Tag: gay

M4M4Greek

On By m3mayhemIn M4M Stories2 Comments

Joe wasn’t worried about breaking lockdown.  After all, it wasn’t like his job allowed him to practice social distancing, and it was damn sure essential.  When the government needed him to do a job, there were no excuses.  But Joe didn’t use a gun and the only other was to neutralize a target silently and swift was to get up close and personal.

 

So the thought of venturing out for some R&R didn’t bother him.  And he was sure that there was some dumb fag out there who was just as willing to ignore his own safety to get some dick.

 

That was just what he wanted—young dumb fagmeat.  Much as he enjoyed getting paid to off dudes, he always appreciated the chance to do it on his own time so he could drain a load into the fucker as it died.  And it seemed the younger the homo was, the more it wanted cock.  Probably raging hormones, he figured.  Didn’t matter, as long as there was one available.

 

There was always one available.

 

He spun through the hookup apps on his stolen phone.  He’d have to remember to take the one belonging to his next cumdump; he’d been using this one too long.  It didn’t take him too long to find some prospective meat.

 

“Looking for hookup RIGHT NOW

–18, 5’10”, 132lbs.  Home alone @ Kappa Tau frat house, brothers at formal.  Want 2 get plowed but u gotta cum & go by 11”

 

It was accompanied by a torso shot, a lean, firm swimmer’s build with muscle but not overly developed.  A second photo showed a hard stiff boycock rising eagerly from a tangled mass of dark pubes.

 

Joe responded with a shot of his own chest.  Letting the image of his swollen pecs and ripped abs, covered with wiry fir, do its magic, he started to dress.  He’d just slipped into a tight pair of jeans, comfortably worn and faded, when the phone pinged.  The little homo slut had responded.

 

And he hadn’t been kidding; he wanted Joe to come to the frat house.  Seemed he was a pledge who’d drawn the short straw and was left to watch the house when everyone else went to the formal.

 

And he was a virgin.

 

Joe got the map location and slid his feet into his big black pair of Chippewa loggers, tucking the jeans into the wide, untied boot tops.  Over this, he pulled on a navy-blue compression t-shirt that emphasized his incredibly well-developed upper body.  Slipping the keys to the Camaro into his pocket, the last thing he did before he left was tie a bandanna around the lower half of his face.

 

It was jet black with a skull’s grin.  He strode to his car, dark erotic death stalking the night.

 

 

The frat house was two blocks from the college, over on Ramsdale Street.  Ramsdale was more or less the Greek Row for the local campus of the state college.  About half a dozen frat houses—and half as many sorority houses—were located on it, in what had once been large, upscale homes.

 

The Kappa Tau house was no different than the others, except it was dark and quiet.  A two-story white Colonial, from the front it bore a striking resemblance to the Cunningham’s house on “Happy Days.”  But Joe, who’d parked on the next street over and had slid noiselessly though the shadows, was to go around to the back.  The gate was open; once past it, he found himself in a paved area with a large swimming pool.  A wing of the house extended down one side of the pool area and wrapped around to the back—there was a lot of space inside.

 

He knocked at the rear door.  An overhead light flashed on and the door opened.

 

The boy who opened it was young and cocky.  Well, maybe he wasn’t, but he was unlucky enough to have full lips which formed a natural pout and large emerald-green eyes circled by long dark lashes.  With his prey’s dark bangs sweeping low across his forehead, his pert snub nose and smooth white cheeks with a faint down on the upper lip, barely visible, Joe felt his cock pulse and throb in his jeans.

 

On opening the door and finding Joe looming over him with his leering mask, the boy flinched.  Then he blushed and grinned embarrassedly.  “Nice mask.  C’mon in, my room’s this way…”

 

He led the way through a large kitchen fitted with industrial appliances.  Out in the hall, the were passing a dimly-lit game room when Stu paused at the doorway to dark, cavernous media room from which a deep bass hum was coming.

 

“Hang on, someone left somthin’ on,” he said, then darted in.  There was a click and the hum stopped.

 

“Assholes,” he muttered, emerging form the darkness, “I drew the short straw, so I gotta housesit while they go off and party…”

 

“Everything’s closed,” Joe said quietly as he followed the kid up the stairs.

 

“Yeah, they’re all over at Mikey’s.  His folks got a huge place over on Conover—you know, in that gated community?  And since the hotel cancelled the reservation, the bros decided to move it there.  Fuck, I bet they’re having a blast—his folks are in Colorado, y’know.”

 

Joe didn’t know and didn’t care, but it explained how bunch of fratboi douches could hold a formal in the middle of a lockdown.  And without any nearby authority figure to shut it down, the buff serial killer figured he’d have plenty of time for some nice brutal foreplay before he finally snuffed this bitch.

 

He kept close behind the kid, the boy’s ass at his eye level.  He glued his eyes to the tender rounded buttcheeks, tightly wrapped in denim, as they flexed in front of him.  The punk was in a bright yellow t-shirt and his jeans were so pale and worn they were a faint sky blue.  His Nike Air Force 1 hightops were nearly the same shade.

 

At the top of the stairs, the kid turned left and opened the first door on the left.  Flicking on the overhead light, he unapologetically led Joe into the most stereotypically filthy dorm room he’d ever seen.

 

He already knew that most of the assholes associated with the fraternity came from wealthy families; the detritus in the room confirmed that fact.  There were the usual piles of beer bottles pizza boxes, and dirty clothes—but the beer bottles were imports and craft beers, the pizza boxes were from local gourmet parlors, not the big chains, and the wadded-up clothing included designer jeans and expensive dress shirts.

 

Stu caught Joe’s glance and had the decency to blush.  “Yeah, since they cancelled classes, we ain’t done too much.  See, my dad says he’s spending enough for this place and I might as well stay here.  Most of the guys have heard something like that from their folks.  It’s fucking great—we eat and drink and party, an’ don’t even gotta go to class!”

 

The boy crossed the room, pulling his shirt off over his head as he did so.  He missed Joe’s contemptuous smirk behind his back, but by the time he turned and face his guest, Joe was taking his own shirt off, revealing his huge, hairy chest, so much more developed than Stu’s smooth, lithe torso.  The well-built sadist shook out his shirt—his bandanna had come off and gotten caught in it—before laying over the back of a chair.

 

Stu’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of Joe’s chest; it was one thing to have seen a photo but for the virgin slut to have such a stud in his actual presence was more than he’d hoped for this evening, and he was willing to abandon all caution in his near-mindless lust.

 

“Well?” Joe barked gruffly, “Strip, fucker.  I wanna see what I’m gonna be stickin’ my dick in.”

 

The young homo damn near wriggled with pleasure at the command.  Joe’s disgust at the worthless cocksucker rose in proportion to his need for sexual release.  It was a combination that invariably had horrific consequences for the object of Joe’s attention.

 

Stu was on the verge of learning that, but he was too horny to pay attention to any red flags.  He kicked his Nikes off and shimmied his way out of his jeans, his long, thick boycock swinging ponderously from side to side as he did so.  He was generously endowed, six inches already and only semi-hard.

 

It was nothing compared to Joe’s meat, though, and the hardbodied fagkiller thought it was time for his prey to see that for itself.  He unzipped his fly and hauled out his throbbing, erect cock, maintaining eye contact with Stu the entire time.  The boy wanted to look but couldn’t bring himself to break the older man’s hypnotic gaze; he already knew he would do whatever the man asked of him.

 

Of course, he had no idea how much was to be asked of him.

 

Then Joe chuckled and blinked, letting the boy drop his eyes and behold the enormous tube of manflesh that was going to be rammed up his ass.  Stu gulped.  He reached a slightly shaky hand up and swept his dark chestnut bangs from his eyes.

 

“That’s—I, uh, I mean…” he faltered.

 

“What’s wrong, boy?” Joe asked, his deep basso silky smooth as he leered at his prey.  He reached down and began unbuckling his belt.  Stu hadn’t noticed the inch-wide strap of black leather circling the older man’s waist before, and there was something somehow sinister about the stud’s action.

 

“I, uh, I ain’t never had no one up in me before,” the fratboi said tremulously, his expression suddenly wary.  He took a step back.  “That, um, your—your dick, I mean, it’s, uh, it’s so big, and, and, I’m just not sure…”

 

“You backin’ out, boy?” Joe asked, giving his voice an edge.  Just a little one.

 

Stu gulped again, loudly this time, and blushed.  “It’s not that, it’s just…it’s, uh, it’s—”

 

“It’s what, faggot?” Joe asked.

 

The fratboi reacted to the word as if he’d been slapped.  Despite his own obvious desires and everything he’d initiated, he couldn’t acknowledge it out loud, especially not with that word.

 

“I ain’t no faggot!” he cried out, so angry he was almost in tears.

 

Joe threw his head back and laughed, a deep, manly vibrato of derisive amusement.

 

Something snapped in Stu’s head.  Had he been experimenting with someone similar to himself in physique who’d happened to call him a faggot, Stu might have become a sex murderer himself.  A red haze of anger filled his mind that focused his attention and his rage on Joe; he launched himself at the older dude he’d invited over for sex.

 

Joe was surprised the kid had it in him.  He wasn’t surprised in a literal way, his training prevented him from ever truly relaxing.  He was always prepared to be attacked—and to kill in self-defense—at all times.  He could kill coming out of a sound sleep.

 

A pissed-off rich little frat punk wasn’t a threat.  Joe had his belt off by now; as soon as Stu got within reach, he lashed out, cutting the boy across the face with the doubled-over leather strap.  The teen meat fell to his knees, clutching the dark angry welt on his cheek and squealing like a bitch.

 

“Wha—wha—” Stu moaned when suddenly he heard Joe laugh.  It was that same deep laugh of supreme satisfaction.  As the fratboi kneeled, his eyes downcast, Joe’s Chippewa boots came into view.  Reluctantly raising his eyes, Stu ran his gaze up the stud’s thickly-muscled legs in tight denim to the huge jutting tackle—he had to skip that; it led to imagining what it’d be like in him but there was no way that could happen without causing him permanent damage.

 

Above, though, those furry washboard abs and the broad hubcap pecs with the thick nipples standing out in silhouette, and then that cold, confident, masculine face leering down at him, obviously enjoying his pain…how had this happened?  He’d just wanted a little fun…

 

And then the older dude raised his arm again, the one with the belt.  Stu’s eyes kept rising, following the upward arc.  As it paused, he whimpered, but did nothing to protect himself.

 

It was a bad call.  Joe had no mercy in him; this blow was more vicious than the first.

 

Stu squealed like a pig as the thick leather belt slapped across the side of his head, knocking him to the floor where he lay cowering and cradling his aching skull.  Joe stood over the quivering pile of boymeat, leering and fondling his enormous rod.  He was anticipation plunging his swollen member into that tender young flesh when he noticed movement from his prey.

 

Stu was trying to crawl away.

 

Joe stood for a moment and let him go.  When he was about halfway across the room, the fratboi got up onto his hands and knees, the rounded, peach-like globes of his asscheeks pointed directly at the older man.

 

Joe couldn’t resist such a target.  Three quick steps and he was beating Stu’s ass mercilessly, the kid crying as his ass reddened and formed welts under the assault.  At some point it got to be too much; the punk rolled over and began to resist.

 

“Stop it!  Stop it!  Fucking stop it!!!” he screamed, when a well-aimed slash with the belt form Joe reminded the fucker that in rolling over, he’d exposed his balls to attack.  With a loud screech, Stu tucked back into a fetal curl, sobbing loudly.

 

Joe tossed the belt onto the bed.  His bloodlust, his need to dominate this little faggot, to force it to suffer and die for his sexual gratification, was rising to an uncontrollable point.  He approached the writhing teen.

 

In his pain and fear, Stu could hear the footfalls of Joe’s heavy boots get nearer.  He still didn’t know how things had gone bad, but it was obvious they had.  But he was a young and dumb homo with a limited imagination.  Stu had no idea that within minutes, if not seconds, what now seemed “bad” was going to appear as gentle as his mother’s caresses.

 

He got his first inkling when Joe began kicking him.

 

The Chippewa boots were steel-toed.  Everyplace they landed developed a huge black bruise—at the least.  Since the boy was curled up on his side, his back bore the initial brunt of the alpha’s attack.

 

“Ya fuckin’ little piece a’ shit faggot—how’s that feel, huh?  Goddam homos need to get kicked around a little, just to remind ‘em that they’re garbage.  Right, motherfucker?”  Every time his boot contacted Stu’s flesh, the boy jerked and cried out in pain.  Joe put a little more force into the next kick, catching the fratboi in the upper back, just left of the spine.  There was a muffled snapping sound and Stu’s next cry had a difference in tone and tenor that let the sadist know he’d succeeded in inflicting some internal damage to the pansy.

 

The kid rolled onto his back, his teen body heaving and covered in sweat as he panted, looking desperately up at his assailant.  “Pl-please, no…” he gasped, his dark eyes casting a beseeching gaze on the hardbodied killer.

 

“No?” Joe said with an evil smirk as he raised his boot, “Ya don’t like this?”  Driving his leg down with all the power his thick muscles could muster, he stomped Stu’s flat smooth belly, driving the sole of his boot down into the boy’s gut like a piston.  The sound the homo fratboi made as his lungs were violently and forcibly compressed was an extended, wheezing grunt, devoid of all consonants.

 

As he plunged his boot into Stu’s belly, Joe had leaned over, staring into the boy’s face, maintaining eye contact so he could enjoy not only the cunt’s pain, but his sudden, frantic fear as he found his diaphragm momentarily paralyzed by the sudden physical shock.

 

For about twenty seconds—the longest twenty seconds of Stu’s life, at least up to this point—the teen fag was unable to inhale.  He literally couldn’t breathe; it was the most terrifying thing he’d ever had to endure.  But it was more than a scare; it was an epiphany.

 

This dude could do this to him.  And if he could do this so easily and casually, what else could he do?

 

And it was at that point that Stu realized that he’d let the muscled stud do anything he wanted, anything, as long as he didn’t do that again.  Please, whatever happened, just let him keep breathing.  He clutched at Joe’s leg, one hand tightly gripping the unlaced Chippewa boot, the other higher up, clenched behind the stud’s knee like an embrace.

 

It wasn’t an embrace; it was desperate plea, and Joe recognized it for what it was.  He ground his boot into the cunt’s firm belly, leaving an exact image of the tread as a deep, black bruise.  Stu lay on his back, beating his curled fists on the floor as he tried to inhale.  Tears welled in his huge eyes as his face went red; then, in a loud and sudden gasp, his diaphragm stopped spasming and he was able to suck in air.

 

The muscled stud was laughing at him, standing over him with his huge jutting cock dripping with anticipation.  If it hadn’t been for the pain, Stu would have thought he was in a porno.

 

But he couldn’t ignore the pain; it hurt to breathe.  The sadistic alpha he’d invited over had kicked him hard enough to break one of his ribs, in the back.  The jagged edges of the bones ground against each other every time his chest expanded or compressed.

 

He’d been hurt.  This wasn’t some sort of mind game.  As Stu lay on the floor, looking up at the buff stranger, something else crossed his mind, something that he refused to recognize in full.  It wasn’t just that this scary motherfucker could do something as terrifying as stop Stu’s breath—it was that he might want to.  Blinking away his tears, the fratboi peered up at Joe with sudden terror in his eyes.

 

Joe was experienced enough as a killer to recognize the look; he pounced on the little fuck, clamping one hand around the boy’s neck like a claw and lifting the teen bodily from the ground, one-handedly, until the boy’s toes curled frantically in the air four inches above the dirty, scarred wood floor.  The cunt gazed in horror at the alpha, its hands clawing frenetically at Joe’s iron-tight fingers, to no avail.  He held it aloft, watching it choke.  It was time, he decided.  It needed to know its place.

 

“You know where this is goin’, dontcha.”  It was said as a statement, not a question.  “Yer gonna die.  Ya hear me, cunt?  You were put on this planet for me to use you.  The only value of your existence is in how hard you make me cum as you die.  You get it?  No?  Don’t worry, faggot, you don’t have to understand, you just have to convulse hard enough as you die to jack me off.”  With a grunt and a jerk of his massive bicep, he flung the fratboi into the wall hard enough to crumble and collapse a square yard of plaster.

 

Stu lay on the ground, not processing anything.  Part of him had known, of course; the scene had gotten too bad too fast for any other outcome.  This psycho couldn’t let him live, not after what had already happened.  But that part had also convinced itself that he’d be able to talk his way out it maybe.

 

Now he knew that there was no way to talk himself out of whatever what gonna happen next.  And then he heard the footsteps.

 

He couldn’t bring himself to lift his eyes.  He couldn’t bring himself to watch death approach.  And when Joe’s scuffed Chippewas strode into the narrow area of floor on which he’d focused his eyes, Stu snapped.  He tried to beg but started sobbing uncontrollably, then pissed himself.

 

“Christ, what a worthless goddam faggot,” Joe sneered, “I offed fourteen-year-old guards in South America who put up more fight than you, ya piece a’ shit.  Get up here.”  Grabbing Stu’s arm just above the wrist, he spun his shoulder and flung the punk onto the closest twin bed.

 

The privileged and entitled teen, now terrified and humiliated, saw Joe approach him, grinning malevolently and wielding his enormous shaft like a club, slapping it vigorously into the open palm of his other hand.  He knew that that huge rod was going to get shoved into his ass, and he would suffer, and he would die…and he suddenly felt something in his groin.

 

He was getting hard.  No, that wasn’t right.  It couldn’t be right.  But then Joe spoke.  “There ya go,” he chuckled malignly, “Fuckin’ homos always want the D, even when they know they’re gonna die.  Just can’t help it, can ya, cocksucker?”  Still in his jeans and boots, he climbed onto the bed and, planting his hands on the teen’s firm, smooth thighs, forced the boy’s legs apart.

 

“Here ya go, cunt,” he grunted, “This is whatcha want—fuckin’ take it, bitch!”

 

And suddenly Stu was full of cock.

 

It wasn’t like being stabbed or impaled; it was like being shot.  The massive, unlubed rod of manmeat had literally ripped open his sphincter and ramrodded its way through his colon and into his intestines before Stu even realized he’d been penetrated.

 

The teen’s eyes widen, huge dark circles of shock forming around them.  The circles were contrasted by the paleness of his face as the pain hit.

 

“Oh my FUCKING GOD IT—” [WHAM WHAM]

 

Joe cut off the meat’s scream with two quick punches to the face.  As it lolled and gurgled for a moment, shuddering in agony, he reached out and picked up the belt.  He looped it through the buckle, making a basic but effective noose.  Once he was done, he began plowing the teen’s fuckhole.

 

Stu, cowed by a black eye and bloody nose, had a sudden, vivid mental image of an industrial plumber’s snake up his ass, ripping out his guts.  He had no idea getting fucked could hurt so bad; this couldn’t have been what he’d wanted—but as his lithe young body was violently jerked by the brutal force of the rape, it was accompanied by the sound of flesh on flesh as his own hard boycock slapped against his belly and Joe’s.

 

Then Joe held the noose in front of his face.  “Time to die, fuckmeat.”

 

The fratboi panicked.  He knew what the noose meant; in an instant, his scrambling arms entwined with Joe’s as the punk tried to snatch at the instrument of his death.  Joe’s face twisted into an angry snarl; knocking the kid’s arms out of the way, he balled up his huge fist and raised it.

 

“Stop fightin’ me, faggot [POW]!  You want this [POW], you need this [POW] and goddam sure know you deserve it, you cumsuckin’ pile of fuckmeat [POW], so stop resistin’, motherfucker!”

 

As each roundhouse blow landed on Stu’s cheek or chest or jaw, his teen body jerked and went momentarily stiff, his ravaged colon clutching tightly at Joe’s engorged member.  The fratboi was responsive to the pain; it only made Joe more eager to begin choking the life out of the worthless little cumdump.

 

The worthless little cumdump was almost ready to allow it to happen.  The beating had broken Stu’s will; he surrendered.  His arms fell, twitching, to his sides and he didn’t react when Joe grabbed a handful of his long bangs to jerk his head up off the bed so the noose could be slipped over it.  He even felt the rough, rawhide-like sensation of the unfinished leather on the inside of the belt as it settled around his throat without reacting.

 

Then it tightened, and everything changed.

 

The pain of the sudden, crushing constriction of his esophagus was nothing compared to the terror provoked as his airway collapsed to barely a tenth of its former diameter, reducing Stu’s ability to breathe down to a laborious, drawn-out wheeze.  The punk’s eyes were huge with panic; he grabbed at Joe’s arms, his fingers clamped to his rapist’s biceps as if they were riveted, while his taut, smooth body arced and heaved under the stud’s weight.

 

As the fratboi jerked and spasmed, struggling tortuously to inhale, Joe leaned over, his rugged, unshaven face leering down at the helpless teen.  “I can feel my load about to boil over, bitch,” he grinned as his hard, taut body hunched and thrusted, plunging his huge shaft balls-deep into the virgin adolescent.  “Yer one lucky faggot, asswipe—you get to die so you can be my cumdump.  You want this; yer homo cock is hard as hell.”

 

And it was.  Stu’s long thick boycock was so stiff it ached; in his terror, he’d forgotten about it but, but now he could feel it again, being compressed between the firm flat bellies of two males locked in a violent embrace of sex, pain and power.

 

And death.  With a grunt and a brutal jerk, Joe tightened the belt around Stu’s neck and cut off his air completely.  The overprivileged fratboi found himself enduring his worst nightmare; something so horrifying he hadn’t considered the possibility of it happening to him before this terrible, surreal evening.

 

He lasted about thirty seconds.  Then Stu disappeared and the primitive animal emerged from the midbrain, engaging in the primal struggle for survival.

 

It might have been dangerous for Joe—if he hadn’t been a powerful, well-built, and highly experienced killer.  He knew what to expect from his fuckmeat; all faggots died pretty much the same way.  They fought it at first; they fought it hard.  It wasn’t till irreversible brain damage set in that they could let go of the desire to cling to their worthless little homo lives and work his dick like it deserved.

 

And in the end, they loved it.  Joe knew that.  Even the most useless cocksucker he’d ever snuffed had blown an enormous deathload as he ended its miserable existence.  This one wouldn’t be any different—but for now, it needed to be brought back under some control.  The stupid fuck wasn’t brain-dead enough to appreciate what Joe was doing for it and the kicking and clawing was getting annoying.

 

Time to remind the fucking cunt who was boss.

 

Jerking the belt noose tight with his left hand, the muscled mankiller began beating the fuckmeat’s face in.  As his huge right fist slammed into the punk’s once-handsome face, the faggot threw its arms up to block the devastating blows, to no avail.  As impact after brutal impact crushed the fratboi’s nose and knocked half his teeth down his throat, he was still suffering from oxygen deprivation.

 

It was more than the twink could handle.   His lithe young body wasn’t used to this level of abuse.  He continued to shudder and tremble, his velvety homo colon milking Joe’s gigantic, vein-sheathed rod, but the frantic panic-inspired thrashing slowly ceased under the vicious beating he was enduring.

 

Sweating and heaving, Joe finally stopped pounding on the meat.  He’d managed not to break the swift, rough tempo of his fucking even as he punched the living (just barely) fuck out of the spoiled rich kid.  “Yeah, that’s it,” he growled at the quivering, semiconscious pile of boymeat he was raping, “You ain’t goin’ nowhere but a long dirt nap, motherfucker, so stop fightin’ and work my dick!”

 

The boy’s face was ruined, beaten to a pulp and swollen beyond recognition.  His skin was black and his bulging, horror-filled eyes were dilating as ruptured blood vessels turned the whites to dusky pink.  His entire body began to move in rhythmic spasms; each one was accompanied by a thick, sickening grunt from the kid’s sealed-off throat.  And with every grunt, a streamer of foamy drool trickled down the dying fratboi’s chin.

 

“I’m getting close,” Joe suddenly muttered in a choked voice.  “Ya ready, you little piece a’ shit?  Ready to die on my cock like yer supposed ta?  Fuckin’ milk me as you kick off, faggot; this is yer only shot.  You were put here to make me cum as you die, you worthless spunkpig; do yer fuckin’ job and I’ll let ya rot in a ditch with my load in yer guts, yeah?  So come on, cunt, earn my seed!”

 

The hard-bodied alpha dug his Chippewas in for traction as he fucked the boy to death, the deep tread of the boots digging into the mattress as the brutal assrape made the twin bed bump and creak.  On top of it, the sweaty male bodies slapped together in a frenzied combination of bloodlust and brain death.  The shuddering sack of boymeat that had been Stu had slipped past the point of conscious thought with Joe’s taunts ringing in his ears; he fell screaming into the cold vortex of death knowing that everything he was suffering was so that a complete stranger could cum.

 

But the body wasn’t dead yet.  The heart still beat—wildly and ever more erratically, but it still beat.  The nerves still functioned; there was still enough gray matter left alive to suffer.  The meat could still feel pain, and still respond to it.

 

That was all Joe needed.  He was so fucking close, but he had to hurt the faggot one last time.

 

As the dying teen homo jerked and convulsed on his cock, Joe placed his hand over the meat’s face, pressing down on it, covering those blank bulging eyes as he wrapped the end of the belt a couple of times around his other hand.  Pressing down on the cunt’s head, Joe pulled back on the belt.  He looked down at the adolescent’s sweat-slick lithe body thrashing under him and grinned.

 

And in that last moment, the part of Stu’s brain that could still register sensation went hyperactive.  Everything, from the rough, wiry chest hair scraping his skin like sandpaper, to each individual vein encircling his killer’s gigantic cock as it tore through his rectum, was taken in by the agonized, dying fratboi.

 

Then, his massive biceps bulging at the effort, Joe jerked the belt, violently.  It was quick, brutal, and very effective.  By pushing the meat’s head and body down as he pulled its neck up, Joe not only shattered the kid’s cervical vertebrae, he severed the spinal cord from the brain, literally pulling it out through the hole in the bottom of the skull with a thick, gristly, cracking sound.

 

The teen’s taut body reacted instinctively to the massive nervous system trauma.  Already fully erect from a combination of overabundant hormones, remorseless prostate stimulation, and basic faggot horniness, Stu wasn’t mentally present to enjoy the massive deathload that spewed involuntarily from his rigid form.  In fact, with his spine ripped from his brain, he couldn’t feel anything at all.

 

That didn’t stop his dying nervous system from responding to Joe’s massive load.  As the muscled, booted killer clutched the teen’s thrashing corpse, he cried out, hoarsely and inarticulately, and hosed the fucker’s guts with his sperm.  Thick, hot jets of semen coated the dead fag’s rectum and intestines, the sudden warmth setting off another blast of spunk from the dead boy—huge, pearly wads that splattered and matted Joe’s thick chest fur.

 

The heaving hardbodied fagkiller spent the next five minutes shuddering and gasping, his enormous tackle still buried in the corpse’s ass as he randomly spewed his DNA, pumping and thrusting until his aching balls were completely drained.  Then he felt composed enough to extract his manmeat from the dead fratboi and get off the bed.

 

He paced around, looking for a bathroom so he could clean the homo spooge off his chest.  He finally found one—a connecting bath, shared with the two punks in the next room.  Used by four adolescent boys with no supervision, no self-discipline, and minimally-paid housekeeping, the room was so filthy that Joe went back to the other bedroom and snatched the dead fuck’s yellow t-shirt off the floor.  Returning to the bathroom, he used it as a washrag to clean the cum off, then tossed it into the disgusting toilet.

 

Tucking his rod back into his jeans, the hulking stud strode back into the killing room and picked up his own shirt and his bandanna.  Remembering his need for a new phone for his next fag hunt, he swiped the dead punk’s iPhone off the dresser and pocketed it.  He was about to head out when he remembered his belt.  He liked that belt.  He didn’t want to leave it behind.

 

Retrieving it was a bit difficult; it had been tightened around the boy’s throat to the point that the dead fuck’s neck had been compressed to about three inches in diameter.  Even after Joe managed to get the belt back through the buckle, the part that was still actually wrapped around the neck was embedded too deep for him to easily pull it out.

 

In the end, he dragged the still-trembling corpse off the bed, letting it tumble face-first onto the floor.  Then, placing his big black boot on the homo’s back, he was able to get enough leverage to pry the belt loose.

 

Looping it back around his waist, he had a moment to admire his kill.  The fratboi was huddled on the floor like a sack of garbage, partly turned on its side, its ass was pointed directly at the door, the cum and blood seeping from the shredded sphincter clearly visible from across the room.

 

Joe felt great; he loved his work, but he had to be quiet and efficient.  He couldn’t linger over it and savor it, the way he could when he put down fags just for the fuck of it, like this.  As he slipped on his shirt and head out of the room, he was a very happy sadist.

 

And a careful one.  He didn’t forget to tie his bandanna back on before he left.  After all, it was dangerous out there…

 

 

It was Ben who raised the alarm; he was Stu’s roommate in the fraternity.  He’d been one of the last ones to arrive back from the “formal”, and was no more (or less) drunk than any of the rest of them, but unlike the others, he’d decided to go up to his room to divest himself of his uncomfortable rented tux as soon as he got in.

 

The sound he made couldn’t really have been described as a scream; nonetheless, it got everyone’s attention.  A crowd of elaborately-dressed boys clambered up the staircase, to be met by Ben, stumbling down it.  He was ashen-faced, trembling, and damn near incoherent.

 

“Stu!” he moaned, pointing upstairs, “He’s…oh, fuck!  And he’s…oh, Jesus, he’s, he’s been—”

 

Realizing they weren’t going to get more out of him, the majority of the members headed up to confront the gruesome scene awaiting them.

 

For some time afterwards, confusion reigned in the frat house, except for one small room where Sam, Mark, and Ronny met.  Sam was the fraternity president, Mark the veep and Ronny was the secretary.  By rights, the treasurer should have been there too—but Ben was the treasurer, and he wasn’t very useful at the moment.

 

“Shit,” Sam muttered, “This is gonna get us shut down.  Sure as shit, you just watch.  And for a fuckin’ pledge, too!”

 

“When are we gonna call the police?” Ronny asked querulously.  “The longer we wait, the worse it looks!”

 

“I know that, asshole,” Sam snarled, “We’re waiting to hear back from Mark’s dad, remember?  He said he’d help us with any legal trouble.”  Suddenly, he rounded on Mark.  “He did say that, right?  And he’s gonna return your call, right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, he’s gonna call me back,” Mark replied, obviously nowhere near as calm as he was desperately pretending to be.  “But y’know, he’s gonna be asking about a lotta shit…they always do when a frat’s involved…”

 

“What kinda shit?” Sam demanded nervously.  “Whaddaya mean?”

 

“Well, he’s a pledge, and, well, y’know, frats have a bad name nowadays because of hazin’, and shit like that…”

 

“Yeah, well—” Sam started out defiantly, then fell quiet.  They all did.  They were all trying very hard not to think about the fact that their hazing ritual involved inserting certain…items…into the pledges’ anuses.  Depending on the inserter, the insertee, and the item being inserted, things had gotten carried away on occasion in the past.

 

As they sat in the darkened room waiting for a call from the lawyer, it occurred to each of the young men that Stu had gotten hazed a little early–and had ended up blackballed.

Brotherly Love, part 1

On By m3mayhemIn Alpha Male Eddie2 Comments

Eddie was angry.

 

Of course, that wasn’t unusual; Eddie was always angry.  But his anger, most of the time, was general and unspecific.  Today, it was focused on and a single burning point.

 

The kid was about eighteen.  He’d been walking with some of his buddies from the local high school past the gas station where Eddie was filling the tank on his truck.  The psychopathic fagkiller hadn’t seen him at first; it was only when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up that he realized he was being looked at that way.

 

He glanced around—sure enough, his homo detector was on point.  One of the boys in the passing group was scoping him out.

 

The boy had a mop of dark hair.  His build was firm but wiry; he certainly wasn’t any challenge for Eddie in terms of power.  The little fagboy was wearing a pair of low-rise white denim jeans so tight his pansy cock was outlined down to the last detail; Eddie could damn near see then veins around it.  The punk’s tight chest was wrapped in a black t-shirt with a retro Led Zeppelin logo on it, all just visible beneath a thin black nylon jacket with a hood and white stripes down the sleeves. The lid sported a pair of black and white Nike Motion 2 kicks on his feet.

 

Eddie memorized every detail as he and the boy stared at each other.  As the bulge in his groin pulsed visibly, the teenager turned and walked quickly down the sidewalk, catching up to his friends.  He had no idea he’d just been marked for death.

 

Eddie finished fueling up and climbed into his truck.  He was positively grinning in incandescent rage.  The way his psyche converted self-hatred into predatory homophobia was similar to a solar furnace, capable of keeping up unimaginable amounts of heat for a very long time.

 

He stoked the fires and headed left out of the gas station, the direction in which the kid had been walking.

 

By now, the boy was about a half mile down the road.  Eddie could easily make him out—his white jeans practically glowed in the late afternoon sunlight, and none of the other little punks he was with was wearing white.  Just as he spotted the boy, though, Eddie saw the kid split off, turning again to the left, down a side street.  There was a brief pause as he spoke a bit to his buddies, but then they continued down the avenue while the fagboy walked on alone.

 

Trailing the homo the rest of the way home took a little skill.  Eddie couldn’t drive at the kid’s walking speed; that was too obvious.  And if he kept circling and passing the boy too often, eventually the little shit would recognize his big black truck and become suspicious.  In the end, he darted ahead, turned down a cross street and waited for the kid to pass, then went over to a parallel street.  Heading up two blocks, he did it again.  Eventually the kid didn’t walk by.  Eddie pulled out onto the boy’s street, heading back the way he came, and was just in time to see the fucker entering a house.  Eddie noted its particulars and then parked three blocks down and two over.

 

The sun was setting as the thump of Eddie’s combat boots on the sidewalk echoed down the suburban street.  Inside the houses on either side, families were settling in for the evening.  Some were eating, some were arguing, some were watching TV—and all of them were utterly unaware of the muscle-bound young man stalking just outside in a khaki tank top and camo fatigue pants held tightly to his narrow hips by a wide meshed nylon belt.

 

If they had noticed him, at least some would have called the cops.  His intent to kill was literally visible, writ large across his hard, masculine face and his somehow aggressive manner of movement.

 

The kid’s house was larger than most of the others in what was already an upscale community.  The house to the right was no slouch, either, but it had an attribute that immediately drew Eddie’s attention—it was empty.  There was a for sale sign from a high-end realty firm planted in the slightly overgrown lawn.  The blinds and curtains had been removed and large front windows displayed empty rooms, writhing with carved molding and elaborate paneling.  And even more interesting, the backyard gate was wide open.

 

After a quick and reassuring glance around him, Eddie dove into the dim twilight of the tree-shaded yard.  A long open lawn stretched back to the property line; to his left, the house hulked, a darker mass in the blue dimness of the evening.  He crossed quickly to the fence on the other side of the yard—it was the one next to the kid’s.  It was nearly seven feet high, but that wasn’t a problem; the fence was lined with all kinds of trees.  As agile as he was strong, the obsessed fagkiller was soon ensconced in branches overhanging the next yard, from which vantage point, recon was easy.

 

A deep-set covered patio was attached to the back of the house and two boys were sitting in chairs on it.  For a moment, Eddie thought he was looking at twins, they were so much alike.  He soon recognized one as the punk who’d been scoping him out, though, noting that the other was slightly shorter and perhaps a year younger.  The fact that they were brothers was obvious in the physical similarities between the two.

 

Peering into the twilight, Eddie focused his eagle-sharp eyes on the boys.  They were chatting and the older one was doing something with his hands, bent over a side table.  Eddie wasn’t close enough to see what, be he soon rectified that.

 

He dropped form the tree into the darkened yard, his boots making no sound on the soft, lush turf.  This property was much more landscaped than the one next door, and Eddie used it to his advantage, concealing himself behind it as he approached close enough to see and hear what was happening on the patio.

 

The older kid, he saw, was rolling a joint.  He was speaking just as Eddie came into earshot.

 

“…and if I hadn’t been with some of the guys from school, I mighta gone and hit him up,” he said.

 

“Bro, if Dad heard ya talkin’ about picking up a strange dude at a gas station for a hookup, he’d shit a brick,” the younger one replied.  “You better watch out—if he ever even thinks you like guys, it’s gonna get ugly.”

 

“Like I don’t already know that,” the other answered, “Don’t worry, I’m careful enough—and I can take care of myself.”

 

“Shit, hide the weed,” the younger brother blurted, “Here he comes now!”

 

The older youth just managed to shove the baggie of pot back into his jeans pocket when the back door opened and a tall, square-jawed man in a button-down shirt and dress slacks strode out, his hair perfectly combed and an expression of disapproval on his face that seemed somehow innate.

 

“What are you two doing out here?” he demanded.

 

“Just talking,” the older boy said casually.

 

The man glared balefully at the boys.  “Listen up, you two.  This weekend is critical to my city council reelection campaign.  I’m the keynote speaker at the First Baptist’s “Pray for Trump” retreat, and if either of you does anything to embarrass me while we’re gone, so help me, I’ll—”

 

“Roger!  We’ve got to go!” came a woman’s voice from inside the house.  “Tell Josh he can’t bring that Annabelle slut over; he’s seventeen, but she’s not.  God only knows what they’ll get up to.  Ross, you hear me?  Watch your younger brother!  And NO parties!”

 

“Yes, ma!” Ross shouted, smirking at his kid brother.  Their father grimaced.

 

“Remember,” he growled, “Don’t fuck anything up, or kill you little shits.”  He turned and re-entered the house, slamming to door behind him.

 

“Fuckin’ big man,” Ross sneered.

 

“Yeah, he just loves this city council shit,” Josh muttered, “Runnin’ our lives ain’t enough for him.  And ma—”

 

“Aw, don’t get started on her,” Ross said as he fished the joint and handed it to his younger brother.  “Here, light it up.  I’m gonna go make sure they’re gone.”

 

As the younger teen fired up the blunt, the older headed into the house.  Eddie considered making his move, but, like the boys, he wanted to know the coast was clear too.  After all, he had plenty of time, by the sound of it.

 

That was good.  He was gonna need to figure out how to waste two fags at once.  It would be easy enough to take the younger one out quick and quiet, commando-style, but that wasn’t what Eddie wanted.

 

The younger one was a fag too.  He might be fucking around with girls, but if one was, they both were.  Stood to reason.  Older one probably corrupted the younger long ago, made his kid brother his bitch.  Raped his ass one night, muffling the kid’s cries with a pillow.

 

It’d what Eddie would’ve done if he’d had a younger brother.

 

Both of ‘em were perverted fuckin’ homos, and both needed to die.

 

Ross reappeared at the back door.  “It’s cool.  They’re gone; c’mon in, we’ll fire up my PS4.”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Josh said, bouncing happily up off his chair, “That’s my idea of a Friday night—gettin’ high and playin’ Mortal Kombat!”  He followed his older brother into the house.  Once he got into the light, Eddie could see Josh was wearing an oversized white t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans tight enough to cradle his teen asscheeks snugly.  The hems of the jeans were casually caught up on what looked like a pair of Timberland eight-inch workboots, except these seemed to be made of black suede.  He wore them loosely laced and untied

 

As the boys disappeared deeper into the house, Eddie swept across the patio, a dark shadow in the twilight, and slipped inside the back door.  He found himself in the kitchen.  It was dim, with only the light over the stove on.  To his right was a dark doorway; the square, bulky shapes of the laundry appliances loomed in the murk.

 

Directly ahead, on the far side of the kitchen, was another doorway.  It was from here that Eddie heard Ross call out, “Hang on a sec!  I gotta go set the alarm.  If mom and dad sneak back early, it’ll warn us.”

 

The keypad for the alarm was directly behind Eddie, next to the back door.  There was no time for anything elaborate; the psycho boykiller darted into the laundry room as the older kid came and secured the house.

 

From less than five feet away, Eddie could see the boy more clearly than he had yet.  There was a fine shadow of dark haze on the punk’s upper lip—a mustache just starting to grow.  Eddie’s eyes roved over the adolescent’s firm, lean form, taking in how large the denim-wrapped bulge in the groin was.  Yeah, he needed to waste this little homo before it matured into something dangerous.  His huge cock began to stir and swell, just at the thought.

 

Four feet away, Josh finished locking down the house for the evening, totally oblivious to the fact that he was being sized up for the kill.  He turned and headed back the way he’d come, his Nikes padding quietly across the tile floor.

 

Eddie followed at a distance, down a hall that led to the front.  The house was large; dark cavernous rooms opened on each side—a formal dining room, a study, a formal living room.  The staircase was an ornate, meandering affair that wound its way up to the second floor.  As Eddie waited for the kid to ascend, he noticed that the staircase seemed to back up on a media room; the room had a well-stocked bar that had been built partially under the stairs.

 

Once the boy got upstairs, the psycho stalker felt safe enough to follow.  He managed to make it up quick enough to note the punk going into one of the doors that opened off the upper gallery.  He’d closed the door behind him; silently, Eddie stole forward and pressed his ear to the door.

 

“You got another one rolled?” Ross was asking. “Oh, cool.  Here, lemme fire it up.  You ain’t got the game started yet?”

 

“Well, fuck, man, I was waitin’ for you to get back,” the younger one replied.  “So anyway, you saw some dude today…”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Ross muttered in the breathless squeak of someone who’d just taken a lung-busting hit of weed.  He exhaled audibly, then coughed for thirty seconds straight.

 

“Ya don’t cough, ya don’t get off,” Josh chuckled.

 

“Aw, fuck you,” his older brother muttered.

 

“Naw, man, I only like chicks.  But you saw some dude you’d let pop your cherry?”

 

Ross laughed, “Yeah, man, like I’d be lucky enough to have had this guy be my first—ya know, the first to really fuck me.  Speakin’ a’ which, remember our bet.  Fifty bucks to the first one to get laid, right?  So how’re ya makin’ out with Annabelle?”

 

Josh began, “Well, I got a lil’ somethin’-somethin’ planned Friday night if I can—”

 

Eddie burst through the door and stood before them, his massive, muscular form filling the doorway.  Both boys stared at him, slack-jawed and stunned.  Ross had just enough presence of mind to recognize the intruder.

 

“That’s him!” he said excitedly, “That’s the guy!”  His face lit up, hope radiating from his youthful countenance—and then he saw Eddie’s expression.

 

“Lookit this shit,” the powerful sadist growled, “Coupla little fuckin’ fairies havin’ a tea party.  Sorry to break it up, girls, but you two need to learn how a real man disposes of homo garbage like you.”

 

“Wh-what?” they both said, almost in perfect unison—Josh, starting to flush with anger and Ross, hopelessly confused, his erotic fantasy instantly crumbling.

 

“I said, I’m gonna teach y’all yer proper place, ya stupid sacks a’ shit.  Think I’ll start with the little one.”

 

By now even Ross had made the mental switch from love interest to potential antagonist; this threat was all it took for him to go on the attack in defense of his brother.  With an inarticulate cry, he darted forward.

 

Eddie had been expecting it; in fact, he’d deliberately provoked it.  As the older teen rushed him, the older and stronger man swung his arm, casually and easily, punching the punk in the jaw and dropping him to the floor in a senseless, ungainly sprawl.

 

The ex-Marine stared the younger teen dead in the face.  “You wanna try anything, motherfucker?”

 

Ashen and trembling, Josh shook his head.

 

Getting the older boy secured wasn’t going to be too much of a problem.  Eddie had started carrying a pair of regulation police handcuffs some time ago; he’d found them at a military surplus store.  But he wanted to make sure he could cuff the kid to something fairly immobile.  For the first time, he looked around and took in the detail of the room.

 

It was clearly the room of an adolescent male, but beyond that, any trace of the occupant’s personality was smothered with the same kind of bland décor that Eddie had glimpsed on his trek through the house.  The queen-sized bed was an expensive piece of furniture, and the sheets seemed to be of a high quality.  It was difficult to tell, the way they were wadded up on the floor.  But the fitted sheet that remained had the shimmer of expensive material.

 

Beyond the bed was a large alcove with a window.  In the wall adjoining the window was a desk with a computer and a sizeable monitor.  Directly behind the desk, against the opposite wall, was a set of shelves containing the peripheral—among other things, a nice laser printer and a musical keyboard with a USB cord.

 

On the wall opposite the bed, immediately to the left of the door Eddie came in, was a huge LCD TV on its own stand, with the game system and a sound bar underneath.  The desk chair and a second chair had been set up in front of the TV with a couple of TV trays next to them.  It was the second chair that attracted Eddie’s eye.

 

It appeared to be one of the dining room chairs, ornately wrought, but sturdy.  If he could bind the fucker’s legs to the chair legs…the little shit’s clothes were scattered over the floor; there had to be a belt or two…there.

 

Striding over to the heavy wood chair, Eddie lifted it easily with one arm and carried it over to where he’d dropped Ross at the side of the bed.

 

“You!  Boy!” he barked at Josh.  The younger brother had not recovered from the emotional shock of Eddie’s entry and was still standing at the foot of the bed.  He flinched violently at the sound of the older man’s voice, then turned and looked at him, his face almost blank.

 

“Go get me those belts,” he demanded, pointing to a pile four feet beyond where Josh was standing where the pile of clothing was almost two feet high.  On top were a couple of pairs of jeans with belts still in them.  One belt was black and ordinary; the other was white with a series of small metal plates along its length.

 

Josh turned and looked at the pile, then turned and looked back at Eddie, the same blankness in his face.  But he turned and headed towards the jeans.

 

Eddie, in the meantime, hoisted Ross and sat him in the chair, holding the limp homo upright as he circled around to cuff the kid’s arms behind the back of the chair.  He clicked the steel bracelets on so tightly they dug into the boy’s flesh.  He looked up just as Josh arrived with the belts.

 

“Here,” he grunted, “Give’m to me.”

 

Josh dropped the belts, turned quickly, and bolted out the door.

 

By the time Eddie got to the doorway, the boy was halfway down the stairs.  He knew what the kid was aiming for—the alarm keypad next to the front door.  The little fuckwad was going for the panic button.

 

Not if Eddie could help it.  His strength and build didn’t mean he was too musclebound to move; like any good hunter, he was swift and sure-footed.  He made it down the stairs much faster than Josh would have thought possible.  Just as the terrified adolescent reached out for the keypad in relief, Eddie caught up to him.  Before the punk could touch a single button, the powerful ex-Marine had clutched the back of the kid’s head and, using his own forward momentum against him, slammed Josh’s face into the wall next to the keypad.

 

The boy slumped to the floor, stunned, leaving an oval-shaped hole in the drywall.  As the kid groaned and ran his hand over his face, Eddie kicked him in the head, his steel-toed combat boot putting the cunt’s lights out.

 

Pausing for a moment, the sweating, heaving stud reached down, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it up over his head, tossing it onto a table at one side of the entryway.  Much more comfortable without his shirt, Eddie bent down and grabbed the unconscious teen by his wrist and began dragging him towards the stairs.

 

As he reached the foot of the staircase, Eddie noticed a tray on the bar tucked under it.  On the tray was an ice bucket, ice pick, and four tumblers.  Without breaking his stride, the sadistic killer snatched the ice pick off the tray.  He continued up the stairs, dragging Josh along behind him like some nightmarish version of a child dragging its teddy bear off to bed.

 

As the boy was pulled up the staircase, his feet caught on every riser.  His left boot came off about halfway up, landing upright on the next step down.  Near the top, the other boot came off; this one tumbled down the stairs past its mate, coming to rest about three steps from the bottom.  The punk was wearing white ped socks underneath.  They stayed on as Eddie dragged the kid back to his brother’s bedroom and tossed him on the bed.

.

 

Even after Ross regained consciousness, he still wasn’t sure he was awake.  The scene in front of his eyes was too surreal too much like a nightmare, to be real.

 

Josh, nude and limp, was stretched across the bed in front of him.  Ross was a horny young fag; he’d lusted after his younger brother’s smooth, firm body for years—but he loved the kid and would never force himself on him.  Seeing the boy sprawled out in front of him was a shock—

 

—but not as much of a shock as the image of the hardbodied stud standing directly in front of him, shirtless, in the camo pants and combat boots only, with an enormous erection jutting out from his open fly and a malicious grin on his face.

 

“Glad ya decided to join the party,” the well-built man said, his cold, handsome face lit with an unsettling manic glee.  “You’re just in time to watch me ream out yer little bitchboy here.”

 

That was when Ross realized that he himself was nude, except for his kicks.  He didn’t remember his clothes being removed, but they had been, and he’d been bound to a chair.  This crazy dude had stripped him and Josh both and was talking about raping Josh—and he couldn’t move.

 

“Wha?” he muttered groggily, still stunned from the blow to the head he’d received and barely remembered.  “Wha—why?  Whya doin…”

 

Eddie smiled even more broadly and bent down in front of Ross.  He held out something; it took the teen a moment to focus on it and realize it was an ice pick.  “Yer askin’ why?  I thought all you faggots wanted a real man to stick something long and hard into yer worthless asses.  It’s yer lucky fuckin’ day, homo—you get to watch me stick all kinda things into that little cocksucker there on the bed.  A hot porno to get ya into the mood before it’s your turn, see?”

 

Ross didn’t see.  He wouldn’t let himself see.  But he had no choice but to see what happened next.

 

Josh was still out.  He was on his back, his lithe, smooth adolescent body sprawled and helpless on the bed, which had been swept clean of all but the fitted sheet.  Under the indirect lighting Ross had used in his room, Josh looked as if he’d been laid out on an altar.  Or, rather, a stage—for an audience of one.

 

Slipping the ice pick into his waistband, Eddie climbed onto the bed, brandishing his huge cock like a club and smiling malevolently down at the unconscious teen.  Kneeling on the bed, he bent down and scooped Josh’s legs up, placing the kid’s ankles on his shoulders.  With easy access to the boy’s ass, the serial killer began to probe the punk’s sphincter with the engorged head of his cock.

 

“Dude,” Ross began, his words still slightly slurred as he spoke, “Whatcha doin’?”  Ross knew damn well what it looked like they guy was doing, but that couldn’t be right.

 

“I’m gonna show this little cocksucker what a real man’s cock feel like,” Eddie replied nonchalantly.  “You might wanna pay attention, cunt—your turn’s next.”

 

Ross struggled furiously with his bindings.  He couldn’t see what was holding him back; the sound and sensation behind his back told him his hands were in cuffs, but he had no clue what was on his legs.  Whatever it was, nothing was giving—not that that stopped the well-built adolescent from trying.

 

“Keep yer fuckin’ hands off him!” the teen snarled viciously, “If he don’t kill ya when he wakes up, I will!”

 

Eddie grinned happily and plunged himself balls-deep into the younger boy’s asshole.

 

Both Josh and Ross cried out simultaneously; Josh screaming in pain as the agony of having his sphincter torn apart like wet paper pulled him violently form his semi-conscious state.  His older brother yelled inarticulately in rage and sympathy.

 

“Fuck yeah!” Eddie crowed, “That’s what I’m taking about.  Nice tight little baby fag—ya like that, dontcha?  All ya little boyfags crave mancock, yeah?”  He turned to Ross.  “Don’t get jelly, bro—I’m gonna be layin’ pipe up yer fuckhole soon.  The little one here’s just foreplay, a little somethin’ to get my meat nice and hard.”

 

As he spoke, the muscular ex-marine continued to plunge his freakishly large member as far as he could into the adolescent boy’s rectum.  His pelvis bounced off Josh’s ass, the rounded pink globes of the boy’s asscheeks quivering with each thrust.

 

Josh’s pain and fear were blatant; it was obvious—at least to anyone who wasn’t a psychopathic, sadistic serial killer—that the kid was a virgin.  Even Eddie could feel the blood that tricked from the punk’s ass as a kind of warm lube.  The teenager had gotten his cherry popped and was bleeding just like a chick.  He was also shrieking like one.

 

“Goddam, got me a screamer,” Eddie said, carrying on his casual commentary with his victim’s horrified older brother.  “Bitch fuckin’ loves ridin’ the D but ain’t got no volume control.  I know how to fix that.”

