  When all is said and done, it ultimately came down to which body turned me on the most.  The only real difference is that Chris is a bit older and more mature, at age 23 v. Marcus’ age 17.  And that’s why I have chosen Marcus.  I find him a total turn-on, and he is at his amazing sexual peak.  He will be my new assistant.  Congratulations Marcus.”

 

Everyone was startled, especially Marcus.  But Chris was not, standing next to Marcus and congratulating him after thanking Dr. Stuart for the honor of being considered.  The other guests quickly recovered, cheered, and added their congratulations.  But Dr. Stuart had one more point to make.

 

“I realize you’re all surprised.  Chris and I have accomplished our little joke and I’m pleased at the reactions.  So let me explain further.

 

“When I told Chris that he was not my choice, he responded with total class.  He suggested a party to surprise Marcus, and that has obviously gone amazingly well.  But Chris also realized there would be possible tension on Marcus’s part if Chris stayed on my office staff.  He could be perceived as a threat and he did not want to have anything get in the way of my enjoyment of Marcus’ body or with Marcus’ success at his job.  Chris has an announcement of his own.”

 

“Thank you. Dr. Stuart.  I am overwhelmingly honored that you agreed to join our party.  Your kindness toward members of the Beta class is deeply appreciated by all of us.”  The crowd again cheered.

 

“I do want Marcus to succeed and I do not want to get in the way.  I don’t think I should remain on your staff.  Also, I do not want to violate protocol on hosting a member of the Alpha class, which this party risks doing, and with Dr. Stuart’s permission I’ve come up with a solution.  The standard is to offer Council members a choice of cooked meat or live meat.  I have not yet provided the live meat for Dr. Stuart to enjoy, and I know he prefers it.  He has often commented that he thinks it’s healthier, and it gives him the added pleasure of making the meat suffer a bit more and be humiliated by watching itself be eaten alive.  I have decided that I should be the live meat.  I encourage all of you to enjoy my body as part of your evening feast.  Evan will help you know where to cut into me so you get the best meat and don’t accidently kill me too soon.  To that end, I will relinquish my status as a citizen and become a slave.  That removes me as an impediment to Marcus, fulfills the meat choice protocol, and will add to your enjoyment as you destroy my body.  I trust none of you will be confused by my prior status as a citizen, and will be as brutal and vicious as possible.  No one should ever hold back in torturing a slave.  But before I become one, and while I can still make my own decisions, I do have one small gesture I’d like to make.   I want to be the first to facilitate Dr. Stuart bonding with Marcus in his new role, and I know Dr. Stuart is always gracious about that sort of thing.  So, I suggest they share a token of my respect.  Well, actually two tokens.”  With that, Chris picked up a nearby knife that he had conveniently positioned, and cut into his scrotum.  Chris then cut out his testicles, rinsing them off and offering his man-seeds to Dr. Stuart, who ate one of them and shared the other one with Marcus.  As the two enjoyed the first donation from Chris’ body, the room cheered wildly.  Evan quickly cauterized the wound so Chris would not lose consciousness or bleed to death.  Then Chris officially relinquished his citizenship, an act accepted by Dr. Stuart as a member of the Council.  The citizen named Chris was now dead.  Evan handed the slave a microchip to swallow, registering it as a meat slave ready for harvest.  There was now a nameless meat slave to be dealt with that needed an owner.  Evan asked Dr. Stuart if he would accept ownership of the new slave, but Dr. Stuart declined and pointed to Marcus, who eagerly accepted his new property and spoke next.

 

“Thank you, Dr. Stuart.  This is an amazing honor to be your assistant and I will do everything I can to fulfill your every desire.   That includes whatever you might want to do with or to my body, which is always yours to command and use.   And I invite you, and then everyone, to make use of my new slave.  Once Evan gets it prepared I suggest we start by torturing it, although I do want to be sure it stays alive while Dr. Stuart, and then all of us, enjoy its living flesh.  I also recognize that it’s now a eunuch and only has one last orgasm it will be able to provide for our amusement.  So I’m asking Evan to inject not only the drugs that turn slave orgasms into events of pain, but to inject the added dosage used to make the orgasm fatal and provide us with such great fun watching.  Clearly this slave, like all slaves, deserves that added pain and humiliation.”  Marcus had totally bought into the transition from citizen to slave, made easier because he never had liked Chris the citizen.  After all, they were competitors and Marcus was not nearly as gracious as his deceased adversary had been.

 

On cue, Evan roughly dragged the slave to the middle of the living room, with guests kicking it as he did so, and turned a switch on the wall.  This caused a set of metal shackles to drop form the ceiling, and a large metal pan with a drain to slide out from the wall.  Evan attached the slave’s wrists to the chains that now hung from the ceiling, adjusting the height with another switch so the animal dangled with its feed slightly off the ground.  That way the body could swing free as it was beaten.  The apparatus was a standard feature of homes in the world of Alpha Males, so citizens could conveniently enjoy torturing slaves.  The pan and drain were to catch the fluids that would be flowing from the slave’s body soon, making clean-up easy.  There was of course no resistance, and Evan also distributed appropriate implements for the guests’ fun like whips, knives, and electric dildos.  The final prep was the shot to induce the final fatal orgasm, and a dousing with a “skin cleaner” that depilated the slave’s skin so that the torso and limbs were completely hairless (no one wants to deal with body hair on their meat) and the nerve endings were more sensitive to pain (adding to the fun).

 

Dr. Stuart took the lead by cutting off and eating a generous helping of live, raw meat form the slave’s thigh and then fucking its ass as he enjoyed the meat.  As he finished his first helping, Evan made sure the bleeding was controlled and Marcus cut off more meat, offering it to his new Boss as Dr. Stuart kept pumping the tight slave ass.  After Dr. Stuart had his fill and shot his load, the orgy of torturing and fucking the new slave began in earnest.  At that point Dr. Stuart excused himself, having accomplished his goals and enjoyed a terrific party complete with delicious live meat.  But he told Marcus not to report for work until late the next morning. He wanted Marcus and his friends to enjoy their orgy and dinner without having to defer to him, characteristic of Dr. Stuart’s generosity.  Everyone expressed their gratitude for his attendance and thoughtfulness, realizing how fortunate they were to have such Alpha Males ruling them.

 

The torture and orgy session lasted quite a while, and the slave was in severe pain throughout.  Oddly, however, its sexual level was enhanced compared to what the animal had experienced before.  The freedom of turning over all control, and knowing its body was being used for such an apocopate purpose was somehow exile rating and liberating.  Several of Chris’ closest friends had started a contest to see who could do the most damage with a whip, and the slave was quite sincere when it expressed its appreciation for the honor of being the target, as it was when it also thanked guests for the opportunity to watch as they cut and ate delicious parts of its body.

 

The other slave was done cooking in due course and the two meat sources were laid side by side for the guests to choose.  Evan carefully guided the guests as they cut into the live meat, which proved the more popular, to be sure it stayed alive.  Once everyone had enjoyed the delicious dinner, commenting on how good the recipe for baked slave had tu8rned out, Marcus masturbated the dying animal and they all enjoyed watching it shoot an amazing load, using up all the sperm that would never be replaced for lack of testicles and lack of life, putting on a show every bit as amusing as the original slave had done.

 

After everyone left, well into the early morning because of another satisfying orgy, Evan chopped up the two bodies and tossed the remains into the container used earlier for the organs of the cooked slave.  The undesirable remains of the slaves would be used to keep other slaves alive until they were themselves harvested.

 

The dinner celebration had played out exactly as Chris had hoped.

Ride-along with Captain Dan

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

 

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

 

It wasn’t a good idea to cross him.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Leaving the engine running, he killed the lights.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Bill?  Bill who?”

 

“Bill Traster, my mom’s brother.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Naw, Cap—that’s a new one on me.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Cap?” he asked again, “A cruiser?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Now what?” Pete asked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Passed yer test, son.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And Pete did.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And what?”

 

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

 

“Anything else?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Trucker 14–Trucker vs Bar Bitch

It was almost midnight and Wes was ready to rock out.  He was higher than fuck and horny as hell.  He’d need money soon if he wanted to wanted to keep the high going, but there were ways of getting it—even ways of combining the two.

 

And combining the two was something Wes was good at.  Just two months past his twenty-second birthday, he was slim and lean, with a perfect twink body that managed to attract a lot of dudes.  The ugly ones, the ones who were fat or old, were usually willing to pay, and Wes would whore himself out if he needed—but he preferred to play a different game.  After all, why bargain when you can steal?

 

It was the ice, of course—whether he smoked it, snorted it or shot it up, it got him too amped up to be controlled.  Aside from the rampant horniness, it made him crave danger.   Things could get ugly if the guy bangin’ him caught him in the act, but that didn’t happen often.  And anyway, he was getting a lot better a rifling through wallets whenever his fuckbuddies’ backs were turned.

 

He was just under six feet tall with a broad face darkened with the faintest hint of facial hair under his turned-up nose and across his cheeks.  His smooth, clear skin was not yet tainted from the meth use, although the dilation of his large dark eyes hinted at it.  His brown hair was cut short on the sides of his head, but left longer—about three or four inches—on the top, carefully arranged to look casually tousled.

 

He was looking to take a dick up his ass and had dressed to make sure he got it.  He wore a gray long-sleeve t-shirt that clung tightly to his lean, boyish chest.  His black skinny jeans, even though they were tight enough to highlight the muscles in his long legs and the drug-enhanced bulge in his groin—and were held up by a thick leather belt clasped shut by a buckle with a black-on-black Superman logo—still sagged enough to show a couple of inches of the colorful boxers underneath.

 

His feet padded quietly in a pair of Under Armour Jet Express hightops; the kicks were a bright shade of blue that contrasted nicely with the black jeans.  Since the jeans rode so low on Wes’s hips, the hems caught in the uppers of the sneakers, making it look like he’d deliberately tucked them in.

 

In short, Wes looked exactly like what he was, a hot little twink on the lookout for cock.  The fact that he was also on the lookout for cash was probably a bit more obvious than he’d have liked. But it was Friday night and the gay bar was packed and raucous; the noisy crowd even managed to explain away some of the noticeable signs of Wes’s meth use, like his sweating and jitteriness.

 

The bar was only part of the large nightclub; it was teeming and dark, but it opened out onto a huge dance floor that dazzled the eyes with strobes, mirror balls, and smoke machines.  The dance floor occupied at least half the building, while the bar only took up about a quarter.  The other quarter was taken up by offices, bathrooms, and a game room with some arcade games and a couple of pool tables.  Tonight, all the rooms were filled to capacity.

 

Wes had already cadged a drink of an old fat guy with a long beard and was leaning back against a wall and surveying the crowd for a likely mark when his eyes were drawn to a dude who’d just entered the bar from the game room.  The guy was huge, at least six and a half feet, with black hair and stubble on his face; the hair was mostly hidden under a red trucker’s cap.  He sported a white cotton wifebeater, too small and tight to leave any details of the stud’s muscle-bound and fur-covered chest to the imagination.  The dude’s powerful build was obvious in every movement he made; the way his biceps and deltoids flexed as he turned and set his pool cue into a rack by the door made Wes drool with lust.

 

The stoned-out hustler moved away from the wall and approached the hot stud.  As he got closer, he could see the guy’s tight jeans, faded to sky-blue and worn to the point of softness, with a tear on the inside of the left leg that teasingly revealed a firm, hairy inner thigh.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of brown Justin Wyoming pull-on workboots.

 

The closer he got to the hulking stud, the more certain Wes was that this was the guy he was looking for.  This guy was capable of feeding him dick the way he wanted, the way he so desperately needed tonight.  And someone this hot had to have cash; the moment the stud looked away, Wes would pocket his dough.

 

Wes had no way of knowing it—and would have been too high and horny to pay attention if he had had a way—but he was very unlikely to catch this stud with his guard down.  There was little the Trucker missed, especially when he was dealing with fagboy fuckmeat.

 

It’d been a couple of weeks since the Trucker left his last fucktoy dead in a ditch; he was back on the hunt and looking for a kill.  He was familiar with this place; he’d stopped off here on his last haul through this town.  On that occasion, he hadn’t found anything worth sticking his dick into; he’d ended up offing a street punk in an alley, but it had left him feeling unsatisfied.

 

Of course, that had been on a weeknight.  This was Friday night—almost Saturday morning—and the place was full.  The Trucker was sure he’d find someone tonight; in fact, he’d though he already had.  The boy had been small and dark, hairy with olive skin.  The Trucker had followed him into the game room and picked up a game of pool with him, but within minutes, the kid’s friends had shown up.  The Trucker finished the game, but deep inside, he was raging with frustrated desire.  The little punk never knew how lucky he was that his friends showed up.

 

Wes wasn’t lucky, and he didn’t have any friends.  He approached the Trucker head-on, brazenly grinning up at the well-built hunk.  “Hey, man, wanna buy me a drink?”

 

The Trucker glanced down incuriously at the boy, as he would at an insect crawling on the pavement.

 

“I’ll make it worth yer while,” the boyslut said.

 

“Yeah?” the Trucker inquired impassively.  “How?”

 

Wes was too high for subtlety.  “In the sack.  I’m a great fuck.”

 

The Trucker sneered.  “Yeah, heard that before.”

 

The DJ on the dance floor changed the music; the new shit was loud and cacophonous.  Wes didn’t even try to make his voice heard over it; he just reached out and grabbed the massive ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran down the older man’s thigh.  He didn’t expect it to be real; it was way too big.  And he was used to guys padding out their groins; it’d get a lot of looks in the bars, even if it did lead to eventual disappointment.

 

With this type of fake enhancement in mind, Wes openly slipped his hand into the tear in the Trucker’s jeans.  His fingers slid across the firm, thick thigh—and then stopped as they came into contact with an enormous shaft of semi-soft throbbing manmeat.

 

He looked up into the Trucker’s face, his eyes wide with amazement.  He couldn’t believe the dude’s cock was really that big.  “Forget the drink,” he said with an audible gulp during a lull in the music, “My apartment is three blocks from here.  Put it in me, bro.”

 

The Trucker smirked.  “Sure, faggot.  I could use a good workout.  Lessee if you can go the distance.”

 

This was what he’d been waiting for—meat that provided its own death pit.  The Trucker was tired of cleaning out his cab after every fresh kill.

 

For his part, Wes was thrilled.  He was stunned by how easy it was to lure his mark; the thought that he was the mark being lured never crossed his mind.  What did flash across his mind was that if this dude was so eager, even if he did notice Wes had gone through his wallet he probably wouldn’t mind.

 

Ice had made Wes make bad decisions and jump to wrong conclusions before, but this was far and away the worst.

 

“C’mon, man, just follow me,” he said and started making his way through the crowd.

 

The Trucker was tall enough that he didn’t have to follow on the punk’s heels to see which way he was headed, and that suited him just fine.  He left a little space between himself and the meat so that later on, nobody would associate the two of them together.  Not that it was likely they’d be noticed in the randy, gyrating crowd anyway, but there was no sense in the Trucker taking chances.

 

After all, the meat was taking enough chances for them both.

 

Wes made it outside first.  The Trucker ambled along, not worried about losing the kid; he knew he had this faggot already hooked.  He took his time to cross the dance floor and walk nonchalantly out of the building in front of the bouncer—obviously alone.  Nothing to connect him with the stupid little fuck who stood waiting under a streetlight halfway down the block and across the street.

 

The Trucker could see him the moment he exited the door.  He walked towards him but kept to the opposite side of the street.  The footsteps of his thick-soled workboots echoed off the nearby walls, but otherwise the side street was relatively quiet.  Nobody hung out in front of the bar; most of the action was in the back, where there was parking and a patio with an outside bar.  There was no one about to see him quickly cross the street and join the kid.

 

Wes was tweaking and impatient.  He was afraid the hot musclestud had changed his mind until he saw the dude come out of the bar.  He relaxed as much as the meth would let him, watching the tall, masculine figure stroll towards him, his legs swinging wide to accommodate the massive tackle that hung between them.

 

Without the noise and commotion of the bar to distract him, Wes was able to notice a few details that had escaped his attention before, like the jingly bits of metal that bounced on the dude’s broad chest and dangled from a chain around his neck; as the Trucker got closer, the slut realized they were dog tags.  He also got a better look at the stud’s face.

 

He was aroused not only by the strong jaw and cheeks covered with just enough jet-black stubble to cast a shadow, but by the cold, hard expression on the handsome face and the icy glint in the pale blue eyes that he glimpsed momentarily under the brim of the cap.  The last two were obvious danger signals; if Wes was less fucked-up, he might have heeded them.  As it was, they just fed into his horniness, his craving for sexual danger.

 

“C’mon, man,” he grinned happily, “Right down here.  We’ll go down the alley, it’s faster.”

 

The Trucker followed silently, his heavy footfalls the only sign he was keeping up.  Wes’s Under Armour kicks made no sound on the gritty, cracked pavement as he dodged litter and reeking puddles in the alleyway, helped by an occasional overhead light.  They crossed a couple of side streets, sticking to the alley, and suddenly came to a residential block.

 

“Over here,” Wes said and headed to the left towards a small two-story brick apartment building.  The place was old and run-down; the windows were tiny and some of the ones upstairs had AC units precariously dangling from the sills, droning into the warm night.  There were cracks in the brick from settling; none had been repaired and some of them were old and alarming large.

 

There was an oil-stained patch of asphalt in the rear that served as a parking lot; at the moment, it was mostly empty—no surprise, on a Friday night—with just a couple of broken-down pickups and a huge late-80’s Chrysler that belonged in a museum.  Down the side of the building was regular pattern of a doorway followed by two windows; it looked like there were about four apartments down this one side.

