Beach Party   By: Gay Slavemeat   Gsmeat2@gmail.com

 

I enjoy writing and reading gay snuff stories, and I like to imagine an awesome world run by Alpha Males, where 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

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.

M4M4JO

It had been a rough week at work and Joe needed to vent.  His anger had been building for several days but tonight he was off and could blow off some steam.

 

He needed to find a nice piece of boymeat he could use to work off his backlog of rage and cum.

 

It’d been considerably longer than a week since he snuffed that faggot punk in the basement; he’d laid low for a while after it.  As an experienced serial killer, Joe knew the advantages of a low profile, but some of his kills drew media attention, and this latest one had stirred up the usual hornet’s nest of tearful relatives, blustering law enforcement, pandering politicians and bleating clergy.

 

He’d been lucky in getting a special assignment that kept him out of town for a couple of weeks—and the nature of the job itself had given him a certain satisfaction—but when he’d come back, he found it harder to restrain his innate desire to hunt.  And the job he’d just finished had managed to be frustrating without being challenging, so the tension kept rising.

 

Now, he was ready.  He’d eaten, slept and showered.  He stood nude in the center of his dimly-lit bedroom, the hall light silhouetting his well-muscled body on the far wall.  The classical male outline so starkly revealed was not so much that of Michelangelo’s “David” as that of the Hercules sculpted by Bandinelli as standing triumphantly over a submissive Cacus.

 

Except that Joe’s outline was larger and better developed—and somehow seemed to be more dominant.

 

After finishing his shower, he’d snagged a phone off his dresser on his way out the bathroom; it was the same phone from the meat who’d had the poppers—that was all Joe could remember about that kill, and the only reason he still remembered it was cause he was still using the cunt’s phone.  He knew he should dump it, especially after all the fuss that basement punk had caused, but he figured he could use it safely at least once more, especially if he avoided using the same app.

 

The next app he opened—the dead slut had several of them on his phone—seemed to aim at older, better developed men to the exclusion of twinks.  Joe found himself scrolling through the offerings with interest; there seemed to be a fair amount of Grade-A beef out there waiting to get slaughtered.

 

The actual number of possibilities was a little lower, of course; some of the profiles had pics that were a little too “professional” or had profiles that had a hint of catfishing.  Some had flat-out no info at all, including location.  No point in messing with those.  Joe had kept scrolling idly but was about ready to close the app and move on, when suddenly a new profile swept onto the screen.

 

The dude was no twink.  His photo, showing him from the waist up, revealed a thick torso, firm and fit, faintly shadowed by rust-colored body hair that ranged across his broad chest and down his flat belly.  Above, his face was smiling and friendly and covered with a dark red—almost walnut—beard.  The short hair on his head was the same shade but the attached moustache seemed slightly lighter.

 

The profile itself was intriguing—

 

“Tanner, 28, 6’2” 240 lbs: Looking for hot discrete dude for mutual JO @ my place.  HMU for chill fun n play.”

 

Joe thought he could have some fun—although the chill part would come later, at the morgue.  He contacted the dude, sending a pic of his torso only—not his face, and not the same pic he’d sent the basement punk.  No sense in being too obvious.

 

And in any case, it worked.  He pulled on a thin wifebeater, a size too small, that clung to his well-built chest.  It was stretched so thin that his dark, jutting nipples were as visible as if he was wearing nothing at all; as he slipped on a pair of equally tight jeans, soft and worn with age, the phone alerted.

 

“Hot c’mon by got good weed and some brew”; he sent Joe his map location.  The hardbodied alpha opened and studied it as he threaded a thick leather belt around his waist.  The location was on Lamar Boulevard several miles to the southeast, in a neighborhood notorious for high crime, low property values, and violence.  Even Joe, who knew how to handle himself, hesitated about going down there—and he damn sure didn’t want to park his vintage Camaro down there.

 

And just at that point another message came in from the same meat: “Park in back lot.  Gonna leave lock and chain on gate but unlocked.   Lock when u come in and ill let u out”

 

That made a difference. “Be there in 20” Joe responded, then pulled on a pair sixteen-inch black leather engineer boots, tightening the buckles at the top of the shafts.  The lower ones, around the insteps, needed no adjustment.  He stood and admired himself for a moment in the mirror, well aware of how his powerfully-muscled body, so well displayed in thin cotton and denim and thick leather, would appeal to any faggot.

 

That was exactly the look he was going for.  Like moths to a flame.  He chuckled malevolently and headed out to his car; in exactly eighteen minutes, he turned left onto Lamar, noting the number of people out on foot despite the lateness and the heat.  At least no one down here would see him—no one down here ever saw anything.

 

The address was a two-story building, a stark rectangular cube of cinderblock, covered in dingy white paint that was peeling off like scabs.  There were a pair of overhead doors on the left of that façade; on the right was an office.  The large windows that had been put in when the place was built had been bricked over and there was a rusty metal grille over the door.  “Denardo’s Garage” had been painted unsteadily over the door; it too was starting to fade and peel.

 

To the right of the office was a drive.  Joe pulled in and found an eight-foot chain link fence topped with razor wire, even on the gate.  There was a thick rusty chain around the gate’s post, but the lock, gleaming in his headlights, was fairly new—and hanging open.

 

He got out of the car and quickly opened the gate.  Tossing the chain and lock into the passenger seat, he pulled around to the rear of the building, noticing several vehicles in various stages of repair, including some that could only be used for parts—cars that seemed to be fairly new and suspiciously free of any obvious damage.  He parked next to a wooden set of stairs that led up to the second floor, but before he ascended, he walked back around the corner and locked the gate.  As he headed back, he was aware that the heavy tread of his boots thudding on the cracked pavement signaled his arrival if nothing else had.

 

He was right.  When he got to the top of the stairs, he found himself on a small and structurally questionable platform that functioned as a porch for a second-floor apartment.  A cooler and a cheap charcoal grill had been pushed to the far side but they still took up have the space.  The screen door to the apartment was closed, but the apartment door itself was open and Tanner stood there, gaping out at Joe’s muscled physique.

 

The porch light flicked on, immediately attracting insects that looped and fluttered in the white glow.  “Goddam,” Tanner muttered, “Yer pic was good, but damn, dude…”  He stared unabashedly at Joe’s package, so indelibly outlined by his skin-tight jeans.  Holding open the screen door with one hand, he motioned Joe in with the other—which was holding a can of Budweiser.

 

“I been workin’ late,” Tanner said as Joe entered, “Gotta keep the boss happy, ya know.  Just finished up about a half hour ago an’ I ain’t even showered yet, but I’m horny as fuck.”  He grinned, his pale blue eyes lighting up with pleasure.  Joe reached behind to lock the front door behind him—a standard precaution to prevent the meat from escaping—but Tanner moved him away from it, into the room.  He then locked the door himself, turning off the outside light as well.

 

“Don’t wanna be interrupted,” he said with a charmingly boyish grin, “Speakin’ a which, don’ lemme forget—I got the gate key in my pocket here.”  The buff alpha was amused, knowing how desperately the faggot would be praying for some kind of interruption in about, say, forty minutes or so.  He might come to regret all those locks…

 

Joe, an efficient and experienced killer, had already scoped out the situation as Tanner spoke, starting with Tanner himself.  That wasn’t hard—the guy was friendly, relatively innocent, and dumber than a sack of hammers.  He was also a bit more buff than most of Joe’s recent kills, and neither innocence nor stupidity precluded the ability to fight.  Especially if self-reservation was involved.

 

Tanner was wearing a grey sleeveless t-shirt with the armholes cut so deeply out that his sides were clearly visible; Joe could see the dude’s bristling underarm hair and the glistening sheen of sweat on his firm flanks.  He wore a pair of gym shorts that dangled to just above the knee, black with insets of luminous green; they seemed almost to match the Air Jordan 4 Retro “Green Glow” kicks he sported.  On his head was a camo trucker’s cap with an International Harvester logo.

 

“Workin’?  Whaddaya do?” Joe asked automatically, continuing to scan the room.

 

“I’m a mechanic, duh,” the hunk scoffed, “What else do ya think I’d be doin’ here?  Work for Denardo downstairs.  Ain’t too bad, either.  Pays me to work on cars for customers and lets me have this place for workin’ on his other—well, uh, I dunno where those other cars come from; I just part ‘em out like he tells me.  But I got this place and enough for my weed and beer, an’ I’m savin’ up to buy me a Harley.”

 

The place Tanner was so proud of was dingy and dilapidated.  There was a mismatched living room set with a massive, thirty-year old sleeper sofa covered with a cheap beige fleece blanket; only the arms were uncovered and they were stained and torn, leaking polyester fluff.  Next to it was as old loveseat with a “rustic” wood frame and thin cushions covered in dark green fabric.  Across from this was small TV sitting on a rolling set of plastic drawers that stood about a yard high.  There was one window in the front and one in the rear, overlooking the lot.

 

“I gotta take a leak,” Joe said abruptly.

 

Tanner was startled out of his reverie.  “Oh, uh, yeah, ok—um—down there, second door on the left.”

 

Joe headed down the short hallway.  The first opening on the left had no actual door; it was to a tiny kitchenette with a small window overlooking the street.  The bathroom was ancient, the white tile yellow with age, cracking and separating on the floor and around the tub.  Joe pissed for a few minutes, draining his bladder to better prepare for the other, more important draining to come, so to speak.

 

Leaving the bathroom, he took a quick glance at the room at the end of the hall, the bedroom.  Like the other rooms, it was small and sparsely furnished.  There was a cheap pine nightstand and a matching dresser. Both were scratched and chipped, and the mirror attached to the dresser had a crack meandering across the top.  The nightstand held a digital clock and an incredibly ugly lamp in harvest gold, with a dirty shade.  The double bed was stark, with a metal frame and no headboard, but the white sheets, if cheap and thin, were at least clean.  There was no other bedding in place, though—the synthetic wool blanket and the pillows were in a wad in the middle of the bed.

 

“You get lost, man?” Tanner called from the living room.  The twang in his voice revealed both his country upbringing and his level of intoxication; the more he drank, the more pronounced it grew.

 

“Naw, dude, jest checkin’ out yer sweet crib, man,” Joe replied, modulating his own voice to match that of the meat while also pitching it low and seductively, the human equivalent of a mating call.  He strode back into the living room to find Tanner had taken the opportunity to strip off his shirt and his shorts, tossing them onto the love seat.  He was lounging back on the sofa, showing off the almost-auburn body fur on his firm, broad chest and the thick fireplug of a cock already rising, semi-erect, from his russet pubes, nude but for his ped socks and his Nikes.  He was hotboxing a joint as quickly as he could, but he quickly offered it to Joe once the latter re-entered the room.  Joe enjoyed weed himself, when it was appropriate.  Just before a kill wasn’t appropriate.  He smiled and waved it off.

 

Tanner took another hit.  “Sorry,” he croaked, trying not to exhale, “Didja see my Beyoncé posters?”  Joe nodded; thumbtacked to the walls, they’d been the only things covering the sagging drywall in the bedroom.  “She’s a fine chick; I’d hit ‘er—”

 

Here he lost control and hacked up a huge cloud of fragrant blue smoke, coughing and wheezing.  It took a couple of minutes for him to regain enough control to continue speaking.  “I, uh—” he broke off and chuckled, grinning goofily at Joe, higher than a kite.  “I, uh, I ain’t gay, y’know?  I mean, I like it when another dude jacks me off, cause, like, another dude knows what feels good, y’know?  But I ain’t never sucked a dick or taken it up the ass, man—I jest wanna get off good.  You get me, right, dude?  I mean, fuck, lookitcha—yer a real fuckin’ man; I kin tell jest by lookin’ atcha!”

 

“Yeah, you ain’t no fag,” Joe smirked.  “I can tell jest by lookin’ at you.  You ain’t got no interest in this at all, do ya?”  And with a cold, leering grin, the hardbodied alpha unzipped his fly, letting his stiffening shaft of manmeat spring out, spattering precum over Tanner’s face where it sparkled like diamond in the buff blue-collar boy’s beard.

 

“Fuck…” Tanner moaned, his dick pulsing and rising, and Joe had his answer.

 

No mattered how hard it struggled, this one was gonna be fuckmeat.

 

Grinning broadly, he took off his sticky wifebeater.  He knew how to give a good show when he wanted; slowly and sensuously, he peeled the sweat-dampened fabric away from his firm, strapping torso, slowly revealing his thick body fur and hard jutting nipples standing out on his huge hubcap pecs.  He didn’t need to look at Tanner to know that the well-built mechanic was entranced; the motherfucker might deny it, but he was an all-out homo, and Joe knew from experience that he could snag any cocksucker he wanted.

 

He looked anyway.  Tanner was staring up at him, slack-jawed and damn near drooling with lust.  Too fuckin’ easy, Joe thought.  He sat down on the sofa.

 

Without a word, Tanner reached out and grasped Joe’s huge throbbing cock.

 

“Goddam, dude,” the handsome young laborer said breathily, with a catch in his voice as he began to masturbate the serial killer, “Biggest goddam dick I ever seen.  I bet you pump a gallon of cum at a time outta that thing, huh?”

 

Joe’s evil intentions were obvious in the grin the threw Tanner, but the latter was too focused on the massive tube of manmeat in front of him to notice.  “You wanna see how much I cum, boy, you need to work my cock a fuck of a lot better than that.”

 

Tanner blushed under the lash of Joe’s tongue, but it was a blush of pleasure.  “You, uh, ya wanna take me on?” he asked.

 

“I ain’t touchin’ you, cunt,” Joe sneered, “I don’t jack faggots off.”

 

Tanner froze.  “I already toldja I ain’t no faggot,” he said quietly, almost whispering.

 

“Yer the one with yer hand on my cock,” Joe chuckled, “In my book, that makes you a faggot.”

 

“I toldja.  I toldja about that,” Tanner said, blushing again—but not in pleasure this time.  “A dude knows how to make another dude feel good.  Better than a chick, sometimes—but that don’t make me a faggot.”

 

“Aw, shaddup and gimme some head, cocksucker,” Joe jeered.

 

Tanner blanched as if the thought of sucking Joe’s dick terrified him—but his own cock pulsed twice, visibly.  He didn’t seem to be aware that it had happened, though.

 

“You, uh, you better go—I don’t think this is gonna work,” the mechanic said decisively.  “I don’t think yer—URK!”

 

Joe had been sitting on Tanner’s right, so the younger man never saw the buff killer’s bicep bulge as he tensed it—and the roundhouse blow Joe delivered straight to his face came too fast for him to see it, much less react to it.

 

Tanner’s head was knocked to the side, stunning him momentarily—but then he rebounded, coming up off the couch.  “You MOTHERFUCKER!” he screamed and threw himself at Joe.   The buff alpha was only slightly larger than the burly young homo; he was aware that Tanner’s explosion of fear-fueled anger had the possibility of becoming a serious threat.

 

The dude came for him, head down and plunging forward with all the force and power of a football guard rushing a quarterback, swinging his fists as he came.  But Joe’s slight physical advantage was greatly strengthened by another quality—experience.  The punk couldn’t have signaled his moves more if he’d rented a billboard and Joe was able to blunt the force of the impact by dodging to one side—which didn’t mean he didn’t get hit.  Tanner’s hard clenched fists pounded against Joe’s flank, the blows landing with loud beefy smacking sounds but doing little actual damage.

 

Joe sidestepped, throwing Tanner off balance; the punk stumbled over the coffee table, shoving it sideways and knocking his beer can off.  The brew foamed out onto the decayed wood floorboards, adding a thick, yeasty smell to the funk of weed and steamy mansweat already filling the room.

 

The younger man rounded on the older.  “You hit me, asshole,” he hissed, “In my own fuckin’ crib, you hit me.”  The look of rage in his eyes amused Joe.  He knew good and well that the youth’s anger had more to with his discomfort of his own lust than anything else.

 

Well, that was just fine.  All the cunt needed was a good fuck, and Joe was there to make sure he got one.

 

Tanner crouched, obviously about to lunge again.  He paused, breathing heavily, sweat matting his dark red chest hair and adding a shimmer to his skin.  Then—as expected—he lunged and Joe pivoted neatly to the left, swinging his right arm out swiftly and viciously gutpunching Tanner as the punk, overbalanced again, staggered past.

 

Tanner’s abs were furry and ripped, but they were no match for Joe’s strength.  His fist sank deeply into the younger man’s belly.  “HOOG!” the faggot cried inarticulately as the air was driven from his lungs by the violent impact to his diaphragm.  Grasping his aching gut, he stumbled and almost fell to his knees but managed to stay up long enough to make it to the far wall, where he braced himself and desperately focused all his energies on inhaling.

 

Tanner’s resistance had made Joe more contemptuously amused than angry, but the throbbing in his enormous manshaft had grown more insistent with every passing minute.  This time, he wasn’t gonna wait for the meat to attack.