 

And in front of Ross’s horrified eyes, Eddie punched Josh twice in the face, hard and brutal roundhouse swings from the shoulder.  The boy grunted viscerally as each of the blows landed, his entire body clenching to ward off the impacts.  And even from where Ross was strapped down, he could see his little bro’s dick flop up, semi-erect, each time he was hit.

 

Ross didn’t understand that, and for some reason, it scared more than anything else.  After all, some part of him still hadn’t accepted that any of this was happening.  Maybe it was a hallucination; maybe the weed had been laced with something…

 

“Aw hell yeah!” Eddie grunted.  “Goddam faggot knows what it wants!”  He turned back to Ross, his happy grin somehow making his masculine face breathtakingly handsome and soullessly evil at the same time.  “Hey, asswipe, you like pain as much as this one?  It tightens its fagpussy around my shaft when I hit it—maybe I need to hurt it more, yeah?  Think that’ll make it work my dick real good?  Let’s find out!”

 

And as Ross looked on in terror and Josh moaned and coughed up two teeth, Eddie pulled the ice pick out of his waistband.  “Don’t worry, I’m gonna start slow,” he said to Ross, “Let the whore get used to it first.  But it’s gonna hatfa work my dick good to earn my seed.”

 

And without breaking eye contact with Ross, Eddie moved the ick pick down to Josh’s smooth, heaving flank and began shoving the nine-inch steel shaft into the teen boy’s side.

 

Despite being stunned by the blows to the face, Josh was still sufficiently conscious to feel pain.  He reacted immediately, wailing in pain and trying to wriggle out form under his rapist’s bulky form.  Eddie just grinned and continued to slowly push the pick into the kid.

 

Suddenly Josh gasped and went rigid.  “Yeah, that’s the spot,” Eddie grunted, then turned back to Ross.  “Gotta love combat trainin’.  Stick yer target in the kidney, and he’s helpless.  Organ trauma gets ‘em all nice and tight, too.”  He withdrew the thin steel shaft a couple of inches, then rammed it back in brutally, timing the jab with a powerful thrust of his hips.

 

Suffering from the double agony of his attacker’s cock in his guts and weapon in his kidney, Josh’s instinctive reaction, as Eddie had said, was to go stiff, in an effort to prevent the foreign objects in his body from doing further damage.  It was also an instinctive act to brace himself—when he reached out and grasped Eddie’s arms, his hands clamping tightly on, but not able to encircle, the killer’s huge biceps, it was an action of pain, not pleasure.  His bruised jaw tightly clenched, the agonized teen’s s breathing was harsh and fast, whistling through the gap form by the knocked-out teeth.

 

Eddie pulled the ice pick back out of Josh with an exquisite protraction, then held it up and admired the way the metal shaft was red with blood up to the handle.  It was too much for Ross.

 

“Stop it, you psycho!” he screeched.  Eddie turned slowly and smirked and Ross felt terror wash over him—not for himself, but for his brother.  “I said stop it, motherfucker!  Let him go!!”

 

“Stop it?”  Eddie asked innocently, the cold sneer on his face unchanging, “Stop stickin’ the fag in the kidney?  Sure—that was gettin’ old anyway.”  Leaning back, with a sudden motion almost too fast to be seen, he whipped the ice pick around and brought it down on the boy’s stomach, puncturing his smooth, flat belly and driving it in up to the hilt.

 

Again Josh gasp and clenched in agony.  “That’s it,” Eddie grunted, “Just like that.  Work my cock, faggot!”

 

Josh moaned and mewled in desperate pain.  He and his older brother were in tears; Ross too horrified to speak, at least for the moment.

 

“Aw, yer goin’ loose again,” the buff ex-Marine said.  Josh was in too much pain to pay attention, but Ross heard him.  By now he knew what to expect.

 

“No…no…” he whispered.

 

“Shaddup,” Eddie snapped, “Yer little homo bro likes this shit.  See?”  He managed to twist his waist and tilt Josh’s still-rigid form slightly towards Ross.  The older couldn’t help but see his baby brother’s thick, erect cock.  It was surreal; it made no sense—but, bewildered and despairing, some part of Ross began to think this sadistic stranger was right.  Josh wanted to be hurt.

 

But no, that wasn’t right.  He wasn’t going to think about that.  And he damn sure wasn’t gonna think about the fact that his own tool was getting stiff.  It meant nothing; getting out of this situation meant everything.

 

Eddie plunged the pick back into Josh’s belly four times in lightning-fast succession, savoring the sensation of resistance, as if he was puncturing the head of a drum, with each one.  And the sobbing teen clenched everything—including his sphincter and rectum—with each stab.

 

Eddie turned back to Ross, his lips wreathed with a happy smile.  “Dude,” he said, “It’s like his fuckhole is jackin’ me off.  Fuckin’ fantastic.”

 

“…you sick fuck…” Ross gasped, barely audible.  But Eddie heard him and leered evilly at the compliment.

 

“Motherfucker, you ain’t seen shit yet,” he replied, jerking the steel shaft back out of the moaning teenager’s gut and plunging it into his chest, two inches southwest of his heart.

 

Josh cried out in agony as the ice pick penetrated his pectoral muscle—a massive steel needle that was suddenly and brutally driven through his body with such force that it pierced his lung and ended up lodged in the inside of one of his ribs, near the spine.

 

Eddie turned away from Ross; the taunting was fun, but this was getting good. The young fuckmeat stared up at him, its huge dark eyes ringed with gray circles of shock, its mouth open and moving, but no sounds coming out.  Suddenly, it heaved beneath him, a single spasm, and coughed, a fine trickle of blood leaking from the corner of its mouth.  The injury wasn’t fatal, but the punk’s lung was bleeding.

 

Josh remained loose; he didn’t go rigid.  Eddie was furious.  The faggot wasn’t cooperating.

 

“Boy, you ain’t workin’ my dick,” he growled.  Josh kept staring at him blankly, his lips making the motions for words he wasn’t voicing.  His hard cock kept jabbing against Eddie’s belly; the vicious fagkiller could feel the hot spongy warmth of its swollen purple head against his smooth ripped abs—but the cunt wasn’t moving its fuckhole.  “Only damn thing you fucking fags are good for is a cumdump, and you ain’t even good at bein’ that!  Hope yer bro over there is a better fuck than you are, ya worthless piece a’ shit.  Time to put you outta my misery, fuckwad.”

 

Slapping his huge strong paw of a hand on Josh’s face, he forced it to the left, towards where Ross was sitting, and pinned it there.  With the other hand, he pulled the ick pick out of the boy’s chest.  It took a little effort; the tip was tightly embedded in the rib.

 

Holding it aloft, he turned to Ross.  “Hey, asswipe, watch this.  Watch this close.”  He didn’t need to threaten, he knew the adolescent homo was compelled to see what was happening to his little bitchboy cuntbrother; he wouldn’t be able to turn away.

 

He was right.  Ross watched in growing horror as Eddie lowered the ice pick into Josh’s ear—and then kept right on inserting it, very slowly, into the boy’s skull.

 

Josh came out of his stupor almost immediately.  The terrible pain of the chest wound receded far into the background as a whole new universe of agony opened up to the buff young adolescent in the final two minutes of his life.

 

Two minutes is a long time.  The next two minutes that Josh and Ross endured lasted eons.

 

For Josh, it began with the pain of a punctured eardrum, to be suddenly replaced with a faint but distinct “crunch” inside his head as the steel shaft crushed the tiny bones of the middle ear.  Then the true nightmare began.

 

As Eddie continued to slide the pick slowly and lovingly into the boy’s ear canal, it ripped through the semicircular canals and Josh spent the rest of his life in unimaginable vertigo and nausea.  As Ross watched, frozen in shock, his younger brother began to kick and retch.  His smooth teen body was soon covered in sweat as the unfortunate youth dry heaved uncontrollably.

 

“Too late for that shit now, cunt!” Eddie crowed, speaking to Josh—but looking at Ross, who held his gaze helplessly.  “Too late to save yer useless ass by workin’ my cock, dumbass—time for ya to take a nice long dirt nap!”

 

Needless to say, all this motion didn’t help Eddie’s aim much—not that he cared.  Josh might have, since it prolonged his life, and hence his agony, for a few more seconds, but he was long past being able to control his actions in any case.  Nothing he’d suffered yet had been a truly mortal wound, but that changed in the next moment, when Eddie finally drove the sharp-tipped steel tool into the teenager’s brain stem.

 

Ross could see it in Josh’s eyes.  He didn’t know the details, didn’t know that Eddie was grinding the pick around in his brother’s ear, sending the long rigid shaft ripping through the brainstem—but that part of the brain controls facial muscles.  The look on his dying brother’s face was seared into Ross’s mind.

 

Josh arced his back.  Eddie pulled himself up as well, letting Ross see that despite everything, the kid’s rod was not only erect but pulsating.  Again, the older teen felt a sense of despair, not understanding his brother’s physical reaction.  How could he be hard now?

 

And then Eddie slashed through something important.  He’d angled the ice pick downwards and had badly damaged the medulla oblongata, which controls both the heart and the lungs.

 

Josh began to breathe hard.  As Eddie lay on top of him to get full enjoyment from his kill, the dying teen began to writhe, his sweat-slick skin sliding smoothly against Eddie’s own.  His breathing became faster and shallower, his empty eyes staring into his brother’s as his blood from his injured lung blew out of his mouth in a faint pink mist.

 

“Faggot’s close,” Eddie said with a grin.  “Wanna see it?  Wanna watch yer brother’s deathload?  Sure ya do, ya little sicko, yer already hard yerself.  Ok here ya go!”

 

And with the same motion he’d used earlier, he pulled himself off Josh and tilted him towards Ross, making one last dig in the boy’s brain with the ice pick.  Josh’s last sound on earth was a deep, mortal grunt, and it was accompanied by a solid jet of thick, abundant, adolescent semen that spewed forth out of the punk’s cock.

 

Ross watched it, his mind blank with horror.  Josh was dead.  He could see it in his face.  He was dead, but he kept on cumming.

 

As the corpse’s convulsions began to slow, the stream of sperm tapered off and slowed to an ooze.  Eddie slowly pulled himself upright and got off the bed.  Josh lay on his back, his legs splayed, his thick boycock slowly shriveling, and a tapioca-like puddle of spunk pooling on his flat belly.  The ice pick jutted grotesquely from his ear.  His eyes were wide open, and he had died with the expression of someone who had stared into Hell.

 

Ross stared at his younger brother’s raped and murdered corpse.  Tears trickling down his face, he seemed to be sinking into a fugue state when Eddie’s raucous, taunting voice hit him like a slap in the face.

 

“You’re next, fucker,” he growled, advancing towards the bound teenager, his enormous cock jutting out from his camo pants, “I ain’t shot my wad yet.  You better be better than he was.”

 

“In fact—” he paused and looked back at Josh’s quivering body, the turned to Ross again, “—I got an idea.  Looks like we got something here for you to practice on.”

 

Ross could follow the musclebound psycho’s line of thought as he advanced. He burst into tears and pissed himself.  He already knew there was nothing he could do to stop whatever it was that was coming next.

Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, Part 1

On By m3mayhemIn Rigler County Snuff Squad3 Comments

The dark and crowded bar presented something of an obstacle course to anyone carrying a pitcher of beer, and especially to someone of Pete’s broad-shouldered, muscular build, but he managed to get back to the table without spilling any of the golden, frothy liquid.  Seating himself, grinning, he expertly poured a couple of glasses without generating an overflowing head.  He then slid one of the glasses across the table to Dan.

 

Pete had been working out heavily, as per Dan’s instructions, and it showed.  The younger cop was much more built now than he was when they’d first met.  This was the first night in two weeks that they’d both been scheduled off together, and they took advantage of the fact by going out to celebrate.

 

It was just sheer chance that Brody was in the same bar.

 

They’d kept up their surveillance of him; the pair of bulked-up cops hadn’t forgotten their pursuit of drug traffickers, but there’d been little movement in that area.  On the other hand, there hadn’t been much movement from Brody either.  Ever since he’d wasted the teenaged faggot, he’d laid low; they knew that because either Pete or Dan had spent part of virtually every day trailing him.  Not that they’d intervene if he initiated another snuff; Pete was still waiting for the signal, and Dan hadn’t given it yet.

 

Tonight, though, was for relaxing and celebration.  Both men had dressed down in plaid western-cut button-down shirts; Dan had rolled up the sleeve of his, showing off his furry forearms.  Both men also wore very tight, very worn jeans and boots—Dan’s was a pair of steel-toe Rocky western ropers while Pete sported a comfortable pair of Wolverine Moc Toe 8-inch workboots.  They pretty much looked like the other country guys in the bar—which was likely why Brody never saw them, even though they weren’t in stakeout mode.

 

It was Pete who first noticed him.  “Well, I’ll be goddammed!” he said in amazement.

 

“What is it?” Dan asked.

 

“Look over there, Cap—ain’t that Brody?  See, next to that buff, dark-skinned dude at the bar…”

 

Dan squinted into the crowd.  “Yeah, it sure is.  Well ain’t that a coincidence.  And here I thought we were givin’ him the evening off.”

 

For a time after that, they ignored the rogue killer; after all, he wasn’t gonna kill anyone in public.  Dan was congratulating Pete on his physical progress, letting the younger man know how proud he was and suggesting some further areas of improvement, but Pete kept noticing how the captain’s eyes were wandering back to Brody.

 

Finally, his curiosity got the better of him.  “Ok, Cap, out with it—what’s he doin’?”

 

Dan shook his head.  “Naw, it ain’t him.  It’s the guy he’s talking to.  I swear I seen him somewhere recently.  Or maybe his picture.”

 

Pete craned his neck to see the guy better, but his view wasn’t as good as Dan’s; all he could make out was the guy’s back.  He seemed to be a well-built Latino in a yellow t-shirt, torn, stained jeans and a pair of black Timberlands.  His blue-black hair was nearly shoulder length and while he was older than most of the fags Brody went for, Pete could see the attraction.

 

“Yeah?” he asked, “Think we should keep an eye on them?”

 

Dan looked Pete levelly in the eyes and said, with little fanfare, words that made the young hardbodied acolyte’s heart leap with joy, “Yeah, we should.  You’re ready, boy.  You can take ‘im if ya hafta.”

 

 

Within ten minutes, Brody and the Latino man got up and headed for the door.  With little fuss, Dan and Pete left their table as well, keeping close to their prey but not close enough to be noticed.  Outside, it was even easier to stay in the shadows; while Brody headed for his truck, the cops headed for Dan’s.

 

The moment he was behind the wheel, Dan snapped his fingers.  “Tony Rodrigues, that’s who he is,” he said.

 

“Who, Brody’s new fucktoy?” Pete asked.

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, grinning.  “Came across the wire a couple of days ago—he’s wanted in Calabesa County on suspicion of raping and murdering seventeen-year-old Billy Webber—his stepson.”

 

Pete whistled, his eyes wide.

 

“Yeah,” Dan chuckled, “Looks like we’re might have us a rasslin’ match tonight ‘tween these two.  So much the better.”

 

His grin took on a darker hint that was mirrored in Pete’s face when he glanced at the younger man.  “Loser’s gonna take us on.  No matter what happens, Body’s goin’ down tonight.”

 

Pete felt his powerful muscles tighten in anticipation.  The feeling of rigid hardness penetrated his entire body, as the thick, pulsing bulge in his crotch proved.  “So we’re gonna be there for the kill?  How’re ya gonna manage that, Cap?”

 

“Easy,” Dan grinned.  “Who’s working the east side tonight?  Mike, yeah?”

 

He got on the radio and called out to Mike.  It seemed that nothing much was happening on the east side tonight and Mike was glad to do the Captain a favor.  Providing him with Brody’s plate number and a description of his truck, Dan asked Mike to delay the driver.

 

“Ya just want me to hold him for a few minutes?”

 

“Yeah, Mike—I just wanna check out a hunch without a possible suspect around.  I appreciate it.”

 

“No problem, Captain—glad to help!”

 

Pete looked at the older man questioningly.  “What was that for?”

 

“That’s how we’ll be in on the kill,” Dan replied, “We’ll get there first.  We’ll be there watching as it goes down.”

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” Pete chuckled.  “Damn, that’s good.  Watchin’ one snuff the other so we can be on the spot to waste the one left alive.  Fuckin’ hot as hell!”

 

“You ready for this, boy?” Dan asked, his face serious for a moment.  “You ready to end a man’s life, to feel him die in yer hands?”

 

“Yeah,” Pete responded in a strained voice, “I been fuckin’ ready since day one, man.”

 

Dan didn’t have to see Pete’s huge erection straining the worn denim of his jeans to know that the younger cop was eager.  The question was—was he able?  Tonight, Dan would learn for certain just how far he could trust Pete with his plans for the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department.

 

And some of those plans were…extreme.

 

 

Brody was in a foul mood as he slowly maneuvered his pickup up the rutted gravel road towards his trailer.  He’d have to talk to Dan about that cop who pulled him over.  Pure fuckin’ harassment.  He wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t fuckin’ acting like it, either.

 

On the other hand, the dude was with was drunk; in fact; the fucker was totally bombed.  He was laying back in the passenger seat, slurring out boasts about his sexual prowess and leering at Brody.

 

Dude seemed to have no idea he was gonna be the one taking it up the ass tonight.  He’d learn soon enough, though. Maybe he’d put up a fight.  Brody kinda hoped so; his internal rage needed a good venting.  Beating the shit outta this drunk muscled faggot would feel damn good.

 

He shut off the truck.  “We’re here,” he told the guy—couldn’t remember his name and didn’t care anyway—and jumped out of the driver’s seat.  The other guy fumbled at the door handle, got it open, and managed to get out of the truck without falling.  Staggering, he followed Brody up the steps.

 

The buff killer had headed to the bar straight after work; he was still in his work clothes—torn, stained jeans tucked into his laced, untied Redwing construction boots and a white tank top clinging to his huge hairy chest.  As he mounted the steps, though, he could feel the gaze of the hardbodied homo behind him and knew that it was centered on his ass.  He grinned; if the motherfucker thought he was gonna be shagging Brody, it was gonna be a pleasure to teach him otherwise.

 

Brody was all man.  He didn’t take dick from nobody.

 

Neither did Tony.  At least, he never had before and had no plans to change that, but he was too fucked up at the moment to consider the matter at all.  He’d never had a problem getting hard even when he was drunk; his seven and a half inches of thick, vein-wrapped manmeat was already stiff as he watched the trailer trash stud climb the steps in front of him.

 

Brody flipped the light switch as soon as they entered.  Tony’s first drunken thought as his glance swept the trailer’s dark and dingy interior was that he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place.

 

Then Brody turned towards the kitchen and the sight of his firm, rounded ass covered in the soft, faded denim, filled Tony’s mind with other thoughts.

 

Brody grabbed a beer from the fridge.  He didn’t ask, or care, if his guest wanted one.  As far as Brody was concerned, it’d be a waste of a good beer. Drunk homo wouldn’t be around long enough to finish it anyway.

 

“Bedroom’s in there,” he grunted, nodding towards the partially open door on the other side of the clothing-strewn living room.  Popping the top of his beer, he took a long swig, then noticed that the motherfucker was still standing there, swaying slightly.

 

“Whatcha waitin’ for?” he snapped.  “G’wan, get in there an’ strip.  Get on the bed.”

 

Tony finally picked up on the instruction, without picking up any deeper meaning in the stud’s harsh tone.  By now, he’d absorbed all the alcohol that had still been in his stomach when he left the bar—he wasn’t just drunk; he was stupid drunk.  Grinning inanely, he staggered into the bedroom.

 

Behind him, the buff killer polished off his beer and crushed the can in his fist.  He peeled off his dirty t-shirt, baring his powerfully muscled torso.  The gleam of his sweat-slick skin under the dim overhead light was matched by the faint twinkle of his thick gold necklace, half-hidden in the dense fur that swept across his massive chest.

 

He was looking forward to this.  The piece of faggot shit in the other room might think it was a top but by the time Brody was done with it, it’d know its true place on earth—or in it.

 

Grinning maliciously, he reached down and unzipped his fly, then slowly extracted his formidable shaft.  Once free of the confines of his jeans, it pointed straight at the bedroom, so hard it ached.

 

It knew its prey was in there, and Brody wasn’t one to deny it.  He headed for the door with his rod jutting in front of him like a weapon; the thud of his boots was muffled by the threadbare carpeting.  He was intent on the kill and didn’t look back.

 

If he had, he might have noticed the way the guest bedroom door was being slowly and stealthily opened.

 

 

In the bedroom, Tony had at least been lucid enough to strip off his clothes; his t-shirt and jeans were piled sloppily on top of his Timberlands.  His hairy, muscular body was the first thing Brody could see when he entered.  The drunk Latino was grinning stupidly and hard as a rock.

 

“C’mon, man,” he slurred, “C’mon an’ suck it.  I got it ready for ya.”

 

Brody’s answering grin was colder and more malicious.  The dumbass actually though he was gonna be driving.  The psycho clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.  This was gonna be fun.

 

“Get on the bed, faggot,” he said, the cold steel in his voice cutting through the haze in Tony’s alcohol-soaked brain.

 

“Huh?” the buff Hispanic chirped, peering blearily at the larger man.  “Wha’, ya wanna suck me off on the bed?  Naw, get on yer knees.’

 

Brody didn’t bother to conceal the line-drive punch that he aimed at Tony’s head.  The nude furry fag saw the powerful blow coming at him but was too wasted to dodge it.  He took the full impact in his face, falling back, stunned, onto the bed.

 

Stunned and wasted, yes, but not incapacitated.  Tony wasn’t quite as tall and powerful as Brody was, but the difference was minor.  He was strong, and he’d been caught off guard to the extent he’d had no clue that he was about to be attacked.  He rose up off the bed before Brody could approach him.  A hurt anger glowed in his red-rimmed eyes as he wiped his busted lip with the back of his hand, leaving a bloody smear.

 

“Wha’ th’ fuck, man?” he demanded.  His voice had the slightest hint of a whine in it; just enough for Brody to hear, and to spark his contempt.

 

“Get back on that bed with yer fuckhole in the air, ya worthless pig,” Brody barked, “I’m gonna jam my rod so far up yer ass you’ll be gaggin’ on it from the inside.  Bend over, bitch—now!”

 

Tony’s drunkenness meant that his reaction was more stupefaction than anything else; it soon shaded into amusement.  “Aw, naw, dude, I fuck—I don’t get fucked,” he laughed easily, as if he’d entirely forgotten that he’d been punched in the face two minutes earlier.

 

Brody decided to remind him.  He kneed Tony in the crotch, driving his hard patella into the Latino’s hairy, low-hanging nads.  As he grunted, painfully and viscerally, and crumpled, Brody jerked his leg up again, this time planting his knee deep into Tony’s flat, firm belly.

 

The buff Hispanic expelled the air in his lungs with a forced wheeze and fell straight to the floor, gasping and shuddering at Brody’s feet.  The tall redneck killer squatted down and, placing one knee on Tony’s back, leaned forward.

 

“Guess what, asswipe,” he hissed menacingly, “You’re already fucked.”

 

He stood erect and drew back one foot, then drove his steel-toed Red Wing boot crushingly into the heaving, gurgling fag.  Brody’s cock visibly pulsed and stiffened at the wet snapping sounds caused by two of Tony’s ribs shattering under the brutal impact.

 

If the hardbodied Mexican had been able to catch his breath, he would have screamed; he’d broken bones before, but he’d never endured the pain of sharp jagged shards tearing open his left lung.  And suddenly, regaining his air became much, much harder.  The pain cut through the alcohol-induced fog in his brain like—well, like a sharp knife.  As he writhed, nude, on the filthy floor of a stranger’s bedroom, Tony understood that he was in trouble.  A lot of trouble.

 

Brody, on the other hand, was filled with satanic glee; his uncouth backwoods brain full of a barely controllable mix of red-hot lust and white-hot rage.  The faggot was learning his place.  But if this was kindergarten, Brody was ready to accelerate the lessons to post-graduate level.

 

“C’mon, motherfucker,” he sneered as be bent down and grabbed Tony, “My dick it gettin’ cold and I wanna warm it up in yer guts while I jack you up.”  Brody locked his hands around the moaning homo’s upper arms; they weren’t quite big enough to encircle Tony’s thick, strong biceps, but they were close.  He hoisted the Hispanic dude in the air and held him close—their chest fur bushed and tangled together—while he looked Tony straight in the eyes.

 

“Ready to get what’s comin’ to ya, spicmeat?  Fuckin’ wetback pansy—ready to get what ya deserve?”

 

Tony still couldn’t speak clearly, but he didn’t need to.  Much to his horror, he felt his long, thick tube of manmeat slowly but visibly growing rigid.  Since Brody was strong enough to hold him dead-arm straight at eye level mere inches away, within seconds the two hard cocks were practically jousting with each other.

 

The look of triumph in Brody’s eyes was cold, hard, and terrifying.  Dominance had been established, but in this pairing, there would not be an alpha and a beta.  There was only an alpha and a null—soon to become a negative.

 

Tony already knew he had to act fast if he was going to leave this room alive, but his vicious assailant’s inherent sadism worked against him in more ways than one.  He figured he might be able to scramble away once he was tossed on the bed.  Brody, however, had other plans, and he put them into action with a blindingly swift maneuver.  Letting go of Tony’s right arm, he grabbed at the fucker’s throat, his left hand clamping around it like a steel trap.

 

He was then free to ball up his right hand into a fist and slam it like a wrecking ball into the left side of Tony’s torso—exactly where his boot had landed.  The Hispanic homo had recovered enough breath to scream, but his throat was cinched off.  He could only gurgle and writhe, his toes curling in agony barely an inch above the dirty carpet.

 

When Brody tossed him onto the wadded pile of stained, yellowed sheets, Tony was less concerned with escaping and more concern with trying to breathe without shrieking.  He was about to find out it didn’t matter if he shrieked or not—no one would care.

 

It wasn’t that there was no one else nearby; it was just that those who were nearby wanted to hear him scream.

 

 

Pete crouched in the doorway with Dan right behind him.  As close as they were, the captain could sense the raw sexual excitement surging through his buff young deputy.  It emanated into the hazy atmosphere of the darkened hallway—an electric aftertaste, a whiff of cordite, something hot and powerfully charged.

 

The two men watched silently but intently as Brody beat Tony into submission before raping him.  They did nothing to intervene.  They were representatives of the law, but it was an artificial law, a human construct.  This situation was under the jurisdiction of the law of the jungle—a much older and more primitive law that gave to the strong the right to do whatever they desired to the weak.  It was the law by which all four men lived their lives—even Tony, who had used it to his advantage with his stepson.

 

Problem was, Tony met someone even stronger.

 

But four aroused hardbodied males within a fifteen-foot radius, all pumping out pheromones in an area already permeated with mansex, were adding fuel to a raging fire.  And the brutality Brody was inflicting on the Mexican fag was nothing compared to the explosion of violence that was soon to come.

 

 

As Tony wallowed in pain on the bed, Brody’s towering presence suddenly loomed over him.  In his agony, the well-built Latino had lost sight of the vicious bastard who’d inflicted it on him—until Brody was there, his shadow thrown across Tony’s muscular body.

 

 

For a moment, the battered boykiller glanced up at his assailant.  It was a terrifying sight—the hulking psycho standing over him, huge muscles gleaming with a light sheen of sweat and an angry, jutting erection that would intimidate the most submissive bottom whoreboy.  The glint of the thick gold necklace nestled in Brody’s wiry, luxuriant chest fur naturally drew Tony’s gaze up to the sadist’s hard, masculine face, covered with dark, unshaven scruff and filled with such hate and lust that Tony almost lost control of his bladder.

 

He had to get out of here.  Now.

 

Despite the pain it caused him, he managed to roll over onto his belly and begin to squirm away.  He might not have been as bulked-out as Brody, but he’d been powerful enough to waste his stepson without breaking too much of a sweat; he might stand a chance against this loco motherfucker if he could just beak away—

 

—and then Brody was on him, a sudden crushing weight as the hardbodied killer landed on his knees on Tony’s back, pinning him face-down on the bed.  The startled Latino reached out for the side of the mattress, seeking something to grip so he could pull himself out from under, but Brody stopped that maneuver cold.

 

He shifted his weight, keeping one knee in the middle of Tony’s back and placing the other in the middle of the spic’s right forearm.  “You ain’t going nowhere, ya fuckin’ wetback,” he snarled, his redneck voice thick with racial hate, “Not till I’m done with ya.”

 

He laid his right hand on top of Tony’s and curled his fingers between those of his victim.  In another setting, the gesture would have been intimate, even loving.

 

Here, it just gave Brody a better grip, letting him use greater force as he jerked Tony’s arm back with enough power to break it at the point where his knee was placed.

 

The thick, almost gristly double snap of the radius and ulna shattering simultaneously was drowned out by Tony’s screech of pain.  His escape plans evaporated as he stared incredulously at the way his useless right arm hung at a bizarre angle.  His muscled body heaved and twitched; Brody rode it out with a vicious grin, his thick meaty cock slapping on Tony’s bare back as the cunt flailed.

 

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, cocksucker,” the sadistic top crowed, “Lissenin’ to yer bitch ass squealin’ like a fuckin’ pansy turns me on.”  Still kneeling on Tony’s back, he silently unbuckled his belt and snaked it out from around his waist.  Beneath him, the furry, muscled spicmeat was still bucking and jerking in pain.

 

Tony never saw Brody double the belt up; her never had the chance to flinch from Brody’s upraised arm or to try, however uselessly, to ward off the impending blow.  He never knew it was coming until it was there.

 

Then it was all he knew.

 

Instead of holding the ends of his thick leather belt, Brody held it in the middle, leaving the ends—including the large metal buckle—to cause the actual strike.  As a result, the power of his blows was instantly doubled.  The end with the leather strap left vicious welts that added to the agony caused by the buckled end tearing at Tony’s taut manflesh.

 

The first lash was almost as painful as the broken arm, a searing slice across his right shoulder blade, as if a butcher was making a preliminary cut before slicing off a specific cut.  The next one came before the fiery agony of the first had subsided, and from that point on, Tony only remembered that his arm was broken when his mindless thrashing ground the jagged ends of the bones together.  And even then, it didn’t matter.  What mattered was that the sheer excruciating torture of Brody’s insanely violent attack convinced Tony that he was being flayed alive.

 

He wasn’t that lucky.  Death would’ve come sooner that way.

 

 

Pete’s bloodlust was near the boiling point.  Dan couldn’t blame the younger man; he was no less full of testosterone and cum than Dan himself.  And the scene playing out in front of them certainly wasn’t cooling them off.  Two hardbodied males on the bed, one screaming in pain, the other grunting with the muscular effort of inflicting pain…

 

They could see well enough; Dan had decided it was safe enough to crack the door open a little wider.  The two motherfuckers in the bedroom were too engrossed in their own relationship, so to speak, to notice much of their surroundings at this point.

 

And so the pair of buff lawmen crouched with erect, straining cocks, as Brody beat the screaming Mexican to a pulp, whipping the thrashing faggot until he drew blood, then moving on to a different spot.

 

 

After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually closer to ten minutes, Brody stopped swinging his belt.  Still straddling the fagmeat, he could feel it twitch and shudder beneath his firm muscular thighs.  It moaned and sobbed quietly, as if it already knew that begging was useless and that its best choice was to accept what was being done to it.

 

It expected to be hurt again; some deep dark area of its brain, walled off by battlements of denial, even expected death.  What it didn’t expect was Brody’s long swollen shaft rammed brutally up its virgin hole as the violently powerful redneck mounted it from behind and took it like a bitch.

 

Tony was a top.  He’d enjoyed the fuck outta raping his teenaged stepson.  He’d never felt any desire to take it up the ass, and this new source of agony somehow transcended the pain of broken bones and lacerated skin.  It was…invasive, somehow, in in the way nothing else had been.

 

And despite his suffering, the memory of Billy’s snuff flooded into Tony’s traumatized mind.  From nowhere, the thought flashed through his head that he’d inflicted exactly this pain on the teenaged punk.  Adding to the effect caused by Brody’s cock grinding against his prostate, it created an involuntary physical reaction.

 

To his horror, Tony found himself with a raging hard-on while he was getting viciously assraped.

 

Again, he screamed at the top of his lungs—but not at top of his vocal cords.  He’d been shrieking and crying so long that his already hoarse voice cracked.  The sounds he gave off now were guttural and grating.

 

Brody found it instantly annoying.  He liked his meat screaming, but he didn’t like it gargling.  He’d never let go of his belt, even when he’d plowed his tool into the pansy’s asscunt; he’d intended to use at some later point.  The noise the spic homo was making decided him; that point was now.

 

If the fucktard wanted to gag, Brody would give it a goddam good reason to gag.  He looped the belt over its head, then switched the ends in his hands so that it crossed at the back of the neck.  After that, all he had to do was lean back and jerk on the reins.  By easing up on the belt (or vice versa), he controlled if the meat breathed or if it choked, if it gasped for air or if it gagged in suffocating horror.

 

The hairy, muscled wetback was his fucktoy, a sack of meat to enjoy as it died on his cock.

 

 

Tony, of course, didn’t think of himself that way, but nobody gave a shit what he thought.  And by this time, lucid ratiocination was beyond his abilities.  With a monstrous cock up his ass and a thick leather strap cinching off his windpipe, self-preservation took up more of his mind than self-image.

 

But some part of him was also recalling Billy’s violent convulsions as the teenaged punk had died.  Tony had strangled him with a belt.  He’d forgotten that.  He’d raped his stepson and choked the boy to death with a belt.  Now it was happening to him.

 

The inside of Tony’s head felt like it was going to start spewing out of his ears; the pressure and the pounding were unendurable—but he could only claw ineffectually at the thick strap with his one good hand.  He couldn’t move; he was pinned to the bed by what felt like a telephone pole being reamed up his ass.  He couldn’t even scream aloud anymore.

 

And that was the point when Tony lost his Alpha card.  He was suddenly flooded with remorse for what he’d done to his stepson.  Now that he was suffering the identical agony he’d put the little cunt through, he developed a rudimentary sense of empathy.

 

It came too late to redeem him as a human being; it just made his last few minutes on earth as thrashing fuckmeat even more painful.

 

 

From behind, Brody couldn’t see the spic’s face.  He didn’t get to watch the way his bitch was drooling, or the way its eyes bulged and its face darkened from purple to black, but he didn’t need to.  He could feel its asshole working his dick, massaging the full length of the thick, throbbing shaft as he plowed it into the fucker’s guts.

 

The more brain damage the homo suffered, the harder its fagcunt stroked Brody’s rod.  The hardbodied redneck pumped his massive hog faster and faster into the dying shitsack, feeling beneath him its powerful muscles clenching and relaxing involuntarily as it started to lose physical control and coordination.

 

One thing it hadn’t lost yet was consciousness.  Brody didn’t know how he knew it could still hear him—but he knew.  He bent down to whisper into the motherfucker’s ear, so close, his rough, unshaven cheek brushed against the faggot’s head.

 

“Stupid fuckin’ wetback,” he hissed, “Still drunk, asswipe?  Still so drunk ya think you can fuck me?  Only thing yer good for is sinkin’ in th’ swamp after you die and milk my load outta me.  Ya hear me, boy?  Work my dick, faggot, work it good!”

 

With a snarl, Brody rose up and jerked brutally on the belt, his hands tightly gripping the ends as the thick bands of muscles in his biceps strained visibly under the skin.  The pressure on the dying pansy’s throat was inexorable.

 

 

Tony both felt and heard his esophagus collapse.  It was a soft crunching sound, like some crushing plastic foam, with the snapping of the hyoid bone adding a moment of punctuation.

 

When it happened, Tony shot his load.  It was an instinctual and uncontrolled reaction—the reflexive response of hypersexual manmeat to overwhelming physical trauma.  Since he was pinned face down on the bed, no one knew he’d spunked.  Not even Tony.  What he’d felt was an excruciating ache, as if his scrotum had been turned inside out, and in a way, it had.

 

In other circumstances, it would have been his best orgasm to date; he unloaded more sperm onto Brody’s stained sheets than he’d ever shot before.

 

 

It wasn’t how the meat’s dick reacted to a mortal wound that interested Brody so much as how its rectum did.  And the spicmeat’s ass was handling the buff killer’s engorged member like it was deliberately jacking him off.  The faggot’s fuckhole seemed to have a mind of its own, one not affected by lack of oxygen—one that wanted the alpha’s seed.

 

“Oh fuck,” Brody grunted, dropping the belt, “Oh fuck!!”  With a loud, inarticulate cry, the muscular killer leaned forward and wrapped his powerful arms around the corpse’s head.  His hips pumping at a frantic tempo, the redneck stud gave a massive grunt and twisted his arms.

 

The movement was quick and brutal; he wrenched the spic’s head off its spine.  The top two cervical vertebrae shattered with a popcorn-like burst, clearly audible outside the bedroom.  The sound damn near made Dan and Pete cum.  It did make Brody cum.

 

He jerked and heaved, his muscle-bound form shuddering violently as he hosed the dead fucker’s guts with his semen.  As the dead man continued to kick and twitch on his cock, Brody hunched over and spewed jet after jet of seething sperm up the corpse’s ass.

 

Gasping and heaving, he finally slowed.  Gingerly, he began to extract his still-oozing manhood from the dead faggot when the door was kicked in.

 

Brody looked up, angry and confused, as Pete and Dan piled into the room.  Pete had his shirt off, baring his huge furry chest; Brody hadn’t realized how pumped up Pete had gotten.  Behind him, Dan just finished unbuttoning his shirt and was slipping it off.

 

Then Brody realized that Pete’s fly was open. and his enormous tackle was hanging out.  And hard.

 

It happened in the blink of an eye.  “Take ‘im, Pete!” Dan barked, and the younger man threw himself at Brody.

 

Brody might not have known why it was happening—but he knew what was happening.  It was gonna be a fight to the death.  And if he lost, he was gonna take it up the ass.

 

 

 

The Return of Leather Dave

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex Snuff3 Comments

The building was located off Randolph Street, some three blocks from the river.  On a side street facing the massive rail yard of a huge train station, the hotel didn’t give a view of anything worth looking at—not that you could tell by the prices.

 

Dave supposed it was the décor.  The place had been refurbished from a turn-of-the-century theater into a bijou hotel; the theater itself too small for modern stage productions but, once the balcony was redone as a mezzanine floor, perfect for smaller conventions.  Like the Chicago S&M Leather Club’s SpikeCon.

 

Dave wasn’t staying at the hotel himself; he knew better than that.  He was hunting.  He wasn’t into the hard-core masochists that he knew would be attending, but these kinda events drew curious little cunts looking to be dominated and willing to go farther than most before realizing they’d gone too far.

 

Stupid fuckers, Dave thought with a grin and at least two dudes looking in his direction feel in love with his handsome, porn-star features.  His long-lashed green eyes sparkled in the oddly dim “unconventual” lighting, and the dark hair on his head gleamed.

 

But Dave was used to that, especially decked out in all leather.  He’d gone high-gloss black leather on everything, from the vest that hinted at the stud’s broad chest while showing off the thick wiry black fur that covered his torso to the skin-tight jeans that left neither his taut, firm ass or the enormous bulge in his groin to the imagination.  He’d topped it off with black Wesco harness boots and smooth, tight leather gloves.

 

He looked every inch a man, and judging from the leather-wrapped ridge running down his leg, that extended a number of inches.  As a matter of course, he drew stares of raw, naked lust as he moved silently through the leather-clad crowd.

 

The time was near midnight and the convention hall was packed.  Behavior wasn’t quite as licentious as it would have been in a gay nightclub—and, in fact, a number of attendees had already left for a tour of the local clubs—but the throng was rowdy and horny.

 

No one would notice anything unusual about him picking up a fuckbuddy and heading out.  He just needed to find the lucky stiff.

 

And that was when Dave spotted him, about ten yards away, at a cash bar by a side door.  The slut had noticed him, too, and they kept eye contact as Dave approached across the crowded floor.

 

The kid was young—at least twenty-one, since he’d bought a beer and the bartender was carding, but surely no older.  What little of his hair could be seen under his backwards leather ball cap inclined more to strawberry than to blond, and his smooth, youthful face was sprinkled with a band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his upturned nose.

 

The punk was wearing a white tank top that showed off his smooth arms.  He wasn’t anywhere near as well-built as Dave, but he wasn’t scrawny.  The boy looked like he could hold his own, and that made Dave happy.  The sadistic killer wanted a good workout and had been hoping to find a sparring partner that could last for a little while.

 

The kid’s concession to leather included combat boots tightly laced to nearly mid-calf and a pair of short shorts that ended inches down the thigh and didn’t quite conceal the florid head of the cunt’s dick.  But it was the thick leather dog collar the fag was sporting around his neck, with its triple row of jet-black steel spikes, that caught Dave’s eye, and set his imagination working.

 

“Hey,” he said smoothly, his baritone voice resonating deeply as he glided up to the boy.

 

“Uh—hi,” the kid replied nervously, grinning and blushing boyishly.

 

“I wanna fuck you,” Dave said bluntly.

 

The slut’s gentle shyness evaporated instantly and his muddy brown eyes lit up with expectant lust.  “Oh fuck yeah, dude,” he said with breathless excitement, “I gotta room here—you, uh, ya wanna go?”

 

“We gonna be alone?”

 

“Yeah,” the punk replied, “Buncha us got a suite but the others all went out clubbin’.  They won’t be back for at least three hours, if they come back at all, the fuckin’ whores.”

 

“Let’s go,” Dave said and followed the kid out.

 

The boy was so eager, if he’d been a dog, he’d have been wagging his tail.  On the way up to the third floor, he told Dave his name was Harold, “but everybody calls me Buddy.”  He rattled on about his personal life—how he’d come to the convention with a group of gay friends all into leather, how his father, some high-ranking judge, had no idea why his son had taken a week off his classes to visit Chicago.

 

“He thinks it’s to tour the Art Institute,” Buddy finished up smugly as the elevator reached the third floor and opened.  The suite was to the left, last door on the right.  The mellow lighting, tasteful carpet and ambient music went some way towards explaining the hotel’s ludicrous pricing.

 

So did the interior of the suite.  There was a bathroom to the left and a kitchenette off to the right of the entry; Dave had a brief impression of stylish cabinets of dark wood and glass and steel appliances and fixtures, but he had little interest in those rooms beyond ascertaining that they were empty.  Past the entry was a small living area minimally furnished with a loveseat, coffee table, floor lamp, and a huge TV on a stand.

 

“I’ma go grab us a drink,” Buddy chirped, heading for the fridge.  Dave grunted absently in agreement and checked out the bedroom.  It was a sight worth seeing.

 

Most of the room was taken up by an almost grotesquely huge bed; it seemed too big to be a king.  The bedding mostly crumpled on the floor; in fact, the whole room looked like the set for an orgy scene in a porno.  Clothes, sneakers, boots and random pieces of leather gear were scattered around.  Dave found himself admiring the Red Wing harness boots propped on the recliner in the corner, along with the harness draped over them.

 

A large window was opposite the door; it looked down onto the street and the railyard.  There was a dresser next to it and a desk opposite the bed; both were covered with sex toys, popper bottles and wads of tissue.  On the desk was an enormous black dildo, reflected in the large mirror above.

 

Dave smirked and turned back to the other room.  Buddy emerged from the kitchen with a couple of tumblers.  “Here,” he said, somewhat unsteadily, “It’s Frieball.  I mean, Fireball.  Good shit.”

 

Dave took a sip of the whiskey.  “So how many of ya are here?” he asked.

 

Even though Buddy was seriously buzzed and horny as fuck, he still knew what the leather stud meant.  “Ya saw the bedroom?  Yeah, there’s three of us all in there.  Man, Lee wanted to fuck me so bad last night, but I been waitin’ to get plowed—hopin’ I’d find someone like you—” he here broke off and blushed charmingly again.  “So, anyway, I gave ‘im a BJ instead an’ helped ‘im use the dildo on Todd.  Todd’s such a fuckin’ whore…”

 

The punk trailed off as Dave slowly stood up and slipped his leather vest off, tossing it down onto the coffee table.  It knocked both drinks onto the floor, adding the heady scent of whiskey to an atmosphere already redolent of testosterone and mansex.  Buddy didn’t notice; his attention was riveted to the older man’s huge hairy hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.

 

Buddy rose too, not gracefully as Dave had, but popping so eagerly his leather cap came off, revealing his light wavy hair.  The kid almost lunged at Dave, fastening onto the muscular killer’s chest, his tongue lapping at the large nips while he ran his fingers through the black wiry fur.  He paused a moment to lift a finger and run it around Dave’s goatee, outlining the stud’s mouth before bringing it back to his own and sucking on it.

 

Suddenly the boy broke off.  “I want you in me,” he muttered breathlessly, then pulled off his shirt, revealing his smooth, firm, wiry torso.  Grabbing Dave by the hand, Buddy led the way to the bedroom, wriggling out of his tight leather shorts as he did.  By the time they reached the bed, the only things Buddy wore besides his gleaming leather boots and his spiked collar were an eager grin and a raging hard boycock.

 

Dave didn’t bother to pull his dick out; he didn’t need to.  Buddy did it for him, hands trembling with excitement as he worked the older stud’s zipper.  Dave could feel the boy’s fingers around his massive, throbbing member as Buddy excitedly began to extract the enormous manshaft from its leather confines.

 

“Goddam,” the punk whispered in awe, “It just keeps comin’…”

 

“Wait’ll it’s fuckin’ in ya, whore,” Dave growled and Buddy squirmed in submissive glee.  “Now get over here.  I wanna fuck you right here in front of the window.  Show all those cunts down there what a fuckin’ slut you are.  C’mon, fucker!”

 

The ginger-blond fag obediently assumed the position, bent forwards with his hands placed on the huge plate-glass window and his ass posed and ready for receiving.  He had a great view of the street—and in the backlit bedroom, the conventioneers milling about on the street below had a great view of him.  Whistling and catcalling, faint but still audible, could be heard from below as the leather-gear crowd began to realize they were being given a free show.

 

Dave stayed far enough behind that he couldn’t be seen from the street.  They knew he was there, though, from Buddy’s reaction as the muscle-bound older man began to shove his huge, vein-wrapped mantube up the boy’s fuckhole.

 

The kid rose up on his toes, flexing his feet inside his tightly-laced boots and bending his waist in a vain attempt to find a position that would be more accommodating to the enormous rod being relentlessly thrust into his colon.  He was into pain, sure, and he knew he could take the dude’s cock, if only he’d used lube…

 

The youth beat on the window in sexual pain, groaning loudly and erotically as his eyes rolled back in his head.  “Aw yeah—fuck, brah, yer killin’ me…” he moaned to the faint cheering from below as his own thick, dangling boycock slapped against the glass.

 

“Not yet, cunt,” Dave muttered and started pounding the boyhole remorselessly.

 

“Fuck YEAH!!!” Buddy cried out, his smooth young body already slick with sweat.  For a moment, Dave was surprised the little fucker could take it, before realizing what a serious whore the kid truly was.

 

The problem with major asssluts is that even if they start out tight, they always go loose.  Dave smiled, already anticipating the enjoyment he’d take in making sure he got the fuckmeat properly re-tightened.

 

Buddy had no idea what Dave was thinking about; it was sheer coincidence that made him speak.  “Hurt me, dude,” he moaned, “C’mon, show me yer a man—hit me…”

 

“Ya like that, cunt?” Dave sneered.  “Ya like gettin’ hurt when yer gettin’ fucked?  Cause I’m about to put a serious fuckin’ beatdown on yer twink ass!”

 

Sexually supercharged by the banter, Buddy never considered the possibility that Dave was speaking literally.  “Oh hell yeah bro, make me feel it,” he grunted in erotic abandon.

 

“Ya got it, motherfucker,” Dave chuckled, and grabbed Buddy’s dog collar at the buckle, where there were no spikes.  It wasn’t tight–in fact, it was loose enough around the kid’s neck that he could easily slid his hand under it and jerk it back like a horse’s rein.  At the same time, his swung his balled-up leather-wrapped fist like a wrecking ball, giving the punk a brutal donkey-punch to the back of the head.

 

The impact was hard enough to bounce Buddy’s head off the thick window glass.  “Ahh!” the kid cried out, “What the fuck, man?!?”

 

“You said ya wanted to be hurt,” the muscle stud chuckled, not missing a beat as he pumped his tool up into the twink’s ass with a driving tempo, “Why—want more?”

 

“Not like that!” Buddy shouted indignantly, but it was too late.  Dave was swinging again.  This one was a roundhouse blow from the shoulder that swept wide and caught the youth on the side of the face.  As such, it was visible to the horny dudes watching the sex show from the street, and it was roundly applauded—well, it was an S&M convention.

 

Buddy was much less appreciative.  He squalled and yelled, jerking himself forward and managing, somehow, to get himself off the huge spear of manflesh.  He whirled around and faced Dave.  From outside, the crowd realized the show was over and several loud and distinctive boos came wafting up to express their displeasure.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the kid whispered, wide-eyed with a fear that came far too late to be useful.  He reached behind his neck and unfastened the dog collar; determined that it wouldn’t be used to snare him again, he tossed it onto the bed.

 

“You fuckin’ pussy,” Dave growled, “You wanted to be hurt?  I ain’t even started on ya, you stupid cunt.  Those were just love taps.  By the time I’m done workin’ over yer worthless fuckmeat, you’ll be in so fuckin’ much pain you’ll cum in agony.”

 

Cold terror flushed through the lithe boyslut, causing his smooth skin to pale.  He began edging towards the corner of the room as Dave started closing the distance between them.  “You—you fuckin’ stay away from me, you psycho—NO!!”

 

Buddy scrambled onto the bed.  Dave lunged at him, but the limber youth somehow managed to tuck into a somersault and roll off the bed; the move was spontaneous and amateurish and he ended up sprawled on the floor, but it bought him a precious few seconds. As Dave floundered his way off the huge bed, the terrified cunt bolted out of the bedroom, heading for the hall door.

 

Gaining the door, Buddy fumbled frantically with the deadbolt.  His fingers finally caught it and he gave a sigh of relief as the lock clicked open.  Then Dave’s hand clenched in his hair, jerking backwards and tossing him to the floor.

 

The hairy, hardbodied stud re-locked the door and turned to his victim.  From the floor, Buddy looked up at the older man, still in clad in tight black leather from his boots to his waist; only his gigantic cock was free, pulsating as it swung, erect, in the air.  Above, the boy’s eyes followed the vast, furry expanse of Dave’s broad chest and huge hubcap pecs with their dark jutting nipples.  Above that, the handsome face, that charming, cheerful grin framed by the virile black goatee…

 

…Buddy had fallen back in lust with Dave so hard and fast that he forgot what he was doing.  Dave didn’t.

 

He bent down and clamped one hand around the punk’s throat, his black-gloved fingers digging in excruciatingly as he lifted the kid into the air.  Buddy’s reverie came to an abrupt halt as his windpipe was closed off and he was hoisted agonizingly by his neck.  The young whoreboy clawed at Dave’s wrist and arm while his combat boots flailed uselessly four inches off the ground.  His bulging eyes stared directly into those of his torturer, without the latter showing the least concern—or the slightest bit of exertion, despite single-handedly dead-lifting the kid off the floor.

 

“What the fuck is wrong with you, ya little asswipe?” Dave asked him, the deadly gleam in his eye belying the almost conversational tone of the question.  “You said ya wanted to be hurt.  I came all the way the fuck up to this room to hurt ya, so you goddam sure better enjoy it, motherfucker!”

 

With that, he hurled the kid into the loveseat.  Buddy hit it on his back hard enough to bounce off, falling forward onto the coffee table, which promptly broke under his weight.  The kid ended up on his hands and knees in a mess of broken wood and leather—his cap and Dave’s vest—coughing and gagging, but essentially unhurt.  For the moment.

 

Staggering to his feet, the fair-haired boy glared at Dave, sullen and defiant.  “What are ya, some kinda sicko?  Lookit this shit—you gonna pay for that table?  You better get the fuck outta here or I’m gonna call—UHH!!”

 

Dave, tired of the chattering, popped the kid right in his gaping maw, knocking out a canine and shutting him up.  Buddy stared at him wide-eyed, one hand clamped over his injured mouth.

