Adam in Public

Adam knew he was being stated at, that a pair of eyes was running over his large, muscled body and defiling it with homo lust.

 

He wasn’t dressed to hide his physique; he was at the gym, after all.  He was sporting a dark blue form-fitting t-shirt, gray Nike shorts and his black-and-white Puma Cells; having left the weight room after a strenuous workout, he was headed to the showers, his bulging muscles still slick and glistening with sweat.

 

He had to pass the basketball court on the way; as he did, a group of young men emerged and stood talking at the doors.  It was while he was passing this group that Adam could feel that he was being watched.  He paused, pretending to take an interest in a notice board on the wall as he surreptitiously surveyed the group.

 

It didn’t take long to pick out the pansy who was eyeing him.  The kid was on the far side of the group, facing him.  He had black hair, about four inches long styled in waves back along his head.  Wide dark eyes fringed by long lashes, a small straight nose and full lips gave the boy a look of adolescent beauty, but judging his age from the group of youths he was with, he was probably in his early twenties.

 

The kid was wearing an olive green tank top, black Adidas shorts that hung to his knees, and a pair of black and white Nike Lebron Soldier SFGs on his feet; enough of his body was visible to show Adam that the boy was slender but muscled.  He looked fit but not disproportionate in his build.  And even though he was engaged enough in the conversation of his friends, his large dark eyes continued to swing back to Adam and fixate on him periodically.

 

It was all the sadistic sex killer needed.  He marked the fag down as his next target.

 

He started slowly, not so much pursuing his victim as constantly putting himself in his way, learning the boy’s schedule so that he couldn’t come to the gym without seeing Adam at some point.  It didn’t take the powerful psycho long to learn that the boy wasn’t serious about working out; the kid was using the gym more as a social club, meeting his other pretty-boy fag friends there and tittering over who was sucking whose dick while doing the bare minimum needed to keep their smooth young bodies in shape.  It was through overhearing some of these conversations that Adam learned that his intended fuckmeat was named Dirk, and that he was twenty—his little pansy friends were planning a big blow-out at a gay strip club in three weeks, when Dirk turned twenty-one.

 

In the meantime, Adam kept himself visible but unobtrusive; Dirk’s friends were all eyeing him as well—his imposing form, striking copper hair, and the expression of cold hard masculine strength in his face were enough to attract the attention of any fag within a hundred yards.  But only Dirk looked at Adam with such wanton lasciviousness that the killer wanted to vomit.

 

Fucking homo cunt needed to learn a serious lesson.

 

A little old-fashioned stalking soon taught Adam that Dirk still lived with his parents and attended the county community college.  Further than that, Adam didn’t bother to go; he wasn’t looking to befriend the fagmeat, just find out its routines and schedules.  What was most obvious to him after a week of tailing his prey was Dirk’s apparent horror of solitude—the little slut was never alone.

 

One night, Adam decided to put his stealth skills to use again.  Working his way into the backyard of Dirk’s house, he shimmied up a tree with a vague idea of popping into the kid’s bedroom and offing him right there.  But when he reached a point where he could look into Dirk’s bedroom window, the boy was Skyping with someone.  Adam waited for a while but left in disgust as Dirk continued to blather into the late hours.

 

And anyway, that wouldn’t have been right.  Adam’s memory flickered back over the necro fucks he’d enjoyed but hadn’t earned.  This little homo needed to be snuffed a certain way for it to count, and that meant his killer needed to do a little maneuvering.

 

A week of following the youth did little but increase Adam’s frustration; on Saturday afternoon, he decided to give it a miss and head up to the park.  He didn’t jog much, but it was a cool, breezy day, with clouds covering the sky in incomplete, shifting layers that caused sunlight to alternately emphasize and obscure.  It was a day to be outside.

 

When he pulled into a parking spot, Adam pulled his t-shirt off before hopping out of his truck.  Clad only in his Nike shorts and his Puma kicks, he strode past the park’s entrance, ignoring the envious looks cast at his hairy, well-toned torso.  Once he reached the path, he broke out into a brisk jog.

 

The entire circuit of the park was just under two miles.  Adam had already covered over a mile, circling the far end of the park, when he spotted a group of youths off to the side.  They seemed to be trying to play Frisbee football, or something similar.  Adam paused to watch in amused contempt—the breeze was far too strong to try anything with a Frisbee—when he realized Dirk was among the crowd.

 

Well, that explained the useless game; watching a bit longer, Adam was able to see that the “tackles” were really mere excuses for the boys to fondle and paw over each other.  Revolting.  He was about ready to move on, as his prey was once again in the midst of a crowd, when the gathering suddenly split up.  Game time was over, and the boys began to disperse.

 

Adam had paused on the path at a spot just before it broke out of a small greenbelt.  He was no more than five yards from the group of kids, but between them was a growth of underbrush through which the buff killer could peer while still being screened.  He could hear them clearly, making plans to meet for brunch.

 

“You better eat a big ol’ bowl a’ pasta if we’re goin’ to the Flamingo Lounge afterwards,” came Dirk shrill, slightly feminine warble.  “Last time you got so drunk they were gonna throw you out.”

 

“Aw, shove it, bitch,” came the even more girlish reply, “They’d ’a thrown us both out if you hadn’t given the bouncer a blowjob.  Bet he welcomes you back with a big ol’ bearhug, slut.  Hey, need a lift?”

 

“Naw,” Dirk said, “I gotta go take a leak somethin’ awful.  I’ll meet ya at Hamburger Joan’s in an hour.”  Turning from the group, the lean young punk headed for the public restroom building just barely visible on the far side of the park.

 

The others quickly left.  This was Adam’s chance, and he wasn’t hesitant about taking it.

 

It wasn’t difficult to follow Dirk.  The kid was sporting a fire-engine red wifebeater, damp with sweat and tight across the boy’s firm chest.  Caught in a swiftly-shifting beam of sunlight, perspiration glistened on the taut skin covering Dirk’s left bicep.  Below the wifebeater, the punk wore a pale gray pair of Under Armour shorts; the Nike Lebrons showed off his smooth, strong legs to advantage.

 

It was about a quarter-mile hike through the greenbelt to reach the double-ended cinderblock building that housed the restrooms.  For a moment, Adam thought it was the same restroom where he’d enjoyed the leftovers of that older dude…but once he got closer, he noticed subtle differences.  There were four of these buildings in the park.  That would have been fitting, but not required.

 

After all, all Adam required was pile of fresh boymeat.

 

Slipping around the side of the building, the alpha stud opened the men’s room door quietly.  The moment he stepped into the dim interior, his nose was assaulted with the sinus-clearing scent, both sweet and industrial, generated by cheap pink urinal cakes combined with the lavish use of bleach.

 

Dirk had evidently finished his business in the restroom; he stood at the wall to the far left, washing his hands at one of the three sinks.  The urinals were across from the entry and there were three toilet stalls on the right.  From where Dirk was standing, he wasn’t able to see Adam enter, even in the mirror.  Adam took advantage of the fact to surreptitiously glance around the room, making certain that they were alone.

 

When he was done, he stepped out of the entryway.  By that time Dirk had finished at the sink and was drying his hands; tossing the paper towels into the trash can, he whirled around and caught sight of Adam for the first time.  Startled, he jumped and gave a brief cry before catching himself.

 

“Sorry, dude,” he gasped, chuckling, “Didn’t hear ya come in—you scared me.”

 

Adam grinned at the phrasing but said nothing.  Dirk looked up at him, really noticing him for the first time.

 

“Oh…it’s you…” he mumbled.  “I, uh, I seen ya around…was kinda hopin’ I’d run into ya…”

 

His eyes roved over Adam’s buff, half-naked body; the psycho hardman could feel the boy’s gaze crawling across his hairy chest as if it had a physical, tactile presence.  He could already feel his rage at the disgusting little homo pervert starting to boil—

 

—it made him hard.  Dirk noticed.  Unluckily for himself, he misinterpreted it, along with the bloodlust in the hulking stud’s eyes, so similar the cocklust glittering in Dirk’s own.

 

“Aw, dude, you gotta fuck me!” the youth suddenly spat out, then snapped his mouth shut as if surprised by his own temerity.  He gulped, then smiled and gamely started again.  “I-I mean, I been noticin’ ya around the gym, and, and—seriously, yer hot as fuck, bro” he finished up almost breathlessly.

 

Adam had remained quiet, his face passive (but for his eyes; true windows to the soul, they were lit by the hellish fires within).  Now he spoke, his voice as emotionless as his face.  “You want me to fuck you?”

 

Dirk hesitated for a moment then blurted out, “Fuck yeah, man.  Stick it in me.  Fuckin’ hurt me, dude.  I’ll give ya fifty bucks if you’ll record it on my phone.  I wanna see a close-up of your shaft plowing my hole.”

 

Adam stepped forward; the suddenness of the motion made Dirk step backwards involuntarily.  He was standing next to one of the sinks when Adam reached out clamped the Dirk’s jaw in his iron-like grip.

 

“You want me to hurt ya?  Sure, faggot.  No fuckin’ problem.”

 

With a single swift jerk of his powerful arm, Adam slammed Dirk’s head down onto the sink hard enough to crack the porcelain bowl.  Unconscious, the twink slut fell gracelessly to the concrete floor in a heap, blood leaking from a gash in his temple.

 


 

Dirk awoke slowly.  It was a long and painful climb back to consciousness; at first, he couldn’t remember where he was.  Forcing his eyes open didn’t help much in the beginning; despite rapid blinking, the youth found his eyesight too blurry to make out details.  He was lying on a cold, hard floor; he knew that.  He seemed to be looking up at a flickering bar of light from the bottom of a deep box…

 

Then it started coming back—the stud he’d had the hots for, turning up suddenly in the restroom…but what had happened?  Why was he lying on the floor of a toilet stall, looking up at a malfunctioning fluorescent light?

 

Then the stud came into his field of vision.  He stood right next to Dirk’s head; the kid had a direct line up sight up the alpha’s thickly-muscled legs, covered with almost-golden fur, into the open cuff of Adam’s short.  The hulking hardman was commando underneath; even though the shorts hung nearly to his knees, it was obvious that the thick head of his shaft was less than an inch from the cuff.  Even though he wasn’t hard, Adam’s cock damn near hung out of his shorts.  Just the sight made Dirk hard, despite the throbbing pain in his head.

 

And as his own seven-inch rod grew rigid, Dirk realized that he wasn’t just on the floor—he was nude.  Except for his kicks, he’d been stripped.  And with that realization, the pain in his head refused to be ignored any longer.  A strong blow to the head has the ability to erase the memory of the blow itself.  It was obvious something had happened; Dirk couldn’t remember what it was—but he was starting to get the feeling that it wasn’t necessarily something he’d wanted to happen.  It fuckin’ hurt.  Maybe this wasn’t gonna be the fairy-tale porn movie fuck for which he’d been hoping.

 

“Wh—wh—” he slurred, “Wha-what hap-appened?”

 

“You made a mistake, you perverted piece a’ shit,” Adam said, clearly and coldly, his words cutting through the dark fog clouding Dirk’s mind.  Still groggy but suddenly much more alert, he bent his head back for a better look at Adam’s face, as if to confirm he’d heard him right.

 

Adam noticed the movement.  Grinning, he obliged the meat by stepping back and squatting down.  Dirk suddenly had a close-up view of the powerful hunk’s chest; the broad pecs, covered with wiry, honey-blond curls of hair, stretched across his field of view.  The alpha was so stacked, Dirk could only see the dark, jutting nipples in his peripheral vision.  But it was that face, those gleaming hazel eyes framed by the copper buzzcut and the facial stubble of the same hue that froze Dirk to the core.  In a single glance, Adam somehow managed to convey an intense and terrifying combination of hatred, contempt, and lust.

 

“You want me to fuck you?  Yeah?  Was that what you said, motherfucker?”

 

Dirk licked his lips and swallowed, his throat so dry he almost gagged.  “I, uh..I—”

 

“I don’t fuck no homo twinks,” the muscle-bound psycho sneered.  “You want my dick in you, ya gotta earn it.  An’ I don’t think you got what it takes to earn it, cocksucker.”  He kicked Dirk in the side, the boy grunting as Adam’s Puma sneaker came into contact with his ribcage.   The boy rolled to the side, up against the base of the toilet, but he received nothing worse than a bruise from the impact.

 

Adam rather regretted not wearing steel-toed boots.  Well, maybe next time.

 

Dirk rolled back over to face Adam.  The dark head of his erect cock bobbed freely in mid-air, proving that he really did like it rough—and that he really thought he had a chance of earning Adam’s cock.

 

As, of course, he did.  It really wasn’t difficult, although he’d undoubtedly fight it.  At least it was permanent.

 

Still wincing from the pain in his side, Dirk looked up at the buff alpha towering over him.  “Are-are ya gonna hurt me?” he asked hesitantly.  “I mean, I, I know I said I liked it rough…but c’mon, bro, you know what I meant.  I ain’t lookin’ for no ass-whupin’—I ain’t into that.”

 

“Yer dick says yer lyin’, you sick little pervert,” Adam said.  “Fuck yeah, I’m gonna hurt you, cocksucker; I’m gonna fuck you up bad.”  The buff sadist watched the effect as the import of his words sank into the young slut’s mind; he enjoyed the way the boy’s dark eyes widened with horror and dismay.

 

And then came the sound of footsteps; their heads turned simultaneously in the direction of the restroom door.

 

With the swiftness of an expert mankiller, Adam went into action, leaping on top of Dirk.  There was just enough room in the stall for him to lay full length, his large, heavily-muscled frame completely covering the nude twink.  As the boy reached up involuntarily to ward him off, Adam was able to grab both wrists in one powerful hand, pulling them to one side with a ruthless jerk.  He clamped his other hand over Dirk’s mouth.  Forcing the kid’s head to one side, he laid his down on it, cheek to cheek, his copper stubble scraping at the twink’s smoothly-shaved skin.

 

In silence, they watched the door.

 

When it opened, all they could see of the interloper on their intimate moment from under the stall was a pair of black and gray Fila running shoes with strong, hairy calves coming up out of them.  The unknown dude crossed to the sink—whistling Turkey in the Straw of all things—and stood there for a few moments.

 

Dirk, his mind aflame with fear, struggled vainly against the furry muscled mass that pinned him to the cold concrete floor.  It was useless; he didn’t even have enough play to kick his feet.

 

What he could do, though, was breathe, and he found that he could breathe loud enough to make an audible whistling sound through his nose.  The fact that there was someone standing just feet away, someone who could help him not get hurt, gave the shallow twink just enough motivation and courage to try it.  Wrinkling his nose, he emitted a high-pitched squeal—

 

—only to have spent so much time working himself up to it that he never noticed how Fila had moved from a sink to a urinal.  Within a split second of Dirk’s surprisingly ingenious attempt at “loud breathing”, the sound was interrupted by the long-drawn-out splattering sound of Fila’s pounding stream of piss.  The dude never even heard Dirk.

 

Adam heard him, though.  He put a stop to that shit real quick; slipping his hand up a couple of inches, he closed off Dirk’s nose as well as his mouth.  Problem solved.  The fact that Dirk couldn’t breathe was just a bonus.  “Keep quiet or I’ll fuckin’ twist yer head right off yer spine right now,” Adam hissed in a voice just barely audible over the sound of splashing urine, “an’ I don’t wanna do that, faggot.”

 

For Dirk, trapped, helpless, and suffocating, Fila was taking the longest piss in recorded history.  He knew he’d made a horrible mistake in trying to attract attention; his earlier state of panic was nothing compared to what he was enduring now.  But despite striving to his utmost, the lean, lithe twink found himself completely overpowered by the hardbodied alpha.  He could only try to hold on as the dude finally finished up.  By the time Fila was done washing his hand, Dirk’s head was pounding and there was a fiery, crushing pain in his chest.

 

The restroom door opened, footsteps receded in the distance and suddenly Dirk could breathe again.  He was so grateful, breathing was all he focused on for a good forty-five seconds before opening his eyes.  But he’d heard what Adam had said, and when he opened his eyes, there was a faint smile on his face.  At least he wasn’t gonna die.  He might get hurt, but the anonymous top had said he didn’t want to kill him.

 

As he looked up, he saw Adam kneeling over him, his masculine face sneering with a look of frightening contempt.  The hulking sadist was clutching something between his hands, a red band it seemed to be—Dirk didn’t recognize his own red wifebeater, twisted into a long strip of taut fabric.

 

“I don’t wanna break yer neck, asswipe, cause it’s way too easy.  See, I only stick my cock into purified boymeat.  So, if I’m gonna fuck ya, I gotta purify ya first.  Ya wanna know how you get purified?”

 

The malevolence in Adam’s handsome face, the maliciousness in his erotic grin, touched Dirk with a terror he hadn’t know before.  It almost felt like ice water was flowing inside him; the fact that his dick was somehow still achingly erect made the scene even more surreal.  Some part of his mind remembered that not fifteen minutes ago, he’d been planning to meet his friends for brunch.  Or was it twenty?  He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out…

 

The fuckmeat was starting to wander.  Adam expected it; the meat always shied away from facing reality.  Time to bring it back.  Raising up one foot, he stomped on Dirk, his Puma Cell slamming down on the boy’s smooth flat belly.

 

“HOORG!” Dirk grunted, rising up from the floor and subsiding, arms and legs flailing.  Coughing and gagging, he curled into a fetal position, cradling his badly-bruised midsection.  Undaunted, Adam kicked at his writhing form until the boy was lying on his back again, staring speechlessly up at him.

 

“Suffering, faggot,” Adam said, lowering himself down to Dirk, his beautiful hazel eyes glowing almost hypnotically with cruel lust, “Suffering is how you’re purified.  But a stupid little homo slut like you needs a lot of purifyin’.  A lot.

 

And before Dirk could react, Adam had grabbed a handful of his hair, jerked his head up off the floor, and wrapped the thick band of twisted cloth around his neck.

 

“Only way to get my cock inside you, fuckmeat, is to die.  Like I toldja, I don’t fuck homos.  But yer such a disgustin’ little cockpig, you gotta suffer just to make yer corpse worthy of my righteous manshaft.  I’m gonna strangle you, ya worthless piece a’ shit—yer gonna die slow.  That way, I can watch an’ make sure I’m squeezin’ all the perverted faggotry outta ya and leavin’ behind nothin’ but pure boymeat, ready to soak up my seed.”

 

Then the cloth pulled tight around Dirk’s neck, cinching his esophagus closed and cutting off his air forever.  The smooth young twink never took another breath.

 

Not that he didn’t try; he struggled like hell.  Methodical at first, Dirk fought against the rising panic and dug his fingers into the tightly-twisted fabric, trying desperately to pry it free.  The pounding was beginning again in his head, the fiery pain in his chest—he’d experienced them just minutes earlier; now he knew what to expect in terms of pain (or so he thought).  But just that small fraction of suffering had been horrific enough; it was all Dirk could do to push the swell of terror aside and keep working to free himself.

 

Soon he gave up working at the fabric and began digging into his own neck, but the cloth had sunk so deeply into his flesh that he was unable to get his fingers under it.  He wasn’t going to be able to pull is away from his throat.  That was the realization that flipped the switch; panic, refusing to be ignored any longer, now took over.  Dirk began to frantically claw at Adam’s hands.

 

The huge alpha was seated on Dirk’s groin, his legs bent under him, his muscled torso bent forward over that of the prone, helpless twink.  He grinned as the kid began to flail vainly at his strong hands, straining to keep the twisted fabric taut.  The meat always fought purification, but the harder it fought, the more violently it convulsed, the better it was in the end.

 

The more Adam made the meat suffer, the more pure it was.  And after all, it was meant to be.

 

“Does it hurt?” Adam whispered intently, his large eyes lit from within by a sadistic glee, “Are yer lungs burning yet?  Is yer tongue starting to swell?  No?  Gonna start happenin’ here soon, cunt.  It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, dude—just enjoy it, you fuckin’ pervert.”

 

Dirk, trapped under the psycho stud’s powerful body, couldn’t help hearing Adam; even though he was losing the battle to stave off the mindless panic threating to wash over him at any moment, he could still comprehend the words uttered quietly and seductively by his killer.  And Adam knew it.

 

“Only reason yer worthless ass is on the planet, ya homo fuckwad, is so I can waste you and use yer corpse as a cumrag.  I’m finally givin’ a meaning to yer wasted, useless life, and you love it so much yer dick is hard even as I’m chokin’ ya to death.  Just like every other faggot sack a’ shit I offed—you wanna get snuffed, dontcha, you disgustin’ pervert?  Fuckin’ die, ya sick faggot garbage!”

 

Wrapped the tight ends of the cloth shirt around his palms, Adam pulled at the fabric ligature until his massive biceps bulged with the effort.  Dirk’s neck was constricted to a three-inch diameter; it was excruciating.  The kid beat on Adam’s chest, his hands slapping aimlessly on the broad, firm pecs, as he felt his tongue swell, forcing his jaws apart.  The pounding in his head had become a jackhammering; it was so loud Dirk couldn’t focus his waning and already-weak mental powers.

 

It was hot, it was so hot, the boy thought as perspiration oozed from his dying body.  Under Adam, between his legs, the muscled hardman could feel the slut’s smooth, slick skin writhing against him.  The meat was almost ready; for the first time, his own massive cock started to stiffen.

 

Dirk didn’t know Adam was getting hard.  He knew he was hard himself, though; despite the sheer agony of strangulation—or perhaps as part of it—the struggling twink could feel his own erection, not as a pleasurable sensation, but as another source of suffering.  He was so hard it literally hurt; in fact, he’d never suffered such agony in his cock and balls and couldn’t understand how he was still erect.

 

But by now there was a lot Dirk couldn’t understand and never would.  His air supply had been cut off too long; his brain was beginning to die.  Adam stared coldly into the kid’s eyes as they bulged grotesquely from his black and swollen face, watching the progressive brain damage as the hemorrhage-surrounded iris began to slowly dilate.

 

“Yeah, that’s it,” he whispered, “Die, you little fuck.”  He gave the cloth one more jerk, just powerful enough to finish the job and crush Dirk’s trachea into a bloody mass of mangled cartilage.  The crunching sound was audible to Adam and deafening inside the pounding darkness in the dying boy’s mind.

 

There was a brief burst of lucidity, a last flare of flame before the fire went out for good.  There was a sensation of a cold concrete floor that generated bewilderment, a visual image of a group of twittering faggots in a hamburger joint that caused despair—and then the nightmarish crunch, immediately followed by the most terrible pain the meat that had been Dirk ever experienced, pain so intense it shaded into the most exquisite pleasure.

 

Dirk was too far gone to realize he was blowing his death load; it just seemed that his entire life force was being violently ripped from his body and forcibly expelled through his erect dick; his soul, his being, was spewing agonizingly out of his cock and splattering on his belly and on his killer’s chest—

 

It took more than two minutes after his complete brain death for Dirk’s lean, fit twink corpse to stop ejaculating.  Adam had already let go, pulling back in disgust to avoid getting any more fag sperm on his well-built chest.  But he watched in satisfaction as the dead boy’s puckered scrotum continued to spasm and his long thick cock continued to pump out dead boycum.  That was where the faggotry was, in the spunk.  The more of it that got drained, the more fit the meat was to receive Adam’s own seed.

 

When Dirk finally stopped cumming and lay quietly on the concrete, quivering, Adam decided it was time.  An occasional spasm still shot through the corpse, making it jerk briefly but violently; the sick killer ignored these.  Positioning himself between Dirk’s legs and hiking the Nike Lebron Soldiers up onto his shoulders, Adam shoved his gigantic shaft into the dead boy’s asshole.

 

It took some effort; at the moment of death, Dirk’s sphincter, instead of relaxing, had clenched somehow.  Adam had to force his way in, his massive shaft tearing at the corpse’s skin.  Once inside, he plunged in all the way, the thick oozing head of his dick buried deep inside Dirk’s guts.

 

He went to town on the dead kid, pumping his cock up Dirk’s fuckhole in a kind of frenzy.  Bent forward over the corpse, Adam was looking directly into the boy’s dark face, able to see the foamy drool that still trickled over Dirk’s swollen purple lips and ran down his faintly stubbled cheek.  Milky pools of semen were starting to congeal over the dead fag’s bulging eyes; Dirk’s deathload had been epic—it was a shame he hadn’t been able to enjoy an orgasm so intense he’d hosed his own face.

 

Adam had enjoyed it, though, since it meant the meat was ready for him.  And he was almost ready for the meat…

 

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he moaned hoarsely.  Keeping Dirk’s kicks propped on his shoulders, Adam reached his right arm around and slammed it into the dead homo’s face with each muttered curse.  “Fuckin’ cocksuckin’ motherfucker [WHACK]…goddam homo meat [WHACK]…gonna cum [WHACK]…take my load, ya worthless faggot [WHACK]…gonna hose yer guts with—UUNNGH!!!”

 

Letting go of Dirk’s other leg, Adam grabbed the end of the cloth ligature.  As he flooded the dead twink’s ass with hot seething manspunk, he jerked the corpse’s head up off the ground and pummeled the face with his other hand, the brutal violence of his orgasm mirrored in the vicious assault on the corpse.

 

He came for nearly ninety seconds continuously, then spent another ninety jerking and spasming, with sperm still leaking from his thick, engorged shaft.  By the time he was done, he’d beaten the corpse’s face in; Dirk was practically unrecognizable.

 

It took another couple of minutes for Adam to get his breathing and heart rate back to normal.  Once his did, he pulled the leg of his shorts back down over his dick—he’d never undone or pulled the shorts down, he’d just whipped his manmeat out from under the cuff—and unlocked the stall door.

 

He crossed one of the sinks, leaving the stall door open with something like a sense of bravado.  The splayed, abused corpse would be clearly visible to anyone walking in the door.

 

Having washed his hands, Adam returned to the stall and retrieved Dirk’s shorts.  Running them under a sink faucet, he used them to clean off his dick, then to mop the dead kid’s cum off his chest.  Once he was done, he shoved them into the trash can.

 

He made one last stop back in the stall.  The fag had seemed to have the same shoe size as Adam, and he really liked the Nike Lebrons.  He pried them off the corpse, but otherwise left it as it was, nude, sprawled obscenely on the shitter floor, as he nonchalantly strolled out of the restroom.

 

There was no one nearby once he got outside.  Carrying the extra pair of kicks in one hand, he walked calmly and contentedly down the tree-shaded trail, whistling Turkey in the Straw.

 


 

It made the evening news.  The discovery of a second gay male, murdered and sexually assaulted in a public restroom in the same park within a year, attracted a great deal of comment; along with the other gay rapes and murders in town, it all added up to something alarming and the news commentators were unanimous in voicing their concern, especially since there had been that young boy killed so brutally last month…

 

Adam watched it with interest.  Joe watched with curiosity bordering on concern.

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.

M4M4Schoolboi

Joe had been on the clock for five days straight; he’d gotten home near dawn after working twenty hours in a row.  He ate, showered, and fell sound asleep.  He was exhausted.  There had been a problem at work that required a little extra effort.  Most of the time they were too surprised by Joe’s stealth approach to fight back.

 

When he awoke twelve hours later, his dick was stiff and aching.  The hardbodied stud grinned in pleasure at the thought that he had some time to kill—because that was exactly what it would be.  The sun had gone down, darkness had closed in and it was time to go find a cumdump so he could drain his balls.

 

He’d manage to pocket the phone of the last cunt he’d snuffed—that little faggot with the poppers—and was scrolling through the hookup apps looking for something interesting.  There were several apps; the fairy had evidently been a serious whore…

 

Joe paused for a moment.  A wry grin twisted his hard, handsome face with grim pleasure as he replayed that last snuff in his mind.  He was proud of that kill.  And the swelling bulge in his crotch showed that other motives had been involved as well.

 

And now they were back.  He needed to find a good n’ worthless homo, a pansy-ass sack of shit that he could enjoy killing.  He was looking for one that would give him the satisfaction, not just of a job well done, but of a job worth doing in the first place.

 

Flipping to the second screen on the phone, he found an app he’d never seen before—“Twinke”.  Curious, he opened it and started exploring.  It seemed to work by using the phone’s locator function to post messages from within a geographical range set by the user; the current setting was “w/in 10 miles.”  The app would post anonymous messages from members in that range, in the order they were received.

 

Intrigued, Joe scanned the list.  Nothing really caught his eye; the most recent message was an hour ago.  Must be a slow night.  Annoyed, the restless stud was about to close the app when a new message suddenly popped in at the top of the list.

 

Attached to the message was a photo; an amateur torso pic showing a boy’s chest, the gentle rise of his pectorals smooth and clean up to the peaks of his dark, stiff nipples.  There was a faint dark fuzz on the kid’s flat belly; it rippled over the faint hint of ab muscles above the navel.  Below was the text:

 

“NEED A POWER DADDY—

 

18yo WM, 5’9”, 130 lbs, blond hair blue eyes—I graduate next month and I wanna get my cherry popped before then.  Buff older men only, looking for someone who knows when to be gentle.  Ain’t gotta ride—you gotta come to my place.  420 friendly.  Reply w/ pic for details.”

 

Joe grinned with wild delight.  This one was fresh meat.  And Joe could be gentle.  He could be so gentle, he’d put the little faggot to sleep.  Forever.

 

The photo he sent back was enough to entice any fairy; it was a torso pic as well, showing every sculpted detail of Joe’s furry chest—the thick mounds of his pecs surmounted by hard, jutting nipples, the waves of wiry dark body hair covering the ripped six-pack abs…

 

…and below the waist, something special.  He’d left his fly partially unzipped, exposing the head of his dick, purple, engorged, glistening with pre-ejaculate.  Joe knew he was the first responder to the kid’s post—but even if he hadn’t been, he knew his pic would settle matters in his favor.  The virgin fagmeat would be his, to do with as he wanted.  And what he wanted was so very cruel…

 

He got dressed as he waited for the reply.  Zipping up his jeans—skin-tight and worn soft as velvet—he sat on the edge of the bed.  He grabbed his boots—a pair of Corcoran ten-inch leather field boots with steel toes—and had just laced the left one up around his calf, tucking the leg of the jeans inside, when the phone alerted.  The meat had responded.

 

“Hey man damn ur hot.  cum fuck me.  parents not home.  come to door on left side of house I got basement to myself”  This was followed by an address in a working-class neighborhood.

 

Grinning, Joe laced the other boot up tight.  He was gonna need some traction to put this little fucker down right.  Standing up, he caught his reflection in the mirror.  His heavily-muscled body, hairy and almost visibly oozing with testosterone, was his greatest asset in luring fuckmeat, and he took care of it as ruthlessly as he took care of all his business.

 

The hard-bodied alpha glanced around the room, looking for something else to wear.  It was a warm and humid evening; he didn’t want anything too clingy or sticky…

 

There it was—his leather vest.  It’d been a while since he’d worn it, but it’d be perfect for tonight.  Add a little dazzle to the teen punk’s last hour on earth, so to speak.  Hell, if the schoolboi was a virgin like he claimed, he’d probably blow his load just at the sight of Joe’s hyper-masculine, leather-clad body.

 

That was ok, though.  Joe knew from past experience that teen meat was so full of hormones, its balls would quickly refill with spunk.  No matter how hard the little motherfucker shot his wad, the experienced killer knew he’d be able to squeeze more boycum outta the fag when he was finally done with it and ready to blow his own load.

 

Joe stood up and headed briskly for his car.  When he got to it, he had to slide carefully into the driver’s seat—his dick was still hard at the thought of breaking in the schoolboi.  The drive itself took about twenty minutes, but after cruising by the given address, Joe took the precaution of parking the champagne-colored Camaro several streets away; it took another few minutes to walk to the house.

 

The neighborhood was and older one, the houses smaller and less well-kept than those near Joe’s address.  Half the streetlights were out, making the walk treacherous; the sidewalk slabs were broken and raised—some by nearly half a foot—by overgrown tree roots.  On the other hand, the hardbodied alpha was able to keep in the shadows—his powerful form, so erotically displayed in denim and leather, would have certainly drawn notice if anyone had happened to see him.

 

When he reached his destination, Joe quickly slipped around the side of the house and found the ground sloped down on that side, exposing enough of the basement wall that only a couple of steps down were needed to accommodate a door.  There was a light above the door, but it was off.  Joe stepped down and knocked.

 

The boy was already nude when he opened the door.  He stepped back, into the light, and allowed Joe to enter.  For a moment the kid said nothing, goggling the hulking stud, his jaw agape.  Then he gulped loudly and spoke.

 

“Fuck, man,” he aspirated breathily.  “Goddam, you’re so fuckin’ hot…”

 

He gave a curiously supplicatory smile.  “I, uh, I’m Colby,” the boy said, just barely managing to get the words out.

 

Colby was slight and slim, but not scrawny.  His gold-blond hair was only a few inches in length; the bangs had been styled so they stood up from his face.  The look was trendy, but it utterly failed to give him the illusion of being any taller; the top of his head barely reached Joe’s shoulder.

 

The boy’s face was broad, with smooth, clear cheeks and very pale eyes the might have been light blue or light green, depending on the lighting.  His lips were thick and full, giving him a somewhat petulant look; in fact, despite his obvious awe at his guest’s physique, there was an overwhelming impression of arrogant cockiness in the kid’s expression and manner.

 

“You a virgin, boy?” Joe grunted.

 

Colby’s silky-smooth chest with its small but erect nipples descended to his flat belly; below that, six inches of boycock jutted from a mass of gold pubes in which his thick, spunk-filled balls nestled like eggs.  At the sound of Joe’s voice, the kid’s dick spasmed visibly.  The sadistic killer smirked; he didn’t even need to play this one—the fish was already on the hook.

 

“I sucked dick before,” Colby said, eyeing Joe almost defiantly, as if challenging the stud’s tight to question him.  “But I ain’t never taken it up the ass.”

 

“Then bend over, bitch, an’ I’ll plug yer hole,” Joe jeered.

