Autumnal thunderstorms were moving across the Midwest and even where it wasn’t actively raining, the roads were still dangerous. Traffic was slow on the highway, forcing the Trucker to downshift, quietly cursing to himself. He peered ahead through the driving rain; his exit was coming up.
He’d headed north on I-49 out of Joplin, Missouri two hours earlier. It shouldn’t have taken him so long to reach the town of Nevada; it was only about fifty miles north of Joplin, but the weather and the traffic had conspired against him. But he’d finally made it. He eased his rig off the interstate and turned left onto the state highway that ran through town.
He was running empty; he needed to be in Kansas City tomorrow afternoon to pick up a load, but while on the way, dispatch had alerted him to the chance of earning a little extra by what should have been a quick side jaunt over to Fort Scott, Kansas to pick up a couple of pallets of return items from a dollar store to drop at the freight yard in Kansas City. Hence his exit from the interstate.
The night was thick with a heavy mist, almost a fog, that seemed to mingle with the lowering clouds so that everything was shrouded in moisture. He slowed his rig considerably; the two-lane state highway had intersections for farms and small towns scattered along it at random. He slowed even more as he passed through the town of Deerfield, so he was only about five miles past it when he got the alert from dispatch that the Fort Scott job was cancelled, with no explanation.
“Goddamit,” the Trucker muttered, his face grim as he tried to figure out the best way to get to Kansas City from here—he wasn’t sure if heading back to the interstate would be faster than continuing to Highway 69, given the weather. That’s when he saw the truck stop sign. And decided to pull over.
He could use some food while he figured out what to do. And he could use a moment to relax—poor weather on poor roads made him tense.
The truck stop was at an intersection that had a street light on the highway. The road it was on headed north, but nothing was visible beyond the intersection. On the left side, the “truck stop”—an old gas station with some oversized canopies installed to accommodate big rigs—sat at the corner. Across the street there was a small paved lot evidently intended for overnight parking; there was a single darkened cab there now. The Trucker pulled in, circling the lot so he could head straight out without backing when he needed to.
The rain, which had tapered off, began pattering on the roof of his cab again. Before he opened the door, he grabbed his rain coat—a black hooded Carhartt Shoreline jacket—and zipped it up over the white cotton undershirt, all he’d been wearing in the warm, humid evening. Ensuring his wallet was in the rear pocket of his tight, worn jeans, he shut off the rig’s rumbling engine and climbed out. The thick soles of his black leather engineer boots splashed in a puddle when he hit the ground; the concrete lot was awash.
The tall, powerful figure strode across the empty street towards the truck stop, but headed around it. Behind it was a small diner with a lighted sign that read, simply, “24HR”. He wanted food. As he got past the tall, floodlit canopies, he saw that there was more. To the right of the diner, there was a low building with another sign, this one reading “Office”. It was the end unit of a small motel built in an L-shape, that enclosed the back end of the property. The far end of the L was behind the diner and abutted up onto the state highway.
Two of the units had cars parked in front. There was a dim glow in the shaded windows of the office, but not much activity. The diner, on the other hand, had several vehicles pulled up around it and gave more promising signs of satisfying his immediate needs.
And as to satisfying his other needs, well, he wasn’t expecting much, but if the opportunity arose, he wouldn’t turn it down. And the comparative bustle of the diner seemed to offer more chance of that, too, he put the quiet, almost-empty motel out of his mind and opened the restaurant door, heading into the thick miasma that was equal parts grease and burnt coffee.
There were several people at the counter—a family of three, with disgruntled looks on their faces, a couple of single guys who had the shopworn look of traveling salesmen, a brassy, big-tittied woman at the far end, engaged in a loud but incomprehensible conversation on her phone. Across a narrow isle from the counter, a row of dimly-lit booths lined the window; the Trucker chose one at random on the right and sat down.
He hadn’t been there for more than three minutes when a gum-chewing waitress materialized at his side. “What’ll it be, hon?” she drawled.
The Trucker had barely glanced at the plastic-covered menu, but he’d seen enough. “Gimme a bowl of the beef stew and a cup of coffee, black.”
“Nothin’ else? You get a side if you want it. C’n add a salad for two bucks, too.”
“No,” the Trucker said, taking the time to scope out the place, “Just the stew.”
“Comin’ up. Save some room for the pecan pie, hon, it’s to die for.” With that, she vanished as abruptly as she’d arrived. Within a matter of seconds, she was back with a white ceramic cup and a metal pot full of bitter, burnt coffee. As the Trucker tried to drink it without grimacing, she popped back up with a large bowl full of a dark, viscous stew. “Anythin’ else, hon?” she asked mechanically. He shook his head and she left.
The Trucker wasn’t alone for long, though. The boy had been sitting in a booth to the left of the door when the older man had come in and turned right, which was why he didn’t see the kid until he’d already started approaching. Before the Trucker could react, the youth slid into the opposite side of his booth.
“Hey, dude,” the kid grinned, “Name’s Brandon, what’s yours?”
The boy was young, a small-town punk with shoulder-length sandy blond hair and large puppy-like brown eyes. The eyes were glowing with a natural lust that the kid was too young and inexperienced to suppress; his teenaged horniness was so obvious, he might as well have been wearing a sign.
“Yeah?” the Trucker said off-handedly, “Whaddaya want?”
The boy—Brandon—was staring at the Trucker’s torso, his gaze fixated on the way the older man’s huge nipples jutted up through the thin cotton mesh of his t-shirt. He was too engrossed to notice that his question hadn’t been answered. “You, man,” the boy said with a quick, nervous grin. “You pulled over at the service station, right? Well, I’m here to service truck drivers. Been doin’ it for years, ever since Ma bought the motel.”
The Trucker looked the kid over again, evenly but curiously. “Kinda bold, aintcha? Do ya offer yerself to every dude who walks in here?”
“Not every dude, just the ones who look like they want it—and can afford it. Ya gotta hustle if ya wanna make a buck, as Ma says.”
The strapping sex killer grinned and Brandon, seeing acceptance in the Trucker’s expression, smiled. The adolescent slut wasn’t anywhere near as good at reading people as he thought, although he wouldn’t be aware of his deficit until it was too late to profit by the knowledge.
The Trucker pushed aside the bowl of salty stew and looked Brandon dead in the face. “So, how much? And for what?”
Knowing he had a good one hooked, the kid’s smile grew wider; he was utterly unaware that he was the one who was hooked. “Aw, man, for a hot stud like you—shit, dude, you c’n stick it up my ass for twenty bucks.”
The grin on the Trucker’s face grew broader too. He’d hoped to have a little fun; he hadn’t expected to run across a cheap little boywhore so horny it damn near climbed into his lap. As the kid spoke, the powerful killer felt his balls start to ache. They needed to be drained, bad—and he’d just found the perfect piece of fagmeat to use as a cumrag.
“Twenty? Yeah, I can do that. You gotta place?”