 

He strode towards Tanner, the loud thumping of his boots on the wood floor making the gasping youth raise his head.  He was still unable to breathe or speak, but the look of fear that now crossed his face said everything that needed to be said.

 

Pain had subdued Tanner’s rage, and some small portion of reason had returned.  The younger man had just realized that he was alone with a much stronger man, one who wanted him to do things he didn’t want to do.  Things like…like…

 

He couldn’t complete the thought; for some reason, his cock was so hard it hurt—

 

Then Joe’s hand wrapped around his wrist and jerked him sideways.  “Hey, faggot,” the sadistic alpha said conversationally, a wide grin on his face, “Foreplay’s over.  Time to lay some pipe up yer ass.”  He drove his fist straight into Tanner’s jaw, knocking out two teeth and sending the punk backpedaling into the side wall where he fell against the ersatz TV stand.

 

Tanner, the plastic drawers and the TV all came crashing down in a heap.  The connections that had held the cheap set of drawers together all managed to separate simultaneously and the entire thing disintegrated, spilling the contents out.  The buff young man lay sprawled on his back, groaning on the floor, his hard firm nude body heaving as he tried to roll over and rise.

 

Joe was upon him again before he had time to move.  Tanner had a nearly vertical view of the hard-bodied killer looming over him.  He had a particularly good view of the thick-treaded sole of Joe’s engineer boot as the powerful sadist raised his right leg and stomped the punk’s chest.  Three times in quick succession, Joe’s high leather boot rose and fell, grinding the pattern of his tread into Tanner’s chest.

 

Flat on the floor, the well-built mechanic was in agony and bewildered.  Tanner knew his own strength; he’d only been in the city for a few years, but he’d lived in this shitty neighborhood for all of them and had needed to resort to violence on multiple occasions.  He’d been sure he could take care of himself, but now this motherfucker—

 

His gaze climbed up Joe’s leg, up the long buckled black shaft of his boot to the thick thigh muscle restrained by tight, worn denim—and then the cock, holy fuck that gigantic cock…even in his state of dazed pain, he was drawn to the massive dripping tube of vein-wreathed manflesh…

 

Then Joe stomped him again, driving his boot into Tanner’s belly, in the same place where he’d landed the gutpunch.  The younger man squealed, a high, cracking sound like a deflating balloon as he curled up in pain like a pill bug, wrapping around Joe’s steel-toed boot.  The brawny predator shook him off with a look of scorn, then crouched down over him.

 

“Awright, faggot,” he sneered as Tanner wheezed and gurgled beneath him, the latter’s large blue eyes filling with tears that gave them a puppy-dog appeal, “You like to play, asswipe?  So do I.  And I play rough.”

 

He reached out right hand and, clamping a vice grip around Tanner’s throat, proceeded to stand up, lifting all two-hundred-plus pounds of muscle straight up off the floor until the punk’s Jordans dangled three inches above the warped wooden planks.  Without a word, Joe marched down the hall into the bedroom, keeping Tanner hoisted and gagging for air the entire way.  Once in the bedroom, he tossed the buff young stud onto the bed with no more effort than if he was a rag doll.

 

At once Tanner’s hands went to his throat—he’d been busy clawing at Joe’s fingers on the way down the hall, to no avail—as he coughed and heaved, trying desperately not to vomit.  His face slowly became less livid.  His bulging eyes came back into focus; he could see Joe turn back and close the bedroom door.

 

His body still throbbed and ached from the beating he’d endured, but he was young and strong and rational enough, despite his fear, to know that it was imperative that he get out of this room immediately.  Even though he hadn’t fully caught his breath, he watched carefully for the first time Joe turned his eyes away, then rolled off the bed and dashed for the door.

 

He’d been sharp enough to see Joe closing the door, but not enough to see that he’d turned the latch in the center of the knob.  It took Tanner perhaps three seconds to realize why the knob wouldn’t turn, but those three seconds determined his fate.  By the time he’d unlocked the door and started to open it, Joe was on him.

 

This time, Joe’s hand closed around Tanner’s upper arm; the punk’s bicep was large enough that Joe’s hand couldn’t completely close around it, but he did well enough.  With a single strong yank, he sent Tanner flying across the room, where he smashed into the nightstand.  The room was plunged into instant darkness as the lamp shattered and the cheap pine wood came apart with a loud crack.

 

Joe blinked in the darkness as Tanner moaned quietly.  It took a moment for his eyes to become accustomed, but once they did, he realized there was actually plenty of light to see by.  Between the signage of the pawn shop next door and the all-night bodega across the street, its clerk secure behind three inches of bullet-proof Plexiglas, Tanner’s bedroom was flooded with light in lurid shades of red, green, and yellow.

 

Now that he could make objects out again, Joe could see that Tanner was struggling helplessly in the wreckage of the nightstand, like a turtle on its back.  Next to the broken clock, he could also see some of the things Tanner kept in the nightstand.  One was a black silicon dildo, so big that it would have seemed like a caricature had Joe’s own dick not been still bigger.

 

The other item puzzled Joe; since Tanner wasn’t going anywhere at the moment, the alpha took the time to investigate it.  It was a six-inch tube of extremely soft and stretchy silicon, with an inner lining of what appeared to be genuine sheepskin and Joe immediately realized it was a jackoff toy.  He grinned and stuck it in his back pocket, then stepped over to the bed and cleared it of everything but the fitted sheet with a single brusque sweep of his muscled arm.

 

Tanner could hear the heavy thud of Joe’s boots on the floor even when he couldn’t see him; the punk was almost in a state a shock.  His well-built young body was blooming with bruises; the imprints of Joe’s boots clearly visible even under his thick russet chest hair.  His left shoulder had made the initial impact with the nightstand and was dislocated and another dark bruise rose up his cheek from his beard.

 

It wasn’t physical trauma—after all, he’d been battered but not severely injured—that kept Tanner scrabbling aimlessly at the floor.  And Joe knew the fuckmeat’s sudden passivity wasn’t so much acceptance as it was mental vapor-lock.  He knew a way to break that lock.

 

Another lift-and-jerk-and-toss, smooth and rhythmic, like a workout routine, and Tanner had been flung back onto the bed, where he bounced limply, his eyes wide and catatonic.  Joe wasn’t fooled—the homo’s dick was still hard.  He swung himself up onto the bed, straddling Tanner’s well-developed torso.

 

“C’mon, faggot, wakey, wakey,” Joe jeered, slapping Tanner’s cheeks.  The youth’s pale eyes remained wide and unblinking, circled with gray.  Joe leaned back and slowly slid his leather belt out of its loops, well aware that no matter Tanner’s state of mind, he could easily see Joe.  And the experienced killer knew someone was home when he looked into Tanner’s eyes—he damn well knew the look when no one was home…

 

As he slowly removed his belt, grinning malevolently down at his helplessly stunned victim, the outside lighting shifted again and covered the room with a scarlet glow.  Joe’s strapping body was bathed in a fiery hue as if they were at the threshold of Hell and he was about to inflict an eternity of torture on Tanner—

 

“So ya wanna play possum?” Joe growled, his voice deep with a disturbing tone as he doubled the belt in his right hand.  “Lessee ya play dead through this.”

 

Raising his arm, he lashed Tanner across the face with the belt.

 

The reaction was instant; Tanner jerked and screamed, clutching at the huge red welt that had formed immediately.  At the same time, there was a loud flat bang outside, somewhere in front—the unmistakable sound of a gunshot.

 

Joe was curious—but it could wait.  Whatever it was, these next few moments were critical; he was about to establish his dominance over this fagmeat.  Once it was under his control he could investigate.

 

Tanner wept softly, holding his injured face.  “Why?” he whispered, “Why me?”

 

“Why you?” Joe laughed harshly.  “Cause you let me in, that’s why.  You invited me in, you stupid piece a’ shit.  An’ now I’m gonna use you till I’m done with ya—and if you check out before you make me cum, I’ll just finish up with yer corpse.”

 

Tanner’s look of horror made it clear that he’d understood what Joe had said; whether or not he retained it was another matter.  Grinning merrily, Joe leaned forward and whispered, “‘Course, the best way to make me cum is to check out.  Don’t worry, cunt; I’ll make sure ya figure it out.”

 

Suddenly a sound that had been slowly growing in the distance rose to the threshold of consciousness, the rancorous sound of a siren that seemed to be zeroing in on them.  As it grew louder, it was clear that more than one vehicle was involved.  Tanner turned his head towards the window; just then, the lighting changed again as the lurid neon tones were obliterated by vividly flashing blue and red.

 

Joe wanted to check out what was going on, but he needed to re-focus the fuckmeat first.  The punk was struggling, rolling to one side, trying to reach the window.  “Where the fuck do ya think yer goin’!?” the hardbodied alpha snarled and swung the belt again.  This time it slashed across Tanner’s pectoral muscle with a loud, solid slap, somewhat muffled by his chest fur and more drowned out by his screech of pain.  The thick leather strap had landed squarely on his nipple, badly bruising the hard nub of flesh.

 

Joe wasn’t done.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I say so!”  He beat Tanner again, his powerful arm rising and falling as the belt lashed across the faggot’s flat belly and his upper arms.  “You stay the fuck there till I’m done with ya, asshole, you understand me?”  And leaving the strong young man cowering and whimpering on the bed, Joe got off and strode to the window, nonchalantly glancing out.

 

The street was full of police cars.  Even from this distance, Joe could see the complex network of cracks radiating through the bodega’s bulletproof glass.  The cops were interviewing a middle-eastern dude who was talking excitedly and on occasions gesticulated wildly at the shattered front window.

 

Satisfied, Joe turned and headed back to the bed.  As he approached, something crunched loudly under his bootheel.  Looking down, he saw scattered shards of plastic under his foot, the black case of the digital clock instantly recognizable despite the intense red and blue lights flashing form the window.

 

He paused for a moment, looked at Tanner’s muscled body writhing in pain on the bed, and bent down to grab the cord.  Winding it tightly about his hand, he stood up and ground the base of the clock under his boot.  Pulling up on the cord, his bicep swelling with the effort, he was rewarded by the cord pulling free with a faint popping sound.

 

Climbing back up on the bed, he positioned himself between Tanner’s firm, sinewy legs, parting them effortlessly.  He reached down with his free hand and squeezed the firm furry globes of the young man’s ass before brutally intruding his fingers into the homo’s rectum.  The moment the punk looked up, Joe met his eyes with malicious joy.

 

“Yer a virgin, aintcha?” he jeered, “Then you better buckle up, bitch, cause I ain’t just gonna pop yer cherry, I’m gonna grind it to pieces!  Hey, hotshot, ya like the lightin’?  Street’s fulla po-po, muthafucka!  Someone tried to rob that towelhead across the way and now a dozen cops are gonna be pokin’ around while I ream yer fuckhole!”

 

He grinned, the strobe-like effect of the vivid, flickering lights adding a hallucinatory touch to his satanically handsome face.  He leaned over Tanner, his massively-built form looming ominously over the severely-beaten young mechanic.  “Hey, fuckwad, lookit me.  Up here, asswipe, up at my eyes,” he said quietly, his manic glee momentarily toned down.

 

Tanner looked up.  He was in pain, but more than that, he was beaten in a moral sense.  He had no desire to tempt fate—or this incredibly powerful psycho who seemed intent on raping him—by trying to escape.  He would obey any order he was given, if it meant getting through this.

 

He’d already managed to purge any recollection that Joe had referred to his death; it wasn’t that he hadn’t understood so much as he hadn’t believed it was possible, and still didn’t.  He’d get through this…and then he’d track this motherfucker down and dust his ass.

 

So, he looked up, slowly and reluctantly raising his eyes to meet those of Joe.  He took in—he couldn’t help but notice—the serial killer’s burly torso, covered with dark hair wiry as steel wool.  It filled his field of view as his eye rose upwards, past the huge mounds of his pecs, the solid muscle jutting out and thrusting the large dark nipples upwards.  And the above that, the darkly handsome, scruffy face, so chillingly gleeful…

 

And at that moment, Tanner felt something press against his asshole.  It felt like a post, or a bat, or some kinda beam poking against his sphincter.

 

“That’s my cock, faggot,” Joe whispered, his voice husky with repressed lust, “I’m gonna fuck you now, and yer gonna scream.  Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it—I’m gonna literally rip yer asshole open, you fuckin’ homo coward.  Maybe if ya’d taken it up the ass sooner, cunt, yer fuckhole wouldn’t be so tight an’ I wouldn’t hafta do this to ya, but there’s too many cops around for you to start squealin’.”

 

And with that, he showed Tanner the cord he’d held on to.  The younger man stared at it blankly, flat-out refusing to understand Joe’s words until he leaned down and slid it under the cocksucker’s head and wrapped it around his neck.

 

“Aw, who am I kiddin’?” Joe chuckled.  “I’d be doin’ this shit anyway.  Time to saddle up, you piece a’ worthless faggot garbage, cause I gotta load a’ hot manseed that needs to be milked outta my shaft, and I’m gonna use yer asshole to do it!”

 

He crossed the ends of the cord, jerking it tight—and then downwards, as he thrust upwards with his hips.  Tanner had a brief nightmarish moment of clarity as his throat was cinched off before the sadistic alpha’s cock tore open his sphincter and plowed relentlessly into his rectum, the enormous tube of vein-wrapped manmeat completely filling Tanner’s colon and stretching his intestines like sausage casing.

 

He couldn’t scream.  It was like those horror stories he used to read about Vlad the Impaler, propping dudes up with stakes shoved up their asses and leaving them to die.  The pain was phenomenal; the buff young homo’s body was badly bruised, but this pain—something horrible was being done to his insides.  This wasn’t just rape; this powerful motherfucker was fucking his guts.

 

He clawed frantically at the tight strand of crushing pressure that circled his neck, already sunken so deep into his tender flesh that the tips of his fingers were just barely able to reach it.  His legs flailed violently, his retro Nikes kicking uselessly at the air as Joe pounded his ass.  The sound of flash slapping rapidly against flesh filled the room.

 

It wasn’t all to fill the room.  Directly underneath was one of the garage bays and on this hot summer evening, the gaps in the decrepit old building let in the intense chemical smell of oil and gasoline from the pits and the concrete below, encrusted with many decades’ worth of leak residue.  Up till this point, it had been the overriding olfactory impression that the bedroom had given, but now a new smell was taking over—the hot acrid scent of forced mansex, a mix of sweat, adrenaline and testosterone with its own unique tang.

 

It rose from the entwined bodies of the two muscular, hair-covered males, locked in a life-and-death struggle, and both sexually aroused to the highest pitch.  Even as Tanner gagged and fought, his hard thick cock slapped back and forth between his washboard belly and Joe’s even more ripped abs.  And each time it made contact, a large gob of precum flew out; in a matter of minutes, both men had a smeared, matter semicircle of body fur above the navel.

 

The searing pain in his fuckhole was unbearable but Tanner could only endure it—he couldn’t think about the agony; it was distracting him from his struggle to survive.  His scrambling fingers flayed the skin on his neck as he desperately tried to dig the cord out.  Without oxygen, his lungs were starting to ache and burn and he could feel his face swell, the skin becoming taut and painful.

 

“Does it hurt, cumsucker?” Joe hissed, his brawny, muscular body flexing and thrusting as his massive shaft brutally reamed Tanner’s rectum.  He spit into the younger man’s cyan-blue face and sneered.  “You ain’t felt nothin’ yet.  Yer gonna die, ya pansy fuck, and it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.

 

The hard, craggily masculine face of the experienced killer hovered mere inches over that of his slowly-dying victim—cold, commanding, triumphant and so erotic.  Even as he fought through agony to stave off death, Tanner could feel the aching throb of unreasoning lust pulse through his erect, straining dick.  But despite the frantic pounding of his own heartbeat inside his skull, he could hear the words the dominant stud had spoken.  He just refused to believe them.

 

It wasn’t a conscious decision; Tanner was beginning to lose the capacity for conscious thought.  His air had only been cut off for a couple of minutes.  Asphyxia hadn’t progressed far enough to interfere with his ability to think—just enough to prevent him from thinking rationally.  Panic kicked in.

 

Adrenaline flooded Tanner’s strong furry body.  Joe was highly experienced in manual killing; he felt the youth’s powerful limbs tense.  He was even able to detect the chemical change in the homo’s manscent.  He knew what was coming and he was prepared.

 

Joe jerked the cord tighter around Tanner’s throat and held on as the powerful younger fag exploded into a fear-driven frenzy.  Kicking and scrambling, Tanner pawed at Joe’s broad chest.  His fingers, hooked into claws, scraped at his killer’s massive, stone-like pecs, snagging in the wiry body hair.  His legs, parted by Joe’s strapping body, flailed uselessly, the heels of his retro Nikes scraping at the sheets.