 

“Whoa there, sexy,” Colby replied nonchalantly after making a visible effort to overcome his mindless lust, “I want my first time to be special.  I want it rough, but that don’t mean it’s gotta be ghetto.  Take your time, dude.  Do me right.”

 

“Oh, I’m gonna do you right,” Joe growled, “Don’t worry about that, boy.  I’m gonna do ya so right you ain’t never gonna want another man after tonight.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

Colby grinned, the expression giving his face a mischievous, elfin look.  “Fuck yeah, man, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout.  C’mon in.”

 

The nude twink preceded Joe into the dark beyond the entryway, turning on the lights.  The basement was large and only half-finished, with carpet and painted cinderblock walls.  The overhead lighting was grim and stark, but sufficient to show that the area was partitioned off, not into separate rooms but into bays.  One contained a desk with a computer, another had a couple of cheap leather recliners facing a large-screen TV attached to a game console.  In the center of the basement, under the light, was a queen-sized bed.  The top sheet was intertwined in a pile with the blanket and pillows, but the full design of its gaudy floral pattern could be easily seen on the taut fitted sheet still stretched over the mattress.

 

Colby strode to the mismatched nightstand on the right side of the bed.  There was an ashtray on it; reaching into it, the teen pulled out a small wooden pipe and a lighter.  Taking a deep toke form the pipe, the boy sat on the bed, silent for a good thirty seconds before exhaling a thick blue cloud of sweetly pungent smoke.  He noticed that Joe was looking at a door in the opposite wall.

 

“That’s the bathroom, dude,” Colby said in a boastful tone, “And look around that corner—it’s a complete kitchen.  Well, the oven don’t work, but who fuckin’ cooks anyway, y’know?  Anyway, it’s all my own place.  The folks don’t come down here, so I can do what I want.  Not like they’re here tonight anyway—some kinda award dinner at Dad’s work.  I told ‘em I gotta test tomorrow I gotta study for.  I do, but it ain’t no biggie if I fail.  Hey, wanna hit?”  The boy took another hit from the pipe before offering it to Joe.

 

“Sure,” Joe said, accepting the pipe, then glancing significantly at the pile of twisted bedding.  “So you want it hard, huh?  Then clear that shit off the bed, boy—I’m gonna ride you like a fuckin’ bronco.”

 

The weed was sweet and strong; the little fuck had a good source.  While Colby’s back was turned, Joe unzipped his jeans and extracted his long, thick tube of manmeat from down inside his pants leg.  When Colby was done—it hadn’t taken him long; all he’d done was shove the bedding and the pillows off the other side of the bed onto the floor—he turned around and was confronted by Joe’s enormous cock, stiffening and throbbing.

 

“Goddam,” the punk gulped breathlessly, his pale eyes huge.  “Jesus, yer hung like a horse—d-on’t, uh, don’t hurt me, okay?”

 

Joe said nothing.

 

“So whaddaya want?  Want me to start suckin’ ya off?” the kid asked, his arrogance beginning to reassert itself.  Joe decided it was time to take control of the situation; he just wanted an opening.  That should be easy enough to find with this cocky little faggot.

 

Slowly shifting his thick muscled arms, Joe shrugged off the black leather vest.  He held it in one hand, allowing Colby to take several minutes letting his eyes wander over the older man’s bulked-out chest, tracing the contours of Joe’s massive furry pectoral muscles surmounted by the thick jutting tabs of his nipples.  The schoolboy’s gaze slipped down the alpha’s torso, taking in the ripped abs covered with a dark trail of hair that led down to the waistband beneath which his gigantic cock was dripping precum onto his glossy black combat boots.

 

The little homo was succumbing in awe to the sheer physical power of Joe’s body.  The experienced killer smirked and, holding out his leather vest, shoved the kid.  “Here,” he said gruffly, “Take care of this for me, dude, and I’ll treat ya right.”

 

Colby took the vest and wandered to the side of the room as if lost in thought.  There was a dresser next to the bathroom door; it was covered with what looked like dirty underwear.  The teen tossed the leather jacket casually on top.

 

It was the opening Joe had been looking for.  He waited for Colby to cross back to him.

 

“That’s yer idea of takin’ care of my fuckin’ leather?” he growled.  “Bitch, I’m gonna hafta teach you that you don’t ever disrespect a dude’s leather.  Down on yer knees, faggot, and start lickin’ my boots.  Put yer useless mouth to work, cunt—now.

 

The teen seemed taken aback by the sudden command.  Joe didn’t give him time to adjust his emotional bearings; grabbing the boy by the back of his head, the alpha forced him down.  “Lick that precum off my fuckin’ boots, boy,” Joe hissed.

 

Tentatively, Colby obeyed, sticking out his tongue and lapping up the salty smears of transparent pre-ejaculate.  “Keep goin’, ya little homo,” Joe demanded, “I wanna see you work the whole boot.”  Doing what he was told, Colby found his dick getting painfully stiff as he worked the older man’s combat boot, feeling the texture of the leather uppers and the nylon laces with the tip of his tongue.

 

“Fuck, man,” Colby gasped, raising his head, “Dude, I love yer boots.”

 

“Yeah?” Joe said.  He drew his right leg back, then kicked it viciously forward, catching the teen on the right side of his chest, up under the pec.  It wasn’t hard enough to do any permanent damage, but it had sufficient power to leave a bruise—and flip the punk onto his back.  “How about now?” the sadist jeered, “Ya likin’ ‘em now?”

 

“Wh-what’d ya wanna go an’ do that for?” Colby whined, blinking and rubbing the sore spot on his side.

 

“Cause it gets me off.  Anyway, you said you like it rough.  Whassa matter—you chicken out?”

 

“This isn’t what I wanted when I said I liked it rough,” the boy bitched, his entitled arrogance creeping back into his voice.  There was something about that tone of privileged complaint that set Joe on edge.

 

And Joe’s edge was razor-sharp.

 

“This ain’t about what you want, you worthless faggot,” he snarled, looming over the prone youth.  Lifting his left foot, he placed his boot in the center of Colby’s chest, right between the low rises of the boy’s pecs, his heel resting on the sternum.  Leaning forward very slightly, the older man put just enough weight on his left foot to make it difficult for the lean young punk to breathe.

 

Colby wheezed and grasped at Joe’s boot, trying to pry it off.  He was suddenly and painfully aware that he’d let in an incredibly powerful stranger, someone who might easily hurt him—and he didn’t think he’d be strong enough to stop him.  The impression grew much deeper as his eyes ran up the dude’s body.

 

His gaze had naturally started down at the black leather Corcoran boot that was grinding uncomfortably into his chest, from there it slowly traveled up the left leg.  Joe’s firm calf muscle and thick thigh were visible through the skin-tight faded denim.  From there, the massive jutting cock, a viscous drop of precum dangling from the tip—

 

“Aah!” he cried as the hot pearl of manjuice plunged down, splashing into his right eye with a burning sensation.  Joe smirked.

 

“Did that hurt, ya little pansy?  Fuck, you ain’t gonna like what I got planned for ya tonight, then.  Too fuckin’ bad.”

 

The alpha lifted his boot.  Colby inhaled deeply, feeling a moment of relief before the hardbodied sadist brought the boot back down again, this time on his face.  The teen squealed as he felt the deep tread grinding into the right side of his face.  His left eye stared frantically upwards, seeking the face of his assailant.

 

His view was almost vertical now, but past Joe’s narrow waist, the teen could still make out the bulging, fur-lined pectorals of the muscle-bound predator—they were hard to miss, with the large hard points of his nipples protruding.  Above, the alpha’s strong, hard jaw was obscured by the shadow of dark facial scruff that spread from cheek to cheek, split in the center by a contemptuously amused grin.  The older man’s eyes were lit from within by a sardonically malevolent grin.

 

Joe was not only enjoying this, he was making his enjoyment obvious to Colby.  He put more of his weight on his left foot, sinking the boot deeper into the kid’s face.  Colby’s hands scrabbled frantically over the smooth leather boot, trying desperately to pry it off, when there was a loud snap and the schoolboy cried out in pain.

 

Lifting his foot, Joe bent down to inspect the damage, but the broken cheekbone had left no external mark and hadn’t had enough time to cause swelling yet.  Disappointed, the alpha stood back up, considered for a moment, then raised his left foot high and stomped on Colby’s solar plexus, hard enough to leave the details of his tread as a bruise.

 

The crushing pain seemed to force the air completely out of the youth’s lungs, then lock them up.  As he curled instantly into a fetal position and tried desperately to inhale, he could hear Joe speaking, but he didn’t take the words in.  He was too busy trying not to pass out.

 

“Now yer feelin’ me, bitch.  See, raw meat like you needs to be tenderized a little.  Just lay back and relax, ya stupid cunt, and I’ll make damn sure you’re prepared for a real man’s cock.”

 

Colby managed to force air back into his lungs with a huge gasp.  He hadn’t followed the import of Joe’s words, but he’d vaguely understood the gist.  “D-don-don’t w-want—” he mumbled.  Joe kicked him in the left flank, hard.   Colby, still unable to regulate his breathing, could only moan.

 

“I already toldja this ain’t about what you want, you stupid fuckin’ fairy,” the alpha snarled.  Bending down and clamping a single hand around the kid’s throat, Joe hoisted him, kicking and struggling, into the air.  “It’s about what you need.  You need to know your place and purpose in this world, you little sack a’ shit, and I’m the man to teach ‘em to ya.  Saddle up, motherfucker, cause it’s time to learn.”

 

With a powerful lunge of his arm, Joe tossed Colby onto the bed.  The teen landed flat on his back, coughing and stunned, his long shaft of boycock lying limply between his spread legs.  His breath had only been cut off for about forty-five seconds, but it had seemed to be a terrifying eternity; the youth was still in too much pain and shock to process the words that had been spoken.

 

Colby still wasn’t sure what was happening.  The hot older stud had so perfectly suited his fantasy top, right down to the leather vest and the boots, that any premonition of danger that the kid might have had (not that he’d had any) would have been ignored.  In his natural arrogance, the teen had presumed that his smooth twink body would be treated with due reverence.

 

It was obvious that he was wrong; he was just too stupid to realize it until Joe suddenly appeared on the bed, forcibly parting his legs.  “W-wait—” Colby moaned, surprised at how much it hurt to speak.  He hadn’t realize how badly the right side of his face was swollen.

 

“I ain’t waitin’ for shit, faggot,” Joe snarled as he grabbed the schoolboy’s ankles and hoisted them into the air.  He leaned forward and Colby felt something warm, moist, and very large pressing against his asscheeks.  Realizing what was about to happen, he tensed in physical fear.

 

“N-no, man, don-don’t, not like oh dear fuckin’ god it hurts get it out getitoutGETITOUT!” he screamed as Joe plowed his massive tube of manmeat into the punk’s fuckhole, driving his shaft as deeply into the teen’s guts as he could.

 

With a vicious swipe of his strong hair forearm, Joe backhanded Colby across the face.  “Shaddup,” the older man barked, “This is whatcha fuckin’ wanted, ain’t it, boy?  Shaddup and take a real man’s dick, ya whinin’ little faggot!”

 

Unused to any kind of self-control, the teen kept moaning loudly.  The searing sense of impalement, of his tender asshole being torn open, kept virtually all rational thought at bay; the boy was operating on response to stimuli.  Every now and then, a fleeting lucid thought was spun up by the vortex of pain and fear that had become his reality.  One of them was a quick visualization of himself, seated over at the table, bent over an algebra textbook.

 

Another was the realization that in spite of everything, his own cock was hard; he could feel it, straining and oozing, slapping wetly against the alpha’s firm furry belly with every deep thrust up his ass.  He didn’t know that it was the inevitable result of Joe’s thick tool massaging his prostate—he didn’t need to know.  It just was.

 

Joe knew.  He also knew that the punk wasn’t going to be quiet.  “You goddam cockpig, I toldja to stop fuckin’ squealin’,” he muttered through ominously clenched teeth, “I swear to fuckin’ God, I’ll give ya something to squeal about.  Yer gonna die tonight, right here in yer fuckin’ bed, ridin’ my cock.  You feelin’ me here, asswipe?  No?”

 

Again, Colby heard the words, but could only stare blankly into the hard, scruff-covered face of the hardbodied top.  He hurt, oh God, he hurt so bad, he was so full of cock…

 

Then Joe wrapped his hands around Colby’s throat and began to squeeze, and everything changed.

 

The words Joe had spoken hit home; even the searing agony and psychological trauma of violent rape couldn’t compete with shock of sudden cessation of air.  Joe had told Colby he was gonna die; suddenly, Colby comprehended him.

 

Joe could see the comprehension in the schoolboi’s eyes, too—the way they widened, the desperate spark of terror flashing into existence like a newly-lit beacon.  “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely as he bent he face closely to Colby’s, grinning erotically, “Now yer feelin’ me, faggot.”

 

Then all he had to do was hold on and let the teen do the work.  The young ones were always good at this; they fought it hard, their strong bodies milking his shaft vigorously as they struggled vainly to stave off a long, slow death.  And as Joe had expected, the virgin cunt was especially talented in this.

 

Colby was too busy trying to breathe to appreciate his guest’s enjoyment of his body—something that he would have taken great pleasure in, in other circumstances.  As it was, the schoolboi was being crushed in the iron grip of claustrophobic panic.  He was trapped, inexorably trapped under a heaving, pumping mass of muscle and fur.

 

The irony was lost on Colby—he’d wanted so badly to be pinned under a hot stud, getting relentlessly fucked, and now that it was happening, he was doing everything within his power to stop it.  Problem was, of course, that his power was nothing compared to that of the hot stud’s.

 

As the strong hands remorselessly crushed his windpipe, the teen boy clawed frantically at Joe’s arms.  His nails abraded the strongman’s skin, but did little other damage.  Joe merely smirked.  “G’wan, ya little fuck,” he jeered, “Keep fightin’ it.  Maybe if ya try hard enough, I’ll let ya breathe.  If ya make me cum, I might even let ya live.  How’s that sound, ya sad little piece a’ shit?  Milk a load outta my cock and I might not snuff ya.  Whattaya got to lose?”

 

If the youth had been able to control his fear, he might have tried to take Joe up on his facetious offer.  Of course, if the spoiled teen punk had had that kind of self-control, he wouldn’t have been in this situation in the first place.  As it was, he continued to thrash violently, his colon spastically clenching Joe’s throbbing shaft.

 

The sadistic alpha tightened his grip on the kid’s throat, feeling the esophagus bend and distort beneath his fingers as he applied pressure.  The deeper his fingers sank into Colby’s airway, the more energetically the kid flailed.  His bare heels drummed on Joe’s taut, denim-covered ass, doing little damage but providing a brisk rhythmic beat to his own murder.

 

“Y’know,” Joe murmured, almost philosophically, “Yer parents are probably gonna be the ones to find your splayed-out, reamed-out corpse.  That turns me on, faggot.”

 

It had been almost two minutes since Colby had last inhaled.  He was wracked with pain, but not the pain of the boot-stomping he’d endured or even the pain of brutal assrape; these had faded as the mortal pain of asphyxiation had gained ground.  There was a desperate burning sensation in his chest, as if his lungs were being sucked inside-out into a vacuum.  The crushing agony in his throat was horrific—worse, the inability to breathe had triggered an uncontrollable urge to retch; his entire torso was wracked with vomitous spasms that ended futilely in his closed-off throat.

 

The worst, though, seemed to come from two different and widely spaced sensations that somehow seemed inextricably linked.  The terrible pounding pain in his head, the jackhammering of his frenetic pulse inside his skull, felt as if it was on the verge of literally blowing his head wide open.  And pulsing, swelling and subsiding excruciatingly at the same tempo, the teen’s balls were sinks of unbearable heat that radiated up his aching dick.

 

As his face darkened and swelled, violent black explosions began to blot out Colby’s field of vision.  He didn’t know that blood vessels were rupturing as his large pale eyes bulged grotesquely from their sockets.  Sections of his brain were starting to die at an accelerated rate; he could still feel his painfully throbbing cock, but not the drool being forced out past his black protruding tongue.

 

His frantic, desperate clawing was purely instinctual at this point; he was unaware of the fact that he was slapping ineffectually at Joe’s massive pecs—it was as useless as beating a marble statue.  As another section of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation, the teen’s fingers curled and locked involuntarily; he raked them through Joe’s coarse, wiry chest hairs, his nails leaving vivid red streaks on the skin underneath.

 

And throughout the entire ordeal, he continued to buck his hips and clench his sphincter and colon on an increasingly rapid tempo.  Joe’s hard muscled body glistened in the bleak overhead light as he held on, feeling his sperm seething in his balls, feeling the dying schoolboy sweating and shuddering beneath him, the way the teen’s smooth skin slid erotically beneath his flesh—

 

—and tensing his body automatically, he felt a sudden give beneath his hands, accompanied by loud and instinctively satisfying crunch as he crushed Colby’s trachea into a bloody mangled mass of cartilage.

 

It was as if a switch had been flipped for them both.  Too much of Colby’s brain was dead for him to realize consciously that his throat had collapsed and that death was inevitable; even if it hadn’t been, he’d already suffered massive brain damage.  There was enough of him left to suffer, though; the nerve endings were still intact, as was the pain center deep in the cerebellum.  And there was a tiny corner in which what was left of the teen’s cocky, vain personality screamed into the agonizing darkness.

 

For Joe, the simmering stew of manseed in his scrotum finally boiled over.  Gripping the schoolboy’s throat tightly, he jerked his hands in opposite directions, literally wringing Colby’s neck as he pumped his load into the dying kid’s guts.

 

As dark fireworks overwhelmed his vision and his mind, Colby felt the heat flowing into him.  Despite the fact that he was exiting his short, useless life in a howling nightmare of pain and terror, there was something somehow—satisfying—about the sensation.  The dying spark of his craven faggot soul felt a brief sense of relief as his aching, hormone-filled teen balls drained spontaneously, thick ropy strands of boycum erupting convulsively from his jutting cock and spewing wad after wad of teen spunk over his smooth, slick belly and into Joe’s sweat-moistened body fur.

 

It took Joe a few minutes to regain some composure; after a bit, he stopped shuddering and gasping and was able to pull his still-hard cock out of the teen’s corpse.  It had taken him a little longer than usual because the schoolboy’s body had continued to convulse and tremble after death, milking the last drop of manseed from Joe’s engorged member.

 

Joe stepped into the bathroom and wetted a hand towel at the sink; the bathroom was filthy, but the hand towel didn’t seem to have been used.  Based on the state of the bathroom, the lazy little homo probably didn’t even know what it was for.  Once he was done with it, he dropped it in the toilet and flushed it.  The towel vanished from sight before getting stuck; Joe watched the bowl start to overflow before leaving the room, having already tucked his potent manhood back into his jeans.

 

Back in the bedroom area, he grabbed his leather vest.  As he slipped it on, he admired his kill.  The schoolboi was sprawled in the center of the bed, his legs spread wide with a dark stain between them where Joe’s cum had overflowed the slut’s ass.  The kid’s belly and chest were covered with his own spunk—it literally looked like quarts of it, already sticky and drying to a glaze—and his ghastly black face, swollen and staring blankly at the ceiling, showed clearly the horrible slow torture of his rape and murder.

 

It was hot as fuck.  He couldn’t help admiring it, even as the carpet under his boots became sodden from water leaking out of the bathroom.

 

Suddenly there was sound from around the corner.  A light appeared there, showing the silhouette of someone standing at the top of a staircase.  “Colby?” a woman’s voice called out, “Are you down there?  We’re back.”

 

Joe pressed himself against the wall, keeping silent.

 

“It’s a shame you couldn’t come, Colby—your dad got a twenty-year service award.  It’s a twenty-five dollar gold piece!  Once he’s out of his suit, I’ll have him come down and show it to you.”

 

The door closed.  It took Joe no more than thirty seconds to locate Colby’s phone and pocket it, and another thirty to get out of the house by the basement exit.

 

As he turned onto the highway acceleration ramp, he caught a glimpse of a police car in his rearview mirror, heading in the direction in which he’d left.  He grinned—those people would never realize the favor he’d done for them, offing that worthless leech.  Oh well, no true artist was appreciated in his own time.

Carlos Solo–A Bad Deal

Carlos drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel.  Where was the little faggot?  He shoulda shown up by now.

 

Most of the larger casinos had massive employee parking garages or some kind of transportation service, but the Magic Carpet, as the little hole in the wall on the north edge of the Strip was called, couldn’t aspire to anything so grand.  The workers parked in an open lot three blocks to the east, and this was where Carlos was waiting.

 

He wasn’t sure why he’d gone into the Magic Carpet in the first place.  He’d been bored, and things with Nick had hit something of a dry spell; no new commissions had come in for a few weeks.  Nick had remained cheerful, utilizing his videography skills on more legitimate projects like porn films.

 

Carlos, though, had been left high and dry.  It hadn’t taken too long for the sick hatred and lust to bubble over in his perverse soul; tonight, he’d finally been overwhelmed and needed to leave the condo.  He needed to get out, to wander the street—to hunt for new prey.  He needed to kill.

 

It was late on a Sunday night, and while the Strip wasn’t crowded to the insane levels it reached on Friday or Saturday nights, it was still clogged with enough traffic to ensure that the hulking, muscled psycho didn’t spend too ling cruising it.  He’d pulled the Mercedes convertible off the main road into a parking lot and wandered into the first place he came to, almost on autopilot.

 

The Magic Carpet was more of a slot palace than a full casino, but there was a small pit in the back with four blackjack tables, a roulette wheel and a craps table.  Carlos sat down at a five-dollar limit blackjack table and began playing, practicing his card counting while watching the crowd, trying to spot a good piece of fuckmeat.

 

In fact, he’d gotten so busy counting and watching that he hadn’t noticed when the dealers had rotated, each one moving one table to the left with the last one in line taking a break.  It was only when he looked up that Carlos saw Dino.

 

The dealer was young—he had to be at least twenty-one to work in the casino, but he looked considerably younger.  He wore the same outfit as the other dealers, a white tuxedo shirt with his name tag pinned to the chest, black slacks and black dress shoes. Dino had short black hair; there was a somewhat melancholy expression on his young face that his large brow eyes, fringed with long lashes, seemed to enhance.  Above his full red lips, the kid was trying to grow a moustache; far from making him seem older, the growth of black facial hair emphasized the boy’s youth.

 

As Carlos studied the kid, he realized that Dino was studying him back.  There was no mistaking the way the boy’s large, lascivious eyes were glancing from under those long, flirtatiously feminine lashes.

 

Carlos knew he’d found his fagmeat for the night.

 

Dino, on the other hand, knew he’d finally found a hot rough trade stud to plow his hole.

 

The kid had zeroed in on Carlos the moment he’d seen him, lust lighting up the homo’s eyes like a signal flare as he stared.  The ex-con wasn’t hiding his physical assets; he was a natural draw for any nearby fag.  The dark, unshaven haze that covered Carlos’s strong jaw accented the aggressive skinhead look of his recently-shaved scalp.  Around his neck, Dino could see that there were some letters tattooed, but in the dim lighting, the dealer couldn’t make them out.  He could clearly see the thick gold necklace, though.

 

The alpha’s jeans were tight enough to make the size and shape of his massive junk obvious to anyone who so much as glanced at his crotch, while the firm roundness of his muscular ass seemed to be almost deliberately displayed.  The jeans were black; so were his leather harness boots, and it was hard to tell where one left off and the other began.  Above the waist, Carlos wore nothing but a thin white cotton wifebeater.

 

It had been a warm day and Carlos’s skin glistened with a slight sheen of perspiration that dampened the wifebeater just to the point of transparency.  The sleeve of his tattoos on his right arm gleamed; the winged skull inked on his left bicep flashed and winked at Dino as the latter stood entranced by the convict’s broad, over-developed chest.  The young dealer could see Carlos’s large jutting nipples through the thin cotton; hell, he could see the dark mass of body fur that ran down the ripped abs to vanish below the thick leather belt around the alpha’s waist.

 

Dino could feel his dick getting stiff; he wanted this fucker inside him, wrecking his hole.  And then he made eye contact.

 

And he knew.  He knew it was gonna happen.

 

They couldn’t speak; there were three other men and an old woman at the table, and Ralph, the pit boss, was practically breathing down his neck.  One of the other dudes was drunk and casually tossing out seventy-five and hundred-dollar bets—and winning.  The luck of the drunk, maybe, but it was concerning.  Ralph had to keep an eye on it.

 

Thirty minutes of bad shoes and negative counts, Dino was tapped on the shoulder and it was time to move to the next table down the line.  Ralph was still standing at the table, eyeing the action when Dino left.

 

The next table to the right, where Dino went next, was empty—which wasn’t really a surprise, it was a twenty-five dollar minimum table.  In this dive, that was a lot of money, and there were still spaces left at the lower limit tables.  No one was gonna come bother Dino.

 

At least, not till Carlos sat down, grinning.  This close, Dino could read the uneven prison ink on his neck—it said “revenge”.

 

Dino was twenty-two and this was his first job in Vegas.  He’d been working at a place down in Laughlin—lotta truckers taking detours from I-40 for a little gambling and a little fucking; Dino was happy to help with both.  But dealing paid jack shit.  He needed to go to Vegas—not that the dealers were paid much more there, but there was more money around in general, so Dino would have a better chance of getting some one way or another.

 

And one way was as good as another for him.  The Magic Carpet was a cheap dive, but it was owned by a branch of a company that was a major player in the world of Vegas casinos.  That meant that Dino had access to decent insurance and other benefits.  It barely covered the rent, even for the roach motel he was living in, but once he got settled in he might be in a position to better himself.  After all, if nothing else come up, he could turn tricks.

 

At the moment, though, something better had come up—his dick.  The moment he’d set eyes on Carlos, he wanted the stud so bad his asshole itched.  He could tell just by looking that this dude’s cock was big enough to scratch that itch.  The massive ridge of manflesh, obviously semi-erect, was plainly visible through the skin-tight denim in Carlos’s crotch.

 

And now here he was, alone with him.

 

“Revenge?” Dino asked nonchalantly, nodding at the tattoo as he dealt a round of cards, “Revenge on who?  For what?”

 

“Anyone who tries to fuck me over,” Carlos growled, his eyes intense under his dark brows.  “I’ll fuck ‘em up good and hard.”

 

The aggressive persona and the deep bass rumble of the muscled skinhead’s voice sent an almost electrical thrill down the length of Dino’s dick.  He kept dealing mechanically, not noticing that Carlos was counting cards perfectly and varying his bet with each new hand according to the count.

 

What he did notice were Carlos’s powerful muscles gleaming with sweat, the way the bicep on the dude’s right arm bulged under its thick covering of colorful ink, the way the skull on the left arm seemed to wink at him with every movement the hardbodied stud made.  Dino became so distracted he forgot to offer insurance on a dealer ace and flipped over a blackjack.  Blushing with embarrassment, he had to call over a pit boss and explain his mistake, but since Carlos had a sixteen anyway, there was no objection to simply moving on.

 

Once the pit boss left, Dino cleared his throat.  “You, uh, you sure look like you could fuck up anyone you wanted.  You must work out, dude; you’re built as fuck.”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said laconically, “I hit the gym almost every day.  Came here straight from there, in fact.  Don’t know how long I’m gonna stay, though—kinda sore after my workout.”  The look he gave Dino was surreptitious and suggestive.

 

“Um, I, uh, I’m stuck here for another hour,” Dino began hesitantly, “But if, uh, you could maybe come back then, I could give you a massage.  Honestly, I’m really good.  Get a lotta tension outta your, um, muscles…”

 

Carlos’s hard masculine face broke into a leering grin.  “Yeah, I got one muscle in particular that needs a good massage.  An hour?  Sure, dude, I’ll be here.  I’ll meet ya by yer car and bring ya back to it later—where’d ya park?”

 

And that was how the sexual predator ended up sitting in a parking lot, waiting for his prey to walk into the trap.  At least there weren’t any cameras around; it was too far from the casino building to be covered by its security.

 

Via the rear-view mirror, Carlos suddenly detected motion behind him.  The kid was walking swiftly towards the Mercedes convertible.  As he approached the passenger door, Carlos unlocked it.  “Wow, nice car,” Dino commented as he slid into the seat next to the muscled stud.

 

“Buckle up,” Carlos said dryly.

 

“Is it a long way?” Dino asked.

 

“No,” Carlos replied, “But I like to drive hard.”

 

Heading east to Paradise, Carlos had them back at the condo in just over fifteen minutes.

 

“You weren’t kidding,” Dino said as they headed up in the elevator, “You do like to drive hard.”

 

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, boy,” the alpha said evenly.  Dino didn’t respond; he was too busy shifting his stiffening cock around inside his slacks so that it had room to expand.  He was still adjusting himself as the elevator came to a stop and he followed Carlos into the darkened condo.

 

Carlos didn’t bother to turn on the lights; Dino had to follow him carefully in the dark.  But once he got the bedroom door open, it was a different matter.  Dino didn’t need the lights on to see; the room was aglow with the bright lights of the Strip coming in through the broad picture window.  The view was magnificent.

 

“Damn,” Dino muttered, awestruck.  “How much does a place like this cost?”

 

Carlos didn’t bother to answer.  He didn’t need to; as soon as Dino turned around and looked at the bed for the first time, the kid’s mind was no longer on the view.  “Why’s yer bed like that?” he asked.  “What’s with the plastic?”

 

“Yer gonna gimme a rubdown, right?” Carlos rejoined.  “I got some mineral oil here for you to use.  Don’t wanna get it on the sheets, so I stripped the bed and laid down a layer of painter’s plastic.”

 

Dino paused for a moment.  “That’s a good idea.  And I don’t wanna get any on my work clothes, either.  Here, lemme get outta of them.”  The way Dino’s hands scrabbled at the buttons on his tux shirt, it was obvious he was happy at finding a plausible reason to strip.  At the same time, he kicked off his black loafers; gathering them, he folded his shirt carefully and placed it on top of them.  His name tag, still pinned to the shirt, was clearly visible.

 

He noticed Carlos’s scornful glance as he shimmied gingerly out of his dress slacks, scrupulously avoiding making any new crease or wrinkle.  “Yeah, I know,” the dark-haired boy said with a wry grin, “But I gotta pay to keep ‘em clean and pressed.  It adds up, man…”

 

Under the slacks, the kid was wearing basic white cotton briefs.  After he was done arranging his slacks, he turned to face Carlos.  His chest was broad but slim, smooth with large dark nipples jutting proudly.  A very faint haze, almost peach fuzz, ran down Dino’s smooth flat belly and vanished beneath the elastic waistband encircling the boy’s narrow waist.  The white cotton was unable to completely contain Dino’s large dick; a good three inches hung out on the right side, pressed up against his firm, smooth inner thigh.

 

As the kid bent down and pulled off his socks, Carlos peeled off his wifebeater.  Now it was Dino’s turn to stare at the alpha’s body, and he stood stunned at the ex-con’s huge muscular torso.  Dino let his eyes linger on the older man’s thick hubcap pecs and his ripped, fur-covered abs.

 

“Fuck,” the kid gasped, “I ain’t never seen anyone as built as you—not in person, I mean.  Geez, I bet you gotta work them hot hard muscles real good to get ‘em that big.  No wonder you’re sore.”

 

“You like my body, boy?” Carlos asked.  Dino, still staring breathlessly at the alpha, didn’t notice the contemptuous ring in his voice.  “Get over here and start making it feel good, then.”

 

Carlos sat on the edge of the bed, facing the window.  Dino scrambled onto the bed and scooted behind him.  Kneeling, he faced Carlos’s back and began massaging his shoulders.

 

“C’mon, boy, is that the best you can do?  I can barely feel ya,” the sadist jeered.

 

“Jesus, dude,” Dino grunted, digging his fingers in as hard as he could, “Your muscles are like fuckin’ iron.  I’m doin’ the best I can.”

 

After a few minutes, the youth gave up; it was obvious that he wasn’t making any progress on Carlos’s back.  “Lie down, man,” he said.  “Maybe I need to try somewhere else.”

 

Carlos laid back on the bed and Dino climbed on, straddling the hardbodied alpha.  Reaching down, he laid both hands on Carlos’s bulging pectorals and began fondling them, letting his fingers slide up and work the thick protruding nipples.

 

“That ain’t no massage, boy,” Carlos growled.

 

Dino lowered his hands, running them through the coarse, wiry fur that covered Carlos’s chest.  He let his hands drop even lower, one exploring every detail of the alpha’s washboard abs—and with the other, he reached around behind him and placed it on Carlos’s crotch, grasping the sex killer’s cock and squeezing it.

 

What happened next happened with both the suddenness and ultra-illuminated clarity of a lightning bolt.  Carlos’s hand shot up and clamped around Dino’s throat; at the same time, the alpha rolled to the side and kept on going.  Before Dino could take another breath, Carlos was on top of him, pinning him to the bed by his throat.

 

With his windpipe closed off, Dino wasn’t able to speak, but he didn’t really need to.  Fear, anger, and a kind of hurt bewilderment all crossed his face as he stared at Carlos.  Fear was dominant as the hot top he lusted after so badly suddenly transformed into a demon.

 

“You goddam little cocksucker,” Carlos snarled, his face contorted with rage.  “What’d ya grab my dick for—you think I’m a faggot?  I ain’t no faggot, motherfucker, I’m a real man.  You know what real men do to pieces of homo shit like you?  Huh?  No?  Then I’m gonna teach ya, boy.  Cum-drinkin’ fags like you gotta learn to respect us real men.  Ya feel me, fag?  No?  Yer damn sure gonna be feelin’ me here soon, I can promise yer sorry ass!”

 

This Jekyll and Hyde change had come so suddenly from nowhere that Dino was unable to adjust mentally.  The guy was kidding, surely.  As Carlos ceased to speak and started to remove his hand from Dino’s throat, the kid ventured to ease the tension with a laugh.

 

It was a bad idea.  The muscles hidden under the colorful sleeve of tattoos on the alpha’s right arm bulged and relaxed with a sudden explosive use of force—he punched Dino straight in the face, a powerhouse blow right from the shoulder that was rewarded with a loud crunching, squelching sound.