Brandon young, smooth face lit up as he broke into an infuriating smirk. “Fuck yeah, man, I got my own place. I toldja Ma owns the motel here, right? I got the end room over there all my own. Told Ma that once I hit eighteen, I was a man, and a man need his own space, an’ she agreed, so she lemme have that room. Course,” here his face fell momentarily, “that was three months ago and she says I gotta be out by the time I hit nineteen—but hey, maybe some hot trucker will come along an’ take me away from all this, yeah?”
His sexualized eagerness was so obvious it made him pathetic. The Trucker figured he’d be doing the community a favor by offing the worthless whore. “Yeah, boy,” he drawled, “I bet yer gonna meet someone who’ll take you away real soon.” He tossed a ten and a five onto the table and slid out of the booth.
Brandon followed suit. The Trucker had the chance to fully appraise the boy once he stood up. The kid stood a couple of inches shorter than six feet; the Trucker towered over him. Brandon wasn’t scrawny; he’d been on the local high school wrestling team (where he hadn’t been popular, his erections too obvious in his Lycra wrestling gear). He had a dark gray fleece hoodie that zipped up the front, wearing it unzipped, with the hood thrown back. Below the waist, his muscled legs were encased in nearly skin-tight Levi’s. The cuffs of the boot-cut jeans were incongruously stuffed into the tops of a pair of Adidas NMD XR1 PK kicks, white with black and gray stripes.
Brandon led the way out. Once outside the diner, the Trucker zipped up his jacket and Brandon drew his hoodie up over his head; the rain had started falling harder. The kid headed across the cracked and pitted asphalt; the older man could see he was going for the end room, out by the state highway. As Brandon weaved circuitously, avoiding getting his kicks wet and the Trucker’s boots splashed heavily through the puddles, two semis roared past, mere yards from the room. Ma wasn’t stupid; she’d given the boy the shittiest room she had.
As the kid unlocked the rear door, the Trucker glanced back towards the office. Despite the neon glow of the word “open”, the office seemed dark and quiet. The only two cars in the lot were in front of doors in the other wing. This room was completely isolated. With a malicious smile, the serial killer followed the teen rentboy into the room and locked the door.
If he’d wait a few seconds longer—and looked towards the highway—he might have seen the shadow of a human figure slip around the corner and crouch down at the front window, as if it was peering through a space between the curtains.
Once inside the room, Brandon flipped the switch just inside the door, turning on the single overhead bulb in the ceiling fan; the latter came on as well, revolving in slow, lazy circles that wouldn’t disturb a fly. The kid continued on to the bed and, sitting on it, switched on the lamp on the nightstand. He was already kicking his sneakers off when the Trucker entered.
“Hey, lock the door, wouldja?” the punk said, slipping out of his hoodie. “Don’t want my Ma or Manny, that spic she hired, to come bargin’ in here in the mornin’, huh? He’s even worse than she is about gettin’ all up in my business. I think he wants to bang me but I don’t fuck with no wetbacks, ya know?”
The boy seemed nervous, running off at the mouth. The Trucker kept quiet and let the kid run on; he knew he’d be able to shut the meat up when the time came. He unzipped his Carhartt jacket and tossed it onto a chair.
Brandon, in the meantime, pulled off his t-shirt, giving the Trucker what he hoped what a seductive glimpse of his hard, smooth, muscled torso. The Trucker smirked and peeled his own t-shirt off. The homo teen gaped as the older man’s fur-covered, muscle-bound chest was revealed, a vast landscape of masculine power with a visual focus of a pair of dogtags gleaming dead center between his massive pecs. The kid’s hormone-ridden form shuddered.
“Goddam, you’re…you’re…” he couldn’t finish his sentence. He stood up and slid out of jeans. They clung to his legs and as he tried to free his feet, he stumbled and fell against the table, nearly knocking the ancient-looking desk phone off. He dove for it and recovered it, setting it back onto the table with a relieved sigh.
The Trucker had fished out his Marlboros and fired one up as he watched Brandon peel off his clothes. The boy turned to him sheepishly. “That coulda been bad—there’s a button on the phone that goes directly to the phone at Ma’s bedside so she can handle guest emergencies. Fuck, if I’d woken her up—she don’t know what I get up to, y’know…”
The kid was still sporting a pair of white briefs and white ankle socks. His thick teenaged cock and sperm-filled balls were visible through the thin cotton—and anyway, the briefs couldn’t contain his swelling dick for long. He stood up and glanced around the room.
“I, uh, I need to go to the bathroom,” he faltered, then paced quickly around the bed to the bathroom door on the far side of the room.
The moment the bathroom door closed, the Trucker sprang across the room and bent down behind the nightstand. He quickly unplugged the phone from the wall jack and had just made it back to the ashtray to take another drag off his smoke when the bathroom door opened. Brandon came out, looking like he was tweaking badly.
Then a certain familiar scent hit the Trucker’s nose and he realized that’s exactly what was happening. Brandon had gone into the bathroom to smoke meth.
In the meantime, the punk had come back around the bed and was slipping his Adidas NMDs back on. “It’s, uh, wet in there…um, I mean…the floor is wet and I don’t like wet socks on my feet, yeah?” Brandon said with a sickly grin. He headed back towards the bathroom. “I won’t be long. Oh…uh, by the way, I, uh, I’m gonna need more than twenty. Like, um, fifty. Yeah, fifty would be good.”
“You want me to pay you more money?” the Trucker asked quietly and evenly.
Brandon, encouraged by the lack of obvious outrage at the request—it wasn’t the first time the little junkie had upped his prices once he’d gotten a john into his room—smiled and ran his hand through his long sandy hair. His smooth body was already covered with a glistening patina of sweat forced from him by the drug.
“Yeah, man—you into it? C’mon, a hot stud like you, out on the road for hours at a time—you take a hit now and then, dontcha?”
The Trucker smiled and stood up. He reached down and slowly inched his zipper down, staring straight into Brandon’s eyes as he did. The faggot didn’t bother to keep up eye contact, he was too busy gazing with eager anticipation at the Trucker’s crotch. When the zipper was finally down, the buff alpha reached in and began extracting his enormous shaft like he was pulling a rope up out of a well.
“You wanna know what I wanna hit, motherfucker?” he hissed at the gaping teen, “You.”
“Huh?” Brandon asked confusedly, reluctantly dragging his gaze up from the Trucker’s cock to his face.
It never got there. It caught a flash of motion and the Trucker’s fist slammed into the kid’s face like a sledgehammer.
The blow hit Brandon with the force of a swung baseball bat; the boy was knocked sideways into the bathroom, sprawling on the cold tile floor. His right hand, which he’d kept balled into a fist, came open and a glass ball with a tube coming out of it—his meth pipe—went skittering across the floor and shattered against the base of the toilet.