 

The hardbodied alpha hung on throughout Tanner’s paroxysm of terror, grunting with pleasure as the young man’s thrashing body work worked his engorged manshaft.  “Oh fuck yeah,” he snarled, staring directly into the bulging horrified eyes of his victim, “Milk my cock, motherfucker.  C’mon, ya fuckin’ faggot, work that load out.”

 

And Tanner was working it.  He couldn’t help it.  The more he struggled, the faster he burned through the oxygen remaining in his bloodstream.  The pain in his chest had grown monstrously; his entire ribcage seemed to be on the verge of implosion.  The dying homo could no longer hear his pulse in his head; all sounds seemed to have become sluggish and distant.  He could still make out Joe’s words, though…

 

And as Joe ruthlessly used the convulsions of Tanner’s well-built body to jack off, he made sure that the younger man knew why he was dying.

 

“That’s it, cunt, kick an’ die on my dick.  Goddam, I been needin’ t’drain my overloaded balls into a hot sack a’ manmeat all week,” he jeered.  “Fuckin’ die, ya useless homo, so I can use yer corpse as a cumdump and leave it marinatin’ in my hot manseed.”

 

But Tanner’s struggles were slowing.  He was no longer beating at Joe’s rock-like chest; now, his hands moved slowly, feebly, as if he was caressing it instead.  The jerking spasms in his colon that stroked Joe’s huge tube of manmeat so well had become irregular in both timing and intensity.

 

The handsome, friendly face of the young mechanic was gone, replaced with a puffy black caricature.  His eyelids were so swollen that the eyeballs themselves could only be seen as thin, blood-red slits.  His purple lips, thick and grotesque, were almost indistinguishable from his sark, protruding tongue.  The dying faggot gagged and coughed at random, thick, foamy drool pouring over his lips and lodging in his beard.

 

Tanner was almost gone; he wasn’t dead yet, but he was going on to a full five minutes without air.  Much of his brain was irretrievably damaged; he was blind, his last mental image having been Joe’s cruelly triumphant face in the flashing red and blue light before the darkness had bloomed permanently.  His head seemed to have been muffled in layers of hot cotton…

 

…but he could still feel pain.  What little consciousness remained to Tanner was screaming in nightmarish agony as impending asphyxiation seemed to dramatically increase the sensitivity of his nerve endings.

 

He could feel every vein that wrapped around Joe’s huge cock as it ground its way relentlessly back and forth over his prostate.  He could feel every single blow Joe had managed to land on him, from the throb in his jaw where his teeth had been knocked out to the ache on his pecs where the bruising clearly revealed the tread pattern of Joe’s boots.  But the crushing pain in his throat was the worst; it was literally mortal agony.  Nothing else hurt so bad—except there was that searing heat rising up from the base of his dick—

 

“Aw fuck, this one’s used up,” Joe grunted, “Worthless piece a’ shit.”  His thick biceps bulged with power as he violently yanked the ends of the cord.  Instantly there was a loud wet crack as the cartilage of Tanner’s trachea splintered and collapsed, compacting his esophagus into a solid mass of bloody tissue.

 

Tanner didn’t hear his throat get crushed, but he felt it.  It was the final straw, an overwhelming stimulus that flooded his nervous system and triggered his uncontrollably savage death throes.  The buff young man’s body bucked like a bronco, forcing Joe to hold on tight, moaning, sweating and cursing.  As their hairy, muscular bellies pressed firmly together, flesh sliding against sweat-lubed flesh, Tanner’s cock was caught between.

 

Joe could feel the way the throbbing of the dying man’s dick was increasing; he pulled himself back just in time to see a thick ropy jet of semen launched inches from his face, splattering against the cracked drywall at the head of the bed.  It was the first of the hairy young buck’s deathloads, and it triggered Joe’s orgasm.

 

The scene was almost surrealistic—the brawny older man hunched over the younger, thrusting and cursing as he pumped his hot seed into the corpse, filling its guts with spunk as nearly a dozen cops milled around processing a crime scene less than fifty yards away.  As the dead faggot continued to spew cum uncontrollably, Joe found himself overwhelmed by the intensity of his orgasm, blowing load after load—and at some point becoming aware that he’d been whaling on Tanner, driving his fist into the meat’s blackened, spunk-covered face.

 

As the hardbodied older man slowly shuddered to a halt, he extracted his fully-engorged manhood from the dead faggot.  Seed still dribbled from the huge purple head as it was withdrawn from Tanner’s torn, used asshole.  The corpse, sprawled flat on its back, still twitched and jerked spasmodically.

 

Joe’s boots thudded heavily on the wooden floor as he headed down the hall to the bathroom.  It was small and dilapidated, but the sink still worked and there was a towel clean enough for Joe to wipe his firm torso and wiry fur clean of homo cum.  As he stood at the sink, moistening the towel, he noticed that the room was getting steadily darker.  The flashing red and blue lights were going away.

 

The bathroom had one small window, like the kitchen, except it was paned with frosted glass.  Joe zipped his enormous tool back into his tight jeans and headed back into the bedroom so he could see what was going on.  Ignoring the still-quivering body on the bed, he strode to the window and looked out.  He’d been right, most of the cops had left—but there were still two cars out there.  Both had turned off the overhead lights, though; and as he watched, one of them left, heading down Lamar in the direction of the highway.

 

There were still a couple of cops left, though, talking to the swarthy store clerk.  Joe couldn’t leave just yet.

 

He wandered around the room for a moment, noting Tanner’s Beyoncé poster with amused contempt, before his boot made contact with something.  Glancing down, he could just barely make out the form of the big black dildo in the dim light.  Grinning, he bent down and retrieved it.

 

The dead dude was leaking Joe’s manseed out of its torn asshole.  This would solve that problem.  “Here ya go, fuckmeat,” Joe sneered as his biceps bulged with effort as he brutally shoved the enormous silicon phallus into the corpse’s rectum.  Tanner’s long, thick cock, not yet limp, suddenly stiffened again, forced erect even in death as the dildo pressed on his prostate.

 

Joe stood back and admired his work for a moment, then snapped his fingers.  “That reminds me,” he murmured, reaching into his back pocket.  “Gotta make sure everyone sees what happens to faggots who don’t even fuckin’ put out…”  He pulled out the silicon jackoff toy and walked up to the head of the bed.  Again, his deltoids and biceps flexed powerfully; it took a little force to pry Tanner’s jaws apart.  Once he did, though, it was relatively easy to cram the sex toy down the corpse’s throat.  He had to angle the head back a bit to get it all the way in, but by the time he’d shoved the fleece-lined silicon tube all the way down to the collapsed section of the esophagus, the end was barely visible between Tanner’s black, swollen lips.

 

“There,” Joe said with satisfaction as he stepped back.  Tanner’s strong, firm frame, wrapped with muscles and covered with russet body fur, lay spread-eagled on its back.  The chest was covered with the dead dude’s own spunk.  The face, black, swollen, gaping, was almost unrecognizable, even the beard, matted with cum and drool wasn’t the same color it had been.  One of the meat’s thickly-muscled legs spasmed abruptly, the Nike Jordan retro kick quivering on the bed.  Tanner’s legs were spread wide and given the position of the bed in the room, his asshole was pointed straight at the door.  There was no way anyone entering the room could miss the way the corpse had been violated with the dildo.

 

“Don’t no one like a tease, fag,” Joe chuckled as he headed down the hall, closing the bedroom door behind him.

 

Once in the living room, he looked around for his shirt.  The one lamp in the room had been knocked off the table during the struggle earlier, but it hadn’t broken.  From its place on the floor, it lit the room at a weird, off-kilter angle, throwing lurid shadows on the walls.

 

Suddenly the dead silence of the apartment was broken by the piercing wail of a siren; simultaneously, the room was bathed in the now-familiar flickerings of red and blue.  Joe quickly crossed to the window and peered out, taking care not to be seen from outside.

 

The two cops had evidently gotten a call; Joe was just in time to see them wheel the car about and head up Lamar at speed, blasting right through a red light.  The store clerk across the street had already gone back inside; as the siren faded in the distance, quiet settled back on the block.

 

It was an unnatural quiet, and Joe knew it.  The confluence of police had driven away the street scum who congregated along here at all times of the day and night—it wouldn’t be long before they were back.  While he wasn’t overly worried about getting caught, Joe understood that leaving before any witnesses were around was a good idea.

 

Instead of continuing to look for his shirt, he grabbed Tanner’s camo trucker cap and slipped it on his head, just in case anyone did see him.  One thing he’d never lost sight of was the key for gate chain; he scooped up Tanner’s shorts and dug it out of the pocket.  He also found the dude’s phone, and grinning, slipped it into his own pocket.  He left the apartment immediately, taking care to set the latch to lock the door as he closed it behind him.

 

The buff alpha, satiated with his fresh kill, strolled casually across the cement lot to the gate, his muscled flesh gleaming in the hot humid moonlight.  He had the gate open quickly and in a matter of minutes had gotten his car out and re-locked it exactly as it was—with the padlock on the inside, reaching through the openings in the wire mesh to close the clasp.

 

As he pulled out onto Lamar and headed in the direction of the highway, Joe chuckled to himself.  All those cops, so close…not like anyone was gonna care about some fag gettin’ snuffed in the bad part of town, of course, but still…

 

At the red lights, he scrolled through the dead homo’s phone.  Meat always leads to meat and he liked breakin’ in unused faggots.  Maybe he could find some more of these weaselly little fucks who only wanted to “touch”—an’ show ‘em what gettin’ “touched” by a real man was like…

 


 

“Why I gotta tell you all this again?  I tol’ that one cop, then I tell that jefe who left already—him, I tell twice!  An’ now I gotta tell you?” Reynoso demanded querulously.

 

Hobart pressed his hand to his temple, trying to ignore the stabbing pain behind his eyes.  Another goddam stress headache.  Why did he draw these bullshit calls?  “Look, I know you already told the detective your story, but I need to corroborate some of the details, ok?  So let me just go back over the gist of your statement here.”

 

Reynoso groaned and rolled his eyes but kept still as Hobart spoke.

 

“Ok, so you showed up here at approximately eight a.m. to see Denardo about work on your car?”

 

“Right.  A brake job—business, you know?  I do Uber to make extra cash.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Hobart nodded, “so Denardo’s done work for you before?”

 

“Yeah, once or twice,” Reynoso said evasively.

 

“Ok, well, you say he got here right after you did, no more than two or three minutes later, is that correct?”

 

“Yeah, he pulled up right after me.  Pissed that the place was still locked up.  He was cursin’ that white boy.”

 

“You mean our victim here?”

 

“Yes…madre de Dios, that I should see such a thing…”

 

“Anyway, it says here that he had the keys, so he unlocked the gate—you noted that the padlock was on the inside—and the two of you went upstairs.  The front door of the apartment was also locked but Denardo had the key to that as well.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—I already toldja all this.”

 

“And everything in here looked just as it does now?”

 

“Yes, yes, helluva fight.  Someone fucked that kid up good.”

 

“You were with Denardo when the body was found?”

 

“I—yeah, I, uh we, found…found that…”

 

“And what did Denardo do then?”

 

“Do?  Whaddaya think he do?  He cry out to God and he leave!  More than he can stand, poor man.”

 

“And that’s why it was you who called the police and not him?  Did he say anything else?”

 

“What more was there to say?  He see the body, he scream ‘My God, I’m ruined!’ and he run.”

 

Hobart sighed.  This wasn’t getting him anywhere.  Suddenly there was a knock at the door and one of the local beat cops opened it.  “Hey, sarge?  The ME guy is here.”

 

“Let him in.”

 

The ME tech was a young man in his mid-twenties, slim, with pale blond hair.  He had a rather frazzled look on his face.  “He called you sarge,” he said to Hobart, “Can I ask you a favor?  We’re short-handed at the morgue today; can you get a couple of guys to help get this gurney up here?”

 

“Ok, you can go now,” Hobart told Reynoso, then followed him out the door.  “Bates,” he told the uniformed cop, “Go get Chen and get that gurney up here for the tech.”

 

“Thanks, sarge,” the tech smiled.  Hobart could see the plastic badge on the man’s white crime scene jumpsuit; it read, ‘Harris, M’.

 

“Has the scene already been processed?” Harris asked.

 

“Yeah, the photographer just left,” Hobart replied.  “There won’t be any rush on this one.  Gay rape and murder—no one will care.  There are more important crimes and we’re too underfunded to waste the resources.  Right now, we have a bigger issue; it looks like this place is the center of a major car theft ring.  Get this mess thoroughly cleaned up; we don’t need it to interfere with the larger investigation.”

 

“Gotcha,” Harris said.  “In that case, let me borrow your guys again to get the body up onto the gurney.  Already got the body bag in place and open.  I can bag the hands there and get it ready to go.”

 

“Bates, Chen, you heard the man,” Hobart said.  The unformed men headed into the bedroom with obvious reluctance.  The splayed corpse was pale and cold, on the downside of rigor mortis so that it could be picked up and moved with relative ease.  The two buff cops had just deposited it on the gurney, with the legs slightly bowed to preserve the dildo in situ, when Hobart called them back.

 

“Come on, men, we need you to seal off the office so the computer guys can take possession.  Hey, Harris, just let us know when you need that thing brought down.”

 

“Not a problem,” Harris said.  “Shouldn’t be too long.”

 

He didn’t plan to be long; one look at that hot nude corpse had made his balls pucker and ache so bad, he knew it wouldn’t take long to cum.

 

Once he was sure he was alone, Harris slipped off one of the dead dude’s retro Jordans.  Holding it over his face, he inhaled deeply, fondling the thick ridge of flesh that tented his jumpsuit.  The scent of hot manfunk made his cock throb so hard…

 

The dead man’s torso was covered with a cracked glaze of dried cum; Harris placed the sneaker on it as he walked around to the head of the gurney.  Slipping his hands under the corpse’s shoulders, he pulled it towards him until the head tipped back off the end of the gurney, placing the gaping mouth right at the height of Harris’s crotch.

 

Grinning evilly, he unzipped his jumpsuit all the way down to his waist.  Reaching in, he pulled out his dick—not overly thick, but impressively long.  He placed the large glistening head of his cock against the dead fag’s swollen lips, then with a grunt and a strong shove, started skullfucking the corpse.

 

Harris’s job didn’t pay much, but he loved the perks.

 

The sensation as his throbbing shaft of manmeat slid down the cadaver’s esophagus was phenomenal—he hadn’t looked closely enough to notice the sex toy that had been rammed in there first.  But once he felt it, he knew what it was—he had one himself.

 

“Goddam,” he muttered down at the corpse as he picked the sneaker back up, “You were fuckin’ waitin’ for me, weren’tcha, ya dead cunt?”  Then he crammed the Nike back over his face, grinding it in and relishing the way it felt as he throatfucked its dead owner.  Each thrust drove his long cock deeper and deeper into the body’s ruined windpipe.

 

Suddenly, the head of Harris’s cock impacted the crushed cartilage that had made the buff young man into dead meat.  The tech had already admired the deep ligature wound the electrical cord had made; he knew exactly what the sensation was.

 

It was too much.  As he huffed the faggot’s sneaker, his cock exploded deep in its throat, pumping out a geyser of cum.

 

Harris hadn’t found a good corpse to unload in for almost a week; he’d almost gotten a hot nigger gangbanger who’d been shot Wednesday night, but that new guy, Mellon, had taken the call, damn him.  His balls were so full even he was surprised at how much spunk he was blowing outta his shaft.  He was still grunting and shooting as he withdrew, forced out the dead meat’s head by the overflow.  His sperm was flowing back out of the corpse’s nostrils.

 

Harris finished up by spewing the rest of his load into the dude’s Nike Jordan, then slipping it back onto his foot, letting his cum soak into the corpse’s ped sock.

 

Once he regained his breath, Harris stepped into the bathroom.  There was a towel on the floor, slightly damp, but not noticeably filthy.  He used it to wipe off his dick, then, tossing it back on the floor, zipped up his jumpsuit and returned to his job.

 

In less than ten minutes he had the corpse repositioned bag on the gurney, centered in the open body bag on which it had been laid.  He wasn’t particularly careful bagging the hands; the cop was right—no one was gonna devote any resources into solving the murder of a faggot like this.  It’d be chalked up to a lover’s quarrel or something.

 

Grinning, Harris zipped the bag up, enshrouding what was left of Tanner’s well-used body in plastic.  He left it in the bedroom as he headed out of the apartment and down the stairs.  “Hey sarge?” he called out, “Can I borrow your men again?  This thing’s ready for the meatwagon.”

Adam In Control

Adam was pissed, and it was getting his dick hard.

 

The kid was openly leering at him, and that was infuriating enough; Adam hated being stared at by fags, feeling their eyes running over his hard, muscular body—it always kindled his lust/rage.  But there was something about this particular boy…

 

He was lean and tall, not quite Adam’s height, but close.  He was leaning back against the wall, one knee out with the foot on the wall behind him, watching the people entering and leaving the gym; it was almost as if he was cruising for a fuck.