 

Dino cried out, then moaned, cradling his broken nose.  “I wasn’t joking, faggot,” Carlos said quietly, standing over the boy.

 

“Wh-what the fuck!” Dino yelled.  His voice had a stuffed-up quality, as if he had a head cold.  His sinuses weren’t blocked with snot—they were blocked, at least partially, with his own gristle and blood.  “You fuckin’ came on to me, dude!  What’s yer goddam problem?!?”

 

Carlos lunged back down at the kid.  Dino saw him coming—saw the white-hot flash of rage in the hulking ex-con’s eyes—but didn’t even have time to cower.  “No!” was all he had time to shriek before Carlos began pummeling the prostrate youth.

 

The first shower of blows fell on Dino’s face, blackening both eyes, splitting his lips and knocking out an incisor and two molars.  After a moment, though the raging muscle stud transferred his attention to the boy’s lean, smooth body and began pounding on his chest, knocking Dino’s breath out of him.

 

Just as the unlucky punk managed to take another lungful of air, Carlos expertly aimed his fist and scored a direct hit on Dino’s solar plexus.  The jarring electrical jolt that ran through his body and seemed to paralyze his respiratory system at least had the advantage of making Carlos’s vicious gutpunches seem almost minor by comparison.

 

Carlos drew his fist back one more time, paused, then lowered it anticlimactically.  Shaking his hand out, he turned his back on Dino and walked over to the mirror.  He admired himself in it for a while, running his hands down his furry, muscled chest for a while.  He spent a little time thumbing his nipples until they were stiff and as hard as granite.  The entire time, he kept one eye on the brutalized young man writhing in agony on the bed, gagging as he frantically tried to breathe.

 

He knew it was time to go back to the meat when it started to talk.

 

“…s-sorry…” Dino muttered, his raspy voice just barely audible.  “So so-sorry, pl-pl-please, man, do wh-whatev-ever ya want, j-just don-don’t hurt m-me no more…”

 

Carlos walked slowly and deliberately to the edge of the bed.  Forcing the swollen lids of his eyes apart, Dino peered up at the stud, hoping for some sign of mercy.

 

What he saw was a massively-muscled alpha looming over him.  It was a sight he’d always dreamed about but this had taken a surreal—and physically painful—turn into nightmare territory.  And then Carlos’s hand started to move.  Dino flinched, knowing that he was going to get hit again—

 

—and the hardbodied convict jerked his zipper down; the sound was eerily similar to tearing cloth.  Dino pried his eyes open again, but when he saw Carlos pulling his dick out, the kid’s eyes widened on their own.  It just kept coming and coming; Dino couldn’t believe there was that much manmeat stuffed down the alpha’s pant leg.

 

It had been semi-soft while it was still trapped; now, as Dino watched, it grew visibly stiffer—and longer.  The tip of the huge purple head was already glistening with precum; the harder it got, the more began to ooze out in transparent drops.

 

“You wanna know what a real man does to a piece a’ shit faggot like you, boy?  Yer about to find out.”

 

Dino’s gaze was dragged upwards from the enormous, ominous cock, sweeping up the dark body hair that rolled over Carlos’s perfect six-pack abs.  The wiry fur widened as it went up, spreading across the hardbodied psycho’s massive pecs where his still-hard nips were clearly visible in the colorful display of lights reflected into the room.  The tats on the alpha’s thickly-muscled arms were painfully clear as well; the winged skull on Carlos’s left bicep suddenly seemed to take on new meaning for Dino.

 

And above that, above the gold chain circling the prison ink, that hard, masculine, angry face, with the shaved head and the unshaven scruff…and those eyes, aglow with cold rage and hot lust…

 

The alpha lunged forward, grabbing Dino by the neck and pinning him to the cold plastic film covering the bed.  He leaped onto the bed kneeling on his left knee with his right boot planted two feet from Dino’s head, directly in his line of sight.  He squeezed the cunt’s neck—not enough to cut off his air; just enough to get his attention.

 

“Ya wanna know what a real man like me wants to do to homo asswipes like you?  Huh?  I wanna stick things into ya.  Betcha like that idea, dontcha, you fuckin’ pervert?  You already seen one of the things I’m gonna stick into ya, now lemme show ya the other.”

 

The knife he pulled out of his harness boot had a couple of things in common with his dick.  Both were incredibly hard—and like his cock, Dino watched in stunned amazement as the knife just kept coming and coming.  By the time Carlos had fully extracted it from his boot, Dino was staring at a blade that was itself a full seven inches of viciously serrated razor-sharp carbon steel.

 

Dino got one good long look at the knife, then flat-out refused to believe in it.  It made no sense; it didn’t belong to his world.  He was here for a good fuck and yeah the guy was a lot rougher than he wanted—but he wasn’t gonna die tonight.  It couldn’t happen; all he had to do was not believe that it could.

 

But it was there, right in front of him.

 

Before the abused twink could come to terms with imminent death, Carlos gave him something else to think about.  Kneeling, the hulking alpha parted Dino’s legs like he was trying to break a wishbone; the sudden jerk of pain in his groin brought the bewildered faggot back into the present.  He looked down at the huge furry torso between his legs and blinked but the realization of what was happening was a little tardy. The second the kid realized he was getting fucked, Carlos slammed his massive hog all the way home, his pubes flush with Dino’s smooth bubble asscheeks, the wiry hair scraping and scratching them.

 

Not that Dino felt the scratching.  He was far too focused on the horrific in his rectum, the brutal slashing sensation as Carlos’s shaft tore its way relentlessly through his colon, ripping apart his sphincter, plowing over his prostate and embedding itself deep in his guts.

 

Dino had been impaled by Carlos’s cock.  He was literally full of dick; he’d never felt so full of anything in his life.

 

It hurt like fuck.  Instinctively, he began beating on Carlos’s chest, his own cries of pain drowning out the faint, futile thumping of his fists on that strong, sculpted body.  The hardbodied sadist grinned demoniacally and with a powerful thrust of his hips, shoved his cock even deeper into the suffering homo.  Dino screeched, his hands curling into claws and clutching fistfuls of Carlos’s chest hair as the boy desperately tried to ride out the spasm of agony that convulsed his colon.

 

Carlos was prepared for that.  He held the blade up to Dino’s face.  “Shaddup and let go or I’ll give somethin’ to really scream about, faggot,” he snarled.

 

Sobbing hysterically, Dino managed to regain enough possession to force his hands to relax.  He kept his crying at a low volume but was unable to stop it.  “P-pl-please…pl-please…” he moaned, “St-stop…s-stop…ple-please…no-no more…”

 

“I’m just gettin’ started,” Carlos said.  “This is what it feels like to get fucked by a real man, cunt.  Ya like it?  Yeah?  Yer dick sure does, ya little fuckin’ pervert; look how hard yer fag cock is. See, I’m gonna ream yer worthless little faggot fuckhole out, then I’m gonna show ya my trick for gettin’ ya all nice an’ tight again.  Cool, huh?  Here’s a hint on how I do it, bro—it involves pain.  A whole fuckload of pain.”

 

The heavily-muscled stud bent down over the young dealer.  Dino’s vision was blurred with pain and fear, but at this close distance, he could see individual beads of sweat tricking down Carlos’s chest, moistening the fur without matting it.  The small passage left through the remains of his nostrils was filled with the musky, pheromone-laden scent of sexually excited males that filled the room and the testosterone in his own system responded. Despite his physical agony and his mental terror, Dino became aware that his painfully erect cock had begun leaking a slow but continuous trickle of precum.

 

This was a nightmare.  This couldn’t be happening.  This dude was gonna fuck him up so bad…no, he couldn’t think about that…dear God why was his dick hard and leaking?

 

Dino reached the end of his endurance.  Mentally, he checked out.  Carlos knew the moment it happened; the pansy became limp and compliant underneath him.  He’d been expecting it—he hadn’t known exactly when it would happen, but he’d whacked enough fairies by now to recognize the inevitable mental collapse.  Meat just couldn’t take the realization that it was meat.

 

Well, that just meant it was time to tighten the meat’s fuckhole a bit.  With a cheerful, almost boyish smile—and without missing a beat in the vicious, merciless thrusting of his thick engorged shaft—Carlos fondled the handle of his knife.

 

“Hey, dude,” he said, “Time to lissen up and get the point.”

 

Reversing the tip of the blade, the powerful alpha plunged the knife into Dino’s flat, heaving belly, the point penetrating the kid’s navel.  The cold razor-sharp steel sliced through the boy’s tender, smooth flesh and parted the layer of muscle underneath like it was wet paper before lodging deep into the unlucky homo’s intestines.

 

Dino had gotten the point, and he was no longer able to ignore it.  The moment the blade pierced his skin, his swollen eyes widened and he gasped in agony.  The slashing pain that tore through his abdomen was somehow cold, and the sensation of hot blood flowing inside his guts seemed to amplify the excruciating torment.

 

Carlos had slammed the blade down with enough force to drive the air out of Dino’s lungs.  By the time he was able to inhale, the sadistic alpha was twisting the knife in the wound, grinding the sharp serrations on the blade into the raw, mangled flesh and shredding it.  This new pain was even worse than the agony in his reamed, raped asshole.  Despite a lungful of oxygen, the kid found himself unable to scream; his entire body went rigid in an attempt to keep from moving against the blade that was run through his gut.  Dino could only squeal and mewl his pain to the uncaring world.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Carlos said, his cruel glee increasing as Dino’s agony became more intense, “Squeal like the fuckin’ cockpig you are, bitch.  Feels good, huh?  I can tell ya love it, shitsack; yer ass is grabbing my cock like it wants more.  Well don’t worry, cumdump—” here the sadist pulled the knife out of Dino’s gut with a swift jerk “—I’m gonna give ya plenty more.  I’m doin’ ya right, fuckwad; you ain’t gonna bleed out.”

 

Carlos bent forward, almost lying flat on Dino, his hard, hairy belly pressed against the kid’s smooth flat abs.  There was little blood from the wound; the slow bleeding from Dino’s shredded entrails was mostly internal.  Which wasn’t to say that the knife itself was clean.  When the sick sex killer held the blade up, just four inches from his victim’s face, the poor kid could clearly see his own blood smeared down the seven-inch length of viciously-sharpened steel.  He could see tiny scraps of stringy meat caught in the cruel serrations.

 

At any rate, Carlos made damn sure the meat knew what was what.  “Ya see that shit caught on my blade, dude?  That’s yer fuckin’ guts.  You’re lookin’ at yer own guts, faggot.  Bet that hurts—bet it hurts bad.   An’ you just fuckin’ love it, dontcha, ya fuckin’ cocksuckin’ pervert?  Yer goddam dick is still hard an’ leakin’, boy, so I know yer gettin’ off real good.  Try not to blow yer fag load when I do this—”

 

Before Dino had time to realize that Carlos was no longer holding the knife in front of him, the muscled hardman had whipped it around and driven it into the punk’s exposed, vulnerable flank.  The blade sheared through skin and muscle on Dino’s left side, just under the ribcage, and speared his liver, completely transfixing the organ.

 

The gut stab had been horrible.  This was organ trauma; it was on a whole new level.  Instinctively, Dino’s hand’s shot up, looking for something to brace themselves on, and clamped onto whatever was available—Carlos’s thick, bulging biceps.  Despite the slight sheen of sweat that covered the top’s skin, Dino held on, his entire body stiffening involuntarily as physical shock set in.

 

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Dino heard the alpha whisper, “That’s it.  That’s how ya work a real man’s cock.”  Again, Carlos twisted the knife in the wound, but this time he did it slowly, letting the slim youth trapped beneath him savor the feeling of the incremental damage to his internal organ.

 

Rigidly immobile, pinned to the bed in this strange room by a huge cock and a huge blade, Dino couldn’t breathe deeply enough to cry out; his shallow, irregular respiration only allowed him to emit a low keening sound, somewhere between a moan and a sob.  His face was still badly swollen from the beating he’d endured; even though the color had drained form it, it was still mute testimony on its own of how badly he’d been made to suffer.  But that had been nothing compared to this.

 

In spite of the nightmarish agony, Dino still refused to believe he was being snuffed.  To the extremely limited extent that he was able to think lucidly, his thoughts turned to how he was going to get out of this situation, how quickly he’d be able to summon help…and then Carlos twisted the blade again.  As the searingly cold agony wracked his lithe torso, the faggot punk went rigid again, his body tense and shuddered—and he caught sight of Carlos’s face.

 

The heavily-muscled thug was grinning down at the tortured youth, physical pleasure written all over his hard, scruffy face.  Noticing that he had the meat’s attention, he couldn’t resist.  “I can feel you suffer,” the sex killer whispered erotically.  “I can feel every twitch of yer fagmeat along my cock.  Every…little…twitch,” he said slowly, grinding the blade into Dino’s side with every word.

 

The boy held on tight, his hands clenched on Carlos’s huge, knotted biceps and his legs wrapped around the hardman’s narrow waist.  Paradoxically, when the agonized youth needed something firm to cling to as he was forced to endure the horrific pain, the most solid, most immobile thing around was the powerful, heavily-muscled body of his killer.  But even with this support, Dino was unable to remain utterly motionless; the pain was simply too much.

 

“Goddam, you fuckin’ cunt, yer just fuckin’ lovin’ this shit, aintcha?” Carlos jeered.  “You can’t lie, you worthless sack a’ homo shit; yer ass is suckin’ on my dick like it wants to drain my balls dry.  That what ya want, queerboy?  Ya want a real man’s load in yer ass?  Huh?  That it?  Ya want genuine manseed in yer guts?  Answer me, cocksucker!”

 

Dino wanted it, yes.  Maybe this was it.  Maybe this was what the psychopath needed.  Maybe he’d leave Dino alone once he ejaculated.  Yes, Dino wanted that.

 

But also, deep inside his cockpig soul, he wanted this hot stud’s cum.  He refused to recognize the lust bubbling inside him; he couldn’t bear to think about what that meant—but he wanted Carlos’s load.

 

And Carlos knew it.

 

“Ok, cumdump, you want my load?  Faggot like you ain’t worth a single fuckin’ drop of real manspunk.  You gotta earn it, bitch.  Wanna know how to earn it?”  With this, he jerked the knife violently inside Dino’s slender twink body.  The viciously sharpened blade tore its way out of the kid’s liver and, traveling down and back, sliced through Dino’s kidney with virtually no resistance.

 

This was almost more than Dino could handle.  The kid shuddered and gasped; Carlos quickly jerked the blade out of the wound and lay flat on the writhing boy.  Dino jerked and kicked, the tender skin on his smooth chest scraping painfully against Carlos’s thick wiry body fur, as the kid trembled on the edge of consciousness.

 

The pain, the organ damage, the adrenaline overload caused by traumatic shock, it was almost too much.  But Dino had youth on his side; his lean twink body clung tenaciously to life for as long as it could.  The punk was still in the clutches of horrible torture, but he managed—just barely—to retain his consciousness.

 

Over the next couple of minutes, he was going to regret that deeply.  After that, he’d be past regret.

 

“You want my load, faggot, you gotta work for it.  You gotta fuckin’ suffer.  You ain’t suffered, yet bitch.  I know you think you have, you useless cunt, but you ain’t.  Know how I know?”

 

Carlos’s face filled Dino’s field of vision.  From here, he could just barely make out the thick gold chain around the convict’s strong, thick neck, the amateur tattoo underneath.  The twinkle of the gold caught the panicked youth’s attention for a moment, but it was the glitter of hot sexual insanity in the stud’s eyes that held the mangled punk’s attention.

 

“You ain’t dead yet, that’s how I know.  You wanna get yer ass filled with real mancum, you gotta suffer till it kills ya.  You ready for it?  You ready to die for my load?”

 

And Dino nodded.

 

He was ready to die.  He was ready for the agony to end.  He didn’t care about much else; he just wanted to stop hurting.  His guts, his ass—even his cock, erect, straining and oozing, was a source of pain to him.  If only this dude would kill him and end the suffering quick…

 

“Ok, fucker,” Carlos grinned.  “Remember, you asked for it.”

 

Dino would remember it for the rest of his life—about another ninety seconds.

 

Carlos clamped one hand over Dino’s face, his fingers digging in mercilessly like hooks of iron.  He forced the kid’s head back until he was looking at the underside of Dino’s jaw.  With the other hand, he brought the knife up, placed it directly in the center of the triangular expanse of pale skin under the punk’s jaw, and shoved.

 

The first thrust of the blade was powerful, but restrained.  The tip of the knife ripped up through the center of the jaw into Dino’s mouth, impaling his tongue from underneath and pinning it to the roof of his mouth.  And there it paused.

 

Dino’s eyes, widened with maddened agony, stared blankly into Carlos’s as the unfortunate homo tried to scream.  All he managed to do was grunt unintelligibly and tear his tongue open wider.  “Oh fuck yeah…” Carlos sighed in pleasure as the faggot thrashed in agony beneath him.  “What, did ya think you were gonna die easy?  I toldja ya had to suffer to earn my load, you stupid asswipe.  You’re gonna suffer so bad you’ll blow yer own deathload in silent screamin’ agony—how’s that sound, faggot?

 

And with that, he shoved the knife again.

 

This time, the razor-sharp carbon steel slashed open the soft palate at the roof of Dino’s mouth and continued traveling upwards.  There was a faint crunch as the knife punched through the palatine bone, followed by further cracking sounds as it ripped its way up through the maxillary and frontal sinuses, behind the nose and eyes.

 

Dino was stiff; his muscles tensed in near bone-braking rigidity as he felt the knife moving upward though his head, behind his face.  There was no thought now, there was nothing but the silent scream of pain he’d never known existed, pain he’d never dreamed possible in his young, wasted life.  Suddenly, there was an excruciating flash and everything went dark—forever.  The blade had cut through the kid’s optic nerve.

 

Then the blade hit a sudden obstruction.  “This is it, motherfucker.  Time to die like the useless cumdump you are, faggot,” Carlos panted as he felt the sperm seething in his balls.  Dino shuddered and jerked; Carlos could feel the cunt’s thick cock, pressed against his hard flat belly, as it pulsed and throbbed.  Clutching the top of Dino’s head, Carlos put the power of his huge bunched bicep to work and shoved on the knife.

 

There was another crunching sound—this one loud enough to be heard across the room—as the sadistic alpha powered the blade up through the base of the cranium and rammed it deep into Dino’s brain.

 

“You deserve this, you fuckin’ faggot,” Carlos snarled, feeling his sperm start to froth over in his puckered scrotum.  The sheer dominance of being able to fuck the twink while physically powering a knife into his brain was almost overwhelming; the muscle-bound alpha was almost literally burning with an intense erotic joy.  “You hear me, you worthless pansy?  Fuckin’ homos like you need to die on my cock, writhin’ in pain.  Soak up my spunk with yer agony, motherfucker!”

 

As the serrated steel tore into the dying punk’s cerebrum, the sharp tip came to rest deep inside the folds of gray matter that contained the pleasure center of the brain, where the carbon steel acted as an electrical conductor, literally short-circuiting the homo’s nervous system and triggering a violent orgasm.

 

Dino was gone.  All that was left was a convulsing piece of meat with a few functioning nerve connections.  It knew that there a terrible searing sensation in its cock; trapped between the grinding flat bellies of the two males locked in a mortal embrace, the thick shaft was jerking and pumping out thick ropy wads of boycum.

 

It knew that there was a similar but opposite agony in its ass, where boiling spunk was hosing down its reamed-out guts.

 

It knew that there was a heavy, hairy, powerful form pressing down on it, forcing it to submit to death, but it didn’t know much more…

 

…except that it was a fuckin’ faggot and it deserved everything that was happening to it…

 

Carlos finally shuddered to a stop, his massive cock still jammed deep into the dead kid’s fuckhole.  It felt so good; even though he’d completely emptied his overloaded balls—it felt like he’d shot a solid quart of semen—he left his dick buried in the corpse.  As it shuddered and kicked in convulsions induced by massive brain trauma, the dead body was literally stroking and massaging his rod.

 

The alpha placed one hand over Dino’s face, covering his dull, glazing eyes, and held it down as he jerked the blade out of the corpse’s skull with the other hand.  Dragging the serrated blade back out of the punk’s brain caused the body to thrash violently.  “Fuck,” Carlos grunted as the dead boy’s ass worked his shaft.  Damn, he thought he was dry—“Fuckin’-A!” he yelled explosively, slamming the blade down into Dino’s chest, spearing the corpse’s left pectoral and shredding the still-quivering heart as the alpha heaved and jerked in a second orgasm.

 

This time, Carlos made sure he was done before withdrawing the knife.

 

He calmly walked into the bathroom and began to clean the viscous spunk out of his thick chest hair before it could mat.  Behind him in the bedroom, and still totally unknown to him, Nick’s hidden cameras continued to record the way the twitching corpse slowly became still.

 

When he came out of the bathroom, the bulked-out convict had shoved his hog back into his jeans.  He didn’t bother looking for his shirt; he didn’t want one now.  He was glancing around; there was something else he wanted…there it was.  A huge, hard-sided suitcase Nick sometimes used for carrying camera equipment.  It turned out to be a perfect fit; he was able to fold the dead cumdump into a fetal position and wedge it in with the blood- and cum-smeared painter’s plastic.  Picking up the carefully-folded clothes with, Carlos noticed the kid’s nametag.

 

He tossed them into the suitcase with an ironic smirk.  There was no Dino; there was just rotting meat.

 

He closed the case and lifted it.  Most people would have found it uncomfortably heavy but Carlos had the strength to dead-lift it and carry it out to the elevator and down to the car.

 

It took twenty minutes to get out of the city, even at this late hour, but soon Carlos was heading west.  He left the top down and let the warm night air dry his still-moist body fur.  A nice drive in the hills was what he needed, he’d decided.  Up above the city, away from the traffic, with a nice canyon or two to dump a corpse in…

 

Grinning, he pulled off the highway and turned right, shifting into first as the grade grew steeper.

 


 

 

“Tell me again why we’re out here,” Schweitz said in an aggrieved tone.  “Why ain’t the county boys out here?  This ain’t in the city.”

 

“Actually, it is,” Nuñez replied.  “Annexed last November.  That’s why the body was found so soon.  Presuming the killer dumped it at night, it was probably too dark to see where they’ve already begun putting in the sewer lines; work crew found the corpse just after dawn.”

 

“Well ain’t you earnin’ yer pay,” Schweitz sneered.  “Still don’t tell me why I’m out here lookin’ at another dead faggot.  Shit, didja see that asshole?  Looked like a fuckin’ glazed doughnut.”

 

“Not like we knew that when we got the call, Schweitz,” Nuñez sighed.  “We gotta at least get some details.  There were some clothes an a nametag–looks like the vic was a dealer at the Magic Carpet.  Should be easy enough to get his full name so we can file a report.”

 

“Round-file it, you mean,” the older detective said.  “Look, you already know we ain’t got time for this shit.  I mean, the homo was offed with extreme prejudice, right?  I mean, a knife to the fuckin’ brain sends a real strong message, y’know?  So I figure the cocksucker musta deserved it.  The Magic Carpet don’t pay shit–queerboy was probably whorin’ himself out and ripped off a john or somethin’.”

 

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Nuñez admitted.  “Not like anyone’s gonna care.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Schweitz nodded.  “Fucker probably has AIDS too.  Let the med examiner deal with him.  C’mon, let’s head back to civilization.  Can’t believe they’re building more houses way the fuck out here.”

 

“Sure,” said Nuñez, and the headed back to the car.

 

As they reached it, Nuñez opened the driver’s door while Schweitz paused on the passenger side.  “Hey, can ya do me a favor?” he asked.  “Can we make a detour on the way back?  I got a hankerin’ for a glazed doughnut.”

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 15–Trucker vs the Lucky One

The Trucker was a cunning and intelligent predator.  The senses and skills associated with hunting were highly developed in him; he was excellent not only at killing but at avoiding danger.  Some of this was innate, but some of it was forced on him by his lifestyle; running freight, as he did, he occasionally found himself re-running routes and stopping repeatedly in the same place over a period of time.

 

So when he got back to the town where his last kill had taken place, he was on high alert.  He’d been gone several weeks—more than enough time for whatever kind of trouble the snuff of a methhead whoreboy stirred up to settle back down—but there was no sense being careless.

 

As he pulled into the oversized parking lot at the one truck stop in town, the Trucker decided he’d go out on the prowl.  Who knows?  Maybe it’d turn out to be safe.

 

And after all, he was hungry for meat.

 

It was a cold night.  The buff killer was wearing a black Nike compression t-shirt with long sleeves.  Tucked into the narrow waist of his clean but worn jeans, it clung tightly to his massive, heavily-muscled torso.  Along with the black leather harness boots he sported, it was a warm enough outfit in the heated cab of his truck, but there was an icy wind blowing outside that would necessitate a little more protection.  Reaching into the sleeper compartment, the Trucker drew out an aviator jacket in distressed black leather and slipped it on.

 

As he leaped down from the cab, his thick-soled boots hit the ground with a loud thump.  Striding quickly across the cement lot, his wide-legged stance testifying to the massive package between his legs, he was the image of masculinity.  When he reached the street, he turned left, heading in the direction of the gay bar he’d hit up last time.  He’d poke around a little, make sure nothing suspicious was going on—then he’d be ready to hunt down some fagmeat and drain his hairy sack into it.

 

It was only a few blocks to the bar.  Once he reached it, the Trucker found that there was a line at the door; a large poster announcing the presence of a locally famous DJ explained the crowd.  The hardbodied killer paused—he had no intention of waiting in a line; too many potential witnesses would be given too much time to observe his appearance.  He’d have to try elsewhere—

 

As he turned, he noticed a couple of boys standing at the far end of the building’s façade, near the unattended exit door.  Despite the wind, they seemed in no hurry to join the line and escape into the warmth of the bar’s interior.  Before he could take a step in their direction, a man exiting the bar paused and engaged the two boys in conversation.  The Trucker was too far away to hear what was being said, but it was obvious that some kinda bargain was being struck.  As if to prove his point, the older bar patron began walking swiftly away, the taller youth following in his trail.

 

So, then.  A couple of boywhores who had decided to skip paying a cover charge and just pounce on random dudes as they were leaving the bar.  One of them had managed to pick up a john, leaving the other for the Trucker.  The grinning serial killer sauntered over to check out the lucky motherfucker.

 

When he got closer, the shock of recognition tingled through his muscular frame.  The kid was short, his slim, firm, wiry body obvious in his tight black skinny jeans and dark blue Nike Air Jordans.  It was impossible to tell what kind of shirt he was wearing under his gray fleece hoodie, but under the pointed hood his face was easily seen.  Long curly hair so jet-black it almost gleamed blue was counterpointed by the deep liquid pools of his long-lashed, gazelle-like eyes, also deep black.  The clear skin on the boy’s broad, youthful face had a dark, almost olive tone to it.

 

He was the kid who’d played pool with the Trucker last time he was here.  The one the alpha had set his sights one, before the little punk had been saved by a group of rentboy friends who’d carried him off to drink elsewhere.

 

Well, well, well.  Seems like luck only goes so far.  As the Trucker ambled up to the kid, he idly wondered where his little pack of pansy friends were.  Looked like they’d be too late to save him tonight…

 

The kid recognized the Trucker as well; his face lit up.  “Hey, dude,” he called out, “I was hopin’ I’d see you again!”

 

The kid was telling the truth.  He’d been entranced by the Trucker’s rugged and utterly unfeigned masculinity the moment he’d laid eyes on the alpha in the poolroom a couple of weeks ago.  But Jimmy and Don had come up, and they’d scored some ice, and that had meant more at the moment.

 

That was then and this was now.  And now he was broke and needed a john bad, one with a lot of money.  Not that he wouldn’t let this stud fuck him for free if he could, but money was the primary focus.

 

“Hey,” the Trucker drawled, casually leaning back against the wall.  “You, uh—available?”

 

The kid grinned.  Now that he was closer, the Trucker could see that the boywhore was wearing a bright yellow t-shirt under the hoodie.  That wasn’t all he could see; a line of thick dark fur was peeking above the collar of the t-shirt—the little fuck must be as hairy as he was, the Trucker realized; maybe more.  It certainly didn’t show on his smooth young face.

 

“Yeah, I’m free,” the boy replied with a cocky grin, “But I ain’t exactly free, if ya get my drift.”

 

The Trucker got it, all right.

 

“How much for the whole night?” he asked.

 

The kid scrunched up his face in pretended thought, unconsciously giving himself a boyish, elfin expression by biting his bottom lip.  “Five hundred,” he said, well aware it was too much but willing to take a shot and bargain if he had to.

 

The Trucker bit his bottom lip as well—to stop an overwhelming impulse to bray laughter in the faggot’s face.  Five hundred for a night with this reamed-out fuckmeat?

 

“Five? No,” the Trucker said firmly but seriously, pretending to think himself.  “How about three?”

 

The Trucker watched the whore’s eyes almost literally light up with dollar signs.

 

“I—uh, yeah, ok—” the rentboy faltered, stunned at his good luck.  He’d have settled for fifty.  “C’mon an’ follow me, I gotta place, a room.  We can get busy an’ ain’t no one gonna disturb us…”

 

“Sure,” the Trucker said laconically, “Lead the way, boy.”

 

“Name’s Kristos,” the kid replied and this time the Trucker wasn’t able to contain his snort of amusement.  The boy took it in stride; he wasn’t gonna let anything distract him from the possibility of earning three hundred bucks just for letting the hottest dude he’d ever seen fuck him.

 

“Naw, man, seriously,” Kristos said.  “I’m half Greek.  My mama is second-generation Greek.  She insisted; it’s her the name of her favorite uncle.”

 

The Trucker’s ears picked up at the mention of the fuckmeat’s mother.  “How old are ya, boy?” he asked casually.

 

“Twenty-one,” Kristos promptly lied; his birthday was still over two weeks away.  But he was used to lying about his age; he’d been doing it ever since he ran away from home and started whoring himself out four years ago.

 

“Uh-huh,” the Trucker replied absently.  He was sure the punk was lying, but it didn’t matter.  However old the kid was, he wasn’t gonna get any older.  “So where’s this room ya got?”

 

“This way,” Kristos said, heading towards the street and turning left.  The steady beat of his boots on the pavement assured the kid that the Trucker was following him, but at some little distance behind.  Dude was being cautious, he reflected—nothing wrong with that.  Probably had a wife somewhere and was just out on the prowl for boys on the DL.

 

A right and another left brought them onto a pitted, run-down little street that ran parallel to the highway frontage road, one block behind it.  The Trucker realized they were going to one of the sleazy little motels that lined this section of the highway.  Infested with whores and drugs, City Hall was still determining how to deal with this two-block section that was considered a blight on the town.  In the meantime, business flourished.

 

Kristos, already on the other side of the street, crossed the rear parking lot of a sordid little place called the Lady Luck Motel.  The Trucker lounged behind, not wanting to be seen entering the same room as the fuckmeat.  Ambling around a corner, he saw the boy disappear into an open door—room 27.  With a grin, he noticed that the door had been left open a crack.  After a quick glance around confirmed no one was watching, the huge, hardbodied killer slipped silently into the room.  He closed and locked the door behind him, slipping the chain on as well.

 

The room itself was as cheap and sleazy as it had promised to be.  A remodel sometime in the sixties had left the wall swathed in cheap faux-wood paneling, now loose and splintered and almost visibly oozing formaldehyde vapor.  The furniture dated from a later era, probably the eighties—light wood veneer with brass accents and large panels painted dark green.  The furniture was a decrepit as the paneling, pocked with cigarette—and undoubtedly crack pipe and meth pipe—burns and large white rings where drinks had stood.

 

There was a queen-size bed against the far wall, stripped down to the fitted sheet; the bedding piled on the floor next to the left side of the bed.  On the left wall was a desk/dresser combo unit with a no-name brand flat TV standing on it; beyond it was the door to the bathroom.  To the right of the door was a small round table with two chairs, not really big enough to serve as a dining table for two people.  The whole place reeked of old musty smoke, detergent whose lemon additive didn’t completely mask the astringent scent of the powerful cleaning chemicals—and the unmistakable musk of mansex.

 

Kristos had already pulled off his hoodie and his t-shirt, revealing a slim, firm torso darkened with fur.  His body hair was everywhere, on his chest, down his belly, even marching down his upper arms.  It was long and dark and silky, much like the long jetty ringlets on his head.

 

The Trucker slipped out of his leather jacket, tossing over a chair as he watched the rentboy.  The kid sat on the bed and kicked off his Air Jordans before standing back up.  Smiling contemptuously, the older man peeled his Nike compression t-shirt off.  The youth grinned eagerly as the alpha’s broad, hairy chest was exposed, the massive rise of his pecs emphasized by the gleaming dogtags nestled in the dark, fur-lined depression between.

 

“C’mon, man,” Kristos said, “Pull it out; lemme see what ya got.”

 

“You first,” the Trucker demanded.

 

The Greek boy’s eyes narrowed slightly; he made it a rule to make sure he was got at least some cash down before getting completely nude—but fuck, this dude was hot, and he wanted to see what kinda tackle the guy had swingin’ between his legs.  He wriggled out of the tight black jeans; naturally, he’d gone commando for easy access.

 

Kristos’s legs were a hairy as the rest of him, long dark fur on his thighs and calves and a positive bush of black pubic curls.  Luckily, his already-erect dick was six and half inches, easily visible despite the mass of fur from which it sprouted.  His balls, on the other hand, were hard to discern; the punk was so aroused his scrotum was already starting to pucker.  He wanted the Trucker bad—and it was obvious.

 

The hard-bodied alpha returned the kid’s cocky grin and unzipped his fly.  Extracting his enormous manhood hand-over-hand from the depths of his groin took a moment; for each inch of manmeat that appeared, Kristos’s breathing became swifter and more intense.  Goddam, he thought, lookit the size of that thing…

 

He wondered if he could really take it.  If not, he’d have to give the guy his money back.  Speaking of which—

 

“Ok, I’m gonna need to get some money before we go any farther,” the hairy youth said evenly.