 

Wes and the Trucker crossed the cracked, weed-choked asphalt to the rear-most door on the side.  It was thin and painted a dingy, weathered white; it took Wes a moment to get it unlocked since the rusted light fixture above the door had no bulb and probably wouldn’t have worked if it had.

 

Once inside, Wes flipped on the light switch, revealing a tiny, barely-furnished efficiency apartment, a single room with a kitchen nook jutting off to the rear and a small bathroom.  The barren, sterile light of a single overhead bulb was enough to illuminate the small space.  The harsh overhead light shed no softening shadows on Wes’s bed—a mattress and box spring set sitting on the floor with no frame.  The fitted sheet—once white, now with a sickly yellow tinge—still clung tenaciously to the mattress, but the flat sheet and the pillows were in a tangled mass halfway on the floor.

 

There was a large flat-screen TV against one wall (far and away the most expensive thing in the entire apartment), but no other furniture at all.  The kitchen sink was piled with dishes and glasses; the only reason they didn’t litter the counter as well was that Wes didn’t have any more.  Not to say that the counter was bare; on the contrary, it was cluttered with lots of empty booze bottles—most of them the cheap plastic kind.

 

The Trucker took it all in as he silently locked the door behind him.  Wes never noticed.  “Here, lemme open a window,” he said evidently embarrassed by the almost visible funk of cigarettes, meth, weed and boyspunk.  And the room was stifling—Wes had hocked his AC months ago.

 

“Naw, boy, leave ‘em closed,” the Trucker drawled, “I like to sweat.  And I wanna make you sweat.”

 

The boy turned to the towering stud, the bulge in his crotch pulsing visibly.  For the first time, he got a good look at the Trucker’s chest—the muscled hunk was already perspiring enough to make his thin cotton wifebeater transparent.  Wes could see details that had been invisible before, the thick, wiry chest fur, the large erect nipples surrounded by dark circles of flesh…

 

With a deep, shuddering inhale, Wes gasped, “Fuck, brah, stick it in me.  Fuck me, man, cum in my ass.  I want yer fuckin’ load.”

 

The Trucker leered, a cold, shark-like grin spreading across his handsome face.  “Gonna hafta see if you deserve my wad, boy.  Yer gonna hafta work for it—and if you ain’t workin’ hard enough, I got way to make ya.  Think you can handle that?”

 

In response, Wes peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his smooth, lean, boyish chest, already glistening with sweat himself.  “Dude, I can handle whatever you got,” he boasted.

 

The Trucker’s grin got even wider.  He was gonna have so much fun proving the stupid little faggot wrong.

 

Digging into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros, he lit one up before reaching up and taking off the red trucker’s cap and tossing it on the floor.  His hair was short but not shaved, a pure black that gleamed in the overhead light like silk.  Wes, noticing the lit smoke, pulled back a small pile of dirty clothes near the mattress to reveal an ashtray on the bare wood floor; next to it were a phone charger and a small metal lamp, both plugged into the wall and within easy reach of the bed.  The boywhore fished his own cigarettes out of his pocket, but didn’t get the chance to burn one.

 

“Get over here,” the Trucker commanded.  “You want my dick?  Work for it.  Pull my shirt off.”

 

Eager as a puppy, Wes dropped his pack of generic smokes and darted across the room.  He instantly ran his hands over the rippled muscles on the Trucker’s hard, furry abs, feeling them through the thin fabric of the wifebeater.  He stuck his hand down inside the Trucker’s jeans, reaching for the hem, but he made the mistake—or perhaps it was deliberate—of going in front and center, like he was reaching for the alpha’s dick.

 

The Trucker knocked his hand away.  “Uh-uh,” he said, “You ain’t earned the right to feel my cock yet.”  The stud grabbed the shirt and pulled it up out of his waistband before he let Wes continue.

 

Wes paused for a moment, unsure of himself.  The Trucker took a deep drag off his cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of bluish smoke into the punk’s face.  “Whatcha waitin’ for, boy?” he growled, “I toldja to pull my shirt off!”

 

Responding instinctively to the hard edge of command in the Trucker’s voice, Wes grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up.  The hard-bodied alpha raised his arms to let the shirt come off over them; he knew damn well that the whore wasn’t tall enough to pull the shirt up over his head, but he kept the pretense up.

 

Wes has risen up on the toes of his electric-blue hightops in his attempt to raise his arms high enough when the Trucker suddenly planted his big hand on the back of the kid’s head and rammed Wes’s face into his hairy, reeking armpit.  The kid gasped as the alpha ground his face into the warm, wiry pit hairs.

 

Before he could react, Wes’s face was pulled back, then forcibly rubbed against the Trucker’s chest.  The powerful top was clutching a handful of the cunt’s hair, using it like a handle to maneuver Wes’s head.  The boy could feel the alpha chest fur, moist with sweat, scratching at his face, when suddenly there was an erect mound of flesh in his mouth.

 

“Work my nipple, faggot,” the older man hissed roughly.  Wes obey, slurping eagerly at the large knot.  For a moment, he dug his teeth in and leaned back, stretching the dark flesh out, then the Trucker cuffed him in the head.

 

“That’s enough, cunt,” he snapped, pulling his shirt off himself and tossing it on the floor.  “I gotta take a leak.”  Walking to the bathroom, he bent down momentarily and tapped his ash into the ashtray beside the bed.  It wasn’t a characteristic move for him.  Usually, he just let the ash fall on the floor—after all, with the hour, the meat would be long past caring if the floor was dirty—but he had a gut feeling this time.

 

He was right.  From the corner of his eye, the Trucker caught the whoreboy’s eyes glued to his ass.  While that in itself wasn’t unusual—faggots always stared at the way denim cradled his firm, round asscheeks—there was something odd about the way the homo kept his eyes on one spot like a laser.  The experienced mankiller knew exactly what was going on—the kid was fixated on his wallet.

 

The alpha turned back and retrieved his shirt.  He removed the wallet form his hip pocket, rather ostentatiously, wrapped the shirt around it, and tossed it back down into his upturned cap lying on the floor.  Satisfied, he headed to the bathroom.

 

It was a trap, of course.  As he stood at the toilet, pounding out his piss, his blood boiled at the thought of the cheap hustler trying to steal from him.  At the same time, the thought of what he’d do to the punk if he actually did try anything was starting to get him stiff.  He let the stream of piss slow to a stop and listened, but heard nothing.

 

The kid was waiting.  The Trucker could play that game, too.  He kept still and silent for a good five minutes before he heard a faint rustle form the bedroom.  When he threw the door open, he was already prepared for what he found.

 

Wes had already stripped.  His gear was tossed onto the pile of dirty clothes; the belt with the black Superman logo was coiled on top.  The slim youth was crouched, nude but for his ped socks, over the Trucker’s cap on the floor.  He’d already managed to unwrap the shirt from the wallet and had just opened it up when the bathroom door opened and the Trucker emerged.

 

The room was so small the large, muscled killer was standing over Wes before the thieving fagboy even knew he was there.  His pulse pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, Wes slowly turned to look at the Trucker’s brown, scuffed workboots next to him, then raised his eyes.

 

The homo punk’s gaze crawled up the Trucker’s thick legs, noticing almost for the first time how the tight denim barely contained the firm calf muscles, how the tear on the left thigh revealed the power of the thick thigh behind it.  Then he raised his eyes further to the groin and gasped involuntarily in shock.

 

Wes, despite his youth, had taken a lot of dick in his life, but this…this was as intimidating as fuck.  The Trucker’s erect member, huge and swollen, jutted from the unzipped fly out over the kid’s head; as he watched, a large transparent bead of precum welled out and fell on him—Wes could feel the moist potent heat of the drop on his scalp.

 

The thick veins writhing across the surface of the enormous cock expanded as the dark shaft pulsated.  Wes was transfixed, both horrified and attracted by the massive rod of manmeat—it was too big, it would literally tear him a new asshole, but it was such hot fucking proof of manhood that the young power bottom couldn’t help getting hard himself, despite the inherent danger of the situation.  The meth still circulating in his system went some ways towards explaining this—but not all the way.  Stone cold sober, Wes still craved cock to the extent that he’d have walked into a bear trap to get this hot hardbodied stud’s tool.

 

It was hard to tear his gaze away from that mesmerizing rod of glistening, pulsating manmeat, but Wes’s eyes were drawn upwards, along the dude’s ripped, hairy abs to the dark forest of body hair covering the alpha’s broad, bulked-out chest.  The glint of metal indicated the presence of the top’s dogtags, nestled in the dark, furry valley between the twin peaks of his thick hubcap pecs from which the large dark nipples protruded.

 

Again, the instant impression was of overwhelming masculine power.  There was something about the alpha’s muscle-bound torso that suddenly reminded the lust-distracted faggot that he’d just been caught stealing.  In his sudden fear, he raised his eyes to the Trucker’s face.

 

He took one look at the expression of unholy rage and triumph on the Trucker’s face and went pale in fear.

 

“No, man,” he started, “It ain’t what ya think—”

 

The Trucker bent down and slammed his fist into Wes’s temple.  The blow to the head didn’t completely knock the whore out, but it sent him sprawling dazed onto the floor.

 

The muscled killer had tossed his first butt into the john.  He pulled his pack out and lit another as he walked around the stunned, moaning youth.  “So ya thought it was smart to go for my wallet, huh?” he sneered.  “Guess I’m gonna hafta teach ya what a bad fuckin’ idea that was.”

 

Wes groaned tried to rise, placing his right hand flat on the floor to brace himself.  Before he could move, the Trucker was there, grinding his bootheel onto the back of Wes’s hand.

 

“AHH!  Wha—wha—” Wes cried out as the Trucker crouched down, keeping the cunt’s hand pinned to the wood floor.

 

“Ya see,” the Trucker said in an almost conversational tone, “I was just gonna fuck ya and snuff ya, but now I’m gonna hafta make ya suffer.  You were gonna die tonight anyway, faggot, but now yer gonna die in agony.  I gotta teach you a lesson that you’ll remember for the rest of your worthless life—which I’m guessing is gonna be about another half hour at most.”  He paused and took a long, searching look at Wes’s lithe, lean body.  “You’re young; you might make it to forty minutes.  It don’t matter, as long as you learn what a huge fuckin’ mistake you made.”

 

Wes was about to reply that he already knew he’d made a mistake bringing this huge sexy psycho home when the Trucker reached down, grabbed one of the boy’s splayed fingers—the index finger—and jerked it up, violently.  The snapping of bone wasn’t very loud but it echoed in the small room.

 

Wes’s scream was even louder.

 

“Good thing all yer low-life neighbors are out partyin’,” the Trucker chuckled.  “Ain’t no one around to hear ya scream, asswipe.  Not like they’d bother to help a worthless cumguzzlin’ fag like you anyway.”

 

The middle finger was next.  It was larger, so the snapping sound was louder.  “Are ya learnin’ to keep yer homo hands off my shit?” the sweat-slicked muscular killer asked, flicking the ash from his smoke into the cunt’s hair.  Wes couldn’t answer; he could only moan and sob.  “No?” the Trucker grinned.  “Fuck, yer a stupid sack of shit.  Guess I gotta keep learnin’ ya, huh?”

 

When the Trucker broke Wes’s ring finger, the cheap rentboy reacted, beating on the Trucker’s leg with his left hand and drawing his knees up under himself, trying to unbalance the sadist kneeling on his hand.  The sadistic alpha laughed cruelly and leaned forward to put his entire body weight onto the bootheel that was crushing Wes’s hand.

 

“See, that’s the problem with you dumbass faggots,” he jeered, “Ya don’t even appreciate a good education.  Gotta make ya learn the hard way, no matter how long it takes.”  Wes’s howls of pain as his pinkie finger was shattered made the cracking of the bone almost inaudible, but they were nothing to the noise the cunt made when the Trucker went to work on his thumb.  The muscle-bound killer didn’t break it; he wrenched it out of its socket, dislocating it, and wrung it around in huge circles, tearing the ligaments and tendons until it was useless.

 

Abruptly, the Trucker stood up and stretched.  He stepped away from Wes and headed towards the kitchen.  “Might as well make myself comfortable while I’m educatin’ ya, boy.  Got anything decent to drink in this place?”  He opened the cabinets and fridge.  “Shit, all ya got is a coupla Buds?  Figures.  Worthless asshole.”  There being no other alternative, he grabbed one anyway.

 

Wes had curled into a fetal position, cradling his broken and useless right hand.  “You—you—” he sobbed, “You fuck—fuckin’ psycho…”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” the Trucker drawled as he opened the beer and took a swig.  He walked over to the bed and placed the can on the floor next to the mattress, then returned to Wes.  The whoreboy was just rising to his knees when the Trucker approached, grabbed a handful of the kid’s brown hair and dragged him, kicking and squalling, over to the bed.

 

Seating himself on the mattress at what would be considered the foot of the bed, the Trucker pulled Wes’s head into his crotch, and with his dick running across the wailing homo’s face, wrapped his leg around the kid’s neck to hold him in place.  The well-built sadist then bent down and, grabbing the youth’s left arm, brought his hand up and continued the lesson.

 

This time he started with the little finger, a quiet snap that added no more to the agonized bleating that the pansy bitch was already making.  “See, the best way to learn somethin’,” the Trucker said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling into Wes’s face before taking another swig of beer, “Is to make sure it’s associated with somethin’ you ain’t gonna forget.”  He went for the index finger this time, slowly bending it backwards until it cracked like a green twig.  “Like pain.  Ya feelin’ me, faggot?”

 

Wes screeched, his right arm flailing against the Trucker’s restraining leg, his mangled fingers slapping uselessly against the tight faded denim.

 

The cold, sadistic killer chuckled and knocked the ash from his smoke into Wes’s tear-streaked face before settling it back between his lips and causally breaking the ring finger on his left hand.  The frantic fagboy jerked and kicked, his legs scrambling vainly on the wood floor, unable to find a purchase.  “Stop!  Help! Stop!” he screamed suddenly as he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this by himself—and that this was turning out far worse than he’d ever thought possible.

 

“Shaddup,” the Trucker snapped and punched him in the face.

 

Wes grunted, stunned by the impact that was so hard, it had broken the thin bone behind his left eye, which instantly began to swell and darken.  His head lolled as the Trucker bent his index finger past the breaking point, the loud snap heard easily over Wes’s semi-conscious moans.

 

The Trucker chugged the rest of the beer, then jammed the smoldering butt of his smoke into the can and tossed it aside.  Standing up, he let Wes slump to the ground, wallowing in pain.  “Fuck,” the alpha grunted, “Got yer fuckin’ horse piss beer on my hands.”  He headed to the bathroom and ran them under the sink.

 

It had taken him less than sixty seconds, but when he came back out, the Trucker found that Wes had managed to regain his feet and was trying to escape.  Even though there was no possibility of that, the Trucker growled malignantly as he watched the panicked whoreboy’s futile attempts to work the doorknob of his own front door with all his fingers and one thumb broken and useless.

 

“Get back here, you stupid sack of faggot shit,” he snarled crossing instantly to him, “I ain’t done with you yet, asswipe. You still gotta lot to learn before you take yer dirt nap, cunt.”

 

Wes looked up at him, his youthful, once-arrogant face gray with shock and despair, and had a sudden realization of the nightmare he was about to endure.  Blubbering mindlessly, he lost control of his bladder, his piss running down his legs and soaking his socks—and spattering on the Trucker’s boots.

 

Incandescent with rage, the sadistic powerhouse grabbed the desperate punk with both hands—one hand clamped around his throat and the other hand snapped shut on his scrotum like a steel trap, shutting off the flow of urine—and hoisted him in the air.

 

“Piss on me, will ya, you goddam faggot scum?” the Trucker roared and flung Wes headlong into the kitchen.  Flying across the counter and stove, Wes barely had time to fling his arms over his head before he slammed excruciatingly into the far wall and fell to the floor with a clatter of pans and dishes.

 

The dazed, semi-conscious found himself flailing helplessly on the kitchen floor as the heavy, ominous tread of the Trucker’s boots came closer.  Aside from the horrible pain wracking his lean, firm body, his sensations were vague.  He knew that those approaching footsteps meant unrelenting suffering and torment, and that it had something to do with some imagined idea of hot intense sex he’d hoped for, but everything else was confused and distorted.  He wasn’t even entirely sure where he was; this kinda pain couldn’t be happening in his own room…

 

The Trucker stood over the mewling boycunt writhing on the floor and kicked him in the gut, his steel-toed workboot sinking deeply into Wes’s smooth, soft, flat belly.  “HOOG!” the faggot grunted as the impact knocked the air out of him.  Wes looked up at the Trucker, his face soundlessly expressing his horror as he tried desperately to inhale.

 

The hardbodied alpha knelt down by Wes’s head.  He grabbed the fuckboy’s carefully sculpted hair—now a tousled mass—and jerked his head up.  Staring into the kid’s eyes, he spit into Wes’s face, the frothy spittle splattering on the punk’s forehead and trickling down into the boy’s left eye, which had turned black and swollen shut by now.  The older man radiated violence and cruel power in the same way his slick mansweat filled the air with an acrid mix of testosterone and adrenalin, and some dim part of the whore’s mind was aware of his own traitorous, involuntary erection—

 

“Ya know I’m gonna kill ya, right?” the Trucker leered.  “Ya know I’m gonna use you as a cumdump and snuff yer sorry faggot ass, huh?  No, ya don’t.  I can see it in your dead soulless eyes, you worthless homo; you don’t think yer gonna die.  I’m gonna hafta teach it to ya.  I’m gonna hafta hurt you so bad you’ll finally appreciate what a huge fuckin’ favor I’m doin’ ya by wastin’ ya.”