 

Forget the “almost”, Adam thought, the little whore wants dick; lookit the way he’s dressed.

 

The boy’s black Adidas Chile 62 tracksuit had an eye-catching shininess similar to leather; the way it clung to the slut’s lithe young body was the first thing Adam had noticed. The jacket was open; under it was a white t-shirt with an Adidas logo just barely visible.  The little punk hadn’t been brand-loyal all the way down to his feet, though, Adam noticed—he was sporting a pair of black and white Nike Vapormax 97’s.

 

It was the faggot’s face that aroused Adam’s ire the most—handsome, arrogant, topped with a wavy mass of hair almost identical to Adam’s own shade of copper.  It drew the sexual sadist’s attention.  He had no idea what a homo dressed like a scally punk was doing here coming on to him, but he wanted to see that face, terrified and suffering, as it died.

 

So he swallowed his anger, the bitter taste somehow making his cock swell, and approached the homo scum with a smile on his own strikingly masculine face.

 

“Hey there,” the kid said once Adam was closer.  “I been scopin’ ya out for a coupla days.”

 

“Yeah?” Adam replied nonchalantly.

 

“Yeah,” the boy said, “And I think you’d be perfect.”

 

“For what?”

 

“A little breath control play.”

 

Adam paused for a moment.  “Yeah?  Sounds like faggot shit to me.  That what ya into, boy?”

 

The punk grinned, giving Adam what was supposed to be a come-hither look; it made the youth look somewhat moronic.  “I like a little danger—and Master’s away, so the pup will play…”  He leered hard at the muscle-bound stud.

 

Adam was intrigued and enraged.  Fuckin’ cunt was such a homo he needed a master.  “That explain yer getup?” he asked, giving the slut’s Chile 62 tracksuit a once-over.

 

“Hell yeah,” the kid said proudly, “Sir’s a skinhead; he likes to see me in this.  Likes to use me and abuse me while I’m wearing it.  Think you can do that to me too?”

 

Again, Adam paused.  He was used to hunting down and snuffing his own fuckmeat; even the stupid cunts who came onto him didn’t want more than an assfuck.  The psycho killer hadn’t had anyone begging to be hurt—this could be downright fun.

 

Or would be if it didn’t involve a cocksuckin’ fag pervert.  Little motherfucker wanted abuse?  It deserved it and Adam was more than willing to comply.  He hadn’t been trolling for meat, but he wasn’t about to pass up this opportunity to rid the world of another useless queer.  Especially one asking to be abused.

 

Still, he needed to be careful.  “Why me?” he asked.

 

“Cause you look like you’d enjoy it,” the kid said.  “See, Sir’s good—fuck, when he makes me lick his boots, I wanna cum—but that don’t mean I don’t wanna play sometimes…”

 

“So you want someone new to get ya off,” Adam finished the sentence.  “How long you been watchin’ me?”

 

“Since the beginnin’ of the week—once I found out Sir was gonna leave town today.”

 

“Didn’t waste any time, didja, ya horny little fuck?  Didja tell anyone about me, about yer plans?

 

The kid writhed happily.  “Nossir,” he said breathily, ginning wildly in pleasure.  He’d picked the right dude, no question.  Just the verbal abuse was getting him off; the bulge in his trackies was obvious to anyone within fifteen feet.

 

This might work.  Adam was suspicious of a situation which he hadn’t set up himself, but this looked legit—the punk fuck was seriously coming on to him.  “You got someplace to go?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” the kid said, “We can go back to our place.”

 

“Whaddaya mean, ‘our’ place?”

 

“Well, Sir’s place.  But I live there too.”

 

Not for long you won’t, Adam thought.  “And what’ll happen if ‘Sir’ finds out you been playin’?”

 

“Aw, he’ll probably beat the fuck outta me.  But he ain’t gonna find out.  I’ll clean up good after.”

 

Adam had his own opinions on that as well, but he kept them to himself.

 

“Ok, cunt.  You wanna get treated like fuckin’ garbage, I can damn sure do that.”

 

“Fuckin’-A, dude!  C’mon, follow me.  I’m parked next you; I know which car is yours.”

 

“Lead the way, little boy,” Adam said contemptuously; the kid picked up on the tone.  Despite his desire for abuse, there was something in the alpha’s cold voice that momentarily disconcerted him.

 

“Connor,” he said decisively, “My name is Connor.  And I may be a pup, but I ain’t no kid—I’m twenty.”

 

“Yeah?” Adam said flatly, emotionlessly staring directly at him.  “So what?”

 

Connor’s dark hazel-green eyes widened slightly, but his cock twitched so hard it rustled the shiny polyester tent over his crotch.  Adam grinned and the kid relaxed somewhat.  “I’ll pull out first—the car, I mean, heh, heh—and you can follow me.”

 

Adam followed him back to where he’d parked.  He noticed the silver 2017 Mercedes E400 parked next to his car; it certainly hadn’t been there when he pulled in—he wouldn’t have parked next to it.  His doors and its were too long to be side-by-side in the gym’s narrow parking spaces.

 

He let Connor pull out of his space before getting into his own car, then got into his own and followed.  Once out of the parking lot, the kid headed east; it took about twenty minutes to reach his destination, a loft condo in a refurbished warehouse near the train tracks.

 

There was an open parking lot in the back of the building; Adam went to the far end to park.  He approached the building slowly, carefully scanning the entryway and the façade to confirm there weren’t any cameras.  There was surprisingly little security, although the door could only be opened by a chip card; it had to be used to activate the elevator, too.

 

Adam took note. That piece of info would come in handy later.

 

The condo was on the fourth floor—and it seemed to be one of only two on the entire floor that was occupied.  Inside, the place was very Urban Modern—brick walls, concrete floor, exposed piping and ductwork—and very new.

 

“You haven’t been here long,” Adam said; a statement, not a question.  Connor answered anyway.

 

“No—Sir’s, uh, not from here.  He’s got a job to do, then he’s goin’ home.  And he’s takin’ me with him.”

 

Adam knew better.  Connor had been turning on a lamp as he spoke; when the dim light flashed across the open space, the smile on Adam’s face was barely visible.  The kid was simply too far away to see the wicked glint in the killer’s cold blue eyes.

 

What he could see, even in the semi-darkened living room, was Adam’s phenomenal physique.  If Connor’s shiny Adidas tracksuit had been eye-catching, Adam’s own workout gear was not far behind.  He sported a white Lycra V-neck tank top that appeared to be painted onto his broad chest.  The deeply-cut neck allowed his abundant red-gold chest hair to spill out, while his powerfully muscled arms were admirably displayed.

 

Below the waist, Adam had on a pair of black polyester gym shorts that hung to just above the knee; Connor couldn’t see the stud’s thighs, but the thick slabs of muscles in his calves were obvious enough.  On his feet were a pair of Nike Air Max2 kicks in a bright, almost neon, yellow.

 

It wasn’t that Connor hadn’t noticed how Adam had been dressed earlier; he’d just been too wrought up by the anxiety of approaching the stud in person to take in the details.

 

Adam, in the meantime, glanced around the room.  He’d already assimilated what he needed to know about Connor—just another fuckin’ homo perv that thought it was worthy of his cock.  All he needed now was the right place to teach it its lesson.  A place where they could have…a little alone time.

 

“This y’all’s shit?” he asked abruptly.  Startled, Connor jerked.  “Uh, uh—no, not the furniture or the…well, the personal stuff is ours.  Sir ain’t gonna be here long.  This is one of the model units, I think…”

 

“So where’s the bedroom, faggot?”

 

Connor flushed, but his expression made it clear that it was with pleasure.  “This way,” he chirped happily, leading his killer to the place where he was going to die.

 

The bedroom—there was only one, it seemed—was partitioned off from the main living space by a series of pseudo-Japanese sliding screens.  Made of flimsy black plastic inset with squares of glossy translucent polyester and running on a track, they managed to connote an aura of cheapness while providing no privacy whatsoever.  Adam started to realize why so few units were occupied…

 

But that didn’t matter.  The room itself was surprisingly small, with a double bed against the far wall.  The right wall was solid glass, looking out onto the train tracks and the river beyond, sluggish, shallow, and stinking with algae in the summer heat.  The sun, finally setting after a sweltering day, glinted greenly off the thick organic stew.

 

To the left was a dresser; next to it was a closet with mirrored sliding doors.  In the far corner was a small desk with an empty laptop docking station and an adjustable high-backed desk chair on casters.

 

Connor had flicked on the lights when he came in.  There was a small lamp on the single nightstand, another one on the dresser, and the overhead lights in the ceiling fan.  The bulbs were evidently fluorescent; everything was dim at first but gradually became brighter.

 

The punk fucker took the initiative, his presumption stoking Adam’s psychotic rage.  Connor had already snagged something surreptitiously from a drawer in the nightstand; the dumbass cunt thought that Adam hadn’t seen it, but the clinking of metal alone was enough to tell the experienced sadist that the kid had brought out a pair of handcuffs.  Now, he grabbed the chair from the desk and wheeled it to the only open space in the small room, between the bed and the closet, which were separated by about six feet.

 

Sitting in the chair, Connor extended his right hand, the cuffs dangling from his index finger.  “You c’n put these on me if ya want…” he led off.  Adam waited, savoring his rage; he knew there was more to come.  The pansy was gonna suffer for this, big time.

 

“…but I gotta see whatcha got first.  Pull off those shorts, big boy; I’d bet my life yer commando under there.”

 

If he’d been less of a horny cockpig, Connor might have noticed the somehow chilling look of satisfaction that crossed Adam’s face.  He lifted his Lycra shirt just enough to grasp the waistband of his shorts and, jerking them down, kicked them to one side.

 

Underneath, he still wore the lining, also Lycra, in black and yellow—the same shade of yellow as his Nikes.  As Connor stared in awe at the massive shaft of manmeat so clearly outlined in every detail in Adam’s crotch, the sex killer grinned.

 

“You lose yer bet, asswipe,” he chuckled.  Approaching the eager slut, he grabbed the handcuffs and secured the homo’s arms behind the back of the chair.  Slowly turning the chair to face the mirrored closet door, Adam stood behind it and grinned at their reflection.

 

“Wait, wait!” Connor cried out, “I almost forgot—over there, top desk drawer…”

 

Adam wasn’t one to give into requests, but since this piece of meat was damn near snuffing itself, his curiosity was aroused.  Opening the desk drawer, he found a pair of leather gloves, thin, tight and smooth.

 

“Put ‘em on!”  Connor’s tone was more a plea than a command.  Smirking maliciously, Adam complied, slipping the tight, supple gloves onto his powerful hands.  Turning around, he stalked ominously back to the helpless kid.

 

The faggot was staring at Adam’s crotch again, his large dark eyes sliding up and down the length of the Lyrca-covered shaft and lingering over the well-defined cock head.  The hardbodied psycho felt the familiar bloodlust welling up within him, the desire to put this little fuck down, hard, and then own its corpse by filling it with cum.

 

But of course, before that happened, it needed to be made worthy to receive his cock.  All the faggotry had to be purged from the meat’s soul, and the soul could only be purged by suffering.

 

“Damn, dude, I can’t wait to service that dick,” Connor gasped breathily, “Sure hope a little breath control play will make you as hard as it does me!”

 

That was it; that was all that was needed to flip Adam’s switch.

 

“You wanna earn my dick, cunt?” he jeered.  “You ain’t worth it, ya fuckin’ faggot.”

 

“Nossir!” Connor chirped happily; he loved this kinda abuse.

 

Taking his place behind the chair again, Adam used the mirror to maintain eye contact with the fuckmeat.  “Ya wanna know what ya gotta do to earn it, bitch?”

 

“Yessir!  Please, sir!”  Connor squealed.

 

“You gotta die,” Adam said flatly, and slapped one of his big, strong hands over Connor’s face, closing off the boy’s nose and mouth simultaneously, the smooth leather making an air-tight seal.

 

It took no great effort to stand there and hold the kid’s head; the punk didn’t even start to struggle until near the one-minute mark.  His dick responded long before that, though; almost instantly, it was throbbing visibly beneath the shiny trackies.  After about two minutes, though, Connor’s muffled grunting increased and he began to jerk his head about.  Adam let go.

 

The meat wasn’t suffering; it was enjoying itself.

 

“Le-lemme go a s-sec,” Connor gasped out as he recovered his breath, “Th-that was so fuck-fuckin’ hot…”

 

“I’m gettin’ tired of you orderin’ me around,” Adam growled in a deep bass tone, but he unlocked one of the cuffs, leaving the set to dangle off the boy’s left wrist.  Connor wriggled with pleasure at the rough rumble of the top’s voice.  Swiftly pulling his hands around to his lap, he whipped out his long, pulsing boycock and began stroking his shaft.

 

“Call me ‘Ghost’,” he moaned, “That’s what Sir calls me…”

 

“You goddam piece a’ faggot shit,” Adam said coldly.  He reached down and grabbed Connor’s right wrist and jerked it violently upward, then back towards himself, bringing up his knee at the same time to use as a lever.  The sadistic alpha felt his own cock swell as he broke Connor’s arm; it happened so fast that the punk heard the wet splintering sound of his radius and ulna snapping before the pain hit him.

 

The kid’s pale face went even whiter as the shock hit him; he opened his mouth and automatically inhaled—but before he could scream, Adam punched him twice in quick succession.  This first blow landed in his soft flat gut and drove all the air out of his lungs with a loud squeak.  The second punch popped him in the face, splitting his bottom lip and bruising his cheek.

 

As the meat slumped back in the chair, moaning and stunned, Adam reached down and grabbed the collar of the kid’s t-shirt.  Twisting it tightly, he used it to single-handedly hoist Connor of out the chair.  Holding the dazed youth up to his face, his Vapormax kicks dangling in mid-air, the killer stared directly into the boy’s wide, scared eyes.

 

“Ghost, huh?  That’s about right, fuckmeat.  That’s exactly what the fuck you are—a ghost.  Yer fuckin’ dead, man—that’s what it takes to get my dick.  I gotta torture the faggotry outta ya before I can fuck yer meat, see?  So, yeah—yer gonna get ghosted.  ‘Ghost’ is fuckin’ great!”  He laughed, a deep, hearty sound.

 

Connor found it chilling, but he was in too much pain to know why.  He didn’t even know what the fuck had happened, but this fucker had broken his arm oh my god it hurts so goddam bad—

 

There was a shearing, ripping sound and Connor’s Adidas t-shirt gave way, the thin cotton unable to support the youth’s weight any longer.  As it tore open, the kid tumbled to the ground at Adam’s feet, still in his track jacket but now bare-chested under it.  The muscle-bound killer tossed the shredded piece of fabric aside.  Straddling the prone youth, he bent down, clamped a hand around his neck, and lifted the punk back up.

 

Connor screamed as his broken arm flopped about.  “Shaddap!” Adam snarled, backhanding the kid brutally, blackening his left eye.  “You need this, asswipe.  Pain’s good for the soul, remember?  An’ by the time I’m done with ya, yer soul is gonna be so pure it’ll even be worthy to receive my seed.”

 

He jammed the boy back down into the chair.  Stepping behind it, he again faced the reflection of the two of them in the mirror.  This time, he used both hands to seal off the punk’s nose and mouth.  Connor’s frantic eyes could just barely be seen over the top of his gloved hands.

 

This time, the kid’s reaction was much more immediate—as Adam expected; after all, this time the meat knew it wasn’t a game.  Connor twisted and writhed in the chair, trying to slip out of Adam’s crushing grip on his skull, but it was useless.  His legs kicked and drummed on the floor, the heels of his Nikes leaving scuff marks on the wood.

 

“Hey, fuckwad,” Adam whispered in the boy’s ear, “See how yer cock is twitchin’?  Means there’s still too much faggot left in ya, so we gotta keep going.”

 

Connor was long familiar with the erotic sensations of oxygen deprivation; he knew that as the crushing pain in his lungs and the pounding pressure in his head intensified, his dick would only get harder and harder.  This motherfucker was seriously gonna kill him—

 

Adam smiled as he heard the faint muffled squeaks that were the only outward signs of Connor’s screams.  “What’s that—ya wanna safe word?” he chuckled maliciously, “Ok, cocksucker—yer safe word is ‘die’.  Once ya do that, I’ll let go.”

 

The fuckmeat still hadn’t its proper position as Adam’s cumrag.  The room was filled with a loud jangling sound as Connor’s left hand, with the handcuffs still attached, clawed helplessly at his face, his scrambling fingers not finding any purchase on the smooth surface of the black leather gloves.  In panicked desperation, he slung his hand around to the right side of his face, where Adam was bent by his ear.  Adam was too far away for Connor’s hand to reach, but the handcuffs, swinging out with momentum, managed to clip the alpha on the chin.