“I ain’t payin’ you shit, faggot,” the Trucker snarled as he stormed into the tiny room, grabbed the stunned adolescent by his long hair, and dragged him, squalling, back out into the bedroom.
Brandon hadn’t been popular on the wrestling team—at least on the floor; he’d been very popular in the locker room and showers—but he’d been good. No one had treated him like this, and he was pissed. This motherfucker had gotten the drop on him and was gonna try to stiff him after promising to pay.
Over my dead body, Brandon thought as he lay on the floor, rubbing his sore jaw. He didn’t have the slightest hint how right he was.
Slowly rising to his feet, he squared his broad—for a teenager—shoulders and stared at the Trucker, showing his assailant that he wasn’t intimidated. “You hit me, asswipe, an’ ya broke my pipe. Yer gonna have to pay for that.”
The Trucker smirked and stared back. “Make me, you useless cocksucker.”
Brandon had maneuvered himself around to the foot of the bed, which was a better position to make a break for the door. The Trucker was standing between him and the bedside lamp, and the alpha’s massive, over-developed silhouette was painfully obvious to the kid. He suddenly realized he was challenging someone who could easily overpower him and literally mop the fucking floor with him.
This was bad. This was really bad. The teen panicked, spun around, and lunged for the door.
“No ya don’t, faggot,” the Trucker growled and, coiling his bulging muscled form, pounced at the terrified kid.
Brandon had just reached the door when the Trucker caught him by the hair again, jerking him violently backwards. “NO!!” the boy screamed—just as the entire room rattled with the noise of a semi going by on the highway.
“Yeah, man,” the Trucker said as he hoisted Brandon aloft by his hair. The kid squealed in pain, his hands grasping the Trucker’s wrist as he lifted his body up to prevent his scalp from taking his entire weight. “What the fuck make you think yer worth even twenty bucks, you fucking piece a’ shit?” he sneered while Brandon’s Adidas’ kicked and flailed several inches above the thin cheap carpet.
“Lemme go or I’m gonna fuck you up so fuckin’ bad—” the punk gasped out as he continued to hang from the Trucker’s outstretched and powerful arm.
“Ok, cunt, time to teach ya yer place,” the Trucker said evenly, then whirled and flung the teen bodily across the room into the nightstand.
It hurt. Brandon knew he was gonna be hurt; he’d just been able to process enough of the sensation of violent motion to realize it was gonna hurt, but nothing more than that.
He hit the table with his back, slamming against the wall and snapping three of its legs off. The lamp shattered loudly against the wall; pieces of it sliced his shoulder—not deeply, but enough to draw blood. The back of his head hit the drywall hard enough to put a large dent in it, while the phone smacked the wall and bounced off, its bell banging inside.
Without the bedside lamp, the only illumination was the overhead bulb. It shed its lurid rays over the scene of masculine domination below. The Trucker, strong, sweating, muscular, loomed ominously over the pain-twisted form of the buff but overpowered teenager lying in the shattered remains of the nightstand.
Brandon was stunned, barely aware of what was happening, but he knew he was in trouble. He knew that he needed help—and the closest help was Ma. He opened his eyes—there, directly ahead of him, was the phone, lying on its side on the floor, the handset a foot away.
He reached out his hand. He could see it; his vision was blurred with tears of pain, but he could make out his splayed fingers reaching out to the phone—and suddenly, there was a pair of boots, gleaming black leather engineer boots between him and the phone. And as he watched, one of those boots was lifted and planted on the back of his outstretched hand…and then it pressed down…hard, its thick-treaded sole grinding his hand agonizingly…
“I unplugged the phone anyway, you dumbass motherfucker,” came the deep bass voice in a sneering tone, and Brandon lost hope. He lost even more a minute later when he was screaming in pain as the Trucker ground his boot down, shattered all five metacarpals, rendering the punk’s right hand useless. The sadistic killer grinned as he saw the boy reaching out for the phone with his left hand. Stupid little fuck hadn’t wanted to believe the truth…so let ‘im try the phone.
Tears rolled down Brandon’s pained face as he dragged the phone towards him by the cord, holding his crushed, lamed hand to his chest. He knew that the Trucker was standing next to him; without even looking, he could feel the hypermasculine presence just inches from him, looming over him. He shoved the thought as far into the back of his mind as possible and began pawing at the pushbuttons on the phone.
The Trucker looked down in amused contempt and, unbuckling his belt, slowly began sliding it out from around his waist.
Finding he couldn’t get a dial tone, Brandon uttered a despairing bleat as he realized the Trucker had indeed unplugged the phone—which meant he had something planned from the beginning. The teen faggot desperately tried to avoid thinking about what that something was.
“Hey, cunt,” he heard softly above and automatically turned to look up.
The hard-bodied alpha stood over him, his huge cock erect and hanging over the boy’s head. Above, the older man had one arm raised; for a brief moment, Brandon felt himself attracted to the power shown in the developed musculature of the upraised arm—then he noticed that the hand was clutching a doubled-over belt.
The kid had just enough time to raise his arm in a feeble attempt to ward off the blow when the Trucker slashed downward, the inch-thick raw leather striking Brandon’s arm and shoulder, taking an inch-wide swath of skin off the former. The stunned adolescent screamed, as much in shock as in pain.
“Toldja you ain’t callin’ for help, dumbass,” the Trucker sneered and backhanded Brandon across the face with the belt.
“Stop!” the boy cried, clutching at the welt on his cheek.
“FUCK YOU!!” the Trucker roared in rage; as Brandon curled into a fetal position under the sudden onslaught, the sick alpha let his anger punctuate his speech, “You don’t (sounds of vicious crack of belt on flesh and pitiful crying) tell me (crack, sobbing) when to stop (crack, loud cry); I ain’t stoppin’ (crack, blubbering), till I’m fuckin’ good (crack, whimper) and ready (crack, “no…please…”), ya feel me, faggot (crack, loud howl of agony)?”
The older man paused for a moment, his heaving torso slick with sweat. The homo punk was turning out to be a pretty good workout; he was enjoying himself. He left the kid a shuddering pile of welt-covered flesh, moaning and sobbing on the floor and crossed back to the dresser, where he noted with annoyance that his smoke had burned down. He pulled another out of the pack and lit it, tossing the belt aside as he turned to contemplate the scene.
The nightstand and most everything that had been on it was in pieces and the wall behind it was dented. Brandon, still in a fetal position, had wrapped his hands around his knees and was rocking himself, his eyes wide open. The teen cocksucker hadn’t run into anything like this in high school wrestling—he was going into mental shock, literally unable to process what had happened to him.
That was fine. The Trucker knew how to snap him out of it. Teenaged meat was all the same; the body needed some tenderizing but the brain was usually so soaked with hormones, it went into vapor lock. Best way to break that was physical stimuli.
The more painful, the better.
He crossed back to Brandon and looked contemptuously down at the naked young slut. Then, without a word, he ground his cigarette out on the teen’s back.