 

Wes heard the words but couldn’t process them.  Out of his good right eye, he could see the Trucker’s handsome, scruff-covered face just inches from his—such a hot fucking dude couldn’t be trying to kill him, this was some kinda nightmare or he’d gotten hold of some bad ice and was freaking out—

 

The Trucker stood, pulling Wes up with him, one hand still clutching a hank of the boy’s hair and the other locked around his throat.  This time, the alpha held the kicking pansy aloft for a moment, letting the boy choke and gag as his own body weight crushed his throat.  Then he flung the slut across the room as hard as he could.

 

Wes hit the wall next to the window, collapsing the drywall and leaving a massive dent as he fell limply back to the floor with a thump like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground.  He was still trying to catch his breath when the Trucker was on him again, hoisting him up by the throat.  “You still want my cock, fag?  Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m still gonna stick it in ya.  You’ll get my load, cocksucker.  ‘Course, you may have too much brain damage by then to enjoy it—but I’ll fuckin’ enjoy it enough for both of us.  Sounds like a fair deal, huh, motherfucker?”

 

The frantic youth instinctively tried to claw at the Trucker’s arm.  Every single contact of his hands on the brutal stud’s bicep and tricep was agony as his broken fingers twisted excruciatingly with the impact.  But the crushing pain in his throat was swiftly overtaking his notice—his entire body weight was collapsing his esophagus in the Trucker’s vise-like grip.

 

He couldn’t breathe.  Panic bubbled up in his fear-frozen pansy brain; lack of air had triggered a subconscious terror of asphyxiation.

 

Wes had never spent a moment of his shallow, drug-addled life speculating on what would be the worst way to die; now he knew, without any thought being involved.  He didn’t want to choke to death.

 

The nude queerboy tried to plead wordlessly with the Trucker.  A less experienced killer wouldn’t have been able to read the desperate expression on the swelling, blackening face, or understand the depths of sheer horror behind the tears leaking from the one eye not already swollen shut—but the Trucker did.  He laughed aloud, a hard, cruel sound that drowned out the thick grunting noises coming from Wes’s closed-off throat.

 

“Don’t worry, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” he chuckled.  “Trust me, motherfucker, you’ll know when I’m offin’ ya—I’ll make goddam sure of that.”  Then he gut-punched Wes twice in swift succession, his rock-hard fist first sinking into the kid’s belly as before.  The second blow landed squarely on the solar plexus and Wes forgot all about the pain in his fingers and almost forgot the pain in his throat.

 

The Trucker laughed again as he watched the suffering faggot shudder limply in his grip.  “Looks like yer about to go to sleep, boy,” he drawled.  “Am I borin’ you, fuckmeat?  Here, you stupid piece of fag shit, maybe this’ll teach ya to pay attention!”

 

He slammed the kid headfirst into the TV, holding him by the neck and throwing him like a dart.  Wes’s head cracked the screen; his chest hit the TV stand.  The stand was cheap particle board, but the boywhore hit it hard enough and at just the right angle to break two ribs on his left side.

 

The punk hit the floor and didn’t move.  The Trucker lit up a smoke and sat back down on the bed, keeping an eye on the heaving, gasping pile of boymeat.  He knew he needed to pace himself or he’d whack the motherfucker before he’d had a chance to fuck ‘im.  And as much as he wanted to make the kid die, he particularly wanted to make the kid die while riding his cock.

 

Wes was lying inert, wrapped in a tight, throbbing blanket of pain.  It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe; it even hurt to think.  Especially if he thought about what the Trucker had said to him—so he didn’t think, at least not for a while.  But he could still hear the breath of his sadistic assailant, long inhales and exhales as the alpha calmly smoked his cigarette and watched Wes suffer.

 

After a while, a cloudy sense of self-preservation began to stir in the craven twink’s mind.  He was in a dangerous situation—he wouldn’t let himself recognize the true extent of the peril—and he needed to find a way out.  There was no way he could physically escape; maybe he could talk to the guy, work something out with him.  The fact that his thought process shied away from the real reason behind his inability to escape—the hot stud had casually and cheerfully broken his fingers, one by one—showed his distorted his thinking was.

 

There wasn’t anything to work out with the Trucker except how slowly and how painfully Wes was gonna die.

 

The Trucker wasn’t a mind reader, but he had enough experience offing worthless rentboys to have an accurate, if general, idea of the flow of the whore’s thoughts.  The kid just couldn’t fit the idea of his own death into his shallow brain.  The intensely cruel alpha smiled grimly and stood up.

 

“Recess is over, dickhead,” he growled.  “Time to start learnin’ again.”

 

Wes had rolled over, about to try reasoning with the Trucker, but the tone in the muscle-bound stud’s voice stopped him cold.  It took about four steps for the Trucker to reach him from the bed.  As the helpless punk stared up at the hulking figure towering over him, his words dried up on his cracked lips.

 

That amazing furry body, muscles glistening with sweat in the dim light, the enormous hog—thick, purple, pulsing in vein-wreathed lust—it was everything he wanted in a top, but this was too much, the dude was too aggressive…

 

…and then Trucker bent down to grab him again.  “Wanna play, little boy?” he whispered with an evil grin, and Wes lost it.

 

“Oh please no,” he gasped, amazed at how painful it was to speak; every breath he took shifted the sharp, jagged ends of his broken ribs inside his abdomen.  “Do…do what ya wa-want, but pl-please don’t hurt me anymore, oh please sir, dear god don’t hurt me no more…I’ll, I’ll do whatever you want, please, sir, I’m so sorry, take anything ya want, just, just…just no more pain…”

 

His entreaties became more frantic as the older man reached out to grab him again.  “No!  Fuck, please, no!  Oh god, oh god, please fuck please no don’t fuck no—”

 

Again, the Trucker grabbed him in two places—by the throat and by the scrote.  This time, though, there was no dangling.  The hardbodied killer whirled around, flinging Wes on the bed at full speed.  The homo slut hit the mattress and bounced up off it, smacking into the wall at the head of the bed and falling back, toppling the bedside lamp and knocking the ashtray across the room, leaving a trail of sooty ashes in its wake.

 

Before Wes could recover—it was taking him longer and longer to come back with each new bout of abuse—the Trucker had laid him flat on his back on the bed and had climbed between his legs, propping the kid’s socked feet on his shoulders.  The sick top waited until Wes seemed to be conscious enough for comprehension.

 

“Know what, faggot?” he jeered at the dazed, agonized youth, “All this exercise is gettin’ me horny as fuck.  Think it’s time to drain my load.  Time to say yer prayers, motherfucker, cause once I use you as a cumrag, I’m gonna be done with ya.  The hot squirt of my manseed deep in yer guts is gonna be the last thing yer fag ass feels before I put you down, ya piece a’ shit.”

 

And before Wes could even blink, the Trucker slammed his gigantic shaft balls-deep into the twink’s raw, unprepared fuckhole.

 

If he had been capable of rational thought, Wes would have felt betrayed by the way his young, form body refused to let him lapse into blessed unconsciousness under this new onslaught of excruciating pain.  The searing agony of a ripped sphincter and a torn colon shot through his lithe form, forcing him into involuntary rigidity that only increased his suffering—his body no longer flexed to accommodate the huge thick rod of manflesh spearing his innards.

 

And greatest betrayal of all—in spite of his fear and pain, his own seven-inch cock went rigid itself with a painful stiffness as the Trucker’s cock ground its way over Wes’s prostate.  He could feel it, over all the other stimuli.  The badly-beaten punk was still struggling to breathe—he couldn’t scream, but a high-pitched squeal was forced out of him by sheer agony.

 

“Shaddup, meat, no one fuckin’ cares,” the Trucker barked and sucker-punched Wes in the face.  There was a thick wet crunch as the whoreboy’s nose was crushed, and the Trucker achieved his purpose.  It damn sure got Wes to stop squealing; the stunned youth’s wide eyes, circled with gray rings of shock stared at the alpha in abject horror as blood trickled from both nostrils.

 

The Trucker bent over, his massive hog plugging the kid’s ass.  The dogtags around his neck hit Wes’s smooth chest with a clink and slid to one side as the muscled top lowered himself until their faces were inches apart.  “Worthless fuckin’ faggot, can’t even take a real man’s cock,” the alpha growled, his expression a terrifying mix of rage and demonic glee.  “You’re about to ride that cock right into your grave, fucker, and if you don’t stop squealin’ like a pig, I’ll break yer fuckin’ jaw.”

 

He gave his hips a sudden, single pump, ripping his swollen rod out of the kid’s ass—not completely; he left the billiard-ball-sized head inside the rectum—and driving it all the way back in.  Wes’s entire face went gray with agony as the gigantic horsedick reamed out his colon; he strained until sweat coursed down his face but was unable to suppress a loud, bleating whimper.

 

The Trucker was as good as his word.  He leaned forward, putting his left hand around Wes’s throat to support his weight and driving three hard, swift blows into the fag’s jaw, wielding his right fist like a sledgehammer.  The punches were delivered with the force of a steam piston and by the time they were done, the boy’s jaw was broken and he’d had three teeth knocked out.

 

Best of all, the whore’s body had jumped and jerked with each impact; the Trucker had felt each blow reverberate in the whore’s asshole, making it squeeze his dick.  The kid was gonna be a nice, responsive fuck.

 

Wes wallowed in pain; his face, his ass, his hands…there was a loud humming in his head that seemed to distort things.  Was he on a bad trip?  There was an incredibly hot stud fucking him; he could feel the top’s broad, muscular chest pressing against his own, the wiry body fur scraping painfully across his smooth, soft skin…too much pain, something was wrong.  Maybe more ice would fix it…

 

“I need a hit,” Wes mumbled, not fully aware that he was speaking aloud, his broken jaw barely moving, his speech slurred.  “Comin’ down—gimme another hit…”

 

“What, another one?” the Trucker jeered, knowing damn well what the boywhore meant.  “All you fuckin’ faggots are pain pigs.  Sure, asswipe, here ya go!”

 

Another three blows in rapid fire, striking the cunt’s torso.  The Trucker had aimed with frightening precision at the spot where the kid’s ribs had broken.  Wes screeched, ignoring the agony caused by the sudden, violent motion in his snapped jaw, as the jagged ends of the ribs were driven inwards, puncturing his left lung in two places.

 

The Trucker grinned and began fucking the suffering fuckmeat brutally.

 

Wes was beaten, in more ways than one.  He could only lie on his back, arms and legs outspread, and try to breathe while the muscle-bound alpha hunched over him and raped him viciously.  His left lung was collapsing; every breath of air was a desperate, agonizing struggle that taxed the diaphragm and tore the lung open even further.  The weight of the older man’s heavy, hulking form pressing down on him only made it worse.

 

All in all, it was a blessing for Wes—the frantic attempt to breathe, to merely draw air into his one working lung drew his focus from his pain.

 

But pain was what made Wes work the Trucker’s dick.  The Trucker was not happy.  The meat was supposed to spend the last few minutes of its life pleasuring him; it needed to be reminded of its duty.  He looked around and noticed the small bedside lamp lying on the floor right next to him.  He reached out his left arm and grabbed it, then rose up on his knees.

 

The sudden lifting of the pressure on his chest gave Wes a chance to inhale enough oxygen to regain full awareness.  Even as the tide of nightmarish suffering rose up around him, he looked up at the Trucker looming over him, holding the lamp.

 

As he watched, the powerful hardbodied older man held the lamp in one hand, wrapped the power cord around the other hand and pulled them apart.  There was a quick bugling of his biceps and the cord came away with deceptive ease—it had taken a lot of strength to pull it out.

 

The alpha threw the lamp over his shoulder; it clattered off on the far side of the room.  He held the cord up in front of Wes’s face and grinned.  Nothing needed to be said; the boy knew what it meant and tears welled from his blackened eyes.

 

A glittering light, refracted from the surface of the Trucker’s dangling dogtags, danced hypnotically in front of Wes’s eyes; the panicked whoreboy his focus to be drawn from the cord to the light, steadfastly denying the obvious implications of the former until the Trucker bent forward.  The icy glint in the alpha’s cold steely blue eyes broke the trance; his hot breath on the boy’s face brought Wes back to his excruciating, terrifying reality.

 

“Are you scared, little boy?” the Trucker mocked, “You should be.  Yer gonna die now.  It’s gonna take a little while and it’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna be worth it cause yer gonna jack me off as you kick and struggle.  Your death throes are gonna milk the cum right outta my cock.  That’s why ya gotta die, homo—so I can shoot my wad.  Stupid motherfuckin’ faggot; all yer good for is catchin’ my load in yer dead asshole.”

 

The lamp cord was long.  The Trucker was able not only to wrap it around both hands to ensure his grip, he was able to loop it twice around Wes’s neck, lifting the cunt’s head up by the hair.  The slut was past begging or pleading by this point; pain and terror had paralyzed his ability for positive action of any kind.  All Wes could do was submit as his mind spun in a benumbed circle—he’d just wanted a good hard fuck, he’d found the perfect stud, what the fuck had happened?  He’d totally forgotten his attempt at theft; he was the helpless and innocent victim of…of…

 

In the course of wrapping the cord around Wes’s neck, the Trucker had shifted to one side slightly.  As Wes peered up at the alpha, now silhouetted in front of the overhead light, the battered fuckmeat’s swollen and tear-filled eyes could only perceive a looming, hulking outline of pure masculinity, the quintessential maleness of the muscular top emphasized by the adrenaline and testosterone escaping from the alpha’s sweat and overwhelming the small room with the atmosphere of mansex.

 

This was what Wes had wanted, what he’d craved and had been driven to seek night after night in seedy bars and back alley.  Now he had it—and it was torturing him and killing him.

 

The Trucker tightened the cord, grinning sadistically as it sank into the tender flesh of Wes’s throat.  He could see that the meat was sinking into mental shock; nothing like a little breath control to stop that shit.  The cruel stud wanted his fucktoy in the here and now as it died.  And, of course, the experienced killer was right.

 

The moment his air was cut off, Wes was brought back to reality, abruptly and involuntarily.  He had a cold, clear moment of lucidity and remembered the instinctive, gut-wrenching horror he’d felt when his powerful tormentor had held him aloft by the throat and choked him.

 

Oh fuck.  Oh fuck no.  Not this.  He couldn’t die like this, no, no, no no no nononono…

 

Panic descended on the helpless sack of fuckmeat in a black mist that clouded his eyes; the Trucker recognized the glazed look of terror.  It always happened somewhere around this stage of the game; despite everything it was told, the fagmeat was usually too stupid to fully comprehend its impending death until it was actually in the process of dying.

 

Which, of course, was exactly why it had to die—it needed to be brought to this level of emotional intensity to properly work the Trucker’s cock.  The muscled alpha tightened the cord further and braced himself for the first spasm of panicked struggle.

 

And even though Wes’s life expectancy was approximately five minutes, he did manage to learn some things in the last few nightmarish moments of his short, useless life.

 

He learned that panic only briefly numbed the pain, and that there was a terrible price to pay for his mindless flailings in terms of sheer agony.  He kicked wildly, his heels drumming on the Trucker’s back with as much impact as if they were pillows; as his feet flailed, one of his ped socks slipped off and feel to the floor.

 

He slapped his hands repeatedly against the Trucker’s wrists in an instinctive and utterly futile attempt to wrest the killer’s implacable, relentless hold on his throat, his snapped fingers splaying and flopping limply.  The excruciating pain of the jagged ends of the broken bones grinding into tissue and each other wasn’t alleviated, merely delayed.  When it hit, Wes went rigid, shuddering with neural overload.

 

The fingers weren’t the only thing contributing to the punk’s mental short circuit.  The complete collapse of his left lung was kinda moot at this point, but the way his broken ribs tore into the deflated organ with every twist of Wes’s lean, smooth torso was another, much more painful matter.

 

And then there was his cock—never truly unheeded even during his darkest moments, it had remained hard involuntarily throughout his sufferings merely by the grinding, remorseless pressure exerted on his prostate by the phenomenal girth of the Trucker’s massive rod.  Now, though, it was actively swelling and throbbing in tempo with his racing, terrified pulse.  And every single individual throb seemed like an electrical shock running the length of his shaft and churning in his balls…

 

The Trucker paced himself, holding still, letting the meat massage his dick as it thrashed in terror, wrapping its smooth strong legs around his waist and squeezing tight.  Once it settled down into neural shock, the cruel alpha began speaking again, knowing the meat was still conscious and able to hear him.

 

“Are ya grateful to me, faggot?  Do ya appreciate what I’m givin’ ya?  Yer gonna get the honor of bein’ my cumdump.  All ya gotta do is convulse nice and hard as I choke ya to death, an’ I’ll hose yer guts with my spunk.”

 

The Trucker found the expression of absolute despair on Wes’s swelling, blackening face incredibly erotic; jerking the cord even tighter, he spit on the trembling cunt pinned helplessly under his powerfully-muscled body.  “That’s it, motherfucker,” he hissed, “Die on my dick.”

 

Thick black blossoms were popping open in Wes’s field of vision as blood vessels ruptured in his eyes.  His entire body was awash in pain; the pressure in his mangled chest cavity was unendurable.  His hypersensitive cock was rubbing against the Trucker’s firm, flat belly, the alpha’s body fur scraping the long, cum-filled ridge on the underside of the dick like a power sander.