 

“Like I said, I ain’t even got started on hurtin’ ya, son.  I’m gonna hurt you so good, ya perverted little cocksucker, you ain’t ever gonna need anyone else to hurt ya again.  Ya feelin’ me, brah?  No?  You will.  Trust me, faggot, ya damn sure will.”  Almost casually, he reached out and gripped Buddy by the upper arm; before the youth even realized he’d been grabbed, Dave had spun around and flung him into the TV.

 

This one didn’t leave the punk unscathed.  The flat screen TV was totaled and a large dent left in the drywall behind it.  Buddy landed badly, wrenching his right arm.  He lay on the floor wheezing, trying to breathe, but the only thing his hazy eyes seemed to focus on were the gleaming toes of Dave’s Wesco harness boots as they came closer…

 

“On yer feet, motherfucker.  Or do ya want me to carry ya into the bedroom?”

 

The threat worked; still gasping, Buddy clambered to his feet and dove into the bedroom with an abortive plan to try and lock Dave out.  Dave was already in the room when the boy turned back—and Dave locked the door behind him.

 

“No more interruptions,” he said with a sinister grin, “And no more fuckin’ foreplay, bitch.”

 

Buddy hadn’t noticed Dave was wearing a belt; the wide leather strap with the chrome buckle had more or less blended in with the rest of his leather gear.  It wasn’t until he unbuckled it and started sliding it off that Buddy even realized it existed.  And even then, he still didn’t understand what was going on; at least, not until Dave wrapped the end without the buckle around his hand a couple of times.

 

With a screech, the young slut tried to dodge out of Dave’s reach, but the experienced killer was able to swing his makeshift lash wide.  Buddy howled in pain as the strap whipped across the smooth, soft flesh of his back, the thick buckle leaving a vicious purple welt.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah,” the buff older man crowed, “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!”  With a wide grin, he slashed the belt at Buddy twice.  The first blow went across the whore’s back again; with an agonized yelp, the kid spun around just in time to receive the second squarely across his firm, flat belly, the loud slap instantly echoed by another cry of pain.

 

“You son of a motherfuckin’ bitch, I’m gonna—AAAHHH!!!”

 

Dave had swung the belt with the precision of an animal tamer’s whip, landing the buckle in Buddy’s face with enough force to break his right cheekbone—and shut him up.

 

“Close yer cocksuckin’ cumhole, faggot,” the cruel leatherman sneered, “You’re mine now.  Got that?  Ain’t no one gonna come save you.  You’re here so I can do what the fuck I want to with ya—and when I’m done, you’re done.  Understand me?  When I’m done with ya, ain’t no one else gonna have any use for ya either.  So shut up and take it, cunt, no matter how bad it gets—cause I promise you, I can always make it worse.”

 

Buddy clutched his swelling face, whimpering and cowering.  He didn’t reply.  He was still trying to figure out what had happened—how a chance meeting with a smokin’ hot stud had somehow become a nightmare of pain and fear.  That was when Dave, annoyed with losing his fucktoy’s attention, gut-punched him, sinking his gloved fist deep into the boy’s tender abdomen.

 

Buddy knelt on the floor, trying to breathe, when Dave yanked his head back by the hair.  “You pay attention when I’m talkin’ to ya, you scum-suckin’ piece a’ shit, you hear me?  Say ‘yes sir’!”

 

“Y-yessir…” Buddy managed to gasp out painfully.

 

“That’s right, asshole,” Dave growled and gave the cowering punk a swift kick with his steel-toed boot.  Buddy gave a breathless yip, then started sniveling.  The sound enraged the older man; he glared down at the huddled mass of sobbing boymeat.  “Fuck, I’m gonna be doin’ the world a favor by takin’ a worthless piece of crap like you outta it,” he muttered in disgust, “Shut the fuck up!”

 

Lost in his little world of fear and pain, Buddy never heard him.  The lithe youth with the red-gold hair continued to sob on his knees until the muscled older man, fed up with the irritating mewling noise, began to beat him with the belt again.  At the first blow—across his upper arm—Buddy came out of his despairing reverie, squalling.

 

He bolted to the door, by now so panicked that he didn’t even try working the locked knob; he beat and clawed at the door, yelling frantic gibberish.  Dave let him go at it for a moment or two, to let the meat wear itself out, then casually strode over, yanked the boy back, and gutpunched him.  Hard.

 

Buddy went limp and would have fallen to his knees again, but by now Dave’s dick was raging hard and he was out of patience.  He literally picked the boy up and threw him bodily onto the bed.

 

Buddy gave a cry of pain as he landed on the spiked collar.  He managed to twist himself sideways and get off it, but he wasn’t able to get off the bed itself before Dave was on it as well.  As the young boycunt tried to wriggle away, Dave leaned over, drew back his gloved fist, and pounded Buddy in the face.  Three roundhouse blows with the force of an industrial piston put paid to the twink’s escape attempt.

 

The faggot was still moaning in semiconscious agony when Dave parted the boy’s smooth, firm legs, climbing between them and propping the fucker’s boots on his shoulders.  With a perfect view of the kid’s puckered asshole, the hardbodied leatherstud aligned his enormous manshaft with cunt’s fuckhole and plunged straight in, going balls-deep on the first thrust.

 

Even for a reamed-out whore like Buddy, it was too much.  The window fuck hadn’t been too bad, but Dave had taken the time to ease himself in.  There was no easing this time; this was brutal dead-on rape, and Dave wanted it to hurt.

 

It did.  Once again, Buddy found himself dragged out of a dazed state by a new burst of physical pain.

 

“Fuck!  Oh fucking God, stop it!” he screamed, doubling his fists and beating on Dave’s powerful hairy pecs like a small child having a tantrum, “Stop!  PLEASE DEAR GOD FUCKING STO—”

 

Dave backhanded him across the face, then swung his arm back, slapping him.  Whimpering, the abused boycunt continued to writhe and struggle.

 

“Ain’t nothing worse than a bad fuck—except a mouthy one.  You’re both, ya worthless piece a’ faggot shit,” Dave growled angrily.  Keeping his huge rigid cock buried deeply in the boy’s guts, he reached out one hand and began to feel around on the bed.  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for.

 

“Good thing I know a way to fix both,” he said menacingly, and held up the dog collar, making sure that Buddy got the chance to focus on it and see clearly what it was.  The hulking leatherman leaned forward and began to put it around the punk’s neck—then stopped and leaned back again.

 

“Know what?” he said musingly, “I put down some dumbass twinks in my time, but yer the stupidest one yet.  Gonna need more control for a dumb motherfucker like you.  Here, it’s big enough—I’m gonna try it this way.”

 

Both of Buddy’s eyes were blackened and swollen, but he was still able to watching in incomprehensive fear as Dave flipped the collar over.  It was only when the older man leaned forward again that the kid realized he was putting the collar on inside out—with the spikes on the inside.

 

For a few moments, Buddy went wild in sheer panic but the weight and pressure of Dave on him (and in him) kept the youth, strong as he was, from moving an inch.  The sadistic killer just kept still, enjoying the way the punk’s thrashing was working his dick.  When the meat finally wore itself out, he calmly passed the collar around its neck.  There was just enough room to loop it back through the buckle with the spikes deeply indenting the tender flesh of the throat without piercing the skin.

 

“So ya like to be dominated?  Ya like to be hurt?” he sneered down at the trembling, terrified slut, “I’m gonna show ya what real control is like, you disgusting pansy.  I’m gonna show ya what it’s like to get used by a real man, faggot.  That means no matter how bad it gets, we ain’t done till I say we’re done.  I don’t give a shit how much it hurts you, ya motherfucking cunt; you’re only here so I have something to cum into.  Grin an’ bear it, asswipe, cause my dick is hard, my balls are full and it’s time to rock n’ roll!”

 

Dave placed one hand flat on Buddy’s chest—the twink could feel the leather-clad expanse of the older man’s palm across his pecs—grabbed the loose end of the dog collar with the other, and began pounding the kid’s ass like he was literally trying to fuck him in half.  As he did, he began slowly pulling the collar tight.

 

He did it so slowly that Buddy didn’t realize it at first; he could only feel the brutal, relentless way the older stud was reaming his captive ass, the way the huge engorged head tore at his rectal lining as it plunged into his colon, battering his prostate remorselessly on its way up his intestines.  And somehow, some way, his own dick was responding, his long thin boycock, slapping between his own flat abs and the hairy, ripped ones of his rapist, was getting harder by the moment…

 

…then the spikes began to break the flesh and the true nightmare of Buddy’s last few minutes on earth began to reveal itself.  Awash in agony and terror, the boy almost didn’t realize it at first; it was all part of the pain.  But as he continued to struggle, the spikes sank deeper into his flesh—incrementally, but remorselessly, the excruciating torment grew to overwhelming proportions.  There was nothing he could do to escape it, but he damn sure tried all the nothing he could.

 

Dave knew that the punk would panic and at some point he’d be having to rein in a thrashing piece of boymeat, so he was prepared when Buddy’s reaction set in.  The fucker went ballistic, flailing like a landed seabass, trying his best to fight Dave off, or, failing that, to wriggle his way out from under the horrific torture.

 

The lean, sweaty twink clawed frenetically at the hardbodied leather stud pinning him to the bed; his fingers, curled into talons, tried in vain to scratch at Dave’s face, but the serial killer was too experienced to let that happen.  As the spikes tore their way into his esophagus and his windpipe began to constrict, Buddy’s mindless terror only increased.  Unable to damage Dave’s face, the punk began scraping and digging at his chest, his fingers snagging in the thick wiry manfur covering Dave’s strong, broad pecs.

 

Undaunted, Dave planted his free hand on Buddy’s forehead, pinning the fuckmeat securely to the bed.  The hulking sadist could feel his spunk seething in his huge hairy scrote and knew it was time to shift into high gear.

 

“I’m gonna cum, motherfucker,” he hissed at the frenzied youth.  Something about it—his words, or maybe just his tone of voice—seemed to break through to Buddy.  Even though the meat wasn’t able to regain enough control to stop its involuntary flailing, Dave could tell it was hearing him.  “I’m about to coat yer guts with hot potent manseed.  Ya want it, dontcha, ya fuckin’ faggot?  Yeah, all you little homos want my load.  Earn it, asswipe.  Make your corpse a worthy receptacle for my semen.  Work my dick, fucker, milk my wad outta me!”

 

If Buddy heard him, he didn’t do anything new to indicate it.  In point of fact, Buddy did hear him, but was still in too much pain and panic to fully understand what was being said.  It didn’t matter.  What happened next would have happened in any case; it was what Dave had wanted from the moment he’d set eyes on the ginger-blond freckle-faced leather twink.

 

With one gloved hand on Buddy’s fist, Dave stopped pulling the collar back through its buckle with a slow, even force with the other.  Instead, with a single powerful jerk, he yanked the collar as tight as he fuckin’ could.  Instantly, the circumference of the leather strap decreased by more than thirty percent.  It was now so tight around Buddy’s neck that the queerboy was being strangled by the leather strap.

 

And, of course, for that to happen, the spikes had to be fully embedded in the youth’s throat.

 

It was…there weren’t words.  Buddy had never imagined such agony could exist.  The spikes were three quarters of an inch long and nearly a half-inch wide at their widest point—which wasn’t at the base, but just above it.

 

The steel spikes in the back of his neck had sunk in until they reached the cervical vertebrae.  It might have been merciful had they pierced the spinal cord; instead, they buried themselves in the bone and anchored the improvised garrote at the rear, giving Dave more leverage to choke the cunt to death.

 

In the front, it was different.  The metal points punctured first the jugular veins, then the carotid arteries on both sides.  If Dave removed the collar now, Buddy would bleed to death.

 

Dave wasn’t removing the collar now.  Increased pressure on the spikes merely drove them deeper into the blood vessels without allowing the blood to leak out.

 

As the twink endured the first sufferings of strangulation—the rise of pounding pressure to intolerable levels inside his head—he fought even harder.  There was no lucid thought involved; some instinct drove Buddy to concentrate on Dave’s arms, to try and yank them away in a fruitless effort to ease the throttling agony.  The boy clamped his hands around Dave biceps and pulled, but it was like trying to bend marble.  Deep inside, the choking faggot felt the sheer awesome power of the muscles being used to choke out his useless boywhore life, and despaired.

 

Dave bent forward, the stiff wiry hair of his goatee brushing Buddy’s cheek as the older man whispered in his ear.  “Die, motherfucker.  I’m gonna pump my load up yer guts and leave yer reamed-out corpse spread across the bed, so fuckin’ die, you homo shit.”

 

He gave another cruel, vicious jerk to the dog collar.  When the steel spikes tore through Buddy’s Adam’s apple, he could not only feel the way the sharp points ripped into his larynx, he could hear the crunching of the cartilage.

 

By now, Buddy wanted to die.  The pain, the terror was all too much.  Somewhere in the back of his fagslut brain, he was still aware of his own erection—he couldn’t ignore it; he was so hard it hurt.  He didn’t know it was an involuntary reaction to asphyxia; he could only feel his achingly rigid shaft pinned between the flat, firm bellies of two males locked in a fatal embrace.

 

As the young punk’s struggles began to fade, his faced showed the hideous effects of a drawn-out strangulation.  Already badly battered and swollen, the boy’s innocent, freckled-marked face was blackening grotesquely—long past purple, it was darkening to true black.  His eyes, bugling horribly, were streaked with red where blood vessels were bursting; Buddy could only see great black bursts of nothingness blooming in his field of vision like fireworks of eternity.  The bloody froth oozing from his choked-off throat found an outlet beside his purple protruding tongue, the pinkish foam trickling down the kid’s smooth cheek.

 

The dying boycunt was going under.  Its weak little faggot brain was suffering more and more damage; unable to hold out for much longer, it was no longer fighting its killer.  Dave grunted with exertion and pleasure—he knew that once his warm sweaty fucktoy stopped fighting and started caressing him, it was close to death.

 

“That’s it, faggot, time to die,” he whispered huskily, know the slut was too far gone to hear him.  By now, Buddy was a vegetable.  A tiny spark of his personality remained screaming in terror and pain, trapped in some small corner of a dying brain, but it could only suffer.

 

Even if the boy had been magically bestowed immediate medical care, his only use would have been as an organ donor.  Not that Dave planned on any medical care.  This was what he’d wanted.  From the moment he’d noticed Buddy, he’d planned to have the young man’s brain-damaged convulsions milking his hard shaft to orgasm—and the stupid little homo cunt had played along every step of the way.

 

What little coordinated motion the near-dead whoreboy had been able to command slipped away.  The hands that had been slowly caressing Dave face and trailing in his chest fur fluttered aimlessly for a moment, then rose to his shoulders.  At the same time, the meat’s legs wrapped around Dave’s tight waist; he could feel the firm, smooth flesh of the kid’s inner thighs pressed against his sweat-slick flanks and he knew that the final act had arrived.  He waited tensely for the signal, no longer thrusting himself into the dying fuck’s asshole.  He didn’t need to any longer, once he felt—there, that tight trembling in the rigid boymeat as the progressive damage reached a tipping point in the fuckwad’s dying brain—

 

Buddy’s death load was intense.  The violence even caught Dave by surprise; evidently, for all his whining and squealing, the little cunt had been a major pain pig deep down inside.

 

As the fuckmeat thrashed, it clutched Dave to itself with phenomenal strength, its fingers digging into his shoulders as its legs kicked and flailed with such convulsive violence that it managed to pry one of its combat boots loose, causing it to slide halfway off.

 

While this was going on, its internal muscles were convulsing as well—its colon gripping and releasing Dave’s engorged, throbbing shaft like it was deliberately trying to jack him off.  “Aw, fuckin’-A!” the brawny leather-clad muscleman grunted.  Then he felt it—the sensation, almost like an electric shock, that told him he couldn’t hold off anymore; his balls were unloading.

 

With a single brutal tug, he gave Buddy’s collar one last powerful jerk.  A loud gristly cracking sound filled the room as the young punk’s trachea collapsed, steel spikes deeply embedded in the bloody mass of crushed tissue.

 

There was just enough of Buddy left to feel the burn, and for it to trigger the disgusting little pain pig’s orgasm.

 

For Dave, this was it.  This was his reason for being—young smooth nubile boymeat thrashing beneath him in its death agony, squirting jet after jet of hot creamy spunk across his hard, furry chest, to be smeared between them as they intertwined in an agonizing, erotic orgasm.  The hardbodied older man was aware of his own inarticulate, animalistic grunts as he hunched over the dead boy’s corpse, spewing what felt like a steady stream of searing manseed into it.  As he shot his wad, over and over, Dave continued to pin the flailing corpse to the bed and beat it, driving his gloved fist into Buddy’s vacant face repeatedly.

 

By the time he pulled his dick out of the corpse and rolled, gasping, onto his back next to it, Buddy had been thrashed to hamburger.  The fresh-faced twink was utterly unrecognizable.

 

Unwillingly, the sweaty, satisfied serial killer rolled off the bed, his thick-soled boots hitting the carpet with a loud thump.  He bent down and retrieved his belt from the floor, looping it back around his waist as he went out into the living area of the suite.  Rooting about in the wreckage of the coffee table, he recovered his vest—and Buddy’s leather cap.  Dave held it for a moment, considering, then walked back to the bedroom to try it on in front of the mirror.

 

Well, fuck it—wasn’t like Buddy had any further use for it.

 

He like the look, especially worn with the brim backwards.  He hadn’t wanted to damage the expensive lining of his vest by wearing it over his sweaty, cum-covered chest, so he’d simple looped it through his belt, leaving it to dangle—and himself shirtless.  As he admired his furry ripped abs, matted with the dead boy’s sperm in the mirror, he realized he could see Buddy in the reflection—the splayed, twitching corpse on the bed behind him, cum pooling and already congealing on its flat chest, one combat boot still kicking at the twisted sheet while the other was half off.  Even now, the corpse’s face had faded from jet black to a vivid fuchsia as the blood started to drain away from the front of the head.

 

It was a fuckin’ hot scene and Dave was proud of his work.  As he watched the faggot’s limp cock continue to ooze semen after death, the buff sadist fondled his nipples, feeling them get rock-hard.  He grinned at his own reflection in the mirror, then realized his own dick was stiffening again.  He massaged it for a moment as well, still admiring his own hairy muscular body in the foreground and the twink’s mauled, fucked-out corpse in the background—then put his tackle away.  Playtime was over; he needed to put a little distance between himself and his playmate.

 

Dave locked the suite door on his way out, but otherwise left all the interior doors open and lights on; he wanted his handiwork to be viewed under the best possible circumstances.

 

Out on the street, there was still a large crowd of conventioneers still milling about; more than before, in fact, since most of the bars and nightclubs had closed and so most were heading back to their rooms.  Directly outside the hotel door, Dave bumped into a pair of twinks.

 

One, a slender homo with long blond hair, looked up at him, awestruck.  “Hey, sweetie,” it cooed with a feminine voice, “My name’s Lee.  Wanna blowjob?”

 

Dave looked at it with a sneer of contempt.  “No thanks, faggot; just got one.  Still drippin’.”  He strode of down the street, his leather-clad physique drawing appreciative stares.

 

“Just my luck,” Lee sighed sadly, “Best hunk I’ve seen all week, and I get turned down.  I can’t win for losin’.  Hey, Todd, wait up—let’s go see if Buddy got laid!”

 

 

 

 

“So, Kracznik, whadda we got?” the Sarge barked out.  “I ain’t got time for details; just gimme the basics.”

 

“Easy enough,” the beat cop responded.  “Seems those two faggots out there—” he nodded indicating where Lee and Todd were sobbing in the outer room, “—got back a few hours ago and found this faggot here—” here he nodded at the battered remains of Buddy sprawled across the bed, ‘—a little bit ago.”

 

“Jesus, what is this—another homo convention?  Fuck, just write it up and move on.  There’s one or two of these killings every time one of these conventions happens and they don’t ever get solved.  Too many suspects, most from outta town.  And it ain’t like anyone gives a shit about faggots anyway.”

 

“So ya want me to call the crime scene folks?  I already contacted the coroner…”

 

“Yeah, Kracznik, go ahead.  But tell ‘em to get here fast, I can’t wait around all day.  And you need to get down to Wabash and Wacker, remember?  There’s that big protest in front of the Trump Tower and it’s all hands on deck.

 

Swearing, the beat cop left the bedroom, telling his partner in the living area to finish up taking the statements.  The Sarge looked around, shaking his head.  It was clear from the state of the suite that there had been an explosion of almost unimaginable sexual violence.  No forced entry—the little cocksucker had let his killer in voluntarily.

 

The Sarge snorted in disgust.  Faggot probably enjoyed it, at least up to a point.  Well, he damn sure wasn’t gonna worry about it; cocksuckers got what they deserved.

 

He took a closer look at the corpse, prying at the thick leather collar wrapped tightly around the corpse’s neck.  As he tugged at it, he noticed the spikes.

 

Jesus, this one really died ugly.  Bad way to die, not that the Sarge cared.  The boy had been pounded into meat, too, but it wasn’t anything the seasoned cop hadn’t seen before.  Happened to homos all the time.  He managed to build up a good head of indignation at the pansy for getting itself killed on his watch when the ME finally showed up.

 

He already knew he wasn’t gonna be reading Kracznik’s report; it was destined to be round-filed.  But that didn’t absolve him from filling out his own paperwork.  Turning over the crime scene to the ME, he headed out to the living area and confronted Lee and Todd with an expression of extreme disgust.  “C’mon, I want you two nancy-boys down at the station to sign yer statements.  Get moving; I ain’t got time to waste on dead pansies.”

 

Behind him, the fucked-out, cum-covered corpse of the son of a Republican state supreme court judge was dumped unceremoniously into a plastic body bag.

Hangin’ Round the Wrong Places

On By m3mayhemIn Nazi Thugs Fuck Off [intense racial abuse]10 Comments

Ed grinned and ran a hand through his buzz-cut pale blond hair.  His inked and muscled right arm made a sudden dart downwards as he checked—yes, the length of chain was still there, dangling from his belt.  He had the feeling he’d need it in a moment; he’d just seen something Jack and Mike would wanna know about, too.

 

For the moment, it was the three of them.  Hank and Frankie had been picked up on assault charges; it might be a while before they were back.  So it had fallen on the remaining three to patrol their turf and keep the neighborhood white and upright.

 

Tonight, the white pride warriors were circling around behind a strip of gay bars on the edge of their territory.  It was a good hunting ground; they could usually bag a faggot or two in the parking lot or out on the street.  Not a real workout, of course, just a good beatdown or a hot stomping.  Lately, the area had been bringing in a lot of drug traffic, though, so sometimes the prey could vary.  It was rarely anything major, however.

 

This was different, though.  Way different.  Ed had found the hunter’s equivalent of a fourteen-point buck.

 

“Jack, Mike,” he hissed, “Over here, quick.”

 

The three assembled men looked like trouble.  Ed was the tallest.  His white cotton wifebeater displayed the tattooed sleeves on both of his strong arms, and his skin-tight Levi’s were rolled up at the cuffs to show off his oxblood eight-hole Doc Martens.

 

Jack wasn’t as tall, but he was larger, more powerfully built, and the intense expression in his hard, handsome face indicated he was the driving force among the gang.  A too-small black Gold’s Gym t-shirt was stretched tightly across his broad pecs, the thin cotton taut enough to expose his thick, erect nips.  That wasn’t all that was erect; his worn acid-washed jeans were tight enough to outline the massive tube of flesh running down his thigh.  The jeans were tucked into a pair of green twenty-hole Doc Martens.

 

Mike was the youngest of the three.  He wasn’t as developed as Ed or Jack, but that was only relative; his hard, muscled body was all in black, from the t-shirt with the “These Boots Were Made for Stomping” print to his jeans and steel-toed leather engineer boots.

 

All three were young, strong, and driven by a desire to prove their own superiority.  Now Ed was giving them a perfect chance.  “There’s a nigger and a spic down there,” he said, grinning and pointing down an alleyway.  “Thought they were bein’ smart, hidin’ behind a dumpster, but I caught sight of ‘em.”

 

“Hell yeah,” Jack grunted with a feral gleam in his eye.  His hands tightened up on the baseball bat he was carrying.  “You got yer knuckles, Mike?  C’mon, let’s go fuck these cocksuckers up, fuck yeah!”

 

“Wait, wait—you ain’t heard the best part,” Ed broke out gleefully.  “The spic is suckin’ the fuckin’ nigger off!”

 

Jack went rigid.  Worst kinda nigger was a nigger fag and one who fucked around with a fuckin’ wetback—hell, there wasn’t no such thing as a straight Mexican; all them spics loved cock…

 

Beside him, Mike balled up his fist, letting the dull gleam of his brass knuckles flash in the light.  “C’mon,” he said, breathing heavily, “Time to fuckin’ pulp these assholes.”

 

The three strode cockily down the alleyway, their wide-legged, big-dicked stance demonstrating their ownership of the turf.

 

Further down, in the rank darkness, Byron was enjoying his blowjob too much to hear the heavy footfalls of booted feet.  The Mexican rentboy who’d offered to suck him off for twenty bucks sure knew his shit, and since Byron was drunk and had struck out at the bar, he was willing to let some spic slurp his shaft in an alley.  He had no reason to suspect any danger—until it was right on top of him.

 

“Lookit this shit!” came the harsh, jeering voice out of the darkness.  “A coon an’ a wetback, playin’ with each other’s dicks!”

 

The Mexican jumped up and whirled around.  He’d had his dick out, too and had been stroking himself.  He and Byron both went limp, though, as the three muscle-bound skinheads emerged from the shadows.

 

“Por favor, señor…I no underst—” he started.

 

“Shut the fuck up!!” Jack barked.  The spic did as he was told while Jack sized up the catch.

 

The nigger was young—late teens, it looked like.  It’d gone full gangsta mode with a pair of wide-legged saggy jeans, a red basketball jersey, and a pair of white K-Swiss VN Classic hightops.  There was a black, shiny do-rag on its head and a thick chain of braided gold links around its neck.

 

The spic was older—early twenties, maybe, with short dark hair and swarthy skin.  Its slim chest was wrapped in a pale blue t-shirt and it sported tight boot-cut jeans and ropers.  It just looked confused; the nigger looked fearful.

 

Jack grinned.  “Well, boys,” he chuckled, turning back to Mike and Ed, “Whaddaya say we show these muthafuckas how real men, white men, handle worthless wetback and jigaboo pansies?”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Mike crowed, simultaneously with Ed’s “Goddam right!”  At the same time, all three hardbodied Aryans got rock-hard at the thought of dominating the fuck out of the two helpless homos in front of them.

 

Turning back to the cowering fags, Jack stepped forward, brandishing the bat.  “Looks like you two fuckwads are ‘bout to get a personal demonstration of ‘White Power’, yeah?”

 

“Oo-rah!” Ed roared, his pumped masculinity resonant in his deep bass voice.

 

“You,” Jack said, indicating the Mexican with his bat, “Get over here.”

 

Flinching, the Latino youth crept forward like a beaten dog.  “See, I don’t need to tell ya what the ‘white’ part means,” Jack continued in a jeering tone.  “We’re white and you’re not, which means you ain’t worthy to live.  Fuckin’ plain an’ simple, right, boys?” he said.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Mike replied eagerly.  Ed just grinned and shifted the thick, snakelike bulge in his groin.

 

“But as for power…” here he turned to the side, away from the spic cocksucker.  He paused for a moment, then swung the bat up, away from the beaner, as if he was swinging a golf club.  Before his victim could move, Jack completed the golf maneuver, using the momentum of the downswing to slam the bat into the spic’s balls hard enough to rupture both testicles.

 

“Now that’s white-fuckin’-power!” he crowed as the Latino homo screamed in a high, reedy voice and writhed on the filthy pavement, fetally curled in pain.

 

“Hey, Mikey,” Jack called complacently, “Shut it the fuck up.”

 

Grinning gleefully, Mike stepped up and gave the spic fag a quick kick to the face, rolling it onto its back.  He looked down at the Mexican’s large, dark eyes, welling with tears, and felt his own cock swell with the sense of power of his ability to inflict suffering on this worthless waste of human flesh.

 

The homo was still screaming, but it didn’t for long.  Mike pounded it three times in the mouth with his brass knuckles, breaking teeth and knocking some out with each blow, before it shut up.

 

Not that Mike stopped beating when the spic went quiet.

 

Jack and Ed, in the meantime, rounded on Byron.  The look on Jack’s face was terrifying—withering contempt, triumphant rage and something the trapped homo could swear was lust.  Massaging the bulge in his crotch, the handsome Nazi punk stepped forward, grinning wickedly.

 

“I fuckin’ hate niggers,” he said evenly, staring Byron dead in the face.  “Goddam monkeys tryin’ to act like they’re human—all a’ y’all need t’ be put back in yer place, servin’ th’ white man.  But the worst kinda coon is a faggot coon, ain’t that right, Ed?”

 

Ed chuckled maliciously behind him.  “Damn right.  Don’t deserve to fuckin’ live.”

 

“Hear ‘im, ya fucking cocksucker?  He’s right—yer a stain that needs cleanin’ up, and we’re here to keep this turf whiter n’ white.”

 

Ed laughed raucously at this witticism as Byron shrank back against the brick wall, his wide eyes darting from side to side in a vain attempt to find a clear path out of this nightmare.  Mike joined them.  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

 

“Nothin’,” Jack replied, “Just ‘bout to start poundin’ us some monkey meat.  Up for a good ol’-fashioned nigger stomp?”

 

Mike didn’t have to rub his crotch; his thick bulge swelled visibly on its own.  “Oh fuck yeah,” he said excitedly.

 

At that point, Ed turned his head and noticed that the Latino street whore was slowly crawling away, leaving a trail of blood that was trickling from its ruined face.  “Hey, Mikey,” he razzed his buddy, “Didja give this one a kiss before ya let it go?”

 

Mike’s face flushed.  Jack chuckled.  “Bring it back here, Ed,” he said, “An’ you can show this street ape what real fuckin’ white men do to wetback pansies.”

 

Ed brightened up.  Picking up the spic by the nape of its t-shirt, he dragged the sobbing, brutalized youth back down the alley.  The heels of the greaser’s boots carved channels in the trail of its own blood as it was manhandled back to the scene of violence it’d tried to escape.

 

Tossing it face-down onto the pavement, Ed planted one of his big red Doc Martens on each side of the prone spic.  He pulled the chain loose from his belt and doubled it over.  Holding both ends in his right hand, it was still almost eighteen inches long.  He raised his right arm and held it for a moment; for a split second, his thick bicep swelled, the ink on his arm moving perceptibly, then his arm swung downward in a powerful arc as he beat the Mexican with the chain.

 

Even with its mouth destroyed, the pain was too much.  The Latino hustler squealed like a pig in agony.

 

“Haw!” Jack brayed, turning to his captive prey, the triumph and bloodlust glittering insanely in his cold blue eyes, “You watchin’, ya fuckin’ coon cunt?  Ya takin’ notes, huh?  Ya better be, boy, cause there’s gonna be a quiz afterwards!”

 

Behind him, the spic’s squealing was becoming hoarse and desperate as the meaty thump of the chain on flesh continued.  The hustler rolled onto its side in an attempt to evade the devastating blows, but that only exposed its ribs.  The next swing of Ed’s was rewarded with a loud snapping sound like the breaking of twigs; two of the beaner’s ribs had shattered, peppering its innards with shards of bone.

 

The sound was too much for Mike; his cock demanded its freedom.  He reached down and unzipped his fly, letting it spring out, jutting proudly, throbbing and dripping.

 

Byron, his white eyes wide with panic, made a sudden darting movement to his left and that was all it took to divert Jack’s attention.  His bat swung low and hard, like his dick, and smashed the nigger’s right kneecap.  The coon shrieked in pain and collapsed.

 

“Right on!” Mike yelled, hyped on aggression and adrenaline, and fist-bumped Jack.  The latter strode over to the writhing coon and squatted near its head.  “So c’mon, jungle bunny,” he jeered, “Let’s see ya fuckin’ hop!”

 

With that he jerked his prey up to its feet.  In a flash, Mike had appeared at the nig’s other side; without a word passing between them, the two Nazis began to drag the darky over to the spic.

 

Ed was still wailing away at the shuddering, crying Mexican, the thick links of his chain chewing through the cocksucker’s shirt and denim jeans—and then through its flesh.  By the time Jack and Mike got near, the spic’s back—it was still face-down—was damn near pulped.

 

“Hey, Ed, quit fuckin’ around and show this fuckin’ monkey what real white power looks like,” Jack demanded in a harsh voice.  Ed was only too happy to comply—so happy, he had to open his fly and extract his thick fireplug dick.  It had been getting too stiff to be comfortable inside his tight jeans.  Squatting down and placing one knee on the greaser’s back, he pulled its head up and looped the chain down underneath.  With it now circling the Mexican’s neck, Ed leaned back, jerking up on the chain while pressing down with his knee.

 

“Watch this shit, jigaboo,” Jack hissed, “An’ remember—compared to goddam coon animals, we fuckin’ like beaners.”

 

There was a loud crackling, crunching sound, like a fresh, green tree limb snapping, as Ed’s thick, inked biceps swelled and he popped the spic’s head off its spine, shattering the first two cervical vertebrae and ending the unfortunate immigrant’s life in a nightmarish burst of agony.

 

The corpse thrashed violently for a few seconds, its boots kicking and splashing in a puddle of greasy water.

 

“That’s how ya fuckin’ do it, brother!” Mike cheered.

 

Grinning with camaraderie, Ed sneered, “Yeah, that’s one fuckin’ wetback that ain’t gettin’ another chance to swim back over again.”

 

“All right, dude, that was fuckin’ righteous,” Jack said enthusiastically, then turned back to the monkey.  “That’s gonna seem like a kiss from yo’ thick-lipped mammy compared to what we’re gonna do to yer baboon ass.  You gettin’ the idea, or are ya too stupid, ya big dumb ape?”  He turned to the others, his erotically savage face breaking into a cruel grin.  “Whaddaya think, my brothers?  Big ol’ buck like this is prime field hand material, but they’re always dumb as fuck, too.  An’ this one’s a perverted-ass faggot, too.  Any ideas?”  The question was accompanied by a laugh of ice-cold contempt.

 

“String it up,” Ed said immediately.  Mike’s “Fuckin’ string it up,” was nearly simultaneous.

 

“Fuck yeah, string it up,” Jack repeated and let go of the coon.  Mike, sensing the movement, did the same, letting it fall to the pavement in a pile of well-built black flesh, wailing in pain and babbling in terror.  “Goddam,” Jack snarled, “Fuckin’ yard ape is so fuckin’ stupid, it can’t even speak English.  Hell, they could teach a gorilla sign language—this sack a’ shit prob’ly can’t do more’n grunt!”

 

Raising his green twenty-hole Doc Martens, Jack stomped the nigger twice, hard.  The second one got a nice sexy snap as he broke both the radius and ulna of the left arm.  When the coon screamed, its right arm extended and helpless on the cold concrete pavement, Jack calmly stepped over and carefully positioned his left bootheel on the unlucky faggot’s right hand.

 

“Man,” he said conversationally, “I can’t tell ya how much I fuckin’ hate niggers.”  Hocking up a thick wad of phlegm, he spat it in the cunt’s face, then, pressing all his weight onto his left leg, proceeded to grind the coon’s hand to hamburger.  The ongoing crunching sound of shattering metacarpals and phalanges was reminiscent of popping popcorn.

 

Ignoring the steady bleat of pain from the yard ape under his boot, Jack glanced at the others.  “Anyone see anything to string it up with?”

 

“Yeah, I did,” Mike replied.  There was a particularly sadistic gleam in his young dark eyes.  “There’s a construction site down this way–I saw a spool of wire I think might work.”

 

Jack had actually meant something along the lines of rope—but then it hit him, and he had to release his cock from the confines of his tight jeans, too.  The idea of stringing up the monkey on a wire noose was too fuckin’…powerful not to get him instantly hard.

 

“Get it,” he said, his huge manshaft jutting out hard and strong over his prone victim, “We’re gonna dangle us a coon on a wire.”  He bent down and tore the gold chain from around its neck.  The others said nothing; the loot was always shared equally among them all.

 

Mike and Ed headed back down the alley to the construction site.  In three minutes they were back, carrying a four-foot length of steel rebar with a spool of 10-gauge steel wire hanging on it.  Whatever was being built was large; the rebar was three inches in diameter with the flanges adding another inch.

 

“Ed, you still got that multi-tool?  Hand it here,” Jack said as they dropped their load.  The buff older Nazi dug into the pocket of his tight jeans and passed the tool over.  Immediately, Jack opened up the cutting edge and began slicing the nigger’s clothes off.  “Goddam coon came into this world a squealin’ naked ape, and it’s gonna go outta it the same fuckin’ way.”

 

The unlucky black faggot hadn’t been unconscious, but it was in such pain from its broken bones and mangled hand that it wasn’t capable of putting up any resistance.  Now that its clothes were being cut away, though, it found some inner strength—unfortunately for it.  It tried to struggle, to squirm away from impending death, and that was enough to trigger Jack.

 

He’d already managed to cut the saggy jeans and the baller jersey off the fucker, revealing a big, healthy buck with large firm muscles.  As it began to inch away, Jack lashed out with his steel-toed Doc Martens and caught the coon right in its mouth, dislocating its jaw.  As it rolled over and writhed in agony, Jack tossed the multi-tool back to Ed.

 

“Cut some wire,” he said as he planted on booted foot on the wailing nigger’s back, letting the hot drops of precum oozing from his dick splash on the sweaty chocolate flesh, “Two lengths.  One to tie its hands and one to lynch the fuckin’ spade.”

 

Ed snipped off a short length of wire and handed to Mike.  As the young Aryan wrapped the wire so tightly around the street ape’s wrists that it sank into the skin, Ed and Jack calculated how much they’d need.

 

“We can hang it there,” Ed said, pointing to the rusted structure of the fire escape on a derelict building nearby.  It was about eight feet off the ground.

 

“That’ll work,” Jack agreed.  “The jigaboo’s about, what, six feet?  Fuckin’ big-ass gorilla.  Yeah, that’ll be enough.  So about ten feet of wire, yeah?  Tie it off to that standpipe there?”

 

Ed cut a ten-foot length of wire as Jack strolled casually back to his trapped monkey meat.  Mike had finished and rolled the fucker over onto its back, where it lay quivering, its already thick lips swelling grotesquely and its white eyes so comically huge, Jack roared with laughter.

 

“See, back in the good old days before the white race lost its balls, you’d ‘a just been tied to a post an’ whipped like any other animal,” he jeered at the cowering nigger, “But nowadays we gotta find new ways to remind you worthless fucks of yer proper place—an’ we got a good one.  I hear you nigs like to dance, huh?  Fuck yeah, ya sweaty, stinkin’ ape, yer gonna dance for us, like a good little coon.  Yer gonna be dancin’ on fuckin’ air!”

 

Having swiftly looped one end of the wire back on itself and secured it by twisting it into an improvised slipknot, Ed tied the other end to the standpipe and tossed the noose over the iron fire escape bracket.  “Yo, it’s ready,” he called out, “Let’s jack this jungle bunny up.”

 

Jack and Mike each grabbed one of the nigger’s arms and dragged it over to the noose.  Forcing the terrified spade upright, they lowered the wire over its head and cinched it around the neck.  That was when Byron’s last rational thought fled and he lost control of his bladder, piss flowing from his thick nigger dick down his muscled legs and spattering on his K-Swiss hightops—the only clothing he had left.

 

“Aw, goddam!” Ed muttered in disgust.

 

“Y’can take the ape outta the jungle, but y’can’t take the jungle outta the ape,” Mike chuckled, but Jack was silent until he stepped up to the coon and looked it straight in the eyes.

 

“You can housetrain a dog.  I’ve even heard you can housetrain a fuckin’ pig.  But a worthless subhuman piece a’ animal shit like you can’t be taught not to piss all over itself.  You goddam fuckin’ monkeys—fuck all a’ y’all, ya hear me?  You all need to fuckin’ die, and startin’ with you is makin’ my dick stiff.”

 

“Fuck yeah!” Mike shouted behind him, high-fiving Ed.  Both grinning muscled skinheads were just as erect as Jack.  “Dude, get out yer phone,” Ed said, “We gotta record this for Hank and Frankie—they’re gonna be so fuckin’ pissed when they see what they missed.”

 

“I know yer too fuckin’ stupid to understand me, nigger, so I’ll make it easy for yer dumb monkey brain—I got a hard-on for wastin’ ya, and the more I see yer jigaboo suffer, the harder I get.  You understand that?  No?”  He hawked up a huge wad of phlegm and spat it into the black fag’s face.  “FUCK YOU!!!”

 

Turning back to his bros, he said “Ok, boys, time to make it understand.”

 

It was easy enough for Jack and Ed to hoist the kicking, struggling coon, using discarded cloths from the construction site to handle the wire.  They only needed to lift it a few inches off the ground, while Mike found a chunk of concrete of sufficient weight and placed on the wire, holding its new position.  All in all, it was a crude construction—but it worked.  The coon’s hightops kicked uselessly inches above the cold pavement.

 

Mike propped his phone up on a stack of crates off to one side, setting it to record video.  He quickly checked to ensure it had a good view of the scene, then went back to the party.

 

It had already started.  Jack had his baseball bat and Ed his chain.  As the nigger flailed in agony, the weight of its body making the wire noose sink in and break the skin, the Nazi thugs taunted it.

 

“Hey, ya fuckin’ street ape, ya wanna know what white power is?” Jack crowed, his deep voice vibrating with a sadistic mix of lust and hate.  He swung the bat hard, like the bases were loaded, and hit the coon’s firm six-pack abs hard enough to rupture the intestines.  “Ya feel that?  That’s fuckin’ white power, right there. Go’wan, Ed, show it again—you know how stupid these fucking spearchuckers are.”

 

Grinning wildly, his thick fireplug cock visibly throbbing, Ed stepped up and began lashing the jerking spook with his chain.  His first two strokes were measured and intense, tearing open the nigger’s back.  As its blood began to trickle down, flung off in spatters as the buff young buck choked and thrashed, Ed’s blows started to come faster and faster.

 

“What’s it fuckin’ feelin’, boys?”

 

“White power!”  Ed and Mike cried in unison as Ed continued to thrash the dangling monkey meat and Mike, grabbing hold of the section of rebar he’d used to carry the wire, swung it like Jack’s back, the thick metal bar striking sweaty glistening coon flesh with a meaty thump.  Jack damn sure wasn’t sitting this one out.  He stepped in swinging, and sudden the nigger became a meat piñata.

 

“Fuck yeah!” he shouted, his huge cock oozing precum as his racial hatred made his hormones seethe and boil, “Feel the fuckin’ power, jigaboo!”

 

“White power, bitch!” Mike snarled, spitting in the dying Sambo’s black, swollen lips as he beat the dying homo mercilessly.  He took pleasure aiming for the thrashing, helpless legs; every time he scored a hit direct enough to break a bone, precum flew from the Aryan’s engorged rod.

 

“Hold up a sec,” Ed said, suddenly, his bloodlust diminishing for a moment, to be replaced with increased sadism.  “We gotta do this right.  Remember, boys—it ain’t just a fuckin’ ape—it’s a faggot.  It ain’t even natural; it’s a goddam perverted nigger an’ I think it needs to be shown the error of its ways.”

 

Jack was quick to catch on.  “Uh-uh.  This bat is brand new an’ I’ve just baptized it in monkey blood.”

 

“Not your bat,” Ed said with an evil smirk, pointing, “That.”

 

They both looked at the rebar in Mike’s hands.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Jack said, laughing, “Ed, you da man!”

 

By this point Mike had caught on, too.  “That’s fuckin’ sick, dude,” he said, the broad smile on his face adding emphasis to the compliment.  “Here, you two pull the legs apart.”

 

Byron’s thrashing and flailing had slowed under the bone-breaking beating he’d endured and he’d been deprived of oxygen long enough for irreversible brain damage to occur.  There wasn’t enough left of the young homo buck to understand the words his killers were saying—but there was enough left to sense physical pain, and suffer.

 

And that suffering was swept off the scale as Mike shoved the rebar—with four-inch diameter flanges—up the coon’s ass.

 

It took some work; all three thugs had to coordinate—Mike pushing the rod up as Ed and Jack pulled the spade’s legs down.  The slightly rusted steel tore the nigger’s sphincter open, then slammed upward, shredding the colon as it traveled up into the ape’s guts.

 

Along the way, the jagged metal edge of a flange scraped over the coon’s prostate.  The sudden brutal stimulus tripped a trigger in its central nervous system and suddenly the dangling, convulsing sack of drooling monkey meat began to spew cum like a geyser.  The last act of the homo jigaboo’s life was to shoot its wad like a punk bitch when it was offed.

 

“Fuckin’ white power!” Jack yelled, his own hot load splashing over the corpse’s quivering legs as nigger spunk rained down.  “Aw, yeah!” Mike grunted, hosing the dead coon with his sperm, “White power!”

 

“Goddam!  Fuck!  FUCK!!!” Ed cried out as his short thick plug of a cock spat his searing manload all over the dead nigger cunt, “Feel my white power, ya fuckin’ nigga-ass bitch!”

 

For a moment, they all stood around gasping, catching their breath, regaining control.  Then each looked at the other, cheerful and grinning.  “Yeah, boys,” Jack beamed, “That’s how ya put a fuckin’ darky in its place.”

 

Mike darted off and shut off the camera on the phone; when he returned, he’d brought more discarded cloths so they could wipe the cum off themselves.  It didn’t bother them that they were covered in nigger cum any more than if they’d gotten its blood splashed on them; they’d known it was gonna spunk when it died—and they liked it.  It was confirmation of the kill when choking to death; the victim almost always blew a load as it died.

 

It made them feel more like proud white men when the lynched coon squirted cum all over them.

 

After wiping themselves down, the proceeded to rob their victim, digging through the pockets of the cast-aside jeans.  There was fifty dollars in the wallet, but nothing else besides.  They were smart enough to leave the Sambo’s phone where it was so it wouldn’t be tracked to them.

 

They were just about to leave when Ed, tossing the wallet aside, noticed a small card that had fallen out and fluttered to the ground.  He bent down and picked it up out of sheer idle curiosity, but when he read it, his eyes widened.

 

“Hey, guys, lookit this shit,” he said, with something approaching awe in his voice.

 

The printing on the card was in black, in a simple font; it said:

 

“Ebony Woods: The fly new club for hot black men and their male admirers.  Who’s yo daddy?  Find him here!”

 

There followed a phone number, web address and street address.  It was just outside of their turf.

 

Jack stared at the card silently for a while.  “Ok, we gotta take ‘em down.  All of ‘em.”

 

“Well duh,” Ed replied sarcastically, “But how?  There’s just three of us till Hank and Frankie get out.  Unless yer plannin’ on stormin’ the place with machine guns…”

 

“Fuck you,” Jack said evenly, hoisting his bat, still encrusted with baptismal blood, “Let’s get back.  We got some thinkin’ to do.”

 

The alleyway echoed with the fading tread of their heavy boots as they left, then settled back into a silence that the swaying, twitching nigger corpse, rebar still sticking out its ass, didn’t disturb.

Meat Chronicles 19–Halfpipe in the Park, Full Pipe Up the Ass

On By m3mayhemIn Meat Chronicles2 Comments

I first see them leaving the skate park and almost give them a pass; after all, if they were leaving the park, they were probably on their way home, right?  And they look like typical teenaged wigger punks; home is probably a nice suburban neighborhood with lots of security cameras.

 

Fuckin’ cameras ruin a good hunt.

 

But these boys…there’s something about them, something about the cocky arrogance of their young faces and the lustful wantonness of their hormone-filled bodies.  I turn around and pull over, giving them plenty of headway; they’re riding their boards and I don’t want to overtake them until I can figure out their destination.

 

It turna out to be an improvised skate park in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse some two miles east.  The low buildings of rusted metal are gaunt and desolate in the late afternoon sun.  There isn’t anyone for miles, not even any other skaters.  I pull quietly to the curb and watch the boys practice their moves, away from prying eyes—so they thought.

 

I can’t tell if they’re related.  They took a smoke break a few minutes back, the dark-haired one offering the ginger punk a Camel.  Willing to bet Camel boy is older than eighteen—the legal age for buying cigarettes in this state.  It’s just a guess, though; if he is over eighteen, it isn’t by much.

 

The redhead’s freckled face, squinting in the sunlight, looks younger than that of his companion, but I’m estimating him at seventeen, largely by his outfit.  He’s rigged out in full skater punk gear, from the ped socks and Etnies Fader 2 kicks to the shiny black and blue polyester ball shorts and black tank top with the Adidas logo in white, all kinda generic.  But like a true douchebag, he’s wearing a flat-brimmed ball cap with the sales tag still dangling from it.  It’s dark green with white piping and a white logo; I’m too far away to make out the logo, but I don’t need to.  Those colors are the colors of a high school not far from my home.  And that big squarish glint of gold on his finger is obviously a class ring.

 

So gingerboy is a high school senior and his douchebuddy is probably a recent graduate—jobless punk, just fuckin’ around.

 

Nobody’ll miss him.  Nobody’ll miss either of them.

 

I decide on a tried and true lure.  Quietly starting my van, I circle the block away from them. I light up a joint and quickly take a couple of deep hits, making sure that the cab reeks of weed.  I then whip a corner and come upon them suddenly, as if I didn’t know they were already there.

 

“Yo!  Dude!” I call out.  The older one is closer; he eyes me warily but comes towards me.

 

“Whatcha need, bro?” he asks cautiously.

 

His face is smooth except for a very faint haze of new hair growth on his cheeks and chin, and across his upper lip.  He’s wearing a gray knit cap pulled down over the tips of his ears, but his black hair is long enough to stick out underneath.  I like it.  I’ll let him keep his cap on as he dies.

 

He’s wearing a thin, tight tank top, gray on the front with the words “U Mad Bro?” in black.  Below a pair of faded red chino skater shorts, he’s got on a pair of Osiris NYC 83 hightops in brick red.  Little fuck thinks he’s stylin’…

 

“Hey, man,” I call out, an easy grin on my masculine face.  Nothing wrong here, motherfucker.  “I been drivin’ round for half an hour—where’s the fukkin’ highway?”

 

“It’s, uh, it’s that way,” the kid mutters, pointing to the left.

 

“Yeah, well, what I really wanna know is, where can I get some beer?”

 

Skaterboi becomes a little more enthusiastic about helping a stranger in need.

 

“Well, yeah, there’s this place…it’s kinda hard to find, though…”

 

He’s giving me an opening and I take it.

 

“Wanna show me the way?” I ask.  “I’ll getcha high on the way.”

 

He lights up, his youthful face glowing with pleasure; just looking at him makes my dick hard.  But then his expression clouds over and he looks anxiously back at gingercunt.

 

“Hey, it’s ok,” I grin, “I got enough room—and enough weed for him too.  Here, lemme pull into the lot and open up the back.  We’ll get good an’ fucked up before we pick up some brewskis.”

 

Now the kid’s all kinda cheerful and helpful.  “Hey, Steve!” he calls out, gesticulating at the redheaded punk, “Getcher ass over here!”

 

“Whassup?” Steve the ginger says, popping up his board into his hand and heading over.

 

“We gotta real bro here, man—he’s gonna get us high an’ then I’m gonna show ‘im how to get over to Wegel’s so we can get some brews!”

 

Gingerfuck lights up, too.  Goddam, this is like shootin’ fish in a barrel.  Stupid little asswipes actin’ like they’re big, swinging dicks in the world—lessee how big their dicks are when they’re ridin’ mine.

 

Having pulled into a space in the lot, I shut the engine off.  This neighborhood is as good as any, nice and isolated, but a few random vehicles parked here and there so my van doesn’t stand out.  I get out of the driver seat, my big black leather harness boots hitting the asphalt with a loud thump.  I make sure the huge bulge of my manhood is visible in the crotch of my skintight but worn jeans.  These little cocksuckers are gonna see they’re dealin’ with a real man.