 

“Uh-uh,” the Trucker replied, “You don’t get paid until I’m done.”

 

“That ain’t the way I work, man,” Kristos responded.  “Don’t have to pay the whole thing—call it a deposit.”  He looked the Trucker in the eye; he’d be willing to cut an alpha stud like this a discount afterwards if the fuck was a good as it looked like it’d be—but there was no way he’d be doing anything for free.  It didn’t matter how hot the dude was; it was against what he called his principles.  But he knew the vibes of a deadbeat by now and this guy wasn’t giving them off.  He wasn’t quite sure what kinda vibes he was picking up on, but they definitely weren’t those of a broke-ass scumbag…

 

If Kristos had been more in tune with the vibes the Trucker was giving off, he’d have pissed himself.  As it was, he got no warning at all.

 

“You want me to pay something now?” the muscled alpha growled.  A brief twinge flashed in Kristos’s hormone-sodden brain, the first hint of a danger signal.  “Fuck that.  And fuck you, faggot!”

 

The power contained in the Trucker’s massive right bicep was unleashed in a sudden, explosive blow like a bolt of lightning; the impact of his bunched-up fist in the kid’s face was just as swift and unexpected.  Kristos experienced a powerful blast of pain and fell to the bed; three more blows in rapid, relentless procession smashed against his face, breaking his cheekbone and knocking out two teeth before the boywhore even realized he’d been punched.

 

Stunned, the boywhore coughed up two upper left molars, tasting blood in his mouth.  His face was throbbing and swelling; he could feel the puffiness when he spoke.

 

“W-what the fuck…” he moaned softly, the effort of moving his lips and tongue almost being too much for him.  But the words were meaningless anyway; he knew what the fuck.  What the fuck was that this motherfucker had decked him.

 

Kristos had been robbed before; during his years as a teen street whore, he’d been beaten several times and raped more than once.  He was pissed at himself for not recognizing a psycho sooner.  But he was also pissed at the Trucker.  He wasn’t gonna deal with this shit again; this time, he’d fight back.

 

It was an unwise decision.

 

“Motherfucker!” yelled the slim, hairy youth, ignoring the pain in his face.  “Whaddaya want, asshole?  Money?  Free sex?  You ain’t gettin’ it, bitch; I’ll claw yer fuckin’ eyes out and scream loud enough to alert every cop from here to the highway!”

 

With that, he launched himself off the bed, straight at the Trucker.

 

With the honed instincts of an experienced killer, the hulking alpha had known that an attack would follow the outburst.  Seeing the muscles in the boy’s legs coil, he pivoted back, planting his right harness boot firmly on the floor behind him, ready to take his weight.  When the kid sprang, the Trucker was in perfect position to grab him by the nape of his neck and, whirling on the foot he’d planted behind him, propel the punk headfirst into the dresser/desk unit.

 

Kristos barely had time to realize something had gone wrong before his lights were put out.

 

If fate had been kind to the rentboy, he’d never have woken up again.  As it was, he wasn’t out for very long.  When he woke—his consciousness creeping back slowly and painfully—he was crumpled on the thin, threadbare carpet.  Directly in his line of sight were a pair of black leather boots.  Helpless, his eyes focused on the thick straps and metal rings on the boots; it seemed to be an instinctive maneuver to draw his attention away from the horrible pain in his head—to say nothing of the fear.

 

From above the boots, the came a voice, a deep, rugged growl.  “You stupid fuckin’ pansy,” the Trucker sneered.  “Didja really think you had a chance against a real man, faggot?  Huh?”

 

The muscle-bound alpha, his upper lip curled with contempt, kicked Kristos, hard.  There was a loud snap, making the boy cry out in pain and clutch as his broken rib.

 

“I was just gonna snuff ya tonight,” the killer said reflectively, “Just fuck ya and put ya down nice and easy.  But you fucked it all up, son.  You pissed me off.  Now, you gotta die hard.  Now, it’s gotta hurt.”

 

As the dark-haired boywhore turned his tear-streaked eyes up to his tormenter, the Trucker crouched down to give Kristos a better look.  Despite the agony, despite the sheer terror, the furry young slut felt his cock stiffen as he looked into the ice-blue eyes of the handsome, hyper-masculine stud.

 

The Trucker saw it too.  Instantly, his face was filled with a terrifying mix of rage and lust.  He spit into Kristos’s face.  “You disgustin’ sack of homo shit, you like this, yeah?  The idea of me takin’ you out gets ya off?  You like gettin’ hurt?  Fuck yeah, cunt, why didn’t ya just say so?  I’ll fuck you up so bad yer own mamma won’t recognize you.  I’ll fuckin’ squeeze the cum outta yer dyin’ boymeat, asswipe.  Goddam, I’ll hurt you so fuckin’ bad you’ll scream for joy!”

 

The muscle-bound psycho reached down and grabbed Kristos by the throat, then hoisted him into the air, instantly and effortlessly, as if the kid was no more substantial than a pillow.  The rentboy choked and slobbered.  His eyes rolled back in his swollen, purple face; his nose had been broken on impact with the dresser, streaking his face with trickles of blood.

 

Pivoting abruptly, the Trucker slammed the punk whore violently up against the outside door.  Still clutching the kid single-handedly by the throat, the hardbodied killer leaned in, his face—both erotically hot and emotionally cold—filling Kristos’s field of vision.  “It’s yer lucky day, ya fuckin’ painpig,” he hissed sneeringly.

 

The choking, semi-conscious youth caught at the word ‘lucky’; he’d certainly felt lucky when he’d brought this muscular stud back to fuck him…

 

…but now he couldn’t breathe.  Holy fuck, it was horrible; his head was swelling, his face was swelling and the trauma he’d already suffered to those areas was intensifying his pain to excruciating levels.  In an almost mindless surge of panic, Kristos began beating his fists against the Trucker’s huge pecs.  His effort had virtually no effect besides hurting his hands; it was like beating a stone wall.  Even the sound was muffled by the thick layer of wiry fur covering the older man’s chest.

 

As dark explosions burst before the kid’s eyes, his hands faltered and fell away.  He was reduced to scratching at the door behind him, his clawing fingers seeking out the doorknob—mindlessly; he had no plan of action.  As he gagged and drooled, his legs began jerking, his heels drumming loudly against the hollow-core door.  It was a little too loud; it may have saved—or at least lengthened—Kristos’s life.

 

The Trucker spit in his face again before pulling him away from the door and tossing him limply onto the bed.

 

Gasping for air, unable to breathe through his blood-clogged nose, Kristos rolled onto his back.  He moved slowly; the slightest effort to turn his body shoved the broken ends of his rib together.  The internal grinding sensation was so painful, it literally took his breath away again.

 

By the time he got onto his back, the Trucker had crossed the room and was standing next to the bed, looming over him.  The alpha’s gigantic erect cock jutted out in front, the thick purple head oozing hot drops of precum onto the slut’s flat, furry belly.  Kristos’s eyes lifted above the Trucker’s intimidating shaft, past his ripped abs and up to his massive pecs with large dark nipples standing out above the dark wiry chest hair.  The dogtags no longer caught the light, but an occasional glint marked their position, dangling in the middle of the stud’s muscled chest.

 

And above that, the face.  The cold, masculine face in which Kristos could see his own death.  The whoreboy quickly looked away, refusing to acknowledge what he had seen there.

 

“L-le-lemme g-go,” he muttered, his voice thick with tears and pain.  “W-on’t tell an-anybody…”

 

“I know you won’t tell anybody,” the Trucker replied calmly.  “You’ll be fuckin’ dead.”

 

Kristos couldn’t ignore it any longer.  He burst into open sobs, desperately trying to understand how a simple trick with a hot stud could have gone so nightmarishly wrong.

 

As if he could read the kid’s mind—and he damn near could; none of the meat he offed seemed to have the intelligence to come up with an original thought—the Trucker jeered at the battered and terrified youth.  “You deserve this, ya fuckin’ cunt.  Ya know that, dontcha?  You know it and want it; yer faggot dick don’t lie.  This is what you been looking for for years.  You wanted a real man to come along and finally give yer worthless fairy ass some meaning by usin’ you as his personal cumdump and then wipin’ you off the planet like a stain.  Lay back and enjoy it, bitch, I’m gonna use you up till yer dead, then leave your rottin’ corpse for the maid to throw out like a cumrag.  Think the police are gonna care if I snuff a worthless faggot like you?  Fuck, they’d probably give me a medal; they hate cumsuckin’ homos like you.”

 

In spite of himself, as the cruel verbal abuse washed over him, Kristos could feel his own cock get harder and harder, until it ached horribly.  He was almost numb with fear and his sense of bewildered terror was somehow amplified when he felt searing drops of precum land in his groin that didn’t come from the Trucker.  The fact that he was aroused while at the mercy of a murderous psycho only emphasized the nightmarish and surreal situation.

 

Slowly, Kristos tried to turn away, doing his best to ignore the stabbing pain in his abdomen as the jagged edge of a broken rib tore at the fragile, gossamer-thin tissue of his lung.  Smirking, the Trucker reached over and grabbed the cunt’s thighs, rolling Kristos back onto his back and forcing his legs apart.

 

The kid emitted a pathetic bleat of pain as the alpha positioned himself between the boy’s firm, furry legs.  Kristos was too distracted to notice how the older man was lining up his enormous cock with the kid’s fuckhole—the rib had punctured his lung, and the boy was having trouble breathing.

 

He had no trouble letting out a loud screech of agony as the Trucker abruptly penetrated him, the alpha’s huge shaft of throbbing manmeat plunging full-length into the kid’s tender, unprepared guts.  The massive swollen head, lubed by nothing but its own precum, tore viciously at Kristos’s velvety rectal lining and ground relentlessly over the punk’s prostate.  The boy could feel his own rod swelling and pulsing uncontrollably, even as he wailed in pain.

 

“Shaddup, motherfucker,” the Trucker growled and popped him in the face again—a single blow, the muscle-bound top’s bicep pumping with the force of a mule kick.  Kristos took it full in the jaw, which was hit hard enough to be dislocated.

 

“Yeah, that’s more like it,” the cruel alpha said, roughly sliding his dick in and out of Kristos’s innards as the kid lay back on the bed, trembling and mewling softly.  The boy was literally overwhelmed by the violence and trauma he’d suffered; he sobbed quietly, every motion of his mouth causing terrible pain to shoot through his jaw.

 

“Take my cock, faggot,” the Trucker murmured, looking down at the youth’s slim body, the olive skin covered by a mass of black fur, matted with sweat.  The Trucker was sweating himself; the room was charged with the acrid scent of adrenaline, the musky smell of mansweat, the heady pheromones being pumped out by two males bodies entwined in violent contact.  With every thrust of the older man’s dick, their bodies slapped together, rubbing over each other.  It was hot as fuck.

 

It wasn’t enough.  The Trucker needed more and he decided it was time to go for it.

 

“You just ain’t doin’ it for me, cunt.  What a sorry-ass homo—can’t even milk a load outta me.  Guess I’m gonna hafta do it manually, huh?  You gonna make me jack off?  Okay, asswipe, I’m gonna use you to jack off.”

 

Propping Kristos’s ankles on his shoulders, the Trucker leaned forward, pinning the youth in a fetal position with his dick up the kid’s ass.  Wrapping his huge powerful hands around the boy’s throat, he grinned down at his helpless prey, his face lit with lunatic glee.  “Are ya ready, fucker?  Wanna die?  No?  Yer cock sez ya do, asswipe.  Yer cock is tellin’ me that yer just another worthless faggot that gets off by gettin’ offed.  I’ve wasted dozens of you little cocksuckers and you’re all just the same—squeeze ya a little bit and ya blow yer death load all over the place.  At least you’ll kick and jerk nice and hard as I choke ya to death.  You ain’t got no idea how good it feels when a fuckwad like you dies on my cock.”

 

Kristos didn’t understand the words, but he understood when the massive hand around his throat tightened as cruelly and relentlessly as a bear trap.  The complete inability to breathe forced the boywhore to surface from a dark pit of mental and physical shock into a sharply-edged nightmare.  Instantly, his hands went to the Trucker’s wrists—clawing, prying, any desperate move he could think of to break the older man’s grip, or at least lessen it.

 

It was utterly futile; nothing he could do, exerting all his remaining strength, so much as budged the alpha’s hands by a fraction of an inch.  They merely squeezed tighter.

 

The horrible crushing pain in his throat was slowly starting to seem like less of a concern, though, compared to pressure inside his skull.  There was a feeling of swelling, both in his skin and on the inside—in his brain.  It throbbed swiftly, the pressure hammering at the interior of his cranium…

 

…but even that pain was fading before the conviction that something horrific was being done to his guts.  As dark spots burst in his field of vision, Kristos had the sensation that the huge, cue-ball-sized head of the Trucker’s massive cock was ripping and tearing at his rectum, tearing away his intestines, disemboweling him internally.  He’d never had a dick that big inside him; the Trucker had literally split him open on the first thrust.  Now, as his nervous system was starting to short out from oxygen deprivation, the torn nerve endings in his ravaged colon became hyperactive, as did those in his crushed, battered prostate.

 

Kristos was becoming hypersensitive; every jolt to his nervous system was amplified dozens of times in his dying brain.

 

The Trucker sneered and spit into the punk’s dark, swelling face.  “Die, ya fuckin’ asswipe.  C’mon, motherfucker, let go and jack me off.  Only way it’s gonna stop hurtin’ is if you give up and die, faggot; the longer you fight against it, the more yer gonna suffer.”

 

Kristos’s hand drummed on the Trucker’s broad, muscled chest with no other result than to make the dogtags jump around.  The kid’s face, already purple and swollen with bruises, was now unrecognizable.  His tongue, black and obscene, protruded from blue, bloated lips over which a stream of bloody foam dribbled.  The drool leaked down the boy’s cheeks and over his chin.  The dark, liquid eyes were bulging horrifically, the whites red with hemorrhages.

 

 

The slut’s struggles became more spasmodic; the Trucker had reached his arms around the kid’s legs to keep them in place on his shoulders, now he had to tighten his arms as they jerked randomly and violently.  It was obvious that Kristos had only seconds more to live.

 

“Lights out, faggot,” the sadistic alpha grunted and clenched his hands as hard as he could.

 

It felt—and sounded—like he was crushing Styrofoam as he squeezed Kristos’s esophagus into a bloody pulp.  The same slight resistance before giving way, the same loud crackling sound…

 

For Kristos, it felt like what it was—death.  His brain was nearly dead already in any case; there was just enough left of the homo slut to feel the terrible pain of his crushed windpipe…and then another pain took over.  The young boywhore died in searing, screaming agony as he shot his death load.  He’d never imagined that an orgasm could be that intense—or hurt so bad.

 

As his lithe, furry body clenched the Tucker in its death agony, the violent rhythmic convulsion milking the alpha’s cock perfectly, the older man felt a hot splash on his chest.  Glancing down, the dying punk’s dick rose up and shot a solid stream of jizz directly into the Trucker’s face, some of it splashing into his left eye.

 

“Goddammit!” he yelled in rage.  Instantly grabbing the boy’s chin in one hand and the back of his head in the other, the Trucker twisted Kristos’s skull in a full one-eighty, the vertebrae snapping like popcorn.

 

With one last sudden convulsion, the dead boy’s asshole sucked on the Trucker’s cock, triggering a huge explosion of manseed.  “Fuck!  Goddam!  Fuck!” the alpha yelled, his muscular body bucking and thrusting, hunched over the trembling corpse of the smaller kid as the top hosed its guts with semen.

 

The Trucker didn’t know how many times he’d unloaded inside the dead kid when it was all over.  He spent a few moments catching his breath, lying on top of the corpse, warm, furry cum-covered belly to quivering furry cum-covered belly.

 

After a couple of minutes, he withdrew his enormous shaft from the rentboy’s ass.  As soon as his harness boots hit the floor, he walked to the bathroom.  Soaking a towel in the sink, he proceeded to wipe the slut’s spunk off his chest and to clean his own dick before stuffing it back into his jeans.

 

Walking back into the room, he looped his compression t-shirt through his belt; he didn’t want to put it on while his torso was still wet.  Picking up his jacket, he turned and admired the corpse displayed on the stripped-down bed.  The lean, lithe body was still shuddering, the large pools of semen that had puddled on the chest were just starting to coagulate and mat the dark body hair.

 

Slipping on the leather jacket, leaving it open open just enough for his large dark nipples to stiffen in the chilly air, the Trucker unlocked the door and slipped out.  After a quick glance around to make sure he wasn’t being observed, the alpha moved quickly.  At first he was quiet, but after a block, he broke out whistling, a broad grin covering his face as he headed for his rig.  Running into that little motherfucker again—he’d been really lucky.


 

“Aw, Jesus, not another one,” Ayers whined.

 

Donato eyed him curiously.  “What’s yer problem?  Not like ya gotta do anything more than a little paperwork.  No one’s gonna give a shit if we blow this one off.”

 

“I know,” Ayers replied, “But I’m just sick of havin’ to see this crap.  I mean, lookit this one.  Sweet Jesus in a chicken basket, his head’s backwards.”

 

“Yeah?  So?  Some dude really hates fags.  I know the feelin’.”

 

“And lookit this—there are fingernail marks on the door.  Poor kid musta seen what was comin’ and tried to get away.  Musta been horrible.”

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Ayers?  You suddenly feel like cryin’ cause some worthless fuckin’ homo got wasted?”

 

“Aw, chill, Donato, I ain’t goin’ queer.  It’s just that—well, it musta been bad, y’know?  Real bad.”

 

“Little fag cunt probably deserved it,” the younger cop said callously.  “C’mon, let’s get this finished up.  I’m hungry.  You want ribs?  The waitress over at the barbecue place was makin’ eyes at me the other day.  Let’s go and see if she’s on shift.”

Brody: Taking Out the Trailer Trash

Travis could hear the crunch of gravel out on the drive and could almost feel the rumbling throb of the huge engine as the 4X4 pickup lurched its way nearer.  The sound made him shudder and tense up; it meant Brody was home.  And that meant…

 

…well, there was no way to know what that meant tonight.  Some nights, it meant fantastic sex.  Brody was thirty, a good seven years older than Travis, and he was hotter than fuck.  That hadn’t changed in the two years since they’d met—Brody’s job as a construction foreman kept his towering, six-foot-four frame fit and incredibly muscular.  His dick was more than eight inches long and an inch and a half thick, and he knew how to use it.

 

But those nights were few and far between—and becoming fewer.  Some nights, Brody was half-drunk (at a minimum) and in a foul mood.  Those were bad nights.  If Travis was lucky, he might get slapped around or a black eye.  If he wasn’t lucky, Brody wanted to fuck.  And that wasn’t fantastic sex, it was punishment sex.  Brody wasn’t just a mean drunk, he was a mean fuck.  On bad nights, Brody would fuck Travis like he wanted to hurt him.

 

Lately, there were a lot more bad nights.  Lately, Brody was escalating the violence and inflicting more severe injuries.  Lately, Travis was scared.

 

He wondered what would happen if he told Brody no.  Tonight he was gonna find out.

 

It took all the nerve he could muster to remain sitting calmly on the couch as he heard the truck’s door slam.  He didn’t love Brody—probably never had—but he was still overwhelmed with lust every time he looked at the older man.  He simply hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave, but dammit, that was gonna change.

 

Completely left out of his calculations was the fact that he had nothing; Brody owned the aged mobile home they lived in and the plot of land it was on.  And Brody’s job paid all the bills; Travis worked twenty-four hours a week as a clerk at the convenience store three miles up the road.  Brody had to drive him there and pick him up.

 

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway.  Travis wasn’t gonna let himself be bullied into abusive sex anymore, no matter how much of a stud Brody was.  At least, that’s what he told himself as he pulled a cigarette from the pack on the battered and scarred coffee table in front of him and fumbled with his lighter.

 

The lithe young fag jumped when he heard the truck door slam.  He didn’t know if he had the courage to follow through on his plans.  He was fit but not overly developed.  He stood a good half-foot shorter than Brody did and at a hundred and twenty pounds was outweighed by his brutal lover by a good sixty pounds, all of it muscles.  His broad face and large blue eyes gave his face an innocence that was highlighted by his short, curly hair that shined like spun gold.  Across the lower part of his face was the bare beginning of a beard of the same color.  Just starting to grow in, the facial hair somehow made him look younger than his actual age.

 

Since he’d been off today, he hadn’t bothered to dress.  He sported a pair of white cotton briefs that cradled his firm, rounded asscheeks and barely contained his decently-hung package; otherwise, his lean, taut body was bare, his smooth skin uncovered.

 

Of course, it wasn’t just that Brody outclassed him physically—if push came to shove, Travis had no doubt he could get away before anything really serious happened—but the redneck homo knew how attracted he was to the aggressive top.  To put it bluntly, he just wasn’t sure he could give up Brody’s hot, hard body and his massive cock.  After all, tonight might be a good night…

 

There was no mistaking the thumping of Brody’s boots on the front steps, but once the door was slammed open, Travis would have known his lover was in the room even had he been blind and deaf.  Brody’s distinctive musk of sweat and pheromones filled the room.  Tonight, it was blended with the sharp tang of alcohol.

 

Tonight wasn’t gonna be a good night.

 

“Go get me a clean shirt,” the hulking alpha demanded.  “This one’s still damp.”  Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of the dirty, sweat-soaked t-shirt and pulled it off over his head.  It caught for the moment in the chain of thick gold links that hung around his neck.  It took a further moment for Brody to free his shoulder-length black hair from the collar of the shirt.

 

When Travis returned from the bedroom with a clean t-shirt, Brody was rummaging in the fridge.  “Long goddam day,” he grumbled, “Fuckin’ niggers and wetbacks don’t fuckin’ listen to a word I say.”  Grabbing a beer, he stood up, closed the door of the fridge and popped the top of the beer can.  He started guzzling it, the overhead fluorescent illuminating his awesome physique.

 

His broad hubcap pecs were covered with a forest of black fur that intensified as it ran down his hard ripped abs, the body hair almost seeming to flow in waves over the muscled abdomen only to disappear beneath the waistband of his distressed, faded jeans.  Around his tight waist was a thick black leather belt, with a huge oval belt buckle made of elaborately wrought silver, with a large agate in the center.  Below, the jeans were tucked into the wide shafts of Brody’s well-worn Red Wing construction boots, which were laced but left untied.

 

Travis laid the clean t-shit on the back of the couch, watching Brody gulp down the beer so eagerly some of it dripped from his chin, leaving white trails of foam in his chest hair.  Finishing his brew, the alpha crumpled the can, belched loudly, and opened the fridge again.

 

“Why dintcha restock the fridge so I’d have some more cold ones?” he demanded.

 

“There ain’t no more,” Travis replied sullenly.  Seeing Brody’s hard, masculine face start to scowl, the young man knew he’d made a mistake.

 

“And so why dintcha text me that, so I could stop and get some more, you dipshit?” Brody growled.  His eyes, already bloodshot with alcohol, narrowed with anger.

 

“I-I didn’t think about it,” Travis warbled nervously.  He could feel his nerve starting to slip.  If he didn’t do something now, he’d never do anything.  “Brody, I, uh—we need to talk—”

 

“You didn’t think about it?  You don’t ever think about jack shit anyway,” Brody sneered drunkenly.

 

“That’s enough, Brody,” Travis said sharply, mustering all his courage.  “You can’t keep hurting me or talking shit to me, or—or I’ll leave.”

 

If anger made Brody’s face intimidating, the way it darkened with rage now was positively terrifying.  “You think yer gonna leave if you don’t get your way, ya little sack a’ shit?” he hissed, his tone low and dangerous.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I say you can go, you got that, boy?”

 

Travis gulped loudly but stood his ground.  “I’m serious, Brody.  You—you hurt me, man.  You can fuck me all night long, but ya don’t have to be mean.  You don’t have to hurt me.”

 

Brody stared Travis straight in the eyes.  “But I like hurtin’ you, ya stupid little faggot.  I like hearing you squeal.  I like seein’ ya in pain.  It gets me off, motherfucker.”

 

Drunk as Brody was, Travis was hit by the realization that he was speaking the truth.  The youth wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed so it took a moment for the full import of the alpha’s words to sink in, but once they did, he understood with stunning clarity that he needed to get out.  Now.

 

“I’m goin’, Brody.  I gotta.  I gotta friend I can stay with, but I need to go…”

 

Brody flushed, rounding on Travis with lightning speed.  “You gotta friend, huh? You been fuckin’ around on me, is that it?  I ain’t good enough for ya now?  You ain’t leavin’ me, faggot, till I get my money’s worth outta ya.”

 

“Brody, please, don’t make this any harder than it—”

 

Travis’s plea was interrupted by loud smack as Brody’s swift, vicious backhand made contact with the kid’s face.  Travis staggered back, holding his hand up to his throbbing cheek, noting with dismay the sly, malicious grin on Brody’s face—and the swelling bulge in the top’s groin.

 

Brody hadn’t been kidding.  He really did get off on hurting Travis.

 

The air was thick with menace. Travis, nearly nude as he was, couldn’t simply flee out the front door.  He needed clothes, or he needed to call for help.  Problem was, his clothes and his cell phone were in the bedroom—and Brody was between him and it.  Still, he needed to chance it.  Travis ducked down and shot to one side, trying to dodge Brody and get past him.

 

A violent impact to his flank told him he didn’t succeed.  Brody had punched him in the side as he went past.  “No ya don’t, cocksucker,” the alpha growled as Travis stumbled, groaning in pain.

 

Trying a new tack, Travis circled around into the living area, moving to the front of the couch as Brody slowly stalked after him, rubbing his swelling crotch.  “Good thing yer undressed, boy—I’m in the mood to plow yer ass good and hard.  Stand still, ya fucking twat so I can put my dick in ya—”

 

This was followed by a grunt of surprise as Travis launched himself over the sofa, stepping up onto the cushions, then leaping over the back.  As the younger man dashed for the wall-mount phone in the kitchen, Brody tried to follow over the back of the couch.  Travis was lucky; in his semi-drunk state, the aggressive muscleman misjudged how high the back of the sofa was and tumbled over it, slamming to the floor behind and momentarily knowing the wind out of himself.

 

It gave Travis enough time to reach the phone and dial 911.  “Hello?  Yes?” he cried into the mouthpiece,  “Yes, police—it’s 1805 County Road 83 west—the trailer at the end of the drive—please, get here quick, he’s gonna hurt me—for fuck’s sake, get someone here—”

 

With a roar of rage Brody leapt at him.  Travis hadn’t even realized the stud had regained his feet; with a screech of fear, the young punk jumped back and watched in stunned fear as the well-built construction worker grabbed the phone and wrenched it off the wall with the sheer power of his muscled arms.  The metal plate and wiring to which the phone had been attached was ripped out of place, leaving a gaping hole in the drywall.

 

“You dumbass,” Brody hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, in so many different ways…”

 

Travis, his never-robust courage now completely evaporated, began backing away, moving slowly down the hall to the rear of the trailer, where the back bedroom was.  He had no plans and was moving instinctively, but once he got the open door of the spare bathroom, he dived into it and locked the door behind him.

 

The door knob rattled.  “Let me in, Travis,” Brody said in low tone.  “Let me in or I’ll break the door down.”

 

“Leave me alone,” Travis said, trying to sound brave and despising the tremulous warble in his voice.  “I ain’t stupid.  I ain’t comin’ out till you go away.”

 

“Let me in, Travis,” Brody growled through the door, “Or I really will break the door down.  And I hafta do that, I’m gonna take the cost outta yer hide.”

 

Terrified by the sense of being caught in a trap, Travis whimpered.  He glanced at the window, but it was a tiny opening for ventilation, far too small for him to fit through.  If Travis actually came through the door, he couldn’t imagine what would happen to him…

 

That was when he heard the siren in the distance.  Faint, but getting increasingly nearing—and thus louder—each passing second, the sound brought instant relief to the trembling young fag.  And within seconds, Brody could hear them too.

 

“Damn you,” he muttered through the door, “You’re gonna pay for this, you little asswipe.  You’re gonna pay so fuckin’ bad.”

 

Within a few seconds, Travis could hear the crunching of the tires on gravel and the banging of car doors, followed by a loud knock at the trailer door.  “Police!  Open up!”  Still muttering beneath his breath, Brody went to let the cops in—he had no other choice.  Cautiously unlocking the bathroom door, Travis finally came out.

 

Brody was talking to two cops—sheriff’s men.  One looked like he was in his mid-forties, the other was about Brody’s age. Both were nodding as Brody tried to explain what was happening, but Travis knew if he didn’t say something, they’d leave—and he’d be in danger.

 

“He hit me,” the younger man said, interrupting the conversation and silencing it.

 

“Are you sure about that, son?” the older cop asked.  “That’s a serious charge, after all.”

 

“See the mark on my face?  Yeah, I’m sure.  Now what are ya gonna do about it?”

 

The older cop sighed, his face clearly indicating his displeasure at whiny little faggots who increased his workload.  “Do ya wanna file charges?” he asked wearily, already picturing the amount of extra paperwork that was going to be involved.

 

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Travis rejoined.  He kept his eyes averted from the look of smoldering rage that Brody directed at him.  If he could get the top arrested, he’d have at least the weekend free and clear to arrange for something else.

 

“Ok, let’s do this,” the older copy muttered, defeat dulling his voice as he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt and approached Brody.  “Turn around, buddy.  Hand behind your back.”

 

Brody complied, still glaring at Travis.  “You’re takin’ me just on his say-so?” he asked, outraged.

 

The younger cop spoke up for the first time.  “Gotta do it, mac.  State law—gotta take in the aggressor in a DV case if the victim decides to file charges.  That way, she—er, he—ain’t beaten into withdrawing the charges.  After a cooling-down period, you’ll be allowed to post bail.”

 

“Son of a bitch!” Brody swore.

 

“C’mon, buddy, let’s get ya in the car,” the older cop said after securing the cuffs.

 

“What, just like this, half-dressed?” Brody demanded.

 

“Aw, it’s just to the county lockup,” the older cop said.  “Tell ya what, if it makes ya feel better—Bates, pick up that shirt there on the couch on your way out.  This guy can put it on when we get back to town.”  With that, he aimed Brody at the door and left, leaving the younger cop to take Travis’s statement.

 

It didn’t take long for the young homo to recount the evening’s events.  Travis practically gushed at the young, hard-bodied cop in his tight uniform.  “Y’all saved my life, man—how’d y’all get here so quick? He asked.

 

“We were pickin’ up some coffee at the Kum N Buy up the road when we got the call,” the cop said coldly, his disgust at dealing with fags obvious.  When he was done, the cop made a few follow-up notes and turned to leave.  Once he reached the door, he looked back at Travis.

 

“Don’t forget,” the cop said.  “You gotta come down in the mornin’ and sign the official charges.  Plus, if ya want, you can file a restrainin’ order.  Make it so he’s gotta stay at least five hundred yards from ya, legally.  I always think they’re more trouble than they’re worth, but the law says I gotta advise ya about it.”

 

Leaving Travis pondering on the possibilities of a restraining order, the cop descended the steps that lead to the front door of the trailer.  He got to the car just as his partner finished getting Brody settled into the back seat and closed the door on him.

 

“I tell ya, whole country’s gettin’ too damn liberal,” he grumbled as the younger man came up.  “Way I see it, if a man works a long, hard day, he’s gotta right to expect things to be a certain way at home and there ain’t nothin’ wrong with knockin’ a little sense into the bitch if she can’t keep the place right.  Not like I give a shit what these two fags were doin’ to each other, but it’s the principle of the thing, ya know?”

 

“Yeah, I hear ya,” the younger cop grinned.  “Had to tell that little cocksucker about gettin’ a restrainin’ order.  Fuckin’ makes me sick.  That little buttfuck back in the trailer could do with a good beatin’, if ya ask me.  C’mon, let’s go—I gotta fine piece of ass waitin’ for me when I get off shift.”

 

They climbed into the front seat of the car and headed out to the county road.  Travis watched them go out of the window, then retrieved his cell phone.  “Hey, Eric?  Yeah, man, I need a favor.  Can you give me a lift into town and back tomorrow mornin’?  Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but I gotta get to the police station.  Naw, nothin’ bad—I’ll tell ya about it when you get here.  Just text me when yer on the way.  Thanks, man.”

 


 

At eight-thirty on a Friday evening, the Plaza Bar & Grill was starting to fill up.  Not as busy as it would be later in the evening, there was still a good throng of locals getting tanked and loading up on burgers and the grill’s specialty—huge baskets of fries, cooked in peanut oil.  It was actually a crowded, dirty dive housed in what had once been a hardware store; it took its absurdly grandiose name from the fact that it was on the town square, facing the courthouse.

 

It was also within walking distance of the police station, which was how Brody got there without his truck.

 

Once he’d gotten booked, he called his boss, who showed up the next morning to post bail; he’d agreed to advance the money out of Brody’s pay.  It took several hours for the bond to go through and even longer for the police clerk to process it, since he was the only full-time staff the department bothered to hire.  As a result, Brody wasn’t actually let out until somewhere around four that afternoon.

 

That was when he learned that Travis had not only filed charges against him, he’d also applied for—and got, with surprising speed—a restraining order.  Reading the paper handed to him at the discharge desk, Brody couldn’t go back to the trailer.

 

That when he walked over to the bar and started drinking.  And kept it up all evening.

 

Brody was a hard drinker—it took a lot to get him sloppy drunk, and he wasn’t anywhere near that point.  But as the sun set and the lights came on in the bar, the buff, hardbodied redneck sat and stared at the cigarette burns and the circular marks of moisture where his numerous bottle of beer had been placed, and he simmered.

 

That goddam little cocksucker.  Think he could kick Brody outta his own property?  He’d see about that.

 

Over the past couple of years, Brody had experienced certain…desires.  His imagination had bubbled with things he’s wanted to do to Travis, things that would cause a lot of trouble, but would be so fuckin’ hot…

 

They all came back to him now, but this time was different.  The alcohol had lowered his inhibitions, but it was more than that.  Do them was right.  It was fitting.