 

And above the nightmarish agony of death, the beaten and raped whoremeat could still feel drops of precum oozing from the head of its own dick—it felt hot, like magma…

 

The Trucker realized that the meat was very close to death.  His seed began to boil, his balls began to contract, forcing his white-hot cum on its journey up his huge, erect shaft.  “You ready for my load, cunt?” he whispered into Wes’s dark face.

 

Foamy drool trickled down the whore’s face and his bulging eyes had rolled back in his head, leaving only the blood-streaked whites visible, but there was still a tiny fragment of Wes’s personality left, desperately straight-arming death in sheer terror.  It was sinking under the relentless torrent of pain and brain damage, but it was still there—and it knew what the Trucker’s question meant.

 

The Trucker bunched his biceps and with a loud grunt, gave the cord a powerful jerk.  At the same time, the thrusting of his hips increased, plunging his enormous shaft faster and deeper into the dying boy’s guts.

 

A loud wet crack echoed in the small room as Wes’s esophagus was crushed into a mangled wad of cartilage.  Simultaneously, the Trucker cried out, “Fuck—FUCK!!” and pumped a huge load of hot sticky cum deep inside the meat.

 

The little part that was still Wes felt the sharp, knife-like pain of its collapsed windpipe and the searing, boiling wetness filling it from the inside out.  There was time for one last fleeting thought—what happened dude I just wanted to get fucked—and then there was one last pain, the greatest and most intense pain, and it came from his dick.  In his last moment of life, Wes knew he was blowing his death load and it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was cumming molten glass—

 

—and then all that was left was convulsing meat, thrashing and ejaculating mindlessly, impaled on the Trucker’s still-shooting rod.  White ropy jets of semen erupted from the dead kid’s dick, splattering across the alpha’s broad, hairy chest and smearing his dogtags.  The corpse, its prostate still being forcibly massaged by the Trucker’s pumping shaft, remained erect and spewing boycum that spattered itself, pooling in the eyes and covering their grotesque, bulging blank whiteness.

 

After a while—he didn’t know how long—the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his huge scrotum drained.  He’d pumped a full load into the meat; so much, some trickled from the dead kid’s ass when the older man pulled out.  Once he got his boots back on the ground, the sweat-slick muscled stud headed to the bathroom.  A few minutes with a wet towel was enough to wipe the boypig cum off his body and out of his fur.

 

Returning to the bedroom, the Trucker retrieved his cap, shirt and wallet.  Replacing the red trucking cap on his head, covering his dark hair, he tucked his wallet in one rear pocket and his white wifebeater in the other, where it dangled out behind.  Fishing out his pack of smokes, he decided to burn one while surveying the scene.

 

The sadistic alpha felt a sense of satisfaction; he’d done a very thorough job.  The meat was on its back, blank cum-filled eyes pointed at the ceiling.  The arms were above the head and the legs were spread, showing the glaze of semen leaking from the torn asshole.  The semi-soft cock was still extended its full length and likely to remain so; it was glued to the flat belly by a thick crust of boyspunk.

 

Halfway up, the neck was puckered and drawn in so deeply it was difficult to make out the cord that was sunk into it.  Above that, the faggot was unrecognizable, the face black, swollen and covered with drool from between the dead kid’s purple, foamy lips.

 

The corpse still twitched randomly, the toes on the bare sockless foot curling, but as the Trucker finished his cigarette, the stupid homo’s brain finally figured out it was dead and the body became still.  The hardbodied alpha grinned and tossed his butt on the floor.  Grinding it out with his boot, he headed for his truck, leaving the apartment door cracked open.

 


 

Figures, Donato thought, Sarge has gotta walk in and catch me in the middle of a yawn…

 

“You bored, Donato?” the Sarge barked.

 

“No, sergeant,” Donato replied.

 

“Awright, what’s goin’ on here?  Jesus, what a fuckin’ mess.  Looks like someone got terminated with extreme prejudice, as they say in the movies.”

 

“We got a call about a dead body, Sarge.  Me and Ayers, we responded.  Ayers is out talkin’ to the neighbors now.”

 

The Sarge ambled over to the bed and took a good look at the body.  “ME on the way?”

 

“Yeah,” Donato replied, “Med examiner’s got the meatwagon comin’.”

 

“Well tell ‘im not to waste too much time over this one.  Some faggot got fucked to death.  And by th’ looks of this place, someone really wanted this one dead.  I seen a lot of these, but this is the first one where it looks like our killer tried to put the vic through the wall.  Oh, Ayers, there ya are.  What’d ya find out about the dead meat?”

 

“Well, like you was just sayin’, Sarge, some fag who got fucked to death.  Lady next door knows him as Wes—office ain’t open yet, so I ain’t gotta last name.  Anyways, she sez he’s out at the bars almost every night, always bringin’ dudes home—she can hear everythin’ through wall.  Even sez there’s been some yellin’ an’ fightin’ at times.  Seems like the little cocksucker liked to rip off his fuckbuddies.”

 

“Hey, Sarge?” Donato interrupted, “Dunno if yer interested, but I found a meth pipe in a drawer in the kitchen.  Some baggies with residue, too—ya want I should test ‘em?

 

“What, are you nuts?” the Sarge barked.  “You wanna go spend the taxpayer’s money for that kinda shit?  When the ME gets here, tell him to haul this pile of meat outta here.  And if he can’t tell me anything more than this little fuck got the shit beat outta him by some real strong guy, he can spare me the autopsy report.  I can see for myself the faggot was raped and strangled.  Serves the thievin’ piece a’ shit right.  Just wrap this shit up and forget it; y’all have real work to do.”

What Do You Want by Den

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

Fantasy Scenario 18

 

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

 

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

 

I can take it out and hose it down.

 

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

 

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

 

Maybe I can help him.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“You a cop?” he asks.

 

“No, I ain’t a cop,” I replied.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He won’t get help in time.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

He gasps and grunts, but doesn’t answer.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

Carlos and Nick 3: Keeping It in the Family

For Carlos, it started with a text from Nick: “be @ office in ½ hr—got a job”.  In this context, Carlos knew exactly what “job” meant.  And the fact that Nick wanted him at the office so quickly meant it had to be something good; at this hour of the day, traffic made that timetable impossible.  Nick must be really excited.

 

Carlos was already casually dressed in tight but faded jeans, a navy-blue thermal shirt with long sleeves; it clung to the hard-bodied convict like it had been painted on.  On his feet were a pair of boots—brown leather ropers, so worn, they slouched and were soft as leather.  The outside temperature was in the lower 40’s—a chilly evening for Vegas.  Carlos was used to colder weather; he didn’t bother to put a jacket on before he left the condo.  On the other hand, he kept the top up and the heat on in the Mercedes.

 

The office that Nick referred to was literally that; he’d rented some space in an office/warehouse park in the southwest part of town off Blue Diamond Road.  It consisted of a suite of two rooms, the inner devoted to the technical aspects of the production.  Carlos rarely entered it; Nick kept it freezing for the sake of the server and expensive desktop units he used for editing and storage.

 

The outer room, however, was furnished for people to meet.  A sofa and four chairs, all cheap but relatively comfortable, were spread out with a couple of strategically-placed chairs.  In one corner was a desk with a monitor; this desktop was considerably cheaper than anything in the inner room but served well enough for things like bookkeeping and communication.  This was where Nick was seated when Carlos entered.

 

The slightly older stud was clearly eager; Carlos wasn’t fully in the room before Nick started talking.  “Look at this,” he said, gesturing to an email he had up on the computer screen.  “It’s a commission, and a damn good one—look at that amount!”  The young killer sat casually on the corner of the desk and leaned his buff body inwards for a better view of the monitor; he blinked in surprise and grinned when he saw the number of zeros after the dollar sign.  “Holy fuck—where’d that come from?  What do they want?”

 

“They wanna cop scene with two vics.  Busting a couple of fag whores, blackmailing them into sex and then snuffing them.  One vic is strangled, the other—well, let’s just say they’ve seen your work and they want you to get creative with a blade.”  Carlos chuckled at this news, and Nick noticed the bulge in the younger stud’s jeans swell visibly.

 

And the psycho killer said he wasn’t gay.  Nick knew better, but he was too smart to admit it.  He was also too smart to admit that this commission had been the result of his posting the video he’d secretly recorded of Carlos raping and murdering the young blond hustler.  Carlos still had no idea his brutal performance had been witnessed—by this time—by many, many others.

 

“Oh hell yeah, I’m down for wastin’ more homos,” the buff, tattooed sadist smirked.  “I take it you already got a plan.  Any good meat lined up?”

 

Nick’s face broke into a broad grin.  “Fuck yeah, man, you know it.  I already have this one framed in my head to get the right shot. I was savin’ these two for a special occasion, and if this doesn’t fit the bill, then nothing ever will.  Check these fuckin’ cunts out.”  And with that, he pulled up a video file, moving his chair aside to give Carlos a better view as he did so.

 

“This was sent to me by someone who wanted to see them snuffed,” Nick added by way of explanation, “But they couldn’t fund the project and I wasn’t gonna waste my time on it.  Now that we got a job, I’ll see how much these two fags want and offer them more.”

 

The video popped up to full screen; Carlos could feel his hog swelling even more within twenty seconds.  It showed two dudes, one obviously older than the other, fucking in the missionary position.  The older man was firm, fit, and looked like he was in his late thirties.  He had light brown hair that was starting to recede slightly in the pattern caused by an excess of testosterone; he compensated with a short goatee that was almost a dark gold in color.  His broad chest was covered with tightly curled fur and was almost—but not quite—as muscled as either Nick or Carlos.

 

The younger slut’s hair was lighter, almost blond, but was darkening in places.  His form was slim and smooth, and he looked like he was in his late teens.  He was the bottom in the sex scene; despite the way his handsome young face was twisted in the pain and pleasure of rough anal sex, there was still a noticeable resemblance between him and the older dude fucking him.

 

“This was shot a couple of years ago,” Nick said by way of explanation.  “The older dude is Ed and the younger is Johnny.  When this was shot, they were thirty-six and sixteen.  Video came with contact info, see—I’ve already talked to them.  They’re local—and they’re father and son.  Seriously.”

 

“Fuckin’ hell!” Carlos barked in surprise.  “So that’s why they look alike?  These perverted sacks a’ shit need to die like dogs!”

 

As a chilly grin spread across Nick’s face, he could feel his own cock start to stiffen.  “No shit, man; that’s the idea.  You up for puttin’ ‘em down?  I’ll take daddy and you can take son.  We’ll set it up like the cop porno and fuckin’ waste the faggots with extreme prejudice.  First, though—we gotta meet them.”

 

“What?  Why?”

“I want them to feel comfortable.  Nothing to alarm them. And we can set up the cop scenario—that’s what we’re being paid for, after all.  Let ‘em know where the shoot’s gonna be, that sorta thing.”

 

Carlos’s face showed the reluctance with which he acquiesced; it was obvious he wanted to get hold of the incestuous pair and wreak havoc on their unsuspecting male bodies right away.  “Yeah?” he demanded, “So where is it gonna be?  Gonna whack ‘em in the condo?”

 

“Naw,” Nick chuckled, “I gotta better idea than that.  Leave it to me, dude, just leave it to me…”

 


 

Four days later, on a much balmier Saturday, the long violet dusk of the desert was fading into blackness as Carlos stepped out of the bathroom in cheap but clean motel room.  Looking around the room, he could see Nick, already in costume.

 

Carlos himself was dressed as agreed; he was role-playing a motorcycle cop.  But since this was supposed to be “straight” gay porn, so to speak, he was dressed as the gay ideal of a motorcycle cop, which meant lots of black leather—tight leather pants tucked into a pair of nearly knee-high glossy motorcycle boots.  Even the utility belt and shoulder harness were leather straps, the latter worn over his broad, bare chest.  Shirtless, the winged skull tat on the ex-con’s left pec would be visible on camera, as would the fully inked sleeve on his right arm.

 

Picking up a classic black and white bike helmet from the dresser, Carlos turned to Nick.  Around his throat, the massy links of his thick gold necklace glinted in the bleak light of the bare overhead bulb.  “So?” he asked, “How do I look?”

 

Nick grinned appreciatively.  “Those homos will be beggin’ for yer shaft when they see ya in that getup,” he chuckled, “But speakin’ of shafts, I can see the one in yer boot”.  Glancing down, Carlos could see the hilt of his shank protruding from his boot.  It was a Ka-Bar Becker, a Bowie combat knife with a nine-inch blade of jet black carbon steel, customized with jagged serrations.  It was unlikely that the cocksuckers in the next room would notice it against his black leather gear, but there was no sense in taking a chance—he slid the viciously-edged weapon deeper into his boot.

 

Nick’s costume, while erotic, was slightly more conservative; a standard police uniform, complete with badge.  On the other hand, it was two sizes too small, clinging to him like a second skin, the white stripe running down the outside of the legs of the slacks highlighted his bulging thighs and muscular calves as it disappeared into Nick’s tightly laced combat boots.

 

“And them?” Carlos asked, nodding at a door in the side wall.  “Are they ready?”

 

Nick’s grin grew wider and more shark-like.  “Fuck, whaddaya think?  Ain’t no way they’re ready for how bad we’re gonna fuck ‘em up.”

 

The door led to a connecting room in the cheap one-story motel Nick had found east of downtown, off the Boulder Highway—an old, run-down motor court with a defunct neon sign displaying the name Snake Eyes.  During the initial meeting, he’d given Ed some cash to rent a room there on his own—then Nick had gotten the connecting room himself under an assumed name.

 

There had been some rocky moments in the initial interview; Ed and Johnny had been somewhat hesitant about the scenario.  The rough sex wasn’t an issue, once they were told they’d be paid extra, but the cuffs were more of a concern—turned out they’d never done bondage before.  It took the offer of even more cash to get them (well, Ed, actually, like a good boy, Johnny let daddy do the talking) to agree.

 

And even then, the older pervert demanded a down payment.  Nick simmered with repressed rage as he handed five Franklins over to the well-built but slightly smaller man.  That cash was gone for good, he reflected angrily; the fucker wasn’t likely to bring it back to the shoot.

 

Once the money was settled, though, things went more smoothly for a while.  The meeting at the motel was arranged and the plot agreed to—Carlos and Nick were to bust in and find Ed and Johnny fucking; after separating and cuffing them, Carlos would fuck Johnny while Nick fucked Ed.  Surprisingly enough, Ed—who’d only appeared in the video as a top—had no problem with the thought of taking Nick’s cock up his ass, but Johnny seemed intimidated by Carlos’s massive dong; both tops had been  wearing revealingly tight jeans that day specifically to show off.

 

After a hurried, whispered conference between father and son, Ed spoke up in an embarrassed tone.  Johnny thought Carlos was hot as fuck but, had admitted, the kid had never taken a dick that size and was gonna need something to help with the pain.  It took another ten minutes of hemming and hawing for him to confess that Johnny wanted meth on the set.

 

Nick and Carlos glanced at each other.  They didn’t particularly care what the fuckmeat did to itself, but they didn’t want to be inhaling those toxic fumes themselves.  It was agreed that Johnny could smoke in the bathroom with the fan on prior to the killers entering the room.

 

And that was what was presumably happening on the other side of the connecting door right now.  Nick had a video feed from one of the cameras he’d set up previously over there streaming to his phone; the screen showed Ed utterly nude but for the thin gold chain around his neck, from which a plain cross of the same shiny metal gleamed in a nest of his chest fur.  The wiry muscles of his hairy body rippled as he paced the room, his long tool swaying as he turned.

 

The sick faggot was clearly impatient for his son to come out of the bathroom so he could fuck the slim teenager.

 

He didn’t have long to wait; the door opened suddenly and the blond kid walked out.   Unlike his dad, he wasn’t nude; he sported a pair of plain white cotton briefs that barely contained his short but incredibly thick cock and cradled his smooth bubble-butt asscheeks.  He’d left his sneakers on too, a pair of Puma Redon Moves in black.

 

There were two double beds in the room, each under the gaze of several different types of camera.  Nick hadn’t left any angles uncovered by either video or a still camera set for multiple timed shots.  As the father/son pair approached the bed on the left, Johnny’s face swam into view; even on the small screen of Nick’s phone, the kid’s twitching bloodshot eyes showed how hard the little fuck was tweaking.

 

Not that it mattered.  The adolescent homo embraced the older man; as they kissed, each obviously thrusting his tongue deep into the other’s mouth, the family resemblance became very clear.  The same deep brown eyes with long lashes, the same snub nose, dimpled chin and full, red lips—no one watching the scene could miss the fact that they were watching father and son indulging in incestuous gay sex.

 

Ed reached down and with a swift yank, jerked Johnny’s tighty whities down past his knees; they fell to the floor and Johnny stepped out of them, his fireplug-like dick popping up and smacking his abs, splattering his smooth flat belly with precum.  Panting with lust, Johnny hopped onto the bed and, rolling onto his back, spread his kicks in the air as he waited for daddy to come mount and penetrate his ass.  Ed was already there, his erect shaft probing at his teenaged son’s sphincter.  The moment daddy rammed it in, Johnny grimaced and he let out a loud moan that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

 

Smirking, Carlos looked over at Nick, who nodded back.  It was time.  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Carlos, chuckled, then put his boot to the connecting door.  Kicking it open, he drew the gun from his shoulder harness holster and burst into the other room.  “Police!” he bellowed ferociously for the camera, “Everyone freeze!”