The Trucker had been right about pain; it worked like a charm to free Brandon from his shock. The searing pain of the burn sliced through the fog in the punk’s mind—Brandon suddenly had one powerful crystal-clear thought in his head: he needed to get out. Now.
It was a move he’d learned in wrestling; rolling to one side, the strong adolescent tucked in his legs, planted his Adidas kicks firmly on the floor, and lunged for the door.
He flung himself forward, under the reach of the Trucker’s grasping arm. The latter realized what was happening just in time. He wasn’t quite fast enough to snag the cunt when made his first move, but didn’t need to be. As the boy pawed frantically at the door’s lock, the Trucker simply reached out, grabbed a thick hank of the kid’s hair, and jerked. Hard.
Howling, Brandon found himself jerked backwards by his scalp. It hurt like fuck and as he raised his hands and tried to disentangle the sadist’s fingers from his long hair, he failed to notice how the Trucker was now holding him face to face.
Then he glanced up and caught the look on the serial killer’s face.
“You fuckin’ piece a’ shit,” the Trucker said evenly and plowed his fist into Brandon’s jaw, stunning the youth so badly he never felt it when the older man reached down and, with a single strong jerk, tore his briefs off. The elastic waistband dug painfully into his skin before it parted, but Brandon was too busy simply trying to maintain consciousness to notice.
The boy’s long cock flopped out, not fully erect—but close. It sprouted from the dark lush tangle of his adolescent pubic hair, above his dangling sperm-laden balls, and continued to stiffen even as the Trucker part-shoved and part-threw him onto the bed. Brandon moaned groggily as he twisted his smooth, lithe teenaged body on the cheap polyester bedspread.
The buff older man strode to the remains of the nightstand. After rooting through the debris for a few seconds, he stood up with the phone in his hands. He turned to the bed and looked down at Brandon just as the kid was coming to. The punk’s large eyes, blank and bewildered, returned the Trucker’s icy glare.
The slut touched his jaw tenderly, feeling the swollen knot that was forming and the split in his lip. Sheer luck had prevented him from getting his jaw broken or even a tooth knocked out—but the night wasn’t over.
“Wha…wha happen…” he slurred.
“I decked you, faggot,” the Trucker said without any inflection in his voice. He continued to stare coldly down on his prey. “You ain’t gettin’ outta here.”
The memory of the last few minutes finally came crawling back into Brandon’s shaken brain, and fear began first to bubble up through the pain and then to boil over.
“Wh-why?” he asked plaintively.
“Cause I need to drain my balls, asswipe. I’m gonna drain ‘em into you.”
The look of confusion on the boy’s face became more marked. As the hardbodied alpha unplugged the phone from the cord, Brandon’s eyes darted towards his hands, still not comprehending.
“Y-you c’n d-do that w-w-without havin’ t’ hurt me, mister,” the teen quavered, “H-honest, you-you don’t hafta pay or anythin’. I-I was just kiddin’ about the money, mister! Please!”
The Trucker’s masculine, scruff-darkened face, which had been expressionless up to this point, contorted into a malicious grin. The gleam in the eyes of the muscled serial killer, lit by equal intensities of rage and lust, was much more terrifying to the prone and defenseless youth than his cold composure had been.
“You stupid motherfucker,” the Trucker sneered, “I ain’t gonna fuck you—I’m gonna snuff you and let your dyin’, thrashin’ boymeat milk the load outta my shaft.”
“Wh—I—wha—” Brandon sputtered, blank terror written across his boyish face.
“Ya see this?” the Trucker held up the phone cord. At the same time, he tossed the phone aside; it hit the floor a few feet away with the same loud banging/ringing sound as before. It didn’t distract Brandon, though, his eyes remained focused sharply on the older man as he slowly raised the cord. The kid’s eyes moved from waist level, where the powerful killer’s huge rod jutted stiffly, intimidatingly, up along the ripped, furry six-pack of the Trucker’s abs to his massive chest, covered with dark wiry hair.
The movement stopped just as Brandon’s gaze was reaching nipple height—right at the point where the dogtags hung. The glitter of reflected light they gave, nestled between the older man’s broad pecs, had an almost hypnotic effect on the punk.
“I’m gonna wrap this around yer neck and choke the life right outta ya. Fuckin’ hot, yeah, faggot? Let’s get it on.”
Brandon was still blinking his eyes and trying to process the words he’d heard when the alpha sprang onto the bed and roughly parted the kid’s legs. He didn’t even have time to cry out before he felt horrible unremitting pressure against his asshole. He’d been fucked many times—but nothing this large had ever been forced inside him. He didn’t think he could take that much cock without getting literally ripped open.
He was right.
The Trucker plowed his way in, remorselessly, relentlessly, giving a grunt of pleasure as he felt the boy’s sphincter resist momentarily, then give way as the flesh tore. Brandon screamed in agony; it was a horrible slashing pain, like he was getting assfucked with a razor blade.
“Shaddup, fuckmeat,” the Trucker snarled and popped him in the face again, crushing the teen’s nose with wet, pulpy sound. The kid’s eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp, blood leaking from both nostrils.
“Lame-ass fuck,” the alpha muttered as he doubled the cord around Brandon’s throat, leaving the ends dangling loose for the moment. He wanted the punk awake for what was gonna happen next.
Little piece of faggot shit needed to know he was dying.
As Brandon began to groan and shudder, slowly climbing his way back into an agonized consciousness, the Trucker fucked him brutally, plunging his huge manshaft deep into the helpless teen. The slapping sound of the alpha’s spunk-filled balls slapping against the rentboy’s taint filled the air, already thick with the musk of sweat and mansex.
The terrible pain of the older man’s dick impaling his guts forced Brandon awake; he blinked rapidly, his eyes already filling with tears. His face ached so bad, his nose was squashed like a rotten tomato and his ass—oh fuck, his ass was being torn open from inside, he was full, he was so fuckin’ full of the Trucker. The hardbodied stud, pinning him down, grunting with the pleasure of dominance, seemed to be swelling in his colon. The kid could feel every ridged vein of the alpha’s cock as it plugged his rectum and thrust remorselessly against his prostate.
And that was when the ass-raped youth suddenly realized his own dick was hard. It was so hard it hurt. Erect and glistening, the kid’s shaft pressed against the Trucker’s belly as the two male bodies entwined in violent forced sex. The swollen purple head of Brandon’s cock was being shoved through the wiry fur that covered the top’s washboard abs; with every thrust of the Trucker’s tool up the boy’s ass the pressure caused Brandon’s dick to fell like it was being scrubbed with steel wool.
The pain was intense and, stunned as Brandon was, he was still horrified to find that the agony was making his dick ooze. As his long, turgid rod plowed through the fur forest, it left a slimy, glistening trail of precum.
The Trucker felt the hot trickle on his belly and knew exactly what was happening. He’d offed enough of these little homos to know how their adolescent bodies reacted to a good fuck.