 

It was justice.

 

Goddamit, he deserved justice, after all.

 

The waitress appeared suddenly beside him, collecting his empty bottle.  “Hey, hon, I think we’re gonna hafta cut ya off.  You had too many to drive safe, Brody.”

 

He glared at her.  “I ain’t drivin’, Darlene, I ain’t got my truck with me.”

 

“Ya need a lift?  Ol’ Earle over there is about to head out, he lives out past yer place, right?”

 

Brody thought for a moment.  “Yeah, he does.  I can get him to drop me at the foot of the drive.  That way he won’t hear me comin’.”

 

“Who won’t hear ya comin’?”

 

Brody shot her another look, his slightly bloodshot eyes glittering with malignity.  “No one, darlin’.  Just a bitch who’s gonna learn a major lesson the hard way.”

 


 

Travis signed off on his online chat with Eric.  Usually they communicated via texts, which Travis immediately erased so Brody couldn’t see them.  With Brody in jail, though, Travis felt free to sit at the desk in the spare bedroom and use the computer.

 

He’d made arrangements to meet Eric at The Well, a small dive on the west side of Main Street near the train tracks with a clientele split equally between a small group of gays and a group of shiftless white trash that came simply because it was the closet bar to their squalid homes.  Wilton, the guy who lived on the next plot of land east, was a regular every Friday and Saturday night.  Travis never could figure out why; he wasn’t gay and the Plaza was actually closer.

 

Not that it mattered—the point was that Wilton was there by midnight like clockwork, so all Travis had to do was walk down the drive to the road and hitch a ride with Wilton when he came by.  He’d done it several times before.

 

Travis slumped back casually in the desk chair, savoring his sense of freedom.  He’d already dressed to go out, his black t-shirt tucked into a new and very tight pair of jeans with boot-cut cuffs to display his dark-gray ropers.  The boots weren’t new, but he considered them dress wear and took as good care of them as anything else that captured his shallow fancy.

 

Travis’s indolent reverie was interrupted by a faint rattling sound from the living room.  He stood up and stretched, the deep blue denim of his jeans following the contour of his perfectly-rounded asscheeks like a second skin.  He grabbed his denim jacket from the back of the chair and, slipping it on, went to investigate.

 

The faint rattling had a familiar sound, but Travis couldn’t place it and it had ceased before he reached the living room.  Looking around, he couldn’t detect anything out of place.  He turned to go back when it started again behind him—it was at the front door.

 

He just had time to reach into his pocket and dig out his phone—which took a moment since his jeans were so tight—when he realized with horror that he knew exactly what that sound was.

 

It was a key in the lock.  And the only other person with a key to the trailer was Brody.

 

“No…” he whispered, his face ashen as he whirled to see the door burst open and Brody’s hulking, powerful form filling the doorway, rage emanating from the muscled alpha in almost visible waves.

 

He raised his hand so Travis could see the piece of paper crushed in his clenched fist.  “You fucked up, bitch,” he hissed, “You fucked up so bad…”

 

With a womanish screech, Travis pawed at his phone, frantically trying to dial 911.  He managed to get a 9 and a 1 input before Brody bore down on him.  The slim young fag resorted to his usual maneuver of diving over the couch, but he dropped his phone when he did.  As Travis sprinted for the master bedroom, Brody ground the heel of his Red Wing workboot into the phone, shattering the screen.

 

Then he turned and head towards the master bedroom.  His thick heavy footfalls were those of a hunter relentlessly stalking his prey.

 

The door to the bedroom wasn’t completely closed, but in his amped-up state of terror, Travis had managed to shove the dresser so that it partially blocked it.  As a desperate attempt to buy some time, it failed abjectly.  Brody shoved the furniture aside with ease, entering the room to find Travis popping the screen out of the bedroom window and trying to dive out headfirst.

 

Brody took two giant strides across the room, grabbed the young punk’s ankle and yanked him back into the room.  Stumbling backwards against the bed, Travis fell to his knees involuntarily.  Overcoming an obvious reluctance, he turned his large blue eyes up to Brody’s face, his pale face wincing at the sheer rage he could see there.

 

“B-Brody…” he whispered, “You-you weren’t sp-sp s’posed to b-be…”

 

“I wasn’t s’posed to be outta jail yet, huh?” the hulking redneck alpha growled.  “An’ you had plans to keep me out, yeah?”  He brandished the paper still clutched in his hand; despite the way it had been wrinkled in his fist, it was still obvious that he was holding the restraining order.

 

“You were gonna try to keep me off my property, were ya, you cocksuckin’ little faggot?” Brody snarled.

 

“No, Brody, no!” Travis cried in terror, “I wasn’t—but the cop said—an’ I was gonna leave, you coulda come back—”

 

Suddenly Brody’s anger seemed to implode from a roaring, red-hot rage into a quiet, focused point of white-hot fury.  “Oh,” he said quietly and calmly, “You were gonna leave, were ya?  That’ll all?  Nothing else?”

 

“No…no…” Travis whispered, partially in agreement with Brody’s comment and partially in an instinctive, almost totem attempt to ward off the danger that was literally palpable.  He’d never seen this cold, hard anger in Brody before.  He didn’t know what it meant—but he damn well knew it wasn’t good.

 

“Get up,” Brody demanded brusquely.  “Get up or I’ll get ya up.”

 

“Pl-please, Brody,” Travis began but was unable to complete his plea before the powerful top grabbed a handful of the kid’s golden curls and pulled upwards, his bicep bulging with inexorable force as Travis squalled in pain and came up off his knees, knowing his scalp would be torn off if he didn’t.

 

“Lemme tell ya somethin’, cunt,” Brody said with a sneer as he got Travis to his feet.  “Ain’t nobody leavin’ me till I’m done with ‘em.  You wanna leave?  Fine, bitch.  But yer leavin’ my way.  Ain’t like anyone gonna want ya now that I’ve reamed out yer fuckhole anyway.”

 

Travis had time to notice how the hem of the short sleeve on Brody’s white t-shirt was drawn taut around the circumference of his massive bicep as the abusive top pulled his arm back.  It mesmerized him to the point he almost didn’t notice the arm shoot forward again; he certainly never had time to try to block the vicious gutpunch that hit him like the kick of a horse.  The blow was so violent Travis was jerked back hard enough to pull his head free of Brody’s grip, at the painful cost of a handful of hair being ripped out.

 

Travis kicked as he fell, his ropers making contact with Brody’s legs—not hard enough to cause any pain, but in combination with the sudden shift in his weight once he was no longer holding Travis, the alpha staged backwards a few steps to regain his balance.  Unable to breathe, Travis nonetheless found himself doing an astonishingly stuntman-like tuck and roll across the bed.  Hitting the floor on the other side, he hurled himself around a corner into the master bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

 

Putting up a hand to brace himself against the wall, Brody dropped the restraining order; the crumpled piece of paper floated to the floor like a leaf.  Watching it, the muscle-bound hick felt the red flush of anger rising in his face again.  He turned towards the bathroom door, an expression of grim determination coalescing on his feature.

 

The little fuck had to learn.  Brody knew he was hot; he knew he could stick his dick in anything he wanted.  This lazy little homo leech brought nothing to the table; it needed to learn its place in the scheme of things.  And its place in Brody’s scheme had hit rock-fuckin’-bottom.

 

He started slowly, with an almost casual knock at the bathroom door.  “Travis?” he called gently.  “C’mon out, man, I wanna talk.”

 

The leech in question was huddled on the bathroom floor, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms clasped around them.  Tears were running down his face and despite the oppressive heat in the small room and his sweatiness from his recent acrobatics, Travis pulled the denim jacket tighter around his shoulders.  His abdomen was still throbbing from the punch and he’d just managed to get his breath back.

 

“B-brody?” he quavered, “Just—just let m-me go, dude.  Huh?  Ok?  Can I just go?”  He didn’t know what to make of this conciliatory tone, but he knew it’d be a very bad idea to go out there with Brody just outside the door.

 

“You filed this order,” Brody’s voice came silkily from beyond the thin, hollow-core door.  “We need to talk about it.  C’mon, man, open up the door.”

 

“I-I’m sorry, man.  P-p-please just lemme go,” Travis blurted, barely able to keep his incipient sobbing down.  “I’ll—I’ll do any-anything ya want, but please, Brody, for fuck’s sake, just lemme go.  Ok, Brody?  Huh?”

 

“Open the door, Travis.”  Brody’s voice wasn’t quite as smooth now.  “I wanna see ya.  How do the wetbacks always say it—mano a mano?  Yeah, face-to-face, like a real man.  C’mon out, Travis.”

 

“No, not-not yet, Brody,” Travis whimpered.  “Back off a bit, man.  Tell ya what—if you’ll go out in the hall and close the bedroom door, I’ll come outta here.”

 

“Ya know what?” Brody snapped, the softness in his voice replaced with a tone that seethed unmistakably with cold, hard rage, “I’m sick of fuckin’ with yer dumb ass, you worthless little faggot.”

 

There was a loud crunching sound and Travis saw to his horror that Brody had put his steel-toed construction boot through the door, smashing open a large hole in the center with a single kick.  The leg was withdrawn and was instantly replaced with Brody’s face.  The long-haired stud had the countenance of a god, but tonight he looked like the god of hell as he grinned at the terrified punk.

 

“Heeere’s Brody!” he shrieked with insane glee.  The remains of the hollow-core door were no obstacle to the powerful white-trash sadist; he tore the pieces out with his bare hands, the screws coming out of the thin wood fascia as easily as if they’d been screwed into butter.  In less than five seconds, Travis was face-to-face with the one person he’d hoped he’d never see again.

 

That was bad—very bad.  Cowering at the base of the toilet, the lean, lithe youth saw death in Brody’s eyes.  Travis screamed and pissed himself in terror, the hot wet warmth spreading over the crotch of his tight jeans.

 

The hard-bodied alpha chuckled malignantly.  “You scared, asswipe?  You should be.  Time for you to learn a lesson I should taught ya a long time ago—and learnin’ it’s gonna hurt bad, bro.  It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

 

With the feral grace of a tiger attacking prey, Brody lunged at Travis.  In a single, lightning-fast maneuver, he grabbed the terrified punk by the throat, whirled around, and flung him back through the open doorway into the bedroom.  Travis hit the ground on his back just short of the far wall, the impact driving his breath out and stunning him but not knocking him out.

 

As he shuddered on the floor in shocked pain, gasping for air like a dying fish, Travis could only watch helplessly as Brody strode out of the bathroom with a calm that belied his boiling rage.  The quivering homo stared as the hard-bodied stud towered over him.

 

His tight jeans tucked carelessly into his laced but untied construction boots, his wide leather belt with the huge metal belt buckle fastened just above the massive bulge in his crotch, his ripped abs and massive chest, emphasized by his too-small white cotton t-shit that was stretched so tightly across his broad pecs that his large firm nipples seemed about to tear through the fabric, above all his hard, almost arrogant face with two days’ worth of scruff darkening the cheeks and chin—even in his pain and fear, Travis was still mesmerized by Brody’s sheer masculinity.  The head mix of pheromones emitted in the alpha’s sweat added to the pansy’s confusing mix of lust and terror.  He wanted Brody so bad—no, that wasn’t right; he wanted to get away from Brody so bad…

 

In any event, he didn’t have a choice.  Before he could recover, the muscle-bound top bent down and clamped his hand around Travis’s throat again with a brutal vise grip.  Hoisting the writhing homo into the air, this time the vindictive sadist let the boy dangle, gagging and choking.

 

Travis’s mind was engulfed in terror like a solid sheet of flame.  He couldn’t breathe at all.  No matter how hard he kicked, his piss-filled ropers were flailing uselessly inches off the floor.  And Brody—Brody was more pissed than Travis had even seen him.  Brody was gonna hurt him worse than he ever had before.

 

Travis’s panic went nuclear when he realized it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d get over—it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d survive.  The rational part of his mind slipped away and he became a feral animal, scratching and clawing in his desperation to survive.  He realized—without any conscious thought involved—that he wasn’t making any headway clutching at the incredibly powerful hand Brody had clamped around his throat.

 

With nothing else to cling to, Travis began flailing wildly, his hands snatching at anything within reach.  The first thing he came into contact with was the collar of Brody’s t-shirt.  With a mighty (and completely instinctive) jerk, the thrashing youth tore the collar, yanking back until the thin cotton shirt was in shreds.

 

“You fuckin’ asswipe!” Brody barked, “Goddam shirt is new!”

 

Travis never saw the blow the hardbodied top aimed at his face; he only felt a phenomenal blast of pain and sank instantly into darkness.

 


 

Travis’s ascent back to consciousness was marked by a distinct ache that seemed generalized at first, throbbing throughout his body, but finally localized on his left eye.  He tried to open it, but it was swollen and he could only manage to peer out of a blurry slit.  There was nothing wrong with his right eye, though.  It popped open to see Brody looming over him.

 

He felt like he’d been out for hours, but it had been less than fifteen minutes.  In that time, Brody had managed to strip him nude and lay him out crossways across the bed.  Groaning, the twink raised his head, his shaggy blond hair glinting like gold under the bare overhead light.  Tenderly clutching his blackened eye, Travis watch Brody out of his good one as the stud tore the remains of the t-shirt off his back and tossed them to the floor.  His huge furry chest and washboard abs exposed, the alpha finally deigned to look down and notice the boy.

 

“Good, yer awake,” Brody said, almost conversationally.  “I was jist wonderin’ how to wake yer stupid ass up.  See, ya can’t learn if yer asleep—an’ it’d be jist like a dumbass motherfucker like you to sleep through the most important lesson of yer life.”

 

Brody reached down and unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, he extracted his tackle like he was hauling a bucket up out of a well.  Travis was already familiar with the top’s huge shaft, but there was something sinister about how hard the massive cock already was.  The slut was so focused on the pulsating rod of manmeat that it took him a moment to notice that Brody had undone his belt buckle and was slowly sliding the belt out from around his tight waist.

 

Travis knew he was trapped.  There was no way out; his only hope was to try to appeal to Brody, hoping for some mercy of perhaps memory of affection.

 

“N-no, please,” he begged, his right eye wide, blue and sparkling with tears, “For God’s sake, Brody, don-don’t do anythin’ yer gonna be sorry for!”

 

The moment he said it, the flash in Brody’s eye told his he could have phrased it better.  “Gonna be sorry for?” the vicious redneck hissed, “Is that some kinda threat, boy?  You think you can threaten me, you sorry-ass little cumsucker?  Here’s a threat for ya, faggot!”

 

Brody doubled his belt over and held it at the bend, leaving both ends—including the one with the huge metal buckle—free.  Travis saw him swing but didn’t even have time to wince as Brody brought the thick leather straps down across the tender flesh of the kid’s smooth, flat belly.  The loose end of the belt stuck the skin with a loud slap, leaving a wide red weal.  The buckle, on the other hand, slammed down violently and left a bruise nearly the size of a palm print.

 

Both hurt like all fuck.  Travis screamed and Brody grinned cheerfully.

 

“That got yer attention, huh?  That got yer mind off suckin’ dude’s dicks?  Yeah?  Good, cunt, cause there’s a lot more where that came from.  I’m gonna teach ya the same way I saw my pappy break a horse—with pain.  Only thing a dumb animal like you understands is pain, boy.  So saddle up, motherfucker, cause it’s time to rodeo!”

 

Through his tears, the sobbing youth looked up at Brody.  The muscled stud had turned away for a moment; Travis heard the door latch, then a click.  Brody had closed and locked the bedroom door.  He returned and leaned over the writhing homo, his head momentarily eclipsing the overhead light, giving his black, shoulder-length hair a glowing aura as an arrogant, cocky grin crossed his unshaven face.

 

“Ain’t no way out, boy.  See, that’s what ya gotta learn—you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with yer ass.  Ya feelin’ me, son?  Ya catchin’ what I’m pitchin’ at ya?  Naw, I don’t think you are.  Like I said, it takes pain for a dumbass motherfucker like you to learn a damn thing.”

 

 

Travis shrank back as Brody brandished the belt again, raising it up over his shoulder.  Throwing up his hands, Travis had time to shout, “Please, no!” before Brody swung.  It turned out putting up his hands to block the blow was an extremely bad idea; while the belt lashed his right arm painfully, the buckle struck his left hand squarely, snapping all but Travis’s index finger and thumb.

 

The agony was as sudden and unexpected as it was searing.  Travis immediately rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, cradling his wounded hand.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Brody growled.  Grabbing Travis by the shoulder, he rolled the kid onto his back again.  The weeping punk saw with horror that the alpha’s huge cock was dripping precum.  Raising his eyes slowly from the erect, straining rod, Travis scanned Brody’s furry abs and the wiry mass of body hair that spread over his chest, the large dark nipples jutting from the swelling pecs like volcanic peaks above a dark forest.

 

Above that, the look in Brody’s handsome, masculine face told Travis what he already knew but was afraid to admit to himself—inflicting pain was getting Brody aroused.  The unmistakable glint of lust in his eye, normally a turn-on on its own, was transformed in something terrible and disturbing when it was combined by the grimace of contempt and hatred that twisted Brody’s face.

 

And that was when it finally sank in for Travis.  For a brief moment, lucidity cut through the pulsing agony in his hand and the sharp ache radiating from the bruise on his belly, and he understood the symbolism of Brody closing and locking the bedroom door.

 

It was because he was gonna die in here tonight.

 

“Oh god, no,” he protested, but fear had frozen his voice into a barely-audible croak.  “No, Brody—for fuck’s sake, don’t…”

 

“That’s it, you stupid sack a’ shit,” the cruel alpha chuckled, “Beg for yer worthless life, cunt.”

 

Some perverse corner of Travis’s mind sealed his lips, not wanting to give Brody the satisfaction—not that it mattered.  With a convulsive grunt, the muscled top swung the belt again, the edge of the oversized buckle slashing a long gash across the kid’s smooth chest.  This time, though, Travis didn’t get the chance to react to the cold, sharp pain of torn flesh before the belt struck him again.  And again.

 

Brody was working himself into a frenzy, his face contorted with hatred and rage as he lashed the slim young boy with the leather belt.  Each agonizing blow that landed forced a scream from Travis; suddenly, the blows were landing too fast for him to separate them.  It was like he was in a hail of knives—he simply couldn’t tell where the welts from the belt were forming or if the buckle had struck him on the leg or on the elbow.  All he knew was that he was in an unholy grip of pain that clutched his entire body remorselessly.

 

At one point, Travis was aware of a single blow of the buckle—it hit his right knee edge-on, shattering the kneecap.  That sensation tore right through him, a flash of agony that would have seared his soul had the shallow youth possessed one.

 

The brutal whipping lasted for almost twenty minutes before Brody, sweating and panting with exertion, tossed the belt to one side.  Travis kept screaming, his cries deafening—to himself.  In reality, his voice had cracked five minutes earlier and all that was coming out of his gaping mouth now was a hoarse gasping sound.  He was rolling about and jerking on the bed as if he was still being whipped—an involuntary reaction to the pain.  His smooth skin was no longer unblemished; barely an inch was visible that was not marked with the brutal violence he’d just suffered.

 

“Like I said, dumbass, you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with ya,” Brody panted, stepping back from the bed a moment to admire what he’d done to the writhing kid.  “An’ all this fag-bashin’ done got me horny.  Tell ya what—lemme drain my balls and I’ll be done with yer useless ass.  I’m gonna load ya up with my hot mansperm and then I’ll let ya take a nice long dirt nap.  How’s that sound, asswipe?  Ya cool with that?  No?  Tough fuckin’ shit, ya goddam motherfucker.”

 

Before Travis could process the words that had been spoken to him, Brody had climbed on top of him and forcibly spread his legs apart.  His pain- and fear-stunned mind moved slowly; it wasn’t until cue-ball-sized head of the muscled alpha’s dick pressing against his sphincter that Travis realized his murderous lover was treating him to one last fuck.

 

The young fag had worshipped Brody’s monstrously huge cock and had loved the sensation of being filled with manmeat—it had hurt, but it had hurt so good.  But Brody had always gone in slowly, and with lots of lube.  This time it was different.  This time it hurt bad.

 

Wrapping his large hands around Travis’s smooth thighs, Brody rammed his shaft deep into Travis’s rectum, his oozing precum the only lube.  Despite the nightmarish level of agony wracking the punk’s lean body, the sudden, searing pain of having his sphincter literally torn open  took Travis’s breath away.  He could only lie still, his body rigid and trembling, his eyes, wide and circled with gray rings of shock, riveted on the figure of Brody.

 

The hardbodied redneck grinned.  He brushed a lock of his long hair out of his face; his bulked-out torso glistened with a slight sheen of sweat under the overhead bulb.  The beating had been a good workout; Brody’s muscles tingled and he felt energized.  His big throbbing cock was buried balls-deep into boymeat—the sadist was pumped and primed, ready for a good time.

 

Still overwhelmed by the pain in his rectum, Travis’s jaw had clenched closed tightly, forcing him to breathe loudly and deeply through his nose.  His close proximity to Brody’s sweaty, masculine body meant that the unfortunate youth was more or less huffing the overabundance of pheromones that were being emitted in the musky tang of Brody’s mansweat.

 

The impact of the adrenaline and testosterone on the always-horny homo was as involuntary as it was immediate—Travis’s own six-and-a-half inch dick began to stiffen and rise above the kid’s flat, badly-bruised belly.  He was in too much pain to notice it at the moment…

 

Brody noticed it.

 

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled.  “All I gotta do is shove my cock into ya and yer homo ass gets all horny—even though I toldja yer gonna die tonight.  Ya like that idea, huh?  I shoulda offed ya a long time ago.  In fact—”

 

Before Travis could blink, Brody’s arms had darted forward and clamped around the boy’s throat.  As the buff top leaned over, the weight of his bulked-out body pressing Travis down into the mattress, he began to squeeze, his grip intensifying slowly but inexorably, as he cocked his thumbs and pressed them remorselessly into the kid’s larynx.

 

“—every time I came in yer worn-out asshole, it was cause I was fantasizin’ about snuffin’ ya, you useless pansy.  Remember Tuesday night?  I was thinkin’ about huntin’ you through the woods like prey, seein’ the terror on yer stupid fag face when I finally blocked yer path and blew ya away with my shotgun.  But you wouldn’t suffer enough—I’d want ya still alive while I gutted ya like a deer…”

 

Travis croaked loudly, his hands gripping Brody’s wrists but the broken fingers on his left hand flopped limply, utterly powerless to move the top’s hands a fraction of an inch from his compressed throat.  His air was completely cut off.  This couldn’t be happening yet, he thought; knowing he was going to die, he still refused to recognize the imminence of death.

 

“Remember how good I fucked ya on your birthday?” the alpha whispered vindictively to the choking youth, “You said it was the best fuck you’d ever had.  I was dreamin’ about cuttin’ yer throat and fuckin’ ya as you bled out and died.  That get ya off, you sick fucker?  Yeah?”

 

Travis shook his head frantically, as much in denial of the entire situation as in denial of Brody’s words.  His face was starting to swell and darken and the crushing pain in his throat was a strong new sensation in the kid’s overpowering wave of suffering.  But it wasn’t alone—there was a pounding, too, a hot, burning pounding in his head and his chest…

 

“I even planned out how to dump yer body, fuckwad,” Brody chuckled cruelly at his dying bitch.  “I’m just gonna drive ya out and dump ya in the swamp.  By the time yer corpse floats up outta the muck, it’ll be so bloated and rotten, ain’t no one gonna know who you are.  If anyone finds it in the first place.  Ain’t no one gonna be lookin’—I’m gonna tell ‘em you ran off with some rich dude who was passin’ through.  Everyone knows what a lazy whore ya are—and no one’s gonna care.”

 

Travis could still hear Brody speak, but the words seemed to have an odd echo effect inside his head.  It was cloudy in there and it was only with difficulty that the choking faggot could focus his attention.  He was still lucid enough to realize that pulling at Brody’s wrists wasn’t helping and tried clawing at the alpha’s fingers instead.  His entire body seemed to be pulsing with pain; some part of him wondered how he could still be conscious while suffering such agony—and why his cock was so strainingly erect it hurt as well…

 

When Brody spoke again, Travis absorbed the words.  They seemed to melt into the relentless, overwhelming pounding in his head and his chest; the rapid jackhammering of his pulse that beat out the last few moments of his wasted life in double-time…

 

“Die, you fuckin’ piece a’ shit!” the heaving, pumping top growled, his hulking form, covered with sweat-matted fur, enveloping the kid’s slim, lithe body.  “Choke and fuckin’ die, you goddam sack of cum-gobblin’ scum!”

 

Brody could feel his hot manseed seething in his balls; he knew he was gonna erupt into a boiling geyser of sperm at any moment.  Even now, trembling on the edge of orgasm, he was so pissed at the worthless little fairy he was bangin’ that he didn’t want the cunt to enjoy his hot manload.

 

Brody’s hands tightened, his fists clenching closed in his rage.  His thumbs pressed forward inexorably, shoving Travis’s larynx out of place.  As the cartilage of his voice box reached the point of ultimate stress, the lithe young faggot kicked and flailed frantically, the terror of knowing that he was gonna die if he couldn’t stop the powerful sadist overriding the nightmarish agony he experienced every time he bent his shattered knee.

 

And he couldn’t.  He simply wasn’t strong enough to prevent the alpha’s muscles from clamping down on him and ending his life.  The point was driven home painfully as Brody crushed his larynx, the fragile cartilage construction shattering loudly into mangled gristle.

 

Travis’s swelling, blackening face assumed a horror-stricken expression, but the kid’s features were so bloated and congested with asphyxia that it was hard to tell the difference.  The grotesque, excruciating agony in his throat was just the latest in a long line of horrific sensations that were wreaking havoc on his nervous system.  The pounding in his chest was so intense the dying homo was sure his body was pulsing visibly in the same tempo.  Deep inside, he was still painfully aware of how full of manmeat his guts were; the horny faggot corner of his mind that still kept track of such things held no memory of Brody’s cock being so thick or buried so far inside him.

 

And as some part of him screamed inwardly at his missed chance to flee, another part acknowledged that he’d have missed this insanely intense fuck—and that part seemed to be the one in control of his cock as it swelled and oozed, its tender flesh viciously abraded by Brody’s rough, wiry belly fur as the swollen member slid between the writhing, intertwined bodies.

 

Things were fading for Travis, and growing cold.  Was the heat on?  He couldn’t remember.  All he could remember was that there was pain beyond the icy chill, pain and cock.  He was full.  Brody had filled him with manmeat.  Beyond that, the pounding in his head was too much; it was like he was being beaten by a prizefighter…why?  What—his dick, his ass, his entire lean smooth body—it had given him such pleasure; now there was nothing but pain everywhere…

 

“Yer dyin’, faggot,” Brody jeered.  “How’s it feel, huh?  Does it hurt?  It don’t hurt bad enough, fuckwad.  No matter how bad dyin’ hurts, it ain’t anywhere near as bad as you deserve, asswipe.  C’mon and start kickin’, boy.  Lemme feel yer hot lean body jerk an’ kick under, motherfucker; lemme feel yer asshole convulse and jack me off.”

 

The hardbodied top gave the dying youth one last squeeze, feeling with profound satisfaction the cracking sensation as he crushed Travis’s trachea into a bloody pulp, permanently sealing off the punk’s airway.  In the shock of mortal pain, Travis literally lost his mind; the animalistic mid-brain took over and Brody found himself dealing with a wild, clawing beast that beat at his chest and ripped his chest hairs unconsciously.  Not that that got any pity from Brody; having his chest fur pulled out hurt.  With a loud grunt, he drove two roundhouse punches straight into Travis’s face, breaking the fag’s nose with a pulpy sound.

 

“Ain’t you dead yet?” Brody snapped.  “Fuck, I ain’t gonna need yer worthless ass once I use it as a cumrag.  Fuckin’ die, motherfucker!”  He placed his right palm on Travis’s chin, feeling the wispy golden curls of the homo’s blond facial hair.  At the same moment, Travis’s hands were fondling Brody’s harsh scruff, the dying boy’s fingers–the unbroken ones–involuntarily caressing the rough, steel-wool-like growth covering the alpha’s hard, masculine cheeks and strong chin.

 

Brody shoved.  With a loud cracking sound, Travis’s skull was forcibly separated from his spine, the thick spinal cord shearing apart at the second cervical vertebra with instant, violent, and traumatic impact.

 

As Brody recalled it later, it was like Travis suddenly developed a moist, pulsing suction in his ass, solely devoted to swallowing the vast load of sperm that the top had built up in his balls.

 

The dying faggot wrapped his arms and legs around his killer and squeezed—everything.  His limbs, his chest, his rectum; it all contracted as a searing bolt of agony swept like lightning through Travis’s central nervous system.

 

At literally the same moment his brain was shorting out and dying, the battered and abused youth shot a stream of hot semen from his hyper-stimulated scrotum.  Brody grunted and screamed “Fuck!” repeatedly as Travis’s lean form writhed and jerked under his weight, milking his sensitive, engorged shaft.  For Travis, the world ended in a searing blast of agony and cum.

 

As the dead kid kept pumping out his death load, reflexively smearing and matting Brody’s chest fur with pearly white boyspunk, the muscled alpha hosed the cunt’s guts with his boiling wad.  It took a moment for Brody to regain control, but when he did, he found himself staring down into Travis’s face.  The young slut’s bulging, half-lidded eyes had a thousand-yard stare and thick, white, foamy drool trickled down his chin, soaking the golden curls.  He head was bent backwards at a grotesque angle.

 

Brody slowly withdrew his throbbing tool, pulling against the suction that somehow remained in the corpse’s rectum.  With a loud sucking sound, his massive rod came free, swaying and bobbing, dribbling pearly drops of spunk on Travis’s smooth, flaccid thighs.  Standing up, the cum-covered alpha passed his hand across his brow to keep sweat from trickling in his eyes and admired the scene.

 

Travis had learned a lesson he damn sure wouldn’t forget—the little fuck wasn’t ever forget anything ever again.  His smooth lean body shuddered in its death throes, his bare toes curling and uncurling as random nerves fired along the shredded remains of his spinal column.  A thick, glutinous wad of semen was slowly seeping from his still semi-erect dick.

 

“Now you can go,” Brody whispered, grinning, at the trembling corpse.  “Now I’m done with yer worthless ass.”

 

After cleaning himself up a little—washing the sweat and cum off his torso and his dick, then stuffing the latter back into his tight, worn jeans—the buff alpha took some time to take what was left of the ruined bathroom door off its hinges.  He’d get a new door tomorrow.  After dumping the splintered pieces of wood into the bed of his truck, Brody turned back to the trailer.  He’d finished clearing away the door, but he hadn’t finished taking out the trash yet.

 

Striding back into the bedroom, he leaned over the bed and picked up Travis’s body.  The dead kid was still quivering and since Brody hadn’t bothered to clean the corpse, he suddenly found himself covered with the homo’s cum again.

 

Well fuck that, he thought and decided not to bother with putting on the shirt; he was dumping garbage and would need a shower once he was done anyway.

 

The hulking, muscled redneck threw the dead boy over his shoulder, Travis’s head and hands hanging down Brody’s back.  As he left the trailer, the alpha’s boots sounded thick and heavy on the wooden steps and the extra weight he was carrying made the gravel crunch loudly under his heels.  Jerking his shoulder, he tossed Travis into the bed of his pickup; the corpse landed face-up with a thick, meaty thump.

 

Brody hopped into the cab and threw the truck into gear.  Twenty minutes later, he was pulling off the county road onto a trail that would have been impossible to see if he hadn’t already known where it was.  The rutted mud track he was following put his 4X4 through a workout, but eventually he reached the edge of swamp, pulling over beside a large pool of sickly water, dotted with tree stumps and covered with slimy green algae.

 

Climbing out of the driver’s seat, Brody walked around to the rear, opened the tailgate, and dragged Travis out by the feet, letting him fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes.  Standing over him, Brody looked down at the murdered corpse of his lover of two years.

 

“Y’know, fuckwad,” Brody mused speculatively, “That fuck was the best one yet.  Ever.  I shoulda done that to ya the first day I met ya…”

 

His Redwing construction boots sank deep into the soft ground as he dragged the faggot’s body to the water and rolled it in, watching bubbles rise up under the green film on the surface.  The he headed back to the truck.

 

On his way back to the trailer, Brody kept the windows down; it was a chilly night, but he was warm from exertion and the cool breeze across his chest kept his nipples achingly erect.  His mind was still running on the last thing he’d said.  If he’d offed Travis right away, he’d have gotten some great sex—and he wouldn’t have had to deal with the whiney little bitch for two years.

 

That was it, man.  That was how to do it.  Work ‘em out, use ‘em up and get rid of ‘em before they start to rot.  Fuck yeah.

 

Brody had a sudden sensation that he had experienced a major sexual revelation.  He knew now what he wanted to do, what would get him off, and get him off right.  He just needed a victim.

 

Wondering if there was anything on the computer back home that would lead him to the faggot cunt that have been helping his bitch try to run away, Brody grinned and turned on the radio.  His dick was getting hard again…

Camping with Chris By Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

 

Chris is a real person who reads this site and sent me an email.  It turns out his fantasies are as fucked up as mine, so I wrote a story for him about how it all might turn out.  I had some “happy endings” as I wrote it, and he reported a large one as he finished reading it.  So, mission accomplished.  I hope others have the same reaction.  Let me know your thoughts, and remember that feedback and ideas are always welcome.  (BTW, I’m the character “Matt” in the story, as with many of mine, which is my real first name.  Loki I leave to your imagination.)

 

The Eagle Bar in Pittsburg had changed a lot since Loki purchased it a few years ago, remodeled it, and started hanging out there.  But in many ways, it had returned to its heritage, the days when it was the premier gay S&M bar in Pennsylvania.  There are lots of gay leather bars named “The Eagle,” but Loki had turned this one into something special, something exceptionally kinky and extreme.  It was a commercial success he was proud to own, attracting patrons, both masters and slaves, from all over the Northeast and beyond.