 

The impact wasn’t severe; it didn’t even break the skin, but it startled, then enraged the psychotic killer.  Releasing Connor’s head, he stood up.  As the boy coughed and heaved, sucking in lungfuls of air, Adam grabbed his left hand and bent his index finger all the way back, snapping it at the first joint.

 

“WHA TH’ FUCK?!?” Connor screeched, lack of oxygen making his voice high and reedy.  Adam calmly popped him in the face, a single sucker-punch right from the shoulder into Connor’s nose, breaking it with a loud crunch.  Turning his attention back to the unlucky youth’s hand, he grabbed the middle finger and wrenched it brutally backwards.

 

Connor screamed again—no words this time, just a loud, inarticulate wail of agony.  “Ya still likin’ it, faggot?” he hissed, his cold eyes slitted in anger, “Does the thought of bein’ close to death still get ya off?  Cause you’re close, ya worthless human cumdump, you’re so close to death I betcha can taste it, cantcha?”

 

The boy opened his eyes and turned his strained face, gray with shock, towards his tormentor.  This wasn’t what he’d wanted at all; he just wanted a little play…Sir wouldn’t have actually hurt him…

 

“P-ple-please…” was all he could get out.

 

“Please what, homo?” Adam sneered.  “Already toldja, the meat don’t call the shots.  Looks like you ain’t as ready to be honored by my load as I’d thought.  You got faggotry rooted deep down in yer soul, motherfucker, an’ I’m gonna make damn sure I get it all out.”

 

He paused for a moment, then smiled grimly.  “This is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me, son.”

 

He took hold of Connor’s left arm in the same way he had his right, except this time, he placed his knee right on the kid’s elbow joint and bent the arm backwards from there.  There was a gristly snapping sound, like tearing a chicken leg form a carcass, and the arm hung limp at an awkward angle while Connor’s shriek spiraled into the upper registers, making his voice crack and leaving him to wheeze and gasp almost soundlessly.

 

Adam stepped in front of the chair, crossed his arms, and contemplated the meat.  Connor writhed impotently in the chair, utterly defenseless with two broken arms.  The meat’s slim, smooth torso glistened with sweat; the air was rank with testosterone and manscent.  As Adam watched the kid’s slick, flat abdomen heave with pain, he noticed a tattoo on the kid’s belly.  It looked like a robot, or maybe a cactus with a face.

 

Whatever, Adam thought dismissively; maybe it’d help ID the corpse later.  His own cock was pulsating on a regular basis, and that meant that it was time for the final act of purification.  He smiled broadly, a pleasant and friendly expression on his face.

 

“Hey, Ghost?  Ya still with me, man?” he asked kindly, stepping forward and patting the boy on the cheek.  Connor had stopped writhing and remained slumped in the chair, moaning quietly, his head hanging forward.  His bright copper hair was now dark with sweat—but so was Adam’s, so they still matched.  “Almost there, fucker.  But not yet.  Still too much of a fag, Ghost; my cock tells me so.  We ain’t done yet, asswipe.  Lessee—yer into gettin’ choked, huh?  Ok, motherfucker, lemme see if I can choke the homo right outta ya.”

 

Locked in a vise of physical pain, the lean pup in the trackies could only shudder and sob as the hulking alpha stud searched the room for something appropriate.  Connor tried to get up, but without his arms to brace himself, he inevitably began to roll off balance as he moved—and as he started to roll to one side or the other, the arm on that side began to flex at the break, grinding bones together.  It just hurt too much.

 

In the meantime, Adam had opened the closet and rummaged around in it.  It didn’t take him long to find something that suited his needs; when he returned, he was holding two items.  One was a straightstick baton, about eleven inches long.  The other was a belt of webbed nylon.

 

“Ya ready?” he asked as he approached the traumatized youth, “Ready to live up to yer name and get ghosted?”

 

Connor’s battered and swollen face was barely recognizable; the arrogantly handsome punk had been beaten to hamburger.  It hurt even to speak, but frantic self-preservation drove the cunt on in a vain attempt to plead for his useless life.

 

“O-oh god, p-please, n-n-no…j-us-just lemme go…wo-wo-won’t say noth-nothin’…te-tell S-Sir I got-got mu-mu-mugged…”

 

“Y’know,” Adam said reflectively as he stepped behind the chair and wrapped the belt around Connor’s neck, “Sir is probably gonna be the one who finds your corpse after I’ve given it the honor of bein’ my personal cumrag.  Wonder what he’s gonna think; don’t you?”

 

Laughing, he slipped the baton under the belt and began twisting.  It took a few seconds for him to twist it enough to tighten the belt around Connor’s neck, but once he had, it made a perfect garrote.

 

“Ok, ya worthless asswipe, only one way to get ya free of yer disgustin’ faggot lusts.  Only one way to make your dead fuckmeat clean enough to be my cumdump.  It’s buried deep in yer DNA, faggot—I gotta squeeze the spunk outta ya so I can replace it with my own manseed.”

 

As the tightly-webbed black nylon sank into Connor’s tender neck flesh, Adam leaned forward and hissed “Time to die, Ghost.  It’s gonna hurt, you worthless piece a’ shit; it’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.  I promise, cunt.  I fuckin’ promise.”

 

The boy whimpered in fear.  He’d always loved being controlled by someone else, the hot erotic danger of having another man bring him to the point of death was what made him cum.  But he’d always known in the back of his mind that it wasn’t the real thing—no matter who it was, his Master or a casual hookup, he’d always known he wasn’t really gonna die.  Until now.

 

The glassy, white-hot pain of broken bones made it obvious that playtime was over.  Connor was young, healthy, and full of cum.  He didn’t want to die; as bad as the pain was, he still couldn’t quite believe it—until he heard Adam’s words.

 

And then the belt tightened further around his throat, the nylon digging deeply into his skin, and his windpipe was squeezed closed.  That tripped the trigger; as often as Connor had experienced the sensation before, this was different.  This time, it wasn’t coming off.  He panicked.

 

The lean youth attempted to lunge forward, his firm legs tensing in the glossy track pants as he tried to find leverage, in vain.  His hands flopped limply, utterly useless except for increasing the amount of agony the punk was experiencing.  He could hear Adam talking behind him; worse, he could see the sexy, gleeful face of his killer leering over his shoulder in the mirror.

 

And worst of all, he could see his face, already purple and swollen with the beating he’d endured, starting to go black.  He knew the stages, he knew what to expect.  And he’d see it all in the mirror; he was gonna watch himself die.

 

It was too much for the lithe young pup.  A dark haze of terror swept over him and somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt a moist warmth spread over him as well—or at least down his legs.  He wasn’t able to register the fact that he’d lost control of his bladder and that warm boypiss was trickling down inside his trackies and pooling in his Nike kicks.

 

As Connor struggled and thrashed, lubed by his own urine, he slid lower in the chair.  “No ya fuckin’ don’t,” Adam muttered.  Flexing his powerful biceps, he lifted the kid by the garrote and resettled him in the chair.  “You ain’t goin’ nowhere, fuckmeat.  Yer gonna watch the whole show, all the way to the end.”

 

Sweat trickled down Connor’s face and his ginger locks, rank with perspiration, plastered his forehead.  The slightest movement brought on nightmarish agony, but sheer asphyxia-induced panic was starting to overwhelm the young faggot; he grimly clung to rational thought—not in a brave attempt to figure a way out of his situation, but almost by mere instinct, as if he as subconsciously aware that he was doomed the moment he lost control.

 

Lucidity was a double-edged sword, though; it would take effort to avoid recognizing that he was doomed in any case—but Connor’ efforts were devoted to the most intense struggle in his life.  It was also the last.

 

The times Sir had bagged him had been nothing like this.  The tight, erotic feel of the rope or the cuffs, sometimes in his track suit, sometimes in footy gear and boots—the way he’d been left alone on occasions, Sir just watching and grinning, sometimes until he pissed himself, sometimes until the raging thumping of his pulse in his skull was overtaken by the swift pulsing of his thick boycock, pumping out gobs of cum—

 

—oh dear fuckin’ god no, this was nothing like that, so why the fuck was his dick so hard—

 

Adam gave the baton a half-turn; the belt sank in a little deeper.  Not much, but it didn’t need to be; even though his trachea had been compressed to the point that air could no longer pass through it, it was by no means incapable of being compacted further.

 

And it damn sure wasn’t numb.  In another of those moments of lucidity, Connor felt a dull surprise that he could feel the pain of the taut nylon digging into his throat and deforming his esophagus; he was in a bottomless pool of agony, but it didn’t merge, he could feel it all separately his neck his face his fingers his arms oh fuck my arms how’m I gonna get out oh shit oh fuck—

 

And with the realization of how seriously he’d been injured, terror swept back over him in a dark wave, leaving him to thrash and flail about in the desk chair, his piss-soaked legs kicking wildly.  Panic had flooded his body with adrenaline, overriding the pain impulses—for the moment, he was numb.  His legs kicked and flailed; he managed to scape one of his Nikes off, flinging it across the room, as his foot flexed and his toes curled in agony, still encased in a pair of piss-sodden no-show ped socks.

 

Again, Adam jerked the meat upwards and resettled it, holding in place until its struggles began to weaken.  He kept a careful eye on it, wanting to make sure that there was still enough of the fag left to understand his words.  The buff psycho caught a faint spark of light in the dying cockpig’s bulging, bloodshot eyes.  It was just barely there, but it was enough.

 

“Watch yerself die, faggot,” Adam hissed with vindictive glee, “Watch yerself choke and drool—an’ remember how much you need this, ya fuckin’ pansy.  You know it.  You want it.  You fuckin’ asked for it, cunt, so enjoy the pain, ya worthless pile of meat.”

 

Connor could barely see; his eyes were bulging horribly from his head, huge black explosions forming in his field of vision as blood vessels hemorrhaged, turning the whites of his eyes red.  The frantic pounding of his pulse in his ears nearly drowned out all other sounds.  But “barely” and “nearly” didn’t mean completely.

 

There was still enough of Connor left to recognized his own form in the mirror, jerking uncontrollably.  A long streamer of foamy drool had oozed from his mouth, past his bulging black tongue, and trickled down his chin, where a long strand had trailed down to his smooth, flat belly.  His face was congested and swollen, a thick puffy caricature of his arrogantly handsome countenance, with grotesquely protruding eyes.

 

And even though his vision was rapidly fading, the homo cunt could still see the trickle of precum oozing from the purple, pulsing head of his achingly erect cock.

 

And he could see the buff alpha as well; some little corner of his faggot brain still lusted over that muscle-bound torso wrapped in white Lycra so tight his large hard nipples cast shadows over his broad pecs.  Wiry strawberry-blond hair spilled over the deeply-cut neck, but Connor’s eyes were drawn to the thick biceps, glistening with sweat and bulging with the effort of ending his life…

 

He knew he was dying and Adam knew he knew it.  “I hope it hurts, Ghost,” the fully-erect, hardbodied killer hissed, “Hope it hurts a lot.  You thought you deserved my dick, ya perverted piece a’ shit?  This is what cocksuckin’ pansies like you deserve!”  With that, he gave his improvised garrote a swift, vicious full 180-degree turn.

 

Connor was young and healthy; his lean and lithe body could endure a great deal of trauma, but there is a point beyond which human tissue can’t be stressed without enduring permanent damage.  Up to now, the boy’s windpipe had been squeezed shut.  Now, it collapsed completely, crushed beyond repair.

 

There was a loud wet crunch.  “Fuck yeah!” Adam crowed triumphantly as the punk slut shuddered in nightmarish agony, his slim body wracked with excruciating pain.  The searing pain of having his trachea and larynx crushed into a bleeding mass of mangled cartilage was too much; it would have shattered whatever was left of the pup’s mind—but nothing was left.  He’d been without air too long; the brain damage was too severe.

 

This was the point Adam had been waiting for.  He wanted to try something.  He’d always like his meat fresh…

 

The hulking alpha quickly spun the baton in the opposite direction, loosening the garrote.  He had to grab a hank of the kid’s slick coppery hair with one hand so he could jerk the embedded belt out of his neck with the other hand.   Ghost—there was no Connor left anymore—convulsed rhythmically, his limbs flopping limply as his muscles responded to the erratic signals of a dying brain.

 

Adam tossed both the belt and the body to the floor.  He looked down at the shuddering fuckmeat, considering it calmly, despite the way his huge manshaft throbbed visibly beneath the Lycra shorts.  He bent down, picked the meat up, and dragged it to the bed.  Tossing its torso face-down across the mattress so that its knees were on the floor and it was bent forward at the waist, Adam reached out and pulled the track pants down, exposing the smooth golden globes of the corpse’s ass.  As he watched, the meat continued to shudder and tremble, the convulsions twitching and puckering Ghost’s pink fuckhole.

 

Now the meat was acceptable.  The faggot was dead.  Whatever happened, Connor wasn’t coming back—but Ghost was worthy of receiving Adam’s manhood.

 

He didn’t even bother to take the black and yellow Lycra shorts off.  Adam just reached down and whipped out his cock and balls, stuffing the latter into the dead punk’s quivering asshole.  He felt some resistance at first, a pressure on the engorged, precum-slick head of his cock, but his enormous shaft tore open the dead boy’s sphincter with minimal effort and was soon buried deep in Ghost’s warm and still-convulsing rectum.

 

His fluorescent yellow Nike Air Max 2’s tensed on the laminate wood floor, one on each side of Ghost’s feet, keeping the homo punk’s from slipping and spreading.

 

The hyper-masculine sex killer fucked his prey deeply and brutally, synching the timing of his thrusts to the rhythm of the slowly-dying meat’s convulsions, letting the pup’s death throes milk the hot sperm out of his pulsating tool.  As he felt his seed starting to seethe in his puckered balls, Adam began increasing the tempo of his pumping until he knew he was within seconds of unloading; he’d saved this next move for the very end.

 

Placing one hand on the meat’s shoulder, he reached down and grabbed the chin with the other.  Without missing a single perfectly-timed thrust of his hips, Adam jerked Ghost’s chin around backward until he was staring directly into the dead punk’s black, swollen face.

 

There was a loud popping sound as the first five cervical vertebrae in Ghost’s spine shattered like glass under the inexorable strength of Adam’s muscles.  The abrupt trauma inflicted on the youth’s spinal column as razor-sharp shards of bone sheared through it at random sent a massive electrochemical shock throughout his entire nervous system.

 

It all happened at once. Ghost’s body went rigid as its muscles locked in a violent convulsive spasm.  The torn sphincter was still able to tighten around Adam’s pulsating rod; in fact, the muscles in Ghost’s lower rectum collapsed in a cascading rhythm, rippling along the thick, cum-filled channel that ran up under the thick swollen shaft to the velvet-soft head.  At the same time, the ginger fag’s own cock began to spasm uncontrollably as the penile muscles convulsed.

 

They both spewed simultaneously; Ghost, unconscious, unknowing, literally brain-dead, pumping his faggot boycum uselessly into the thick duvet cover as the overpowering alpha hosed him down internally with scalding manspunk.  Adam could feel the meat’s involuntary orgasm as the muscular spasms rippled though the body and tightened the sphincter around his cock again.  The sudden tightness triggered him.  “FUCK!” he screamed, “Goddam fuckin’ CUNT!!”

 

As his huge scrotum clenched and his massive shaft spasmed, gushing out his manload in a solid spurt of cum, Adam drove his fist into the corpse’s face twice in quick succession, rendering the once-handsome boymeat even less recognizable.  He felt himself pumping and cumming and cursing and pounding the meat over and over again, caught in the depths of a violent sexual release.

 

Once he shuddered to a pleasurable release, he slumped, shuddering and sighing, onto the meat’s still-trembling back, taking a moment to catch his breath as the last few pearly drops of cum oozed from his receding cock.  When he finally disengaged from the pile of quivering boymeat, he felt relaxed and refreshed; finding his way to the bathroom, he moistened an ornamental handtowel at the sink and wiped down his dick.  Tossing it into the toilet, he grabbed the matching towel off the rack and used it to swab out his reeking pits before reuniting the pair in the commode.

 

Adam stepped back into the bedroom and observed the scene with the satisfaction of an artist.  Ghost was on his knees, bent over the bed.  One foot was still tightly laced into its Nike Vapormax 97; the other seemed kind of exposed in its thin, piss-soaked knit ped sock—even now, the toes were still twitching, helplessly and vulnerably.

 

It didn’t matter.  The thick wads of spunk leaking out of Ghost’s ravaged asshole told the story—and if they didn’t, the look of horror on his gruesomely twisted face certainly did.  Adam shoved his enormous tackle back into the Lycra shorts and slipped the polyester gym shorts back over them.

 

As he left the room, the plastic sliding door jammed on its track.  Adam kicked it out, snapping it off and shoving it to the side.  The last thing he did on his way out of the condo was retrieve the magnetic card that operated the elevator and the front door.  He kept the card in his hand as he got into his car and drove off, heading in a different direction that he’d arrived, just in case.  His route took him over the river; as he crossed the bridge, he tossed the card out the window and had the satisfaction of seeing it wafted in his wake over the railing and into the murky depths below.