 

They don’t notice at first, as I slide open the door to the rear of the van; that’s ok.  I can wait.  They’ll have plenty of opportunity to notice my cock when it’s buried in their asses.  “C’mon inside, dudes,” I say jovially; both boys show their eagerness by hustling their lithe, smooth bodies with alacrity.  So young, so hot, so stupid—goddam, I can’t wait to off these little fucks.

 

“Hey, uh—” I call out to gingerfuck.

 

“Steve,” he hastens to remind me, “And he’s Jeff.”  Like I give a shit.

 

“Here ya go, Steve,” I say, tossing him a hard Marlboro box.  “Gotta couple of jays already rolled in there.  Y’all help yerselves; I got enough to roll one for me up here.”  And with that, I settle into the driver seat, waiting for the Xanax-laced joints to start taking effect.  While I wait, I quietly slip a pair of handcuffs out of the center console and into my pocket.

 

It doesn’t take more than five minutes before the sounds of muttering and giggling fade out in the back.  I step back into a thick haze of sweet blue smoke to find both boys stoned out of their fucking minds.  They managed to polish off a joint each; Steve it completely blitzed.  He’s laying back against the side of the van.  He’s grinning so hard his eyes are squinted and his tongue is out; his face is so flushed his freckles have nearly vanished.  As I watch, he lolls his head back, knocking off his cap and revealing the short, spiked orange hair on his head.

 

Jeff is on the other side; his face is heavy and vacant, but he’s still conscious and somewhat lucid.  He hasn’t completely finished his joint yet.

 

“Hey, wanna see something really hot?” I leer at him.

 

“Yeah, what?” he asks, grinning dopily.

 

“Here, lemme start with this.”  I whip out the handcuffs.  Before Jeff has a chance to react, I cinch one cuff around his left wrist and the other through a pair of holes drilled in the van’s body ribbing.  Now the punk can’t move more than a few inches from that position.

 

“Wha?” he grunts, looking foggily at the cuffs.

 

“Over here,” I say, snapping my fingers and approaching the other punk.  “I’m gonna take yer buddy here—”

 

“Brotha…” Jeff mutters, “He’s m’half brotha…”

 

“He’s fuckmeat, asshole,” I snap.  “I’m gonna stick my dick in him and unload in his ass as he dies and yer gonna watch.”

 

Jeff stares at me, gape-jawed.  It’s difficult to tell how much of his impassivity is due to shock or fear and how much to being drugged, but it doesn’t matter.  The drugs will have worn off long before I’m done with the first piece of boymeat.  By the time I get to little Jeffie over there, he’ll be plenty awake enough to know what’s going on.

 

And that’s good.  I want him awake and suffering by the time I fuck him.  I want to feel his agonized screams as they reverberate in his strong smooth body and vibrate the root of my cock…

 

First things first, though.  Gingerfuck needs a little lesson on his proper place in the world first, just as a little foreplay.  Something to get Jeff and me both into the right mood, to get the juices flowing, so to speak.

 

And where is red-headed skaterboi Steve’s proper place in the world?  It’s taking a dirt nap with my manseed coating his guts.  Just thinking about it’s already got me hard.  Fuck it, I’m goin’ in—need to get those punk threads cut off the fucker.

 

Time to start the fun.  Crouching in the center of the van—I’m too tall to stand up in here—I unzip my fly and let my huge, throbbing hog flop out.

 

Both pieces of fuckmeat stare groggily at my engorged rod, but only Jeff has retained enough motor control to speak coherently.  Well, kinda.

 

“Wha…” he mumbles, “Why…whyyerfuckin…dickout…” His dark, heavy-lidded eyes focus on my manhood.

 

Little redheaded Stevie just giggles.  I turn and grin at Jeff.  “It’s out cause I’m gonna stick in ya, cunt.  But first, I’m gonna stick it in yer brother.  Oh, and this, too,” I add, holding up a specialty tool I’ve made by grinding down the head of an eight-inch long screwdriver, leaving a pointed tip on a nearly half-inch diameter steel shaft.

 

Jeff is inarticulate; he shakes his head wildly, but is unable to speak.  I note, in passing, that his knit cap stays in place no matter how vigorous his movements.  Wonder if he had an idea he’d die wearing it when he slipped it on today…

 

I turn to Steve.  He’s still lying limply against the far side of the van from his brother, too high to move.  I know he heard my words, and I’m fairly certain he understood them, but it doesn’t matter.  If he didn’t understand them, he soon will.  I bend down and yank of his ball shorts, tugging them down his legs and over his Etnies kicks.

 

Of course the punk-ass faggot is commando, letting his thick teenaged dick swing free between his legs; it lies, limp but long and veined, against the boy’s smooth inner thigh.  His shirt is easier to dispose of; I shove the toe of one boot into an armhole, bend down, and tug.  It takes no more than a moment to rip the thin tank top off and leave the meat lying nude but for his sneakers and socks.

 

“Steve,” Jeff calls out hoarsely, his voice scratchy with effort, “C’mon…gotta wake-wake up…dude’s gon-gonna rape yer ass…”

 

“Yours too, cocksucker,” I grin at him, “Don’t forget.”

 

“No…” the ginger youth moans as I force his firm legs apart and knelt between them, my massive tool fully erect and oozing in anticipation of his taut young fuckhole.  “Whaddaya mean, no?” I jeered, “Fuck yeah is whatcha mean.  Feel this shit, bro.”  Leaning over his slim, muscled frame, helpless on the floor of the van, I pressed the pulsing head of my cock against his quivering sphincter and applied pressure.  Not a lot—just enough to let him know I was there.

 

“Ah—ah—no, p-please…” he whimpered, his cocky face twisted with fear.  So fuckin’ erotic—but not enough.  It needs to be twisted in pain, too.

 

“Fuck you, skatefag,” I whisper and thrust my hips forward, spearing the punk’s colon with my enormous shaft—dry.  I can feel some resistance on the head of my dick, then there’s a parting sensation as something in gingerfuck’s asshole tears open.  The meat squeals like a stuck pig and my rod slides home, buried so far deep into the teen skateboi’s guts that my wiry pubes are grinding his smooth buttcheeks.

 

“Aw, shaddup, cunt!” I snarl and pound my balled-up fist into his face.  My blow lands on his chin; his jaws slam shut, driving his teeth through his tongue.

 

“You goddam asshole!” Jeff sobs, his voice stricken with anguish as he looks on at his brother’s abuse and torment.  “Don’t get jealous,” I tell him, grinning.  “It’ll be yer turn to enjoy my cock soon enough, bro; let the kid here enjoy it first.”  Then I punch Steve again.  Fuck, that feels good—I can feel his entire body stiffen and clench my dick in reaction to the impact.

 

“Goddam, you really are a sick little queerfuck, aintcha?” I jeer into Steve’s swelling, tear-streaked face, “Yer really handlin’ my dick good—yer jest fuckin’ lovin’ it when I hit ya, too, huh?  Ok, ya perverted little piece a’ shit; ya like the pain—I can sure as fuck deliver.  Buckle up, motherfucker, cause I’m gonna hurt you so fuckin’ bad, you’ll cum in sheer joy!”

 

It gets kinda loud in the van for a couple of minutes, between Steve’s cries of pain, Jeff’s helpless invective and the meaty sound of flesh striking flesh.  By the time it gets quiet again, gingerfuck is barely conscious and his brother is hanging limply at the side of the van, weeping quietly.  It’s warm in here; I take a moment to slip out of my shirt—there.  Damn, I’ve been sweating enough to mat down my chest hair…

 

I leer down into the dazed teen’s face—so young, so beautiful, so punchable—and run my hands down his firm, lithe torso, feeling his smooth skin slick with a film of cold sweat forced out of him by his suffering.  His dick is semi-soft and getting stiffer by the second; it’s a reaction to the vigorous prostate massage he’s enjoying.

 

Unfortunately, he’s going loose on my shaft.  I need to fix that.  I don’t think he’s going to be enjoying his assrape for much longer—but I’ll give him a chance, first.

 

“Hey, buttfuck,” I smirk, “You’re failin’, dude.  Only reason I’m keepin’ ya around is to get off, an’ here you are, going slack on my hog.  Here, I’ll give ya—” here I set the timer on my watch— “thirty seconds to start workin’ my dick good, or I’m gonna make ya work it.”

 

And I spend the next thirty seconds counting down and plowing his rectum remorselessly.  His ass doesn’t get any tighter—I didn’t expect it to—but the increasing panic in his bewildered face is intoxicating.

 

“…three…two…one!  Ok, fuckwad, now it’s my turn.”  I show him my pointed steel shank.  “See this, bro?  This is gonna tighten yer ass up real good.”

 

I’d been so busy fucking with little Stevie that I’d almost forgotten the second course.  A gasp and moan from the side reminds me that I’ve got more meat to tenderize.  I hold up the screwdriver so Jeff can admire it too.

 

“Hey, dude, yer little faggot bro here likes to get fucked, yeah?  He likes a good skullfuck?  Cool, man—I’m gonna fuck his skull with this.”

 

I don’t think he’s following me.  I know Steve isn’t, but that’s ok.  I’ll manage to get it into his head somehow—heh heh heh.

 

By now the teen fucker I’m rammin’ is panicking.  He knows something bad is about to happen, so he’s pawing at my chest.  I’m laying across him, feeling that young, strong body writhe in terror beneath me—his legs are wrapped around my waist.  His Etnies are drumming on my firm asscheeks; a minor distraction at most.  And for all this activity and exertion, the stupid little sack of shit still can’t tighten his sphincter.

 

“Awright, enough of this shit,” I snarl, “You really are a lousy lay, fuckhead.”

 

I force his head to the side and plant one of my big hands on it, splayed out and taking all my weight, pinning it to the floor.  Then I take the screwdriver and start shoving into Steve’s ear.

 

Gingerfuck’s howls of pain take on a more intense quality as the sharpened steel punctures his eardrum and starts tearing its way through the delicate structures of the middle and inner ear.  Suddenly the skateboi isn’t fighting me any more—he’s clinging to me tightly, desperately, afraid to move, as if remaining completely still will lessen the torture being inflicted on him.

 

It won’t.  Stupid little shit.  He’s holding me like a lover, and I’m about to ream his cockpig brain with a homemade shank.  His head is still twisted to the side, of course, but when I look down, I can see the wide, shocked edges of his eyes as he tries to peer at me.

 

“Shh, shh,” I whisper, grinning, and apply more pressure to the screwdriver, “Enjoy the pain asswipe; you’ll be dead in minutes.”  There’s a faint moist crunching sound as the sharpened steel shiv punches through Steve’s inner ear and begins tunneling into his cerebellum.

 

The punk vomits; I’ve destroyed the mechanism that provides his sense of balance and he’s experiencing profound vertigo. He hasn’t stopped holding me, though; as the screwdriver sinks deeper into his skull, Steve clutches me ever more tightly.

 

I look up at Jeff.  “Hey, man,” I call out softly.  He turns and looks at me unwillingly, his large dark eyes reflecting his horror and despair.  “Watch it, man.  Watch me fuckin’ cum up inside yer bro as he dies on my cock.  Watch me fuck his brain into hamburger, motherfucker—it’s so goddam hot.”  I give him my best shark-like grin.  “But don’t worry, dude—I’ll have plenty of spunk left over to hose down yer corpse, too.”

 

The older skateboi moans softly, like he’s not really paying attention.  That pisses me off.  In a couple of minutes, I’ll make goddam sure the fuckin’ faggot is payin’ attention.  He’ll be hangin’ on my every word like it’s life or fuckin’ death—but all it’s gonna be is fuckin’ death, heh.

 

In the meantime, I’ve got the screwdriver halfway into little Stevie’s head.  I’m amazed the high school punkboy is still functional; he’s gotta be suffering some pretty serious brain trauma by this point, but he’s still squirming deliberately, which means someone’s still home.

 

Time for a fuckin’ eviction.  My toes curl, digging the soles of my big black boots into the floor of the van as I brace myself and shove the steel shank in up to the hilt.

 

There’s no resistance; it’s like poking a knife into a mass of scrambled eggs.  And scrambled is the right word; as massive brain trauma makes the little bitch’s colon wrap around my thick, pounding shaft like fuckin’ velvet, I slowly start to churn the metal shaft inside Steve’s skull.

 

I make sure to catch Jeff’s eyes.  Huge as they are, they’re easy to catch; huge and round with shock.  He stares at the horrific scene unfolding in front of him.  Teenaged fear and despair wash off him in waves, his adolescent pheromones filling the heavy, lust-soaked atmosphere in the back of my van—it’s makin’ my cock throb so fuckin’ bad…

 

“Look at ‘im,” I hiss at Jeff, “I done banged yer little bro so hard I fucked ‘im into a retard, an’ he still ain’t made me cum yet.  Worthless fuckin’ faggot—you better get me off, you sack a’ shit, or the pain I put you in will make this look like an owie for mommy to kiss.”

 

I pull out and stand up, my massive manshaft still glistening with Steve’s ass juices.  The young ginger is lying on the floor of the van, his smooth, sweat-lubes body stiff, rigid and trembling.  His teeth are clenched, his eyes rolled back in his head—and his cock his hard and dripping.  He’s not dead yet; his heart is still beating and he’s still breathing, independently if irregularly.

 

But I’ve left the screwdriver buried in his head, the orange-and-blue plastic handle protruding incongruously from his ear.

 

I cross over to Jeff and uncuff him; the hardbodied skateboi sinks blubbering to his knees.  As he curls up, I bend down and rip off his shirt, then jerk him up and yank off his shorts.  He falls back to the floor as I toss them aside.

 

“Get up, pansy-ass,” I snarl and give the fucker a swift kick.  The impact of my steel-toed boot on his flank elicits a grunt and then—amazingly; I thought the asshole was too scared to speak—a reply.

 

“I—we ain’t no faggots” Jeff manages to gasp between broken sobs, tears accumulating on his long dark eyelashes.  Fuck, that’s so sexy.  He needs to cry more.  He deserves it, the fuckwad.

 

“Yeah?  Sez who, you?” I chuckle.  “Dude, yer gonna be suckin’ yer bro’s dick here in a second.”

 

“Fuck you!” Jeff yells in an access of fury, spitting at me.  A nice sharp backhand gets a yelp from the skatepunk and puts a stop to his pussy little rebellion.  “No, no—fuck you,” I reply calmly, “But first, wrap yer fuckin’ lips around your brother’s dick, cocksucker, or I’ll fuckin’ kill yer ass right now.”

 

There’s a knife I keep stashed in the back, a long, serrated hunting knife that just holding gives me an erection.  It’s one of my favorites, although I’m not using it today.  Jeff doesn’t know that, though, so when I brandish it, he gets quiet and pale.

 

“Down on yer knees, fairyboy,” I command and he does it.  Stupid fuckin’ asswipe.  He’s looking right at his brother’s tool—it’s standing straight up, more than six inches of vein-wreathed cockmeat, pulsing and oozing precum.  Still holding the knife, I circle around and kneel down by Steve’s head.

 

“Now put it in yer mouth, cocksucker,” I demand coldly, “Open wide and gulp it down.  I wanna see you chokin’ on yer brain-dead bro’s dick.”

 

Jeff blanches and gags, then swallows heavily.  “Get that fuckin’ dick down yer throat now!” I yell and the teen punk holds his breath and deepthroats his half-brother.

 

I lean forward and shove Jeff’s head down with one hand.  With the other, I grab the handle of the screwdriver and start churning Steve’s brain matter into pudding again—only this time, I’m aiming for the mass of cells that control the pleasure center of the brain.  It takes seconds to mince that section, shorting out the dying kid’s nervous system and inducing a hyper-extended orgasm that wouldn’t have been physically possible in the course of normal sexual function.

 

The red-haired skateboi literally floods his brother’s mouth with hot teen spunk.  Jeff’s on his knees, between Steve’s smooth, firm, still-twitching thighs, looking right at me as his bro unloads down his throat.  As he pulls his head up, gagging and choking, a thick wad of jizz slipping out of his mouth, the brain-dead meat just keeps spewing into the open air.  Damn, I’ve triggered a geyser.

 

I feel like I wanna do the same myself.  “Time to saddle up, Jeff, my balls need drainin’ too,” I mutter, rising to my feet, knowing the dark-eyed skaterboi with the knit cap can’t hear me—he’s too busy retching up his brother’s semen.  Steve jerks violently as a brief rain of semen falls in the van, then goes quiet–but not quite still.

 

But I have the other cunt to deal with.  Let’s see, what do I wanna use to off this fucker?  Lessee—oh yeah.  This’ll fuckin’ work.

 

As Jeff leans forward and, still gagging, gets on his hands and knees to rise, I jump forward and mount him doggie-style, plugging my big thick tube of manmeat up his tight little boyhole before he has a chance to resist.  I punch past his sphincter like a jackhammer and am buried balls-deep in his ass, my massive jizz-filled sack slapping against his scrote, before it even registers that he’s been violated.

 

When it does, he shrieks, and for a moment I devote myself to pure physical pleasure.  I wrap my hands around Jeff’s torso from behind, fondling his pecs and nipples, feeling his firm, boyish chest heave in anguish and his smooth skin grow slick with cold sweat squeezed from his youthful frame by pain.

 

Then I wrap the bungee cord I picked up around his neck and pull it tight, garroting the skatepunk from behind as I fuck him like a bitch.

 

In his sudden confusion and panic, Jeff collapses.  The sudden cessation of air can cause intense focus as a rational man plots his defense.  Dumbass faggots like Jeff, though, just kick and die.

 

And that’s just what the dumbass faggot is doin’ right now, with my cock wedged up his ass.

 

“That’s it, motherfucker, keep fightin’ it,” I whisper encouragingly into the teen’s ear, “The harder you fight, the better you work my cock.”

 

Jeff struggles beneath me, his strong, wiry body thrashing violently.  It’s more than the usual panic—oh yeah; he’s just realized he’s gettin’ assraped on top of his brother’s corpse.  If the little cunt is dead yet, that is.  Fucker’s still twitchin’.

 

I don’t care why; it just feels good.  “That’s it—ya like that, huh?  Ya like the thought of a real man takin’ yer worthless punk ass out, huh?  Fuck, you goddam sack a’ garbage, keep milkin’ my shaft!”  The elastic cord stretches in my hands, but from the corners of my eyes, I can see how the tats on my bulging biceps seem to swell as I cinch the cord even tighter around the young boy’s neck.  It’s sunk so deep into his flesh it’s barely visible.

 

He’s trying to talk, the motherfucker.  “Gh! Ng! Ng! NG!!” he grunts thickly, clawing at his throat, like that’s gonna do any good.  “You stupid fuck,” I laugh at him, ramming my pulsating shaft into his ravaged colon, “Keep tryin’ to pull it away, dipshit, it’ll keep ya busy as ya die.”

 

He reaches behind himself with one hand, awkwardly trying to reach me; it’s an utter failure, of course.  He’s twisting his head violently from side to side like it’s somehow gonna magically give him air; in the process, he dislodges his knit cap, revealing near shoulder-length russet hair, stringy and matted with desperate sweat.

 

Again, my boots are planted wide for traction.  Between them, skatemeat’s Osiris hightops are drumming frantically at the floor of the van.  He’s not just twisting his head now, he’s thrashing it, flinging foamy streamers of drool as he kicks and flails  and slowly strangles to death.

 

Just like his worthless brother, Jeff’s brain is dying.  I can feel his firm young body become less controlled in its movements at it struggles beneath my hard, muscular form, the teen’s slick, sweat-lubed skin sliding easily against my own furry flesh as the cunt dies with my cock inside him.

 

“Jeez, ya fuckin’ useless piece a’ meat, ya didn’t get me off either,” I mutter, tightening the cord—and then there’s a loud crunch, and the cord gives way as I crush Jeff’s esophagus into a wad of bleeding gristle.

 

The reaction is immediate; Jeff’s ass grabs my dick and begins to jack me off like that was its original design.  Under me, the docile, brain-damaged skaterboi suddenly erupts into a physical frenzy—motherfucker convulses violently, his young, strong body suffering extended death throes.

 

It feels so fuckin’ good, the way his dying, oxygen-deprived brain makes his body jerk and flail, as if the whole point of his death is to earn my load.  And it is, really.  So I give it to him, grunting and beating on his smooth, bare back, as I pump what feels like quart after quart of searing hot manseed into the teenaged faggot’s guts.

 

I spend a few moments on top of the fagmeat pile, my cock still sunk in Jeff’s ass as Jeff’s corpse drools out onto Steve’s still-trembling form.  I need to catch my breath, and it’s warm and moist and cozy up here.

 

After a bit, I get back up, tuck my still-pulsing manshaft back down the leg of my jeans, and slip my shirt back on.  Heading up to the front of the van, I do a quick recon and make sure the coast is clear before dumping the meat.

 

I dunno if these two fuckers built this place or if they had help, but there ain’t no one else around, and that’s perfect.  I open up the back and drag Jeff out.

 

There’s a halfpipe in the center of the park. I seat him on the ground leaning back against it, his head tilted back into the bottom of the pipe.  Then I drag Steve over.

 

It was seeing all that cum of Steve’s glazing Jeff’s face that gave me the idea.  I drape Steve into the pipe facedown and plug his dick in Jeff’s mouth.  Retreating five yards, I examine the tableau for effect.

 

Two teen boys, nude except for their skate shoes—one seated on the ground, legs spread, the other leaning over him into the halfpipe, getting a BJ.  It’s perfect.  You need to get real close to see that they’re dead.  If they are; gingerfuck still seems to be quivering. I thought he’d be goin’ stiff by now.

 

I’ll toss their clothes and boards into that canal I passed.  Think there was enough water and a  fast enough flow to confuse things whenever they’re found.  I gotta go, but I’m gonna be paying close attention to the news.  I love it when they linger on the artistic touches I give to a kill.  I not a butcher, for fuck’s sake; I take pride in my work.

 

 

News item, dated next day:

Two teenaged youths, half-brothers from the same household, found attacked and sexually assaulted on abandoned property used as skate park by local youths.  Jeff Lansing, age nineteen, was reported dead on arrival at Montgomery County Hospital.  Steven Lansing, age eighteen, was reported in grave condition upon arrival.  Sources report the surviving victim has suffered such severe brain damage that he has been placed on full life support and is not expected to recover.

Immediate response from the authorities has been to demolish the unapproved skate park.  A representative from the sheriff’s department told this reporter that…

Carlos and Nick 6–No Thanks for the Memory

On By m3mayhemIn Carlos the Convict1 Comment

Even in Vegas, it can get cold.  A winter front had moved down from the north, its strong winds sweeping across the Strip and blowing candy wrappers and strip club ads along the gutter.  Carlos was glad it was chilly out; for one thing, it was a break from the constant, oppressive heat.  For another, it gave him a good excuse to wear his leather jacket.

 

The jacket was a black biker jacket; he wore it open, with no shirt underneath, his ripped, furry abs and thick inked pecs on display for anyone who wanted to look.  With his skin-tight black jeans tucked into a pair of Corcoran jump boots—laced halfway up but untied, the tongues hanging out—there were a lot who wanted to look.  The buff, well-built skinhead attracted a lot of covert (and some very obvious) glances as he strolled south down Paradise, a block off the Strip.

 

The aggressive sex killer was alone, horny and restless.  Nick was involved out at the warehouse tonight, editing the video from the last faggot Carlos had snuffed. But the hardbodied Latino knew how to fix his problems, though, and the first step of the cure had him out on the street, literally dressed to kill.

 

It was already past dark, but even on the back side of the huge resorts that face Las Vegas Boulevard, there were still plenty of plenty of bright lights.  Certainly bright enough for Carlos’s muscular form to be seen and admired.  But when his lure was finally bitten at, the nibbler turned out to be an unexpected, and unwelcome, source.

 

“Carlos?  Hey, Carlos, that you, bro?” came a smooth tenor voice, “Hey, man, over here.”

 

The dude was standing no more than five feet away from him, but Carlos didn’t recognize him for a moment.  Then the guy stepped forward, into better light, and Carlos locked onto his eyes.

 

That did it.  Carlos would never forget those eyes.

 

They were beautiful, large and bright emerald green, with long, lush eyelashes and a darkening at the ends of lids as if eyeliner had been applied.  But the last time Carlos had seen those eyes, he was in prison.  Eyeliner isn’t impossible to procure in prison, but this dude wasn’t wearing makeup.

 

He was younger than Carlos, but not by much—about twenty-four.  He was only about five-eight in height, but there was no slackness in his firm, fit body.  His hair was dark and cut short—almost a buzz cut—except for a thick clump of hair on the left side, left long, dyed auburn, and combed back over the top of his head.  His ears were pierced and plugged with black discs—not too big, about 2G in gauge.  Those were new, Carlos noticed.  Under a gray hoodie, half-unzipped, he sported a white cotton t-shirt with a large graphic image on it; it appeared to be an elaborate skull, off-kilter.

 

The punk’s firm, muscled legs were highlighted by a pair of tight camo print cargo pants.  Like Carlos’s they were tucked into his boots, but his were Vasque Arrowhead boots, black and orange.  The overall effect was as eye-catching as Carlos’s own outfit was.  But the eyes, the glittering green eyes, were all the Hispanic psycho needed to see.

 

“Bryan?” he asked blankly.  The dude grinned.

 

Oh yes, Carlos remembered Bryan.  Bryan was in prison for manslaughter as well; he’d convinced the jury that he’d killed the other drug dealer in self-defense—then boasted about it in prison, laughing about how he’d wasted the motherfucker for coming onto his turf.  But that wasn’t why Carlos remembered him.

 

Bryan had raped Carlos.  He’d been one of four guys who’d backed the outclassed Latino into a corner and run a train on him.  Bryan had gone last.  As the other men went before him, he held Carlos down and clamped his hand over his victim’s mouth, jeering and goading the others on.

 

Oh yes, Carlos remembered Bryan.  But he’d forgotten that the asshole had said he was from Las Vegas.

 

“Been back for a coupla months,” the younger man said cheerfully.  “Never thought I’d see you again, dude.  But damn, talk about good timing.”

 

“Huh?” Carlos said stupidly, his brain more or less short circuiting as it tried to find the right was to react to the situation.  As it so happened, Bryan himself sliced right through Carlos’s Gordian knot.

 

“You free right now?” the grinning hipster asked.  He went on as Carlos nodded.  “Gotcher own place, too, yeah?  Cool.  Damn, dude, it’s been two days—I gotta lay some pipe…”  He reached down and grabbed his rod, already tenting the taut fabric of his camo pants.

 

“…and I know you take it up the ass.” He finished up with a jeer in his voice and a leer on his face.  He was making it clear that he hadn’t forgotten Carlos either.

 

And that was all it took to clear Carlos’s troubled mind.  “Sure, I gotta place.  Condo, right back there.  C’mon, bro, I’ll treat ya right.”

 

The leer that had twisted one side of Bryan’s boyish face widened to the other side.  “Fuck yeah, man, I knew it.  Don’t matter if yer a chick or a dude, once ya had summa my cock, yer gonna want more—har!  Happens every fuckin’ time.  G’wan, buddy, I’ll be right behind ya—an’ then I’ll be right in yer behind!  Har!”

 

Carlos swiveled around and started walking back up Paradise.  He had the sensation of physically feeling Bryan’s eyes focusing intently on his ass as he walked.  The rage induced by his violent denial of his sexuality was at a boiling point already; the thump of the Latino skinhead’s boots on the pavement drowned out the sound of his grinding teeth.

 

The one thing that gave him any comfort was the pressure he could feel inside his right boot—something long and hard and unyielding.  It was his Bowie hunting knife, the nine-inch carbon-steel blade tucked as usual into its hidden boot sheath.  Just knowing that it was there allowed Carlos to respond to Bryan’s erection in kind.  One of them was damn sure gonna get fucked tonight.

 

Neither one of them said a word on the way back to the condo.  Nothing needed to be said.  The sheer volume of pheromones given off by two physically fit, hypersexed young males filled the elevator with an intoxicating musk.  The silence between them wasn’t broken until they got inside the condo, and even then, the first words said weren’t to each other.

 

The moment Carlos opened the door, he knew that Nick was there—the lights were on.  Nick had a key to the place—he paid for it, after all—but he usually let Carlos know he was coming by.  The only times he didn’t was when he had a new project and was too excited to wait.

 

Nick had been sitting on the sofa, checking his phone, when the door opened.  The moment he heard it, he popped up and started speaking.  “There you are, man!  I been waitin’…anyway, I got this new commission—”  He broke off as Bryan entered the room.  “—uh, you got company…”

 

“This yer, uh, partner?” Bryan asked insinuatingly.

 

“Nick, Bryan—Bryan, Nick,” Carlos mumbled inanely, wondering what the fuck was wrong with himself—he needed to get control of this situation before Bryan told Nick about…about…he didn’t even want to imagine it himself.

 

“I, uh, I guess I can come back later…” Nick said, his voice uncertain.

 

“Yeah, maybe ya better,” Bryan quipped, “Unless, ‘acourse, ya wanna stick around and watch me fuck yer boy here.”

 

Nick paused at this and glanced at Carlos.  “Should I—should I get my camera set up?”

 

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “Do that.”

 

“Yeah,” Bryan said, “Do that.  But I wanna copy.”

 

“Ok, I’ll get it set up,” Nick said, heading towards the bedroom. He paused in the doorway, then turned back.  His large, powerful body was framed by the open space behind it, his broad, hairy torso admirably displayed by a bright red cotton tank top with the Champion logo across the chest.  His elastic-cuffed jogger pants did little to hide his thickly-muscled legs.  On his feet were a pair of bright red Nike Air Force 1 Utility sneakers, the same color as his tank top.  “Gimme five minutes.”

 

“So who’s this Nick?” Bryan asked.  “You didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout him.”

 

“Didn’t know he was gonna be here,” Carlos mumbled.

 

“Who is he, yer boyfriend?  He bangin’ ya when you can’t find no other dick?  Lissen up—he can film but I don’t do no three-ways with dudes.  That shit ain’t cool—”

 

His self-rationalization about gay sex was cut short when Nick re-entered the room.

 

“It’s ready,” the older stud said, brushing his long dark hair out of his eyes.  He hadn’t heard the conversation, but he had no trouble reading the searing light of sexual hatred glittering in Carlos’s eyes.  The sadistic skinhead was already having difficulty maintaining his composure, but he headed towards the bedroom.  “Inside,” he said at the door.  Bryan took it as an invitation to follow, but Carlos had been looking directly at Nick when he said it.  The latter realized it was the ex-con’s explanation for how he knew the guy.

 

The obnoxious punk shrugged off his jacket as he passed through the bedroom doorway.  Tossing it onto the floor, he paused and noticed the view from the huge window.  “Damn, dude—nice!” he said, “Must be some good money in filmin’ dudes fuckin’.  You gotta let me in on some a’ that!”

 

Bryan looked over and saw that Carlos was out of his jacket as well, his elaborate tattoos visible on his broad furry chest.  Grinning, he pulled his t-shirt up over his head and dropped it on top of his jacket, showing off his own ink.  The Iron Cross on his left pec was detailed, but the Confederate flag with the motto “Die, Motherfucker, Die” on his right bicep was clearly an amateur job.

 

The punk was muscular—not in Carlos’s class, but well-built.  He wasn’t as hairy as the Latino skinhead; a single line of fur ran down the center of his chest and his flat, firm belly to vanish below the waistband of his camo cargo pants.  He sat on the bed and began loosening the few laces of his Vasque Arrowhead boots.

 

Neither he nor Carlos knew that Nick had already started recording.

 

“Always wanted video of me fuckin’ a dude—the bitches love that shit,” Bryan boasted as he kicked his left boot off, “Gets ‘em all horny when they see I’m such a stud I c’n dick down both chicks and guys.  ‘Course, Carlos here knows all about that, dontcha, dude?”

 

Carlos stiffened.  No matter what it took, there was no way he was gonna let Nick know what Bryan had done to him in prison.  He could barely admit it to himself—the thought that some other male had cum inside him…

 

“See, yer, uh, friend here and I were prison buds,” Bryan said, smirking at Nick as he slid the other boot off and unbuttoned the waistband of his cargo pants.  “An’ there was this one time me an’ these other dudes got holda him an’—GACK!!”

 

Later, Nick had to replay the video in slow motion to see exactly how smoothly Carlos had squatted, retrieved the Bowie knife from his boot sheath, then whirled and sprung forward, thrusting the tip of the blade into Bryan’s throat.  The razor-sharp steel, held vertically, pierced the unlucky punk’s larynx straight through from front to back, the cartilage that formed his vocal process parting like butter under a hot knife.  The tip of the blade lodged in one of Bryan’s cervical vertebrae for a moment, then Carlos jerked the knife back out.

 

He’d managed to avoid all the major blood vessels and most of the major nerves.  The wound wasn’t fatal, but it was excruciating, horrifyingly traumatic—and left the victim permanently unable to speak.

 

“Goddam, man, what the fuck?” Nick asked, shocked, as Bryan, his eyes huge, clutched at his throat and sank back down onto the bed, making thick, desperate gagging sounds.

 

“Aw, his voice was gettin’ on my nerves,” Carlos said, his expression visibly more cheerful than it had been since he’d gotten home.  “Don’t worry,” he continued, making certain that Bryan could hear his words, “He’ll still put on a good show when I fuck ‘im and finally snuff ‘im.  Gonna take my time with this one.  Hear that, ya sick faggot?  You’re gonna die slow, with my cock up yer ass.”

 

By now, Carlos was standing beside the bed, towering over Bryan as the latter pulled his hands from his neck and stared in horror at the blood on them.  Without warning, the muscular Latino backhanded the youth.  “You thought you were gonna fuck me?!?  Naw, motherfucker, I’m gonna fuck you.”

 

Bryan turned his dazed, uncomprehending eyes up to meet Carlos’s icy gaze.  Their beautiful emerald green, ringed by long and lush eyelashes, set something off in the skinhead’s warped psyche.

 

“No one fucks me!  Ever!!”  He punched Bryan three times in the face, repeated jackhammer blows that Nick caught on camera—not the impacts, but the flexing of Carlos’s thick, powerful deltoid and dorsal muscles and the bulging of his trapezius.  He was still clutching the long Bowie knife in his hand as he pounded the punk’s face.

 

Finally, breathing heavily, he stepped back, leaving the bruised fuckmeat sprawled unconscious on the bed, still in its socks and camo pants, its face swelling and air gurgling in its open trachea.  Nick adjusted the camera, re-centering the field of view on the wounded and trembling ex-con.  He loved it; this was hot as fuck.  It’d bring a nice inflow of cash if Carlos continued to abuse the unlucky motherfucker as brutally as he’d started.  “Damn, dude,” he said appreciatively, “What’d he do to you?”

 

“Nothin’,” Carlos said sullenly, “He din’t do nothin’.  Fuckin’ faggot just thought he was gonna be smart, is all.  But this asswipe needs my dick bad.  An’ he needs it to hurt.  Go get yer handheld, cause when this fuck wakes up, he’s gonna know what it feels like to have a real man inside ‘im.  Get a close-up of his face as he cries like a fuckin’ pussy, huh?  Yeah?”

 

Nick’s huge shaft was already tenting his jogger pants; noticing it, Carlos grinned, then bent forward and began cutting Bryan’s pants off with his knife.  The horny little fuckmeat was commando, of course; Carlos was already expecting it.  Piece a’ shit was ready to stick his cock into anything that came along—it was time to see how well he performed on the receiving end of the proposition.

 

And if he needed a little prodding to perform well—the nine inches of razor-sharp steel that jutted from the hilt grasped tightly in Carlos’s hand would ensure he got the point.

 

By the time Nick got back with the hand-held, Bryan’s camo pants lay on the floor, a pile of shredded fabric.  The Latino skinhead already had his massive dick out, its thick, vein-wrapped girth already pulsing and dripping.

 

“Aw hell yeah, man, time to rock ‘n roll,” Nick chuckled enthusiastically.  “This is gonna be a serious money-maker, right here.  C’mon, dude, lemme see ya make this piece of fagmeat scream.”

 

Carlos didn’t need any encouragement.  As Bryan began to moan and squirm, faint trickles of blood still leaking from the hole in his throat, the buff ex-con serial killer climbed up onto the bed.  Planting his thick-soled jump boots to get the best traction, he grinned maliciously and started to force the engorged purple head of his cock into Bryan’s asshole.

 

Bryan liked to fuck other dudes as a show of dominance; much like Carlos, he in no way thought of himself as gay.  Unlike Carlos, though, he’d never been fucked in the ass.  His fuckhole was tight; despite the slick coating of precum acting as lube for the Hispanic stud’s shaft, it was still a struggle for Carlos to mount and fully penetrate his semi-conscious victim.  He had to force it, brutally, and the horrific, searing pain of his sphincter being torn forced Bryan back to full awareness.

 

He screamed.  It was nightmarish; he was being forced down by this muscular dude and couldn’t escape the agonizing sense of being impaled, so he screamed and screamed—but no screams came out.  All Bryan was able to do was croak and gasp as his severed vocal cords fluttered uselessly in his punctured larynx.  A fine mist of blood was aspirated from the wound with each attempt; Carlos noted it with pleasure.

 

“Hey, Nick!  Dude, you gettin’ his neck?  See that?” he asked, then spoke to Bryan directly.  “Hey, ol’ friend, ol’ buddy, you tastin’ yer own blood yet?  Huh?  How’s that taste?”  He thrust his hugely swollen member deep inside the prison rapist’s guts, grinning maniacally as Bryan’s face twisted with excruciating pain.

 

“Hurts, don’t it?” he whispered—not so quietly that Nick couldn’t hear him— “Hurts when you don’t want a fuckin’ dick up yer ass, yeah?  Guess what, bitch, it’s about to hurt a lot fuckin’ more.  You’re gonna die ridin’ my cock, an’ I’m gonna make goddam sure you die hard—and slow.  Yer gonna be praying I cum in yer guts, motherfucker, cause snuffing yer worthless faggot ass is what’s gonna make me blow my load—and death is the only thing that’s gonna end yer sufferin’.  Get it now?  Ready to get fucked to death?”

 

The question was rhetorical; even if Bryan had been physically capable of speaking, his beautiful eyes, wide with blank fear and ringed with gray, showed his state of insensibility.  As Nick zoomed in on the young punk’s face, it was clear that the kid was going into shock.  His struggles slowed; his perfect bubble butt ceased to flex erotically on Carlos’s rod.

 

“No ya don’t,” Carlos snarled, “Stay awake, motherfucker!”

 

Raising his knife up, he drove it straight down like a pile driver, plunging all nine inches of sharpened steel into Bryan’s hard, flat, fuzz-covered belly.  Carlos forced it in up to the hilt, powering through the faint resistance of the punk’s rubbery intestines.  The blade sliced between the floating ribs in the back and completely penetrated the pain-wracked youth, its tip embedded in the mattress beneath him.

 

As Bryan kicked and writhed in agony, Carlos grunted with sexual pleasure.  “Fuck yeah, that’s it—clench that ass and work my fuckin’ dick!”

 

The ex-con hipster screamed silently, his muscled body suddenly going stiff with excruciating pain as the powerful Latino began to withdraw both his knife and his cock.  Tears trickled from Bryan’s eyes as he felt the hot hard dick and the cold hard blade being extracted from inside his body—slowly…oh, so slowly…

 

Carlos waited into just the tip of each remained inside the quivering punk.  “Watch ‘im,” he told Nick, his face lit with sadistic glee, “Get a shot of the fucker’s face here, when I give it to ‘im good.”

 

Bryan heard him speak, but was suffering too badly to understand what they meant.  Some part of his mind was lost in bewilderment, trying to understand how what should have been an easy fuck had turned into this searing nightmare.  He was totally unprepared when Carlos slammed his huge swollen shaft home, burying it balls-deep inside his former rapist.  Simultaneously, he powered the Bowie knife back in, twisting it in the wound, slashing at Bryan’s soft, tender guts.

 

The boy clutched at Carlos, his fingers gripping the Hispanic skinhead’s broad shoulders as his strong, thick legs, already involuntarily wrapped around Carlos’s waist, tightened like a wrestling move—but it was all done unconsciously, in reaction to the phenomenal torture he was enduring.

 

Bryan screamed and screamed, the wheezing, gurgling sound coming from the gash in his throat making a mockery of his efforts.  Nick had positioned himself to the side of the bed and had zoomed in on the dying convict’s face over Carlos’s shoulder while the latter tormented his prey.  “Lookit that—I think he wants t’ stop!  That right, ya little bitch?  Ya don’t wanna get fucked?  All ya gotta do is say no!”

 

Knocking Bryan’s arms away from his shoulders contemptuously, Carlos rose up on his knees so Nick could get a better view.  He left the knife embedded in the kid’s belly, blood leaking from the wound and the hilt bobbing in the air as Bryan’s sweat-slick abdomen heaved in agony.

 

“Well?  I ain’t hearin’ ya say no—guess that means yer enjoyin’ my dick, huh?  Yeah?  Fuckin’ knew it, ya worthless faggot cockwhore!”  The buff, domineering psycho spat in the suffering youth’s face, then punched him again, splitting his lips.

 

“Damn, dude, yer really gettin’ medieval on his ass,” Nick chuckled; he’d seen Carlos lose it with the meat before, but never right away like this.

 

“Wanna see him suffer,” the hardbodied sadist grunted, his inked skin glistening with sweat as he rhythmically pumped the tortured youth’s ass, “Wanna make goddam sure the faggot knows what it feels like when a real man gets hold of his worthless meat.”

 

“Fuck yeah, man,” Nick chuckled, rubbing the dark moist spot at the top of the huge bulge in his pants, “Dudes are gonna be lovin’ this shit, man—fuck ‘im up man; tear that cunt up!”

 

It was obvious that Bryan, wallowing in terrified agony, was till able to understand Nick’s words.  Seeing the fresh wave of horror sweep over the punk’s bleeding, swelling face, the buff cameraman grinned and winked maliciously at him, then leaned in over Carlos’s shoulder for a close-up.

 

“Naw, man, c’mon round the side and show ‘em how much the fuckin’ sicko’s gettin’ off,” Carlos jeered, “Bitch likes it rough—hah!”

 

Circling around, Nick saw that Carlos was right.  The muscular Latino was up on his knees with the fuckmeat’s thick, firm legs wrapped around his tight waist, steadily pumping his huge tool into the kid’s traumatized asshole.  The hilt of his knife still protruded from Bryan’s taut, flat belly.  In between Carlos and the knife, Bryan was sporting an erection—an impressive one, given his obvious agony and terror.

 

“Watch this shit,” Carlos smirked.  As Nick zoomed in, the hairy, tatted ex-con grasped the hilt and yanked it out of Bryan’s guts.  As he did, he twisted it slightly so that the viciously sharp serrations carved new channels in the suffering punk’s flesh.

 

Bryan stiffened in horrible torment his face contorted with agony, pink foam bubbling from the wound in his throat as he shrieked, inaudibly and futilely—but at the same time, his hard half-foot of vein-wreathed cockmeat pulsed visibly.  Nick made damn sure his viewers missed no detail as the tortured youth’s erect, throbbing penis started oozing precum voluntarily.

 

“Toldja the fucker was a goddam faggot,” Carlos said, looking Bryan straight in the eyes.  “Aintcha, ya piece a’ motherfuckin’ shit?  Ya want this, dontcha?  Fuckin’ love finally havin’ a real man fillin’ yer guts with all kinda long hard shafts, yeah, you sick fuck?”

 

The nightmarish pain in his guts and his ass had pushed Bryan over the edge; even as his former victim pumped his colon full of cock, the strong young punk was beating on Carlos’s chest, his fists uselessly pummeling the Latino’s broad hairy chest.  He was only barely aware that his own dick was hard, hard and bobbing stiffly with every powerful thrust of Carlos’s hips.

 

“Goddam,” Nick moaned, steadying his camera in one hand as he unzipped his fly with the other, “Fuckin’ meat sure looks like it’s workin’ yer tool good.”

 

“Naw it ain’t,” Carlos sneered.  “Worthless cunt can’t even stroke my dick right.  Think it’s time to tighten up its fuckhole the hard way.  Hear that, bitch?  Know what that means?”  Grinning evilly, the buff, inked ex-con brandished the blade to the panicked, pain-crazed youth flailing desperately beneath him.  “Means it’s time to die, fucker.”

 

Suddenly the muscle-bound serial killer threw himself down, the wiry fur on his hard chest scraping Bryan’s smooth skin like steel wool.  The youth felt the weight of the larger man compress his straining cock between their flat, sweat-slick bellies as his legs, still wrapped around Carlos’s waist, squeezed together involuntarily.

 

Carlos grabbed a hank of Bryan’s long, dyed section of hair, holding the boy’s trembling head still.  He bent down so close that his scruffy facial growth scraped Bryan’s smooth, silky cheek—so close that neither Nick nor his camera could pick up the words the skinhead muttered into his prison rapist’s ear.

 

“You fucked up so bad, dude, so fuckin’ bad,” he whispered, managing to fill his low voice with venom, “Think you hurt now?  Yer gonna die in so much pain, fuckwad.  Get ready, cunt, clench up on my thick hog an’ fuckin’ suffer!”  Then he rose up to give Nick view.

 

The cameraman stroked his own cock as he closed in on the tip of Carlos’s knife, now placed under Bryan’s jaw, then opened the camera’s view back out to get the tatted Hispanic’s cocky, malicious grin.  “Watch this shit, dude,” Carlos said, ostensibly to Nick, but looking directly at the camera, “This is what a real man does to a fuckin’ prison faggot.”

 

With that, he began to slowly, incrementally, shove all nine inches of the blade up into Bryan’s head through the underside of his jaw.

 

What Bryan had endured before was nothing compared to this new agony.  His punctured larynx, his stabbed gut and impaled ass were all but forgotten as sharpened steel slid up through his jaw, parting the tissue like butter until it hit the underside of his tongue.  That was muscle; Carlos had to apply a little extra pressure to pierce it.

 

The hardbodied cameraman was as affected by the near-visible haze of sweat and pheromones as the two males locked together in fatal intercourse on the bed.  Nick’s long, pulsing shaft began to ooze as he captured a visual of Carlos’s right bicep bulging as he powered his knife through Bryan’s tongue, inflicting horrific pain on the writhing punk.

 

Bryan went utterly rigid with agony, his hands helplessly clutching Carlos’s broad shoulders and his tight, firm thighs scissoring the ruthless Latino’s waist.  Carlos shifted his powerful body forward, digging his shiny jump boots into the bed for better leverage as he continued to force his knife into Bryan’s skull.

 

All the unfortunate youth could do was hold on and suffer.  His own strong young body was no match for that of the sadistic skinhead; he’d only been able to rape Carlos as part of a group.  In his single-minded lust, he’d put himself at the mercy of his one-time victim solo.

 

Problem was, there was no mercy, only unimaginable pain.

 

It seemed to take forever.  The knife inched its way up through the roof of Bryan’s mouth, spearing the soft palate.  Carlos had to press hard to force the tip of the knife through the palatine bone; with a satisfied grunt of effort, he cradled Bryan’s head in his free arm and shoved.  He was rewarded with a loud crunching sound as the carbon-steel blade penetrated the agonized punk’s cranium and sliced up through his sinuses.

 

Bryan was conscious throughout the whole process.  There was little space for lucid thought within the echoing confines of his mind; there was nothing left but screaming and soul-searing physical suffering.  And during it all, he held his killer tight, pressing his firm, smooth, shuddering body against Carlos’s, the toes on his sock-covered feet curling in the air.

 

“Oh fuck yeah, that’s it,” Carlos moaned, his hard handsome face taut and sweaty with physical pleasure, “that’s how ya make fuckmeat tighten up—milk my fuckin’ cock, faggot.  Die, so I can fill yer worthless corpse with cum!”

 

The frame of Nick’s camera was filled for a moment with Bryan’s face, filled with anguish and smeared with tears, snot, and blood—the latter trickling from his nose and his split lips.  As the pointed tip of Carlos’s knife speared its way up through his skull, it sliced through the boy’s optic nerves; his bulging, bloodshot emerald eyes suddenly rolled back in his head as permanent darkness swept over him.

 

His ears still worked, though.

 

“Hey, Bry,” Carlos whispered huskily, “I’m ‘bout to fuck yer brain with my blade.  Just a little “fuck you” from our days inside.”

 

With a snarl on his face, the muscle-bound skinhead drove his knife up into Bryan’s head until the tip ground into the inside of cranium.  In a split second, the punk’s frontal lobe had been impaled by a thick steel shank.

 

And in that second, Bryan became meat.  Shuddering, sweating, clenching meat that spent its last few living moments on earth using its colon to stroke Carlos’s long, fat dick to orgasm.

 

“Aw, yeah!” the hairy, inked ex-con yelled, “Fuck! Goddam, gonna blow—FUCK!!”  His powerful, glistening body went rigid as hot manseed boiled over in his balls and was pumped in huge spurts deep into the dying meat’s ass.  The image recorded on Nick’s camera turned out pretty well after a little stabilization editing; the buff, leering cameraman shuddered a little as he spewed thick creamy jets of semen directly into Bryan’s slack, gaping face.

 

Between the entwined males, the quivering boymeat began to spunk uncontrollably.  Despite being in the depths of ejaculation, Carlos felt his one-time rapist’s cum splattering into his belly fur—and the memory of the last time he’d felt Bryan’s jizz, it was inside him.

 

It was too much.  Even as he unloaded in his victim’s helpless corpse, it was still too much.

 

Carlos pulled his dick out of the fuckmeat.  Still shooting, he yanked his knife out of Bryan’s head in a single brutal jerk.  Grabbing the dead boy’s package—still spunking as well, an automatic physiological response to the massive brain trauma—the enraged Latino sliced it all off.

 

Even as he held Bryan’s severed dick and balls aloft, the convulsing organ continued to shoot semen.  “Holy fuck!” Nick cried, sending a solid stream of jizz into the air like geyser.  Incredulously, he recorded Carlos jamming Bryan’s still-leaking dick into the kid’s own mouth, balls-first, so that the livid head protruded from his parted lips, letting the spunk still oozing out trickle down the dead punk’s chin.

 

Carlos shot two more jets of thick, ropy manseed over the mutilated remains of his prey, his chest heaving, the gold chain around his neck glinting in the light as he steadied himself over the kicking corpse.  Breathing heavily, Nick allowed the hardbodied ex-con to slide off the bed; recovering his breath, he lowered the camera for a moment.  For a moment, he centered it involuntarily on the cum-spattered tops of his Nike Air Force 1s, then raised it again, letting it linger over Bryan’s smooth, muscular corpse, trembling in its death throes, blood leaking from the gaping wound between the legs.

 

“And…scene!”  Nick cried enthusiastically, shutting the camera off.  “Jesus, dude, that was fuckin’ intense!  What, did he piss you off?  Bad cellie?”

 

Carlos had managed to catch his breath.  Standing at the foot of the bed, he gazed contemptuously down at the mangled, abused body.  “I didn’t bunk with the asswipe,” he said quietly, his rage momentarily dispersed via orgasm.  “Fucker wouldn’ta lived this long if I had.”

 

He turned and headed towards the bathroom, leaving Nick to plan the clean-up.

 

 

The lugubrious grin on Nuñez’s face let Schweitz know this was gonna be a good one—as in, this was gonna be really bad.  He wasn’t disappointed.

 

“It’s another faggot—” Nuñez started.

 

“Aw, jeez, whyd’ja hafta call me out here on this one?  You know we ain’t got time for this bullshit!”

 

“Thought you’d like this one,” Nuñez grinned.  “As a connoisseur, so to speak.”

 

Schweitz rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress an amused smirk.  “Ok, show me whatcha got.”

 

“This way,” the slim Hispanic cop said, leading his sweating, obese partner to a dumpster at the end of the alley; it belonged to a small-time local casino, whose staff had reported the find.  The body had already been removed from the garbage and was on a gurney, bagged, by the time Schweitz got there.

 

“Open it,” Nuñez said.  The tech obeyed, letting Schweitz get a good view of Bryan’s bulging mouthful.

 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” the heavy-set cop muttered.

 

“Ex-con,” Nuñez said, “Hasn’t been in town long.  We found his parole officer’s card in his wallet; he ID’d ‘im from the tattoos.”