 

Of course, Loki was always proud, and he had a lot to be proud of.  He was especially proud of his pure Nordic heritage, believing it to be the master race.  He was named after the smartest of the Norse gods, and the one who was often evil, and he viewed himself in many ways as the god Loki.  It started with his gorgeous, muscled, Nordic body.  He was 23, recently finished with college, and recipient of a massive inheritance.  Buying and fixing up the bar was a trivial expense to him.  Loki was into extremely dominant gay sex, so the bar was primarily a way to attract other guys he could dominate, torture, and fuck, and to show off his phenomenal blond physique.  He also attracted a group of like-minded masters who shared his lust and joined in the fun. But he only associated with those who were also rich, fit, and good looking.

 

Loki always wore leather, but he was usually shirtless, sometimes with a masters’ leather harness to highlight his dominance.  Unlike other leather bars, nudity and public sex were encouraged, and sometimes he wore nothing but his steel-toed leather boots, especially when he was but-fucking one of the slaves.  That way he could show off how utterly massive his cock was.  The boots were the etiquette at the bar – dominant males wore at least leather boots; submissive fags were barefoot and naked except for a possible slave collar, cock ring, nipple clips, or weights attached to their balls.  There was a fully equipped torture chamber in the back complete with fuck stations, whipping posts, a rack, slings, and lots of other fun equipment with which a submissive could be restrained, tortured, and gang-raped.  There was also no rule against having a slave bend over a bar stool to get its ass pummeled, which happened a lot, often with Loki doing the initial drilling before the rest of the bar joined in.  All this required an “understanding” with the local cops, who got free drinks and admission along with the use of the subs of their choice.  Loki had struck gold in the market and was attracting gay S&M enthusiasts from near and far.  He charged a bundle and had already recovered his investment along with a tidy profit after only a couple of years.  His bar was now well known nationally as the best place for intense gay S&M, with no limits.  Loki wasn’t into limits.  If a patron damaged one of the slaves Loki kept available as waters and sex objects, the patron just had to pay Loki a fine and cover the veterinary bill to get the animal repaired.    The fine was a lot larger if it had to be replaced.  Loki viewed himself as a deity entitled to punish his subjects however it pleased him to do so.  And it pleased him a lot.

 

On this night, Loki was holding forth to some of his favorite fellow leather masters.  He’d been gone for a few days and was describing a camping trip he’d especially enjoyed.  He signaled to a nearby waiter, who knew the signal and quickly brought Loki a large stein of beer.  At a second signal, the “waiter,” who was a sex slave named Matt (one of the ones Loki kept naked and confined to the bar) knelt under the table and unbuttoned the fly on Loki’s leather pants.  The slave used its mouth to gently remove Loki’s hardening cock from his pants and swallow as much as it could of the giant penis.  As soon as Loki felt the slave’s tongue on Loki’s dick, Loki released a load of piss down the slave’s throat, commenting to his buddies, “gotta make room for the next load of beer.”  Everyone laughed, and the slave was soon occupied draining piss and getting beers for Loki’s audience.  As each master finished his load, he kicked the slave in the nuts with his steel-toed boots to signal that the slave should now service another master.  The slave’s balls were swollen from the multiple kicks, but it still maintained the required erection.  Matt liked being kicked in the balls and used as a human urinal.  Later, they’d get around to using Matt sexually, enjoying how utterly appreciative the animal was for the pain and humiliation it received – and deserved.  But for now, they wanted to hear about Loki’s adventure.

 

“So. Master Loki, what were you up to?  We know this was your annual renewal retreat, and we’re all dying to hear your story.  From the way you’re celebrating, I am guessing it’s a good one.  They always are.”  (Loki’s buddies had long ago learned that flattering him helped keep them in his circle of sycophantic favorites.  And, in fact, he was a great storyteller and his S&M activities were extreme and awesome.  They inspired his entourage to some intense public orgasms.)

 

“Well, you’re not dying as much as the guy I just finished with. His name was Curtis, or Carl, or Chris or something like that.  I think it was Chris.  But it doesn’t matter.  He didn’t really deserve a name.  He was a total loser, but an entertaining and eager one.  I’ll go with Chris.  Or cum-slut.  It actually began a couple months ago.”

 

Loki described how he had met Chris at the bar of a hotel in New York City.  Chris was in New York marketing some product or other, and Loki had just closed a deal to buy the hotel.  “The Eagle is really profitable, but I have a lot of money to invest, and renovating medium-quality hotels is a terrific investment.  I’m going to turn that one into the best gay S&M hotel in the world, complete with a no limits bar modeled after this one.  I was in the existing hotel bar having a drink with some fellow investors after we closed the deal, and I noticed this geeky-looking young dweeb staring at me.  I get that a lot from gay guys, given my body and command of the room, so I wasn’t surprised or offended.  I like being admired, and so do my buddies, who are all also major studs.  We deserve it.  The twink looked kind of interesting.  He wasn’t a movie star or anything, but he wasn’t altogether bad looking and those geeky types frankly appeal to me as prospects for torture and sex.  I invited him to join our group, which he did.

 

“I noticed you were staring at me and my buddies.  Are you some sort of fag?”

 

“Sorry., sir.  I didn’t mean to offend you.  I am gay and yes, I think you guys are amazing looking, especially you.  I was fantasizing about you tying me up and fucking me.”

 

That started a conversation Loki especially enjoyed.  He interrogated Chris as to what he liked to do in terms of sex, and learned that the fag was very submissive and, at 28, a bit older than Loki.  But he was not very experienced other than at sucking cock.    Loki unzipped his fly and invited Chris to strip naked in front of everyone at the bar, kneel in front of Loki, and suck his dick.  A bit to Loki’s surprise, Chris did so immediately and quite expertly, fully accepting Loki’s giant cock in his mouth all the way to its base and after a great suck session eagerly swallowing Loki’s gushing load of cum.  It didn’t seem to bother Chris at all to have people staring at him while he degraded himself.  Indeed, Chris quickly achieved a full erection.  (Loki owned the bar, so he didn’t have to worry about rules.  After all, this would soon be the norm for conduct there.)  As Chris used his tongue to clean Loki’s dick and then thanked him for the honor of serving him, Loki asked what sort of limits Chris had. “I don’t think I have any, sir.  For someone like you, I’d let you do whatever you want with me.  I’d be happy to suck off your buddies, or if you prefer I could bend over a table and you could all butt-fuck me.”  Loki was now truly interested, getting a full view of the dweeb’s body.  It really wasn’t bad, and included a very appealing butt.  Chris might be his kind of frag.  He clearly had a promising attitude and sure knew how to suck cock.  Loki ordered Chris a whisky without asking what Chris wanted, and continued the conversation with his naked guest.  He learned that Chris was staying in room 558 in what was now Loki’s hotel, and that he was heading back to central Pennsylvania, near Pittsburg, after making some sales calls the next day.

 

“That’s probably bullshit about no limits, but I’ll give you a test and an offer.  I’m staying in my penthouse, and my buddies and I are going to head there and have an orgy.  We’ll want some slave fags to play with, and it will be very rough.  We’ve arranged for some, but you can join the fun as a slave if you prove yourself obedient enough.  So, stay naked and stay hard, put on this slave collar (Loki handed one to Chris),  and go back to your room.  Pack your shit and leave it in the room.  Walk out with nothing but the collar, not even your room key, and be sure to maintain an erection.  Then go to the elevator by walking completely around the floor so lots of people see you and ride to the penthouse.  If you get arrested or thrown out of the hotel for being naked, that’s your problem.  If someone asks what you’re doing, tell them you’re a worthless slave reporting for punishment and invite them to punish you.  There will be a blindfold on the table by the door to enter the penthouse.  Put that on and ring the doorbell.  You’ll be used by my friends, including some very important people.  I don’t want you able to blackmail them for the awful things I and hey will do to you.  You also won’t know what is about to happen to you as you get tortured and fucked.  I’ll decide what to do with you and your shit after I’m done with you.  Understood?”

 

Chris was shocked, and a little afraid, but he was mostly excited and turned on, so he quickly agreed.  He had lots of extreme fantasies and this fit perfectly with some of them.  He couldn’t hide his reaction anyway, as his cock was now intensely hard, pointing toward the ceiling from all the pressure of his arousal.  One of Loki’s buddies commented and they all laughed at Chris as he put on the slave collar.  That made him blush but turned him on even more.  He returned to his room and did exactly as instructed.  He encountered about two dozen guests during his naked stroll, and was yelled at and threatened by all of them.  He responded as instructed, and several of the guys decided to start the slave punishment early. Two punched him in the nuts, one spat on him, and another kicked him in the butt as he passed, sending Chris sprawling on the floor.  Chris thanked them, offered to let them hit him, kick him, or spit on him again, and continued on his way when they were finished.  (They all accepted a follow-on that involved punishing his exposed genitals.).  To his surprise, none of this made him lose the erection.  The humiliation and pain made it stronger.

 

After he put on the blindfold and rang the doorbell, Chris was dragged into the room and participated in an amazing orgy that lasted through the night.  He had no idea how many guys were in the room, but he was sure each of them raped him at least once.  He did know Loki had been the first, not only from comments being made but from the intense pain in his asshole as Loki brutally rammed him, laughing at the fact Chris was bleeding from his torn flesh as Loki enjoyed raping him.  He was bent over the back of a low chair with his wrists and ankles tied to the chair’s legs to make it more convenient for them to enter his butt-hole and to highlight his vulnerability.  That also made it easy to whip his butt and back, which were severely lacerated by early morning.  He could feel the whip laying on his back between beatings, inviting the next tormentor. He also had lots of cocks inserted in his mouth, some to clean off after he’d been fucked, some to relieve themselves with a load of piss (no point leaving the room to use a toilet when a human urinal was available right there), and many were after a blow job – Chris’s favorite thing to do and his best skill.  He loved sucking cock, especially in public.

 

Chris heard others screaming besides himself, so he knew he was not the only sex slave.  But he also heard Loki encouraging the guests to be especially brutal to Chris.  Chris felt honored.  Late in the evening, one guest, who sounded particularly drunk, asked Loki if it would be OK to drag Chris to the balcony and throw him off so he could watch him fall to his death on the street below.  Loki considered the idea, and acknowledged that would be fun.  But he pointed out the death would be very quick and scum like Chris deserved longer and more painful sessions.  Loki finally decided against the idea because it was too dark to get a clear view of the fall and the broken body on the street, and it might be bad press for the hotel. The conversation was another turn-on for Chris, which Loki noted.

 

After the rapes, Loki thrust a large, electrified dildo up Chris’ torn ass, which sent a stream of electricity through his body.  It was astonishingly painful, and Chris provided very satisfying screams to entertain Loki and his guests.  Loki had a remote control to vary the voltage, but soon grew tired of that and just left it on full power.  They laughed as they watched Chris’s body writhing in pain.

 

Eventually Chris was released from the chair and tied to a rack.  The guests took bets on which setting of the rack would result in Chris’s arms being pulled out of the shoulder sockets, and there was lots of cheering when that happened, after very slow increases to make sure Chris felt all the pain.  This also allowed easy access to whip his chest and torture his nipples and genitals.  The electrified dildo up his ass assured there were no breaks in the pain inflicted on the group’s newfound sex toy.  The constant writhing from the dildo and other sources of torture assured everyone had a chance to enjoy his suffering, but they also noticed and some were even impressed with his continued erection.  Loki thoughtfully helped keep in hard by inserting a metal rod down the piss-slit, although he also attached the rod to an electrical source that heated it up and burned the inside of Chris’s cock.  The screaming from that caused Chris to go hoarse.

 

The evening ended for Chris after he was released from the rack and ordered to masturbate for the guests.  That was nearly impossible with his dislocated arms pretty much useless, but he was eager to do so.  As he began his orgasm he felt a massive pain in his balls.  He had been hit hard by Loki, who used a pair of brass knuckles to enhance the effect.  Loki was exceptionally strong as well as exceptionally beautiful, and Chris’ orgasm turned to agony.  He vomited form the pain, which was followed by a succession of beatings that left him unconscious and covered in his own cum and vomit, along with his own piss that was released as he passed out.  The guests cheered Loki and most added their own piss and/or cum to further drench Chris’ body in waste.

 

When Chris awoke later that morning, he was still naked and realized he had been dumped in a trash bin on the street, as had been his luggage.  His arms were still mostly useless form the dislocation, and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to climb out.  Worse yet, he realized he had been dumped on top of another naked young male, but this one was dead.  The corpse had been emasculated and was a mess of broken bones and ripped flesh, with a gaping wound in its belly.  Chris was now not only covered with the vomit, cum, and piss from his own torment, but with the blood of his trash-mate.  He further realized that someone had taken a shit on him.

 

Loki had made sure there was a videographer to record the fun of watching Chris deal with his situation, and a cop to arrest Chris for indecent exposure and sleeping on the streets.  Loki later arranged for the photos and video, clearly showing how messed up Chris’ body was, to be sent to Chris’s Facebook friends (there weren’t many) and to his boss.  Loki had had one of his assistants go through Chris’s stuff and get all his personal data.  These included Chris pissing and masturbating.  Chris desperately needed to empty his bladder, but being stuck in the dumpster he wound up mostly pissing on himself.   Chis also needed to release some of the sexual tension he still felt.  The sight and touch of the mutilated naked corpse had done nothing to turn that off.  He correctly concluded that the party had indeed wound up with a fag being dumped over the side of the penthouse balcony, and he found that sexually exciting, if messy.  A part of him wondered why he had not been selected.  It took him a long time to stroke himself to orgasm, given the dislocation, but his cock was super hard and he added fresh cum to the fresh piss, which spewed over his body and added to the dried waste with which he was covered.

 

The cop waited before arresting Chris to enjoy the show and allow for a longer and more embarrassing video.   The photos and video featured the welts on Chris’s body along with the fact he was covered in vomit, cum, shit, blood, and piss.  They also showed his rock-hard cock, which remained hard after he had the orgasm in the trash bin, reflecting his sexual arousal even after all that had happened – or maybe because of it.

 

As Loki had requested, the cop did not let Chris dress before taking him to the police station, although he did use a nearby garden hose to wash Chris off so the cop wouldn’t have to smell him.   Once Chris was out of the dumpster the local garbage service picked it up and hauled it away.  The corpse would never be found, nor its disappearance likely noticed. Who would possibly give a shit about a dead fag?  Chris remained naked through the brief hearing, after which he was put in jail.  There were a dozen or so other guys in the holding cell, who gang-raping him as the cop invited them to do.

 

Chris had a lot of explaining to do when he paid his fine after a night in jail (where he again got gang-raped this time also including the guards) and finally returned home.  Bad as all that that had happened was in so many ways, however, Chris knew he’d make the same choice all over again.  Indeed, his main regret was that he had no idea who Loki was or whether he’d ever see him again.

 

“I enjoyed torturing and fucking Chris, as did my friends.  He was the most submissive fag I’ve seen in a long while – even more pathetic than Matt here.”  Loki had just gotten another refill from his bar slave.  As Matt left the table Loki kicked him in the butt, causing Matt to stumble and drop the tray of empties he was holding.  Loki made it clear to Matt that he’d be severely punished later for being so clumsy.  Matt sincerely apologized and acknowledged he deserved severe punishment. That began immediately as one of the other patrons amused himself by whipping and kicking Matt as he cleaned up the mess.  But that would only be a start.

 

“I left the little shit alone for a month or so, so his cuts and shoulder would heal.  I don’t like using damaged goods.  But I kept track of him and was amused to see his life fall apart.  He lost his job, of course, and his friends all “unfriended” him.  He had about two months’ savings, and I arranged to ruin his credit rating to get his credit card cancelled and keep him from getting loans.  I waited until his money was gone.  I also made sure that any employer he applied to got a copy of the video.  He was totally broke and isolated.  I’d even managed to fuck up his ability to get unemployment payments, so he was down to nothing.  He had to sell his car, and sell the cool electronic gadgets he owned on eBay.  About all he had left was some clothes and his phone, and he was at the point where he had to vacate his apartment in a day or so.  I’d read his medical records and knew he tended to get depressed, which is what I wanted.  Then I texted him an invitation to contact me, telling him the next encounter would be a lot worse for him.  I was pretty sure he would respond right away, and the dumb-shit did.  That’s the encounter I just returned from.”

 

Loki turned philosophical.  “There are lots of submissive scum out there, like this parenthetic bar slave.  I enjoy torturing and fucking them, but the problem is they enjoy it too much.  I’ve provided a wonderful place for Matt at the bar.  He likes being beaten and humiliated in public, and he loves sucking cock and getting butt-fucked.  Piss and cum are his favorite drinks these days, and he gets to drink a lot of each.  Being displayed naked in public is another turn-on, and it’s in my best interest to let him work out a lot so he stays attractive and fit.  I let him eat left-overs from what he serves at the bar, although I piss and shit on it to be sure it’s disgusting.  He even accepts that as his due, eating and drinking from a dog dish.  When I decide to snuff him, he won’t resist at all, knowing it’s my right and he deserves as horrible a death as I can dream up.  I’m starting to plan that, by the way, since he’s not able to hold an erection as long as he could before we all started kicking his nuts.  They are now damaged and the vet says it would cost a lot to repair them.  He also is showing the scars from all the whipping.  And that’s also part of what I provide him.  He has no decisions to make.  He doesn’t have to worry about whether it’s worth it to repair his nuts; I do that for him.  And he doesn’t have to worry about his career, or what to wear (the group laughed as Matt’s naked body came into sight), what to eat, where to sleep, when to piss or shit, or how to make or keep friends – he isn’t permitted any so it’s simple.  And all I ask in return is total obedience and the right to do whatever I want with him while he’s alive, and to snuff him whenever and however it amuses me to do so.  Oh, and I get to fuck his dead body and use it for food or fertilizer, or both.  For a worthless piece of shit like Matt, it’s a great deal.  In fact, sometimes I think I’m too generous to these slaves, but that’s just how I am.

 

“But Matt has a flaw.  He’ll shoot a great final orgasm as he dies, which we’ll all enjoy watching.  But he doesn’t YEARN to be killed.  He has a place and purpose in the world.  It’ll be fun to torture him to death, of course, but it’s more fun when a scum-bag begs for it.  That’s what I saw as a potential with Chris.  He deserved to die a horrible death, he knew it, and he desperately wanted it.  I just pushed him along a little faster to those realizations by destroying everything in his life that might matter to him.  I was doing him a favor.  Like I said, sometimes I’m just too generous.

 

“That’s why I didn’t let my buddies throw him over the edge at my party.  Chris not only had the right potential attitude, but he’d showed some courage in pursuing it.  It’s a rare twink who will strip naked in a public bar, let alone accept the challenge of my invitation.  I liked the look of his body, and he intrigued me.  So, I vetoed throwing him off the edge.  That would have been a waste.  My buddies weren’t too happy about my decision, as we all had a whole lot of blood lust as we kept partying.  By early morning, as it started to get light, I realized the party wouldn’t be a success unless my guests and I got to snuff one of the fags.  So, we played a variation of “Non-Survivor” where the slave fags vote to decide which of them literally gets thrown off the island – that is, the balcony.  They get into it big time, and it’s fun to watch them maneuver to not be selected.  They’re all prostitutes who know each other well, and old grudges surface fast.  And since the alternative is that we’ll throw them all off the balcony, they enthusiastically play along.  It was fairly soon when one of the fats was selected, despite all his begging for mercy.  So, we beat the shit out of the “winner” and then I cut off his cock and balls.  He was still alive, but not by much.  The point was that he was alive and aware enough to scream wonderfully as we carried him to the edge of the balcony and tossed him into thin air. It was light enough to give us a pleasant view of him flaying wildly as he fell 15 stories.  The most fun, though, was the fact he hit the top of the flag pole in front of the hotel, which impaled him right in the belly.  When we remodel I’m going to add some sharp spikes at various points so we can play target practice.  The goal will be to impale the fag in the butt or nuts.  That will be a lot of fun.

 

“Chris responded to my text as I expected, saying he wanted to see me again, no matter what was planned.  He said he was at the end of his rope and he really didn’t care what I did to him.  I found that pretty amusing my plans – and promising.”

 

Loki had texted back, telling Chris about a secluded camp ground 7 miles out of town that Loki owned and enjoyed.  “I am sending an Uber to pick you up.  Once again, you must be naked.  It adds to your humiliation.  The Uber will arrive in 14 minutes.  Be out front.”

 

Chris was thrilled and did as instructed, not even bothering to bring the keys to his apartment.  It wasn’t his anymore, and he sensed he would not be returning.  The Uber driver made fun of him being naked, especially since Chris had developed an erection thinking about Loki and what might be in store for Chris.  Being ridiculed didn’t bother Chris.  He was excited sexually and emotionally.

 

When Chris was dropped off at the designated spot he saw Loki standing at the trail head next to his Lamborghini.  Loki was naked except for his signature steel-toed leather boots, and Chris literally gasped at the sight of him.  Chris was aware Loki had been named to a god, but now realized that Loki was indeed a god.  No mere mortal could have a body that spectacular, or that dominant.  Every aspect of Loki’s blond frame was perfect, from his chiseled Aryan face to his broad, sculpted shoulders, massive chest, exceptional abs, and powerful legs.  But it was Loki’s manhood that generated the gasp.  Chris had realized its size when he sucked Loki off, and felt it when he was raped.  But now he saw it in its full splendor.   He had assumed stories of 12 in cocks were just bragging fiction, but this was a weapon at least that long, and equivalently think.  No wonder Chris’s ass had hurt so much after the orgy and was still bleeding the next day.  Loki’s balls were similarly huge, with a scrotum that hung halfway to his knees.  As Chris recovered from encountering this male deity, he did what seemed natural to him. He knelt in front of Loki and begged him to take and use Chris however Loki wished.

 

Loki said nothing.  He pointed to the hood of his car, and Chris instantly understood what he was to do.  He quickly went and bent over the hood so that his ass would be conveniently available.  The hood was very hot from the recent journey and burned Chris’s chest, but that obviously didn’t matter.  When Loki rammed his hard dick into Chris, Chris was in ecstasy with both pain and pleasure.  He had no doubt his innards were again ripped open, but that was what he wanted.  Anything to please Loki, and the more pain Chris endured the better.  Loki was in no hurry, and the fucking lasted for over 30 minutes before Loki shot a massive load into Chris.  After emptying his load, Loki inserted the electrified dildo into Chris that he’d used during the orgy.  This time Chris did not scream, recognizing that he deserved to be in constant, extreme pain.  Chris was then permitted to again kneel in front of Loki, who used his boot to kick Chris hard in nuts.  Chris was then permitted to use his tongue to clean the dick and his mouth to accept a load of piss.  Chris was struggling not to shoot his own load, but knew he was not permitted even to ask permission to do that.  Loki was in control of all aspects of Chris’s body.  Chris had become the totally dominated animal he always knew he should be.

 

Loki spoke for the first time, pointing to a large backpack on the ground next to the car.  “You are to carry that and follow me.  It cantinas the implements I will use to restrain and torture you, plus what I wish to have for my comfort for the night.”

 

The two men hiked silently for about six miles to a beautiful campsite next to a pristine river.  There was a supply pf wood next to the campsite, among other implements, and Loki pointed to it as where Chris was to put the backpack.  It was late afternoon and Loki took a flint form the backpack and used it to start a fire.  He also instructed Chris to bathe in the river to clean off his sweat and properly prepare is body for Loki’s use.  The water was ice cold, but even that did not dampen Chris’s erection.  After Chris was done, he next fetched water in a pail that Loki then placed over the fire.  In due course, Loki bathed himself with fresh, warm river water.  Both men were refreshed form their hike.

 

Loki next reached into the backpack and pulled out a series of implements, including a rope with a noose tied at one end.  “Put this around your neck and toss the loose end over the branch on that tree.”  Chris did as instruct, and Loki then grabbed the loose end of the rope and pulled on it slowly until Chris’s feet were slightly off the ground.  The noose did not tighten so it did not completely cut off Chris’s breathing, although in time the pressure on his neck would strangle him.  Chris realized this, but also knew it was OK so long as that is what Loki wanted to have happen.  He only hoped Loki would get more use out of him than just a simple hanging.

 

Loki was not ready for Chris to die yet.  “I do not plan for you to die tonight, although I may change my mind.  But I do plan for you to suffer.”  With that Loki picked up a whip and sued his great strength to brutally began lash his victim, starting with the chest and abs so he could enjoy the look of pain on Chris’s face, but proceeding to the back and butt to be sure every part of Chris was in pain.  As the body swayed back and forth under the whip strokes, it had the desired effect of making it even harder for Chris to breath.  Loki was expert at torture, and made sure Chris did not suffocate.  He also monitored the lashing so that he did not break the skin.  He had other uses for this body.

 

Loki noted with satisfaction that Chris remained erect.  Part of that was, of course, the effect of being hanged, but mostly it was Chris’s sexual needs being met. Loki approved, since having the cock stick out like that made it more fun to whip.

 

“What do you have to say for yourself, slave?”

 

“Thank you for using me, Master.”

 

“What do you want me to do with you?”

 

“Whatever you want, Master.  I have no will of my own any more.  I am your property to use and dispose of as you wish.”

 

“And does that include killing you?”

 

“Yes, Master.  Being killed by you would be an honor.  It is more than I deserve.”

 

“That is correct.  I will consider your fate.  But tonight, you must prepare yourself.  As you know, I am Loki, and Loki is a god.  You are but a piece of meat.  But you may achieve the wisdom to fully embrace your fate as the great God Odin once did.  To achieve wisdom, he allowed himself to be tied naked to a tree and endured the elements.   That is your task between now and tomorrow morning, and you are to consider how great the honor would be if I take your life to enhance slightly one of my orgasms during my annual contemplative retreat.  I return to this place each year to reconnect with my heritage and with Odin, and I sacrifice male meat as Odin requires.  You are to beg for that honor, realizing how utterly worthless your life is.  And you are to suggest ways in which I might make use of your body before and after you die.”

 

“But first, you must be labeled for what you are – my property.”  Loki proceeded to the fire, where he had placed a branding iron.  It was now red hot, and he retrieved it and approached the beaten body hanging by its neck.  The lettering was small and the message was simple: “Property of Loki.”  He branded Chris in two places, enjoying the aromatic smell of burning flesh and the inhuman screams of his victim. One was on his right pec just above the nipple, and the other was on his back just below the neck.  Despite the extreme pain, Chris was thrilled and grateful.  “Thank you, Master.  It is generous of you to accept my body as your property.  I know this includes your right to end my life as you wish.”

 

Loki continued to torture Chris for several more hours, enjoying not only whipping him but also using his brass knuckles to once again attack Chris’s balls, which swelled considerably from the blows.    “I want you to remain in pain throughout the night.  Some of that can be achieved through the dildo, which I will leave inside you at full power.  But I want your whole body to suffer.”  With that statement, Loki lowered Chris to the ground and released the noose.  He had observed the youth was starting to lose his ability to breath, and didn’t want Chris to die so easily.  The twink collapsed, choking.

 

“I have worked up a sweat punishing you.  And so, have you.  Once again cleanse yourself in the river, and fetch me some water so I can heat it up and cleanse myself.  Then you may have the honor of sucking my cock and drinking my piss.”  Chris, of course, did exactly as instructed, and greatly enjoyed sucking the massive cock.  He choked on it a few times, of course, and Loki kicked him in the balls for doing so, but he was overall very successful, and the hot cum streaming down his throat was totally satisfying, as was the piss that soon followed it.

 

“Stand by that tree with your back to it.  Then spread out your arms and legs.”  Loki approached Chris with long strands of rope.    He tied both the hands and the feet so that the rope reached around the tree and firmly held each in place.  Chris was now spread-eagled, firmly fastened to the tree.  Loki next attached a rope around Chris’s neck, which was also strung around the tree to further secure his body.  Loki was quite pleased with the arousing site of this young willing victim standing naked, fastened to a tree, branded for what he was, with his cock massively erect.  Loki at times believed himself to actually be one of the Norse gods, and felt this is what his father Odin would want by way of sacrifice.

 

But there was not yet enough pain.  Loki approached Chris and reminded him that he was to spend the night in extreme pain throughout his body.   Chris understood and once again thanked Loki for assuring he suffered adequately.  As he finished, Loki again used his great strength, this time to bend Chris’s right arm so that he completely broke the elbow. Chris screamed, but again expressed his thanks.   He did so again three times, as his left elbow and both knees were also rendered forever useless.  The body was now in total pain as Loki had planned.

 

“It is now time for my dinner, and for you to begin your night of pain and contemplation.  You will contribute here as well.  While I have brought other meat to cook, I wish to start with something entirely fresh.  You have no further need to produce sperm, so I am removing your testicles.  You will watch me eat them.  If I decide to let you have a final orgasm, the sperm you already have in your body will suffice.”

 

Loki cut very slowly into Chris’s scrotum to prolong the pain.  He removed each testicle slowly and had Chris lick it clean.  Then he consumed it in front of its prior owner.  Loki finished by cauterizing the wound so Chris would not bleed to death overnight.  But that was only to keep his victim alive for further tortures.

 

Chris was mostly overcome by pain at first, but as the evening turned into night he recovered enough to contemplate what was happening.  He was now castrated and his limbs were broken.  He had anticipated meeting with Loki would be fatal, but had no idea there would be this much pain.  But he also had no idea it would be this thrilling.  He was fulfilling Loki’s need to dominate, and that was far more important than Chris’s life and a wonderful use for Chris’s body.  He genuinely looked forward to completing his contribution the next morning by dying some sort of horrible death, hoping it would meet Loki’s expectations.  As he watched Loki finish his meal and settle down for a good night’s sleep on a comfortable air mattress under the stars, the sense of gratitude was far greater than the sense of pain.

 

. . . . .

 

Chris was unable to sleep that night due to the combination of pain and excitement, so he had the thrill of watching Loki wake up as the sun rose.  The human deity stretched his beautiful body and stroked his enormous cock.   He rose, pleased to see his human sacrifice still alive but clearly without any rest.  That was how he wanted it.

 

Loki left Chris tied to the tree while he enjoyed a hearty breakfast he retrieved from the backpack and from several coolers that had been placed near the fire pit before the two men had arrived.  Only then did he turn his attention to the broken animal he was enjoying so much.  So far, this piece of meat had greatly exceeded his expectation, and he felt confident it would also do so as it died.

 

“So, meat, what have you to propose for the use of your worthless body?  And are you still anxious to forfeit your pathetic life for my fleeting pleasure?”

 

“I am, Master.  I am just hopeful you will inflict a death that fully pleases you through its length and cruelty.  As for my body, I suggest you consider me as food.  And there is no reason you should not enjoy fucking me after I’m’ dead and before my flesh cools.  Perhaps, by way of an ongoing use, you might find use for my skin as a source of leather for you attire.  But perhaps that is too forward on my part.  I know I do not deserve that level of honor.”

 

Loki was completely pleased.  This was exactly what he wanted to hear, and it was also how he had planned to use the twink.

 

“you finally got something right, slave.  You will have the great honor of me torturing you to death this morning, And I will use your body as you suggest, since that is what I planned.  Indeed, from the time you stepped naked in the bar to get to suck me off, I concluded that your skin would convert nicely to leather.  You will be preserved as my new leather jacket, something vastly more important than your life.  The branding I did yesterday was strategically placed and will survive the leathermaking process, and everyone will know the jacket is mine.”

 

Loki untied Chris from the tree and led, or mostly carried, the body over to the branch where it had been hanged the afternoon before.  He attached a different noose around Chris’s neck, but this time didn’t raise Chris above the ground.  The noose just held him upright, as this was one designed to tighten under the weight of a body, which meant it and that would fatally choke Chris when Chris was lifted by the rope.  Loki needed the youth to breath, at last for a while.  He didn’t bother to tie Chris’s wrists behind his back as is traditional for a hanging.  He knew there would be no resistance.  And even if Chris tried, his arms were no longer functional.

 

Loki began by gutting Chris just above the cock, inserting the knife deeply and slowly cutting upward.  This was a favorite method of torture for Loki as he knew how amazingly painful it was for the victim.  Chris was no exception and Loki especially enjoyed the screams as they took on more of the sound of a n animal than a person.  After all, that’s what Chris always was.

 

“I like to start by opening up the guts and removing some of the innards that aren’t very eatable,” Loki explained as he slowly cut upward toward the base of the rib cage.  He made a sideways cut at the top and then peeled back the skin to reveal the organs inside.  Loki cut out and removed various organs, showing them to Chris as he pulled them out.  But he was careful to tie off the arteries and veins to keep the bleeding to a minimum.  Loki was quite expert at this, having majored in human anatomy in college so he could be a more effective torturer.  He put the organs in one of two coolers. Things that could be prepared for a delicious meal, like the liver, were in one cooler.  Other parts that weren’t suitable went into the other cooler.  “I personally like liver, and I’m confident yours will be delicious,” he explained.  “But I don’t want to be wasteful, and I’ll feed parts like your intestines and stomach to the slaves who work in my bar.  It will be fun to watch, and it’s probably even nutritious.”

 

Loki next turned to skinning Chris alive, which was a skill and task Loki also enjoyed and was very good at doing.  His knife continued to Chris’s chest, but this time not at all keep.  Loki peeled off the young skin he’d admired so much, and in a brief time Chris’s chest and belly were skinless.  His back, legs, and arms soon followed, with Loki carefully assuring the skin came off in large sections to make it easier to prepare the leather.  It was a tribute to Loki’s remarkable skill that Chris remained alive, albeit missing a lot of his insides and all the skin on his body.

 

But now it was time for Chris to die.  Loki pulled on the rope so that Chris was now off the ground, with the noose tightening as he continued to writhe in utter agony.  But there was no sudden fall of the body to break the neck as in a traditional execution.  Loki wanted Chris to die as slowly as possible, and this would happen due to being suffocated as the noose tightened around his neck.  While the vivisection and the skinning were enough to prove fatal, Loki enjoyed the look of terror on the face of a victim who was slowly deprived of oxygen.