 


 

Sir arrived back much earlier than expected; the deal had fallen though and he’d seen no need to stay on.  He made good time; given what he’d paid for his Ducati Panigale V4, he’d expected to. The constant vibration in his crotch had him stirred up, though; he had a lot of energy to work out on his pup when he got back.  Ghost better be up for some play…

 

He parked in an empty space not far from the Benz; that was a good thing—it meant the kid was home.  He strode across the lot, his hard, firm body tightly encased in a one-piece black leather motorcycle suit that fastened directly to his black leather AMU long riding boots, and a black helmet with a dark visor over his head.

 

He crossed the lobby and accessed the elevator; there were no issues with his key card.  The fourth floor was quiet—as was usual—and when he opened the door, there seemed to be nothing out of place, at first.  It was only the silence in the unit that seemed odd.

 

“Ghost?  You here?  You better get yer gear out; yer ass is mine tonight, cunt!”

 

His voice seemed to echo in the dim flat.  That was when he noticed the broken sliding panel lying on the floor.  Darting into the bedroom, he was brought up short by the sight of Connor’s corpse.

 

Part of him had always expected this; the immature punk hadn’t known how set the proper limits to his play, and his Master had felt that one day the cunt would take it too far on his own—but this wasn’t on his own.  Even from here, Sir could see that the Ghost had been strangled and raped, probably in that order.

 

And the only way in was with a card.  There were no signs of forced entry.  The stupid motherfucker had gone out to play and brought home a killer.

 

The thing that pissed Sir off the most was that someone else had fucked his property.  It was obvious that the worthless little fuck had suffered for his wandering lust, but that still didn’t erase the fact that Sir’s property had been violated.

 

He needed to take it back.

 

Without removing his helmet, he reached up under it to the zipper at the collar and pulled it down—all the way down to his crotch.  Reaching in, he pulled out his thick purple manshaft and with no hesitation at all, started fucking Ghost’s corpse.  His leather-clad body bent over the dead boy, heaving and pumping, as his thick-soled motorcycle boots gave him the necessary traction.

 

As Sir grunted and thrust, his face, inscrutable behind the darkened helmet visor, stared directly into Ghost’s.  Even though the dark purple lividity had drained, leaving the kid’s face a pale violet color, the sheer agony and suffering of the kid’s death were still clearly marked in his face.

 

“Ya fuckin’ deserved it, didn’tcha,” Sir grunted, knowing what a slut the boycunt was, “But yer mine, ya worthless fuck, mine, ya hear me?  I’m the one who gets to use ya up and throw ya out like fuckin’ garbage!”

 

His taut, muscled body jerked and shuddered inside his leather biker gear as he unloaded again and again, marking the dead boy as his property.

 

Walking into the bathroom to clean himself up afterward, he noted with disgust the towels in the toilet.  He got a clean one from the linen closet to wipe himself down before returning to the bedroom.

 

After a moment of contemplation, the hardbodied biker skinhead dragged Ghost off the bed and wrapped his corpse in the duvet cover.  After all, it wasn’t like it was his property anyway.  Lifting it in his arms, he carried it out of the condo and managed to make it down to the lobby and out to the Benz without being seen.

 

His first idea had been to drive over the bridge and drop the corpse in the river, even though he recognized that its sluggish flow left it less than ideal for body disposal.  But the same bridge also crossed the train tracks, and that inspired him.

 

Pulling over to the side, Sir hoisted Ghost’s corpse out of the trunk and lifted it over the parapet.  He let it go, keeping hold of the duvet cover as it unrolled and left the trackie-clad corpse to drop unceremoniously into an uncovered coal car.  In the dark, it was almost invisible.

 

Sir headed over the bridge, but he did stop one more to toss the stained duvet cover into the scum-covered river before turning back and heading to the condo.  He needed a good night’s sleep.

 

The next day, he changed his flight so that he’d be out of the country by evening.  It wasn’t difficult.  He’d only ever purchased one ticket anyway.

Carlos and Nick 5: Teen Angst

The outside temperature was hovering somewhere around 110 degrees when Carlos strolled into the office area of Nick warehouse film studio.  He was dressed for the heat; forsaking his usual jeans and boots, he was sporting a black and white pair of Adidas Varial IIs and a pair of bright red workout shorts.  The shorts were a cut in a football style, with a lace-up crotch—the contrast of the black lace on the red shorts was extremely eye-catching, as were Carlos’s thick, muscled legs, revealed from mid-thigh down to where they vanished into the ped socks in his kicks.

 

Nick, sitting at the computer, lifted his head and glanced admiringly at the hulking ex-con.  “That’s a good look for you,” he said, raising his eyes from the white cotton tank-top, so wet with perspiration that it was no more than a transparent screen over the stud’s hairy, inked chest, up to the killer’s hard, masculine face, his shaved head shaded from the intense sun by a black satin do-rag.  “Gotta remember that outfit someday; it’d look great on camera.”

 

Carlos stood in the doorway, looking his snuff flick partner.  “Ya said ya had somethin’ lined up?” It was a statement, but he ended it on a questioning note.

 

Nick grinned, giving his handsome face a boyish look.  “Fuck yeah, bro, look here.  Just got another commission in by email.  Remember that dude who paid us a big wad of cash for the father/son snuff?  He’s back.”

 

Carlos settled into one of the black leather chairs in front of Nick’s desk.  “Yeah?” he asked, a slight hint of eagerness in his voice belying his assumed nonchalance.  “What’s he want this time?”

 

“Someone young,” Nick replied.  “According to this, no older than eighteen.  And—you’ll like this—he wants to see the kid suffer.”

 

Carlos perked up, throwing off his air of indifference.  “Cáspita!  I been wantin’ to carve up some fagmeat.  Been too damn long!”

 

Nick leaned back, smiling thoughtfully, his long dark hair gleaming in a reflected ray of sunlight.  He knew exactly how long it had been; the cameras he’d hidden in the condo had caught every detail of the night Carlos had slaughtered the blackjack dealer.  In fact, it was likely that the video of that brutal snuff that he’d edited and posted that had drawn them this commission.  Not that Carlos needed to know about that.

 

He just needed to keep ruthlessly snuffing homo scum, and their fortunes were assured.

 

Standing up, the older and slightly more muscular filmmaker headed to the studio space in the rear.  Pausing at the door, he turned back to the buff Latino stud.  “You got anyone in particular you wanna work over, or should I put out an ad?”

 

He was slightly taken aback to see Carlos flush, a look of outrage crossing his face.  “Hell no, I ain’t got nobody!” he barked.  “I ain’t looking at no other dudes—I ain’t no fag!”

 

“Chill out, man, I didn’t say ya were,” Nick replied.  “I just wanted to know if ya had anyone ya specifically wanted to snuff.  I’ll put out an ad; it ain’t a problem.”

 

Heading back into the open area of the warehouse, Nick was smiling as the thick heels of his ropers thudded on the concrete floor.  Carlos’s anger hadn’t scared him; in fact, it had thrilled him.  He’d always know the psychological motives behind the ex-con’s extreme hatred towards faggots, and he did his conscious best to stoke it.  After all, it was the extreme masculine brutality that rage unleashed in Carlos that was the main selling point of the videos.

 

As a director, Nick felt is was his duty to coax the best performance possible form his actors.

 


 

It was another three days before Carlos got another message to come to the warehouse; Nick had found him some meat to tenderize.  Since there was no word on if this was an initial meet-and-greet or the actual snuff shot, the hardbodied Hispanic stud dressed for an on-screen appearance.

 

He knew what Nick wanted: skin-tight jeans, preferably well-worn but clean, and a pair of big black boots.  Carlos had gotten a new pair recently and was anxious to try them out.  It had taken some specialized searching to find what he was looking for, but when they arrived, he was perfectly satisfied.

 

They were a pair of vintage lace-up lineman’s boots, seventeen inches tall, and—what had been Carlos’s main interest—had a knife sheath hidden in the right boot.  Today, he slipped on the jeans and eagerly laced up the boots, his blade in place.

 

It was a thirteen-inch Bowie hunting knife, with a black rubber handgrip and a nine-inch carbon-steel blade with grooves down each side to channel blood away from the wielder’s grasp.  Secured inside the boot, he only had to slip his fingers into his boot and the whole thing slid out smoothly and easily.  Carlos was happy with it; the thought of reaming that long, hard blade into some helpless faggot’s vulnerable flesh made him hard…

 

He slipped on a leather vest but was otherwise bare-chested.  By the time he got to the studio, his muscle-bound torso was glistening under a faint sheen of sweat.  The moment he hit the chill air in the lobby, though, his body reacted, his nipples instantly hardening into large knots of flesh.

 

He strode straight into the warehouse, where Nick and a teen boy were waiting.  Nick was working on his camera but stopped and looked up as the hot Latino ex-con walked in, his new boots thumping loudly on the concrete floor.  “’Bout time ya showed up,” he told Carlos with a mischievous grin and a hot glint of bloodlust in his eyes, “This is Jeff—he likes to be tied down.  Once I finished this, I was gonna start it myself, but now that you’re here…”

 

Jeff was young, almost achingly so.  He was eighteen but there was an innocent arrogance about him—the arrogance of someone who hasn’t yet learned that life doesn’t owe him a living—that, added to his smooth, soft skin, gave him the appearance of being at least two years younger, if not more.

 

And he traded on it. He’d only been in Vegas for about a year, but it was totally different from his life before.  Waco had offered him sex, sure, but he’d felt an intense compulsion to leave the emotionally claustrophobic confines of his hometown.  As much fun as it had been, getting banged by half his high school football team had gotten dull, and in such a heavily Baptist town, he had little chance to brag and get the recognition he felt his exploits deserved.

 

Plus, he couldn’t make decent money whoring himself out in Waco.

 

And so, at seventeen, Jeff headed west, hitchhiking and “working” his way across the country.  His initial destination had been California, but a stopover in Vegas had convinced him that he was in the right place to make good money.  And he’d been right, to an extent; he certainly found richer johns willing to pay more here than Waco—but he just couldn’t seem to get into anywhere that had clientele with the kind of wealth he was looking for.

 

Part of the reason was his appearance—his very youthfulness, the way he had of brushing the silken bangs of his sandy blond hair up out of his eyes, the full, red lips continually parted in an almost petulant pout—all combined to keep him out of the casinos and bars.  He’d gotten a fake ID but was continually challenged on it.  And since he wasn’t actually twenty-one, he had to back down.

 

And that was when he’d seen the online ad, and he knew—knew—that things were gonna change for him.  An adult film, something that would get him noticed—and he was exactly what the ad said was needed!  Young, discreet, into rough role play and bondage…well, for that matter, Jeff would do damn near anything if the money was right, but this was shit he liked.

 

Once he responded to the ad, he was even more eager.  This dude Nick was gonna give him five fucking grand to get fucked by some hot stud—and a percentage of the residuals!

 

This was it.  This was the big time.  And now here he was, and kinda surprised at the set.

 

This guy Nick, though—he was a serious hunk.  That shoulder-length black hair and that huge, well-built body…and the dude wasn’t shy about showing it off, either, not in those tight black Nike running shorts or that black compression t-shirt.  Even the dude’s Chuck Taylor Converse hightops in black leather turned the kid on; as he shook Nick’s hand, he found himself hoping the hot stud was more than just the director—and said as much.

 

“Well, I may step in and lend a hand, so to speak,” Nick replied with a knowing leer, “But the real star is gonna be Carlos—speak of the devil, here he is now.”

 

Jeff had whirled and found himself staring at an overpowering, almost scary-looking Latino who’d just come through the door.  He and Carlos spent a brief moment sizing each other up.

 

Jeff noted that Carlos was slightly more compact than Nick, and perhaps a little younger, but there was something about him—his shaved head, his black goatee, the sleeve of ink that writhed over his muscle-bound arm—that made him seem inherently dangerous.  Jeff could see Carlos’s broad, furry chest under the leather vest he wore—he couldn’t help it; the gleam of the thick gold chain half-buried like treasure in the dude’s body fur drew his attraction as it would any good whore.   The Hispanic alpha’s jeans were tight enough for Jeff to be somewhat intimidated by the massive bulge in his crotch.  But he was fascinated with the dude’s high lace-up boots.

 

And above all else, Jeff was hard.  His red knee-length Under Armour gym shorts weren’t terribly tight, but his seven-inch boycock was still able to prominently tent the crotch.  He shuffled his long, smooth legs nervously, his Nike Jordan Son of Mars kicks—in the same shade of red as his shorts—scuffling on the concrete.  His lean, firm torso was well-wrapped in a white cotton tank top that left a lot of his pale, smooth skin exposed.

 

Jeff wasn’t quite dressed to whore himself out, but then again, he didn’t need to be.  He’d already agreed to the act; he had no need to sell himself again.

 

“Jeff, this is Carlos,” Nick said by way of introduction.  Jeff held his hand out.  Carlos stood and stared at it for a moment—lengthened just to the point of discomfort—before reaching out and taking it.  He didn’t shake Jeff’s hand so much as crush it in his huge muscled paw.

 

“So, uh, so how’s this gonna work?” Jeff asked as he massaged his aching hand, his uncertainty making his voice rise in pitch.

 

“Yer here to get fucked, aintcha?” Carlos asked.  “So get on the bed, faggot.”

 

Nick looked sharply at his partner; Carlos was still in a bad mood.  That’d make for a great scene—but not if he scared the meat off before they started filming it.  “Anytime you’re ready,” he followed up in a soothing tone, “You can lay your clothes over there on that table, if you want.”

 

Jeff approached the table and wriggled out of his shorts, letting them drop to the floor and stepping out of them without bothering to remove his Nike Jordans.  As he did, he glanced at the set—nothing but a bed up on a platform, with several small video cameras on tripods surrounding it.  The bed was bare except for what looked like some kind of weird fitted sheet; the headboard, consisting of vertical brass bars, seemed unusually ornate compared to the stripped-down feel of the rest of the set.

 

As he peeled off his t-shirt, Jeff noticed that Carlos approached the bed, unbuttoning and casually slipping off his leather vest.  The Hispanic stud tossed it so that it draped over the headboard of the bed, then turned back to face Jeff, letting the latter see the full glory of his hairy, massively muscled and tattooed chest.

 

Jeff had been commando under his shorts; at the sight of Carlos’s bare torso, the kid’s dick began to drip.  He caught his breath, swallowed, and approached the platform.

 

This was it, he thought again, this is the big time…and nude except for his Nikes, he climbed up onto the bed.

 

“How—um, how do you want me, uh, positioned?” he asked hesitantly.

 

“Hold it a sec,” Nick demanded, and crossed the room to the light switches.  There were a couple of clicks and suddenly everything vanished and Jeff found himself sitting on the bed, swathed in a circle of brilliant overhead light while the rest of the vast warehouse space remained in darkness.

 

From the darkness, there were footsteps—the heavy, measured tread of a man in thick boots.  Carlos loomed suddenly out of the black, stepping into the light.  “On yer back, boy,” he commanded.  “Nick’s payin’ ya good, right?  So yer prepared for it to get rough, right?”

 

“Uh, yeah…” Jeff replied tremulously.  He was prepared to take a fuck of a lot if he could get fucked by this stud on camera—fuckin’ hell, it’d make his career, to have this in his portfolio—but there was still something so menacing about the tatted Latino that he felt needling pangs of fear.  But the game was worth the candle, as they say—Jeff didn’t know why; candles were useless unless you’d lost your dildo—so he stifled his unease and lay on his back.

 

He was instantly uncomfortable.  “What is this, a plastic sheet?” he squawked.

 

“Yeah,” Nick’s voice came laconically out of the darkness, “Film a lotta shit in here.  Some dudes are into watersports.  Don’t worry; it’s sanitized after each use.”

 

“C’mon, boy, raise yer arms over yer head,” Carlos said.  For the first time, Jeff noticed a glint of metal in the alpha’s left hand.  As he raised his arms in almost instinctual obedience to the alpha’s command, Carlos reached over and Jeff realized the metal items were handcuffs.  Before he could react, Carlos had cuffed his right hand to the brass headboard.

 

“Hey, man, whatcha doin’?” the kid demanded.

 

“Whassa matter, punk, ya ‘fraid of a little bondage?  Thought a whoreboy like you was up for anythin’,” Carlos jeered and Jeff shut up and lay back, again disregarding the obvious red flags in favor of a rosy view of his financial future.

 

Carlos, who knew the Jeff’s future was more likely to have a blood-red view, smirked as he cuffed the boy’s left hand as well, making sure the kid wasn’t going anywhere.

 

“Hey Nick,” he called, “Think we’re ready.  Lemme know when ya wanna start.”