 

“Ok,” Schweitz sighed, “That puts you ahead.  I admit it, that one’s fucked up.  But I still think I can find one even worse before the end of the year.  The faggots do some seriously sick shit to each other.  Now sign off on that worthless cocksucker—haw! —and let’s go grab some lunch.  There’s a new Chinese buffet over on Charleston I wanna try.”

 

“Always thinkin’ of yer gut, aintcha?” Nuñez jeered coarsely.  “Naw, I don’t need no ident number for that motherfucker”—this was to the coroner’s tech, referring to the corpse— “Ain’t like anyone give a shit about some faggot jailbird.”

 

As the cops headed back up the alley, the tech re-sealed Bryan’s stiffening corpse.  He banged it around a bit as he got it back to the van, but, after all, he wasn’t paid to care about some faggot’s abused body, either.

Stepfather Knows Best

On By m3mayhemIn Miscellaneous Sex Snuff2 Comments

It was past midnight and Tony was pissed.  That fuckin’ punk had a curfew, and he damn well knew it; Tony had made sure of that.  So where was the little asswipe?

 

There had never been any love lost between Tony and his stepson.  Of course, he’d only been Billy’s stepfather for a year and they’d never been on good terms.  It was obvious that Tony hadn’t loved Billy’s mother, which hadn’t endeared him to the teen, but things had gotten much worse in the seven months since she’d died.

 

As Tony ground his teeth and waited for Billy, he wondered, with a bitter grin, how the kid would react if he knew that Tony had murdered her.

 

Stupid bitch had wanted his body so bad.  Tony was thirty-two, six feet tall and a hundred and seventy-five pounds of pure muscle that he exercised daily working in the freight yard of a lumber company.  He was Hispanic—Tony was short for Antonio—with fairly long blue-black hair, dark liquid eyes and black wiry fur covering his sculpted form.

 

He was also uneducated, sullen, violent-tempered—and gay.  It irked him, and he’d kill to protect his macho image, but he accepted it physically.  He’d married Billy’s mom for two reasons, one of which was the she simply wouldn’t leave him alone.  She’d met him at one of the neighborhood supermarkets and instantly fallen for his dark Latin looks and his phenomenal physique.

 

But the main reason was that she’d agreed to insure her life for a two million dollars with him—him alone, and not the kid—as beneficiary.  “Don’t worry, querida, I’ll take care of William,” he’d told her.  But Guillermo had been his father’s name; the obnoxious sixteen-year-old didn’t deserve to be called by the same name as that noble man.  He still intended to keep his word, though.

 

He’d take care of Billy.

 

Her death had been easy to arrange.  Tony wasn’t smart but he had the cunning and instincts of a predatory animal.  He’d made it simple.  The day after the kid’s seventeenth birthday—she’d wanted to have a party but of course the little fuck spent the night out getting high and banging some cheap high school slut—he’d simply pushed her down the stairs, then called 911.  When he got down and found out she was still alive, he broke her neck.

 

The autopsy concluded death by misadventure.  It was officially an accident.

 

It was taking a while to wind things up, though.  He was waiting for the final legal matters of his wife’s estate—such as it was—to finish up before taking the money and blowing town, leaving Billy behind.  Tony had already gotten the money, all two million of it, and stashed it in an account under a false identity he’d created, having set up a residence under that name in a small town on the other side of the state.  All that was left was the deed of the house.  It wasn’t worth much—but Tony was greedy.

 

He was also intolerant of his spoiled punk of a stepson.

 

But ever since his mother’s death, the teen fuckwad had become more and more insolent, sneering at Tony, daring him to try to punish him.  “You ain’t my dad!” he yelled so often that the words rang continuously in Tony’s ears, “The moment I’m eighteen, I’m outta here!”

 

That one made Tony smile.  He planned to be outta here himself long before then.

 

But lately, Billy had gotten worse.  He’d come home at two in the morning, bleary, red-eyed, obviously drunk and/or high every time, usually boasting about whatever freshman chick had been unlucky enough to get her cherry popped by him.  Tony really didn’t give a shit what the boy did, but he was drawing attention to the household.  Already the older man had been visited twice by the cops and three times by the truant officer.

 

The last thing Tony wanted before he cut and run was to be noticed by the cops.  The problem needed to end—now.  He’d told Billy two days ago that he needed to be in by midnight, or else.  He didn’t finish the sentence, but his manner and gestures made his meaning clear. Billy sneered but didn’t argue.

 

He’d gotten home on time last night, but there was something in his actions and his unpleasant expression that made Tony suspect his plans hadn’t worked out.  There’d ended up being no temptation to break curfew.

 

Tonight, however…

 

It was nearly two in the morning before Tony heard the front door open.  Billy stumbled in, drunk, his pale blue eyes bloodshot.  The teen punk flipped on the hall light just as Tony stepped out of the tiny living room.

 

“You hadda curfew, boy,” Tony growled.

 

“Huh?  Whozzat?” Billy slurred, rubbing his bleary eyes as he struggled to remain upright.  His red-gold hair gleamed under the overhead bulb the kid swayed.

 

Billy was almost as tall as Tony, about five feet ten, but much slenderer.  He wasn’t scrawny, but his lean adolescent body wasn’t remotely in the same class as his stepfather’s muscle-bound form.  The alcoholic flush in his youthful face emphasized the band of freckles that ran across the bridge of his nose and his long lashes gave his pot-reddened eyes an almost feminine appearance.

 

Billy was wearing a skin-tight pair of low-rise skinny jeans that just barely covered his ass.  His feet were tightly laced into a pair of DC Court Graffiks.  The kicks were pale gray that stood out under the jet-black jeans.  The boy’s lean, smooth chest was wrapped in an untucked thin cotton t-shirt, bright yellow—it was a Pikachu shirt.

 

Tony, standing shirtless with his arms crossed over his furry bulging chest, wore nothing but a pair of old worn work jeans tucked into his eight-inch black leather Timberland boots.  He’d just started tucking his jean cuffs into the laced boots three weeks ago after disturbing a rattler under a pile of seasoned timber.

 

“I said,” Tony snarled, a dangerous tone in his voice, “You hadda curfew.  Where ya been, you little shit?”

 

“I been out,” the teen snapped, “An’ it ain’t yer buzz—busy—business where.”

 

Tony clenched his fist so tightly that the knuckles cracked audibly.  “As long as yer livin’ in my house, you spoiled brat—”

 

“It ain’t your house!!” Billy yelled.  “It’s my mom’s!  And you ain’t my dad, so quit tellin’ me what to fuckin’ do!”

 

“As long as you’re living in my house,” Tony began again, very slowly and deliberately, “You’re gonna do what I say.  Period.  You ain’t eighteen yet, boy.”

 

“Or what?” the drunken punk sneered, “Whaddaya gonna do? Tell ya what, ya greasy spic, I’m gettin’ out tomorrow.  Already told my friends about it.  Once I find me a place an’ get settled in, I’m havin’ a big-ass party and gettin’ as fucked-up as I want…”

 

He paused and giggled for a moment as Tony glowered at him.  “Oh yeah, gonna have a big ol’ party…gonna have all my friends over, all the ones you hate…gonna tell ‘em about how I came in one day an’ saw you jackin’ off to a vid of two dudes fuckin’—didn’t know that, didja?  Well now everyone’s gonna know…”

 

Again, he giggled—for the last time in his life.

 

If he’d been less stoned, less drunk, he might have noticed the way Tony’s face contorted with rage, the way the powerful older man’s eyes glittered and his thick muscles tensed.  But Billy wasn’t looking; he was too busy pawing at his phone, trying (and failing) to type an incoherent text to the girl he’d fucked earlier that evening.

 

He barely noticed the thud of Tony’s boots, but the jingling sound struck him, and he turned.  Tony wore a gold chain and medallion—the only things of any real value he owned; they’d been a wedding gift from Billy’s mother.  The chain wasn’t heavy—she couldn’t afford the big thick links he’d wanted—but the medallion was a thing of wonder; she’d spent a large part of Billy’s college savings on having it custom-made to Tony’s design.  After all, she was marrying someone with a stable job who’d surely help her son when the time came.

 

Tony loved the medallion.  From a disk two and a half inches in diameter rose a lion’s face, all of it in solid gold—the blue-collar stud, born in early August, was a Leo.  The eyes and the fangs of the beast were platinum and gave it a ferocious look.

 

The whole thing usually rested snugly on Tony’s chest, nestled in his thick fur, but when he moved suddenly or violently, it bounced around, the heavy medallion making a jingling sound as it rattled along its chain.  It was this that drew Billy’s attention—but not quite fast enough.  All the adolescent punk saw was a blur; his eyes never had the chance to resolve it into Tony’s fist, rocketing straight for his face.

 

There just the blast of pain on his jaw and Tony’s fury-filled voice, “You piece a’ fuckin’ shit!”

 

The sucker-punch to his jaw knocked Billy across the entryway; he staggered into the wall, stumbling with such force that his shoulder dislodged a chunk of plaster.  Stunned, the teen fell to his knees.  He braced himself against the wall as Tony loomed over him.

 

“You goddam faggot,” Billy muttered, rubbing his split lower lip, “Gonna call 911 on yer ass…”  He reached out for his phone, lying on the floor a few feet away.

 

“Naw you ain’t,” Tony jeered.  Before Billy could grasp the phone, Tony casually put his boot down on it.  He grinned at Billy, then ground the thick treaded heel onto the phone, obviously relishing the cracking sound as he crushed the screen.

 

“Goddam it!” Billy squawked, “Do you know what that cost?”  He seemed to be angrier about the damage to his phone than the damage to his face.

 

Billy’s hair wasn’t overly long, but it was long enough for Tony to bend down and grab a hank of it.  “Better’n you, ya whinin’ little leech; you ain’t earned a dollar in yer useless life.  Now get the fuck up!”  He jerked Billy’s hair upwards, forcing the adolescent punk up off his knees to avoid injuring his scalp.

 

Billy’s hands instantly went up to Tony’s fingers, trying to pry them out of his hair.  “Lemme go!” he demanded petulantly.

 

“Shaddap,” Tony snarled and gutpunched the teen, his piston-like fist sinking deep into to the kid’s flat, smooth belly.  “HOOG!” Billy cried, doubling over; he would have fallen to his knees again had Tony not been holding him up by the hair.

 

The hardbodied older man, sweating slightly from his exertions, towered over the moaning smart-ass punk.  “Boy, yer ma never taught ya no discipline.  I’m gonna teach ya respect the hard way—an’ I guaran-fuckin’-tee you ain’t gonna forget.”

 

Whatever Billy may have thought of this proposition went unexpressed; the youth was jerking and gasping ineffectually, still trying to get his breath back.  He couldn’t ignore the painfully forceful yanking on his scalp, though, as Tony dragged him relentlessly toward the stairs.

 

The house was old—almost a century—and had been built in what was originally a working-class neighborhood that had never risen in value.  It wasn’t just run-down; it some areas it was almost ineptly small.  The staircase was steep and narrow, the wood risers creaking and splintered.

 

Billy found that being dragged upstairs practically on his hands and knees was a painful experience.  He had no idea that in just a few minutes he’d be in such agony that this discomfort would seem like a mother’s caress.

 

“Let…let…lemme go!” he gasped out just as they reached the top landing.  Directly across from it the door to the master bedroom stood open.  Tony jerked Billy around in front of him, towards the gaping rectangle of darkness.

 

“Shut the fuck up, asswipe,” he snarled.  Planting his big black boot against the boy’s ass, he shoved hard, sending Billy flying blindly into the darkened bedroom.  The teen clipped the corner of the dresser with his hip.  His cry of pain was cut short by a loud crash as he slammed into the closet door and slumped, dazed, to the floor.

 

He could barely comprehend what was happening, but he knew that his stepfather had assaulted him.  Despite the intense physical pain and the sudden fright of the unexpected attack, there was a hard kernel of joy in Billy’s shallow, arrogant mind: he had the fucker right where he wanted him.  He was gonna get the fag put away for a long, long time.

 

The idea that he might not survive to do so hadn’t occurred to him yet, but it was about to.

 

It was to dark to see more than a hulking. moving silhouette outlined in the doorway, but Billy knew Tony was coming for him.  The rank odor of mansweat, cologne and adrenaline increased, Tony’s sheer proximity taking Billy by surprise.  Before his startled cry could escape his windpipe, though, his air was completely cut off.  Tony’s hand had clamped down on his throat like a vice and now the muscled Latino was dead-lifting the kid off the ground.

 

Billy suddenly found himself dangling in midair, the toes of his DCs jerking helplessly inches off the floor.  This was a new kind of pain; his entire body weight was hanging off his neck and no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t inhale.

 

The ginger punk began to panic, clawing at Tony’s hands as his legs kicked violently.  He still couldn’t see much in the darkness, but there was a flash of light that danced and glittered at his eye level.  His pulse pounding deafeningly in his ears, Billy instinctively reach for the light.  His fingers, bent into rigid hooks, soon snagged it—it was Tony’s medallion.

 

In his frantic thrashing, Billy ripped it—and a few curly chest hairs—away from Tony’s chest.

 

“MOTHERFUCKER!!” Tony roared.  Tensing his powerful arm like a slingshot, he hurled Billy across the room at random.

 

The kid hit the partially-open bedroom door, slamming it shut hard enough to jam it into its frame.  When he fell to the floor this time, he didn’t rise—he was out cold.

 

Tony, in the meantime, had crossed the room and flipped the light switch.  A bedside lamp and a floor lamp in the opposite corner came on simultaneously.  Cursing, Tony scouted the floor for a few moments before giving a grunt of satisfaction as he noticed the medallion halfway under the dresser.  He picked it up and pocketed it.

 

Now that the important matter had been dealt with, he turned his attention back to his stepson.  Tony was violent and ignorant, but he wasn’t stupid; he knew as well as Billy did what would happen if he let the little shit out of this room alive.

 

And since that was the case, and he’d always wanted to ram his huge shaft up the swaggering teen’s tight asshole, why not have a little fun?  Especially since he could show the fuckwad exactly what he’d always thought of him.

 

Now that all bets were off, he could show the little sack of shit just how badly he wanted to fuck him—and fuck him up.  He strolled casually to the bed and began to strip the covering off.

 

Billy moaned and stirred, coming slowly and painfully back to consciousness.  He was lying in a heap on the floor; when he first opened his eyes, they were at floor level.  All he could see of Tony was the older man’s boots as he walked around the bed.  The teen’s lithe body was claiming his attention, though; even though nothing was broken, he was hurting badly.  His smooth, silky skin had sprouted ugly purple bruises and his back and sides ached horribly where he’d impacted the doors.

 

Suddenly, Billy blinked.  He’d been so focused on his own physical discomfort, he’d stopped paying attention to Tony—he never noticed his stepfather approaching him.  But now his field of vision was completely filled with the muscle-bound Latino’s boots.  The thick treaded soles, still stained with dried mud, the black leather tightly cinched to the blue-collar stud’s powerful legs by the heavy-duty tan nylon laces…

 

Billy rolled onto his back and looked up at Tony towering over him.  For the first time, the arrogant teenager felt a sense of fear.  Above the boots, Tony’s tight jeans only emphasized the power of his bulging legs.  And above his waist, circled by a black utility belt of webbed nylon the older man’s ripped abs and massive, fur-covered pecs amply demonstrated what the tight jeans only hinted at—Tony’s phenomenal physical strength.  If Tony really wanted to fuck him up, Billy realized, there was little he could do about it.

 

And at that moment their eyes met and Tony gave his helpless stepson a grin so full of malicious intent that Billy’s blood ran cold.

 

“I’m gonna hafta teach ya respect, boy.  Yer gonna learn to respect me, hear?” the powerfully-built man chuckled, “Dumb-ass motherfucker, I gotta break ya like an animal to make ya learn.  Best way to do that is pain.”

 

Before Billy could react, Tony lifted his leg and stomped on the boy’s abdomen, his huge Timberland boot grinding its treaded sole deep into Billy’s soft flat belly, driving his stomach up into his diaphragm.  The boy cried out, an inarticulate wail of pain as the air was brutally forced from his lungs; instinctively, he reached out and grabbed Tony’s relentless boots.  His hands clenched the smooth black leather tightly as he tried to shift the crushing footgear.

 

“Get yer fuckin’ hands off my boot, goddam it!” Tony barked out.  Quickly, he jerked his foot back, then gave Billy a swift, vicious kick.  The sadistically angry older man grinned with pleasure at the faint cracking sound caused by the impact of his steel toe with the teen’s flank.

 

Billy was still trying to inhale; he wasn’t able to scream as both floating ribs on his right side—and the first false rib above them—snapped cleanly in two.  The pain was horrible, but aside from minor tissue damage as the jagged broken ends of the bones dug into his tissues, the young punk hadn’t suffered any serious damage.

 

Yet.

 

Tony was surprised at how erotic the sound of breaking bones was.  It was almost good as the visual of the cocky adolescent suffering.  His dick pressed against his tight jeans, resentful that it couldn’t expand to its full glory—not a situation Tony would endure long.  He unzipped his fly and let his enormous tube of manmeat flop out.  It was already dripping.

 

And a single bead of transparent precum dripped on Billy’s smooth chest.  The writhing teen delinquent hadn’t seen what was going on—his face was contorted into an agonized grimace, his eye tightly closed—but despite the trauma of three broken ribs, he still was able to feel the hot splash of manjuice on his tender skin and opened his eyes.

 

He opened his eyes even wider when he saw Tony’s erect, oozing cock.

 

Billy wasn’t gay.  The thought of two men having sex sickened him.  On the rare occasions he’d been in school, he was notorious on the campus for bullying (and sometimes downright assaulting) any other dude he even thought was homosexual.  His discovery of Tony’s secret had been the final tipping point for his decision to leave home.

 

But now here he was, battered and at a severe disadvantage—he refused to recognize himself as helpless—and trapped in a room with a faggot.

 

A powerful faggot.  One who had the physical strength to make the obnoxious teen his bitch.

 

Looking down at his victim, Tony saw fear in Billy’s face for the first time, and that sealed the deal.  That was what he needed—to dominate the little shit, to put the fear of Tony into him.

 

And to fuck the shit outta him while doing it.  He grabbed his massive rod, brandishing it like a club.

 

“Guess where this is goin’, asswipe,” he chuckled, grinning malevolently, “An’ there ain’t a damn thing yer gonna be able to do about it.”

 

He kicked Billy again, quick, sharp, short; a vicious impact on the kid’s hip that split the skin.  “AAH!!” the punk yelled.  He wasn’t able to yell again; raising his boot high so that Billy could admire it for the brief moment it was held over him, Tony stomped him again.  This time he went for the sternum, slamming his heel into Bill’s solar plexus.

 

The kid was totally unaware of anything that happened in the next two and a half minutes; he was too busy trying to breathe—and not doing it well.  By the time he was in enough control of his nervous system to inhale with some semblance of regularity, Tony was leaning against the dresser, smoking a cigarette and stroking his thick, swollen member.

 

The older man leered at the gasping, traumatized youth.  “Get up, asswipe,” he commanded.

 

“F-fuck you,” Billy spat out.  Tony darted across the room and before Billy even realized what was happening, the muscle-bound stud kicked his stepson in the face.  His steel-toed boot hit Billy’s face like a speeding truck, cracking the jawbone and knocking out three teeth.

 

The teen’s agonized howl reverberated down Tony’s dick; this was his first real chance to explore his attraction to sadism—and it felt hot as fuck.

 

“Keep talkin’ back, fucker,” the hulking Latino moaned, his sexual arousal clearly audible in his voice.  “Gimme a reason to hurt you, cunt…”

 

Even though his slim teen body was wracked with pain, Billy heard—and, on some instinctive level beneath conscious thought, understood—Tony’s husky, erotic tone.  He knew what he had to do.

 

In spite of the pain, he had to obey.  Because if he didn’t, things would get much, much worse.

 

Slowly, stiffly, the kid rolled over and began the harrowing process of bracing himself on the wall and rising first to his knees, then, finally, to his feet.

 

“Strip,” Tony said, staring coldly into the boy’s tear- and blood-streaked face.  Billy damn sure didn’t want to strip, but he couldn’t say anything about it even if he dared; it simply hurt too much to open his mouth.  He pulled off his Pokémon shirt, his tight, smooth chest shuddering with suppressed sobs.  His belt, which had been hidden under the shirt, glittered in the light.  It was something he’d picked up in a retro store, advertised as “genuine 80’s punk rock”—lengths of ten-millimeter marine chain in a bundle, bound together with thick leather thongs at regular intervals along its length.

 

Fuckin’ jackass thought he was a trend-setter.  Tony smirked contemptuously.  “Yeah, motherfucker, that’s it,” he chuckled as he fondled his manmeat and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke into Billy’s face.  “Show daddy what ya got.  Get them jeans off; I wanna see ye sweet ass.”

 

Billy hesitated.  He couldn’t do this.  It didn’t matter how bad he got beat—he wasn’t gonna take a dick up his ass, especially not this motherfucker’s.

 

“Do it, you sack a’ shit, or I’ll make ya do it.  Fuckin’ strip, I said.  Now.”  Tony wasn’t smiling any more, and the gleam of merriment in his eyes was somehow more terrifying—because less sane—than the openly mocking humor in his earlier manner.

 

The teen was shuddering in pain and fear; his hands trembled so badly he could barely undo his belt even though it was merely looped into a loose granny knot.  His smooth skin was slick with cold, nervous sweat.  His adolescent adrenal system had so overloaded his body with hormones that they oozed out of his pores; the atmosphere was heady with his youthful pheromones as his shaking fingers managed to unfasten the belt.  As he unbuttoned the waistband and started lowering the zipper, Billy was brought up short by Tony.

 

“Hold up, bitch.  Yer belt—I want it.  Toss it to me.”

 

Billy obeyed, submitting to his stepfather’s commands in a dazed manner.  Tony caught the belt, then tossed it onto the stripped-down bed.  “Ok, bitch, keep strippin’.  C’mon, cunt, strip an’ I’m gonna make ya daddy’s bitch.”

 

Quivering in revulsion and horror, the humbled youth paused to kick off his Court Graffiks, leaving his black no-show ped socks covering his feet as tears coursed down his cheek.  His jeans dropped to the floor, showing that the little punk was commando.  His uncut teen cock was impressively long and thick for being completely soft.

 

 

Billy’s chest and his hip ached badly and the swollen throbbing of his mouth and jaw were almost unbearable, but they paled in comparison to what he expected was going to happen next.    He had no idea how bad it was going to get, though—but Tony did.

 

“Get on the bed, boy.”

 

Those five words struck a chill in Billy’s heart.  To the oversexed adolescent, they were more terrifying than threats of beating—even in his stunned and dazed state, he knew what it meant.

 

He was gonna get ass-raped.  The leering grin on Tony’s swarthy, masculine face confirmed it.  The teen’s naturally rebellious nature, confronted with this horrifying prospect, rose up on its hind legs.

 

“Fuck you, ya faggot!” he screamed, his fear overpowering the searing sensation of opening his mouth.

 

The grin vanished from the muscle-bound Latino’s face; if Tony’ command had chilled Billy’s blood, the expression on the blue-collar stud’s face froze it solid.  Not solid enough, though, to prevent the kid’s sudden dash for the door.

 

The boy was good.  He’d never gone out for sports, but his slim firm body was strong with the power of youth—and of fear.  Before Tony had realized what was happening, Billy had managed not only to reach the bedroom door, but to get it open.

 

Billy’s heart lurched in terror as he heard the loud thump of Tony’s boots hitting the floor behind him.  He realized that his only chance was to make it out of the house; unless he jumped through a window, his only way to do that was to get downstairs.  He bolted for the landing.

 

He almost made it.  He’d actually reached the top step when Tony tackled him full-body, slamming him into the wall hard enough to punch through the plaster and break the lathes behind…

 

…and the next thing Billy was aware of was that he was stretched out on the bed.   He didn’t remember how he got there, but he remembered everything else, and he knew what it meant.

 

He’d lost.  It took all his willpower to open his eyes; he already knew Tony would be standing there next to him.  He didn’t want to look at his brutal stepfather’s face—and as it happened, he didn’t have to.

 

As his lids fluttered open, the first thing he saw was Tony’s massive cock, hanging lividly directly over his face.  It was so close he could see every pulsing vein wrapped around the engorged shaft of manmeat.

 

“Hey there, fuckmeat,” Tony chortled, “Ya like it, dontcha?  Take a good long look, ya little shit, before I stick it up yer ass.”

 

The enormous shaft was so close, Billy didn’t have the option not to look.  As he watched, the huge, intimidating shaft of rigid manmeat began to ooze.  As a sexually active adolescent, the punk knew exactly what precum was—and what caused it.

 

It disgusted and nauseated him, but there was nothing he could do.  The kid had simply too badly beaten, was in too much pain to fight anymore.  “Just fuckin’ do it, man…” he whispered, his fractured jaw making every word agony, “Just…please…don’t hurt me no more…”

 

Tony’s loud, cruel guffaw echoed off the walls.  “Don’t hurt you?” he jeered incredulously.  “It’s hurtin’ you that gets me off, ya dumbass motherfucker!”  He mounted the bed and forcefully pried Billy’s smooth, firm legs apart, manhandling them up to his shoulders.  Reaching down and grabbing his cock like some huge caveman’s club, the older man fondled Billy’s ass with his free hand.

 

He bent over the prone, helpless teen and whispered, “An’ if you ain’t had no dick up there, boy, this is gonna hurt worse than you can imagine.”

 

This close, Billy had more than a closeup of Tony’s hard, masculine face—he could smell the muscle-bound sicko, a musky mix of sweat, testosterone, and cheap cologne that gave the blue-collar stud his own unique manscent.  Billy had smelled it often before—albeit without its current heavy load of pheromones—and had always been somehow revolted by it.  Now, though, it was taking on new associations.  For the rest of his life, that particular scent would inspire terror.

 

It was a good news/bad news scenario for the once-cocky teen punk: the bad news was that he’d be forced to endure that odor for the rest of his life—but the good news was that he’d only be forced to endure it for about another half-hour or so.

 

And he’d have other things to complain about long before the end of that period of time.

 

Like assrape.  Tony wasted no time; Billy felt an increasing on his fuckhole—then Tony shoved, hard and long and Billy screamed, hard and long.

 

He wasn’t being raped; he was being stabbed.  The pain was so excruciating that Billy couldn’t believe it was being inflicted by something as blunt as a penis—he had no doubt that Tony had rammed a butcher’s knife into his ass.

 

For Tony, the feeling was bliss.  He’d wanted to dominate this obnoxious teenaged piece of shit ever since he met him, and now that he had his dick sunk balls-deep into the punk’s guts, he was gonna torture the kid until he unloaded inside him.

 

But these houses were cheaply built and close together; Billy was making far too much noise.  “Shaddap and take it, motherfucker,” he barked and popped the boy on the jaw again.  The fracture gave way and Billy was suddenly pulled between two poles of suffering—the horrific sensation of tearing tissue as his ass was impaled and the slicing torment of the broken ends of bones grinding together in his jaw.

 

The teen had the wiry strength of youth, but the physical and mental trauma was starting to overload him.  He was cold, very cold, and things were going gray.  There was a loud buzzing in his ears; he reached out, instinctively, for some kind of support as he desperately tried to maintain consciousness.

 

And that was how Billy ended up tightly clutching Tony’s hairy, muscular arms as his stepfather brutally fucked him.  What little strength the suffering youth had left was put into keeping awake by keeping hold of Tony; Billy somehow had a subconscious awareness that if he went out now, he’d never wake up.

 

It was a bad choice; it turned out that staying awake was much, much worse.

 

“Goddam, yer gettin’ loose,” his furry, sweat-slick stepfather grunted, pumping his long manmeat up the kid’s ass rhythmically, “Thought you were a virgin—you been gettin’ banged by the whole fuckin’ football team?  Haw!”

 

Billy’s face, contorted with agony and wet with tears, was still responsive to other feelings; even as he suffered, the hint of being gay stoked enough of a spark of anger to make him flush.  It was what Tony did next that made the boy go pale.

 

“I know how ta make ya get all nice an’ tight,” Tony said with an evil smirk, and brandished Billy’s chain belt.  The teen lay still, staring at it blankly; with everything he’d undergone, he’d forgotten about it.  “Saw this online one time,” Tony went on, “An’ I always wanted to try it.  On you, motherfucker.”

 

For a brief moment, an image was seared into Billy’s terrified mind—his hairy, muscular looming over him; that broad, fur-covered chest, the huge dark nipples hard and jutting with Tony’s sadistic excitement, his swarthy face glowing with contemptuous lust, his dark eyes flashing, and his arm—oh, his thick, powerful arm raised and ready to strike—

 

It moved so fast that Billy didn’t even see it; in fact, his first sensation after the impact was hearing it.  The slap of metal on flesh was louder than his stepfather’s ragged guttural breathing.

 

The older man had doubled the belt over, then swung it downwards; it had struck Billy’s chest diagonally from upper left to lower right.  Each individual link of the multiple chains hit the punk’s smooth, tender skin at high velocity.  The immediate reaction was akin to shock but when the pain did register, even a broken jaw couldn’t keep Billy from screaming.

 

“Aw fuck yeah!” Tony yelled, “Fuckin’-A, that’s it!  Felt that one all up an’ down my dick, motherfucker!”  He raised his arm again, his back lit image again striking terror into the helpless, tortured adolescent.  “C’mon, ya smartass piece a’ shit, let’s hear ya mouth off now!”

 

This time Billy raised his right arm to ward off the blow.  Again, it was a very bad idea—but the teenaged delinquent, who rarely had good ideas at his best—was suffering the impediment of broken bones and an enormous cock up his ass.  Even as he swung his mighty arm down, Tony had seen the kid’s defensive move and knew what would happen—the belt looped around Billy’s arm, centripetal force accelerating it as it tore into his flesh.  Before it could unwind itself, the sick sadist jerked the belt back.

 

Two distinctively separate sounds reverberated off the walls like gunshots.  The first was the sharp cracking noise of Billy’s right forearm bones snapping simultaneously.  The second was more of a moist crackling pop as his shoulder dislocated.

 

It was too much; it was overload—and it got worse.  As Billy hoarsely screamed himself into a white haze of agony, Tony aimed another blow at the boy’s heaving flank, oily with sweat.  The chain belt hit the point where Billy’s ribs had been broken, and the teen surrendered to the pain; almost gratefully fleeing consciousness despite his fear of never coming to again.

 

He needn’t have worried.  Tony was enraged that he’d lost his prey, but not enough to snuff it while it was out.  The little asshole hadn’t suffered anywhere near enough yet.  The buff older man simply wrapped the belt around the limp teen’s neck and continued to rape the kid’s ass.  He was bound to wake up sooner or later.

 

It took the fucker a few minutes crawl his way back to excruciating consciousness.  The moment he saw the punk’s long dark eyelashes begin to flutter, Tony pulled the belt tight.  Not enough to cut off Billy’s air; just enough to let the asswipe know that the fun wasn’t over yet.

 

Billy, utterly engulfed in agony, had stopped trying to fight back.  The horrific pain of being kicked, beaten, and chain-whipped had broken his spirit, just as Tony had intended.  The nightmarish torture of assrape and multiple broken bones had left the teen, if not in shock, then very close to it.  The ginger punk’s eyes were open, but nothing was registering.  His perspiration-soaked skin was gray and clammy and his pulse was becoming slow and faint.

 

Problem was, his fuckhole was becoming slack—but that was why Tony had put the belt around the kid’s neck.  One sharp tug could help fix all that.

 

Tony did more than tug it.

 

Billy’s eyes opened wide as the chain links burrowed into his flesh; the pressure was forcing skin out within the spaces, deeply embedding the pattern of the links into his neck.  Keeping his swollen shaft buried in the teen’s rectum, Tony pulled slowly on the ends of the belt, incrementally tightening it around Billy’s throat.  A look of panic was stamped on the boy’s face as he gave a loud wheeze and felt his windpipe cinch shut.

 

Tony smiled down at Billy.  “Yer gonna die harder than yer mom did when I offed her.  Course, I just wasted her for the money—stupid cunt was dumb enough to put on the life insurance.  You, now—this is different.  I wanna see you suffer, asshole.  I wanna watch you choke to death with my cock up yer ass,–ya feel me, motherfucker?  Naw?  How ‘bout this?”

 

With that, the muscle-bound Latino jerked the belt, hard.  His biceps bulged from the effort, dark veins rising to the surface as Tony exerted his strength to inflict the torture he knew the obnoxious, cocky teenager so badly deserved.

 

Billy’s face wasn’t pale any longer; it was dusky blue and darkening quickly.  His livid eyes already seemed to bulge from his face.  The youth squirmed frantically, his smooth, lithe body writhing on a film of sweat beneath the powerful weight of his stepfather.  His firm thighs clenched against the older man’s legs, his feet kicking and his toes curling in his black socks.

 

“Whaddaya think, fuckwad?  Gonna wipe out yer whole goddam family.  Ain’t none of ya worth shit.  Hell, I gotta snuff yer worthless ass just to get ya to milk a load outta my dick.  But hey, fucker, yer gettin’ hard too—prob’ly gonna spunk yerself, boy, so don’t say I never gave ya nothin’!  Haw!”

 

Billy knew he had an erection; he could feel it—he could feel everything.  His collapsing esophagus, his violated and abused colon, the glassy pain of jagged bone ends grinding together, yes oh holy fuck even as his lungs burned and his racing heartbeat echoed in his skull he could still feel all of it and somehow the worst was the fiery pain of his unnaturally swollen and throbbing cock and his seething balls.

 

The teen’s face was black and taut, distorting his appearance; even his red-gold hair was dark with cold deathsweat that was being squeezed out of his slim youthful body.  As the pressure in his head increased, blood vessels began to burst in Billy’s eyes, leaving large black voids in his field of vision, like negative explosions.  He could vaguely feel that something was wrong with his mouth but he had no way of knowing how his broken jaw had given way to his relentlessly swelling tongue.  It protruded grotesquely, while his cheeks were smeared with foamy drool that ran from his mouth.

 

In his last moments, Billy reached out to his stepfather.  His right arm was too damaged to move, but he raised his left, and placed it on Tony’s chest.  For a moment, the boy’s hand remained flat, nestled in the stud’s wiry fur—then suddenly, it curled and jerked sideways.

 

Tony hadn’t been expecting it.  Maybe Billy hadn’t either; he was so close to the line between life and brain death that deliberate movement was—unlikely.  One way or another, the dying teen punk had clenched his hand and clawed not only at Tony’s chest hair, but at his nipple.

 

The swarthy blue-collar alpha roared in anger.  His movement was swift and sure; it looked like a practiced kill strike even though Tony had never done this before.

 

Passing both ends of the belt to his left hand and jerking up with it, the powerful sadist balled his right hand into a fist and plowed it into Billy’s face as hard as he could.  The boy’s head snapped back as his neck was jerked forward; there was a loud gristly wrenching sound as his cranium was violently separated from his spine.

 

Teenaged boymeat, full of hormones and already forcibly erect from asphyxia and intense prostate massage, suddenly experienced a profound shock to the central nervous system—the result was only natural.  Billy’s firm, lean body went rigid, his legs wrapped tightly around Tony’s waist and the shredded remains of his sphincter tightening around the base of his stepfather’s cock.  Suddenly, he exploded into a single violent spasm, his engorged tool spewing a solid stream of boycum all over his own and Tony’s chest.

 

At the same time, the strong muscles of his rectum, flowing rhythmically in the teen’s death throes, massaged the full length of Tony’s huge rod.  With a loud grunt, the older man unloaded in the kid’s ass, hosing out his guts with manseed.  For several minutes, they clung together, bodies entwined and shuddering in orgasm and death.

 

 

 

 

Tony had time; it wasn’t like anyone was looking for the little piece a’ shit.  Once he pulled out of the still-quivering boymeat, he strolled out of the bedroom and down the hall to the bathroom, taking some time to leisurely clean his cum-smeared dick and stuff it back into his jeans.  Then he went back into the bedroom and pulled a plain white cotton t-shirt out of the dresser and slipped it on.

 

He glanced around the room for a moment.  Nothing here he really needed.  He’d hoped to make some extra money from selling the house, but fuck it, now.  The two mil was good enough.  He could buy anything he needed, and there damn sure wasn’t anything sentimental about this place.  He’d just burn it the fuck down.

 

But first he turned back to Billy.  The seventeen-year-old’s corpse was on its back, legs and left arm splayed.  The right arm was lying twisted at an unnatural angle.  The punk’s smooth, firm chest and flat belly were covered with a thick glaze of the kid’s own semen; it had even splashed into his contorted, damaged face which had faded from black to cyanic blue.

 

Tony approached the bed, noting how the corpse’s feet kept twitching in their black ped socks.  He reached up and grabbed the belt, sunk horrifyingly deep into the boy’s throat; using it as a handle, he dragged Billy’s body off the bed.  It hit the floor with a loud, boneless thump, not that Tony noticed, or would have cared.

 

He cared even less about what he was doing to the corpse as he dragged it downstairs and out to the bed of his pickup.  He bent down and picked it up, cradling the dead teen in his arms in what could have been mistaken for a tender moment—then tossed Billy’s carcass into the back of the truck like a side of beef.

 

Tony walked back into the house, the thudding of his heavy Timberland boots echoing in the empty house, checking to make sure he’d left nothing of any value behind—not that there was any need to worry; everything worth anything had already been sold, hocked, or traded for quick surreptitious sex.

 

House wasn’t worth much anyway, he knew, it was run down and needed serious repairs, so losing it wasn’t much of a financial loss in any case.  Tony had already located four bottles of lighter fluid in a cabinet over the fridge—the broad had smoked like a coal furnace and Billy liked to pretend he was a man by smoking Swisher Sweets—and it took him no more than twenty minutes to saturate what he considered to be the most flammable parts of the house with the fluid.  He made sure to open the windows partially to allow for oxygen, but to close the curtains and blinds.  It was four in the morning by this time, and it was unlikely that any of the neighbors would be up, but Tony was feeling vindictive and wanted to make sure that the place was beyond saving before anyone noticed.

 

He lit the flame in the back hallway on the ground floor before heading out.  He locked the front door behind him.

 

Easing his truck quietly out onto the street, he waited until he turned onto the next block before switching his headlights on.  Once he did, he headed straight for the high school, driving carefully, and under the speed limit.  He had no intention of getting pulled over now.

 

The high school had security cameras; Tony already knew about them because Billy had been caught vandalizing the place.  The stupid shit had practically circled the school; as Tony saw when the principal had shown him the video—and as a result, he knew where they didn’t cover—like the sign out front.

 

Tony didn’t pull into the parking lot; it abounded in cameras.  He just pulled over to the side of the road right by the sign—a simple double-sided backlit marquee with the legend “San Clemente Senior High Cougars” at the top and letters posted on the marquee spelling out a message that the following Friday was an in-service day.

 

It was all very ordinary, and it made Tony sick.  He didn’t know why, but the thought of making a public display seemed to get him buzzed.  He got out of the truck and, going to the rear, opened the bed and dragged Billy’s corpse out.  He let it hit the ground with his usual disdain, smirking as it crunched lifelessly into the gravel; as it did, Tony noticed it had lost its left sock somewhere along the line.

 

“Truant officer’s been askin’ ‘bout ya lately, boy,” he whispered, a sick, psychotic gleam in his dark eyes, “Wants to know where ya been, whatcha been doin’.   So I thinks, why not show him what ya been up to, fucker?  Huh?  Yeah?  C’mon, boy, it’s time you got back to school.”

 

Tony hoisted Billy up over his shoulder and carried him up the slope from the road.  The corpse was stopped quivering by now and was starting to cool, but was still limp and malleable.  Tony had no problems draping it over the sign in such a position that Billy’s gaping asshole, still leaking cum, was visible from the drive to the main entrance.

 

“There ya go,” he said, his voice velvety with satisfaction, “Now everyone can see ya finally got what was cummin’ to ya.”

 

He strolled back down the hill to his truck, then kept going out of town in the same direction he was already facing.  He wanted to reach his new address before noon.  He hadn’t spent much time there, so he didn’t know the town well, but Corrington didn’t seem like it’d take long to learn.  In fact, Tony doubted that Rigler County had much to offer in the way of entertainment.  He’d have to see what he could stir up…

Beach Party   By: Gay Slavemeat   Gsmeat2@gmail.com

On By m3mayhemIn Reader Stories1 Comment

 

I enjoy writing and reading gay snuff stories, and I like to imagine an awesome world run by Alpha Males, where torture and snuff of guys like me would be routine.  In that world environmental issues are addressed, nations are at peace, prosperity is the norm, and there is a positive, stable social order.  That’s because a select group of Alpha Males achieve total dominance, with a large beta class of citizens who live productive, fulfilling, but somewhat 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 Alpha and beta class 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.  Our pathetic lives would comprise only pain and humiliation and would mean nothing; our bodies ultimately would be food, turned to shit in the bellies of our masters as befits our status.  We would be bred and trained to understand that this is what we deserve.

 

But this would not all happen at once, and this story is about a time prior to creation of the Alpha Utopia, when they are organizing outside public view. Sadly, it’s all fiction, including names of characters.

 

1

The Beach Drive

 

Matt was a sex slave, and today was the last day of his life.  His owner rand master, Jim Fletcher, had decided to destroy and dispose of one of his possessions and expected Matt to cooperate fully in the process.  That was not a problem for Matt.  He understood his status as property and his purpose as a sex toy, and he was completely on board with whatever his owner desired.  He knew torturing, humiliating, and snuffing him would be fun for Jim and the other participants, since Matt was remarkably good looking – a 23-year-old specimen of prime man meat that was shaped perfectly and in perfect shape. He had a surfer’s build, with a trim waist and nicely formed pecks that highlighted his smooth, hairless chest. He had small, hard nipples that stood out nicely and were always tempting targets for inflicting pain when he was being used sexually. His abs were rock-hard, showing off a clearly defined six-pack of carefully maintained muscle.  Matt was very strong, with obvious definition in his arms and legs that reflected his strenuous daily workout routines and a wholesome diet of high protein dog food mixed in his dog dish with some of his master’s urine and crap toe remind him of his status.  These enabled him to endure exceptionally harsh S&M sessions.   He had a short, conservative haircut and no body hair at all, even around his crotch, which added not only to his sex appeal but to his appearance of complete nakedness and availability. It had been years since Matt had worn any clothes, and his body was evenly tanned from exposure to the warm sun on the estate where he was kept.  Yet perhaps it was his handsome, eager face and easy, willing smile that ultimately made him so appealing. Matt aimed to please, and it showed.  There was literally nothing he wouldn’t do to please Jim.  So he was excited and eager for this day, when he would add slightly to Jim’s pleasure by losing his disposable life.

 

As a sex slave, Matt’s most useful physical traits were his long, thick cock, his inviting bubble-butt, his insatiable gay sex drive, and his utter masochism. Matt had a bit over 11 inches of hard, reliable man muscle, and he was always ready to have it used to please another guy, especially if it meant masturbating for the other guy’s entertainment while the other guy’s cock rammed Matt’s ass.  Matt was expert at timing his orgasm to match the timing of the cock he felt inside him, realizing it was the other guy’s orgasm that mattered and watching Matt shoot a load simultaneously made that more pleasurable.    Matt’s own pleasure was irrelevant, and if he was denied the chance for his own orgasm he understood that was what he deserved.  His entire existence was focused on sex and using his body to please Jim and any other guys Jim invited to use Jim’s formerly-human sex toy.

 

Today Matt was truly enjoying himself. He was riding in the passenger seat of Jim’s Lamborghini convertible, racing over 120 miles per hour down a beautiful beach-front highway. The day was warm, about 75 degrees with a slight breeze. The view was spectacular, with vistas of mountains on one side and a wide sandy beach on the other. Jim was a very competent driver, so Matt didn’t worry about the excessive speeds down the narrow, winding road. The speed added to the thrill.

 

Matt was naked, of course. It would be inappropriate for him to wear clothes, other than a slave collar and a cock ring he usually wore in public to clarify his status. (They were each electrified, with a phone app Jim could use to zap Matt to enhance his humiliation and add a little entertaining pain for everyone to enjoy.)  On this occasion Jim had instructed him to refrain from putting on a seat belt, since it impeded a tiny bit of his view of Matt’s body. His master’s slightest pleasure was far more important than Matt’s safety, after all, so that made perfect sense. If Matt were thrown from the car and killed, it was hardly a big deal other than inconveniencing Jim somewhat as he secured a replacement slave for the day’s fun. In fact, as Jim had pointed out, he didn’t want that to happen.  Jim had tested whether it would be entertaining on another slave whose sexual performance Jim found boring.  Jim had instructed the slave to jump out of the car and kill himself.  The slave apologized for his poor performance and did as instructed.  Watching the body in the rear-view mirror as it bounced onto the road, cracking its spine and breaking arms and legs, wasn’t as entertaining as Jim had hoped.  Even when he watched the satellite video later he didn’t get much of a turn-on from the scene.  (For Jim’s protection his car was always in view when he drove out of the family estate.)  But he backed up to where the body stopped and positioned the dying slave on the hood of the car, boring its flesh and exposing its ass for Jim to fuck.  Jim did enjoy that part, reaching orgasm as the animal convulsed and died, its ass nicely tightening around Jim’s cock in the process.  But Jim had decided the experiment wasn’t all that successful and hadn’t thrown any slaves out since then – glad he had wasted only a few minutes of his time and a useless slave on the effort.  Besides, Matt knew Jim had other plans for him, although he didn’t know any details.

 

Jim was also naked. But that was by choice – he liked being naked and spent most of his time that way. Since Jim’s family owned the beaches they were driving by, and the mountains, he could do what he wanted. In fact, they were on a huge private island they owned that was not far from Hawaii, and there were no rules except what Jim and his dad decided. The island was not part of any country, or shown on any maps, so their decisions were the law – the only law.  Matt understood that too, realizing it was the way things should be.

 

Both Matt and Jim had erect penises, but Jim’s was simply aroused while Matt’s was positively throbbing. The excitement from the time and attention he was getting today was more than he could imagine.

 

The ride was a nostalgic return to old times in many ways.  Jim and Matt had known each other since they were in high school together.  Their bodies intensely turned each other on sexually and always had.  It was hardly unusual for them both to have a hard-on when they were together.  But today was special.  Matt wanted Jim to have a great day that Jim would remember, and Matt was determined to do his best to help make it happen. It was Jim’s 25th birthday and Jim’s dad was throwing Jim a big beach party not only to celebrate the birthday but also to celebrate Jim’s officially announced role as his dad’s heir and successor in the family business.  The fact Jim had chosen to have just the two of them drive to the party meant everything to Matt.

 

“Are you excited for the beach party?” Jim asked. Another part of Matt’s joy came from Jim telling him they could converse during the ride as if they were friends – as they had been in high school, rather than Matt being required to speak only when asked a question, as befit his status as Jim’s property.

 

“Extremely – can’t you tell?” teased Matt, pointing at his pulsating cock.  “I just hope it’s all you want it to be. I want you to have a wonderful birthday party.  And I’ll do everything I can to help make it so.”

 

“Yes, you will. You’ve been well trained, so I think you’ll perform OK. After all, you’ve had five years to prepare., since you officially became my piece-of-shit slave.  And a lot of conditioning before that.”

 

“Is there anything special you want me to do?”

 

“Not really.  I always enjoy hearing you scream with pain, so feel free to do so until you lose your voice.  I have arranged everything so you’ll not have any opportunity to fuck up.  I want to maximize the fun and entertainment, and that has implications on what will be done to you.  I set limits for others of no permanent damage for sex sessions in the past, but there won’t be any this time other than me directing or performing the actual kill.  Before then I suspect these will get ripped off and I will probably want to eat those while they’re still attached to you.  But that’ll be fairly minor pain compared to some of the ideas I’ve got in mind.”  As he spoke, Jim had reached over and twisted Matt’s hard left nipple and then crunched his balls.  Matt grimaced with the pain but got the point.

 

“Of course.  I hope you really crank up the pain and humiliation, so I can provide a lot of fun for you and your friends.  I especially hope you’ll take your time if you decide to eat me alive.  That looks like an extremely painful way to die and I know how much you enjoy cutting fresh meat from a live slave to eat raw.”

 

“Not to worry.  I’ve always thought you’d make an especially tasty meal, and I plan to keep you alive while I enjoy it.  Carving up a guy and eating him while he watches is an amazing turn-on no matter how often I do it.  I’ve even increased your body-fat ratio a little so you’ll be a bit more flavorful.  You may have noticed your dog dish has had fruit juice rather than the usual piss for the last few weeks, which also should add to the flavor.  Your replacement will get the usual dog food mixed with piss and shit tomorrow, but the shit will be the last remnant of you – in your most appropriate form. I think that will be kind of a nice way to introduce your replacement to his ultimate fate.”

 

“That’s really nice.  Thanks.  I like the idea of me being useful even after your belly turns me into crap.  I figured I’d just be hamburger and fertilizer like the usual disposal of slave circuses.  And I did notice the change in diet and guessed that was the reason.  I also noticed the solid portion wasn’t flavored with the usual human shit.  I know I deserve to drink piss and eat shit, but I can imagine that would adversely affect the flavor of my meat, so I’m glad you have planned ahead as usual.  Besides, I still got to drink a lot of your piss during the day.  Being a live urinal is such an appropriate use for me, and quite an honor.  After all, drinking piss was the first training you gave me, even before I became your slave.”  Remembering their early years got both young men trading stories, and Matt started to reminisce.

 

“In addition to my early training, I also recall the first time we jerked off together and how pissed you were when you realized my cock was longer than yours,” teased Matt.

 

Jim smiled and touched an app on his cell phone.  Matt jerked and screamed as a massive amount of pain ran through his body from an electrified dildo Jim had rammed up his ass before they got in the car   Mat was caught totally by surprise and lurched upward so much he almost fell out of the seat.

 

“Anything else you want to brag about?” Jim asked, laughing at the scene and enjoying Matt’s pain. “I bet if I left my little toy on very long you’d bounce around enough to actually fall out of the car.  You’re lucky I find that boring and anyway you don’t deserve to get off’d that easy.”  With that Jim again touched the app and the pain stopped.

 

“I guess not,” responded Matt, also laughing and pleased Jim was enjoying himself at Matt’s expense.  “That’s quite the little toy you’ve got there. You should be able to have a lot of fun with it.”

 

“I plan to.  I have several of them, so a bunch of you slaves will be bouncing around as my guests play with them.

 

“And, for the record, it’s not your cock any more.  When I acquired you as my property I got everything, including the accessories.  I just let you use the cock since I enjoy watching you jerk off.   I might just have to slice it into pieces today to train you in humility.”

 

“Of course it’s yours,” said Matt, quite sincerely but quickly returning to teasing mode.  “I’m your property and you can do whatever you want with me.  For example, if you wanted a little more length in your personal manhood, you could cut it off and use it to replace the little one currently attached to you.  When you own several cocks, you get to choose the one that’s the biggest.    Maybe that way at least part of me could still be of service after you snuff me.”

 

The teasing earned Matt another, somewhat longer, jolt of electricity but it was worth it.  Jim smiled at Matt and once again laughed at his gyrations but didn’t respond.  He enjoyed the banter, which reminded him of their high school days, when they compared cock sizes like high school males are prone to do.  Matt’s mind also wandered, thinking back to when he first met Jim.

 

2

Fond Memories

Matt was a freshman in high school when he was approached by Jim. Matt was unusually good looking, and Jim, a sophomore, had taken an interest in him, allowing Matt to tag along with Jim and his friends.   In due course, Jim became captain of the football team, being a quarterback of exceptional drive and talent. Matt, meanwhile, turned out to be a great wide receiver.  Both boys were top students and stunningly handsome and fit.  But Matt was an extreme introvert and a nerd, with zero self-esteem, while Jim was extremely popular and outgoing, with tons of friends and an exceptionally dominant personality.  Part of the popularity was because Jim was so wealthy – clearly the wealthiest guy in school, although no one knew how much he had or even what his family did. They just knew other kids didn’t get picked up on a regular basis in a stretch limo after school, and they weren’t rumored to own an island estate in addition to a mansion in town.  That was a total contrast to Matt, who was an orphaned foster kid – no family, no money, and no one who gave a shit about him.