 

“you’ll be dead pretty soon, and I’ll enjoy watching you suffer until then.  When you die, by the way, you will have an orgasm.  I didn’t let you cum earlier while you were alive not only because I don’t want you to feel pleasure, but because you wouldn’t have had any sperm stored up after I ate your balls.  No one knows if there’s any sexual satisfaction form an orgasm that is triggered by death, as it’s mostly a bodily function of blood flow to the cock.  I hope there isn’t any, as you don’t deserve it, but I am confident the agony and terror of death will be the greater reaction.  I do know it’s a whole lot of fun to watch a young male body cum and go at the same time.

 

The blood loss form being gutted, skinned, and robbed of internal organs meant Chris did not last much longer.  But there was some entertainment as his survival instinct kicked in and his useless arms tried to reach the noose.  Loki hadn’t expected that and laughed out loud.  It was really amusing.  Chris also didn’t disappoint on the orgasm front.  His cock had remained hard, as usually happens with guys getting hanged, and as his body began the final death spasms the cock erupted, squirting out a massive and powerful load of cum.

 

Loki was quite pleased.  He was also thoroughly aroused, and quickly cut down the body for its sexual use.  He entered the asshole for the last time, enjoying the warmth and the pressure generated as the fag completed its final death convulsions.  Fucking guys as they died was Loki’s favorite sex act.  The intensity of his orgasm more than justified the trivial sacrifice of Chris’s young life.

 

. . .  .

 

Loki finished his story to the appreciation of his audience just as dinner was served.  As the group began their meal there were lots of questions.

 

“So how did the jacket turn out?”  Loki reached down and showed off his new attire.  It was expertly done, and he pointed out how well the branding had worked out.  Chris was now clearly “property of Loki.”  And Loki also pointed out a feature he’d added.  “I thoroughly enjoyed watching the meat burst into its final orgasm, so I kept the cock, and used it as the pull for the zipper.”  Everyone admired the preserved cock hanging down from the zipper, the only part of Chris that would generate a memory.

 

“And what about the meat?  Did the slaves enjoy the intestines?  And did the choice parts cook up well?”

 

“We’re going to feature a ‘feast’ of the slaves eating the loser’s innards right after dinner as a start to tonight’s sex and torture fun.  We can add some piss and shit to enhance the flavor.  As for the prime cuts, please let me know.  Personally, I think the meat did indeed turnout to be delicious.”  And with that, Loki cut himself a second large piece of twink breast meat.

A Thanksgiving Family Tradition By Gay Slavemeat Gsmeat2@gmail.com

 

This site features wonderful stories of alpha males torturing to death worthless male scum, and a few about those of us who realize our pathetic status cooperating in the events. 

 

But it’s Thanksgiving, and time to stop and consider all the wonderful families, and family traditions, that are so positive.  This is a story of a wonderful family, a community that appreciates them, and an inspiring young male who is given a chance to give back.  I hope you enjoy it – and always welcome and appreciate ay feedback.

 

 

 

It was the day before Thanksgiving, and Matt was excited as he approached the door of the Wilkins mansion.  It was a huge estate, and it had taken him ten minutes just to walk from the main gate to the front door, after being admitted by one of the guards.  Nervous and anxious about whether he was good enough to deserve the honor that awaited him, he hardly noticed the wonderful holiday decorations that lined the path to celebrate the start of the holiday season, from outdoor tree lights to decorated statues of reindeer pulling sleighs.  Snow covered the yard, creating a beautiful winter wonderland, as befits a home that thoroughly enjoys the holidays and has the means to do so.  Ordinarily, Matt would have reveled in the surroundings, since this was also his favorite time of year, but he was just too excited.  Nervously, he rang the bell as he had been instructed to do.

 

The Wilkins family was by far the wealthiest in the small Southern town where Matt lived, and in fact they pretty much ran the place, owning most of it, as they had done for many generations.  It was a large family, and everyone respected them not only for their wealth and power, but also for what wonderful people they all appeared to be and the generosity they always showed others.  Matt attended the local high school with one of the boys, Jim, before graduating and getting a job in one of their factories.  Despite their vast difference in prestige and wealth, Jim had treated Matt as a real friend, never belittling him or any of the other kids or taking advantage.  Indeed, Matt had been to the mansion before for Jim’s birthday parties and other events, which took advantage of their huge, manicured grassy yard for a vigorous football game and their Olympic sized pool in which they played water polo and had a really fun water fight.  Those parties were among Matt’s favorite memories of high school.

 

Matt’s own situation wasn’t all that great, as he’d been thrown out by his step-father and forced to live on his own since he was 15.  That’s because Matt let it leak out that he was gay, and that was unacceptable. Fortunately, a Wilkins family trust had set up a shelter for homeless teens, and he was able to live there until he could finish high school and support himself.  The fact he was gay didn’t bother them at all, and he and Jim had “experimented” many times to see if Jim liked gay sex.  He did, and it helped make them even closer friends, although not really lovers.  Jim wanted to keep his options open, which Matt fully understood.  That didn’t stop him from being allowed to suck Jim’s cock or let Jim shove it into Matt’s very tight and willing asshole.  Matt thought Jim’s sperm tasted particularly good when Jim shot his load into Matt’s mouth, and was very willing to clean off the cock after the load went up Matt’s ass.

 

Matt had been one of about 50 local male teens who had applied to join the Wilkins’ family as their guest for Thanksgiving.  He was surprised and thrilled when he learned he’d been chosen.  It was a tradition the Wilkins’ enjoyed that was a bit unusual, but everyone in town agreed that it was appropriate given all that the family did for the town.  So, lots of young guys applied and it was a real honor to be selected, even including a feature in the local newspaper.

 

After Matt rang the bell, it did not take long for him to hear someone approaching the door, and he was pleased that it was Jim who answered.

 

“Welcome,” Jim greeted him sincerely.  “You’re right on time.  And, if I may say so, I’m delighted to see you’re happy to be here. That’s kind of impressive given the snow.”

 

Matt appreciated the warmth of the welcome, and they both laughed at Jim’s reference.  Part of Matt’s instructions had been to show up naked, and the thrill of being featured at the Wilkins’ Holiday tradition had gotten him sexually excited.  He was sporting a very enthusiastic erection despite the wintry weather.

 

“Well, being inside will help keep it that way, and of course it’s available to entertain you if you’d like,” Matt responded.  While Jim’s favorite activity was butt-fucking Matt when they were together, Jim also enjoyed watching Matt jerk off for Jim’s entertainment.

 

“Come right in — and I have no doubt you’ll cum again,” Jim continued the joke.  “I probably will make some use of your eager little cock, since dad says you can spend the night in my room.  But that’s later, and probably only after you’ve entertained everyone else first.  Many of the guys who join us get all nervous and can’t keep their pricks hard, which isn’t as much fun.  In fact, last year we picked Dan Young – remember him from football?  But Dan was a total dud in that respect and never did manage to shoot a load, although he was a nice kid nonetheless and we had a good Thanksgiving.  I’m sure you’ll get a chance to show off.

 

“Meanwhile, the rest of the family is here and they want to get going with planning for tomorrow.  So how about if you sort of hold the thought — or maybe hold the cock?  Do keep it hard, as they’ll like that.  Last year’s experience with Dan made things a little less fun.  That’s part of the reason we all wanted to try inviting a gay guy this year, and I know you’ve shot some great loads while all of us watched during my parties here.”

 

“No problem.  The event turns me on, so I’ll just not try to hide it.  Being hard and staying that way is, after all, my great skill.”  The two friends laughed loudly at their exchange, both very turned on by the conversation.

 

Matt stoked his cock to assure it stayed firm and Jim led him into the main family room, where everyone had gathered.  Jim was wearing shorts, sneakers, and a very tight T-shirt that featured his impressive physique.  Matt was quite content to walk behind him and admire Jim’s backside.  The thought of spending the night with Jim assured Matt’s continued arousal.

 

“See, I told you he’d arrive right on time.  And look, he’s even happy to see us.”  Jim pointed at Matt’s cock as he made his introduction, and everyone chuckled.

 

“That’s a nice muscle you have there, son,” Mr. Wilkins observed.

“Jim says it spurts nicely too, and that you also have a nice, tight butthole.  He says you’re gay and that you two have been enjoying some fairly intense guy time.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Matt replied, surprised how open Jim was with his father, and how it was obviously no big deal at all.  “But I must acknowledge that Jim’s is a little bigger, and he has been expanding my backside a bit from time to time.”  Matt wanted to complement his friend, given how gracious Jim had always been to him, and his suspicion that Jim had been the one who assured Matt’s selection.

 

“Yeah, so I’ve noticed when we have family orgies.  Jim and his brothers usually put on a pretty good show for the rest of us before they submit to the demands of their sisters and cousins. I think it’s sort of a Wilkins tradition to go both ways, and it sure makes for great parties.  We’re planning one tonight as part of our Thanksgiving preparations, as you may be aware, so I hope you’ll feel free to join in however you’d like.  In fact, guests should be arriving about now, so how about if we all get naked?”

 

With that, Mr. Wilkins began to strip, and the rest of the family followed suit.  Once Jim was out of his clothes, Matt could see that he was indeed interested, showing off his own impressive manhood at full attention.  What surprised Matt was the size of Mr. Wilkins’s penis, as it too was quickly erect.  Jim had two brothers, twin teenagers who were just a little younger than Jim. They were also eager participants in the display of manhood.  Jim’s mother and sisters were also there, but they did not immediately get undressed.  Instead, they made rude comments on the males as they compared and rated the male equipment on display.

 

The guests did indeed show up shortly after the males stripped, and Matt recognized many of them.  There were about 10 others, and the newly arrived males quickly got naked as Mr. Wilkins offered everyone drinks and a waiter arrived with elegant appetizers. The waiter was a wonderfully handsome and well built black male of about 18, with light-colored skin that suggested a mixed heritage.  He was dressed only in a formal bow tie, and had the largest cock in the room.  Mr. Wilkins introduced him to Matt as one of his illegitimate sons, noting that the stud’s mother and her husband would be joining them shortly as soon as she finished her chores.

 

“We’ve long ago gotten over our silly prejudices, and all of us like to have sex together.  I’m pretty sure I’m Tom’s father, but not absolutely so.  It might be one of my cousins, or even his legal father.  But he seems a little light-skinned for that.  It doesn’t matter of course, His legal father has certainly had lots of fun with my wife and the rest of our family — both men and women.  Heck, we’re not really sure if Bill there is my kid or if he was conceived when his older cousin got a little carried away with his mother.  But who cares?”

 

Once the food was served, the beautiful young black waiter was invited to join the party.  Matt hoped he’d be able to show that he too had no prejudices by offering the gorgeous young black male Matt’s eager white body as a sex toy.

 

While the food and drink were appealing, the real appeal was the collection of sexually attractive naked male bodies, and Matt quickly understood the rules on how the orgy would begin.  The women were in charge, and the guys had to suck and fuck each other exactly as instructed.  The women had removed their outer garments, revealing stunning outfits that showed their roles as dominatrix’s.  Mr. Wilkins had made a quick announcement once everyone arrived, before everyone got into the orgy:

 

“Welcome everyone.  This is my favorite holiday, which is why we’ve made it a two-day event.  And as always, we’re starting with an orgy among our very favorite friends and relatives.  But first let me introduce Matt here, who has been selected as our guest of honor.  I should let you know he’s gay, so he’ll probably prefer fucking with the guys, but obviously that’s up to the women, since they’re in charge for our first round of fun.  I do know that Jim thinks pretty highly of his rather cute behind.”

 

Matt had never participated in a real orgy, although it had always been a fantasy of his, and it turned out to be a lot more exciting than he had even imagined. Like the rest of the males, he was turned on by the fact of being directed by the women, who were polite and confined the use of his body to male sex only.  Under their direction, all the guys took turns having sex with him, since it turned out that one of the characteristics of the Wilkins family was that everyone was bi-sexual.  They chose their friends the same way.  Matt was fucked and sucked, and he had lots of fun sucking off the eager cocks that were presented for him to service.  Matt was particularly turned on when one of Jim’s sisters ordered Matt to butt-fuck Jim, which Matt had not done before even though Jim frequently plugged Matt’s hole.  She made it particularly exciting by tying Jim face down on a fuck-horse that had been brought into the middle of the room for that sort of use.

 

“It’s about time Jim developed a little humility,” his sister said.  “He’s been far too proud of that cock of his, and he hasn’t been on the receiving end near enough.”  With that, she ordered all the males to fuck Jim once Matt was done, and even strapped on a dildo herself to add to the fun. The other women liked that idea, so Jim got fucked by literally everyone at the orgy.  Matt was pleased that he had been allowed to go first, and Jim was a very good sport about the fun at his expense.  His hard cock stayed that way as he was fucked, so it was clear he wasn’t too unhappy.

 

It didn’t take too long before the orgy changed from its dominatrix theme to just an all-American fuck fest.  Couples coupled at will, and there were clearly no limits on what was permitted.  A few of them started an S&M theme, and Matt found himself getting a thorough whipping on his back by one of the twins while the other twin sucked his cock.  He found that surprisingly enjoyable, albeit painful.  Matt also got a bit bold, and inquired of the young black dude who had so turned him on if there was any way Matt could please him sexually.  It was no time at all after that when Matt felt the pleasure of a huge black cock up his ass, culminating in a spasm of cum filling Matt’s hole that sent Matt’s own cock into orgasm yet again.

 

The party lasted for hours, moving from an orgy to a drinking festival, with lots of friendly conversations.  Everyone was extremely nice to Matt, and he felt this was the best night of his life.  It had never occurred to him that the Wilkins family would include him the way they had done.  He had assumed he’d just show up for the Thanksgiving dinner.

 

After everyone was exhausted and sexually spent, Mr. Wilkins suggested they all gather around on the sofas to figure out the events for the next day.

 

“Well, that was a fun start,” he began.  But keep in mind we don’t need to end the fun.  Feel free to pick and swap sex partners for the rest of the evening and throughout the night.  There are lots of bedrooms, and no need to confine ourselves to just one — or even two or three!”  The family and guests clapped and cheered, and it was obvious that people were lining up possibilities for their next sessions.

 

“Matt, we like to plan in some detail for our feast, so I wonder if you’d mind standing in the middle, here on this coffee table.  If you could get hard again that would be great, but given how many times I noticed you cum I will understand if you’re tapped out.”

 

Matt was more than happy to oblige and put himself on display.  Matt got a nice round of applause and a cheer when his penis achieved its full size.  He was quite pleased with himself, and not the least self-conscious as he stood naked and hard in the middle of the room with everyone staring at his young, firm body.

 

“Great.  Well done, Matt.  I think you may be our best feature yet.

 

“So, how much do you weigh?”

 

“145 pounds, sir.”

 

“Great.  It looks like there’s not much fat, so that probably means 8 hours cooking time with our special oven, after we remove some of the internal organs that don’t cook well and drain the fluids.  What time do people want to eat tomorrow?”

 

There was a consensus, after minimal conversations that dinner at around 5 pm would work well.

 

“OK, that means the meat will need to go in the oven at 9 am.  It usually takes me about an hour to prepare the carcass and get all the seasonings and stuffing in place, so that means we need to have the beheading promptly at 8.  Is that too early for anyone?”

 

The group enthusiastically assured Mr. Wilkins that they would be up and ready in plenty of time.

 

“And how about our “turkey”?  Is being processed starting about 7 am and snuffed at 8 convenient for you?”

 

Matt was once again impressed with the courtesy of the family, and assured Mr. Wilkins that this timing would be fine.  While he hadn’t known the details, he had been fully aware that the invitation to the dinner was, in fact, an invitation to be killed, gutted, stuffed and cooked as the main entree for the meal.  Letting the Wilkins family butcher and eat a handsome teen volunteer as their Thanksgiving feast (and again at Christmas) was a trivial way in which the town expressed its appreciation for the great patrons.  Indeed, Matt recalled reading that in a prior year the mayor himself had donated his oldest son in appreciation for help the family had given the city after a hurricane caused major damage.  The Wilkins had included the mayor’s entire family at the feast in response, and while he was very nervous at the start of the orgy when he was asked to masturbate with his family watching and Jim fucking his virgin ass, the son had eventually provided some great sex and had cooked up well.  As usual, everyone had a wonderful time.

 

“That’s good,” Mr. Wilkins continued.  “Now, one other thing.  We have found it’s a lot more fun if we prolong the butchering of the boy we’re going to cook for our meal.  It gets everyone in a good mood and the follow-on sex orgy while we can smell the meat cooking is intense. Is it OK if we use you that way?  It involves trying to keep you alive as long as possible while we get you ready for the oven.  For example, we will need to cut off your cock and balls to get into some of the cavities where the stuffing will go.  We could of course behead you first — which is a quick way to go — and then do the prep for the stuffing once you’re dead, but it’s more entertaining for us if we start by cutting off your genitals — very slowly, cutting off the penis and each testicle separately — while we watch you suffer and listen to you scream.  You’ll also probably be alive while we take out your intestines, and maybe even some of the internal organs.  Guys don’t last the full hour of prep, but maybe you’ll be the first, and actually die by beheading.  Either way, we do like to let the guy have one last orgasm, which is also fun to watch.  If you’re OK with providing the entertainment, we’ll cut off your prick very carefully just as you start to shoot.”

 

Matt had no hesitation in agreeing to the torture/snuff session.  In fact, it turned him on to think how much entertainment his final processing would provide for such a wonderful group of people.  He wanted to represent the town well in expressing their gratitude, and what better way than to let them add the fun of a torture session to their festivities?

 

The last part of the ceremony was for guests to identify parts of Matt’s body that they’d like to have carved as their individual entree when it came time to serve the meat.  Mr. Wilkins took notes as the guests prodded and poked Matt’s displayed flesh to determine what part they’d most enjoy.  Several asked Matt’s suggestions and he was fully engaged in the conversations about which parts of him would taste best.  The twins wanted matching cuts of meat, originally focusing on his pecks.  But they were worried there wouldn’t be enough meat for them given how hungry they would be, and after talking with Matt they decided to enjoy his butt meat, one taking the right buttock and the other choosing the left.  Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins then selected the pecks.  Matt was especially pleased to learn that his genitals would be sown back on after the stuffing was inserted, and that Jim had been selected to include them as part of his meal.

 

“I doubt they taste very good, but it just seems like fun to eat another guy’s manhood, especially when you’ve enjoyed it sexually,” Jim explained.  Matt offered the hope that Jim would enjoy the delicacy.  Mr. Wilkins suggested perhaps Jim would want to consume the testicles raw, which he could do while Matt was still alive and able to watch.  He said that in his experience young human testicles tasted better fresh and raw.  Both Jim and Matt really liked that idea, so Mr. Wilkins made a note about a slight change in his usual procedures.

 

The guests soon turned back to drinking and fucking, and the evening went on well into the night and beyond — since they traded partners frequently even after supposedly heading to their nightly rest.  Matt spent his final night in Jim’s room as promised, but they had lots of visitors.  Jim joked that the main task for his dad the next day would be draining all the cum from Matt’s belly.  They both found that pretty amusing, and the next day there was in fact a fair residue of the evening’s fun.

 

When everyone had gathered for breakfast, Mr. Wilkins placed Matt face up on a huge, man-shaped platter.  The carving worked well, starting with Matt entertaining the group with a vigorous masturbation.  As he shot his load, Mr. Wilkins reached to the base of his penis and slowly cut it off, lingering long enough for Matt’s sperm to spew all over his belly.  Once the penis was removed, Mr. Wilkins spread the cum across the belly, pointing out that it helped flavor the skin nicely.  Matt’s scrotum was removed next, exposing his testicles for their individual removal.  Jim did the honors there, as agreed, and made sure Matt could watch as he carefully consumed each of Matt’s man-seeds.  Matt could remain conscious for the event, grateful for the chance to see himself being used so appropriately.  Jim, in turn, decided his dad was right and realized he had found a new delicacy to enjoy.  Then the expert chef went through the process of removing Matt’s internal organs.

 

While Matt didn’t last all the way to the ceremonial beheading that climaxed the preparations, he lasted a long time and provided lots of enjoyment for the deserving family and their guests with his obvious suffering and constant screams of pain.  Although it wasn’t Jim’s turn this year, the family agreed that he could do the actual beheading given their relationship, and he did an excellent job wielding the axe, getting a nice clean cut.  There were the usual cheers as the head rolled off the platter, and several of the male guests took advantage of it by using the mouth for one last chance to fuck their guest — with Jim getting the final shot.  Mr. Wilkins then added Matt’s head to the cabinet where he kept his annual souvenirs, noting that

Matt was clearly the most fun to use and prepare.

 

Best of all, Matt proved a delicious main course, providing fresh, willing meat to culminate a quant family tradition.  There were hardly any leftovers, and it was one of their best Thanksgiving feasts.

Adam Anew

Toby glanced down at Mike’s thick, swollen cock.  Turning his long-lashed, emerald green eyes back to Mike’s face, he grinned happily, then lowered his head and began to suck the oozing shaft.

 

“Fuck,” Mike moaned, running his hands over Toby’s smooth, firm body.  He clutched the cocksucker’s arms, feeling the biceps moving under the sleeve of tattoos decorating both arms.  One of the things that had attracted Mike to Toby when they met at the gym was the latter’s skater punk look.  Not that Toby wasn’t as into working out as Mike; but Mike’s was a more conventional buff fag attractiveness.

 

If it wasn’t love, it had been immediate lust at first sight for both.  Within a month, they’d moved in together; that had been more than nine months ago—and the sex was still as hot as ever.

 

Mike grunted, his sweat-streaked face twisting into a grimace.  “Fuckin’-A, dude, I’m gonna unload in yer mouth,” he panted and Toby, anxious for that hot spurt down his throat, redoubled his efforts.

 

Neither one of them had any idea they were being watched.

 

They’d left the blinds open; no reason they shouldn’t have—the window looked out onto a small yard surrounded by a privacy fence.  Powerful as he was, Adam had been able to vault himself over the fence and land silently on the inside.  Now he crouched outside the window, watching, his muscled body inflamed with desire for the young well-built bodies of the twinks and overwhelming disgust for the pathetic homos having sex in front of him.

 

Mike and Toby still had a daily routine at the gym, but they varied the times they went.  Unluckily for them, two weeks ago, they’d been spotted there by Adam.  He’d had an idea, a desire, a need—but he also needed a couple to help him fulfill it, and he felt like he’d just discovered the perfect pair.

 

The idea of pollution had been building in the back of his warped mind.  He’d already accepted that fucking a living fag would tarnish him as a homo himself; he needed to purify the meat by snuffing it first.

 

Recently, though, he’d worked out his necro philosophy in more detail and decided that there were levels of purity.  The meat that suffered the most was the most pure; suffering purged the faggot taint out of whatever boycunt he fucked.

 

That being said, how could he know how pure the meat was unless he offed it himself?  Restlessly, his mind turned back to all the corpses he’d plowed that he hadn’t killed.  There was no way to know how much they’d suffered—well, except for that last one, the one in the pool locker room; he’d witnessed that snuff and knew he had nothing to fear there.

 

And that was when he’d had the idea.  It rose up in him, a great urge that had to be satisfied if he was going to feel cleansed again.

 

He needed to recreate those kills—but this time, he’d be the killer.  That was the only was he could purge himself of the infection of faggotry.  And this time, he’d make goddam sure the meat suffered.

 

His first necro fuck had been the two dudes in the condo; the day after coming to this conclusion, Adam had been on the hunt for a couple of pansies that he could snuff simultaneously.  And the day after that, while finishing up some squats at the gym, his eyes lighted on Mike and Toby, the former doing some bench presses and the latter spotting him.

 

At one point, Mike had set the barbell back on the rests and, glancing around to see if anyone was looking, reached his hand up the leg of Toby’s shorts and fondled the smaller dude’s cock for a moment.  Despite his careful scoping, Mike never caught sight of Adam’s eagle-eye stare; from then on, he and Toby were marked for death.

 

They appeared to be about the same age—Mike was twenty-three and Toby twenty-one—but Mike was the larger and better-built of the two, by quite bit.  At six-foot-one and a hundred and sixty pounds, he certainly wouldn’t have been Adam’s equal in any physical contest, but he was still muscular enough to turn some heads.  His short strawberry-blond hair capped a broad, good-natured face which lodged a pair of deep, emotive brown eyes, a short straight nose, smooth cheeks and full, red lips.

 

Toby was more of a twink at 5-foot-nine and just over a hundred and forty.  His long brown hair was straight and shoulder-length; beneath his green eyes and slightly humped nose (evidence of a skateboard mishap that had broken it), he sported a soul patch of thick brown fur on his chin.

 

After that, Adam started tracking them, stalking the two fags as his prey.  He managed to catch them in the locker room a couple of times, giving him the chance to get a better look at the meat he wanted to fuck.  The skater punk maintained him image; the writhing patterns and designs of both tattooed arms continuing over his shoulders and down to the tops of his pecs, leaving his small brown nipples free.  There was a very faint brown haze of body hair on his flat belly that vanished under his waistband, but otherwise, his lean, lithe body was smooth.  Despite the elaboration of the tattooed sleeves, Adam was amused to note that a single open star had been rather inexpertly inked on the back of Toby’s right calf.

 

Mike’s muscled body was almost as smooth; his bulging pecs and ripped six-pack glistened with sweat under the gym’s fluorescent lights.  The size of his hog was obvious in the skimpy shorts he chose to wear, as was his near-constant state of semi-erectness.  Again, Toby followed him in this, but the skaterboy’s six inches couldn’t compare with his buff buddy’s long, thick cock.

 

And again, Adam smirked contemptuously.  Neither one of them had a dick as big as his—but then, that was only to be expected from faggots.  Might as well put ‘em outta their misery and put their meatsacks to some good purpose.

 

All of which was why Adam was crouched outside their rented condo.  He wasn’t going in tonight; he’d simply been taking a look at the layout and hadn’t actually expected them to be home—they usually went out on Thursday nights.  And Adam wanted them both together in the bedroom they shared, not down here.  But despite having to watch their vile homo sex, the evening hadn’t been a total washout; the sick necro killer had learned that none of windows looking into the private fenced yard were kept locked.  When he was ready, he wouldn’t have any problems gaining access to the interior of the unit.

 

Two days later, he was ready.

 

Mike and Toby had plans to go clubbing with some friends on Saturday night but the moment they’d paid their cover charge, Tyler had gotten into a bitchfight with his latest trick and it was easier to just split than listen to the squabbling.  Besides, Mike would have preferred to stay home and lay pipe up Toby’s ass all night anyway; it was the latter who’d wanted to go out.

 

At any rate, they were home by about eleven that night.  Half an hour later, both were in the bedroom.  Mike was seated on the unmade bed wearing nothing more than a pair of American Eagle boxer briefs and a pair of Nike Vandal hightops.  Both the kicks and the briefs were gray; the latter had a thick black waistband that stretched tautly around Mike’s narrow waist and black seams down the front that outlined the muscle twink’s huge package.

 

He was leaning back against the headboard, his left leg drawn up with the sneaker on the sheet and his right leg dangling.  With one arm bent back behind his head as a sort of cushion, Mike toked on a freshly-lit joint and ogled Toby, who stood the center of the room.

 

The slim, tatted skaterpunk had slipped out of all his clothing.  Completely nude except for his black Adidas Baseline kicks, he was returning from the attached bathroom, his own dick hard and bobbing in front of him as he approached Mike.

 

Reaching the bed, he stood next to it.  “Here, gimme a hit,” he grinned, reaching out for the joint.  Mike relinquished it but reached out himself, grabbing Toby’s shaft and jacking it as the younger punk inhaled deeply.

 

“That’s it,” Mike said approvingly as Toby exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke, “Get yourself nice and high.  You’re gonna need it before your ass goes off duty for the night.”

 

“Yeah, I bet,” Toby replied with stoned grin, “I know you’re—”

 

With a loud crash, the bedroom door was kicked open, a single, powerful kick that literally broke the door in half.  A hulking masculine figure, dressed in black, strode into the room, raw power obvious in every step he took.

 

Adam had given up his usual gym attire for this one.  He’d wanted to take the pansies by surprise and anyway their condo wasn’t a public place—he’d have no excuse for being seen near the place, so it was best not to be seen at all.

 

To that extent, he’d made sure that his long-sleeve t-shirt and tight-fitting cargo pants were matte black, nearly impossible to see under the cover of night.  His bright copper hair was likewise covered with a close-fitting black knit cap.  And he’d forgone his sneakers.  While he’d been able to clear the fence the other night, his feet had nearly slipped; he wanted better traction.

 

He’d found it in a pair of Magnum Response III tactical boots, custom ordered with steel toes.  He’d bought them for another reason, but thought they’d work perfectly for what he had in mind.  He’d been right.  He planted his big black lace-up boot in the middle of the door and kicked his way into the homos’ bedroom with almost no effort at all.

 

For Mike and Toby, the violence seemed to explode like a bomb.  Their different personalities were obvious by their actions once the “fight or flight” instinct kicked in.  Toby shrank back into a corner in fear as Mike leaped off the bed and came at the intruder.

 

He never stood a chance.  Adam, seeing him coming, drew back his powerful arm and swung wide, driving his balled-up fist into Mike’s face with the force of a semi hitting a brick wall.  The unlucky faggot spun in a half-circle, staggering back and falling, stunned, against the bed.

 

Filled with rage and lust, Adam turned to Toby, who crouched whimpering in the corner of the bedroom.  Seeing that he’d attracted the intruder’s attention, the lean skater punk began babbling.  “No, man,” he whined, holding up his hands, “Whatever you want, dude, just take it—please don’t hurt us, man, please don’t!”

 

Striding towards him with a homicidal gleam in his eye, Adam laughed coldly.  “Yeah, I’m gonna take what I want, you fuckin’ pansy.  I’m gonna take the fag right outta you, cunt.  When I’m done with you, you ain’t ever gonna suck another cock again, cunt.”

 

By now, he was standing in front of Toby, looming over quaking homo.  From behind, he could hear the long, slow groans of Mike regaining consciousness, but he wasn’t particularly worried about him.  He’d handle the stronger fairy when he needed to.

 

Toby looked up at Adam, trying to understand his words.  He was still terrified; this huge, powerful stranger had burst into the room and punched out Mike with a single blow—what the fuck was going on?

 

“Is-is this some kinda hate crime?” the long-haired punk quavered, his eyes starting to tear up.

 

“Hah!” Adam spat out, “Lookit the little queerboy, already startin’ to cry.  You bet it’s a hate crime, you punk-ass bitch.”  And here he reached down, unzipped the fly of his black cargo pants and hauled his enormous, dripping dick out.

 

Toby gasped at the size of Adam’s member; even Mike, big as he was, wasn’t that well-hung—this dude was some kinda freak.  Despite himself, he could feel his own cock respond—limp with fear, it was now stiffening and standing erect.

 

Adam noticed it too.  He laughed coldly.  “Ya want it, dontcha?  You think you deserve this cock?  Fuck you, faggot.  You’re fuckin’ scum.  You want this shaft, this real man meat, you gotta earn it.”

 

Reaching down, Adam clamped one large strong hand around Toby’s throat and lifted him bodily off the ground.  Holding him out at arm’s length, he chuckled as the skaterboy gagged and jerked, his black Adidas kicks swinging helplessly a foot from the ground.

 

Looking directly into Toby’s eyes, Adam smiled—a thin smile, sharp as the edge of a knife—and said, “Only one way to earn my cock, faggot—you gotta suffer.  And you don’t know the meaning of that word yet, but don’t worry—I’ll teach ya.  And yer little fairy boyfriend there too.  You’ll both learn how to suffer real good.”

 

Staring into the cunt’s eyes, Adam caught a flicker of movement.  Slamming Toby into the wall and dropping him like a sack of potatoes, the muscular killer wheeled around and caught Mike full in the face with another powerful punch, just as the buff young homo had regained his feet and launched himself for an attack.

 

With a loud grunt, Mike fell to the floor, bleeding from the corner of his mouth.  Dazed by this second impact, he stared dully up at Adam.  “Stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” Adam sneered.  “Don’t know when to stay down, do ya?  Here, maybe this’ll learn ya.”  Stooping, he punched Mike in the face yet again.  This time he was rewarded with the satisfying crunching sound of the faggot’s nose breaking, the cartilage crushed under the force of his fist.

 

Pausing for a moment, Adam unzipped one of the pockets on the left thigh of his cargo pants and withdrew several long zip ties.  “You win the grand prize, you lucky cocksucker,” he smirked.  “You get to watch.  Pay attention, asswipe, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”

 

The well-built homo was flipped onto his belly; he could feel a thin plastic tie cinch inexorably around his wrists and another around his ankles, but the two powerful blows to his face had rendered him incapable of any physical activity for the moment.  By the time he recovered enough to attempt any resistance, it was too late.  Strong as he was, Mike wasn’t able to stretch the zip ties so much as a quarter of an inch, much less break them.

 

Adam kicked the faggot’s prone body viciously, using enough force to roll him onto his back.  Much like he’d handled Toby, the hulking, muscle-bound killer bent down and grabbed Mike by the throat, lifting him into the air.  Gagging, his Nike Vandals kicking uselessly inches above the carpet, the hardbodied twink was manhandled back to the bed, where Adam tossed him down.  Snatching a handful of hair, the sadist dragged Mike upright, propping him into a seated position where he could take in the entire bedroom in a single glance.

 

Mike was gonna have a perfect view of Adam snuffing Toby.

 

In the meantime the long-haired fairy had crawled back into the corner, his young face etched with bewildered terror.  He’d always expected Mike to defend him if the need arose, but this huge, bulked-out psycho who’d burst in on them so unexpectedly had overpowered Mike like he’d been a little girl.  Now the man was rounding on him, and he was helpless.  Whatever was gonna happen, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

“Oh God, no,” he sniveled, cowering as Adam loomed over him.  Glancing hesitantly up at his attacker, he watched mesmerized as the towering madman unexpectedly gabbed the hem of his own t-shirt and pulled it off over his head in a single, fluid motion, revealing his hard, furry torso that descended in a V-shape from his broad shoulders and firm, rounded pecs to his narrow waist.  The knit cap had come off, tangled in the shirt, and revealed a slightly tangled mass of bright, coppery hair.