“Ya like that, you sick little fuck?” he sneered, grinning down at his helpless victim with contempt. “That whatcha been lookin’ for, faggot? A real man to fuck ya and punish ya like you deserve? You need a real man to put ya outta yer misery, asswipe; you’re a lousy fuck. Had to split your asshole to get my hog in and you still ain’t tight enough to make me cum.”
Brandon opened his mouth as if to speak, but only croaked.
The grim humor left the Trucker’s handsome face, leaving behind the intense gleam of bloodlust. “Time to die, motherfucker.”
Reaching down, he picked up the ends of the cord and lifted them. Brandon could only watch in terror as the muscle-bound killer wrapped the cord around each hand a couple of times. He couldn’t miss it—the Trucker’s hands were only inches from his face.
“I’m gonna strangle yer pansy ass to death,” the cruel sadist said evenly. “It’s gonna take you a while to die. You’re gonna suffer, faggot. It’s a slow, painful way to get snuffed and you’re gonna fight it until your brain starts to die and you go into excruciating convulsions.”
Here the older man bent down, his demonically masculine face coming closer and closer until the stiff bristles on his face painfully scraped the smooth skin of the boy’s cheek. “And that’s why I’m doin’ this, cunt,” he whispered breathily, erotically, into the terrified punk’s ear. “As you kick and die, yer ass is gonna work my cock so good. Worthless fag like you ain’t gonna be able to make me cum, so I’m gonna snuff you slow and let yer death throes milk my load out.”
Brandon, his adolescent face taut with pain and terror, opened his mouth to speak—to beg, to plead, to bargain. He never got the chance. With a sudden, swift jerk of his thickly-muscled arms, the Trucker yanked the cord tight. It instantly sank into the boy’s flesh, creating a deep groove in his throat.
“Gurk!” the punk spat out, a wordless sound forced past his tongue as his esophagus was suddenly cinched off at a point just above his larynx. The slut’s eyes, already wide in fear, took on the proportions of dinner plates as he tried desperately to inhale with no result.
The Trucker expected the burst of panic and the frenetic clawing and scrambling that accompanied it. Most meat went through the process, especially teen meat with little discipline or self-control. Not, of course, that those attributes would help it survive, but they’d prevent it from burning up the oxygen remaining in its bloodstream with useless flailing.
The kid dug at his neck, clawing and scraping at his own flesh in a useless attempt to grab the cord, his struggling body flexing and jerking. “Fuck yeah,” the brutal older man grunted as Brandon’s ass pumped itself along his huge—and now fully and massively engorged—cock. Despite the mind-numbing terror that clouded his mind, the youth heard the erotic tone of sexual pleasure in the alpha’s voice.
That made it worse. This guy was a fuckin’ psycho and killing him, Brandon realized (more accurately, finally let himself realize) was literally getting the dude off. This was really happening. It wasn’t a nightmare or a joke or even a scary abusive john—he’d had those before. He was trapped and dying, and even though he wasn’t bound, he was utterly helpless. The hardbodied, horse-dicked stud was raping him and strangling him and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.
The Trucker knew this frenzied response to panic was coming, too. “Saddle up, motherfucker; gonna ride ya like a bronco,” he muttered as he pulled the phone cord tighter around the teen’s neck. He knew Brandon was past hearing him; he was right.
For the next forty-five seconds, until oxygen deprivation set in, the adolescent rentboy became a feral animal. The deep, penetrating realization of impending death triggered an instinctive attempt at frantic self-preservation.
The Trucker held on, his cock planted firmly in the boy’s ass, as the latter thrashed on the bed. Brandon flung his arms out, smacking them against the top’s hard hubcap pecs with the same impact as if he was beating a marble statue. While the Trucker moaned and grimaced in sexual gratification, Brandon, utterly unconscious of his specific physical motions, wrapped his legs around the Trucker and squeezed, his smooth, strong teen thighs pressed firmly against his killer’s waist and his Adidas NMD kicks shuddering in midair.
His hands curled into fists, Brandon beat ineffectually at the Trucker’s chest, making the sadist’s dogtags jump around, providing a jingling accompaniment to the punk’s death. Slowly at first, then gradually more perceptibly, the kid’s frenzy began to slow as portions of his brain started dying of oxygen deprivation.
He stopped beating on the Trucker and relaxed his hands slightly, uncurling his fists. Although he was still theoretically trying to fend off his assailant, he was actually caressing the older man’s chest at this point, his quivering fingers dragging over the large thick protrusions of flesh that were the Trucker’s nipples before becoming lodged in the wiry chest. Brandon clutched at the alpha’s fur as if he was a drowning man clutching a rope.
“Yer dyin’, faggot,” the muscular alpha growled, “How’s that feel, huh?”
The gagging, choking teenager wasn’t able to answer—but he didn’t need to. The way his long hard dick throbbed as it slapped roughly against the Trucker’s furry washboard abs said everything that needed to be said. As his dangling dogtags bounced and danced on the kid’s heaving chest, the cruel, hardbodied killer grinned.
The handsome adolescent that had hit on him in the diner was gone. In his place was a thrashing piece of teen meat that was slowly and agonizing succumbing to the cold commanding hand of death. Brandon’s Ma wouldn’t have recognized her boy now—his face, terrifyingly swollen, was so dark and congested it was nearly black. His full lips, puffy and purple, had been parted by his thick tongue. As he gagged, spittle was flung from his mouth and a white stream of foamy drool ran down his chin.
The pain had taken him. It was everything; it was all. It was in his head and his lungs, in the frantically increasing tempo of his pounding pulse, in his ass and his guts—and in his dick. His sperm-filled balls and his hard, straining rod ached and pulsated so badly that what little consciousness he had left was still able to feel it.
Brandon was almost dead, but he could still suffer. And the Trucker knew it.
“Not yet, homo,” he muttered, “I ain’t hurt you bad enough to cum yet.”
The look in the teen punk’s bulging, petechiae-stained eyes let the Trucker know he’d scored a hit. Somehow the little fuck had managed to hear him and understand him. And that was exactly what the vicious serial killer wanted to see.
“Fuck you, faggot,” he barked cruelly, spitting into the youth’s blackened face, “Die, motherfucker.”
His masculine face twisted into a snarl, the Trucker grunted and jerked his powerful arms. As his thick biceps bulged with the strain, the phone cord sank deeply into Brandon’s throat. A split-second later, a loud, satisfying crunch reverberated in the air. The teenager’s windpipe had collapsed, crushed into a useless mass of bloody gristle.
For once, the experienced killer was taken by surprise. Brandon’s convulsions were violent—and immediate. The Trucker just had time to grab onto the meat before the lithe firm teen body beneath him began to buck and flail frenziedly. The older man shuddered with pleasure as the boy’s silky-smooth skin slid over his flesh on a film of cold death sweat that had been squeezed out of the dying punk.