 

Jim was Matt’s only friend, and he invited Matt to hang out after school with Jim and his buddies. The other guys were also older than Matt, so they ignored him. However, Jim was nice to him. That got Matt’s loyalty, but he had no idea why Jim would have any interest in him. Why would a guy like Jim be nice to a guy like Matt – a sophomore to a freshman, a rich kid to a poor kid, a popular kid to a nobody?

 

Most of the time was spent with Jim’s buddies playing sports on the beach near their school. The Southern California weather was always perfect, and the guys would go surfing, swimming, or play volleyball or football.

 

Everyone took off most of their clothes and Matt could look at the other guys’ handsome bodies.  Matt was gay and this turned him on, but he was afraid to reveal that fact. He enjoyed the contact with nearly naked young male flesh and had fun playing sports at the same time. Being proud, fit young males, and since one of the beaches was “clothing optional,” the guys often stripped naked, starting with Jim.  What Jim did tended to be what everyone did.  These were the days Matt enjoyed best. He was good at sports, better than most of the other guys (except Jim) even though he was slightly younger.  But it didn’t matter whether Matt was talented or not, since Jim insisted that Matt be allowed to play.  Jim was always in charge.

 

After the games and fun, the other guys typically went on their way to their fancy homes, and Matt made the long walk to the house where he lived with his foster father, who usually wasn’t home.  The house itself was very nice, but Matt was confined to an unfinished room in the basement that was tiny, damp, and smelly.  Often there wasn’t even enough food, sine Matt was only permitted to eat leftovers, and when his “dad” was home he would berate Matt no matter what he did, telling him what a worthless person he was and that he didn’t deserve even the poor conditions he lived in.  It didn’t matter Matt was a top student and athlete, overcoming all the odds against him.  Nothing could please this foster parent.  It was only the great times with Jim and his buddies that made the rest of his life tolerable.

 

One afternoon, near the end of Mat’s freshman year, Jim had approached Matt as the group was breaking up, after a vigorous game of naked beach volleyball on an especially hot day.

 

“Would you like to head to my place? You could shower up there and we could watch a movie or something.  My dad’s out of town and I know where he keeps the beer.”

 

Matt was thrilled. He wanted to spend as much time with Jim as possible. Not only had Jim befriended him, but Jim was the best-looking guy of the bunch.  Matt was glad they had gone to the nude beach that day, but realized his cock was getting a little hard at the mere prospect of being with Jim.  After all, by this time Matt was just 17 and that’s what happens to 17-year old cocks.

 

“Sure. That would be great!”

 

“Good. Our house is right up the road from here, just a short walk.  Since we’re so sweaty, and it’s a private path, I suggest we just stay naked until after we’ve cleaned up.”

 

“Super,” was all Matt could say, now seriously worried about his growing cock and utterly turned on at the prospect.  He walked slightly behind Jim, so the growing erection wouldn’t be so apparent.  But seeing Jim’s gorgeous backside wasn’t helping.

 

Matt had heard about the mansion but didn’t realize it was on the beach. He was once again impressed, but not in the least jealous.  Jim clearly deserved everything he had.  And Matt’s foster parent had made it clear to Matt that he deserved the poverty and deprivation he endured.

 

Matt always remembered how wonderful that first evening had turned out to be. They had each showered, with Jim letting Matt go first. As he heard Matt turn off the water, Jim walked in.  Jim was still naked, and Matt was once again transfixed by Jim’s exceptional body. Matt hoped Jim didn’t see the major erection that Matt got as a result, but Jim could hardly miss it.

 

“I gather you enjoyed the shower,” Jim laughed, pointing at Matt’s cock. “That’s not a bad piece of meat you’ve got sticking out there.”

 

Matt was embarrassed, but somehow also even more excited. He hadn’t been naked like this in front of another guy – it wasn’t the same as gym class and that sort of thing, or even the nude sports on the beach.  Worse yet, his cock was dripping a little pre-cum.

 

“I’m sorry.  I got to thinking about some of the girls at the beach, and I couldn’t help myself,” Matt lied.

 

“Sure. Don’t worry. That happens to me a lot too.  It’s how guys in high school are supposed to react to scantily clad girls watching us play sports nude, right?  And my cock’s not exactly all shriveled up.”  Jim didn’t have an erection, but his nice long cock hung down a fair way between his legs.

 

“I guess so.” Matt was relieved. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to let on that he was gay, and especially not to let on that Jim was getting him sexually excited.

 

“Well, let me take my shower, and then let’s grab some beers, some food, and see what we’ve got to watch. Do you still feel like doing a movie?”

 

“Yeah. I think that would be fun.”

 

“Great. You can look through the collection and see what you’d like.  I’ve got some great beach movies, if you want to keep enjoying pretty girls with not much on.

 

“Incidentally, I noticed your clothes were pretty dirty, since you tossed them into some mud when you stripped, which was kind of stupid.  I gave them to one of the servants to wash. They’ll be ready in a couple of hours. You can either put on something from my closet, or just stay naked. Either way is OK by me.”

 

“I don’t want to mess up your stuff,” Matt replied, liking the idea of being naked around Jim. “I’ll just wait. And thanks for getting my stuff washed.  My foster dad won’t let me use the clothes washer, so I go to the laundromat and pay for it with money I earn.  He says it will build my worthless character.  I don’t have enough money to do that at the moment, so I really appreciate you getting them cleaned.  I didn’t realize I’d tossed them in mud, and he’d yell at me a lot for that.”

 

“My pleasure.  So you won’t be uncomfortable, I’ll stay naked too.” Then Jim went into the shower, with Matt still watching him. Matt realized he might be staring, and quickly left the bathroom.

 

The two boys spent the rest of the afternoon and the evening sharing a great dinner prepared by the house staff, enjoying a few beers, and watching a movie, never bothering to get dressed.  It was an old beach film about teens in love with lots of surfing scenes and pretty much everyone in bathing suits all the time.  Matt loved it, since the girls provided an excuse for him still having a hard on as they watched.  Sitting next to Jim with both of their bodies fully revealed was an amazing turn-on and the real reason for the consistent erection.  And, as Jim had noted earlier, it wasn’t like Jim’s cock was all shriveled up.

 

That afternoon started what became a routine whenever Jim’s schedule permitted it.  It wasn’t all that frequent at first but increased a lot during Matt’s sophomore year. After the group of Jim’s friends played sports on the beach, now almost always using the nude beach, Jim and Matt would walk to Jim’s house, clean up, get beer and food, and plop down on a sofa to be entertained from Jim’s extensive collection of DVDs. They would watch movies that featured guys who were shirtless and well built along with scantily clad girls. And after their showers the routine included Jim having servants wash Matt’s clothes.  Matt was grateful that Jim had taken pity on him for his plight of not having access to a clothes washer.  But more importantly he loved the fact they watched the movies naked.  For Matt, these were the greatest experiences of his life. Indeed, it was the only time he’d ever really had things go well for him.  It never dawned on him that Jim was subtly maneuvering him and slowly starting Matt’s training.  Jim even pretended to complain that his dad wouldn’t let him have sex with any of his girlfriends, so he needed to masturbate instead, inviting Matt to do the same if he’d like to, while they watched the pretty girls in the movies.  Jim also added a collection of straight porn flicks to reinforce the idea.  Matt had no trouble performing given the guys in the movies, and most especially given his view of Jim’s body, especially as Jim jerked off.  They never touched each other, but the routine had quickly expanded to include mutual masturbation, albeit with Matt jerking off much more often than Jim.  Matt, of course, enjoyed that the most and never considered the possibility that Jim’s explanations were made up to get Matt comfortable having orgasms while Jim watched.  (Jim, in turn, did have to admit Matt’s cock was longer than his after they measured them.  That became an ongoing joke between them.)

 

It wasn’t until Matt’s junior year, while they were celebrating Matt’s 18th birthday, when Jim moved the training beyond their low-key relationship.  Jim had invited Matt over right after school to celebrate and started by offering him a beer – another consistent part of their routine.  But since there were no nude sports beforehand, both boys were still dressed.

 

Jim then let Matt know that there was a house rule Matt needed to know about.

 

“There’s something I sort of need to let you in on, which I haven’t been up front about,” Jim said, in a confidential tone. “I haven’t said anything until now, because I like hanging out with you and I have been afraid it might turn you off.”

 

“Are you kidding?” Matt responded. “This is the greatest time ever for me. Nothing could turn me off about hanging out here with you.  You don’t know how I live otherwise. My life sucks.”

 

“Interesting choice of words,” mused Jim. “But, anyway, here goes.

 

“As you know, I live with my dad, who is incredibly rich, and a bunch of servants. You haven’t met any of them yet, because the servants stay out of the way when we have

visitors, and you haven’t met my dad since he travels a huge amount on business and he’s good about leaving me and my buddies alone.  The servants take care of things like fixing dinner and leave it where we can get it, like they do when they wash your clothes. What you don’t know is that dad is a fervent nudist. He is always naked and insists that everyone in the house also be naked.  I’ve gotten used to it, and kind of like it. That’s why I started getting the guys to strip when we play on the beach.  Dad required the city designate that beach clothing optimal when he donated it to the city.  He’s also very generous but likes to get his way. Anyway, I didn’t want to impose that on you here and was afraid you’d get spooked if you saw a bunch of nude servants.  So I came up with the excuse of needing to have your clothes washed, which is why I took the pile you tossed the first time we came here and re-tossed it into some mud when you weren’t looking.  Making it a routine was easy once you told me you don’t have access to a clothes washer at home.  However, dad told me I must deal with the issue honestly.  And he’s returned from a long trip and might show up here. If I don’t come clean about this I’d be in trouble, and I like to please him.  He’s a great guy.”

 

Matt was a little taken aback, but only from surprise.  He quickly stripped off all his clothes and stood naked in front of Jim.

 

“No problem.  I’m naked now and will stay that way any time you want and in any place you want.  I am just hoping this doesn’t mean I don’t get access to your clothes washer.  Of course, I’m more than happy to do the washing myself so your servants don’t have to.  I’ve always felt a little guilty about that.  And I’ve discovered hanging around here that I like being naked.  In fact, my foster dad requires me to act as his servant when he has people over and insists that I do it nude.  He says it reflects how worthless I am, but I also think he likes looking at me that way.  Fortunately, he doesn’t spend much time at his house and doesn’t entertain much.  But being naked on the beach and in your house is nice.”

 

“Thanks,” Jim replied, also now naked.  “You won’t lose the service, and now you can get to meet some of the servants.  They’re really great guys too.”

 

As Matt considered this development, he admired how Jim had maneuvered things.  That alone was a turn-on for Matt.  He began to realize the extent to which Jim had always been in charge, and he liked it.  He was quite content to let Jim make all the decisions.  But he did tell Jim he felt he should do the washing, since he didn’t think someone else should be burdened with serving him (reflecting his extremely low self-esteem).  Jim agreed, pleased with Matt’s perspective.  That boded well for their future.

 

Then Jim revealed another surprise to Matt.

 

“There’s something else I think we should be honest about. And I think we should cover it before you turn even older – or start to get drunk.”  Jim had handed Matt a second beer and got another one for himself as well.

 

Matt laughed. “Yeah, once you’re 18 it’s all downhill from there. After all, look at you. You’re almost 19 and practically in a nursing home.”

 

“Exactly,” responded Jim, also laughing and taking a healthy swig form his beer. “I’d hate to check in without having had some real sex first. I don’t think you should run that risk either.  And just masturbating like we’ve been doing doesn’t count.  I had a long talk with my dad a while back and it’s OK with him.”

 

That took Matt completely by surprise. He didn’t say anything, but simply stared at Jim, afraid this meant Jim was going to end their sessions to have sex with one of his girlfriends.  As he did so, he was startled to see Jim’s cock starting to get hard. That had happened before, of course, when they were masturbating and watching pretty girls in the porn flicks.  But this seemed different to Matt, and he also started to get excited.

 

“Look, Matt. I know you’re gay. I’ve known it for a long time – sure of it since we were first hanging out on the beach. I could see you staring at me and at the other guys, and I’ve noticed how you get erections all the time when the other guys are around and when we’re naked together.  I could hardly miss that giant hard-on you got when I first invited you to hang out with me and we walked naked together to the house from the beach.  It isn’t girls you’re thinking of, is it?  It’s guys, especially me.”

 

Matt was still silent. He didn’t know what to say. Would Jim throw him out?  Was he being dismissed because he was gay? But why was Jim getting hard?  Matt was scared, confused, and somehow sort of excited all at once.  He started to tear up.

 

“It’s not a problem.”  Jim realized Matt was starting to freak out.  “What I’m trying to tell you, you amazingly dense idiot, is that I’m gay too. That’s why I’m getting a hard-on right now. I’m thinking of how much fun it would be if you sucked my cock.”

 

Matt couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Could his fantasy come true?  Would this marvelous episode in his life – the only decent one – get even better? He finally responded.

 

“Wow. I had no idea. I guess I am a dense idiot – but I already knew that.  You’re right. I am gay.  And you really turn me on. The erections we laughed about were always because I’m sitting here next to you and I can see your body.  You’re the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen, and your cock is awesome, even if a little short.”  Matt couldn’t help teasing Jim, which relieved some of the tension.

 

“Thanks. And it’s long enough to go all the way down your throat.  So, have you had sex with another guy before?”

 

At this point Matt hesitated, stammered, and finally broke down crying.  He told Jim about the horrible things his foster father had done to him, sexually and otherwise, forcing him to suck cock and masturbate to entertain everyone at his parties.  He had already told Jim about having to serve them naked, but now added that he was required to do so with an erection for them to laugh at, and to wear a slave collar.  His foster father knew he was gay and used that as part of the reason he was so worthless and deserving of ridicule and deprivation.  It was all totally illegal, but Matt was too scared to say anything.  He had never mentioned any of it to anyone, and as he finished his confessions, Jim held him as he sobbed in Jim’s arms.  It was the first loving embrace Matt could remember ever receiving.  He soon recovered, however, and apologized to Jim for losing control.  He then asked Jim if this meant Jim would not want to be with him, given what Matt had done.  Like many underage victims, Matt had reacted to the experiences with a strong sense of personal guilt, in his case strongly reinforced by his foster parent.  After Jim assured Matt there was no reason for him to feel guilty, and this was no problem for Jim or their relationship, Matt asked if Jim had had any sex with other guys before.

 

“Yup. Lots and lots of times. Dad figured out that I’m gay as soon as I hit puberty, and it’s OK with him. It turns out he’s gay too. He makes sure all the servants also are young, gay, and good looking. That way our household is sort of one big male fuck party. I get to fuck any of the servants I want and have them suck my cock. But I don’t let them fuck my ass, and I’m glad that hasn’t happened to you either.  I like to do the fucking, and I haven’t slept alone for years.  If you want, and when I think you’re ready, I’ll introduce you to the joys of being butt-fucked.  Dad’s only rule is that he gets to pick first among the staff for his own fun.  They’re all both remarkably sexy and fixated on gay sex, so that’s not much of a limitation.”

 

Matt was now fully back in control of himself but completely astonished. He had never even imagined such a place could exist. This was clearly too good to be true.

 

“So,” continued Jim, who was now fully erect and smiling broadly. “About my cock . . . ”

 

Matt didn’t need another hint and he didn’t waste any time. His experiences hadn’t been good, but he knew what to do.  He gently took hold of Jim’s manhood and knelt in front of him as Jim settled into the couch, and then lovingly took the young hard cock into his mouth. Matt caressed the beautiful muscle with his tongue, focusing on the glans, licking all around the corona and especially the lower skin of the shaft just behind it. Matt knew that was where it was the most pleasurable to touch himself to masturbate, and he figured that would be a good place to lick to get Jim off.  What he didn’t tell Jim was that the best techniques for giving a blow job was the only thing his foster parent had ever bothered to teach him.  His technique would be evaluated and discussed at the parties and he would be punished if it was found wanting – which it always was.

 

Jim’s body began to sway a bit, and he let out a soft moan of pleasure.

 

“Wow. You’re really good at sucking cock. You’ve got talent, my boy.”

 

Matt kept to his task, enjoying it far more than he had ever even fantasized that he could. His own cock was now literally throbbing and leaking pre-cum from sexual excitement.  But the focus was on Jim.

 

After a while, Jim’s body began to gyrate, his breathing intensified, and his cock exploded. A massive

load of cum erupted into Matt’s mouth. Matt swallowed it all, hungrily and eagerly. He didn’t even consider having Jim withdraw and shoot outside Matt’s mouth. Matt wanted Jim’s man-juice. And he continued to lick the streaming cock as it emptied it load down his throat, intensifying Jim’s pleasure.

 

Jim finally stopped shooting his load, and his cock drooped a bit, but not much.  Jim took it out of Matt’s mouth, sighing with pleasure.

 

“That was just fucking amazing. I think that’s the best blow job I’ve ever had and the biggest load I’ve ever shot.  You really got me turned on. I like the fact you had the good manners to swallow it all, too. Thanks a lot.”

 

“You’re welcome,” was the sincere response. “I’ll do that any time you want.  Just let me know. And let me know if you want to try other stuff too, or how I can do better to please you.  Whenever you decide you want to fuck my ass, it’s yours to use as you want.”

 

“I will. But it looks like you’re about to shoot too.  Do you want to shoot a load to land on my chest? That would be fun to watch, and then you could lick it up.”

 

Matt was delighted with the offer.  He instinctively knew that it was his job to service Jim, not the other way around. That was perfectly fine, the way things should be.  He wanted to get himself off in front of his friend, if that was something Jim wanted him to do. So Matt positioned himself, kneeling on the couch over Jim while Jim lay on his back, watching the show.  It didn’t take Matt long to shoot – he was sexually excited as he had never been before. Matt shot a nice load onto Jim’s smooth chest and belly. Then, per Jim’s instructions, Matt licked up his own cum.  As he worked his way down Jim’s chest to his belly and crotch, he saw that Jim’s cock was once again fully erect.  So after a nod from Jim he again took it in his mouth and again massaged Jim to orgasm.  The second load wasn’t as huge, but it was still decent, and Matt enjoyed swallowing that too.  Jim lay back on the couch, utterly satisfied.  That’s what pleased Matt the most.

 

The boys decided to clean up, but this time they showered together. Matt washed Jim’s wonderful skin, then washed himself. Matt was once again hard, turned on by touching Jim. What Matt hadn’t realized yet was that he was also turned on by the fact he was serving Jim.  And since Jim didn’t suggest Matt jerk off again, the idea never occurred to Matt to give himself added sexual relief.  His sexual energy kept him nice and hard, more fun for Jim to look at.

 

The boys got some dinner and watched another movie.  This time dinner was brought to them by a naked stud servant – Dennis – who was himself a complete turn-on with an impressive erection.  Before they ate Jim asked Dennis to give Matt a blow job.  Jim also had Dennis position himself so Jim could fuck his ass as Dennis sucked off Matt.   Dennis eagerly obliged both requests, seriously turned on by Matt’s body and eager to host Jim’s cock.  Matt was amazed and grateful for Jim’s thoughtfulness in letting Matt get a blow job for the first time ever, especially from such a great-looking stud.  After Jim and Matt shot their loads, Matt offered to suck off Dennis, if that was OK with Jim.  Dennis soon sent a nice load down Matt’s throat.  It was a fantastic turn—on for all three of them, but especially for Matt.  He had never had a birthday party at all, let alone one like this!

 

Then, to continue the fun, it was movie time.  Jim showed Matt another set of movie choices.

 

“We don’t have to pretend any more.   These are all gay porn flicks. The guys are naked, fucking and sucking each other. I think we’ll like these better.  Dad bought a studio so he could have very high-quality porn with scenes he likes.  It was worth every penny, and I get to make suggestions too.”

 

Matt was in complete agreement. He looked at the selection – it was huge. Best of all, it included a variety of kinds of gay movies. Some were just of guys jerking off. Some had orgies, others were gang bangs. And some showed guys being restrained, engaged in S&M scenes. Jim seemed to have a whole lot of that kind.

 

“What looks good to you,” asked Jim. “Since you did such a nice job on my cock, and it’s your birthday, I’ll let you pick our first gay porn flick that we watch together.”

 

“Well, these all look pretty exciting,” said Matt, holding up a box that showed a young dude being whipped. “But I’ve never seen any S&M stuff.  How about one of these? They look particularly interesting.”

 

“They are,” agreed Matt. “You’ve made a good choice.  It’s got scenes with that guy getting gang-fucked while he’s being whipped.”  So, aided by a few more beers courtesy of Dennis, they greatly enjoyed Matt’s first S&M gay porn film.

 

After the movie Jim commented:  “When I saw it the first time, I liked it so much I had dad track down the guy and we invited him over to the estate for a fun weekend to celebrate my own 17th birthday.  He’s the first guy I personally got to flog.  The coolest part was that he wanted to be flogged.  Some guys get into that big time, so it’s a turn-on for everyone.  We did lots of other things to him, which were also a lot of fun.  Dad told me what to try and it was quite an education for me and for our guest.  Dad had paid him a very generous fee, and he was willing to push his limits a lot.  It turned out the guy had been in trouble with the law and dad got that straightened out for him. So he was doubly grateful and eager to show it.  He did everything we wanted him to do.  On the last night of the weekend he even joined us for dinner and everyone celebrated and toasted the events.   Dad had one of the studio crews film it, so I’ve got a great move I can show you sometime.”

 

Matt asked Jim if they could watch the home movies now, but Jim said they were at the estate, so they’d have to settle for what he had at the house.  But he had a lot. Dennis fetched another round, and Jim and Matt watched a second S&M movie that was even more severe.  As they watched it, both boys once again got excited, their naked bodies finally touching as they groped and kissed each other while they rolled around on the large sofa, any inhibitions cast aside in a mixture of lust and alcohol. In due course, after Matt had kissed every part of Jim’s amazing body, Jim guided Matt’s mouth back to his cock. The third load that filled Matt’s mouth was still impressive. Matt then added to the movie entertainment by popping another load and licking it up for Jim’s viewing pleasure.

 

This time Jim had instructed him to shoot on the wooden floor.  That way Matt was down on all fours as he used his tongue to do the clean-up, which gave Jim a nice view of how Matt looked doggie-style. He wasn’t disappointed, and when he commented on Matt’s position Matt added to the laughter by barking for Jim’s amusement, then kneeling doggie style and begging for more cum.

 

“You’ve drained me completely,” Jim laughed.  “I’m all out of cum for now, but I’ll be needing to get rid of a bunch of piss with all these beers.”

 

The second movie not only had a lot of gangbang fucking and flogging, it also had some water sports, as the gang-bangers unloaded their piss down the guy’s throat and then made him lick their cocks clean.  Jim noticed Matt seemed interested in those scenes too.  Jim decided to find out a bit more about how “flexible” Matt really was.

 

“I like the scenes where a guy pisses down another guy’s throat,” Jim confided. “I know people think it’s gross, but It can be a genuine turn-on for both guys.  Some of our servants like it too, and a few, like Dennis, can take my whole load without dripping any of the piss.”

 

“Really?” asked Matt, his education continuing. “Can a guy really drink that much? Don’t they choke on all that piss?”

 

Jim was pleased with the answer. Matt wasn’t resistant or turned off.  He just wanted information.

 

“No. Some guys are talented at it, like the guy in the movie. How about if we find out if you’re one of them? I do need to pee, and could have Dennis come back in, but, after all, you’re right here.” Jim laughed, easing the tension he was afraid Matt would feel.

 

But Matt felt no tension at all. He simply got on his knees once again and opened his mouth. Jim let loose a major load of beer-flavored piss, using Matt as a human urinal. To Jim’s surprise, Matt successfully took the entire load on his first try, not spilling a drop.  Jim was pleased and impressed.  Realizing that Matt would also need to piss, Jim summoned Dennis once again, and Dennis was more than willing to service Matt.  Matt enjoyed that too, but admitted he preferred to be on the receiving end.  “I guess I’m more the submissive type.”  So Dennis obliged and drained a load into Matt’s willing mouth.  All three boys had a great time as Matt learned more and more about himself.

 

Jim asked Matt if he’d like to stay the night, and of course Matt said yes.  Jim explained that he had already chosen Dennis to sleep with and once again butt-fuck, but there was room in the bed for all three of them. He suggested that Matt could suck Dennis’ cock while Jim fucked his ass. Matt was always welcome to shoot a load any time he wanted, so long as Jim could watch him do it, including watching Matt lick up the cum.  Or, if it was OK with Dennis, Matt’s load could go down Dennis’s throat.   So that’s exactly what they did. It was the first of many nights together, with Jim selecting the third (and often the fourth) companion form among the servants.   Matt would be “available” in Jim’s bed for the servants Jim selected, and Matt quickly became quite expert at sucking cock.  Jim, in turn, enjoyed watching Matt jerk off onto the servant’s chest, or on the floor, and then lick up the cum. If Jim sucked off one of the guys and had him shoot a load on Jim’s chest, Matt licked up that cum too.  Jim would usually butt-fuck the servant, but he also liked to have Matt suck his cock, and often had Matt clean it after shooting into the servant’s asshole, usually followed by draining a load of Jim’s piss.  Matt also received great blow jobs form the servants, but mostly just did everything Jim requested, or even hinted at.  As Matt realized Jim didn’t get as much satisfaction when Matt shot down another guy’s throat rather than pumping out his load where he could then lick it up, Matt consistently did the latter.  He wanted to please Jim.

 

Matt functioned as a cocksucker and a urinal but was not butt-fucked.  Jim said that would wait until there was a special occasion.  Matt also was not used as an object of Jim’s fun for S&M play.  Jim enjoyed whipping the guys he fucked, as well as inflicting cock and ball torture.  It was pretty tame the first evening with Dennis but grew more intense in later visits.  Matt was very turned on by this and offered his body for Jim’s use, however he wanted to use it, but again Jim deferred “for now.”

 

Also, Matt was delighted and turned on to accept Jim’s morning load of piss. That would be followed by another sex scene, and if the servant also wanted to use Matt as his morning urinal, that was OK with Matt so long as Jim approved, which he always did.  Matt had naturally understood that all decisions were to be made by Jim.

 

Matt stayed at Jim’s house whenever he could do so, which was increasingly frequent during Jim’s senior year.  Indeed, after the first evening’s introduction to sex Matt rarely spent time at his foster home. His foster parent hardly noticed. He just cared if the checks kept coming. If Matt wasn’t around, that meant he got to keep the whole check without wasting even the small amount of money he was forced to spend on Matt.

 

Their time together weren’t just sex, and the two teens shared their thoughts about everything – school, life, being gay, and what they would do after high school.  They were in a sociology class together, and they enjoyed talking about the theories the teacher explained.  He had taught that slavery was wrong in the old days because it was based on race or class rather than merit.  But he explained that there were different roles and desires among people, and some were meant to lead, and enjoyed doing that, while others were meant to follow and serve.  Jim told Matt how his dad was a natural leader and expected Jim to do the same.  Jim was eager to pursue that, and after high school he’d be getting special training that would be far more intense and useful than regular college.  Matt was intrigued and glad there were people like Jim and his dad who were able to take charge.  As for himself, he had no plans and no idea what he’d do, but his foster dad consistently told him he’d probably wind up in jail since he was so worthless.  For both boys, these exchanges were a unique chance to share their deepest feelings, and they did so.  Jim even shared the fact his family actually owned slaves, who were suited to their role and completely comfortable with it.  “Like our teacher said, it would be wrong to discriminate, but it’s right to recognize roles.  On the island where we have our estate there is a small group of leaders who work with my dad.  Then there’s a much bigger group of citizens who lead great and productive lives, not burdened by having to make the tough political choices dad and his colleagues make for them.  It’s all supported by a very large group of willing slaves who are obedient and content.  They’re doing what they were born and best suited to do.  So everyone is happy and the place is like a paradise.  I’d love to show you sometime.”  To Matt this all made sense and he eagerly encouraged Jim to do so.

 

As the school year ended and Jim approached graduation, he invited Matt to his estate, and suggested he plan to spend a week right after classes were over. Matt had been intensely curious and hopeful he might get invited someday.  He accepted at once.

 

“Do I need to bring anything?” Matt asked.

 

“Hell, no,” came the amused reply. “Just your mouth and your cock.  And, if you’re a good boy, maybe your ass for fucking and your back for whipping.  I think it’s time we took things up a notch or two.”  Matt got the point and was now even more excited.  Jim would finally fuck his ass as he did all the other guys he had sex with and use Matt for S&M sex.  Those prospects totally turned Matt on. And he assured Jim he was ready and willing.

 

3

A Whole New World

 

As Matt left the building after his last day of the spring semester, which included an assembly at which he’d received one award as the best athlete in his class and a second award as the best scholar, he was still upset from events at his foster home from the prior evening.  His foster dad had gotten what would be the final support check since Matt was aging out of the foster-care system.  He informed Matt that the “gravy train” was over and Matt was no longer welcome.  He also informed Matt that he was keeping all Matt’s possessions and told him to leave now. He didn’t want a worthless piece of shit like Matt continuing to infect his house.  Matt had already stripped naked and given his foster dad a blow job, which he was now required to do to “earn” his dinner whenever he went home.  The ritual had started a year or so earlier and usually ended with Matt drinking a load of piss to follow the cum.  Matt enjoyed that at Jim’s, but here it was a degrading punishment.  Worse, this time his “dad” followed it by pissing all over Matt’s body, then holding his face down in the toilet where had had just taken a shit, leaving him with the stench and taste of piss and crap as he was forced out the door.  Matt was in tears as he had begged for some clothes and a chance to wash off, but that was met with harsh laughter, a hard kick to his balls, and a door slammed in his face.  Matt’s spirit was broken, and he stood and wept for a long time.

 

Matt spent the night sleeping naked on the beach, washing himself in the ocean.  A cop had arrested him early the next morning since this was not the nude beach, threatening to put him in jail.  Fortunately, the cop was willing to overlook the violation in return for a blow job, telling Matt that would be good practice for when Matt was arrested again as he certainly would be given his pathetic status.  After the cop left Matt managed to bum some money for cheap shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt to wear to school in return for giving another guy on the beach a morning blow job.  Matt realized he was now nothing more than a prostitute.  It was the worst day of all the bad days in foster care.  Matt was glad that phase was over but knew he’d have to figure out something when he returned from Jim’s estate.  He figured being a prostitute was his only viable option.

 

Matt was very pleased and surprised to see the sleek, impressive limo that picked up Jim waiting on the street in front of the school.  He assumed this meant Jim was nearby, and he desperately wanted to be with his friend.  The driver was Dennis, Matt’s favorite of Jim’s servants, who was standing next to the limo.  Dennis spotted Matt and signaled for him to come over.  Matt figured this meant Jim was already in the car.  But what most caught Matt’s attention was the fact Dennis was totally naked other than a sporty chauffer’s cap.  He was stroking his cock, which was already hard. What was more amazing to Matt was that no one was hassling Dennis.  There was some giggling and pointing from students, but both students and teachers left him alone.

 

As Matt reached the car Dennis greeted him with a friendly slap on the back.

 

“Master James sent me to pick you up.  He heard what happened with your foster dad and figured you’d need a little TLC and want to clean up at the house before we head to the airport.  He also thought it would be fun to put on a little scene for your fellow students and make it a “coming out” statement by you.  He thinks it would be better if you were open about the fact you’re a submissive gay.  Besides, it might balance the swollen ego you probably have after your awards.”

 

“Ah, sure,” was Matt’s confused reply.  Matt was nervous, mostly because no one had ever picked him up before, let alone in a limo. “I’ll do whatever Jim wants, but after last night and this morning no one needs to worry about me having an inflated ego.  What does Jim have in mind?”

 

“It’s pretty simple.  You start by stripping naked, putting on this slave collar, and stroking yourself to get an erection.  Then you carry your clothes to the Goodwill bin about a block down the street. Drop them in and walk back here.  That should get everyone’s attention.  When you return to the car he wants you to kneel and give me a blow job, swallowing me cum and a load of piss.  Then do the same for any other guys who want to be serviced.  After that you won’t have to hide your sexual orientation any more.  We’ll drive to the house where you can clean up and we can pick up Master James.”

 

“Are you sure?  What happens if I get arrested?  That’s already happened once today.  And these are the only clothes I have – my asshole foster dad took everything else.”

 

Dennis laughed heartily.  “Wow.  You really are as dense as Master James says you are.  Do you seriously think anyone would mess with a friend of his?  Do you have any idea just how powerful he and his dad really are, and how much they have given to the school and the city?  Why do you think everyone’s leaving me alone while I play with my dick naked and in public?  As for clothes, everyone is nude at the estate.  You’re going to visit a whole new world young man.”

 

Matt considered Dennis’ comments, and it all made sense.  Besides, it was what Jim wanted and that’s what mattered.  So he got naked, put on the slave collar, got hard, walked naked to the next block, dropped his clothes in the Goodwill bin, and returned to get on his knees in front of Dennis for the blow-job.  He also dropped the awards in a garbage can, thinking how pointless all his efforts at school had been.  He would leave town with absolutely nothing.

 

The blow job did get people’s attention, as expected, and a group of Jim’s buddies wandered over to enjoy the show, some of them stripping off their shirts and taking out their own cocks to join in.  Matt had no trouble getting Dennis off, and dutifully swallowed generous loads of cum and piss as the crowd laughed and cheered.  Dennis asked the assembled guys if anyone else was horny and wanted service, which of course they all did.  Matt got to suck off about 8 more guys, most of whom hadn’t used a human urinal before but didn’t hesitate to use Matt.  It was a popular stunt, and all the guys told Dennis to thank Jim for the entertainment.  (No one even considered thanking Matt.)  They told Matt he should spend his next and last year in school aiming for awards as “Best Cocksucker” and “Best Urinal,” instead of athletics or academics, laughing and mocking him, roughing him up with a few well-placed kicks to his nuts, and telling him to be sure to wear his new collar to school if he was stupid enough to come back, because they had a lot of torment to inflict now that his protector Jim would be gone.  The odd part to Matt was that he didn’t mind.  Being sexually used and degraded in front of an audience in public turned him on, and he was pretty sure he wouldn’t mind providing “service” to his classmates next year.  Maybe one of them would let him stay in his house in return.  That would still be prostitution of a sort, but at least safer.

 

After the show was over, Dennis proceeded to open the rear door for Matt, motioning him to get in.  But that made Matt uncomfortable. He couldn’t conceive of a chauffeur taking him in a limo.  “If you promise not to crash the car when you cum, how about if I ride up front and suck your cock again while we drive to the house?  I see it’s gotten hard while I was sucking off the other guys.  I’m not the type that deserves to ride in the back of a fancy limo unless it’s to service Jim.  And, by the way, how far is it to the estate.  I have no idea.  I think you said something about an airport?”

 

Dennis was in a great mood and enjoyed the banter with Matt.  He agreed to let Matt sit up front until they picked up Jim.

 

“Master James is in no hurry, and while you suck and swallow I can answer your questions about the estate.”

 

Matt didn’t hesitate and leaned over to accept Dennis’ cock as Dennis started the limo.  Matt was almost as turned on by Dennis’ body as by Jim’s, but Dennis hadn’t said anything about Matt shooting his own load so he didn’t even consider that option.  As they drove Dennis explained that the estate was on a huge island near Hawaii, and they were going to fly there.

 

“They own the whole island, which is about the size of Manhattan, and it has its own airport.  There are hundreds of thousands of people who live there, and it’s the real headquarters of the family enterprises.  We’ll take off from the commercial airport near town, where the plane is in their private hanger.  These guys are rich beyond what anyone understands.

 

“I think you’ll enjoy the plane ride.  The plane is amazing, and all decked out for sex parties.  It’s a safe bet we won’t be the only ones on board, and everyone will have the same idea.  You’ll be able to get lots of practice sucking cock and having yours sucked in prep for the long weekend.  It’ll be about a two-hour flight so there’ll be lots of time.”

 

As Dennis finished his explanation he also reached his orgasm and shot a load down Matt’s throat.  Matt was fascinated by what he’d heard but had not been distracted from his task.  Once he finished swallowing the cum, he did pause to inquire, however.

 

“I assume you’ll also want to piss, which I’m happy to drink.  But first, I think you said a two-hour flight.  Isn’t it more like four or five hours to fly to Hawaii from here?”

 

Dennis guided Matt’s mouth back to his cock by way of confirming he had a load of piss, then answered the other question simply.

 

“It takes nearly five hours if you fly commercial. But commercial jets don’t fly at supersonic speeds.  Like I said, these guys are wealthy at a whole different level.”

 

As Dennis finished pissing down Matt’s throat they drove through the security gate and into the driveway at the mansion.  Matt quickly headed inside to clean up, and when he returned to the car he moved to the back seat.  Jim was already inside, naked and erect, quickly guiding Matt’s head to his cock.  “No point waiting until we get to the airport to start enjoying ourselves, right? I figure you can suck my cock and drink a load of cum at least once by the time we get to the airport, and then we can have a lot of fun with the other guys on the flight, including Dennis.   Although I understand he might have to work up a little sex drive again given the pickup and car ride activities he just told me about.”

 

“Not to worry,” laughed Dennis.  “You and Matt are sexy enough to get me going again.  The real question is if you’ll still have enough cum left to fill my ass in due course.”

 

Both Dennis and Jim continued to enjoy their teasing as they drove to the airport.  Matt didn’t say anything, but immediately got to work on Jim’s cock. He and Jim each managed to shoot their first loads of the weekend well before the limo drove into the private airport hangar.

 

The plane was as awesome as Dennis had described and Matt was thrilled to see about 10 of Jim’s favorite sex partners waiting for them.  He learned that the household was moving to the island estate, and the mansion would be closed as a primary home since Jim was done with high school and they didn’t need a house there anymore.

 

As Dennis had promised, the plane ride turned into a fabulous sex party.  Matt had participated in lots of threesomes with Jim, but this was his first real orgy.  It was better than anything he could imagine, and he was kept busy sucking and swallowing, but also was encouraged to shoot as many loads himself as part of the entertainment.  Everyone was totally drained by the time they landed, and courtesy of Jim his sex buddies were also sore not only from being fucked in the ass but from being objects of his S&M whips and other toys. Matt was anxious and hopeful to join that group, totally turned on by the thought of being fucked and whipped.

 

When they finished the drive form the airport on the island and finally arrived at the estate, Matt was amazed. He’d never seen anything so large or so impressive, even in pictures or movies. This was truly an estate.  Jim explained that they had about 5,000 acres tied to the manor house itself, which was only a small part of their island.  He also explained that there were about 500 guys working on the estate in various functions, from gardeners and cooks to drivers and butlers.

 

“They all have jobs of some sort, but mostly the workers on the estate itself are here for sex,” Jim explained with considerable enthusiasm.  “lots and lots of sex.”

 

“There are also other regular communities on the island, which include thousands of workers and their families, who manage and run our various businesses and help assure everything remains out of public view.  Dad’s got a whole lot more money than anyone knows about,” he added. “It’s many multiples of $100 billion, but he stays out of sight. The island itself isn’t on any maps and isn’t part of any country.  That way we can enjoy all the money and still not lose our privacy.  We can do whatever we want on our own property, with our own property.  And the people who live and work here get to be in a paradise without the burden of having to make decisions on things like government and social policy.  There is no poverty, no crime or disruptions, and everyone has wonderful, productive lives and careers.  As I told you before, all this is supported by a massive group of slaves who are obedient and content to be property.”

 

Matt was absolutely overwhelmed and excited to be there. He didn’t care what the family’s motives were. He just wanted to please Jim, so he could stay a while, especially if it involved gay sex. As he thought further about it, he realized he just wanted to please Jim no matter what.  He was in lust and in love.

 

Jim and Matt got out of the limo that picked them up at the island’s airport and headed to the front door, each with his hard cock protruding in front of him.  They had continued to enjoy each other during the ride.

 

“Wow.” Matt could only manage a one-word comment as he tried to express his wonder. He was even more impressed when he saw the butler who opened the door for Jim.  The guy was in his early thirties and could have been a major movie star on looks alone. He too had an erection – a very impressive one at that.

 

“I gather dad’s home?” asked Jim, pointing at the butler’s hard cock.

 

“Yes, sir, he is,” was the polite and respectful response, accompanied by a friendly smile and then a very warm embrace as the two men hugged each other, their cocks rubbing together and leaking a little precum. Matt just stared, eager to figure out how he might be allowed to suck this guy’s cock.

 

Jim explained that his dad required the house staff to maintain erections whenever he was in the house, for his amusement and sexual satisfaction. One of the companies they owned made a sort of “Viagra plus” drug that enabled guys to be hard pretty much constantly.

 

“It’s not on the market yet, but it works really well. I’ll get you some, although I’m not sure you need it being as horny as you are.” Jim laughed as he jokingly slapped Matt’s cock.  “The drug has a side effect that could create marketing issues.  It causes a fatal heart attack in about 10% of the users.  The marketing group wants to wait until the number looks better before releasing it generally.  We’re doing lots of field tests and think it’ll get lower soon, maybe even under 5%.  Meanwhile, we have no problem getting volunteers on the island to try it given the upside effects, and it’s mandatory for guys working at the estate and for slaves.  It’s pretty much constant erections and plentiful orgasms with gobs of sperm.  Young guys will take a little risk for that.  I’d hate to learn you’re in that unlucky 10%, but having you erect all the time is worth the risk.  You’ll be even more fun to play with if you don’t keel over dead from it.”

 

“Sure, no problem,” came Matt’s quick reply.  “That sounds like a very reasonable risk and I do think I’d be a better sex partner.  So just sign me up.”

 

“Great,” Jim continued, as he gave Matt a pill from a nearby container and continued with more background on the estate.  Matt hadn’t noticed that Jim actually had not asked his consent, but Jim ignored that for now.  “Edward here is the head butler and runs the whole household, which is what butlers do. Dad put him in charge almost ten years ago so he truly knows the place and the people.  He’s amazingly competent, plus being one of dad’s favorite studs.  He’s got a great butt and knows how to use that cock. I walked in on the two of them the other night while they were having at it in the living room. It was quite a scene. Dad was in such a good mood he let me join in and we double-fucked Edward.  But we were both still horny, and Edward was about to burst, so dad sent for some more of the staff to service all three of us.  I kept fucking Edward, shooting another load up his ass as the group assembled. It turned into a terrific party, lasting well into the night.”

 

Jim’s story almost caused Matt to shoot another load. He was careful not to touch himself, he was so excited at what he had seen and heard. If only he could become part of this scene, he’d do whatever it took to keep them satisfied.  A 10% risk of dying form a drug that made him a more appealing stud was a no-brainer to take.

 

It was then that Jim’s dad walked in. His demeanor and the perfection of his body filled Matt with even more lust and awe. While Jim’s dad was obviously older than Jim, probably mid-40s, he was the most handsome male Matt had ever seen. Matt realized he wanted to suck the dad’s cock as much as Jim’s.  It was huge, but not out of place for the smooth, rock-hard, and perfectly formed body. Like the rest of the group, the massive cock was erect and ready for action.

 

“Hi Jim,” he greeted his son, giving him a huge hug. “I see you brought Matt with you. Welcome to our home, Matt. My name’s David Fletcher.  I’m Jim’s dad.”

 

Matt was once again taken aback – this time by the courtesy and kindness in the voice. He barely had the presence of mind to respond.

 

“Thank you, sir.  I’m grateful to be here. This is a fantastic place, sir.” Matt could not bring himself to use Mr. Fletcher’s name. It just seemed too presumptuous. “Sir” was more appropriate.

 

“Glad you think so. We like it. Jim has told me a lot about you.  Are you two going to get a snack, work out, watch a movie, or just get right to fucking?”

 

“Matt’s never been butt-fucked before, dad, or whipped,” enthused Jim. “He really wants me to do both, and I’d like to start that right away.  We’ve already started with lots of sex on the flight and the limo rides.  I got some great cardio in by whipping the staff, especially Dennis, during our orgy, and also with a fun combo of whipping and gut punching of a new slave we just acquired.  I’m afraid I got a little carried away with that, and he’s being checked over by the vet.  His belly and balls just cried out to be punched hard and whipped.  He’ll probably be OK.  I hope so since I want to use him again even more aggressively.”

 

Matt had observed the “rules” of the orgy during the flight.  Jim was in charge, of course, and engaged in dominant sex and S&M.  But with staff he kept to strict limits.  Dennis was hugely turned on by being fucked and being whipped, so Jim laid into him and Dennis erupted with pain-induced pleasure.  However, Dennis was not turned on by having his body covered with clothespins, as some other guys were, so Jim refrained from that with him.  Jim was not the only sadist, and other staff who were got to enjoy their fun too, using the ones who were more masochist.  It was a balance that met everyone’s needs.  The exception was the slave Jim had referred to, who was used by everyone without any concern for his limits or desires.  As Jim had explained to Matt, that was what slaves were for, and they knew it and accepted it.  Further, that meant there was no need to push the limits of Jim or any of the staff, as they could get release from using the slave however they wanted.  It made perfect sense to Matt.

“Anyway,” Jim continued.  “If it’s OK I’d like to skip my formal work-out for now and fuck Matt’s ass, then flog him.  He’s invited me to do it before, but I wanted to wait for this weekend, so it can be part of our partying.”

 

“Is that correct?” Mr. Fletcher asked Matt. “And if so, would you like Jim to fuck you?  And whip you?”

 

“Yes, sir, it is.” Matt wanted to be very responsive. “And I’d be honored if Jim would be the first guy to do so.  Anyone else is also welcome to fuck me, whip me, or whatever, if that’s OK with you and Jim.  I think it would be fun for everyone if you made it a gangbang like I’ve seen in some of Jim’s S&M porn movies, and I suspect I’ve got a pretty tight hole since it’s never been used before.”

 

“Well, Jim’s workouts are important, but I guess that can come later. Plugging a virgin ass and doing some more vigorous flogging will give him a bit of exercise, and it isn’t something we get to do to such an eager and attractive butt every day, is it?  Whipping someone is good exercise if it’s done vigorously for a decent amount of time so that can be today’s workout.

 

Since he’s your guest, son, you get to fuck him first, although if you’re willing to share as he suggests I would like to take a turn. Is that OK with you?”  The question was to Jim, not Matt, as everyone understood the decisions were Jim’s.  And, besides, Matt had already volunteered to be the target of a gang-bang.  He had wondered why Jim hadn’t done it when they spent all those nights together, and he appreciated learning Jim did indeed want to make it a special occasion.  Jim gave his dad an enthusiastic “yes.”

 

“Great. Let’s go for it. Edward, I think I’ll fuck Dennis while I watch the opening act.  Why don’t you round him up along with 30 or 40 of the staff for the event? I know Jim likes an audience, and Matt can spend the afternoon getting a very personal introduction from some of the staff.  The rest can fuck him later – this won’t be our only session, and he has a very appealing butt all set to be used.

 

“By the way, be sure to include a urinal or two for when someone needs to piss,” Mr. Fletcher continued as Edward started to carry out the request.

 

“No need, dad,” Jim interrupted. “I’ve trained Matt to drink both piss and cum, and he’s really good at it. I bet he can service the whole group.”

 

“It would be a privilege to do so, sir,” interjected Matt, somewhat eagerly.  At one level he was taken aback by his offer turning into a rather massive gangbang, but he also understood that this was clearly a chance to ingratiate himself, and he didn’t want to fuck it up.  Besides, he was quite turned on by the prospect of all those cocks ramming his ass and then pissing down his throat.  It was a turn-on that made him feel useful.

 

“Well, son, it seems you’ve done a better job of training than even I had expected. I’m impressed. He also has good manners. It looks like you’ve found a talented young specimen. He’s well formed, and as you know I do like to start training when they’re still young. They’re so much more pliable while still in their late teens.”

 

They led Matt into the main hall, and then into a very large living room. It had lots of overstuffed chairs and expensive looking couches, a large oaken bar, and elegant oriental rugs. There was a fireplace already lit (although not needed given the warm weather) and a handsome young bartender and several waiters ready to get whatever someone wanted to eat or drink.

 

“Would you like a drink?” Jim asked Matt. “We have lots of beer, but you can have something different if you’d like.  I’m going for beers myself since that causes me to piss more. After all, I want to be considerate of my guest.  I know you’re fond of used beer from our movie dates.”

 

“Thanks, but in that case I’ll just wait to recycle yours.  I am sure you’re anxious to get your cock inside me, and it would be rude for me to make you wait while I drank a fresh beer.”  Mr. Fletcher observed the interaction between the boys with considerable satisfaction. Jim was maturing incredibly well. He had just finished high school, and his record was superb – athletics, great grades, leadership, and real popularity.  Jim had developed into a very handsome young man, in the prime of his sexual activity. His body was naturally good looking, and he diligently followed Mr. Fletcher’ admonition to make its maintenance a top priority.  So Jim’s muscles shone and his stamina was relentless.

 

What surprised and impressed Mr. Fletcher the most was how well Jim had trained Matt.  Matt would perform nicely if properly maintained. His sexual orientation was totally gay, and it was already clear that he had remarkably strong submissive and masochistic tendencies. Matt was meant to serve someone, and that someone would be Jim. Jim had also done an outstanding job introducing Matt to sex as a submissive but eager source for Jim’s own pleasures rather than focusing on what pleased Matt. Matt didn’t even seem to need instruction to realize that it was all about Jim.  Jim had already gotten Matt to accept that his role included being a human toilet. That usually took much longer in training slaves.  Yes, Matt would be a very good first slave for Jim.  Jim would not only enjoy Matt, but learn how to use slaves as property, not thinking of them as if they were still human.  Transitioning Matt from a virgin school buddy new to gay sex into an object to be fucked and used up was a very important next step in Jim’s maturity.  Mr. Fletcher wondered how Jim would react when it came time to dispose of Matt, but that was in the future.

 

It would never occur to Mr. Fletcher that Matt had any real value as a person.  He was well aware Matt was the star of the soccer team and at the top of his class academically. He even knew about the awards Matt had just gotten.  He especially knew Matt had overcome great adversity and lack of opportunity in a cruel setting.  After all, Matt’s foster dad was one of Mr. Fletcher’s employees, and had been carrying out his instructions in raising Matt to crush his self-esteem.  That had been a key part of his training.  To David Fletcher, Matt was simply an object to be used in the training and pleasure of what mattered – Jim, a member of the family dynasty and David’s chosen heir.  All those other things were just part of making Matt more useful for this purpose.  That final night in foster care, which left Matt with no possessions, naked and drenched with shit and urine, followed by utter humiliation in front of his classmates, was just a setup to assure Matt had no hope or sense of any future other than Jim.  It had obviously worked well.

 

What David did pay attention to was how wonderfully formed Matt was physically. He smiled as he noticed once again how some parts of any teenage boy develop sooner than others. In Matt’s case, he clearly had a fully developed cock, and it was seriously out of proportion to the relatively small size of the rest of his body. It made Matt an even sexier target, especially as Mr. Fletcher considered how fragile and vulnerable the rest of Matt’s body was. There is no way the 17-year old could resist a beating or whipping form the older, stronger males. That was what being an Alpha Male was all about, and it caused Mr. Fletcher to feel the need for an extra degree of satisfaction, as he realized he was getting seriously excited sexually.

 

“Edward,” David said quietly to his butler once he returned from sending messages for staff to join them. “Do we have any fresh young meat in the holding cells that’s ready for harvest later tonight? I think I’m getting rather horny for something a bit more extreme than what Jim will be doing at this point.”