 

Nick followed, also with a drawn handgun—the guns were real but not loaded.  After all, shooting the pansies wouldn’t have been any fun.

 

“Well, whadda we got here?” Carlos jeered.

 

“Looks like that report about faggot whores in this room was right,” Nick replied.  “C’mon, ya sick perverts, up against the wall.”

 

Ed and Johnny disentangled themselves, got out of bed and slowly back away from the “cops”, hands in the air.  “Isn’t there something we can do about this?” Ed asked, sticking to the script, “Some way we can work this out?”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos leered, “Like what?”

 

Ed looked over at Johnny.  “Go on, boy,” he said, “Show him what.”  With his father’s sanction, the firm, slim youth reached out and grabbed Carlos’s crotch, rubbing his hand over the enormous bulge in the black leather, fondling the long shaft.  The boy’s eyes widened as his fingers slid over the detail of every vein wrapped around the monster hog; daddy wasn’t this big.  Johnny was glad he’d gotten high first; he was gonna need it.

 

Ed, for his part, had reached out and started unbuttoning Nick’s tight shirt.  “Hey, I think these cocksuckers are tryin’ to bribe us.” Nick laughed, slipping his gun back into the holster dangling from his thick belt.

 

“Yeah, ya think so?” Carlos replied.  “Bribin’ a cop’s a punishable offense.  I say we punish their asses, dude; whaddaya think?”

 

“I think we need to take these faggots into custody, man, make sure they don’t try to get up to nothin’,” Nick drawled, shrugging off his black shirt.  “Turn around and put yer hands behind yer back, ya queer-ass bitch!” he barked as he spun the older man around.  Ed, fit but less powerful, was a top with his son, but the rough manhandling he was getting from the muscled stud was keeping his dick hard.

 

As Nick locked the steel cuffs around Ed’s wrists and, pressing the helpless bound man to the wall, began fondling him, Carlos turned to Johnny.  A cold grin slowly crept over his sexy, cruel face as he reached up and slid the inch-wide leather holster harness strap off his right shoulder.  “You too, boy,” he hissed at the slim, firm teen who was backing away, intimidation clearly showing in his face.  “Turn around, bitch.  You don’t wanna make me come after you.”

 

The threat implicit in the ex-con’s husky voice carried to his intended victim, if not to the kid’s father.  But the fruit didn’t fall far from the tree; the harsh authoritative tone of command managed to fill the boy with both fear and lust.  He obeyed implicitly, almost unconsciously, whimpering slightly as Carlos removed the harness completely.  Placing the revolver on the dresser, he proceeded to use the leather straps to bind the teenager’s arms like a roast trussed for the oven.

 

“There ya go, boy,” the muscular, inked stud growled, “Now get over on the bed.  We’re gonna show y’all how the law ‘round these parts handles faggots.”  He pushed Johnny towards the bed on the left; the unexpected shove knocked the youth off-balance, causing him to stumble into the wall, knocking his head on the cheap pine paneling.

 

“Hey!” Ed yelled, “You leave him alone!”  It was improvisation for the sake of the porn film—but there was a note of concern in the tone the both of the sadistic killers picked up on.  “You too, cunt,” Nick spat out, “Sit down on that bed, motherfucker!”

 

As Carlos ran his hands over the teen’s smooth, silky skin, making the adolescent moan in anticipation, Nick stood spread-legged at the foot of the other bed, facing Ed.  “Unbuckle my belt,” he commanded the well-built older man.

 

“My-my hands,” Ed stammered, “They’re still cuffed—”

 

“You stupid cocksucker,” the alpha snarled, slapping the pervert’s face, “Use yer fuckin’ mouth!”

 

Ed winced and shuddered under the blow, but his erect shaft pulsed and squeezed out a dribble of precum.  Nick chuckled.  Oh yeah, this pansy liked it rough and hard.

 

Good—he was gonna get rough and hard in abundance.

 

In the meantime, though, he had to work his mouth assiduously on the thick leather strap of Nick’s belt.  It took a while for him to get it undone.

 

Carlos, on the other hand, wasn’t into foreplay.  He’d fondled the twink enough; now he was ready to fuck.  Standing up, he undid the fly on the tight leather pants—not a zipper, but several buttons he needed to release.  As his hand worked its way down his groin, his enormous rod suddenly fell out like a toppled tree—a big, thick log crashing down.

 

Johnny’s big brown soulful eyes grew wide; both fear and lust were reflected in them as the young fag was confronted with the longest, thickest cock he’d ever seen.  The kid’s own shaft, already semi-hard and pulsing, sprang to full attention.  Carlos leered down at the adolescent and chuckled.  “Yeah, ya like that, dontcha, ya little cock pig?  Put it in yer mouth, bitch.”

 

Johnny blinked at the powerful ex-con and hesitated.  “Suck my fuckin’ dick, cunt—now!” Carlos barked loudly.  The slim youth gulped, leaned forward, and wrapped his lips around the huge oozing tube of pulsing meat.

 

As his son started to suck Carlos’s cock, Ed, still seated on the other bed, had managed to get Nick’s belt undone. Now the latter had a new task for the older man’s mouth.  Lifting his leg, he placed his thick-soled combat boot on Ed’s thigh.  “Untie it, motherfucker,” he demanded, flexing a strong bicep in front of the manwhore’s face as a show of power.  “Work it with yer mouth, slut, and hurry the fuck up, cause yer gonna do the other one too.”

 

Ed was more experienced with this kinda thing; there was no hesitation on his part as he bent his head forward and seized the woven nylon laces with his teeth.  When he jerked his head to the side to free the knot, the side of his face brushed against the boot; like his son, his tool responded to the sexual stimulus by swelling and drooling precum.

 

“Fuckin’ bootpig pervert,” Nick sneered and Ed dripped even more.

 

It only took a couple of minutes for the older man to untie both boots and little more for Nick to unlace them to the point of being able to slip out of them.  The entire time, the action was accompanied by the slurping sound of Johnny deep-throating Carlos’s shaft.

 

“Get on your back, faggot, and spread your legs,” Nick demanded, “Time for you to learn how much trouble yer in—see, cops on this beat know how to make you homos hurt.  By the time we’re done reamin’ yer fuckholes, you won’t want any other men.”

 

Ed struggled to comply, scooting himself backwards up the bed as best he could with his hands cuffed behind him.  Lying on his back was gonna hurt with the handcuff on, but he was gettin’ paid extra, so he’d deal with it.

 

On the other bed, Johnny was having a little trouble maneuvering himself, so Carlos grabbed his arm, lifted him up, and tossed him down on the bed.  The kid’s cry of pain coincided with Nick’s sudden penetration of Ed’s sphincter; the older man’s face was twisted into a grimace of discomfort.  He was gritting his teeth and trying for too hard not to cry out in pain himself to pay attention to his son’s distress.  Besides, the boy liked getting hurt.

 

“You squeal like a worthless fuckin’ pig, boy,” Carlos growled menacingly, “I like that.  Let’s see if I can make ya do it more.”  Positioning himself between Johnny’s legs on the bed, Carlos propped the punk’s Pumas up on his own shoulders and slapped the swollen purple head of his dick against the teen’s quivering pink fuckhole, splattering the smooth asscheeks with clear precum.

 

Then, without warning, he rammed his rod home, spearing Johnny’s ass; his rigid tool tore through the boy’s colon, gouging the tender rectal lining and striking the prostate as it rocketed deep into the teen’s guts.

 

The look on Johnny’s face showed Carlos he’d gone too far—he’d wanted to make the kid yell, not scream, but his innate sadism had taken over.  Quickly, he leaned forward and, clamping his large, strong hand over the punk’s mouth, squeezed it shut.  Johnny’s shriek of agony was muffled to a high-pitched squeal as tears flowed copiously from his eyes.

 

In any other situation, the noise would have been both noticeable and startling; as it was, Johnny’ father was too busy getting fucked himself to care.

 

The small room, already crowded by two double beds, a cheap dresser and a single nightstand, was swiftly filling with the sounds and scents of man-on-man sex.  Sweat and testosterone filled the air with an erotic masculine musk as two pairs of tightly entwined male bodies writhed on the beds, locked together and rutting in an excruciatingly sexual embrace.

 

Ed moaned and groaned with pleasure as Nick’s swollen shaft plunged deep into his intestines; Johnny, on the other hand, needed to be held down and muffled until his teenaged fuckhole had relaxed enough to accept Carlos’s cock.  It took more than five minutes of powerful reaming for the kid to calm down enough for the ex-con to remove his hand; the mesmeric gleaming and jingling of the thick links in the stud’s gold necklace seemed to help, somehow having a calming effect.

 

“Just shut up and take my dick,” the powerful, tattooed alpha hissed at the youth, bound and pinned helplessly under his heavy muscles.  Johnny’s true fag nature came to the fore; doing what he was told, he relaxed his ass muscle and accepted the thick tube of meat.  Closing his eyes, the teen sank back into a sensation of both pleasure and pain, sighing as he heard his father’s staccato grunting—the older man was getting pounded good.

 

Ed had been right, the cuffs were painful as hell, given that his arms were compressed behind his back by not only his own body weight but that of the well-built fucker on top of him.  But the violently intense shafting the handsome furry daddy was getting felt so erotic that he ignored both the way the metal cuffs were digging into the small of his back and the way his gold cross  pendant had slid up his hairy chest to lodge uncomfortably under his chin.  He simply spread his legs wider.

 

Ed didn’t get a chance to indulge his bottom pig side often, since Johnny was naturally an intense power bottom.  He’d forgotten how good it felt to have a real man ramming a thick cock up his ass; it’d been far too long…

 

Lost in sexual indulgence, Ed paid no attention to what was happening to his son.  The kid was doing what he loved the most, getting fucked, and that was all Ed knew.

 

So Ed never noticed when Carlos reached down and slowly withdrew the wickedly sharp blade from his boot.

 

Nick noticed; he was expecting it.  He and Carlos glanced at each other; a quick nod was all that was needed to confirm that the action was about to swing into high gear.  First, though, Nick grabbed Ed’s chin and jerked it away from the other bed.  Simultaneously, the brutal convict leaned forward and slapped his hand over Johnny’s mouth, sealing the kid’s lips so he couldn’t scream.  Then he flashed Johnny the knife.

 

The teen’s eyes grew wide with horror as he stared at nine inches of viciously-serrated steel.  “Shh,” Carlos whispered, “Quiet, motherfucker or I’ll stick this in ya.”

 

Johnny was only eighteen; he’d never come up against anything like this in his short, wasted life.  Lying helpless and bound on his back, with this sicko’s huge cock up his ass, the youth knew he was utterly trapped.  His eyes scanned up Carlos’s ripped abs, past his massive inked chest, wiry fur matted with fucksweat, up to where the thick gold links glittered in the dim light.  The blade, evil and hard, was matte black; it didn’t reflect light–a dark, cold presentiment of death.

 

Something was seriously wrong here, the teen realized—and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do to escape whatever nightmare was coming.

 

He was right.

 

Grinning maliciously, Carlos hunched down over the bound punk, so close that every frantic breath Johnny took was impregnated with mansweat and testosterone; terrified as he was, he responded instinctively to the pheromones.  As the cruel alpha slid the sharp, icy tip of the Ka-Bar blade down, the smooth, silky skin of Johnny’s chest, the boy’s thick, fireplug dick began to throb and pulse on its own, standing up and slapping Carlos’s hard belly and splattering it with precum.

 

On the other bed, Nick was driving his steel-hard shaft into Ed’s ass, keeping the older man’s face turned away from the intimidation process his son was undergoing; daddy would see what was happening to his boy soon enough, but for right now, Nick wanted to make sure Carlos had a little sadistic fun.

 

After all, he’d have his own turn later.  They’d worked out a symbiotic plan of snuff, cruelly effective, in which each would enjoy his own kill.  Carlos got to go first; Nick got to watch.

 

And when it got bad, Ed got to watch, too.

 

Though cold terror had seized his soul at the sight of the vicious blade, Johnny couldn’t quite believe that anything bad was going to happen; this was the best fuck he’d even gotten. Even Dad wasn’t this well hung, this muscled, this well-wrapped in tight black leather–the smooth slickness of which Johnny could feel as his thighs brushed against Carlos’s powerful, pumping legs.  Despite the older man’s hand gripping his mouth painfully, the boy could still smell the dark, masculine scent of the leather.

 

Carlos was enjoying himself, digging his shiny motorcycle boots into the sheets to help with traction as he thrust his massive rod into the kid.  The teen’s large dark eyes glittered with both lust and fear—the prey was right where Carlos wanted it.  “Hey, boy, ya sure seem to like gettin’ stuck with a long, hard shaft, huh?  Yeah?  So lessee how ya like gettin’ stuck with another one!”

 

Rising up over the bound, helpless teenager, the well-developed convict placed all his weight on the hand over the boy’s mouth.  By this point, his other hand had reached the level of Johnny’s smooth, flat belly, now heaving in panic.  Slowly and steadily, Carlos applied pressure, driving the razor-sharp blade into the skin several inches above the navel.

 

The knife was designed for killing; it slid into Johnny’s guts easily, like a hot knife into butter.  Despite Carlos’s weight grinding his mouth shut, the youth’s high-pitched squeal was loud enough to catch his father’s attention.  Nick let him look—it wasn’t as if he was gonna be able to help.  Like Carlos, though, he understood the need to keep his victim quiet until fucker was fully controlled.

 

Clamping down on the older man’s mouth, Nick whispered in his ear.  “Wanna watch yer boy die, motherfucker?  I sure the fuck do, so shaddap and enjoy the show.”  Ed was strong and fit, but not as strong or as fit as the younger man who was now pinning him to the bed; he kicked and jerked frantically, trying to reach his son, but it was going to take him a little time to learn how futile his struggles were.

 

For the moment, Ed was forced to lie there and take Nick’s cock up his ass while watching his boy suffer.

 

And Johnny was suffering badly.  The serrated blade sliced down through his intestines but didn’t cut any major blood vessels on the way; Carlos was inflicting a maximum of pain with a minimum of fatal injury.  That way he got to play with his meat longer.

 

“Fuck yeah, dude, that sure tightens yer ass up,” the sadistic ex-con jeered. “You must really be likin’ my blade.  That’s whatcha been wantin’, huh, faggot?  You been lettin’ daddy fuck ya for years, but he ain’t never hurt you good enough, huh?  Go on and tell him, cunt, tell yer fuckin’ father how much you love me guttin’ ya like fresh kill!”

 

As he took his hand from Johnny’s mouth, Carlos twisted the nine-inch blade, now fully inserted into the teen’s belly, in the wound, then yanked it back out in a single, brutal jerk.  The youth stared at the dripping knife, the small strings of flesh dangling from the serrations reflected in Johnny’s wide, glazed eyes.  His mouth was wide too, but his pain was so extreme, all that came out was a single agonized croak.  Shuddering violently, the poor kid turned to his father, appealing mutely for help—and seeing that there was none to be had.

 

Carlos, in the meantime, ran the tip of the blade down the teen’s left flank, then rammed the blade upwards under the rib cage.  This time, the length of sharpened steel slashed through the punk’s spleen and liver.  “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ah!” Johnny cried involuntarily as his body went rigid with shock.

 

“Aw hell yeah,” Carlos moaned, grinning over at Nick—and Ed.  “That’s what I’m talking ‘bout, dude!  Goddam boy pussy gets all good and tight—fuckin’ piece of fag meat!  Shit, man, hope yours jacks ya off as good as this one when ya waste it, man!”

 

Nick chuckled, easily maintaining control as Ed’s struggles and muffled cries both became more frenetic.  “It will, bro, I got it covered.  Gonna take a while to put this one down, so go ahead and work that little bitch over.  Daddy here needs some tenderizin’—he gets to watch.”

 

“Hear that?” Nick sneered into Ed’s incredulous, bewildered face, “You disgusting perverts are both gonna die tonight.  Fuckin’ incest faggots—gettin’ both you and yer boy here killed, huh?  Look on the bright side, cunt; yer both gonna die fulla manspunk—now don’t that make ya feel better?”  The older man shook his head violently, as if trying to shake the words out of his ears; as his head whipped from side to side, his gold cross lodging in the crook of his neck as his furry pecs slid across Nick’s in the same direction.  As their chest hair entwined, it was compressed and matted by a thin layer of sweat.  Even in his fear for himself and his son, Ed was suddenly aware of how painfully erect his nipples were with each scrape of his chest.

 

And his dick was still erect too—what the fuck?  Johnny was being murdered right in front of him, how the fuck could his dick be hard?  Jesus, this guy’s cock, too, it hurt so fucking bad, it filled his ass so—

 

—and then a shrill scream from Johnny redirected Ed’s attention.

 

Carlos was in a rush of bloodlust.  He knew the symptoms by now; the intense eroticism of every moan, every whimper he elicited from the meat; the utter clarity that allowed him to control the desperate youth who fought like the wounded and dying animal he was.  He could feel the excitement start to build deep in his balls, but he’d need to exercise control over both himself and his meat to cum the way he wanted.  And after all, this one was gonna be a money shot in the literal sense of the word.

 

The boy was sobbing softly, almost lost in shock, with the long Ka-Bar knife buried to its hilt in his left side.  The belly wound was bleeding internally, but he wouldn’t bleed out from that for another half hour or so.  This one in his side, though had cut that time to less than twenty minutes; Carlos was going to have to get the motherfucker to milk his cock before the little shit’s lights went out for good.