 

“Gimme a sec; I’m preppin’ the hand-held now,” came Nick’s deep, masculine voice from the outer darkness.  A moment later, he too stepped into the circle of light, holding the video camera.  He’d also prepped himself for the filming.

 

Just like Jeff, the hardbodied older man was nude except for his leather Converse sneakers.  His towering form, his wide, furry abdomen, ripped abs and narrow waist were all slightly better developed than Carlos’s, but somehow seemed to exude less danger—or at least so Jeff felt.  Nick’s cock was terrifying, though; it was at least eight inches long and an inch and a half thick.  In a way, Jeff was relieved; the thought of how bad that enormous shaft would hurt made him shudder.  The man was a freak; surely Carlos wasn’t hung like that.

 

Then a slow scratching sound reached Jeff ears; looking towards the source, he saw that Carlos was unzipping his fly.  The ex-con grinned maliciously at Jeff—as if he knew what the boy was thinking—as he reached into his crotch with both hands and slowly began extracting his shaft.

 

It just kept coming and coming.  Jeff’s eyes widened with disbelief as the Hispanic alpha pulled nearly ten inches of manmeat out of his jeans—and then it began to stiffen.  Consciously, Jeff began to think five grand might not be enough for what he might have to endure tonight.  Unconsciously, he began jerking at the handcuffs.

 

Both Carlos and Nick noticed and exchanged grins.  “Time to saddle up,” Nick said.

 

“Fuckin’-A,” Carlos replied, “I been needin’ to wreck a fag bigtime.”

 

Jeff watched in silent fascination as Carlos mounted the bed and straddled him, knees by Jeff’s sides and his legs behind him.  In this position, his enormous cock was dangling directly over Jeff’s face.  From here, the teen whore had an extreme close-up of every vein that wrapped around the huge throbbing tube of manmeat.

 

Carlos was determined that he was gonna get an even better view.  “Open yer mouth, cunt,” he snarled.

 

“I, uh, I don’t thin—AACK!  GURK!”

 

Jeff learned that opening his mouth to protest meant opening his mouth.  Carlos wasn’t waiting for an invitation—he rammed his tool in at the first opportunity.  Before Jeff knew what had happened, he had a three-inch-thick cock wedged nearly half a foot down his trachea.  Carlos had leaned forward and grabbed the headboard for a better angle to throatfuck the helpless punk.

 

Suddenly, all the red flags Jeff had ignored flashed back to his notice; he couldn’t breathe, and he hadn’t been prepared for that, physically or emotionally.  He began to struggle, but he couldn’t do a damn thing.  His hands jerked frantically, the cuffs jangling loudly against the brass bars of the headboard as his Nikes kicked and scuffed on the slick cold plastic sheet.

 

“Damn, yer a terrible fuckin’ cocksucker,” Carlos jeered and leaned back, pulling his tool out of Jeff’s throat.  It bobbed in midair between them, glistening with the kid’s spit halfway back form the tip.  “Can’t even take a real man’s dick, can ya, you little assmunch?”

 

Jeff was too busy coughing and gagging to take in much of what Carlos was saying and his eyes were blurred by tears.  He knew something was wrong, though, something besides the fact that he’d just damn near been suffocated.  This was taking a dark turn—and then Carlos got off him.  As the scared teen tried desperately to blink his eyes clear, he could hear the hardbodied Latino walk around the bed to where Nick was standing.

 

“Dude, I don’t feel like fuckin’ round with this meat.  This piece a’ shit needs to be tenderized now—ya get me?” Carlos growled loudly.

 

“Dude, you can go to town on it; you can stick it like a fuckin’ pig, as long as I get it on camera.  Make the meat suffer bad—hell, it’s what we’re gettin’ paid for, right?” Nick replied jauntily.

 

By now Jeff’s eyes were clear.  He had an impressive view of Carlos as the latter approached him with a grin that glittered as coldly as the gold chain around his thick neck.  “Hey, dude,” the ex-con said quietly, almost seductively, “Time to get down to business, yeah?  Time to give yer worthless faggot existence some purpose, huh?”

 

“Wh-what?” Jeff blinked, looking deeply into the Hispanic’s large dark eyes but seeing nothing more than his own confused face reflected back.

 

“See, yer only here for one reason, right?  I mean, you know that.  Yer here to die, right?”

 

Jeff pulled himself backwards by his arms, trying to sit up but failing, his red kicks scrambling uselessly failing to find traction on the slick plastic sheet.  He wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard Carlos correctly but somehow, he knew he had.  “Wait—wait, what?  No!  I’m here—no!

 

“Sure ya are, ya useless pansy.  Ain’t no one gonna care if we snuff some fuckin’ cock-gobblin’ homo pervert, now are they?  But there are dudes who’ll pay us for doin’ it, as long as they get to see it—and as long as it’s long.  Ya feelin’ me, fuckwad?”

 

Jeff was panting, almost hyperventilating.  His smooth, lithe body was suddenly slick with sweat as fear overstimulated his adrenal glands, pumping his system full of adrenaline.  Combined with the overabundant adolescent testosterone already flooding him, the chemical stew kept his thick shaft still jutting stubbornly from the tangled nest of his pale pubes despite his terror.

 

“Y-you—he—he was g-gonna pay me…” Jeff turned his head desperately from one side to the other, seeking out Nick, but the director had faded into the darkness beyond the circle of light.

 

It was just Jeff and Carlos for the moment.

 

“Wanna know what’s gonna happen, dude?  Wanna know what I’m gonna do to ya?  Huh?”

 

The powerful ex-con stood next to the head of the bed, looming over him.  Suddenly, the inked stud lifted his right leg and planted his boot on the bed, right next to Jeff’s head.

 

The young boywhore looked up. From the corner of his eye his peripheral vision was filled with the tight lacing of Carlos’s lineman’s boot; it seemed to go up and up forever—but above that, bending over him he could see the top’s grinning face.

 

“I’m gonna stick somethin’ in ya, faggot, somethin’ long and hard—yer gonna like that, aintcha, ya disgustin’ piece a’ homo meat?  Fuck, lookitya squirm at the thought a’ gettin’ reamed out by my dick.  Well guess what, queerboy?  Yer gonna be massagin’ my cock all right, but I wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout that.”

 

Carlos kicked Jeff in the face.  It happened in a flash; the older man lashed out and the thick sole of his boot impacted Jeff’s face hard enough to snap his cheekbone.  The boot was back in place as if nothing had happened before Jeff had the chance to cry out.

 

“You payin’ attention, boy?” he jeered, and spit in Jeff’s face.

 

“Wh-wh-why—wha…” the youth sobbed.

 

“Yeah, I thought so.  Here, fag, here’s somethin’ to catch yer eye.  This is what I meant when I said I had somethin’ long and hard to stick into yer punk-ass body…”

 

Carlos slipped his fingers into the boot and whipped out the knife so effortlessly it seemed like a magic trick.  He held it in front of Jeff’s wide, terrified eyes.  “Look at it, you stupid sack of fagmeat,” he hissed maliciously.  “That’s nine solid inches of carbon still.  Sexy as hell, huh?  Whaddaya think it’s gonna feel like when I pump it into ya?”

 

The sadistic convict had certainly been right—the blade had attracted Jeff’s notice; in fact, the teen slut seemed fixated on it, whimpering and unable to look away.  Nick had come back in closer now, using the handheld to zoom in on the boy’s face.  “Fuck, this is good shit,” he whispered to Carlos, “This is gonna make a fuckin’ fortune.   Keep it up, dude, keep mindfucking the meat.”

 

“Look at it, cunt,” Carlos snarled, “Look at the blade—see how sharp it is?  What’s that gonna feel like when it splits your tender flesh and sinks deep into yer fagmeat body, huh?  Fuck, man, I can’t fuckin’ wait to find out.  Ya see these grooves on each side of the blade?  They’re there to channel blood away from my hand.  Your blood, bitch.  I can carve yer worthless ass up without losin’ my grip; ain’t that cool?”

 

Jeff moaned, almost delirious with terror.  This couldn’t be happening—it wasn’t happening; he’d been drugged, he was having a bad trip, something, but shit like this didn’t happen to him.  This happen to street whore and needle junkies not cute white boys like him.  Whatever he was on needed to wear off fast, though, cause this was gettin’ hairy, man, real hairy—

 

—and then the tears cleared momentarily from his eyes and he could see Carlos standing at the foot of the bed, his muscular, inked torso glistening with perspiration from the heat inside the metal warehouse building. Jeff watched, fascinated, as a bead of sweat trickled down the Latino’s neck, to be buried in the thick forest of chest fur.  Deep within that fur was a sparkling glint—light reflecting off the stud’s thick gold chain.

 

For a moment, Jeff had been so caught up in admiring the top’s physique that he’d almost entirely forgotten about the imminent danger, but a flash of reflected light that didn’t come from Carlos’s necklace drew his attention—it was the knife.

 

Fuck, this was for real.  His face, which had lit up with lust again, fell into despair—but this time, Nick was on hand to record it, zooming in on the teen’s anguished expression as the hardbodied director chuckled.

 

“Whaddaya think, asswipe?” Nick jeered.  “This is gonna make us a fuck-ton of money.  Course, you won’t see a fuckin’ dime.  You’re gonna end up a pile of dead boymeat left to rot in the desert, but Carlos and I, we’re gonna make a fortune.”

 

“No…” Jeff whispered, staring directly into the camera, “P-please let m-me go, I won-won’t tell anyone…”  His voice trailed off and he broke down into sobs.  Nick was delighted—the shot of the teen punk’s horrified pleading was perfect; he couldn’t have directed it better himself.

 

“Yeah, keep begging, ya piece of shit,” Nick chuckled and turned the camera to Carlos, zooming in on his hard, well-developed body.  The camera ran over the ex-con’s tattooed chest, then closed in on the blade before panning back out to catch the action as Carlos mounted the bed.

 

Suddenly, Jeff’s legs were parted forcibly and his ankles were propped on Carlos’s shoulders.  There was a sudden pressure against his sphincter and Jeff had a brief lucid moment in which to wonder how he could possible have forgotten the Latino’s monstrous rod before it tore into his rectum with the force and violence of a pneumatic jackhammer.

 

The teen’s screams echoed back off the warehouse walls but the entire district was otherwise deserted at this time of night.  There was no response to his frantic shrieks of agony other than an intensity of tempo as Carlos plowed his shaft deeply and brutally into the teenager’s guts.  Jeff thrashed his head from side to side, but when he turned to the left, there was something lying on the bed next to his head.

 

He wasn’t trying to see what it was—he didn’t want to see anything; he just wanted to escape from this living hell—but he couldn’t help it.  It was right there—the knife.  The razor-sharp blade, so brutal, so inexorable, was inches from his face.  No, he couldn’t think about that—

 

—then a deep thrust from Carlos, much more penetrating than any before it, gave Jeff a new source of agony to focus on, and for the moment he forgot about the knife.  He was getting ripped open on the inside; he’d never been fucked so relentlessly, so painfully before.  It was like getting raped by some sort of beast; Carlos’s cock, so long, so thick and so powerful, was tearing at his guts; disemboweling him from the inside out.

 

Jeff didn’t know if it was possible to be fucked to death but if it was, it was happening to him now.

 

“O-oh g-g-god, stop!” he cried out, his lean young body jerking violently each time Carlos plowed his unhuman shaft into the boy’s torn rectum, “St-stop!  You-yer fuck-fuck-fuckin’ killin’ me!”

 

Carlos turned and grinned at the camera, his handsome face with its trimmed goatee twisted into an evil malevolent leer.  “Hey, Nick, ya hear that?  The fuckin’ meat thinks it’s dyin’!”

 

They both laughed at that, a cold cruel sound that forced its way into Jeff’s panicked mind and wrapped icy tendrils around his pounding, overwrought heart.  God, this dude was so hot, he thought–but his dick was too much even for the well-used boywhore, who could only sob jerk his arms, straining painfully and uselessly against the unyielding steel that circled his wrists.  His red Nikes, propped on the stud’s shoulders, thrashed uselessly in the air.

 

Nick, in the meantime, had circled the platform with the camera.  He’d paused for a moment and zoomed in on a shot of Carlos’s taut, well-rounded ass pumping as the stud raped the living fuck outta the teenaged rentboy.  He lingered long over the way Carlos’s jeans were glued to his strong, firm buttcheeks like they’d been painted on.  The large dimples that formed on his ass as he thrust his tool ever-deeper into Jeff’s guts were clearly visible to the camera lens.

 

Once on the other side of the bed, Nick panned out for a moment to take in the full scene of the hulking, hardbodied Latino stud mercilessly whaled on the cunt’s fuckhole, taking time to zoom in occasionally on Jeff’s own thick cock, kept involuntarily erect by the unremitting grinding pressure Carlos’s dick was putting on his prostate.  Despite his pain and terror, there was already a glittering hint of moisture oozing from the kid’s piss slit on the kid’s rod.

 

Nick swung the camera back onto Jeff’s strained, tear-streaked face.  This time, he stood right next to the bed and pointed the camera straight down; his own semi-erect shaft appeared in the shot, more than eight inches of manmeat hanging out over the punk’s head, in between his face and Carlos’s.

 

“Hey, dude,” he drawled laconically, “I don’t think this piece of faggot shit is sufferin’ enough—in fact, I think the sick fuck is enjoyin’ it.”

 

“Yeah?” Carlos sneered.  He looked at the camera and winked, then spit in Jeff’s face.  “Figures; fuckin’ whore’s gone loose on me.  Ya hear me, ya worthless homo garbage?  You ain’t even a good fuck, ya goddam punk-ass bitch!”

 

Jeff was overwhelmed by confusion, terror, and pain; that might have been some sort of excuse for his actions, but when he thrashed violently before jerking suddenly to the left in a feeble and utterly hopeless attempt to both get out from under the heavily-muscled stud and off his Louisville Slugger of a dick, he made a serious mistake.  Up to this point, Carlos had been more or less playing along with the idea of being recorded again—he had no idea how many times Nick’s hidden camera had allowed his solo activities to be broadcast to thousands—and had been mugging for the camera.

 

That ended now.  Jeff had pissed him off.

 

Carlos drew his arm back and the young homo had just enough time to notice how the Hispanic top’s bicep swelled with power under its ink sleeve before Carlos’s fist was driven into his face so hard his head rocked back into the mattress.  Jeff let out a loud grunt, then blinked and shook his head, dazed by the impact to his already-injured face.

 

“Wha…wha…” he moaned, looking up at the ex-con’s hard face, so twisted Jeff couldn’t tell if he was grinning or snarling.  Then Carlos held up the rubber-handled Bowie knife.

 

“This is how I get fucked-out faggots like you to tighten back up on my dick.  Ya feel me, cunt?  No?  How ‘bout now, motherfucker?”  He rammed the knife into Jeff’s left flank.  The razor-sharp tip pierced the teen’s smooth flesh like it was butter, the blade slicing deep into the tangled mass of the boy’s small intestine without meeting the slightest resistance.

 

Jeff’s face went gray and his eyes widened with shock.  As Carlos had anticipated, the sudden trauma made the youth’s lean, firm body go rigid, his muscles momentarily locked in an unrelenting stiffness.  That included his sphincter; it tightened around the base of Carlos’s engorged dick like a cockring. “Fuck yeah, pussyboy, that’s it,” he had time to grunt before Jeff’s piercing scream filled the air.

 

The shrill sound echoed off the metal walls; the effect on the recording was something like reverb.  Nick chuckled gleefully, pointing the camera down the front of his own incredibly-built body so that the lens got a full view of his erect shaft dripping translucent beads of precum onto Jeff’s strained, agonized face.  “Keep on screamin’, cocksucker,” Nick jeered, “Ain’t no one gonna hear ya—and it’s makin’ my dick drip.  Fuck, dude,” he turned to Carlos, “That was hot—ya gotta make ‘im scream some more!”

 

“Don’t worry,” the muscle-bound sadist said with a grim smile, “Now that I got my blade into the fag, it ain’t nothing but a meat puppet.  Watch me make it dance.”

 

Jeff’s smooth, flat abdomen was already heaving as the Latino alpha pounded his ass; now, excruciating pain was making him sweat.  Each time their bodies slapped together in the throes of violent assrape, there was a loud smacking sound.  Without any warning, Carlos twisted the knife in the wound, shearing the blade around inside the teen’s guts and slicing open his transverse colon.  The rhythmic slapping sound of flesh on flesh suddenly became erratic as Jeff thrashed in agony and squealed like a stuck pig—which was exactly what he was.

 

Carlos was very good at what he did; it was what Nick admired about him.  Despite his nightmarish suffering, the kid’s internal wounds weren’t quite severe enough to let him bleed out to a quick, merciful death.  And Carlos felt the need to share the info.