 

“Indeed you are, sir,” came the respectful but playful answer as he stroked his employer’s manhood. “And I figured you would be.  I’d seen Matt before at the beach place, and I had a similar reaction. So I arranged for the cells to be fully stocked for the weekend.  We’ve got four especially promising candidates within the herd for you to choose from, who were on the plane in the slave cargo hold.  One of them looks a bit like Matt, although his cock isn’t as large. But he is also 17, pretty, and very reliable with his orgasms.  We got him a few weeks ago and we’ve been getting him prepared. He has responded very well to the drugs and training and is ready to be appreciative of your attention.  You should look at the others, too. They’re all good quality imports from the mainland and they all survived a double dose of the erection drug.  They’re expendable and unbelievably horny. Your program of payments to various police groups is starting to pay off. When they pick up these losers as truants or for petty crimes they’re checking in with us first. We tell them it’s for a rehab program, of course, and the prisoners sign a waiver agreeing to go into rehab.  I think a few of the cops suspect what’s really happening, and the irony is that those are the ones who are sending the better-quality meat. After all, it helps them clean up the streets.  So, as an aside, I have some suggestions on focusing and increasing the payments.”

 

“You’re pretty impressive at times,” responded Mr. Fletcher. “Do what you think is best as to the payments.  That’s chump change.  I’ll check out the collection later this afternoon. After all, Matt’s Jim’s toy. I wouldn’t want to mess up his indoctrination, which is obviously going extremely well.  After I choose my sport for the night, feel free to pick one for yourself.  Or maybe we can team up on a couple of them.”

 

“Thank you, sir. That’s very generous.”

 

David and Edward rejoined the main conversation. As they did so a waiter handed Mr. Fletcher a small salad he’d ordered, and the bartender served him a glass of expensive red wine.  As Mr. Fletcher took the salad (having not had anything since he landed that morning), the waiter asked if he’d like the usual dressing.  He nodded, and both the waiter and the bartender quickly jerked off, their beautiful bodies rapidly achieving orgasm so that their cocks spilled generous helpings of cum onto the salad.  They asked if he’d like more than that, and when he again nodded a second waiter did the same.  “Thanks.  That looks just right.  I do think cum makes the best dressing of all.”

 

By now, there were about 50 guys ready for the gangbang.  Word had spread, and Jim loved the idea of showing off his new sex toy.  All were studs, ready to shoot their load as soon as they had the chance. Quite a few started playing with each other, but most quickly focused on Matt. Here was new fresh meat, nice and young, and very available. They wanted to examine him, so they did. Matt was poked and prodded like cattle at an auction, with hands caressing his skin, fingers exploring his asshole, and several guys opening his mouth to examine the other potential opening for depositing cum. His tits were already hard, but they got harder as they were squeezed and massaged, with guys commenting on how nice and firm they were for a male so young.

 

Very shortly, the conversation turned to the issue of how best to position Matt for fucking.  Some of the guys suggested doggy style. Others wanted to use a sling.

 

“If we go doggy style, it’s more degrading for him,” argued a young bodybuilder whose cock was truly massive.

 

“Yeah, but if we use a sling Master Jim can see his face and enjoy the reaction as he slams his cock into that tiny little ass and rips him open,” argued another guy, who had a much slenderer build but had a larger cock. “With my giant penis I like to see the pain in the face when I enter. And it’s even more fun to see how hard they get while I’m pumping.”

 

Matt had joined in the conversation with enthusiasm. He asked how much it hurt to be fucked and seemed pleased when they told him it would hurt a lot for a guy as young as he was who hadn’t been fucked before. He asked what he could do to make it more fun for the guy doing the fucking, and they told him he should react as much as he could, writhing in response to the pain and the pleasure. He asked if being fucked would cause him to shoot his own load, and they told him that some oversexed guys do but better trained guys wait until they are told to shoot.

 

Matt was also solicitous of whether the guys would want him to clean their cocks after they satisfied themselves. They assured him that he would be expected to do that and that he also would be expected to swallow any piss they needed to unload during the afternoon.  Finally, Matt had politely wondered how it would be appropriate for him to express his thanks to each guy for using him. He said he didn’t want to do anything that might embarrass Jim, who had been kind enough to invite him to the entertainment. From the moment other guys had shown up, Matt had made it clear that he welcomed being fucked by the entire group.

 

Mr. Fletcher interrupted the exchange, having finished his salad and his first glass of wine. “So, Jim, what do you think? It’s your birthday, and it seems to me it’s time to get going with your party.”

 

Matt was startled by this information. He had no idea it was Jim’s birthday, and it bothered him that he hadn’t gotten Jim a present. Although he knew he couldn’t afford anything nice, or for that matter anything at all, since he literally had no possessions whatsoever, he thought he should have at least made some token offering. The realization startled him from his fascination with the exchange on how he would best entertain the group. He already knew his own opinions weren’t relevant, but he was extremely interested in how the guys felt. What he did understand is that he wanted to do whatever provided Jim and his buddies the most fun, especially on Jim’s birthday.

 

“Well, it’s a close call for me,” answered Jim, bringing Matt back to the scene as he remembered the conversation on how best to fuck him. “So I think I want to do both. I’ll start with a sling. I do want to see how he reacts when his butt gets popped for the first time. I’m not as big as these two (pointing to the two owners of the massive cocks who had been debating the

best technique), but I’m not exactly small. I figure Matt’s ass is very tight, and I can inflict at least a little pain as part of the process, even if my cock won’t split him open like a stuck pig the way those guys will. Then I think I want to have a couple of you flip him over so I can shoot my load into him doggy style, which is a little more humiliating for him. After I cum, and dad has his turn, each of you can do what you like. But as soon as I get horny again, I may want another shot at Matt, or maybe I’ll just fuck a couple of you guys.”

 

Matt couldn’t help himself, and he spoke up. “Gee, Jim, I didn’t know it was your birthday weekend. I think it would be great if you fucked me as many times as you want. I didn’t get you anything since I didn’t know, and I don’t have any money or possessions to use to buy anything even if I did know, so maybe that can be my present.”

 

“Oh, I have a present from you in mind in addition to a few butt-fucks,” laughed Jim, now a little affected by his second beer. “We’ll get to that later this evening.  I appreciate the offer. I just don’t want to deprive my buddies here of their fun, and I do recall that some of them have very satisfactory butts.”

 

Everyone laughed. And with that, Jim led the group to a door at the side of the living room. It was very unobtrusive, and Matt noticed that he entered a code on a pad that was discretely hidden next to the door.

 

“Shall we, gentlemen?” Jim asked. “Hey dad, is there anything interesting on display in here I should warn Matt about, so he doesn’t freak out too much?”

 

“Not much,” Mr. Fletcher answered, smiling. “Just a couple of slaves in early processing and a supply of them in some of the cages. I haven’t done any real harvesting for a while because I’ve just gotten back home this morning. But don’t worry, we have the entire weekend, and I’m thinking of staying all next week. So we can fill up the place with fun targets now that you’re done with school.”

 

As the conversation continued, Jim led the group into the next room. Matt had overheard the exchange, and was excited at the idea of not going back to school and staying with Jim’s family.  Maybe they’d let him stay the week.  But before he could process that thought, his breath was taken away by the sight of the room they entered.

 

Matt had seen dungeons in the various gay S&M films he and Jim had watched, and Jim had a few toys in his bedroom at the beach mansion. But Matt   had never seen anything like this. It was huge and brightly lit, with torture implements everywhere. Interspersed among them were exercise machines and free-weights. This was a combination exercise room and torture chamber. He saw St. Andrew’s crosses next to treadmills. Traditional crosses with dildos added were up against the walls, next to elaborate climbing walls for exercise.  There were whipping posts of all kinds, some that held the victim in place and some that allowed him to swing free, suspended so his body would sway and twist as it was flogged front and back. There were fucking stations that involved strapping the victim over a leather seat, hands and feet secured to the base so that he was perfectly positioned for butt-fucking and/or cock sucking. They even had hand-holds like ski poles to help the person doing the butt-fucking get better leverage. In some, the seats were covered with nails instead of leather, which would cut into the victim’s chest and belly, ripping them further as his body moved in response to the fucking.  Numerous tables set up as racks for torture were interspersed with other exercise machines, each rack having lots of straps to hold the subject still to whatever extent desired or dislocate shoulders and even rip arms completely form the torso, with channels at the edges to funnel and drain liquids that flowed from the bodies as they were tortured and ripped apart.  Large vertical wheels were fixed with straps that allowed a guy to be positioned for torture and then spun upside down or sideways for easier access to all parts of the body.  Cages were everywhere, some suspended in the air for better display of the victim – and many complete with a naked male slave ready to begin its torture.

 

Matt’s attention quickly went to the slings, where he knew he would soon be suspended. But as he looked at one, he saw past it to crosses on the wall. He was especially fascinated by the knives and whips conveniently located throughout the room, often next to dumbbells and

nautilus machines.  Matt was so stunned that he literally stopped in his tracks and had trouble drawing his breath.

 

“Impressed?” asked Jim, paying close attention to Matt’s reaction. “Or scared?”

 

“Impressed,” answered Matt truthfully. “But I think I’m mostly just excited. I never imagined a place like this could exist. It’s just amazing.  And like you said, all these slaves look almost relaxed, ready to serve by being tortured.  I’m curious.  Do they sometimes fail to survive the torture?  A lot of this stuff looks potentially fatal.”

 

Jim laughed.  “No.  They ALWAYS fail to survive, at least in due course.  They know it’s what they deserve, and snuffing a slave is a fantastic turn-on and stress reliever for all of us.  The fuck-stands with the nails are a favorite of mine, since the nails will tear apart the nipples and pecks as I fuck the guy and he can’t avoid gyrating on the bench.  The guy dies while I am fucking him, which is a great feeling as his ass tightens around my cock.  It’s a lot of fun.”

 

As Jim spoke, Matt focused on the guys being held in cages, and especially noticed two young males with hands and feet nailed to crosses just beyond the sling he had spotted.  He had seen lots of S&M videos with guys tied to crosses, but never with their hands and feet nailed to the cross. This greatly enhanced the effect.  They appeared to be very fit and were quite handsome. All the young males were sort of “on display” in the room, with erect cocks even though some were obviously in pain.  Jim explained that this was the effect of the drug Matt had just taken, so Matt would remain hard for the afternoon and beyond.  The difference was these guys got double doses so they’d stay hard and have orgasms throughout the torture sessions, even as things got extremely rough.  A double dose would ultimately be fatal, but not for a while and these guys were going to die anyway.

 

Matt counted about 30 of the slaves. Some were shackled to the whipping posts, ready to receive their lashes.  Several others were tied to tables, with various leather restraints that seemed to stretch their arms and legs but also to stretch and separate their balls away from the rest of the body, no doubt for easier CBT sessions.  But what got Matt’s attention the most were the two guys nailed to crosses. They appeared to be in intense pain, struggling to breath.

 

“Oh,” laughed Mr. Fletcher. “I forgot. I did have Edward nail up a couple of slaves yesterday evening.  I thought they’d be fun to watch and it looks like they’re proceeding nicely. One of the advantages of the dildos attached to the crosses, which are stuck up their asses, is that they get a little support. So they can suffer a lot longer, which means there’s something fun to look at. As for the rest of these guys, they’re fresh S&M slaves and you should all feel free to let them entertain you. Just be sure I get to see what you’re doing and maybe join in if it gets interesting.”

 

Murmurs of agreement and appreciation came from the house servants. David Fletcher was indeed a generous employer to his favored staff. Nonetheless, even though there were some serious opportunities to inflict pain, the group’s attention quickly returned to Matt.

 

“No problem, dad.  I’ve explained the role of slaves to Matt and he’s cool.  I don’t think anyone needs to hold back.”

 

“Absolutely,” added Matt.  “Jim explained how the slaves understand their role, and this all makes great sense.  Whatever pleases Jim is the right thing to do.”  Everyone was pleased with the response and it was time to start the fun.

 

“So, Jim,” one of the staff inquired. “Where do you want to put your new toy?”

 

Jim pointed Matt toward the sling Matt was staring at. He instructed Matt to climb up onto it, laying on his back with his head pointed toward the back wall where the two guys were being crucified.

 

“I like this one. And with Matt pointed this way I can watch the guys being crucified while I fuck him.  I plan to take a while and they’re clearly starting to have serious trouble breathing.  That’ll be an added bit of entertainment as they weaken and it gets worse for them.   So the rest of you should take a number.”

 

Indeed, Matt realized that there was a number dispensing machine, like the kind you see in ice cream stores.  Jim had gotten #1, and his dad #2. At Matt’s suggestion Dennis, their driver, got #3. After that, it was an open season.

 

“Remember guys,” joked Jim. “It’s first serve, first cum.” The joke was one they had heard before, but everyone laughed anyway.

 

Matt quickly climbed onto the sling, and several guys tied him in. His legs were in the air, and his virgin butt was nicely positioned for Jim’s use. It was finally time for Jim to end Matt’s virginity.

 

Jim did not lubricate himself or Matt before he thrust his cock into Matt’s vulnerable ass. He wanted to inflict the maximum pain. The thrust was effective, and Jim felt the extreme pleasure of having his cock surrounded by a very tight yet pliant asshole. He was of course extremely aroused, so he was careful to hold back so he wouldn’t shoot too early. He didn’t want to have this pleasure end any time soon.  Unlike most young males, Jim was able to sustain fucking for a long time before he shot his load.  Part of it was talent, and part was experience. He was busy fucking Matt for quite a while. He was particularly pleased to see that he had caused Matt to bleed, as shown by the droplets that leaked out as he pumped in and out. He pointed that out to the group, who complimented him on his technique and the obvious effectiveness of his cock.  Matt joined in the congratulations and expressed his appreciation for Jim’s efforts.  “I guess I’d better stop easing you about a small cock.  It’s clearly big enough to do a hell of a job on me.”

 

Jim also enjoyed the look of obvious pain on Matt’s face and was pleased that Matt showed such a good attitude.  Indeed, Matt remained fully erect during the session.  Jim had chosen well.

 

After a very long time, Jim told some of the guys to flip Matt over and put him on one of the leather-covered fuck machines, doggy style. They did so quickly, and Jim resumed fucking. It was even some time after that before Jim finally reached orgasm, blasting a load into Matt. His effort was met with a cheer, and Jim felt completely drained. He leaned over Matt and kissed him. Matt, in turn, thanked Jim for using him, and offered to suck his cock clean.

 

Jim took advantage of Matt’s offer, and then let loose a large load of beer-tasting piss. He stood back a bit for effect, so others could watch how well Matt had been trained to swallow it.  As always, Matt didn’t spill a drop, and then thanked Jim for getting him some beer, albeit used.

 

“Gentleman,” Jim announced to general cheering. “He’s not a virgin any more, as you just saw. But you’re welcome to make sure.”

 

Matt vividly remembered that first fuck very fondly, and he remembered how Jim’s dad had also caused him considerable pain with his even larger cock, followed by almost being torn open by Dennis and then the two muscle guys.  Indeed, Matt’s memory of everything about his first gangbang was still vivid.  It took hours for all fifty guys to rape him, and it hurt a lot, but being used to give sexual pleasure to all those friends of Jim’s was utterly fulfilling.  He also got to drink lots and lots of used beer, and they even drained cum from his ass every now and then and had him drink that too.  When he himself needed to piss, it was into a pail that he also drained, He remembered the total humiliation of it all as the time he learned what his true nature was.  He was completely comfortable with that.

 

Matt had come to realize Jim’s sadistic tendencies were extreme, based initially on the videos they watched and Jim’s reactions.  Matt had volunteered his body for Jim’s use, but as with fucking his ass Jim had declined, telling him that would come in due course.  Seeing the two guys nailed to crosses and hearing Mr. Fletcher’s casual comments about “process” confirmed Matt’s suspicions, and Jim’s descriptions left no doubt.  When everyone had finished fucking him, Matt wasn’t surprised that Jim selected a whipping stand that suspended Matt by his wrists so he could twist as he was flogged, allowing Jim, Jim’s dad, and Dennis to stand in a circle around his body and enjoy lashing him front, back, and sides.  The best part was that the drug had kicked in by then and his erect cock provided a great added target.  By the time they were tired out, Jim having gotten his exercise, Matt’s body was dripping blood and sweat along with the cum oozing from his wounded ass.  Dennis sucked him off to complete the effect, adding a load of Matt’s cum, and then his piss, to the flow.  It was an awesome scene for everyone, especially Matt.  As it had proceeded, he had wondered if Jim would snuff him, but felt it would be rude to ask.  He wouldn’t have resisted, even if he could, but was pleased when he was still alive without any permanent damage as his first rape/torture session ended.  He didn’t want to stop serving Jim.

 

4

Transition

Matt’s mind returned to the present, still speeding down the beach road in Jim’s car.

 

“That was a pretty amazing fuck session the first time you took me to the estate,” Matt commented.

 

“Yeah, I still remember it myself. You really had a nice tight ass then. It’s still not too bad, and there’s remarkably little effect from all the stuff I’ve stuck up it since then.  Our vet has kept you in good repair.  You’re not quite as tight as you used to be, but after fisting and an occasional baseball bat, I suppose that’s to be expected.  I have access to lots of other guys who are cute virgins, so it’s not a big deal.”

 

“Sorry about that.  But I’m still willing to take anything you want to place up there, so maybe that will provide some entertainment for you today.  Your electric dildo toy is not a bad start.”

 

“I’ve got some fun ideas.  But I’m going to make you available for the group first.  I think a lot of them will want to do a last fuck of my sex toy.  But those are good memories and I’ve kind of gotten into fisting guys thanks to the fun I’ve had with you.  So you’ve been useful.  Of course, anyone who wants to fuck you with whatever they’d like will be free to do so, so it might be entertaining to see how creative guys get and how badly you get ripped open.

 

“What I remember most about that first time at the estate, however, was that you were so naive when I asked for my birthday present.”

 

Matt’s mind again wandered into the past. He thought about the afternoon after the first gang rape and whipping.  Jim had taken him to his room, which was amazingly spacious and filled with a plentiful set of S&M equipment along with a giant bed.  He and Jim had been lying in bed, just the two of them.  Jim had fucked Matt’s sore ass again and introduced Matt to the pain that comes from electrical current flowing between the genitals and nipples.  But he allowed Matt to shoot a load onto Jim’s chest and then lick it up for Jim’s entertainment. Then Jim had started asking him questions.

 

“What do you think about when you jerk off?”

 

“I used to think about a lot of different things, but now I think about you and about the guys in the S&M films we watch.”

 

“And who are you in the film while you’re fantasizing?”

 

“Well,” answered Matt somewhat sheepishly, “I get most excited if I’m the guy getting whipped and fucked. Seeing that on movies really turned me on, and now that I’ve experienced it for real I’m fixated on wanting more. Is that wrong?”

 

“Of course not,” laughed Jim. “It just confirms what I’ve always assumed. You’re a complete masochist and a natural slave. You haven’t realized it yet, which is OK. You’re new at it, but you’re a good-looking young specimen of man-meat who shows some real

potential to be useful.”

 

“What do you mean?  I don’t understand.”

 

‘It’s simple, and we’ve talked about it before but not in relation to you.  The world is made up of natural masters and natural slaves. Most people are sort of in the middle, but guys like us have very clear roles. As masters, it is appropriate that dad and I have tons of money – like I said earlier, it’s billions and billions of dollars.  We know how to rule and do it well.  By contrast, it’s natural that you’re a throw-away kid on the streets.  You require someone to serve.  Lucky for you, I found you at school and have been carefully training you to realize your sole purpose and potential.  Dad had me make you a project for my own development.  These movies were carefully selected to create awareness over time with increasing intensity.”

 

Matt was stunned. He had no conception of any of this going on. But he was not upset.  In fact, his already erect cock throbbed a bit more intensely as Jim had been speaking. What Jim was saying made sense and fit with their prior conversations and what their teacher had taught them.  He appreciated being selected for Jim’s experiment.

 

“So what am I?” Matt asked, both curious and intrigued.

 

“It’s time for you to decide that.  You have two choices and you need to pick one of them.  If you want, you could become one of the citizens on the island, free to build a career and probably meet some guy who will dominate but nourish you.  You’re smart and personable and attractive, and a lot of guys would find your shyness sexy.  If that’s what you decide, I’ll get it set up for you.

 

Option two is for you to become a slave – my slave.  Your status would be no different than the animals being tortured and ultimately snuffed in the game room downstairs.  The difference would be that it will have been your choice.  Those animals are slaves because they were bred for it or because they violated the rules of society and lost their citizenship.  So they learn it’s their duty to do all the dirty, dangerous work and in due course be horribly tortured and killed, their bodies used for food and fertilizer.  We train them to accept that and they’re actually quite content as well as obedient.

 

Matt was stunned, and a lot of things started to fit into place.  “I wondered what was going to happen to the two guys nailed to crosses in the game room.  You’re saying they will stay there until they’re dead.  Right?”

 

“Right.  And all the other slaves will suffer similar fates.  It’s how we manage the violent urges of citizens and Alpha Males, and it works amazingly well.  We satisfy our sadistic sexual passions and the slaves need to die anyway so we have a meat supply.  Having them die horrible, humiliating deaths as part of sexual S&M sessions has no downside and makes them more useful.  Once they’re trained they appreciate that opportunity to serve.  Sometimes, like the household slaves our typical citizens own, they serve for a long time before they’re disposed of.”

 

“Do you think I’m one of them?”

 

“Not as of now.  You’re a citizen, like the staff at the estate, and you’re entitled to respect and freedom so long as you don’t disobey the Alpha Male laws.  That’s why I respected everyone’s limits for the S&M fun we had on the plane but didn’t with the slave.  It’s your choice, and you could choose to be a salve instead if you want to.”

 

“Is that the birthday present you’d like?”

 

“Yes, but only if you choose to do so.  You see, there’s a special feeling of sexual power from using a slave who chooses to serve, suffer, and die.  Knowing that choice was voluntary adds a lot to the sexual thrill of owning and using the slave.  If you wanted to do that, it would increase the intensity of my orgasms and my satisfaction in dominating you.  But don’t misunderstand:  The choice is irrevocable, and if you make that choice you will indeed be like the slaves you saw, and I will torture you constantly, humiliate you always, and eventually (or maybe right away) horribly kill you.  This is not a pretend thing.  It would be for real.”

 

Matt didn’t even hesitate in his choice.  “Of course I’ll be your slave.  I think I already am and have been for a long time.  This would just make it official.  You are free to do whatever you want with me, and I know it will involve me being tortured and snuffed whenever you feel like doing so.  I hope you really get a thrill out of it when you do.  And you can count on my total obedience and cooperation.  Happy birthday from your new slave.”

 

Jim was thrilled.  This was indeed the birthday present he most wanted to get.  And he made it effective immediately.

 

“Great.  I’d say thanks but as of now you’re an object, a piece of property. You’re important only to the extent you can provide me pleasure. I don’t like to think of objects like you as slaves because the term slave implies people who are somehow just of lower rank. What you need to understand is that you have no rank at all – no more than this bed we’re laying in or a piece of meat in the fridge.  If I want to destroy that footstool by my desk, or eat some meat, no one would object.  The stool and the meat are mine to do with as I want.  You are no different, just potentially more fun to use than a chair or a wastebasket.  You perform the same function as a urinal in a bathroom, but it’s more fun to piss down your throat than to piss into a porcelain toilet – and ultimately, you’ll be more fun to destroy, because it would be wrong to waste a nice designer toilet. It’s fun to destroy a piece of male property like you – a piece of not yet dead meat.  And porcelain isn’t edible.  You are.

 

“You are now my body slave.  That means you’d always be nearby and ready to serve me however I want.  That is your sole purpose, and when I get tired of you or if you fail in any aspect you’d be destroyed.  Again, think of a piece of furniture, except that furniture doesn’t get tortured to death and eaten when I decide to get something new.  For a piece-of-shit-slave like you, being my body slave is quite an honor.

 

“Incidentally, your foster dad works for my family.  He has been part of the program for years, making sure your self-esteem remains low and you endure humiliation and deprivation.  Dad and I arranged the scene at his house the other night to trigger a change in your status, so you’d arrive here without any ties or options through him.  I also arranged the “coming out” scene in front of the school with Dennis, which is a great cover to explain you dropping out of school. No one will ever know or care what happened to you.  And you cooperated by throwing away the last possessions you had – the clothes you prostituted yourself to get at the beach – and you now have absolutely nothing.  My goal was to get you psychologically ready to admit what you are and accept your proper role in life.  But it still needed to be your choice, and I would have honored it had you chosen a life as a citizen.  You would not have been happy or fulfilled, however, because what you now are is what you were meant to be.  All of our effort was just to get you to the point you’d recognize that.  I’ve given you the gift of fulfilling your role, and when I kill you I’ll give you the further gift of the kind of horrible death you deserve – and want and need for your sense of having been useful.”

 

“I understand.”

 

“Good.  Remember that first S&M video I showed you with the guy getting whipped?  I told you dad hired him and we had a great weekend when I got to flog him.  I told you he was grateful for dad taking care of his troubles with the law.  That’s all true, but the way dad took care of his troubles was by turning him into a sex slave.  We were testing some drugs we developed for criminal types who were being reduced to slave status, and we wanted to find out if he would agree to cooperate and be snuffed just for our amusement.  He did, and I not only got to flog him, but I got to snuff him.  It was my first kill, and sexually thrilling for me as I fucked his ass, gutted him, and then slowly strangled him.  Watching the pain and despair in his face and feeling the pressure on my cock as his body pitifully struggled to stay alive was amazing.  He even shot a load as he died, which triggered my own orgasm.  I was so horny I fucked him again as his dead body continued to gyrate for my pleasure.   He did join us for dinner, but as the main course, and dad let me carve the meat.  Part of the plan is to replace cattle with slaves as our prime meat source, since that will help with the ozone environmental issues and slaves are so much more satisfying to kill and eat.  It’s especially fun if they’re still alive while being carved up.  All the meat we serve here is slave meat.  I’ll let you see the video of that first kill for your education.  Put this DVD in the player. There’s a large screen that will come down from the ceiling when you put it in.”

 

Matt obeyed. He took the DVD and started it, then returned to the side of Jim’s bed, kneeling obediently beside the bed even though Jim had not instructed him to do so. Jim was pleased. Matt’s instincts and training were serving him well.  He told Matt to lay beside him so he could observe Matt’s reaction to the film.

 

The film was astonishing, and showed Jim doing a fabulous job torturing the young male to death, while the victim not only did not resist but politely thanked Jim for the honor of being Jim’s first snuff victim.  Several cameras focused on different angles of the tortures, catching all aspects of the death itself, including the agony on the face of the dying male and the sexual ecstasy on Jim’s as he fucked the body while it was twitching violently in its death throws and then again after it was technically dead but still convulsing.  The film then featured Jim celebrating with his dad and some others at dinner, slicing choice cuts of meat off the now-dead slave and enjoying the feast.  Surprisingly to Matt, all of this turned him on a lot.  He had never even conceived of anything like this and it took him by complete shock.  But it did something else. The scene confirmed his decision and turned him on beyond belief. Matt shot a giant load of cum as he watched the scenes where Jim fucked the dying body, fanaticizing himself as the victim.  His orgasm wasn’t caused by touching himself or even by being fucked – it was triggered by the images in the movie and the realization this likely would happen to him someday, as it should.

 

“I hoped you’d react that way. I told my dad that you were ready, and clearly you are. By our standards that first time for me was a quick snuff. Usually it takes much longer and is far more painful.  And I like to enjoy some of the meat while the guy is still alive and can watch me eat him, although I leave the body in good enough shape to enjoy fucking it while it dies and again while it’s still nice and warm, finishing its death convulsions.  I’ve learned a lot of great torture techniques since then so you can count on a far worse level of torture, leading to the same fate.

 

“This guy was cooperative and willing because of drugs, and we’ve proven we can convert anyone into a willing slave when we want to.  That will be critical as we reform various societies and take control.  But you are different in an important way.  You are a willing slave because you know you should be.  That is what my project was all about, and that is why I will especially enjoy owning you and killing you. For the full effect, it had to be your choice.  I’m pleased you made the choice you did and given how resilient you are I know it is for real.  Even after all the events before you came to the island, you recovered quickly and continued on, showing up at school despite humiliation that would have broken most people.  That makes you a more appealing slave.”

 

“Thanks, Jim.  That means a lot to me and yes, this is my choice.”

 

Jim moved the conversation to a different aspect.  “Incidentally, you didn’t have permission to shoot, so you’ll have to suffer consequences for that. I’m going to torture you, introducing you to a new definition of pain.  Pain will be a central part of your life from now on.  Further, now that you know your role you need to perform adequately. And adequately means perfectly – doing what I say always, serving my desires, and using your body only to serve and entertain me. If you ever shoot a load again without permission, it will be your last.  You will never have the honor of serving me again, you will be totally emasculated so you can never enjoy any sexual gratification, and you will be used for months as a lab animal for research on advanced methods of inflicting extreme pain.  Is that clear?”

 

“Yes, Jim.”

 

“And you don’t get to call me Jim any more. People call each other by their names. You’re no longer people. You are to call me “sir” and you are to bow

your head when you address me. You are also not allowed to speak unless you are spoken to and a response is required. If you have a question, you first ask permission to speak.  Clear?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“OK.  One last chance to change your mind.  Do you accept and agree to your new position as a piece of property?”

 

“Yes, sir.  I understand, and I will obey completely.  Thank you for accepting my unworthy birthday present.  I hope you enjoy it.”

 

Matt noted the change in his master’s tone. They were no longer schoolmates, with Jim as the elder mentor leading Matt into sexual awareness. Now, Matt had been assigned his role in life and he must obey. At that moment, Matt accepted his fate and determined to satisfy his new master. He understood his role, and for whatever time Jim chose to keep him as a piece of Jim’s property, Matt would cooperate fully.  He realized this was not only his purpose, it was his greatest hope and source of joy.  He wanted to be Jim’s property.

 

Jim and Matt rejoined the larger group for dinner, and everyone congratulated Jim on his outstanding success in training his body-slave.  Matt knelt behind Jim to be available for any needed services, observing how lavish the dinner feast was, with an assortment of delicious looking vegetables and side dishes on the table.  To the side was another table on which there was a handsome young slave lying on his back.  A chef stood by him and sliced off the desired cuts of live slave-meat that the diners requested, either serving them as slave-tar-tar or grilling the selection to order on a nearby Hibachi.  It appeared to Matt to be a wonderful meal and a wonderful gathering of family and friends.  The combination of the slave’s screams and his expressions of appreciation for the honor of being their entree’ added nicely to the atmosphere.  The slave had expressed his thanks to each diner, until one of them decided to try some fresh tongue.  When it came time to serve the cock, the chef brought it to orgasm so it could be sliced off as it was spilling cum, which was a nice effect.  Matt only hoped he could someday perform as well as this slave had done.

 

 

5

An Interlude

 

Jim’s voice over the noise of the drive once again brought Matt back to the present reality.

 

“What I can’t decide is whether I want to keep a souvenir. After all, you were my first human property, and that has a little sentiment. Dad says it doesn’t matter, and advises against keeping anything from slave carouses, but I’m not sure. What do you think?”

 

“I’d be honored if you did. It would mean a lot to me, not that my feelings matter. Nor should they.  But maybe you could use my cock and balls as a paperweight? It might help organize all that stuff on your desk.” (Before their roles had shifted from schoolmates to owner and property, Matt had teased Jim about his disorganized desk.  It had been one of their favorite jokes since Jim tended to leave stuff all over the place.) “Or maybe my skin could be turned into a jacket or something?  You’re very good at skinning guys alive, and it’s always a crowd pleaser since it’s obviously unbelievably painful but not necessarily immediately fatal.  I’d still be alive while you cut me up as food.”

 

“I don’t wear clothes, idiot,” came the needling reply. “But maybe the paperweight idea is worth thinking about. I must admit my desk is still a mess, and you do have a nice set.  I don’t like eating cock – muscles aren’t very tender. If I don’t have it made into a paperweight, I’ll probably just have it turned into hamburger or sausage, or maybe have you eat it yourself.  I strongly suspect your breast meat will be the best, so I’m going to try that first. The issue is if I want to enjoy your balls as an appetizer. Guy oysters are tasty, and I’ve wondered what you’ll taste like. I guess I’ll decide at the time.”

 

“I hope you enjoy my meat however you decide.” Matt was quite sincere in this. His only regret about the party was that it would end his service.

 

“If I may ask, have you decided whether to kill me first or do you think you will be able to keep me alive long enough to enjoy my flesh while I watch? I know how much you like munching on a guy’s tastier parts while you vivisect him and watch the agony and humiliation. I want to provide you as much fun as possible.”

 

“I haven’t completely decided, but that’s my inclination. I think it’s the most humiliating way for a guy to die, watching himself get cut up for food and knowing he’ll literally wind up as shit.  So don’t disappoint me by dying too soon. I want a worthwhile show.”

 

“I’ll do my very best. You can count on me. I’m deeply grateful for all the use you’ve made of me over the past five years. I expected you to snuff me on my 18th birthday like you mentioned when you took me over as your property. So these years have been a wonderful chance to serve.”

 

“Yeah, I considered that. But you are a fun fuck and extremely obedient.  Frankly, I like your attitude, and I even used to like you as a buddy back when you were a person. Having a willing slave who is content or even eager to be killed whenever I feel like it has turned out to be even more of a tun-on than I’d imagined.  Besides, when you were 18 I didn’t have a great replacement.

 

“I’m glad I kept you around. Maybe I’m sentimental like dad accuses me of being. I’m not sure. But in any event today will take care of the issue. It would be a little embarrassing to keep a slave any longer than I have.

 

“There’s another thing too.  I posted a message on the fact I was going to snuff you today as part of my birthday party and invited young guys on the island to apply to replace you.  I made it clear it was just going to be a one-year gig, so I was amazed how many did so, happy to convert from citizen to slave so they could be my body slave for a year and then be snuffed at my next birthday party if not before.  It’s down to four finalists, and they’re all terrific.  Before they watch you die they’ll all compete to take your place.  They’ve all agreed that the contests will be to the death, which seems appropriate.  Maybe it would be amusing to have the winner eat your cock.”

 

Matt was not disappointed with this report.  He knew he was six years older than when he had first attracted Jim’s sexual attention.  He was glad that Jim would find other objects to satisfy him after Jim disposed of Matt. The years of training had been very instructive in confirming that it was about Jim’s desires, his pleasure.

 

“Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t throw you away at 18. You have been a great sex object, and you provided me with quality entertainment, like when I used you in those soccer matches a few years ago. You were pretty impressive.”

 

“Thanks.” Matt was ecstatic. He had never gotten any reaction from Jim for that effort, and he had given it his all. Matt knew he was a good soccer player since his freshman year in high school, when he made varsity after leading a winning freshman team. Jim had used him, along with some other slaves, to form a highly competitive team. They played other slave teams, and they always won. (One incentive was that the losing teams were brutally slaughtered at the end of the games by being fed to the crowd.)  Matt knew he was the primary reason Jim’s team won but had never had a conversation about it.

 

The best part of the soccer games was knowing Jim was watching. As Matt and his teammates ran up and down the field, their beautiful bodies glistening with sweat and their hard cocks bouncing with the motion, he was aware that it got Jim turned on.  Those nights tended to have some of the best sex Matt would enjoy with Jim. Jim sometimes kept a few of the losing slaves for himself, and let Matt eat their cocks while they were still attached, just as they reached orgasm from Matt’s blow jobs.  As they died, Jim would shoot his load up their tightening assholes. It was a lot of fun and those were among Matt’s most wonderful memories.

 

The two young men drove on in silence for a few minutes, but then Jim spotted a side road and turned off toward the beach.  “Here’s a place I want to show you,” Jim said. “It’s my favorite place on our whole island. The beach is unusually smooth and wide, and there’s a fantastic view. Let’s stop for a while.”

 

Matt was startled at the suggestion, assuming they would head straight to

Jim’s birthday party.  But he hardly objected. Nor did he have any idea what Jim had in mind.  He wasn’t even aware of the beach despite the fact he was almost always with Jim.

 

Jim stopped the car at the end of the side road, and motioned for Matt to follow him., taking Matt by the hand, which also had not happened in years.  They walked down a trail, and Matt understood why Jim liked the spot. It was the best view of the water and the mountains that Matt had ever seen, and the beach was totally pristine. There were no footprints, and the beach was so clean it was almost as if it had been manicured.  There was a large blanket laid on it just above the water line with a picnic basket next to it.

 

“No one is permitted to come here except me,” Jim explained. “I have gardeners who tend to it every morning to assure it’s always perfect.  I had them prepare it for us to visit, and then they smoothed out their footprints as they left to preserve the effect.”

 

They walked in silence to the edge of the water, next to the blanket, where Jim turned to Matt and touched his body. To Matt’s utter `amazement, this was followed by a very tender embrace and a deep, loving kiss. Slowly, Jim led their bodies down to the blanket, where he continued to stroke Matt’s smooth skin and deepened his kiss.

 

“I hope you have enjoyed the freedom you have had during the past five years,” Jim whispered as he briefly withdrew his tongue from deep in Matt’s mouth.  “I wanted to be sure you understand how fortunate you have been, and also to give you one last gift.”

 

Matt was too shocked to speak. Jim used Matt sexually all the time both before and after acquiring him, but afterwards it was as an object, never as a lover. That was fine and all Matt expected.  But this was totally different and far beyond exciting.  Matt also had no idea what Jim was referring to.  Freedom?  Matt was a total slave, a piece of property as Jim often pointed out.  Matt was quite content with that but didn’t see how this related to freedom.  Yet his confusion was overwhelmed by his excitement at the tender embrace.

 

The two bodies became tightly coupled and rolled onto the beach. They were lapped by the warm waves from time to time, which only increased the mutual excitement. Jim didn’t just kiss Matt’s mouth, he adorned his whole body with affection. In due course, that even included Matt’s throbbing penis, as Jim maneuvered them into a 69 embrace.

 

“I know you’re confused, as usual.  You were never a quick study.  Let me explain.  At the party dad will announce that I’m officially his heir and successor and appoint me to run a series of major family enterprises.  It’s a tremendous honor and I want to do a great job.  But it comes at a cost.  Someone in his and my positions cannot trust anyone, and we do not have real friends.  We have everything else anyone could possibly want, and more, but we are in one sense prisoners of our own wealth and positions.  But you were given the freedom to turn over everything you are to me as your complete owner.  That gives you a kind of freedom.  You don’t have decisions to make or anything to worry about.  You only need to obey and everything else will be decided for you.  You have freedom from having to make decisions or achieve goals.  You are free to focus entirely on your role as my body slave without having to concern yourself with anything else.

 

“But what I want you to know is that, if I were permitted to have a true friend and lover, it would be you.  That’s why I’ve kept you so long.  You’ll be dead by the end of the day, so I don’t have to worry about issues of trust after the party.  So I think we should consummate our relationship.  I want you to fuck my ass.  No one has ever done that, and likely no one ever will again.  But I want to feel your cock inside me and see if we can shoot our loads together.”

 

Matt’s emotions were a combination of shock, joy, gratitude, and, most of all, love. He never expected such a reaction from Jim even when they were high school lovers.  This was beyond his wildest dreams.

 

Under Jim’s direction Matt carefully positioned himself over Jim, who lay on his back with his legs wrapped around Matt’s torso.  Jim wanted them to have the ability to see each other’s faces while they made love, and once positioned he had Matt insert his penis slowly into Jim’s virgin man-hole.  Matt was careful to hold himself in check as he began to thrust in and out, concerned that he was inflicting some pain on his lover and master, but comforted by Jim’s assurances and the obvious pleasure Jim was feeling.  As the thrusts increased in intensity and speed Jim’s cock also began to throb, but it was quite some time before the two young males allowed themselves to reach orgasm – which they did simultaneously.  Both were sexually overwhelmed by the intensity, and they lay side by side still enjoying each other’s’ bodies.  Matt licked Jim’s cum from his chest, and that was followed by more long, deep kisses and caressing.  They went for a swim to clean off and enjoy the memory of so many swims in high school, and when they returned to the beach Jim pulled two beers and some chips from the picnic basket.  This was the first “fresh” beer Matt had since becoming a slave, and it tasted great.  By the end of the second beers their cocks returned to full erections, and they concluded their session with a second set of orgasms following a long 69 session of sucking each other’s cocks and swallowing each other’s cum.  It was glorious.  For the only time in his life, Matt was treated to truly mutual sex. It was a deep, satisfying session of love-making.  Matt felt sexually satiated in a different and more fulfilling way than any time in his life.

 

“That was very nice,” Jim said after a while.  “thank you.”  Matt was simply too overwhelmed to speak and just kissed and hugged Jim with all his being.

 

As Jim and Matt finished their lovemaking, a separate scene was underway in Mr. Fletcher’s office.  One of his security guards had entered and asked to make a report.

 

“I just witnessed something I believe you would want to know bout, sir,” he began.  “It was from the secure satellite camera that tracks Master Jim’s car.  May I play it for you?”

 

“Of course,” said Jim’s dad.  “Use this screen on the desk next to mine.”  The guard called up a video, and he and Mr. Fletcher watched a recording of Jim’s and Matt’s beach sex, listening to Jim’s explanations to Matt.  “I felt this might be damaging if it got in the wrong hands,” the guard continued.  I don’t think making actual love to a slave is good for Master James’s image.”

 

“Indeed not,” agreed Mr. Fletcher.  “You have done well to alert me.  Has anyone else seen this, and are there any copies?”

 

“No, sir.  I immediately placed it into a secure file and destroyed the automatic backup.  I’m the only one who’s seen it besides yourself.  If you’d like, I can destroy this copy form here and there will be no record at all.”

 

“I’m afraid Jim has been careless.  The slave is going to be destroyed later today.  What if he blurts something out?  I know he’s amazingly loyal to Jim, but as animals begin to endure the level of pain he’s going to receive strange things can happen.”

 

“Well, sir,” said the guard, smiling.  “Master James is pretty clever, as you know, and you don’t need to worry about that.  As they reached his car he ordered the slave to stick out his tongue.  Once he did, Master James cut it off.  The animal will only be able to make noises, not form words.”

 

“That makes me feel a lot better about this,” said Mr. Fletcher, chuckling at the cute solution Jim had implemented to remove any risk.  “I think I can chalk this up to a rite of passage.  Jim had a long history with that slave, and he clearly understands this type of relationship can’t happen again.  That’s why he decided to just keep body slaves for a year at a time.  So please destroy this copy, and I assume you know what else needs to be done?”

 

“Of course, sir.”  The guard quickly deleted the file and stood facing Mr. Fletcher.  “And may I say it has been an honor working for you.”

 

“You have performed well.”  Mr. Fletcher watched as the young naked guard walked over to a sort of shower area in one corner of the huge office and surveyed a set of tools on a metal table.  As he started to pick one up Mr. Fletcher interjected.  “The one on the far right has been dipped in some fairly fast-acting poison.  Feel free to use that one.”

 

“Thank you, sir.  It has always inspired me how thoughtful you are of your staff.  But will this give you enough time to enjoy my body as I die?  No point short-circuiting a good fuck by having the “fuckee” die too quickly.  I’m hoping I can provide you one final service besides my meat.”  When Mr. Fletcher assured him it would be fine, since he was planning to achieve orgasm as the body finished its death throws and the poison tended to enhance those, the young man picked up the indicated knife.  He began to masturbate for Mr. Fletcher’s entertainment, while his benevolent employer inserted his cock up the smooth, willing ass.  As the youth started to cum, he slowly cut off his cock, and then his balls.  The poison kicked in, and Mr. Fletcher guided the dying body over a nearby fuck stand as he intensified his fucking.  He reached orgasm just as the body stopped convulsing.  Ironically, he was particularly satisfied since he had lusted after this young man for some time as a snuff target, but he didn’t snuff staff unless they requested it or broke the rules.  This young man had done the right thing given the situation, and that meant Mr. Fletcher was not violating his own rules by snuffing an obedient staff employee.  So he got a great orgasm, there would be no witnesses of Jim’s little indiscretion and therefore no risk, and no harm was done. The shower area in his office was designed to make it easy for house staff to clean up the mess.  Nr, Fletcher was always considerate of his employees.

 

Once the two former schoolmates had rested, and then cleaned themselves off again with a relaxing swim in the ocean followed by a third set of beers, they returned to the car. Their bodies dried quickly in the sun, and Jim explained to Matt the need to remove his tongue.  Matt’s only concern was that this would mean he wouldn’t be very good at giving blow jobs, which he assumed a lot of the guests would want.  But Jim had thought of that too and explained that he was also going to use a pliers to remove Matt’s teeth so he could “gum” the cocks to orgasm.   It wasn’t quite as precise as using his tongue, but Jim had experimented with it on several slaves and it was quite satisfying.  So Jim removed Matt’s tongue as a precaution (one Matt fully understood, appreciating the fact there was no longer any risk of him saying something that would embarrass Jim), and he then removed the teeth that would get in the way of blow jobs otherwise.  Of course there was no anesthetic for either process, and Matt’s pain added a bit more entertainment for Jim, who had resumed fully the role of owner and master.  Jim then resumed the drive to his beach party. Both were in a festive mood., and in due course Jim spotted the turn-off to the party. It was easy to spot since it had signage consisting of two crosses that each had a young male nailed to it in the late stages of crucifixion. Each had one arm cut off, creating the effect of the remaining arm pointing the way.  All but the index finger on the remaining hand were also gone, and the index finger was extended, literally pointing the way.  The artistic display was Jim’s idea, and he told Matt how cooperative the two slaves had been when he explained the joke and then slowly sawed off an arm.  “I also cut off their fingers and was tempted to leave the middle finger for pointing.  But I thought that would be rude to my guests.  I had them nailed up yesterday morning so the hot sun would burn their skin, helping make sure they’d be dead by the time the party gets into full swing this afternoon.  I figure guests will enjoy the humor, and we can add their bodies to the meat supply.  You’ll also notice they’re identical twins, which I think is a nice touch.  It’s way better than tying some balloons to a post.” The path to the beach was between the two crosses.

 

“We need to resume our proper roles here,” instructed Jim, who nonetheless still had a little more softness in his voice than usual. “But I hope you enjoyed your respite.”

 

Matt couldn’t talk any more but gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.  He knew that the informality was over, and that he was once again just Jim’s property.  But the brief moments of affection were all he had ever dreamed of, and he was completely content and grateful.

 

6

Party time

 

The beach party itself was well attended and carefully orchestrated.  Bar-be-cue pits were set up all around the area, each with a freshly impaled, spitted slave roasting over it, providing a wonderful aroma of cooking slavemeat throughout.  Their innards had been removed and replaced with stuffing, ranging from traditional croutons-and-sage-based to slavemeat sausage to combos of fruits and vegetables.  There were also plenty of fuck-stations with young males tied up for easy access and use.  Jim let everyone know there were plenty more slaves in the holding cages, so no need to worry if a guest wanted to snuff the one he was fucking.  But when that happened the bodies were left for a while on the fuck stands so guests could also enjoy fucking the carcass before it cooled.  Whipping posts, racks, and various other torture stations and tools were plentiful, with an unlimited supply of slaves to fill them and to act as grateful human urinals when the need to piss arose.  Jim removed the dildo he’d inserted into Matt so his guests could enjoy fucking him, and Matt received a lot of painful attention from guests who wanted one last chance to fuck Jim’s favorite human toy.  Matt was by no means the only slave who was going to be snuffed that day – the plan was to kill several hundred of them given the importance of the occasion, but he was Jim’s toy and that made him a special target.  This included blow jobs, and Matt did a reasonable job satisfying guests with his gums replacing his tongue in massaging the cocks rammed into his mouth.  Of course, there was also lots of used beer for him to enjoy.  What was different was that guests were invited to use metal-tipped whips on his back, as Jim had joked that Matt wanted to be skinned alive, and this would be a good start.  Matt, of course, cooperated fully, pleased at how happy Jim sounded, perhaps aided a bit by a plentiful supply of beer.

 

Once Matt was positioned, Jim’s dad pulled Jim aside for a quick chat.

 

“I saw a video of your interlude with Matt on the beach.  Don’t you think that was a little dangerous?  What if that video had gotten out?”

 

Jim laughed.  “No risk.  I made sure Jordon was doing camera duty today, and I asked him to do me a little favor.  He was one of the ones who applied to replace Matt, but he didn’t make the finalists, partly because I knew how much you lusted after his ass as a snuff target.  But he was especially eager to serve me.  So he agreed to be sure no one else saw the video and to give you an alert.  We both knew you’d use that as an excuse to have him kill himself, which removes any problem with us taking advantage of our servants, and you’d get to fuck his ass as he died.  So no harm, no foul.  I assume it played out as planned?”

 

Now it was Mr. Fletcher’s turn to laugh.  “Perfectly.  He was a great fuck, and you were right about my desire to snuff him and fuck his ass while he was dying and again while his body was still convulsing.  I guess you gave me a present on your birthday.  I’m impressed.  You’re turning into a great Alpha leader.”

 

Jim deeply appreciated the complement.  He and his dad had never been closer.

 

By the time Jim decided to make a little presentation, Matt had been gang-raped by most everyone.  His back was badly lacerated with welts and cuts from being whipped as he lay over the fuck-bench, most of the skin gone form the effect of the metal-edged whips, and his belly and ass full of piss and cum.

 

“Thank you all for coming to my party,” Jim began.  “And I think cum-in is the right term.”  Everyone laughed.

 

“As you know, I’ve decided to dispose of one of my high school sex toys.  I could say I knew Matt so long I even knew him when he was a person. Yet even then he was always my property, since he was my high school project to get a natural slave to realize his true nature and willingly accept it.  I think I got an ‘A.’”  The crowd cheered loudly, pleasing both Jim and Matt.

 

“I did have some help, of course.  His foster parent made sure his self-esteem never developed, and that his natural masochistic tendencies were maximized.  I want to thank him for a job well done and asked if he’d like a memento of his success.  It turns out he would, so he’ll get to cut off and keep Matt’s cock.”  (Matt was disappointed to hear this, having hoped Jim would be the one cutting it off, but obviously understood his desires were utterly irrelevant.)

“I noticed he’s already fucked Matt’s ass several times this afternoon, making up for the fact we wouldn’t let him do that when he raised Matt.  That way I’d have the fun of being the first fuck, which I enjoyed a lot.”  The crowd cheered again, and Matt’s foster dad took a well-deserved bow, followed by administering a well-placed blow to Matt’s cock and balls.

 

Besides disposing of Matt, one of our events today is the selection of a replacement body slave.  I liked the idea of having someone willingly choose to abandon their status as a person and choose to be a piece-of-shit sex slave dedicated to suffering pain and humiliation for my amusement and pleasure.  So I inquired if anyone would be interested in that and was amazed at the overwhelming response.  It was touching and heart-warming.  It’s a great testament to how much everyone loves the Alpha males like dad and me, and it shows how well things are going in our new social order.

 

“We reviewed all the applications and got it down to four finalists, who are here now.”  Jim pointed to four amazingly good-looking young studs standing together nearby.  Each had an astonishingly gorgeous body and a giant cock protruding in front of him.

 

“I’ve interviewed the finalists and had fun fucking and torturing each of them.  They are each 17, my favorite age to acquire a slave.  Frankly, they are all great and I have had trouble deciding.  When I poised the dilemma to them they all came up with the same idea:  Why not have them compete for the honor at today’s party?  And of course the competition would be to the death, so there would only be one survivor.  That was such a great idea it’s what we’re going to do now.  There will be two contests, each with tow contestants.  And the contests will simply be a fight, with the only rule being that the fight goes on until at least one contestant is dead.  Once the first round of fights is done, there will be only two finalists, and then those two will fight to determine who gets to serve me, with the same simple rule.  They drew lots to see which sets of two would pair off against each other in round one.  I think everyone has placed their bets, so, gentlemen, have at it.”

 

The first pair entered a wrestling ring next to where Jim was speaking and the fight began immediately.  They were evenly matched, and it was great entertainment to watch s they applied expert wrestling techniques in their combat, slamming each other to the ground and maneuvering to get a sustainable hold.  But as one teen began to stand in order to get a better position, he tripped slightly and was kicked in the nuts by his opponent.  The very brief moment required for recovery form the kick was fatal, as the opponent seized on this advantage and managed to wrap his arm around the gasping boy’s neck.  The neck was quickly broken and that round was over.  As the guests who’d bet on the winner cheered, he looked over at Jim, who nodded, and then proceeded to fuck the dead body, followed by biting off its cock and balls.  The winner ate the cock but kept the balls in his mouth as he crawled on hands and knees over to Jim, drooping the two morsels at his feet like a cat delivering a dead mouse to its owner.   The crowd cheered even louder.