 

Good thing the kid responded to pain; he was about to endure a lot of it.

 

“Ok, you cumsuckin’ sicko,” Carlos growled, “Foreplay’s over.  You ready to earn my load?  Fuck no, you ain’t; no way no incestuous fairy like you ever gonna earn my cum—but I’m gonna make you work it outta me anyway.”

 

“Hey, asshole,” Carlos called across to Ed, “Yeah, you, motherfucker—did ya smack yer boy while fuckin’ ‘im?  Y’know, give the little cunt a good whack across the face like he deserves?  No?  Too bad, asswipe; your pervert son likes pain.  Fuck yeah, dude, that get ya off the way it gets me off?  C’mon, lessee how much pain he likes—lessee how much I have to stick him to make me cum!”

 

Still without breaking eye contact with Ed—or the timing of a single thrust of his cock—Carlos jerked the knife from Johnny’s side, whirled it expertly in the air, and slammed it back down into the kid’s chest.  The blade speared through the left pectoral, slipping between the ribs to puncture the left lung and come out Johnny’s back.  By the time the hilt was resting on the teen’s chest, the tip of the blade had sunk three inches into the mattress.

 

It was a shame the involuntary reaction was so violent; the convulsive thrashing caused the embedded blade to shred the existing chest wound.  “Fuckin’-A!” Carlos yelled as Johnny’s legs clamped tightly around his waist; the killer’s leather-clad legs pumped furiously as the stabbed teen flailed helplessly against him, his own chest hair matted into dark, wiry swirls.

 

Johnny had been held too tightly in an iron grip of pain and fear to think rationally, but this impaling thrust was driven home with an icy shaft of agony that somehow brought clarity to the tortured youth.  The teen lifted his head, his pain-twisted face streaked with tears, his short hair now dark and slick with sweat.  There was no trace left of his meth high; he strained his eyes to focus on the jingling links of Carlos’s chain dangling just in front of his face.

 

The horrible rigid metal shaft embedded in his chest was starting to overwhelm the kid; despite a minimum of outward bleeding, his chest cavity was starting to fill with blood.  The pain in his lung, his guts, his ass—it was all starting to go cold and gray.  His ears were ringing—what was happening here?  He couldn’t quite remember…daddy had been fucking him and then there were cops…what had he done?  Why was a cop raping him and killing him?

 

Daddy would know.  Johnny turned his head and saw his father being held down and viciously fucked.  Daddy was looking at him—and crying.  Why was he crying?  Johnny tried to reach out to him to no avail, then tried to speak.  “Da—urk!” the teenager grunted as a bubble of blood burst from his lips and trickled down his chin.

 

“Daddy can’t help ya now, cunt,” the buff, inked sadist sneered.  “And you still ain’t worked the spunk outta my tool yet—fuck, you’re even useless as a faggot, ain’tcha?  Ok, looks like I gotta make yer ass work.”

 

“Hey look,” he called over to Nick, “I looked this one up online.  If I do this right, I can make this boymeat convulse so hard his ass sucks my load right outta my balls—course, it’s gonna cause nightmarish pain.  But after all,” he said, turning his handsome and gleefully malevolent face back to Johnny, “That’s what yer here for, ain’t it, meat?  To suffer and die on my dick just so I can cum, right?  So get to work, ya fuckin’ homo, start drainin’ my sack!”

 

With that, he pulled the knife out of Johnny’s chest with a flourish, sending a spatter of blood across the ceiling before he swiftly reversed the blade.  Leaning forward, he placed one hand on the boy’s forehead, shoving the head back and the jaw up.  “Time to die, fag,” he hissed as he placed the tip of the blade against the soft flesh on the underside of the jaw, about two inches back from the chin—and slowly inserted it.

 

The next thirty seconds were not only Johnny’s last, they were also the most nightmarish he’d experience.  Carlos was lying flat on top of the suffering teen, the kid’s slick, smooth body writhing beneath that of the powerful convict; during the entire cruel ordeal, Johnny was aware of his helplessness under the crushing weight of his powerful killer.

 

And Johnny was aware—as gruesomely slow as the upward progress of the blade seemed to the one who was enduring it, it was still faster than death, or even unconsciousness by blood loss.  Johnny experienced every single second of pain as nine inches of sharpened steel began to penetrate his skull.

 

As the knife inched its way up, it severed the boy’s tongue near the base before slicing up through the soft palate into the sinuses.  “Fuuuuck…” Carlos moaned, glancing over at Ed and Nick, intertwined in an intense male embrace of lust and power.  “The meat’s finally gettin’ it, bro, he’s sufferin’ so fuckin’ bad…”

 

Turning back, the cruel stud spat into the punk’s gray, agonized face; the teen’s wide, pain-crazed eyes were ringed with dark circles of shock.  With a loud grunt, Carlos reapplied pressure to the knife.  Immediately he encountered resistance; wrapping one tatted bicep around the top of the kid’s head, he shoved harder and was rewarded when the blade jerked upward with a loud crunching sound.

 

The expression in Johnny’s eyes as his septum shattered and the carbon steel blade ripped through his sinuses would be difficult to describe in words, but the grasping, shuddering convulsions that wracked the teen’s body culminated in his rectum, frantically (if involuntarily) milking Carlos’s swollen cock.

 

The tight leather pants cradling the buff killer’s ass afforded little protection as the dying boy’s Puma Redons kicked and flailed; Johnny’s smooth thighs had locked around Carlos’s waist reflexively as the convict’s vein-wrapped shaft ground against the adolescent’s hormone-swelled prostate. The sense of power the sick sex murderer felt in feeling the youth’s smooth body twist and jerk in agony beneath him became more intense the closer the kid came to death.  “Fuckin’ cunt,” the sweating, tattooed stud grunted as he hunched over Johnny’s thrashing form, “That’s it.  Now yer feelin’ me, meat.  Gonna unload in yer ass real soon here, ya worthless cumdump, my balls are already startin’ to boil over—aw, fuck!  Fuck! AARRRGGH!!”

 

With a loud cry, Carlos went rigid and shot a stream of hot spunk deep into Johnny’s guts; at the same time, he clenched his biceps and shoved the knife violently.  There was a crunching sound as the serrated steel blade tore free from the boy’s sinuses and thrust up through the brain, the tip embedding itself on the inside of the cranium.

 

At that point, Johnny ceased to be Johnny.  The teenager’s eyes rolled back in his head; he no longer felt pain or terror or his last nightmarish seconds on earth. He also didn’t feel his death load, spontaneously generated by massive brain trauma.  Carlos felt it, though; the adolescent’s sweating, heaving body suddenly went rigid—and then there was no teen boy left in Carlos’s arms, just a violently convulsing piece of meat that was orgasming explosively because it didn’t know it was dead yet.  A geyser of hot sperm splashed up along the alpha’s abs, matting in his dark, wiry belly fur. A second, stronger—and longer—jet of spunk splattered on the scruff-covered underside of the killer’s jaw; thick streams of cum trailed off to smear across the winged skull inexpertly inked over Carlos’s left pec.

 

The muscular ex-con kept fucking the meat, grunting and snarling as the cumdump’s death throes worked wad after wad out of the killer’s stiff, unyielding shaft.  When he’d finally emptied his huge, puckered sack, Carlos pulled out and knelt on the bed above the still-shuddering corpse.  He reached up and yanked the knife out of the meat’s head—it took both hands and a little effort to pry it loose—and glanced over at the other bed.  Nick, riding his prey like a bronco, grinned and gave him a thumbs up.

 

“Goddam, dude, that was one fuck of a money shot,” he said, chuckling, then spat into Ed’s face; the latter was weeping with his eyes shut.  “Got me so fuckin’ amped up, I think it’s just about time to put this queer bitch down too.  Here, toss me the phone; I’ll yank the cord out.”

 

“Naw, man,” Carlos replied, “Too much work.  Here, use these.”  With that, he spun Johnny’s trembling meat over and quickly untied the intricate knot he’d used on his holster harness; the corpse continued to thrash on the edge of the bed, but didn’t fall. “Here, use this,” he said, handing over the harness.

 

Nick grabbed one of the black leather straps and help it up.  “It’ll work; thanks, bro.”

 

Carlos wanted to get a close-up of the action; there was camera mounted on a tripod on the far side of his bed—there hadn’t been enough room to pose one similarly by Nick’s bed—and he reached back to get it.  The camera slipped from his hands; Carlos had to lunge for it, knocking the tripod over behind the bed.  From this awkward position, he turned to move closer; in order to steady himself, he planted one boot directly on the back of the dead kid’s head.

 

And that was the moment Ed chose to turn his head and open his eyes.  That was the image that was seared into Ed’s brain after watching Johnny’s horrific death—his boy’s killer posed on one knee over the quivering corpse, still-dripping hog hanging out of the tight leather pants, one boot grinding his poor dead son’s head into the mattress…he’d never get to fuck that sweet young ass again…

 

Despair rose up within the older man, despair that soon turned to terror once he remembered he was still helpless in the control of two younger, stronger sex killers.  He opened his mouth—even he didn’t know if he was gonna beg or plead or just scream—but to no avail; as he did so, Nick wrapped one of the holster straps around his neck and pulled.

 

“Ready to join yer boy in a dirt nap?” the dominant sadist chuckled, twisting the inch-wide leather strap around his hands for better leverage, “Cause it’s time to die, dude; yer gonna die on my dick like a fuckin’ dog…”

 

The older faggot had been so wrought up by the sadistically cruel assault on his son that his concern for himself had been subsumed into a general sense of terror and panic; now that he’d been forced to watch Johnny being raped and tortured, the words of his tormentor meant little.

 

The fact that he couldn’t breathe, though—that was something else.  He’d loved his son, in his own sick way—but he needed to breathe.  Ed went rigid immediately, fighting for air; the secondary pain of his gold cross, caught under the strap and digging into his flesh, was but a minor annoyance at the moment.

 

“That’s it, cumsucker!” Nick crowed.  “I knew ya had some fight left in ya; you faggots are too stupid to know death when ya see it.  Well, don’t worry, cunt, it’s gonna take several minutes to choke the life outta ya; you’ll have plenty of time to learn that yer dyin’.”

 

As the crushing pain circling his throat intensified, Ed was also aware of how much harder his ass was being pumped by the younger, stronger top.  And another presence—the other one, the one who killed Johnny—he was there, shoving a camera into Ed’s face.

 

And whispering.

 

“Hey, man,” Carlos was hissing, “Yer boy died hard.  Didja like watchin’ it?  Fuckin’ hot as hell, wasn’t it?  It felt so fuckin’ good, makin’ him suffer, and now yer gonna do the same for my bro here, yeah?  And the best part is, we been recordin’ it all.  Dudes all over the world are gonna pay us so they can beat off watchin’ you and yer cocksuckin’ kid get snuffed—ain’t that sexy shit?  Smile for the camera, asswipe, give ‘em a grin before ya get offed.”

 

The older man thrashed and heaved violently on the mattress, his chest and hard, flat belly writhing against Nick’s as their body fur interlocked like a zipper.  His handsome face was growing congested as the holster strap sank deeper into his neck.  His dark eyes bulged open, forcing him to stare into the faces of the two grinning alpha killers hovering over him, two hard, muscled men taking pleasure in his pain and suffering—

 

—and he was suffering.  Nick had never stopped fucking him, but now the sadistic top was aggressively plunging his engorged tool deeper into Ed’s rectum than ever before; even this pleasure had become agony.  The metal handcuffs that kept his arms twisted excruciatingly behind his back had dug in his wrists far enough to cut off the flow of blood to his hands; they were nothing but useless, throbbing lumps.

 

But the trauma being inflicted on his throat was merely the most unendurable; not only was his esophagus slowly compacting into a mangled mass, but his own pendant—the gold cross (that he’d always secretly superstitiously believed would protect him from the evil he now knew existed beyond any doubt) was compressed so firmly into the tender flesh on the side of his neck that it was literally tearing the skin, making a trickle of blood seep onto the sheets.

 

“Ya likin’ that shit, fuckwad?” Nick taunted his older but well-developed victim.  “Yer ass is grabbin’ my cock like it wants more—fuck, man, if I’d known it took a good strong chokeout to make ya work my shaft right, I’d squeezed yer throat long before now.  Hey, bro,” he called over to Carlos, “Did he teach his fucktoy kid right or did ya have stick ‘im first to have fun?”

 

“Naw, dude,” Carlos drawled, winking and sticking his tongue out at Ed’s swelling, horror-filled face, “Stupid sack of shit acted like he’d never had a dick up his ass till I slipped my shank into his guts—an’ even then, I hadda twist the blade in ‘im before he really showed how much he liked gettin’ buttfucked.”

 

“Shit, man,” Nick snarled down at Ed, “Like father, like son.  Both of ya lousy fag fucks who need pain to teach ya how to take a real man’s hog, ain’t that right, cunt?”

 

The buff sadist pumped his tool up the dying porn star’s colon with ruthless efficiency; his biceps and triceps, already glistening with mansweat, began to bulge with the effort he put into cranking Ed’s windpipe permanently shut.

 

Ed could feel it, too, the effort Nick was expending on both his neck and his fuckhole.  The jackhammer pounding of his frantic pulse in his head was echoed in the furious reaming that his rectum was enduring; there was a fiery ball of pressure that was swelling in his chest and his face was about to burst—and then his eyes…oh fuck, he couldn’t close his eyes, the hard, handsome faces of his killers hovering over him, so close they could kiss…with a sense of despair, he realized that their jeering triumph in his death would be the last thing he’d see on earth…

 

And still they tortured him, not just physically, but mentally as well.

 

Carlos was particularly cruel; as he sneered and spit on their helpless victim, his thick cock—still hanging out of his tight leather pants, dripping with cum—began to stiffen again.  “I really got off on hurtin’ yer son, ya perverted fuck,” he whispered. “He was really cryin’ for his daddy when he died—too bad you were too busy gettin’ fucked, faggot.  Know what part’s the best?  Loadin’ him up with my seed.  It don’t matter how many times ya fucked yer little boy in the ass, he’s gonna end up takin’ a nice long dirt nap fulla my jizz, not yers, asswipe.”

 

“Goddammit,” Nick barked in intense anger, “Yer gettin’ loose, old man.  What, ya want it tighter—or ya need some more pain?  Yeah, that’s it—just like any other faggot, I’m gonna hafta hurt ya to make ya grip my shaft right.”  Twisting the ends of the strap together, the sweating, powerful killer yanked them to one side so he could hold them both in the same hand; as he did, Ed’s gold cross bent under the stress of the increased pressure, tearing an agonizing three-inch slash into the side of Ed’s throat as it did so.  Sadly for Ed, it did no further damage—he had no hope of escaping his suffering by bleeding out.

 

But even that pain was soon overtaken by new suffering.  The buff, strong—but not quite strong enough—musclebound victim hadn’t noticed the sidelong glance Nick had slipped Carlos.  Carlos, did, though, and recognized it as a hint for a close-up.  Zooming the camera in on Ed, he had a perfect angle to capture Nick balled-up fist raining blows into the bound, trapped stud’s dark, puffy face.

 

Each loud, wet smack of flesh on flesh was accompanied by a raging curse from Nick; the hulking alpha had shifted into sadistic bloodlust mode.  “Stupid fuckin’ (WHAM) sack a’ shit (WHAM), ya wanted to get paid for me to fuck ya ( WHAM WHAM WHAM); are ya gettin’ paid good enough now (WHAM?) Ya worthless goddam (WHAM) faggot (WHAM) pervert (WHAM), how old was yer kid (WHAM) when ya started fuckin’ ‘im (WHAM) ya fucking child-molestin’ homo (WHAM)?”

 

Nick paused to catch his breath; without dropping the tempo of his brutal assfuck, he pulled back a bit, still gripping the leather holster strap tightly in one hand.  The lifted the meat’s head up from the blood-spattered pillow.  Carlos leaned forward, allowing the fag’s battered and swollen face to fill the frame.  Ed had been a strikingly handsome man of thirty-seven, with his testosterone-influenced receding hairline, his honey-gold goatee and the long lashes rimming his large, dark, liquid eyes.

 

The only thing recognizable in the bloody, pulped ruin now being captured on camera was the goatee surrounding the swollen, blue lips.

 

“Fuck, dude,” Carlos panted as he looked into Ed’s violently-beaten face, “I think this meat’s nearly done.  Ya fucked it over real good, bro.”  The erotic hoarseness in his voice was underscored by the steady transparent stream oozing from his by-now fully erect dick.

 

Semi-conscious in a universe of screaming pain, some pig corner tucked into the back of Ed’s brain heard and agreed.  His own thick, vein-wreathed rod, already achingly stiff, smacking swiftly between his own and Nick’s flat, furry bellies in time to the rapid assfuck, suddenly began to splatter beads of precum everywhere.

 

“Yeah?” Nick grinned at Carlos (and the camera), his cruel sadism glinting in his eyes like a cold light.  “Think it’s time to put the fucker down?  Ya may be right, bro; I’m gettin’ kinda bored with these faggots.  Guess it’s time to dump my load and split.”

 

He shifted slightly as Carlos moved closer to the headboard and reversed the angle, looking down on the writhing, interlocked male bodies, glistening with sweat and slapping together in a swift, animalistic rhythm.

 

Nick was close to shooting his load, but he recognized that he’d brutalized the meat too much for any further mental abuse to avail.  He needed one final blow to the nervous system, quick, strong and fatally brutal, to make the faggot’s fuckhole tighten up around his cock.