But it was in the pelvic area that Brandon’s convulsions had the greatest impact. The brain-dead kid’s colon seemed to collapse around the Trucker’s cock. It felt like it was sucking on his shaft, as if a vacuum had been generated, as the smooth, velvety rectal lining fluttered over the swollen purple head of the older man’s dick.
“Fuck,” the Trucker muttered, “Gonna shoot. Gonna fuckin’ blow. Gonna—”
Brandon beat him to it. The smooth meat spasmed violently—the legs squeezed painfully tight around the Trucker’s waist, the black and white Adidas sneakers quivering in the air, the fingers curled in the alpha’s chest hair, yanking at it—and then the dead cunt’s dick pulsed so strongly that the Trucker could feel it as it was pressed against his belly. Instantly a solid jet of boyjizz shot through the air.
Brandon’s death load landed in his own face. As his eyes glazed and faded into their final thousand-yard stare, he suffered the indignity of having them covered over by a pool of his own spunk.
The dead kid kept unloading. It added something extra to the ass action; the Trucker couldn’t hold it in any longer. He erupted into loud inarticulate cries as he flooded the fuckboy’s guts with sperm. For at least twenty seconds, the two male bodies, one just dead and the other very much alive, continued to spew semen as they remained entwined in a sick, erotic embrace of death.
At last the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his body still flushed and tingling with the intense satisfaction of a powerful orgasm. Beneath him, the adolescent corpse continued to tremble in its death throes. With a sense of regret, the alpha slowly extracted his huge shaft of manmeat from the kid’s guts; it had felt so snug, wedged deep into the dead boy. It slid out of the meat’s ass with a faint but audible “pop”, along with a heavy trickle of pearly cum.
The Trucker crossed the room weak-kneed and almost unsteady. Grabbing his Marlboros, he lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply as he leaned against the wall to recover and to take stock of the scene.
The strangled teenager lay splayed on his back, his shuddering legs spread wide. He’d managed to keep both of his Adidas kicks; they scraped and shuffled against the disarranged polyester bedspread. The fucker’s cock as still hard; the erection was slowly fading—but very, very slowly. There was a solid glistening trail of boyspunk up the center of the meat’s flat belly and smooth chest. It led up to and over Brandon’s face, paling to cyan as the blood drained out of it. The dead punk’s long hair, dark and moist with sweat, was fanned out above his head.
The serial killer smiled in satisfaction. This one had been good. The fagmeat had ended up draining his scrote the way he wanted it—the way he needed it—drained. He finished his smoke and flicked it contemptuously onto the corpse where it hissed out in a pool of cum.
Heading to the bathroom, the older man swiftly wiped off his chest and abs with a moist towel, tossing it into the toilet when he was done. Having cleaned the faggot’s jizz out of his wiry fur, the Trucker bent down and grabbed his shirt, but didn’t bother putting it on. Instead, he wadded one corner of the thin cotton shirt and stuffed it into his back pocket, letting the rest of the shirt hang out. As he did, his hand brushed his wallet, and he was reminded of something.
He located Brandon’s jeans and found the dead kid’s wallet. The homo had twenty-five bucks; the Trucker slipped it out and into his pocket. It’d help—barely—pay some expenses. And it wasn’t like the boywhore needed it anyway.
Smiling grimly, the buff stud slipped his Carhartt jacket on over his bare torso. He could tell by the sound that it was raining harder than ever, so he raised the hood as he opened the door. Sure enough, it was pouring. Hunching over, he dashed from the room without bothering to turn out the light. The thick soles of his boot splashed in the puddles as he bolted back to his rug, never looking back.
If he had, he might have noticed that the door to Brandon’s death pit hadn’t closed completely. And even before he crossed the street, a short, stocky figure had slipped into the room. By the time the Trucker had reached the cab of his semi, the door had truly been closed.
Manny was exhilarated, and horny as fuck. He didn’t know who the powerful stud who’d just left was, but he wanted to go to him for a number of reasons, none of them healthy.
Manny was twenty-one. He was only five and a half feet tall, but he was broad and muscular. His hard was blue-black, and curly and his skin was dark brown. He was born in the US, but his parents hadn’t been.
Not that that hadn’t stopped Brandon from calling him wetback all the time. And the old woman wasn’t any better, paying him less than minimum wage and threatening to call ICE anytime he complained. No one was hiring in this bumfuck little town and he had no money to leave. His job as maintenance man for the motel was all he had. So he put up with it.
But he hated them both. And now here was the little gingo cocksucker, fucked and dead. Manny couldn’t have been more pleased. Or hornier.
He’d always wanted his chance at that smooth white body, but he knew the spoiled teen faggot would not only reject him but use any approach as something else to hold over his head. He’d never made any move in that direction.
But now Brandon was helpless, vulnerable, and laid out for Manny’s pleasure. It was almost as if it had been done deliberately, and in the swelling rush of lust and hate, the young, strong Latino had no hesitation at the thought of sexually abusing the corpse of a teenager.
When he’d first found to body, he’d been stunned—and wary. Brandon had been beaten badly, and between that and the swelling caused by strangulation, his face was not easily recognizable. Even though it was Brandon’s room, Manny wasn’t sure that it was Brandon, at least not until he got a closer look at the long, circumcised cock. Yeah, that was the white boy’s dick.
And from the looks of the room, the handyman could tell someone had finally given the little pansy exactly what he’d been asking for, for years–the someone being that truck driver who’d just left. That was someone Manny wanted to know. That kinda power—that was something he wanted to feel. But first, he had this stupid cunt lying dead in front of him, and the thought of giving him the D was too much to bear.
The buff, swarthy Latino peeled his wet t-shirt off, his rain-slicked chest glistening under the overhead light. His tight work jeans were tucked into his work boots, a pair of Red Wing Heritage Mocs. Usually, he wore them loose, but he’d laced them up tightly this time, all eight inches—he’d been standing in four inches of water, making sure that the roof was draining properly. That bitch in the office would be all over his ass if he hadn’t fixed it right…
At any rate, he had no intention of unlacing them. He just unzipped his fly and hauled out his thick uncut fireplug of a cock, stiff and throbbing, before approaching the bed.
“Hey, niño,” he hissed, stroking his rod as he approached the head of the bed, “Guess what this cholo’s gonna do with ya?”
He reached out and grabbed a handful of the dead teen’s hair, jerked the head toward the edge of the bed. Brandon’s still-limber corpse bent sideways at the waist; Manny was easily able to position the torso so that the head hung back off the side of the bed, the mouth gaping and the tongue protruding.
“Gonna take some wetback cock in yer mouth, jefe, before I go wake yer ma an’ tell ‘er ya got yerself fucked to death,” Manny sneered down at the cum-covered face. He grinned as he grabbed his dick in one hand and the back of Brandon’s head in the other, and shoved.