 

The dude was a serious stud.  Toby felt himself getting hard.  But that was despite of his terror, not because of it, and even though he could see a large translucent bead of precum oozing from the piss slit of the intruder’s cock, fear was taking more of his attention at the moment than horniness.

 

The fear was well-deserved.  Adam bent down and grabbed a hank of Toby’s long hair.  Wrapping it around his palm he jerked the squalling twink up onto his feet.

 

“C’mon, faggot, let’s get started,” he growled, grabbing Toby by the throat and hoisting him in the air again, “I gotta load to drain and I can already tell it’s gonna take a while to beat the queer outta a pathetic little homo like you.”

 

Toby only kicked in Adam’s grip for a moment before his face and his world exploded in pain.  Adam punched him vicious in the face, then hurled him across the room.  The skater’s lean body slammed into the front of the dresser. The force of the impact rolled him up over the top of it, scattering everything—their cell phones, their wallets, piles of loose change and receipts, all of it went flying as Toby smacked into the wall, then rolled back forward off the dresser and onto the floor.

 

Groaning in pain, the tattooed twink opened his eyes.  To hurt to move, all he could see of his assailant as he approached were his laced-up boots.  They came nearer, then one drew back.  By the time Toby realized what it meant, it was too late to avoid it.  With one single brutal kick from his steel-toed boot, Adam broke Toby’s jaw.

 

The lean, lithe punkboy spent the next minute or so writhing on the floor, gurgling and mewling in agony as Adam watched him with erect, throbbing satisfaction.  The buff killer didn’t get to enjoy the view in peace for long, though—the other faggot began to squawk.

 

“You sonovabitch!” Mike screamed, “I’m gonna fuck you up!  You hurt him, I’m gonna fuck you up bad!”

 

Adam looked around the room and soon saw what he’d expected to find.  Ambling over to a pile of dirty laundry near the closet door, he bent down and picked up a reeking, stained jockstrap, stiff with cum.  Turning back to Mike with a grin, he said, “You’ll get yer chance to squeal like a pig yerself later, cunt, for all the good it’ll do ya.  In the meantime, keep your fuckin’ trap shut and enjoy watchin’ yer bitch suffer.”  Rolling the jock into a ball, he forced it into Mike’s mouth, leaving the muscled top gagging and mute, but still able to see everything that happened.

 

While Adam’s attention was diverted, an instinct for self-preservation kicked in deep inside Toby’s craven soul.  Even though the slightest movement of his head caused him terrible agony, he managed to rise to his hands and knees and crawl.  By the time Adam had silenced Mike and turned back to Toby, the latter was halfway to the door.

 

“Oh no you don’t, asswipe,” Adam growled and headed for him.  Toby could hear him approaching from behind; desperate tears leaked from his eyes as he realized he’d never make the door before the powerful psycho had reached him, but he had to keep going, he had to try…

 

When Adam got to him, he merely stood over the cringing, crawling twink for a moment, chuckling gutturally.  Then he delivered another vicious, lightning-fast kick, this one connecting with Toby’s left elbow.

 

The force behind the steel-toed boot didn’t just dislocate the joint, it snapped the ball end off the humerus, tore the tendons and completely severed the ligaments.  Despite the pain in his jaw, Toby screeched involuntarily as he collapsed and rolled onto his left side.  Adam walked around the sobbing, trembling punk until he was facing him.

 

“Didja really think you were gonna get away, you stupid sack of shit?  Fuck, dude, here I was tryin’ to make ya worth my dick, and now it looks like I’m gonna hafta kick the dumbass outta ya, you worthless faggot bitch.”  Still sobbing incoherently, Toby didn’t even notice Adam raise his foot up.

 

He damn sure noticed when Adam stomped on his chest, the deep tread of his thick-soled boot grinding into Toby’s soft flesh.  The loud snapping sound that accompanied it, like the splintering of a green limb, showed that one of the punkboy’s ribs had caved in under the sudden force—and if it didn’t show it, the sudden, high-pitched squeal forced from between Toby’s split, bleeding lips did.

 

“Fuck yeah!  That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Adam crowed, his huge, stiff cock pulsing visibly while he drank in the image of the tattooed skate punk writhing in nightmarish agony.  He was really getting off on hurting the little homo, seeing the fear and pain in his eyes.  And he still had another fucktoy in reserve—tonight was gonna be so fuckin’ hot…

 

Toby was wrapped in torment like a flaming blanket.  Every part of him was throbbing with pain, from the dull ache of bruised flesh to the glassy torture of broken bones.  He’d stopped trying to think; he could only endure.  An involuntary muscle jerk had pulled his head slightly to the side—from where he lay on the floor, he could clearly see Mike on the bed.  The idea that Mike might rescue him was long gone.  Mike was on the other side of the room, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world.  Toby could see that his boyfriend was crying, but it meant nothing.

 

Pain was the only thing that had meaning for Toby anymore.  And Adam knew it.

 

The relentless sadist sneered at his prey.  “Does it hurt, bitch?  Yeah?  It ain’t enough, you worthless sack of faggot shit; you ain’t hurt anywhere near enough yet to deserve my grade-A manmeat.”  He raised his boot again.  This time, Toby knew what was happening.  As Adam stomped, the fit, lean youth swung his right arm up and knocked the alpha’s foot away with all the force he could muster.

 

“You stupid pansy,” Adam barked and planted his foot in the middle of the kid’s right forearm, his big black boot covering a large section of inked flesh.  With a swift, smooth motion—so casual it almost looked rehearsed—the powerful psycho bent down, grabbed Toby right wrist, and pulled it violently upward.  There was a quick double-snap as both the radius and the ulna splintered; when Adam let go, the kid’s arm flopped uselessly back to the floor.

 

Toby didn’t react to this new source of pain.  Deep in sensory overload, he was starting to go into shock.  Lying on his back with his smooth chest heaving in shallow, irregular gasps, the tortured twink stared the ceiling, his bright green eyes wide and vacant.  His short, thick cock had gone limp, but that didn’t bother Adam.  He knew the punk would get hard again by the time he was done with him.

 

After all, the meat would be even more pure if the worthless fag sperm was drained out of it before Adam fucked it.

 

“Hey, queer-boy,” Adam called out to Mike, “It’s time.  Watch this shit, dude.  Watch me waste your cocksuckin’ homo boyfriend.”

 

As Toby continued to shudder and tremble on the floor, Adam waked around him until he was facing Mike on the bed.  With a wide, deliberate grin, he raised his right foot and planted his boot on the young faggot’s neck.  The sadistic killer stared directly into Mike’s disbelieving, tear-filled eyes.  “Look, ma,” he whispered.  “No hands.”  The hulking stud slowly began shifting his weight onto the foot on Toby’s neck.

 

The tattooed skaterpunk could only stare helplessly up at the huge, muscle-bound figure towering over him; there was no way for Toby to defend himself.  His broken arms jerked and flopped aimlessly, like dying fish; he had no way reach for the heavy black boot that was slowly—oh, so slowly—crushing his throat.  If he kicked, he bent his abdomen, causing his snapped rib to dig agonizingly into his guts, threatening to puncture his lung and pancreas.  If he tried to cry out, the jagged ends of his broken jaw ground together, causing hellish pain in his mouth…

 

Every movement bristled with torture, but Toby’s air was gradually being cut off.  He couldn’t keep still.  The tread on the killer’s sole was deep and intricate; as it sank into the tender flesh of his throat, what little lucidity the long-haired power bottom still possessed began to melt away in the face of impending asphyxiation.

 

Adam bent his head and spat in Toby’s face.  “Gettin’ harder to breathe, ain’t it?” he chuckled.  “See, as you choke an’ die, yer dick is gonna get all hard—and then yer gonna cum.  Happens almost every time I choke out a faggot.  You perverted little pansies empty your fuckin’ balls every time I waste ya—nothin’ turns ya on like gettin’ put down hard.  You wanna suffer even more than I wanna fuck you up.  Disgusting sack a’ shit—I gotta squeeze your load out and drain your sick fag seed outta yer meat to make it worthy of my cock.  Don’t worry, motherfucker—I’ll fill yer worthless corpse with my sperm.  I’ll baptize yer guts with hot manspunk before I leave you to rot.  And best of all, your fairy-ass boyfriend gets to watch you die!”

 

The words hit Toby’s ears like a dull ache, utterly swamped in the rising tide of instinctive terror as his oxygen was cut off.  He began to shudder and kick, helplessly flailing his firm, smooth legs and jerking his broken arms aimlessly.  Air.  He needed air.

 

And that was when it finally hit the lean twink—the realization that he was gonna die finally sank through the multiple layer of pain that had wrapped him like a cocoon.  Panic set in, a terrifying white panic the left him conscious and aware but still unable to control his actions.  Smirking, Adam watched Toby lose his shit as the boy choked under the alpha’s booted foot.  The pathetic little homo thrashed, his Adidas Baseline kicks carving furrows in the carpet as his inked arms flailed limply and helplessly.

 

As he struggled, Toby’s long hair became tangled and dark with sweat.  His entire body, in fact, was slick with sweat, the cold rank sweat of physical suffering.  The brutalized faggot’s smooth firm flesh glistened in the light, even as his face began to swell and grow dark.  “Hey, man,” Adam called out to Mike, “Lookit this shit.  See how his eyes are bulgin’?  That’s cause pressure’s building up in his head.  Damn, motherfucker, that’s gotta hurt like shit.”

 

Staring coldly into Mike’s bottomless brown eyes, the cruel alpha laughed, the sound slashing at Mike’s soul like a knife.  “Remember that, asswipe,” Adam hissed viciously.  “Dying hurts.  It hurts like nothing you’ve ever suffered in your useless faggot life.  Remember that when it’s your turn.”

 

From his position on the floor, Toby found that he couldn’t look away from his killer’s tall, powerfully-built form—quite literally.  As Adam had pointed out, his eyes were bulging; he couldn’t close them.  Toby had no choice but to stare up at the stud who was snuffing him.

 

The most immediate part of Adam in Toby’s field of vision was the shaft of his boot, the black leather rising from the bottom of his line of sight—he could clearly see how the extra-long laces circled the top of the shaft and were tied in front.  Above it, he could trace the line of the alpha’s thick calf and thigh muscles, outlined in the leg of his cargo pants.

 

Then there was the cock–the huge, throbbing shaft, jutting arrogantly in from, clear precum oozing in an almost steady stream…but Toby had to block that out, he couldn’t follow the link of pain and death and lust…

 

Beyond the webbed nylon belt circling his tight waist, the curly, golden fur that rose above the waistband, running up the killer’s ripped abs, spread out lushly on his broad, jutting pecs.  Heaving with exertion, Adam’s chest glittered as he moved and beads of sweat caught in his body hair caught the light.

 

Above that, there was a face, a beautiful, cold, contempt-filled face surmounted by red-gold curls like a copper nimbus, but it was too far away.  Toby was starting to have trouble seeing; darkness exploded in his sight light the blooms of huge black flowers.  His tongue was swelling, causing the dying twink horrible pain as it forced aside his broken jaw, but there was nothing he could do.  White, foamy drool leaked from his swelling lips, running down his chin and pooling around the treads of Adam’s utility boot.

 

The pounding in his heat was swift and intense; Toby could feel that it coincided with his speeding, panicked heart.  Despite the pounding and loud ringing in his ears, the slowly choking youth could hear the sadistically mocking words of his killer.

 

“How’s it feel, dying like a fuckin’ insect, havin’ yer useless life ground out under my boot, faggot?  Ya like gettin’ put down like the garbage you are, huh?  Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, I toldja you’d get hard again.  Disgustin’ little pervert, you just fuckin’ love it when a real man finally ends yer worthless existence.  C’mon, homo, time to drain yer sick faggot sperm so I can fuck some clean meat.”

 

With a snarl, Adam leaned forward, throwing all his weight on his right foot.  There was a loud crunch and the steel-toed boot suddenly sank a good two inches into Toby’s throat as the punk’s windpipe collapsed.  The young fag’s attention, momentarily diverted to the bizarre phenomenon of his throbbing, painfully erect cock, experienced the blast of horrifying agony that accompanies a mortal injury.

 

Adam steadied himself as the lean, lithe body beneath his feet began to shudder violently.  Toby’s huge green eyes, stained red by numerous ruptured blood vessels, rolled back into his head as he convulsed, his legs drawing up, then straightening as he kicked his life away with such force the Adidas sneaker was pulled off his left foot.  The buff alpha knew what was happening; shifting his body to one side, he applied more pressure to the boot embedded in the twink’s neck, twisting his foot sideways.

 

With a loud cracking noise, Adam snapped Toby’s neck like a dead twig.  As the sudden electrochemical shock flooded the dead kid’s nervous system, his erect shaft pulsed visibly and sent a solid stream of boyjizz up in a four-foot geyser.  Disgust on his face, Adam managed to dodge the fountain of spunk, letting it splash back on Toby body as it continued to jerk and flail in its death throes.

 

“Fuck yeah, man, there we go,” the sick top gloated at the dead boy’s sobbing boyfriend.  “Once that worthless fag spunk is unloaded, I’ll fill the meat with real manseed.  Finally givin’ this useless pansy a purpose—it died so I can have a cumrag.”

 

Adam stalked across the room, retrieving a chair that was standing behind the closet door.  As he did so, Mike, aflame with panic and anger, writhed violently on the bed.  Unable to loosen the zip ties binding him, the muscle twink increased his efforts until he managed to rise up vertically on the bed.  Once he was upright, though, he had no way of balancing himself and instantly felt himself falling over sideways.

 

His thick, muscular body hit the nightstand with a crash, causing him to start bleeding again from his already-broken nose.  He fell to the floor, accompanied by the lamp.  The bulb didn’t break; still lit, the light cast surreal shadows across the room from its low angle on the floor.

 

Adam had watched it all happen.  He wasn’t worried about Mike; there was no way for the meat to break free of its bonds.  And the dude had landed on the floor in a great position for a close-up of the next act.

 

The buff killer placed the chair upright in front of Mike, a few feet away.  Then he bent down and grabbed Toby, manhandling the still-quivering corpse until he’d draped it face-down over the back of the chair.  Then, without another word, he brandished his huge, dripping cock, grinned at Mike, and mounted the dead kid, his shaft penetrating Toby’s sphincter and sinking deeply into the meat’s guts.

 

“Fuck yeah, nice and smooth, just like I like ‘em,” Adam smirked as Mike burst anew into hot tears of outrage and terror.  The bound punk struggled to protest, but the soiled jock had been shoved too deeply into his mouth for him to be able to force it out; all he could do was watch the violation of his boyfriend’s corpse in silence.

 

The chair creaked loudly as Adam gripped the meat’s narrow waist and plowed its still-spasming asshole.  His furry, sweat-streaked flesh slapped loudly against Toby’s cooling skin as the alpha brutally pumped his shaft into the dead boy’s rectum.  As he fucked the corpse, Adam reached up and grabbed a handful of the punk’s long hair and jerked it back, raising Toby’s head.

 

“Look at him,” the vicious sadist hissed at the crying, struggling boy on the ground, “Look at his face.  See the pain and terror he endured?  See how the horror of his last few seconds of life are etched into his face?  Disgustin’ little faggot deserved to suffer so much more but he was weak.  You ain’t.  You can take what I’m gonna give ya—and it’s gonna be so much worse than what he went through.”

 

Adam never missed a single stroke of his brutal necro fuck as he spoke, slamming his gigantic rod into the corpse with a virulent power that was equal parts lust and hatred.  Through his tears, Mike watched Toby’s body jerk and flop with every intrusive thrust of Adam’s hips.

 

Suddenly Adam’s face tightened.  He gave a loud grunt, ramming his shaft home as his hulking, muscle-bound form went rigid.  There was a loud crack and the chair began a slow-motion collapse under the weight of Adam’s orgasmic thrust.  The killer had time to slide one booted foot forward and keep his balance as the chair bent forward and fell to the floor.  Toby’s body fell with it, slowly sliding off the alpha’s still-shooting cock.  Adam finished up by spraying his load onto the corpse’s back.

 

Snorting with contempt, Adam glared at Mike.  “Fucker was totally worthless.  Even dead, he couldn’t take a real man’s load.   My balls are still fulla cum, motherfucker—now it’s yer turn.  He was just the appetizer—you’re the main course, fuckwad.  And I like to linger over my meat.  Ready to dance, asswipe?  Yer gonna die clawin’ and pissin’ yerself in agony, faggot.”

 

Mike shook his head frantically, the stained jockstrap protruding from his mouth.  His already large brown eyes were huge with stunned shock; the sheer horror of watching his boyfriend’s snuff and necro-rape was reflected in his taut, pale face.

 

Bending down, Adam wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat.  Hoisting the jerking, struggling youth into the air, he slammed him against the wall on the far side of the dresser.  The terrified fag had a brief lucid moment to comprehend the sheer power of his assailant as Adam drew his right arm back, keeping Mike pinned with his back to the wall, several inches off the ground, with just one hand—and this with a loose enough grip to allow the beefy punk to breathe.

 

The he noticed that Adam’s hand had curled into a fist.  He saw the dude’s massive bicep twitch—and then his world exploded in pain as Adam drove his fist into the pansy’s face with the force of a steam hammer.

 

Mike’s head rocked backwards, punching a hole in the drywall as his left cheekbone and the thin bone behind his left eye shattered.  His hands, uselessly bound behind him, clawed at the wall, peeling off strips of paint with his fingernails.  His loud cry was muffled by the reeking fabric shoved into his throat.

 

He didn’t need to worry about the gag for long.  The bruised, battered homo was so stunned by the blow to his head that he never saw Adam’s thick arm draw back again.  He felt it, though; the muscular sadist pounded his huge fist straight into Mike’s solar plexus, at the base of his sternum.

 

The writhing fag’s diaphragm spasmed, his well-built chest collapsing in as the air in his lungs was expelled violently enough for him to blow the jockstrap out of his mouth; it dropped to the floor in the few inches of no-man’s-land between the vicious killer and his helpless prey.  Mike was unable to take advantage of his sudden freedom to speak—his entire attention was focused on being able to breathe.  For several terrifying seconds, the buff young queerboy was unable to inhale, his lungs refusing to inflate.  His eyes, wide and round, the left one blackening and swelling, were dulled over in sheer panic as he savored a foretaste of suffocation.

 

Suddenly the bulging groin of his American Eagle boxers darkened.  Struggling and terrified, the well-built youth had pissed himself in terror, the yellow urine running down his legs and flowing into his Nikes.  His one lucid thought was that however he was gonna die, he didn’t want to choke or suffocate.  Anything but this, he begged silently in the dark empty corners of his mind.  Anything but this.

 

Adam read the terror in the kid’s eyes and his grin widened and became shark-like.  His thick, swinging dick stiffened as he contemplated the bound, helpless faggot in his grasp.  The fucker was his do with as he pleased—and what pleased him damn sure wasn’t gonna please the homo.

 

Jerking and sweating, Mike suddenly inhaled deeply, managing to force oxygen back into his lungs.  With no warning, Adam delivered a brutal gutpunch to the suspended boy, sinking his fist deep into Mike’s firm, flat belly and driving out the air again.  This time, he released the kid, letting Mike fall back to the floor, shuddering and gasping like a landed fish dying on the deck of a trawler.  As the fag’s face went purple, Adam stood over him, sneering.

 

“Lookitya, you pathetic piece a’ shit,” he drawled contemptuously.  “Got yerself all buff an’ muscular, but yer still a worthless fuckin’ fairy.  Your muscles ain’t no match for mine, asswipe; they ain’t gonna help ya now.  I’m gonna fuck you up even worse than I did yer pansy-ass little boyfriend.  Hey, remember when I did this to ‘im?”

 

With a swift kick of his powerful leg, Adam’s steel-toed boot smashed into Mike’s flank, shattering two ribs into multiple pieces.  Once again, the handsome young homo had just regained his air, only to suffer a brutal impact that drove it back out.  This one was worse, though.  This one did major damage.

 

For the rest of Mike’s life—that is, for the next few minutes—the fit young punk desperately tried to breathe, never knowing that bone shards from his broken ribs had punctured his left lung, causing it slowly to deflate.  He only knew the creeping terror of slow advancing suffocation—and pain.  He became very familiar with pain.

 

Leaving one boot planted firmly on Mike’s chest, Adam leaned down and casually spit in the youth’s strained, agonized face.  “Naw, man, I ain’t gonna kill ya with my feet like I did yer fucktoy,” he jeered.  “That was fun, but I got somethin’ more…intense planned for you.  But first, I wanna know—did he ever fuck you?  Or were you always the top?”

 

Mike looked up at the alpha, his eyes running from the tightly laced boot on his chest up along the well-fitted black cargo pants to the huge, engorged shaft of manmeat that jutted out in front of Adam.  Huge and oozing, it added an emphasis to the sadist’s questions that intimidated the fuck out of Mike.  Wallowing in pain, he looked away, gasping and heaving.

 

“I asked you a question, motherfucker,” Adam said, a cold, hard tone in his voice.  “You got three seconds to answer it.  One.  Two…”

 

Mike opened his mouth, but in his panic, he could only croak incoherently.

 

“Three,” Adam concluded, with evident satisfaction.  “Ok, fuckwad, guess I gotta beat it outta ya.”

 

“…no…” Mike gasped faintly.

 

“What was that, fuckmeat?” Adam grinned.  Bending down, he clamped his left hand around Mike’s throat.  The bulked-out psycho was strong enough to hoist the buff young homo into the air single-handedly.  His windpipe was almost completely closed off this time and his left flank burned with pain where his ribs ground together but the attractive young punk unfortunately managed to remain somewhat lucid.  Lucid enough to comprehend the sheer power of the man who had him so completely at his mercy.

 

He needed a way to fight back.  Despite the pain, he needed to fight back or the same thing would happen to him that happened to Toby.  Toby—oh fuck, Toby, what the fuck happened…they were just gonna have a fun evening and this fucker showed up…

 

With a lightning-fast lunge of his arm, Adam snatched at Mike’s piss-soaked briefs and tore them off him, the elastic at the waist snapping back painfully on Mike’s bare flesh.  Nude except for his Nike hightops, the queer hunk dangled in mid-air, slowly choking as he struggled and squirmed, causing the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles to dig even deeper into his skin.

 

“Did that dead piece a’ shit lyin’ over there ever fuck you, asswipe?” Adam demanded.  “Ever had a cock up yer boyhole?  Answer me, fuckwad!”  Adam punctuated his demand with another blow to Mike’s face, this one splitting his lips and knocking out one of the kid’s canines.  “Can’t talk, motherfucker?  Ok, just nod or shake yer head.  Or I’m gonna beat ya to death right fuckin’ now.”

 

Mike’s lucidity was fast drowning in a rising tide of terror; he knew the hulking stud wasn’t kidding.  Eventually, he forced himself to shake his head—not very well, but enough for Adam to feel it.

 

And when he did, he grinned.  “Excellent.  Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than fuckin’ a virgin corpse.”

 

Mike would have pissed himself again at the words if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder—and if his dick hadn’t grown unaccountably hard.

 

Adam noticed it too.  “Fuckin’ fag pervert,” he snarled, “Ya like that, dontcha?  You want my fuckin’ rod in ya so bad yer willin’ to die to get it, aintcha?  Disgustin’ piece a’ shit—see, this is why I gotta waste ya.  Doin’ the fuckin’ world a favor, I am, by clearin’ it of sick fucks like you.”

 

Mike could feel his pulse racing—it pounded in his temples and in his rigid cock.  His eyes felt like they were gonna pop right out of his head; tears streamed down his cheeks.  Pain and terror fought for control within him and he wondered if he was going to die like this, suspended in mid-air, shuddering and jerking.

 

And then he was sailing through the air.  It happened in the blink of an eye; there was no warning—Adam simply tossed him across the room with no more effort than if he was a rag doll.  The buff homo slammed violently into the wooden headboard.  It broke in half vertically with a loud crack as a hundred and sixty pounds of muscled boymeat smashed against it and fell back limply onto the tangled pile of sheets covering the bed.

 

Barely conscious, Mike rolled onto his back and stared blankly up at the ceiling as well as his swollen eyes would allow—particularly the left one.  His entire face was bruised and puffed up, aching horribly from the broken bones in his face.  It hurt bad, but his side, where the snapped ribs were grinding against each other, hurt worse.  His wrists and ankles were raw and nearly bleeding from the way the zip ties had cut into his flesh during his useless struggles.  Fuck, it all hurt so bad…and then there was Toby…

 

The hardbodied young punk was losing his will to live.  Mike had endured a ruthless mindfuck.  Despite his impressive build, he wasn’t emotionally strong; he simply couldn’t handle the combination of mental and physical trauma he’d been forced to endure.  Adam could see it in his eyes; the homo was starting to check out.  He needed to move fast.

 

Suddenly Mike felt a weight on him.  Adam was climbing onto the bed—and onto him.  His blank stare no longer focused on the ceiling; now his killer filled his field of vision.  Seeing the hard face, so cruel and so handsome, topped with copper curls, Mike knew he was looking into the face of the man who was gonna kill him.  For the first time, he really knew it.

 

The power of the muscle-bound sadist was obvious; it was expressed in everything about him from the wiry, sweat-matted fur covering his broad hubcap pecs to the powerful tang of adrenaline and testosterone that was blended in with his musky perspiration.  Mike knew he was strong, but he was helpless before this bulked-out hypermasculine stud.

 

Adam knew the score.  He lowered himself down, letting his massive cock make contact with Mike’s flat, smooth belly.  The thick, engorged head was oozing precum steadily; it acted as lube, letting the pulsing shaft of manmeat slide up Mike’s abdomen.  As Adam lay full-length on Mike, belly to belly, their erect dicks were pressed between them, side by side.

 

“Look at me, faggot,” Adam whispered quietly, almost seductively, as he wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat.  “Look me in the eyes as I put yer worthless ass down.  I wanna watch your wasted life drain outta ya.  I wanna see death in yer eyes.  You feel me, bro?  Last thing yer ever gonna see is my grinnin’ face as I wipe yer fag ass off the face of the earth.”

 

And then he started squeezing.

 

Mike had panicked as he’d been held up and dangled but Adam hadn’t been trying to strangle him then.  This was different.  This hurt a fuck of a lot more.  He was low on oxygen as it was, his left lung having slowly collapsed over the last few minutes, but Adam was literally crushing his esophagus.  The cruel killer had wrapped his fingers behind the boy’s neck but had placed his thumbs in front, right on the larynx.  As he clamped his hands down with the force of steel trap, Mike’s voicebox was remorselessly shoved back into his throat, the cartilage deforming past its limits.

 

It hurt, Jesus, it hurt so fuckin’ bad.  But as bad as it hurt, the pain receded into a loud buzzing in the background as white, blinding tide of terror rose within Mike.  He was suffocating.  He couldn’t breathe.  Worse, he couldn’t fight it.  He was helpless, pressed under the heavy mass of his killer’s muscles, his hands and legs excruciatingly bound.  This was it, oh fuck, this was for real, no, no, he wasn’t gonna die, not now…

 

Adam knew the faggot was too far gone in fear to pay attention to anything he said.  And while that was a good thing—fear was excellent for purifying faggotry—the little (compared to Adam) fuckwad needed to be brought back into the now.  Applying some pressure, he swiftly and viciously dug his thumbs in and was rewarded with a loud crack.

 

Mike instantly stopped thrashing and stared with horror into Adam’s face.  His larynx had just been crushed into a useless mass of mangled cartilage.

 

Adam grinned.  “Ya know what, faggot?  Yer dick’s still hard.  I can feel it.  That’s gotta hurt like all fuck.  You gotta know yer dyin’ by now, you gotta feel like yer dyin’ by now—but yer dick’s still hard, you sick little fuck.”

 

As his gorgeous but abused body went rigid in horrific agony, some dark corner of Mike’s mind-raped psyche knew the brutal sadist was speaking the truth.  Even in the midst of overwhelming suffering, Mike could feel his own shaft, achingly erect, rubbing against his killer’s ripped, hairy abs.

 

“Time for lights out, asswipe,” Adam continued.  “You’re almost clean enough for my cock.  I just need to squeeze the defective homo sperm outta yer nutsack and you’ll be ready to receive the load of a real man.  Time to die.”  He paused, with a faint chuckle.  “Ain’t like anyone’s gonna miss another faggot, anyways.  Only one who mighta cared is already dead.  And he was a damn lousy fuck.”

 

He squeezed even harder.  Mike’s tongue, already thick, swelled to the point it forced his mouth open.  The near-black tip parted the cunt’s blue lips as white foamy drool trickled down the youth’s cheeks.  As the weight of asphyxiation crushed his chest, Mike’s tremulous sanity succumbed to remorseless hammering in his head.  A screaming pitch-black vortex of sheer terror opened in his mind…

 

…but he wasn’t too far gone to hear—or to feel—the loud crackling, crunching sound as his trachea collapsed into a bloody mass of gristle under Adam’s relentless, vise-like grip.  And in the utter shock of fatal injury, Mike shot a death load of epic proportions.  His bulging eyes were looking directly into Adam’s as he felt an agony he’d never know could exist—it felt like his entire self, his life essence, had been violently ripped out and was being expelled in his hot, ropy jizz.

 

His powerful, sweaty body entwined with that of the dying muscular twink, Adam felt the faggot’s spunk splattering over his abs and soaking into the wiry fur that forested his bulked-out torso.  It infuriated him—nasty homo seed contaminating his well-cared-for body.  With a roar, he let go of Mike’s neck and grabbed the unlucky pansy’s ankles.

 

In the last five seconds of his life, Mike suffered one last time from the sadistic stranger’s hate and lust.  Enraged, Adam jerked the kid’s legs apart.  As ice-cold darkness closed in on him, Mike saw Adam’s huge, sweaty biceps flex awesomely—and then, with a loud snap, Adam broke the zip tie.  The thin plastic dug through Mike’s flesh down to the bone, but it finally gave way before the sheer power of the hardbodied killer.

 

The cuts had severed an artery in Mike’s right ankle, but since his heart had stopped beating almost simultaneously, blood merely seeped from the wound instead of spurting.  Adam wasn’t done with his victim, though.

 

Enraged, the psychotic stud brandished his hard, club-like cock and plunged it into Mike’s fuckhole.  Even though the corpse’s sphincter was flaccid in death, it still wasn’t elastic enough to accept a shaft of the size of the one now being brutally rammed into it—Adam tore the dead kid’s ass open.  “You worthless queerboy fucker,” he snarled, “Thought you’d make me a fag by squirtin’ yer diseased homo cum on me, huh?  You ain’t the first faggot to try it, cunt, but ain’t none of ya ever man enough to turn me!”

 

His hips thrusting swiftly, Adam nailed the dead kid’s butthole.  Sweat trickled down the small of his muscled back as he fucked the corpse, every pump of his cock violently expressing his hate and disgust for the fag he was banging.  He became aware that his balls were drawing up as his semen started to boil over.  And then orgasm hit him, almost like a violent cramp.

 

“Fuck!” he screamed, “Fuck!”

 

It was almost involuntary, the way his right arm drew back and then pumped forward like a steam piston, smashing into the corpse’s face.  Adam didn’t try to stop it, though—it felt so fuckin’ right.  As his cock swelled and spurted again, his fist shot forward again.  And again.  With every spurt of hot manseed from his engorged dick, Adam punched Mike’s swollen, blackened face as hard as he could.

 

This was what Adam had wanted, had hoped for—had worked for.  It felt right.

 

He came a lot.  A lot.  By the time he was done, Mike was unrecognizable.  Adam had beaten his face to hamburger.

 

With a deep sigh, Adam pulled back and sat on the bed, his dripping cock resting on the tangled sheets.  He glanced around the room, noting the position of a couple of items, then got up and headed for the bathroom.

 

After spending a few minutes cleaning the drying semen off his torso, he tucked his dick back into his cargo pants.  Grabbing a clean towel, he headed back to the bedroom.  Once there, he used the towel to pry the Nike Vandals off Mike’s feet.  They were soaked with the dead kid’s piss, but they could be cleaned.

 

Then he collected Toby’s Adidas kicks, pulling one off his foot and simply picking the other up off the floor.  He’d seen a gym bag on the far side of the dresser; he used it to collect his trophies, picking up his long-sleeve t-shirt and his knit cap as he passed them.  It was a cool night, but Adam was still warm and sweaty; he decided not to put either on at the moment.

 

Bag in hand, he paused at the door and looked back.  Toby was still lying belly-up on the floor, his limbs and head all at grotesque angles to the body.  Mike, his hands still bound behind him, was also lying belly-up on the bed, his legs spread, white spunk oozing from his ravaged asshole.

 

It wasn’t complete.  He needed to recreate that first necro fuck for it to be right.

 

Leaving the bag at the door, Adam returned to Toby and rolled him over, off the broken remains of the chair, burying his dead swollen face in the carpet.  With a quick step to the bed, the psycho killer grabbed Mike’s corpse under the arms, dragging it over to Toby’s.  Tossing it down on top of the long-haired dude’s body like a sack of dirty laundry, Adam bent down and manipulated Mike’s still semi-erect penis into Toby’s ass, then adjusted the legs.

 

Stepping back, Adam admired his posing.  It looked like a perfectly natural fuck.  Well, except that Mike’s hands were still zip tied behind his back.  And the fact that both punks had suffered major physical trauma.  And that both were obviously dead.

 

As far as Adam was concerned, it was perfect.  He’d erased any possible homo contamination from his first necro fuck.  Picking up the bag, he headed out the door.  Within six minutes, he was off the property, walking bare-chested down the street to where he’d parked his truck a safe distance away.

 

While he walked, Adam found his thoughts—and his cock—drawn to public restrooms.