 

He knew exactly what to do.  Wrapping the strap ends around the palm of his right hand, Nick placed his right hand flat on the meat’s slick, heaving (but not breathing) chest.  Lowering his face, the psychopathic sex killer glanced up at Carlos and the camera impishly through his own tousled bangs.

 

“Hey, bro,” he whispered, “Check this shit out.”

 

And then he jerked on the holster strap.  Hard.  Gritting-his-teeth hard, tendons-standing-out on his-neck hard, veins-standing-out-on-bicep hard.  At the same time, grunting with the physical strain, he shoved his other arm down on the fuckmeat’s muscled chest.  The buff older man’s face bent forward and his neck seemed to elongate.  As his face turned down, his thick, protruding tongue pushed out of his mouth, forcing a long foamy stream of drool to fall into his chest fur.

 

“That’s it, cunt, time to go bye-bye,” Nick hissed and yanked again.  There was a sickeningly loud cracking, crunching sound as the muscle-bound alpha literally tore his victim’s head off the top of his spine, crushing the esophagus and shattering three vertebrae simultaneously.

 

The impact to Ed’s nervous system was immediate.  He died instantly, his entire musculature going rigid in a heartbeat.  The muscles in his cock stiffened, forcing a violent eruption of semen from his agonizingly erect shaft.  The first load was so abrupt and intense, it actually shot between his head and Nick’s, splashing against the wall three feet above the top of the headboard—although some fallout landed in his dark blond hair.

 

At the same time, his colon and lower intestines contracted around Nick’s engorged cock; it was like a hand in a velvet glove jacking him off.  With a loud, inarticulate cry, Nick flooded the meat’s guts with boiling sperm.  He continued to twist Ed’s head around, mangling the spinal column.

 

This triggered Ed’s second deathload, a steady jet of spunk that lasted a good ten seconds straight, spewing huge pearly loads of spunk all over both his chest and that of his killer.  This load, though was interrupted by a third one, form a different source.

 

Still holding the camera, recording all the action, Carlos had shot a second wad completely hands-free.  Recorded for the paying viewers to see, his thick, creamy load squirted a flood of hot manseed over both the corpse and its killer.

 

“That’s it, bro,” Nick gasped hoarsely, “Spunk all over that fuckin’ faggot!”  Inwardly, he exulted in feeling Carlos’s hot semen splatter on his chest, but, still ejaculating uncontrollably himself, he didn’t process the emotion; he could only shudder and shoot.

 


 

Several cum-drenched minutes later, Nick and Carlos both found themselves in enough control of themselves to disengage from the bed and get themselves cleaned up.  Carlos moved first—largely because, unlike Nick, his dick wasn’t stuck in a quivering corpse.  Retreating to the bathroom to wash up, he chuckled with contemptuous amusement at Johnny’s meth pipe sitting on the top of the toilet cistern, along with a lighter and small baggie partially full of powder.  He left them alone.

 

Nick, for his part, withdrew his leaking shaft for the dead man.  He rolled Ed over and uncuffed him; when he did, the shuddering body slid limply to the floor with a thump.  Picking up his discarded cop outfit, he went back through the connecting door into the adjoining room, using that bathroom to wash off the evidence of violent sex.

 

By this time, Carlos had finished up and returned into the death room.  He gathered up his own gear, including the gun and the holster harness Nick had used to kill Ed; that took a bit of time to recover, given how deeply it was embedded in the meat’s neck.  At one point, he ground his boot into Ed’s face to hold his head down as he pried the strap out of the corpse’s crushed throat.  He carried the armful  of gear back into the other room and dumped it on the bed, only to be brought up short when Nick asked, “Where’s yer shank, bro?”

 

He couldn’t remember what he’d done with it.  He went back into the other room and began poking around on the bed; almost immediately, he noticed it tangled in the sheet on the other side of the teenager’s cooling, stiffening corpse.  It was still covered in gore, so Carlos used the cheap motel sheet to wipe it down; his actions made the bed shake slightly.  Not enough, but enough to dislodge Johnny’s body.  The dead teen rolled off the bed, landing on top of his father’s corpse.  Ed was face-up and Johnny face-down; they’d have been looking each other in the eye, had Johnny’s eyes not been rolled too far back in his head that only the whites showed from under his half-open lids.

 

Just then, Nick came back into the room.  “Aw, ain’t that sweet,” he jeered, “the faggot lovebirds united forever in death.  Let ‘em rot there.  You get the cameras on that side an’ I’ll get the ones on this side.  We should be able to clear out in about half an hour or so.”

 

Because of the layout of the room, the bodies on the floor between the beds made it difficult to reach everything on his side, which might account for what happened later.  But Nick had been right; they were gone within thirty minutes.

 


 

The bodies weren’t found for another eighteen hours; the maid who found them subsequently required psychiatric treatment, as did one of the two first responding police officers.  The other, a twenty-six year old rookie named Rog, found a camera tripod that had fallen behind one of the beds.  Even before the autopsy results revealed that both males had been raped as well as murdered, Rog had realized that someone, somewhere, had a video of what happened.

 

And despite the tremendous swell in publicity surrounding the case once DNA results revealed that the victims were father and son, Rog kept his surmises to himself, and laid his plans.

 


 

Nick was laying plans, too.  The commission was not only paid promptly, it included a sizeable gratuity—and a distribution agreement, with a percentage on the gross.

 

“Shit, bro, we’re gonna be fuckin’ millionaires,” he laughed a week later.  He and Carlos were both sitting in the office.  “I already paid the condo off.  Think I’m gonna soundproof that second bedroom.  We can have all kinda fun in there.”

 

Carlos didn’t care; Nick was giving him all the cash he needed.  He had wheels and a crib—and the opportunity to waste any fag he wanted, when he wanted…how he wanted…

 

“Cool, dude,” he drawled contentedly.  “Ya got any new hits?”

 

“I got a message yesterday, saying somthin’ might be coming.  Believe it or not, I haven’t checked email yet; I was too busy payin’ off debts.  Lessee if we got anything.”

 

Turning on the monitor, Nick fired up the PC, grinning broadly.  Part of it was the financial—and artistic, so to speak—success.  But part of it was what he’d learned about Carlos.  Straight, my ass, some cold, calculating part of his mind thought—he mighta gone into prison straight, but he came out a full-blown fag.  That might come in handy someday.

 

It took a while for the system to boot up; it took even longer for the email to come up.  Carlos had lost interest and was surfing on his phone when a loud ping echoed through the office.  Nick clicked on a couple of things, then his eyes grew wide.

 

“We got another commission,” he said quietly.  “Holy fuck, bro, come lookit this.”

M4M4Black

Joe’s phone beeped.  Actually, it wasn’t his phone; it had belonged to one of his kills—Joe had kept it for the gay hookup app the cunt had installed.  After altering the dead kid’s profile, he was using it to troll for victims.  Seemed he’d found one.  Glancing down, he read the screen—

 

Tapdisazz: hey daddy wassup

 

The buff sadist quickly replied—

 

Powertop4boi: my dick.  what ya want

 

Tapdisazz:  ur dick

 

This was accompanied by a pic.  It was a neck-down nude body shot of a young man, not powerfully built but with well-defined muscles.  Based on the lighting, the dude was black; his skin was a relatively light mocha shade, but his thick cock was a seven-inch bar of dark chocolate.

 

Joe was intrigued.  He hadn’t wasted a nigger before.  This could be fun.

 

Powertop4boi:  yeah I can slip ya the D.  u host?

 

Tapdisazz:  can host 962 walnut st apt 7H how long

 

Joe knew the street, if not the specific address; three block south of the MLK Boulevard exit on the interstate.  Bad neighborhood for an evening stroll—but as a predator among predators, the experienced killed wasn’t afraid.  He knew he could handle himself in any situation.

 

Tapdisazz: u comin man need to get fucked bad

 

Powertop4boi: gimme 20 will plow ur hole

 

Tapdisazz: k homey hurry want ur nut in my azz

 

Joe chuckled.  Faggot was gonna get his cum and a fuck of a lot more.

 

It was already past midnight—he’d been lying nude in bed; he jumped to his feet quickly and crossed to his dresser.  It was still record-breakingly warm for the time of year, so he slipped a black sleeveless muscle t-shirt over his head; it clung to his muscular torso as if it had been painted on.  Next on was a pair of beige cargo shorts that reached just below the knee.  They were tight enough to clutch his firm, rounded ass tightly but still displayed no more than his hard, hairy calves—half of which the well-built stud immediately covered with white tube socks.

 

He’d had to pull the socks so high up his legs to make sure he could get on his sand-beige combat boots.  They rose halfway up to his knees; once he had them tightly laced, he checked himself in the mirror.  In a way, he had kinda a casual-military-commando thing going.  It was unintentional, but he liked the result.

 

Slipping his wallet into his rear pocket and his keys into his front, he headed out to his car.  Within five minutes, he was on the interstate—and in another ten, he’d reached his exit.

 

Turning south on MLK Boulevard, he slowed to a halt a red light.  The first couple of blocks were lined with tote-the-note care lots, pawn shops and shade-tree mechanics.  Back in the darkness off the main street, there was a fair amount of furtive activity that melted away briefly on the odd occasions that headlights turned down the side streets.

 

The next major cross street to the south was Lamar; every weekend, there was guaranteed to be at least two murders within a five-block radius of MLK and Lamar—usually drug, robbery or gang-related.  And this was despite a large police presence; Joe passed two cruisers and a motorcycle cop during his three-block trip from the interstate.

 

Turning left onto Walnut, he followed the potholed street for another two blocks before arriving at his destination.  The address turned out to be located in a complex of dilapidated two-story buildings of fourteen apartments each, seven upstairs and seven down.  From the open parking lot in the street, the complex was laid out on a slope that led down to a malodorous, weed-choked drainage ditch at the back of the property.  Building H was next to the ditch, last building on the right side.

 

The unseasonal warmth did nothing to help the dank stench wafting up from the ditch.  Even so, several people were out in the dark—mostly young black dudes.  One punk in dreads, wearing sagging jeans showing the top three inches of plaid boxers, gave Joe a particularly hostile glance as he slipped by on the other side of the concrete steps.

 

His paramilitary appearance was arousing suspicion in an area rife with drug trade.  Again, he wasn’t concerned with his own safety—but his dick was hard and he didn’t wanna go home without burying it in nigger ass.  If one of these motherfuckers started some shit before he got to the meat’s apartment, he wasn’t sure he’d have the chance to fuck the asswipe before real trouble started.

 

In any advent, it didn’t matter; he reached building H without incident.  Apartment 7H was the one at the far end of the building on the ground floor.  The thumping of his hard-soled combat boots on the cement walkway was drowned out by music that turned out to be coming from apartment 6H; someone into old school gangsta was blaring Tech N9ne’s “Breathe” so loud the flimsy, hollow-core front door of the unit was visibly rattling.  Joe had to beat his fist heard against the door of 7H to get a response.

 

After a moment, the door opened and the towering alpha found himself facing a kid in his late teens—no older than twenty, certainly.  The boy was almost assuredly mulatto.  It wasn’t that his skin was so light that indicated that one of his parents was white—it was his stunning, startlingly light blue eyes.  His nose was broad but not overly so; his lips were thick, but they looked soft and luscious, not like a caricature.  Short curly hair like steel wool covered his scalp.

 

The punk was shirtless; his broad smooth chest was tattooed with the words “Lamar Pride” in three-inch-tall calligraphic letters in an arc descending from one shoulder and rising to the other.  Joe wasn’t aware of any local gang known as Lamar—but he did know that Lamar High School was a couple of miles away.

 

Around the black fag’s neck was what looked like a thick-linked dog chain, looped back into itself in a slipknot.  The kid sported a pair of UA Mo’ Money basketball shorts in shiny gray; despite their bagginess, they did nothing to hide his long, semi-erect cock.  Under the shorts, the boy had stayed true to form with a pair of Adidas “Light Em Up” basketball hightops.

 

Little fuckin’ gangsta wannabe.  Joe grinned broadly—wastin’ this little nigger cunt was gonna be so fuckin’ hot

 

“Holy shit…” the kid gasped, gazing up at the hard-bodied stud looming in his doorway.  Joe’s body was bulked out from his recent workouts and it was obvious the black kid was into well-built white tops.

 

“C-c’mon in,” he stuttered.  “I-I’m Deonte.”  Stepping to the side, he let Joe into the apartment.  The towering alpha filled the doorway momentarily as he paused and glanced around.  It didn’t take long—there wasn’t much to glance at.

 

The apartment was an efficiency—a single room with a closet and a couple of alcoves.  One was the bathroom, the other could best have been called a kitchenette.  There was a small fridge, a sink and a two-burner cooktop but no oven.  On one side of the room was a large flat-screen TV; facing it was an unfolded sofa bed.  To one side was an overstuffed armchair in the same light floral upholstery—now dark and stained with age—as the sofa; the set had probably belonged to the cocksucker’s gramma or something, Joe figured.

 

Interestingly enough, the off-white sheets covering the two-inch thick foam rubber mattress were that color by design; they, along with the pillowcases, were all clean and in good condition.

 

Not that he cared.  Good a dump as any to put down the black boy.  He turned back and grinned at his prey.

 

Deonte couldn’t believe his luck.

 

The nineteen-year-old really was a gangbanger wannabe; he worked at the local fast-food burger joint for minimum wage and supplemented his income by dealing drugs.  Nothing on a huge scale, but right now there was half a pound of skunk weed in the closet and about thirty dime bags of coke in a baggie taped under the toilet lid.

 

Competing as he was in a hyper-masculine culture, he’d always wanted to be dominated by older white daddies; he wanted to be violated by “the Man”—and the hulking, toned dude standing here now fit his desire perfectly.  And it was the first time.  No other white guy had been brave enough to come down here to the hood.  This fucker was hardcore…

 

He was so lost in lust he was unaware of how far out his now fully-erect cock was tenting his ball shorts—and was utterly unaware of the small but growing circle of precum that darkened the material at the tip of the tentpole.

 

It darkened even more once Joe spoke.

 

“So ya wanna real man’s cock, boy?  Think yer thug enough to handle my cock?  Lessee what ya got.  Strip, bitch, I wanna see if ya got as big a dick as niggers are supposed to!

 

Deonte’s face blushed visibly against his pale brown skin.  Grinning, he shucked the ball shorts, stepping out of them to reveal a pair of smooth but muscled brown legs and a jet-black dong the size of a Louisville Slugger—almost as big as Joe’s.

 

The sex killer chuckled.  “Damn, I guess they were right.  You jigaboos got nice big dicks.”

 

The black youth stiffened; he expected a certain level of racial abuse in the encounter, but this guy was going a little far.  Still, for that body, the horny young fag was willing to endure a lot.

 

It was probably a good thing that he had no idea how much he’d have to endure over the next hour.

 

Joe reached down and grabbed the bottom edge of his shirt, then slowly pulled it up over his head, revealing his incredibly toned torso, covered with dark wiry fur.  Deonte swallowed loudly—more of a gulp, actually—and his thick cock suddenly pulsed and began oozing clear beads of precum.

 

His already-broad grin widening, Joe slid his hands down to his waist and, with a quick shove, dropped his shorts.  As they pooled around his combat boots, Deonte literally gasped aloud at the huge shaft that rose straight up in a tube of thick, throbbing manmeat to press against the white alpha’s hairy, ripped abs.  He’d been with punks better hung than he himself was, but no one anywhere near this big.

 

“Fuck, dude,” the young thug said, wiping his thick, soft lips with the back of his hand, “You got some serious junk, dawg—ain’t sure that’s even gonna fit.”

 

Joe’s handsome face twisted into a smirk.  “I’ll make it fit, cunt.  Now be a good little bitch—come over here and put those fat nigger lips on my nipples.  Now, boy!”

 

Deonte jumped to attention and moved towards the leering stud.  Still standing near the door, Joe reached a hand behind himself and made sure the keyless deadbolt was on, then swept his arm around to catch Deonte by the back of the head and jerk him closer.

 

“Get yer fuckin’ nappy-ass head down and work my nips, ya worthless coon!” he barked.  The black kid flinched at the words but before he could do anything more, his face had been mashed into the top’s hairy, hubcap-like pec; a rock-hard plug of flesh penetrating into his mouth.

 

Obeying instinctively, the black punk began tonguing it, despite his rising concerns about this white motherfucker.  Dude was gettin’ too race-heavy for Deonte to feel comfortable; he wanted to be dominated, not treated like shit.

 

Which was a shame, really, since he was about to be treated like much less than shit.

 

“Work it, fucker, lemme feel yer tongue,” Joe grunted, clamping his large hands on Deonte’s head and feeling the short, tightly-curled hair scraping his palms like steel wool.  He dragged the kid’s face across his chest, making sure to grind the thug’s face into his own wiry chest fur.

 

“Now work the other one, ya nigger faggot,” the brutal alpha hissed as he roughly manhandled the young buck’s head onto the other large, erect nipple.  “That’s it, work it good or I’ll beat like a fuckin’ field hand!”

 

It was too much for Deonte.  Bracing his strong arms against Joe’s chest, he pushed off abruptly enough to startle the sadist, despite his experience.  Whirling in his expensive (for him) Adidas kicks, the youthful thug tried to twist his way around his now-frightening hookup—only to find that the front door wouldn’t open to his frantic fumblings.