There was pressure, as if he was fucking someone in the ass. Manny preferred being on the receiving end, but he could dominate when he wanted—and right now, he wanted. His face tensed as he inserted his engorged, near-black tool into the dead teen’s mouth. It plowed its way down the corpse’s throat, roughly squeezing Brandon’s swollen tongue out of the way.
Manny sighed with pleasure as his cock slid all the way down; just as his balls nestled down onto Brandon’s broken nose, the oozing head of his dick touched against the compacted mass of cartilage that blocked off the punk’s esophagus. “Fuck yeah, ya dumbass puta!”
He rose up on his toes, flexing his brown leather boots, as he rammed his pulsating shaft down the dead kid’s blocked-off throat. “Goddam maricón blanco, take my carajo!” he growled as he hunched his hard, stocky body over the adolescent’s corpse and skullfucked it.
Bent over Brandon’s inverted body, Manny could feel his wad seething and churning in his balls. He looked down at the punk’s sperm-glazed belly and flaccid but still impressive dick, and felt himself lose control. A searing heat boiled over in his puckered sack and suddenly, with a loud, convulsive cry, his spunk exploded into the narrow, confined space of Brandon’s crushed windpipe.
It was too much for the space to hold. Manny felt the warmth of his own load flow back up the outside of his rod; as he withdrew his sticky, cum-covered shaft, he could see the overflow leaking out of the dead boy’s nostrils and gaping mouth. “There ya go, maricon, ya like the taste of wetback cum?” He spit contemptuously in the corpse’s face. “Fuckin’ puta!”
The hardbodied handyman entered the bathroom. Plucking a hand towel off the rack, he wetted it at the sink and scrubbed his dick off. Turning, he noticed a bath towel already in the toilet. He tossed his own in—and flushed. Within seconds, the bowl backed up and overflowed.
Manny grinned. Fuck it—it was gonna be the next guy’s problem. He was getting out tonight.
Tucking his dick back into his jeans, the buff young Latino headed back into the bedroom, collected his wet t-shirt, and strolled out into the slowly fading rain. The thick rubber soles of his work boots splattered the large puddles as he crossed the parking lot to the office. Brandon’s Ma was about to have a rude awakening.
Two hours later, he was done. He’d remained outside the room the entire time, keeping his eye on the parking lot across the street. The rig with the dark blue cab hadn’t moved the entire time.
He’d spent most of the time answering the county deputy’s questions, then the sheriff’s questions—generally the same ones, over and over again—before they told him they were done with him for the moment. As far as he was concerned, they were done with him for good. With the mortified wailing of Brandon’s Ma ringing in his ears, Manny headed across the street.
He paused at the side of the cab. A cold front had come through with the rain. He was still shirtless, his large dark nipples erect in the chill pre-dawn air, with his wallet as his sole possession. It didn’t matter. All his cash was in his wallet and he could buy anything he needed. And what was in his head was more valuable anyway.
He knew who Brandon’s killer was, and that was his ticket outta here. He climbed up onto the cab and knocked boldly at the door.
The front section of the cab was empty. As Manny watched, the privacy curtain that separated the sleeper section was drawn aside and the huge muscled stud he’d seen earlier came out. Fuck, he was big—and so goddam hot. The young Latino felt his cock stiffen again.
The Trucker opened the window. “Whaddaya want?” he asked, his gruff voice low and wary.
“Your load, jefe. And a ride outta here.”
The older man’s expression combined caution and hostility. Manny spoke quickly.
“I know what ya did to the maricon. Takes a real man to fuck a faggot up that bad, vato, an’ I been lookin’ for a real man fer a long time. Now that I found ya, yer gonna get me outta this fuckin’ barrio.”
The Trucker looked down at the stocky hardbodied Latino. “Or what?” he asked.
“The five-oh is still peelin’ yer playtoy off the bed back there,” Manny replied cockily. “All I gotta do is stop back by over there.”
The Trucker was silent for a moment, obviously considering the alternatives, the he opened the door of the cab. “Ok, c’mon in,” he said, moving back and letting the buff young man in.
Once inside, Manny glanced around. “Aw, this is sweet!” he said in an admiring tone, as he rubbed his hands across the rock-hard tabs of his nipples and luxuriated in the warmth of the cab. “You gotta nice setup in here.”
“Thanks,” the Trucker muttered, eyeing the punk cautiously.
“An’ I see ya got room for two,” the dark-haired youth added. The Trucker merely growled.
Manny turned to face the alpha. After the kill, the Trucker had come back, stripped, and climbed into his bunk, wanting to make sure he had enough rest to finish his haul in the morning. He stood in front of Manny in nothing but a pair of briefs, his powerful, fur-covered mass of muscles on display for the Latino cocksucker to worship.
And that’s exactly what Manny proceeded to do. Before the Trucker could comment, the short but well-built handyman had dropped to his knees and jerked the waistband of the Trucker’s briefs down, exposing the killer’s massive dangling tackle.
“Aw fuck, jefe, it’s even bigger than I’d hoped,” Manny moaned, opening his mouth and licking the thick purple head of the older man’s cock.
The muscle-bound sadist looked down in bemused contempt as the Hispanic faggot, clad in nothing but jeans and tightly-laced boots, tried to gobble down his dick. Manny was having some obvious trouble going down on the enormous shaft; the Trucker chuckled as the youth gagged on the cue-ball-sized head.
“Well?” the killer sneered, a dangerous glint in his eye, “I thought you were gonna blow me in exchange for a ride outta town.”
Manny gagged again, lifted his head up, and wiped tears out of his eyes. “Hang on a sec, man…damn, yer big…” Still using one hand to guide the older man’s rod into his mouth, the kneeling homo slipped one hand down to his groin. Unzipping his fly, he pulled out his own thick uncut tool, still sticky with cum, and began to flog it.
“Suck my fuckin’ cock, faggot,” the older man snarled.
Manny tried. If he couldn’t get the hulking stud’s huge shaft of manmeat down his throat, it wasn’t for lack of desire. The Trucker noticed this, grinned, and decided to show the cocksucker some pity.
“You want it bad, dontcha, faggot?” he jeered. “Then it’s yer lucky day, motherfucker, cause I’m gonna help ya.”
Towering over Manny, his nude body emanating masculine physical power, the Trucker clamped his hands on the back of the Latino’s neck with the force of a bear trap and shoved his engorged tool down Manny’s esophagus.
“There ya go, ya spic fuck. You wanted my cock? Ya got it!”
Manny got it all right; the older man’s horsedick had plugged his windpipe completely. The Hispanic punk couldn’t even cough; his throat was too blocked for him to make more than faint but increasingly frantic grunting noises. He let go of his own hard, oozing cock and placed his hands against the Trucker’s massive thigh muscles, shoving and pushing in a desperate attempt to move his head away from the killer’s groin.