 

The second match in round one took much longer.  There were no mistakes by either fighter, and they wrestled, punched, and kicked each other mercilessly for nearly an hour.  It finally became apparent one had slightly less stamina, and gradually the other fighter was able to take advantage of his greater stamina and gain an advantage.  It was only slight, but over the course of the hour it became enough.  After an amazingly intense and thrilling fight there was finally one less live animal in the ring.  The winner was so beat up and exhausted from the contest that he was barely able to fuck the body of his vanquished opponent, but he was also so horny form the endeavor he was able to do so, and then also followed the example of his future adversary and delivered the testicles to Jim for Jim’s enjoyment.  There was more cheering, more collecting of bets, and lots more slaves being fucked as the guests were sexually excited by the awesome battles they were watching.

 

Round two began immediately and was not nearly so much a fight as a slaughter.  The winner of the first contest, whose name was Peter, had hardly been winded from the effort and had plenty of time to rest and recover.  But since there was no break between the rounds the winner of the second fight was physically spent, wounded from numerous kicks and punches to his body, and barely able to defend himself.  So Peter took his time and methodically beat his opponent to death, using his advantage to break bones and kick vulnerable areas like the gut and genitals.  He didn’t bother to break the neck, but just watched as the other broken bones and the massive internal bleeding caused his victim to fall to the mat and writhe in terminal pain while Peter pissed all over him.  This was a great crowd pleaser, and the cheering was intense as Peter first bit off the dead guy’s nipples before once again enjoying a snack of fresh cock followed by delivering the genitals to his new master.  He remained kneeling in front of Jim, his head bowed, and then prostrated himself, kowtow style.   “If you will accept me, I am honored to be your property, master.  I relinquish my citizenship and welcome you to do with me as you wish, only hoping it will be as painful for me as it will be entertaining, sexually stimulating, and, whenever you wish, nourishing for you.”  The appropriateness of the speech caused the crowd to go wild, and Jim was extremely pleased.  He reached down and raised Peter’s head from the ground, proceeding to piss down his throat as he announced that he accepted the live meat as part of his birthday presents.  He then kicked Peter in the balls, hard, sending him sprawling back toward the ring.  Peter thanked Jim, crawled back, and knelt beside him as befit his new role.

 

“Wow.  That was quite a show and I hope you all enjoyed it.  I sure did, and I look forward to torturing Peter and fucking his ass during the next year.  And no one need worry about the aggression Peter showed.  Like the other contestants he is an extreme masochist, but his desire to serve drove him to fight.  But just to be sure we will administer the drugs needed to turn any aggressive nature into a completely obedient animal, seeking pain and being utterly turned on at the prospect of being tortured and snuffed at next year’s party if he lasts that long.”

 

Jim’s attention turned back to Matt.  “Now, it wouldn’t be a birthday party without a party game to follow the entertainment, would it?  One of my favorite short stories is “Andy Boy’s Birthday Party,” which has lots of good ideas.  And it’s appropriate for this occasion, since it’s about a fun snuff party for a sex slave on his ‘birthday.’  The cute part is that the birthday status is based on the anniversary of when the kid was snatched and turned into a slave, which was his REAL birthday in his new status.  That works great today since under that definition this is also Matt’s birthday, since he gave himself to me as property on my birthday five years back.   So it’s appropriate to let him be part of the games, like in the story, even getting a featured role.  Right?”  Everyone agreed.

 

“The early games in the story involved whipping the slave, and you folks have already done a great job of that.”  Jim turned Matt around so everyone could see his back.  “As you can see, you’ve managed to flog his back to the point there is no skin left.  It was thoughtful of you all to help him get his wish to be skinned alive, even if it’s just his back.”  Then Jim faked a look of surprise.  “Oh, wait, folks.  You missed a spot.”  With that Jim picked up a nearby whip, complete with the metal tips, and vigorously laid into Matt’s back.  There hadn’t actually been any skin left, but it was fun for Jim and got a lot of laughs.  Matt was pleased Jim was having so much fun and would have thanked him if he could still talk.

 

“Well, that takes care of that task.  Our next fun game is ‘Pin the tail on the donkey.’  We don’t have a donkey here, of course, but we do have a jackass.  So, jackass, how about if you make some donkey noises to set the mood?”

 

Jim pushed Matt into position next to him, and Matt did indeed make donkey noises – which was about all he could do since his tongue was removed.  Jim had earlier instructed him to practice prior to the party, and he was not bad at the imitation.  Again, there was lots of laughter at his expense, as was appropriate.

 

“Of course, we’ll have to make some adjustments.  Instead of blindfolding the players, we’re going to blindfold the donkey.  We have is a party kit from our friends at SnuffStuff, one of the island’s most successful companies.  This is a new set of products that are becoming popular world-wide as we spread our influence, which include everything you need for a fun snuff.  They were the ones who supplied those great whips that we all used to skin the donkey’s back.  This set is for our donkey game.  Let’s start by blindfolding him, while those of you nearby start to choose toys to pin him.”  Jim rummaged in a large bag and had the rest of the content distributed among the nearby guests.  He then blindfolded Matt.

 

The game was great fun.  Guests selected skewer-style needles and inserted them all over Matt’s body.  The cock and balls were the first target, with Jim starting the fun by inserting a large needle into Matt’s piss-slit.  The clever part of that needle was the fact it could be easily heated to burn the inside of the cock, which Jim did accompanied by Matt’s intense screams of pain.  Others were inserted cross-ways into the cock, with about a dozen penetrating the balls.  His nipples were effectively removed with two biting clamps, to which weights were added until the flesh was ripped off.  His butt became a pin-cushion, and more needles and weights assured his pecs were also pretty much ripped off.  His elbows were bent back and broken, and other guests cut off fingers to keep as souvenirs.  The best part was that the drugs with which Matt had been injected in prep for the party kept him awake and prevented the effects of system shock as his body was being destroyed.

 

When Matt finally began to show the serious effects of the multiple wounds that would cumulatively be fatal, Jim interrupted the fun.

 

“Well, you’ve all certainly pinned the donkey.  But you haven’t pinned a TAIL on it.  Don’t worry.  I have just the solution, again form our friends at SnuffStuff.”  Jim held up a very large dildo, which had a handle at the bottom.  “This is their Gut-Cleaner, part of the Deadly Dildo line of products.  It’s also brand new, based on the story I mentioned, and I think you’ll be impressed.  I’ll take the blindfold off so our donkey can see it and get an idea what a wonderful tail this will make for him.  And I’ll tie the scarf to the handle so it’s an official tail.”  The dildo looked a lot like a giant pinecone.  As Jim held it up he pressed a button on the handle and the dildo expanded as a series of sharp claws emerged from the sides.  Jim pushed the button again, and they retracted so that the dildo was again pinecone shaped.    “Once I insert this where it belongs, I’ll push the button again.  Then I’ll pull it out.  The coolest part is that there is an internal infrared camera that will project what’s happening inside our donkey onto the screen behind me.  I think everyone will enjoy the effect.”

 

Matt had had hundreds of dildos rammed up his ass over the years, but this one was the largest ever.  Jim didn’t even try to ease it in.  He wanted the maximum pain, so he shoved it as rapidly as it would go, ripping Matt’s ass big time, as evidenced by the flow of blood leaking from it.   Matt was past the point of being able to scream, but his whole demeanor left no doubt about the intensity of his agony.

 

As the dildo moved further inside Matt, the infrared camera showed a remarkably good image of what was going on.  Guests could see it move further into the intestines, and then cut its way into the lower stomach cavity.  At that point Jim pushed the button and the claws extended, cutting into the vulnerable internal flesh.

 

Then the real fun began.  Jim started to pull out the dildo, extremely slowly.  The claws had lodged themselves into the flesh, and at first simply extended further as he pulled.   The result was the claws pulling down the internal meat that it had cut into.  Matt was being gutted from within, and his innards started to make a slow journey down to his asshole.  Jim pointed out what was happening as the camera showed the intestines being ripped to shreds, and there was a general cheer when it finally reached the prostrate, which was surprisingly whole when it exited the asshole.  One of the guests picked it up and held it for everyone to see, taking a bite of it out of curiosity to see what this essential male organ tasted like.  “Yuck.  Clearly not as tasty as the balls,” he announced, spitting out the bite and tossing the rest back onto the now-bloody sand.  Jim, ever the gracious host, cut off what was left of Matt’s balls, handing one to his guest as a “chaser” to the bite of prostate, and eating the other himself.

 

The dildo itself finally came out coated in meat and gore.  Sadly, Matt was so far gone there was no real fun torturing him further.  So Jim had the various needles quickly removed, and Matt was placed on a serving table alongside a set of carving knives.  Jim thanked his guests for such a great party game, and, pointing out that Matt was, amazingly, still alive, invited them to enjoy some fresh live meat.  “Matt said he wanted to join us for dinner, back when he could talk, and it turns out he’ll be able to – at least for a little while.  I’m sure he’ll want to see people enjoy the meat they choose, so be sure to position it so he can watch.  I’ll demonstrate for you.”  Jim started by carving a generous slice of breast meat, holding it in front of Matt’s face as he ate it raw.  It was as good as Jim had anticipated it would be, and Matt was still conscious enough to realize his master was indeed enjoying dining on his flesh, as Matt had always hoped.  But Matt didn’t last long as the other guests aggressively cut off favorite parts. Everyone did agree the meat was very tasty, complementing Jim on how he’d adjusted Matt’s bodyfat level and added fruit juices to make it more flavorful.

 

The party went on for many hours, and Matt was quickly forgotten.  Jim’s attention turned to Peter, whom he fucked and tortured for the amusement of the guests.  It was great fun, and while Jim did briefly think of Matt when he took his morning dump the next day, that was the last time he did.  Matt had served his purpose well, and Jim had grown into the awesome Alpha Male he was meant to be.

 

RCSS–Going Rogue

On By m3mayhemIn Rigler County Snuff Squad3 Comments

Dan sat in the cab of the pickup, his buzzcut blond hair glinting the in rays of the setting sun that came in through the passenger window.  Even though the hot and steamy day was becoming an unpleasantly humid evening, the cop kept the engine off and the windows down.  He was watching.

 

It wasn’t an official stakeout; he was in his personal vehicle.  Backed off the road into the brush, he was keeping his icy blue eyes pointed to a spot a couple of hundred yards down the road where a gravel track branched off, leading back some distance.  At the end of the track, well out of sight, was Brody’s trailer.

 

Dan knew that Brody was gonna make a move tonight.  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.  It had been Pete’s day off, but like a loyal young soldier, he’d kept an eye on the place until Dan left the sheriff’s office for the day and headed out to meet him.

 

“Yeah, he left once,” Pete had reported.  “When down to the corner store an’ got gas and beer.  If he’d gone any farther, I’da called, but he went back home.  So ya really think he’s gonna be up to somethin’ here soon?”

 

“I did a little research on this Josh Perez punk he says he’s gonna question.  Kid’s a worthless little faggot with a couple of public lewdness charges, but if he has anything to do with the drug trade in this county, it’s as an end user.  And Brody knows it.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“’Cause Brody was arrested along with Josh on one of those charges.  No charges ever filed, though—not enough evidence.  Seems Brody never actually exposed himself.  And Josh was so damn drunk he didn’t remember any of it, according to the file–claimed he didn’t know or recognize Brody.  So nothing happened.”

 

“Brody already knows Josh,” Pete said—a statement, not a question, muttered in a tone of disgusted betrayal.  “Son-of-a-bitch…” he muttered slowly.  “But you think he’s gonna make his move soon?”

 

“Yeah.  I can feel it.  It’s Friday night, it’s hot and humid and there’ll be a full moon—look.”  He nodded to the eat where the moon already hung over the horizon, pale and huge in the waning sunlight, already starting to slide under a cloud bank that had bubbled up from nowhere.  “Prime rutting season for a rogue predator male.”

 

“Uh, look, Cap,” Pete said, almost bashfully, “If anything, um, comes up—you’ll call me?  I mean you said yerself he could take us individually.”

 

“I said we’d have a hard time with him individually—but don’t worry, dude,” Dan said smilingly, “I’m just watching, no matter what he does.  I’m just going to watch him and see how he handles himself.”

 

Pete gave him a quizzical look.  In response, Dan said, “Don’t forget—he’s supposed to let me know he’s going out after the kid, but he could simply forget that.  I want to see what he actually does with Josh.”

 

The younger cop’s scruffy, boyishly handsome face twisted into a leer.  “You’re gonna watch him snuff that fag.”

 

Dan’s answering smile was colder and grimmer.  “Why not?  Whatever else happens, at least it’ll be one less homo in my county.”

 

A few more parting civilities and Pete headed off to the gym, intent on relieving his physical tensions with a demanding workout.  Dan was left, watching and waiting, no less intent on relieving his suspicions about a possible psycho fag killer.

 

After all, Dan didn’t mind a dead faggot or two, especially if he was the one who made them dead, but there was a limit.  There had to be control.  There had to be Authority, and Brody was flying in the face of Authority.  Loose cannons were dangerous and had to be disposed of, quickly and effectively.

 

The buff police captain sat and watched for his mark, his huge, muscle-bound body tense and ready for action at any time.  No matter when Brody appeared or what he attempted to do, Dan would be prepared.

 

 

He didn’t have long to wait.  Dusk didn’t last long at this latitude; with the clouds closing in quickly, darkness closed in even more quickly—and darkness was what drew the predator from his lair.  Dan spotted a pair of headlights bouncing down the potholed gravel drive, but kept his cool, not starting his engine until Brody was almost a half mile down the road towards Corrington.  After that, it was easy to follow him, at least until he got into the town itself.

 

Corrington was a small place, but on Friday night, everyone from the outlying villages and farms came into town to get drunk.  Brody’s black pickup could have been easily lost in the sea of other big black trucks on the streets, but he’d jacked it up high enough to stand out.  Dan followed it discreetly into the parking lot of The Well.

 

Dan had no intention of following Brody into the bar; his face would be instantly recognized—by the bouncer and bartender, if no one else; he was the local law, after all.  He decided to just sit and wait, parking at the far end of a row where he could keep an eye on the back door—the way Brody had entered the place—without being immediately seen by anyone leaving.

 

It took about forty-five minutes.  Dan had been prepared to wait much longer; he was rather surprised at how quickly Brody and Josh came out.  He was also surprised at Brody’s brazenness, practically dragging his victim out the door.  And his victim wasn’t going quietly.

 

It wasn’t that Josh was resisting; on the contrary, he was drunk and vocally horny.

 

Josh was young—far too young to be in the bar; he wasn’t yet twenty.  He got around that handily enough by sucking the dicks of the bouncer and the bartender and anyone else inside who might cause a problem.  He had some money; for this little burg, he was considered a rich kid.  His dad managed one of the larger farms, located about fifteen miles northwest of town.

 

Josh was known for coming into town on Friday night and not making it back out to the farm until late Monday morning—afternoon, sometimes.  His father kept getting pissed and threatening to put him to work, but never got around to it; largely because he knew his faggot son’s uselessness.  It’d kill the boy’s mother to hear about it, though, so he kept his mouth shut.

 

Dan was well aware of the details of Josh’s life; having reviewed all available info in the files, he knew the kid was a worthless waste of human flesh.  But he also knew that the cocksucker didn’t have the ambition to get involved in any kind of drug trade.  He bought some shit all right, but nothing like China white.  He was into party drugs–molly, X, even roofies.  Fentanyl wouldn’t be his thing; it’d kill the mood.

 

Josh was evidently on something now, given the way he was staggering across the parking lot with Brody, although he could have just been drunk.  He had taken off his shirt—presuming he’d been wearing one—and his strong but not overly-muscled torso was smooth and shiny with sweat.  His dark, almost blue-black hair had been brushed up from his forehead at one point but was now disheveled and slick with perspiration; he had a patch of hair on his chin that was the same color.

 

Below the torso, he wore a pair of tight, worn Levi’s with a thick belt of brown, uncured leather circling his tight waist; he’d shoved a pair of Timberland boots on, leaving them half-laced and completely united.  It was easier to kick them off when he was ready to get fucked.  And the way his large, dark, bloodshot eyes kept turning to Brody, it was obvious that Josh was ready to get fucked.

 

Of course the little faggot was drawn to Brody.  The older dude was dressed similarly in faded skintight jeans and his half-laced Redwing construction boots.  Above, the buff sadist sported a sleeveless compression t-shirt in some dark shade that wasn’t clear in the uneven lighting of the parking lot.  He strode steadily and purposefully towards his truck, Josh following him with the eagerness of a puppy.

 

Dan knew that Josh didn’t have an address in town and figured it was unlikely that Brody would take his prey back to its own home.  Instead, he’d probably head back to his trailer, but Dan wanted to make certain.  Once the redneck alpha pulled his truck out of the Well’s lot, Dan started his engine and began following.  As soon as he confirmed that the big black pickup had turned onto the county road in the direction of Brody’s trailer, he fell back.  No sense in making the psycho paranoid.

 

And that’s exactly what Brody was to Dan, a psycho.  A killing machine, responsive only to transient emotions and sensations, not to reason.  Something easily distracted and overwhelmed by rage and lust.

 

Something blind to the value of Authority.

 

But he had to know.  He had to be sure.  He knew that, whatever happened, the odds of him overpowering the muscle-bound redneck in any physical altercation were at best fifty-fifty.  So he let Brody’s taillights vanish in the distance, giving the guy time to get home.  Time for Dan to watch him in the act.

 

Then, once his suspicions were confirmed—and only then—would he bring Pete on board and let him in on his plan.  No sense getting the kid mixed up in the messy details until Dan was certain they’d be needed.

 

By the time Dan got to the turning for Brody’s trailer, the latter was already home.  Turning off his headlights, the off-duty Captain slowly and carefully eased his pickup down the rutted gravel drive.  He stopped inside the tree line, about a half mile off the road, and walked the rest of the way.

 

As he approached the dilapidated single-wide trailer, he could hear music coming from inside.  Dance music—not Brody’s choice, surely; he preferred country.  Dan crept closer for a better look, but needed some help.  Even at six and a half feet, he wasn’t quite tall enough to look into any of the windows.  Glancing around, he spied exactly what he needed—a cinderblock.  Placing it below the living room window, he stood on it, carefully shifting his scuffed roper boots to maintain balance.

 

The window was covered with cheap plastic miniblinds; they had been closed, but they were warped and a number of them were broken.  By bending down slightly—he was too tall now—Dan was easily able to peer into the living room.

 

What he saw got his dick hard instantly.

 

Brody was leaning back in an old recliner.  Josh had stripped down to nothing his scuffed Timberlands and a pair of fire-engine red boxer briefs that clung to his groin like they’d been painted on, perfectly outlining his bulging package and erect, straining cock.  The boy had his arms up and his hands on the back of his head, arcing his back.

 

Little fucker was drunkenly giving Brody a lap dance.  Even from the window, Dan could see and easily interpret the gleam in Brody’s eye; the gyrating cocksucker was even closer, but was either too fucked up to notice—or just didn’t care.  As the cop watched, Josh reached down towards Brody’s lap, then quickly jerked his hands upward, pulling the buff older man’s compression t-shirt off over his head.  He tossed it idly to the side.

 

The boy was clearly indulging himself, writhing on the muscle-bound sadist’s lap, running his hands over Brody’s rock-hard pecs and lacing his fingers in the stud’s chest fur.  Dan shifted his boots on the cinderblock from time to time to keep the circulation flowing to his feet.  At the moment, it tended to pool near his aroused dick…

 

As the teenaged punk ground his taint over Brody’s bulging groin, he seemed to get more and more aroused himself.  The tentpole that formed in his skintight red boxers showed the dimensions of the homo’s dick; it wasn’t very long, but it was thick and meaty.  Already, a dark moist spot had formed on the thin cotton that covered the big bulbous head of his cock.

 

Brody’s trailer was old and hadn’t been top-of-the-line when new.  All the windows were single-glazed; sound penetrated them easily.  Josh started speaking, and even over the dance music, Dan could hear his words clearly.  “C’mon, man,” the punk whined, “I need dick.  I wantcha in me.  C’mon, gimme it, fucker!”

 

He climbed unsteadily off Brody’s lap and shut off the music coming from his phone, then grabbed Brody’s arm off the recliner and began tugging at it.  “C’mon!” Josh insisted, his dick all but visibly pulsating inside his boxers.  The boy’s eyes were lit with an intoxicated lust that was no less intense for not being rationalized.  He’d said all there was to say—he needed dick.

 

Brody stared evenly at him for a moment, then reset the recliner and rose to his feet.  As Dan watched, the horny young cocksucker allowed himself to be led into the bed, the smirk on his face telling Dan everything he needed to know.

 

For example, he knew he needed to move if he wanted a continued view of the action.

 

Dan hopped off the cinderblock, his boots hitting the gravel with a faint crunch that would have worried him had Brody not already closed the bedroom door behind him.  He moved down to the next window, but its blinds were closed and evidently there was something hanging over them on the inside; not even a crack of light emerged into the dark humid night.

 

Concerned, Dan prowled around the end of the trailer, which was no help—only a small, high window; this was the bathroom.  He continued around to the back, where he struck gold.  There was a small window into the bedroom that not only had the shades up, it was also perfectly positioned.  It was near the head of the bed, and separated from it only by the width of a nightstand.

 

Peering in, Dan realized he was less than a yard from where Josh was already flat on his back with his feet in the air.

 

The window was dirty—Brody never bothered to wash them—so the view wasn’t particularly clear; on the other hand, Dan realized that the film of dirt worked both ways.  He could practically press his face up against the glass and not be seen.  As it so happened, he didn’t need to get quite that close to be able to see what he wanted to see.

 

The bedroom was filthy, but the piles of clutter didn’t seem to have been there long.  Dan figured that Travis, despite his known uselessness, must have kept the place in some kind of order.  Evidently Brody needed a new house bitch.

 

Mounds of dirty clothes lined the walls.  One was directly opposite the window; on the top of a pair of filthy oil- and mud-stained pair of jeans was a pair of ten-inch Justin work boots, the tan leather uppers equally as mud-spattered.  Folded receipts and papers, some with Brody’s semi-literate scrawl on them, cascaded over the dresser, mixed with loose change, junk mail and unopened bills.

 

The dim yellow light in the overhead ceiling fan made the room look small and dingy.  The battered walls glared bleakly at each other across the confined space.  There was no sign of covering or pillows on the bed—the cheap stained fitted sheet was repelling, the thin, pale blue rayon becoming a downright repulsive shade.

 

It was clear, though, that Josh wasn’t there for the aesthetics.

 

The kid had already ditched his boxer briefs.  He was nude, his cock rising from a mass of black tangled pubes.  His slim, strong body was already slick with sweat that reeked of testosterone; the adolescent punk was so oversexed he seemed on the verge of losing control of himself.  His tan boots hung in the air as he pleaded with the hulking alpha.

 

“Lemme see it,” Josh was whining, intoxication adding a petulant tone to his usual uncontrolled horniness, “Whip that bad boy out an’ lemme see whatcha got.  I know a hunk like you’s gotta have a big ol’ dick…”

 

Brody, standing near the foot of the bed, only smiled mirthlessly and reached for his zipper.  He lowered it slowly and theatrically; it was obvious to Dan that he was enjoying himself immensely.  When Brody pulled his massive rod out of his jeans, the cop, having seen it before, already knew what to expect.

 

Josh didn’t.

 

“Holy fuck,” he whispered; even in his inebriated state, the faggot twink could tell that this enormous shaft was more than he could handle.  Not that he wasn’t willing to try.  “Dude, you gotta go slow with that.  Ya got any lube?”

 

Brody’s malevolent grin should have been both answer and warning enough; for the randy little homo hungry for cock, it was neither.

 

The older man climbed slowly onto the bed, his thick, throbbing rod dangling between his legs.  “Hey, boy, wanna hear somethin’ funny?  I’m workin’ with the cops—practically a goddam deputized po-po myself—and this is supposed t’ be an interrogation.”

 

“What?” Josh asked fuzzily, wondering what the hell Brody was going on about.

 

“See, I’m supposed to be askin’ ya about yer drug use…” Brody went on.  Josh looked confusedly up at the handsome redneck’s face.  In his bewilderment, he didn’t notice how the enormous dripping head of Brody’s cock was already pressing against his asshole, but Dan, with his ringside point of view, could see it perfectly.  He knew better than the faggot what was going to happen next.

 

“An’ I kinda wanted to go all good-cop bad-cop on ya,” the grinning muscular alpha continued, “But fuck, everyone knows yer a worthless druggie faggot—so, fuck, might as well spare the cops the trouble an’ just handle the whole thing myself.”

 

“Huh?” Josh blurted out, his face betraying the first signs of fear.  It was too late.  Brody launched himself at the prone twink, slamming his balled-up fist into the boy’s face while simultaneously spearing kid’s ass with his dick, shoving ruthlessly past the tight sphincter and sinking his shaft as deeply as he could into Josh’s guts.

 

The sudden attack even surprised Dan; the powerful redneck was good.  He hadn’t signaled his moves at all.  The Captain felt that his decision not to handle Brody alone was validated; he and Pete would need a plan to take out this strong-ass motherfucker.

 

If Dan had been surprised, Josh had been literally stunned.  Moaning, eyes rolled back in his head, the slim, firm body of the semiconscious faggot jerked as Brody thrust his cock inside it with long, brutal strokes.  For the moment, the boy was a living meat puppet, with the pumping of another man’s dick as its only moving force.

 

Dan gripped the windowsill tightly, forcing his hands to remain where they were and not seek out his painfully erect rod.

 

Brody bent over the limp, sweat-slick youth and slapped his face.  “C’mon, ya pussy, wake up.”  Josh groaned faintly, but gave no other response, so Brody backhanded him, harder.  The punk gave a louder groan and began blinking his eyes, a sign he was coming to.  “Jesus, whadda fuckin’ pansy,” Brody sneered, “You grow up the way I did, faggot, ya learn how to take a punch.”

 

Josh’s ascent to consciousness was more or less a climb into horrible torment.  His head pounded and ached from the blows he’d endured, but that was nothing next to the searing agony in his torn and bloody rectum.  Long before he was fully awake, the teen homo was sobbing with pain.

 

“S-st-stop!” he begged unable to get his bearing in the sea of agony he was foundering in, “F-fuck’s sa-sake, stop!”

 

“Aw, shaddup,” Brody sneered and bitchslapped the suffering teen.

 

Despite Brody’s derision, Josh had dealt with a certain amount of violence in the past—being an open cockwhore in a rural area had its risks and the boy had taken a certain amount of abuse.  He’d even been raped once, when he just happened to run across the team captain of the county high school’s baseball team one night after the dude had broken up with his girlfriend and gotten drunk…

 

But then again, he’d kinda known about the breakup.  And where Frank would be at that point.  And he’d enjoyed it.  This was different—much, much different.  It took a moment to catch his breath, but once he did, he made his displeasure known.

 

“HELP!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “HELP!! POLICE!!”

 

Dan knew perfectly well—and knew the Brody did too—that there wasn’t another inhabited residence within a mile.  But it still seemed to piss Brody off.

 

The look of vicious rage that contorted his roughly handsome face was terrifying.  Josh had experienced pain and fear so far this evening, but the expression on Brody’s face inspired sheer terror.  If he’d ever seen this look on the dude’s face he’d never have gone anywhere alone with him—and now here he was, overpowered and helpless, pinned to a bed by the gigantic dick of a heavily-muscled psycho.

 

But the flash of awareness came too late to save Josh from the brutal effects of Brody’s anger.  From his vantage point, Dan, with the keen instincts of a predator himself, had recognized the erotic look of fear in the faggot’s face.  Now his dick pulsed and ached as he witnessed how that fear was justified.

 

In his rage, Brody lost any control he ever had over his accent.  “Ah tole you to” (here he balled up his fist, drew it back, and drove it into Josh’s face, his huge bicep twanging like a bowstring as the helpless teen grunted out “huk!” loudly, involuntarily) “SHUT” (WHAM, grunt) “THE” (WHAM, grunt) “FUCK” (WHAM, moan) “UP!!” (WHAM, faint bleat).

 

Brody paused for a moment, on his knees, towering over the prone youth, his dick still firmly planted in the unfortunate faggot’s ass.  The sadistic alpha shook his hand out, grinning contemptuously down at the semiconscious adolescent.

 

Dan admired the fucker’s style.  It was a shame Brody was going rogue; he’d have been a great addition to the elite squad that Dan was planning to recruit.  But still, there was nothing without Authority, so he had no choice but to see that the redneck was put down like rabid dog.

 

Plus, the thought made him hard.  Well, harder.

 

But right now, he had a snuff to watch.

 

Brody bent back over the boy, planting his hands palm down on the bed beside the kid’s shoulders and began plowing his ass, reaming the punk’s fuckhole.  Each time the huge engorged head of the muscular alpha’s dick ground ruthlessly over Josh’s prostate, the boy moaned loudly, a deep, guttural sound.

 

And even though the rest of his lean, lithe body was limp, his cock not only remained stiff, it pulsed with each brutal thrust of Brody’s hips.

 

Dan was watching the scene intently but he was far too good a hunter to allow his attention to be completely absorbed.  He was aware of a faint flickering and could feel just the slightest hint of a breeze.  He withdrew mentally from the view in front of him just long enough to feel, rather than hear, a very faint rumble.  There was a storm brewing.

 

The Captain turned back to the window.  He wondered if Josh would live to see the rain.

 

Inside, Josh appeared to be starting to recover.  It was hard to tell, though; his face was battered and both eyes blackened and swollen.  The viciousness of the beating he’d received had left distinctive evidence on the boy’s face.

 

He brought his hands up to his face for a moment, then unexpected, shoved both arms up into Brody’s face and turned away, a uselessly feeble protest against the assault he was enduring.  Brody wasn’t having it.  He wrapped his thick muscled limb around Josh’s strong but overpowered right arm and with nothing more than an angry sneer and a quick, brutal jerk of his bicep, violently dislocated the kid’s elbow.

 

Josh screamed as tendons and ligaments tore, a high, thin screech, the raw sound of human suffering pushed past the point of endurance.  The lean, lithe punk writhed on the bed, the heels of his Timberland boots tracing furrows on the thin sheet as his legs flailed in agony.

 

As Dan watched, hard and leaking, Brody raised himself up over Josh.  Pinned to the bed, the boy looked up, his dark, puffy eyes awash in tears.  From this angle, the hard-muscled, furry torso of the older man filled his field of view; Josh had a close-up of those huge hairy pecs and thick jutting nipples that had enticed him so much, but now all that power was being used to hurt him.  He didn’t understand…

 

“W-why?” he managed to blurt out during his uncontrollable sobbing, “Why?”

 

As an answer, Brody punched him in the gut, his fist sinking deeply into Josh’s smooth, flat belly.  “HOOG!” the teen bellowed involuntarily, rising up into a near-sitting position as the air was forced out of his lungs, then flopping back limply.

 

There was a brief moment when Josh was still too stunned to even try to inhale; he merely lay on the bed, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, as he stared incredulously at Brody, his eyes as wide as their swollen lids would allow.

 

“Why?” Brody said, “Cause it gets me off, that’s why.  Hurtin’ dumbass little fags like you gets me hard, motherfucker.  Killin’ ya little cunts makes me cum.  That what ya wanted to know, boy?  I figured I wanted to drain my balls tonight an’ I picked you to drain ‘em into.  Now don’t that make ya feel special, queerboy?”

 

Josh’s face was a mottled purple as he choked and wheezed, then inhaled loudly and deeply.  As the leanly muscled adolescent suddenly convulsed with violent coughing, Brody, still on his knees looming over the prone youth, leaned back and guffawed loudly.  “Aintcha glad ya asked, boy?” he chortled with malevolent glee.

 

Josh was locked in a cycle of sucking in lots of air, only to expel it in a spasm of coughing.  His alcohol- and hormone-sodden brain was barely functional enough to handle Brody’s words, but he’d picked up enough to know that the searing pain in his asshole and the hot throbbing ache in his face were only hints of something worse.

 

He was right.  He managed, surprisingly quickly, to regain control over himself and stifled the coughing.  He needed to do something, think, something quick—

 

And that was when the flash lit up the room, overpowering the dim overhead light with the intense blue-white light of an electric arc.  Josh had turned his head to the side, straining away from Brody, so that while Brody was looking down at him, he was looking at the window.

 

In that split-second white-hot flash, Josh and Dan were staring each other directly in the eyes.

 

Then, as the thunder cracked like a pistol shot overhead, Brody’s big strong hands wrapped around Josh’s throat and squeezed it shut.

 

Panic seized Josh as his air was cut off.  He knew who Dan was—he’d lusted after the hulking police officer since he was fourteen—but the cop wasn’t doing anything.  He was just sitting there…watching…

 

Josh clawed at Brody’s hands, his fingers digging uselessly at the older man’s vise-like grip.  Once or twice, he reached out towards the window, his helpless fingers clutching at the empty air mere inches from Dan’s face.  The teen’s mute plea for help kept the cop’s dick achingly hard.

 

Brody, wrapped up in his bloodlust, ignored Josh’s movements.  In the hot, airless room, he pressed his heavy, sweat-lubed body onto Josh’s.  As Brody pumped his ass and throttled him, the slim teen felt the alpha’s powerful muscles working within his body as he raped and strangled the boy; even the thick, wiry chest fur that Josh had found so hot was painfully abrading his skin like steel wool.

 

“Yer a lazy piece of ass for a faggot,” Brody sneered, “Goddam homo don’t even know how to work a real man’s dick.”

 

The hardbodied redneck had pinned him to the bed and was using his body like a disposable fucktoy and there wasn’t a damn thing Josh could do about it.  And the more time went on, there was less he could do at all.

 

His handsome young face had already been beaten out of recognition; now, it was a hideous black mask.  Josh could barely see; his eyelids were horribly swollen and through the tiny slits that he was able to force open, his whites were starting to turn red with hemorrhaging blood vessels.  Convulsive movements of his enlarged tongue made him cough up white, foamy drool that trickled down his chin and lodged in the sad excuse for a soul patch on his chin.

 

His youthful body, flooded with adrenaline, kicked and thrashed in a frantic attempt at survival.  The impulse, which originated in the primitive brainstem, bypassed all rational thought.  If Josh had been capable of rational thought, he would have realized that raking and pummeling Brody’s taut, firm asscheeks with the heels of his Timberlands wouldn’t help him much.  It did help burn the oxygen in his bloodstream, though.

 

Brody knew what was happening; he’d so gotten off on snuffing Travis that every detail of death was engraved in his memory.  “Gettin’ close, aintcha, boy?” he whispered, bending down his head till his long, dark hair fell forward and brushed Josh’s black swollen cheeks.   “I can tell cause yer dick’s still hard,” the sadistic alpha chuckled and wrapped his massive, powerful hands even tighter around the suffering teen’s throat—he was able to lock his fingers in back.  Outside,  Dan had to strain to hear  Brody’s words over the rising breeze that swept up around him.

 

“I’m done, faggot,” the buff older man muttered hoarsely, the strain of holding back on orgasm telling in his voice, “Time to die, asswipe.  Gonna fuckin’ hose yer guts with my manseed, you piece a’ shit fag—AAARRGHHH!!!”

 

It was as if every muscle in his over-developed body went rigid at once.  His powerful legs tensed as he spewed a searing jet of spunk deep into Josh’s asshole.  At the same time, his hands clenched spasmodically, crushing the teen boy’s esophagus into a solid mass of gristle with a loud, cracking crunch.

 

Josh’s tongue was forced out of his mouth in gush of foamy spittle and his sperm was forced out of his cock in a geyser of pearly cum.

 

“FUCK!” Brody roared, shuddering and spunking, “GODDAM CUNT!  FUCKIN—UHH!”

 

His hands tightened again, but this time was cracking sound was more brittle.  Brody had not only crushed Josh’s hyoid bone, he’d shattered the C-3 cervical vertebra, the razor-sharp shards of bone slicing through the helpless adolescent’s spinal column.

 

The boy only felt one final nightmarish shock that ended an eternity in hell; he never knew that the horrible pain had been one last explosive orgasm triggered by the massive trauma to his nervous system.  His entire body suddenly contracted around Brody as the arms, flung wildly around the alpha’s head and his legs, wrapped around Brody’s waist, convulsed and tightened inexorably.  The corpse’s feet kicked and shuddered so violently that one of Josh’s Timbs flipped off and tumbled onto the floor under the window.

 

Dan clutched the windowsill tightly, desperately ignoring the nearly irresistible straining in his groin.  Brody screamed again, loudly and inarticulately, as he shot another load up the dead kid’s ass and Dan let go.  He maintained enough control to remain rigid and upright as he creamed his jeans—

 

—then the sudden flash of lighting that burst overhead startled even him, and the cop toppled sideways off the cinderblock to the bare turf below.  Simultaneously, the apocalyptic explosion of thunder, so loud it rattled the windows in the trailer, showed how swiftly the storm had approached.  It was almost on top the them.

 

Lying in the weed-strewn yard, Dan cursed for a moment, only for the sky to light up again.  As it did, he looked up at the window that had let him watch Josh get snuffed, and his heart skipped a beat.  Brody was standing there, looking out.

 

Or, rather, looking up.  He was staring at the sky, his handsome white trash face twisted into a smirk.  The fur on his broad chest, illuminated by the flickering lighting, was thickly matted with spunk.  He stood with his hands on his hips, his still-erect cock jutting out in front—and still dripping.  And Dan had inadvertently put himself in the position of prey; his view of Brody towering over him was nearly identical to that of the buff alpha’s victims.

 

When the redneck killer turned away, Dan got to his feet and quickly circled the trailer.  As he ducked through the woods, he could hear a faint but increasing patter as the rain started to fall.  He was lucky enough to make it back to his truck before the downpour started.  He sat in the driver’s seat, pondering for a moment.

 

He had no real fear of Brody, but there was deep concern.  The cop knew it was his duty to take out the rogue killer before he could imperil Authority in Rigler County—but Dan wasn’t in a position to act with impunity.  He wasn’t sheriff—yet.

 

This needed to be done discreetly and when Brody started putting up a fight—no ‘if’, just ‘when’—Dan would need to make certain that the hardbodied psycho could be contained quickly.  Unquestionably, he would need Pete’s help.  What was open to question was how much Pete could help.  The boy was young and buff, incredibly muscular—but would it be enough?

 

Dan started the truck and eased his way down the gravel track, creeping along at five miles an hour till the county road was in sight—he left his headlights off and avoided using the brakes as much as possible so as not to give Brody any kind of alert.  He drove directly home, thinking long and hard about how to proceed.  He’d need to talk to Pete tomorrow.  And in the meantime, he needed to wash the dried cum out of his jeans…

 

 

Dan needn’t have worried about drawing Brody’s attention; the powerful stud was otherwise occupied.

 

He’d instantly decided that the easiest way to dispose of the pile of still-quivering fagmeat was to wrap it up in the bedsheet and just dump it.  He wasn’t concerned about this one being found—fuck, he was workin’ with po-po, wasn’t he?  Of course, that didn’t mean he wanted it found in his crib.

 

Brody went into the living room and gathered up Josh’s discarded clothing.  He carried it back into the bedroom and tossed it onto the corpse.  He took a quick look around and, satisfied that he’d taken care of the evidence, began to loosen the sheet from the mattress.  After prying it loose on one side, he walked around to the other.

 

That was when he noticed the fag’s Timberland boot lying on the floor.  Snatching it up, he tossed it, too, onto the body, where it landed with a moist thump.  Gathering up the corners of the sheet, Brody took one last look at Josh.

 

The dead teen was on his back, with his head turned to the left, as if he’d spent his last few seconds on earth staring beseechingly out the window.  His grotesquely swollen face had faded from black to cyan blue, but the tongue protruding thickly from hit puffy, split lips was still a congested purple.  The homo’s corpse was still jerking; the spasms were far apart and getting farther, but one of them had caused the bundle of clothing to roll off his torso and lodge under his arm.  As a result, his boot had landed in the middle of a huge mass of half-congealed cum that had pooled on his chest.

 

It was hot and Brody felt his massive hog twitch at the sight.  Josh’s own dick, slowly—very slowly—receding from its profound erection, was still oozing pearly beads of lukewarm spunk.

 

Enough.  Brody brought all four corners—or as close as he could come with a fitted sheet—to the center and tied the whole thing into an enormous bundle.  As the sheet tightened around it, Josh’s corpse rolled to one side and curled into a fetal position around the Timberland boot.

 

Brody hefted the bundle easily and carried it out to his truck.  It was pouring rain as he stepped out the door, but it felt good.  Cool and soothing.  He threw the sack of fagmeat into the bed of his truck, then stood for a moment in the pounding rain, feeling it flow over his bare chest and wash the teen’s jizz out of his chest hair.  A brilliant flash of lighting and a low grumble of thunder recalled the redneck killer to himself.  He jumped into the cab of his truck, his skin-tight, sopping jean making a squishing sound as he sat in the driver’s seat.

 

With his headlights on, he was able to reach the county road much faster than Dan had been able to.  Like the Captain, he too, turned towards town—but Dan didn’t live in Corrington.  Heading towards the highway, the cop had sped past the intersection of the county road and the town’s main street.  Brody didn’t.

 

Pulling over just past the intersection, the buff, half-nude redneck got out of his truck, still indifferent, if not oblivious, to the downpour.  The rain had intensified to the point that it was almost blinding.  When Brody bent over the bed of the truck to haul the body out, he could see that the thin rayon was virtually transparent, clinging to Josh’s corpse like wet newspaper.

 

A flash of lighting, so close that it illuminated the scene in polarized hues of blue-white and blue-black, played about the sick alpha’s head as he loomed over the dead teen, grinning with evil pleasure at the memory of snuffing him.  He reached in and hoisted the sodden bundle of fabric, boots and boymeat out of the bed, then turned around.

 

Directly behind him was a drainage ditch that ran parallel to Main Street.  About four feet deep and equally as wide, it passed under the county road in a culvert formed from a concrete pipe, slightly smaller in diameter—about a yard wide.  The ditch was already half full, water rushing madly past its grassy banks towards the culvert.

 

Yeah, that’d work to dump the cumdump.

 

With a quick heave of his powerful arms, Brody tossed the teenager’s raped and murdered corpse into the swiftly-flowing channel.   It sank like a brick, the water backing up momentarily before washing around and over it.

 

As Brody headed back to the truck, his Redwing boots sank in the mud.  When he got to the road, he paused and scraped his soles on the edge of the asphalt; he didn’t want to track filth into his truck.  After all, he’d just thrown a pile of filth out of it.

 

 

Both Brody and Dan made it safely to their homes that night, but Josh was not the only one who didn’t.  The storms grew stronger overnight, resulting in flooding in several parts of the county.  The highway was clogged with enough accidents that the state police had to be called out.  The sheriff’s department was inundated with requests for help.

 

Just before daybreak, Dan was woken by his phone; he was needed.  The call was particularly tragic; a family of five in a minivan had pulled off the highway for gas, gotten lost, and had driven into high water on one of the low-lying roads on the west side of the county.  The vehicle had been washed off the road before help could arrive; Dan had to superintend its retrieval from ten feet of water some two hundred yards downstream of the road.  Immediately after, he was given word that the county rest home was flooding…

 

It was like that everywhere across the county.  As a result, it wasn’t until late that afternoon that a county road works truck arrived at the intersection of Main Street and the county road to investigate what had blocked the drainage and caused water to back up over the crossroads.  The discovery of the corpse of a young male, evidently washed down the ditch and lodged in the culvert, let to a call to the sheriff’s office; the fact that it seemed to have been sexually assaulted and murdered, was entered into the long list of events that the officers needed to process.

 

As the body was being wheeled into the morgue, the report on its discovery landed on Dan’s desk, two flights up.  By this time, it had been identified—Josh’s wallet, with his driver’s license and seven dollars in cash had been found in a pocket of the jeans.  Dan didn’t bother to read it; he knew more about it than what would be in the report.

 

He leaned back in his chair and sighed.  It was late—past nine in the evening—but he was waiting to see Pete.  The younger cop had been assigned the second shift rotation that started today and was out on a call, but Dan expected him back soon.  They had both been too busy during the day to speak; in the same way Dan had worked late, Pete had been called in early.

 

As if on cue, Dan heard the heavy tread of Pete’s Danner Tachyon boots on the tile out in the hall.  After a quick double tap at the door, the buff, dark-haired cop entered, his face somewhat hard with the stress of the day.

 

“So?” he asked abruptly, “What happened last night?”

 

Dan tossed him the file he’d just gotten.  “Here.  That’s what happened last night.”

 

Pete looked at the Captain curiously, then read through the file.  “Damn.  Dude got rough.  This is exactly what the fuck happened to that first one.”

 

“Travis, yeah.”

 

“You saw it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

A lascivious leer crossed Pete’s face.

 

“Wipe that grin off your face, boy,” Dan snapped, “This was done in direct contradiction to orders.  He has disrespected Authority, and that makes him a murderer.”

 

“Yes sir!” Pete responded, his own respect for Authority plainly obvious.

 

Dan slowly rose to his feet.  Placing his hands flat on the desk, he leaned over it, his powerful body straining his khaki button-down as he looked Pete directly in the eyes.  “We need to take him down.  Just us, you and me.  And even with two of us, it’s gonna be tough.  He’s strong, boy.”

 

He paused, but Pete could tell he wasn’t done talking yet.  There was something about Dan’s manner that made Pete feel as if the older cop was trying to break something to him tactfully.

 

“Frankly, Pete, you’re good—but I need you better.  I need you bigger.  I need you stronger.  When we finally take this motherfucker head-on, I need to know that you’ll be prepared to back me up.  Do you understand?”

 

Pete did, actually.  He’d admired the sheer physical strength that had allowed Dan to enforce Authority properly and had already increased the number of workouts he was doing during the week.  Now, he decided, he’d intensify the workouts themselves.

 

“Good,” Dan said, not needing a reply; he’d seen Pete’s acceptance in his eyes.  “You got two weeks.  You’re nearly there, man, but we need to be certain we can overpower him when the time comes.”

 

An evil grin flashed over Dan’s face, identical to the one Pete had displayed earlier.  “Then we can show that sick faggot-fucker what’s what.”

 

Pete returned the grin with no fear of contradiction this time.

 

“In the meantime,” Dan said offhandedly, “If you get some time during the night, go down and take a look at Brody’s handiwork.  Motivate yourself for what you need to do.  I’m heading out, but I’ll be on call if I’m needed.  Looks like the worst of the flooding has subsided, at least.”

 

With that they parted, Pete heading downstairs as Dan locked up.

 

Dan had been right—the flooding had died down; the rest of Pete’s evening was quiet and mostly confined to completing reports.  He was able to leave at the end of his shift, and true to his word, headed down to the basement and the morgue.  Since the whole building was considered secure, there was no particular guard on the morgue itself and everyone on the force knew the code to the door lock.

 

It was just a few minutes past midnight.  The place had been fairly full earlier but a number of funeral homes around the county had sprung into action; at one point in the afternoon, there had been five hearses in a line, waiting for their place at the loading dock.  The  morgue—more a cold storage locker; actual autopsies were done at the Medical Examiner’s office—was still something of a mess.

 

The far end had nine of the traditional old-fashioned sliding drawers in three tiers of three; half of them were part-way open and all of them were empty.  Much of the floor space was taken up with gurneys, mostly bare, with an occasional empty body bag dangling limply off the sides.

 

Two of the gurneys were occupied.  There was one immediately to the left of the door; from where he stood, Pete could clearly read “Jane Doe” printed on the tag connected to the black plastic body bag.  He crossed to the other cart—it was located closer to the rear of the room, on the right side, up against the wall.  Pete had to move a couple of empty gurneys out of the way to reach it.

 

He unzipped the bag and opened it out, inverting down over the sides of the cart, leaving Josh’s abused body nude and exposed under the glaring fluorescents.  The teen’s corpse was now dry by now and rigor had passed, leaving it rag-doll limp.  The dead boy’s skin had paled but his lips and fingernails were still dusky shade of blue.  A milky film had formed over the half-lidded eyes.

 

The Timberland boot was still in the center of Josh’s chest; his body had curled around it, giving it some protection in the water.  The rest of his clothes, along with the remains of the sheet, were off to the side.

 

Pete could see the damage done to Josh’s throat.  It looked like the faggot had gotten his neck wrung.  It was obvious that the kid’s trachea had been crushed to gristle…and thinking about it, about the power needed to do it, about being able to wield that kind of power…

 

Pete felt himself getting hard.  Fuck yeah, he realized, this was what he wanted.  He wanted to be able to force little homos like this to obey Authority, the way Dan did.  The way Brody could, if he had the proper respect.

 

The hardbodied young cop scratched the wiry black scruff covering his left cheek—then lowered his hand to his zipper.  Lowering it, he pulled out his  throbbing dick–slowly, as if hypnotized…

 

He could see the scene now, not with Brody as a villain, but with himself as a hero, the squealing cocksucker foolishly resisting, bringing down the justifiable use of brute force on itself.  Pete stood over the corpse, one hand running over the cold flaccid flesh, the other stroking his huge, pulsing cock.  He was almost unconscious, lost in his own fantasy of physical strength righteously devoted to terminating criminal scum.

 

He imagined what the sensation of crushing the teen’s windpipe would feel like, what the look in the boy’s eyes would be as it suffered its well-deserved punishment.  His hand traveled down to Josh’s smooth thigh, his fingers scraping off fleck of dried cum.  Simultaneously, as he milked his long thick shaft furiously, the memory of driving a knife into Robbie Clebbs’ neck flashed before his eyes and the erotic joy of boysnuff, of watching the punk gag and die in the name of the law tripped Pete’s trigger.

 

“Fuck!” he shouted in a tight voice as a jet of cum shot from his pulsating rod and fell across Josh’s inert form.  Then the buff cop bent over and jerked spasmodically.  “GODDAM!  FUCK!!!”

 

As he cried out, he spewed a thick, ropy geyser of manspunk all over the adolescent’s body, from the face to the crotch.  Pete’s sperm pooled in Josh’s unseeing eyes, spattered across the tan Timberland boot still on his chest, and fell in thick pearly beads onto the kid’s matter pubes.

 

Pete staggered and fell back against the gurney behind him; luckily, the wheels on this one had been locked, so it held him up as he recovered his breath and his balance.

 

Fuck yeah, he was motivated.  He wanted to be able to do this to worthless criminal bitches.  He wanted to get off on snuffing for the good guys.

 

Unlike Brody, he was also aware of the need to remove evidence of his presence.  Not that he was worried about the consequences of his cum being found of the corpse; Brody had actually gotten it right in assuming that Dan could fix such things.  But Pete didn’t want Dan to need to do that, so he began to clean up.

 

He hadn’t expected to shoot a wad all over the corpse when he went to the morgue; he hadn’t thought to bring anything resembling a cumrag.  Glancing around, his eyes lighted on the next best thing—Josh’s red boxer briefs, still damp with ditchwater.  Pete carefully scrubbed his spunk out of the dead teen’s eyes and wiped down the Timb’s tan leather to remove the cum spots.  He finished up by wiping down and patting down the punk’s thick pubes, then balled the cotton boxers up and stuck them in his pocket.

 

Stuffing his tool back into his chinos, Pete carefully re-sealed the body bag, then left the morgue, flicking off the lights on his way out.  The sheriff’s department provided a gym; it was at the other end of the basement.  No one would be using it at this hour, but Pete was determined not to waste a moment in living up to Dan’s and his own expectations.

 

As he headed down the hall, Pete added a reminder on his phone to speak with Dan as soon as possible the next day.  While he didn’t want Dan to have to explain about his bodily fluids on a murder victim’s body, he had no qualms about asking the Captain to remove the reference to boxer briefs being found with the corpse.  He knew—correctly—that Dan had no problem with that; after all, the Captain had sent him there in the first place.

 

Freshly drained and fired up, Pete headed eagerly in the direction of the gym.  Brody was a monster, and it takes a monster to fight a monster.  Pete was looking forward to the encounter.