 

Then a large hand slapped down on his shoulder; before Deonte knew what was happening, he’d been flung back a yard and a half, landing on his back on the hard wood floor with enough violence to force the breath from his trim, firm body.  As the trim black homo gasped for air and blinked his bright blue eyes in pain, his field of vision was filled by the image of Joe looming ominously over him, nude except for the boots that indicated he expected lots of combat tonight.  It was an overwhelmingly intimidating sight, made even more so by the huge straining shaft jutting out in front of the white hunk, dripping searing beads of boiling precum.

 

“Big mistake, ya fuckin’ jungle ape,” Joe chuckled, reveling in racist cruelty.  He lashed out with one powerful leg, showing Deonte that his Desert Storm combat boots had steel toes with a swift kick that caught the nigger slut on the hip and fractured his pelvis.

 

The pain was sharp and shattering; the black punk swiftly shed his tough nigga image as he writhed and squealed on the floor.  Even though the vision in his amazingly bright blue eyes was blurred by tears, he could still make out the contemptuous way in which Joe curled his bottom lip as the toned and fit killer planted one of his boots on his prey’s heaving chest and bent down over him.

 

“Stupid-ass little coon pansy,” he sneered with a hard, sharp edge to his voice, just before he hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it on Deonte’s face.  Leaning forward, the sadistic alpha put his weight on the boy’s chest, the thick sole of his boot crushing the slut’s ribcage until he could no longer inhale.

 

Deonte’s beautiful eyes widened almost comically as he struggled to breathe.  His mouth gaping like a fish, the young black stud grabbed frantically at Joe’s thick, hairy calf, trying futilely to pry the white dude’s foot off him.  As his hands clutched the top’s leg uselessly, the alpha bent down and viciously swatted them away before reaching out and gasping the loose end of the slipknotted chain around Deonte’s neck.

 

Wrapping it around his hand, Joe jerked it, simultaneously removing his boot and standing up straight in a single, almost graceful movement.  Deonte took a deep breath the moment the pressure on his chest was removed—

 

—only to find it cut off again, infinitely more painfully, by the chain-link noose he’d voluntarily slipped around his own neck.

 

Now the black cunt’s eyes were bulging grotesquely as his b-ball hightops kicked helplessly in mid-air.  Raising his powerful arm over his head, Joe hoisted Deonte up to his own eye level.  “I ain’t playin’ no games with ya, you black-ass cumsucking fag—yer takin’ my dick, now, ya got me, ya nigger bitch?  And ya better take it good, ya fuckin’ spade, or I’m gonna beat ya like a field hand!”

 

The struggling thug grasped and clutched at Joe’s thick and incredibly powerful forearms, his fingers prying at the killer’s hands, desperately and futilely trying to break free of his strangling grip.  His eyes rolling wildly, he kicked and jerked like a fish on a line—his head was buzzing and panic was setting in; he didn’t know how much longer he could remain conscious.

 

Then Joe turned to the side, drawing his arm back and swinging Deonte around like a pendulum.  With a swift twist, the cruel top snapped the kid in the air like cracking a whip, flinging the flailing faggot face-down onto the bed where he landed spread-eagled.

 

The black teen was too brutalized to be fully functional; as he floundered on the thin foam mattress, clawing the chain away from his throat, he could hear the steady, measured tread of the buff alpha’s boots approaching from behind but was unable to react.  He was awake enough to know that something had gone horribly wrong with his hot white daddy fantasy.

 

Since he sold drugs—even if just on a low-level scale—Deonte carried a 9-mm piece with him at all times.  He’d rarely have more than a grand of cash on him at any one time, but in this hood, that was enough to justify a home invasion; as a result, Deonte never went anywhere without his gun—except that when he got back from his last delivery, not twenty minutes before he’d found the hot honky online, he’d left the gat in the car.

 

The realization that he was defenseless entered the young buck’s head just before Joe’s gigantic cock entered his ass.

 

Deonte was starting to rise and had gotten up on his hands and knees.  As the cruel sadist reached the foot of the bed, he was presented with a smooth black bubble butt, the asshole pulsing pinkly in the middle like a target for his thick, oozing head.  Without hesitation—and without lube—Joe instantly plunged his massive shaft into the faggot’s fuckhole up to the hilt.

 

The teenage homo screeched as Joe’s hog split open his sphincter, tore past his prostate and buried itself agonizingly in his soft, tender guts.  He tried to pull forward, away from the searing pain impaling his ass; he only succeeded in enraging his tormentor.

 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, ya stupid-ass piece of shit!” he snarled, reaching out and grabbing at the dog chain, “Just can’t control yer howlin’ either, can ya, you fuckin’ baboon?  That’s ok—I know how to make niggerboys like you obey!”

 

With a loud grunt, Joe yanked the loose end of the slipknot, sealing off Deonte’s throat and pulling the kid’s head back and up, making him arch his back in an excruciating semi-circle.  The strong, smooth light-skinned youth clawed the air in front of him as Joe began riding him like a rodeo cowboy, one arm out to the side as he used the other to jerk the chain like a bridle slung round the neck of his mount.

 

“Take it, nigga, take that white dick up yer jigaboo ass,” Joe chuckled maliciously as he pounded the black boy’s hole.  “That’s what ya wanted, right, bitch?  Cracker cock tearin’ yer coon ass up?  Fuck, yeah, boy, ya gotta be lovin’ this shit!  Enjoy it, ya lucky fuckin’ nigger fag!”

 

Keeping his tight combat boots planted firmly on the floor, the overpowering alpha shifted his positon slightly so he could thrust his throbbing manmeat even deeper into his prey’s rectum.  His powerful thighs bulged as he sped up the tempo of his pumping, driving his engorged rod further into his panicked and writhing victim.

 

On his hands and knees, with his spine bent achingly backwards, Deonte was still aware of his own thick, erect shaft and the way it slapped against his belly with every thrust of his assailant’s hips.  His right hand was fumbling vainly at the chain, which was sunk too far into his neck to reach—his left hand was on the bed supporting him; if it didn’t, he’d have fallen forward and dangled from his choker.

 

The young thug queer could hear the frantic tempo of his pulse pounding in his head as pressure built in his chest.  At first, the horrible reaming agony in his ass had been overwhelming; it was only when the oxygen deprivation reached a certain point that the nigger teen, his smooth chest slick with cold sweat squeezed out of his lean form by force, began to feel the true pain of being strangled to death.

 

As it so happened, the moment he hit that point, Joe gave some extra power to his thrust and sank his tool further into Deonte’s shredded innards than ever before.  It was too much for the gangsta-wannabe; reacting reflexively, he jerked with all the force of a bucking bronco.  The violence of the motion caught Joe momentarily off-guard—enough to make him lose his hold on the chain.  Before he realized it, the smooth black buck had slipped off his dick, leaving it bobbing and dripping fat translucent beads of precum onto the spotless sheets.  Deonte blindly yanked the dog chain away from his throat.  He’d expended the last of his oxygen in shaking off his rapist; the slim but muscled punk could only flop onto his back, gasping desperately for air as the pressure and the pounding in his head began to decrease.

 

Glancing towards the foot of the bed, the black cocksucker had a view down the entire length of his own firm, smooth body, brown and glistening with sweat in the dim light.  His dick, a seven-inch shaft of jet-black meat stood tall and straining between his legs; beyond that, his feet, still tightly laced into his Adidas kicks, were spread wide.

 

And towering between them was the crazy white dude, his hairy, muscled body also gleaming under a fine layer of perspiration.  And his cock was hard and straining, too—but it looked like it still hadn’t reached its full erect length.

 

When it did, getting raped was gonna be like being impaled on a caveman’s club.  And as his glance moved further up the stud’s body (some fuckpig corner of his brain still lustfully noting the alpha’s broad furry pecs and bulging biceps), he couldn’t help but realize that the cold, icy glint in the older top’s eye was the look of death.

 

This motherfucker was gonna kill him.

 

Even though his young and well-built body had been nearly put out of commission by oxygen deprivation, panic provided the desperate thug with enough of a jolt to propel him up off the bed.  It took a mighty heave to bring his slim but strong form away from the sagging coil net and thin mattress and Deonte wasn’t really aiming anywhere in particular.

 

Since the move was totally unexpected, and Joe had to go around the chair (toss it aside, actually, but it still took a moment), Deonte had time to reach the door and, opening it, get his head outside to call for help.

 

Unfortunately, in his disorientation, he didn’t realize it was the closet door.

 

It wasn’t until his eyes focused on the large bag of weed he’d hidden that Deonte realized his error.  By then the clumping of the sadist’s thick boot soles on the wooden floor told the terrified youth that the man was almost on him again.

 

He almost pissed himself in terror, but his traitorous erection prevented more than a dribble from coming out—and that little burned like fire along his urethra.  It didn’t matter; his mind was suddenly and utterly diverted from his dick.

 

He was face down, head halfway into the closet, so he couldn’t see what his assailant was doing; he felt the closet door being ripped from his well enough, though.  And he damn sure felt the door again when the killer stud slammed it on his head.

 

Leaning on the door, crushing Deonte’s head between it and the jamb, Joe kicked the moaning, writhing teen in exactly the same spot he had before, grinding the fracture of the pelvis into an outright break.  The boy shrieked, then sank into a subdued blubbering.

 

Joe had caught sight of what was in the closet.  As he kept his prey’s head pinned in the door, he bent down and whispered into the trapped kid’s ear.

 

“So yer a pansy-ass nigger drug dealer, huh?  Fuck, they’ll gimme a medal for this kill.  Ya hear that, ya worthless gangbanger wannabe?  I’mma be a goddam hero for snuffing yer faggot ass!”

 

Standing back up, he spoke again.  This time, he put some emphasis on his words by repeatedly slamming the door on the black teen’s head.

 

“So now it’s time to learn (WHAM) yer goddam place (WHAM), you fuckin’ uppity (WHAM) niggerboy (WHAM)!”

 

Deonte cried aloud with each blow, his entire body jerking with the force of the impacts and making his hightops kick the floor.  But it was the final blow on the final word that quieted him down, largely because it was the one that fractured his skull.

 

It didn’t cause major brain trauma but it was painful and terrifyingly loud; the young black thug heard his skull crack like an eggshell.  He instantly became light-headed with shock and did not resist as Joe dragged his limp form back to the hideaway and tossed him onto it on his back.

 

It was only when the larger, more muscled alpha actually climbed up on him that he came out his daze; the white dude’s weight on top was driving Deonte down into the crossbar of the folding frame.  Even with this new pain, the slim black buck was still unable to do more than moan inarticulately as Joe propped his legs up on his shoulders and began to stuff his—finally—fully-erect cock into the punk’s reamed-out ass.

 

“Do-don’t…no, stop…p-p-please, d-dawg, ya ai-ai-ain’t got-gotta do this…” the boy begged.

 

Joe leaned over and grabbed the chain, spitting into Deonte’s face before ramming his cock all the way up the homo’s ass—and jerking the chain tight.  “Shaddap, ya fuckin’ faggot junglebunny.  Only thing you homo niggers are good for is killin’—dark meat is real good at soaking up the cum of a good white man, boy, didja know that?  Yer about to find out, you stupid black bitch!”

 

And with that, Joe assumed the killing position.  He was fucking Deonte missionary style with the kid’s “Light ‘Em Up” sneakers on his shoulder while boy was getting lit up good.  The alpha was hunched over him, one hand pulling back hard on the choke chain around the black thug’s neck, the other hand splayed out over the punk’s forehead, pressing down for support—and squeezing, right along the fracture line, because he knew it caused the dying nigger agony.

 

“How ya likin’ that, boy?” Joe grunted gleefully as he shagged the teen as remorselessly, making sure the kid felt every thrust.  “That what ya were lookin’ for tonight when ya said ya wanted my nut?  I bet not, ya ignorant fuckin’ nigger.”

 

Pushing forward on Deonte’s head, Joe pulled backward on the chain to counterbalance, tightening the metal links around the boy’s throat.  As they sank into the skin, the kid’s finger’s clawed at his neck, scraping and breaking the skin but unable to grasp the slick metal surface.  The teen’s pale blue eyes bulged as his face swelled, but his field of vision was filled by Joe’s face; Deonte could look at nothing but the man who was killing him.

 

“See,” Joe said in a maliciously conversational tone of voice, “The problem with you nigger fags is that y’all never learn yer place.  And yer place is on the end of my cock, milking out my spunk.  So I gotta make ya learn, boy.  I can tell yer a stupid-ass fuckin’ coon, too, just by lookin’ at ya, bitch—ya know what that means?”

 

Deonte was in an uncharted world of pain and terror; his secret sex fantasy had turned into a nightmare.  The crushing pain in his closed-off throat was preventing him from screaming from the slashing, searing trauma being inflicted on his anus.  Amazingly, his own dick was still so hard it literally hurt.

 

And somehow, through it all, the youthful thug could see the cheery insanity in the cold killer’s light in Joe’s eye when he spoke next.

 

“It means I gotta hurt ya.  Yeah?  You get it, yeah?  Niggers learn best by beatin’, so I beat into yer head over there that you were my bitch.  An’ now I’m gonna make the lesson stick by wastin’ ya.  After all the last thing ya learn sticks with ya forever.  So once ya learn how fuckin’ good white man seed feels inside yer nigger fuckhole, I’m gonna choke yer worthless life out and leave yer reamed-out corpse for yer homies to find.  What ya say, dawg, we tight?”

 

Then Deonte learned that the nightmare could get worse.  Joe’s jackhammer thrusts mangled the teen’s innards, the thick, unlubed shaft of flesh, wreathed with veins like barbed wire, tore at the punk’s rectal lining and ripped into the lower duodenum.  As the chain sank deeper into his throat, small areas of skin were forced agonizingly through the openings in the large links.  Unable to loosen it in the slightest, Deonte transferred his hands to Joe’s wrists.

 

It was like trying to pull down concrete posts.  The flailing black youth was sweating harder now, his own distinct musk adding to the heady mix of testosterone and adrenaline filling the room.  His struggles intensified as his thick lips parted, forced aside by his swollen purple tongue, slowly pushed out his mouth on a tide of drool that trickled down Deonte’s chin and streaked his face with white foam.

 

He no longer tried to pry Joe’s hands away from his throat; realizing the futility of the attempt, the dying nigger clawed desperately at his killer’s handsome, contempt-filled face but the powerful top was both larger and stronger and was easily able to avoid his blind thrashing.  His expensive Adidas shoes kicked and jerked without making contact with his assailant.

 

The horrific pain in his mangled ass and his broken his had faded into a kinda buzzing in the background, overtaken by the relentless pounding and pressure in his head, amplified by the way the sadistic alpha was squeezing his damaged skull; even the fiery tightness in his chest was fading.

 

Funny thing was, even as his brain began to die, Deonte could still feel his own raging hard-on.  Somehow, through the cold grayness that was creeping inexorably over his firm, lithe body, the black fag could feel the pulsing warmth of his deathload boiling in his puckered balls, waiting for the final traumatic signal to erupt in a burning froth of DNA.

 

As his wasted life began to fade, the nigger thug’s struggles began to slow into caresses.  His hands, no longer claws, gently slapped at Joe’s massive, hubcap pecs, almost as if they were stroking the wiry fur.  His entire body bucked and curved, griping his rapist’s cock firmly holding it in place as the rectal muscles began to convulse.

 

And then Deonte reached the tipping point of brain death.

 

Joe knew he’d reached the sweet spot when the punk’s random thrashing became more rhythmic and less focused.  The nigger was already meat.  Joe merely confirmed it when he gave one last final violent jerk to the chain, sinking it deep enough into the slut’s throat to crush the esophagus with a loud cracking sound.

 

Perhaps it was the final blast of pain that flipped the switch in the black fuckpig’s shorted-out brain, but that was the moment that Deonte’s swollen scrotum exploded, sending jet after jet of ropy streams of cum spurting from his hard dick.  Joe could feel the wet warmth splatter across his ripped abs and spew across his chest.

 

At the same time, the gangsta wannabe—now nothing but fuckmeat—went rigid with orgasmic convulsion, making his sphincter—despite being torn now in two places—clamp down around the root of Joe’s shaft like a cockring while his colon rippled in its death throes like a velvet glove over the alpha’s huge, engorged rod.

 

With a loud, deep grunt, Joe unloaded in the nigger’s ass, his scalding sperm flooding the black boy’s guts.  Some faint spark of Deonte’s faggot soul was left to respond to getting knocked up by his killer; as Joe shot his wad, the teenaged homo erupted with one last fount of spunk before the kid subsided into quivering meat that hadn’t quite realized it was dead yet.

 

With a deep and satisfied sigh, the vicious killer withdrew his still-erect tool from his victim, stood up and glanced around.  Locating the bathroom, he crossed to it and washed himself up, tossing the towel he’d used into the toilet and flushing it.  He closed the door on the overflowing mess as he walked out.

 

Deonte was lying sprawled on his back, cum leaking from his ass, stained pink with blood from his shredded colon.  His pale blue eyes were less stunning now that they bulging grotesquely and utterly bloodshot with petechial hemorrhages.  White foam had dried to a crust on his face while large pools of his own spunk slowly congealed on his chest.

 

Joe slipped back into his shirt and shorts, glancing around the shitty efficiency apartment, partially in contempt, partially to ensure he’d left nothing behind.  Pausing for a moment, he turned back and snagged the bag of weed from the closet; he might be able to use it a lure for fresh meat.  He shoved it into his pocket and left, leaving the door closed but unlocked.

 

He’d have given anything to be a fly on the wall when the little fucker’s homies learned that he was a faggot—and he’d lost a half pound of weed.  Poor niggerboy; his rep was gonna be total shit.

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.