“See, I don’t leave no witnesses alive, you dumbass wetback,” the Trucker taunted the choking punk. “But sure, I’ll get ya outta town—I’ll dump your rotting, cum-filled corpse so far outta town ain’t no one gonna find it.”
Twisting his handsome face into a grimace of hate, the Trucker forced his rod even further into the panicking handyman. Manny tried to move, scraping his Red Wing boots on the sleeper’s floorboards, but the Trucker managed to pin him down so he couldn’t rise. His swelling face, swarthy to begin with, was swiftly turning a livid black as drool that had been denied egress from his mouth began to leak in a stream from his nose. The taut skin of Manny’s cheeks, now swollen and horribly sensitive, were being ground and abraded by the older man’s wiry pubic hair.
“Jesus, are all you spics such lousy cocksuckers?” the Trucker scoffed as he loomed over his silently suffering victim. He grinned, feeling his huge tool pulse with power as the dying homo beat his hands helplessly against the older man’s legs. The Trucker looked down, his gaze meeting that of Manny, who’d managed to turn his eyes upwards.
As he choked silently, the young buff Hispanic cast his gaze up along the Trucker’s furry washboard abs, up his chest past the dangling dogtags to see the gleaming light of psychosis shining in the alpha’s eyes. Manny realized that blackmailing a serial killer was a really, really bad idea.
It was shame he wouldn’t live to profit by the knowledge.
The boy was fading fast on his dick, the Tucker realized. He’d rammed his shaft down the faggot’s airway some two and a half minutes ago; already the motherfucker was becoming more docile, more accepting of approaching death. Within seconds, he’d be pas the point of no return—brain death would set in.
Well, he hadn’t asked to drain his morning wood, but as long as he had a piece of dying fagmeat convulsing on his cock, why not?
Grinning, the buff alpha held on and felt Manny choke to death on his dick.
The point of death in a slow suffocation is hard to determine, but the Trucker knew the meat was close when the violent convulsions started. Even as he remained upright on his knees, Manny’s body jerked and shuddered. As it did, it somehow managed to create an incredible suction in the lungs.
The Trucker grunted and sweated, trying not to blow his wad as the dying spic’s esophagus collapsed around his cock like a vacuum seal. He curled his fingers in the cocksucker’s hair, looking down over Manny shoulder to see how the meat was obviously—and obliviously—curling its toes inside its tight boots.
Suddenly there was a scalding splash on the alpha’s thighs; Manny, his hands still pressed against the Trucker’s legs, had blown his death load hands-free. It was what the Trucker had been waiting for; with a loud “FUCK! FUCK!” he spewed a huge geyser of thick creamy spunk down Manny’s throat, flooding the dead fuck’s lungs.
The hardbodied alpha didn’t remember much about the next few minutes beyond the electrically explosive sensation of orgasm. When he was done, he let go of Manny. The corpse fell to the floor in a heap, a creamy trickle of cum leaking from the dead spic’s lips.
Steeping back, the Trucker felt completely drained. He knew there was no sense remaining in town, and while he needed a good shower, this wasn’t the time or the place. He wiped himself down as best he could, then shoved Manny’s warm, quivering body onto the floorboards of the passenger seat.
Dressing quickly in his worn jeans, a gray t-shirt and his black harness boots, the Trucker started his rig. He wanted to be on the road before anyone come looking for the spic who’d been the one to find the dead fag’s body. As he pulled onto the road, though, before he could get out onto the state highway, he saw the deputy from the motel come running towards him, flagging him down.
The Trucker shifted into idle and lowered his window. “Can I help you, officer?”
“Hey, you hear anything about what happened over here last night?”
“Me?” the Tucker asked innocently, “Naw, I was sleepin’ all night. What happened?”
“Kid got murdered. Knew the little faggot was gonna get whacked sometime, but his ma’s carryin’ on like it was the Kennedy assassination or somethin’. Anyway, hang on here for a sec. I gotta do a routine check.”
“Sure,” the Trucker said nonchalantly, but he raised the window and kept his eye on the cop. The latter crossed back to the motel and in a moment reappeared, leading a plump, gray-haired woman whose eyes were swollen with crying. It was obviously Brandon’s ma.
As they approached, there was a faint scraping noise form the passenger side of the cab and Manny’s corpse suddenly flopped back and began convulsing violently. As the dead spic’s firm muscles contracted involuntarily and his eight-inch boots kicked at the floorboards, the deputy and the old woman crossed in front of the truck.
The Trucker didn’t have a moment to think; the reaction was instant, that of a hardened killer. He reached out his right leg and planted the thick sole of his black leather harness boot against Manny’s jaw. With a single powerful flex of his calf, he stomped on Manny’s head. The cocksucker’s skull was sheared off the top of its spinal column as the loud wet splintering sound of shattered vertebrae filled the cab. With one last kick of its boots and one last spurt of seed from its cock, the muscled Hispanic corpse lay still on the floor.
Turning, the Trucker lowered the window again.
“There,” the deputy told the old woman, pointing up at him.
“No,” she replied, dabbing at her eyes with a soiled handkerchief, “No, ain’t seen him before.”
“Ok,” the cop told the Trucker, “Thanks. You can go.”
The Trucker did so, before the cop had the bright idea of asking the waitress in the diner to ID him.
More than twenty miles west of town, the state highway crossed a series of deep, narrow gullies by means of several bridges. The Trucker pulled over on the shoulder just short of one. Checking to make sure there was no other traffic—the road was deserted—he got out.
He strode to the edge of the gully and looked down. Yeah, it’d do. It appeared to be dry for most of the time, but after the recent torrential rains, there was a decent stream of water at the bottom—not deep or swift, but turbid and filthy and unlikely to inspire closer inspection. It was perfect.
Opening the passenger door, the powerful serial killer reached in and grabbed Manny’s corpse under the arms. The buff young homo was still warm to the touch, his firm muscles now flaccid and useless. His last load, the wad forced from his cock when his neck was broken, was congealing on his smooth flat belly.
The alpha dragged Manny like a side of beef, the dead spic’s boot’s cutting a furrow in the roadside dirt that led to the edge of the ravine. “Here ya go, ya fuckin’ piece a’ garbage, this far enough outta town for ya?” he jeered, and tossed the dead youth over the side.
Manny’s limp corpse tumbled ass over elbow down the gully into the slimy trickle of water, landing on it back with a wet splat. As the Trucker watched, it sank in some, the water rising up over the blackened face and the dull, half-lidded eyes.
Smiling with the satisfaction of a job well done, the older man headed back to his rig. As he climbed in, a chill gust of wind from out of the west swept across him; he was gonna have to break out his leather jacket if this weather kept up. And judging by the dark thunderheads building up to the west, it looked like it was going to keep up. As he sifted into gear and pulled back out onto the highway, the Trucker wondered if more rain would wash the (literally, now) wetback’s body away—and where it would end up.
Not that he cared. He had a haul to see about—and then maybe it’d be time to have his dick serviced again.