 

“Does it hurt, ya stupid fuck?  Yeah?  Feels fuckin’ great on my dick, asswipe!  That’s what it’s gonna take to make ya work my dick the way a real man’s dick deserves, huh?  Then ya better saddle up, bitch, cause I can make ya hurt like that for a long, long time.  Yer gonna be fuckin’ beggin’ and pleadin’ to die long before I’ve make yer worthless sack a’ whoremeat milk the spunk outta my balls–and the longer you squirm an’ scream, the better it’s gonna feel on my cock.”

 

Still rigidly avoiding any movement that might cause the knife to hurt him any further, Jeff lay back on the bed, his legs pinned on Carlos’s shoulders so that even now he could see his red Nikes kicking in the air.  In a surreal way, he noticed that the laces of the left shoe had come untied; he’d have to remember to fix that or he might trip and hurt himself…

 

Then Carlos yanked all nine inches of sharpened steel out of his guts with a single violent jerk.  On the outside, all that could be seen was an inch-an-a-half slit with a slight trickle of blood.  On the inside, Jeff could feel still feel the glassy pain deep in his guts; it was like the blade was still there.

 

But it wasn’t.  Because now it was somewhere else.  Carlos had shifted the knife to his other hand and stuck Jeff higher up on his right side, the blade slipping easily in between the boy’s ribs.  The grooved steel shaft speared the punk’s liver.  Angled slightly toward the back, it sliced his gall bladder neatly in half, to end up embedded deep in his pancreas.

 

Again, massive organ trauma triggered electrochemical shock as Jeff’s adolescent body, already pumped full of testosterone, was flooded with adrenaline.  His face, already swelling from Carlos’s kick and the blow of his fist, was clenched in a rictus of agony as the older man took ruthless advantage of the boy’s horrific pain to pound his constricted asshole.

 

Nick stepped back for a moment to show how Carlos had stretched himself out, almost as if he was doing push-ups.  The toes of his tightly-laced lineman’s boots were dug into the mattress to give him the traction he needed to rape the fuck out of the dying teen. Then, by crouching down near the head of the platform and zooming in, Nick got a great shot of Jeff’s thick boycock, still helplessly and involuntarily erect, smacking against Carlos’s hairy ripped abs, keeping time to the assault.

 

“Hell yeah—now that’s how ya fuck a faggot!” Nick said, cheering Carlos on for the camera.  “Tighten it up, use it up, fill it up and toss it the fuck out!”

 

Jeff hadn’t known, hadn’t ever considered that such pain could exist.  The slashing pain of his torn rectum was long forgotten, a minor discomfort compared to the nine-inch shaft of solid steel that had impaled his torso, right to left.  He couldn’t breathe without his diaphragm and chest muscles contracting around the sharp edge and slicing themselves open even more.

 

He literally couldn’t breathe; it hurt too much.  Carlos smiled beatifically down at the boy’s soft, smooth face, so young and so almost innocent as it gaped, the mouth opening and closing soundlessly like a dying fish.  “You ready, cunt?  Ya want it to be over?  Ready to take my load and die?”

 

Jeff didn’t want to die; he still had delusions of somehow surviving this experience—but he knew he had to do something, he had to breathe for fuck’s sake, he needed that thing out of him for fuck’s sake GET IT OUT

 

Carlos obliged, withdrawing the blade slowly, lovingly, letting Jeff savor the icy sensation of the knife as it cut a new path through his organs on the way back out.  It hurt so bad the teen punk nearly passed out; his body trembled and convulsed for a moment as his eyes rolled back in his head.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” Nick said, reaching down and backhanding the tortured youth across the face.  Illogically, the blow actually seemed to have some effect—Jeff inhaled deeply and opened his eyes.

 

“P-p-pl—” he sputtered, “Ple-please—”

 

“Please what?” Carlos sneered, “Please kill ya?  Hell no; you ain’t endured enough to make me cum yet.  And besides, we gotta give the audience a show, right?  There’s gonna be dudes payin’ to watch a worthless faggot suffer long and hard, the way it deserves.  And anyway, I just wanna hurt ya; I fuckin’ love doin’ it, cunt.”

 

He swung his right arm up, holding the knife with the tip pointing straight down.  Even though he was nearly out of him mind with pain and fear, Jeff was still entranced by the view—Carlos’s broad, hairy chest with large dark nipples protruding above the wiry forest of fur, the thick links of the alpha’s gold necklace hanging free in the air between them, the look of an experienced killer of the Latino skinhead’s face—it was all so masculine, so fuckin’ hot…

 

It wasn’t possible, Jeff decided.  He’d been slipped some bad acid or something; nobody this erotic could be so cold and cruel, could put him in so much pain…

 

…then his eye caught a glint of light reflected from the wickedly sharp tip of the Bowie knife and Jeff felt sick sense of despair that managed to rise over the torment he was already experiencing and he knew nothing could be worse…

 

…then the blade flashed down.

 

It hit the teenaged boy like a bolt of lightning; it was that fast and that traumatic.  Carlos had slammed the knife down in slightly diagonal direction, plunging it into the center of Jeff’s right pectoral muscle, ramming the blade in so deep the hilt pressed against the kid’s chest.  The steel blade punctured the youth’s lung and stuck a rib on the inside, taking out a chip of bone as the knife exited the kid’s back and sank into the mattress beneath him.

 

The boywhore’s face was a mask of pain and shock.  He gasped and whimpered uncontrollably, each movement dragging his muscles and fragile lung tissue against the sharpened steel edge and causing more damage internally.  The punk gave a loud gurgle and, as Nick closed in with camera, a bubble of blood arose in the boy’s open mouth and burst, leaving a crimson trickle down his smooth chin.

 

“Aw, fuckin’-A!” Carlos cried out at the adolescent’s lithe body clenched, the slut’s rectum gripping his killer’s massive rod like a velvet glove.  The vicious sadist pumped the suffering teen violently, the rough denim of his jeans scraping the boy’s smooth asscheeks.

 

Jeff was beyond such trivial annoyances.  Helpless under the weight of the heavily muscled psycho who was torturing him, the youthful rentboy was finally accepting the inevitable fact that he wasn’t getting off this bed alive.  Every breath, every single second of existence, was nothing but the most nightmarish agony that needed to end.   Even when the hulking ex-con yanked the knife back out of him, the youth was so traumatized that he was unable to react to the fresh blast of searing pain.

 

“Almost there, dude,” Carlos muttered breathily, his face taut with the strain of his impending orgasm.  He’d spoken to Nick, to make sure the older man used the camera to the best advantage during the money shot, but Jeff had heard him as well.

 

The hardbodied director took the hint and jumped up onto the bed.  He stood with his leather Converse kicks planted on each side of Jeff’s head, pointing the camera down as Carlos leaned slightly back.  Nick knew what was coming and was in the perfect place to record the teenager’s death agonies.

 

“This is gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad, you goddam faggot cunt,” Carlos hissed and clamped one hand over Jeff’s mouth, clutching it with the excruciating power of a bear trap.  Holding the knife in the other, he pressed the tip against the underside of the kid’s jaw.  “Fuckin’ fagmeat—remember as you scream yer worthless life out, you fuckin’ deserve this, ya sack of shit!”

 

And with that, he shoved the blade upwards.

 

It pierced the teen boy’s lower jaw. The blade sliced up through the tongue, impaling it and pinning it to the roof of the mouth as the sharpened steel shaft cut smoothly up though the soft palate.  The kid had literally been speared through his mouth.

 

Moving inexorably, the blade sheared upwards through the upper sinus cavity.  Trapped beneath his powerful killer, pinned to the bed by the stronger man’s dick in his ass, Jeff could only kick his legs as Carlos continued to drive the knife deeper into his skull.  For a brief moment, the agony reached a point that the punk was awash in nauseating vertigo; he seemed to smell the bloody shaft of steel tearing into him—and then the blade tore through the olfactory bulbs at the top of his sinuses and Jeff never smelled anything ever again.

 

By now, his lean young body was flailing uncontrollably.  The kid’s legs thrashed violently; he no longer needed to worry about tripping over his untied shoelace as he kicked the loose sneaker off, leaving his foot in nothing but a ped sock, his toes curling as he spasmed.

 

“Time to die, meatsack,” Carlos growled, “Fuckin’ faggot, all yer good for is soaking up my fuckin’ manspunk.  You ain’t nothin’ but a cumrag, ya stupid homo; now die like the worthless piece a’ shit you are, cunt!”

 

He shoved the knife home.

 

It punctured the base of Jeff’s cranium with a loud crunch that the dying teen felt as much as he heard.  In a split second, Carlos embedded all nine inches of solid steel in the boy’s head, the sharp tip of the Bowie knife gouging the inside of the top of Jeff’s skull.

 

There are no nerves in the brain; Jeff never felt the final slash of the blade through his cerebellum.  That wasn’t to say that he didn’t experience pain—his cringing cockpig soul slid screaming into dark eternity on a wave of mind-shattering agony.  And he never knew that his own deathload was the source of his pain.

 

Carlos’s gigantic balls had contracted, hosing the punk’s guts full off seething mansperm. The heat of the spunk and the pressure against his prostate had primed Jeff’s tool, but the way Carlos’s knife had lodged in the pleasure center of the teen’s brain and shorted it out was what led to the kid’s explosive orgasm.

 

Nick’s downward view of the snuff captured the geysers of boycum that erupted from Jeff’s cock as he died.  The kid spurted several times, each time sending a thick creamy jet of semen splashing against Carlos’s chest or Nick’s hairy, muscled legs, or his own blank dead face.  Carlos held on, grunting and rutting as he drained his rod.

 

Nick didn’t even have to touch himself; he recorded his own dick pumping huge wads of pearly manseed onto the corpse’s already-loaded face.  The same downward angle showed the dead kid’s cum trickling down Nick’s legs and spattered on his black leather sneakers.

 

Carlos collapsed, his bulked-out form falling heavily on the still-shuddering boymeat.  Nick jumped off the bed,  set the camera down, and crossed to the far wall to turn on the lights.  Carlos had recovered before he got back, separating himself stickily from the teen’s corpse.  He pulled his blade back out of the dead faggot’s skull and stuck it, smeared with blood and gray matter, back into his boot.

 

“You’re a mess,” Nick chuckled.  “Don’t worry, the bathroom’s stocked.  Go clean yourself up; I’m gonna take a finishing shot or two and then do the same myself.”  As the heavy tread of Carlos’s boots faded down the hall, Nick picked his camera back up and got a few quick close-ups of the dead boy’s convulsing body, zooming in on the way his feet, one missing a shoe, kicked and twitched in death.  He stopped once Carlos returned—knife and all cleaned—and went to wash himself up and put on his clothes.  The Latino stud had sponged the dead homo’s cum off his chest and had decided to remain as he was, in nothing but jeans and boots, to let his chest hair dry.

 

Nick was very particular about keeping things looking legit, and Carlos agreed with him completely on this; before anything else was done, they tidied the scene by the simple expedient of pulling the plastic fitted sheet off the bed and wrapping the corpse in it.  Nick looked at the hole in the mattress where Carlos’s blade had completely impaled the meat; there was a small bloodstain around the hole.

 

“Make sure nothing leaks from the hole in the sheet,” he said as he grabbed another plastic sheet from a shelf and re-covered the mattress.  By the time he was done, Carlos had confirmed that nothing had leaked from the slit in what was now Jeff’s burial shroud—or would have been if they intended to bury him.

 

Instead they tossed him into the bed of Nick’s pickup like a sack of garbage and headed towards the desert.

 

On the southwest side of town there was a plot of land that had been laid out for a subdivision ten years ago.  When the economy collapsed, building had ground to a halt, the developer had gone bankrupt, and now the ownership of the land was locked in a maze of impenetrable lawsuits.

 

In short, roads and sewers had been laid out, but no houses built.  No one ever went there—it wasn’t even suitable as a lover’s lane, since it was flat, with no cover at all.  What it did have, aside from crumbling streets and rusting stop signs, was a set of drainage ditches and culverts that weren’t being inspected by either Las Vegas or Clark County officials.

 

Nick had found it several weeks ago while out scouting locations—not for movies; for body dumps just like this one.

 

At the far end of the development, the road took a right-angle turn and crossed over a dry wash; the under the roadbed, three large concrete pipes allowed storm water to drain down the gully.  Nick parked the truck right over the dry wash and tossed the corpse over the side.  It fell into the arroyo with a loud, meaty thump like a side of beef.

 

“I got it,” Carlos said, and scrambled down the side of the gully, his high leather boots digging into the sandy soil.  At the bottom, he saw that the meat’s legs were sticking out of one end of the sheet, the red Son of Mars sneaker and the white ped sock both glaringly obvious against the beige sand.  He bent down, and, grabbing the corpse’s ankles, he dragged it to the culvert.  Shoving the dead teen inside the concrete tunnel was no strain for his powerful muscles; in no time, he was back in the truck beside Nick, heading back to the studio.

 

“That was incredible,” Nick chuckled as he accelerated onto the highway.  “We’re gonna make a shit-ton of money on this one, dude.”

 

And he was right.

 


 

Schweitz was pissed.  Here he was, out in the middle of the fuckin’ desert, sweatin’ his fat ass off, while Nuñez got to lay on his ass for a couple a’ weeks, just cause he got a case of appendicitis.  Bet the lazy Spic ain’t even sick…

 

“Ok, whadda we got?” he said aloud with a weary sigh.

 

“Caller lives in that apartment complex on the other side of the highway—the one that was just built,” the patrol cop said.  “He says he rides his bike over here for exercise—does it every other day.  He’s sure the corpse wasn’t here Monday.”

 

“That don’t mean nothin’; that storm yesterday coulda flushed it out from further up in the hills, for all we know.  What’s the ME say?”

 

“Uh, lessee here,” the cop said.  He was conscientious and organized; he’d taken notes and referred to them now.  “Um, young Caucasian male, late teens at oldest.  Been dead three-four days by the looks of it.  Really fuckin’ nasty, detective; he was stabbed several times but not in a way that was instantly fatal.  Looks like someone wanted ‘im to suffer.  Death blow was in the skull, seriously sick.  Oh, yeah—ME says he’d been violently fucked in the ass.”

 

“Aw, goddamit,” Schweitz exploded.  “You called my ass all the way out here for another faggot?  What, you don’t think we got enough real murders on our hands to worry about some useless cocksucker who’s better off dead?  Jesus Christ!”  He turned and started to head back to his car.

 

“Sorry, detective,” the cop called out, abashed.  “What, uh, whaddaya want me to do with my report?”

 

“Round-file it,” Schweitz snapped over his shoulder.  “Trash it.  Wipe yer ass with it, for all I care.  And remember this, boy, if ya wanna make it in this department: unless they’re rich or famous, don’t no one care about dead fags in this town, ya got me?”

 

“Yessir,” the beat cop said respectfully.  As he watched Schweitz stomp angrily back to his car, he erased the notes he so carefully made.

 

“Anything else ya need?” came a voice behind him.  Startled, the cop whirled, to find the morgue assistant laboriously dragging a collapsible gurney with the corpse zipped into a body bag.

 

“Naw,” the cop said, taking a cue from his superiors, “Get that fuckin’ piece of shit outta here.”

Trucker 16–Trucker vs Fratboi

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

The bulge in his groin became even more pronounced.

 

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

 

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

 

It’d be like shooting fish in a barrel.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Then he stepped inside.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fuck the consequences.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Hey, ya wanna drink?” Trent said.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

First, though, he had other plans.

 

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

 

“W-what?” he stammered, “I, uh, I—”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Trent was right.  He screamed.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rigler County Snuff Squad–the Inception

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Keep goin’,” Dan replied complacently.

 

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

 

“Find something interesting?” Dan asked innocently.

 

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

 

Pete paused for a moment; Dan spoke up.

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Whatcha want?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Today was gonna be epic.

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

In fact, it’d be a pleasure.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Uh-huh,” Eric answered quietly.

 

“You know Travis Egerton?”

 

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

 

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

 

“Where did he get his drugs?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

In his desperation, Eric made a mistake.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Robbie Clebbs.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“L-l-l…” he tried.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Travis is dead?” he gasped in horror.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“He sure seemed like he wanted to help.”

 

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

 

Pete sat in silence, unable to answer.

 

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

 

This time Pete shook his head, silently but decisively.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Pete nodded but said nothing.

 

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

 

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

Adam in Public

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Fucking homo cunt needed to learn a serious lesson.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

In silence, they watched the door.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

M4M4Schoolboi

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“NEED A POWER DADDY—

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“You a virgin, boy?” Joe grunted.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Joe said nothing.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And Joe’s edge was razor-sharp.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Joe pressed himself against the wall, keeping silent.

 

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

 

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

 

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

Carlos Solo–A Bad Deal

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And he knew.  He knew it was gonna happen.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And now here he was, alone with him.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Buckle up,” Carlos said dryly.

 

“Is it a long way?” Dino asked.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

But it was there, right in front of him.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And Carlos knew it.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And Dino nodded.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

And with that, he shoved the knife again.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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